The heart is heavy, and so, naturally, the body.
I brought down yesterday's newly bought gowns from the wardrobe. I cannot put them away. Who knows when such deep melancholy will visit again?
As we age, there's really no such thing as sadness anymore. The heart can no longer distinguish between good and bad. Whatever happens is good, or whatever is good is what's happening—we simply accept this.
I can feel it very clearly—as I grow older, my days of melancholy are growing fewer. I find no time to heed the heart, to tend to it separately. So today I will celebrate my sadness. Today I'll wear the velvet gown, paint my lips red, twist my hair lightly forward and step out. In a rickshaw I'll roam the entire city, the yellow-covered Gitabitan newly bought resting in my lap, tuberose in my hand. Today I'll grow drunk on fragrance, go mad touching the Gitabitan.
The whole city is mine today. Today I am king of this city. I'll pay no taxes, no tribute. I won't take anyone in the rickshaw with me, won't call anyone, won't answer anyone's calls. Gowns are a little troublesome for walking, true, but what does a king have to fear?
I'm stepping out... O city, prepare yourself! With the story of my sadness I'll color your streets red today. Not with hands—I'll write with kohl. Tears and kohl, see how beautifully they make inkwell and pen together.