As dawn broke in all its glory, Kapalkundala dozed off. In that light slumber, she began to dream. She seemed to be adrift on a boat in the ocean’s bosom, the same ocean she had seen before. The boat was beautifully decorated with bright yellow pennants; the oarsmen, bedecked with garlands, sang erotic songs about Radha and Shyam. From the western sky, the sun rained down a shower of gold. The ocean rejoiced in its glow; in the skies, the frolicking clouds bathed in it. Suddenly, it grew dark; the sun was nowhere to be seen. All the golden clouds had vanished. Heavy, inky clouds covered the entire sky. It was no longer possible to figure out directions at sea. The sailors turned the boat back, but could not decide which way to go. They ceased their music, and tore the garlands off their necks. The bright yellow pennants slipped down and fell into the ocean of their own accord. The wind rose; waves, high as trees, reared their heads; arising from the waves, the giant figure of a man with coiling locks lifted Kapalkundala’s boat in his left hand, and made as if to cast it into the sea. At this juncture, the awe-inspiring Brahmin-impersonator appeared, and took hold of the boat.
‘Should I save you, or drown you?’ he asked.
‘Drown me!’ said Kapalkundala suddenly.
The Brahmin-impersonator relinquished the boat. Now, the boat, too, acquired a voice.
‘I can bear this burden no longer!’ it declared. ‘Let me enter the netherworld.’
With these words, the boat cast her into the waters and descended into the netherworld.
Bathed in sweat, Kapalkundala awakened from her dream and opened her eyes. She saw that it was dawn. Through the open window, the spring breeze wafted in; birds were singing in the gently swaying boughs of trees. Over the window hung some beautiful wild vines, laden with fragrant flowers. In her womanly way, Kapalkundala began to arrange the vines tidily. As she bound them together, she found a letter amidst the vines. Kapalkundala had been trained by the temple priest; she knew how to read. She read the following:
Tonight, after sundown, you must meet the Brahmin youth. You will learn of urgent matters concerning yourself, which you wanted to know. I am the one disguised as a Brahmin.
4
Hints and Signals
I will have grounds
More relative than this.
—Hamlet
ALL DAY, UNTIL SUNSET, KAPALKUNDALA TRIED SINGLE-MINDEDLY TO determine whether or not it was advisable for her to meet the Brahmin-impersonator. Her hesitation did not arise from the belief that it was improper for a devoted young wife to meet a strange man alone, at night. She was sure that such a meeting was harmless, unless intended for a wrongful purpose. Just as persons of the same sex had the right to meet each other, so also, she felt, should persons of the opposite sexes enjoy the mutual right to intermingle. As it was also doubtful whether the Brahmin-impersonator was a man, such inhibitions were redundant. All the same, Kapalkundala hesitated for a long time, uncertain whether the outcome of such a meeting would be good or evil. First, the words uttered by the Brahmin-impersonator, then her vision of the kapalik, and afterwards, her dream: all these factors had aroused in her heart a strong apprehension that some evil fate awaited her in the near future. It did not seem farfetched, moreover, to suspect that this impending doom was linked to the kapalik’s arrival. Since this Brahmin-impersonator seemed to be the kapalik’s accomplice, Kapalkundala’s rendezvous with him could help that evil destiny to materialize, bringing about her downfall. After all, the Brahmin-impersonator had made it perfectly clear that Kapalkundala herself had been the subject of their conspiracy. But it was also possible that, at their meeting, he might announce his repudiation of that plot. The young Brahmin had been secretly conferring with another person, probably the kapalik. Their conversation had indicated the decision to do away with someone, or to banish someone to permanent exile, at the very least. Whose fate had they been discussing? The Brahmin-impersonator had clearly stated, after all, that Kapalkundala herself was the target of their evil conspiracy. So, it was her death or eternal banishment that they were plotting. What of that? And then there was the dream—what did it signify? In her dream, the Brahmin-impersonator had come to her aid at a time of great trouble; the same seemed to be proving true in practice. The Brahmin-impersonator wanted to reveal the entire truth to her. ‘Drown her!’ he had said, in the dream. Would he say the same in reality, as well? No, no—the Goddess Bhavani, so benevolent to her devotees, had tried to protect Kapalkundala by offering her guidance in the form of a dream, implying that the Brahmin-impersonator wanted to come to her rescue: if Kapalkundala rejected his help, she would drown. Kapalkundala, therefore, decided to meet him, after all. It is doubtful if a wise person would have arrived at such a decision; but the decisions of wise men are not our concern. Not being particularly wise, Kapalkundala did not arrive at a wise decision. Hers was the decision of a woman overwhelmed by curiosity, a young woman craving for sight of an awesomely attractive man, a woman who enjoyed nocturnal wanderings because she had been reared by a hermit, a woman held captive by her devotion to the Goddess Bhavani. It was the decision of an insect about to plunge into the flames of a burning fire.
When it was dark, Kapalkundala, having completed some domestic chores, headed for the forest, as before. Before setting out, she turned up the flame of the lamp in her bedroom. As soon as she left the room, the light went out.
On her way, Kapalkundala realized she had forgotten something. Where had the Brahmin-impersonator asked her to meet him? She must re-read his letter. Returning to the house, she searched for the letter, but it was not where she had left it. She recalled having placed the letter in her hair-knot while braiding her hair, in order to carry it with her. She probed within her hair-knot, searching for the letter. When her fingers did not feel the letter, she loosened her hair-knot, but still, the letter was not to be found. Then she looked for it elsewhere in the house. Unable to find it anywhere, she finally decided that their rendezvous would probably be at their former meeting-place. Once more, she set forth. Due to lack of time, she had not been able to re-braid those voluminous tresses. So, tonight, Kapalkundala proceeded on her way, framed by the mass of her unbound hair, as in the days of her adolescence.
5
On the Threshold
Stand you a while apart,
Confine yourself but in a patient list.
—Othello
JUST BEFORE DUSK, WHILE KAPALKUNDALA WAS BUSY WITH HER DOMESTIC chores, the letter had slipped out of her hair-knot and fallen to the ground, without her knowledge. It had caught Nabakumar’s eye. He was surprised to see a letter fall out of her hair-knot. When Kapalkundala moved away to attend to another task, he picked up the letter, carried it outdoors, and read it. The contents of the letter could only lead to one conclusion. ‘You will learn of the urgent matters concerning yourself, which you wanted to know.’ What were the urgent matters she wanted to know about? Matters of the heart? Was the person in Brahmin’s attire Mrinmayi’s paramour? To someone who did not know what had transpired the previous night, no other conclusion could suggest itself.
When a devoted wife wishing to join her husband in death—or any other living person, impelled by some other motive—ascends the funeral pyre and sets it alight, he or she is at first encircled by a thick cloud of smoke. The smoke obscures one’s vision; the world grows dark. Later, as the logs begin to burn, a few flames reach upwards, like serpent-tongues, to lick the body here and there. Then, roaring flames envelop the entire body. Ultimately, with an explosive noise, the fire lights up the sky, soaring above one’s head and reducing the body to a heap of ashes.
Such was Nabakumar’s mental state upon reading the letter. At first, he was mystified; then he was assailed by doubt, followed by certainty, and ultimately, heartburn. The human heart cannot cope immediately with an excess of pain or joy; it can only accept such emotions gradually. Nabakumar was first encircled by a cloud of smoke; then, flames began to scorch his heart, and finally, the fire began to consume his heart, burning it to ashes.
Prior to this, Nabakumar had already noticed that Kapalkundala disobeyed him in some matters. He had noted, in particular, that she would go alone, whenever and wherever she wished, even when he forbade her. She mingled freely with all and sundry, and would roam alone in the woods at night, ignoring his injunctions. This would have made another person suspicious; but, knowing that to entertain doubts about Kapalkundala would be like the scorpion’s fatal bite, Nabakumar had never harboured any suspicions for a single day. Today, too, he would not have allowed doubt to prevail, but this time he was confronted, not with suspicion, but with concrete fact.
When the first surge of agony had subsided, Nabakumar wept in silence for a long while, finding some consolation in his tears. Then, he resolutely decided upon his course of action. Tonight, he would say nothing to Kapalkundala, but when she made for the woods at dusk, he would follow her secretly. Having witnessed her utterly sinful behaviour, he would end his life. Rather than admonish Kapalkundala, he would take his own life instead. What else could he do? He would not have the strength to bear the burden of such a life.
Having come to this decision, he fixed his gaze upon the rear exit of the house, awaiting Kapalkundala’s departure. After she had emerged, and walked some distance, Nabakumar also prepared to step out. But seeing her return for the letter, he moved out of sight. Once Kapalkundala had re-emerged and travelled a short distance, Nabakumar was again about to follow her, when he saw a tall male figure blocking the doorway. Who the person was, why he was standing there, Nabakumar had not the slightest wish to know. Even when he saw the man, he failed to notice his face, anxious only to keep Kapalkundala in view. He placed his hand on the stranger’s chest, to push him aside; but he could not make the man budge.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Nabakumar. ‘Move aside—let me go!’
‘Don’t you know who I am?’ The stranger’s voice assailed the ears like the roar of the ocean. Nabakumar looked at him, and recognized the same kapalik he had encountered before, the ascetic with his tangled coils of hair.
Nabakumar started, but was not afraid. Suddenly, his face brightened.
‘Is it you Kapalkundala is going to meet?’ he wanted to know.
‘No,’ replied the kapalik.
The lamp of hope extinguished as soon as it had been ignited, Nabakumar’s countenance clouded over, as before.
‘Let me go, then!’ he demanded.
‘I’ll let you go,’ the kapalik answered, ‘but there is something I must tell you. Hear me first.’
‘What could you have to say to me?’ Nabakumar protested. ‘Have you come here to destroy my life, again? You may take my life; this time, I shall offer no resistance. Wait here; I shall be back soon. Why did I not sacrifice myself to please the gods? Now I have paid the price, ruined by the very person who had rescued me. Kapalik! Don’t mistrust me this time. I shall return forthwith to surrender my life to you.’
‘I have not come with the intention of killing you,’ the kapalik informed him. ‘That is not the wish of Goddess Bhavani. The task I have come here to accomplish will meet with your approval. Come inside, and listen to what I have to say.’
‘Not now!’ declared Nabakumar. ‘I shall listen to you after some time; for the moment, you must wait. I have an urgent task to perform; as soon as it is accomplished, I shall return.’
‘My son, I know everything!’ exclaimed the kapalik. ‘You will follow the sinful woman. I know where she will go: I shall take you there, and show you what you want to see. Now, listen to me. Have no fear.’
‘I have nothing to fear from you now,’ Nabakumar told him. ‘Come with me.’
With these words, Nabakumar escorted the kapalik into the house, offered him a floor-mat, and took his place beside him.
‘Tell me what you have to say,’ he demanded.
6
Re-encounter
Proceed there, and your divine task accomplish.
—Kumarasambhava
HAVING TAKEN HIS PLACE ON THE FLOOR-MAT, THE KAPALIK HELD OUT HIS arms for Nabakumar to view. Nabakumar saw that both his arms were broken.
The esteemed reader may recall that, on the night when Kapalkundala and Nabakumar had escaped from the seashore, the kapalik, while hunting for them, had fallen off the crest of a sand dune. Falling, he had tried to land on his arms in order to protect his body from injury; this saved his body, indeed, but he fractured both his arms. Narrating the entire episode to Nabakumar, the kapalik told him:
‘I don’t have much difficulty in performing my daily tasks. But there’s no strength left in these arms of mine. In fact, it is difficult even to collect firewood.
‘Not that I realized instantly that my fall had broken my arms, leaving the rest of my body intact,’ he continued. ‘As soon as I fell, I fainted. At first, I remained unconscious for a stretch of time. Then, I drifted in and out of consciousness. How long I continued in this state, I cannot say. For two nights and a day, perhaps. Dawn was breaking when I completely regained consciousness. Just before that, I had been dreaming. As if the Goddess Bhavani . . .’ As he spoke, the kapalik’s hair stood on end. ‘As if the Goddess Bhavani had appeared before my eyes. Frowning in anger, she admonished me: “Oh evil one, it is your impurity of mind that has disrupted your worship of me in this manner. Having fallen prey to your sensual desires, you have not yet offered up this maiden’s blood to me. Because of this maiden, all the fruits of your previous spiritual labour have been destroyed. I shall never again accept your prayers!” When I fell weeping at her feet upon hearing her words, she was pleased. “My good man! I shall decree the only possible penance for this sin. You must sacrifice the very same Kapalkundala to me. Until you accomplish this task, don’t offer me any prayers.”
‘How long I took to recover, and by what means, I need not recount here. Eventually, having regained my health, I began my efforts to obey the goddess’s decree. I found that my arms lacked even the strength of an infant. Without the physical power of my arms, my efforts would be futile. An accomplice was therefore necessary. But in matters of religion, human beings are narrow-minded. In this depraved age called Kaliyuga, this sinful era of Yavana rule, nobody is willing to act as an accomplice in such an undertaking. After much searching, I managed to locate the sinful woman’s abode. But lacking strength in my arms, I have not been able to carry out Bhavani’s decree. I can only continue my tantric prayer rituals, to accomplish my purpose. Last night, I was performing the fire ritual in the forest nearby, when with my own eyes I witnessed Kapalkundala’s tryst with a Brahmin youth. Tonight, as well, she is on her way to meet him. If you wish to observe the scene, come with me, and I will show you.
‘My son! Kapalkundala deserves to be sacrificed; I shall destroy her, as Bhavani has decreed. Kapalkundala has betrayed you, too; she deserves death at your hands, as well. So, give me the help I need. Capture this unfaithful woman; let us take her to the place of sacrifice. There, destroy her with your own hands. This will earn me forgiveness for my offence against the deity; your holy deed will earn you immortal virtue for your afterlife; the treacherous woman will be punished; it will be the ultimate revenge.’
The kapalik ended his speech. Nabakumar did not reply.
‘My son!’ urged the kapalik, seeing that he was silent. ‘Now come and witness the scene I had promised to show you.’
Bathed in sweat, Nabakumar accompanied the kapalik.
7
In Conversation with the Co-wife
Be at peace; it is your sister that addresses you. Requite Lucretia’s love.
—Lucretia
EMERGING FROM HER HOUSE, KAPALKUNDALA ENTERED THE FOREST. SHE went first to the ruined hut, where she met the Brahmin. Had it been daylight, she would have noticed that his countenance had lost much of its brightness.
‘It is not advisable to say anything here, for the kapalik might arrive,’ the Brahmin-impersonator told Kapalkundala. ‘Let’s go somewhere else.’
In the midst of the forest was a small clearing, wit
h a path leading away from it. There the Brahmin-impersonator led Kapalkundala.
‘Let me introduce myself first,’ The Brahmin-impersonator said, once both of them were seated. ‘You can judge for yourself how far to trust my words. En route from Hijli, travelling with your husband, you had encountered a Muslim woman one night. Do you recall the incident?’
‘Was she the one who gave me her jewellery?’
‘I am that Muslim woman!’ declared the Brahmin-impersonator.
Kapalkundala was stunned.
‘I have something even more amazing to reveal,’ Lutfunnissa informed her. ‘I am your co-wife!’
‘Really!’ cried Kapalkundala, astounded.
Lutfunnissa began to recount the story of her past. She spoke of her marriage, conversion, how she was rejected by her husband, of Dhaka, Agra, Jehangir, Mehrunnissa, her departure from Agra and residence in Saptagram, her encounter with Nabakumar, his behaviour towards her, her arrival in the woods in disguise the previous day, her meeting with the performer of the fire-ritual—she narrated everything.
‘Why did you wish to visit our house in disguise?’ asked Kapalkundala at this point.
‘To bring about your eternal separation from your husband,’ replied Lutfunnissa.
Kapalkundala pondered over this. ‘How would you have accomplished that?’ she wanted to know.
‘To begin with, I would have made your husband doubt your chastity. But what is the use of saying of such things now? I have abandoned that plan. Now, if you do as I say, I can fulfil my aim through you; and yet, it will be for your own benefit.’
‘Whose name did you hear from the person who was performing the fire-ritual?’
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 9
