In that temple of the goddess, aglow with the light of jeweled lamps, at the moonlit doorway, beholding Manoroma, Pashupati’s heart swelled like the tide of a surging ocean. Manoroma was not of diminutive stature, yet she seemed a mere girl; the reason for this was that her countenance possessed an indescribable softness, an ineffable sweetness, and the generous innocence of childhood. Thus, when Hemchandra had guessed her age to be fifteen, he had not been mistaken. Whether Manoroma’s true age was fifteen, or sixteen, or more, or less, history does not record; the esteemed reader may decide for himself.

Whatever her age might be, her beauty was incomparable—no eye could contain it. In childhood, in youth, at every age, such loveliness is rare. Her complexion was like golden champa flowers, her face encircled by locks curled like a brood of young serpents; now, moistened by the water of her bath, those tresses had straightened. Her forehead was pure and crescent-shaped, her eyes restless and deep, like blue flowers quivering under the weight of bees. Her nose was finely shaped, with delicate nostrils that fluttered with every breath. Her lips were like twin layers of crimson blossoms, blooming in the morning sun, moistened with the dew of dawn. Her cheeks— As if bathed in moonlight, utterly tranquil, her countenance shone with the serene expanse of the Ganges; though, like a swan startled by the fear of a jackal’s approach, she bound her neck with a braid, yet upon that neck the small, curling locks played in gentle sport. If the tusks of an elephant were as soft as blossoms, or if the champak flower possessed the requisite firmness for sculpting, or if a moonbeam were given corporeal form, then perhaps those arms could be fashioned from such substance—such a heart could only be shaped in a heart like hers. All these qualities may be found in other beauties. What renders Manoroma’s loveliness incomparable is the exquisite delicacy that pervades her entire being. Her face is delicate; her lips, her brows, her forehead are delicate; her cheeks are delicate; her hair is delicate. Even the ringlets that resemble the young serpents are delicate as young serpents themselves. In her neck, in the graceful bend of her neck, there is delicacy; in her arms, in the movement of her arms, there is delicacy; in the swelling of her heart, that same delicacy is manifest; her feet are delicate, and the placing of her feet is delicate. Her gait is delicate, like the gentle swaying of a blossoming creeper stirred by the breeze of spring; her speech is delicate, like a song of longing drifting across the waters at midnight; her sidelong glance is delicate, like the sudden fall of moonbeams through a rift in the clouds for but a fleeting moment; and there stands Manoroma at the threshold of the goddess’s abode—her face uplifted in devotion to Pashupati, her star-like eyes quivering upward, her hand gathering a portion of her unbound tresses, one foot advanced ever so slightly, and in the very posture in which she stands, there is delicacy; like the bashful grace of a lotus newly blossomed at sunrise, adorned with fresh petals. Upon that body, replete with sweetness, the light of the jewel-lamp beside the goddess fell. Pashupati gazed upon her with insatiable eyes.