# The Slave Girl of Agra/Book 3/Chapter 1

BOOK III
I. SHE PLACED HER HAND IN HIS
They came to Debipur at last—Nobo Kumar and his wife—and there were rejoicings in the land. Villagers came by thousands to greet their old master, now restored to his estate. Young girls came into the inner house of the Palace to bless the lovely Hemlata, and all their talk was about her approaching wedding. Old men sat by the side of Gokul Das and discoursed on the strange vicissitudes of fortune they had witnessed in their day. Women gathered together by the well side and spoke of the virtues of Nobo Kumar's saintly wife which had pleaded to the gods, and the gods had restored to her husband the rank and the position to which he was born.
But it was Gokul Das's silent endeavours rather than the favour of the gods to which Nobo Kumar himself attributed his happy restoration. "Thou hast been true to me, Gokul Das, thou hast toiled for years and achieved success. Faithful friend in my adversity, thou hast lived to bring joy and prosperity once more to my ancient House."
"Small credit is due to me, Master, the stars have been auspicious and the fates are propitious. May they help my humble toil, and another estate may be added to Debipur before I die."
"The spider will weave his web and Gokul Das his schemes," said Nobo Kumar, laughing. "But have ​a care, old man, the cleverest schemer sometimes over-reaches himself."
Poor greetings had Gokul Das from Nobo Kumar's wife. To all appearances she had retired from all worldly concerns, and had given herself up to religious rites and devotions.
And yet her new surroundings at Debipur sometimes called back memories of old days, when she had come to this very house as a bride, and lived in it as its mistress. The Palace, the gardens, the temples, were the same, but the warm lights and sunny tints which had brightened her young life were gone, and the shades of evening were closing around. Like many a pious woman in India, the Lady of Debipur calmly awaited the close as a relief from the bonds of this life, and prayed that the next might bring her nearer to heaven.
It was in those early days that she had first seen Gokul Das. She had singled him out for his poverty and his meekness, and he had been grateful to her for her compassionate kindness. Years passed, and Nobo Kumar's wife heard with joy that the humble young man showed gleams of a bright intelligence and was winning the favour of her husband.
They came closer together when Nobo Kumar lost his estate. Gokul Das followed his master like a shadow and became an inmate of his house, and Nobo Kumar's lady no longer veiled herself in his presence. She spoke to him freely every day, and at all times of the day. It was then that she perceived something of his deep schemes and his silent ambitions.
"That man will succeed, my husband," she said, "and will win back our estate."
​"That man was your discovery, my wife, and thou didst choose well. The poor, helpless dependant has proved his capacity, and will yet prove his faithfulness."
Gokul Das succeeded. Nobo Kumar was made manager of Birnagar and Debipur. The birth of a child late in life had also added to his joy. He called her Hemlata—the Golden Creeper—and as the girl grew up she wound the tendrils of her loving young heart round her father and her mother.
"She is my joy and my life, husband," said her mother to Nobo Kumar. "I can never part with her and live."
"I will never part with her, my wife, nor adopt a son. She will be the heiress of Debipur as Noren is the heir of Birnagar."
But troubles arose. New ambitions filled Nobo Kumar's mind. His jealousies against the House of Birnagar increased. A coldness sprang between him and his wife—a daughter of Birnagar. She asked no questions, but marked the change with a woman's insight. And for the first time she suspected Gokul Das.
Gokul Das was as profoundly respectful to his mistress as before, but he was not as open. He bowed to her humbly and spoke to her respectfully, but he consulted her no more. The boy whom she had compassioned and helped, and almost fed with her own hands in earlier days, developed into a dark schemer, prematurely old, suspiciously secret. The humble dependant was now the virtual master of two estates, determined to brush aside from his path whoever crossed it, friend or foe. The past did not exist for him, human ties and feelings had no influence ​over him. He would drive his chariot over the mangled body of his dearest friend to reach his goal. Nobo Kumar was in the meshes of this terrible man.
Nobo Kumar's disposition, never very equable, underwent a visible change, and became harsh and irritable. His strong determination, which had sustained him through years of trials and misfortunes, were exchanged for nervous and uncertain moods of temper. The clear-sighted woman saw the finer traits of her husband's character effaced one by one; she saw him sinking day by day into a formless mass under the tentacles of a creature whose cold blinking eyes she shuddered to see.
The strongest passion of a woman is a craving for the possession of a man—a sense of ownership towards a husband or a lover, a follower or a friend. She will fatigue herself to death to win a man; she will use all the arts with which Nature has endowed her to keep him secure; she will bear ill-treatment but not estrangement; she can suffer cruelty but not indifference. Nature, or the law of selection, has developed this craving in the woman, as it has provided tendrils to the creeper which must cling in order to live. The rough gnarled tree, round which Nobo Kumar's wife had clung for woe or for weal during a lifetime, was slowly torn away from the tendrils of her heart. Proud woman that she was, she felt a void within her. She looked with silent agony on the worm which had eaten into the vitals of the noble tree, and which she could not crush to the earth with her feet.
One earthly tie was still strong in her. Her daughter had grown to be a lovely girl, with the innocence of Heaven glassed on her face; as a mother she ​yearned to see her suitably married and settled in life. She no longer took any interest in the concerns of the two estates, but her long-cherished wish to see them united revived in her when the handsome Noren and the meek-eyed Hemlata played together round her. And even when the boy reached his first youth, and the girl was in her teens, Hemlata's mother permitted an intimacy between them which is seldom allowed in Hindu households.
It was with something more than agony, it was with a feeling of amazement and horror, that Nobo Kumar's wife read, as in a flash-light, the secret thoughts of Gokul Das, when Sirish was brought from Debipur and placed between Hemlata and Noren. Jealousy sharpens a woman's faculties, and she reads signs which are imperceptible to a man's vision. But as Nobo Kumar's wife saw more clearly her proud mind became more determined. Here, in her own domestic circle, she was the mistress, and neither Gokul Das nor her lord must touch her domestic rights. She would not bestow her daughter's hand on a beggar boy.
Nobo Kumar saw her stern resolve and quailed before it. "I have seen Subahdars and Commanders in my day, but have not met the equal of that woman," he said to himself. Even Gokul Das for the first time hesitated. "But the estate of Debipur shall not pass to Birnagar," he quietly determined.
A breath of wind will sometimes bring down an avalanche. An accident in a boat-race determined the fortunes of Birnagar and Debipur. Hemlata's mother bit her lips in rage but could not speak. A wife could not offer her child to a man who had made an attempt—so the world said—on her husband's life.
​Hemlata's mother was beaten, but not in fair fight. She was crushed by fate, not by man. She accepted the defeat and retired without a complaint, but the last link which had chained her to this earth was snapped. She lived in Debipur as the revered mistress of a proud and ancient House, but her thoughts were those of the next world, and her heart was with her God.
Preparations were made for wedding festivities such as Debipur had not seen for a generation. The town was decorated with flags and festoons. Platforms were erected in street corners for musicians. Plantain trees with jars of water were placed on road sides, and arches were constructed for the bridegroom's procession to pass through. Cartloads of vegetables and sweets were brought to feed the poor, and bales of cloth were purchased for distribution among them. Streets were swept and watered for the feasting, for thousands would be fed in the streets and in the fields.
There was an incessant noise of music from sunrise to sunset for days before the wedding. Villagers poured in to take part in the rejoicings. All comers were welcome, all would be fed and clothed.
The evening came. Sirish, dressed in silks, came in a litter with silver decorations, borne by sixteen stalwart men. Thousands of men and women lined the streets to see the young bridegroom, and the illumination was like daylight. A flourish of trumpets announced his arrival; all was bustle in the bride's house.
The ceremony was performed in presence of the assembled guests, the most honoured in the land. The sacrificial fire was lighted, and the veiled bride ​sat facing the bridegroom. Nobo Kumar gave away his daughter, repeating mantras in Sanscrit which the priest uttered, and as the bride placed her hand in the bridegroom's it trembled.
"Dost thou take as thy wife this girl, Hemlata, decked with jewels, daughter of Nobo Kumar?"
"Grihnami! I take her for my wife," repeated Sirish.
Then the veil was lifted, and the priest bade the bashful bride look at her lord, and the four eyes met. Hemlata's timid eyes were cast down again, and her fair face was flushed. Sirish, usually so calm and self-possessed, trembled with a deep-felt emotion when those beautiful dark eyes met his, when that lovely being, so sweet, so gentle, so long-desired, was his own.
Other mantras were repeated, other rites were performed. The bride threw some parched rice on the fire as sacrifice, and the fire blazed up. She stepped seven steps, and the ceremony was over. The knot was tied, and the bride and bridegroom retired to the inner apartments.
The bridal night in India belongs, not to the bride and bridegroom, but to their loving and rejoicing friends gathered on the occasion. By an ancient custom the night is passed by the wedded pair in a large hall surrounded by female relations. The bride seldom speaks, but merry repartees are exchanged between her friends and the bridegroom. Female wit is never more keen than when it is aimed at the devoted head of the bridegroom. And the joyousness of Indian women seldom assumes a greater licence than when young wives and girls come, armed for the fray, against the man who has ​come to take their companion away. The long rivalry of Debipur and Birnagar added to the zest of the proceedings. Poor Sirish was under a cross fire, and the arch daughters of both houses pelted him mercilessly. But his gentle smile and sweet reasonableness somewhat disarmed the fair assailants. Hemlata was tired and lay down; but the red light of the morning glimmered through the latticed windows before Sirish was allowed any repose.
The closing ceremonies were performed in the morning. Nobo Kumar and his wife stood by their daughter, now the wife of Sirish. Some suitable words were repeated by the bride's father.
"I have brought up this girl with a father's care, Sirish. She was so long mine, she is thine from to-day. Treat her kindly, tenderly, lovingly. Be a good husband to her, be she a virtuous wife unto thee."
There are few fathers in India who repeat parting words like these without tears in their eyes. Happy in the marriage of their girls, they yet feel the severance of a tie, the separation of one whom they have tended and nursed and loved. Nobo Kumar, who was not often susceptible to tender feelings, and who knew that Hemlata and Sirish would live in his own ancestral house, nevertheless felt his voice failing when he gave away his loved, his only child.
Nobo Kumar's wife had done her part bravely. She knew her duty and submitted to it silently. Not a word escaped her lips to mar the happy ceremony, not a frown darkened her brow when a "beggar boy" came to receive the hands of the daughter of an ancient House. She looked to all the arrangements in silence, she attended the ceremonies with due decorum, and when the last parting scene was over, ​one convulsive sob broke from the proud, suffering woman as she retired to her rooms.
A week after she brought the keys of the house and handed them to Hemlata.
"Daughter," she said, "thou art of age to manage the household now. Tend thy father well, do thy duty towards thy husband, be kind and loving to all relations and dependants. I have done my life's work, and not many years are left to me on earth. Leave me, daughter, to my devotions, which suit my declining years. May the Great Bhagavan make thee happy, and bestow on thee sons and daughters, and every blessing on earth."
The tears and entreaties of the gentle Hemlata were in vain. Her mother was almost a religious devotee from that date, spending mornings and evenings in the adjoining temple, and telling her beads in a silent corner of the house most part of the day.