Chārudatta. [Holding him back by the sacred cord.] Sit down, my friend. What do you mean? Leave the poor pigeon alone with his mate.
Kumbhīlaka. What! he sees the pigeon and doesn't see me? Good! I'll hit him again with another lump of mud. [He does so.]
Maitreya. [Looks about him.] What! Kumbhīlaka? I'll be with you in a minute. [He approaches and opens the gate.] Well, Kumbhīlaka, come in. I'm glad to see you.
Kumbhīlaka. [Enters.] I salute you, sir.
Maitreya. Where do you come from, man, in this rain and darkness?
Kumbhīlaka. You see, she's here.
Maitreya. Who's she? Who's here?
Kumbhīlaka. She. See? She.
Maitreya. Look here, you son of a slave! What makes you sigh like a half-starved old beggar in a famine, with your "shesheshe"?
Kumbhīlaka. And what makes you hoot like an owl with your "whowhowho"?
Maitreya. All right. Tell me.
Kumbhīlaka. [Aside.] Suppose I say it this way. [Aloud.] I'll give you a riddle, man.
Maitreya. And I'll give you the answer with my foot on your bald spot.
Kumbhīlaka. Not till you've guessed it. In what season do the mango-trees blossom?
Maitreya. In summer, you jackass.
Kumbhīlaka. [Laughing.] Wrong!
Maitreya. [Aside.] What shall I say now? [Reflecting.] Good! I'll go and ask Chārudatta. [Aloud.] Just wait a moment. [Approaching Chārudatta.] My friend, I just wanted to ask you in what season the mango-trees blossom.
