Chandra Shekhar

Front matter

Printed at THE CHERRY PRESS : 3, Humayoon Place, Chowringhee, Calcutta.

Preface

The 27th June of the year 1838 is a red-letter day in the history of Bengal. It shall ever be remembered, with pride and glory, by the millions of the Bengali-speaking race, as the birthday of that master-mind—that great literary genius—the late Rai Bahadur Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, C.I.E., the immortal author of the well-known novel, Chandra Shekhar. The year 1874 will also not be forgotten, and will, by all means, leave an imperishable landmark in the annals of the Bengali literature; for, it was in that year that Chandra Shekhar with all its literary beauty and elegance—rich thoughts and sentiments—and above all, with its masterly finished pictures and characters, was contributed to the world's treasure of literature by the great man whose stamp of genius it bears.

Introduction, Chapter I

CHANDRA SHEKHAR

Introduction

Chandra Shekhar

CHAPTER I

the boy and the girl

ON the bank of the Ganges, there was seated a boy under the green mantles of the mango groves, enjoying the evening melody of the flowing Bhagirathi.* Under his feet lay, on the green bed of grass, a little girl, casting upon his face her lingering glances—silent and motionless. She was gazing untiringly, and turning for a while her eyes towards the sky overhead, the river below, and the trees around, again fixed them upon that face. The name of the boy was Pratap—that of the girl, Shaibalini. Shaibalini was then only a girl of seven or eight—Pratap had scarcely stepped into youth.

Overhead, the Papia, in its airy flight, filled the sky with waves of music and smoothly glided off. Shaibalini, in imitation, began to thrill, with her whistles, the mango groves that adorned the bank of the Ganges. The murmuring melody of the river mingled with that mock music in perfect harmony.

The girl with her little soft hand plucked some equally soft wild flowers, and making with them a garland, embellished the boy with it. Taking it off, she coiled it round her own braid and again put it on the neck of the boy. She could not decide which of them should wear it. At last she got over the difficulty by throwing it round the horns of a plump, nice-looking cow grazing near by. So it happened with them often. Sometimes the boy, in return for the garland, used to bring down for her from the nest of birds their little ones, and in mango season he would give her sweet mangoes ripe for relish.

When the stars appeared in the serene sky of the evening, they began to count them. "Who has seen first?" "Which has first appeared?" "How many do you see?"—"Only four? I see five. There is one, there is another, again there is one, again there is another and lastly mark that." It is a lie. Shaibalini does not see more than three.

"Let us count the boats. Can you say how fi

many boats are passing?"—"Only sixteen? Let us bet, I say there are eighteen." Shaibalini did not know to count. Once counting she found nine—counting again she came up to twenty-one. Turning from this, they next fixed their eyes upon a particular boat. "Who is in that boat—whence it came—whither it goes? How glittering is the gold in the waters on the oars!"

Introduction, Chapter II

CHAPTER II

the drowned and the runaway

IN this way love's first seed was sown in them. Call it love or give it any other name, it matters not. Only sixteen springs have smiled upon our hero and our heroine is a tiny girl of eight! But no love is so sweet as that which springs from tender hearts.

Early love, it seems, has a curse upon it. How many of those whom you loved in your younger days, you meet in your youth? How many do live to see your youthful days? How many, again, still deserve your love? In old age nothing but the recollection of early love lingers in our memory. But how sweet is that recollection! Every boy, without exception, feels, sometime or other, that yonder girl has an exceptionally sweet face, and that her eyes have some unspeakable charms in them. How often he turns away from his play and looks at her face—how often he lies in wait, in her way, to steal a glance at her. He is never conscious of the feeling, but nevertheless he loves her. Later on, that sweet face and that simple glance are carried away by the current of time—he goes about the world for her, but finds nothing but recollection! Early love, it seems, is cursed.

Shaibalini thought she would be married to Pratap. But Pratap knew, it was not to be. Shaibalini was the daughter of one of Pratap's kindreds. The relation was, no doubt, distant, but still they had the same blood in them. This was Shaibalini's first mistake.

Shaibalini was a poor man's daughter. She had none but her mother. They had nothing but a cottage and Shaibalini's immense beauty. Pratap too was very poor.

Shaibalini was growing in years. Her beauty was every day increasing like the new moon, till she reached the height of her glory; but she could not be married. Marriage meant expense, and who would bear it? Who would discover, and pick up, as priceless, that beauty in that wilderness?

Gradually with her years, Shaibalini grew wiser. She felt that without Pratap there was no happiness in this world. She realised that she had no chance of getting Pratap in this life as her husband.

Pratap and Saibalini began to consult with each other. They consulted for many days. But none else could know of it, as they did everything in secret. When they came to a decision, they went together for a bath in the Ganges. Many had been swimming in the river then. Pratap said, "Come Shaibalini, let us swim." They began to swim. Both of them were experts in that art—no one in the village could swim so well as they. It was the rainy season, and the river was full and swollen to the very edge of its banks. Its waters were waving, dancing, and running with mad enthusiasm. They proceeded through that vast sheet of water, tearing its surface, stirring its bosom, and throwing its particles up in the air. In the floating circles of silvery foams, the beautiful young couple looked like a pair of bright jewels set in a silver ring.

When they had gone far away, the people at the Ghat* shouted and asked them to come back. They would not listen, and proceeded on. Again the people shouted—they called them—they reproached them—they rebuked them, but neither of them would listen—they proceeded on and on. At last they came to a great distance; Pratap then cried, "Shaibalini, this is our marriage." "No further—let this be the place," responded Shaibalini readily, with warmth.

Pratap sank into the water to drown himself. Shaibalini did not. Fear came upon her at that moment. She thought within herself, "Why should I die? What is Pratap to me? I fear death—my heart fails—I cannot court it." Shaibalini turned back, and swam up to the land.

Introduction, Chapter III

CHAPTER III

a bridegroom at last

A boat was passing close to the spot where Pratap sank to drown himself. Some one in the boat saw Pratap going down, and jumped into the water to his rescue. The man in the boat was Chandra Shekhar Sharma.

Chandra Shekhar taking hold of Pratap, swam back to the boat, and got him on it. He took his boat to the Ghat, landed with Pratap, and took him to his house. Chandra Shekhar was detained there by Pratap's mother. She fell at his feet and prevailed on him to be her guest that day. Chandra Shekhar, however, remained ignorant of the secrets of Pratap's attempt at suicide.

Shaibalini could not think of appearing before Pratap again. But Chandra Shekhar saw her and was charmed. Chandra Shekhar was not in easy circumstances at the time. He had passed his thirty-second year. He had domestic concerns but had no attraction for this world. He was still a bachelor, and knowing the changes that marriage brings in to be unfavourable to the ac of knowledge, he looked upon it with indifference. But lately, a little over a year, his mother had died, and he had already begun to feel that his bachelor life itself was a hinderance. In the first place, he had to cook his food himself, and that took away much of his time—hampered his studies, and his works as a teacher of youths. Secondly, he had a Shalgram* in his house, whom he worshipped every day. Everything in that connection he had to do himself, and that again, required time. The services of the deity could not be performed without hitches. His household affairs suffered in consequence, yea, it happened sometimes that he could not even get his meals ready. He often missed his books and could not find them out. He often forgot where he kept his money or whom he paid. His income could not cover his expenses, although his wants were very few and small. Chandra Shekhar thought his condition would improve, in some respects, if he would marry.

But he resolved that if he would marry at all, he would not marry a beautiful girl; for his mind might become captivated by the charms of a beautiful wife. He would not be entangled in the networks of the world.

When Chandra Shekhar was in this mood of mind, he saw Shaibalini. The ascetic's determination gave way before her beauty. After much reflection and some hesitation, he at last married Shaibalini, himself acting as a match-maker. Who is not captivated by the fascinating influence of beauty?

Our story begins some eight years after this marriage took place.

Part I, Chapter I

CHANDRA SHEKHAR

Part I

CHANDRA SHEKHAR

CHAPTER I

dalani begum

THE ruler of Bengal, Behar and Orissa, Nawab Alija Mir Kasim Khan was then residing in the Monghyr Castle. Within the castle, in the seraglio, was the Rangamahal,* a part of which was looking exceptionally grand and beautiful. It was still the first part of night. Within the royal apartment, there lay stretched, on the beautifully painted floor, an exceedingly soft piece of carpet. A silver lamp, with fragrant oil, was burning there. The chamber was filled with the fragrance of sweet-scented flowers. Resting her little head on a soft silk pillow, there was lying, on a bed, a young lady of small size and girl-like appearance, reading, with careful study, the difficult texts of the Gulesthan.* She was seventeen, but her short-built frame made her look like a pretty little girl. She was reading the Gulesthan, but at times rose from her study and looked around, muttering within herself a world of things. Sometimes she asked herself, "How is it that he is not yet come?" And the next moment, "Why should he? I am only one of his thousand devoted slaves, why should he come all this distance for me?" She again took to her book. But reading a little, she stopped and said, "I cannot enjoy. Well, he may not come but he can send for me. But why should he think of me at all? I am but one of his thousand devoted slaves." She again began to read the Gulesthan, but again closed it, and said, "After all, why God's ways are such? Why does one wait and wait for another, with lingering looks? If that be the will of God, how is it that people do not long for one who is obtainable in life and crave for another who cannot be had? I am a creeper and why do I long to climb the oak?" Then, laying aside the book, she rose up. Her thick curls, which looked like so many flowing snakes, began to swing from her little head, which had a faultless make—the bright golden scarf on her body, which filled the air with sweet fragrance, also began to swing, and a wave of beauty rose in the chamber, as it were, with the very movement of her body, like ripples caused at the slightest agitation in deep waters.

Now, the fair lady took up a little harp, and with a sweet gentle voice began to sing softly, as if she was afraid of listeners. Just then, she heard the greetings of the waiting guards and the footsteps of the Tanjam* carriers. The girl got startled. She walked up to the entrance in great hurry, and found the Nawab's Tanjam there. Nawab Mir Kasim Ali Khan alighted from the Tanjam, and entered into the chamber. "Dalani Bibi, what were you singing just now?" inquired the Nawab pleasantly, as he took his seat. The name of the young lady was probably Doulatunnissa. The Nawab used to call her Dalani, perhaps, to abbreviate her name. So, every one in the palace called her Dalani Bibi or Dalani Begum. Dalani, out of bashfulness, remained silent with downcast eyes. To her misfortune the Nawab said, "Just sing again what you had been singing. I would like to hear it." Now, everything was upset—the strings of the harp became rebellious—nothing could set them in proper tune. She laid aside the harp and took up a violin. The violin again, it seemed, could not be tuned. The Nawab said, "That will do, you just sing with it." At this, Dalani came to suspect that the Nawab thought she had no good sense of music. Then again, Dalani could not open her lips. She attempted several times, but nothing could make them obey her—they remained closed in spite of all efforts. They quivered—they trembled—but, after all, they remained closed. Like the petals of a lily in a cloudy day, they seemed to open but remained closed. Like, a timid poet's verses, or the choked voice of love of a woman, silent in piqued pride, her song seemed to come out but died in her lips.

Then, all on a sudden, Dalani laid aside the harp, and said, "I won't sing."

"What is the matter? Are you displeased with me?" inquired the Nawab in surprise.

Dalani. I shall never again sing in your presence, unless you get for me one of those musical instruments, which Englishmen, in Calcutta, use when they sing.

"I shall certainly give you one, if nothing stands in the way," said Mir Kasim smiling.

Dalani. Why? What would prevent it?

"I am afraid we may fall in a quarrel with the English," observed the Nawab in a sad tone, "why, have you not heard of it?"

"Yes, I have," she replied, and then was silent.

Mir Kasim. What are you thinking of so exclusively, Dalani?

Dalani. You once told me that any one who would quarrel with the English would surely come to grief—why should you then fight with them yourself? I am a girl, your devoted wife—it is impertinence on my part to speak in a matter like this, but I have a right to say—you are kind to me, you love me.

Mir Kasim. It is true, indeed, I love you, Dalani. I never loved nor ever thought of loving a woman so dearly.

Dalani's hairs stood up on their ends. She remained silent for a long time—tears came into her eyes, wiping them away, she said, "If you are sure that whoever would go to fight with the English must be defeated, why are you then preparing for a war against them?" Mir Kasim, in a comparatively low voice, replied, "I have no other alternative. I know you are my own, so I say, in your presence, that I know it for certain that in this struggle I shall lose my kingdom, yea, it may be, even my life. Why should I then go for this war at all? Because, the actions of the English go to show that they are the real masters of the country—I am a ruler in name only. What shall I do with that kingdom where I am not the king? Nor is that all. The English say, 'We are the rulers but you shall oppress the people, in our interest.' Why should I do that? If I cannot govern my kingdom for the good of my people, I shall gladly give it up—why should I, for nothing, share in the burden of sin and disgrace? I am neither Seerajuddaulla nor Mirjafar."

Dalani highly admired in her mind the ruler of Bengal. She said, "My lord, what shall I say to what has fallen from your lips? But I have a favour to ask of you. You must not go to the battle-field yourself."

Mir Kasim. Is it proper that the Nawab of Bengal should listen to the counsel of a girl in a matter like this, or is it pertinent for her to thrust her counsel in so serious an affair?

Dalani was put out of countenance—she was mortified, and said, "Excuse me, I have spoken foolishly. A woman has little self-control and that is why I said all these. But I have another prayer."

"What is it?"

"Would you take me to the field along with you?"

"Why? Do you mean to fight yourself? Tell me, I would then dismiss Gurgan Khan and appoint you instead.

Dalani was again put to the blush, and this time she could not speak. "Why do you like to accompany me," inquired Mir Kasim in an affectionate tone.

"Because I shall be with you," replied Dalani suavely, with a charming earnestness.

Mir Kasim declined. Nothing could persuade him to accede to her wishes. Dalani then said, with a gentle smile, "My lord! you know to read the future, pray see, where shall I be during the war?"

"Very well, let me have pen and ink," said Mir Kasim with a smile.

The attending maid, being asked by Dalani, brought in the golden case of pen and ink.

Mir Kasim had learnt astrology from the Hindus. As instructed, he put down some figures, and began to calculate. After a while, he threw away the paper from his hand and became sad. "What is the result of your calculation?" inquired Dalani anxiously.

"What I see is very strange. You should not hear it," answered Mir Kasim with a melancholy voice.

The Nawab immediately came out, and calling the Mir Munshi* before him, said, "Issue orders to a Hindu officer, at Murshidabad, to send here Chandra Shekhar, a learned Brahmin, who taught me astrology. He lives at Bedagram, a place very close to Murshidabad. He should be summoned here to calculate where would Dalani Begum be, at the time of, and after, the war with the English, if it breaks out at all."

The Mir Munshi, as ordered, sent for Chandra Shekhar, at Murshidabad.

Part I, Chapter II

CHAPTER II

the bhima tank

ON the four sides of the large tank Bhima, there were thick rows of palm trees. The golden rays of the setting sun had fallen on the black waters of the tank, and on its dark bosom were painted the dark shadows of the palm trees, with the sun-shine between them. By the side of a ghat, a small group of shrubby plants, closely knitted together by clustering creepers, served to screen the bashful beauties, playing merry pranks in the water, with their out-stretched boughs. Under the covered shade of that grove, Shaibalini and Sundari, with brass pails in their hands, were in frolic and play with the water.

What does a play between water and a young woman mean? We do not understand it. He, whose heart beauty has melted into water, can alone say what it is. He alone can say how water, being stirred by the pail, breaks into ripples and dances, in perfect harmony, with the melodious music of the ringing ornaments in a woman's hands. He alone can say how it, embellishing her bosom with a garland of its bubbles, dances in that musical concord. He alone can say how it, rocking the playful swimming little bird on its surface, dances in accompaniment to that ringing music. He alone can say how it, raising its little curling waves, leaps and frisks about her hands, her neck, her shoulders and breast, well-regulated by that melodious tune—again, how the sportive beauty in her turn, floating her pail on the surface of the water, entrusting it to the care of the gentle breeze, dips herself in the water up to the chin, touches it with her purple lips, takes it within her little mouth, and sends it up in the air towards the sun—the water while falling down presents her with a hundred sun, in all its glittering particles. At the very movement of her limbs the water dances and shoots up in silvery fountains. Her heart at the same time dances with the waving ripples of the water. Both are of the same nature! Water is fickle and so also the all-captivating heart of women. Water takes no impression, does a young woman's heart take?

The golden rays of the evening sun gradually faded away in the black waters of the tank, and in a moment everything became dark. Only the top of the palm trees began to scintillate like golden flags.

Sundari cried out, "Well, it is getting late. We should not be here any longer. Let us go home."

Shaibalini. No one is here to listen to us, just softly sing a song, dear.

Sundari. Stop, thou naughty creature; come home.

Shaibalini then playfully uttered the first few lines of a Bengali love song—

"To home I won't return, My love, look, here he comes; To home I won't return."

Sundari. What a curse it is! Your love is at home, better go there.

Shaibalini. Go and tell him that his sweet-love, finding the waters of the Bhima delightfully cool, has drowned herself in it.

Sundari. Enough, keep your joke aside. It is getting late, I can't wait any longer. Besides, Khemi's mother was telling us that a whiteman has come in our village!

Shaibalini. What need you and I fear in that?

Sundari. Oh, you surprise me! get up or I am off.

Shaibalini. I won't, you better go.

Sundari, in anger, filled her pail and got up on the bank. Turning towards Shaibalini, she again said, "I say, do you really mean to keep here alone, at this late hour?" Shaibalini did not answer, she only pointed out something with her finger. Sundari turned her eyes in that direction—on the other side of the tank, under a palm tree, oh, horrible! Sundari, without uttering a single word, threw down her pail and ran away breathless. The brass pail rolled down the slope, vomiting forth the water within it with a gurgling sound, and entered into the waters of the tank. Sundari had seen a whiteman under the palm tree.

Shaibalini, however, stood firm—she did not get up—she only dipped herself into the water up to her breast, and covering with the wet cloth her braid and only a portion of her head, she remained there like a smiling lily floating on water. A constant flash of lightning smiled in the dark clouds—a golden lily bloomed in the dark ripples of the Bhima.

The Englishman now finding Shaibalini alone, stealthily came up very close to the ghat fi

under the cover of the palm trees. The man was indeed young by appearance. He did not wear a beard or a moustache. His hairs were rather black and his eyes rather dark for an Englishman. He was very gaudily dressed, and there was indeed a good exhibition of chain, ring and other like decorations.

He slowly came up to the ghat, and drawing near the water, said, "I come again, fair lady."

Shaibalini. I don't understand your jargon.

Foster. Oh-ay that nasty gibberish—I must speak it, I suppose. Ham again ayahaya (I come again).

Shaibalini. Why? Is this the way to Yama's* gate?

The Englishman failing to understand her asked, "Keya bolta haya?" (What do you say, lady?)

Shaibalini. I say, has Yama forgotten you?

Foster. Yama! John you mean? I am not John, I am Lawrence.

Shaibalini. It is good after all, I have learnt an English word.—Lawrence means monkey.

In that late hour of the evening, Lawrence Foster thus ridiculed by Shaibalini returned to his own place.

Descending the mounds of the tank, Lawrence Foster untied his horse from the mango tree and rode away, singing lowly the song, he once heard with its echoes from the resounding hills on the banks of the Teviot. At times, he spoke within himself, "The fascination of the snow-white Mary Foster, in which I lost myself in my younger days, is now but a dream. Does change come in the taste of a man, when he comes to live in another land? Is the snow-white Mary to be favourably compared with the flaming beauty of the tropics? I cannot decide."

When Foster left, Shaibalini gently filled her pail and with it she slowly returned home, like the gliding clouds on the back of the gentle breeze of spring. Putting the pail in the proper place, she entered into the bedroom.

In that room, Shaibalini's husband, Chandra Shekhar, sitting on a small piece of blanket stretched on the floor, and having tied, for close attention, both of his thighs with the waist, by a rag painted with sacred symbols, was reading old manuscripts, in the light of the earthen lamp before him. A hundred years have passed since the time of which we are speaking. Chandra Shekhar was then about forty years of age. He was tall in stature, and his body was proportionately stout. He had a large head, with a broad forehead, which was anointed with Chandan.*

While entering the bedroom, Shaibalini thought what she would say to her husband when he would inquire the cause of her returning so late. Chandra Shekhar, however, did not say a word when she entered into the room. He was then busily engaged in making out the sense of a particular text of the Brahmasutras.*

Now, Shaibalini burst into laughter. It was then that Chandra Shekhar looked up, and asked, "Why is the flash of beauty so untimely to-day?"

Shaibalini. I thought you would chide me in anger.

Chandra Shekhar. Why?

Shaibalini. Because I am late in returning from the ghat.

Chandra Shekhar. Oh, I see! You are just come! Why so late?

Shaibalini. An Englishman had come to the ghat. Your cousin Sundari was on the bank at the time and she ran away leaving me alone. I was in the water and could not come up for fear. I went further down and stood motionless where the water reached my neck. I could not get up and come home till the man had left."

"Don't come again," he said in abstraction and again fixed his mind on Shankar's* Commentary.

Night advanced far. Even then, Chandra Shekhar was absorbed in the discussion of Prama,* Maya,* Sphota* and Apaurusheyatya.* Shaibalini was sleeping soundly on a bed, in one corner of the room, after she had kept, as usual, her husband's dishes close by him and had taken her own meals. She had Chandra Shekhar's permission to do so every day; for he used to study far in the night and could not take his meals early and retire.

All on a sudden, the hoarse voice of an owl came from the roof of the house. Chandra Shekhar perceiving that the night had far advanced closed his book and putting it in the proper place, stood up to shake off his drowsiness. His eyes fell upon the beauty of nature which smiled in the moonlight, beyond the open window of his room. The radiant beams of the moon had fallen on the beautiful face of the sleeping Shaibalini. Chandra Shekhar with a delightful heart saw that smiling face and thought, a lily had bloomed on the waters of a pond, in the radiance of the glorious moon. Standing there motionless, he gazed untiringly—his eyes beaming with joy—at Shaibalini's faultless face. Under her dark brows, which were as beautiful as a pair of most artistically painted bows, he saw her beautiful closed eyes, resembling two lilies with folded petals. He saw beautiful fine lines on her thin eyelids, as are seen on the leaf of a tree. He saw that her soft little palm was placed upon her cheek in the unconsciousness of sleep—it appeared, as if, some one had scattered flowers upon flowers. Her beautiful set of pearl-like teeth could be slightly seen between her sweet rosy lips, which had parted a little under the pressure of the hand over her cheek. The sleeping Shaibalini smiled, perhaps, in a pleasant dream—it appeared, as if, there was a flash in the silvery sky of a moonlit night. Her face again became placid in deep slumber. The serene but smiling face of that young lady of twenty, which did not seem to be ruffled by passion, brought tears in Chandra Shekhar's eyes. He thought within himself, "Alas! why have I married Shaibalini? This jewel would adorn the crown of a king—why have I brought it in the cottage of a poor Brahmin, who is always busy with his books? No doubt, she has brought to me happiness with her, but what is that to Shaibalini? My age renders it impossible for her to love me—nor can my love quench the thirst of her yearning heart. Particularly, I am always busy with my books and when do I care for Shaibalini's happiness? What pleasure so young a lady can have in taking care of my books? I selfishly looked to my own happiness and that is why I could think of marrying her. What shall I do now? Shall I throw into water all the books, which I have collected with great pains and make the lily-like face of a woman as my life's sole object of adoration? Oh shame! I cannot do that. Will then poor Shaibalini undergo a penance for my sins? Ah me, did I pluck this beautiful flower, from its stalk, only to see it wither in the fire of unsatiated passions?"