SUDARSHANA.
But since I came here I have felt suddenly many a time as if somebody were playing on a vina below my window.
SURANGAMA.
There is nothing impossible in the idea that somebody indulges his taste for music there.
SUDARSHANA.
There is a deep thicket below my window—I try to find out who it is every time I hear the music, but I can see nothing distinctly.
SURANGAMA.
Perhaps some wayfarer rests in the shade and plays on the instrument.
SUDARSHANA.
It may be so, but my old window in the palace comes back to my memory. I used to come after dressing in the evening and stand at my window, and out of the blank darkness of our lampless meeting-place used to stream forth strains and songs and melodies, dancing and vibrating in endless succession and overflowing profusion, like the passionate exuberance of a ceaseless fountain!
SURANGAMA.
O deep and sweet darkness! the profound and mystic darkness whose servant I was!
SUDARSHANA.
Why did you come away with me from that room?
SURANGAMA.
Because I knew he would follow us and take us back.
SUDARSHANA.
But no, he will not come-he has left us for good. Why should he not?
SURANGAMA.
If he can leave us like that, then we have no need of him. Then he does not exist for us: then that dark chamber is totally empty and void—no vina ever breathed its music there—none called you or me in that chamber; then everything has been a delusion and an idle dream.