Chapter Twenty Five

Slowly, slowly Kapalkundala shut the door. Slowly, slowly she came into the bedchamber, slowly, slowly she laid herself upon the couch. The human heart is a boundless sea; when over it the maddened winds make war, who can number the multitude of its waves? Over the sea of Kapalkundala's heart, that night the surges were tossed up—who shall reckon them?

That night Nabakumar, by reason of the sore grief of his heart, came not into the inner chambers. Alone in the bedchamber Kapalkundala laid her down, yet sleep came not. Even in the dark she saw on every side that face, encircled with matted locks, drenched by the wind-driven downpour. Kapalkundala began to recall all former passages. How she had borne herself toward the Kapalik when she left him she remembered; the demoniac rites that the Kapalik would perform in the deep forest came back to mind, his worship of Bhairavi, the binding of Nabakumar—all these returned. Kapalkundala shuddered. The whole of that night's happenings also rose up before her mind. Shyama's longing for the herb, Nabakumar's forbidding, her own rebuke to him thereon, then the moonlit beauty of the forest, the darkness beneath the wood, the comrade she had found within that forest, his form of terror joined with beauty—all came back to mind.

In the east the diadem-light of the dawn began to show; then a light slumber fell upon Kapalkundala. In that thin sleep Kapalkundala beheld a dream. It seemed to her that she was riding in a bark upon that very sea-bosom she had beheld before. The bark was finely decked; upon it spring-coloured pennons fluttered; the boatmen rowed with garlands of flowers upon their necks. The endless song of the love of Radha and Shyam they were singing. From the western heaven the sun was raining down streams of gold. Receiving that golden shower, the sea was laughing; throughout the firmament the clouds, in that rain of gold, were sporting and bathing. Of a sudden it was night; whither was the sun gone? Whither were gone the clouds of gold? Dense blue-black storm-cloud came up and overspread the sky. No more could any quarter of the sea be discerned. The boatmen turned the bark. In which way to row, they could not determine. They left off their song, they tore the garlands from their throats and cast them away; the spring-coloured pennons of themselves slipped down and fell into the water. The wind rose; tree-tall waves began to climb; out of the midst of the waves there came one matted-haired and of huge body, who, lifting Kapalkundala's vessel in his left hand, made ready to hurl it into the midst of the sea. At that moment there came he of the Brahmin's guise, terrible and fair, and laid hold upon the bark. He asked of Kapalkundala, "Shall I keep thee, or shall I drown thee?" On a sudden there issued from Kapalkundala's lips, "Drown me." He of the Brahmin's guise let go the bark. Then did the bark itself find a voice, and broke into speech. The bark said, "I cannot bear this burden, I will pass down into the nether deep." So saying, the bark cast her into the water and passed down into the nether deep.

Her body all bathed in sweat, Kapalkundala started up from the dream, and opening her eyes saw that day had broken—the lattice stood open; through it the current of the spring breeze was entering. Upon that lattice many lovely wild creepers, with their fragrant blossoms, were swaying. By the natural bent of womankind Kapalkundala began to gather the creepers together. As she bound them up into orderly form, there fell from amid them a written paper. Kapalkundala had been the pupil of the Adhikari; she could read. The following words she made out.

"After dusk this evening thou shalt meet with the young Brahmin of last night. That matter touching thine own self most needful, which thou wert fain to learn, thou shalt then learn.

I, the one in Brahmin's guise."