Mrinalini said, “Girijaya, he must have spoken in anger, ‘It is for the best’; why should he not be angry upon hearing this?”

Doubt arose in Girijaya’s mind as well. She said, “That is indeed possible.”

Then Mrinalini said, “You did not do well to say such a thing. This must be remedied; go now and take your meal. Meanwhile, I shall write a letter. After you have eaten, take it to him.”

Girijaya, agreeing, promptly went to take her meal.

Mrinalini wrote a brief letter.

She wrote:

“Girijaya is a liar. If you ask her why she lied to you about me, she will herself explain everything in detail. I did not go to Mathura. On the night when, seeing your ring, I came to the banks of the Yamuna, from that night onward the road to Mathura was closed to me. Without going to Mathura, I came to see you in Navadwip.” I have come. Even after arriving in Navadwip, the reason I have not yet met you is this: if I were to meet you, your vow would be broken. My desire is to see you; but to fulfill that, is it necessary that you must see me?”

Taking this letter, Girijaya once again set out towards Hemchandra’s house. In the evening, after finishing her conversation with Manorama, Hemchandra was going to see the Ganges. On the way, he met Girijaya. She handed him the letter.

Hemchandra said, “Why have you come again?”

Gi. I have brought a letter.

He. Whose letter?

Gi. Mrinalini’s letter.

Hemchandra was astonished. “How did this letter come to you?”

Gi. Mrinalini is in Navadwip. I lied to you about Mathura.

He. Is this letter hers?

Gi. Yes, written by her own hand.

Without reading the letter, Hemchandra tore it into pieces. Throwing the fragments into the forest, he said, “I have already heard that you are a liar. You have brought a letter from that wicked woman—she did not go to be married, Hrishikesh has driven her away—I have already heard all this. I will not read the letter of a harlot. Get away from my sight.”

Stunned, Girijaya gazed silently at Hemchandra’s face.

Breaking a branch from a small tree by the roadside and holding it in his hand, Hemchandra said, “Go away, or I shall strike you with this stick.” Girijaya could bear it no longer. Slowly, she said, “A true hero indeed! Is this the kind of valor you have come to display in Nadiya? There was no need—you could have shown such heroism sitting in Magadha as well. To carry the shoes of the Muslims, and to beat the daughters of the poor and destitute with a cane.”

Hemchandra, embarrassed, threw the cane away. But Girijaya’s anger did not subside. She said, “You wish to marry Mrinalini? Forget Mrinalini, you are not even worthy of me.”

Saying this, Girijaya strode away with the proud gait of a queen. Hemchandra stood astonished, watching the pride of the beggar-woman.

Returning, Girijaya recounted Hemchandra’s conduct to Mrinalini in great detail. This time she hid nothing. She did not weep, either. Mrinalini remained just as she had been while listening—she neither moved nor changed her expression. Seeing this, Girijaya became anxious—realizing it was not the time for conversation, she quietly withdrew.

Not far from the house of the Patani, there was a pond with steps leading down to the water. There Girijaya went and seated herself upon the steps. In the radiant moonlight of the autumnal full moon, the clear blue waters of the pond gleamed with an even deeper, more lustrous blue. Upon its surface, a motionless cluster of half-bloomed flowers was reflected in the blue water; all around, rows of trees stood silently entwined, marking the boundaries of the sky; here and there, a long branch or two rose upward, painted against the canvas of the heavens. From the dense darkness below, the fragrance of newly blossomed flowers drifted up. Girijaya sat upon the steps.

At first, Girijaya began to sing softly, slowly—like a young bird, newly taught, unable yet to sing clearly in her first attempt. Gradually her voice gained clarity—rising, ever rising, until at last it became a melodious, full-throated song, rich with intricate rhythm and tune. The sound of the pond, the grove, and the sky, all overflowing, entered Mrinalini’s ears like the waves of the heavenly river fallen from paradise. Girijaya sang:

“My life did not depart. That day, when I beheld you, friend, on the banks of the Yamuna, You sang and danced, beautiful and gentle, Yet, beloved friend, why, in those dark waters, Did my life not leave me? I returned home, spoke not a word, Wiped my eyes with my own veil, Weeping, weeping, beloved friend, why, O heart, Did you not depart? Through the path of my ears, sweet music resounded, ‘Radhe, Radhe, Radhe, Radhe’ amidst the forest, When I heard, friend, that sweet voice, Why did my life not end? I ran, beloved friend, to that very shore, Fell weeping at the feet of Shyam, At those very feet I remained, why, O mine, Did death not come?”

As Girijaya sang, she saw that upon the moonlight before her, the shadow of a person had fallen. Turning, she saw Mrinalini standing there. Looking at her face, she saw that Mrinalini was weeping.

Seeing this, Girijaya was filled with joy—for she understood that when tears had come to Mrinalini’s eyes, some measure of her suffering had been soothed. Not everyone understands this—they think, “Why, I saw no tears in her eyes, then what sorrow can she have?” If everyone understood this, how many of the world’s deepest pains might be eased. For a while, both remained silent. Mrinalini could not bring herself to speak; nor could Girijaya muster the courage to ask anything. At length, Mrinalini said, “Girijaya, you must go once more.”

Girijaya: Why should I go again to that cruel man?

Mrinalini: Do not call him cruel. If Hemchandra