1 ↑ The Indian sparrow-hawk, a song—bird, with a shrill, crescendo note.
Chapter II :- Who could Sink and Who could not
CHAPTER II.
WHO COULD SINK AND WHO COULD NOT.
THUS affection came into being. Call it love or not, just as you fancy. A lover of sixteen, a sweetheart of eight; but in any case no one knows to love like children.
I believe there is a curse on the love of childhood. How few of those whom you have loved in childhood you come across in youth, how few of them live so long, and how few remain worthy of your love! In old age, the memory only of the love of childhood is left; the rest all vanish, but how sweet is that memory!
Every boy must have been impressed some time or other with the face of some girl as particularly sweet—there is some transcendent charm in her eyes. How often did he pause in his play and look up at her face, how frequently did he stand perdu in her path to have a peep at her. Then that sweet face, that frank gaze—all, all have been swept away in the onrush of time, no one knows whither. We search the whole world to find it again—only the memory of it is left. There is a curse on the love of childhood.
Shaibalini was under the impression that she would be married to Protap. Protap knew it was not to be so. She was the daughter of an agnate; the relationship was distant, but yet an agnate. This was the first error in Shaibalini’s reckoning.
Then Shaibalini was the daughter of poor parents. She had no relation alive excepting her mother. They had nothing to call their own save a hut and Shaibalini’s wealth of beauty. Protap also was poor.
Shaibalini grew apace. Her beauty went on completing itself like the horned moon, but there was no marriage. There was expense in the matter, and who was to bear it? Who would care to search out that hoard of beauty in that wilderness and welcome it as an invaluable treasure?
Shaibalini increased in understanding. She knew that she had no other happiness in this world except in Protap, and she also knew that she had no chance of getting Protap in this life.
They took counsel of each other, they deliberated for days in private, and no one knew. When they had made up their minds, both went for a bath to the Ganges. Several people were swimming there. “Shaibalini, come let us swim,” proposed Protap. Both began to swim, both were expert in the natatory art, no other children in the village could swim like them. It was the rainy season, the water of the Ganges ran up to the brim—it glided along, swimming, dancing and racing. They clove the waters, churned and scattered them, and swam along. Their handsome youthful figures shone in the foaming eddies like twin gems set in a silver orb.
When the—bathing-folk in the ghât saw them swim off to a considerable distance, they called them back, but they paid no heed—they went on. Again the bathers called them back, rated them, abused them, but neither of the two would listen—they went on. When they had gone a long way, Protap said, “Shaibalini, now is the time for our tying the nuptial knot.”
“What is the use of going any further? Let it be even here,” answered Shaibalini.
Protap sank.
Shaibalini could not; she was afraid. “Why should I die?" thought she. “Who is Protap to me? I feel afraid, I cannot die.” Shaibalini could not sink; she turned and swam back to the shore.
Chapter III :- The Bridegroom Found.
CHAPTER III.
THE BRIDEGROOM FOUND.
NOT very far from where Protap sank, a skiff was rowing along. One of the passengers saw Protap sink and leapt into the water. The passenger was Chandrashekhar Sharma[1] Chandrashekhar swam up and lifted Protap into the boat. He drove the boat ashore, and accompanied Protap to his home.
Protap’s mother would not let him depart. She fell at his feet and prevailed upon him to partake of her hospitality for the day. Chandrashekhar remained in the dark as to the real object of Protap’s drowning.
Shaibalini did not show her face to Protap again. But Chandrashekhar saw her—saw her, and was charmed.
Just then Chandrashekhar was in the midst of a great perplexity. He had barely stepped over his thirty-second year. He was a householder, yet not worldly-minded. Up to this, he had not married. Marriage generally stands in the way of acquiring knowledge, hence he was very much averse to it. But lately he had lost his mother, a little over a year. Under the new conditions, celibacy obstructed the acquisition of knowledge. In the first place, he had to cook with his own hands; that cost him no little time, and it was a drawback to acquiring and imparting knowledge. In the next place, there was the worship of the family idol——the Salagram in his house. He had to do every thing with his own hands in connection with its worship, and that cost him time again. The worship was not properly done, the household was upset, so much so, that he could not get up his meals every day. Books were mislaid and could not be found. He often forgot where he kept the moneys he received and the persons he paid. There was not much expense, yet his income proved inadequate. Chandrashekhar thought that by marrying, matters might be bettered somehow.
But in the event of marriage, he had made up his mind not to marry a beautiful girl, for such a girl might enthral his mind; he did not care to be fettered by domestic ties.
While in such a frame of mind, Chandrashekhar came across Shaibalini. The sight of her broke the ascetic’s vow. He deliberated, he hesitated, and, at last becoming his own match-maker, he married Shaibalini. Who is proof against the charms of beauty!
The story opens eight years after this marriage.
1 ↑ Sharma is the generic title of a Brahmin.
Chapter I :- Dalani Begum
CHANDRASHEKHAR.
PART I.
THE WOMAN-SINNER.
CHAPTER I. DALANI BEGUM.
THE ruler of the provinces of Bengal, Behar, and Orissa, Nawab Aliza Mir Kasim Khan, lived in the Fort of Monghyr. Inside the fort and within the harem, a particular spot was looking exceedingly charming. The first watch of the night had not yet been over. A soft thick carpet covered the variegated pavement of an apartment. Lights were burning from silver lamps fed with scented oil. The room was redolent of the perfume of sweet-smelling flowers. With her small head propped up against a king-cob pillow, a slight, girlish figure was reclining and composing herself to read the Gulistha. She was seventeen, but short and delicate as a child. While reading the Gulistha she occasionally sat up and looked round and talked to herself. Now she muttered, “What keeps him away so long, I wonder?”