Chapter Twenty Nine

Days pass. Do what thou wilt, the days shall pass and shall not abide. In whatsoever condition thou findest thyself, the days shall pass and shall not remain. O wayfarer! Hast thou been overtaken by a terrible storm and tempest? Does the thunder roll loud above thy head? Art thou drenched and overwhelmed by rain? Does the hail smite thy unshielded body? Canst thou find no shelter? Have patience for a little while — this day shall pass and shall not abide! Wait but a moment; the evil day shall give way to good, and the sun shall rise again. Endure till the morrow.

For whose days do not pass? For whom does sorrow linger, that time should stand and wait upon it? Why, then, dost thou weep?

Whose days have not passed? Tilottama lies prostrate in the dust — yet even so, her days pass on.

In Bimala's heart the dark serpent of vengeance has made its dwelling, its venom consuming her whole frame; a single moment of its sting is scarce to be endured — and how many moments are there in a single day! Yet have not her days passed on?

Katlu Khan sits upon his masnad, conqueror of his enemies, and his days pass pleasantly enough. They pass, and do not stay.

Jagatsingh lies upon a sick-bed — and who does not know how long the days seem to the bedridden? Yet those days, too, have passed!

They have passed. Day by day, health began to return to Jagatsingh. The prince, delivered at last from the very shadow of death, grew more secure with each passing day. First the heaviness of the body lifted; then appetite returned; then strength; and, last of all, the capacity for thought.

His first thought was of Tilottama. As the prince recovered his health, he questioned everyone about her with ever-increasing anxiety; but none gave him a satisfactory answer. Ayesha professed ignorance; Osman would not speak; the serving-men and women either knew nothing, or were restrained by some sign from speaking. The prince grew as restless as a man lying upon a bed of thorns.

His second thought was of his own future. "What is to become of me?" — who can answer that question when it comes thus suddenly upon one? The prince perceived that he was a captive. By the compassion of the tender-hearted Osman and Ayesha, he was lodged in a well-appointed and fragrant chamber in lieu of a gaol; servants attended upon his every want; whatever he required he received even before he had expressed the wish; Ayesha tended him with an affection surpassing that of a sister — and yet a sentinel stood at his door, and he was confined as a sweet-voiced bird is confined in a golden cage, replete with honeyed drink yet imprisoned withal. When would he obtain his freedom? What prospect of liberty remained to him? Where were his men? What had become of them, left without their commander?

His third thought was of Ayesha herself. How had this marvellous creature, this very embodiment of benevolence, descended to this earthly world?

Jagatsingh observed that Ayesha neither rested, nor suffered weariness, nor permitted herself any negligence. Day and night she tended the sick man. Each morning, so long as the prince remained unwell, he would behold her enter without sound — radiant as the morning sun, a garland of flowers in her hand, her steps graceful and deliberate. Each day he would observe that she would not quit the chamber until the hour for his bath and ablutions was long past. And when she returned shortly after, she would rise from her seat only for the most urgent necessity; nor would she cease her ministrations until her mother, the Begum, sent a handmaid to call her away.

Who has not lain upon a sick-bed? And he who has had a fair and charming woman sit beside his pillow and fan him through his illness — he alone knows that even sickness may hold its sweetness.

Reader! Dost thou desire to make the condition of Jagatsingh thine own in imagination? Then lay thyself down upon that bed, suffer in thy body the torments of disease, and remember that thou art a prisoner in the midst of enemies. Then call before thy mind that fragrant, well-furnished, and soft-lighted chamber. As thou liest upon the bed gazing towards the door, thy countenance suddenly brightens; for she who has tended thee with a sister's care in this very citadel of thy enemies is coming. And she is a woman — a young woman — a fully-opened lotus in all her bloom! So thou liest and gazest with steadfast eyes: what a form is this! Tall by the merest degree, proportioned thereunto, like a great and majestic goddess-image — like a queen appointed by nature herself to reign! Mark those graceful and deliberate steps! Thou hast heard of the gait of the royal elephant? What is that to this? Call it the walk of the swan, if thou wilt — yet look upon those footsteps; the rhythm of music is beaten out by the instrument, but the measure of those footsteps is beaten out within thy own heart. Mark the garland of flowers in that hand — hast thou seen how the blossoms grow pale before the lustre of that hand? Hast thou seen how the golden necklace loses its brilliance beside the radiance of that throat? Why dost thou not blink thine eyes? Hast thou seen that lovely inclination of the neck? Hast thou seen how upon that neck, white as marble, the dark and curling locks fall thick? Hast thou seen the ear-ornament swaying at her cheek? Hast thou marked the faint and gentle tilt of her head? That is but the consequence of her slight excess of stature. Why dost thou gaze so steadfastly? What will Ayesha think?

So long as Jagatsingh's illness required constant attention, Ayesha continued thus, engaged without intermission in his service day after day. But as the prince gradually mended, so Ayesha's visits grew gradually fewer; and when the prince's illness was wholly at an end, her comings and goings to his apartment ceased almost entirely, and she appeared only once or twice, and seldom at that. As the warmth of the noon-day sun retreats by degrees from the limbs of one who sits shivering in the cold, so Ayesha, little by little, withdrew from Jagatsingh as he returned to health.

One afternoon, Jagatsingh stood at the window of his chamber looking out beyond the walls of the fort. Many people were passing freely to and fro, going whithersoever their inclination or their business led them; and the prince, observing this, was filled with sadness as he compared their condition with his own. At one point below, several persons had gathered in a circle about some individual or object. The prince's eye was drawn to them. He perceived that the group was engaged in some entertainment, and was listening with great attention to something; but who the central figure was, or what the object, the prince could not make out. Some curiosity was roused in him. After a little while, when several of the listeners had moved away, his curiosity was satisfied. He could now see that in the midst of the circle stood a man holding several sheets of paper, strung as beads, from which he was reading aloud to those about him. The figure of this reader struck the prince as somewhat comical. One might well call him a man; but equally one might describe him as a palm-tree of middling height stripped of all its leaves by a thunderbolt — for he was very nearly as tall as he was broad. The palm-tree, however, is not generally burdened with so weighty a nose as this individual appeared to carry. In all other bearing and gesture the two were much alike; and the prince watched with considerable amusement the waving of the reader's hand and the nodding of his head as he declaimed from his pages. At this moment, Osman entered the chamber.

After the customary salutations, Osman said, "What were you gazing at so absently through the window, your Highness?"

Jagatsingh replied, "A certain specimen of upright timber. Look, and you shall see."

Osman looked, and said, "Prince, have you never seen him before?"

The prince said, "I have not."

Osman said, "He is a Brahmin of your people. Very entertaining in his talk; I had seen this fellow at Garh Mandarana."

The prince grew thoughtful within himself. He had been at Garh Mandarana? Then might this man have some tidings of Tilottama?

Full of this anxious thought, he said, "Sir, what is his name?"

Osman reflected, and replied, "His name is a rather difficult one — it does not come readily to mind. Ganapat? No; Ganapat — Gajapat — no; is it Gajapat?"

"Gajapat? That is not a name of this part of the country — and yet the man appears to be a Bengali?"

"Bengali indeed — a Bhattacharya. He has a title of some kind — elem — what was it?"

"Sir! The word elem is not used in Bengali titles. In Bengali, elem — that is, knowledge — would appear as vidya. It will be Vidyabhushana or Vidyabagish."

"Yes, yes, vidya — something — now, tell me, what is the Bengali word for an elephant?"

"Hasti."

"And others?"

"Kari, danti, barana, naga, gaja —"

"Yes, yes, I remember now; his name is Gajapati Vidyadiggaj."

"Vidyadiggaj! A remarkable title! A name and title well matched, truly. I have a great curiosity to make his acquaintance."

Osman Khan had heard a little of Gajapati's conversation, and on reflection concluded there could be no harm in it. He said, "Why not?"

The two of them repaired to the outer room near by, and sent a servant to summon Gajapati.