Reading section 22

wouldst thou have of us?" Then, with soft words The slender-waisted spake: "Of all these here, So worshipful in sacrifice and rite-- 'Mid gentle beasts and birds--in tasks and toils And blameless duties--is it well?" And they Answered: "We thank you, noble lady, well. Tell us, most beauteous one, thy name, and say What thou desirest. Seeing thee so fair, So worthy, yet so sorrowful, our minds Are lost in wonder. Weep not. Comfort take. Art thou the goddess of the wood? Art thou The Mountain-Yakshi, or, belike, some sprite Which lives under the river? Tell us true, Gentle and faultless form!" Whereat reply Thus made she to the Rishis: "None of these Am I, good saints. No goddess of the wood, Nor yet a mountain nor a river sprite; A woman ye behold, most only ones, Whose moving story I will tell you true. The Raja of Vidarbha is my sire, Bhima his name, and--Best of Twice-born!--know My husband is Nishadha's Chief, the famed, The wise and valiant and victorious Prince, The high and lordly Nala; of the gods A steadfast worshipper; of Bráhmanas The friend; his people's shield; honored and strong, Truth-speaking, skilled in arms, sagacious, just; Terrible to his foes, fortunate, lord Of many conquered towns; a godlike man, Princeliest of princes--Nala--one that hath A countenance like the full moon's for light, And eyes of lotus. This true offerer Of sacrifices, this close votary Of Vedas and Vedângas, in the war Deadly to enemies, like sun and moon For splendor--by some certain evil ones Being defied to dice, my virtuous Prince Was, by their wicked acts, of realm despoiled-- Wealth, jewels, all. I am his woful wife, The Princess Damayanti. Seeking him Through thickets have I roamed, over rough hills, By crag and river and the reedy lake, By marsh and waterfall and jungle-bush, In quest of him--my lord, my warrior, My hero--and still roam, uncomforted. Worshipful brethren! say if he hath come-- Nishadha's Chief, my Nala, hitherward Unto your pleasant homes--he, for whose sake I wander in the dismal pathless wood With bears and tigers haunted--terrible! Ah! if I find him not, ere there be passed Many more nights and days, peace will I win; For death shall set my mournful spirit free. What cause have I to live, lacking my Prince? Why should I longer breathe, whose heart is dead With sorrow for my lord?" To Bhima's child, So in the wood bewailing, made reply Those holy, truthful men: "Beautiful One! The future is for thee; fair will it fall! Our eyes, by long devotions opened, see-- Even now--thy lord; thou shalt behold him soon, Nishadha's chief, the famous Nala, strong In battle, loving justice. Yea, this Prince Thou wilt regain, Bhima's sad daughter! freed From troubles, purged of sin; and witness him-- With all his gems and glories--governing Nishadha once again, invincible, Joy of his friends and terror of his foes. Yea, Noblest, thou shalt have thy love anew In days to come." So speaking, from the sight Of Damayanti, at that instant, passed Hermits, with hermitage and holy fires, Evanishing. In wonderment she stood, Gazing bewildered. Then the Princess cried:--

"Was it in dream I saw them? Whence befell This unto me? Where are the brethren gone, The ring of huts, the pleasant stream that ran With birds upon its crystal banks, the grove Delightful, with its fruits and flowers?" Long while Pondered and wondered Damayanti there, Her bright smile fled, pale, strengthless, sorrowful; Then to another region of the wood, With sighs, and eyes welling great tears, she passed, Lamenting; till a beauteous tree she spied-- The Asoka, best of trees. Fair rose it there Beside the forest, glowing with the flame Of golden and crimson blossoms, and its boughs Full of sweet-singing birds. "_Ahovat_--Look!" She cried: "Ah, lovely tree, that wavest here Thy crown of countless, shining, clustering blooms As thou wert woodland king--Asoka tree, Tree called 'the sorrow-ender,' heart's-ease tree! Be what thy name saith--end my sorrow now, Saying, ah, bright Asoka! thou hast seen My Prince, my dauntless Nala; seen that lord Whom Damayanti loves and his foes fear; Seen great Nishadha's Chief, so dear to me, His tender princely skin in rended cloth Scantily clad. Hath he passed wandering Under thy branches, grievously forlorn? Answer, Asoka! 'Sorrow-ender,' speak! That I go sorrowless, O heart's-ease, be Truly heart-easing--ease my heart of pain." Thus, wild with grief, she spake unto the tree, Round and round walking, as to reverence it; And then, unanswered, the sweet lady sped Through wastes more dreadful, passing many a Many still-gliding rillets, many a peak Tree-clad, with beasts and birds of wondrous kind, In dark ravines, and caves, and lonely glooms. These things saw Damayanti, Bhima's child, Seeking her lord. At last, on the long road, She, whose soft smile was once so beautiful, A caravan encountered. Merchantmen With trampling horses, elephants, and wains, Made passage of a river, running slow In cool, clear waves. The quiet waters gleamed, Shining and wide outspread, between the canes Which bordered it, wherefrom echoed the cries Of fish-hawks, curlews, and red chakravâks, With sounds of leaping fish and water-snakes, And tortoises, amid its shoals and flats Sporting or feeding. When she spied that throng-- Heart-maddened with her anguish, weak and wan, Half clad, bloodless and thin, her long black locks Matted with dust--breathlessly breaks she in Upon them--Nala's wife--so beauteous once, So honored. Seeing her, some fled in fear; Some gazed, speechless with wonder; some called out, Mocking the piteous face by words of scorn; But some (my King!) had pity of her woe, And spake her fair, inquiring: "Who art thou? And whence? And in this grove what seekest thou, To come so wild? Thy mien astonisheth. Art of our kind, or art thou something strange, The spirit of the forest, or the hill, Or river valley? Tell us true; then we Will buy thy favor. If, indeed, thou art Yakshini, Rakshasi, or she-creature Haunting this region, be propitious! Send Our caravan in safety on its path, That we may quickly, by thy fortune, go Homeward, and all fair chances fall to us." Hereby accosted, softly gave response That royal lady--weary for her lord-- Answering the

leader of the caravan, And those that gathered round, a marvelling throng Of men and boys and elders: "Oh, believe I am as you, of mortal birth, but born A Raja's child, and made a Raja's wife. Him seek I, Chieftain of Nishadha, named Prince Nala--famous, glorious, first in war. If ye know aught of him, my king, my joy, My tiger of the jungle, my lost lord, Quick, tell me, comfort me!" Then one who led Their line--the merchant Śuchi--answering, Spake to the peerless Princess: "Hear me now. I am the captain of this caravan, But nowhere any named by Nala's name Have I, or these, beheld. Of evil beasts The woods were full--cheetahs and bears and cats, Tigers and elephants, bison and boar; Those saw we in the brake on every side, But nowhere nought of human shape, save thee. May Manibhadra have us in his grace-- The Lord of Yakshas--as I tell thee truth!" Then sadly spake she to the trader-chief And to his band: "Whither wend ye, I pray? Please ye, acquaint me where this Sârthâ[23] goes." Replied the captain: "Unto Chedi's realm, Where rules the just Subâhu, journey we, To sell our merchandise, daughter of men!" Thus by the chieftain of the band informed, The peerless Princess journeyed with them, still Seeking her lord. And at the first the way Fared through another forest, dark and deep; Afterwards came the traders to a pool Broad, everywhere delightful, odorous With cups of opened lotus, and its shores Green with rich grass, and edged with garden trees-- A place of flowers and fruits and singing birds. So cool and clear and peacefully it gleamed, That men and cattle, weary with the march, Clamored to pitch; and, on their chieftain's sign, The pleasant hollow entered they, and camped-- All the long caravan--at sunset's hour. There, in the quiet of the middle night, Deep slumbered these; when, sudden on them fell A herd of elephants, thirsting to drink, In rut, the mada[24] oozing from their heads. And when those great beasts spied the caravan, And smelled the tame cows of their kind, they rushed Headlong, and, mad with must, overwhelming all, With onset vast and irresistible. As when from some tall peak into the plain Thunder and smoke and crash the rolling rocks, Through splintered stems and thorns breaking their path, So swept the herd to where, beside the pool, Those sleepers lay; and trampled them to earth Half-risen, helpless, shrieking in the dark, "Haha! the elephants!" Of those unslain, Some in the thickets sought a shelter; some, Yet dazed with sleep, stood panic-stricken, mute; Till here with tusks, and there with trunks, the beasts Gored them, and battered them, and trod them flat Under their monstrous feet. Then might be seen Camels with camel-drivers, perishing, And men flying in fear, who struck at men-- Terror and death and clamor everywhere: While some, despairing, cast themselves to earth; And some, in fleeing, fell and died; and some Climbed to the tree-tops. Thus on every side Scattered and ruined was that caravan-- Cattle and merchants--by the herd assailed. So hideous was the tumult,-all three worlds Seemed filled with fright; and one was heard to cry:-- "The fire is in the tents! fly for your lives!

Stay not!" And others cried: "Look where we leave Our treasures trodden down; gather them! Halt! Why run ye, losing ours and yours? Nay, stay! Stand ye, and we will stand!" And then to these One voice cried, "Stand!" another, "Fly! we die!" Answered by those again who shouted, "Stand! Think what we lose, O cowards!" While this rout Raged, amid dying groans and sounds of fear, The Princess, waking startled, terror-struck, Saw such a sight as might the boldest daunt-- Such scene as those great lovely lotus-eyes Ne'er gazed upon before. Sick with new dread-- Her breath suspended 'twixt her lips--she rose And heard, of those surviving, some one moan Amidst his fellows: "From whose evil act Is this the fruit? Hath worship not been paid To mighty Manibhadra? Gave we not The reverence due to Vaishravan, that King Of all the Yakshas? Was not offering made At outset to the spirits which impede? Is this the evil portent of the birds? Were the stars adverse? or what else hath fall'n?" And others said, wailing for friends and goods:-- "Who was that woman, with mad eyes, that came Into our camp, ill-favored, hardly cast In mortal mould? By her, be sure, was wrought This direful sorcery. Demon or witch, Yakshî or Rakshasî, or gliding ghost, Or something frightful, was she. Hers this deed Of midnight murders; doubt there can be none. Ah, if we could espy that hateful one, The ruin of our march, the woe-maker, With stones, clods, canes, or clubs, nay, with clenched fists, We'd strike her dead, the murderess of our band!" Trembling the Princess heard those angry words; And--saddened, maddened, shamed--breathless she fled Into the thicket, doubtful if such sin Might not be hers, and with fresh dread distressed. "Aho!" she weeps, "pitiless grows the wrath Of Fate against me. Not one gleam of good Arriveth. Of what fault is this the fruit? I cannot call to mind a wrong I wrought To any--even a little thing--in act Or thought or word; whence then hath come this curse? Belike from ill deeds done in by-gone lives It hath befall'n, and what I suffer now Is payment of old evils undischarged. Grievous the doom--my palace lost, my lord, My children, kindred; I am torn away From home and love and all, to roam accurst In this plague-haunted waste!" When broke the day, Those which escaped alive, with grievous cries Departed, mourning for their fellows slain. Each one a kinsman or a friend laments-- Father or brother, son, or comrade dear. And Damayanti, hearing, weeps anew, Saying: "What dreadful sin was that I wrought Long, long ago, which, when I chance to meet These wayfarers in the unpeopled wood, Dooms them to perish by the elephants, In my dark destiny enwrapped? No doubt More and more sorrow I shall bear, or bring, For none dies ere his time; this is the lore Of ancient sages; this is why--being glad If I could die--I was not trampled down Under the elephants. There haps to man Nothing unless by destiny. Why else, Seeing that never have I wrought one wrong, From childhood's hours, in thought or word or deed, Hath this woe chanced? May be--meseems it may!-- The mighty gods, at my Swayamvara Slighted by me

for Nala's dearest sake, Are wroth, and by their dread displeasure thus To loss and loneliness I am consigned!" So--woe-begone and wild--this noble wife, Deserted Damayanti, poured her griefs: And afterwards, with certain Bráhmanas Saved from the rout--good men who knew the Veds-- Sadly her road she finished, like the moon That goeth clouded in the month of rain. Thus travelling long, the Princess drew at last Nigh to a city, at the evening hour. The dwelling-place it was of Chedi's Chief, The just Subâhu. Through its lofty gates Painfully passed she, clad in half a cloth; And as she entered--sorrow-stricken, wan, Foot-weary, stained with mire, with unsmoothed hair, Unbathed, and eyes of madness--those who saw, Wondered and stared, and watched her as she toiled Down the long city street. The children break From play, and--boys with girls--followed her steps, So that she came--a crowd encompassing-- Unto the King's door. On the palace roof The mother of the Maharaja paced, And marked the throng, and that sad wayfarer. Then to her nurse spake the queen-mother this:-- "Go thou, and bring yon woman unto me! The people trouble her; mournful she walks, Seeming unfriended, yet bears she a mien Made for a king's abode, and, all so wild, Still are her wistful eyes like the great eyes Of Lakshmi's self." So downwards went the nurse, Bidding the rude folk back; and to the roof Of the great palace led that wandering one-- Desolate Damayanti--whom the Queen Courteous besought: "Though thou art wan of face, Thou wear'st a noble air, which through thy griefs Shineth as lightning doth behind its cloud. Tell me thy name, and whose thou art, and whence. No lowborn form is thine, albeit thou com'st Wearing no ornaments; and all alone Wanderest--not fearing men--by some spell safe." Hearing which words, the child of Bhima spake Gratefully this: "A woful woman I, And woful wife, but faithful to my vows; High-born, but like a servant, like a slave, Lodging where it may hap, and finding food From the wild roots and fruits wherever night Brings me my resting-place. Yet is my lord A prince noble and great, with countless gifts Endued; and him I followed faithfully As 't were his shadow, till hard fate decreed That he should fall into the rage of dice:-- And, worsted in that play, into the wood He fled, clad in one cloth, frenzied and lone. And I his steps attended in the wood, Comforting him, my husband. But it chanced, Hungry and desperate, he lost his cloth; And I--one garment bearing--followed still My unclad lord, despairing, reasonless, Through many a weary night not slumbering. But when, at length, a little while I slept, My Prince abandoned me, rending away Half of my garment, leaving there his wife, Who never wrought him wrong. That lord I seek By day and night, with heart and soul on fire-- Seek, but still find not; though he is to me Brighter than light which gleams from lotus-cups, Divine as are the immortals, dear as breath, The master of my life, my pride, my joy!" Whom, grieving so, her sweet eyes blind with tears, Gently addressed Subâhu's mother--sad To hear as she to tell. "Stay with us here, Thou ill-starred lady. Great the friendliness I have for

thee. The people of our court Shall thy lost husband seek; or, it may be, He too will wander hither of himself By devious paths: yea, mournful one, thy lord Thou wilt regain, abiding with us here." And Damayanti, bowing, answered thus Unto the Queen: "I will abide with thee, O mother of illustrious sons, if so They feed me not on orts, nor seek from me To wash the feet of comers, nor that I Be set to speak with any stranger-men Before the curtain; and, if any man Sue me, that he be punished; and if twice, Then that he die, guilty of infamy. This is my earnest prayer; but Bráhmanas Who seek my husband, or bear news of him, Such will I speak with. If it may be thus, Gladly would I abide, great lady, here; If otherwise, it is not on my mind To sojourn longer." Very tenderly Quoth the queen-mother: "All that thou dost ask We will ordain. The gods reward thy love, Which hath such honor!" Comforting her so, To the king's daughter, young Sunandâ, spake The Maharajni: "See, Sunandâ, here Clad as a handmaid, but in form divine, One of thy years, gentle and true. Be friends; Take and give pleasure in glad company Each with the other, keeping happy hearts." So went Sunandâ joyous to her house, Leading with loving hand the Princess in, The maidens of the court accompanying.

Part II.

Not long (O Maharaja!) was Nala fled From Damayanti, when, in midmost gloom Of the thick wood a flaming fire he spied, And from the fire's heart heard proceed a voice Of one imperilled, crying many times:-- "Haste hither, Punyashloka, Nala, haste!" "Fear not," the Prince replied; "I come!" and sprang Across the burning bushes, where he saw A snake--a king of serpents--lying curled In a great ring, which reared its dancing crest Saluting, and in human accents spoke:-- "Maharaja, kindly lord, I am the snake Karkôtaka; by me was once betrayed The famous Rishi Narada; his wrath Doomed me, thou Chief of men! to bear this spell-- 'Coil thy false folds,' said he, 'forever here, A serpent, motionless upon this spot, Till it shall chance that Nala passeth by And bears thee hence; then only from my curse Canst thou be freed,' And prisoned by that curse I have no power to stir, though the wood burns; Nay, not a coil! good fellowship I'll show If thou wilt succor me. I'll be to thee A faithful friend, as no snake ever yet. Lift me, and quickly from the flames bear forth: For thee I shall grow light." Thereat shrank up That monstrous reptile to a finger's length; And grasping this, unto a place secure From burning, Nala bore it, where the air Breathed freshly, and the fire's black path was stayed. Then made the Prince to lay the serpent down, But yet again it speaks: "Nishadha's Lord, Grasp me and slowly go, counting thy steps; For, Raja, thou shalt have good fortune hence." So Nala slowly went, counting his steps; And when the tenth pace came, the serpent turned And bit the Prince. No sooner pierced that tooth Than all the likeness of Nishadha changed; And, wonder-struck, he gazed upon himself; While from the dust he saw the snake arise A man, and, speaking as Karkôtaka, Comfort him thus:-- "Thou art by me transformed That no man know thee: and that evil one (Possessing, and undoing thee, with grief) Shall so within thee by my venom smart, Shall through thy blood so ache, that--till he quit-- He shall endure the woe he did impart. Thus by my potent spell, most noble Prince! (Who sufferest too long) thou wilt be freed From him that haunts thee. Fear no more the wood, Thou tiger of all princes! fear thou not Horned nor fanged beasts, nor any enemies, Though they be Bráhmans! safe thou goest now, Guarded from grief and hurt--Chieftain of men! By this kind poison. In the fields of war Henceforth the victory always falls to thee; Go joyous, therefore, Prince; give thyself forth For 'Vahûka, the charioteer:' repair To Rituparna's city, who is skilled In play, and dwells in fair Ayodhyâ. Wend thou, Nishadha! thither; he will teach Great subtlety in numbers unto thee, Exchanging this for thine own matchless gift Of taming horses. From the lordly line Descended of Ikshvaku, glad and kind The King will be; and thou, learning of him His deepest act of dice, wilt win back all, And clasp again thy Princess. Therefore waste No thought on woes. I tell thee truth! thy realm Thou shalt regain; and when the time is come That thou hast need to put thine own form on, Call me to mind, O Prince, and tie this cloth Around thy body. Wearing it, thy shape Thou

shalt resume." Therewith the serpent gave A magic twofold robe, not wove on earth, Which (O thou son of Kuru!) Nala took; And so the snake, transformed, vanished away. The great snake being gone, Nishadha's Chief Set forth, and on the tenth day entered in At Rituparna's town; there he besought The presence of the Raja, and spake thus:-- "I am the chariot-driver, Vahûka. There is not on this earth another man Hath gifts like mine to tame and guide the steed; Moreover, thou mayest use me in nice needs And dangerous, where kings lack faithful hearts. Specially skilful I am in dressing meats; And whatso other duties may befall, Though they be weighty, I shall execute, If, Rituparna, thou wilt take me in." "I take thee," quoth the King. "Dwell here with me. Such service as thou knowest, render us. 'Tis, Vahûka, forever in my heart To have my steeds the swiftest; be thy task To train me horses like the wind for speed; My charioteer I make thee, and thy wage Ten thousand gold suvernas. Thou wilt have For fellows, Varshneya and Jivala; With those abiding, lodge thou happy here." So entertained and honored of the King, In Rituparna's city Nala dwelled, Lodging with Varshneya and Jivala. There sojourned he (my Raja!), thinking still Of sweet Vidarbha's Princess day by day; And sunset after sunset one sad strain He sang: "Where resteth she that roamed the wood Hungry and parched and worn, but always true? Doth she remember yet her faultful lord? Ah, who is near her now?" So it befell Jivala heard him ever sighing thus, And questioned: "Who is she thou dost lament? Say, Vahûka! fain would I know her name. Long life be thine; but tell me who he is, The faultful man that was the lady's lord." And Nala answered him: "There lives a man, Evil and rash, that had a noble wife. False to his word he was; and thus it fell That somewhere, for some reason (ask not me!), He quitted her, this rash one. And--so wrenched Apart from hers--his spirit, bad and sad, Muses and moans, with grief's slow fire consumed Night-time and day-time. Thence it is he sings At every sunset this unchanging verse, An outcast on the earth, by hazard led Hither and thither. Such a man thou seest Woful, unworthy, holding in his heart Always that sin. I was that lady's lord, Whom she did follow through the dreadful wood, Living by me abandoned, at this hour; If yet, in truth, she lives--youthful, alone, Unpractised in the ways, not meriting Fortunes so hard. Ah, if indeed she lives, Who roamed the thick and boundless forest, full Of prowling beasts--roamed it, my Jivala, Unguarded by her guilty lord--forsook, Betrayed, good friend!" Thus did Nishadha grieve, Calling sweet Damayanti to his mind. So tarried he within the Raja's house, And no man knew his place of sojourning. While, stripped of state, the Prince and Princess thus Were sunk to servitude, Bhima made quest, Sending his Bráhmans forth to search for them With straight commands, and for their road-money Liberal store. "Seek everywhere," said he Unto the twice-born, "Nala--everywhere My daughter Damayanti. Whoso comes Successful in this quest, discovering her-- With lost