Ana rose early, dressed, and went into the gardens for her devotions. She was watching the dance and ripple of sunlight across the surface of the pond when she realized she was being observed. Not a pompous devotee this time, she thought, and hushed herself mentally. To disdain pomposity in another was, itself, pompous. She turned her head. Jaya, of course. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, and stepped from the tiled walk into the dewy grass. “I was finished, really. Just contemplating Ram-ji’s canvas.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. She pointed at the pond with its patterns of wind ripple and fish dart. “Water, wind, fish, and light—the palette of pakriti. He paints with life.” Jaya remembered his childhood lessons in Divine Metaphysics. “Pakriti? Maya, don’t you mean—illusion? The fish aren’t really made of gold, the water isn’t covered in diamonds, the saroj are not emeralds—just weeds that float.
