Chapter XX.
A couple of years passed; and then Kamala came to know something which, though painful from one point of view, served to soften her rugged life and cast a glimmer of light on her path. It was the light of a love that was so unselfish, so strangely strong, and so utterly beyond her, that she felt almost lifted, as it were, to another world. It is true she felt that that love could never be hers, and yet in a way it was hers for ever, and she was satisfied. The secret was revealed by Ramchander one evening in her favourite spot overlooking the river at the back of her house. She was sitting and meditating as of old on all the past incidents of her life when she saw Ramchander approaching. She had not seen him for two years, and her heart bounded for joy at meeting an old friend. He brought her mother’s casket of jewels which the saniyasi in one of his eccentric moods had hidden away, thinking that his Kamala would have the pure joys of true love and home life that are independent of wealth. Ramchander gave her all the news, and when Kamala asked him to go in he begged of her to stay out for some time longer as he had something special to tell her. She wondered what it could be; and then came the great and sudden declaration of his love for her. He pleaded most eloquently:—”It is the land of freedom I want you to come to. Have you not felt the trammels of custom and tradition? Have you not felt the weight of ignorance wearing you down, superstition folding its arms round you and holding you in its bewildering and terrifying grasp? Everything is so dark and dreary for you here. I see it in your eyes. You will be free with me —free as the mountain air, free as the light and sunshine that play around you. Come, Kamala, make up your mind. You were mine before you were born. You were promised to me by your mother. I am tired—tired to death of all the meaningless mummeries of a devotee’s life. I have been trying to get at the kernel of truth, at the essence of things, and I have found it not. If you had seen me at the midnight auguries, at the fasts and penances that I have undergone, at the ceremonies and tapascharias and endless sacrifices, within the temple and outside, in the dark impenetrable forests and on lonely hill-tops, you would have then known that I have really striven, as none other has, to find the truth. I have followed the saniyasi. I have learnt at the feet of the great Arunayadaya. I am acquainted with the vanaspati (vegetable) world. I can distil the powerful juice of plants and transplant their subtle vigour into the human frame, but it is all of no avail. It does not bring me any nearer to the object of my pursuit—any nearer to God—the great source of good and evil, the light of the world. Now, Kamala, what say you? We shall create a world of our own and none dare interrupt our joys. I have means at my command of which you know nothing; and love will welcome you in the new world, lovė such as you have never dreamt of,—my love,my undying love and worship. Accept me and your freedom, and come away with me, and no one will know anything of it.”
Kamala looked at him with eyes full of tears, a long melting look, a look capable of piercing even the stoniest heart and bringing forth the inmost floods of sympathy. “Ask me not that,” she said, with a shudder. “It is too much for me to think of. Did we wives not die on the funeral pyre in days of old? Did we not court the water and the floods? What has come over us now? My heart beats in response to yours, but betray me not, thou tempting heart. I am ashamed of myself. Despise me and drive me away from thee. Look not on my face. I am the accursed among women. There is something wrong in my nature, and that is why the gods have disgraced me. They have broken the sacred thread of womanhood round my neck; taken my lord and master, and have cursed me. No! What you ask is too much. Leave me as I am, marry a girl more fortunate, and let fortune bless you. You will have happiness and love, love such as you deserve. I am but a broken vessel, fit only to be thrown aside and to be spat on. Ah me! O God! preserve me from this. Something overwhelms me. I see the boundless hills rise before me. They stretch far, far away. They are the emblem of thy power.”
“No! It is the power of love,” said Ramchander. “Rise, obey its summons. You cannot fight against it. You will pass through waters and floods. Rise, my love, and be mine.” And he came nearer and lifted her up. But a cry rang from her heart and she uttered the word, ‘Ganesh,’ and ran to the house as if mad. It was the cry of a heart pierced to its inmost depth. Her religion, crude as it was, had its victory. She felt that her life would have been an unending remorse and misery; and thus she freed herself once and for ever from the great overpowering influence of the man before her. His love she could not get rid of, for he was true as steel, but it was like sunlight lying on her path and it brightened her life. Ah! It was happiness to know that some one loved her, loved her for her own sake, despised as she was, and degraded in the sight of the little world in which she lived.
Ramchander hid himself in its forest home and only came at stated times to look after his patients, but soon his lonely abode was discovered, and he was besieged by the suffering and the needy, whom he willingly helped. No one suspected his great love: the people merely thought that he was trying to walk in the steps of his master Arunayadaya.
Kamala spent all her money in unselfish works of charity; and her name lives even to this day almost worshipped by the simple folks of the place.
* * * *
It was thus I heard the story of Kamala narrated as I sat by the river banks under a clump of trees. The rude rustic temple of Rohini was at my side. The same old Sivagunga was there, and the same old river rolled on, unmindful of the joys and the sorrows of the lives that were lived by its side. Far in front were a shrine and a chuttram bearing the name of Kamala, who had now become a saint. Her unseen hands still relieve the poor and protect the unfortunate; for she left her fortune for the sole benefit of widows and orphans.