Midnight, the full moon has risen over the forest, and Radhika is wasting away in separation. And the manjari prays: when will that day come that I quietly slide back the bolt, waking no one, and lead her out into the forest? The night is bright — in coloured cloth she would be seen. So I will dress her all in white: garlands of white jasmine, white sandal paste on her dark brows, camphor over her body and camphor dust in her hair like grey, and only white diamonds — no ruby, no emerald. Then, as she slips between the trees, anyone who sees her will think: it is only a moonbeam. She waits in the shade of the branches; I go ahead through the lit clearing, look around — no one — and call: quick, quick. And Radhika darts from shadow to shadow, timid as a rabbit, freezing at every twig that looks like a man: what if Jatila or Abhimanyu should see. She, at whose feet all worlds should take shelter, herself takes shelter of her maidservant.