Chapter 1 - Dawn of Bikrampur
The morning sun rose gently over Bajrayogini, brushing the thatched rooftops with a golden warmth. The village, nestled between the silver curve of the Padma River and a vast sea of paddy fields, began to stir with familiar music—women pounding rice, temple bells echoing through the banyan groves, fishermen singing to the rhythm of their nets.
And in a modest bamboo house beside the river lived a man whose life was stitched together with both war and poetry.
Devavrata Sen.
A Half Brahmin - Half Kshatriya by lineage.
A poet by destiny.
His hut smelled of sandalwood and wet clay, for he burned incense every dawn as he wrote verses on palm leaves. The villagers often joked: "This warrior's sword sleeps more often than his ink."
But if you asked Devavrata whom he loved more—his poems or his sword—
he would choose neither.
For he loved Phulmati beyond both.
And she appeared then, stepping out of the hut with a clay pot in hand, her golden-brown skin glowing like pollen in the new sun. Her hair, long and braided with jasmine, swung softly as she moved, and the conch-shell bangles on her wrists chimed with each step.
"Devavrata," she called, smiling, "you have forgotten to eat again, haven't you?"
He looked up from his palm leaf, caught like a boy doing mischief.
"I am writing a new verse," he said. "It refused to let me go."
She sighed, placing the pot on the mat beside him.
"Your verses feed your heart, but they will not feed your body, you know."
Devavrata slipped an arm around her waist.
"Why should I eat," he murmured, "when seeing you is enough sustenance for a lifetime?"
She playfully pushed him away, cheeks blooming like hibiscus.
"You say such exaggerated things!"
"I am a poet by hobby," he said, with a proud tilt of his chin. "Exaggeration is my profession."
She laughed—bright, light, the kind of laughter that made the river pause in admiration.
They were happy.
Not wealthy.
Not powerful.
But happy in a way that felt eternal.
Daily Life of the Lovers
In the mornings, Phulmati would collect lotus stems from the river, the cold water swirling around her ankles. Devavrata often followed her, pretending to help but secretly watching the reflections of her smile ripple in the water.
By midday, she cooked rice and spiced lentils while he practiced sword drills on the shore. His upper body glistened with sweat, muscles honed by years of martial training, yet he moved with a bard's elegance. After training, he would sit under the mango tree and read her verses fresh from his heart.
"Why do you always write about me as though I'm some celestial apsara?" she teased once.
"Because," he replied, brushing a leaf from her hair,
"Your beauty rivals Lakshmi Devi. And one day, the world will know it through my writings."
Evenings were their favorite.
They sat together by the river as fireflies danced above the water. Phulmati lay her head on his shoulder and traced lazy circles on his palm.
"What will you write of me next?" she whispered.
"Everything," he answered. "Our first meeting. Our wedding. The sound of your anklets. The way you wrinkle your nose when thinking. And the way you fall asleep like a child on my chest."
"And when we grow old?"
"I'll write about your silver hair and how you still look like the girl who stole my heart."
"Devavrata!" She blushed again.
Yet even in their happiness, destiny watched with cold eyes.
Foreshadowing of Change
One evening, as they lit the lamp before the household altar, a black cloud drifted across the moon. Wind rustled the banana leaves outside.
Phulmati shivered.
"There is something in the air… strange, unsettling."
Devavrata placed his hand on hers. "It is only the weather."
But the next morning, a messenger arrived at the riverbank, waving a red banner—the colour of war.
Foreign invaders had crossed the western borders.
The Sonargaon Sultanate was raising soldiers from every caste and village.
Phulmati's fingers trembled around her water pot.
Devavrata felt his heart drop into his stomach.
War had come to Bengal.
And it demanded its due.
The Inevitable Summons
As a Kshatriya, trained since childhood, Devavrata was bound—duty, honor, and birthright all pointed him toward the battlefield.
The village headman approached him with sorrowful eyes.
"Devavrata… the Sultanate needs brave warriors. I have written your name."
Phulmati's eyes widened in terror. "No. No, please—no."
The old man looked away.
"It is the law. The land must be defended. It's either that or pay the Jizya to the Sultan like a coward, that would be belittling to us Kshatriyas"
When he left, silence drowned the hut.
Phulmati sank to her knees, clutching Devavrata's clothes.
"You promised you'd never leave me…"
Devavrata knelt and held her tightly.
"I must go. If I don't fight, it would be a dishonour to my family and our society."
"I don't care about others!" she sobbed. "I want you. Only you."
He pressed his forehead to hers.
"I will return. I swear it on the Padma River."
But the river does not protect all promises.
Some it simply carries away.
The Last Night Before War
That night, they made love as though time were ending.
Afterward, they sat at the riverbank under a copper-blue sky. Devavrata recited a new poem for her—unfinished but tender.
When the moon reached its peak, Phulmati fell asleep on his lap.
He watched her, memorizing everything:
The curve of her lips.
The gentle rise of her breathing.
The faint smell of jasmine in her hair.
He whispered,
"If this is the last night I live, let it be enough."
At dawn, when the conch shell for departure sounded,
Phulmati gripped his hands until her nails dug into his skin.
"I will wait," she vowed.
"And I will return," he said.
They shared one final kiss—trembling, desperate, eternal.
Then he walked away.
Phulmati stood barefoot on the wet earth, tears falling silently as his form shrank into the green horizon.
And thus began the unraveling of their world.
Chapter 2 — The March of Ilyas Shah
The days after Devavrata's departure passed in a blur of dust, sweat, and the distant clang of swords. The village of Bajrayogini grew quieter without his laughter, and the Padma River seemed to carry a heavier weight, as though the waters themselves mourned his absence. Phulmati moved like a shadow of herself, attending to household duties with mechanical precision, her eyes often lingering on the horizon where Devavrata had disappeared.
Meanwhile, Devavrata's life had been swallowed by the clangor of war. The Sonargaon army, led by the stern and ambitious Ikhtiyaruddin Ghazi Shah, marched to the west, confronting pockets of resistance and foreign mercenaries who had crossed Bengal's borders. Devavrata fought valiantly, his mixed Brahmin-Kshatriya blood giving him both tactical insight and physical prowess. He was admired by his fellow soldiers for his courage and calm intellect, yet none knew the fire that burned in his heart—an ache for home, for the woman who waited faithfully beside the Padma.
Months passed, and rumors began to trickle through the ranks. Soldiers whispered of a new force approaching from the west: a general, a conqueror, who was consolidating the lands of Bengal under a single banner. His name was Shamsuddin Ilyas Shah.
At first, Devavrata paid little attention. His mind was on the battle at hand, on the survival of his companions, and on the hope that he would one day return home to Phulmati. But then the news reached him in fragments, carried by messengers with pale faces and trembling hands.
"They say… Ilyas Shah moves toward Sonargaon," one soldier whispered, eyes darting nervously. "He brings his army to unite the eastern lands… and they will not spare anyone in their path."
Devavrata's stomach clenched. The mention of his homeland, the path toward Bajrāyogini and Bikrampur, brought a sudden panic. He thought of Phulmati. Alone. Vulnerable. Unprotected. The thought was unbearable.
He tried to focus on the battlefield, to obey Ikhtiyaruddin's orders, but every clash of swords and every cry of a dying man reminded him of the urgent truth: his war was not enough. His duty was divided—between the battlefield and the woman he loved more than life itself.
By the time the Sonargaon army made camp on the western edge of the territory, Devavrata's resolve had hardened. Under the cover of night, he slipped away, leaving behind the battlefield, his comrades, and the orders of Ikhtiyaruddin. Desertion, he knew, was a crime punishable by death—but the thought of Phulmati, possibly in the path of Ilyas Shah, outweighed the fear of punishment.
He traveled by secret paths along rivers, avoiding the main roads where scouts and informants might report him. The monsoon had left the rivers swollen and turbulent, but Devavrata used them to his advantage, taking small boats and rafts, navigating the currents like a shadow. Every bend in the river reminded him of home, every reed whispered her name: Phulmati.
Days stretched into nights without pause. Devavrata imagined her daily life as he remembered it—the way she collected lotus stems at dawn, the soft laughter that once made the river itself seem to pause, the curve of her lips as she teased him for exaggerating in his verses. His longing grew unbearable. His heart pounded with desperation.
Finally, as the army of Ilyas Shah approached Sonargaon, Devavrata's journey led him to the borders of Bajrayogini. Smoke rose from the distant villages—not from the river mist, but from the forges of war and the banners of a conquering army. The unmistakable gleam of armored soldiers on horseback, carrying the Sultan's standard, made his blood run cold.
He ran. He leapt from raft to bank, pushing through undergrowth and broken fences, driven by a singular thought: to reach Phulmati, to protect her, to reclaim the life that had been theirs.
But when he arrived, it was too late.
From a hidden perch atop the low embankment, Devavrata witnessed a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his life. The village center of Bajrayogini had been transformed into a court of the Sultanate, with banners fluttering in the wind, guards lining the perimeters, and the townspeople forced into submission.
And there, in the heart of the gathering, stood Phulmati. Her golden-brown skin gleamed beneath the silk garments of a new identity. Her hair was braided and adorned with jasmine, but her eyes—those eyes that had once looked only for him—were now cast downward in obedience and fear.
Beside her stood Shamsuddin Ilyas Shah, resplendent in his conquests' regalia, commanding presence and undeniable authority radiating from him. The ceremony proceeded with all the solemnity and grandeur of the Sultanate's will—an irrevocable union sanctioned by power, faith, and politics.
Devavrata could not move. Could not speak. Could not intervene. Every instinct in his body screamed to charge, to fight, to reclaim what was his. Yet he knew, with a clarity sharpened by heartbreak, that it was impossible. He was a single man, exhausted from months of warfare, facing a Sultan who commanded armies and kingdoms. Any attempt at interference would be death—for him, and possibly for Phulmati as well.
He stayed hidden, watching from the shadows, his hands trembling, his heart breaking with every syllable of the nikah spoken, every blessing uttered, every ceremonial gesture performed. Phulmati's life, the life he had fought to protect, had been carried away from him—not by chance, not by betrayal, but by the inexorable march of history, conquest, and fate.
When the ceremony concluded, Ilyas Shah rose and gave Phulmati the title of Begum, marking her transformation and the finality of the act. The villagers bowed, the soldiers saluted, and Devavrata felt as if the entire world had shifted beneath his feet.
He did not run. He did not scream. He only turned away, stepping into the shadows, letting the river's current guide him from the village he had once called home.
As night fell, the river whispered around him, carrying with it the memories of laughter, of gentle mornings, of verses whispered beside the Padma. Devavrata clutched a palm leaf in his hands—the beginnings of a poem he would never finish that night—and began walking along the banks, alone, broken, and unmoored.
The path ahead was uncertain. The wars of men were behind him; the wars of the heart had only begun.
And somewhere, carried by the winds along the river, his first words of sorrow emerged, unbidden and unstoppable:
"Phulmati… my golden one… you are gone from my world, yet I cannot leave you from my heart."
Chapter 3 — The Rivers of Sorrow
The Padma stretched before him like a silver wound, its waters swollen from the retreating monsoon, carrying reeds, fallen branches, and memories he could not release. Devavrata walked along its muddy banks, barefoot and silent, his hands stained with river mud and grief. The village of Bajrayogini, the laughter of Phulmati, the warmth of their shared mornings—all of it had been swept away by the tide of history and conquest.
For days, he traveled without purpose, drifting from one riverbank to another. He took small boats, boarded ferries used by fishermen, and slept under the open sky, listening to the rustle of bamboo leaves and the distant cry of kingfishers. Every village he passed, every whispering reed, seemed to carry her name.
"Phulmati…" he murmured into the wind.
"Phulmati… my golden one…"
No one answered. Only the river replied, lapping against his feet like an old, merciless friend.
The Poet in Exile
Devavrata had once believed poetry could capture eternity. Now he wrote only to exorcise his pain. Palm leaves, scraps of bamboo, and scraps of cloth became his canvases. He scrawled verses along the riverbanks, etched words into tree bark, and sometimes recited poems aloud, letting the wind carry them to no one but the water.
He wrote of love:
The curve of her lips, the scent of jasmine, the sound of her laughter, now gone from my grasp.
He wrote of loss:
The river carries my memory of you, Phulmati, yet cannot return you to my arms.
He wrote of despair:
The Sultan has claimed you, and I am but a shadow, powerless, unworthy, forgotten.
Villagers along the rivers began to whisper of the mad poet of the waters, a man who wandered endlessly, clutching palm leaves and muttering to the wind. They gave him space, fearing the depth of his sorrow and the sharpness of his mind.
Devavrata no longer cared for food or rest. Days blurred into nights. Rain soaked him to the bone. Sun scorched him. Fever and hunger became companions, yet none could match the fever burning in his heart.
Madness Takes Root
Months passed, and grief transformed into something more dangerous—madness. Devavrata began to speak to shadows of Phulmati, imagining her voice calling from the river:
"Devavrata… why do you follow the currents?"
He answered aloud:
"I follow only you, Phulmati! Only you, my golden one! Do not be afraid—I am coming!"
He would sometimes leap into the river, expecting to find her on the opposite shore. The currents pulled him downstream, but no matter how far he drifted, she was never there.
Villagers who witnessed his wandering spoke in hushed tones:
"The poet has lost his mind. The love he bore was too great for this world."
He stopped sleeping. He stopped eating. His body wasted away while his mind remained painfully alive, trapped in an endless loop of memory and desire. Every poem he wrote became more desperate, more fractured, more pleading with a world that had turned cruel.
The Long Journey Along Bengal's Rivers
Devavrata moved through Sonargaon, Mymensingh, Habiganj, and the small river settlements along the Kushiyara and Surma. Each riverbank held a memory: a flower she had worn, a sound of her laughter, a glimpse of the golden sunlight in her hair.
Sometimes he left poems pinned to trees, tied with reeds, or floated them downstream on palm leaf rafts. He no longer cared if anyone read them. They were not for the living—they were for her, or perhaps for the river itself, which seemed the only witness to his grief.
One night, in the cool darkness, he whispered into the Surma River:
"Phulmati… do you remember the nights by the Padma? Do you remember our words, our promises?"
No answer came. Only the river licked at his feet, silent and eternal.
Sreemangal — The Final Riverbend
Eventually, Devavrata reached Sreemangal, the Sylhet region, where tea gardens rolled into misty hills and banyan trees sprawled like ancient guardians of forgotten time. Here, the rivers moved slower, reflective like glass, carrying the ghosts of monsoon rains and lost days.
Beneath a colossal Banyan Tree, its roots curling like serpents in the soil, Devavrata paused. The tree reminded him of Phulmati—the way her hair had fallen across her shoulders, the way she had once leaned against him in the sunlight. He pressed his palm to the roots as if touching her, and he began his final act of devotion.
He wrote one last poem on palm leaves, his handwriting trembling with exhaustion, grief, and madness. It was the poem that would endure beyond him, the one he had whispered in fragments along every river of Bengal, his last poem:
Phulmati, golden-skinned woman,
I lie beside you, my heart grows heavy,
In the depths of night,
Afloat in dreams,
No sorrow may touch me, Phulmati Begum.
Before my eyes, time itself seems to halt,
In distant boats, you are bound, my beloved,
On foreign soil,
I hold both your hands,
No sorrow may touch me, Phulmati Begum.
Phulmati, gentle as the soft wind,
Across the ages, to the west you have gone,
To distant lands,
Perhaps to stay one day,
No sorrow may touch me, Phulmati Begum.
This heart breaks, (this heart breaks)
(this heart breaks) in Phulmati's hue, (in Phulmati's hue)
(in Phulmati's hue) this heart breaks (this heart breaks)
(this heart breaks) Phulmati Begum…
The End
Devavrata pressed his forehead against the roots of the Banyan Tree, whispering her name one final time. The wind carried it, along with the remnants of rain, across the rivers and fields of Bengal.
Then, with a final, desperate motion, he struck his head against the tree.
Again.
And again.
Until his body fell still, folded among the roots like a man returning to the earth he had fought for, loved for, and ultimately lost.
The palm leaves fluttered in the morning breeze, carrying his last words downstream. No one would know their meaning, yet every current, every river bend, every whispering reed remembered Devavrata Sen—the half Brahmin, half Kshatriya poet of Bengal—whose love and grief had transcended time, war, and the will of kings.
And somewhere, beyond the rivers, beyond the trees, Phulmati's memory remained… eternal.