Hemchandra took Mrinalini by the hand and lifted her up. They stood facing one another. After so long, the two met again. That evening, at twilight, by the banks of the Yamuna, beneath the bakul tree scorched by the summer sun, as they watched the reflection of starlight quiver upon the restless waves of the blue river, they had parted with tearful eyes—since that day, this was their first meeting. Summer had passed into monsoon, monsoon into autumn, but how many seasons had truly passed within their hearts—can such time be measured by the calendar of the seasons?

At that midnight hour, by the clear waters of the lake, the two stood face to face. All around, the dense forest, with its thickly clustered garlands of vines and towering trees, stood as a barrier, enclosing their vision. Before them, the blue, cloud-like expanse of the lake stretched wide, adorned with moss, lilies, and lotuses. Overhead, the sky smiled with moon, stars, and clouds. Moonlight smiled everywhere—in the sky, upon the treetops, on the leaves and tendrils, on the steps of the lake, on the blue waters. Nature was motionless, patient, enduring.

Within the palace of that patient nature, Mrinalini and Hemchandra stood face to face.

Were there no words in their language? Had their hearts nothing to say? If their hearts had words to speak, if their language held the sounds, then why did they not speak? In that moment, the eyes alone would utter the heart’s wildest speech. How so? At such a time, there is so much happiness merely in being near one’s beloved that the heart holds no room for any other joy. He who is immersed in that happiness desires no pleasure from words.

At such moments, there are so many things to say that one cannot decide which words to utter first.

Is there any word in human language that can be employed at such a time?

They gazed upon each other’s faces. Hemchandra beheld once more Mrinalini’s face, radiant with love—the certainty born of Hrishikesh’s words began to fade away. In every line of that countenance, purity was inscribed.

Hemchandra kept his eyes fixed upon hers; upon those extraordinary, wide, lotus-defying eyes, mirrors of the soul—gazing upon them, only tears of love flowed! She who possesses such eyes—could she be faithless?

Hemchandra spoke first. He asked, “Mrinalini! How are you?”

Mrinalini could not reply. Her heart was yet unquiet; she tried to answer, but again her eyes brimmed with tears. Her voice was choked, the words would not come.

Hemchandra asked again, “Why have you come?”

Still, Mrinalini could not answer. Hemchandra took her hand and seated her upon the steps, then sat down beside her. Whatever composure remained in Mrinalini’s heart vanished at this gentle touch. Gradually, her head rested of its own accord upon Hemchandra’s shoulder—Mrinalini, though aware, could not truly realize it.

Once more, Mrinalini wept—her tears flooded Hemchandra’s shoulder and chest. Of all the happiness Mrinalini had ever known in this world, none could compare to the joy of this weeping! Hemchandra spoke again, “Mrinalini! I have committed a grave offense against you. Forgive me for that offense. I heard slander spoken in your name and I believed it. There were some reasons for my belief—you will be able to dispel them. Whatever I ask, give me a clear answer.”

Mrinalini, without lifting her head from Hemchandra’s shoulder, said, “What is it?”

Hemchandra said, “Why did you leave Hrishikesh’s house?”

At the mere mention of that name, Mrinalini raised her head like an enraged serpent. She said, “Hrishikesh cast me out of his house.”

Hemchandra was pained—he became a little doubtful—he pondered for a moment. In that interval, Mrinalini once again rested her head on Hemchandra’s shoulder. The comfort of that resting place was so sweet that Mrinalini could not bear to be deprived of it.

Hemchandra asked, “Why did Hrishikesh banish you from his house?”

Mrinalini hid her face in Hemchandra’s chest. In a voice soft as a whisper, she said, “What shall I tell you? Hrishikesh called me unchaste and drove me out.”

At these words, Hemchandra sprang to his feet as if struck by an arrow. Mrinalini’s head slipped from his breast and struck the steps, wounded.

“Wretched woman—you have confessed with your own lips!” uttering these words through clenched teeth, Hemchandra hastened away. On the path he saw Girijaya; seeing his thunderous, rain-laden visage, Girijaya stopped in alarm. It is shameful to write—but it must be written—Hemchandra, with a kick, pushed Girijaya from his path. He said, “Had I struck the one whose messenger you are, my foot would have been defiled.”

Saying this, Hemchandra went on his way.

He who has no patience, who is blinded the moment anger is born, for him, all the world’s... Deprived of happiness. The poet has imagined that it was solely due to impatience that the greatest of warriors, Dronacharya, met his downfall. Hearing the words, “Ashwatthama is slain,” he laid down his bow and arrows. He did not seek to ascertain the truth by further questioning. Hemchandra’s flaw is not merely impatience—impatience, pride, anger.

The golden form of dawn, cool and breezy, arose in the bamboo groves of Bapiti. Mrinalini, still bearing her wounded head, sat upon the steps. Girijaya asked, “Mistress, does the wound feel very severe?”

Mrinalini replied, “What wound?”

Gi. On your head.

M. A wound on my head? I do not think so.