Cell. The bright vermilion dot between her beautifully arched brows glows; I long to wear sindoor myself. Holding her face in my hands, I sang—

“In the midst of fragrant saffron, a single trembling drop of the eye—O Shanti, do you know what it is, the hundred-petaled lotus of union in the youthful lake?”

“Have you gone mad?”

“I want to learn to dance. At Shantiniketan, Rabindranath is teaching girls to dance.”

“Why don’t you go and learn?”

“As if it were that easy.” Would Baba ever let me? He would never allow me to go anywhere. I am imprisoned here—granted, imprisoned by affection, but no captivity is ever truly pleasant. Once, Rabindranath himself told me, “I will borrow you from your father for a few months. I am looking for someone for my play Malini. You could do it. Like Malini, you have a sky in your mind.”

“A sky in the mind”—such words I had never heard before. Until then, the sky was just the sky, but the moment I heard those words, it descended into my heart, its entire blue hue spreading within me. My soul filled with an indescribable joy. He is a magician of words; with words alone, he can gather clouds in the sky and bring down the Alakananda—he has no need for the Malhar raga. But did Baba let me go? He said, “Spend your life doing plays and theater, is that it? For a student, study is penance.”

“Look, Shanti, when I get married, when I am free, I will bring Sabita to my house and teach her to dance. No one will be able to stop me.”

I believed that marriage meant freedom for everyone. Of course, not if it was a marriage like Shanti’s. But who is truly free? Is my mother free? Not at all. What kind of marriage will I have? Mircea! Mircea! No, no, that will never happen. The circle’s thread will break. I clung to Shanti’s neck and began to cry. She was quite surprised, “Why are you crying? What will happen if you learn to dance? Or if you don’t?”

“It’s not for that. My heart feels so strange. It aches terribly.”

The large table lamp is burning, its shade like a big white bowl. On one side, I was leaning against the wicker sofa; on the other, Mircea sat on the bed, his legs stretched out. In that pose, his feet kept coming to my mind. I wanted to touch his feet—not with my feet, but with my hands. Oh, why should I want to touch his feet? He’s not that much older. Besides, he would be the one to touch my feet—if I sat with my face turned away like Radha, sulking, he would come to my feet, “Dehi padapallavamudaram”—that would be wonderful! Of course, I’m not really angry; it’s just that poem that makes me imagine such a scene. Reading the Gita Govinda, such images arise: Radha turns her face away, and