22
THE FUGITIVE
flock of saliks dig their nests in the steep bank under whose frown the fisher-boats find no shelter.
You sit there on the unfrequented grass, and the morning wears on. Tell me what you do on this bank so dry that it is agape with cracks?
She looks in my face and says, "Nothing, nothing whatsoever."
On this side of the river the bank is deserted, and no cattle come to water. Only some stray goats from the village browse the scanty grass all day, and the solitary water-hawk watches from an uprooted peepal aslant over the mud.
You sit there alone in the miserly shade of a shimool, and the morning wears on.
Tell me, for whom do you wait?
She looks in my face and says, "No one, no one at all!"
