Chapter Twenty One

When a seed is sown in the field, the sprout cometh of itself. When the sprout first appears, none can know it — none can see it. But once the seed hath been sown, no matter where the sower may be, the sprout slowly raiseth its head from the earth. To-day the sapling is no larger than a finger's breadth; men look upon it and yet see it not. Slowly, by tiny degrees, it groweth. Slowly the tree riseth to half a cubit, one cubit, two cubits; yet, so long as none findeth in it the prospect of his own profit, no man marks it — though he look, he seeth it not. Days pass, years pass, and at length the eye doth fall upon it. Inattention reigneth no more — the tree groweth great, its shadow withers other trees about it — until, behold, the field hath room for no other.

Thus had the love of Lutfunnisa grown. On that first day when she had chanced suddenly to meet the object of her affection, the kindling of love within her she did not particularly perceive. Yet even then the sprout had taken root. Thereafter no further meeting befell; but in his absence again and again that countenance returned to her mind, and to picture that face upon the tablet of memory began to seem something of a sweet thing. From the seed sprang the shoot. An attachment to that image was born within her. It is the law of the heart, that whatsoever act of the mind one performeth oftenest, in that act the inclination groweth strongest; that act doth, by degrees, become as nature itself. Day and night Lutfunnisa pondered upon that image. A grievous yearning to look upon him was born; and therewith the native impetuosity of her temper grew uncontrollable. Even the longing for the throne of Delhi grew light before this. The throne seemed begirt with a pile of flames kindled by the shafts of Manmatha. Renouncing realm, capital, and royal seat, she sped toward the sight of her beloved; and that beloved was Nabakumar.

For this reason had Lutfunnisa, on hearing the hope-shattering tidings of Meherunnisa, been not at all unhappy; for this reason, upon coming to Agra, had she taken no pains to preserve her fortunes; for this reason had she taken her leave of the Emperor for ever.

Lutfunnisa came to Saptagram. Not far from the high road, within the city, she made her dwelling in a great mansion. The wayfarers upon the high road beheld that this mansion had on a sudden been filled with men and maids attired in raiment wrought with gold. The chambers within were arrayed with most ravishing furniture. Perfumes, scented waters, and garlands of blossom diffused their sweetness throughout. Articles for the adornment of the house, fashioned of gold, silver, and ivory and the like, glittered in every place. In one such ornamented chamber sat Lutfunnisa with bowed head; upon a separate seat sat Nabakumar. At Saptagram Lutfunnisa had met Nabakumar once or twice more; how far her purpose had been accomplished thereby shall now appear from the converse of this day.

After a space of silence, Nabakumar said, "Then I will now depart. Summon me no more."

Lutfunnisa said, "Go not. Tarry yet a little. That which I would say, I have not yet finished."

Nabakumar waited yet a moment longer, but Lutfunnisa spake nothing. After a while Nabakumar enquired, "What else wouldst thou have me hear?" Lutfunnisa returned no answer — she was weeping silently.

Seeing this, Nabakumar rose to depart; Lutfunnisa caught at the hem of his garment. Somewhat vexed, Nabakumar said, "What is it? Speak."

Lutfunnisa said, "What dost thou desire? Is there nothing in this world worth craving? Wealth, fortune, honour, love, sport, mirth — whatsoever this world calleth joy I will give thee; I ask no recompense whatsoever — only would I be thy handmaid. The glory of being thy wife I covet not — only a serving-maid!"

Nabakumar said, "I am a poor Brahmin, and a poor Brahmin shall I remain in this birth. I cannot, by accepting wealth from thy hand, become the paramour of a Mussalman woman."

Paramour of a Mussalmani! Up to that hour Nabakumar had not known that this woman was his own wife. Lutfunnisa kept her head bowed. Nabakumar freed the hem of his garment from her grasp. Again Lutfunnisa caught his garment and said —

"Well then, let that be. If such is the will of fate, then will I drown all the longings of my heart in fathomless waters. I ask no more — but only that thou shouldst pass this way at times; that thou wouldst, thinking me a serving-maid, show thyself unto me now and then — only that mine eyes might be satisfied."

Nabakumar said: "Thou art a Mussalmani — the wife of another — even this discourse with thee is a sin. Thou and I shall meet no more."

A moment of silence followed. In Lutfunnisa's heart a tempest raged. Like an image of stone she stood, motionless. She let go the hem of Nabakumar's garment. She said, "Go."

Nabakumar set forth. He had taken but two or four steps, when suddenly Lutfunnisa fell at his feet like a tree uprooted by the storm. Clasping his feet with her arms, in a voice broken with anguish she said —

"Pitiless one! For thy sake I have forsaken the throne of Agra and am come hither. Forsake thou me not."

Nabakumar said, "Return thou again unto Agra; abandon all hope of me."

"Not in this life." Lutfunnisa arose straight as an arrow and spake with pride, "Not in this life will I abandon hope of thee." Lifting her head, with her neck bent in a slight and graceful arc, fastening her wide unblinking eyes upon the face of Nabakumar, the enchantress of kings stood up. That unbending pride which had melted away in the fire of her heart now flashed forth again in light; that unconquerable strength of mind which had not faltered even when she had thought to govern the realm of Hindustan — that very strength now coursed once more through that frame, enfeebled though it was by love. Across her brow the veins swelled into lines of beauty; her radiant eyes flashed like the waters of the sea kindled by the rays of the sun; her nostrils quivered. As a royal swan that floateth upon the currents turns and arches her neck against him who would bar her way, even so did the maddened Mussalmani lift her head and stand. She said, "Not in this life. Thou shalt be mine alone."

Gazing upon that figure of a wrathful serpent-queen, Nabakumar was struck with fear. The ineffable majesty of Lutfunnisa's form, as he now beheld it, he had never beheld before. Yet that beauty was bewitching like the lightning that bears the thunderbolt; to behold it was to fear. As Nabakumar made to depart, on a sudden there came back to his mind another such figure of fiery splendour. One day Nabakumar, vexed with his first wife Padmavati, had been about to drive her forth from his sleeping-chamber. The twelve-year-old maiden had then turned upon him in pride and stood her ground; even so had her eyes blazed; even so had the lines started forth upon her brow; even so had her nostrils quivered; even so had her head been tossed. Long had he not called that figure to mind; now did he remember it. At once the likeness was felt. Stricken with doubt, Nabakumar said in a faltering voice, slowly, "Who art thou?"

The pupils of the Mussalmani's eyes grew yet wider. She said, "I am Padmavati."

Awaiting no reply, Lutfunnisa passed into another chamber. Nabakumar also, distracted and somewhat alarmed, returned to his own dwelling.