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raga Bhairavi. Suddenly he stopped singing and a worried look came into his eyes. He had remembered Bhanumati. Leaning over the rail he called out to the guards, ‘Lock the gates and don’t open them for anyone. I wish to be alone.’
    This set of rooms, situated at a little distance away from the main palace, was Birchandra’s favourite haunt. It was called the Forbidden Wing because entry into it was forbidden to all except a few close associates of the king. Birchandra pursued his hobbies here—painting, music, developing photographs and reading poetry. When he was in retreat, as he was now, even the most pressing matters of state could not draw him out.
    Birchandra stood gazing for a while at the beauty of the scene before him. Then, raising his arms above his head, he stretched luxuriously. ‘Aaah!’ he cried with deep satisfaction. ‘Aaah!’ came a voice, prompt as an echo. As Birchandra turned around in the direction of the sound a bundle of clothing gathered itself together from a corner and sat up. It was a man, very tall and thin with a nose like a rapier and long untidy locks tumbling about a pair of hollow cheeks. The Maharaja knew him. He was Panchananda, a notorious drunkard and drug-taker with a saucyinsolent tongue. But Birchandra liked him and let him hang about the Forbidden Wing preferring his rough and ready manners to the oily flatteries of his courtiers.
    Panchananda stifled a yawn and said. ‘I almost dropped off in the middle of a song, Maharaj, so I slipped away fearing my snoring would disturb you. Aa haha! What a voice Jadu Bhatta Moshai has!
Phirayé dité élé shéshé shonpilé nijéré
. A brilliant composition! I’m not going home without hearing the rest of it.’
    â€˜Then you’ll have to wait till sundown. Darbari Kannada cannot be sung in the glare of the day! You’d better get yourself home. Don’t forget that a desolate heart is pining away for a glimpse of you.’
    â€˜It will do the desolate heart good. A woman likes to pine away for the man she loves, Maharaj. It enhances his value in her eyes. If she’s denied the opportunity she gets bored and sulky. It’s like eating a sauce without salt and spices.’
    â€˜Humph!’ the king grunted. ‘You’re never at a loss for words. Well! I’m going for my bath Panchananda. If you decide to stay you must make yourself useful. Go to the studio and start mixing the paints. I mean to finish my picture this morning.’
    Birchandra stepped into the studio an hour later to find Panchananda standing with a brush in his hand gazing thoughtfully at a painting propped up on an easel. It was a landscape—a view of the forest from the West Wing. Birchandra had started work on it a month ago then, losing interest, had abandoned it. Clearing his throat, he said with mock severity, ‘
Ohé
! Are you trying to improve upon my handiwork?’ Panchananda bit his tongue in exaggerated humility. Wagging his head from side to side he exclaimed, ‘Would I dare take such a liberty Maharaj? Would even one of my fourteen generations of ancestors dare? Can I play God? But, forgive me Maharaj, I was sorely tempted.’
    â€˜Tempted to do what?’
    â€˜Forget it. It’s of no consequence.’
    â€˜What do you think of this picture?’
    â€˜Shall I express my opinion freely? Or shall I exercise caution?’
    â€˜I’ve never seen caution within a mile of you.’ ‘You ask me to be candid then?’
    â€˜I command you.’
    â€˜The picture is too crowded Maharaj. There are too many trees. This poor little doe in the middle has no room to breathe. A painting should have space.’
    â€˜Take a look at the forest from the West Wing. It looks exactly like this.’
    â€˜That may be true but the painter must see with the eyes of the mind . . . And here, look at this silk cotton tree. The flowers on it