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