No other word was spoken that night. Kusum went slowly back to her
house which was hard by. But the Sanyasi remained sitting on my steps
for long hours that night. At last when the moon passed from the east
to the west, and the Sanyasi's shadow, shifting from behind, fell in
front of him, he rose up and entered the temple.
Henceforth I saw Kusum come daily to bow at his feet. When he expounded
the holy books, she stood in a corner listening to him. After finishing
his morning service, he used to call her to himself and speak on
religion. She could not have understood it all; but, listening
attentively in silence, she tried to understand it. As he directed
her, so she acted implicitly. She daily served at the temple--ever
alert in the god's worship--gathering flowers for the _puja_, and
drawing water from the Ganges to wash the temple floor.
The winter was drawing to its close. We had cold winds. But now and
then in the evening the warm spring breeze would blow unexpectedly from
the south; the sky would lose its chilly aspect; pipes would sound,
and music be heard in the village after a long silence. The boatmen
would set their boats drifting down the current, stop rowing, and begin
to sing the songs of Krishna. This was the season.
Just then I began to miss Kusum. For some time she had given up
visiting the temple, the _ghât_, or the Sanyasi.
What happened next I do not know, but after a while the two met
together on my steps one evening.