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

  ‘Come, sir, let’s get acquainted with your wife,’ she invited Nabakumar.

  ‘There was no need for you to adorn yourself with jewels for that purpose,’ Nabakumar informed her. ‘My wife has no ornaments at all.’

  ‘Perhaps I have worn my jewellery to show it off. If a woman possesses ornaments, she can’t resist displaying them. Let’s go.’

  Nabakumar escorted Motibibi from the room. Accompanying them was Peshaman, the maidservant who had arrived in the palanquin.

  They found Kapalkundala alone, on the damp, earthen floor of the room that served as the shop. The room was faintly lit by a single lamp. Her form was framed by the dark backdrop of her heavy, unbound tresses. Glancing at her for the first time, Motibibi showed faint signs of amusement, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth and the edges of her eyes. She raised the lamp to take a closer look at Kapalkundala. All her amusement evaporated, and her expression grew grave. She gazed, unblinking. Both were silent—Moti spellbound, Kapalkundala slightly surprised.

  After a while, Moti began to take off her jewellery. One by one, she removed her ornaments, and adorned Kapalkundala with them. Kapalkundala said nothing.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Nabakumar expostulated.

  Moti offered no reply.

  ‘You were indeed right,’ she remarked to Nabakumar, when she had parted with all her ornaments. ‘Such a flower does not blossom even in the garden of a king. It is my regret that I could not display this profusion of beauty at the capital city. These ornaments are befitting only for her figure—that’s why I have bedecked her with them. I hope that you, too, will sometimes adorn her with these jewels, and remember me—this woman from an alien land, so skilled at repartee.’

  ‘Impossible!’ cried Nabakumar, thunderstruck. ‘These jewels are priceless! Why should I accept them?’

  ‘By the grace of God, I have more. I shall not be bereft of ornaments. If it gives me happiness to adorn her with these jewels, why should you object?’

  With these words, Motibibi departed, along with her maid.

  ‘Bibijaan! Who is this man?’ demanded Peshaman as soon as they were alone.

  ‘Mera shauhar,’ replied the young Muslim lady. ‘He is my husband!’

  4

  The Palanquin Ride

  ... Swiftly, I discard

  My bangles, necklace, hair-ornament, choker

  Earrings, anklets, girdle.

  —Meghnadbadh

  LET ME TELL YOU THE FATE OF THOSE ORNAMENTS. MOTIBIBI SENT A SILVER-enamelled ivory casket for storing the jewellery. The robbers had taken only a few of her ornaments, unable to grab anything beyond what they found close at hand.

  Leaving a few of the ornaments on Kapalkundala’s person, Nabakumar transferred the rest to the casket. The next morning, Motibibi left for Bardhaman, and Nabakumar for Saptagram, accompanied by his wife. Nabakumar helped Kapalkundala into the palanquin, and handed her the casket of jewels. The bearers soon outstripped Nabakumar and proceeded on their way. Kapalkundala opened the palanquin door to observe the scene around her. Seeing her, a beggar began to walk alongside the palanquin, asking for alms.

  ‘But I have nothing,’ Kapalkundala protested. ‘What can I offer you?’

  ‘How can you say that, Ma!’ cried the beggar, pointing at the few ornaments she wore. ‘Bedecked with diamonds and pearls, you say you have nothing to give!’

  ‘If I gave you these ornaments, would you be satisfied?’ asked Kapalkundala.

  The beggar was surprised. His greed knew no bounds. ‘I would be satisfied, indeed!’ he instantly replied.

  Artlessly, Kapalkundala handed him the jewellery, casket and all. She even gave away the ornaments on her person.

  For a moment, the beggar was overwhelmed. The attendants remained unaware of what had taken place. The beggar’s hesitation lasted but an instant. Then, glancing quickly all about him, he made off with the jewellery at top speed.

  ‘Why did the beggar run away?’ wondered Kapalkundala to herself.

  5

  Back Home

  These words, though sayable before her female companions,

  I’d whisper only in her ear, just for the pleasure of her touch.

  —Meghdoot

  ACCOMPANIED BY KAPALKUNDALA, NABAKUMAR RETURNED TO HIS OWN place of domicile. Fatherless, he lived with his widowed mother and his two sisters. The elder of the two was a widow; the reader will not have the opportunity of making her acquaintance. Though married, the second sister, Shyamasundari, was no better off than a widow, because her husband was a kulin Brahmin. She will make a few brief appearances in the story.

  When Nabakumar returned home under altered circumstances, married to a hermit-woman of unknown extraction, there is no saying whether his relatives would have approved. But as it turned out, he did not have to suffer much on this account. Everyone had given up hope of his ever coming back, for upon their return, Nabakumar’s fellow-travellers had spread rumours about his having been killed by a tiger. The esteemed reader may think that these truth-sayers had reported what they believed to be a fact; but this would be an underestimation of their imaginative powers. Many of the travellers who had returned, swore that they had actually seen Nabakumar fall into the tiger’s clutches. They argued about the dimensions of the tiger, some estimating its length at about twelve feet, while others insisted that it was almost twenty-one feet long.

  ‘Anyway, I had a narrow escape!’ declared the old traveller we have encountered earlier. ‘The tiger chased me first, but I eluded him. Nabakumar was not as brave: he didn’t manage to get away.’

  When these rumours reached the ears of Nabakumar’s mother and sisters, the sound of wailing that arose within the house did not subside for several days. The news of her only son’s demise brought his mother to the brink of death. In this situation, when Nabakumar returned home accompanied by a wife, no one thought to inquire about his spouse’s caste or parentage. They were blind with joy, all of them. Nabakumar’s mother cordially performed the boron ritual to welcome the bride into the house.

  Nabakumar was overjoyed to find Kapalkundala so warmly accepted as a member of the household. Fearing that she might be rejected by his family, he had expressed neither tenderness nor desire towards Kapalkundala even after she became his wife. Yet, it was her image that filled his heart. It was this worry that had held him back from instantly agreeing to the proposed marriage with Kapalkundala. Indeed, it was this apprehension that had deterred him from expressing his love for her even once, from the time they were married, until they reached his home. He had not allowed the slightest wave to rock the ocean of his love, though it was full to flooding. But now, his anxieties were dispelled. Like the wild torrent that gushes forth when a rock obstructing the water’s flow is shattered, the sea of love in Nabakumar’s heart surged and spilled over.

  This love did not always express itself in words. It revealed itself in the expression in Nabakumar’s eyes whenever he looked at Kapalkundala, for he would gaze at her transfixed, his eyes brimming with tears; in the way he sought her out on some imaginary pretext, even when there was no need; in his attempts to bring Kapalkundala’s name into the conversation, even when it was out of context; in his striving, day and night, to ensure Kapalkundala’s happiness and comfort; in the way he ceaselessly paced up and down, lost in thought. Even his personality began to change. In place of restlessness, a new gravity was born; in place of gloom, cheerfulness appeared; Nabakumar’s countenance was now ever-happy. Now that his heart was filled with love, he felt more affection for others; he grew less hostile towards those who tested his patience; he now loved every human being; it seemed to him that the world had been created only for good deeds; the whole world seemed to him a beautiful place. Such is love! Love transforms the harsh into the tender, evil into good, vice into virtue, darkness into light!

  And Kapalkundala, what of her? What was her state of mind? Come, reader, let us take a look.

  6

  In S
eclusion

  Why, in your youth, shed all finery to wrap yourself in tree-bark?

  Say, at dusk, can the starry, moonlit night seek out the sun?

  —Kumarasambhava

  IN OLDEN DAYS, AS WE KNOW, SAPTAGRAM WAS A VERY PROSPEROUS TOWN. It was once a trade centre for merchants from every country, from Java to Rome. But in the tenth or eleventh century of the Bengali calendar, the ancient glory of Saptagram began to decline, mainly because the river that skirted the edge of the town had become too narrow for large vessels to navigate. As ships could no longer access the town, its flourishing business began to disappear. If a trade centre loses its business, it loses everything. Saptagram lost everything. In the eleventh century of the Bengali calendar, Hooghly, in its growing splendour, became its rival. Having begun trading in Hooghly, the Portuguese drained the economy of Saptagram, luring away Dhanalakshmi, the town’s presiding goddess of wealth. But even then, Saptagram had not entirely lost its charm. Important administrators, including military officials, still resided there; but already, many parts of the town, now ugly and abandoned, had begun to acquire a provincial air.

  Nabakumar lived in an isolated suburb of the town. With Saptagram in ruins, this place now was rarely frequented by people. The main street was overrun with weeds and creepers. Just behind Nabakumar’s house was a dense, extensive forest. In front of the house, almost a mile away, flowed a narrow canal, skirting a tiny field to enter the forest at the rear. The house, made of brick, was no mean structure, considering the time and place of its construction. Though double-storeyed, it was not unduly high: nowadays, single-storeyed houses are often of the same height.

  On the terrace of this house stood two young women, gazing at the view. Dusk had descended. The scene that presented itself all around them was indeed a feast for the eyes. Close at hand, on one side, was a dense forest, resonant with the chirping of countless birds. Opposite the forest was the canal, narrow as a silver thread. Far away, in the distance, one could see the beautiful silhouettes of innumerable mansions, full of townspeople yearning for a touch of the fresh spring breeze. On the other side, far, far away, the darkness deepened on the immense trees that lined the shores of the river Bhagirathi, its surface adorned with boats.

  Of the two young women on the terrace, one had a complexion like the glimmer of moonlight; she was half-concealed by her mass of unbound tresses. The other woman, dark-skinned, was a beautiful sixteen, with slender frame and tiny face, the upper portion of her countenance framed by wisps of curly hair like the petal-encircled heart of a blue lotus. Her wide eyes were pale and tender like a small saphari fish; her delicate fingers caressed her companion’s wavy hair. The esteemed reader would have guessed that she of the moonlight glow was Kapalkundala. Let me add that the dark-skinned one was her nanad, her sister-in-law Shyamasundari.

  Shyamasundari addressed her sister-in-law sometimes as ‘Bou’ or bride, sometimes affectionately as ‘Bon’ or sister, and sometimes as ‘Mrino’. Kapalkundala being such a formidable name, the family had renamed her Mrinmayi, Mrino for short. We, too, shall sometimes refer to her as Mrinmayi.

  Shyamasundari was reciting a verse learnt in childhood:

  The lotus-flower, she hides her face in sand,

  But seeing her loved one, she blooms to attract the bee.

  And the wild vine spreads her leaves to reach out to the tree;

  And at flood-tide, the river-waters descend to the sea.

  In moonlight blooms the flower, without being coy;

  The bride sheds all restraint upon entering the nuptial bed.

  What’s this? A quirk of fate, for sure! How bittersweet is love!

  Modesty forgotten, we blossom at another’s touch!

  ‘Would you remain a loner, then, in your holy pursuit of abstinence?’

  ‘Why, what holy pursuit am I engaged in?’ demanded Mrinmayi. ‘Won’t you braid this mass of hair?’ asked Shyamasundari, lifting up Mrinmayi’s wavy tresses with both hands.

  With a faint smile, Mrinmayi merely pulled away the locks of hair from Shyamasundari’s grasp.

  ‘Please keep my wish,’ Shyamasundari persisted. ‘Dress like a housewife, just for once. How long will you remain a female ascetic—a yogini?’

  ‘Before I met this man, descendant of Brahmins, I was indeed a yogini,’ replied Kapalkundala.

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? Do you really want to know? I shall disrupt your holy pursuit. Do you know what a touchstone is?’

  ‘No,’ confessed Mrinmayi.

  ‘Its touch can convert even tin to gold.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Women possess a touchstone, too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A man. The company of a man can turn even a yogini into a housewife.

  You have touched that stone. Wait and see:

  I’ll make you braid your hair, dress you in finery,

  Place a swaying flower-garland in your hair,

  An ornament in your parting, a girdle round your waist,

  And earrings on your ears.

  With kumkum, sandalwood, scent and paan-supari

  I’ll tint your rosy countenance.

  In your lap I’ll cast a golden doll, a son,

  And we’ll see if you like it or not!

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ responded Mrinmayi. ‘Let us suppose that the touchstone turns me to gold. Suppose I braid my hair, deck myself out in finery, wear flowers in my hair, a girdle around my waist, and ornaments in my ears; let us go as far as the sandalwood, kumkum, scent, paan, and even the golden doll of a son. Let us imagine it all. But even then, how will it make me happy?’

  ‘Tell me, what about the happiness of a flower that bursts into bloom?’

  ‘That would make people happy, but what would the flower gain from blooming?’

  Shyamasundari’s countenance grew grave; like blue lotuses stirred by the early morning breeze, her wide-eyed gaze wavered.

  ‘What about the flower?’ she wondered. ‘I couldn’t say! I have never bloomed like a flower, but had I been a bud like you, I would have blossomed with joy.’

  ‘Very well, if this does not appeal to you,’ persisted Shyamasundari, when Mrinmayi remained silent, ‘then tell me what makes you happy?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ replied Mrinmayi, after considering for a while. ‘Perhaps it would make me happy to wander in those forests by the seashore.’

  Shyamasundari was surprised. She felt rather offended, even angry, at Mrinmayi’s lack of gratitude towards those who had looked after her.

  ‘How would you return there, now?’ she asked.

  ‘There can be no return.’

  ‘Then what will you do?’

  ‘“As I am bidden, so shall I act,” the priest at the temple used to say.’

  Shyamasundari covered her face with the end of her sari, stifling a smile. ‘As you say, Mr Bhattacharya, sir!’ she mimicked. ‘So, what next?’

  ‘Fate will determine my actions,’ sighed Mrinmayi. ‘Whatever destiny has in store for me, will happen.’

  ‘Why, what could fate have in store for you? Happiness is your destiny. Why do you sigh, then?’

  ‘Listen,’ explained Mrinmayi. ‘The day I set out on my journey with my husband, I offered a triple belpata at the Goddess Bhavani’s feet. I would never undertake any task without offering a triple leaf at Ma’s lotus like feet. If destiny decreed a positive outcome for my endeavour, Ma would accept the offering; if an inauspicious outcome was likely, the belpata would fall off her pedestal. I was apprehensive about travelling to unknown lands, accompanied by a stranger. I went to Ma for an indication of the future, to find out whether it boded ill or well for me. Ma did not accept my triple leaf offering, so I’m not sure what the future holds in store for me.’

  Mrinmayi fell silent. Shyamasundari shivered.

  Part 3

  1

  In the Past

  The role of a servant is very pa
inful.

  —Ratnabali

  AFTER NABAKUMAR LEFT THE CHATI WITH KAPALKUNDALA, MOTIBIBI changed her route and headed for Bardhaman. While she is on her way, let us recount the story of her past. Moti’s character was tainted with deep sin, but also graced by great virtues. A detailed account of such a person’s character will not displease the esteemed reader.

  When her father converted to Islam, her Hindu name was changed to Lutfunnissa. She was not called Motibibi at all, but sometimes, she adopted that name while travelling in disguise from place to place. When he reached Dhaka, her father entered royal service. But the place was frequented by many people from his own region. After having lost their social position, not everyone would like to continue in their original place of domicile. Hence, having gradually gained the favour of the subedar, he obtained letters of reference from numerous rich umraos and moved to Agra with his family. No person of talent could fail to attract Emperor Akbar’s attention. He soon took note of this gentleman’s expertise. In a short time, Lutfunnissa’s father rose in the ranks to become one of the chief umraos of Agra.

  Meanwhile, Lutfunnissa was growing up. In Agra, she became well-versed in Persian, Sanskrit, dance, music and the arts. She was ranked foremost among the innumerable beautiful and talented women of Agra. Unfortunately, her training in religious matters did not match her expertise in learned subjects. As she grew up, she began to display a wild, uncontrollable temperament. She had neither the ability, nor the inclination, to curb her sensuous appetites. When it came to questions of morality, it was exactly the same. She did exactly as she pleased, without first considering the rightness or wrongness of an action. She performed good deeds and evil deeds as it pleased her heart. Her nature developed the flaws that appear when youthful instincts run wild, without control. As her former husband was alive, none of the umraos, royal courtiers, were willing to marry her. She, too, showed no particular desire for marriage. ‘Why clip the wings of the bee that flits from flower to flower?’ she thought, in her heart of hearts. At first there were rumours, then, ultimately, scandal. Her father threw her out of the house in disgust.