hold in my hand the ball which, a moment before, her lily
r
e to an
nd, t
e
ight‐
who my
indifference, praised with the lan‐
d, at
day
‐hand had touched? At once, as any highly‐skilled player
should, I succeeded in pitching it with such an accurate
aim that it came down just in front of one corner of the
stage and, rising again with a gentle movement, it landed
as if tamed within reach of the fair player, who had not fo
a moment ceased to keep the other in motion, and who
now wove herself again into her golden cage — amid the
wild jubilation of the crowd of spectators. With that the
ball‐play in honour of the Goddess Lakshmī cam
e
he maidens disappeared from the stage and we
turned our steps homeward.
On the way, my friend remarked that it was fortu‐
nate that I had no business to conduct at court; for th
young man from whom I had captured the ball was no
less a personage than the son of the Minister of State, and
everyone had noticed from his looks that he had sworn
undying hatred to me. That did not move me in the sl
est; how much rather would I have learned
Goddess was. I fought shy of asking, however; in fact,
when Somadatta wanted to tease me about the fair one, I
even affected perfect
guage of a connoisseur the finish of her play but adde
the same time, that we had in my native town girl‐players
at least as skilful — while in my heart of hearts I begged
the incomparable one to pardon my falsehood.
*
*
*
I need hardly say that that night brought no sleep
to my eyes, which I only closed in order to be possessed
anew by the blissful vision I had seen. The following
was spent by me in a corner of my host’s garden, far
removed from all the noise of the day, where the sandy
soil under a mango‐tree ministered a cooling balm to my
24
love‐tortured body — my only companion being the
seven‐stringed vīnā to which I confided my longing. As
oon a
‐
c
ndered through the whole
ark
ed in
from
ong them.
Bitterly disappointed, I now pretended that I was
possessed by an irresistible longing to enjoy the strangely
fascinating life of the Gangā. We visited all the ghats and
finally got into a boat, in order to become one of the
joyous flotilla which every evening rocked to and fro on
the waves of the sacred stream. I lingered until the play of
light and the golden glow of evening were extinguished,
and the blaze of torches and the glimmer of lanterns
danced and whirled on its glassy surface.
Then at last I was obliged to give up my silent but
nonetheless passionate hope, and I bid my boatman steer
for the nearest ghat.
After another sleepless night I remained in my
room and, in order to occupy and relieve my mind which
was still utterly possessed by her image, I sought with the
aid of brush and colour to transfer to the wooden panel
on my wall her fair lineaments as I had last beheld them,
when dancing she had struck the golden ball. I was
unable to eat a morsel; for even as the Cakora with its
exquisitely tender song lives only upon the rays of the
moon, so did I live solely upon the rays that emanated
from her whose face was as the moon in its fairness,
although these came to me only through the mists of
memory; yet I confidently hoped that this evening in the
pleasure gardens they would refresh and vivify me with all
s
s the lessening heat permitted my going out, how
ever, I persuaded Somadatta to drive with me to the publi
gardens, although he would have greatly preferred to go
to a quail fight. As it was, I wa
p
in vain. Many maidens were there and all engag
games, as though bent on luring me with false hopes
one spot to another, but that unsurpassed one — Sri
Lakshmī’s very image — was not am
25
their glow and radiance. Alas! I was again doomed to
disappointment.
Afterwards Somadatta wished to take me to the
gaming tables, for he was as passionately addicted to the
dice as was Nāla after the fierce Goddess Kālī had entered
into him. I feigned tiredness.
Instead of going home however, I took myself
again to the ghats and out onto the river, but, to my
unspeakable grief, with no better esult than on the pre‐
ceding evening: She was not there.
r
26
~ 5 ~
T
HE MAGIC PORTRAIT
A
S I KNEW THAT for me sleep was not to be
thought of, I did not undress at all that evening,
but sat down at the head of my bed on the grass
mat intended for meditation and devotional prayers. I
pent
s
the night there in what I took to be a suitably spiri‐
tual fashion: filled with fervent thoughts of love and
absorbed in contemplation of the lotus‐bearing Lakshmī,
ed
on
her celestial prototype. The early morning sun, however,
found me again at work with brush and colour.
*
*
*
Several hours had already flown away as if on
wings while I was thus occupied, when Somadatta enter
the room. When I heard him coming, I only just had time
to thrust the panel and painting materials under the bed. I
did this quite involuntarily.
Somadatta took a low chair, sat down beside me
and looked at me with a smile on his face.
“In truth I perceive,” he said, “that our house is to
have the honour of being the spiritual birthplace of a holy
o
man. You fast as only the most strenuous of ascetics d
us bed. For neither
and refrain from using the luxurio
our
y
pillows nor on your mattress is there to be seen the
faintest impression of your body, and the white sheet is
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