The Chieftain's Daughter Read online

  ‘Which of your generals will willingly walk into the mouth of inevitable death, Your Highness?’ countered the Mughal general.

  Frowning, Mansingh enquired, ‘Do you mean to say there is not one among so many Rajput and Mughal military leaders who does not fear death?’

  Six or seven Mughals and Rajputs rose at once, each stating, ‘Your servant is ready, Your Highness.’ Jagatsingh was present too; he was the youngest among the gathering. Standing behind the rest, he said, ‘With your permission, this servant would also like to participate in achieving the Emperor of Delhi’s objectives.’

  Smiling, Mansingh said, ‘And why should it not be so? Today I am convinced once more that the extinction of Mughal and Rajput glory is not imminent. Since all of you are ready for this challenge, whom should I choose for the mission?’

  ‘Your Highness! How splendid it is that there are so many volunteers,’ said one of the councillors with a smile. ‘You can use the opportunity to expend as few soldiers as possible. Place the responsibility for the royal mission on the one who requires the fewest warriors to accompany him.’

  ‘Excellent suggestion,’ said the king. ‘How many soldiers do you wish to take with you?’ he asked the first volunteer. ‘I shall perform the emperor’s bidding with fifteen thousand foot-soldiers,’ the general responded.

  ‘If you were to carve out a contingent of fifteen thousand soldiers from this camp, not many would be left. Which of you intrepid generals is willing to fight with ten thousand?’

  The generals were silent. Eventually a favorite of the king, the Rajput warrior Yashwantsingh, sought permission to fulfil the royal edict. The king cast pleased glances upon everyone present. Prince Jagatsingh had been waiting to catch his eye—as soon as the king’s glance alighted on him he said deferentially, ‘If it pleases Your Highness, your servant will require the assistance of only five thousand soldiers to deposit Katlu Khan on the other bank of the Subarnarekha.’

  King Mansingh was astonished. His generals began to whisper amongst themselves. After a few moments the king said, ‘My son! I am aware that you are the glory of the Rajput clan, but you are being foolhardy.’

  ‘If I cannot keep my word and squander the sovereign’s soldiers, I shall be guilty of violating the king’s law.’

  After a few moments’ thought, Mansingh said, ‘I will not come in the way of your adhering the code of the Rajput; I select you for this mission.’

  After enfolding the prince in an emotional embrace, the king departed. The generals returned to their respective window.

  Chapter Five

  Fort Mandaran

  SIGNS STILL REMAIN of the path along which Jagatsingh had returned to Jahanabad from the province of Bishnupur. The village of Mandaran was a little to its south. It is an insignificant hamlet today, but at that time it was a city of splendour. It was this city that the ladies whom Jagatsingh had met in the temple departed for after he had left.

  Mandaran was known as Fort Mandaran, possibly because it contained a few ancient forts. The Amodar river flowed through the city; at one point its course had curved sharply, surrounding a triangular tract of land on two sides, whilst on the third side there was a sunken fort. At the spot, where the river began its arc, a gigantic fort rose from the level of the water to the sky. Built from base to spires in black stone, it rested on foundations that were battered from both sides by powerful river currents. Even today visitors to Fort Mandaran can see the sprawling ruins of this once-impregnable fort; only the base remains now, the rest of the structure has been ground to dust by ravaging time. The ground is covered by a dense forest of tamarind and myrtle trees, with their attendant vines and tendrils, sheltering snakes, bears, and similar ferocious beasts. Earlier there had been more forts on the other side of the river.

  The fort was built by Ismail Ghazi, the famous general to Hosen Shah, the most illustrious of the Pathan kings of Bengal. But subsequently, it became the fiefdom of a Hindu warrior named Jaidharsingh. At the time of our story, his descendant Virendrasingh lived there.

  In his youth there was no love lost between Virendrasingh and his father. Being arrogant and reckless by nature, he seldom followed his father’s instructions, the result being constant squabbles and arguments between father and son. The aged landowner arranged his son’s marriage to the daughter of another landowner nearby, belonging to the same clan. Since the father of the bride had no son, the alliance was designed to consolidate Virendra’s estate; besides, the bride was beautiful. Therefore the match seemed most attractive to the old man; he proceeded to make arrangements for the wedding. But disregarding his father’s choice, Virendra secretly married the daughter of a poor sonless widow from the village, and refused to marry a second time. Furious, the old man disowned his son, evicting him from the family home. Banished by his father, the young man departed for Delhi with the aspiration of becoming a professional soldier. Since his wife was pregnant at the time, she could not accompany him. She stayed behind at her mother’s home.

  When his son went into exile, the aged landowner was assailed by grief; overcome by remorse, he devoted himself—unsuccessfully—to discover his son’s whereabouts. Unable to ensure his son’s return, he lovingly brought his daughter-in-law home instead from her poor abode. In due course, Virendrasingh’s wife gave birth to a daughter. But the mother died soon afterwards.

  Arriving in Delhi, Virendrasingh was employed as a soldier by the Rajput troops who served the Mughal emperor; very soon, his prowess paved the way to a high rank. After he had amassed considerable wealth as well as fame over the next few years, Virendrasingh received news of his father’s demise. Thereupon he considered further sojourn in foreign lands or serving as a vassal unnecessary, and returned home. Several of his associates accompanied him from Delhi, among them a maid and a sage. It will be necessary to reveal more about them. The maid’s name was Bimala, and the sage’s, Swami Abhiram.

  Bimala was engaged in housework, in particular bringing up and nurturing Virendra’s daughter. There was no other obvious reason for her to live in the fort; hence she has been referred to as a maid. However, she displayed no signs of being one. The occupants of the fort revered her almost as much as a queen would have been revered; all of them were obedient to her. Her appearance suggested that she had been exceptionally beautiful in her younger days. Like the moon that sets only after the sun dawns, the glow of that loveliness was visible even at this age. Swami Abhiram had a disciple named Gajapati Vidya Diggaj—or Gajapati the master scholar. He may or may not have been adept at the art of rhetoric, but his appetite for coarse humour was rather strong. Whenever he set eyes on Bimala he would say, ‘She is like butter in a jar; the more the flames of ardor cool, the richer her body becomes.’ It is necessary to mention here that since the day Gajapati the scholar had made this droll observation, Bimala had referred to him as the ‘Wondrous Witmaster.’

  Besides the way she conducted herself, the polished behavior and skilful conversation for which Bimala was regarded could not possibly have been attained by a mere maid. Many people said that she had been a long-standing member of the Mughal emperor’s household. Only Bimala knew whether this was the truth or a lie, but she never referred to it.

  Was Bimala married or a widow? No one knows. She wore ornaments, didn’t observe any widow’s rituals, and led her life as married women do.

  We have already seen in the temple how deeply Bimala loved Tilottama, the chieftain’s daughter. Tilottama adored her just as much. Swami Abhiram, Virendrasingh’s other companion from Delhi, did not live at the fort permanently, setting off every now and then to travel around the country. He took turns between Fort Mandaran and his travels, spending a month or two at each. Everyone was convinced that Swami Abhiram was Virendrasingh’s spiritual guru; certainly the respect and honour that Virendrasingh accorded him suggested as much. Why, he did not conduct even his daily tasks without seeking Swami Abhiram’s counsel, which inevitably proved prescient. Swami Abhiram was, in fact,
far-sighted and possessed razor-sharp intelligence; moreover, he had mastered the art of restraining his passions whether in pursuing his mission or in his everyday behaviour. When required, he could control suppress anger or hatred or displeasure and discuss matters dispassionately. It was not surprising, therefore, that his advice yielded better results than the impetuous and conceited Virendrasingh’s strategies.

  Besides Bimala and Swami Abhiram, a maid named Aasmani had also accompanied Virendrasingh back home.

  Chapter Six

  Swami Abhiram’s Counsel

  TILOTTAMA AND BIMALA returned to the fort safely from the temple. Three or four days later Swami Abhiram arrived at Virendrasingh’s court. Virendrasingh rose from his throne and bowed, Swami Abhiram took his seat on the spun-grass mat offered to him by the chieftain, who resumed his position on the throne after seeking permission. ‘Virendra!’ said Swami Abhiram, ‘I wish to discuss an important matter with you today.’

  ‘I await your command,’ answered Virendra.

  ‘An intense battle between the Mughals and the Pathans at hand,’ announced Swami Abhiram.

  ‘Yes, a critical turn in events appears imminent,’ Virendra replied.

  Abhiram asked, ‘Quite possibly. What do you propose to do now?’

  ‘If the enemy appears, we shall beat him back with sheer force,’ Virendra declared haughtily.

  ‘I expected nothing less from a brave warrior like you,’ responded the sage, speaking as gently as Virendra had spoken aggressively. ‘But the thing is, valuer alone does not ensure victory; that comes from strategic alliances. You yourself are second to none as a warrior, but your troops do not number more than a thousand—is there a general who can repel with a thousand soldiers a force one hundred times as large? Both the Mughals and the Pathans have armies a hundredfold larger than yours; you will not succeed in escaping the one without the help of the other. Do not be enraged, consider the situation calmly. How will it benefit you to oppose both the warring parties? Since our enemies vex us, would it not be better to have one enemy rather than two? Therefore, I think, you should side with one of them.’

  After a long silence, Virendra said, ‘Which of them should I side with?’

  ‘Choose the side that will not lead you to be unrighteous; treason is a great sin, support the king,’ answered Swami Abhiram.

  Having considered this a few moments, Virendra enquired, ‘But who is the king, really? The war between the Mughals and the Pathans is over the kingdom, after all.’

  ‘He who collects the taxes is the king,’ answered Swami Abhiram.

  ‘You mean Akbar Shah?’

  ‘But of course.’

  Virendrasingh looked enraged; his eyes slowly became bloodshut. Observing the signs, Swami Abhiram said, ‘Control your rage, Virendra! I have asked you to pay allegiance to the Emperor of Delhi, not to Mansingh.’

  Virendrasingh pointed his left hand at his right arm with a flourish. ‘With the blessings gathered at your feet, this hand shall be drenched in Mansingh’s blood.’

  ‘Calm yourself,’ said Swami Abhiram. ‘Do not allow blind rage to come between you and your mission; by all means punish Mansingh for his past crimes, but what use will it be to wage war against Akbar Shah?’

  ‘If I side with Akbar Shah, under which general’s command shall I have to fight?’ an enraged Virendra continued. ‘Which warrior shall I have to help? Whom shall I have to pay allegiance to? None other than Mansingh. My lord! As long as there’s life in this body, Virendrasingh shall never to do it.’

  Swami Abhiram lapsed into an unhappy silence. After some time he asked, ‘Then you would prefer to side with the Pathans?’

  ‘Is it necessary to choose one over the other?’

  Abhiram responded, ‘Yes, it is.’

  Virendra replied, ‘Then it is preferable to side with the Pathans.’

  Sighing, Swami Abhiram fell silent again; tears appeared in his eyes. Surprised beyond belief, Virendrasingh exclaimed, ‘Forgive me, my lord. Tell me how I have unknowingly transgressed.’

  Wiping his eyes with his cloak, Swami Abhiram said, ‘Listen closely. For several days I have been engaged in astrological calculations. As you know, your daughter is even more the object of my affection than you are; naturally, most of my forecasts concern her.’ Virendrasingh turned pale; impatiently, he asked the sage, ‘What do your predictions forecast?’ ‘They forecast great misfortune for Tilottama,’ answered the sage, ‘caused by a Mughal general.’ Virendrasingh’s face darkened. ‘Only if the Mughals are ranged against you can they bring misfortune upon Tilottama,’ Swami Abhiram continued, ‘but not if they are allied with you, which is why I tried to induce you to support them. I did not wish to make you suffer by stating this; but human effort is bound to fail, what is written by fate must be, or else why would you prove so adamant?’

  Virendrasingh was silent. Swami Abhiram told him, ‘Katlu Khan’s messenger is at the gate, Virendra. I came to you as soon as I saw him, after instructing the guards not to let him into your presence. Now that I have said what I had to, you may summon the messenger and offer a suitable response.’ With a deep sigh, Virendrasingh raised his eyes. ‘My lord! Till such time as I had set eyes on Tilottama, I had not even considered her my daughter. Now I have no one except her to call my own; I shall obey your command, I hereby repudiate my past. I will swear allegiance to Mansingh, let the guards bring the messenger to me.’

  As instructed, the guards escorted him in. The messenger handed over Katlu Khan’s letter. The essence of the missive was that Virendrasingh should dispatch one thousand soldiers on horseback and five thousand gold coins to the Pathan camp, failing which Katlu Khan would send twenty thousand soldiers to besiege Fort Mandaran.

  Having read the letter, Virendrasingh said, ‘Herald! Inform your master that he may send his troops.’ Bowing, the messenger left.

  Hidden from view, Bimala had eavesdropped on the entire exchange.

  Chapter Seven

  Carelessness

  TILOTTAMA SAT AT a window, watching the river Amodar murmur as it washed over the fortress, eddies forming in the blue water. Dusk had fallen; the reflection of violet clouds, tinged with the gold of the sun’s fading light in the western sky, trembled amidst the rapid currents. The colossal fort by the river, with its rows of tall trees, looked like a picture against the pristine blue of the sky. Inside the fort, peacocks, cranes, and songbirds trilled cheerfully; birds flew silently towards their nests at the advent of night. The summer breeze cooled by the river, rustled through the mangroves and Tilottama’s hair or through the beautiful garment draped over her shoulders.

  Tilottama was a beauty. O reader! Have you ever beheld in your youth, with the light of love in your eyes, a serene, soft-hearted young girl flowering into womanhood? Have you ever seen a young woman whom you have not been able to forget all your life even though you glanced at her but once—an enchanting figure who treads your memory over and over again like a dream, through adolescence youth and maturity, through work and through rest, and yet does not provoke a tainting desire? Only if you have will Tilottama’s true image come to life in your mind’s eye. Hers was neither the plenitude of beauty that enkindles your heart, nor the seductive charm that sinks poisonous fangs into it. Instead, hers was the image that delights with its tenderness and grace. The image that sways in the memory like the vines of spring do in the evening breeze.

  Tilottama was sixteen, which meant her body had not yet acquired the fullness of the woman who has matured already. Both her body and her face still held some traces of childhood. Her shapely, curved, generous—but not too generous—forehead radiated the tranquillity of the river lit by moonlight. Her short, dark ringlets fell on her eyebrows, her cheeks, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. There was a disciplined profusion of rich, dark hair on her back. Beneath her forehead her eyebrows were well arched, dark, as though painted by an artist, and yet a little too slender—being just a hair’s-breadth thicker would have made them
flawless. Do you love restless eyes, reader? Then Tilottama will not be able to conquer your heart. Tilottama’s eyes were exceedingly placid; they threw no glances like bolts of lightning. Her eyes were wide, lovely, shining with a serene glow. And their colour was the tender shade of blue that permeates the sky shortly before sunrise, when the moon is about to set. When Tilottama bestowed a glance from those wide, clear eyes, it held not the slightest trace of guile. Tilottama was not versed in the art of throwing arch looks. Her gaze held nothing but purity and simplicity—simplicity in her eyes and simplicity in her heart. If anyone looked at her, however, her soft lashes dropped at once; Tilottama never looked anywhere but at the ground when she was noticed. Her lips were pink, brimming moistly; small, a little rounded, a little swollen, smiling. Were you to see a smile on those lips but once, whether you be a yogi or a sage, old or young, you would not be able to forget it, even though the smile was nothing but simple and childlike.

  Although shapely, Tilottama’s body was not yet ripe; whether it was because of her youth or because of her natural build, her beautiful frame displayed the qualities only of slenderness. And yet there was nothing angular in any aspect of her slim body. Jewels adorned her lovely wrists, diamond-studded bracelets sat on her lovely arms, rings were set around her lovely fingers, an ornamental girdle covered her lovely thighs, golden ornaments covered her lovely shoulders, jewel-encrusted necklaces encircled her lovely throat. Every part of her was beautiful.

  What was Tilottama doing by herself at the window? Was she gazing upon the beauty of the evening? Then why were her eyes downcast? Was she taking the fragrant breeze wafting in from the river bank? Then why would there be beads of perspiration on her brow? The breeze was fanning but one side of her face—why? Was she watching the cows graze? But no, the cows had all wended their way homewards. Was she listening to the cuckoo? Why so sad, then? Tilottama saw nothing, heard nothing, she was lost in thought.