CHAPTER VIII.
Homeward.
Slowly and wearily Kapalkundala turned her steps homeward. Slowly and wearily she plodded her way back. The reason was she had been wrapt up in deep thought and meditation. The news of Luthfunnisha wrought a change in the stream of her thoughts. She was ready for self-sacrifice. Self-sacrifice for whom?—for Luthfunnisha?—Oh, No!
Kapalkundala was by nature endowed with a Tantrick's instincts. As the Tantrick always feels remorseless in sacrificing other's lives to earn the good graces of the Kalika, so Kapalkundala was ever ready to lay down her own life for the same purpose. It was not like the Kapalik that her whole existence was treated as a mere abstraction for the attainment of divine favour. But the perception of the practice of piety and devotion to the Divine Energy as manifest in Kalika with her own eyes and ears, by night and day, as well as her habitual religious observances inspired in her a considerable portion of her reverential feelings towards the deity. She conceived the idea of Kali as the ruler of the creation and the bestower of salvation. Imbued with soft tender feelings, she could not bear to see the altar of the goddes dyed red in human blood. But, in no other particulars, would she permit of any breach of observance. That goddess—the ruler of the universe—the dispenser of joys and sorrows—and the giver of final beatitude—now bade her in a dream to sacrifice her own life. Why would she not carry out her behest?
You or I do not court death. We are happy despite what we say to the contrary in a fit of petulance. We move in grooves and spin in this world in quest of happiness and not of sorrow. If ever the consequences of our action defeat our expectations we bawl out life is a misery. Then the conclusion is that sorrow is an exception and not the rule. You and I enjoy happiness and that happiness binds us to the world and makes us loth to leave it. Love is the strongest bond of life. But Kapalkundala had not that binding—in fact she had no binding at all. What else was there, then, to hold her back?
That thing is irresistible in its course which knows no check. When a stream leaps down from the mountain side who is there to stem its flow? Once the air is set in motion who can prevent its blowing. When Kapalkundala lost the equanimity of her mind who would restore its equilibrium? When once the young tusker gets infuriated who can quiet it down?
Kapalkundala questioned her heart "Why should I not consecrate this fleshy body at the feet of the Goddess? What shall I do with this gross mass made up of five elements? She put the question but could not receive any clear reply. Our body has a tie of its own even when life loses all its bindings.
Kapalkundala moved onward, her heart heavy with gloomy thoughts. When human mind is under the sway of some powerful emotion that blots out the sense-perception of the outer world, then preternatural things sometime visualise before the eyes. Such was the case with Kapalkundala.
She seemed to hear a voice from above "My child, let me show the way."
Kapalkundala startled and cast her eyes heavenward. She seemed to see a figure in the sky of the colour of newly-formed clouds. Drops of blood were seen dribbling from the human heads strung round the neck—human hands dangling from the waist—a human skull in the left hand—blood streaming down the body—forehead beaming with an ineffable lustre—and a young moon shining at the corner of the brilliant eyes—as if the goddess Bhairobi was beckoning Kapalkundala by raising her right hand. Kapalkundala proceeded with her face turned upward towards the apparition that were the complexion of new cloulds and sped along the sky in front of her.
That vision set off with a garland of human skulls sometimes hid under clouds and at other times sprang to her eyes.
This was seen neither by Nabokumar nor the Kapalik. Nabokumar under the influence of wine that aroused his passion grew impatient at the slow step of Kapalkundala and broke forth "Kapalik!"
"Anything the matter?" asked the Kapalik.
"Give me more drink" said Nabokumar.
The Kapalik again administered him some wine.
"Is there any more delay?" asked Nabokumar again.
"What is the use of any more delay?" chimed in the Kapalik.
"Kapalkundala" issued the thundering voice of Nabokumar.
Kapalkundala started at the sound. Of late, no body called her by that name. She turned sharply round and stood facing him at which Nabokumar and the Kapalik came before her. She could not recognise, at first, any of them and said "What are you? Are you the messengers of death?"
But the next moment she recognised them and uttered "No,—No! Father. Have you come to sacrifice me?"
Nabokumar caught hold of Kapalkundala with a firm grasp. But the Kapalik in a tender trembling voice said "My child, follow us."
So saying, he led off the party in the direction of the burning ground. Kapalkundala raised her face skyward and looked up where she had seen that frightful form speeding along the sky. Here she saw again that apparition in female form drunk with war-passion and mad for affray, a peal of laughter breaking from her lips, and with along trident directing her on to the pathway followed by the Kapalik. Kapalkundala, as one infatuated by destiny, silently went behind the Kapalik. Nabokumar, as before, held her fast by her hand and went along.