When Acharya awoke, it was the middle of the night. His head rested on Chandri’s thighs. His cheek pressed against her bare hip. Chandri was gently stroking his head, ear, and cheek with her fingers.

Suddenly, he felt like a stranger to himself. Acharya closed his eyes and pondered: Where am I? How did I come here? What is this darkness? What is this forest? Who is this woman?

A memory flashed—like a child, he was once again curled up on his mother’s lap, letting his fatigue melt away. He looked around in confusion: the night was like the spread tail of a peacock, studded with inexhaustible stars; the constellation of the Saptarishis; Arundhati shining shyly beside Vasishta. Below, the scent of grass, fresh earth, Vishnukanta flowers, and the sweat of a woman’s body. The darkness of the sky, trees standing in tranquil silence.

Was this a dream? He rubbed his eyes. He was troubled—how did I come here, and where was I supposed to go? He had forgotten. “Chandri,” he called, fully awake now. He listened. In the forest, in the silence, the darkness whispered secrets, chirping and murmuring. The sound, “chilichili,” turned to light—“minak, minak”—as swarms of fireflies rose like a chariot from the bushes and revealed themselves. He watched and listened, his eyes and ears filled: all around, clusters of fireflies floated like celestial chariots. “Chandri,” he said, touching her belly, and sat up.

Chandri was afraid that Praneshacharya would abandon her, cast her away. Yet, she also hoped she might be with child. She felt grateful, as if she had become sanctified. But she did not speak.

Praneshacharya too remained silent for a long time. At last, he stood up and said:

Samskara

“Chandri, get up and go. Tomorrow morning, when the Brahmins gather, tell them what has happened. You yourself must tell them. I do not have the authority to make a decision and declare it to the agrahara…”

Praneshacharya faltered, not knowing what would be the right thing to say:

“I have lost it. If I do not have the courage tomorrow, you must tell them yourself. As for me, I am ready to perform the samskara. But I do not have the authority to inform the other Brahmins. That is all.”

After he had spoken these words, Praneshacharya felt as if all his weariness had fallen away.

* * *

They crossed the river together. Out of shame, Chandri let Praneshacharya walk ahead and followed behind. When she entered the agrahara, anxiety seized her: Is this how everything I have done will turn out? With good intention, I gave him the gold; so be it. Now, the Acharya who is striving to perform the samskara… But by nature, Chandri was not familiar with the language of self-reproach and remorse. As she walked through the dark street of the agrahara, that darkness—standing, bowing, giving, receiving, the secret fragrance of the flower she had hidden away—brought her only a sense of blessedness. Poor Acharya, perhaps