Chapter Twelve

Ashmani's Assignation

That the reader's curiosity should be aroused touching the beauty of Ashmani — the heart's delight of that colossus among elephants, Gajapati — admits of no doubt whatsoever. I shall therefore satisfy that longing. Yet in the matter of describing female beauty, authors have followed a certain established method; and for so inconsiderable a person as myself to depart from that method would be an act of consummate presumption. A propitiatory invocation is therefore in order.

O Goddess of Speech! O thou enthroned upon the lotus! Thou whose countenance rivals the autumn moon, whose feet, surpassing the unstained lotus-petal, are gracious to those who worship thee! Grant me the shadow of those lotus-feet; I shall describe the beauty of Ashmani. O thou who dost abase the pride of all fair-faced women! O thou creatress of long, luscious, elaborate compound-words! Vouchsafe me a corner at the tip of thy nail, that I may describe beauty. Compound-words for vegetables, conjunctions for brinjal, similes raw as a green plantain — of such a dish I shall prepare the offering and lay it before thee. O thou who art a fountain of nectar coveted by the learned! O thou who dost but rarely show compassion to the ignorant! O thou who dost stir up the peculiar affliction of the itching finger! O thou bestower of the oil that feeds the lamp of Battala's learning! Come, illuminate the lamp of my understanding but once. Mother, thou hast two forms: in the form wherein thou didst bestow thy boon on Kalidasa — by whose grace the Raghuvamsa, the Kumarasambhava, the Meghaduta, and Shakuntala came into being; in whose nature Valmiki composed the Ramayana, Bhavabhuti the Uttararacharita, Bharavi the Kiratarjuniya — in that form, I pray thee, do not mount my shoulders and oppress me. But in that form wherein Shriharsha conceived the Naishadha; by whose favour Bharatchandra described the matchless beauty of Vidya and enchanted the whole of Bengal; by whose grace Dasarathi Ray was born; in that form wherein thou dost illuminate Battala even to this day — in that very form appear upon my shoulders but once, and I shall describe the beauty of Ashmani.

The beauty of Ashmani's braided tress surpassed the serpent's. Whereupon the serpent reflected within himself: "If I am thus vanquished by a braid of hair, what need is there to carry this body about before the world? I shall retire to my hole." So thinking, the serpent entered his hole. Brahma perceived the calamity: "The serpent has gone underground — who then shall sting mankind?" So thinking, he seized the serpent by the tail and dragged him out. The serpent, finding himself compelled once more to show his face, fell to dashing his head against the ground in vexation; and by dint of dashing and dashing, his head was flattened — which is why the serpent has had a hood from that day forth.

The face of Ashmani outshone the moon in beauty, so that the Moon-god, unable to rise, preferred a complaint before Brahma. Brahma said: "Fear not; go thou and rise — henceforth the faces of women shall be veiled." And so the veil was created. Her two eyes were as wagtails; lest the birds should spread their wings and fly away, the Creator fashioned leaflike lids to serve as the bars of a cage. Her nose was of a magnificence rivalling the beak of Garuda; whereupon Garuda, stricken with apprehension, took refuge in a tree — which is why all birds now dwell in the branches. For other reasons of their own, the pomegranate fled from Bengal and took shelter in the region of Patna; and the elephant, bearing his forehead-dome with him, escaped to Burma. There remained only Dhavalgiri; and he, reflecting that his summit was at most two and a half kos in height whereas this nose was no less than three kos, fell into such agitation that he began to pour ice upon himself to cool his head — and so he has sat with ice upon his head from that day to this.

By the ill-luck written upon her brow, Ashmani had been left a widow. Ashmani came to the cottage of Diggaj and found the door shut fast, with a lamp burning within. She called out, "Ho there, Brahmin!"

No answer.

"I say, O Gosain!"

No answer.

"Confound thee, what art thou doing? O Rasikraja Rasapadhyay, my lord!"

No answer.

Ashmani peeped through a chink in the door and perceived that the Brahmin was seated at his meal — which explained his silence, for a Brahmin may not speak whilst eating. "So he has his scruples," thought Ashmani. "Let me see whether he will speak and then go on eating."

"I say, O Rasikraja!"

No answer.

"O Rasaraja!"

An answer: "Hm."

The Brahmin was replying with his cheeks full of rice — that was hardly speech. Thinking so, Ashmani called again: "O Rasamanik!"

Answer: "Hm."

Ashmani. Come, do not speak at all — eat first, speak after.

Answer. "Hoo-oom!"

Ashmani. Well then! This is a fine way for a Brahmin — I shall tell the master of the house; who is that inside?

The Brahmin looked about the empty room in some alarm. Seeing no one, he resumed his eating.

Ashmani cried, "Ah, she is gone — low-caste woman that she is! I know her!"

Diggaj's face fell. "Who is of low caste? She has not touched the food, has she?"

Ashmani spoke again: "Oh, so thou art eating again? Thou speakest and then eatest?"

Diggaj. When did I speak?

Ashmani broke into a peal of laughter. "Why, just now thou didst!"

Diggaj. So so, so — then eating is done for.

Ashmani. Indeed it is. Get up and open the door for me.

Through the chink Ashmani watched as the Brahmin truly laid aside his meal and rose. She cried, "No, no — finish those few morsels first."

Diggaj. No, I will eat no more — I have spoken.

Ashmani. How so? If thou wilt not eat, eat my head instead.

Diggaj. Radhe Madhav! Having once spoken, can one eat again?

Ashmani. Very well then, I am going. I had much to say to thee from the heart; none of it shall be said. I am going.

Diggaj. No, no, Ashman! Do not be angry; I am eating this very moment.

The Brahmin began to eat again; and the moment he had taken two or three mouthfuls, Ashmani cried, "Enough — rise and open the door!"

Diggaj. Let me finish these few morsels.

Ashmani. That belly of thine is never full. Rise — or I shall tell them thou didst speak and eat together.

Diggaj. Ah, very well — I am rising this instant.

With a very grieved heart the Brahmin abandoned his meal, rinsed his mouth, rose, and opened the door.