Chapter Forty One

From the day that Tilottama had taken her leave of Ayesha in the company of Ashmani and departed, no tidings of her had reached any man's ears. Tilottama, Bimala, Ashmani, Abhiram Swami — not one of them could be traced. When the treaty was concluded between the Moghuls and the Pathans, both parties, calling to mind the unheard-of calamities that had befallen Birendrasingh and his household, were agreed that search should be made for Birendrasingh's wife and daughter, and that they should be restored to the fort of Mandaran. To that end, Osman, Khwaja Isa, Man Singh, and all the rest caused diligent enquiry to be made; yet nothing could be ascertained beyond the bare fact of Tilottama's departure from Ayesha's house in the company of Ashmani. At length Man Singh, despairing of success, placed a trusty retainer at the fort of Mandaran with these instructions: "Remain thou here and continue the search for the wife and daughter of the late jagirdar. Shouldst thou find them, establish them within the fortress, and then come to me; I will reward thee and bestow upon thee another jagir."

Having so determined, Man Singh made ready to proceed to Patna.

Whether Jagatsingh's heart had undergone any change upon hearing from the dying lips of Katlu Khan what he had heard — that remained wholly unmanifest. Jagatsingh had, it is true, spent of his treasure and suffered bodily hardship in the search; but whether that solicitude arose from the memory of an earlier attachment, or from those other considerations that had moved Man Singh and the rest to a like concern, or whether it was the renewal of a love once suppressed — none could say. Whatever the cause, the endeavour came to naught.

Man Singh's troops were striking their tents; on the morrow at dawn they would march. On the evening before the departure, the hour arrived for reading the letter found tied to the prince's bridle-rein. Jagatsingh, moved by curiosity, broke the seal and read it. The words written therein were these, and these alone:

"If thou hast fear of righteousness, if thou hast fear of a Brahmin's curse, then come hither alone, this very hour of reading. Thus — I, a Brahmin."

The prince was astonished at what he read. He bethought him for a moment that it might be some trick of an enemy — was it wise to go? Yet in a Rajput's heart there is no terror so powerful as the terror of a Brahmin's curse; and so he resolved to go. He therefore commanded his attendants that if he could not return before the army's departure, they should not wait for him; let the troops march on — he would rejoin them at Burdwan, or at Rajmahal. Having given these orders, Jagatsingh set forth alone towards the sal forest.

Coming to the gate of the ruined pile he had visited before, the prince tethered his horse to the sal tree as he had done in former times. He looked about him on every side — there was no one anywhere. He then entered within the building. He saw that in the courtyard, as before, a tomb-chapel stood to one side, and on the other the funeral pyre was laid in readiness; upon the pyre-wood a Brahmin sat alone. The Brahmin sat with his face bowed down, weeping.

The prince asked: "Sir, did you bid me come hither?"

The Brahmin raised his face. On enquiry, the prince learned that this was Abhiram Swami.

Wonder, curiosity, and joy — all three arose at once in the heart of the prince. He made obeisance and asked with eager haste: "How many efforts have I made to find thee — words cannot tell it. Why dost thou abide in this place?"

Abhiram Swami wiped his eyes and said: "For the present, here is my dwelling."

Before the Swami had well finished his reply, the prince pressed question upon question: "Wherefore hast thou called me to mind? And why dost thou weep?"

Abhiram Swami answered: "For the same reason that I weep, I have called thee hither. The hour of Tilottama's death is at hand."

Slowly, gently, as though sinking degree by degree, the warrior-chief subsided to the ground where he sat. Then, one by one, every circumstance from beginning to end arose before his mind; one by one, fierce and keen as a blade, each stroke fell upon his heart. The first meeting in the temple; the vow sworn before Shaileshwar; the tears of love that had risen in both their eyes at their first true encounter; the events of that dreadful night; Tilottama's face in her swoon; her torment in the captivity of the Yavana; his own cruel conduct within the prison; and now, this death in forest exile — all these came upon the prince one after another like the blow of a tempest. The fire that had smouldered before blazed up again a hundred times more fierce.

The prince sat long in silence. Abhiram Swami spoke on: "From the day that Bimala slew the Yavana and took her widowhood's revenge, I have wandered in secret from place to place, taking with me my daughter and grandchild, in fear of the Yavanas. And from that selfsame day the seeds of illness were sown in Tilottama. The cause of that sickness thou knowest full well."

The shaft struck home in Jagatsingh's heart.

"Since that time I have kept her in many places and tried many remedies. I myself have studied the healing arts from youth, and have treated many disorders; I know medicines unknown to others. But for the sickness that lies within the heart, there is no cure in all the physician's craft. I have chosen this place for its exceeding solitude, and have dwelt these five or seven days in a secluded corner of it. It was by providence that I saw thee come this way, and I tied the letter to thy bridle-rein. It had long been my desire, that if I could not save Tilottama, I should at least bring thee to her once more, that in her last hour her heart might be satisfied. For that cause I wrote to summon thee. Even then I had not wholly given up hope of her recovery; but I had perceived that if there was no improvement within two days, the final hour would be upon us. That is why I advised thee to read the letter two days hence. What I feared has now come to pass. There is no hope remaining for Tilottama's life. The lamp of her life is grown faint and trembles towards extinction."

So saying, Abhiram Swami fell to weeping once more. Jagatsingh wept also.

The Swami spoke again: "Thou must not go to Tilottama without preparation; who can say but that in her present state she may not be able to bear the excess of gladness. I have already told her that I sent word to thee, and that there is likelihood of thy coming. Let me go now and carry her the tidings of thy arrival; afterwards thou shalt see her."

So saying, the Paramahansa went towards that quarter of the ruined building which was the inner apartments. After a short while he returned, and said to the prince: "Come."

The prince went with the Paramahansa towards the inner chambers. He saw that one room remained unbroken; within it stood a worn and shattered bedstead, and upon it lay Tilottama — wasted by sickness, yet the radiance of her beauty not wholly fled. Even now she lay encircled by a gentler, dimmer reflection of her former loveliness — fair as the morning star grown faint and drawing near to setting. Close by her side sat a widow, stroking her limbs with gentle hand; that widow was unadorned, pale, worn — it was Bimala. The prince did not recognise her at first; how should he have done so? She who had been in the full flower of her youth was now grown old.

When the prince came and stood at Tilottama's bedside, her eyes were closed. Abhiram Swami called softly: "Tilottama! Prince Jagatsingh is come."

Tilottama opened her eyes and looked towards Jagatsingh. That gaze was gentle — expressing only tenderness; not the faintest trace of reproach or resentment was in it. The moment she had looked, she lowered her eyes; and as he watched, the tears began to flow in a steady stream. The prince could contain himself no longer; shame fled far away. He sat at Tilottama's feet and in silence bathed her frail limbs with the rain of his eyes.