The Chieftain's Daughter

by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

  Gajapati had not received his title of Vidya Diggaj, the master-scholar, by his own choice. He was sharply intelligent. He had begun his study of classical grammar when still a boy, completing the preliminaries in seven tortuous months. Aided by the kindness of his teacher and the din raised by other students, he mastered the first course in fifteen years. Before allowing him to embark on the next course, the teacher chose to survey the terrain that lay before his student. ‘Can you tell me the declensions of Rama?’ he asked. After much thought, the boy answered, ‘Ramakanta.’ ‘You are extremely well versed in grammar, my boy,’ declared the teacher, ‘you need not study any more. You may go home now. I have no more knowledge to offer you.’

  Gajapati said conceitedly, ‘I have but one request—what of my title?’

  ‘The knowledge you have acquired demands a special title, my boy,’ the teacher told him. ‘I confer the title of Vidya Diggaj—scholar supreme—upon you.’

  Pleased, Diggaj bade a respectful farewell to his teacher before wending his way homeward.

  ‘Now that I have mastered grammar,’ mused Diggaj at home, ‘it is imperative to read some classical scriptures. I have been told Swami Abhiram is a great scholar, no one but he can be a suitable teacher for me, and I should educate myself with his guidance.’ Thus he ensconced himself within the fort. Swami Abhiram taught many students without allowing himself to be annoyed by any of them. Whether Diggaj learnt anything or not, he went on giving him his lessons.

  Gajapati was not only adept at grammar and at reciting the scriptures from memory, he was also a rhetorician, a bit of a wit, flattery was his natural skill. He was particularly full of wit in his exchanges with Aasmani. Behind this lay some deeper significance. Gajapati had convinced himself that he had been born like Krishna for sport and dalliance, that his abode was but his playground, the equivalent of Krishna’s Vrindavan, and that Aasmani’s relationship with him was the same amorous one as Radha’s with Krishna. Aasmani had a sense of humour too, deriving from this present-day incarnate of Madanmohan the same pleasure that a pet monkey offered. Bimala too made the monkey dance sometimes. ‘I have found my companions in love,’ Diggaj would muse. ‘And why not? Their heads have been turned by my compliments; how fortunate that Bimala has no idea that they are borrowed.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Aasmani’s Tryst

  THE ESTEEMED READER is undoubtedly curious to know what manner of beauty Aasmani, conqueror of Gajapati Diggaj, was. I shall satiate your curiosity. However, it would be impudent for an insignificant individual like myself to deviate from the convention normally followed by authors when describing the beauty of women. Therefore, I must first invoke the goddess.

  O goddess of speech. O lotus-seated one. O autumnal moon. O patroness of devotees at your feet outshining the whitest of lotus petals. The shade of those lotus-feet; I shall describe Aasmani’s beauty. O you who shrinks the pride of the clan of lovely, lotus-faced women. O creator of the succulent potato-metaphor! Grant me but an insignificant corner in your proximity, so that I may describe beauty. I shall prepare a repast of potato-compound, eggplant, blend and plantain simile to serve the bedgeree up to thee. O fount of wisdom desired by the learned classes. O you who occasionally look kindly upon the ignorant. O creator of the frenzy of feverishly itching fingers. O fuel-supplier to sensational writers’ lamps of learning. Kindle the lamp of my intelligence once, I pray to you. O goddess! You have two forms. Pray do not vex me by straddling my shoulders in the form in which you blessed Kalidasa, whose influence gave birth to Raghuvamsham, to Kumarsambhavam, to Meghdootam, to Shakuntalam, the spirit whose devoted pursuit led Valmiki to compose the Ramayana; Bhababhuti, the Uttararamacharita; Bharavi, the Kiratarjuniya. Descend upon my shoulders instead in the form which inspired the Sriharsha to compose the Naishadharcharitram, which inspired Bharatchandra to describe the exquisite beauty of Vidya, captivating all of Bengal, whose benediction gave birth to the divine fervour of Dasarathi Roy, the spirit which still lights up the world of popular literature, so that I may describe Aasmani’s beauty.

  Aasmani’s braided hair was like a coiled snake. If I must be defeated by a braid, the snake muttered to itself in ignominy, of what use is this body of mine? Let me retreat into my hole. The Lord sensed trouble—if the snake was going to stay in its hole, who would bite humans? He pulled the snake out by its tail, whereupon the creature, humiliated at having to reveal its face to the world again, battered its head against the ground repeatedly. The snake’s head has remained flat ever since. Because Aasmani was more beautiful, the moon, unable to rise, complained to the Lord bitterly. Fear not, said the Lord, you may rise, women shall veil their faces from now on—and that was when the veil was created. Her eyes were like wagtails—lest they spread their wings and escape, the Creator has incarcerated them in a prison of lashes. Her nose was shapelier than the mythical Garuda’s, who promptly retired to treetops to hide its disgrace—birds have lived on trees since then. The pomegranate, symbol of the bosom found itself with no choice but to escape to the Patna region; the elephant migrated to Burma with its bullous head; that left the Dhaulagiri, which compared the height of its own peak to hers and found itself falling short by a mile, whereupon it became so agitated that it needed a mound of snow on its head to quieten—and has remained snow-capped ever since.

  By an unfortunate turn of destiny, Aasmani was a widow. Arriving at Diggaj’s hut, she found the door barred and a lamp burning within. ‘Are you in, O Master?’ she called.

  There was no answer.

  ‘Are you there, O divine disciple?’

  Still no answer.

  ‘What on earth is the rogue doing? Are you within, O jester supreme?’

  Nothing.

  Peeping through a hole in the door, Aasmani saw the good Brahmin sitting down to his meal. That was why he was silent, for once he has spoken during a meal, a Brahmin may eat no more. ‘Him and faithful! Let me find out if he really will not eat any more once he has spoken,’ Aasmani thought to herself.

  ‘Listen to me, O poet!’

  No answer—‘O poet’.

  Answer: Hmm.

  The good Brahmin was grunting with food in his mouth—that was not tantamount to speaking. ‘O jewel on earth,’ Aasmani called again, determined to break his silence.

  Answer: Hmm.

  A: Why don’t you talk to me, you can eat later.

  Answer: Hm…mm…mm!

  A: You call yourself a Brahmin but you’re up to mischief. I’m going to tell the swami—who is that in the room with you?

  Terrified, the good Brahmin surveyed his room quickly. Seeing it was empty, he resumed eating.

  ‘That hussy is an untouchable,’ declared Aasmani. ‘I know her well!’

  ‘Untouchable? Has she touched anything?’ the good Brahmin gasped.

  ‘So you are eating again? After you spoke?’Aasmani asked triumphantly.

  D: When did I speak?

  ‘There! You just did!’ Aasmani broke into peals of laughter.

  D: Indeed. Indeed. I cannot eat any more.

  A: That is right. Now open the door for me.

  Peering through the hole, Aasmani saw the good Brahmin had indeed abandoned his meal. ‘Why do you not finish your meal first?’ she suggested.

  D: No, I cannot eat any more.

  A: Please do, I beg of you.

  D: Lord, lord, how can I eat after I have spoken?

  A: Really? Then I am off. There was so much I had to tell you, but it is impossible now. I am off.

  D: No, Aasmani, do not be angry. I will eat.

  The good Brahmin resumed his meal. After he had swallowed two or three mouthfuls, Aasmani said, ‘Enough, open the door now.’

  D: Let me finish.

  A: You have a bottomless pit for a stomach. Get up now, or I will tell everyone you went on eating after you spoke.

  D: Oh, such a bother. Alright, I am coming.

  Abandoning his meal gloomily, the good Brahmin rinsed his hands and op
ened the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aasmani’s Romance

  AASMANI ENTERED AS soon as he opened the door. It dawned on Diggaj that his beloved deserved a worthy welcome. Therefore, he intoned in Sanskrit, his arm upraised, ‘I bow in reverence to you, O goddess.’

  ‘And where did you discover such juicy poetry?’ enquired Aasmani.

  D: I composed it today just for you.

  A: Not for nothing have I dubbed you the king of amours.

  D: Sit down, O beautiful lady. Allow me to wash my hands.

  ‘By the gods,’ murmured Aasmani to herself. ‘Rinse your hands if you like, I shall still make you finish the leftovers.’

  For his benefit, she said, ‘But why? Are you not eating any more?’

  ‘What do you mean, I have just completed my meal, how can I eat again?’ said Gajapati.

  A: But there is all that rice left on your plate. Are you planning to starve?

  ‘You hurried me so,’answered Diggaj, somewhat aggrieved. He gazed hungrily at his plate of rice.

  ‘Then you must eat again,’ declared Aasmani.

  D: By the lord, I have rinsed my mouth, left my seat, how can I eat again?

  ‘Of course you shall eat. And that too, off my plate.’ Announcing this, Aasmani took a mouthful of rice.

  The good Brahmin stared in surprise.

  ‘Eat,’ Aasmani instructed him, pointing to the plate she had just used.

  The good Brahmin was speechless.

  A: Go on, eat, I will not tell anyone you ate off my plate. As long as no one gets to know, you have not broken any rules.

  D: How is that possible?

  But hunger was raging in Diggaj’s belly. His secret wish at the moment was that, be Aasmani ever so beautiful, the earth should open up and swallow her, so that he could surreptitiously eat the rest of the rice to appease his burning hunger.

  Sensing what was going through his mind, Aasmani said, ‘Never mind, whether you eat or not, go take your seat before the plate.’

  D: Why? What purpose will that serve?

  A: It is my dearest wish. Can you not fulfil even a single wish of mine?

  ‘Very well, it will do no harm to merely sit by the plate, I can do that easily enough,’ declared Diggaj. ‘I shall honour your wish.’ Complying with Aasmani’s request, he sat down again before his plate of food. His stomach was growling, the rice was within his reach, but still he was unable to eat—Diggaj felt tears pricking his eyelids.

  ‘What must a Brahmin do if he eats off a Shudra’s plate?’ asked Aasmani.

  ‘He must bathe at once,’ answered the scholar.

  Aasmani said, ‘Tonight I shall find out how deeply you love me. Will you bathe at this hour of the night if I ask you to?’

  His small eyes half-closed with passion, Diggaj wrinkled his long nose and smiled sweetly from ear to ear. ‘But of course. Immediately, if you so desire.’

  ‘I have a craving to share your food,’ murmured Aasmani. ‘Feed me yourself.’

  ‘And why not, indeed, since all it will need is a bath to cleanse me,’ responded Diggaj. He proceeded to divide up the rice—which Aasmani had already tasted—into small portions.

  ‘Let me tell you a tale, meanwhile,’ said Aasmani. ‘You must not feed me till I have finished.’

  D: Very well.

  Aasmani began a story of a king and his two wives. Diggaj listened in rapt attention, while his hands worked on the rice of their own volition.

  As he listened, his attention remained riveted somewhere between her smile, her coy glances, and her nose stud. His hands stopped moving, but they remained on the plate, while his hunger continued to torment him. When Aasmani’s tale neared the climax, so absorbed was Diggaj in the outcome that his hands betrayed him. They raised a portion of rice from the plate to his mouth, which promptly opened wide to accept it. The teeth proceeded to chew on it without demur. The tongue pushed it down his gullet, poor Diggaj not protesting in the least. Aasmani broke into peals of laughter. ‘And so you rogue, did you not claim that you would never eat my leftovers?’ she taunted him.

  Diggaj came to his senses. After swallowing another mouthful, he clutched Aasmani’s feet, his hands still sticky. ‘Save me, Aasmani, pray do not tell anyone,’ he moaned as he ate.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Kidnapping of Vidya Diggaj

  SUDDENLY BIMALA ARRIVED and knocked on the door. She had been observing everything secretly through a side door. Diggaj’s face paled at the sound. ‘Oh my god, Bimala is here,’ exclaimed Aasmani. ‘Quick, hide.’

  ‘Where?’wailed Diggaj.

  ‘Go sit in that corner with the black pot over your head,’ advised Aasmani, ‘you will not be visible in the darkness.’ Wonderstruck at Aasmani’s incisive thinking, he attempted to comply. Unfortunately he chose a pot of daal to upturn on his head—it was half-full; as he was about to use it for cover, streams of lentils gushed out, running in torrents down his tail of hair—like a river surging down the mountain towards the plains, orange currents of daal cascaded in waves down his shoulders, chest, back, and arms. His lofty nose stood proudly like a mountain peak dotted with waterfalls of orange daal. Bimala entered the room and gazed upon the sight that Diggaj presented. He sobbed when he saw her. She was moved to pity. ‘Do not cry,’ she said. ‘If you eat the rest of the leftover rice, we will not disclose anything to anyone.’

  The Brahmin grew cheerful, resuming his meal joyfully, he wished he could mop up the daal clinging to his body, but was unable to—or perhaps didn’t dare to. He consumed the rice he had set out for Aasmani, lamenting over the wasted daal. After his meal Aasmani gave him a bath. Then, when he had settled down quietly, Bimala said, ‘There is something important I have to tell you, Witmaster.’

  ‘What?’ asked the Witmaster.

  B: Do you love us?

  D: Of course.

  B: Both of us?

  D: Both of you.

  B: Can you do what I want you to?

  D: But of course.

  B: Right now?

  D: Right now.

  B:This instant?

  D: This instant.

  B: Do you know why both of us are here?

  D:No.

  B: We want to run away with you.

  The good Brahmin gaped at them in astonishment. Bimala suppressed her laughter with supreme effort. ‘Why don’t you say something?’ she asked.

  ‘Er, uh, I, uh, er…’ Words would not emerge.

  ‘Then you cannot?’ asked Aasmani.

  ‘Er, uh, I, uh, er… let me inform the swami first.’

  ‘What do you mean inform the swami?’ said Bimala. ‘Are you arranging your mother’s funeral and need the swami’s help with the arrangements?’

  D: No, alright, I will not inform him. When do we have to leave?

  B: When? Immediately, can you not see I’ve brought my jewellery along?

  D: Immediately?

  B: This instant. If you cannot, say so, we will look for someone else to help us.

  Gajapati could contain himself no longer. ‘Let us go then,’ he said.

  ‘Take your shawl,’ said Bimala.

  Diggaj wrapped his shawl with the holy words woven on them around his shoulders. As Bimala led the way, with the Brahmin bringing up the rear, Vidya Diggaj said, ‘My lady!’

  B:What?

  D: When shall we return?

  B: Return! We are leaving forever.

  A smile suffusing his face, Diggaj said, ‘But the utensils?’

  B: I will buy you new ones.

  The good Brahmin was disappointed; but he had no choice, what if the ladies concluded he didn’t love them. He made one last attempt. ‘My books?’

  ‘Quickly,’ said Bimala.

  The scholar owned just two books—a grammar and a scripture. Picking up the grammar, he said, ‘What is the use, I have memorized it.’ He took only the scripture. ‘May the gods protect us,’ he muttered, leaving with Bimala and Aasmani.

 
; ‘Go on ahead, I will follow,’ said Aasmani.

  Aasmani went back indoors while Bimala and Gajapati proceeded together. Invisible in the darkness, they made their exit through the gateway to the fort. After they had progressed some distance, Gajapati said, ‘Is Aasmani not coming?’

  ‘She could not, it seems. Do we need her?’

  Gajapati was silent. ‘My utensils,’ he sighed after a long pause.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Scholar’s Courage

  WALKING SWIFTLY, BIMALA soon left Mandaran behind. The night was exceedingly dark as she guided herself carefully by starlight. Upon setting foot on the vast open expanse of land leading to the temple, Bimala was somewhat alarmed. Her companion was following her silently, uttering not a word. At such moments the sound of a human voice provides courage, it is even desirable. ‘What do you muse upon, jewel among wits?’Bimala asked Gajapati.

  ‘My utensils,’ disclosed the master of wit.

  Bimala began to giggle silently, covering her face.

  ‘Do you fear ghosts?’ Bimala spoke again after a few minutes.

  ‘O lord. Lord O lord O lord,’ intoned Diggaj, moving a couple of yards closer to Bimala.

  What we get, we want not. ‘This road is infested with spirits!’ Bimala announced. Diggaj now took hold of the end of Bimala’s saree. ‘The other evening, on our way back from the Shiva temple, we saw a hideous figure here!’

  The quavering at her garment told Bimala that the good Brahmin was trembling uncontrollably. She realized that if she went any further he would be transfixed to the spot. Relenting, she said, ‘Can you sing, Diggaj?’

  Is there a gallant in the world who is not adept at music? ‘But of course,’answered Diggaj.