The city was a marvel to him. Carts full of spices. Women with gold in their ears. Children chasing each other under the awnings. He walked through it like a man who had stepped out of a long dream into a noisy garden.

In a grove at the edge of the city, he saw a beautiful woman carried in a sedan. Her name was Kamala, and she was the most skilled of the courtesans. He wanted to learn from her what he did not yet know: the world, the body, desire, love.

She laughed at him. You are a Samana, she said. You smell of the forest. You have no money. You have no fine clothes. What can you offer me?

He said: I can think. I can wait. I can fast.

She laughed again. These are not small things, she said. But they will not be enough. Go and make yourself a man of the city. Come back when you can give.

So he went. He worked for a merchant named Kamaswami, and he learned to count, and to bargain, and to dress well, and to send letters. And every evening he returned to Kamala, and she taught him — slowly, patiently, as a master teaches a serious art — what he had come to learn.

I can think. I can wait. I can fast.