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"What humph?"
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"I don't get your meaning."
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"Of course not-the dog of the wilds lurks in the tiger's lair."
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"Meaning?"
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"Tricked me into singing my song. And now of course you're such an innocent."
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Don't they say that laughter in the morning is cause for mourning? So, although fighting it back was painful, Sripati didn't laugh. Splashing the floating neem twig away from him, he said, "Is the song something you bought?"
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Manasha suddenly drew herself straight, then thumped him unexpectedly on the back with her fist and replied, "Not bought, but known."
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She wondered as she almost ran down the edge of the pond, "Who can tell whose mind goes which way?"
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Sripati had strolled to the waterhole by the palms. The water level had gone down, as if to match the decline of the year in Chaitra. A pair of cormorants kept diving in and popping up. They looked around warily. Dived again. Sripati sat in the narrow space between two palm trees He had no shirt on and the flute lay on his lap. He had just lit a beedi when his eyes fell on the cormorant couple. Eros had grown strong in them as in everything else in this season. They wooed each other, and could not let go. Sripati was reminded of the Purana stories he had heard in Kajipara. In his induction to the Manashamangal, the storyteller had related how Mahadeva himself had grown wild with desire at the sight of his daughter Manasha sporting in the water. Manasha realized that she had to calm her father's headstrong lust, or catastrophe would overcome the three worlds. She exhausted her wiles, but managed to cool him down at last. This Manasha's husband too was Shankar. No doubt he was a Bauri, but in reality he was Mahakaal. Is that why he could not cope with Manasha and had to run away? Sripati balked at these thoughts. He quickly turned his attention towards the pool. He saw the male prick his companion with his bill. She too pressed her bill against her mate's. The flute rang out. The player thrilled with an inner music.
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On opening his eyes, he saw Manasha sitting at a distance. He had not noticed her arrive. Her hands were gathered on her lap. Her eyes tranquil, she was gazing silently at him. Still playing on the flute, Sripati smiled. But Manasha did not return the smile. Only her head swung gently. The musician played on, his heart anguished. Could the demented girl sense the message that gave life to the melody? But then, what would happen if she could? The flute plunged into silence. Then Shankar Bauri would not have left Penchalia. And Manasha would not have sat listening to the musician's flute in this seclusion. Manasha stopped swaying. "What's wrong?"
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"Why?"
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"Go on playing."
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Sripati looked into the distance. His stay here would last another couple of days at the most. Then he would go back. Back to his buying and selling of groceries. His glance fell on the two cormorants. They were now close to ecstasy, emitting low sounds of pleasure and fluttering their wings in the water. He raised his eyes towards Manasha. So much neglect had left no shadows on her cheeks, no lines on her brow. Although her unoiled hair was full of tangles, the sunlight leaped off her cheeks. But the fine nostril was bare. It was pierced, yet the ornament was missing. A tiny jewel would have looked pretty on her. He called softly, "Manasha."
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