The Sun God hastens toward his setting. The cool breeze of evening is showing its play. The sky is clear, for rain has just fallen, and the westerly wind has scattered the clouds, piled like cotton, far and wide. The crimson glow of the setting sun has claimed its dominion over the heavens, and upon the emerging rainbow, it has cast its splendid, colorful brilliance. As one strolls along the garden paths, which the natural water-bearer has sprinkled scarcely an hour before, the freshly washed, multicolored leaves and the splendor of those white buds—whose one side bears its true color, while the other, touched by the sun's dying glow, turns perfectly golden—fill the heart and soul with a wondrous vigor. The wafting breezes, laden with fragrance, seem to declare that until now you may have thought such marvels mere fables, but today, before your very eyes, these half-bloomed buds prove the proverb "gold and fragrance" true. In the jasmine trellises, delicate white flowers bloom, yet here and there, the last rays of the sun filtering through the leaves create an illusion. One might think that among these white jasmines, yellow jasmines too have blossomed today, and a hand, filled with longing, cannot help but reach out. The vegetable patch ahead, whose beds the gardeners have carefully trimmed to resemble a lush velvet carpet, brings a refreshing coolness to the eyes. See, all around it, in the arranged pots, small wild plants with brightly colored leaves stand, twisting their stems in pride at their own beauty and charm. Along the edges of these paths and beds, the henna trees stand in rows as straight as regiments of soldiers, for from their youth, the gardeners have pruned their spreading branches into fanciful shapes. It is said that the sunflower always turns toward the sun, but

No, look here—see how many sunflowers are planted before us, their large blossoms, with longing gazes, are beholding the supernatural beauty of that exquisite maiden, who stands upon the roof of a chamber built in the very heart of the garden, her eyes fixed upon the setting sun. That is the very direction from which the path into the garden leads. It seems she is awaiting someone's arrival; why else would she, despite the sun's rays, keep her unwavering attention fixed there?

The face of this delicate fairy-like maiden was covered in sweat, yet no sign of the one she awaited appeared. Distressed, she turned to her left, that is, southward, and tried to distract her heart by gazing upon the artificial little hill, where, with great artistry, small mountain plants—crotons, coleus, verbena, begonia, moss, and others with colorful, cheerful leaves—had been planted. Meandering among them, a canal had been cut to water the plants and enhance the hill's beauty. Above, a framework had been erected and draped with a most beautiful silken net, so that the delicate, multicolored birds, whose sweet songs delighted the heart, would not fly away. At this hour, as evening drew near, those birds, eager to return to their nests woven among the clusters of leaves, fluttered restlessly.

Alas, even the beauty of this hill could not soothe her troubled, lovesick heart. Helpless, she stood atop the roof and tried to calm her anxious soul by gazing at the flowerbeds of various designs, where blue, yellow, green, red, and multicolored delicate seasonal flowers were arranged in small plots, so artfully that one might mistake them for priceless carpets. In their midst, a circular fountain played, its fine streams spreading far and wide. Colorful butterflies flitted from blossom to blossom, settling upon the flowers so perfectly that one could scarcely distinguish between petal and wing—until they took flight again to another cluster.

Yet even these flowers and the fountain's sparkling spray could not lift the gloom from her heart. In despair, she moved eastward and watched her companions at their work, as they strained their delicate hands to weave garlands and bouquets from fragrant blossoms. One slipped among the grape trellises, seeking ripe red grapes; another, intent on picking mangoes, stretched her hand to the branches of those trees whose roots were surrounded by water-filled pits, dug so that the fallen fruit would not bruise upon the ground.

Now the sun's red glow had faded completely, and darkness began to fall. The poor maiden could not find solace for her heart by any means; rather, in the gathering gloom, the great trees encircling the garden began to take on a frightening appearance, and her heart beat ever faster.

She went down from under the roof, helpless, and entered a beautifully decorated room. The adornment of this room was modest: a chandelier and ten or twelve pots hung from the ceiling, candles burned in double-branched wall sconces all around, a carpet was spread on the floor, and on one side was a cushion, in front of which two floor lamps displayed their brilliance. Beside them was a mosquito net, on which a few fragrant flowers and two or three garlands could be seen. Ten or twelve young, graceful girls, dressed and adorned in fine clothes and jewelry, wandered here and there, arranging bunches of flowers in the vases placed in the niches.

That lovely maiden, whose name was Kishori, entered the room, but instead of sitting on the cushion, she went and lay down on the mosquito net, covering her face with her veil, lost in some unknown thought. One of those girls began to fan her, while the rest, seeing their mistress so forlorn, stood quietly, though all eyes remained fixed on the mosquito net.

For a while, silence reigned in the room. Then, the sound of someone approaching was heard. All eyes turned toward the main door. Kishori, too, turned her face and looked in that direction. A young man, dressed in the manner of a soldier, entered the room. At the sight of him, Kishori started and sat up, exclaiming—

"Kamla, I have been waiting for you for so long! Why