Thereupon another said: Is it not the left hand?[39] Then his thoughts are of the Shakti. And a wag among them said: Aye! For of what do all these holy men perpetually think, but of the five arrows of the God of Love? And a Brahman said: Thou art altogether out in thy conjecture, for he meditates on nothing but the sheaths of the soul. And a Gawali shouted: The sage is considering devoutly the parts of the cow. For what is holier than a cow? And there arose such an uproar in the city that the citizens all came to blows, dividing into factions, around him, while all the time he sat peacefully just as if nobody was there, gazing at his hand. And finally the King sent officers to say to him: Depart quickly from the city, for thy presence is a cause of sedition. Thereupon Pinga said: Interrupt my meditation, and I will curse the city, so as to deprive it of both sun and rain. So fearing his curse, the King had recourse to diplomacy. And he sent his _purohita_ at night, who secretly induced that obstinate ascetic to go away, of his own accord, by giving him a _lakh_. And as he slowly went out of the city, his _chela_ said to him aside: Master, what _was_ the subject of thy meditation: for I am curious to know? Then that crafty ascetic suddenly laughed like a hyaena. And he said: I meditated about absolutely nothing but my own hand. And now, this is a lesson to thee. For such is the nature of fools, who comprehend least of all what is absolutely simple, and see last of all what is lying before their nose. And whoever knows this possesses treasure inexhaustible, and is master of the world. [Footnote 38: The point of these interpretations depends on the number five, which enters into all of them.] [Footnote 39: There is a play here on _wama_, which means the _left hand_ and _a beautiful woman_.] V And Babhru watched her intently, as she spoke, and when she ended, he said suddenly and abruptly: Aranyani, thou art deceiving me. And she said: How, O Babhru? And he said: Thou art this morning totally unlike thyself: for thy customary melancholy is absent, and thou art strange, and elated, and agitated, and as it seems to me, thou art telling me idle stories, like one that listens all the while to something else, as it were in a hurry merely to throw me off the scent, and hide from me a secret, and amuse me like a child. And somehow or other, I feel as if there were a wall between us, this morning, which was never there before. Aye! I am sure, I know not how, thou art playing as it were a part, to cast a mist before my eyes, and hide from me some agitation in thy soul.