BAKÁWALÍ GOES TO THE COURT OF INDRA, WHERE SHE SINGS AND
DANCES—THE DEITY, ENRAGED AT HER LOVE FOR A HUMAN BEING,
PRONOUNCES A CURSE UPON HER—THE PRINCE GOES TO CEYLON, WHERE HE
FINDS BAKÁWALÍ CONFINED IN A TEMPLE, THE LOWER PART OF HER BODY
BEING TURNED INTO MARBLE—CHITRAWAT, THE DAUGHTER OF THE RÁJÁ,
FALLS IN LOVE WITH HIM, AND ON HIS DECLINING HER OVERTURES HE
IS THROWN INTO PRISON.
Indian writers say, that there was a city called Amarnagar, whose
inhabitants were immortal, the king of which, named Indra,[192] passed
his days and nights in joyful festivities, and the food of his soul was
song and dancing. His sway extended over all the world of the jinn, and
his court was constantly attended by the parís, who danced before him.
One night Indra observed that Bakáwalí, the daughter of Fírúz Sháh, had
not been present for some time, and demanded to know the reason. “It is,”
replied one of the parís, “because she has been caught in the net of love
by a man, and, intoxicated with this passion, she is constantly with him
and has no longer any dislike for his race.” On hearing this Indra was
greatly enraged, and directed several fairies to bring her instantly. By
an aërial chariot they were carried to the garden of Táj ul-Mulúk, where
they awoke Bakáwalí, told her of the wrath of Indra and intimated his
command. She was therefore compelled to accompany them to Amarnagar, and,
trembling, came before the king, and with folded hands paid her dutiful
respects; but the king, casting on her a look of anger, reprimanded her
with great severity, and ordered that she should be thrown into the
fire, so that her body might lose the odour which the contact with a
mortal had imparted to it. The fairies put her accordingly into a furnace
where she was reduced to ashes; after which they recited a charm over
a basin of water, and sprinkling it on the ashes restored her to life.
Thus purified, she came before Indra, and began to dance. With her first
motion, she trod upon the hearts of the spectators, and in one turn
threw the beholders out of themselves: every mouth applauded her, every
tongue commended her. When she had ended, she saluted the assembly and
returned in the same chariot to her garden. After bathing in rose-water
she rejoined her lord. On the morrow she rose up according to her custom,
and conducted herself all day in her usual manner till night came, when
she again ascended to the court of Indra to repeat the proceedings of
the preceding night; and thus she continued for some time, Táj ul-Mulúk
suspecting nothing.
One night, however, while she was at the court of Indra, the prince
awoke, and finding her not by his side sought her in vain both on the
terrace and in the garden. He went to sleep again, and, meanwhile,
Bakáwalí returned and lay down on the marital couch. The prince was much
astonished, on awaking in the morning, to find her by his side, but,
feigning to know nothing of her absence, he determined to discover the
secret. Before lying down on his couch next night, he cut his finger and
put salt on the wound to prevent him from dropping asleep. At midnight
the flying chariot appeared, and just as Bakáwalí was about to mount
it the prince, without being perceived, fastened himself firmly to one
of the corners, and they were speedily at the gate of Indra. There the
prince saw what he had never before seen as regards immortal beauties;
and heard what he had never before heard with respect to musical sounds.
But when he beheld the terrible purification of Bakáwalí, and saw her
reduced to ashes, he could no longer contain himself, and struck his head
with both hands. Presently, boundless was his astonishment when he saw
his beloved rise up again from her ashes and advance towards Indra. As
the crowd was numerous, he followed her without attracting any attention.
It chanced that the musician attending Bakáwalí was very old, and could
not, from infirmity, perform his duties properly.[193] The prince
approached the musician, and said in a whisper: “If you are tired with
playing, I will take your place for a short time with much pleasure,
as I am considered skilful in this exercise.” The old man accepted
the proposal and handed him the instrument. No sooner had the prince
struck the first note than the movements of Bakáwalí grew animated and
ravishing. Indra was so delighted that he took from his neck a collar, of
the value of nine lakhs of rupís, and cast it before Bakáwalí, who, in a
retrograde movement, gave it in charge of the clever musician. When the
festivities were over Bakáwalí returned home, and went as usual to bathe
in the tank of rose-water. Meanwhile Táj ul-Mulúk gained his couch and
feigned to be fast asleep.
When morning dawned the prince related to Bakáwalí his adventure of the
previous night, confirming the truth of his narrative by showing her
the necklace of Indra. She expressed her fears lest a repetition of the
adventure should cause them distress, but said she would that night try
her fate by taking him with her. Accordingly the prince accompanied her
to the court of Indra, and was presented by her to the king as a skilled
musician; and as soon as the prince began to play and Bakáwalí to dance,
the assembly were overcome with astonishment, and Indra exclaimed: “Ask
what thou desirest, and I will give it to thee.”[194] Bakáwalí replied:
“Great king, I am in want of nothing, save that you will give me this
musician and let me go.” At these words Indra, in anger, and regarding
Bakáwalí as a courtesan, said that as he had given his word he must not
draw back from it; but for twelve years the lower half of her body should
be of marble.[195]
Fate, alas! ordaineth still,
Grief and joy are twin-born here:
Now ’tis spring with laughing flowers,
Now ’tis autumn bleak and sere!
A crown adorns the head to-day,
In the grave it lies to-morrow!
Now like flowers the heart expands,
Now ’tis spotted all with sorrow!
Pleasures vanish fast away,
Short-lived is the sunny day!
It is related that Bakáwalí immediately after her transformation
disappeared, and Táj ul-Mulúk rolled on the ground through excess of
grief; but the fairies, pitying his condition, took him up and cast him
in a forest on earth. For three days he remained there without sense
or motion. On the fourth he opened his eyes, and found, instead of his
beloved, nothing but thorns in his arms. He wandered on every side,
calling upon Bakáwalí, and asking every tree to direct him to her. One
day he arrived on the banks of a pond. Beautiful stairs were on each side
and trees loaded with fruits were planted everywhere. The prince waited
for a moment, then bathed, and laid himself down under the shade of a
tree, and thinking of his beloved he fell asleep. It happened that a
number of fairies alighted there, and after bathing in the pond, sat down
to dry their hair. The eyes of one falling on the prince, she observed
to her companions: “There is the musician of Bakáwalí.” The moment that
these words were heard by Táj ul-Mulúk he opened his eyes, arose, came
before the fairies, and, weeping, inquired if they knew where Bakáwalí
was. Their hearts melted within them. They said they had not seen her,
but had heard that she was in a temple in Ceylon, the gates of which
remained closed during the day and were open during the night; adding
that Bakáwalí’s body was changed to stone from her waist downward. The
prince inquired in what direction was her present abode, and how far it
was from the place where they were standing. They answered: “Leaving out
the inconvenience of travel, if a person were to journey all his life he
would never reach it.” Táj ul-Mulúk despaired on hearing this, and then,
bidding adieu to life, commenced dashing his head against the stones. The
fairies, compassionating his case, consulted among themselves, with a
view of devising such measures as would enable them to carry him to the
desired quarter, and there leave him to the fate that might befall him.
They removed him instantly, and, in the saying of a word, placed him in
the land of Ceylon.
After a moment his despair was somehow cheered with hope. He gazed upon
a city which rivalled Paradise in loveliness, surrounded as it was with
every surprising object. Not one of the men or women appeared to be
ugly there. Nay, the very trees were so symmetrical as to strike the
beholder with wonder. Rambling about, he at last found himself in the
public thoroughfare, where he met a Bráhman, who was a devotee. Of him
he inquired: “In what shrines do you offer up your prayers?” The Bráhman
answered: “In that of Rájá Chitrasan,[196] who governs this country.” The
prince next asked: “How many temples are there in this city?” The Bráhman
satisfied his inquiries, and then added, that lately a new temple had
been discovered in the south, the doors of which were never opened during
the day, and no one knew what it contained. The prince was delighted at
this intelligence, and took his way as pointed out, until he reached
the building and sat down patiently. In the night one of its doors
suddenly opened. He entered and found Bakáwalí half in her original form
and half petrified, reclining against the wall. On beholding him she
was much astonished, and inquired how he had come thither. The prince
gave a faithful account of his adventures. The night was then passed
in conversation. And when morning was about to dawn Bakáwalí bade him
depart, “for,” said she, “if the sunbeams find you here you will be
changed into a shape like mine.” She then pulled out a pearl from her
earring and gave it to the prince, and desired him to sell it and use the
proceeds for his own subsistence for a few days. The prince took it to
the city and sold it for some thousands of rupís. He then bought a house,
and having furnished it, engaged a number of servants. It was usual with
him to pass his nights with Bakáwalí and return home in the morning, and
thus several years rolled away.
In the meantime the prince had become acquainted with many of the
inhabitants, who generally undertook to escort him through the city. In
one of his walks he came upon a party of naked creatures, on whom every
mark of poverty was visible. He observed that these men, although in the
garb of beggars, had still some tokens of nobility in their features,
and inquired: “What may be the cause of this?” His friends answered that
some of those individuals were actually princes, and some the sons of
nobles, but they were all the victims of love.[197] “The Rájá Chitrasan
has a daughter named Chitrawat,[198] who is as bright as the moon—nay,
more, she is a star in the heaven of loveliness. Amongst women she is
perfectly unrivalled. Grace is visible in her steps and magic in her
eyes.[199] Thousands die before her arching eyebrows, and hundreds of
thousands are entrapped in her raven tresses: those tresses that are
darker than night—nay, darker than the fate of her lovers. Her eyes teem
with nectar and poison. In one moment they can kill, in another, restore
to life. In her love there is nothing but suffering, sorrow, and loss of
reputation.[200] In brief, she is really a fairy, whose charms enslave
both infidels and Muslims. But what is worse, she has two companions
whose beauty has also wrecked the peace of many. One is the daughter of
a betel-seller[201] and is called Nirmalá;[202] the other is the child of
a gardener and is called Chapalá.[203] All three are sincerely attached
to each other. Sitting or rising, in all concerns of life, they are
inseparable companions. Moreover, each is at liberty to choose her own
husband. But hitherto none has proved so fortunate as to be honoured with
the favour of either of those beauties.”
Some time after this the prince found himself under the balcony of
the Princess Chitrawat, and beheld thousands gazing longingly on her
bright features, even as the bulbul regards the blushing beauties of
the rose. Like maniacs, they were blubbering amongst themselves, while
she, the proud beauty, sat on her balcony exulting at the view of their
sufferings. It was at this moment that Táj ul-Mulúk appeared. Their
eyes met. The shaft of love passed at once through her heart. She was
wounded. Her patience was lost, and sense forsook her for the time.
Down she fell, and her attendants ran and lifted her up. They sprinkled
rose-water on her face, put a scent-bottle to her nostrils, and she
presently revived. She was, however, still motionless and speechless,
and although several inquired the cause of her indisposition, she
returned not a word in answer, but continued gazing steadfastly in the
same direction. Then it was that Nirmalá looked down from the window
and discovered the prince; and after hearing all the circumstances of
the case from Chitrawat, comforted her friend thus: “O princess, your
sufferings distract me, and make me lose my equanimity. Why are you
anxious? Your father has already made you mistress of your own hand, and
it depends upon your choice to marry any one you may love. Be comforted:
the youth on the black charger shall be thine, though he should be even
an angel. Depend on me; I will entrap him in such a way that escape
will be altogether impossible.” She then deputed a female go-between to
undertake the work.
Boldly did this woman come forward, and seizing the reins of the prince’s
horse, “Knowest thou,” she asked him, “that the poor are sacrificed and
lovers impaled here? The fair lady of this palace can bind the hearts
of all in her glossy tresses, and at one glance cast them dead upon
the earth. Whence is thy boldness, that thou castest thy glance on the
mansions of kings? Art thou a spark able to melt the hearts of the fair
ones, and to dissolve their stony nature? Whence art thou? What country
dost thou inhabit? Where is thy native land? And what is thy family?” Táj
ul-Mulúk at once divined that she was sent by some one, and answered:
“Silence! Do not re-open my wounds. My native land is brighter than the
sun, and the name of it is known to emperors. Tell the person who has
deputed you, not to cast a glance on such a distressed traveller as
myself, nor harbour any thoughts in her heart that may have the slightest
reference to love:
Go to him who will approve thee;
Love him only who can love thee.”
The artful go-between then ascertained that he was a prince of the East,
that his name was Táj ul-Mulúk, and that his connections were high. These
particulars she communicated to Chitrawat.
After this the prince frequently passed along the same road, so that
he might have an opportunity of looking up at the balcony. Even as the
moon wanes from her fourteenth night, so did the health and spirits of
the princess, who pined inwardly for him. She tried long to keep the
secret to herself, but her attempt was in vain. In a few days even her
parents came to know of her sufferings. Her father, the king, employed
an accomplished dame to repair to Táj ul-Mulúk, and try all her arts
to bring about a marriage between him and his daughter; at all events,
to endeavour by every means to gain his heart. The woman faithfully
performed her mission and dwelt long on commendations of the charms of
the princess. Táj ul-Mulúk returned his respects to the king, and said
that he was a wanderer from his country, that he had exchanged the robes
of royalty for the troubles of travelling, and that he had alienated
himself from relations and friends; therefore, to propose an alliance
with him was like tracing figures on water and tying the wind in a napkin.
When this message was delivered to the rájá it made him sadly thoughtful,
and drove him to ask counsel of his minister, who assured him that it
was not a difficult matter for the king to bring a houseless stranger
into subjection. He even offered to undertake such measures as should
ultimately entrap him; and his plan was to bring a charge of theft
against the prince. Now it so happened that the pecuniary resources
of Táj ul-Mulúk were altogether exhausted, and, as he was purposing
applying to Bakáwalí, he recollected the jewel which he had taken from
the serpent and concealed in his thigh.[204] He sent for a surgeon and
had the jewel taken out, afterwards curing the wound by means of his
wonderful ointment. When he had fully recovered, he took the gem to the
bazár; but every jeweller was struck with surprise, and declared himself
unable to pay the price. They informed the vazír that a stranger had
come into the city, wishing to dispose of a jewel which none but the
king could purchase. The minister on hearing this caused the stranger
to be arrested and brought before him, and knowing him to be the prince
with whom Chitrawat was in love, he lost no time in bringing a charge of
robbery against him and committing him to prison. He then told the king
that the bird that had flown away from the cage was ensnared again, and
would doubtless comply with the wishes of the sovereign.