The Kādambarī of Bāṇa

by Bāṇa‏; Bhūṣaṇabhaṭṭa

‘Learning that the sun had gone to rest, the lord of rays ambrosial, in pure severity of light, arrayed in the whiteness of clear gossamer, dwelling in the palace of his wives with Tārā,[155] mounted the sky which, in that it was outlined with the darkness of tamāla-trees, presided over by the circle of Seven Ṛishis, purified by the wanderings of Arundhatī,[156] surrounded by Āshāḍha,[157] showing its Mūla[158] with its soft-eyed white deer,[159] was a very hermitage of heaven. White as a haṃsa, moonlight fell on the earth, filling the seas; falling, as Ganges from the head of Çiva, from the sky which was decked with the moon, and inlaid with the shattered potsherds of the stars. (100) And in the moon-lake, white as an opening lotus, was seen the motionless deer, which went down in eagerness to drink the water of the moonbeams, and was caught, as it were, in the mud of ambrosia. The lakes of the night-lotus were fondly visited by the moonbeams, like haṃsas, falling on the ocean white as sinduvāra flowers in their fresh purity after the rains. At that moment the globe of the moon lost all the glow of its rising, like the frontal bone of the elephant Airāvata when its red lead is washed away by plunging into the heavenly stream; and his highness the cold-shedder had gradually risen high in the sky, and by his light had whitened the earth as with lime-dust; the breezes of early night were blowing, slackened in their course by the cold dew, aromatic with the scent of opening moon-lotuses, (101) and gladly welcomed by the deer, who, with eyes weighed down by the approach of sleep, and eyelashes clinging together, were beginning to ruminate and rest in quiet.

‘Only half a watch of the night was spent, when Hārīta took me after my meal and went with the other holy hermits to his father, who, in a moonlit spot of the hermitage, was sitting on a bamboo stool, gently fanned by a pupil named Jālapāda, who held a fan of antelope skin white as dharba grass, and he spake, saying: “Father, the whole assemblage of hermits is in a circle round thee, with hearts eager to hear this wonder; the little bird, too, has rested. Tell us, therefore, what he has done, who was he, and who will he be in another birth?” Thus addressed, the great saint, looking at me, and seeing the hermits before him intently listening, slowly spake: “Let the tale be told, if ye care to hear it.

‘“(102) There is a city named Ujjayinī, the proudest gem of earth, the very home of the golden age, created by Mahākāla,[160] creator, preserver, and destroyer of the three worlds, and lord of Pramathas, as a habitation meet for himself, as it were a second earth. There the sun is daily seen paying homage to Mahākāla, for his steeds vail their heads at the charm of the sweet chant of the women singing in concert in the lofty white palace, and his pennon droops before him.

(109) ‘“There darkness never falls, and the nights bring no separation to the pairs of cakravākas; nor need they any lamps, for they pass golden as with morning sunshine, from the bright jewels of women, as though the world were on fire with the flame of love. (110) There the only unending life is in jewelled lamps, the only wavering in pearl necklaces, the only variations in the sound of drum and song, the only disunion of pairs in cakravākas, the only testing of colour[161] in gold pieces, the only unsteadiness in banners, the only hatred of the sun[162] in night-lotuses, the only concealment of metal in the sheathing of the sword. (111) Why should I say more? For he whose bright feet are kissed by the rays of the jewelled crests of gods and demons, who hath the river of heaven wandering lost in his locks tawny with a wreath of flame for the burning of the world; he the foe of Andhaka; he the holy one; he who hath given up his love for his home on Kailāsa; even he whose name is Mahākāla hath there made a habitation for himself. And in this city was a king named Tārāpīḍa. He was like unto the great kings Nala, Nahusha, Yayāti, Dundhumāra, Bharata, Bhagīratha, and Daçaratha; by the might of his arm he conquered the whole world; he reaped the fruits of the three powers;[163] wise and resolute, with an intellect unwearied in political science, and a deep study of the law books, he made in light and glory a third with the sun and moon. (112) His form was purified by many a sacrifice; by him the calamities of the whole world were set at rest; to him Lakshmī openly clung, deserting her lotus-woods and despising the happiness of her home in the breast of Nārāyaṇa, she the lotus-handed, who ever joys in the contest of heroes. He was the source of truth, ever honoured by the race of saints, as the foot of Vishṇu was of the stream of the heavenly Ganges.

‘“From him arose glory, as from the ocean of the moon, for his brightness, free from heat, consumed his foes; constant, ever roamed; stainless, darkened the brightness of the lotus-faced widows of his foes; white, made all things gay. (113) He was the incarnation of justice, the very representative of Vishṇu and the destroyer of all the sorrows of his people.

(115) ‘“When he approached the throne that blossomed with the rays of many gems and was hung with clusters of pearls, like the elephant of space approaching the tree of desire, all the wide quarters of space, like creepers weighed down by bees, bowed down before his majesty; and of him, I think, even Indra was envious. From him, too, proceeded a host of virtues, like a flock of haṃsas from Mount Krauñca, brightening the earth’s surface, and gladdening the hearts of all mankind. His fame wandered, so that the world echoed with it throughout the ten regions, making fair the world of gods and demons, like a streak of foam of the stream of milk tossed by Mandara, ambrosial sweet. His royal glory never for a moment laid aside the shade of her umbrella, as though scorched by the heat of a splendour hard to bear. (116) His achievements were heard by the people like news of good fortune, were received like the teaching of a guru, were valued like a good omen, were murmured like a hymn, and were remembered like a sacred text. And while he was king, though the flight of the mountains was stayed, the flight of thought was free; suffixes alone were dependent, and the people feared no foe; nought dared to face him but his mirror; the pressure of Durgā[164] was given to Çiva’s image alone; the bow was only borne by the clouds; there was no uprising save of banners, no bending save of bows, no shaft sped home save the bee’s on the bamboo, no enforced wandering save of the images of gods in a procession, no imprisonment save of flowers in their calyx, no restraint save of the senses; wild elephants entered the pale, but none paled before the water-ordeal; the only sharpness was in the edge of the sword; the only endurance of the flame[165] was by ascetics; the only passing the Balance[166] was by the stars; the only clearing of baneful[167] waters was in the rising of Agastya; the only cutting short was of hair and nails; the only stained garb was of the sky on stormy days; the only laying bare was of gems, and not of secret counsels; the only mysteries[168] were those of religion; (117) none ceased to behold the light save slaughtered Tāraka[169] in the praises of Kumāra; none dreaded eclipse save the sun; none passed over the First-born[170] save the moon; none heard of the Disobedient save in the Mahābhārata; none grasped the rod[171] save in the decline of life; none clung to a sinister object save the sword-sheath; no stream of liberality was interrupted save the elephant’s ichor; no squares were deserted save those on the dice-board.

‘“That king had a minister, by name Çukanāsa, a Brahman, whose intelligence was fixed on all the affairs of the kingdom, whose mind had plunged deeply into the arts and çāstras, and whose strong affection for the king had grown up in him from childhood. Skilled in the precepts of political science, pilot of the world’s government, unshaken in resolve by the greatest difficulties, he was the castle of constancy, the station of steadfastness, the bridge of bright truth, the guide to all goodness, the conductor in conduct, the ordainer of all ordered life. Like the serpent Çesha, enduring the weight of the world; like the ocean, full of life; like Jarāsandha, shaping war and peace;[172] (118) like Çiva, at home with Dūrgā[173]; like Yuddhishṭhira, a dayspring of Dharma, he knew all the Vedas and Vedāngas, and was the essence of the kingdom’s prosperity. He was like Bṛihaspati[174] to Sunāsīra; like Çukra to Vṛishaparvan; like Vaçishṭha to Daçaratha; like Viçvāmitra to Rāma; like Dhaumya to Ajātaçatru; like Damanaka to Nala. He, by the force of his knowledge, thought that Lakshmī was not hard to win, resting though she were on the breast of Nārāyaṇa, terrible with the scars of the weapons of the demons of hell, and a strong shoulder hardened by the pitiless pressure of Mount Mandara as it moved to and fro. Near him knowledge spread wide, thick with many a tendril, and showed the fruits gained from conquered realms like a creeper near a tree. (119) To him throughout the earth’s surface, measured by the circumference of the four oceans, and filled with the goings to and fro of many thousands of spies, every whisper of the kings was known as though uttered in his own palace.

‘“Now, Tārāpīḍa while yet a child had conquered the whole earth ringed by the seven Dvīpas by the might of his arm, thick as the trunk of Indra’s elephant, and he devolved the weight of the empire on that councillor named Çukanāsa, and having made his subjects perfectly contented, he searched for anything else that remained to be done.

‘“And as he had crushed his enemies and had lost all cause for fear, and as the strain of the world’s affairs had become a little relaxed, for the most part he began to pursue the ordinary pleasures of youth.

(124) ‘“And some time passed while the king pursued the pleasures of youth, and entrusted the affairs of state to his minister; and after a time he came to the end of all the other pleasures of life, and the only one he did not get was the sight of a son born to him; so that his zenana was like reeds showing only flowers without fruit; and as youth went by there arose in him a regret produced by childlessness, and his mind was turned away from the desire of the pleasures of sense, and he felt himself alone, though surrounded by a thousand princes; blind, though possessed of sight; without support, though supporting the world.