The prince observed Ayesha for a long while. He was reminded of Tilottama. At once his heart seemed to be torn asunder by the memory, the blood rushed in torrents through his veins; deep wounds were reopened. Bleeding profusely, the prince lost consciousness again, his eyes closed.
The lovely woman sitting on the bedstead immediately rose to her feet in fear. The person who was seated on the carpet, reading, had been lavishing loving glances on Ayesha from time to time; when the young woman rose, even the pendants swinging from her ears drew his yearning gaze. Walking slowly up to the Pathan, Ayesha whispered in his ear, ‘Summon the physician immediately, Osman.’
It was Osman Khan, conqueror of the fort, who was seated on the carpet. On Ayesha’s directions, he rose and left.
Picking up a bowl from a silver stool, Ayesha took a watery substance from it and sprinkled it on the countenance of the unconscious prince.
Osman Khan returned soon with the physician, who staunched the prince’s haemorrhaging with great care, and prescribed several different medicines giving instructions in a low tone to Ayesha. ‘What is your prognosis?’ Ayesha whispered in his ear.
‘The fever is perilously high,’ answered the physician.
As he was leaving after bidding farewell, Osman followed him to the door to ask softly, ‘Will he survive?’
‘The signs are ominous,’answered the physician. ‘Summon me if he is in pain again.’
Chapter Two
The Stone Within the Flower
AYESHA AND OSMAN stayed by Jagatsingh’s bedside late into the night. Jagatsingh hovered between consciousness and oblivion; the physician paid several visits. Ayesha tended to the prince ceaselessly. Well after midnight, a maid arrived to say the Begum had asked for her.
‘Coming,’ said Ayesha, rising to her feet. Osman also rose. ‘Are you going, too?’ Ayesha asked him.
‘It is late, let me escort you,’ said Osman.
Instructing the maids to keep watch, Ayesha proceeded towards her mother’s chambers. ‘Will you stay with the Begum tonight?’ Osman asked her.
‘No, I shall return to the prince,’ Ayesha answered.
‘I cannot praise you enough, Ayesha,’ said Osman. ‘A sister will not offer to her brother the attention you are offering our arch-foe. You are restoring his life.’
Summoning a smile to her bewitching face, Ayesha said, ‘I am a woman, Osman. Tending to the afflicted is my natural calling; not doing it is a sin, but doing it should earn no praise. But what of you? You are the one deserving of praise, for personally supervising, day and night, the treatment and nursing of your enemy—your arch adversary who would rob you of your pride on the battlefield, whom you have personally reduced to this condition.’
‘You look upon everyone as a mirror to your own sweet nature,’ said a subdued Osman. ‘My intentions are not as pure. Do you not realize how much we stand to gain if Jagatsingh survives? How will it benefit us if the prince were to die now? Mansingh is not inferior to Jagatsingh on the battlefield, one warrior will be replaced by another. But if Jagatsingh stays alive, a prisoner in our hands, Mansingh will be compelled to submit to our wishes. To secure freedom for his favourite son, he is sure to conduct a beneficial peace treaty with us. To reclaim a general with such military prowess, Akbar, too, will support such a treaty. And if we can win over Jagatsingh with friendly conduct, he may request, or even atiemp to secure a treaty favourable for us; his efforts will not entirely be in vain. Even if none of these materializes, we will at least secure a rich ransom from Mansingh in return for Jagatsingh’s freedom. Jagatsingh’s remaining alive will benefit us more than victory over him in open combat.
Osman had undoubtedly directed his efforts towards reviving Jagatsingh because of these reasons; but that was not all. Some people have a propensity for presenting themselves as unyielding individuals, lest they acquire a reputation for kindness; even as they deride compassion as a feminine trait, they come to the aid of other people. If they are asked why, they say it was for their own benefit. Ayesha knew only too well that Osman was such a person. ‘May everyone be as farsighted in their selfishness as you, Osman,’ she said laughing. ‘Ethics will become redundant.’
After some hesitation, Osman murmured, ‘I shall provide more evidence of my extreme selfishness.’
Ayesha fixed her eyes, like a cloud charged with lightning, on Osman’s face.
‘I cling to the vines of hope,’ said Osman, ‘how much longer must I water its roots?’
Ayesha’s countenance turned grave. Osman discerned a new beauty in this transformation, too. ‘I spend my time with you as a sister, treating you like my brother. If you step beyond this line, I shall not appear in your presence any more.’
Osman’s cheerful expression changed to dejection. ‘That same argument forever. Have you imbued this delicate body with a heart of stone, O Lord?’
After escorting Ayesha to her mother’s quarters, Osman repaired disconsolately to his own.
And Jagatsingh?
Struck down by high fever, he remained unconscious on his bed.
Chapter Three
Tilottama or You?
THE NEXT MORNING Ayesha, Osman, and the physician were seated as before in Jagatsingh’s chamber; Ayesha was on the bed, fanning him with her own hands, the physician was regularly examining his pulse, Jagatsingh was still unconscious. The physician had said that Jagatsingh’s critical hour would come that night when the fever was about to leave him; if he could survive it, there would be nothing more to fear. The hour for the fever to drop was at hand, everyone was anxious; the doctor examined his pulse repeatedly, murmuring words like ‘weak’, ‘weaker still’, ‘a little stronger’. Suddenly his expression changed to one of apprehension. ‘It is the hour,’ he declared.
Ayesha and Osman remained frozen, listening. The physician held the patient’s wrist, feeling for his pulse.
‘The indications are poor,’ he said a little later. Ayesha looked even more despondent. Suddenly Jagatsingh’s face contorted and drained of colour. His fists tightened, his eyes began to roll unnaturally. Ayesha realized the end was almost at hand, death was about to deal its final blow. The physician had been waiting with a vial of potion in his hand, the moment he observed these symptoms he parted the patient’s lips and poured it in. Most of the potion trickled down the side of his mouth, but a few drops found their way in. As soon as they did, however, a distinct change manifested itself in the afflicted man. His expression softened gradually, returning his face to its natural form; the unnatural alabaster hue of his skin gave way to a ruddy colour as the blood began to circulate again. His fists fell loose, and his eyes became calm, closing again. The physician examined his pulse with concentration. After a long time, he declared happily, ‘He is safe. There is nothing more to be afraid of.’
‘Has the fever abated?’ enquired Osman.
‘It has,’ answered the physician.
Both Ayesha and Osman looked pleased. ‘There is no further cause for concern,’ the physician continued. ‘There is no longer any need for me to stay at his bedside. Give him this potion every hour until midnight.’The physician left. Osman repaired to his own chamber after a short while. Ayesha resumed her place on the bed, giving the patient the potion as directed by the physician.
Shortly before the second hour after midnight, the prince opened his eyes. His first sight was of Ayesha’s joyful face. The look in his eyes suggested to her that he was not in full possession of his faculties, and that he was striving hard to recollect something, but in vain. After a long interval, he looked at Ayesha to ask, ‘Where am I?’ These were the first words uttered by the prince in two days.
‘In Katlu Khan’s fort,’ answered Ayesha.
Once again the prince tried to gather his memories. ‘Why am I here?’ he asked after another long interval.
Ayesha did not answer at first. Eventually, she said, ‘You are ailing.’
The prince thought about this and shook his head. ‘No, I have
been captured,’ he said.
His expression changed as he said these words.
Ayesha did not answer; she could see that the prince’s memory was being rekindled. ‘Who are you?’ the prince asked again after a few moments.
‘I am Ayesha.’
‘Who is Ayesha?’
‘Katlu Khan’s daughter.’
The prince fell silent again; he lacked the strength for a long conversation. ‘How long have I been here?’ he asked after a short rest.
‘Four days.’
‘Is Fort Mandaran still under the control of your forces?’
‘It is.’
After another short rest, Jagatsingh continued. ‘And what was Virendrasingh’s fate?’
‘He has been imprisoned, he will be tried today.’
Jagatsingh’s expression grew even more dejected. ‘What is the condition of the other citizens?’
Ayesha was alarmed. ‘I do not know everything,’ she answered.
The prince said something to himself. A single name escaped his throat, which Ayesha could hear. ‘Tilottama.’
Ayesha rose slowly to fetch the delicious potion prescribed by the physician; the prince surveyed her beautiful form, his eyes coming to rest on the pendants swinging from her ears. After drinking the potion Ayesha had brought him, he said, ‘When I was ill, I dreamt I was being tended to by an angel from heaven. Was it you, or was it Tilottama?’
‘You must have been dreaming of Tilottama,’ responded Ayesha.
Chapter Four
The Woman Behind the Veil
LATE ONE MORNING, TWO days* after conquering the fort, Katlu Khan held his court. His courtiers were arrayed in two rows on either side of him, while several thousand people were seated on the floor before the throne. Virendrasingh was to be sentenced.
Several armed guards brought Virendrasingh, bound in chains, to the court. His countenance was bloodshot, but it held no sign of fear. His glittering eyes appeared to be emitting sparks, his quivering nostrils were flared, he kept biting his lips. When he was presented before Katlu Khan, the Nawab said, ‘Virendrasingh! I shall now sentence you for your crime. Why did you choose to antagonize me?’
Virendrasingh’s face had darkened with rage; controlling himself, he said, ‘Before that I insist on knowing what act of antagonism I have committed.’
‘Speak with a civil tongue,’ warned a courtier.
‘Why did you refuse me the troops and money I had demanded?’ asked Katlu Khan.
‘You are a bandit who has rebelled against the king,’ Virendrasingh declared fearlessly. ‘Why should I send you soldiers? Why should I send you money?’
The spectators realized that Virendrasingh had embarked on a suicidal course.
Katlu Khan’s enormous frame trembled with rage. But having mastered the art of containing his anger, he spoke calmly, ‘Why did you ally with the Mughals while residing in my kingdom?’
‘By what right is it your kingdom?’
Even more enraged, Katlu Khan said, ‘Listen to me, you miserable cur! You shall now pay for your offences. Until this moment, there was some hope of saving your life, but you are foolish, you are hastening your own execution with your bluster.’
Laughing arrogantly, Virendrasingh said, ‘Since I have been brought to you in chains, Katlu Khan, I do not expect mercy. Of what value is life to one who is allowed to live by an enemy such as yourself? I would have blessed you before I died—but you have besmirched my lineage, because of you my most precious possession, dearer than life itself…’
Virendrasingh could speak no more; his voice choked, his eyes brimmed with tears. The intrepid, arrogant Virendrasingh began to weep, his eyes lowered.
Katlu Khan was cruel by nature, so vindictive that the suffering of others elated him. His expression brightened at the sight of his bold adversary thus reduced to tears. ‘Are you not going to appeal for my clemency, Virendrasingh?’ he said. ‘Consider, for your time is nigh.’
His tears helped abate the agony in Virendrasingh’s heart. Speaking with greater composure than before, he said, ‘I ask for nothing else other than that my execution be conducted summarily.’
K: So it shall be. Anything else?
V: Not in this lifetime.
K: You do not wish to meet your daughter before you die?
The spectators were quiet with remorse at this question, while Virendra’s eyes began to blaze again.
‘If my daughter is alive in your residence, I do not wish to meet her. If she has died, bring her, I shall die with her in my arms.’
The spectators remained silent. So silent was the huge gathering that a pin would have been heard dropping. At a signal from the Nawab, Virendrasingh was led to the execution ground. Before he reached, however, a Muslim man whispered something in his ear, of which Virendra could understand nothing. He handed Virendra a letter. Opening it distractedly, he discovered it was written in Bimala’s hand. Crumpling it in his fist, he hurled it away with great fury. Retrieving the letter, its bearer withdrew. ‘Is it a letter from his daughter?’ one of the spectators who had witnessed this act asked another softly.
Virendra heard him. Turning, he said, ‘Who says it is from my daughter? I have no daughter.’
Before leaving with the letter, its bearer told the guards, ‘Delay the execution till my return.’
‘As you command, sir,’ chorused the guards.
The bearer of the letter was none other than Osman, which was why the guards addressed him with respect.
Osman entered the inner chambers of the palace, where a veiled woman awaited him behind a tree. Osman went up to her and, ensuring that no one could overhear them, related all that had happened. The veiled woman said, ‘I have put you to a great deal of trouble, but we have arrived at our present condition because of you. No one but you can accomplish this task for me.’
Osman did not speak.
The woman behind the veil continued, her voice breaking with despair. ‘If you do not wish to, do not aid us. We may be helpless today, but there is a God!’
‘You do not know, my lady, how difficult a task you have set me. Should he be informed, Katlu Khan will condemn me to death.’
‘Katlu Khan?’ said the lady. ‘Why do you wish to delude me? Katlu Khan dare not touch a hair of yours.’
You do not know Katlu Khan—but come, let me take you to the execution ground.
The veiled woman followed Osman and stood in the execution ground in silence. Virendrasingh did not observe her, for he was deep in conversation with a Brahmin dressed as a mendicant. Peering through her veil, the woman saw it was Swami Abhiram.
‘Permit me to take my leave, my lord,’ Virendra said to Swami Abhiram. ‘What can I possibly tell you before I go? I have no wish to make in this world, whom should I make a wish for?’
Swami Abhiram indicated the woman in the veil standing behind Virendrasingh. When he turned to look at her, the woman threw aside her veil and flung herself at Virendra’s chained feet. ‘Bimala!’ he cried passionately.
‘My husband! My lord! My dearest one!’ Speaking like one not in her senses, Bimala said even more loudly, ‘I shall reveal all to the world today, who can force me to desist? My husband! Jewel of my life! Where do you go? Where do you leave us?’
Virendrasingh’s eyes streamed with tears. Taking her hand, he said, ‘Bimala, my love! Why must you make me weep now, the enemy will think I am afraid.’
Bimala fell silent. ‘Let me go, Bimala,’Virendra continued. ‘You can follow me.’
‘We will,’ responded Bimala. ‘We will, but not before avenging this suffering,’ she added sotto voce.
Virendrasingh’s countenance brightened, like a lamp flaring before it is snuffed out. ‘Will you be able to?’ he asked.
Pointing to her right hand, Bimala said, ‘With this hand. I hereby forsake the gold on this hand now, what need have I for it any more.’ Flinging away her bangles, she said, ‘The only ornament in this hand will now be of sharpened iron.’
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‘You will be able to,’ said Virendrasingh with satisfaction, ‘may God fulfil your wish.’
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