The Chieftain's Daughter

by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘To what use would you put them?’

  Prince: I would have found out who they are. I do not like the indications. From what I can see of their turbans, they are the villainous Pathans, who are pursuing us with some evil motive.

  At once Bimala recollected the dead horse by the roadside, the turban, and the hoofprints. ‘In that case, wait here, I shall fetch a pair of spears for you from the fort immediately.’

  She disappeared in a flash. In the chamber beneath the one in which she had been tending to her hair earlier that evening, a window looked out on the mango orchard. Taking a key from the end of her scarf, Bimala turned it in a secret keyhole, and then pulled the window bars towards herself. By a marvel of craftsmanship, the entire window frame, including the bars, slid into an opening that had appeared in the wall next to it, clearing the way for Bimala to enter. Once she was inside, she tugged on the tiny portion of the window bars that was still visible, whereupon the entire window frame was reinstated in its original position. Bimala reinserted her key in the secret keyhole and turned it to lock the window in place, so that no one could enter.

  She went swiftly to the armoury, telling the guard on duty there, ‘Do not tell anyone what I am about to ask you for. Give me two spears—I shall return them shortly.’

  ‘What do you want with spears, mistress?’The guard was astounded.

  ‘Tonight is the night one prays for a brave son—and I have to perform special rituals with weapons. Please do not reveal to anyone that I desire to give birth to a son.’

  The guard believed her tale, every servant in the fort was under her thumb. Without demur, he handed her a pair of well-honed spears.

  Returning to the window swiftly with the spears, Bimala opened it as she had earlier and made her way back to Jagatsingh.

  But whether out of carelessness or because of the certainty that she was not going far and would be back soon, Bimala did not secure the entrance through the window behind her when she left. This led to danger. An armed man who had been lying in wait beneath a mango tree very close to the window spotted Bimala’s oversight. Keeping himself in the shadow of the tree until she had disappeared from sight, the man shed his noisy leather sandals and tiptoed barefoot up to the window. Peering through the opening to ensure that no one was inside, he took advantage of the breach in the wall to enter.

  Meanwhile the prince, armed with the spears supplied by Bimala, mounted the tree again to discover that only one of the two turbans was now visible—the other man was no longer there. Holding one of the spears in his left hand, he aimed at the turban on the branch with the spear in his right hand. Then he threw the spear with all the strength of his powerful arm. There was a loud rustle amidst the leaves in the other tree, followed by the thud of a heavy object falling to ground. The turban could no longer be seen. The prince realized that his infallible aim had felled the owner of the turban.

  Dismounting quickly from his tree, the prince raced to the spot where the injured man had fallen. There he saw an armed Pathan soldier lying dead on the ground. The spear was embedded in his head, next to his eye.

  Examining the body, the prince realized that the soldier was quite dead. The spear had penetrated his brain. The dead man was carrying a letter in the coat of mail hanging around his neck, a corner of it visible. Extracting it, Jagatsingh read its contents by moonlight:

  ‘Katlu Khan’s followers must obey the commands issued by the bearer of this letter as soon as it reaches them. Katlu Khan.’

  Bimala had only heard all the sounds, without being aware of what had happened. The prince informed her in detail of all that had taken place. When she had heard the entire account, Bimala said, ‘Had I known, I would never have given you the spears, prince. I am a sinner, I shall never be able to atone for the sins I have committed today.

  ‘Why do you regret the death of your enemy? It is right to kill the enemy.’

  ‘Let warriors live by their ethics. We are womenkind.’

  ‘Further delay will cost us dearly,’ said Bimala a little later. ‘Let us go into the fort, I have kept the way open.’

  Arriving soon at the secret entrance, Bimala entered, followed by the prince. As he did, Jagatsingh discovered both his heart and his feet faltering. Why did the warrior who had not turned a hair even in the presence of hundreds of thousands of enemy soldiers now miss a beat of his heart as he was about to enter the abode of joy?

  Bimala closed and locked the window as before. Then, taking the prince to her own bedchamber, she said, ‘Wait here a short while, I shall be back soon. If you cannot occupy your mind with anything else, consider that God himself sits on nothing but the leaf from a tree.’

  Within moments of departing, Bimala was back, opening the door of the adjoining chamber to say, ‘Here, prince, I have something to tell you.’

  His heart fluttering again, the prince rose to approach Bimala at the doorway to the other room.

  Bimala stepped aside at the speed of lightning. The prince saw a fragrant chamber lit by silver lamps, a veiled woman in a corner. Tilottama.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A Battle of Wits

  BIMALA SAT DOWN on her bed. She was elated, for her strategy had been successful. A lamp burnt in the chamber, her mirror lay before her. Her clothes and appearance were as they had been earlier in the evening. She gazed at herself in the mirror for a moment—her hair was still as sinuous, her eyes were still lined with kohl, her lips still tinged with red, her earrings still dangled over her shoulders. Bimala half sat, half reclined against the pillows, smiling at her own reflection. She smiled with vanity—it was not for nothing that the scholar had wanted to abandon his home and hearth for her.

  As she waited for Jagatsingh’s return, booming war-trumpets were heard in the mango grove. Bimala was startled and afraid too, for war-trumpets were only sounded at the main entrance and never in the orchard. And why at this hour of the night? She recollected all that she had seen and heard that night on her way to and from the temple, realizing that these war-trumpets were a bad omen. Apprehensively, she approached the window, sweeping her eyes over the mango orchard, but could see nothing amiss. She left her chamber anxiously. A courtyard lay directly outside, with another row of chambers on the other side. A wide staircase led up from those chambers to the roof of the palace. Ascending to the roof, she stopped for a moment to look around, but could see nothing in the darkness of the grove. Doubly anxious now, she went up to the parapet of the terrace. Leaning over it, she peered all the way to the base of the fort, but could still see nothing unusual. The green boughs everywhere were flooded by moonlight; they swayed in the gentle breeze from time to time, changing their colour to a yellowish brown. Below, the garden was plunged in almost total darkness, only a few patches of moonlight showing through occasional gaps in the foliage. In the still waters of the Amodar river could be seen reflections of the deep indigo sky with the moon and stars in it. In the distance, on the other shore, was the silhouette of tall buildings, vast towers of the fort, at places the figures of sentries visible on their roofs. Bimala could see nothing more. As she was about to return, her heart despondent, she suddenly felt the touch of a hand on her back. Startled, she turned to see an armed stranger standing behind her. Bimala became as still as a figure in a painting.

  ‘Do not scream,’ warned the armed man. ‘Screaming is not worthy of a beautiful woman.’

  The person who had unexpectedly overwhelmed Bimala was not dressed like an ordinary Pathan solider. His high rank as an officer was evident from the perfection and opulence of his attire. He had not yet crossed thirty; his countenance was exceptionally pleasing. The turban that graced his generous brow was adorned with a single valuable diamond. Had Bimala been calm of mind, she would have realized that he was no less exalted in position than Jagatsingh himself. He may not have been as tall or as broad of shoulders as Jagatsingh, but he was a match for the prince when it came to the stamp of valour and comeliness of appearance, besides being more grace
ful of build In build, too, he was just as striking. The only weapon he had, besides the unsheathed sword in his hand, was a Damascan knife in a coral sheath attached to his expensive belt.

  ‘Do not shout,’ said the warrior. ‘It will only bring you harm.’

  Ever quick-witted, Bimala regained her composure in a few moments. The armed man’s warning had made his motives abundantly clear. Behind her was the edge of the roof, while in front of her was an armed soldier. It would not be difficult for him to push her off the roof. Aware of her predicament, Bimala asked, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘How will it benefit you to know?’ asked the solider.

  ‘How did you enter the fort?’ Bimala asked. ‘Have you not been told that thieves are executed?’

  Soldier: I am no thief, my beautiful lady.

  B: How did you infiltrate the fort?

  Soldier: By your grace. I entered while you had kept the window open; I followed you up to the roof.

  Bimala chided herself, and then asked again, ‘But who are you?’

  ‘Perhaps there is no harm in revealing my identity now,’ answered the soldier. ‘I am a Pathan.’

  B: You are merely revealing your race, not telling me who you are. Who are you?

  Soldier: By God’s grace, your servant’s name is Osman Khan.

  B: I do not know any Osman Khan.

  Soldier: Osman Khan—Katlu Khan’s general.

  Bimala began to tremble. She longed to make her escape somehow and warn Virendrasingh. But she had no means to do so, for the general stood before her, barring her way. Left without an alternative, Bimala decided that her freedom would last as long as she could engage him in conversation. Meanwhile, one of the guards in the fort might venture up to the roof. So she resumed the conversation. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘We had sent a messenger to Virendrasingh with a request,’ Osman Khan replied. ‘He responded, challenging us to storm the fort with our soldiers if we could.’

  ‘So you are here to claim the fort because the lord of the establishment has refused an alliance with you and joined hands with the Mughals,’ said Bimala. ‘But have you come all by yourself?’

  O: For now.

  ‘That is probably why you dare not release me,’ said Bimala.

  Bimala said this in the hope that the Pathan general might take umbrage at this charge of cowardice and free her.

  With a smile, Osman Khan said, ‘All one should fear from you, my beautiful lady, is the look you lavish on men. But I do not fear it, I have an appeal to make.’

  Bimala looked at him curiously. ‘Please oblige me by handing over the keys attached to the end of your scarf,’ said Osman Khan. ‘I hesitate to offend you with physical contact.’

  A woman as intelligent as Bimala did not need time to understand that securing the keys was essential for the general to execute his strategy. She realized, too, that she had no choice, for a request from one who could use force was nothing but a charade. If she did not provide the keys, the general would forcibly seize them from her. Another person would undoubtedly have relinquished the keys at once, but the wily Bimala said, ‘How will you seize the keys if I do not hand them over, sir?’

  Bimala unwrapped her scarf as she spoke. His eyes trained on it, Osman Khan said, ‘If you do not give them to me voluntarily, I shall grant myself the pleasure of touching your body.’

  ‘Then do,’ said Bimala, tossing her scarf towards the orchard below. But Osman Khan, who had not taken his eyes off it, reached out to seize the fabric as it floated in the air.

  Osman Khan now gripped Bimala’s arm tightly, unknotting the fabric with his teeth and transferring the keys to his left hand. His next act left Bimala distraught. Bowing to her several times, Osman said, ‘Pardon me,’ and used the scarf to tie both her hands firmly to the railing. ‘What are you doing?’ exclaimed Bimala.

  ‘Tying a love knot,’ said Osman.

  B: You will shortly face the consequences of this dastardly act.

  Osman left. Bimala began to scream, but to no effect. No one heard her.

  Descending the same way, Osman returned to the chamber beneath Bimala’s. Just as Bimala had done, he inserted the key in the lock and moved the window frame aside. When the opening appeared in the wall, he whistled softly. As soon as he heard it, a soldier appeared on bare feet from behind a tree, and entered the fort. He was followed by another. In this way, a large number of Pathan soldiers infiltrated the fort. To the last person who appeared at the window, Osman said, ‘No more, the rest of you can stay outside. Attack the fort when you hear the signal we have agreed to—inform Taj Khan accordingly.’

  The soldier returned. Silently, Osman led the band of soldiers inside the fort. As they passed by the roof where Bimala was tied up, he warned them, ‘This woman is very clever; do not trust her for a moment. Guard her, Rahim Sheikh; if she tries to escape, or attempts to converse with anyone, or speaks loudly, do not baulk at killing a woman.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Rahim, taking up his position. The Pathan soldiers dispersed across the roof to different parts of the fort.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Between Lovers

  NOW THAT THE wily Osman had moved away, Bimala knew she could create an opportunity for escape. Soon, she proceeded to try.

  A few minutes after the sentry had taken up his position, she began a conversation with him. Guard on duty or messenger of death, who would willingly spurn a conversation with a beautiful woman? Bimala began with small talk, going on gradually to enquire about the sentry’s name and address, his life at home, his joys and sorrows and so on. The guard was pleased at Bimala’s interest. Sensing an opportunity, she pulled out all the weapons in her armoury, one by one. The guard melted completely under the assault of Bimala’s honey-soaked, flirtatious exchanges, and the suggestive glances from her beautiful eyes. When Bimala realized from his behaviour that he was ready to succumb, she murmured, ‘I am scared, Sheikhji. Come sit by my side.’

  Smitten, the sentry took a seat next to her. After a few more trivial exchanges, Bimala saw the drug taking effect. The guard kept casting frequent, languishing glances at her. ‘You are perspiring so much, Sheikhji. If you untied me, I could fan you. You could tie me up again afterwards.’

  There wasn’t a single bead of perspiration on Sheikhji’s forehead, but why would Bimala say so if there was not? And how many people were fortunate enough to be fanned by her? The sentry untied her at once.

  After fanning the guard for some time with her scarf, Bimala draped it around herself again. The sentry did not even bring up the subject of tying her up again. There was a reason for this. Now that she had been untied, the scarf gracing Bimala’s body made her appeal shine forth even stronger; the allure that had made Bimala smile at herself in the mirror silenced the sentry altogether.

  ‘Does your wife not love you, Sheikhji?’ asked Bimala.

  ‘Why?’ he responded in some surprise.

  ‘If she did,’said Bimala, ‘why would she stay apart from a husband like you in spring.’

  Sheikhji sighed deeply. It was the peak of summer, with monsoon approaching!

  Bimala proceeded to fire the arrows in her quiver liberally. ‘It is not easy to say this, Sheikhji, but if you were my husband, I would never have let you go to war.’

  The guard sighed again. ‘If only you were my husband,’ Bimala repeated.

  Bimala sighed too, throwing him an intense, mysterious look; the guard lost his head. Inching towards Bimala, he edged even closer to her, Bimala also shifted closer to him.

  Bimala put her soft hand in the guard’s. He was speechless.

  ‘I do not know how to say this,’ said Bimala, ‘but when you leave after winning the war, will you still remember me?’

  G: How could I not remember you?

  B: Shall I tell you what I feel?

  G: Yes, do.

  B: No, I won’t, what will you think of me!

  G: No, please tell me—think of me as your servant.

>   B: I have an irresistible urge to leave this sinful husband of mine and run away with you.

  That glance again. The sentry wanted to dance with delight.

  G: Will you?

  The world was full of learned people like Diggaj.

  ‘I will if you will take me,’ said Bimala.

  G: How could I not take you? I will be your servant.

  ‘How can I reward such love? Accept this from me.’

  Unclasping the golden necklace from her neck, Bimala put it around the guard’s neck. He promptly ascended to heaven without dying. ‘Our scriptures say putting your necklace around another’s neck is to marry them,’ Bimala continued.

  White teeth emerged from the darkness of the guard’s beard. ‘Then we are married,’he said.

  ‘Of course we are.’ Bimala appeared rapt in thought. ‘What are you thinking of?’ the guard asked.

  B: I doubt if fate holds any happiness for me, your army may not conquer the fort.

  ‘There is no doubt about it,’ the guard declared with conviction, ‘the fort has probably been conquered by now.’

  ‘No, there is a secret,’ said Bimala.

  ‘What is it?’ said the guard.

  B: Let me tell you, so that you can ensure that the fort is indeed conquered.

  The sentry waited in anticipation, while Bimala hesitated. ‘What is the secret?’ the guard asked impatiently.