A Voice
Where would you go, King?
Somaka
Whose voice is that? This turbid air is like suffocation to the eyes; I cannot see.
The Voice
Come down, King! Come down from that chariot bound for Heaven.
Somaka
Who are you?
The Voice
I am Ritvik, who in my earthly life was your preceptor and the chief priest of your house.
Somaka
Master, all the tears of the world seem to have become vapour to create this realm of vagueness. What make you here?
Shades
This hell lies hard by the road to Heaven, whence lights glimmer dimly, only to prove unapproachable. Day and night we listen to the heavenly chariot rumbling by with travellers for that region of bliss; it drives sleep from our eyes and forces them to watch in fruitless jealousy. Far below us earth’s old forests rustle and her seas chant the primal hymn of creation: they sound like the wail of a memory that wanders void space in vain.