Miss Gilby feels the oppressive heaviness that comes with such a deep and total immersion in a field hitherto largely unknown to her but with it also comes, paradoxically, a liberating lightness conferred by that very activity, for it has resulted in an intellectual endeavour that initiates the long but ultimately victorious battle with ignorance. From now on, she will involve herself in the thick and press of this germinating revolution. No sooner has she made up her mind than another, more nebulous, feeling assails her, a feeling for which she fails to find either a name or a phrase. She feels oddly divided, melancholy, as if her loyalties were neatly riven and have been called into question, as if two equal forces were pulling her in contrary directions. The sense of implied betrayal she feels is already enormous.
At lesson the next day, Bimala and Miss Gilby toil over an English translation of a Rajput story — the one of Queen Padmini, reputed to be so beautiful that when she took her early morning walks in the arbours and waterways of the palace in Chitorgarh lotus buds refused to blossom lest she put their collective splendour to shame. The Bengali is very difficult for Miss Gilby. There are problems with the language — simultaneously both poetic and innocent, intricate and childlike — the metaphors and the idioms that don’t quite translate, but as Bimala, slowly and surely, unfurls the story, shaking it out open from its neat, compact folds into a dazzling fabric sewn with every colour and skill imaginable, Miss Gilby falls under its spell.
They have reached the point at which Alauddin Khilji, Emperor of Hindustan, hears of the famed beauty of Padmini, hidden away in the proud and unassailable Rajput stronghold of Chitorgarh, a land that has stubbornly resisted the steady Muslim incursion throughout Hindustan, holding up its militant head defiant and high. The Sultan of Delhi marches towards Rajputana with five hundred thousand soldiers, razing and laying to waste everything they pass, intent on reaching Chitorgarh and abducting Padmini by sheer, brute force. As news reaches Chitorgarh that the Muslim army is advancing towards the town, Rana Lakshman Singh orders the seven iron gates of the town to be shut to the invaders.
Alauddin had thought it would be a child’s task to march into Chitorgarh and grab Padmini. But arriving at this hilltop town he found that just as the cage of ribs enclose and hide the heart, in a similar way Padmini was protected by the bristling swords of the brave Rajputs, Bimala and Miss Gilby translate together. Crossing the tempestuous seas was easy compared with crossing those seven iron gates of Chitorgarh to get to Padmini. The Pathan emperor ordered his troops to set up camp at the base of the hill.
At night, when Padmini and her husband, Rana Lakshman Singh, are taking the air on the crenellated parapets and terraces of the castle, the night air of the desert biting, the moon a bright, bitten nail in the clear black sky, she suddenly points a finger down to the vast desert outside and exclaims with delight, ‘Rana, Rana, look at those waves! It’s magic, the sea has arrived at our doorstep.’ The Rana replies sadly, ‘Padmini, those are not the waves of the sea but the tents of Alauddin’s army laying siege to our town.’
The following morning, the Rana sends his messenger to the Emperor. Alauddin’s wishes are simple. ‘I have no bone to pick with the Rana,’ he tells the messenger, ‘I’m here for Padmini. Hand her over and we’ll depart peacefully.’ The messenger replies, ‘Your Majesty doesn’t seem to be very familiar with our Rajput nation. We would rather give our lives than surrender our honour.’ Alauddin interrupts, ‘The mind of the Sultan of Delhi is unswerving — Padmini or war.’ The messenger bows and leaves.
The army of the Delhi Sultanate continues with its siege of the fortress of Chitorgarh for a year but there is no sign of the Rajputs relenting or asking for a truce. Alauddin’s hopes of starving the besieged Rajputs have, by the turn of the year, turned to ashes. And he still hasn’t set eyes upon this fabled beauty. Meanwhile, his soldiers are getting restless and bored: they murmur against their lot, the desert country they find themselves in, the obstinacy of these Rajput warriors, the lack of comfort and luxury they are used to in Delhi. Alauddin takes note of this growing disenchantment and hits upon another plan to get his way.
He sends word to Rana Lakshman Singh that he will return to Delhi with his soldiers if he is granted the sight of Padmini in a mirror: just a reflection of her will satisfy him. And while he is inside the fortress, the Rana shall be held personally responsible for the Sultan’s safety. The Rajputs agree readily to this compromise. Alauddin silently congratulates himself on his shrewdness: never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that this race of hardy warriors could be duped so easily.
The day arrives. The Pathan Sultan bathes in rose water, adorns himself in silks, pearls and emeralds. He departs for Chitorgarh castle accompanied by two hundred of his toughest soldiers, men who laugh at danger and death. Alauddin takes the steep, narrow road up to the fortress while his horsemen hide in the forests at the bottom of the hill. By the time he reaches the fort, another dark, chilly desert night has descended.
Rana Bhim Singh, the queen’s brother-in-law, leads Alauddin to the white marble palace of Padmini. It is lit with thousands of candles, some of which, flickering and winking through the latticework windows, cast shadows and grids and nets that move and seem alive.
The Sultan is seated on a gold and velvet couch. After a while he says, ‘Why the delay? Let’s have a vision of the Queen so I can depart for Delhi in peace.’ Rana Bhim Singh removes the covering from a huge Aleppo mirror placed directly in front of the Sultan. In the depths of that glass, dark and flawless as the doe’s eyes, Padmini is reflected like the light of a thousand suns. The Sultan cannot believe this creature is human. Incredulous, he rises out of his cushioned seat and reaches out his hands to touch this shadow in the lonely depths of the mirror. Rana Bhim Singh cries out, ‘Beware, Sultan, don’t touch her reflection.’ From her hidden place, Padmini reaches for a heavy goblet, picks it up and hurls it towards the mirror with all the strength in her body. The glass shatters into hundreds of little bits and her reflection instantly disappears, like the mirage that it was, with the harsh, brittle jangle of breaking glass, leaving only the blind, dull back of the frame. Alauddin is so startled that he steps back three paces. There are only empty shards of glass everywhere, jagged points of cold light. It is as if she was never there, as if the Sultan had dreamed everything.
The horses move at such a slow canter, side by side, that Miss Gilby can hold the parasol in her left hand and the reins with her right with no degree of effort or stress. The morning mists have disappeared and it is another fine and golden autumn day. There is a light breeze, which sets the bamboo groves shivering with their rustling music, a sound Miss Gilby finds so comforting that she is convinced this particular tree is planted by gardeners not for the usual pleasures afforded by garden vegetation — its appeal to the eye, its fragrance, benevolent shade, fruit or flower — for none of those, but for its sound. As far as possible, she tries to direct her horse through these bamboo thickets to listen to their soothing papery rustle. Mr Roy Chowdhury seems to be in complete agreement with her about the music of bamboos: he calls it Nature’s Aeolian harp. Miss Gilby savours the felicitous comparison as the horses move along gently, past flooded rice fields with their eye-hurting green, past fragile mud embankments, past vast, watery fields of jute.