7
On the Outskirts of the City
. . . I am settled, and bend up,
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat.
—Macbeth
RUSHING INTO ANOTHER CHAMBER, LUTFUNNISSA BOLTED THE DOOR. FOR two days, she did not emerge. In these two days, she determined what she should do, and what she must avoid. Having decided upon her course of action, she was firm in her resolve. The sun was declining as Lutfunnissa, aided by Peshaman, began to dress. What an extraordinary costume! There was no trace of the feminine in her attire.
‘Tell me, Peshaman, am I recognizable?’ she asked, inspecting her clothes in the mirror.
‘Who would recognize you now?’
‘I’ll be on my way, then. Let no attendants accompany me.’
‘Please forgive your humble slave’s impertinence, but may I ask a question?’ asked Peshaman, rather hesitantly.
‘What is it?’
‘What purpose do you have in mind?’
‘Kapalkundala’s permanent separation from her husband, to begin with. Afterwards, he shall be mine.’
‘Bibi! Please think carefully. The woods are dense, it’s almost dark, and you will be all alone.’
Without offering any reply, Lutfunnissa left the house. She headed for the desolate, forested outskirts of Saptagram, where Nabakumar lived. It grew dark by the time she got there. The esteemed reader may recall the deep forest not far from Nabakumar’s home. Having reached the edge of that forest, she rested beneath a tree. For a while, she thought about the daring plan she had set out to execute. As it happened, help arrived in an unprecedented form.
From her resting place, Lutfunnissa could hear a continuous, monotonous sound emitted by a human voice. Rising to her feet and looking all about her, she saw a light within the forest. Lutfunnissa was braver than a man; she advanced towards the light. First, she observed the scene from behind a tree, to ascertain the situation. The light, she realized, came from the flames of a sacrificial fire; the sound she had heard was the chanting of a prayer. Listening to the words of the prayer, she recognized one word for a name. As soon as she heard that name, Lutfunnissa went up to the person performing the ritual, and took her place beside him.
There let her remain, for the present. It has been a long time since the esteemed reader received news of Kapalkundala; we must now offer him some information about her.
Part 4
1
Inside the Bedchamber
Break, I beseech you, the shackles that bind Radhika!
—Brajangana Kavya
IT HAD TAKEN LUTFUNNISSA ALMOST A YEAR TO TRAVEL TO AGRA, AND THENCE to Saptagram. For over a year, Kapalkundala had been Nabakumar’s wife. That evening, while Lutfunnissa wandered in the forest, Kapalkundala rested in her bedroom, in rather an absent frame of mind. This was not the same Kapalkundala—unadorned, with flowing, unbound tresses—whom the esteemed reader had encountered on the seashore. Shyamasundari’s prediction had come true; the magic of the touchstone had transformed the female ascetic into a housewife. Those heavy locks, cascading to her ankles in intricate coils like countless gleaming black serpents, were now confined in a heavy braid down her back. Even the braid was artfully contrived; her fine, ornamental hairstyle revealing Shyamasundari’s expert touch. Nor had flower-garlands been forgotten, for they were twined about her hair, encircling the braid like a crown. The locks of hair that escaped the braid did not lie smoothly; in clusters of curls, they graced her head in fine, black, wavy lines. Her countenance, no longer half-concealed by heavy tresses, was now visible in all its glowing beauty, touched only in places by tiny tendrils of hair with beads of moisture on them. Her complexion still resembled the glimmer of moonbeams on a half-moon night. Gold earrings dangled at her earlobes now, a diamond necklace graced her neck. Her ornaments did not appear faded against the brightness of her complexion; they were like the nocturnal blossoms that grace the moonlight-enshrouded lap of the earth on a half-moon night. She was attired in white, the pale fabric resembling the flimsy white clouds that adorn the sky in the light of the crescent moon. Her complexion still glowed like the crescent moon, but appeared somewhat dimmer than before, as if dark clouds had appeared somewhere on the horizon.
Kapalkundala was not alone. She was engaged in conversation with her companion Shyamasundari. The esteemed reader must overhear part of their exchange.
‘How long will our Thakurjamai, your husband, remain here?’ Kapalkundala wanted to know.
‘He leaves tomorrow,’ Shyamasundari replied. ‘Ah! If only I had plucked the medicinal herb tonight, I could still have cast my spell upon him and fulfilled all my life’s desires. But after being chastised for venturing out of doors last night, how can I step out again tonight?’
‘Can’t you pluck it in the daytime?’
‘How would it work if plucked in the daytime? One must pluck it exactly at midnight, with one’s hair unbound. Well, my friend, my innermost desire must remain buried in my heart.’
‘But this morning I identified the herb, and also the place where it grows in the forest. There is no need for you to venture out tonight; I shall go and fetch the herb alone.’
‘Once is enough. There’s no need for you to go out again at night.’
‘Why worry on that account? Haven’t you heard that nocturnal wandering is my childhood habit? Just think, but for that habit of mine, you and I would never have set our eyes upon each other.’
‘I am afraid to speak of that. But is it a good idea for the wives and daughters of gentlefolk to wander alone in the woods at night? Considering the chastisement I had to suffer even when the two of us went out together, would there be any saving you if you went out alone?’
‘What’s the harm? Do you, too, believe that the simple act of going out at night will make a loose woman of me?’
‘I don’t believe that. But wicked people will say wicked things.’
‘Let them say what they will. That won’t make me a wicked person.’
‘Indeed it won’t. But if people speak ill of you, it will hurt our feelings deeply.’
‘Don’t let such unjust aspersions hurt your feelings.’
‘That, too, I can handle. But why make Dada, my elder brother, unhappy?’
Kapalkundala glanced obliquely at Shyamasundari with her bright, tender eyes. ‘If it makes him unhappy, how can I help it?’ she said. ‘Had I known that marriage, for a woman, means slavery, I would never have married at all.’
Shyamasundari thought it best to say no more. She went away to resume her household duties.
Kapalkundala busied herself with essential domestic chores. The housework done, she went out in search of the medicinal herb. The hour was late. It was a moonlit night. From his window in the outer chamber, Nabakumar saw Kapalkundala leave the house. Stepping outside, he caught her by the arm.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Kapalkundala.
‘Where are you going?’ There was no trace of admonition in his voice.
‘Shyamasundari wants to seduce her husband with the help of a medicinal herb. I am going in search of the herb.’
‘Fine, but you had gone out last night, too, hadn’t you?’ asked Nabakumar, his tone as gentle as before. ‘Why again, tonight?’
‘Last night, I couldn’t find the herb. I shall search again tonight.’
‘Very well, but couldn’t you search in the daytime?’ suggested Nabakumar, very softly, his voice full of tenderness.
‘The medicine doesn’t work in the daytime.’
‘Why must you hunt for the medicine? Tell me the name of the herb. I shall fetch it for you.’
‘I recognize the plant, but I don’t know its name. And it won’t work if you pluck it. A woman must pluck it, with her hair undone. Please don’t hinder me when I try to help another.’
Kapalkundala sounded offended. Nabakumar raised no more objections.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I shall accompany you.’
‘Come, see for yourself whether I
am unfaithful or not!’ retorted Kapalkundala proudly.
Nabakumar was silenced. With a sigh, he relinquished Kapalkundala’s arm and went back into the house. Kapalkundala entered the forest alone.
2
In the Woods
Tender is the night
And haply the Queen moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry fays;
But here there is no Light.
—Keats
AS WE HAVE MENTIONED EARLIER, THIS PART OF SAPTAGRAM WAS HEAVILY forested. At a short distance from the village was a dense jungle. All by herself, Kapalkundala went there in search of the medicinal herb, following a narrow forest track. The night was exquisitely beautiful, utterly silent, devoid of the slightest sound. In the honey-sweet night-sky, the moon rose silently above the scattered white clouds, spreading its tender glow; on earth, silently, the trees and vines of the forest rested in the cold moonlight; and in silence, the leaves on the trees reflected that moonlit glow. Amidst the vines and creepers, white flowers blossomed in silence. The birds and beasts were silent. Occasionally, one could hear the wing-flaps of a bird disturbed in slumber; once in a while, the sound of a dry leaf falling, somewhere; at rare intervals, the slithering sound of a reptile’s movement; and every now and then, the distant barking of dogs. Not that the air was still: the languorous spring breeze played upon the body. It was the faintest hint of a breeze, secret and silent, stirring only the outermost leaves on the trees; only the dark vine drooping to the earth was swayed by it; only the tiny fragments of cloud in the blue sky floated slowly in that breeze. Stirred by the same breeze, indistinct memories of former bliss awakened faintly in the heart.
Such memories were awakening in Kapalkundala’s heart, as well; she remembered the moisture-laden vernal sea breeze, playing upon her long tresses as she stood on the sand dune’s crest; gazing at the pure, limitless blue sky, she recalled the ocean, which mirrored that pure, endless blue. Lost in memories of the past, Kapalkundala proceeded on her way.
She walked on absent-mindedly, unmindful of where she was going and why. The path she had taken became gradually inaccessible; the forest thickened; the tangle of branches overhead blocked out the moonlight almost totally; the forest track was obscured from view. Unable to see the way, Kapalkundala came out of her reverie. Looking all around, she saw a light in the midst of this dense forest. Lutfunnissa, too, had seen the same light earlier. At such moments, Kapalkundala, by force of habit, was fearless, but curious. Advancing slowly towards the light, she found nobody at the spot where the fire was burning. But not far away was a broken building, invisible from a distance because the forest was so dense. The house, though brick-built, was a very small and humble abode, consisting of just one room. Human voices could be heard from within. With silent tread, Kapalkundala approached the house. As soon as she came near, she sensed that two persons were engaged in a cautious dialogue. At first, she understood nothing of what they said. Then, as her hearing grew sharper with concentrated effort, she overheard the following:
‘To kill is my aim,’ declared one. ‘If you do not concur, I shall not help you. You, too, need not help me.’
‘I am not a well-wisher, either,’ replied the other. ‘But lifelong exile for her is all I would agree to. I shall have no hand in a murder; rather, I would act to prevent it.’
‘You are ignorant, and extremely foolish!’ cried the first speaker. ‘Let me apprise you of some facts. Listen to me carefully: I am about to narrate a deep secret. Go and check our surroundings first: I seem to hear the sound of human breathing.’
Kapalkundala had indeed positioned herself very close to the walls of the house, the better to hear their conversation. From acute anticipation combined with fear, her breath fell thick and fast.
At his companion’s request, one of the men within the house stepped out, and immediately spotted Kapalkundala. In the bright moonlight, Kapalkundala also had a clear view of the man’s approaching figure. She could not decide whether to be frightened, or overjoyed, at what she saw. She saw that he was dressed like a Brahmin in a simple dhoti, a shawl gracefully draped around his body. The Brahmin youth was of a very tender age, his countenance unlined. His face was exquisitely beautiful, as lovely as a woman’s, but distinguished by a fiery arrogance not usually found in women. His hair was not trimmed by the barber’s shearing-blade as was customary for men; like a woman’s tresses, his uncut hair cascaded over his shawl, flowing in serpent-like coils down his back, shoulders, arms and chest. His forehead was broad, slightly distended, graced by a single visible vein at its centre. His eyes flashed like lightning. In his hand was a long, unsheathed sword. But his handsome image exuded a terrible aspect, as if some destructive desire had cast its shadow upon his golden complexion. His piercing glance, which seemed to probe the depths of her innermost being, struck terror into Kapalkundala’s heart.
For a while, the two of them gazed at each other. Kapalkundala was the first to lower her eyes.
‘Who are you?’ asked the young man who had appeared on the scene.
If this question had been put to Kapalkundala a year earlier, amidst the keya forests of Hijli, she would have answered immediately, with composure. But now, having acquired some of the attitudes of a housewife, Kapalkundala could not reply at once. When she failed to respond, the stranger in Brahmin’s attire addressed her severely.
‘Kapalkundala!’ he said. ‘Why have you entered this dense forest at night?’
Hearing her name on the lips of a stranger in the night, Kapalkundala was startled, but also afraid. She could not reply immediately.
‘Did you overhear our conversation?’ demanded the stranger in Brahmin’s attire, once again.
Suddenly, Kapalkundala found her tongue.
‘I have the same query!’ she declared, without answering his question. ‘In this dense forest, so late at night, what conspiracy were the two of you hatching?’
For a while, the person in Brahmin’s attire remained lost in thought, without offering any reply. A new means of attaining his ends seemed to have occurred to him. Grasping Kapalkundala’s hand, he began to drag her away from the ruined building. Angrily, Kapalkundala snatched her hand away.
‘What are you worried about?’ whispered the one dressed as a Brahmin, in a very low voice, close to Kapalkundala’s ear. ‘I am not a man.’
Kapalkundala was even more amazed. These words restored some of her faith, but she was not completely convinced. She went along with the woman disguised as a Brahmin.
When they were out of sight of the ruined house, the Brahmin-impersonator whispered to Kapalkundala: ‘Would you like to hear about our conspiracy? It was about you.’
‘Yes I would!’ cried Kapalkundala, her eagerness greatly heightened.
‘Wait here, then, until I return.’
With these words, the woman in disguise returned to the ruined house. Kapalkundala waited at the same place for a while. But she was rather frightened at what she had seen and heard. Now, as she waited alone in the dark forest, her anxiety began to grow. Why had this person in disguise left her there to wait—who could tell? Perhaps she only wished to fulfil her evil intentions, now that an opportunity had presented itself. The Brahmin-impersonator was taking a very long time to return. Unable to wait any longer, Kapalkundala rose to her feet and started walking swiftly homewards.
The sky grew cloudy, dark as ink; even the faint light in the forest began to fade. Kapalkundala could delay no more. She began to run, emerging from the depths of the forest. As she ran, she seemed to hear footsteps behind her. But when she turned back to look, she could see nothing in the darkness. The Brahmin-impersonator was pursuing her, Kapalkundala told herself. Leaving the woods, she came out onto the narrow forest track described earlier. It was not so dark there; one could detect a human being within one’s range of vision. But no one could be seen. She ran on. But again, very distinctly, she heard the sound of footsteps. The sky, full of inky clouds, grew even more th
reatening. Kapalkundala ran faster. Home was not far away, but she was barely within close range of it when a tremendous thunderstorm rent the skies with a fearsome sound. Kapalkundala raced ahead. The person behind her was running hard, too, by the sound of it. Before the house came into view, the terrible storm broke over Kapalkundala’s head. The clouds rumbled, accompanied by frequent bolts of thunder. Lightning flashed, again and again. Rain came down in torrents. Somehow managing to shield herself, Kapalkundala reached home. Crossing the courtyard, she entered her room. The door had been left open for her. She turned, facing the courtyard, to shut the door. She felt she saw a tall male figure standing in the courtyard. There was a flash of lightning. In that single flash, she recognized the man: he was the kapalik who lived on the shores of the sea.
3
In the World of Dreams
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
—Byron
SLOWLY, KAPALKUNDALA CLOSED THE DOOR. SLOWLY, SHE ENTERED THE bedchamber, and slowly lay down on the bed. The human heart is a boundless ocean; when the wild winds rage, who can count the chain of waves they produce? Who could count the waves that surged in the ocean of Kapalkundala’s heart?
That night, Nabakumar was too distressed to visit the antarpur, the inner chambers of his house. Kapalkundala went to bed alone, but she could not sleep. All around her, even in the dark, she saw that countenance, framed in coils of windswept, rain-drenched hair. Kapalkundala began to relive the events of the past. She was reminded of her behaviour towards the kapalik at the time when she had deserted him; the monstrous deeds committed by the kapalik in the depths of the forest: his worship of Goddess Bhairavi, the way he had taken Nabakumar captive, she remembered all those things. Kapalkundala shuddered. She also recalled the events of the present night: Shyama’s desire for the medicinal herb, Nabakumar’s admonition, Kapalkundala’s own heated rejoinder, and afterwards, the moonlit beauty of the forest, the darkness of the woods, the fellow-wanderer she had encountered in the forest, and the terrifying beauty of the stranger’s appearance.
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 8
