Chandrashekhar. Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

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      Chapter II :- The "Bheema"

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      CHAPTER II THE “ BHEEMA. ”

      THICK rows of palms skirted the banks of a big tank called “the Bheema.” The golden rays of the declining sun had fallen on its dark waters; the dark shadows of the palms along with the sunbeams had been imprinted on their surface; by the side of a ghât or water-stair-way, a few small trees mantled with creepers and linked together by them, with the branches spreading out up to the water-surface, sheltered from view the water-frolicking ladies. In that dim seclusion Shaibalini and Sundari with metallic pitchers in their hands were sporting with the water.

      What is meant by water sporting with a girl? We do not know that, we are not water. He only can tell us who has been melted into water at the sight of beauty. He alone can tell us how the water, tossing up ripples urged by the onset of the pitcher and marking ​time with the jingle of the ornaments on the arms, dances in unison; how dangling the garland of water-flowers pressing against the heart and swaying the little bird eager in swimming; how circling round and round the girl, peeping at her arms, throat, shoulders, and bosom, and pitching up waves, it dances in unison. He alone can tell us how the girl, letting the pitcher drift at the mercy of the gentle breeze, and sunk in water up to the chin, touches the water with her lips, crimson as the fruit of the balsam—apple, and sends it into her mouth and back again towards the sun, and how in that process the water makes a present of a hundred suns reflected in the falling spray. In the movement of the girl’s limbs the water dances up in jets and her heart also dances with the dancing of the ripple Both are equal—the water is volatile, and the heart of world-upsetting womanhood is volatile likewise. No impression is left on the water——is a young lady's heart anyway different?

      The golden sunbeams dissolved in the dark waters of the tank and in a moment every thing was dark, only the palm-tops glistened like golden pennons.

      “Sister,” said Sundari, “it is getting on to night; we should not tarry here any longer, come, let us go home.”

      “No one is here,” said Shaibalini, “do sing a song dear, softly?”

      “Go to, you sinner, come home.”

      Shaibalini began to hum the scrap of a song :—

      “Home, friend, again I shall not go.My Cupid lo! is coming there.Go home again I shall not, oh!”

      “Perdition take you! your Cupid is waiting at home—why don’t you go there?”

      ​“Go and tell him that his Psyche finding the water of the Bheema cool, has drowned herself.”

      “Now keep your fooling aside. It is already dark, I cannot wait any longer. And then again, Khemi’s mother has declared that a white man has appeared in the neighbourhood to-day.”

      “What is there in that for you or me to be afraid of?”

      “Eh! is that it? Come out of the water, or else I go.”

      "I am not going to get out——you can go.”

      Sundari got very much annoyed, filled her pitcher and got upon the bank.

      “La!” cried Sundari turning round, “Do you seriously mean to stay alone in the ghât at this time of dusk?”

      Shaibalini did not make any reply, and pointed her finger in a particular direction. Following the direction of the finger, Sundari looked and saw on the other side of the tank under a palm-tree——oh, ruination! Without uttering another word she flung the pitcher on the ground from her hip and ran away with breathless speed. The brass pitcher rolled down emitting its watery contents with a gurgling sound and again disappeared in the water.

      Sundari had seen an Englishman under the palm-trees.

      The sight of the Englishman did not shake Shaibalini out of her place, nor did she get out of the water. She only dipped herself up to the breast and covering just half of her head, including the chignon, with her wet cloth, remained like a blooming water-lily. In the cloud of waters the fixed lightning smiled; in the dark waves of the Bheema the golden lotus opened in bloom.

      When he found that Sundari had run away and the coast was clear, the Englishman under cover of the palm-rows slowly crept up to the ghât.

      ​Of a surety he looked young. He had neither moustache nor beard. His hair was dark for an English-man, and so were his eyes. He was smartly dressed, and the watch, chain, ring and other jewellery about his person were nice and decent.

      He slowly came up to the ghât and going near the edge of the water said, “ I come again fair lady.”

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