Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Read online

  ‘Your own name. To gauge whether he was praying for your harm or benefit, I touched his feet in obeisance, and waited by his side. There I remained, until his ritual was complete. Then, I asked him why he was offering prayers in your name. After speaking to him for a while, I realized that he had performed the ritual with malignant intent towards you. My needs were the same. When I confided this to him, we immediately decided to assist each other. He took me into the ruined house for a special consultation. There, he revealed his plan to me. It was your death he desired, but I had no such aim in mind. I have led a sinful life, but in taking the path of moral degradation, I have not fallen so low as to will the death of an innocent young girl. I refused to consent to his plan. At this juncture, you appeared on the scene. I think you may have overheard something.’

  ‘Indeed, I overheard an argument of the kind you have described.’

  ‘Taking me for an ignorant fool, that man wanted to offer me some advice. I left you concealed in the woods to go and listen to his intended plan, so as to brief you accordingly.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you come back?’

  ‘He spoke at length; it took a long time to hear his extended narrative. You know that man particularly well. Can you guess who he is?’

  ‘The kapalik, my former foster-parent!’

  ‘Indeed, it is he. First, the kapalik acquainted me with the facts: how you were found on the seashore, how he brought you up in that place, the arrival of Nabakumar, your escape with him. He also described all that had happened after your departure. You don’t know about all those developments. I shall give you a detailed account, so that you know what transpired.’

  Lutfunnissa proceeded to tell her about the kapalik’s fall from the sand dune crest, the injury to his arms, and his dream. Hearing about the dream, Kapalkundala started, and trembled, agitated as if lightning had struck her heart.

  ‘The kapalik has firmly resolved to follow the dictum of Bhavani,’ continued Lutfunnissa. ‘Because his arms have lost their strength, he desperately needs someone to help him. Taking me for the son of a Brahmin, he told me the entire story in the hope of making me his accomplice. Until now, I have not agreed to join him in this evil enterprise. I cannot vouch for my fickle heart, but I hope that I shall never consent to his plan. Rather, it is my intention to resist his resolve; that is why I have arranged this rendezvous with you. But I have not taken this step for purely unselfish motives. I am offering to save your life, but you must do something for me in return.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Kapalkundala wondered.

  ‘Save my life, as well. Leave your husband.’

  For a long time, Kapalkundala said nothing.

  ‘Where should I go, once I have left my husband?’

  ‘To other lands, far away. I shall give you a mansion to live in, wealth, an army of servants; you shall live like a queen.’

  Once again, Kapalkundala fell into contemplation. In her mind’s eye she scanned the whole world, but could see nobody who mattered. She looked within her own heart, but there, too, she found nobody, not even Nabakumar. Then why should she block the path to Lutfunnissa’s happiness?

  ‘Whether you have done me any good, I still cannot determine,’ she told Lutfunnissa. ‘I do not need a mansion, or wealth, or an army of servants. Why should I obstruct the path to your happiness? May your desire be fulfilled! From tomorrow, you will hear no tidings of the woman who stood in your way. I was once a wanderer in the wilds. To the wilds, as a wanderer, I shall return again.’

  Lutfunnissa was wonderstruck; she had not hoped for such swift compliance.

  ‘My sister!’ she cried. ‘May you live forever, for you have just granted me the boon of life! But only on one condition shall I let you go: tomorrow, at dawn, I’ll send you a trusted, intelligent maidservant. Go with her. There is a woman of eminence in Bardhaman, a close friend of mine. She will look after all your needs.’

  So intent were Lutfunnissa and Kapalkundala in their conversation, that they remained oblivious to immediate dangers. They failed to detect the hostile gaze of the kapalik and Nabakumar, who stood at the end of the forest path leading away from the clearing in which the two women had taken refuge.

  Nabakumar and the kapalik were watching them, but unfortunately, from such a distance, they could hear nothing of their conversation. Had the range of human hearing matched the scope of human sight, who can tell whether the tide of human sorrow would have risen or declined? Creation is so exquisitely complicated! Nabakumar observed that Kapalkundala’s hair was unbound, flowing free. In the days before she became his, she used to leave her hair unbraided. Again, he noticed that her heavy tresses had cascaded down to the young Brahmin’s back, to mingle with his shoulder-length locks. So massive was the weight of Kapalkundala’s hair, and so closely did they lean towards each other as they conducted their whispered conversation, that Kapalkundala’s locks had fallen across Lutfunnissa’s back. The two women had not noticed it. But the sight caused Nabakumar to slowly sink to the ground.

  Seeing this, the kapalik produced a coconut shell from his waistband. ‘My son!’ he urged. ‘You are losing your valour. Drink this sacred potion, blessed by Bhavani. It will revive you.’

  The kapalik held the container to Nabakumar’s lips. Absent-mindedly, he drank from it to quench his acute thirst. Nabakumar was not aware that this delicious fluid was an extraordinarily potent liquor, brewed by the kapalik himself. Drinking it, he at once felt stronger.

  Meanwhile, Lutfunnissa continued to address Kapalkundala in a low voice, as before: ‘My sister! It is beyond my power to repay you for what you have done. Still, if you remember me always, even that would make me happy. The jewellery I gave, you have donated in charity, I’m told. I have nothing on me at this moment. To take care of other needs that might arise tomorrow, I had carried a ring concealed in my hair, but by the Lord’s grace, I need no longer pursue that evil plan. Keep this ring. Wear it, and when you look at the ring, think of your sister, the Yavani. Tonight, if your husband wants to know where you got this ring, tell him that Lutfunnissa gave it to you.’

  With these words, Lutfunnissa removed a jewel-encrusted ring from her finger, and handed it to Kapalkundala. This, too, was witnessed by Nabakumar. The kapalik, who had been supporting him, felt his body tremble again, and once more offered him the liquor to drink. The spirit went to Nabakumar’s head, and began to play havoc with his nature, uprooting even the tender seedling of affection.

  Taking her leave of Lutfunnissa, Kapalkundala headed back for her own home. By the secret path that Lutfunnissa had taken, Nabakumar and the kapalik began to trail Kapalkundala.

  8

  On the Way Home

  No spectre greets me—no vain shadow this.

  —Wordsworth

  SLOWLY, KAPALKUNDALA WALKED HOMEWARDS. VERY SLOWLY SHE WALKED, with a gentle tread, for she was lost in deep thought. Lutfunnissa’s words had utterly transformed Kapalkundala’s frame of mind. She was ready to sacrifice her life. Sacrifice her life, for whom? For Lutfunnissa? It was not so.

  In matters of the heart, Kapalkundala was the child of a tantric. Just as a tantric does not hesitate to kill others in the hope of earning Goddess Kali’s blessings, so was Kapalkundala ready to sacrifice her own life to fulfil the same desire. Not that Kapalkundala had shared the kapalik’s single-minded pursuit of shakti, the divine gift of spiritual power. All the same, exposed day and night to the sight, sound and practice of shakti-worship, she had developed in her heart a special devotion to Kali. She was strongly convinced that Bhairavi was the ruler of the created world, as well as its liberator. Her compassionate heart could not bear to see the place for Kali-worship flooded with human blood, but in all other respects, she spared no effort to express her devotion. Now, the same Bhairavi, ruler of the universe, arbiter of human joys and sorrows, liberator of the soul, had appeared in a dream to decree that Kapalkundala should surrender her life. Why should Kapalkundala not obey that decree?

  Y
ou and I don’t wish to die. Whatever we may say in moments of anger, this world is full of happiness. It is the hope of finding happiness, and not in search of sorrow, that we spin around the world like a ball on a playground. If ever, as a consequence of our own misdeeds, that hope is frustrated, we at once break into loud protests about our sorrows. Sorrow is, therefore, not a law of life, but a deviation from the normal and customary. For you and me, there is happiness everywhere. For the sake of happiness, we remain rooted in this world, not wishing to relinquish it. But love is the primary strand in the ties that bind us to life. Kapalkundala did not have such ties—she had no ties at all. So, there was no holding her back.

  A person without any ties proceeds with unchecked speed. When the waterfall descends from the mountain-crest, who can restrain its flow? If Kapalkundala’s heart grew restless, who could restore her tranquillity? When a young elephant is in heat, who can calm it down?

  ‘Why should I not surrender this body at the Goddess Jagadiswari’s feet?’ Kapalkundala asked herself. ‘Of what use are the five senses to me?’

  She asked herself these questions, but was unable to arrive at any definite answers. Even in the absence of all other worldly ties, the senses bind one to life.

  Kapalkundala walked on with lowered head. When the heart is overcome with some monstrous emotion, this single obsession makes one oblivious to external surroundings. In this state, even insubstantial things seem to take on a material shape. Such was Kapalkundala’s condition at this time.

  ‘My child!’ she seemed to hear a voice call out, from above. ‘I shall show you the way.’

  Startled, Kapalkundala looked up. Etched in the clouds that had just formed in the sky, she saw what looked like the outline of a figure. A stream of blood flowed from the garland of human skulls around the neck of this apparition; encircling her waist was a girdle of human arms; in her left hand was a human skull; rivulets of blood streamed down her body; and adorning her forehead, at the outer edge of her extraordinarily bright, fiery eye, hung the crescent moon! Right arm upraised, Bhairavi seemed to beckon to Kapalkundala.

  Gazing skywards, Kapalkundala went on her way. Before her, leading the way, that figure, resembling a new-formed mass of clouds, moved across the pathways of the sky. Sometimes the shape of the apparition, with her garland of skulls, was hidden by clouds; sometimes, it was clearly visible to the eye. Gazing at her, Kapalkundala walked on.

  Nabakumar and the kapalik had not seen the apparition. Fuelled by alcohol, Nabakumar’s heart was on fire.

  ‘Kapalik!’ he exclaimed to his companion, losing patience at the slowness of Kapalkundala’s tread.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Give me something to drink!’ he demanded.

  Once again, the kapalik offered him liquor.

  ‘Why wait any longer?’ asked Nabakumar.

  ‘Why wait?’ the kapalik repeated.

  ‘Kapalkundala!’ roared Nabakumar, in a booming voice.

  The sound of his voice startled Kapakundala. Of late, nobody had addressed her by that name. She turned around. Nabakumar and the kapalik came up, to stand face-to-face with her. At first, Kapalkundala could not recognize them.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Are you messengers from hell?’

  The next instant, she recognized them. ‘No, no, you are my father!’ she exclaimed. ‘Have you come to offer me up in sacrifice?’

  Nabakumar took hold of her arm, with a grip of iron.

  ‘Come with us, my child!’ invited the kapalik, in tender, honeyed tones.

  With these words, he headed for the cremation grounds, leading the way.

  Kapalkundala glanced up, in the direction where she had seen the terrible figure of the goddess who ranged the sky. She saw the goddess burst into peals of laughter, pointing with a long trident at the path taken by the kapalik. Wordlessly, like one blind to her fate, Kapalkundala followed the kapalik. Gripping her arm tightly as before, Nabakumar walked on.

  9

  In the Land of Spirits

  In her collapse, she brought her husband down, as well,

  As the oil, when it drips from the lamp, brings the flame down, too.

  —Raghuvamsha

  THE MOON SANK BENEATH THE HORIZON. THE UNIVERSE WAS PLUNGED IN darkness. The kapalik led Kapalkundala to his place of worship. It was a wide stretch of sand on the shores of the Ganga. Facing it was an even larger stretch of sand, the cremation ground. At high tide, an expanse of shallow water separated the two sandy tracts; at low tide, the wet area disappeared. At this time, the space was free of water. The part of the cremation ground facing the Ganga was far above the river. To enter the river at that point would mean plunging from a height, straight into deep waters. The sandy shore, moreover, had been eroded by the continuous assault of waves cast ashore by the relentless breeze. From time to time, a chunk of earth would break off, crashing down into the bottomless waters.

  There was no lamp at the place of worship, only a flaming torch. By its light, the cremation ground, indistinctly seen, appeared even more monstrous. Arrangements had been made for prayers, the havan or fire ceremony and the ritual human sacrifice. The heart of the immense river stretched out in the dark. The Chaitra wind blew with unchecked force across the Ganga’s breast; the sky resounded with the noise of crashing waves, whipped to turbulence by the wind. Every now and then, from the cremation ground, the hoarse call of scavenging beasts could be heard.

  Having positioned Nabakumar and Kapalkundala on suitably-arranged reed-mats, the kapalik began his devotional rites as prescribed by tantric law. At the appropriate time, he instructed Nabakumar to take Kapalkundala for a ritual bath. Taking her by the hand, Nabakumar led Kapalkundala across the cremation ground. Bones pierced the soles of their feet. A water-filled funeral pitcher cracked under Nabakumar’s foot when he trod on it. Close to it lay the corpse of an unfortunate wretch for whom nobody had performed the last rites. Their feet touched the corpse. Kapalkundala walked around it, while Nabakumar stepped on it as he proceeded on his way. Circling the area, the scavenging animals called out loudly at the approach of the two humans; some advanced to attack them, others retreated with a noisy tread. Nabakumar’s hand was trembling, Kapalkundala discovered; but she herself was fearless and steady.

  ‘Are you afraid?’ she asked him.

  Nabakumar’s intoxication was waning.

  ‘Afraid, Mrinmayi?’ he replied, very gravely. ‘No, that is not the reason.’

  ‘Then why do you tremble?’

  Only a woman’s voice can capture the tone in which she asked this question. Only a woman who melts in compassion can speak in such a tone. Who would have expected such a tone of voice from Kapalkundala here, at the cremation ground, when her own death was imminent?

  ‘It is not fear,’ asserted Nabakumar. ‘I tremble in rage because I am unable to weep.’

  ‘Why should you weep?’

  Once more, the same tone of voice.

  ‘Why should I weep? What would you know, Mrinmayi! After all, the sight of beauty has never driven you mad . . .’ As he spoke, Nabakumar’s voice choked with agony. ‘You have never come to the cremation ground to tear out your own heart and throw it away.’

  Suddenly, Nabakumar burst into a loud wail, and flung himself at Kapalkundala’s feet.

  ‘Mrinmayi! Oh Kapalkundala! Save me! I fall at your feet. Tell me, just once, that you are not unfaithful! Say it just once, and I shall clasp you to my heart and carry you home.’

  Kapalkundala took Nabakumar by the hand and helped him to his feet.

  ‘You never asked me about it,’ she reminded him gently.

  As they spoke, the two of them had reached the water’s edge. Kapalkundala was ahead, standing with her back to the river, just a step away from the water. The tide was rising; Kapalkundala was standing on the brink, at the edge of the river’s vertical bank.

  ‘You never asked me,’ she said.

  ‘I have lost my senses—what am I to ask you?’ cried Nabaku
mar, like one driven insane. ‘Tell me, Mrinmayi, tell me, tell me, tell me! Accept me. Come home with me!’

  ‘I shall answer your question. The person you saw tonight is Padmavati. I have not been unfaithful. I tell you this by way of information. But I shall not return home again. I have come here to surrender this body at Goddess Bhavani’s feet; I shall fulfill my resolve. You must go home. I go to my death. Don’t even grieve for me.’

  ‘No, Mrinmayi! No!’ With a loud cry, Nabakumar stretched out his arms to clasp Kapalkundala to his breast. But his arms never reached her. Spurred by the Chaitra wind, an enormous wave crashed upon the shore, where Kapalkundala had been standing. Instantly, with a deafening crash, the chunk of earth fell into the river current, carrying Kapalkundala with it. Nabakumar heard the sound of the collapsing landmass, and saw Kapalkundala vanish. At once, he plunged into the water. He was not a bad swimmer. For a while, he swam about, searching for Kapalkundala. He did not find her, nor did he emerge from the water.

  In the river’s endless flow, tossed about by the waves surging in the stormy winds of spring, where did Kapalkundala and Nabakumar disappear?

  Bishabriksha

  1

  Nagendra’s Boat-journey

  NAGENDRA DATTA WAS TRAVELLING BY BOAT. IT WAS THE MONTH OF JYAISHTHA, the time of typhoons—his wife Suryamukhi had adjured him most earnestly: ‘See that you take care on the boat, and if you see a typhoon, stop. Never stay on the boat during a storm.’ Nagendra promised this before embarking, otherwise Suryamukhi would not have let him go. And it was impossible for him not to go to Kolkata: there was much to be done there.

  Nagendranath was a very wealthy man: a zamindar. He lived in Govindapur. I shall not reveal the name of the district in which this village was situated, but shall refer to it as Haripur. Nagendra Babu1 was a mature man, just thirty years of age. He was travelling on his own barge. The first few days passed smoothly; Nagendra watched as he went: the river water flowed past in continual motion; it ran fast, it danced in the breeze, it laughed in the sunlight, its eddies gurgled. The water was timeless, endless, full of sport. Beside the river, on the banks and in the fields, herdsmen were tending cattle, or sitting under trees singing, or smoking, or scuffling among themselves; others were eating bhuja. Peasants were ploughing, flogging their oxen with rods: most human abuse is directed at oxen, though peasants receive a share as well. On the landings, the peasants’ womenfolk too were to be seen, with pitchers, torn kanthas, rotten mats, silver amulets, nose-pins, brass bangles, clothes dirty from two months of wearing, complexions blacker than soot, and harsh, dry hair. Among them a beauty would be scouring her head with mud. Some were thrashing boys, some were arguing about the whereabouts of some missing unnamed neighbour, some were beating clothes on wood.