Chapter Fifteen

All are aware that in former times Saptagram was a city of vast prosperity. There was an age when merchants from every land — from Java to Rome — gathered in this great city for the purposes of commerce. But in the tenth and eleventh centuries of the Bengali era, the ancient splendour of Saptagram had begun to wane. The chief cause was this: the river that once flowed past the city's edge, washing its borders, had narrowed in body, so that great vessels could no longer come up to the town. By this cause the abundance of trade gradually faded. When the commerce of a renowned trading city is lost, all is lost. All of Saptagram was lost. In the eleventh century of the Bengali era, Hooghly was rising in fresh elegance as her rival. There the Portuguese had begun their commerce and were drawing the goddess of wealth away from Saptagram. Yet Saptagram was not wholly bereft of her glory. The Fauzdar and other principal officers of state still dwelt there; but much of the city had fallen into decay and, emptied of inhabitants, had taken on the aspect of a country village.

In a solitary suburb of Saptagram was the dwelling of Nabakumar. In this ruinous condition of the town, scarce a soul stirred thereabouts; the public roads were overgrown with creepers and shrubbery. Behind Nabakumar's house lay a wide and dense forest. Before the house, at the distance of perhaps half a krosha, ran a small canal, which, encircling a little open meadow, entered the wood at the rear of the dwelling. The house was built of brick; considering the time and the place, it could by no means be called a mean abode. It was indeed of two storeys, though not of any frightful height; one may behold, even now, single storeys built quite as tall.

Upon the roof of this house two young women were standing, gazing about them on every side. Evening was at hand. That which was visible on all sides was such as gives delight to the eye. Hard by, on one hand, lay the dense wood, wherein countless birds were calling. On the other side, the small canal lay stretched out like a thread of silver. Far off, the innumerable mansions of the great city, thronged with citizens come forth to taste the breath of the new spring, made a beautiful show. On another quarter, very far away, the broad bosom of the Bhagirathi, laden with boats, grew darker and darker as the dusk of evening deepened upon it moment by moment.

Of the two young women who stood thus upon the roof, one was fair as moonlight, half hidden within the disorder of her abundant hair. The other was dark of hue; she was a comely maiden of sixteen, small in stature, with a small face, about the upper part of which little curling locks fell down on every side, as the blue petals of the lotus encompass its heart. Her eyes were wide, of a soft white tint, and shaped like the silver fish; her small slender fingers were buried in the waves of her companion's hair. The reader will have understood that she who shone with the radiance of the moon was Kapalkundala; and we must tell him that the dark one was her sister-in-law, Shyamasundari.

Shyamasundari addressed her brother's wife now as "Bou," now fondly as "Bon," now as "Mrino." Because the name Kapalkundala sounded harsh, the household had named her Mrinmoyi, and hence the address "Mrino." We too shall sometimes call her Mrinmoyi from this point on.

Shyamasundari was reciting a childhood verse, thus —

"Says the lotus-queen, her face she keeps hidden in the night through; She opens her bud, sets free the bee, when she beholds her beloved. The forest creeper, spreading her leaves, runs toward the tree; The river's waters, when the flood rolls down, hasten to the sea. For shame — the lily blooms when she meets the moonlight upon her face, The bride at the flowered couch cannot keep her modesty in place. Alas — what a torment is this, what play of fate, joy mixed with grief! At another's touch all yield to delight, and the bonds of shame are loosed."

"Wilt thou, then, dwell alone as an ascetic?"

Mrinmoyi answered, "Why, what austerity am I practising?"

Shyamasundari took up the waves of Mrinmoyi's hair in both hands and said, "Wilt thou not bind this mass of hair?"

Mrinmoyi only smiled faintly, and drew her locks back out of Shyamasundari's hand.

Shyamasundari spoke again. "Come, satisfy this longing of mine. For once, deck thyself as the daughters of a respectable household do. How long wilt thou remain a yogini?"

Mri. When I had not yet met with this Brahmin's son, was I not then a yogini still?

Shya. Now thou canst not remain so.

Mri. Why can I not?

Shya. Why? Wilt thou see? I shall break thy yoga. Knowest thou what the philosopher's stone is called?

Mrinmoyi said, "No."

Shya. By the touch of the philosopher's stone, even base metal becomes gold.

Mri. And what of that?

Shya. Women too have their philosopher's stone.

Mri. And what is that?

Shya. Man. By the very breath of a man, the yogini becomes a housewife. Thou hast touched that stone. Thou shalt see —

"I shall bind the mass of thy hair, I shall robe thee in fine raiment, I shall set flowers swinging in thy braid! On thy brow the line of vermilion, At thy waist the moon-necklace, In thine ears I shall hang twin pendants. Saffron, sandal, and perfume, A box filled with betel and areca, Thy red mouth shall grow redder with the flush. A child like a golden image I shall lay upon thy lap — We shall see whether it please thee or not."

Mrinmoyi said, "Well, I have understood. Suppose I have touched the philosopher's stone, have turned to gold, have bound up my hair, have put on fine garments, have set flowers in my braid, have worn the moon-necklace at my waist, have hung pendants in my ears; sandal, saffron, perfume, betel, areca, even a golden babe — suppose all this. What happiness then?"

Shya. Tell me, when a flower blooms, what happiness is in it?

Mri. There is happiness for the beholder; what of the flower?

Shyamasundari's countenance grew grave; her wide eyes, like the blue lotus stirring in the breath of dawn, trembled slightly; she said, "What of the flower? That I cannot tell. I have never bloomed as a flower. But if I had been a bud such as thou art, then there would have been happiness in blooming."

Seeing her silent, Shyamasundari said, "Well — if it be not so — then let me hear, what is thy happiness?"

Mrinmoyi pondered awhile, then said, "I cannot tell. Methinks that if I could wander again in those woods by the sea, happiness would come to me."

Shyamasundari was somewhat astonished. That Mrinmoyi had not profited by all their care she was a little hurt to find, and somewhat displeased. She said, "And what means hast thou now of returning?"

Mri. None.

Shya. Then what wilt thou do?

Mri. The Adhikari used to say, "Whither I am set, there I labour."

Shyamasundari drew her veil across her mouth and laughed, saying, "As thou commandest, learned sir! What hath come over thee?"

Mrinmoyi sighed and said, "Whatsoever the Creator shall cause me to do, that shall I do. Whatsoever is written upon my brow, that shall come to pass."

Shya. Why, what is written on thy brow? Happiness is written there. Wherefore dost thou heave a long sigh?

Mrinmoyi said, "Listen. On the day when I set out with my husband, at the hour of setting forth I went to offer three leaves at the feet of Bhavani. Without offering three leaves at the lotus feet of the Mother, I would never undertake any matter. If the venture were to prosper, then the Mother would hold the three leaves; if there were any likelihood of ill befalling, then the leaves would fall away. I was filled with misgiving at setting forth with a stranger into an unknown land, and went to the Mother to learn good or evil. The Mother did not hold the three leaves — therefore I know not what is written upon my brow."

Mrinmoyi fell silent. Shyamasundari shuddered.