Chapter Twenty Seven

"Your Highness! I had given thee my promise that one day I would reveal to thee who I am. That hour is now come.

I had cherished the hope that I should make myself known when my Tilottama was seated upon the throne of Amber. All such hopes and expectations have been utterly uprooted. Methinks that ere long thou shalt hear tidings that there is no longer in this world any Tilottama, nor any Bimala. Our allotted span is spent.

It is for this cause that I now set pen to paper. I am a great sinner; I have done many unlawful things. When I am gone, the world will speak ill of me — what vile and filthy words will men put in their mouths — and who then shall wipe the stain of dishonour from my despised name? What friend have I that could do so?

I have one friend, but he will presently forsake the habitations of men and depart to his austerities. From Abhiram Swami no rescue can come for this handmaiden. O Prince! For one single day I had dared to hope that I might be counted among thy kinsfolk. For one single day, act thou in the part of my kinsman. But to whom do I speak even this? The ill fortune of the wretched burns like a tongue of flame — it has consumed even the friend who stood nearest to me. Yet whatsoever befall, I pray thee keep in remembrance this one petition of thy servant. When men shall say that Bimala was a loose woman, a bawd dressed in the habit of a handmaid — then say thou: Bimala was of humble birth, Bimala was ill-fated, Bimala was guilty of an hundred offences by reason of an unruly tongue; yet Bimala was no harlot. He who has now ascended to heaven — by the grace of fortune vouchsafed to Bimala — did lawfully take her hand in wedlock according to the scriptures. Not for one single day was Bimala faithless to her own lord.

These things have not been known till now — who today will believe them? Hear, then, wherefore I continued to live as a handmaid though I was in truth a wife.

In a village near the fort of Mandaran there dwelt one Shashishekhar Bhattacharya. Shashishekhar was the son of a prosperous Brahmin, and in his youth had pursued learning in the prescribed manner. But study alone does not cure the defects of nature. The Lord of the World had bestowed upon Shashishekhar every manner of virtue, yet had He planted in him one overmastering vice — the overmastering vice of youth.

In the fort of Mandaran there lived a woman bereaved of her husband, of the lineage of one of Jayadharsingh's retainers. Her beauty was not of this world. Her husband, being a soldier in the royal army, had long been absent from his home and country. That beautiful woman came within the sight of Shashishekhar's eyes, and within no great time she conceived a child by him.

Fire and sin may not long remain hidden. The ill-doing of Shashishekhar reached the ears of his father. That the dishonour wrought upon another man's household by his son might be removed, Shashishekhar's father sent urgent word and brought the husband of the expectant woman swiftly home. He rebuked his guilty son in many and bitter terms. Shashishekhar, covered with shame, fled the country.

Shashishekhar quitted his father's house and set out for the sacred city of Kashi. There, having heard of the fame and learning of a certain all-knowing Dandi scholar, he began to study under him. His intellect was exceedingly keen; he became greatly proficient in philosophy and the like, and rose to be a peerless and most distinguished master of astrology. His teacher, well pleased, continued to instruct him.

Shashishekhar lodged near the house of a Shudra woman. This woman had a young daughter newly come to womanhood. Out of devotion to a Brahmin, the girl used to prepare food and attend to the household duties in Shashishekhar's dwelling. It is meet that over the transgressions of parents a veil be drawn. What more need I say? It was in the womb of that Shudra woman's daughter, by Shashishekhar's begetting, that this ill-fated creature came into the world.

No sooner did his teacher hear of it than he said to his pupil: 'Disciple! No man given over to wickedness may continue his studies under my roof. Show thy face no more in the holy city of Kashi.'

Shashishekhar, overcome with shame, departed from Kashi.

My mother's own father drove her from the house, calling her a woman of vile conduct.

My unhappy mother lived with me in a small hut. She maintained life by the labour of her own hands; no one so much as turned to look upon her in her misery. Of my father, too, no tidings were to be had. Some years later, in the season of winter, a wealthy Pathan who was journeying from Bengal to the city of Delhi passed through Kashi. Arriving in the city late at night, he could find no lodging for the night; with him were his wife and a young child. They came near my mother's hut and begged shelter within it for the night, saying: 'This night not a soul in the Hindu quarter has given me a place to rest. Where now shall we take this child? He cannot endure the cold. I have not many people with me; there will be room enough within the hut without difficulty. I will reward thee handsomely.' In truth the Pathan was making all haste to Delhi on a matter of great urgency, and had with him only a single servant. My mother was poor, and she was also tender-hearted; whether from desire of gain or out of compassion for the child, she gave the Pathan shelter within the hut. The Pathan with his wife and child lit a lamp in one part of the hut and lay down to sleep — in the other part we lay down.

At that time the dread of child-stealers was greatly abroad in Kashi. I was then a girl of but six years, and I cannot call to mind every particular; I set down here only what I heard from my mother.

It was the dead of night; the lamp still burned. A thief broke through the wall of that thatched hut and was making off with the Pathan's child. My sleep had broken at that moment; I saw what the thief was about. As the thief made away with the child I cried out with a great voice. At my cry everyone awoke.

The Pathan's wife looked and saw that the child was not in its bed. She raised a shriek of distress at once. The thief had by then concealed himself beneath the bed with the child. The Pathan dragged him out by the hair and wrested the child from him. The thief made many entreaties and supplications, whereupon the Pathan merely cut off his ear with his sword and drove him from the house."

Having read thus far, Osman fell into thought, and said to Bimala: "Hadst thou not at some time another name?"

Bimala replied: "I had; it was a Muhammadan name, and my father changed it."

"What was that name? Mahru?"

Bimala asked in amazement: "How didst thou come to know it?"

Osman said: "I am that stolen child."

Bimala was astonished. Osman began to read once more.

"On the morning of the next day, at the hour of departure, the Pathan said to my mother: 'The service thy daughter has rendered me I am at this moment not able to repay in kind; yet tell me whatsoever thou desirest, and I, who am now on my way to Delhi, will send thee thy heart's desire from thence. If thou wouldst have money, that also I will send.'

My mother said: 'I have no need of wealth. I maintain myself in comfort by the labour of my own hands. Yet if thou hast influence with the Emperor — '

Before she had well finished speaking, the Pathan said: 'That I have in plenty. I can do thee service at the royal court.'

My mother said: 'Then cause search to be made for this child's father, and bring me word.'

The Pathan promised and took his leave. He put gold coins into my mother's hands; she would not receive them. In accordance with his promise, the Pathan set the king's officers to make search for my father. But no trace of him could be found.

Fourteen years afterwards the royal officers discovered tidings of my father and, in accordance with the order previously issued, sent word to my mother. My father was in Delhi. Shashishekhar Bhattacharya had abandoned his name and taken the name of Abhiram Swami. When this intelligence arrived, my mother had already ascended to heaven. If one whose hand was taken without the blessing of sacred rites may be said to have the right to ascend to heaven — then there can be no doubt that my mother has indeed ascended there.

When I received news of my father I could no longer remain at ease in Kashi. In all the world my father alone was left to me; if he was in Delhi, for whose sake should I stay in Kashi? With such thoughts in my mind I set out alone to find my father. At first he was displeased at my coming, but when I wept much and long he gave me leave to remain near him and tend to his needs. He changed the name Mahru and gave me the name Bimala. Dwelling in my father's house, I applied myself with due diligence to his service; whatever would give him satisfaction, that I strove to do. It was not from self-interest, nor from longing for a father's affection, that I so conducted myself; in truth, the service of my father gave me an inward joy; apart from him I had no one in the world. I used to think that there was no happiness in life to equal the service of one's father. My father, too — whether it was that he saw my devotion, or by reason of that quality which belongs to human nature itself — began to love me. Love is like a river flowing towards the sea: the more it flows, the more it grows. When the dawn of my days of happiness broke upon me, I came to know how dearly my father loved me."