Even as Chikthayi is chattering, Putti suddenly gets up and walks away, as though pulled by an invisible string. Surprised, her cousin follows. Putti, apparently oblivious, walks out of the village, climbs the banyan tree and goes over the wall. Chikthayi stands near Dasegowda’s house, shaking with fear. Putti has broken the rules and gone over the wall. She herself has sort of broken rules even in following her to this place … she should probably go after Putti to see what she is up to, but she cannot gather the courage to climb that wall.

Chikthayi silently prays to both Ooramma and Kamadeva that nothing untoward should happen to Putti. Then it strikes her that perhaps this is her opportunity to meet Annaiah alone. Whenever she sees him, it is always with Putti, who of course steals the limelight, being the schemer that she is. But what would Annaiah say to her if she goes alone to him? Her heart beats hard as she creeps along the wall to the Kamadeva temple and peeps in.

It is broad daylight outside but the temple is pitch dark. There is no sign of Annaiah. Chikthayi stops. A shiver runs down her spine. Her hands shake. Of course she can’t go into that desolate place all alone. She stares into the dark, willing Annaiah to come out or at least call out to her. He doesn’t.

Chikthayi goes back to the banyan tree, watching intently for Annaiah. Just her luck, she thinks; for all she knows, maybe he is at the headman’s house while she and Putti, like idiots, are hanging around here, looking for him. They didn’t hear him go into the headman’s house that morning, but maybe he went in quietly and is sleeping there on the veranda. She is now impatient, waiting for Putti to return so that they can go back home and see if Annaiah is there.

It is nearly evening and the sun is fading into indigo when Putti climbs over the stone wall again. She is carrying a bunch of spooky flowers, some white and others red, that Chikthayi has never seen before in her life. Instinctively, she knows what they are: the swetasanchari and suryavamsi of Annaiah’s stories.

The bright red flowers in Putti’s hands perfectly match Chikthayi’s image of what the suryavamsi looks like. She had drawn this very image on the mud next to the lower-caste well last week, for it had come to her in a dream. But Putti insisted that petals had to be round, while Chikthayi had drawn lotus-petal-shaped ones, just like the real flowers Putti now holds.

She is about to jump out and triumphantly point out this fact to Putti, when her head spins. The heady smell of the flowers wafts to her. Putti does not see her at all. Her eyes wild, Putti rushes off homeward, with Chikthayi following, as fast as possible, in a flutter of anxiety about what to say if they have been missed and how to explain Putti’s flowers.