Chapter Twenty Seven

When, at the approach of evening, Kapalkundala had been busied with the work of the household, the letter, loosed from the knot of her hair, had fallen to the ground. Of this Kapalkundala knew nothing. Nabakumar, however, had seen it. Beholding the missive slip from her tresses, Nabakumar was astonished. When Kapalkundala passed into another part of the house upon some errand, he took up the letter and, going out, read it. From the perusal of such a letter but one conclusion was possible. "The matter thou didst wish yesterday to hear, thou shalt hear." What could it be? Some speech of love? Some Brahman-disguised paramour of Mrinmayi? To one ignorant of the events of the foregoing night, no second conclusion was possible.

When a chaste wife, that she may follow her lord, or for some other cause, mounts the pyre living and kindles the flame, first a great smoke comes and wraps her on every side; the sight is destroyed; all is darkened; thereafter, as the heaped wood little by little begins to burn, at first from below one or two tongues, like the tongue of a serpent, come up and bite the limbs here and there; then with a roar the flames come encircling from every quarter and spread over every limb; at last, with a tremendous sound, the heaped fire turns the very vault of heaven to flame, overpasses the head, and consumes all into ash.

Even so it fared with Nabakumar upon the reading of that letter. At first he could not comprehend; then came doubt; then certainty; at the last, the burning. The heart of man cannot at once receive an excess of pain or of joy; it receives little by little. First the smoke wrapped Nabakumar; then the flame began to scorch his heart; at last, in the heaped fire, his heart began to be turned to ash. Already, ere this, Nabakumar had observed that in some matters Kapalkundala had been disobedient to him. In particular, despite his prohibition, Kapalkundala went, alone and at her own will, whithersoever she pleased; she dealt with whomsoever she met as she chose; nay further, slighting his word, she would wander alone in the forest at the dead of night. Another would have grown suspicious thereat; but Nabakumar, knowing that, should suspicion of Kapalkundala once be raised in his heart, it would be as the sting of a scorpion past all healing, had never for a single day given lodging to suspicion. Even on this day he would not have given suspicion lodging; but on this day it was no longer suspicion — certitude itself had arrived.

When the first vehemence of his anguish had abated, Nabakumar sat in silence and wept long. Having wept, he grew somewhat composed. Then he became fixed in his resolve concerning what should be done. This day he would say nothing to Kapalkundala. When at evening Kapalkundala should set forth toward the forest, he would secretly follow her, would behold with his own eyes the great sin of Kapalkundala, and thereafter would lay down this life. He would speak nothing to Kapalkundala; he would slay himself. What else was he to do? — he had no strength to bear the unbearable burden of this life.

Thus resolved, in expectation of Kapalkundala's going forth he kept his eye upon the postern door. When Kapalkundala had gone out and proceeded some little distance, Nabakumar was about to go forth likewise; but at that moment Kapalkundala turned back for the letter, and, seeing this, Nabakumar drew aside. Afterwards, when Kapalkundala had once more gone out and proceeded somewhat further, Nabakumar was again about to follow, when he saw that, blocking the doorway, a tall man stood erect.

Who that person was, why he stood there, Nabakumar had no manner of desire to know. He did not so much as look upon him. He was busied only to keep his eye upon Kapalkundala. Therefore, to clear his path, he laid his hand upon the breast of the stranger and thrust him aside; yet remove him he could not.

Nabakumar said, "Who art thou? Begone — give me my path."

The stranger replied, "Who I am, dost thou not know?"

The voice struck upon his ear like the roar of the sea. Nabakumar looked, and beheld him whom of old he had known — the matted-locked Kapalik.

Nabakumar started; yet was not afraid. Upon a sudden his countenance grew bright — he said, "Doth Kapalkundala then go to meet thee?"

The Kapalik said, "No."

The lamp of hope, scarce kindled, was upon the instant quenched, and Nabakumar's face, as before, was overcast as with cloud and gloom. He said, "Then give me the path."

The Kapalik said, "I give thee the path; but I have somewhat to say to thee — hear it first."

Nabakumar said, "What hast thou to say to me? Art thou come once more to take my life? Take it; this time I will offer no hindrance. Wait thou here a while, I come. Why did I not yield my body for the appeasement of the goddess? Now have I tasted the fruit thereof. She who saved me, the same hath undone me. Kapalik, distrust me not this time. I will return forthwith and yield myself into thy hands."

The Kapalik said, "I am not come to slay thee. Such is not the will of Bhavani. That for which I am come, that shalt thou approve. Come within the house; hear thou that which I shall say."

Nabakumar said, "Not now. At another hour will I hear it; wait thou now, I have a particular need — let me accomplish it and return."

The Kapalik said, "My son! all this do I know; thou wouldst follow that wicked woman; whither she goeth, that also do I know. Thee will I take in mine own company to that place. What thou wouldst see, that shall I show thee — only now hear me. Fear thou nothing."

Nabakumar said, "Of thee I have now no fear. Come."

So saying, Nabakumar led the Kapalik within the house, gave him a seat, and seating himself, said, "Speak."