With quivering tongues the fire licked the sky and the King stood beside it, still and silent, like a tree struck dead by lightning. Fascinated by the godlike splendour of the blaze, the child babbled in glee and danced in my arms, impatient to seek an unknown nurse in the free glory of those flames. SOMAKA Stop, no more, I pray! SHADES Ritvik, your presence is a disgrace to hell itself! THE CHARIOTEER This is no place for you, King! nor have you deserved to be forced to listen to this recital of a deed which makes hell shudder in pity. SOMAKA Drive off in your chariot!--Brahmin, my place is by you in this hell. The Gods may forget my sin, but can I forget the last look of agonised surprise on my child's face when, for one terrible moment, he realised that his own father had betrayed his trust? _Enter_ DHARMA, _the Judge of Departed Spirits_ DHARMA King, Heaven waits for you. SOMAKA No, not for me. I killed my own child. DHARMA Your sin has been swept away in the fury of pain it caused you. RITVIK No, King, you must never go to Heaven alone, and thus create a second hell for me, to burn both with fire and with hatred of you! Stay here! SOMAKA I will stay. SHADES And crown the despair and inglorious suffering of hell with the triumph of a soul! 26 The man had no useful work, only vagaries of various kinds. Therefore it surprised him to find himself in Paradise after a life spent perfecting trifles. Now the guide had taken him by mistake to the wrong Paradise--one meant only for good, busy souls. In this Paradise, our man saunters along the road only to obstruct the rush of business. He stands aside from the path and is warned that he tramples on sown seed. Pushed, he starts up: hustled, he moves on. A very busy girl comes to fetch water from the well. Her feet run on the pavement like rapid fingers over harp-strings. Hastily she ties a negligent knot with her hair, and loose locks on her forehead pry into the dark of her eyes. The man says to her, "Would you lend me your pitcher?" "My pitcher?" she asks, "to draw water?" "No, to paint patterns on." "I have no time to waste," the girl retorts in contempt. Now a busy soul has no chance against one who is supremely idle. Every day she meets him at the well, and every day he repeats the same request, till at last she yields. Our man paints the pitcher with curious colours in a mysterious maze of lines. The girl takes it up, turns it round and asks, "What does it mean?" "It has no meaning," he answers. The girl carries the pitcher home. She holds it up in different lights and tries to con its mystery. At night she leaves her bed, lights a lamp, and gazes at it from all points of view. This is the first time she has met with something without meaning. On the next day the man is again near the well. The girl asks, "What do you want?" "To do more work for you." "What work?" she enquires.