Reading section 54

Then Ráma thus the prince consoled From whose clear eyes the mists were rolled: “Grieve not for those thou leavest thus, Nor tremble for thyself or us, For we will deal with thine and thee As duty and the laws decree. He who exacts and he who pays, Is justly slain or justly slays, Shall in the life to come have bliss; For each has done his task in this. Thou, wandering from the right, art made Pure by the forfeit thou hast paid. Thy weight of sins is cast aside, And duty’s claim is satisfied. Then grieve no more, O Prince, but clear Thy bosom from all doubt and fear, For fate, inexorably stern, Thou hast no power to move or turn. Thy princely Angad still will share My tender love, Sugríva’s care; And to thy offspring shall be shown Affection that shall match thine own.”

Canto XIX. Tárá’s Grief.

No answer gave the Vánar king To Ráma’s prudent counselling. Battered and bruised by tree and stone, By Ráma’s arrow overthrown, Fainting upon the ground he lay, Gasping his troubled life away.

But Tárá in the Vánar’s hall Heard tidings of her husband’s fall; Heard that a shaft from Ráma’s bow Had laid the royal Báli low. Her darling Angad by her side, Distracted from her home she hied. Then nigh the place of battle drew The Vánars, Angad’s retinue. They saw the bow-armed Ráma: dread Fell on them, and they turned and fled. Like helpless deer, their leaders slain, So wildly fled the startled train. But Tárá saw, and nearer pressed, And thus the flying band addressed: “O Vánars, ye who ever stand About our king, a trusty band, Where is the lion master? why Forsake ye thus your lord and fly? Say, lies he dead upon the plain, A brother by a brother slain, Or pierced by shafts from Ráma’s bow That rain from far upon the foe?”

Thus Tárá questioned, and was still: Then, wearers of each shape at will, The Vánars thus with one accord Answered the Lady of their lord: “Turn, Tárá turn, and half undone Save Angad thy beloved son. There Ráma stands in death’s disguise, And conquered Báli faints and dies. He by whose strong arm, thick and fast, Uprooted trees and rocks were cast, Lies smitten by a shaft that came Resistless as the lightning flame. When he, whose splendour once could vie With Indra’s, regent of the sky, Fell by that deadly arrow, all The Vánars fled who marked his fall. Let all our chiefs their succours bring, And Angad be anointed king; For all who come of Vánar race Will serve him set in Báli’s place. Or else our conquering foes to-day Within our wall will force their way, Polluting with their hostile feet The chambers of thy loved retreat. Great fear is on us, all and one. Those who have wives and who have none, They lust for power, are fierce and bold, Or hate us for the strife of old.”

She heard their speech as, sore afraid, Arrested in their flight, they stayed, And gave her answer as became The spirit of so true a dame: “Nay, what have I to do with pelf, With son, with kingdom, or with self, When he, my noble lord, who leads The Vánars like a lion, bleeds? His high-souled victor will I meet, And throw me prostrate at his feet.”

She hastened forth, her bosom rent With anguish, weeping as she went, And striking, mastered by her woes, Her head and breast with frantic blows. She hurried to the field and found Her husband prostrate on the ground, Who quelled the hostile Vánars’ might, Whose bank was never turned in flight: Whose arm a massy rock could throw As Indra hurls his bolts below: Fierce as the rushing tempest, loud As thunder from a labouring cloud: Whene’er he roared his voice of fear Struck terror on the boldest ear: Now slain, as, hungry for the prey, A tiger might a lion slay: Or when, his serpent foe to seek, Suparṇa(600) with his furious beak Tears up a sacred hillock, long The reverence of a village throng, Its altar with their offerings spread, And the gay flag that waved o’erhead. She looked and saw the victor stand Resting upon his bow his hand: And fierce Sugríva she descried, And Lakshmaṇ by his brother’s side. She passed them by, nor stayed to view, Swift to her husband’s side she flew; Then as she looked, her strength gave way, And in the dust she fell and lay. Then, as if startled ere the close Of slumber, from the earth she rose. Upon her dying husband, round Whose soul the coils of Death were wound, Her eyes in agony she bent And called him with a shrill lament. Sugríva, when he heard her cries, And saw the queen with weeping eyes, And youthful Angad standing there, His load of grief could hardly bear.

Canto XX. Tárá’s Lament.

Again she bent her to the ground, Her arms about her husband wound. Sobbed on his breast, and sick and faint With anguish poured her wild complaint: “Brave in the charge of battle, boast And glory of the Vánar host, Why on the cold earth wilt thou lie And give no answer when I cry? Up, warrior, from thy lowly bed! A meeter couch for thee is spread. It ill beseems a glorious king On the bare ground his limbs to fling. Ah, surely must thy love be strong For her whom thou hast governed long, If thou, my hero, canst recline On her cold breast forsaking mine. Or, famed for justice through the land, Thou on the road to heaven hast planned Some city fairer far than this To be thy new metropolis. Are all our pleasures ended now, With those delicious hours which thou And I, dear lord, together spent In woods that breathed the honey’s scent? Whelmed in my sorrow’s boundless sea, There is no joy, no hope, for me, When my beloved lord, who led The Vánars to the fight, is dead, My widowed heart is stern and cold. Or, at the sight mine eyes behold, O’ermastered would it end this ache And in a thousand fragments break. Ah noble Vánar, doomed to pay The penalty of all today— Sugríva from his home expelled, And Rumá(601) from his arms withheld. Our Vánar race and thee to save, Wise counsel for thy weal I gave; But thou, by wildest folly stirred, Wouldst give no credence to my word, And now wilt woo the nymphs above, And shake their souls with pangs of love. Ah, never could it be that thou Beneath Sugríva’s power shouldst bow, Thy conqueror is none but Fate Whose mandates all who breathe await. And does no thrill of anguish run Through the stern breast of Raghu’s son, Whose base hand dealt a coward’s blow, And smote thee fighting with thy foe? Reft of my lord my days, alas! In bitter bitter woe will pass: And I, long blest with every good, Must bear my dreary widowhood. And when his uncle’s brow is stern, When his fierce eyes with fury burn, Ah, what will be my Angad’s fate, So fair and young and delicate? Come, darling, for the last sad sight, Of thy dear sire who loved the right; For soon thine eyes will long in vain A look at that loved face to gain. And, hero, as thy child draws near, With tender words his spirit cheer; Thy dying wishes gently speak, And kiss him on the brows and cheek. High fame, I ween, has Ráma won By this great deed his hand has done, His debt to brave Sugríva paid And kept the promise that he made. Be happy, King Sugríva, lord Of Ramá to thine arms restored: Enjoy uninterrupted reign, For he, thy foe, at length is slain. Dost thou not hear me speak, and why Hast thou no word of soft reply? Will thou not lift thine eyes and see These dames who look to none but thee?”

From their sad eyes, as Tárá spoke, The floods of bitter sorrow broke: Then, pressing close to Angad’s side, Each lifted up her voice and cried:

“How couldst thou leave thine Angad thus, And go, for ever go, from us— Thy child so dear in brave attire, Graced with the virtues of his sire? If e’er in want of thought, O chief, One deed of mine have caused thee grief, Forgive my folly, I entreat, And with my head I touch thy feet.”

Again the hapless Tárá wept As to her husband’s side she crept, And wild with sorrow and dismay Sat on the ground where Báli lay.

Canto XXI. Hanumán’s Speech.

There, like a fallen star, the dame Fell by her lord’s half lifeless frame; And Hanumán drew softly near, And strove her grieving heart to cheer:

“By changeless law our bliss and woe From ancient worth and folly flow. What fruits soe’er we cull, the seeds Were scattered by our former deeds.(602) Why mourn another’s mournful fate, And weep, thyself unfortunate? Be calm, O thou whose heart is wise, For none deserves another’s sighs. Look up, with idle sorrow strive: Thy child, his heir, is yet alive. Let needful rites be duly done, Nor in thy woe forget thy son. Regard the law which all obey: They spring to life, they pass away. Begin the task that bids thee rise, And stay these tears, for thou art wise. Our lord the king is doomed to die, On whom ten million hearts rely. Kind, liberal, patient, true, and just Was he in whom they place their trust, And now he seeks the land of those Who for the right subdue their foes. Each Vánar lord with all his train, Each ranger of this wild domain, And Angad here, thy darling, see A governor and friend in thee. These twain(603) whose hearts with sorrow ache The funeral rites shall undertake, And Angad by his mother’s care Be king, his father’s rightful heir. Now let him pay, as laws require, His sacred duty to his sire, Nor one solemnity omit Of all that mighty kings befit. And when thy fond eye sees thine own Dear Angad on his father’s throne, Then, lightened of its load of pain, Thy spirit will have rest again.”

She heard his speech, she heaved her head, Looked upon Hanumán and said:

“Sweeter my slain lord’s limbs to touch, Than Angad or a hundred such. No rule or right, a widowed dame, O’er Angad or the realm I claim. Sugríva is the uncle, he In every act supreme must be. I pray thee, chief, this plan resign, Nor claim from me what ne’er is mine. The father with his tender care Guards the dear child the mother bare, Where’er I be, no sweeter task, No happier joy I hope or ask Than thus to sit with loving eyes And watch the bed where Báli lies.

Canto XXII. Báli Dead.

There breathing still with slow faint sighs Lay Báli on the ground: his eyes, Damp with the tears of death, he raised, On conquering Sugríva gazed, And then in clearest speech expressed The tender feelings of his breast: “Not to my charge, Sugríva, lay Thine injuries avenged to-day; But rather blame resistless Fate That urged me on infuriate. Fate ne’er agreed our lives to bless With simultaneous happiness: To dwell like brothers side by side In tender love was still denied. The Vánars’ realm is thine to-day: Begin, O King, thy rightful sway;(604) For I must go at Yáma’s call To sojourn in his gloomy hall; Must part and leave this very hour My life, my realm, my kingly power, And go instead of these to gain Bright glory free from spot and stain. Now at thy hands one boon I seek With the last words my lips shall speak, And, though it be no easy thing, Perform the task I give thee, King. This son of mine, no foolish boy, Worthy of bliss and nursed in joy,— See, prostrate on the ground he lies, The hot tears welling from his eyes— The child I love so well, more sweet Than life itself, for woe unmeet,— To him be kindly favour shown: O guard and keep him as thine own. Retain him ever by thy side, His father, helper, friend, and guide. From fear and woe his young life save, And give him all his father gave. Then Tárá’s son in time shall be Brave, resolute, and famed like thee, And march before thee to the fight Where stricken fiends shall own his might. While yet a tender stripling, fame Shall bruit abroad his warrior name, And brightly shall his glory shine For exploits worthy of his line. Child of Susheṇ,(605) my Tárá well Obscurest lore can read and tell; And, trained in wondrous art, divines Each mystery of boding signs. Her solemn warning ne’er despise, Do boldly what her lips advise; For things to come her eye can see, And with her words events agree. And for the son of Raghu’s sake The toil and danger undertake: For breach of faith were grievous wrong, Nor wouldst thou be unpunished long. Now, brother, take this chain of gold, Gift of celestial hands of old, Or when I die its charm will flee, And all its might be lost with me.”

The loving speech Sugríva heard, And all his heart with woe was stirred. Remorse and gentle pity stole Each thought of triumph from his soul: Thus fades the light when Ráhu(606) mars The glory of the Lord of Stars.(607) All angry thoughts were stayed and stilled And kindly love his bosom filled. His brother’s word the chief obeyed And took the chain as Báli prayed. On little Angad standing nigh The dying hero fixed his eye, And, ready from this world to part, Spoke the fond utterance of his heart:

“Let time and place thy thoughts employ: In woe be strong, be meek in joy. Accept both pain and pleasure, still Obedient to Sugríva’s will. Thou hast, my darling, from the first With tender care been softly nursed; But harder days, if thou wouldst win Sugríva’s love, must now begin. To those who hate him ne’er incline, Nor count his foe a friend of thine. In all thy thoughts his welfare seek, Obedient, lowly, faithful, meek. Let no rash suit his bosom pain, Nor yet from due requests abstain.(608) Each is a grievous fault, between The two is found the happy mean.”

Then Báli ceased: his eyeballs rolled In stress of anguish uncontrolled His massive teeth were bared to view, And from the frame the spirit flew. Their lord and leader dead, the crowd Of noblest Vánars shrieked aloud: “Since thou, O King, hast sought the skies All desolate Kishkindhá lies. Her woods, where Vánars loved to rove, Are empty now, and hill and grove. From every eye the light is fled, Since thou, our mighty lord, art dead. Thine was the unwearied arm that bore The brunt of deadly fight of yore With Golabh the Gandharva, when, Lasting through five long years and ten, The dreadful conflict knew no stay In gloom of night, in glare of day; And when the fifteenth year had past Thy dire opponent fell at last. If such a foeman fell beneath Our hero’s arm and awful teeth Who freed us from our terror, how Is conquering Báli fallen now?”

Then when they saw their leader slain Great anguish seized the Vánar train, Weeping their mighty chief, as when In pastures near a lion’s den The cows by sudden fear are stirred, Slain the bold bull who led the herd. And hapless Tárá sank below The whelming waters of her woe, Looked upon Báli’s face and fell Beside him whom she loved go well, Like a young creeper clinging round A tall tree prostrate on the ground.

Canto XXIII. Tárá’s Lament.

She kissed her lifeless husband’s face, She clasped him in a close embrace, Laid her soft lips upon his head; Then words like these the mourner said:

“No words of mine wouldst thou regard, And now thy bed is cold and hard. Upon the rude rough ground o’erthrown, Beneath thee naught but sand and stone. To thee the earth is dearer far Than I and my caresses are, If thou upon her breast wilt lie, And to my words make no reply. Ah my beloved, good and brave, Bold to attack and strong to save, Fate is Sugríva’s thrall, and we In him our lord and master see. Lo, by thy bed, a mournful band, Thy Vánar chiefs lamenting stand. O hear thy nobles’ groans and cries, O mark thy Angad’s weeping eyes, O list to my entreaties, break The chains of slumber and awake. Ah me, my lord, this lowly bed Where rest thy limbs and fallen head, Is the cold couch where smitten lay Thy foemen in the bloody fray. O noble heart from blemish free, Lover of war, beloved by me. Why hast thou fled away and left Thy Tárá of all hope bereft? Unwise the father who allows His child to be a warrior’s spouse, For, hero, see thy consort’s fate, A widow now most desolate, For ever broken is my pride, My hope of lasting bliss has died, And sinking in the lowest deep Of sorrow’s sea I pine and weep. Ah, surely not of earthly mould, This stony heart is stern and cold, Or, in a hundred pieces rent, It had not lingered to lament. Dead, dead! my husband, friend, and lord In whom my loving hopes were stored, First in the field, his foemen’s dread, My own victorious Báli, dead! A woman when her lord has died, Though children flourish by her side, Though stores of gold her coffers fill, Is called a lonely widow still. Alas, thy bleeding gashes make Around thy limbs a purple lake: Thus slumbering was thy wont to lie On cushions bright with crimson dye. Dark streams of welling blood besmear Thy limbs where dust and mire adhere, Nor have I strength, weighed down by woe, Mine arms about thy form to throw. The issue of this day has brought Sugríva all his wishes sought, For Ráma shot one shaft and he Is freed from fear and jeopardy. Alas, alas, I may not rest My head upon thy wounded breast, Obstructed by the massive dart Deep buried in thy bleeding heart.”

Then Níla from his bosom drew The fatal shaft that pierced him through, Like some tremendous serpent deep In caverns of a hill asleep. As from the hero’s wound it came, Shot from the shaft a gleam of flame, Like the last flashes of the sun Descending when his course is run. From the wide rent in crimson flood Rushed the full stream of Báli’s blood, Like torrents down a mountain’s side With golden ore and copper dyed. Then Tárá brushed with tender care The dust of battle from his hair, While her sad eyes poured down their rain Upon her lord untimely slain. Once more she looked upon the dead; Then to her bright-eyed child she said: “Turn hither, turn thy weeping eyes Where low in death thy father lies. By sinful deed and bitter hate Our lord has met his mournful fate. Bright as the sun at early morn To Yáma’s halls is Báli borne. Then go, my child, salute the king, From whom our bliss and honour spring.”

Obedient to his mother’s hest His father’s feet he gently pressed With twining arms and lingering hands: “Father,” he cried, “here Angad stands.”

Then Tárá: “Art thou stern and mute, Regardless of thy child’s salute? Hast thou no blessing for thy son, No word for little Angad, none? O, hero, at thy lifeless feet Here with my boy I take my seat, As some sad mother of the herd, By the fierce lion undeterred, Lies moaning by the grassy dell Wherein her lord and leader fell. How, having wrought that awful rite, The sacrifice of deadly fight, Wherein the shaft by Ráma sped Supplied the place of water shed, How hast thou bathed thee at the end Without thy wife her aid to lend?(609) Why do mine eyes no more behold Thy bright beloved chain of gold, Which, pleased with thee, the Immortals’ King About thy neck vouchsafed to fling? Still lingering on thy lifeless face I see the pride of royal race: Thus when the sun has set, his glow Still rests upon the Lord of Snow. Alas my hero! undeterred Thou wouldst not listen to my word. With tears and prayers I sued in vain: Thou wouldst not listen, and art slain. Gone is my bliss, my glory: I And Angad now with thee will die.”

Canto XXIV. Sugríva’s Lament.

But when Sugríva saw her weep O’erwhelmed in sorrow’s rushing deep, Swift through his bosom pierced the sting Of anguish for the fallen king. At the sad sight his eyes beheld A flood of bitter tears outwelled, And, with his bosom racked and rent, To Ráma with his train he went. He came with faltering steps and slow Where Ráma held his mighty bow And arrow like a venomed snake, And to the son of Raghu spake: “Well hast thou kept, O King, thy vow: The promised fruit is gathered now. But life is marred, my soul to-day Turns sickening from all joy away. For, while this queen laments and sighs Amid a mourning people’s cries, And Angad weeps his father slain, How can my heart delight to reign? For outrage, fury, senseless pride, My brother, doomed of yore, has died. Yet, Raghu’s son, in bitter woe I mourn his fated overthrow. Ah, better far in pain and ill To dwell on Rishyamúka still Than gain the heaven of Gods and all Its pleasures by my brother’s fall. Did not he cry,—great-hearted foe,— “Go, for I will not slay thee, Go”? With his brave soul those words agree: My speech, my deeds, are worthy me. How can a brother counterweigh His grievous loss with joys of sway, And see with dull unpitying eye So brave and good a brother die? His lofty soul was nobly blind: My death alas, he ne’er designed; But I, urged blindly on by hate, Sought with his life my rage to sate. He smote me with a splintered tree: I groaned aloud and turned to flee, From stern reproaches he forbore, And gently bade me sin no more. Serene and dutiful and good He kept the laws of brotherhood: I, fierce and greedy, vengeful, base, Showed all the vices of our race. Ah me, dear friend, my brother’s fate Lays on my soul a crushing weight: A sin no heart should e’er conceive, But at the thought each soul should grieve: Sin such as Indra’s when his blow Laid heavenly Viśvarúpa(610) low. Yet earth, the waters of the seas, The race of women and the trees Were fain upon themselves to take The weight of sin for Indra’s sake. But who a Vánar’s soul will free, Or ease the load that crushes me? Wretch that I am, I may not claim The reverence due to royal name. How shall I reign supreme, or dare Affect the power I should not share? Ah me, I sorrow for my sin, The ruin of my race and kin, Polluted by a hideous crime World-hated till the end of time. Alas, the floods of sorrow roll With whelming force upon my soul: So gathers the descending rain In the deep hollow of the plain.”

Canto XXV. Ráma’s Speech.

Then Raghu’s son, whose feeling breast Shared the great woe that moved the rest, Strove with wise charm their grief to ease And gently spoke in words like these:

“You ne’er can raise the dead to bliss By agony of grief like this. Cease your lament, nor leave undone The funeral task you may not shun. As nature orders o’er the dead. Your tributary tears are shed, But Fate, directing each event, Is still the lord preëminent. Yes, all obey the changeless laws Of Fate the universal cause. By Fate, the lives of all proceed, That governs every word and deed, None acts, none sees his hest obeyed, But each and all by Fate are swayed. The world its ordered course maintains, And o’er that course Fate ever reigns. Fate ne’er exceeds the rule of Fate: Is ne’er too swift, is ne’er too late, And making nature its ally Forgets no life, nor passes by. No kith and kin, no power and force Can check or stay its settled course, No friend or client, grace or charm, That victor of the world disarm. So all who see with prudent eyes The hand of Fate must recognize, For virtue rules, or love, or gain, As Fate’s unchanged decrees ordain. Báli has died and won the meed That waits in heaven on noble deed, Throned in the seats the brave may reach By liberal hand and gentle speech, True to a warrior’s duty, bold In fight, the hero lofty-souled Deigned not to guard his life: he died, And now in heaven is glorified. Then cease these tears and wild despair: Turn to the task that claims your care, For Báli’s is the glorious fate Which warriors count most fortunate.”

When Ráma’s speech had found a close, Brave Lakshmaṇ, terror of his foes, With wise and soothing words addressed Sugríva still with woe oppressed: “Arise Sugríva,” thus he said, “Perform the service of the dead. Prepare with Tárá and her son That Báli’s rites be duly done. A store of funeral wood provide Which wind and sun and time have dried And richest sandal fit to grace The pyre of one of royal race. With words of comfort soft and kind Console poor Angad’s troubled mind, Nor let thy heart be thus cast down, For thine is now the Vánars’ town. Let Angad’s care a wreath supply, And raiment rich with varied dye, And oil and perfumes for the fire, And all the solemn rites require. Go, hasten to the town, O King, And Tárá’s little quickly bring. A virtue is despatch: and speed Is best of all in hour of need. Go, let a chosen band prepare The litter of the dead to bear. For stout and tall and strong of limb Must be the chiefs who carry him.”

He spoke,—his friends’ delight and pride,— Then stood again by Ráma’s side. When Tára(611) heard the words he said Within the town he quickly sped, And brought, on stalwart shoulders laid, The litter for the rites arrayed, Framed like a car for Gods, complete With painted sides and royal seat, With latticed windows deftly made, And golden birds and trees inlaid: Well joined and wrought in every part, A marvel of ingenious art. Where pleasure mounds in carven wood And many a graven figure stood. The best of jewels o’er it hung, And wreaths of flowers around it clung, And over all was raised on high A canopy of saffron dye, While like the sun of morning shone The brilliant blooms that lay thereon. That glorious litter Ráma eyed. And spake to Lakshmaṇ by his side: “Let Báli on the bier be placed And with all funeral service graced.” Sugríva then with many a tear Drew Báli’s body to the bier Whereon, with weeping Angad’s aid, The relics of the chief were laid Neath many a vesture’s varied fold, And wreaths and ornaments and gold. Then King Sugríva bade them speed The obsequies by law decreed: “Let Vánars lead the way and throw Rich gems around them as they go, And be the chosen bearers near Behind them laden with the bier. No costly rite may you deny, Used when the proudest monarchs die: As for a king of widest sway. Perform his obsequies to-day.” Sugríva gave his high behest; Then Princely Tára and the rest, With little Angad weeping, led The long procession of the dead. Behind the funeral litter came, With Tárá first, each widowed dame, In tears and shrieks her loss deplored, Add cried aloud, My lord! My lord! While wood and hill and valley sent In echoes back the shrill lament. Then on a low and sandy isle Was reared the hero’s funeral pile By crowds of toiling Vánars, where The mountain stream ran fresh and fair, The Vánar chiefs, a noble band, Had laid the litter on the sand, And stood a little space apart, Each mourning in his inmost heart. But Tárá, when her weeping eye Saw Báli, on the litter lie, Laid his dear head upon her lap, And wailed aloud her dire mishap; “O mighty Vánar, lord and king, To whose fond breast I loved to cling, Of goodly arms, wise, brave, and bold, Rise, look upon me as of old. Rise up, my sovereign, dost thou see A crowd of subjects weep for thee? Still o’er thy face, though breath has fled, The joyous light of life is spread: Thus around the sun, although he set, A crimson glory lingers yet. Death clad in Ráma’s form to-day Hast dragged thee from the world away. One shaft from his tremendous bow Dooms us to widowhood and woe. Hast thou, O Vánar King, no eyes Thy weeping wives to recognize, Who for the length of way unmeet Have followed thee with weary feet? Yet every moon-faced beauty here By thee, O King was counted dear. Lord of the Vánar race, hast thou No eyes to see Sugríva now? About thee stands in mournful mood A sore-afflicted multitude, And Tára and thy lords of state Around their monarch weep and wait. Arise my lord, with gentle speech, As was thy wont, dismissing each, Then in the forest will we play And love shall make our spirits gay.”