Evening came. The bank of the Yamuna, paved with flagstones, was crowded with people. From the charity centre, the sacred smoke from the yajna fire was rising. Crowds of paupers surrounded the centre and were jostling one another to reach the door where food was being distributed. Dragging her feet, and making desperate efforts to hold up her baby, who had begun to howl again, Dara was also trying to push her way through the crowd towards the door. Suddenly, she heard someone shouting behind her, ‘Grab her! Grab that woman! She’s my runaway slave!’

Dara knew that voice. It was that of her master, the priest, shouting at the top of his voice.

Others took up his cry and began to yell, ‘Catch her! Grab her!’ The pursuers were closing in on her. Seeing a clear space towards the river, she rushed in that direction, clutching Shakul. The priest’s shouts drew nearer. Standing on the high bank of the river, and not knowing what to do, Dara considered it more desirable to die than to fall once again into the hands of the priest. Holding Shakul tightly to her breast, she jumped into the water.

The Yamuna river was a favourite resort for the nobles, state officials and wealthy merchants of Mathurapuri. The relentless Jyeshtha sun turned their houses and palaces into hot ovens, and seeking to escape the heat and yearning for relief, they went for leisurely cruises and pleasure rides on the river in the cool of the evening. Near the spot where the runaway slave-girl had jumped from the high bank, the barge of Devi Ratnaprabha, the Court Dancer and Laureate of Art in the province of Shursen, happened to be passing. She immediately ordered her servants to rescue the drowning girl and haul her into the barge. Even at that moment the baby was tightly clasped in her arms.

Devi Ratnaprabha’s heart melted with pity. She took the child from the arms of the unconscious woman to find that it was dead. Putting the child aside she took the slave-girl’s wet head, covered with weeds, on her lap, caring nothing for her expensive silken clothes. Her female attendants put smelling salts to the slave-girl’s nostrils and fanned her with a large fan, to bring her round. Many other crafts rushed towards Devi Ratnaprabha’s barge and surrounded it. There was a great clamour, from the boats and from the crowd along the riverbank.

Dara regained consciousness. Opening her eyes, she asked for her son in a weak but anxious voice. ‘Calm yourself, girl, your child is safe!’ Ratnaprabha said tenderly, putting her hand on Dara’s forehead.

At this unexpected and unfamiliar sign of affection, Dara opened her eyes wide and looked around her. Could it be that she had returned somehow to the house of her great-grandfather? Was she dreaming?

Chakradhar, the priest, was still shouting on the riverbank, ‘That girl is my slave, my property! Give her back to me. I shall bind her hand and foot and drag her to the law court. She is a thief! I bought her for fifty gold pieces from Bhoodhar, the slave dealer.’