Chapter Fourteen

In His Own Country

Nabakumar, bringing Kapalkundala, came to his own country. Nabakumar was fatherless; his widowed mother dwelt at home, and there were two sisters besides. The elder was a widow, with whom the reader will not be made acquainted. The second, Shyamasundari, was a widow even while her husband lived; for she was the wife of a Kulin. She will show herself to us once or twice.

What measure of joy his kinsfolk would have shown, had Nabakumar in another state of affairs brought home as wife an ascetic maiden of unknown family and lineage, this we are not able to say. In truth, in this matter he had no trouble to suffer. Every one of them had given up all hope of his return. His fellow-travellers, when they came back, had spread the rumour that Nabakumar had been killed by a tiger. The reader may suppose that these truth-tellers spoke according to what they believed; but to grant this would be to do injury to the powers of their imagination. Many of the returned travellers stated with certainty that they had seen with their own eyes Nabakumar fall into the tiger's mouth. Sometimes there was dispute over the dimensions of the tiger: one said, "The tiger must have been eight cubits long —" another said, "Nay, well-nigh fourteen cubits." The old traveller who was previously acquainted with us said, "Howsoever it be, I was saved by a great mercy. The tiger sprang first at me; I fled; Nabakumar was not so bold a man — he could not flee."

When these rumours reached the ears of Nabakumar's mother and the rest, there arose in the house such a sound of lamentation as for many days knew no abating. At the news of her only son's death Nabakumar's mother was as one dead. At such a time, when Nabakumar came home with his wife, who would think to ask of him, "Of what caste is thy bride, or whose daughter?" All were blind with joy. With great honour Nabakumar's mother received the bride and brought her into the house.

When Nabakumar saw that Kapalkundala was received with honour in his household, the ocean of his gladness brimmed over. For fear that she might be slighted, he had, even after winning Kapalkundala, given no token of joy or affection; yet the sky of his heart was wholly filled with the image of Kapalkundala. For that very fear he had not at once consented to the proposal of her marriage; for that fear, even after his marriage, he had not, until he came home, exchanged one word of love with Kapalkundala; he had not let one ripple stir on that ocean of love trembling on the verge of overflow. But now that fear was gone; as when a stone that hath barred the course of waters is removed, an unquellable torrent leaps forth, so with such force did the ocean of Nabakumar's love break in upon its banks.

This unfolding of love was not always shown in words; but it was shown in the wet and unwavering eyes with which Nabakumar, whenever he beheld Kapalkundala, fixed his gaze upon her; in the manner in which, without any need, framing some pretext of need, he would come close to her; in the way in which, without occasion, he would seek to bring her name into the talk; in the way in which day and night he sought to know her happiness and her ease; in every absent-minded step he set. His very nature began to be changed. Where there had been levity, there came gravity; where there had been ill-humour, there came serenity; Nabakumar's face was forever bright. His heart being now the seat of love, love overflowed toward all the rest; his vexation against those who used to vex him grew less; every man became to him an object of love; the earth seemed to him to have been created solely for the doing of good works; the whole world seemed beautiful. Such is love! Love makes the harsh sweet, the wicked good, the impious holy, the dark luminous.

And Kapalkundala? What is her state? Come, reader, let us go and behold her.