Pure and exquisite as the breath of woman with teeth like pearls, as fragrant as the rose of Cashmere, it sang, now jocund, now sad, as the moods of love-sick Radha; plaintively yearning as an appeal to love in the stillness of the starless night; joyous and eager as the meeting of desirous lips; languishing as the woman’s heart fainting under the first kiss of the loved; it redoubled powerful, passionate as the march of the conquering male who has subdued. Abruptly it altered the rhythm as if awakening in readiness for battle, with the clamor of an army lusting for carnage, with the clank of swords, the discordant clash of shields, armors and spears, the dull thud of shattered bones and skulls, vehement imprecations, deep blasphemies, full of rancor, hatred and vengeance.
Then succeeded a silence, heavy, full of terrible signs, as of a silent flapping of wings, of a roaming of untold shadows, blacker than the night.
It repeated the death-song of the jackal and the hyena, with its harassing, fiendish chorus, pursuing in a mad dance with strange rhythms, the lively reel of the black scavengers on the silent and pale corpses. Then it died out, purling and gurgling as life ebbs out of a tortured body from a deep and crimson wound.
Pity and compassion returned to the song, gently, caressingly, as if nursing multiple wounds, infusing sympathy and life, like the wind, which laden with coolness and fragrance, sweeps over an arid and desolate valley.
It broke into a chant, strong and overwhelming, and so irresistible that it was as a strain of Perfect Joy; persevered tenfold, omnipotent, with a note so true, so deep and so infinite that it was like a sip of the Amrita, blissful and oblivious.
All the gods encircled Asneha, instinctively, irresistibly, as the cobras surround the snake-charmer when he plays to them his captivating melody.
