Chapter Thirty Three

A great festival was at hand. This day was the birthday of Katlu Khan. Through the day all had been engaged in revelry, dancing, almsgiving, feasting, and drinking; and with the coming of night the rejoicing waxed yet more extravagant. Evening had but just yielded to darkness, and the interior of the fortress blazed with light. Soldiers, sepoys, nobles, menials, townspeople, beggars, drunkards, players, dancing-girls, singers male and female, musicians, conjurers, sellers of flowers, sellers of perfumes, sellers of pan, sellers of victuals, sellers of every manner of craft and handiwork — all these crowded every quarter. Whithersoever one turned, there were nothing but illuminations, song and music, scented waters, pan, flowers, fireworks, and women of pleasure. Within the zenana much the same prevailed. The Nawab's own pleasure-chambers were somewhat more composed, yet all the more voluptuous for it. In room after room, silver lamps, crystal lamps, and perfumed lamps shed their soft and steady radiance; garlands of fragrant blossoms adorned the vases, the pillars, the couches, the seats, and the persons of the women within; the very air could scarce sustain the burden of rose-water and perfume; and a multitude of slave-girls, some clad in garments richly worked in gold, others wearing silks of blue or crimson or green or rose as pleased their fancy, walked to and fro displaying the gold ornaments upon their bodies in the blaze of every lamp. The mistresses whom these women served sat in their respective apartments and composed themselves with the greatest care. This night the Nawab would come to the pleasure-pavilion and make merry with all; there would be dancing and music; and whatsoever each woman desired, she would endeavour to obtain. One, hoping that her brother's appointment might be secured, applied the comb to her hair with unusual vigour. Another, wishing to augment the number of her slave-girls, let down her tresses upon her bosom. Yet another, coveting some grant of property in honour of a newly born son, rubbed her cheeks so hard in pursuit of a blush that the blood came forth. One, desiring jewels to match those lately bestowed upon a rival favourite, drew the collyrium beneath her eyes in a sweeping line to the ears. In one chamber, a slave-girl trod upon the skirt of her mistress's robe while helping her to dress; the enraged mistress struck her across the face. Elsewhere, a vain lady whose years had begun to loosen the roots of her abundant hair found that when the slave-girl drew the comb through it, a portion of the hair came away with the teeth of the comb; whereupon the afflicted owner of those locks burst into loud and tearful lamentation.

Amid that garden of beauty, like a lotus standing apart from the common flowers, like a peacock among lesser birds, one fair woman had completed her toilet and was moving from chamber to chamber. On this night there was no restriction upon movement anywhere. Nature had endowed her with whatever loveliness that place possessed; Katlu Khan had furnished her with whatever ornaments that place afforded; and yet upon her countenance there was not the faintest shadow of pride — neither in her beauty nor in her jewels. There was no merriment, no laughter — nothing. Her face was grave and still; in her eyes burned a fierce and unremitting anguish.

It was Bimala who thus wandered through the palace from place to place, and at length she entered a well-appointed chamber and, having entered, drew the bolt upon the door. Even on this day of festival, but a single feeble lamp burned within. At one end of the room stood a bedstead, and upon that bedstead someone lay covered from head to foot with the bedclothes. Bimala stood beside the bed and spoke in a low voice: "I am come."

The one who lay there started as if in alarm and uncovered her face. Recognising Bimala, she cast off the coverlet, raised herself to a sitting posture, but returned no answer.

Bimala spoke again: "Tilottama! I am come."

Still Tilottama made no reply. She gazed steadfastly upon Bimala's face and was silent.

Tilottama was no longer the shame-stricken girl of former days. To look upon her in that dim light was to believe that ten years had been added to her age. Her body was greatly wasted; her countenance was wan. She wore but a single narrow garment. The weight of her disordered hair was mingled with dust. There was not a single ornament upon her person; only the marks where ornaments had once been worn still lingered upon her skin.

Bimala spoke once more: "I said I would come — and I am come. Why dost thou not speak?"

Tilottama answered: "All that I had to say, I have already said. What more is there to say?"

From the very tone of Tilottama's voice Bimala understood that she had been weeping. She placed her hand upon Tilottama's head and raised her face; it was flooded with the tears from her eyes. She touched the end of Tilottama's garment and found it wholly wet. She put her hand to the pillow upon which Tilottama had lain, and found that also drenched. Bimala said: "If thou weepest thus day and night, how long will the body endure it?"

Tilottama answered with earnestness: "And what purpose does it serve to endure? My grief is that it has endured so long."

Bimala was silent. She too began to weep.

After a little while Bimala drew a long breath and said: "Now — what is to be done this night?"

Tilottama glanced again with some displeasure at Bimala's ornaments and said: "What need is there to do anything?"

Bimala said: "My child, do not speak thus lightly; dost thou not even now know Katlu Khan for what he is? Both for want of leisure in his own affairs, and from some desire to grant us time to assuage our grief, the wretch has so long left us in some measure of peace, and has already declared what limit he sets upon our respite. If therefore we are not seen in the dancing-hall this night, I know not what mischief he will work."

Tilottama said: "And what further mischief can there be?"

Bimala composed herself somewhat and said: "Tilottama, why dost thou despair so utterly? We still have life; we still have honour; and so long as we have life, we shall preserve our honour."

Tilottama then said: "Then, mother! Take off all these ornaments; thou hast put them on, and they are a thorn in my eyes."

Bimala smiled faintly and said: "My child, do not reproach me before thou hast seen all that I wear."

So saying, Bimala drew forth from within the folds of her garment a sharp-bladed dagger; its keen edge flashed like lightning in the lamplight. Tilottama stared wide-eyed and her mouth went dry as she asked: "Where didst thou obtain this?"

Bimala said: "Hast thou observed that since yesterday a new slave-girl has entered the zenana?"

Tilottama: "I have seen her — Ashmani has come."

Bimala: "Through Ashmani I caused it to be brought from Abhiram Swami."

Tilottama fell silent; her heart began to tremble within her. After a moment Bimala asked: "Wilt thou not change this dress tonight?"

Tilottama said: "No."

Bimala: "Wilt thou not go to the dancing and the music?"

Tilottama: "No."

Bimala: "Even so thou shalt not escape."

Tilottama began to weep. Bimala said: "Be still and hear me; I have devised a means of thy deliverance." Tilottama looked up at Bimala's face with eager eyes. Bimala placed in Tilottama's hand the ring of Osman and said: "Keep this ring; go not to the dancing-hall; the festival will not be concluded before midnight; until then I can keep the Pathan at bay. He knows that I am thy stepmother, and that thou canst not come before me; under that pretext I can hold his desire to see thee in check until the dancing is done. At midnight go to the inner gate of the zenana; there another person will show thee a ring like this. Follow that person without fear, whithersoever he may lead thee. Bid him take thee to the cottage of Abhiram Swami."

Tilottama heard this and was struck with wonder; whether it was amazement or joy, for some moments she could not speak, and then said: "What is all this? Who gave thee this ring?"

Bimala said: "It is a long story; I will tell thee at leisure another time. For the present, do without hesitation what I have told thee."

Tilottama said: "And what will become of thee? How wilt thou thyself get out?"

Bimala said: "Do not trouble thyself on my account. I have another way of getting out, and will meet thee tomorrow morning."

With these words Bimala comforted Tilottama; but what Tilottama could by no means perceive was that Bimala had, in contriving Tilottama's escape, blocked the very path of her own freedom.

For many days no joy had shone upon Tilottama's face; but today, after hearing Bimala's words, her countenance became radiant with gladness.

Bimala looked upon her, and her own heart filled with a trembling delight. In a voice broken with tears she said: "Then — I go."

Tilottama said, with some hesitation: "I see that thou hast learned all the news of the fortress; tell me before thou goest — where are those who are dear to us? How do they fare?"

Bimala perceived that even in this sea of calamity, Jagatsingh still lived and stirred in Tilottama's heart. Bimala had received the prince's cold letter, in which Tilottama's name was not so much as mentioned; to speak of this now would be but to heap burning coals upon embers already glowing. She therefore said nothing of that matter, but answered only: "Jagatsingh is within this very fortress; he is in good health."

Tilottama was silent.

Bimala, wiping her eyes as she went, departed from that place.