Pashupati tried in many ways to rekindle the lamp of Manoroma’s mind, but his efforts bore little fruit. At last he said, “Manoroma, the night is far advanced. I am going to bed.” Manorama, with an unclouded countenance, said, “Go.”

Pashupati did not go to bed. He sat and watched her stringing garlands.

Once more, seeking another means, thinking that the emergence of fear might accomplish his aim, Pashupati said to Manorama, “Manorama, if the Yavanas come in the meantime, where will you go?”

Without lifting her face from the garland, Manorama replied, “I will stay at home.”

Pashupati said, “Who will protect you at home?”

Manorama, as before, answered absentmindedly, “I do not know; I am helpless.”

Pashupati asked again, “Why did you come to the temple to speak with me?”

M: To offer my respects to the deity.

Pashupati grew irritated. He said, “I beseech you, Manorama, listen attentively to what I say this time—tell me plainly, will you marry me or not?”

Manorama had finished stringing her garland—she was about to place it around the neck of a black cat. Pashupati’s words did not reach her ears.

The cat showed particular reluctance to wear the garland—each time Manorama tried to put it around its neck, it would slip its head out from within the garland. Manorama bit her lower lip with her jasmine-pure teeth and smiled slightly, then tried again to place the garland around its neck. Pashupati, growing more irritated, gave the cat a slap—the cat, tail raised, fled far away. Manorama, still smiling with bitten lips, placed the garland she held in her hands upon Pashupati’s own head.

Receiving the cat’s offering upon his head, the one accustomed to royal palace honors and religious privilege stood bewildered. He felt a slight anger—but beholding the radiant beauty of Manorama, smiling with bitten lips, his head began to swim.

He stretched out his arms to embrace Manorama— A proud Manorama stood at a distance, her gaze fixed—just as a traveler, upon seeing a hooded black serpent rise in his path, halts far off, so did she stand apart.

Pashupati became embarrassed; for a moment, he could not bring himself to look at Manorama’s face—then, gathering courage, he looked and saw: Manorama, a mature woman, her countenance radiant with dignity and beauty.

Pashupati said, “Manorama, do not take offense. You are my wife—marry me.” Manorama shot Pashupati a piercing glance and replied, “Pashupati! Where is Keshab’s daughter?”

Pashupati said, “I do not know where Keshab’s daughter is—nor do I wish to know. You are my only wife.”

Manorama: I know where Keshab’s daughter is—shall I tell you?

Pashupati stared at Manorama in astonishment.

Manorama began to speak, “An astrologer once calculated and declared that Keshab’s daughter would be widowed at a young age and would survive her husband. Keshab, terrified at the thought of losing his daughter so soon, was greatly distressed. Fearing the ruin of her virtue, he married her off, but trusting in fate’s mercy, on the very night of the wedding, he fled to Prayag with his daughter. His intention was that his daughter should never, at any time, hear news of her husband’s death. Some time later, in Prayag, Keshab died. His daughter had already lost her mother—now, at the time of his death, Keshab entrusted Haimavati to the care of the Acharya. On his deathbed, Keshab said to the Acharya, ‘Keep this orphaned girl in your house and raise her. Her husband is Pashupati—but the astrologers have foretold that she will survive her husband at a young age. Therefore, promise me that you will never tell this girl that Pashupati is her husband. Nor will you ever let Pashupati know that she is his wife.’” The Acharya thus made such a promise. Until then, he kept her within his household, raised her, and concealed from you the matter of marriage.

P: Where is that maiden now?

M: I am Keshab’s daughter—Janardhan is my Acharya.

Pashupati lost his senses; his head began to spin. Without uttering a word, he prostrated himself at her feet. Then, rising, he tried to take Manoroma into his embrace. Manoroma stepped aside as before. She said, “Not now—there is more to say.”

P: Manoroma—demoness! Why have you kept me in this darkness for so long?

M: Why! Would you have believed me if I had told you?

P: Manoroma, when have I ever disbelieved your words? And even if doubt had arisen in me, could I not have asked Janardhan Sharma?

M: Would Janardhan have revealed it? He is bound to the truth before his disciple.

P: Then why did he reveal it to you?

M: He did not reveal it to me. One day, in secret, he was telling it to the Brahmani. By chance, I overheard it in secret. Moreover, I am known as a widow. If you believed my words, why would others believe them? How could you accept me without becoming an object of reproach before the world?

P: I would have gathered everyone together and explained it to them.

M: Very well, let it be so—what of the astrologers’ calculations?

P: I would have performed rites to appease the planets. Well, what has happened is done. Now that I have found the jewel, shall I let it slip from my grasp? I shall not let you go. You can no longer leave my home.

Manorama said, “I must leave this house. Pashupati! Hear now what I have come to say today. Leave this house. Abandon your vain hope of kingship. Give up your reckless pursuit against your lord. Leave this land; let us journey to the holy city of Kashi. There, by serving at your feet, I shall fulfill the purpose of my birth. When our days come to an end, we shall depart together to the supreme abode. If you accept this—my devotion shall remain unwavering. Otherwise—”

P: Otherwise what?

Then Manorama, lifting her face, her eyes brimming with tears, stood before the