BOOK XIII.
[93]This, the lovely princess hearing—from the captain of the band,
With the caravan set forward—seeking still her royal lord.
Long their journey through the forest—through the dark and awful glens;
Then a lake of loveliest beauty—fragrant with the lotus flowers,
Saw those merchants, wide and pleasant—with fresh grass and shady trees;
Flowers and fruits bedecked its borders—where the birds melodious sang:
In its clear delicious waters—soul-enchanting, icy cool,
With their horses all o'erwearied—thought they then to plunge and bathe;
At the signal of the captain—entered all that pleasant grove.
At the close of day arriving—there encamped they for the night.
When the midnight came, all noiseless—came in silence deep and still,
Weary slept the band of merchants—lo, a herd of elephants,[94]
Oozing moisture from their temples—came to drink the troubled stream.
When that caravan they gazed on—with their slumbering beasts at rest,
The tame elephants they scented—those wild forest elephants;
Forward rush they fleet and furious—mad to slay, and wild with heat;
Irresistible the onset—of the rushing ponderous beasts,
As the peaks from some high mountain—down the valley thundering roll;
Strewn was all the way before them—with the boughs, the trunks of trees;
On they crash'd to where the travellers—slumbered by the lotus lake.
Trampled down without a struggle—helpless on the earth they lay,
"Woe, oh, woe!" shrieked out the merchants—wildly some began to fly,
In the forest thickets' plunging;—some stood gasping, blind with sleep;
And the elephants down beat them—with their tusks, their trunks, their feet.
Many saw their camels dying—mingled with the men on foot,
And in frantic tumult rushing—wildly struck each other down;
Many miserably shrieking—cast them down upon the earth,
Many climbed the trees in terror—on the rough ground stumbled some.
Thus in various wise and fatal—by the elephants assailed,
Lay that caravan so wealthy—scattered all abroad or slain.
Such, so fearful was the tumult—the three worlds seemed all appalled,[95]
"'Tis a fire amid th' encampment—save ye, fly ye, for your lives.
Lo, your precious pearls ye trample—take them up, why fly so fast?
Save them, 'tis a common venture—fear ye not that I deceive."
Thus t' each other shrieked the merchants—as in fear they scattered round.
"Yet again I call upon you—cowards! think ye what ye do."
All around this frantic carnage—raging through the prostrate host,
Damayanti, soon awakened—with her heart all full of dread;
There she saw a hideous slaughter—the whole world might well appal.
To such sights all unfamiliar—gazed the queen with lotus eyes,
Pressing in her breath with terror—slowly rose she on her feet.
And the few that scaped the carnage—few that scaped without a wound,
All at once exclaimed together—"Of whose deeds is this the doom?
Hath not mighty Manibhadra—adoration meet received.
And Vaisravana the holy[96]—of the Yakshas lord and king,
Have not all that might impede us—ere we journied, been addressed?
Was it doomed, that all good omens—by this chance should be belied!
Were no planets haply adverse?—how hath fate, like this, befall'n!"
Others answered in their misery—reft of kindred and of wealth,
"Who is that ill-omened woman—that with maniac-staring eyes,
Joined our host, misshaped in aspect—and with scarcely human form?
Surely all this wicked witchcraft—by her evil power is wrought;
Witch or sorceress she, or dæmon—fatal cause of all our fears,
Hers is all the guilt, the misery—who such damning proof may doubt?
Could we but behold that false one—murtheress, bane of all our host,
With the clods, the dust, the bamboos—with our staves, or with our hands,
We would slay her on the instant—of our caravan the fate."
But no sooner Damayanti—their appalling words had heard,
In her shame and in her terror—to the forest shade she fled.
And that guilt imputed dreading—thus her fate began to wail:
"Woe is me, still o'er me hovers—the terrific wrath of fate;
No good fortune e'er attends me—of what guilt is this the doom?
Not a sin can I remember—not the least to living man.
Or in deed, or thought, or language—of what guilt is this the doom?
In some former life committed[97]—expiate I now the sin.
To this infinite misfortune—hence by penal justice doomed?
Lost my husband, lost my kingdom—from my kindred separate;
Separate from noble Nala—from my children far away,
Widowed of my rightful guardian—in the serpent-haunted wood."
Of that caravan at morning—then the sad surviving few,
Setting forth from that dread region—o'er that hideous carnage grieve;
Each a brother mourns, or father—or a son, or dearest friend,
Still Vidarbha's princess uttered—"What the sin that I have done?
Scarcely in this desert forest—had I met this host of men,
By the elephants they perish—this is through my luckless fate;
A still lengthening life of sorrow—I henceforth must sadly lead.
Ere his destined day none dieth—this of aged seers the lore;
Therefore am not I too trampled—by this herd of furious beasts.
Every deed of living mortal—by over-ruling fate is done.
Yet no sin have I committed—in my blameless infancy,
To deserve this dire disaster—or in word, or deed, or thought.
For the choosing of my husband—are the guardians of the world,
Angry are the gods, rejected—for the noble Nala's sake?
From my lord this long divorcement—through their power do I endure."
Thus the noblest of all women—to bewail her fate began,
The deserted Damayanti—with these sad and bitter words;
With some Veda-reading Brahmins—that survived that scattered host,
Then she went her way in sadness—like the young moon's sickle pale,
And ere long a mighty city—that afflicted queen drew near:
'Twas the king of Chedi's city—truth-discerning Subahu.
Scantly clad in half a garment—entered she that stately town;
Her disturbed, emaciate, wretched—with dishevelled hair, unwashed,
Like a maniac, onward-moving—saw that city's wondering throng;
Gazing on her as she entered—to the monarch's royal seat;
All the boys her footsteps followed—in their curious gamesome play;[98]
Circled round by these she wandered—near the royal palace gate.
From that palace lofty terrace—her the mother of the king
Saw, and thus her nurse addressed she—"Go, and lead that wanderer in!
Sad she roves, without a refuge—troubled by those gazing men;
Yet in form so bright, irradiate—is our palace where she moves.
Though so maniac-like, half-clothed—like Heaven's long-eyed queen she seems."
She those crowding men dispersing—quickly to the palace top
Made her mount—and in amazement—her the mother-queen addressed:
"Thus though bowed and worn with sorrow—such a shining form thou wear'st,
As through murky clouds the lightning—tell me who thou art and whence:
For thy form is more than human—of all ornament despoiled:
Men thou fear'st not, unattended—in celestial beauty safe."
Hearing thus her gentle language—Bhima's daughter made reply,
"Know me like thyself a mortal—a distressed, devoted wife;
Of illustrious race an handmaid—making where I will mine home;
On the roots and wild-fruits feeding—lonely, at the fall of eve.
Gifted with unnumber'd virtues—is my true, my faithful lord,
And I still the hero followed—like his shadow on the way.
'Twas his fate, with desp'rate fondness—to pursue the love of play,
And in play subdued and ruined—entered he yon lonely wood;
Him, arrayed in but one garment,—like a madman wandering wild,
To console my noble husband—I too entered the deep wood;
He within that dreary forest—for some cause, to me unknown,
Wild with hunger, reft of reason—that one single robe he lost.
I with but one robe, him naked[99]—frantic, and with mind diseased,
Following through the boundless forest—many a night I had not slept;
Then, when I had sunk to slumber—me the blameless leaving there,
Half my garment having severed—he his sinless consort fled;
Seeking him, my outcast husband—night and day am I consumed:
Him I see not, ever shining—like the lotus cup, beloved;
Find him not, most like th' immortals—lord of all, my life, my soul."
Even as thus, with eyes o'erflowing—uttered she her sad lament,
Sad herself, sad Bhima's daughter—did the mother queen address:
"Dwell with me, then, noble Lady—deep the joy in thee I feel,
And the servants of my household—shall thy royal husband seek;
Haply hither he may wander—as he roams about the world:
Dwelling here in peace and honour—thou thy husband wilt rejoin."
To the king of Chedi's mother—Damayanti made reply;
"On these terms, O nurse of heroes!—I with thee may make abode:
That I eat not broken victuals[100]—wash not feet with menial hand:[101]
Nor with stranger men have converse—in my chaste, secluded state;
If that any man demand me—be he punished; if again,
Be he put to death on th' instant—this the vow that I have sworn.
Only, if they seek my husband—holy Brahmins will I see.
Be my terms by thee accepted—gladly will I sojourn here,
But on other terms no sojourn—will this heart resolved admit."
Then to her with joyful spirit—spake the mother of the king:
"As thou wilt shall all be ordered—be thou blest, since such thy vow."
Speaking thus to Bhima's daughter—did the royal mother then,
In these words address her daughter—young Sunanda was her name:
"See this handmaid, my Sunanda—gifted with a form divine;
She in age thy lovely compeer—be she to thee as a friend;
Joined with her in sweet communion—take thy pleasure without fear."
Young Sunanda, all rejoicing—to her own abode went back,
Taking with her Damayanti—circled with her virgin peers.