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Kali, Durga, Lakshmi, Saraswati and the entire range of gods and goddesses that we Hindus worship are only clay images made by the hands of men.’ A little shiver ran down Bharat’s spine. Even the thought of denying Kali was frightening. What if she was watching him and saw what went on in his mind? Would she not mete out a severe punishment?
    A little patter of footsteps behind him made Bharat spin around in alarm. Was Ma Kali . . .? A girl was coming towards him—a girl of twelve or thirteen with gleaming eyes and smiling lips so full and sweet that they seemed drenched in honey dew. She wore a sari but it was wrapped so loosely and clumsily around her that it threatened to slip off any moment. Was she . . .? One could never be sure. Gods and goddesses often came down to the earth in human form.
    â€˜
Ei
’ the girl called out in a voice of command, ‘Who are you?’ Then, receiving no answer, she said ‘I know. You’re the servant boy turned kumar.’ Giggling and putting out her tongue at him she added, ‘If you’re a prince why don’t you comb your hair?’
    â€˜Who are you?’ Bharat asked in a faint voice.
    â€˜Don’t you know me? I’m Khuman. No, no I have another name. I am Monomohini.’
    Bharat had never seen Monomohini but he knew that Queen Bhanumati had a neice by that name. The princesses of Tripura were kept in strict purdah but Monomohini came from Manipur where women enjoyed many of the privileges of men and were famous for their wit and repartee. She had romped and played freely with her brothers and cousins in childhood. Here, under her aunt’s care, she felt as stifled and confused as a caged bird and slipped out of the palace whenever she could. Pointing to a tree that stood a little distance away she said, her eyes bright with mocking laughter, ‘Young prince, why don’t you pluck some fruit for me?’ Bharat glanced in the direction of the pointing finger. The tree was laden with clusters of star apples but the fruit was hard and green and inedible. ‘I can’t climb trees,’ he said shortly. Her presence made him uncomfortable. Talking to a girl in the middle of the day in a secluded spot like this was dangerous. If anyone saw them there would be trouble.
    â€˜Come. I’ll teach you,’ Monomohini tucked her sari tightly at her waist and proceeded to climb the rough trunk with accustomed ease. The sari rose to her knees revealing her slim, shapely legs. Her golden back was naked to the waist. ‘Come, hold my hand,’ she called. Bharat broke out in a sweat. He felt the world dissolve around him. This was not real. This wasn’t happening. It was a scene from a book; a romance by Bankim Babu. Was the girl before him Shaibalini? But he was no Pratap. He was Bharat—the king’s bastard. He felt his heart thud violently within him. His ears blazed. He turned and started walking away in the opposite direction. ‘
Ei! Ei
!’ Monomohini’s voice came out to him, clear and intrepid, ‘Where are you going? Come back quickly you dolt or I’ll pull the dhuti off your middle.’
    Bharat covered his ears with his hands and ran and hid himself among the trees.

Chapter IV
    The musicians had succumbed to the exhaustions of the day and had fallen asleep beside their instruments. But the listener was wide awake and eager for more. Birchandra’s energy was phenomenal. He could keep awake for three nights in succession without feeling a trace of fatigue. He had wanted to hear the raga of the morning, his favourite raga, but there was no hope of it now.
    Sighing with disappointment, he walked out of the audience hall and stood on the balcony. Dawn was breaking over the mountains and, before his entranced eyes, a huge hibiscus-coloured sun swam into view. He brought his palms together in reverence but did not utter any mantra. Instead, he started humming a song in the morning