The two friends were conversing thus, when suddenly, the sweet strains of a melodious song, uttered in a gentle voice, reached their ears.

“O dweller of Mathura, O sweetly smiling one, O darkly playful one—!” Mrinalini said, “Friend, where is that singing coming from?”

Manimalini replied, “They are singing in the outer house!”

The singer began to sing—

“Tell me, maiden, forsaking your home, Why do you wander, O exiled one?”

Mrinalini: Friend! Do you know who is singing?

Manimalini: It must be some beggar woman.

Again the song floated in—

“Beloved of Vrindavan, enchanter of the milkmaids, Why have you abandoned us, O Shyamsundar? From land to land you roam, O dark one, Will you not return for us?”

Mrinalini said urgently, “Friend! Friend! Call her inside the house.”

Manimalini went to call the singer. Meanwhile, the song continued—

“On blooming lotuses, by the banks of the Yamuna, My thirst grows ever more. O moon-faced one, go, O night of honey, My longing is not quenched. That night—remember—”

At that moment, Manimalini brought her inside the house. Entering the inner chambers, she resumed her song as before—

“That night—remember—tell me, beautiful one, Where shall we meet again? Listen as you go, the flute is playing, Alone in the forest, it calls.” Mrinalini said to her, “Your voice is divine, sing the song once more.”

The singer was sixteen years old. A maiden of sixteen, short in stature, and dark-skinned. She was truly of a dusky hue. But that did not mean that if a bee alighted on her skin it would be invisible, or that if she smeared herself with ink it would seem as if she had bathed in water, or if she bathed in water it would appear as if she had smeared herself with ink—nothing of the sort. The kind of dusky complexion that, if found in one’s own household, is called ‘shyam’ (dark and lovely), but if seen in another’s house, is called ‘pitch-black’—such was her complexion. Yet, whatever her color, the beggar-girl was not ugly. Her limbs were clean, well-formed, and lustrous; her face was radiant, her eyes large, lively, and full of laughter; the pupils were deep black, beside one of which was a tiny mole. Her lips were small, tinged with red, and within shone two rows of teeth, clear and spotless as buds of kunda flowers. Her hair was fine, gathered in a captivating braid at the nape of her neck, adorned with a garland of jasmine. With the bloom of youth, her body had taken on a beautiful form, as if some sculptor had carved a statue from black stone. Her attire was exceedingly simple, yet clean—not soiled with dust or dirt. Her body was not entirely unadorned, yet the ornaments she wore were indeed befitting a beggar. On her wrist was a brass bangle, around her neck a wooden rosary, a tiny stud on her nose, and a small dot of sandalwood between her brows.

Obediently, as before, she began to sing—

“O dweller of Mathura, O sweetly smiling one, O playful Shyama— Tell me, O maiden, forsaking your home, why do you wander, O restless one? O treasure of Vrindavan, O enchanter of the gopis, why did you abandon them? From land to land, O Shyamasundar, she wanders in search of you. Upon blooming lotuses, on the banks of the Yamuna, she thirsts endlessly. O moonlit one, O wanderer of honeyed nights, her longing is never quenched. Remembering that night, tell me, O beautiful one, where shall we meet again? Hark, he departs, playing his flute, wandering alone from forest to forest.”

*This song was sung slowly, in the Teetala rhythm, set to the raga Jayjayanti.* When the song ended, Mrinalini said, “You sing beautifully. My friend Manimalini, it would be good to give her something. Won’t you give her a reward?”

Manimalini went to fetch a prize. Meanwhile, Mrinalini called the girl closer and asked, “Listen, beggar-girl! What is your name?”

Beggar: My name is Girijaya.

Mrinalini: Where is your home?

Girijaya: I live in this very city.

Mrinalini: Do you spend your days singing songs?

Girijaya: I know nothing else.

Mrinalini: Where do you get all these songs?

Girijaya: I learn whatever I can, wherever I find it.

Mrinalini: Where did you learn this song?

Girijaya: A weaver-woman taught it to me.

Mrinalini: Where does that weaver-woman live?

Girijaya: She lives here in this city.

Mrinalini’s face blossomed with delight—like a lotus opening at the touch of the morning sun’s rays. She said, “The weaver does trade—what kind of trade does that merchant do?”

Girijaya: The same trade as everyone else.

Mrinalini: What trade is that?

Girijaya: The trade of words.

Mrinalini: That is indeed a new kind of trade. What is the profit and loss in it?

Girijaya: The profit is love, the loss is quarrel.

Mrinalini: You are a trader too, it seems. Who is the master of this trade?

Girijaya: The master who is the master.

Mrinalini: And what are you in this trade?

Girijaya: Just a humble porter. Mrinalini: Well, set down your bundle. Let me see what you have brought.

Girija: These things are not to be seen, but to be heard.

Mrinalini: Very well—let me hear, then.

Girija began to sing—

“In the waters of the Yamuna, what treasure did I find? Diving in with a splash, I drew it up with care, In my curiosity, I adorned myself with that gem. But as I lay in the languor of sleep, a thief entered my home, Cut the string at my throat, and stole away the jewel.”

Mrinalini, her eyes brimming with tears, her voice choked with emotion, yet smiling, said,

“And who is this thief you speak of?”

Girija: The poet says, his trade is only in stolen wealth.

Mrinalini: Tell him, then, that in a thief’s trade, honest souls cannot survive.

Girija: Perhaps not even the trader himself.

Mrinalini: Why, what of the trader?

Girija sang—

“From riverbank