Here have
all pains and joys gathered, the hopes and fears and shames of a
daughter of the dust; here love springs up struggling toward
immortal life. Herein lies an imperfection which yet is noble
and grand. If the flower-service is finished, my master, accept
this as your servant for the days to come!
I am Chitra, the king's daughter. Perhaps you will remember the
day when a woman came to you in the temple of Shiva, her body
loaded with ornaments and finery. That shameless woman came to
court you as though she were a man. You rejected her; you did
well. My lord, I am that woman. She was my disguise. Then by
the boon of gods I obtained for a year the most radiant form that
a mortal ever wore, and wearied my hero's heart with the burden
of that deceit. Most surely I am not that woman.
I am Chitra. No goddess to be worshipped, nor yet the
object of common pity to be brushed aside like a moth with
indifference. If you deign to keep me by your side in the path
of danger and daring, if you allow me to share the great duties
of your life, then you will know my true self.
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