Chapter Thirty

Kapalkundala turned her steps slowly homeward. Slowly, with soft and measured tread, she walked; for she was sunk in the deepest reverie. The tidings of Lutfunnisa had wrought an utter alteration in Kapalkundala's spirit; she had made herself ready for self-immolation. Self-immolation, but for what? For Lutfunnisa? Nay, not so.

In the inward parts of her soul Kapalkundala was the daughter of the Tantric; and even as the Tantric, in his craving for the favour of Kali, shrinks not from the taking of another's life, so Kapalkundala, in that same craving, shrank not from the giving of her own. It was not that Kapalkundala, like the Kapalik, had set her heart, single and undivided, upon obtaining the boon of the Goddess; yet, hearing day and night of Shakti's worship, beholding it, practising it, there had sprung up within her a singular love of the Mother. That Bhairavi is She who ruleth creation and granteth deliverance — this had been borne in upon her with peculiar force. That the courts of Kali's worship should be drenched in human blood — this her heart, ever pitiful of another's pain, could not abide; yet in no other office of devotion was there any failing. And now this Bhairavi, the Sovereign of the universe, the Bestower of weal and woe, the Giver of final beatitude, had in a dream commanded the offering of her life. Wherefore then should Kapalkundala not obey that command?

Thou and I would not yield up our lives. We say so in our wrath. This world is sweet. It is in the hope of happiness that we move round and round, as upon a wheel, within the circle of the world — not in the hope of sorrow. If now and again, through our own fault, that hope be not fulfilled, then we set up a loud lamentation, calling it grief. Wherefore grief is no rule, but only an exception to the rule; the conclusion holdeth, that for thee and me there is happiness everywhere. By that happiness are we rooted in the world; we will not be torn from it. But of all the bonds of this worldly captivity, love is the chiefest cord. That cord was not laid upon Kapalkundala — no bond whatever was upon her. Who then could hold Kapalkundala back?

Where there is no bond, there is the unchecked rush. When the mountain torrent leaps from the summit, who shall stay its course? When once the wind is loosed, who shall hinder its passing? When Kapalkundala's heart is set in motion, who shall fix it in its place? When the young elephant is maddened, who shall make him calm?

Kapalkundala questioned her own heart: "Wherefore should I not yield up this body at the feet of the Mistress of the Worlds? What profit have I in these five elements?" She asked, yet could give herself no certain answer. Though all other bonds of the world be wanting, yet one bond there is — the bond of the five elements themselves.

With bowed head Kapalkundala walked on. When the human heart is overborne by some violent emotion, when in the intensity of its thought it taketh no heed of the outward creation, then are even things unearthly perceived as if by the bodily eye. Such was the state of Kapalkundala.

It was as though from on high these words came stealing into her ear: "Daughter! I show thee the way." Kapalkundala, as one startled, raised her glance on high. She beheld, as it were upon the firmament, a form dark as a new-risen cloud! From the garland of human skulls that hung about her neck the blood was trickling down; girdling her waist, a chain of human hands swung to and fro; in her left hand a human skull; over her body, streams of blood; upon her brow, the young moon beautifully set above eyes that flashed with a terrible and dazzling flame. It was as though Bhairavi, lifting her right hand, beckoned Kapalkundala on.

With face uplifted Kapalkundala went forward. That cloud-like, awful form moved on before her along the highway of the sky. Now the figure of the Skull-garlanded was hidden in the clouds, now it unfolded itself clear upon her vision. Gazing upon that form, Kapalkundala walked on.

Of all this neither Nabakumar nor the Kapalik beheld aught. Nabakumar, his heart kindled with the poison of strong drink, growing impatient at the slow pace of Kapalkundala, said unto his companion, "Kapalik!"

The Kapalik answered, "What is it?"

"Paniyam dehi me — give me to drink."

The Kapalik gave him once again of the wine.

Nabakumar said, "Why this further delay?"

Then with a terrible cry Nabakumar called, "Kapalkundala!"

Hearing it, Kapalkundala started. Of late none had called her by the name of Kapalkundala. She turned her face about and stood still. Nabakumar and the Kapalik came before her. At the first Kapalkundala knew them not, and said,

"Who are ye? Messengers of Death?"

The next moment, recognising them, she said, "Nay, nay, my father, art thou come to make of me a sacrifice?"

With firm grip Nabakumar took Kapalkundala by the hand. In a voice melting with pity, honey-sweet, the Kapalik said, "Daughter, come thou with us." So saying, the Kapalik led the way towards the burning-ground.

Kapalkundala cast her eyes upon the heavens; she looked toward that quarter wherein she had beheld the dread Wanderer of the Skies. The Battle-rapt was laughing a wild, shrill laughter; in her hand she bore a long trident, and was pointing it along the road by which the Kapalik went. As one bewildered by destiny, Kapalkundala without uttering a word followed after the Kapalik. Nabakumar, as before, with firm grip holding her hand, walked with them.