The Chieftain's Daughter

by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

  The maid lit the lamps. Her musing completed, Tilottama sat down by a lamp with a book. She knew how to read, having learnt Sanskrit from Swami Abhiram. She was reading Kadambari*. After a few pages, she abandoned Kadambari, in annoyance fetching another book in its stead, Basavadatta* by Subandhu. She alternated between reading and thinking. She did not find Basavadatta to her taste either. Forsaking it, she took up Geetgovindam**, which she enjoyed for a few minutes before flinging it away with a shy smile. After that she sat on her bed, restless. A quill and inkpot lay close at hand; seizing them, she started writing on the wooden surface of the bed absent-mindedly: she wrote the letters for K, S, and M, along with drawings of houses, doors, trees, people, and so on. Eventually the entire side of the bed was filled with her calligraphy. When there was no more space, she came to her senses. Laughing lightly at her handiwork, she proceeded to read what she had written, giggling. What had she written and drawn? Basavadatta, Mahashweta, the letters for K, E, E, and P, a tree, an idol of Shiva, Geetgovindam, Bimala, leaves, vines, some gibberish, the fort…heavens, what was this!… Prince Jagatsingh.

  Tilottama blushed in shame. Silly! Why should she be embarrassed when there was no one else in the room?

  Prince Jagatsingh. Tilottama read the words once, twice, several times. She stole glances at the door as she read, as though she were a thief.

  She did not linger very long, however, in case someone saw her. Quickly fetching water, she washed the ink off. Still not satisfied she wiped it again carefully with her garment. She tried to read her scribbles once more, saw that there was no trace of the ink left, yet still felt the words could be read. Again she washed it with water, wiped it once more with her garment, and yet she still could not help feeling the words were clearly visible—Prince Jagatsingh.

  *Famous Sanskrit love stories.

  **The great book of poetry that celebrates the love of Krishna and Radha. It was composed by the twelfth century Oriya poet, Jayadev.

  Chapter Eight

  Bimala’s Proposal

  BIMALA STOOD INSIDE Swami Abhiram’s hut. He was seated on the floor in a yogic position. She described Jagatsingh’s encounter with her and Tilottama in detail; completing her accounts, she said, ‘It is the fourteenth day today; the fortnight ends tomorrow.’ ‘What have you decided?’ asked Swami Abhiram.

  ‘I am here for your wise counsel,’ answered Bimala.

  ‘Excellent,’responded the sage. ‘My advice is not to think about this any more.’

  Bimala remained silent, looking disheartened. ‘Why do you look dejected?’ asked Swami Abhiram.

  ‘What will happen to Tilottama?’ said Bimala.

  ‘What! Is Tilottama infatuated with the young man?’ exclaimed the sage in surprise.

  ‘If only you knew,’ Bimala said after a few moments of silence. ‘I have kept Tilottama under close observation these past two weeks, and it appears to me that she is deeply in love.’

  ‘You women,’ commented the sage with a wry smile, ‘interpret the smallest sign of infatuation as passionate love. Do not worry for Tilottama’s happiness, Bimala; she is young—naturally she has become enamoured of the young man at first sight; as long as the subject is not brought up, she will soon forget Jagatsingh.’

  ‘No, my lord, there is no such sign. Tilottama has changed much in a mere fortnight. She no longer laughs and jokes with me or other girls of her age in the fort as she was wont to do. She has virtually stopped speaking. Her books are rotting beneath her bed, her flowers are dying because they have not been watered. Tilottama does not look after her birds any more or eat or sleep at night. She no longer dresses up. Tilottama was never one to be lost in her thoughts, but now she is sunk in them day and night. Tilottana’s visage bears the shadow sorrow.’

  Swami Abhiram was silenced. After some time he said, ‘I had always thought there was no such thing as love at first sight. However, God alone understands women, especially young women. But what will you do? Virendra will never agree to this match.’

  ‘I fear as much, which is why I have not brought the subject up yet,’ answered Bimala. ‘Nor did I reveal our identities to Jagatsingh in the temple. But if Lord Singh’—there was a change in Bimala’s expression—‘if Lord Singh were to form an alliance with Mansingh, what harm would it do to accept Jagatsingh as his son-in-law?’

  A: But why will Mansingh agree either?

  B: Let him not, the prince is free to choose.

  A: Why will Jagatsingh marry Virendrasingh’s daughter, for that matter?

  B: There is nothing in the ancestry on either side that forbids it, Jaidharsingh’s forefathers also trace their lineage back to the clan of Krishna.’

  A: You expect a woman whose lineage goes back to Krishna to marry a Muslim’s brother-in-law’s son?’

  ‘Why not?’retorted Bimala, looking intently at the ascetic. ‘Is any branch of Krishna’s family to be abhorred?’

  No sooner had she spoken than the sage’s eyes blazed in anger. Sternly, he said, ‘Sinner! So you have not forgotten your own sorry fate? Leave this room this instant!’

  Chapter Nine

  The Glory of the Clan

  IN THE FORTNIGHT he had left his father’s protection, Jagatsingh’s exploits were such as to strike terror in the hearts of the Pathan army, although he had not as yet succeeded in his vow to drive Katlu Khan’s fifty-thousand-strong army back to the opposite bank of the Subarnarekha with his five thousand. When Mansingh heard of his son’s military prowess he said, ‘Perhaps the original glory of the Rajput clan will be restored by my prince.’

  Jagatsingh knew perfectly well that it was impossible to repel fifty thousand soldiers in full frontal battle with five thousand—on the contrary, defeat or death was inevitable. Thus instead of attempting such a confrontation, he adopted strategies to prevent it. He kept his handful of troops hidden, selecting concealed spots for his camps—either inside dense forests or the hills of the region, with its troughs and crests like ocean waves—so that they were invisible even close at hand. He remained out of sight in this manner, descending with his troops like an avalanche on small companies of Pathan soldiers whenever he received news of their presence, decimating them completely. He engaged spies to roam the countryside disguised as fruit, vegetable, or fish vendors, or as beggars, ascetics, sages, and physicians, to bring him intelligence about the movement of Pathan troops. As soon as he had received his information, Jagatsingh would station his troops with great secrecy and swiftness at a locale where he could remain unseen and launch a tactical attack. If the company of Pathan soldiers proved larger than estimated, he made no attempt to besiege them, for he knew that a single defeat would mean the end of his entire campaign. In those instances he only stalked them cautiously to seize the enemy’s ammunition and horses after they had left. And if the quarry was not very large in numbers, he would lie in wait till the Pathans had reached the area where he wanted to attack them. Then, seizing the right moment, his soldiers would pursue them like roaring, hungry tigers, tearing them to pieces. Unaware of their foes, the Pathans were never prepared for battle. Suddenly assailed by a wave of enemy soldiers, they would almost always lose their lives without even putting up a fight.

  Countless Pathan soldiers were slain in this manner. Greatly alarmed, the Pathans attempted to engage Jagatsingh’s troops in open battle and destroy them. But they could not track down the whereabouts of Jagatsingh’s army; like messengers of death, they only made a single appearance at the final hour of their victims, disappearing after completing the ritual of slaughter. The wily Jagatsingh never kept all his five thousand soldiers together. He dispatched them in small groups—a thousand here, five hundred there, two hundred or two thousand elsewhere—wherever the enemy had been observed; and moved them away as soon as the mission was accomplished. The Pathans simply could not pin the Rajputs down to a particular location. Katlu Khan kept receiving news of casualties every single day. As a result, it became impossible for Pathan soldiers to venture
out of the fort in small numbers, even if the task at hand was slight. Plunder and pillage stopped altogether; all the soldiers took refuge within the fortresses, even gathering food became difficult. When informed of the way in which his son was bringing order to the lands under enemy attack, Mansingh wrote him a letter:

  ‘Pride of the family! I am convinced you shall deliver the kingdom from the clutches of the Pathans; accordingly I am dispatching another ten thousand soldiers to support your war.’

  The prince replied:

  ‘As Your Majesty wishes. Reinforcements will be welcome; but even without them, your servant will fulfil the vow that he made at your feet with the same five thousand soldiers, as befits a member of the Kshatriya clan.’

  Intoxicated by the heady brew of valour, the prince won a succession of battles. O Lord of the Mountains! Amidst the din of war, has the brave warrior not recalled even once the beautiful young woman in your temple whose innocent gaze had conquered him? If he has not, he too is made of stone like you.

  Chapter Ten

  After the Proposal, Action

  IT WAS THE morning after Swami Abhiram had evicted Bimala from his room in anger. She was in her chambers dressing up. A thirty-five-year-old woman dressing up? But why not? Can age kill youth? Youth is killed by the lack of beauty, it is killed in the mind. The woman who is not beautiful is old at twenty; the woman who is, can be young at any age. She whose heart is dry is always middle-aged, she whose isn’t, is perennially youthful. Even today Bimala was voluptuously beautiful, exceptionally passionate. Age matures passion, as any reader who is a little advanced in years will surely acknowledge.

  Who could claim after a glimpse of Bimala’s paan-reddened lips that she was not young? Who could say after catching a fleeting glance from her generous kohl-smudged eyes that she was a day over twenty-four? And what eyes! Elongated, animated, entrancing. There are some women whose eyes instantly make you think that they are haughty and arrogant, that they are committed pleasure-seekers. Such were Bimala’s eyes. I can assure the reader with certainty that Bimala was a young woman, you could even say time stood still for her. Who would contend after sensing the gentleness of her jasmine-white skin that a sixteen-year-old’s skin was gentler? Who would suggest after a glimpse of the tiny, ever so tiny, curl that had escaped from behind her ear to fall on her cheek that it was not the cheek of a young woman on which the curl lay? Open the eye of your mind, O reader! Cast it on Bimala as she sits before her mirror, attending to her hair. See how she has gathered her long locks in her left hand to comb them. See how she is smiling at her own vivacity. Listen to the sweet melodies she occasionally hums in a honeyed voice. Observe all of this closely, and then tell me whether you would still prefer a younger woman.

  After combing her hair, Bimala did not leave it loose; instead she made a long braid out of it. She wiped her face on a perfumed handkerchief, reddened her lips again with rosewater- and camphor-flavoured paan, put on her pearl-studded bodice, covered herself with her gold ornaments, and then, on second thoughts, took off some of them. She dressed herself in intricately embroidered garments, slipped on pearl-encrusted sandals, and finally, wove the prince’s gift—the valuable necklace—into her immaculately coiffed hair.

  Completing her toilette, Bimala proceeded to Tilottama’s room. Tilottama was astonished at the sight of her, asking with a smile, ‘What is all this, Bimala! Why are you dressed this way?’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ countered Bimala.

  T: Tell me, please, where are you going?

  B: Who told you I am going anywhere?

  Tilottama was embarrassed. Seeing her reaction, Bimala said with a pale smile, ‘I am going far away.’

  Tilottama’s face bloomed with joy like a happily unfolding lotus. ‘Where?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Guess,’ said Bimala, smiling slyly.

  Tilottama looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  Taking her hand, Bimala drew her to the window, saying, ‘I will tell you.’ Then she whispered in her ear, ‘I am going to the temple of Shiva. I shall meet a certain prince there.’

  Tilottama felt a thrill running through her. She said nothing.

  ‘I discussed this with Swami Abhiram,’ continued Bimala. ‘He considers marriage between you and Jagatsingh impossible. Your father will never agree. If the issue is raised in his presence, I will be lucky to escape a flogging.’

  ‘Then why?’ Her eyes downcast, gazing at the floor, Tilottama uttered just these two words in a stifled voice. ‘Then why?’

  B: Why? I had agreed to meet the prince tonight and reveal our identity. But what will he do with the information alone? Let me tell him who we are, then he can do what he has to. If the prince is enamoured of you…’

  Covering her face and not allowing Bimala to finish, Tilottama said, ‘You embarrass me. Go wherever you like, but do not tell anyone about me, and do not tell me about anyone either.’

  Smiling again, Bimala asked, ‘Then why have you plunged into this ocean at such a tender age?’

  ‘Go away. I am not listening to anything you say,’ said Tilottama.

  Bimala said, ‘Then I need not go to the temple.’

  T: Have I stopped you from going? Go wherever you want to.

  ‘Then I will not go,’ said Bimala, laughing.

  Lowering her eyes to the floor again, Tilottama said, ‘Go.’ Bimala started laughing again. After a while, she said, ‘I am going now, do not go to sleep till I am back.’

  Tilottama smiled too, its meaning clear: ‘Do you suppose I can sleep?’ Bimala understood. Before leaving, she put one hand on Tilottama’s shoulder and held up her face with the other; gazing upon her pure, love-struck face briefly, she kissed her tenderly. Tilottama spotted a tear in Bimala’s eye as she made to leave.

  Arriving at the door, Aasmani told Bimala, ‘The master has summoned you.’

  ‘Change your clothes before you go,’whispered Tilottama to Bimala.

  ‘Do not worry,’ responded Bimala.

  She went to Virendrasingh’s bedroom. He was lying back in his bed, a maid massaging his feet and another fanning him. Approaching the bed, she said, ‘What is your command?’

  Lifting his head, Virendrasingh was wonderstruck. ‘Are you going somewhere, Bimala?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’Bimala responded. ‘Any instructions for me?’

  V: How is Tilottama? She was ill, has she recovered?

  B: She has.

  V: Fan me for a few minutes while Aasmani fetches Tilottama.

  The maid with the fan put it down and left.

  Bimala signalled Aasmani to wait outside the room. ‘Go and make some paan for me, Lachhmani,’ Virendrasingh instructed the other maid, who was massaging his foot. She left.

  V: Why are you dressed in this way today, Bimala?

  B: There is a reason.

  V: I want to know.

  ‘Then you shall,’ said Bimala, casting a glance at Virendra with the love god smouldering in her eyes. ‘I am going on a tryst.’

  V: Not with death, I hope.

  B: Can I not have a tryst with a man?

  V: The man has not been born yet.

  B: Besides one.

  She left swiftly.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aasmani the Messenger

  MEANWHILE, AASMANI WAS waiting for Bimala as instructed. ‘I have something to tell you in private, Aasmani,’ Bimala told her.

  ‘I was convinced from the way you are dressed that something is afoot,’ Aasmani replied.

  ‘I will be travelling some distance on a special mission,’ Bimala said. ‘I cannot go by myself at this hour of the night, nor can I trust anyone but you to come with me. So you must accompany me.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ enquired Aasmani.

  ‘You were not prone to asking so many questions before,’ observed Bimala.

  ‘Will you wait a little then,’ said a subdued Aasmani. ‘I will complete my chores.’

  ‘One more thing,’ ad
ded Bimala. ‘Suppose you were to meet someone from the past today, would they be able to recognize you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Aasmani in surprise.

  ‘Suppose you were to meet Prince Jagatsingh,’ said Bimala.

  ‘Will such a day ever dawn,’ exclaimed Aasmani in pleasure.

  ‘Well, it might,’ replied Bimala.

  ‘Of course the prince will recognize me,’ Aasmani told her.

  ‘Then you must not come,’ said Bimala. ‘But whom can I ask—and yet I cannot go alone either.’

  ‘I long to meet the prince,’ confessed Aasmani.

  ‘Keep your longing to yourself,’ retorted Bimala. ‘What do I do now?’

  While Bimala pondered, Aasmani suddenly covered her mouth with her hand and began to giggle. ‘Damn you,’ exploded Bimala. ‘What on earth are you laughing yourself to death for?’

  ‘I was wondering whether to send our golden boy Diggaj with you,’ said Aasmani chuckling.

  ‘That is an excellent idea.’ Bimala laughed in elation. ‘Yes, I shall take our clown prince.’

  ‘But it was a joke!’ interjected Aasmani.

  ‘It is not a joke, I trust the foolish Brahmin completely. Just as the blind man cannot tell day apart from night, he too will understand nothing. So there is no reason to fear him. But he will not be willing to come along.’

  ‘Leave it to me.’Aasmani chuckled. ‘I will bring him, will you wait for us at the gate?’

  Still chuckling, she disappeared in the direction of a small hut within the fort.

  The reader has already been acquainted with Swami Abhiram’s disciple Gajapati Vidya Diggaj. The reader is aware, too, of why Bimala had dubbed him the Witmaster. The hut was occupied by this august person. The scholar was about six and a half feet tall, but no more than nine inches wide. His legs measured over four feet from the waist downwards, but were only as thick as a slim tree stump. His complexion was that of ink; it seemed as though the fire god had mistaken his legs for timber and began to consume them, but discarded them halfway after finding them lacking in flavour. Because of his excessive height, he stooped a little. The most prominent feature on his face was his nose, where the body had compensated for its lack of flesh elsewhere. His head was unevenly shaven, the bristles that remained were close-cropped, needle-sharp. The Brahmin’s ritual tail of hair on his shaved pate pointed upwards proudly.