Chapter Forty Three

The flower opened. Abhiram Swami went to the fortress of Mandarana and with great ceremony bestowed his granddaughter upon Jagatsingh.

For the festivities Jagatsingh had sent invitations to his companions at Jahanabad, and they came. Many of Tilottama's father's friends also received the summons and came gladly to share in the rejoicing.

At Ayesha's own request Jagatsingh had sent word to her as well. Ayesha came, bringing with her her young brother and attended by a company of women of the household.

Though Ayesha was a woman of Musalman birth, the depth of her affection for Tilottama and Jagatsingh moved her to dwell with the ladies of the fort. The reader may suppose that Ayesha, her heart so sorely tried, could have taken no true part in the joy of the wedding. But it was not so. The brightness of her own cheerful spirit shed gladness on all around her; that gentle sweet smile of hers — like the soft swaying of an autumn lotus in full bloom — spread grace and beauty through every corner of the hall.

The wedding ceremonies were completed at midnight. Then Ayesha made ready to depart with her attendants. She laughed and took her leave of Bimala. Bimala, suspecting nothing, laughed in return and said, "Princess! We shall be invited to your own auspicious occasion before long."

From Bimala, Ayesha went and drew Tilottama aside into a quiet room. She took Tilottama's hand and said, "Sister! I am going now. I bless thee with all my heart, with body and mind and speech — may thy happiness be without end."

Tilottama said, "When shall I see thee again?"

"How can I venture to hope for that?" said Ayesha. Tilottama grew sorrowful, and for a moment neither spoke.

After a little while Ayesha said, "Whether we meet or meet not — thou wilt not forget Ayesha?"

Tilottama smiled and said, "If I forget Ayesha, the prince will never look upon my face again."

Ayesha said, with gravity, "In that answer I find no comfort. Never speak of me to the prince. Promise me this."

Ayesha understood that what she had sacrificed — all the happiness of this life for the sake of Jagatsingh — was a wound that lay lodged in his heart like an arrow. Even the mention of her name could be a source of pain and remorse to him.

Tilottama gave the promise. Ayesha said, "And yet do not forget me either. Whatever token I give thee in remembrance — keep it, and do not put it aside."

So saying, Ayesha called her maidservant and gave her an order. The maid brought in, as commanded, a casket of ivory filled with jewelled ornaments. Ayesha dismissed the maid, then with her own hands began to place the jewels upon Tilottama.

Tilottama was the daughter of a wealthy landholder, yet even she was astonished at the marvellous workmanship of those ornaments, and at the rare fierce brilliance of the diamonds and precious stones set within them. In truth, Ayesha had taken the jewels her father had given her and had all of them broken up and remade into these matchless adornments for Tilottama. Tilottama marvelled at each piece.

"Sister," said Ayesha, "say nothing in praise of these. Thou hast received into thy heart today a jewel beside which all these are no more than the dust of his feet." As she spoke these words, with what effort Ayesha kept the tears from her eyes, Tilottama never knew.

When all the ornaments had been fastened, Ayesha took both of Tilottama's hands in hers and looked long into her face. She thought within herself: "Looking at that open, love-lit countenance, I cannot but feel that my beloved will know no sorrow of mind. If Providence wills it no otherwise, I ask this one boon at his feet — that through her he may find unending happiness."

She said aloud, "Tilottama! I am going. Thy husband may be occupied; I will not delay to take leave of him. May God grant you both length of days. Wear the jewels I have given thee. And my — thy truest jewel — keep it in thy heart."

At the words "thy truest jewel" Ayesha's voice failed her. Tilottama saw that Ayesha's lashes trembled, heavy with unshed tears.

With the tenderness of one who has herself known grief, Tilottama asked, "Why dost thou weep?" — and at once the tears ran freely down Ayesha's face.

Ayesha waited not a moment more. She went swiftly out of the room and the house, and stepped into her palanquin.

When Ayesha reached her own dwelling, the night was not yet spent. She changed her dress and stood at the casement of her room, through which the cool breeze blew. Above her lay the vault of heaven — softer than the garment she had cast off — blue and vast, ten thousand thousand stars burning within it; the wind stirred the leaves of trees that stood dark below, and they murmured. Upon the battlement of the fort an owl cried, low and deep. Directly before her, at the foot of the outer wall beneath the window where she stood, the castle moat lay full of water, silent, bearing within it the reflected image of the sky.

Ayesha sat long at the casement in thought. Then she drew from her finger a ring. That ring was a vessel of poison. One thought rose in her mind: "I could drink this and in a moment quench all thirst for ever." Then came another: "Was it for this act that Providence sent me into the world? If I could not endure this anguish, why did I take birth as a woman? And what would Jagatsingh say when he heard of it?"

She put the ring back upon her finger. Then again — thinking she knew not what — she took it off. She reflected: "For a woman to resist this temptation is beyond all mortal strength. Better to put temptation itself far away."

With that, Ayesha cast the poison-ring into the water of the castle moat.