The Chieftain's Daughter

by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘After that, he stopped visiting our home regularly, as he was wont to. I waited impatiently for him every day; my hopes were belied for a period of time. But soon, I imagine, he could contain himself no longer, and resumed his visits. Now that I began to meet him once again, I was bashful no longer. Observing this, my father summoned me one day. “I will embrace the life of a peripatetic monk, I shall be unable to live with you permanently. Where do you propose to stay when I am on my journeys?”

  ‘Miserable at the prospect of being separated from my father, I began to cry. “I shall go with you,” I declared. “Alternatively, I shall live by myself here, as I used to in Kashi.”

  ‘“No, Bimala,” my father told me. “I have arrived at a far wiser decision. I shall appoint a suitable protector for you in my absence. You shall be engaged in providing company to King Mansingh’s newest queen.”

  ‘“Do not abandon me,” I pleaded with him tearfully. “No, I shall not go anywhere,” my father said. “Go to Mansingh’s palace. I shall remain here, and visit you every day. Your sojourn there will enable me to determine my future course of action.”

  ‘And so I joined the serving women in your abode, prince. My father craftily removed me to a place where I was beyond his son-in-law’s reach.

  ‘I remained among the chambermaids in your residence for a long time, prince; but you do not know me. For you were only a boy of ten then; you lived with your mother in the royal palace of Amer, while I was engaged in serving your (newlywed) stepmother in Delhi. Like a garland of blossoms, innumerable women were to be found encircling King Mansingh’s neck; did you even know all your stepmothers? Can you recollect Urmila Devi, who originated from Jodhpur? How can I describe to you her many qualities? She considered me not her attendant maid but her very own sister, dearer to her than her own heart. She accorded me a certain status, and painstakingly taught me many skills. It was by her grace that I acquired various arts. It was to entertain her that I learnt singing and dancing. She personally taught me how to read and write. That I have been able to write this letter to you—albeit in my poor script—is by the grace of your stepmother Urmila Devi.

  ‘My friend Urmila’s generosity proved beneficial in another important manner. She presented me to the king with the same affection with which she treated me. I had developed some aptitude for singing, and listening to me sing was a pleasurable experience for the king too. Whatever be the reason, King Mansingh considered me part of his family. He used to revere my father, who visited me frequently.

  ‘I was happy in every way in Urmila Devi’s company. My only regret was that I caught not a glimpse of the person for whom I was willing to forsake everything except my religion. Had he forgotten me, then? It was not so. Do you remember the chambermaid named Aasmani, prince? Perhaps you do. Aasmani and I developed a particular attachment. I requested her to procure news of my lord. Making enquiries, she gave him news about me as well. How do I tell you all the things he wrote to me in response. I sent him a letter through Aasmani, he wrote back too. These exchanges continued repeatedly. Although we did not meet, we continued conversing.

  ‘Three years passed thus. When we realized that neither had forgotten the other in spite of those years of separation, we knew that our love was not ephemeral like the moss floating on the surface of the water; it was deep-rooted like the lotus. I do not know why, but his patience was exhausted by now. One day he decided to change everything. I was alone in my chamber, asleep in my bed. Awaking suddenly, in the dim lamplight I discovered someone standing nearby.

  “Do not be afraid, beloved. I am your very own servant.” I heard these magical words addressed to me.

  ‘What would I say in response? We were meeting after three years. I forgot what I wanted to say—all I could do was fall into his arms and weep. I will die shortly and thus I am not ashamed today to disclose everything.

  ‘When I regained my power of speech, I asked, “How did you enter?”

  “Ask Aasmani,” he replied. “Disguised as a servant bearing water, I accompanied her into the palace. I have been in concealment since then.”

  ‘“And now?” I asked.

  ‘“I am in your hands,” he said.

  ‘I wondered what I should do, what choice I should make. My impulse was to follow my heart. As these thoughts ran through my mind, the door to my bedchamber was flung open. King Mansingh stood before me.

  ‘Details are unnecessary. Virendrasingh was imprisoned. The king intended to sentence him by the royal code. Possibly he understood what was going on in my heart. I surrendered in tears at Urmila Devi’s feet, admitted all my transgressions, and accepted the entire responsibility. When I met my father, I surrendered at his feet too. The king venerated him, held him in the highest esteem as his spiritual teacher—he was certain to honour his request. “Remember your eldest daughter,” I told him. I believe my father was in league with the king. He paid no heed to my tears. “Sinner!” he said angrily. “You have no shame.”

  ‘Urmila Devi made many petitions to the king to spare my life, whereupon the king said, “I shall release the intruder provided he marries Bimala.”

  ‘Grasping the king’s intentions, I remained silent. Enraged at this demand, my beloved said, “I would rather stay incarcerated all my life. I would rather be executed. But I will never marry the daughter of a Shudra. How can you be a Hindu and make such a request?”

  ‘“When I have given my sister in marriage to Prince Salim, why should it be surprising that I am requesting you to marry a Brahmin’s daughter?”

  ‘Still he was not willing. “Whatever has happened is over and done with,” he said instead. “Grant me my freedom, I shall never utter Bimala’s name again.”

  ‘“Then how will you atone for your crime?” said the king. “If you abandon Bimala, others will revile her for having a stain on her character and will not touch her.”

  ‘Despite all this there was no immediate agreement to marriage on his part. Eventually, when he could endure the torture of imprisonment no longer, he half-agreed, saying, ‘If Bimala can live in my household as a maid, if she never refers to the marriage in her life, if she never identifies herself as my wedded wife, only then shall I marry a Shudra’s daughter—not otherwise.”

  ‘Elated, I agreed to all his conditions. I was not desirous for wealth, glory, or status. Both my father and the king gave their assent. I left the king’s palace and entered my consort’s in the guise of a maid.

  He had married me unwillingly, under pressure applied by powerful people. Who can make love to a wife whom he has married in such circumstances? After our wedding my lord began to abhor the very sight of me. His earlier love for me disappeared. Recollecting the humiliation heaped upon him by King Mansingh, he rebuked me constantly, but even his harsh words appeared like lovemaking to me. Some time had passed this way; but why go into all that? I have revealed my identity, nothing more is required. In time I regained my husband’s affections, but his hostility towards the king of Amer did not dissipate. It is all part of destiny. Why else should all this have happened?

  ‘And thus I have revealed my identity to you. Honouring my vow is not my only intention. Many people believe I betrayed the honour of my family to live with the lord of Fort Mandaran. It is with the hope that you will clear my name of the calumny heaped on it that I write this to you.

  ‘I have only written about myself in this letter. I have not even referred to the one whose news you are anxious to hear. Consider her name wiped off the face of this earth. Forget that there ever was one named Tilottama…’

  When he had finished reading, Osman said, ‘You saved my life once, my lady, I shall repay you.’

  ‘What can I possibly need in this world any more?’ Bimala sighed. ‘What can you do for me? There is something, however…’

  ‘Tell me and I shall do it,’ said Osman.

  Bimala’s eyes brightened. ‘What are you saying, Osman? Must you deceive this broken heart?’

  ‘Accept
this ring,’said Osman, taking off one of his rings. ‘We cannot do anything in the next day or two. But Katlu Khan’s birthday is almost upon us, it is a day of raucous celebrations. The guards lose themselves in all the pleasures on offer. I shall rescue you that day. Appear at the door to the women’s chambers that night; if someone displays a ring identical to this one, come out with him. I trust that you shall be able to escape unscathed. Of course, it is all God’s will.’

  ‘May God grant you a long life, what more can I wish for you,’ said Bimala. Her voice choked, she could talk no more.

  As she was about to leave after casting her benedictions on Osman, he said, ‘I must warn you about something. Pray come alone. If you have a companion, the task shall not be accomplished—on the contrary, there will be danger.’

  Bimala realized that Osman was forbidding her to bring Tilottama. ‘Very well,’ she reflected, ‘if both of us cannot go, Tilottama will go alone.’

  Bimala left.

  Chapter Eight

  Recovery

  THE DAYS PASSED. Do as you please, the days will pass, not pause. Live in the manner that you please, the days will pass, not pause. Do you find yourself stranded in unexpected, torrential rain, traveller? Do the clouds thunder loudly overhead? Are you soaked by the downpour? Is your unprotected body buffeted by hail? You cannot find shelter? Be patient but awhile—this day too shall pass, it will not last. Wait but awhile, the adverse period will pass, a favourable cycle will begin. The sun will rise, but you must wait till tomorrow.

  Is there anyone for whom the days do not pass? Is there anyone whose sorrows are made permanent by time standing still? Why then do you weep?

  Who is it for whom time stands still? Tilottama languished on the floor, but still the days passed.

  The serpent of vengeance had made the flower of Bimala’s heart its home, infecting her body with its poison, its sting unbearable for even a moment, let alone all the moments that constitute an entire day. And yet, did the days not pass?

  The conqueror of enemies, Katlu Khan, occupied the throne; his days passed happily. The days passed, they did not pause.

  Jagatsingh was ailing; who does not know how long each day in an ailing man’s life seems? And yet the days passed.

  The days passed. Jagatsingh recovered a little every day. Having secured a reprieve from a death sentence, the prince was less and less in danger with every passing day. First his discomfort ceased; then his appetite returned, followed by strength of body, and then by anxiety.

  His first question—where was Tilottama? The faster he recovered, the more he asked everyone with mounting desperation, but no one could provide a satisfactory answer. Ayesha did not know, Osman would not say; the servants and maids were not aware either, or were instructed not to reveal anything. The prince was as restive as a man forced to sleep on a bed of thorns.

  His second concern—his own future. Who can answer, in an instant, the question, what will happen now? The prince realized he was a prisoner. Osman and Ayesha in their compassion had ensured that he was spending his days in a well-appointed, well-aired chamber instead of being in prison. Servants and maids tended to him, his needs were met even before he could express them. However, there were still guards at the door; he was kept like a bird satiated with flavoured water in a gilded cage. Would he be released? What was the likelihood? Where were all his troops? In what state were they without their general?

  His third concern—Ayesha. How had this maker of miracles, this embodiment of goodness, descended on this earth?

  Jagatsingh had observed that Ayesha never rested, nor did she feel exhausted, or neglect her duty. She tended to the patient day and night. While recovering, he had seen her approach silently every morning on her graceful feet, like the sun at dawn, holding flowers in her hand. She never left the chamber before the hour for her ablutions and related tasks. She would return in a few minutes, rising thereafter from his bedside only if it was absolutely necessary. Until her mother, the Begum, dispatched an attendant to summon her, she would not pause for an instant in her nursing of the sick.

  Is there anyone who has not had to take to bed out of an ailment? But only the one who has received the care of a bewitching woman by his bedside knows that even ailments can provide pleasure.

  Do you wish to experience Jagatsingh’s condition yourself, dear reader? In your imagination, lie on his bed, feel the agony of his wounds in your body; recollect that you are held captive by your enemies; and then conjure up in your mind the balmy, luxurious, pleasant chamber. As you lie on this bed, looking at the door, your expression suddenly becomes joyful; the one who treats you like a brother in your enemy’s mansion approaches. She is, moreover, a woman, a young woman, a lotus in full bloom! Still lying on your bed, you gaze at her—consider her appearance. She is slightly—only slightly—on the taller side, an embodiment of the supreme goddess, the very symbol of the empress of the natural order of life. Look at her delicate bearing. You are thinking of the elephant’s gait? You are mistaken—think of the swan’s instead. Look at those steps fall, one after another—it is the rhythm of musical harmony, the rhythm of a musical instrument; the rhythm of those footsteps resonates in your heart. Look at those flowers in her hand; have you ever known flowers to lose their lustre because of the glow from the hand holding them? Have you ever seen the necklace lose its glitter because of the neck it adorns? Why do your eyes not shut for even an instant? Have you observed how beautiful the turn of her neck is? Have you regarded how her ebony hair cascades down to her ivory nape? Have you seen how her earrings sway on either side? Have you noted the subtle—so subtle—tilt of her head? It is evident only because of her height. Why do you look so intently at her? What will Ayesha think?

  As long as Jagatsingh’s ailment needed attention, Ayesha remained engaged in this manner every day. Then, as the prince’s illness abated gradually, Ayesha’s visits also became less frequent. When Jagatsingh had recovered completely, her visitations ceased almost entirely—she would appear but once or twice a day. Just as the winter sun withdraws gradually from the chilled person’s body as the day draws to a close, Ayesha, too, withdrew from Jagatsingh gradually during his period of recovery.

  One afternoon Jagatsingh was standing at the window of his chamber, observing the people outside the fort, despondently comparing his own condition to theirs. They were unrestricted, free to go wherever they wanted to. Several were gathered in a circle. The prince turned his eyes towards them. He realized that the crowd was partaking of some entertainment, listening closely to someone. The prince could not see who was in their midst but his curiosity was piqued. It was finally satisfied when some members of the audience left, and he saw an individual reading aloud from some sheets that appeared to be part of a manuscript. The prince was amused by the orator’s appearance. He could be called a human, just as he could also be called a medium-sized palm tree struck by lightning. He resembled the tree in both length and girth; but no palm tree is ever laden with the weight of a nose of such dimensions. In form and appearance they were identical; the prince gazed in surprise at the movements of the orator’s head and hands as he read. Just then, Osman appeared in the chamber.

  After they had greeted one another, Osman said, ‘What were you looking at so distractedly from the window?’

  ‘Simply a log of wood. You can see it too,’ said Jagatsingh.

  ‘Have you not seen him before, prince?’ said Osman after a glance.

  ‘I have not,’ answered the prince.

  ‘He is the good Brahmin from your fort. His conversation is most amusing; I remember seeing him at Fort Mandaran.’

  The prince found his interest rising—from Fort Mandaran? Would this person be able to bring him some news of Tilottama, then?

  ‘What is his name, sir?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘His name is obscure, I cannot recollect it easily,’said Osman, racking his brain. ‘Ganapat? No… Ganapat… Gajapat… could it be Gajapat?’

  ‘Gajapat
? That is not a local name, and yet… he seems Bengali?’

  ‘Indeed he is. Bhattacharya. He has a title too, something to do with… scholarship…’

  ‘They do not use that word in Bengali titles, sir. They call it vidya. Probably Vidyabhushan or perhaps it is Vidyabagish, then,’ said Jagatsingh.

  ‘Yes, you are right, it is Vidya something… Wait, what is the Bengali word for elephant?’

  ‘Hasti.’

  ‘Any other word?’ asked Osman

  ‘Kori, donti, baaron, naag, gaj…’

  ‘Ah yes, now I remember; his name is Gajapati Vidya Diggaj.’

  ‘Vidya Diggaj! Scholar supreme! What an impressive title! One befitting his name. I am very keen to converse with him.’

  Osman Khan had been privy to Gajapati’s conversations. Talking to him could do no harm, he surmised. ‘Why not?’ he said.

  Repairing to the antechamber, they instructed the servant to summon Gajapati.

  Chapter Nine

  Diggaj’s News

  WHEN GAJAPATI DIGGAJ entered with the servant, the prince asked, ‘Are you a Brahmin?’

  Diggaj answered, joining his palms respectfully—

  ‘So long as the gods reside at the Poles and the Ganga runs through the earth, verily the best part of the senseless world is the father-in-law’s temple.’

  Suppressing his laughter, Jagatsingh greeted him reverently. Raising his palm in benediction, Gajapati said, ‘May Khoda Khan keep you safe, babuji.’

  ‘I am not a Muslim, sir,’ answered the prince, ‘I am a Hindu.’

  ‘Blasted Yavana wants to trick me,’ Diggaj told himself. ‘He must be up to something, why else would he have sent for me?’ He said apprehensively, his face glum, ‘I know who you are, Khan babuji; your charity sustains me, pray do not punish me, I am your servant.’

  Jagatsingh realized this was going to be difficult. ‘You are a Brahmin, sir,’ he said, ‘and I am a Rajput, please do not speak thus. Your name is Gajapati Vidya Diggaj?’