“No.”
“Ah,” said the man. Zira gazed at him, then again she turned to lift the water jar, then let it be. She went nearer to the man. She gazed again. “Who are you?”
“Whom am I like?”
“You are like Madhava.”
Zira’s voice came only from her lips. She loosed the fastening of her shawl that covered her head and shadowed her face. It fell. She stood against the rock wall. “I am Zira. Are you Madhava?”
Madhava buried his face in his arms. “The tiger should not have fled from me that night, nor I have wandered on—”
“You are Madhava ... Madhava!”
Her voice deepened, then rose in a loud and bitter cry, “Madhava!”
Madhava dropped his hands from his face. He rose and came to her. They stood by the running water. “Thou art not fair as thou wert.... Or art thou fairer?... We have suffered—we have learned.... When all is said, thou art deep in me!”
“When all is said, thou art deep in me!”