URMI: A POISONED QUEEN
(A TRUE STORY)

by Cornelia Sorabji
(1866-1954)

from THE NINETEENTH CENTURY,
VOL. XXXIII — No. 191, pp. 112-15 (1893-jan)

 

FIVE P.M. and Saturday. Without, a cold wet mist, a grey sky, dirty streets: within, the curtains drawn, the cosiest of lounges, the softest of cushions, the fire crackling merrily, the kettle hissing gently — how nice it was to be warm, and sleepy! . . .    Presto! They don't think long about things here. A moment ago that lovely red ball nestled confidingly between the peaks of those moss-covered mountains; now it has dropped, disappeared, gone to rest, leaving only its glorious curtains for us to look upon. Or is this the entrance to the palace of some deity — into whose presence-chamber the sun has just been ushered? The strong mountains are sentinel, and the stars in motion have played the royal anthem.    All here is in darkness, save for that reflection from the west . . . . Softly, our way is through that wooded forest, under those great strong trees that embrace each other in their solitariness, past the quiet lake, inside the gates. Another palace — large gardens, cool deep verandahs, marble halls, tall statues. Quick! Tarry not — through the courtyard. What is that? Only the sacred Tulsi in its accustomed place. Grave men in red guard the buildings. Pass them by, they question not. At last! A low dark room — there, in that corner, on the bed. Hush! a moan — she is in pain — step gently. Poor thing! Small and sad and beautiful! What eyes! What hair! What jewels! What lovely clinging saffron silk! Who hurt her? Her small hands are clenched — she beats her forehead — she calls on "Krishna." Now she rises — listen! she speaks. "Bukku, come near me. Are the women there? Send them away. I want you — only you. Listen, Bukku; there is not much time. What means this sickness? Is it death? Feel my hands, they burn. My head — it's like a hot stone lying out in an April sun. I will not live the night. What say you?"    "Hush! Light of my eyes! My child — my flower, my tender lotus bud! That will not be, that must not be. Your father is measuring the ground on a long pilgrimage to Benares. You will recover. Have you your amulet? Take hold of it; and see here's a new charm. My grandmother learnt it of a Fakeer and taught it me. It cured the good Akbar once when he lay dying. The little Goolam went up to the hills this morning and brought me the healing herb from a far-distant spot. See, too, my bracelets — they are with the priests; they will appease the gods. They were good gold. Nay! my beautiful, you will live many years. My treasure! My precious stone, the worst is past."    "No! Bukku, you are kind, you love me. You are the only true creature I have beside me. All else are false, and mean me ill. They are like the hooded cobra, they sting me in the grass. O Bukku! I have not loved this royal state. And they love me not here. Would I were home again, on the cool soft banks of my own river. Remember you, Bukku, how the lotus floated on the water, and the plaintain trees spread their green shade over our heads? And my father — my dear kind father — how I read with him, seated on his knee, stories of early times when the world was young; and of the beautiful Sakuntalla, and the poor Nur Jehan; and those verses of Kalidas, when he read them to me — it was like the little summer brook playing with the pebbles — so pleasing to my ear . . . . It's all over now. He will miss me, my poor old father And perhaps He, my lord, whom I may not name, perhaps he will sigh for me, and say 'She was young, and the gods made her beautiful, and — she is dead.' And he will be just a little grieved, and bid them play sad music, and feed poor Brahmins in my name . . . . Then, he will go out and hunt or shoot, or sit with his councillors and forget me quite. I've loved him, Bukku. He was good to me, and strong and wise and kind; and when I talked to him of my early days and pastimes, and the things I loved, he smiled and said — 'It is not so with all my other wives; they know not what to talk about; they have not read your favourite books; they cannot read; they care not what transpires in other lands; they ask me for new jewels and prettier clothes; and look modest, and sometimes beautiful; and that is all; but you.' . . . And once he praised my wisdom, and said he would I shared his throne with him. See! keep you this letter; when they lift me on the bier, and bear me to the burning ground; and put the torch to these cold limbs, go to him, put that in his hand. It's not writ long; just one line — he will know and understand . . . . And now, Bukku, quick! The child! My strength is failing! Bring him to me: nearer: lift him up. How beautiful he is! His eyes how large! how dark! how deep! I feel I am looking into a well of light, of sunshine, of clear cool water! His small round arms, how soft they are! He smiles! poor child: he wants me, and I go whence I return not, unless per chance as some small reptile; or a tree or flower. I would it were a flower, and that I grew where he would touch me, and feel my petals, and say 'I like that flower, it is as pure and fragile as my little Urmi.' . . . But when I'm gone, take the child, carry it hence. They mean it harm. You have nursed me — nurse it: but hide it — hide it safe from them — from Afzul. My father will pay you, and will see to its future. Now while it is young and helpless you must love it and care for it. Tell it of me and of its father . . . but let them here think that it is dead. You know what to do; some poor baby you will purchase in the market will have a prince's end . . . . I will tell you all, Bukku; you shall tell my father. Tell him how they hated me here. You remember when I came how they looked at me and shook their heads, and said a 'God forbid' because I read and wrote. And when the king, our lord, favoured me above them all, and sought my presence, and listened to my words, I heard them whisper. 'Bold minx!' they said, 'Child of the Evil One: she knows what it does not beseem women to know, for she reads and writes as if she were some common clerk. And when she talks to him, she lifts her eyes and looks upon his face. How know we that in her distant home she did not break her Purdah? We hear her father taught her many things which he learnt of the Feringhee: . . . And my women who loved me they turned against me. All but you, Bukku, whom they did not dare to touch; but they kept you from me, knowing you loved me. I was wretched, and wrote my father word they all looked coldly on me. He said, 'Try gifts, try gold and jewels.' They took them — but it made no change: and I would I'd never left him — but for the king whom I loved — yet him I seldom saw. After the boy came, things were worse. Lying ill, here one day behind this heavy curtain, I heard them talk, and Afzul was with them, and he said 'Would the king had hearkened to my words, and taken to wife the bride whom I had chosen. With this one, I have had no commission; and she is the child of the Evil One; see how she has bewitched the king: he praises her looks, and her learning, and her ways, and now there is an heir, his regard for her is grown tenfold. We must remove her, and the boy. Say the word: it shall be done!' And then, Bukku, his mother, whom I tried to love as my own, said 'You know your work: do it: I give you leave: she has come between my son and me!' And Afzul — how he looked! I saw his eye gleam and he swore an oath by his father's head. He is a fearful man. Shield my boy from him, let him not see his face: it would haunt his baby days — it would make a stain on his mind. Oh! would I were here to protect him — but what power would I have? It would be worse. You will care for him, Bukku — you and my father. The king — he cannot: he must think him dead.    "You see that . . . Afzul. . . . did. . . . his work . . . .    "What is this, Bukku — is it . . . . death? . . .    "My eyes grow dim. Call on Krishna. I am falling — hold my hand . . . . The lord, my king — would he were here! . . . My love! I have loved you much: love me a little."    . . . Through the open door streamed in the moonlight and kissed the lovely figure as it lay — from the hills came the weird bark of the jackals — an owl shrieked in the mango grove . . . . What is that death wail? They know then that all is over. Is it well with them in the agent's sanctum — in the Zenana — in the servants' courtyard — in the king's chamber? . . . . .    Seven P.M. The fire is low. I am cold: was it only a dream? Alas! would it were! It was the wail of some poor child in a London street, a London street — and it wakened the memory of other sad things in far distant climes across the seas . . . . Poor Urmi! CORNELIA SORABJI.