beauty with which to worship you, god of my heart. If the rites
are over, if the flowers have faded, let me throw them out of the
temple [unveiling in her original male attire]. Now, look
at your worshipper with gracious eyes.

I am not beautifully perfect as the flowers with which I
worshipped. I have many flaws and blemishes. I am a
traveller in the great world-path, my garments are dirty,
and my feet are bleeding with thorns. Where should I achieve
flower-beauty, the unsullied loveliness of a moment's life? The
gift that I proudly bring you is the heart of a woman. 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