In a distant quarter of the city of Lakshmanavati, Hemchandra was residing at the house of the merchant Sarvadhan. At the entrance of the merchant’s house stood an Ashoka tree. In the afternoon, seated beneath it, Hemchandra was idly cutting a blooming branch of the Ashoka with his dagger, breaking it into pieces, and glancing again and again towards the road, as if awaiting someone. The one he awaited did not come. The servant Digvijay arrived; Hemchandra said to him, “Digvijay, the beggar woman has not come yet today. I am growing very anxious. Go, seek her out.”

“At once, my lord,” said Digvijay, and set out in search of Girijaya. On the royal road of the city, he met Girijaya.

Girijaya said, “Who is that—Digvijay?” Digvijay, annoyed, replied, “My name is Digvijay.”

Gi: Well, Digvijay—tell me, which direction are you setting out to conquer today?

Di: Yours.

Gi: Am I a direction, then? You have no knowledge of real conquest.

Di: How could you be otherwise—you are darkness itself. Now come, the master has summoned you.

Gi: Why?

Di: Perhaps he wishes to marry you to me.

Gi: Why, could you find no one else to burn your face in shame?

Di: No. That task must fall to you alone. Now come.

Gi: I am always ready for others’ sake. Very well, let us go.

So saying, Girijaya set off with Digvijay. Digvijay, pointing out Hemchandra sitting beneath the Ashoka tree, went off elsewhere. Hemchandra, lost in thought, was softly singing,

“On the blossoming lotus, on the banks of the Yamuna, so much thirst remains—”

From behind, Girijaya sang,

“O moon-faced one, O sweet night, my longing is not fulfilled.”

Seeing Girijaya, Hemchandra’s face brightened. He said, “Ah, Girijaya! Has your longing been fulfilled?”

Gi: Whose longing? Yours or mine?

He: My longing. If mine is fulfilled, so too will yours be.

Gi: And how will your longing be fulfilled? People say a king’s desires are never satisfied.

He: My wish is very small.

Gi: If ever I meet Mrinalini, I shall tell her this myself.

Hemchandra grew sorrowful. He said, “So, even today you have not found any trace of Mrinalini? In which neighborhood were you singing today?”

Gi: In many neighborhoods—but must I recount my wanderings to you every day? Will you give? Speak of something else.

Hemchandra sighed and said, “I see that fate has turned away from me. Very well, I shall go searching again tomorrow.”

Girijaya then offered her respects and, feigning departure, began to make preparations to leave. As she was about to go, Hemchandra said to her, “Girijaya, you are not smiling, but your eyes are smiling. Did anyone say anything to you today after hearing your song?”

Gi. Who would say anything? One woman came chasing after me to beat me—she said, ‘Because of the Mathura maiden, Shyamsundar has a headache now.’

Hemchandra let out a deep sigh and, in a faint voice, as if speaking to himself, began to say, “If, despite so much effort, I have not found her, then why should I hope in vain—why waste my time and ruin my own work for nothing? Girijaya, tomorrow I shall take my leave from your city.”

“So be it,” said Girijaya, and softly began to sing—

“Hear me as I go, the flute plays on, alone in the forest.”

Hemchandra said, “That song is enough. Sing another.”

Girijaya sang,

“The flower that bloomed, my friend, on the branch by the house, Why, O wind, did you carry it away?”

Hemchandra said, “Why grieve for the flower that the wind has carried away? Sing a better song.”

Girijaya sang,

“Fate made of thorns, for lowly Mrinal, In the water, she was plunged, her heart in pain.”

Hem. What, what? Mrinal—what?

Gi. Fate made of thorns, for lowly Mrinal, In the water, she was plunged, her heart in pain. A royal swan saw her, pleasing to the eye, Spread its feet and bound her in chains. No—sing another song. Hey. No—no—no—this song—sing this song. You are a demoness.

Gi. Says, where will the royal swan go? I will give you a seat in the lotus of my heart. The swan came and sat in the lotus of the heart. The water of Mrinalini trembled, thorns and all.

Hey. Daughter of the mountain! Giri—who taught you this song? Gi. (with a smile) At that moment, dark clouds rose in the sky. The king of swans flew away from the pleasure-lake. The lotus of his heart broke in the rush. Sinking into the bottomless water, Mrinalini died.

Hemchandra, his eyes brimming with tears, his voice choked, said to Girija, “This is my own Mrinalini. Where did you see her?” Gi. I saw her by the lake, trembling in the wind, Mrinalini upon the lotus.

He. Enough with the allegory, answer me plainly—where is Mrinalini? Gi. In this city.

Hemchandra said, annoyed, “That I have known for a long time. Where in the city?” Gi. At Hrishikesh Sharma’s house.

He. What a sin! I was the one who told you that. All this time you could not find her, have you found her now? Gi. Have I found her?

Hemchandra wiped away two—only two—teardrops. Again he asked, “How far is it from here?” Gi. Very far. He: Well. Which way must I go from here?

Gi: From here, south, then east, then north, then west—

Hemchandra clenched his fist. He said, “Enough of your jokes at this hour—otherwise I’ll break your head.”

Gi: Be calm. Even if I tell you the way, will you be able to recognize it? If not, then what is the point of asking? If you command, I shall take you along myself.

Like the sun freed from clouds, Hemchandra’s face brightened. He said, “May all your wishes be fulfilled—what did Mrinalini say?”

Gi: I have told you already— “Mrinalini perishes, drowned in unfathomable waters.”

He: How is Mrinalini?

Gi: I saw no illness in her body.

He: Is she