Arjuna Is the warden of this country a woman?
Villagers Yes, she is our father and mother in one.
[Exeunt.
Enter CHITRA.
Chitra Why are you sitting all alone?
Arjuna I am trying to imagine what kind of woman Princess Chitra may be.
I hear so many stories of her from all sorts of men.
Chitra Ah, but she is not beautiful. She has no such lovely eyes as mine, dark as death. She can pierce any target she will, but not our hero's heart.
Arjuna They say that in valour she is a man, and a woman in tenderness.
Chitra That, indeed, is her greatest misfortune. When a woman is merely a woman; when she winds herself round and round men's hearts with her smiles and sobs and services and caressing endearments; then she is happy. Of what use to her are learning and great achievements? Could you have seen her only yesterday in the court of the Lord Shiva's temple by the forest path, you would have passed by without deigning to look at her. But have you grown so weary of woman's beauty that you seek in her for a man's strength?
With green leaves wet from the spray of the foaming waterfall, I have made our noonday bed in a cavern dark as night. There the cool of the soft green mosses thick on the black and dripping stone, kisses your eyes to sleep. Let me guide you thither.
Arjuna Not today, beloved.
Chitra Why not today?
Arjuna I have heard that a horde of robbers has neared the plains.
Needs must I go and prepare my weapons to protect the frightened villagers.
Chitra You need have no fear for them. Before she started on her pilgrimage, Princess Chitra had set strong guards at all the frontier passes.
Arjuna Yet permit me for a short while to set about a Kshatriya's work.
With new glory will I ennoble this idle arm, and make of it a pillow more worthy of your head.
Chitra What if I refuse to let you go, if I keep you entwined in my arms? Would you rudely snatch yourself free and leave me? Go then! But you must know that the liana, once broken in two, never joins again. Go, if your thirst is quenched. But, if not, then remember that the goddess of pleasure is fickle, and waits for no man. Sit for a while, my lord! Tell me what uneasy thoughts tease you. Who occupied your mind today? Is it Chitra?
Arjuna Yes, it is Chitra. I wonder in fulfilment of what vow she has gone on her pilgrimage. Of what could she stand in need?
Chitra Her needs? Why, what has she ever had, the unfortunate creature?
Her very qualities are as prison walls, shutting her woman's heart in a bare cell. She is obscured, she is unfulfilled. Her womanly love must content itself dressed in rags; beauty is denied her. She is like the spirit of a cheerless morning, sitting upon the stony mountain peak, all her light blotted out by dark clouds. Do not ask me of her life. It will never sound sweet to man's ear.
Arjuna I am eager to learn all about her. I am like a traveller come to a strange city at midnight. Domes and towers and garden-trees look vague and shadowy, and the dull moan of the sea comes fitfully through the silence of sleep. Wistfully he waits for the morning to reveal to him all the strange wonders. Oh, tell me her story.
Chitra What more is there to tell?
Arjuna I seem to see her, in my mind's eye, riding on a white horse, proudly holding the reins in her left hand, and in her right a bow, and like the Goddess of Victory dispensing glad hope all round her. Like a watchful lioness she protects the litter at her dugs with a fierce love. Woman's arms, though adorned with naught but unfettered strength, are beautiful! My heart is restless, fair one, like a serpent reviving from his long winter's sleep. Come, let us both race on swift horses side by side, like twin orbs of light sweeping through space. Out from this slumbrous prison of green gloom, this dank, dense cover of perfumed intoxication, choking breath.
Chitra Arjuna, tell me true, if, now at once, by some magic I could shake myself free from this voluptuous softness, this timid bloom of beauty shrinking from the rude and healthy touch of the world, and fling it from my body like borrowed clothes, would you be able to bear it? If I stand up straight and strong with the strength of a daring heart spurning the wiles and arts of twining weakness, if I hold my head high like a tall young mountain fir, no longer trailing in the dust like a liana, shall I then appeal to man's eye? No, no, you could not endure it. It is better that I should keep spread about me all the dainty playthings of fugitive youth, and wait for you in patience. When it pleases you to return, I will smilingly pour out for you the wine of pleasure in the cup of this beauteous body. When you are tired and satiated with this wine, you can go to work or play; and when I grow old I will accept humbly and gratefully whatever corner is left for me. Would it please your heroic soul if the playmate of the night aspired to be the helpmeet of the day, if the left arm learnt to share the burden of the proud right arm?
Arjuna I never seem to know you aright. You seem to me like a goddess hidden within a golden image. I cannot touch you, I cannot pay you my dues in return for your priceless gifts. Thus my love is incomplete. Sometimes in the enigmatic depth of your sad look, in your playful words mocking at their own meaning, I gain glimpses of a being trying to rend asunder the languorous grace of her body, to emerge in a chaste fire of pain through a vaporous veil of smiles. Illusion is the first appearance of Truth. She advances towards her lover in disguise. But a time comes when she throws off her ornaments and veils and stands clothed in naked dignity. I grope for that ultimate you, that bare simplicity of truth.
Why these tears, my love? Why cover your face with your hands?
Have I pained you, my darling? Forget what I said. I will be content with the present. Let each separate moment of beauty come to me like a bird of mystery from its unseen nest in the dark bearing a message of music. Let me for ever sit with my hope on the brink of its realization, and thus end my days.
SCENE IX.
CHITRA and ARJUNA Chitra [cloaked]
My lord, has the cup been drained to the last drop? Is this, indeed, the end? No, when all is done something still remains, and that is my last sacrifice at your feet.
I brought from the garden of heaven flowers of incomparable beauty with which to worship you, god of my heart. If the rites are over, if the flowers have faded, let me throw them out of the temple [unveiling in her original male attire]. Now, look at your worshipper with gracious eyes.
I am not beautifully perfect as the flowers with which I worshipped. I have many flaws and blemishes. I am a traveller in the great world-path, my garments are dirty, and my feet are bleeding with thorns. Where should I achieve flower-beauty, the unsullied loveliness of a moment's life? The gift that I proudly bring you is the heart of a woman. Here have all pains and joys gathered, the hopes and fears and shames of a daughter of the dust; here love springs up struggling toward immortal life. Herein lies an imperfection which yet is noble and grand. If the flower-service is finished, my master, accept this as your servant for the days to come!
I am Chitra, the king's daughter. Perhaps you will remember the day when a woman came to you in the temple of Shiva, her body loaded with ornaments and finery. That shameless woman came to court you as though she were a man. You rejected her; you did well. My lord, I am that woman. She was my disguise. Then by the boon of gods I obtained for a year the most radiant form that a mortal ever wore, and wearied my hero's heart with the burden of that deceit. Most surely I am not that woman.
I am Chitra. No goddess to be worshipped, nor yet the object of common pity to be brushed aside like a moth with indifference. If you deign to keep me by your side in the path of danger and daring, if you allow me to share the great duties of your life, then you will know my true self. If your babe, whom I am nourishing in my womb be born a son, I shall myself teach him to be a second Arjuna, and send him to you when the time comes, and then at last you will truly know me. Today I can only offer you Chitra, the daughter of a king.
Arjuna Beloved, my life is full.
MASHI.
i 'Mashi!'
'Try to sleep, Jotin, it is getting late.'
'Never mind if it is. I have not many days left. I was thinking that Mani should go to her father's house.-I forget where he is now.'
'Sitarampur.'
'Oh yes! Sitarampur. Send her there. She should not remain any longer near a sick man. She herself is not strong.'
'Just listen to him! How can she bear to leave you in this state?'
'Does she know what the doctors--?'
'But she can see for herself! The other day she cried her eyes out at the merest hint of having to go to her father's house.'
We must explain that in this statement there was a slight distortion of truth, to say the least of it. The actual talk with Mani was as follows:- 'I suppose, my child, you have got some news from your father? I thought I saw your cousin Anath here.'
'Yes! Next Friday will be my little sister's annaprashan ceremony. So I'm thinking--'
'All right, my dear. Send her a gold necklace. It will please your mother.'
'I'm thinking of going myself. I've never seen my little sister, and I want to ever so much.'
'Whatever do you mean? You surely don't think of leaving Jotin alone? Haven't you heard what the doctor says about him?'
'But he said that just now there's no special cause for--'
'Even if he did, you can see his state.'
'This is the first girl after three brothers, and she's a great favourite.-I have heard that it's going to be a grand affair. If I don't go, mother will be very--'
'Yes, yes! I don't understand your mother. But I know very well that your father will be angry enough if you leave Jotin just now.'
'You'll have to write a line to him saying that there is no special cause for anxiety, and that even if I go, there will be no--'
'You're right there; it will certainly be no great loss if you do go. But remember, if I write to your father, I'll tell him plainly what is in my mind.'
'Then you needn't write. I shall ask my husband, and he will surely--'
'Look here, child, I've borne a good deal from you, but if you do that, I won't stand it for a moment. Your father knows you too well for you to deceive him.'
When Mashi had left her, Mani lay down on her bed in a bad temper.
Her neighbour and friend came and asked what was the matter.
'Look here! What a shame it is! Here's my only sister's annaprashan coming, and they don't want to let me go to it!'
'Why! Surely you're never thinking of going, are you, with your husband so ill?'
'I don't do anything for him, and I couldn't if I tried. It's so deadly dull in this house, that I tell you frankly I can't bear it.'
'You are a strange woman!'
'But I can't pretend, as you people do, and look glum lest any one should think ill of me.'
'Well, tell me your plan.'
'I must go. Nobody can prevent me.'
'Isss! What an imperious young woman you are!'
ii Hearing that Mani had wept at the mere thought of going to her father's house, Jotin was so excited that he sat up in bed. Pulling his pillow towards him, he leaned back, and said: 'Mashi, open this window a little, and take that lamp away.'
The still night stood silently at the window like a pilgrim of eternity; and the stars gazed in, witnesses through untold ages of countless death-scenes.
Jotin saw his Mani's face traced on the background of the dark night, and saw those two big dark eyes brimming over with tears, as it were for all eternity.
Mashi felt relieved when she saw him so quiet, thinking he was asleep.
Suddenly he started up, and said: 'Mashi, you all thought that Mani was too frivolous ever to be happy in our house. But you see now--'
'Yes, I see now, my Baba, I was mistaken-but trial tests a person.'
'Mashi!'
'Do try to sleep, dear!'
'Let me think a little, let me talk. Don't be vexed, Mashi!'
'Very well.'
'Once, when I used to think I could not win Mani's heart, I bore it silently. But you--'
'No, dear, I won't allow you to say that; I also bore it.'
'Our minds, you know, are not clods of earth which you can possess by merely picking up. I felt that Mani did not know her own mind, and that one day at some great shock--'
'Yes, Jotin, you are right.'
'Therefore I never took much notice of her waywardness.'
Mashi remained silent, suppressing a sigh. Not once, but often she had seen Jotin spending the night on the verandah wet with the splashing rain, yet not caring to go into his bedroom. Many a day he lay with a throbbing head, longing, she knew, that Mani would come and soothe his brow, while Mani was getting ready to go to the theatre. Yet when Mashi went to fan him, he sent her away petulantly. She alone knew what pain lay hidden in that distress. Again and again she had wanted to say to Jotin: 'Don't pay so much attention to that silly child, my dear; let her learn to want,-to cry for things.' But these things cannot be said, and are apt to be misunderstood. Jotin had in his heart a shrine set up to the goddess Woman, and there Mani had her throne. It was hard for him to imagine that his own fate was to be denied his share of the wine of love poured out by that divinity. Therefore the worship went on, the sacrifice was offered, and the hope of a boon never ceased.
Mashi imagined once more that Jotin was sleeping, when he cried out suddenly: 'I know you thought that I was not happy with Mani, and therefore you were angry with her. But, Mashi, happiness is like those stars. They don't cover all the darkness; there are gaps between. We make mistakes in life and we misunderstand, and yet there remain gaps through which truth shines. I do not know whence comes this gladness that fills my heart to-night.'
Mashi began gently to soothe Jotin's brow, her tears unseen in the dark.
'I was thinking, Mashi, she's so young! What will she do when I am--?'
'Young, Jotin? She's old enough. I too was young when I lost the idol of my life, only to find him in my heart for ever. Was that any loss, do you think? Besides, is happiness absolutely necessary?'
'Mashi, it seems as if just when Mani's heart shows signs of awakening I have to--'
'Don't you worry about that, Jotin. Isn't it enough if her heart awakes?'
Suddenly Jotin recollected the words of a village minstrel's song which he had heard long before: O my heart! you woke not when the man of my heart came to my door.
At the sound of his departing steps you woke up.
Oh, you woke up in the dark!
'Mashi, what is the time now?'
'About nine.'
'So early as that! Why, I thought it must be at least two or three o'clock. My midnight, you know, begins at sundown. But why did you want me to sleep, then?'
'Why, you know how late last night you kept awake talking; so to-day you must get to sleep early.'
'Is Mani asleep?'
'Oh no, she's busy making some soup for you.'