Ah, what a terrible affliction love is! Alas, whomever this wretch has pursued, it has left them ruined, rendering all the good things of the world useless and turning them bitter.

The scattered moonlight kindles sparks upon his body; the cool evening breeze feels like a scorching wind; the sight of lovely flowers pricks his heart with thorns; strolling along the garden's pathways blisters his feet; lying upon a soft bed seems to break his bones, and even after turning from side to side, he finds no rest.

Food and drink become forbidden, a lump of sugar tastes like poison, his belly fills with the bitterness of sorrow, and a few drops of tears are enough to quench his thirst. Even after enduring a thousand torments, the soul entangled in a beloved's tresses finds no chance to escape. The advice of friends tears his heart to pieces; the fire of separation roasts his very core; the blood in his body turns to water, and thus both hunger and thirst abandon him. The face that is hidden in his eyes appears everywhere—in the walls and doors, in dreams he sees only that beloved, swaying gracefully. Words once heard from her lips echo in his ears day and night; the pearly teeth glimpsed in laughter become a necklace around his neck, impossible to forget. The memory of those magical glances unsettles his soul; the embrace, arms entwined around his neck, weighs heavily upon his body, so that leaning to one side in remembrance, he cannot even straighten himself.

Day and night, with closed eyes, he wanders in the garden of beauty. His cold sighs work like a storm, scattering dry leaves, and slowly he himself withers, until he gathers the courage to be swept away with the wind. The master of love, whip in hand, is ever at his heels, never allowing his disciple to pause, nor to utter any word but the beloved's name.

Not only people, even the wind teases such lovers—knocking at the door, reminding them of the beloved's arrival, pinching them with memories, and sometimes leaning close to whisper, "I have come from the lane where your darling lives."

While strolling in the garden, the branches of trees, swayed by the breeze, beckon him closer, and when he approaches, they drop two flowers in laughter and fall silent, making his heart all the more restless, so that he sits clutching his chest with both hands. His dear relatives, seeing his condition, sigh in pity, and taking his soft fingers in theirs, ask, "Why have you let your nails grow so long?"

His restlessness increases to such an extent that he cannot fix his mind on anything for even half an hour, nor can he sit comfortably in one place for a moment. Even the sleep that used to hide in his eyes seems to have vanished, leaving in its place a wakefulness that, moment by moment, paints and erases countless images.

Such is the state of our Kunwar Indrajit Singh and his beloved Kishori. At this moment, both are far from each other, yet the ghost of love, taking on myriad forms...

dance before her eyes and do nothing to lessen her growing sorrow and restlessness.

All the women living in the palace of Rohtasgarh, despite their constant efforts to comfort Kishori, could not diminish her sadness in the least. Although she suffered no hardship here, she could not, even for a moment, forget the heart-rending words she had heard from the Maharaj's lips as he stroked her back upon her arrival: "She is fit to be my daughter-in-law!"

Though, compelled by the insistence of the noble ladies, Kishori had to stroll in the women's garden, nothing there could soothe her poor heart. At the sight of a blooming rose, she would wither within; at a glance toward the narcissus, her shy eyes would hide behind the veil of her lashes; approaching the cypress, she would bend under the weight of her sorrow, and the winding vines laden with cheerful blossoms would remind her of Kunwar Indrajit Singh's wavy tresses, in which her soul was so entangled that she had no hope of ever being freed in this life.

She saw the garden paths as fields of separation from her beloved, the flowerbeds filled with tiny, colorful blooms as dense jungles, and the humming of bees echoed in her ears like the incessant chirring of cicadas, which, heedless of the seasons, sing all year round in the forest and, by chance, shake the hearts of delicate souls who wander there.

At the sight of the soft breezes rustling the beautiful, multicolored leaves, she would shiver; reaching the artificial stream, clear and sparkling like pearls, her heart would sink; at the sight of the cascading fountains, her heart would leap to her mouth, and tears would fall in a steady stream from her eyes. Witnessing this, the delicate birds of the garden, who delighted hearts with their melodious songs, could not remain silent and would cry out, "Alas! This poor girl's heart has been bled by separation, and that blood, turned to water, flows out through her eyes."

The few young, delicate, and lively women assigned to keep her company pitied her condition, but they were helpless, for their own lives were dear to them.

At night, when Kishori found herself alone, she would think of many things. Sometimes she would devise plans to escape, but, deeming them impossible, she would turn her thoughts to her beloved Indrajit Singh and wonder, "Will he not help me and rescue me from here?" No, surely he will rescue me—but when? When he learns that Kishori is imprisoned in such and such a place. Alas! What if, by the time he hears, I am forced to leave this world, and the desires of my heart remain forever unfulfilled?

I will have to be taken away. No, if anyone tries to force me, I will certainly do so, and except for the one