KUMBHA. But he may just have chosen to do so on this important
occasion: you cannot really tell.

GRANDFATHER. Oh yes, you can! My King cherishes no weathercock
fancy, no fantastic vein.

KUMBHA. But, Grandfather, I wish I could only describe him! So
soft, so delicate and exquisite like a waxen doll! As I looked
on him, I yearned to shelter him from the sun, to protect him
with my whole body.

GRANDFATHER. Fool, O precious ass that you are! My King
a waxen doll, and you to protect him!

KUMBHA. But seriously, Grandpa, he is a superb god, a miracle of
beauty: I do not find a single other figure in this vast assembly
that can stand beside his peerless loveliness.

GRANDFATHER. If my King chose to make himself shown, your eyes
would not have noticed him. He would not stand out like that
amongst others--he is one of the people, he mingles with the
common populace.

KUMBHA. But did I not tell you I saw his banner?

GRANDFATHER. What did you see displayed on his banner?

KUMBHA. It had a red Kimshuk flower painted on it--the
bright and glittering scarlet dazzled my eyes.