The Chieftain's Daughter

by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘Oh my,’ Diggaj thought. ‘He knows my name. What trouble does he plan to get me into?’Joining his palms again in supplication, he said, ‘I beg of you, Sheikhji. I am a poor man. Spare me, please.’

  Jagatsingh realized that the good Brahmin was so afraid that he would clearly not serve the prince’s purpose. To change the subject, therefore, he said, ‘What is that text in your hand?’

  ‘This is Pir Manik’s text.’

  ‘A Brahmin holding a pir’s text!’ said Jagatsingh in amazement.

  ‘Sir… I was a Brahmin once, sir, but I am not one any more.’

  The prince was both astonished and irked. ‘What? Were you not in residence at Fort Mandaran?’

  ‘Disaster!’ Diggaj thought. ‘He has come to know I used to live in Virendrasingh’s fort. He will do to me what he did to Virendrasingh.’ Terrified, the good Brahmin burst into tears.

  ‘What is this?’ said the prince.

  Wringing his hands, Diggaj said, ‘I beg of you, Khan sir. Do not have me killed, sir. I am your servant, sir, your servant.’

  ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘No sir, I am your servant. Yours and yours alone.’

  To calm the good Brahmin down, Jagatsingh was forced to say, ‘You have nothing to fear, pray read from the text, I want to hear.’

  The good Brahmin began to read in a sing-song voice. He looked like a young actor in a drama troupe who has just had his ears boxed by the director.

  A little later the prince asked again, ‘Why were you reading from Pir Manik’s text even though you are a Brahmin?’

  ‘I have converted to Islam,’ said the good Brahmin, interrupting his sing-song recitation.

  ‘What!’ said the prince. ‘When the Muslim gentlemen came to the fort, they told me, “We are going to make you desecrate your religion, Brahmin.” They forced me to eat chicken palo.’

  ‘What on earth is palo?’

  ‘Rice cooked with ghee,’ said Diggaj.

  The Rajput realized what he was referring to. ‘Continue,’ he said.

  ‘Then they said, “You are a Muslim now”; I have been a Muslim since then.’

  ‘What has happened to the others?’ the prince found an opportunity to ask.

  ‘Many other Brahmins have been converted to Islam the same way.’

  The prince turned to look at Osman. Realizing his implicit censure, Osman said, ‘What harm has been done, prince? The Muslims believe that Mohammad’s is the only true religion; whether by force or by guile, there is nothing unethical about furthering the cause of the one true religion—on the contrary, it is right to do so.’

  ‘Vidya Diggaj, sir,’ said the prince without answering.

  ‘The name is Sheikh Diggaj now, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Do you not have news of anyone else from the fort, Sheikhji?’

  Fathoming the prince’s intent, Osman became worried. ‘Swami Abhiram has escaped,’said Diggaj.

  The prince realized that unless he asked the foolish man directly he would not get an answer. ‘What has happened to Virendrasingh?’ he asked.

  ‘Nawab Katlu Khan has had him executed,’ the good Brahmin replied.

  Blood rushed to the prince’s face. ‘What? Is the good Brahmin imagining things?’he asked Osman.

  ‘The Nawab sentenced him to death after pronouncing him guilty of treason in a trial,’ Osman replied gravely.

  Fire began to rage in the prince’s eyes.

  ‘May I ask another question,’ he asked Osman. ‘Was it done with your consent?’

  ‘Against my counsel,’ answered Osman.

  The prince was silent for a long time. Considering it a good time to dismiss the good Brahmin, Osman told him, ‘You may leave now.’

  As the good Brahmin rose to his feet, about to depart, the prince restrained him by taking hold of his arm. ‘One more question,’ he said. ‘Where is Bimala?’

  The good Brahmin sighed, wept a little too. ‘Bimala is now the Nawab’s concubine,’ he said.

  ‘Can this be true?’ The prince’s eyes threw darts of lightning at Osman.

  ‘What are you doing here still?’ Osman told the good Brahmin without replying. ‘Go!’

  The prince held on even more firmly to his arm, and stopped him from leaveing. ‘Stay another moment, just one more question.’ His eyes were now bloodshot with flaming passions. ‘What of Tilottama?’

  ‘Tilottama has also become the Nawab’s concubine,’ answered the good Brahmin. ‘They are living happily with their retinue of maids and servants.’

  The prince flung the good Brahmin’s arm away; he barely saved himself from falling.

  ‘I am but a general,’ Osman murmured, embarrassed.

  ‘You are a demon’s general,’ the prince responded.

  Chapter Ten

  The Immersion

  NEEDLESS TO SAY, sleep did not visit Jagatsingh that night. He felt as though he were lying on a bed of fire, his heart inflamed. Where once he would have considered the world void of meaning were Tilottama to be dead, now it was a matter of regret that the selfsame Tilottama had not given up her life.

  What? Why was Tilottama not dead? Was her tender young body, enveloped in that soft, magical light, which Jagatsingh could always see in his mind’s eye no matter which way he looked, now to be reduced to ashes on a funeral pyre? Was there not to remain a single memory of her body on this infinite earth? Whenever these thoughts assailed his mind, Jagatsingh’s eyes streamed with unrestrained tears; but as soon as he was struck by the memory of the villain Katlu Khan’s chamber of pleasure, as soon as he imagined her tender body encircled by the arms of the depraved Pathan, his heart was aflame again.

  Tilottama was the goddess ensconced in the temple of his heart.

  And the same Tilottama was now in the Pathan’s chambers!

  The same Tilottama was Katlu Khan’s concubine.

  Could a Rajput worship such a deity any more?

  Was it worthy of a member of the Rajput clan to hesitate in removing such a deity from her pedestal with his own hands?

  To evict the goddess established in Jagatsingh’s heart would also rend apart the heart itself. How would he purge his memory of that enchanting woman forever? Was it even possible? As long as his faculties remained intact, as long as his flesh-and-blood body survived, she would reign as the queen of his heart.

  These singular notions wreaked havoc on not just the prince’s peace of mind, but also his intellect. His control over his memory loosened, even when the night had ended, he sat clutching his spinning head in his hands, all cogency of thought lost.

  Locked in one position, Jagatsingh’s body began to ache. He felt as if he were racked by fever, so intense was his agony. He rose and stood by the window.

  A soothing summer breeze played upon his forehead. The night was pitch dark, the sky completely overcast. The constellations were concealed from view, with only a star faintly visible now and then behind the shroud of a moving cloud. The trees in the distance had merged with one another, standing beneath the sky like a wall of darkness, from nearer trees, rows of fireflies twinkled like the dust of diamonds; closer still, the sky and the trees were reflected indistinctly in a deep pool of water.

  The touch of the soothing night breeze, borne by the clouds, alleviated his fever somewhat. He remained by the window, resting against it, his head in his hand. Exhausted by sleeplessness, he was granted a respite by the current of air. His mind wandered. The sharp pain of the knife in his heart was replaced by the dull ache of despondency. It is agonizing to abandon hope; but once dejection has rooted itself, the suffering is not as acute. A blow from a weapon is similarly painful, the ache from the wound that follows is constant, it is true, but not as extreme. Jagatsingh now endured the lesser agony of hopelessness. Gazing upon the starless black sky, he reflected with tears in his eyes that the firmament of his own heart had, too, become starless and black. His past came back to him gently along the lanes of his memories; his childhood, the diversions o
f adolescence, he recollected all of it. Jagatsingh immersed himself in his memories, becoming increasingly distracted. Gradually his body cooled, fatigue robbed him of wakefulness, leaning on the window, Jagatsingh fell into a slumber. The prince dreamt as he slept, his dreams tormented him. A frown creased his forehead, his face contorted in suffering, his lips quivered violently, perspiration covered his brow, he tightened his fists. Awaking with a start, he fretfully paced up and down the room. Who knows how long he endured this suffering. When the morning sun lit up the bulwarks of the fort, Jagatsingh was asleep on the floor, sans bed, sans pillow.

  Osman arrived and woke him. When the prince was fully awake, Osman handed him a letter. The prince took it without a word. Osman realized that he was not quite himself. Aware that meaningful conversation would not be possible, he said, ‘I will not ask why you chose to sleep on the floor. I have vowed to the sender of this letter that I would give her missive to you; the reason I have not done so all this time has ceased to be material since you have become aware of all that has passed. I am leaving the letter with you, pray read it at your leisure. I shall return in the afternoon. Should you wish to send a reply, I will give it to the sender on your behalf.’

  Once he had regained possession of himself, Jagatsingh sat down to read Bimala’s missive. When he had finished, he lit a fire and flung the letter into the flames, gazing at it as it burnt. When the letter had been burnt completely to ashes, the prince said to himself, ‘If I can hurl the relic of the past into the flames to destroy it, why can I not destroy my painful memories too?’

  He completed his ritual morning ablutions. Then he began to pray reverently to the Almighty. ‘My Lord! Do not forsake your servant. Bless me so that I can uphold the royal ethic, so that I can act as befits my clan. I shall dismiss the heathen’s concubine from my mind. If that means the destruction of this body, so be it, for I shall have you. I have done what a human being can, now I shall do what a human being should. Look at me, my Lord! You are all-seeing, you can look deep into my heart, I am no longer a suitor for Tilottama’s affections, I am no longer desirous of setting my eyes on her, it is only my memories that are constantly burning my soul. I have forsaken desire, O Lord, will the memory not be extinguished? That is all I beg of you for I cannot endure the agony of remembrance.’

  The goddess in the temple of his heart was immersed.

  What was Tilottama dreaming of then, lying on the floor? The solitary guiding star she had looked upon in the darkness would no longer show her the way. The storm snapped the fragile thread by which her life had been hanging, the raft on which she was crossing the waves capsized.

  Chapter Eleven

  Change of Residence

  THAT AFTERNOON, OSMAN appeared before the prince as he had promised. ‘Do you wish to send a reply, prince?’ he asked.

  The prince had already composed his reply, which he now handed over to Osman. Accepting it, Osman said, ‘Do not be offended, our rules demand that when an occupant of the fort wishes to send a letter to someone, the guards may not dispatch it without perusing its contents.’

  ‘You need not state the obvious,’ declared the prince, somewhat disappointed. ‘Pray open the letter and read it, send it to its recipient thereafter if you desire to.’

  Osman opened the letter. All that was written in it was:

  ‘I shall not forget your request, victim of fate. But if you are a pious wife, you shall cleanse yourself of disgrace by following your husband presently. Jagatsingh.’

  ‘Your heart is made of stone, prince,’ remarked Osman on reading the letter.

  ‘No more than that of a Pathan,’ responded the prince acerbically.

  Osman turned red with rage. ‘I believe no Pathan has been uncivil to you,’ he said somewhat harshly.

  The prince was both affronted and embarrassed. He said, ‘No sir. It is not myself I speak of. You have been merciful to me in every respect, sparing me my life even after taking me prisoner. You have cured the slayer of your troops of a near-fatal ailment. You have offered a life of luxury to one who should be languishing in prison. What more can you possibly do? But I am entrapped in your web of civility; I cannot fathom the outcome of this pleasant existence. If I am a prisoner, let me be lodged in a prison cell, free from your shackles of kindness. But if I am not, why am I locked in this gilded cage?’

  ‘Why do you long for distress, prince?’ Answered Osman calmly. ‘Ill fortune need not be wooed, she comes on her own.’

  ‘A Rajput does not consider it ill fortune to forsake this comfortable bed of yours for the rocks inside a prison,’declared the prince proudly.

  ‘If only a bed of rocks were the biggest misfortune that could befall you, what harm would that do?’ Answered Osman.

  Looking sharply at Osman, the prince said, ‘If I cannot teach Katlu Khan the lesson he deserves to be taught, what harm can death itself do?’

  ‘Careful, prince!’ warned Osman. ‘Pathans do not make empty threats.’

  ‘If you are here to frighten me, general, consider your mission wasted,’ said the prince laughing.

  ‘We are too familiar with each other to indulge in empty words,’ said Osman. ‘I have come to you for a reason.’

  ‘I am at your command,’ said Jagatsingh in surprise.

  ‘The proposal I am about to make has been sanctioned by Katlu Khan,’ declared Osman.

  J: Very well.

  O: Listen closely. The war between the Rajputs and the Pathans is causing harm to both adversaries.

  ‘Causing harm to the Pathans is the precise object of this war,’ answered Jagatsingh.

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Osman, ‘but I am sure you can conclude for yourself how high the chances of victory, barring total extermination of both sides, are for either of us. You have observed that the conquerors of Fort Mandaran are not quite lacking in force.’

  ‘Certainly not in cunning,’Jagatsingh said smiling faintly.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ continued Osman, ‘personal glory is not my objective. Pathans shall not be able to occupy Utkal in peace if they are at war all their lives with the Mughals. But nor will the Mughal emperor ever succeed in bringing the Pathans under his control. Do not interpret this as a sign of conceit. You are politically astute, after all—consider the enormous distance between Delhi and Utkal. Assume that the Emperor of Delhi succeeds in defeating the Pathans this time with the help of Mansingh’s power; but how long will his standard fly in this land? As soon as King Mansingh withdraws with his army, the Emperor of Delhi will cede whatever right he had gained to Utkal. Akbar Shah had conquered Utkal earlier, but how long did his reign last? Even if victory were to be achieved this time, the same outcome shall ensue. The Pathans are not like the Bengalis—they will never submit to being ruled; not even if only one of them is left alive. I can state this with certainty. Why then allow the earth to be flooded with the blood of Rajputs and Pathans?’

  ‘What do you propose?’ asked Jagatsingh.

  ‘I propose nothing. It is my lord who has suggested a truce.’

  J: What kind of truce?

  O: Let both sides accept some concessions. Nawab Katlu Khan is willing to relinquish the portions of Bengal that he has annexed by force. Let Akbar Shah also give up his claim to Utkal and return with his soldiers, and refrain from invasions in future. This will cause no harm to the Emperor—on the contrary, it will harm the Pathans; we are offering to relinquish what we have won with our effort. Akbar Shah is only giving up what he has not succeeded in conquering.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the prince after listening to this. ‘But why bring these proposals to me? King Mansingh is the arbiter of alliances; dispatch a messenger to him.’

  ‘A messenger had been sent to the king,’ said Osman. ‘Unfortunately someone has informed him that the Pathans have taken your life. Driven by rage and sorrow, the king refused to even entertain the thought of a truce. He refused to believe the messenger. But if you were to bear the proposal personally, he would agree.’


  The prince scrutinized Osman and said, ‘Pray be explicit. The king would be convinced that I am alive even if he were to see my handwriting. Why then are you asking me to go to him personally?’

  O: King Mansingh is unaware of the situation here; he will learn the truth from you. Moreover, your request is more likely to succeed, in a manner that a letter cannot. Another pleasant outcome of the truce will be that you shall be free once more. Hence Nawab Katlu Khan has determined that you shall personally appeal for this truce.

  J: I am not unwilling to appear in my father’s presence.

  O: I am pleased to hear that; but we have another stipulation. If you are unable to ensure a truce as indicated, you must promise to return to this fort.

  J: What assurance do you have that I shall return just because I have promised?

  ‘It is a certainty.’ Osman smiled. ‘Everyone knows a Rajput never breaks his word.’

  Pleased, the prince said, ‘I promise to return alone to the fort after meeting my father.’

  O: If you agree to another condition, too, we shall be especially grateful. Promise that you shall endeavour to conclude the treaty on our terms if you get an audience with the king.

  ‘I cannot make this promise, general,’ said the prince. ‘The Emperor of Delhi has engaged us to defeat the Pathans, and that is what I shall seek to accomplish. He has not engaged us to conclude a peace treaty, I shall not do it. Nor shall I make such an appeal.’

  Osman’s expression revealed both satisfaction and displeasure. ‘You have answered like a true Rajput, but consider this—you have no other means to secure your freedom.’

  J: What does the Emperor of Delhi care for my freedom? There are many more princes, too, among the Rajputs.

  ‘Take my advice, prince, forsake this thought,’ pleaded Osman in disappointment.

  J: Why, sir?

  O: I will not lie, prince. It is only because you can serve his purpose that the Nawab has kept you in comfort; if you decline, you will invite considerable trouble on yourself.

  J: Threats again! Did I not request you to imprison me only a short while ago?