hitherto been but a sad guest in a sad place — to such a
degree did everything now appea to glow, to smell
sweet, and to breathe music.
And as though his ga
h had rested
unwaveringly on the white
ad been a magician’s
wand
flowe
d
p gracefully down on every side, and lo! — in their
y smiling glance met his own.
hed out
ted
d not
con‐
life
in
nly
ing river, which emptied
self noiselessly into the lake:
th
waters of the Heav‐
nly Gangā feed all the lakes in the fields of the Blessèd.”
‐
r
ze, whic
lotus, h
for the raising of hidden treasures, the apex of the
r began to move, the petals bent their edges outwar
to droo
midst sat the fair Vāsitthī with widely‐open eyes, whose
sweetl
Simultaneously Kāmanīta and Vāsitthī stretc
their arms to one another, and hand in hand they floa
away over the pond towards the bank.
Kāmanīta observed, of course, that Vāsitthī ha
as yet recognised him, but had only turned to him un
sciously as the sunflower towards the sun. How could she
have recognised him — seeing that no‐one, immediately
on awakening, remembered anything of their previous
— even if at the sight of him dim presentiments might
have stirred in the depths of her heart, as had happened
his own case when his neighbour spoke of the Heave
Gangā.
He showed her the gleam
it
“In the same fashion
e silver
e
“The Heavenly Gangā...?” she repeated question
ingly, and drew her hand across her forehead.
“Come, let us go to the Coral Tree.”
“But the groves and the shrubbery are so beautiful
over there, and the Blessèd are playing such delightful
games,” said Vāsitthī, pointing in another direction.
“Later! First let us go to the Coral Tree; you will be
refreshed and revived by its wonderful perfume.”
Vāsitthī followed him willingly — like a child that
201
one has comforted with the promise of a new toy because
ards
ms
een filled with expectations,
n.”
that
id the malachite rocks, with the red
oral
y
of not having been allowed to take part in the joyous
games of her friends. As the perfume began to float tow
them her features grew more and more animated.
“Where are you leading me?” she asked, as they
turned into the narrow gorge among the rocks. “Never
before have I been so filled with expectation; and it see
to me that in the past, I have often b
although your smile reminds me that I have only
just awakened to consciousness. But surely you have
mistaken the way, we can go no farther in this directio
“Oh we can go farther, much farther,” smiled
Kāmanīta, “and perhaps you will now become aware
that feeling of which you spoke has not deceived you,
dearest Vāsitthī.”
*
*
*
Even as he spoke there opened before them the
basin of the valley am
C
Tree and the deep blue sky. Then the perfume of all
perfumes enveloped her.
Vāsitthī laid her hands on her breast as if to check
her all too deep breathing. In an intense intermingling of
sympathy and expectation Kāmanīta discerned, in the
rapid play of light and shadow on her features, how the
storm of life‐memories was sweeping over her. Suddenl
she raised her arms and flung herself on his breast:
“Kāmanīta! My belovèd!”
And he bore her thence, speeding back through
the gorge with eager haste.
In the open valley with its dark shrubbery and
thick groves, where the gazelles were at play but no
human form disturbed the solitude, he descended with
her, finding shelter under a tree.
202
“Oh, my poor Kāmanīta,” said Vāsitthī, “what you
must have suffered! And what must you have thought of
eet of
osambī, seen the bridal procession, and how the speechless
ha
ire ly convinced him
he had only yielded to the pressure of her parents.
But
I
at
me when you learned that I had married Sātāgira!”
Then Kāmanīta told her how he had not learned
that from hearsay but had himself, in the main str
K
misery graven on her face
d d
ct
s
“
no power on earth would have compelled
me, my only love, if I had not been forced to believe that
was in possession of sure proof that you were no longer
alive.”
And Vāsitthī began to tell him of the events of th
bygone time.
203
~ 26 ~
T
HE CHAIN WITH THE TIGER‐EYE
W
HEN YOU, MY FRIEND, were gone from Kosambī,
I dragged myself miserably through the days and
nights, as a woman does who is devoured by a fever
of longing, and is at the same time a prey to a thousand
fears on behalf of her belovèd. I did not even know
whether you still breathed the air of this world with
me, for I had often heard of the dangers of such journeys.
And now I was forced to reproach myself most bitterly
because, with my foolish obstinacy, I was to blame for
your not having made the return journey in perfect safety
under the protection of the embassy. Yet, with all this, I
was not really able to repent of my thoughtlessness,
because I owed to it all those precious memories which
were now my whole treasure.
*
*
*
Even Medinī’s cheering and comforting words
were seldom able to dissipate for any length of time the
cloud of melancholy which hung over me. My best and
truest friend was the Asoka under which we stood on that
glorious moonlit night, the tree that you, my sweetheart,
have assuredly not forgotten, and to which I addressed on
that occasion the words of Damayantī. Countless times did
I try to obtain, by listening to the rustling of its leaves, an
answer to my anxious questions, to see in the falling of a
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