The pleasant hour of morning is also most delightful. Its grandeur is of the highest order. What a jest it is, that when it takes command, there is always a commotion, and news of its arrival spreads two hours in advance. Look there—the twinkling stars in the sky gaze down at the earth with such restlessness and longing, their faces and the anxiety of their departure so evident that even the beautiful buds in the gardens have begun to smile. If this continues, by morning they will surely burst out laughing.

Now, see how the scene has changed. Some unknown force of nature has washed away the darkness of the sky, and as the night of its reign passes, it has ordered the sorrowful stars to take their leave. On one side, seeing the anxiety of the restless stars, the buds—so lost in their own beauty and laughter—are now being thoroughly chastised by the cool morning breeze, which has begun to ruin the adornments that some handmaiden of nature had so carefully arranged just two hours before.

The sparkling dewdrops, more lustrous than pearls, are being scattered, and the laughing buds—

Seeing their adornment being ruined, their ally, the fragrance, could not bear it any longer. She swiftly parted from the flowers and, entangling herself with the cool morning breeze, began to spread everywhere, causing a commotion. She started to slip into the minds of those young men, who, having stayed awake all night, now lay languid on their beautiful beds, trying to rouse them so they might hear her complaint. But when they heard nothing and merely turned over to the other side, she went after the gardeners instead. They immediately sprang up, girded their waists, and hurried to the spot where the flowers and the spirited gusts of wind were quarreling. But what could these simple folk understand of such matters? Instead, they began plucking the flowers, filling their baskets. Well, that settled it—no more bamboo, no more flute. What a fine way to end a quarrel! In return, the tall trees, pleased, bent low with the help of the wind to salute the gardeners, though not a single flower remained on their branches. Why shouldn't they be happy? What did they have to give fragrance to others? Their own appearance delighted all, and seeing others become like themselves made everyone glad.

Now, those perfumed ones, too, abandoned their beds and, upon rising, sat before their mirrors, whose beauty had been disheveled by admirers throughout the night. Quickly, they untangled their musky tresses, cleansed their moonlike faces with rosewater, and, frolicking with a coquettish gait, adjusting their pale yellow veils, began to promenade along the paths. Pausing now and then beside the flowers, they would ask, "Tell me, are you fairer, or am I?" When they received no reply, they simply reached out, plucked a flower, and, placing it in their earrings in place of a pendant, moved on. When they reached the rose beds, the thorns caught hold of their veils and, by gesture, said, "Wait a moment, your careless passing troubles us. At least, if nothing else, wipe away a few tears before you go!"

Let them be, these proud ones. I find far more charm in the restlessness of those people who, rising two hours before dawn, wash their hands and faces, finish their necessary tasks, tuck their dhotis under their arms, and hurry towards the Ganga. There, after bathing, anointing themselves with sacred ash and sandalwood, they sit upon the steps, performing their prayers, and enjoy the blissful morning amidst the sin-cleansing waves of the holy Ganga. Meanwhile, the fingers clasping the rosary, at the command of the love-intoxicated Manraj, move a bead back while invoking the name of Girijapati, and the waves of the sin-destroying, world-saving Goddess Jahnavi brush against the platforms, washing away the sins of ten or twenty lifetimes. The fragrant gusts of wind seem to say, "Wait a moment, do not yet lift your offering. The sun god will not appear for a while. Until then, open the lotus flowers and offer them to the Ganga in such a way that the garland does not break. Then see if the gods themselves do not make you a garland-maker!"

These are the deeds of the virtuous, who find joy both here and in the hereafter. But come, walk with me and behold the forms of those two lovesick souls who, having spent the night awake and wandering, now stand atop a mountain peak at this beautiful hour of morning, gazing in all directions and wondering where to go, what to do next. Whether they...

No matter how restless one may be, the cool morning breeze brushing against the mountains, scolding and stirring, inevitably draws one's gaze to those small wildflower plants, swaying in joyful rows as far as the eye can see. One cannot help but glance at those flowerbeds, where the blossoms, burdened by dew, have left their branches and now lean upon the stones for support. The rustling of the sal and shisham leaves cannot go unheard, as they block the fragrant southern wind, absorb the lingering poison, and, transformed into something wholesome, command it to pass onward.

Of these two men, one is a brave soldier of about twenty years, standing alert with shield and sword, and a bow and arrows in hand. But as for the other, we cannot say who he is, or what rank or honor he holds. Though he may be over fifty, not a trace of age marks his face; his youthful, handsome visage still glows, and judging by his priceless attire and weapons, one might think him a general of some army. Yet, no—the dignified and grave expression on his face hints that he is a man of much higher standing, who now stands gazing intently toward the horizon.

With the first rays of the sun, countless soldiers in red uniforms could be seen marching from north to south, which made the