Srikanta
Piari let go of my feet and sat silent. Just then the cart turned a corner and I could see the eastern sky that had been behind us. It bore a striking resemblance to the face of this fallen woman. In both I saw the suggestion of a mass of hidden flame struggling through the darkness.
'Why are you silent?' I asked.
Piari smiled a faint, sad smile, and said, 'Kanta-da, it is difficult to write out a deed of gift with the pen which one has used all one's life to make forgeries. So you want to go? Very well then, go. But promise me that you'll leave that place before noon to-day.'
'I promise.'
'Promise that no entreaty of anybody's will keep you there to-night.'
'No, it won't.'
Piari took off her ring and, placing it near my feet, touched the ground with her forehead; then, taking the dust of my feet, she put it on her head and dropped the ring into my pocket,[1] 'Go then,' she said: 'your walk will be longer by about three miles.'
I got down from the cart. The day had completely dawned. 'One more thing,' Piari entreated me. 'When you return home write to me.'
I promised to write, and left her. Not once did I turn back my head to see whether they were still standing or had started forward. But for a long time I could feel her tear-dimmed eyes following me.
- ↑ The ceremony of obeisance is observed when one is parting, for some long time to come, from one to whom respect is due, such as one's senior in age or relationship.
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