‘Why would it be so difficult for her to escape with me?’ demanded Nabakumar, eagerly.
‘You know nothing about her—her parentage, her caste. Would you accept her as your companion? Even if you did, would you offer her a place in your home? And if you don’t let her stay with you, where will this orphan go?’
‘There’s nothing I cannot do for the person who saved my life,’ answered Nabakumar, after pausing briefly to consider. ‘She will live with me as a member of my family.’
‘Very well. But when your relatives want to know whose wife she is, what answer will you offer?
Nabakumar paused again to consider. ‘Please explain her parentage to me,’ he requested. ‘That is how I shall introduce her to everyone.’
‘Fine,’ replied the priest. ‘But how will a young man and a young woman travel unchaperoned across the border from one region to another? What will people say? How will you explain this to your relatives? And having adopted this girl as my Ma, how can I send her off to some faraway place in the company of an unknown young man?’
The matchmaker was quite skilled at his job!
‘You could accompany us,’ Nabakumar suggested.
‘Accompany you? Who would offer daily prayers to Goddess Bhavani then?’
‘Can you think of no solution, then?’ demanded Nabakumar, aggrieved.
‘There can be only one solution. It depends on your magnanimity.’
‘What is it? Is there anything I would refuse? Please tell me what the solution might be!’
‘Then listen. She is the daughter of a Brahmin. I know the entire story of her life. In her childhood, she was abducted by a band of dreaded Christian brigands, who abandoned her on this seashore after their carriage broke down. Later, you can ask her for a detailed account of this story. The kapalik found her, and brought her up with the intention of using her to fulfil the requirements of his religious practice. In the near future, he would have satisfied his own needs. She is still chaste, pure of nature. Marry her and take her home with you. Nobody can raise any objections then. I shall conduct the wedding rites according to the scriptures.’
Nabakumar rose to his feet and began to pace swiftly up and down. He offered no reply.
‘Please go back to sleep,’ advised the temple attendant after a while. ‘I shall wake you at dawn. You may travel alone if you wish. I shall show you the road to Medinipur.’
With these words, he took his leave. ‘Have I forgotten the art of matchmaking which I learnt in the land of Radh?’ he wondered to himself, as he departed.
9
In the Temple
Kanwa: Weep no more. Be calm. Walk this way, watching your step.
—Shakuntala
AT DAWN, THE PRIEST APPROACHED NABAKUMAR, TO FIND THAT THE YOUNG man had not slept at all.
‘What is to be our course of action?’ the priest inquired.
‘From today, Kapalkundala shall be my wife,’ declared Nabakumar. ‘For her sake, I could even renounce the world. Who will give away the bride?’
The expert matchmaker’s countenance glowed with joy. ‘At last, by the grace of Goddess Jagadamba, my little Kapalini seems to have found a way out of her predicament!’ he thought to himself. Outwardly, he said:
‘I shall give away the bride.’
The priest returned to his bedroom, where a few worn and faded palm-leaf parchments had been stored inside a khungi, a small cane casket. Inscribed on the palm-leaves was the almanac, which charted auspicious days, astronomical calculations, etc. Having closely scrutinized the almanac, he emerged from his room and announced:
‘Today is not a date earmarked for weddings, but there are no obstacles indicated for a marriage ceremony on this day. At dusk, I shall perform the kanyadaan ritual to give away the bride. A daylong fast is all you need observe. Ensure that all other family rituals are performed after you return to your own home. There is a place where I can conceal the two of you for a day. If the kapalik comes here today, he will not find you. Once married, you can leave for home at daybreak tomorrow, accompanied by your wife.’
Nabakumar agreed to this proposal. The ceremony was performed, following the prescribed rules as closely as the present circumstances permitted. At dusk, Nabakumar was married to the hermit-woman, the kapalik’s foster-daughter.
There was no sign of the kapalik. Early next morning, the three of them prepared to set out on their journey. The priest would accompany them up to the road to Medinipur.
When it was time to leave, Kapalkundala went to pay her last respects to the image of Kali. In deep devotion, she bowed in obeisance; then, taking an intact belpata triad from the flower-basket, she placed it at the deity’s feet, and fixed her gaze upon it. The belpata fell off.
Kapalkundala was deeply religious. She was terrified to see the triple leaf fall away from the feet of the idol. She informed the priest, who was also perturbed.
‘There is nothing to be done, now,’ he told her. ‘Your husband is now your sole object of devotion. If he heads for the cremation ground, even there you must follow him. So, you must now proceed quietly on your journey.’
The three of them trudged on in silence. The day was far advanced when they arrived at the road to Medinipur. The priest took his leave of them. Kapalkundala burst into tears. She was parting with the person dearest to her in the whole world.
The priest also began to weep. Then, wiping away his tears, he whispered to Kapalkundala: ‘Ma! You know that, by the grace of the goddess, I do not lack for means. The goddess receives prayer-offerings from everyone in Hijli, old or young. Use what I have knotted into the end of your sari—give it to your husband, and ask him to hire a palanquin for you. Think of me as your son!’
Weeping, he departed. Also in tears, Kapalkundala proceeded on her journey.
Part 2
1
On the Highway
There—now lean on me:
lace your foot here—
—Manfred
WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT MEDINIPUR, NABAKUMAR ARRANGED A PALANQUIN for Kapalkundala, using the money donated by the priest to hire a maid, a bodyguard and palanquin-bearers. Due to a paucity of funds, he himself proceeded on foot. Nabakumar was exhausted after the strain of the previous day. After their noontime meal, the palanquin bearers outstripped him, leaving him far behind. As evening approached, daylight waned. The sky was overcast with light winter clouds. Then, twilight faded, too, and darkness enveloped the earth. It began to drizzle. Nabakumar now grew anxious to catch up with Kapalkundala. He was certain that he would find her at the first serai or wayside inn, but there was no serai in sight at present. The hour was late. Nabakumar strode on swiftly. Suddenly, he trod on something hard; it broke under his weight with a loud, cracking sound. Nabakumar paused, then walked on. The same thing happened again. He bent to pick up the object he had stepped on. It looked like a broken plank of wood.
Even on a cloudy night, it is not usually dark enough out in the open for a solid shape to remain entirely invisible. Before him lay a giant object, which Nabakumar realized was a broken palanquin. At once, he was filled with apprehensions of some danger having befallen Kapalkundala. As he advanced towards the palanquin, his foot again touched something. This time, the substance felt different, like the touch of tender human flesh. Kneeling to stroke the form that lay on the ground, he found that it was indeed a human body. It was extremely cold to the touch; his fingers felt something wet. He could not find the pulse: was the person dead? But when he listened carefully, the sound of breathing could be heard. If breath remained, why was there no pulse? Was this person ill? Placing his hand close to the nostrils, he could feel no breath. Then why that sound? Perhaps there was also a living person present on the scene.
‘Is there a living person here?’ he asked.
‘There is,’ came the reply, in a low voice.
‘Who are you?’
‘Who are you?’ demanded the voice, in return.
The voice sounded like a woman’s.<
br />
‘Kapalkundala, is that you?’ asked Nabakumar, in great agitation.
‘Who Kapalkundala is, I don’t know,’ replied the woman. ‘I am a traveller, with no kundals or earrings to my name at present, thanks to the bandits who have robbed me.’
Her wit lightened Nabakumar’s mood somewhat. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘The bandits have smashed my palanquin,’ replied the woman. ‘They have killed one of the bearers, and the others have run away. Having robbed me of all the jewels I was wearing, the bandits have tied me up and left me here inside the palanquin.’
Groping in the dark, Nabakumar found that there was indeed a woman lying inside the palanquin, trussed up by some garments. Swiftly, he untied her bonds.
‘Can you get up?’ he asked.
‘They struck me with a stick,’ the woman replied. ‘My leg hurts. But with a bit of help, I think I can stand up.’
Nabakumar extended his hand, and with his support, the woman rose to her feet.
‘Can you walk?’ asked Nabakumar.
‘Did you see any other traveller following you?’ the woman inquired, without answering his question.
‘No.’
‘How far is it to the chati, the wayside resting place?’ she wanted to know.
‘I couldn’t say exactly, but I suppose it’s not far away.’
‘It’s no use sitting alone here, out in the open,’ decided the woman. ‘I should go with you up to the chati. I can probably hobble along with some support.’
‘It’s foolish to harbour scruples in times of crisis,’ declared Nabakumar. ‘You can lean on my shoulder.’
The woman was not foolish enough to hesitate; she began to walk, leaning on his shoulder for support.
The chati was indeed not far away. Those days, bandits were not afraid to commit robberies even near a chati. Within a short time, Nabakumar arrived at the resting place, along with his companion.
There, he found Kapalkundala. Her attendants had hired a room for her. Nabakumar hired an adjoining room for his fellow-traveller, and ensconced her there. At his request, the landlady’s daughter brought in a lighted oil lamp. Bathed in the stream of lamplight, his companion’s form struck Nabakumar as extraordinarily beautiful. Her voluptuous beauty resembled the surging waves of a river in the monsoon flood.
2
The Wayside Inn
Who is this woman, so restless by nature?
—Uddhavduta
IF THIS WOMAN’S BEAUTY HAD BEEN FLAWLESS, I WOULD HAVE SAID: ‘OH male reader! She is as beautiful as your own wife. And oh my beautiful female reader! She is as lovely as your own image in the mirror.’ Her appearance would need no further description. Unfortunately, she was not beautiful in every respect; hence I cannot adopt that course.
She was not a flawless beauty: firstly, she was slightly above medium height; secondly, her lips were rather thin; and thirdly, she was not really fair of complexion.
She was rather tall, indeed, but her limbs and bosom were full and well rounded. Like trees and vines in the rainy season, her body rippled with its own voluptuousness, the fullness lending grace even to her tall figure. A truly fair complexion resembles either the light of the full moon, or the rosy light of dawn. I do not describe this woman as truly fair because her complexion resembled neither; but her colouring was no less attractive. She was dusky, but hers was not the dark complexion evoked by the names of ‘Shyama Ma,’ the Goddess Kali, or ‘Shyam Sundar,’ the Lord Krishna. Her skin had the deep hue of molten gold. If the light of the full moon or the rays of the golden sun are similes for the fair-complexioned, then the glory of vernal foliage may be an apt analogy for the complexion of this dusky woman. Many of my esteemed readers may celebrate the complexion of fair-skinned women, but if anyone comes under the spell of such a dark-complexioned woman, I would not call him colour-blind. If anyone should quarrel with this view, let him imagine this woman, her locks clustered about her dark, glowing forehead like bees hovering about the petals of a newly-blossomed flower; her eyebrows, arching up to her hairline beneath her crescent-shaped brow; her cheeks, bright as flowers in full bloom, and her small, rosy mouth. Visualizing her thus, he is bound to find this unknown woman beautiful, on the whole. Her eyes were not large, but they were extremely bright, and framed by lovely, curling lashes. Their gaze was calm, yet penetrating. Her glance would instantly make you feel that she had the power to look into the interior of your heart. The expression of those penetrating eyes would change from moment to moment, now melting with tender affection, now full of sweet languor, as if the god of Love himself lay dreaming there. At times, her eyes would be dilated with desire, intoxicated with romance; and at other times, a heartless sidelong glance would dart from the corners of her eyes, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. Two ineffable elements irradiated her countenance: the stamp of intelligence, and her self-esteem. From her posture, the arch of her swan-neck, it was clear that she was a queen among women.
This beautiful woman was twenty-seven years old, in the full flush of youth, like a river in flood during the month of Bhadra. Her sensuous beauty brimmed over, like a river surging against its banks in the rains. Even more than her complexion, her eyes, and all her individual features, this flood tide of voluptuousness rendered her enchanting. Youthful vitality made her body restless, as a river in autumn ripples even without a breeze; from moment to moment, this restless energy revealed some new facet of her loveliness. Nabakumar gazed, transfixed, at this ever-changing display of charm.
‘What are you staring at? My beauty?’ inquired the beautiful woman, observing his unblinking stare.
Nabakumar was a bhadralok, a gentleman; embarrassed, he lowered his gaze.
Seeing that he was speechless, the unknown woman smiled. ‘Have you never seen a woman before?’ she persisted, ‘or do you find me so very beautiful?’
Because she smiled, what would normally have seemed a reprimand sounded merely like a sarcastic remark. Nabakumar realized that she was extremely articulate. Why should he not engage in repartee with such a loquacious woman?
‘I have indeed seen other women,’ he replied. ‘But I have not seen anyone so lovely.’
‘Not even one?’ she inquired, with pride.
In his mind’s eye, Nabakumar saw a vision of Kapalkundala. ‘I wouldn’t quite say that,’ he answered, with equal arrogance.
‘That’s not so bad, then. Is she your wife, the other one?’
‘Why? Why should you imagine her to be my wife?’
‘Bengalis find their own wives most beautiful.’
‘I am a Bengali. You sound like a Bengali, too. Where are you from?’
‘Yours truly is not fortunate enough to be a Bengali,’ replied the young woman, glancing at her own attire. ‘I am a Muslim from the western region.’
Inspecting her appearance, Nabakumar realized that her garb was indeed that of a Muslim woman from the west. But she spoke Bengali exactly as if it were her mother tongue.
‘Sir, you have taken my measure in repartee,’ she continued, after a pause. ‘Now please gratify me by disclosing your identity. Where is the home of which that woman of unparalleled beauty is the mistress?’
‘I live in Saptagram,’ answered Nabakumar.
The woman—this stranger from elsewhere—did not reply. Suddenly, she bent over the lamp and busied herself trying to turn up its flame.
‘My name is Moti,’ she informed him after a while, without raising her head. ‘May I not know yours?’
‘Nabakumar Sharma.’
The lamp went out.
3
A View of Female Beauty
... O goddess, as divine enchantress let yourself appear!
By your leave, with ornaments diverse,
Your beauteous form I shall adorn!
—Meghnadbadh
NABAKUMAR ORDERED THE LANDLORD TO FETCH ANOTHER LAMP. BEFORE the lamp arrived, he heard a sigh. Soon after, a Muslim in attendant’s livery entered the room.
‘What’s this!’ exclaimed the female stranger. ‘Why did you take so long, all of you? Where are the others?’
‘The bearers were drunk!’ replied the attendant. ‘While we struggled to herd them together, your palanquin left us far behind. Afterwards, discovering the smashed palanquin, and no sign of you anywhere, we almost fainted with shock. Some of them are still at that spot; others have scattered here and there in search of you. I came here looking for you.’
‘Get them to this place!’ ordered Moti.
Saluting her, the attendant departed. The woman from elsewhere remained lost in thought for a while, resting her cheek on her hand.
Nabakumar prepared to leave. Like a sleepwalker, Moti rose to her feet.
‘Where will you stay?’ she asked, resuming her earlier tone.
‘In the very next room.’
‘I saw a palanquin near that room. Do you have a companion?’
‘My wife accompanies me.’
‘Is she the one, the woman of unparalleled beauty?’ asked Moti, finding another opportunity for banter.
‘If you see her, you will know.’
‘Would it be possible to see her?’
‘What’s the harm?’ replied Nabakumar, after some thought.
‘Do me a favour, then. I am very curious to see this woman, this matchless beauty. I want to speak of her when I get to Agra. But not now. Please leave me now. I shall send word to you after some time.’
Nabakumar left. Soon after, a large contingent arrived there, including attendants, maidservants, and bearers carrying chests and other items of luggage. With them came a palanquin, bearing a maidservant. Then Nabakumar received a message: ‘Bibi, her ladyship, is thinking of you.’
Nabakumar returned to Motibibi. Once again, he found her transformed. She had shed her earlier garb, and was now attired in embroidered garments, embellished with gold and pearls; her person, previously bare of ornament, was now bedecked with jewellery. Gold, diamonds and precious stones flashed from every part of her body, from her tresses and braided hair-knot to her forehead, temples, ears, throat, bosom, and both her arms. Nabakumar’s eyes were dazzled. Like a garland of stars adorning the sky, the profusion of jewellery seemed appropriate for her voluptuous body, enhancing her charm.
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 4
