“I gladly declare that the eighty-four books and ten thousand pages of my literary output over the last forty years of my life are worthless and I humbly gift this book to my readers as my first work.”
—Acharya Chatursen (1891-1960), in his preface to Vaishali Ki Nagarvadhu
In the ancient republic of Vaishali, a childless couple discover an abandoned infant girl in a mango orchard. They name her Ambapali, one who sprouted from a mango. When she turns eighteen, Ambapali is forced to become a courtesan–the Bride of the City–under Vaishali’s laws, which dictate that a woman as beautiful as her cannot be only one man’s wife. Ambapali bows before the iron law of her society, but does not allow herself to be crushed. She sets terms that make her residence, the Palace of Seven Worlds, a centre of power. While the richest and the most powerful men grovel before her, Ambapali bides her time even as she burns with revenge . . .
First published in Hindi in 1948-49, Vaishali Ki Nagarvadhu (literally, “Bride of the City of Vaishali”) took Acharya Chatursen ten years of deep research. This unrivalled epic of the human condition boasts of a vast canvas of characters that includes the Buddha and Mahavir among “a Bollywood-like panoply of opulent castles, warrior princes, courtesans, dancers, wily courtiers, [and] sorcerers.” Hitherto untranslated, this icon of world literature is now available in a two–volume series out from Cernunnos Books. After reading the sponsored excerpt below, check out Historical Novel Society’s review here.
The Cursed Law
The city seethed. At the crack of dawn, men had started thronging towards the assembly. Royal Avenue was choked with men on foot, in palanquins, on horseback, and in chariots. The big merchants, tradesmen, courtiers—they were all in the crowd. The outer corridors of the assembly were jammed with men jostling each other. The imposing marble steps were occupied by men sitting on them. A little further away, in the open field, some men stayed in their chariots as they surveyed the large building. Some of them raised their glinting spears and shouted out, creating a cacophony.
The members of the assembly were dismounting where they could and gravely making their way through the unruly mob. A platoon of guards cleared the way for them, and gatekeepers announced their entry into the hall.
The assembly was built mostly of gleaming white marble from the Matsya Kingdom. Inside, its main conference hall had a black stone floor and a hundred and eight black stone pillars that supported the ceiling. Nine hundred and ninety-nine ivory floor pods were neatly arrayed all around the hall. On these, the members of the assembly—representatives of the clans—sat quietly in their demarcated areas. In the centre of the chamber was a raised jade-coloured and intricately carved altar housing two silver pods and covered with a silver canopy. The canopy was ornate with paintings and festooned with flags. Its pillars and the two floor pods had gold inlay work. The pods belonged to the chief minister, Sunand and to the supreme commander, Suman. These two luminaries had not yet reached the assembly.
The altar had steps on three sides, and these steps seated the aged clerks who recorded the minutes of the assembly meetings. Their assistants stood ready with rolls of black and red notebooks in open baskets. Some middle-aged officials directed the preparations in their usual efficient and unobtrusive ways. The rest of the staff scurried to follow their commands.
The chief minister and the supreme commander took their seats without fanfare. The rising tumult of the assembly was drowned out by a blast of the trumpet signalling that the proceedings had started.
The crowd outside became more restive. As they chanted and paced, their faces turned red, and their eyes glowed with anger. The courtyard was packed with the sons of courtiers and merchants. The former brandished their swords and spears, shouting phrases that were lost to all but those next to them. The latter, trained to smile and create bonhomie, looked ready to pick fights. With these crowds thronging the assembly building, it was clear that all the markets and guilds in the city and up-country were closed. Inside, the two chiefs and the members of the parliamentary council were in a pensive mood. They fidgeted as if an unwanted event was about to be thrust on them. The guards were deployed in full strength, their faces taut and foreheads furrowed.
A sudden hush descended on the vast gathering, broken only by the deep, loud creaking of a chariot’s wheels, accompanied by the tinkling of what seemed to be a thousand of its bells. The men in the restless crowd stopped pacing, as if bound by an inviolable command. All eyes were trained on a chariot that advanced at a stately pace towards the courtyard. The chariot was covered with a white cloth, and a white flag fluttered on its golden top. It traversed the courtyard and stopped in front of the steps that led up to the assembly. The quiet throng looked on as an imposing man stepped out of the chariot. His clothes were a spotless white, and so was his flowing beard. A long sword nestled in a sheath at his waist. The sheath and the handle of the sword glittered with inlaid gems. The old man wore a white turban that was topped by a solitaire. A young man joined him, and the old man climbed the steps slowly, but without faltering, leaning on the young one’s shoulder. The men made way for him. The silence remained unbroken as he took the first few steps.
Then a murmur started that grew into a clamour. A young man, his nostrils bristling, walked down to confront the old man and stood in front of him, planting his spear on the step with a loud thud. His chest was heaving. ‘So, Sir Mahanaman, you have come alone? Lady Ambapali has not come?’
Around them, first dozens, then hundreds of men—the sons of courtiers, merchants, artisans, all of the city—shouted hoarse words. Some phrases rang out clearly above the tumult: ‘Insult to all of us!’ ‘Rule of law!’ ‘Intolerable!’
And then the shouting spread outward from that epicentre. ‘There will be rivers of blood! We cannot allow this! The law cannot be treated this way! No, we shall protect the law at any cost!’ The excited protestors included the most urbane men of the city.
‘Yes, at any cost!’
Mahanaman’s face grew stony. Without seeming to make an effort, he drew himself up so that he became even more towering. With his physical presence, fluttering white clothes and beard, and the diamond on his turban, he exuded a charisma that would make the most reckless of young men flinch. In a smooth move, his hand gripped the handle of his sword.
The man in front of him shrank back. It was as if an invisible hand had nudged him aside. Mahanaman continued up the steps.
Now it was the conference hall that fell silent. One could have heard a needle drop.
Chief Minister Sunand said, ‘Gentlemen, may I have your ears? You all know the pressing reason for this august gathering of the eight clans. I request you, Sirs, to observe decorum, to maintain peace. Do not let excitement get the better of you. The city looks up to you, Gentlemen. If etiquette is violated, I will be compelled to break this assembly.
‘First of all, I will ask the record clerk how many members of the council are present here.’
‘A total of nine hundred and two’, was the answer.
‘Gentlemen, each member of the Vajji Union was informed of today’s meet, and all who could be present are here. Is each member of this assembly in possession of his senses? If you think your neighbour is not, speak now!’
Complete silence greeted the announcement.
‘If you know of someone here who is unfit, hysterical or drunk, speak up!’
The silence continued.
‘Very well’, the chief minister continued. ‘Now listen, Gentlemen of the city. Sir Mahanaman,’ he nodded towards Mahanaman, ‘today, your daughter attains eighteen years of age. The Republic of Vaishali has chosen her as its foremost beauty. In keeping with the law, this assembly seeks to appoint Ambapali Bride of the City of Vaishali. She will receive the title of Benefactress of the Republic, bestower of blessings to all. It has ordered her to present herself here and take an oath to serve her duties. You are her guardian. You must present her here. Now, do you present her, and accept that she is lawfully appointed Bride of the City?’
Overwhelmed by the thousand pairs of eyes, Mahanaman slumped and lowered his eyes. His lips quivered—for a fleeting moment. He recovered his poise almost immediately. He stood erect as he proclaimed in a composed tone: ‘Sir, I am a Licchavi. For forty-two years, I have served the Vajji Republic with this sword.’ He patted its hilt. ‘I have upheld the honour of the Republic many times. With the strength of these arms, I quelled the toughest enemies. I have respected, followed and protected the constitution, law and honour of the Republic. I shall continue to do so.’
Mahanaman fell silent. It was as if his lips, so eloquent until now, struggled to form the words that were to follow. His eyes took in the burning, seething gazes of all around him. He took a deep breath and continued in a calm, steady manner. ‘Knowing what this assembly had decided regarding my daughter Ambapali, I had postponed her marriage till she became eighteen. Now—’
‘Postponed!’ A courtier’s son shouted. ‘What does that mean? This sounds suspicious!’
The floodgates opened, and many voices joined in. ‘This is suspicious!’ ‘Be clear!’ ‘Lady Ambapali cannot be one man’s wife. She belongs to all of us!’ ‘And we will use our weapons if we have to!’
Chief Minister Sunand raised his hand, and the commotion died down. ‘Young men, be quiet. Do not disturb the functioning of the assembly. Sir Mahanaman has not completed his statement. Let him say what he has to.’
Once again, there was pin-drop silence in the hall. All eyes were on Mahanaman. He looked at the members of the assembly and at the raging crowd outside. He cast his eyes downwards.
This time he spoke without raising his eyes. ‘Gentlemen, Ambapali is eighteen years of age today. According to the laws of the Vajji Republic, she is independent and responsible for her decisions. So, from this day onwards, I am not her guardian. She herself will speak her mind to this assembly.’
It was as if a wave of indignation had fanned out from where Mahanaman stood. Many of the young men drew their swords, and others raised their spears. There were screams of fury. ‘Treason! Treason!’ ‘Sir Mahanaman has tricked the Republic!’ ‘Punish him!’ ‘She is for us, all of us!’ ‘If the Republic can’t get rules followed, we shall do it!’ ‘Yes, with our swords and spears!’
The shouts subsided as men followed their neighbours’ examples to gaze, stunned, at the door to the hall. It was as if a spell had been cast on the whole tumultuous crowd. A veiled woman stood in the doorway. Her presence seemed to light up the hall and to scent it. It was as if the pent-up anger had dissolved in an instant. The young men gave way to her without a murmur of dissent. The men inside the assembly and those outside gazed at her as they would at a goddess.
She removed her veil when she reached the altar. The gathering viewed for the first time the beauty that had been the talk of the city for more than three years. That beauty had brought the assembled multitude to their state of desperation. As the hundreds of eyes fell on her, the limbs of the viewers became still, their hearts pounded, and their breath became ragged. Like a silvery autumnal moon, her presence soothed every corner of the hall. The ferocity of a few moments before had dissipated.
Ambapali wore a spotless, golden-hued silken dress around her waist. Her hair was tied perfectly in a bun, adorned with tiny flowers. Her breasts were covered only by a necklace of large, flawless pearls. A girdle studded with precious stones divided her slender waist from her exquisitely curved buttocks. She wore glittering anklets that seemed to enhance her brilliance. Even her slender feet, encased in slippers with inlay work, were chiselled to perfection. It was as if a divinely gifted sculptor had carved out her body from a single diamond in an inspired frenzy, in homage to all that was beautiful in this world. She exuded a radiance, a subtle and tender energy that held the assembly captive. She had reduced the assembly, and the belligerent crowd outside, to a powerless, stunned mass.
This was the Ambapali for whom the citizens of Vaishali were ready to create rivers of blood. To see her, the rich and powerful often displayed ingenuity. Many had gone to ludicrous lengths to express their desires. They had commissioned images, painted based on hearsay by the most skilled painters, barring no expenses. They had hoarded the paintings away from the gazes of their friends. Today, Ambapali stood before their eyes, in the flesh, embodying all that was glorious about beauty and youth. It was as if the men in the gaping crowd had lost themselves in a state of meditative contemplation, far removed from their frenzy of a few moments ago.
Ambapali went and stood by Mahanaman, with her gaze lowered. Sunand said, ‘Gentlemen, Ambapali has appeared in person to express herself before this assembly. All, please listen to her statement.’
The young woman stood still for a moment. The assembly vibrated with loud cheers and slogans from the hall and from outside. ‘Long live Lady Ambapali!’ ‘Victory to the Bride of the City!’ ‘Victory to the Benefactress!’
Her lips quivered like rose petals caressed by a morning breeze. When she took a deep breath and spoke, her voice flowed like music. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said in a firm but dewy tone that sent ripples of pleasure around her, ‘I have considered your order. I will accept the abominable, cursed law of the Vajji union if this august assembly will be so kind as to accept my terms. Gentlemen, the chief minister will convey these terms.’
A shocked silence greeted her words, and then a murmur picked up in volume. A middle-aged councilman, who had his moustache between his teeth, let go of it and protested in a reedy voice, ‘What did you say? Abominable, cursed law? Take back what you said, Ambapali. It is an insult to this assembly!’
‘Yes, yes!’ more voices joined in. ‘Take back those words. You cannot use such words!’
Ambapali spoke with ease, without seeming to raise her voice, but in words that rang out loud and clear in the hall. ‘Not only will I not take back those words, but I state that I shall repeat them a thousand times. This cursed law of the Vajji union is a blot on the great name of the Republic of Vaishali. Gentlemen, what is my crime? It is that God gave me the beauty that seems unfathomable in your eyes. For this, my life from this day onwards becomes different from other women born on the same day as me. For this, I am to be deprived of the rights that every bride of a family has. I cannot give my body and heart to one man that I love. I must sell this affectionate heart and this body oozing with all that men desire to those men that bid for them. You force me to do this by law. Cursed is the law that these courtiers’ woman-loving sons burn to protect with their sharp swords and the points of their spears. Cursed is the law that these merchants’ sons are keen to protect with the influence their money buys.’ Her voice was louder now. ‘This law is fit to be cursed a million times.’ She stopped, her flushed face and trembling fingers betraying her agitation.
There was a deafening silence in the assembly hall.
‘Gentlemen,’ Ambapali continued in a sober tone, ‘I have said what I had to say. If this assembly accepts my conditions, I offer my purity, womanhood, honour, beauty, youth, body—all that I have— to the Republic in the name of this cursed law. If you do not accept them, I shall await my executioner in the Blue Lotus Palace.’
She veiled her body, took Mahanaman’s hand and said, ‘Let us go.’ He first clasped her hand and then, put his hand on her shoulder. Together, they walked towards the chariot, followed by the young man who had accompanied Mahanaman earlier.
The people of the Republic of Vaishali looked on as if they had been struck dumb.
Translated from the Hindi by Pratibha Vinod Kumar and A.K. Kulshreshth
Click here and here to purchase the two volumes of Acharya Chatursen’s Bride of the City.
Acharya Chatursen (1891–1960) was one of Hindi’s most prolific writers. He studied at Jaipur Sanskrit College, where he obtained Shastri and Acharya degrees in Literature and Medicine. He started his professional career as a physician before devoting himself to writing. Over a writing career spanning four decades, he published more than eighty works spanning the genres of fiction, drama, politics, literary criticism, poetry and medicine. Vaishali Ki Nagarvadhu (literally, The Bride of the City of Vaishali, of which this book is a translation), Somnath, Goli and Vayam Rakshamah are among his famous novels. His novel Dharamputra was adapted into a Bollywood film and won the National Film Award for the Best Feature Film in Hindi in 1961.
Pratibha Vinod Kumar (1941–2020) obtained a BA in English Literature, Philosophy and Sanskrit from Maharani College (Jaipur), MA in English Literature from Rajasthan University and BEd from Annamalai University. Her previous published work includes translations of two classics of Hindi literature—Jaishankar Prasad’s Kamayani and Bhagwati Charan Verma’s Chitralekha—and an anthology of new writing, Hindi Tales of Mystery and Imagination Vol. I into English.
A.K. Kulshreshth is her son’s pen name. His short stories have been published in eight countries, and his first novel manuscript, Lying Eyes, was longlisted for the Epigram Books Fiction Prize 2022.
*****
Read more from Translation Tuesdays on the Asymptote blog: