Chapter CXI.
May Gaṇeśa protect you, the ornamental streaks of vermilion on whose cheeks fly up in the dance, and look like the fiery might of obstacles swallowed and disgorged by him.
While Naraváhanadatta was thus living on that Ṛishabha mountain with his wives and his ministers, and was enjoying the splendid fortune of emperor over the kings of the Vidyádharas, which he had obtained, once on a time spring came to increase his happiness. After long intermission the light of the moon was beautifully clear, and the earth, enfolded by the young fresh grass, shewed its joy by sweating dewy drops, and the forest trees, closely embraced again and again by the winds of the Malaya mountain, were all trembling, bristling with thorns, and full of sap.[1] The warder of Cupid, the cuckoo, beholding the stalk of the mango-tree, with his note seemed to forbid the pride of coy damsels; and rows of bees fell with a loud hum from the flowery creepers, like showers of arrows shot from the bow of the great warrior Eros. And Naraváhanadatta’s ministers, Gomukha and the others, beholding at that time this activity of Spring, said to Naraváhanadatta; “See, king, this mountain of Ṛishabha is altogether changed, and is now a mountain of flowers, since the dense lines of forest with which it is covered, have their blossoms full-blown with spring. Behold, king, the creepers, which, with their flowers striking against one another, seem to be playing the castanets; and with the humming of their bees, to be singing, as they are swayed to and fro by the wind; while the pollen, that covers them, makes them appear to be crowned with garlands; and the garden made ready by spring, in which they are, is like the Court of Cupid. Look at this mango shoot with its garland of bees; it looks like the bow of the god of love with loosened string, as he reposes after conquering the world. So come, let us go and enjoy this festival of spring on the bank of the river Mandákiní where the gardens are so splendid.”
When Naraváhanadatta had been thus exhorted by his ministers, he went with the ladies of his harem to the bank of the Mandákiní. And there he diverted himself in a garden resounding with the song of many birds, adorned with cardamom-trees, clove-trees, vakulas, aśokas, and mandáras. And he sat down on a broad slab of moonstone, placing queen Madanamanchuká at his left hand, accompanied by the rest of his harem, and attended by various princes of the Vidyádharas, of whom Chaṇḍasinha and Amitagati were the chief; and while drinking wine and talking on various subjects, the sovereign, having observed the beauty of the season, said to his ministers, “The southern breeze is gentle and soft to the feel; the horizon is clear; the gardens in every corner are full of flowers and fragrant; sweet are the strains of the cuckoo, and the joys of the banquet of wine; what pleasure is wanting in the spring? Still, separation from one’s beloved is during that season hard to bear. Even animals[2] find separation from their mates in the spring a severe affliction. For instance, behold this hen-cuckoo here distressed with separation! For she has been long searching for her beloved, that has disappeared from her gaze, with plaintive cries, and not being able to find him, she is now cowering on a mango, mute and like one dead.”
When the king had said this, his minister Gomukha said to him, “It is true, all creatures find separation hard to bear at this time; and now listen, king; I will tell you in illustration of this something that happened in Śrávastí.”
Story of the devoted couple, Śúrasena and Susheṇá.[3]
In that town there dwelt a Rájpút, who was in the service of the monarch, and lived on the proceeds of a village. His name was Śúrasena, and he had a wife named Susheṇá, who was a native of Málava. She was in every respect well suited to him, and he loved her more than life. One day the king summoned him, and he was about to set out for his camp, when his loving wife said to him, “My husband, you ought not to go off and leave me alone; for I shall not be able to exist here for a moment without you.” When Śúrasena’s wife said this to him, he replied, “How can I help going, when the king summons me? Do you not understand my position, fair one? You see, I am a Rájpút, and a servant, dependent on another for my subsistence.” When his wife heard this, she said to him with tears in her eyes, “If you must of necessity go, I shall manage to endure it somehow, if you return not one day later than the commencement of spring.” Having heard this, he at last said to her, “Agreed, my dear! I will return on the first day of the month Chaitra, even if I have to leave my duty.”
When he said this, his wife was at last induced to let him go; and so Śúrasena went to attend on the king in his camp. And his wife remained at home, counting the days in eager expectation, looking for the joyful day on which spring begins, on which her husband was to return. At last, in the course of time, that day of the spring-festival arrived, resonant with the songs of cuckoos, that seemed like spells to summon the god of love. The humming of bees drunk with the fragrance of flowers, fell on the ear, like the twanging of Cupid’s bow as he strung it.