CHITRA: Why do you watch me like that, my warrior?
ARJUNA: I watch how you weave that garland. Skill and grace, the twin brother and sister, are dancing playfully in your finger tips. I am watching and thinking.
CHITRA: What are you thinking, sir?
ARJUNA: I am thinking that you, with this same lightness of touch and sweetness, are weaving my days of exile into an immortal wreath, to crown me when I return home.
CHITRA: Home! But this love is not for a home!
ARJUNA: Not for a home?
CHITRA: No. Never talk of that. Take to your home what is abiding and strong. Leave the little wild flower where it was born; leave it beautifully to die at the day's end among all fading blossoms and decaying leaves. Do not take it to your palace hall to fling it on the stony floor which knows no pity for things that fade and are forgotten.
ARJUNA: Is ours that kind of love?
CHITRA: Yes, no other! Why regret it? That which was meant for idle days should never outlive them. Joy turns into pain when the door by which it should depart is shut against it. Take it and keep it as long as it lasts. Let not the satiety of your evening claim more than the desire of your morning could earn. . . . The day is done. Put this garland on. I am tired. Take me in your arms, my love. Let all vain bickerings of discontent die away at the sweet meeting of our lips.
ARJUNA: Hush! Listen, my beloved, the sound of prayer bells from the distant village temple steals upon the evening air across the silent trees!