The Chieftain's Daughter

by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘What you don’t know is that Jagatsingh is waiting beside the fort with ten thousand soldiers. Having learnt that your forces were coming today, he has been lying in wait; he will not strike now, but when your army has let down its guard after conquering the fort, he will surround your soldiers.’

  Stunned into silence, the sentry eventually summoned up speech. ‘What!’

  B: Everyone in the fort knows; we have heard too.

  Overcome with joy, the guard said, ‘You have made me a wealthy man today, my love! I must inform the general at once, he is certain to reward me for such vital information.’

  The sentry had not an iota of suspicion about Bimala.

  ‘You will be back, will you not?’ said Bimala.

  G: Of course I will, in no time at all.

  B: You will not forget me?

  G: Never.

  B: Promise.

  ‘Do not worry,’ said the guard, disappearing at a run.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Bimala rose to escape too. Osman was right—‘It is Bimala’s eyes I fear.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Between Chambers

  BIMALA’S FIRST ACT on securing her freedom was to try to inform Virendrasingh. She ran urgently towards his bedchamber.

  But before she had covered half the distance, she could hear the Pathans’ cries of ‘Allah-ho…!’

  ‘Are the Pathans celebrating victory?’ Bimala wondered aloud in despair. Soon she could hear a loud commotion—Bimala realized that the inhabitants of the fort had been roused from their sleep. Rushing anxiously towards Virendrasingh’s chamber, she heard an uproar there too; the Pathan soldiers had broken through the door. Peeping in, she saw Virendrasingh standing resolutely, sword in hand, bathed in streams of blood. He was swinging his blade like a man possessed, but his charge into battle failed and a blow from a powerful Pathan’s long rapier sent his sword flying from his hand. He was taken prisoner.

  Thrown into despair by what she had just witnessed, Bimala retreated. There was still time to save Tilottama. She raced off in that direction, only to realize that returning to Tilottama’s chamber was well-nigh impossible, for the Pathan soldiers were everywhere. There was no longer any doubt that the Pathans had conquered the fort.

  Bimala concluded that she was bound to be captured by the Pathan soliders were she to try to approach Tilottama’s chamber. She turned back, disconsolately wondering how she would convey the news of the invasion to Jagatsingh and Tilottama at this hour of crisis. As she stood within a chamber, pondering, she observed a group of Pathan soldiers approaching with the intention of ransacking this room too. In terror, she quickly concealed herself beside an iron safe in a corner. The soldiers arrived and proceeded to loot everything in the chamber. Bimala realized she could not escape, for when the looters would approach the safe to rob what lay within, they were certain to spot her. But taking courage in her hands, she decided to wait awhile, carefully observing what the soldiers were doing. Bimala was infinitely courageous; danger lent her valour a further edge. When she saw the soldiers immersed in their acts of pillage, she emerged with silent footsteps from her hiding spot and made her escape. Completely absorbed in their looting, the soldiers did not notice her. But just as Bimala was about to leave, a soldier crept up from the back and grasped her arm. Turning, Bimala saw it was Rahim Sheikh! ‘Where will you go now, runaway woman?’

  Bimala turned pale at being held prisoner by Rahim a second time, but only for a moment. She was astute enough to know that she had to appear pleased at seeing him. ‘He shall help me get my way,’ she told herself. Aloud, she said, ‘Shh, come outside, do not let them hear you.’

  Taking his hand, Bimala drew him outside, and Rahim followed willingly. Finding themselves alone, Bimala said, ‘Shame on you, how could you have left me by myself over there? There is not a place where I have not been looking for you.’ She cast that same glance upon him again.

  His anger dispelled, Rahim answered, ‘I was looking for the general to inform him about Jagatsingh. When I couldn’t find him I went looking for you instead, but you were no longer on the roof, so I looked for you all over.’

  ‘When I saw you were not coming, I thought you had forgotten me, and went in search of you,’ responded Bimala. ‘What are we waiting for now? Your people have taken possession of the fort, we should seek an escape route immediately.’

  ‘Not tonight, but tomorrow morning,’ said Rahim. ‘How can I leave without informing them? I shall bid goodbye to the general on the morrow.’

  ‘Then let us get whatever little jewellery I possess, or else one of these soldiers will rob them all.’

  ‘Let us,’ said the soldier. Her objective in taking Rahim along as her companion was to ensure that he protected her from other soldiers. Bimala’s caution was soon justified. Before they had proceeded much further, they ran into a group of pillaging soldiers. ‘Here is a big one,’ they burst out on spotting her.

  ‘Mind your own business, brothers,’ interjected Rahim, ‘do not so much as look this way.’

  Sensing his belligerence, the other soldiers relented. ‘You are a fortunate man, Rahim,’ quipped one of them. ‘But pray that the nawab doesn’t grab your morsel.’

  Rahim and Bimala left. Leading Rahim to the room situated beneath her bedchamber, Bimala said, ‘This is my room. Take anything you please. My bedroom is upstairs, I shall be back soon with my jewellery.’ Handing him a bunch of keys, she left.

  Noting the wealth of riches around the chamber, Rahim happily proceeded to unlock the cupboards and trunks with deep satisfaction. He no longer harboured the slightest mistrust towards Bimala, who had, meanwhile, locked the door from outside and affixed a chain on it, leaving Rahim a prisoner within.

  Bimala rushed as fast as she could to her own bedchamber upstairs. The rooms occupied by Tilottama and her were at the extremity of the fort, which the marauding Pathan soldiers had not yet reached—it was doubtful whether Jagatsingh and Tilottama had even heard the tumult. Instead of bursting in on Tilottama, Bimala proceeded to observe her and Jagatsingh secretly through a tiny hole in the door. Old habits die hard—even in the midst of a crisis, Bimala’s inquisitiveness knew no bounds! What she saw caused her no small surprise.

  Tilottama was sitting on her bed, while Jagatsingh stood near her, surveying her in silence. Tilottama was weeping, while Jagatsingh was wiping his eyes too.

  ‘These are tears of parting, then,’ surmised Bimala.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Between Swords

  ‘WHAT IS ALL that noise?’ asked Jagatsingh when he saw Bimala.

  ‘The Pathans are celebrating victory,’ Bimala answered. ‘You must find a way out this instant, the enemy will be here any moment.’

  ‘What is Virendrasingh doing?’ asked Jagatsingh after a moment’s thought.

  ‘He has been captured by the enemy,’ Bimala informed him.

  A muffled cry escaped Tilottama; she fainted on the bed.

  ‘Look after Tilottama,’ the ashen-faced Jagatsingh told Bimala.

  Using a rose from a container, Bimala at once sprinkled rosewater on Tilottama’s face, neck, and cheeks, fanning her anxiously.

  The cries of the enemy grew louder; almost in tears, Bimala said, ‘There they come! What will we do now, prince?’

  Sparks flew from Jagatsingh’s eyes. ‘What can I do all by myself?’ he said. ‘But I can lay down my life to protect your companion.’

  The war cries of the enemy came closer still. The clanking of weapons could now be heard, too. ‘Tilottama!’ screamed Bimala. ‘What a time you have chosen to faint. How will I protect you?’

  Tilottama opened her eyes. ‘Tilottama is conscious again,’ declared Bimala. ‘Prince! Save her while there is still time, prince!’

  ‘How can she be protected if we remain in here!’ said the prince. ‘Even now, if the two of you had the strength to leave the room, I might still have been able to escort you out of the fort; but Tilottama cannot move quickly
. There, the Pathans are climbing up the stairs, Bimala. I shall be the first to lay down my life, of course, but I regret that even with my own life I shall not be able to save yours.’

  In the flash of an eye Bimala swept Tilottama up in her arms. ‘Then let us go,’ she said, ‘I shall carry Tilottama.’

  Bimala and Jagatsingh leapt towards the door. Four Pathan soldiers arrived at top speed at the same moment. ‘Too late, Bimala,’Jagatsingh said, ‘stand behind me.’

  Finding themselves face to face with their quarry, the Pathans yelled ‘Allah-ho…’ cavorting like evil spirits, the weapons at their waist ringing out. But before the cry had been completed Jagatsingh plunged his sword up to the hilt into one of them. The Pathan died, screaming in agony. Before he could withdraw his sword from the slain body, another Pathan aimed his spear at Jagatsingh’s neck. Instantly, Jagatsingh’s left hand streaked upwards to grasp it, striking a counter-blow with the same spear to hurl its owner to the floor. The very next instant both the remaining Pathans swung their swords at Jagatsingh’s head. In the twinkling of an eye the prince severed one enemy soldier’s arm, the sword still held in its grip, from his body with a mighty swipe of his own blade, but he could not deflect the blow from the other Pathan. True, the sword did not strike him on his head, but he was dealt a grievous wound on his shoulder. Injured, the prince turned twice as ferocious, like a tiger wounded by the hunter’s arrow. No sooner had the Pathan prepared to smite the prince with his weapon again than Jagatsingh, holding his own sword firmly in both his hands, leapt into the air and decapitated the Pathan, whose head, complete with its turban, was split into two. But in the meantime, the soldier whose arm had been severed extracted a dagger from its sheath with his left hand, throwing it at the prince. Even as Jagatsingh was about to resume his footing on the floor after his leap, the dagger sank into his powerful forearm. Brushing it aside like a pinprick, the prince directed a kick at the Yavana’s* waist, sending him flying backwards. But just as Jagatsingh was about to decapitate him too, a swarm of Pathans rushed into the chamber, screaming ‘Allah-ho…’ lustily. The prince realized that to continue the battle would be futile.

  Blood flowed all over the prince’s body, and he fast grew feeble. Tilottama was still in Bimala’s arms, unconscious.

  Bimala sobbed as she held Tilottama; her garments were also soaked in the prince’s blood.

  The chamber filled with Pathan soldiers.

  Leaning on his sword, the prince exhaled. ‘Abandon your weapon, slave, and we shall spare your life.’ The words were like fresh fuel being poured into a fire about to burn itself out. Leaping outwards like a shaft of flame, the prince decapitated the arrogant Pathan who had spoken thus, his head falling at Jagatsingh’s feet, swinging his sword, and announcing, ‘Watch how a Rajput sacrifices his life, Yavanas.’

  The prince’s blade flashed like streaks of lightning. When he realized that he could not continue his battle all by himself, he decided to kill as many of the enemy soldiers as he could before dying. With this objective, he positioned himself amidst a phalanx of marauders, gripping his sword with fists of iron and swinging it around his head. He made not the slightest effort to defend himself any more; only showering blows all around. One, two, three—every swing of the sword either felled a Pathan or severed a limb. The enemy’s weapons rained blows on the prince from every direction. Now his hands could move no more, blood flowed freely from wounds all over his body, draining his arm of its strength. His head began to spin, his vision became clouded, and the clamour seemed indistinct to his ears.

  ‘Do not kill the prince, the tiger must be caged alive.’

  These were the last words that the prince heard; they had been uttered by Osman Khan.

  The prince’s arms went limp by his side; the sword fell from his inanimate grip with a clatter on the floor. Losing consciousness, he fell on the corpse of a Pathan soldier he had slain with his own hands. Twenty other Pathans crowded around him to plunder the jewels from his turban. ‘Do not touch the prince, any of you,’ Osman thundered.

  Everyone desisted. With the help of another warrior, Osman Khan hoisted the prince on to the bed. The very same bed which, only a few hours earlier, Jagatsingh had dreamt of sharing with Tilottama after marrying her had now almost turned into his deathbed.

  Having placed Jagatsingh on the bed, Osman Khan asked his soldiers, ‘Where are the women?’

  Osman could not see Bimala or Tilottama anywhere. When the second wave of soldiers had entered the chamber, Bimala had seen the outcome clearly; having no other alternative, she had concealed herself beneath the bed along with Tilottama; no one had observed them.

  ‘Search the entire fort for the women,’ commanded Osman Khan. ‘The maidservant is very cunning, I will not be at peace if she were to escape. But be careful! Virendra’s daughter must not be harmed in any way whatsoever.’

  The soldiers dispersed in groups to search different parts of the fort. A few remained to search the chamber. Divining a possibility, one of them cast a light underneath the bed. Spotting his quarry, he announced, ‘Here they are.’ Osman’s face brightened. ‘You may come out,’ he said, ‘without fear.’ Bimala emerged first, helping Tilottama out after her. By then Tilottama had come to her senses—she was able to sit down. ‘Where are we?’ she asked Bimala softly.

  ‘Cover your face with your veil, do not worry,’ Bimala whispered to her.

  ‘Your servant was the one who found them, my lord,’ said the soldier who had made the discovery.

  ‘You seek a reward?’ said Osman. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Your servant’s name is Karim Bux,’ came the reply, ‘but no one knows me by that name. I was once in the Mughal army, which is why I have been nicknamed the Mughal General.’

  Bimala trembled. She remembered Swami Abhiram’s prediction.

  ‘Very well, I shall remember,’ said Osman Khan.

  *Generically any non-Hindu but used here to refer to a Muslim.

  PART TWO

  Chapter One

  Ayesha

  WHEN HE OPENED his eyes, Jagatsingh discovered himself lying on a bedstead in a magnificent palace. It did not appear to him that he had ever been in this chamber before. It was spacious and well-decorated; the floor, cast in stone, was covered with a carpet that felt wondrously soft under the feet. Several rosewater sprinklers and other valuable objets d’ art of gold, silver, and ivory were arranged around the room. Blue curtains were draped over the doors and the windows, softening the harsh glare of the sunlight. The chamber was redolent of pleasant aromas.

  There was a stillness within, as though no one were present. A single female attendant fanned the prince in silence, sprinkling scented water, while another stood at a distance, as immobile as a wooden puppet devoid of speech. On the ivory-embossed bedstead on which the prince was resting sat a woman, carefully applying a salve to his wounds. On the carpet lining the floor sat an elegantly dressed Pathan, chewing paan and scanning a Persian book. None of them spoke or made any sound.

  The prince glanced around the room. He tried to turn on his side, but failed. He felt an acute pain all over his body.

  When she observed the prince’s efforts, the woman sitting on one side of the bed spoke in a voice as soft as a musical instrument, ‘Be still, do not attempt to move.’

  ‘Where am I?’ asked the prince in a frail voice.

  ‘Do not attempt to talk, prince, you are in good hands. Do not worry, do not speak.’

  ‘What time is it?’ the prince enquired, his voice as frail as earlier.

  ‘It is afternoon,’ answered the melodious voice again, softly. ‘Be still, you will not recover if you speak. We will leave unless you are silent.’

  ‘One more question, who are you?’ asked the prince with great effort.

  ‘Ayesha,’ replied the woman.

  Silently, the prince glanced at her. Had he seen her earlier? No, he had not, he was convinced.

  Ayesha was some twenty-two years of age. She
was exquisitely beautiful, but hers was a beauty that is impossible to capture adequately in three or four adjectives. Tilottama was supremely beautiful too, but hers was not Ayesha’s kind of loveliness; the eternally young Bimala’s beauty used to captivate everyone—but Ayesha’s beauty was not like hers either. Some young maidens are lovely like the spring jasmine: freshly bloomed, bashful, tender, pure, fragrant. Tilottama was lovely in this manner. Other women are beautiful like the lily-of-the-field in the late afternoon—its essence on the wane, leaves drying although well-adorned and blooming, overripe, brimming with nectar. Bimala was such a beauty. Ayesha’s beauty was like that of a water lily which comes to life under the rays of the morning sun; fully bloomed, fragrant, honeyed, sun-soaked—neither wilted nor drying up, delicate yet radiant. The full petals reflected the sunbeams, yet the smile brimmed over. Have you ever witnessed ‘a beauty that lights up the world’, reader? Even if you have not, you have certainly heard of it. Many beauties ‘brighten up life’. It is said that some people’s daughters-in-law become ‘the lights of their families’ lives’. In the land of Krishna and during Nishumbh’s epic battle, even darkness was transformed to light. Has the reader understood by now how beauty can light up the world? Bimala did it too with her beauty, but it was the light of an oil lamp—dimly flickering, of no use without fuel, suitable for domestic tasks. You may use it in your home to prepare your meals and make your bed—anything you want. But touch it, and you will be burnt to death by its flame. Tilottama lit up the world with her beauty too—a light like the glow from a young moon; pure, pleasant, peaceful. But it was not strong enough, and too distant, for domestic tasks. When Ayesha’s beauty lit up the world, it was like the rays of the morning sun—brilliant and radiant, yet whatever it lit had no choice but to smile.

  As the lotus in the garden, so is Ayesha in this narrative. That is why I desire to paint a clear image of her in the reader’s mind. If only I were an artist, so that I could wield a paintbrush to create the perfect shade for her: a colour that is neither burnt sienna, nor crimson, nor ivory, but a mixture of all three. If only I could make that brow as flawless on canvas as it actually is, immaculate and generous, the playground of the god of love; and portray the perfect hairline which borders that forehead. If only I could depict that hairline just as explicitly, following the rounded contours of her forehead to her ears, and make it curve around her ears just as they actually do. If only I could show her hair as black and silky as it is in real life, draw as clear, as fine a parting in her hair as she possesses, colour her hair in its natural hue, give her the same loosely round bun. If only I could recreate those dense black eyebrows, portray how the two eyebrows converge on each other but do not consummate their relationship, how they are appropriately thick at this point but then become slender halfway through their journey, progressively acquiring a fineness as they finish, needle-like by the time they near the hair coiled around the ears. If only I could reproduce those delicate eyelashes, as restless as clouds laden with lightning, represent the largeness of that pair of eyes, the alluring curve of those upper and lower eyelashes, the sapphire tint to her eyes, her bee-black large irises. If only I could display that comely nose with its proudly flaring nostrils, those luscious lips, her alabaster neck revealed by the bun; those full shoulders seeking a touch of the pendants dangling from her ear; her soft, plump, arm bedecked in ornaments; her fingers which dim the lustre of the jewels on her ring; her soft palms tinged with the hue of the pink lotus; her full breasts on which the brilliance of her pearl necklace pales; the enchanting form of her moderately tall body… but even if I could, I would not have picked up the paintbrush. For how would I be able to paint the essence of her loveliness, that precious gem that arises from the churning of oceans, her languid glance—a glance as sweet and languorous as the blue lotus quivering in the evening breeze?