Reading section 15

The damsel’s breast with fury burned: She answered, as the gift she spurned: “What time, O simple Queen, is this For idle dreams of fancied bliss? Hast thou not sense thy state to know, Engulfed in seas of whelming woe; Sick as I am with grief and pain My lips can scarce a laugh restrain To see thee hail with ill-timed joy A peril mighty to destroy. I mourn for one so fondly blind: What woman of a prudent mind Would welcome, e’en as thou hast done, The lordship of a rival’s son, Rejoiced to find her secret foe Empowered, like death, to launch the blow; I see that Ráma still must fear Thy Bharat, to his throne too near. Hence is my heart disquieted, For those who fear are those we dread. Lakshmaṇ, the mighty bow who draws, With all his soul serves Ráma’s cause; And chains as strong to Bharat bind Śatrughna, with his heart and mind, Now next to Ráma, lady fair, Thy Bharat is the lawful heir: And far remote, I ween, the chance That might the younger two advance. Yes, Queen, ’tis Ráma that I dread, Wise, prompt, in warlike science bred; And oh, I tremble when I think Of thy dear child on ruin’s brink. Blest with a lofty fate is she, Kauśalyá; for her son will be Placed, when the moon and Pushya meet, By Bráhmans on the royal seat, Thou as a slave in suppliant guise Must wait upon Kauśalyá’s eyes, With all her wealth and bliss secured And glorious from her foes assured. Her slave with us who serve thee, thou Wilt see thy son to Ráma bow, And Sítá’s friends exult o’er all, While Bharat’s wife shares Bharat’s fall.”

As thus the maid in wrath complained, Kaikeyí saw her heart was pained, And answered eager in defence Of Ráma’s worth and excellence: “Nay, Ráma, born the monarch’s heir, By holy fathers trained with care, Virtuous, grateful, pure, and true, Claims royal sway as rightly due. He, like a sire, will long defend Each brother, minister, and friend. Then why, O hump-back, art thou pained To hear that he the throne has gained? Be sure when Ráma’s empire ends, The kingdom to my son descends, Who, when a hundred years are flown, Shall sit upon his fathers’ throne. Why is thine heart thus sad to see The joy that is and long shall be, This fortune by possession sure And hopes which we may count secure? Dear as the darling son I bore Is Ráma, yea, or even more. Most duteous to Kauśalyá, he Is yet more dutiful to me. What though he rule, we need not fear: His brethren to his soul are dear. And if the throne Prince Ráma fill Bharat will share the empire still.”

She ceased. The troubled damsel sighed Sighs long and hot, and thus replied: “What madness has possessed thy mind, To warnings deaf, to dangers blind? Canst thou not see the floods of woe That threaten o’er thine head to flow: First Ráma will the throne acquire, Then Ráma’s son succeed his sire, While Bharat will neglected pine Excluded from the royal line. Not all his sons, O lady fair, The kingdom of a monarch share: All ruling when a sovereign dies Wild tumult in the state would rise. The eldest, be he good or ill, Is ruler by the father’s will. Know, tender mother, that thy son Without a friend and all undone, Far from the joyous ease of home An alien from his race will roam. I sped to thee for whom I feel, But thy fond heart mistakes my zeal, Thy hand a present would bestow Because thy rival triumphs so. When Ráma once begins his sway Without a foe his will to stay, Thy darling Bharat he will drive To distant lands if left alive. By thee the child was sent away Beneath his grandsire’s roof to stay. Even in stocks and stones perforce Will friendship spring from intercourse. The young Śatrughna too would go With Bharat, for he loved him so. As Lakshmaṇ still to Ráma cleaves, He his dear Bharat never leaves. There is an ancient tale they tell: A tree the foresters would fell Was saved by reeds that round it stood, For love that sprang of neighbourhood. So Lakshmaṇ Ráma will defend, And each on each for aid depend. Such fame on earth their friendship wins As that which binds the Heavenly Twins. And Ráma ne’er will purpose wrong To Lakshmaṇ, for their love is strong. But Bharat, Oh, of this be sure, Must evil at his hands endure. Come, Ráma from his home expel An exile in the woods to dwell. The plan, O Queen, which I advise Secures thy weal if thou be wise. So we and all thy kith and kin Advantage from thy gain shall win. Shall Bharat, meet for happier fate, Born to endure his rival’s hate, With all his fortune ruined cower And dread his brother’s mightier power! Up, Queen, to save thy son, arise; Prostrate at Ráma’s feet he lies. So the proud elephant who leads His trooping consorts through the reeds Falls in the forest shade beneath The lion’s spring and murderous teeth. Scorned by thee in thy bliss and pride Kauśalyá was of old defied, And will she now forbear to show The vengeful rancour of a foe? O Queen, thy darling is undone When Ráma’s hand has once begun Ayodhyá’s realm to sway, Come, win the kingdom for thy child And drive the alien to the wild In banishment to-day.”

Canto IX. The Plot.

As fury lit Kaikeyí’s eyes She spoke with long and burning sighs: “This day my son enthroned shall see, And Ráma to the woods shall flee. But tell me, damsel, if thou can, A certain way, a skilful plan That Bharat may the empire gain, And Ráma’s hopes be nursed in vain.”

The lady ceased. The wicked maid The mandate of her queen obeyed, And darkly plotting Ráma’s fall Responded to Kaikeyí’s call.

“I will declare, do thou attend, How Bharat may his throne ascend. Dost thou forget what things befell? Or dost thou feign, remembering well? Or wouldst thou hear my tongue repeat A story for thy need so meet? Gay lady, if thy will be so, Now hear the tale of long ago, And when my tongue has done its part Ponder the story in thine heart. When Gods and demons fought of old, Thy lord, with royal saints enrolled, Sped to the war with thee to bring His might to aid the Immortals’ King. Far to the southern land he sped Where Daṇḍak’s mighty wilds are spread, To Vaijayanta’s city swayed By Śambara, whose flag displayd The hugest monster of the sea. Lord of a hundred wiles was be; With might which Gods could never blame Against the King of Heaven he came. Then raged the battle wild and dread, And mortal warriors fought and bled; The fiends by night with strength renewed Charged, slew the sleeping multitude. Thy lord, King Daśaratha, long Stood fighting with the demon throng, But long of arm, unmatched in strength, Fell wounded by their darts at length. Thy husband, senseless, by thine aid Was from the battle field conveyed, And wounded nigh to death thy lord Was by thy care to health restored. Well pleased the grateful monarch sware To grant thy first and second prayer. Thou for no favour then wouldst sue, The gifts reserved for season due; And he, thy high-souled lord, agreed To give the boons when thou shouldst need. Myself I knew not what befell, But oft the tale have heard thee tell, And close to thee in friendship knit Deep in my heart have treasured it. Remind thy husband of his oath, Recall the boons and claim them both, That Bharat on the throne be placed With rites of consecration graced, And Ráma to the woods be sent For twice seven years of banishment. Go, Queen, the mourner’s chamber(270) seek, With angry eye and burning cheek; And with disordered robes and hair On the cold earth lie prostrate there. When the king comes still mournful lie, Speak not a word nor meet his eye, But let thy tears in torrent flow, And lie enamoured of thy woe. Well do I know thou long hast been, And ever art, his darling queen. For thy dear sake, O well-loved dame, The mighty king would brave the flame, But ne’er would anger thee, or brook To meet his favourite’s wrathful look. Thy loving lord would even die Thy fancy, Queen, to gratify, And never could he arm his breast To answer nay to thy request. Listen and learn, O dull of sense, Thine all-resistless influence. Gems he will offer, pearls and gold: Refuse his gifts, be stern and cold. Those proffered boons at length recall, And claim them till he grants thee all. And O my lady, high in bliss, With heedful thought forget not this. When from the ground his queen he lifts And grants again the promised gifts, Bind him with oaths he cannot break And thy demands unflnching, make. That Ráma travel to the wild Five years and nine from home exiled, And Bharat, best of all who reign, The empire of the land obtain. For when this term of years has fled Over the banished Ráma’s head, Thy royal son to vigour grown And rooted firm will stand alone. The king, I know, is well inclined, And this the hour to move his mind. Be bold: the threatened rite prevent, And force the king from his intent.”

She ceased. So counselled to her bane Disguised beneath a show of gain, Kaikeyí in her joy and pride To Manthará again replied: “Thy sense I envy, prudent maid; With sagest lore thy lids persuade. No hump-back maid in all the earth, For wise resolve, can match thy worth. Thou art alone with constant zeal Devoted to thy lady’s weal. Dear girl, without thy faithful aid I had not marked the plot he laid. Full of all guile and sin and spite Misshapen hump-backs shock the sight: But thou art fair and formed to please, Bent like a lily by the breeze. I look thee o’er with watchful eye, And in thy frame no fault can spy; The chest so deep, the waist so trim, So round the lines of breast and limb.(271) Thy cheeks with moonlike beauty shine, And the warm wealth of youth is thine. Thy legs, my girl, are long and neat, And somewhat long thy dainty feet, While stepping out before my face Thou seemest like a crane to pace. The thousand wiles are in thy breast Which Śambara the fiend possessed, And countless others all thine own, O damsel sage, to thee are known. Thy very hump becomes thee too, O thou whose face is fair to view, For there reside in endless store Plots, wizard wiles, and warrior lore. A golden chain I’ll round it fling When Ráma’s flight makes Bharat king: Yea, polished links of finest gold, When once the wished for prize I hold With naught to fear and none to hate, Thy hump, dear maid, shall decorate. A golden frontlet wrought with care, And precious jewels shalt thou wear: Two lovely robes around thee fold, And walk a Goddess to behold, Bidding the moon himself compare His beauty with a face so fair. With scent of precious sandal sweet Down to the nails upon thy feet, First of the household thou shalt go And pay with scorn each battled foe.”

Kaikeyí’s praise the damsel heard, And thus again her lady stirred, Who lay upon her beauteous bed Like fire upon the altar fed: “Dear Queen, they build the bridge in vain When swollen streams are dry again. Arise, thy glorious task complete, And draw the king to thy retreat.”

The large-eyed lady left her bower Exulting in her pride of power, And with the hump-back sought the gloom And silence of the mourner’s room. The string of priceless pearls that hung Around her neck to earth she flung, With all the wealth and lustre lent By precious gem and ornament. Then, listening to her slave’s advice, Lay, like a nymph from Paradise. As on the ground her limbs she laid Once more she cried unto the maid: “Soon must thou to the monarch say Kaikeyí’s soul has past away, Or, Ráma banished as we planned, My son made king shall rule the land. No more for gold and gems I care, For brave attire or dainty fare. If Ráma should the throne ascend, That very hour my life will end.”

The royal lady wounded through The bosom with the darts that flew Launched from the hump-back’s tongue Pressed both her hands upon her side, And o’er and o’er again she cried With wildering fury stung: “Yes, it shall be thy task to tell That I have hurried hence to dwell In Yáma’s realms of woe, Or happy Bharat shall be king, And doomed to years of wandering Kauśalyá’s son shall go. I heed not dainty viands now Fair wreaths of flowers to twine my brow, Soft balm or precious scent: My very life I count as naught, Nothing on earth can claim my thought But Ráma’s banishment.” She spoke these words of cruel ire; Then stripping off her gay attire, The cold bare floor she pressed. So, falling from her home on high, Some lovely daughter of the sky Upon the ground might rest. With darkened brow and furious mien, Stripped of her gems and wreath, the queen In spotless beauty lay, Like heaven obscured with gathering cloud, When shades of midnight darkness shroud Each star’s expiring ray.

Canto X. Dasaratha’s Speech.

As Queen Kaikeyí thus obeyed The sinful counsel of her maid She sank upon the chamber floor, As sinks in anguish, wounded sore, An elephant beneath the smart Of the wild hunter’s venomed dart. The lovely lady in her mind Revolved the plot her maid designed, And prompt the gain and risk to scan She step by step approved the plan. Misguided by the hump-back’s guile She pondered her resolve awhile, As the fair path that bliss secured The miserable lady lured, Devoted to her queen, and swayed By hopes of gain and bliss, the maid Rejoiced, her lady’s purpose known, And deemed the prize she sought her own. Then bent upon her purpose dire, Kaikeyí with her soul on fire, Upon the floor lay, languid, down, Her brows contracted in a frown. The bright-hued wreath that bound her hair, Chains, necklets, jewels rich and rare, Stripped off by her own fingers lay Spread on the ground in disarray, And to the floor a lustre lent As stars light up the firmament. Thus prostrate in the mourner’s cell, In garb of woe the lady fell, Her long hair in a single braid, Like some fair nymph of heaven dismayed.(272)

The monarch, Ráma to install, With thoughtful care had ordered all, And now within his home withdrew, Dismissing first his retinue. Now all the town has heard, thought he, What joyful rite the morn will see. So turned he to her bower to cheer With the glad news his darling’s ear. Majestic, as the Lord of Night, When threatened by the Dragon’s might, Bursts radiant on the evening sky Pale with the clouds that wander by, So Daśaratha, great in fame, To Queen Kaikeyí’s palace came. There parrots flew from tree to tree, And gorgeous peacocks wandered free, While ever and anon was heard The note of some glad water-bird. Here loitered dwarf and hump-backed maid, There lute and lyre sweet music played. Here, rich in blossom, creepers twined O’er grots with wondrous art designed, There Champac and Aśoka flowers Hung glorious o’er the summer bowers, And mid the waving verdure rose Gold, silver, ivory porticoes. Through all the months in ceaseless store The trees both fruit and blossom bore. With many a lake the grounds were graced; Seats gold and silver, here were placed; Here every viand wooed the taste, It was a garden meet to vie E’en with the home of Gods on high. Within the mansion rich and vast The mighty Daśaratha passed: Not there was his beloved queen On her fair couch reclining seen. With love his eager pulses beat For the dear wife he came to meet, And in his blissful hopes deceived, He sought his absent love and grieved. For never had she missed the hour Of meeting in her sumptuous bower, And never had the king of men Entered the empty room till then. Still urged by love and anxious thought News of his favourite queen he sought, For never had his loving eyes Found her or selfish or unwise. Then spoke at length the warder maid, With hands upraised and sore afraid: “My Lord and King, the queen has sought The mourner’s cell with rage distraught.”

The words the warder maiden said He heard with soul disquieted, And thus as fiercer grief assailed, His troubled senses wellnigh failed. Consumed by torturing fires of grief The king, the world’s imperial chief, His lady lying on the ground In most unqueenly posture, found. The aged king, all pure within, Saw the young queen resolved on sin, Low on the ground, his own sweet wife, To him far dearer than his life, Like some fair creeping plant uptorn, Or like a maid of heaven forlorn, A nymph of air or Goddess sent From Swarga down in banishment.

As some wild elephant who tries To soothe his consort as she lies Struck by the hunter’s venomed dart, So the great king disturbed in heart, Strove with soft hand and fond caress To soothe his darling queen’s distress, And in his love addressed with sighs The lady of the lotus eyes: “I know not, Queen, why thou shouldst be Thus angered to the heart with me. Say, who has slighted thee, or whence Has come the cause of such offence That in the dust thou liest low, And rendest my fond heart with woe, As if some goblin of the night Had struck thee with a deadly blight, And cast foul influence on her Whose spells my loving bosom stir? I have Physicians famed for skill, Each trained to cure some special ill: My sweetest lady, tell thy pain, And they shall make thee well again. Whom, darling, wouldst thou punished see? Or whom enriched with lordly fee? Weep not, my lovely Queen, and stay This grief that wears thy frame away; Speak, and the guilty shall be freed. The guiltless be condemned to bleed, The poor enriched, the rich abased, The low set high, the proud disgraced. My lords and I thy will obey, All slaves who own thy sovereign sway; And I can ne’er my heart incline To check in aught one wish of thine. Now by my life I pray thee tell The thoughts that in thy bosom dwell. The power and might thou knowest well, Should from thy breast all doubt expel. I swear by all my merit won, Speak, and thy pleasure shall be done. Far as the world’s wide bounds extend My glorious empire knows no end. Mine are the tribes in eastern lands, And those who dwell on Sindhu’s sands: Mine is Suráshṭra, far away, Suvíra’s realm admits my sway. My best the southern nations fear, The Angas and the Vangas hear. And as lord paramount I reign O’er Magadh and the Matsyas’ plain, Kośal, and Káśi’s wide domain:(273) All rich in treasures of the mine, In golden corn, sheep, goats, and kine. Choose what thou wilt. Kaikeyí, thence: But tell me, O my darling, whence Arose thy grief, and it shall fly Like hoar-frost when the sun is high.”

She, by his loving words consoled, Longed her dire purpose to unfold, And sought with sharper pangs to wring The bosom of her lord the king.

Canto XI. The Queen’s Demand.

To him enthralled by love, and blind, Pierced by his darts who shakes the mind,(274) Kaikeyí with remorseless breast Her grand purpose thus expressed: “O King, no insult or neglect Have I endured, or disrespect. One wish I have, and faith would see That longing granted, lord, by thee. Now pledge thy word if thou incline To listen to this prayer of mine, Then I with confidence will speak, And thou shalt hear the boon I seek.”

Ere she had ceased, the monarch fell, A victim to the lady’s spell, And to the deadly snare she set Sprang, like a roebuck to the net. Her lover raised her drooping head, Smiled, playing with her hair, and said: “Hast thou not learnt, wild dame, till now That there is none so dear as thou To me thy loving husband, save My Ráma bravest of the brave? By him my race’s high-souled heir, By him whom none can match, I swear, Now speak the wish that on thee weighs: By him whose right is length of days, Whom if my fond paternal eye Saw not one hour I needs must die,— I swear by Ráma my dear son, Speak, and thy bidding shall be done. Speak, darling; if thou choose, request To have the heart from out my breast; Regard my words, sweet love, and name The wish thy mind thinks fit to frame. Nor let thy soul give way to doubt: My power should drive suspicion out. Yea, by my merits won I swear, Speak, darling, I will grant thy prayer.”

The queen, ambitious, overjoyed To see him by her plot decoyed, More eager still her aims to reach, Spoke her abominable speech: “A boon thou grantest, nothing loth, And swearest with repeated oath. Now let the thirty Gods and three My witnesses, with Indra, be. Let sun and moon and planets hear, Heaven, quarters, day and night, give ear. The mighty world, the earth outspread, With bards of heaven and demons dread; The ghosts that walk in midnight shade, And household Gods, our present aid, A every being great and small To hear and mark the oath I call.”

When thus the archer king was bound, With treacherous arts and oaths enwound, She to her bounteous lord subdued By blinding love, her speech renewed: “Remember, King, that long-past day Of Gods’ and demons’ battle fray. And how thy foe in doubtful strife Had nigh bereft thee of thy life. Remember, it was only I Preserved thee when about to die, And thou for watchful love and care Wouldst grant my first and second prayer. Those offered boons, pledged with thee then, I now demand, O King of men, Of thee, O Monarch, good and just, Whose righteous soul observes each trust. If thou refuse thy promise sworn, I die, despised, before the morn. These rites in Ráma’s name begun— Transfer them, and enthrone my son. The time is come to claim at last The double boon of days long-past, When Gods and demons met in fight, And thou wouldst fain my care requite. Now forth to Daṇḍak’s forest drive Thy Ráma for nine years and five, And let him dwell a hermit there With deerskin coat and matted hair. Without a rival let my boy The empire of the land enjoy, And let mine eyes ere morning see Thy Ráma to the forest flee.”

Canto XII. Dasaratha’s Lament.

The monarch, as Kaikeyí pressed With cruel words her dire request, Stood for a time absorbed in thought While anguish in his bosom wrought. “Does some wild dream my heart assail? Or do my troubled senses fail? Does some dire portent scare my view? Or frenzy’s stroke my soul subdue?” Thus as he thought, his troubled mind In doubt and dread no rest could find, Distressed and trembling like a deer Who sees the dreaded tigress near. On the bare ground his limbs he threw, And many a long deep sigh he drew, Like a wild snake, with fury blind, By charms within a ring confined. Once as the monarch’s fury woke, “Shame on thee!” from his bosom broke, And then in sense-bewildering pain He fainted on the ground again. At length, when slowly strength returned, He answered as his eyeballs burned With the wild fury of his ire Consuming her, as ’twere, with fire: “Fell traitress, thou whose thoughts design The utter ruin of my line, What wrong have I or Ráma done? Speak murderess, speak thou wicked one, Seeks he not evermore to please Thee with all sonlike courtesies? By what persuasion art thou led To bring this ruin on his head? Ah me, that fondly unaware I brought thee home my life to share, Called daughter of a king, in truth A serpent with a venomed tooth! What fault can I pretend to find In Ráma praised by all mankind, That I my darling should forsake? No, take my life, my glory take: Let either queen be from me torn, But not my well-loved eldest-born. Him but to see is highest bliss, And death itself his face to miss. The world may sunless stand, the grain May thrive without the genial rain, But if my Ráma be not nigh My spirit from its frame will fly. Enough, thine impious plan forgo, O thou who plottest sin and woe. My head before thy feet, I kneel, And pray thee some compassion feel. O wicked dame, what can have led Thy heart to dare a plot so dread? Perchance thy purpose is to sound The grace thy son with me has found; Perchance the words that, all these days, Thou still hast said in Ráma’s praise, Were only feigned, designed to cheer With flatteries a father’s ear. Soon as thy grief, my Queen, I knew, My bosom felt the anguish too. In empty halls art thou possessed, And subject to anothers’ hest? Now on Ikshváku’s ancient race Falls foul disorder and disgrace, If thou, O Queen, whose heart so long Has loved the good should choose the wrong. Not once, O large-eyed dame, hast thou Been guilty of offence till now, Nor said a word to make me grieve, Now will I now thy sin believe. With thee my Ráma used to hold Like place with Bharat lofty-souled. As thou so often, when the pair Were children yet, wouldst fain declare. And can thy righteous soul endure That Ráma glorious, pious, pure, Should to the distant wilds be sent For fourteen years of banishment? Yea, Ráma Bharat’s self exceeds In love to thee and sonlike deeds, And, for deserving love of thee, As Bharat, even so is he. Who better than that chieftain may Obedience, love, and honour pay, Thy dignity with care protect, Thy slightest word and wish respect? Of all his countless followers none Can breathe a word against my son; Of many thousands not a dame Can hint reproach or whisper blame. All creatures feel the sweet control Of Ráma’s pure and gentle soul. The pride of Manu’s race he binds To him the people’s grateful minds. He wins the subjects with his truth, The poor with gifts and gentle ruth, His teachers with his docile will, The foemen with his archer skill. Truth, purity, religious