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are very circumspect in our speech and manners. Really Bhanu! If one of the others had spoken like that I would have cut her head off with a swish of my sword.’ Bhanumati walked swiftly to a corner of the room and picking up the king’s Nimcha, brought it over to him. It was rumoured that this sword had been presented by Emperor Shah Jehan’s son Sultan Shuja to Birchandra’s ancestor Gobinda Manikya. Though the king dressed in the robes of a Vaishnav on the occasion of the mahabhoj, custom decreed that he carry this weapon.
    Bhanumati pulled the sword out of its jewel-encrusted scabbard and said, ‘Kill me, then, and put an end to my sufferings.’ Pausing a moment, she added, ‘You’ll be declaringRadhu as your crown prince and heir this evening, will you not?’ A shadow fell on Birchandra’s face. His good humour vanished. It was true that he would pronounce the name of his eldest son Radhakishor as successor to the throne of Tripura in the evening when all his subjects were gathered together. But only two persons knew. Even Rajeshwari, the boy’s mother, had not been told. How had the news reached Bhanumati’s ears? ‘Your son will be elevated too,’ he said gravely. ‘I’ll be giving him the title of Bara Thakur. I’m doing it for your sake though there’s no precedence —’
    â€˜You don’t have to. I’ll send Samar away from Tripura. I’ll send him to Calcutta.’
    There was a rustle at the door and the two turned around as a girl came into the room. She was a beautiful girl with an innocent face and a golden body that swayed and rippled with the sap of youth. Each movement was music. A yellow silk pachhara encased her lower limbs and a riya, green as the tenderest leaves of spring, stretched taut and smooth over her newly swelling breasts. Birchandra gazed at her, amazed. ‘Who is she?’ he asked his wife. She wasn’t a maid—he was sure of that. No attendant would dare walk into a room in which the king and queen were alone together.
    Bhanumati forced the tears back from her eyes. ‘What is it Khuman?’ she asked with an indulgent smile. The girl’s eyes were fixed on the king, not in fear but in awe—the kind of awe with which one looks upon a snow capped mountain peak. Turning to the queen she said, ‘Biloni and Phullen want me to go up to the roof with them. But Mejo Ranima says I mustn’t. What shall I do?’ Bhanumati cleared her throat and signalled with her eyes. ‘Make your obeisance to the king first,’ she commanded. The girl obeyed instantly. Lying prostrate on the floor she touched her hands and forehead to the king’s feet. ‘Who is this wench?’ Birchandra couldn’t keep a note of impatience out of his voice though he raised a hand in blessing. ‘I’m Khuman Thorolaima,’ the girl answered. ‘She’s my sister’s daughter,’ Bhanumati explained, ‘You’ve seen her as an infant. Don’t you remember? She’s been with me here at the palace for about a year now.’ Birchandra gazed in wonder at the girl’s loveliness. She was young, very young, but she had promise. There was no doubtthat, in a year or two, she would grow to be a woman of surpassing beauty. She would be the brightest jewel of the court and men would swarm around her like flies.
    â€˜I’ve given her a Bengali name,’ Bhanumati went on, ‘I call her Monomohini.’
    â€˜You’ve given her a Bengali name but you haven’t taught her to wear a sari?’
    â€˜I will in a year or two. She’s playful still and the sari keeps slipping from her shoulder.’
    â€˜Go to the roof and watch the scene,’ the Maharaja smiled kindly at the girl. ‘If anyone stops you, tell them you have my permission.’
    â€˜Go child,’ Bhanumati urged as the girl hesitated. ‘Being a woman you can’t go