BOOK XII.
Slain that savage wild-beast hunter—onward went the lotus-eyed,
Through the dread, and desert forest—ringing with the cricket's song;
Full of lions, pards, and tigers—stags, and buffalos, and bears,
Where all kinds of birds were flocking—and wild men and robbers dwelt.
Trees of every form and stature[74]—every foliage, every name;
Pregnant with rich mines of metal—many a mountain it enclosed,
Many a shady resonant arbour—many a deep and wondrous glen;
Many a lake, and pool, and river—birds and beasts of every shape.
She, in forms terrific round her—serpents, elves, and giants saw:[75]
Pools, and tanks of lucid water—and the shaggy tops of hills,
Flowing streams and headlong torrents—saw, and wondered at the sight.
And the princess of Vidarbha—gazed where in their countless herds,
Buffalos and bears were feeding—boars, and serpents of the wood.
Safe in virtue, bright in beauty—glorious and of high resolve,
Now alone, Vidarbha's daughter—wandering, her lost Nala sought.
Yet no fear king Bhima's daughter—for herself might deign to feel,
Travelling the dreary forest—only for her lord distressed;
Him she mourned, that noble princess—him in bitterest anguish wailed,
Every limb with sorrow trembling—stood she on a beetling rock;
"Monarch, with broad chest capacious—monarch with the sinewy arm,
Me in this dread forest leaving—whither hast thou fled away?
Thou the holy Aswamedha—thou each sacrificial rite,
Hast performed, to me, me only—in thy holy faith thou'st failed.
That which thou, O best of husbands—in mine hearing hast declared,
Thy most solemn vow remember—call to mind thy plighted faith.
Of the swift-winged swans the language—uttered, monarch, by thy side,
That thyself, before my presence—didst renew, bethink thee well.
Thou the Vedas, thou the Angas—with the Upangas oft hast read,
Of each heaven-descended volume—one and simple is the truth.
Therefore, of thy foes the slayer!—reverence thou the sacred truth
Of thy solemn plighted promise—in my presence sworn so oft.
Am not I the loved so dearly—purely, sinlessly beloved;
In this dark and awful forest—wherefore dost thou not reply?
Here with monstrous jaws wide yawning—with his fierce and horrid form,
Gapes the forest king to slay me—and thou art not here to save.
None but I, thou'st said, for ever—none but I to thee am dear!
Make this oft-repeated language—make this oft-sworn promise true.
To thy queen bereft of reason—to thy weeping wife beloved,
Why repliest thou not—her only thou desir'st—she only thee.
Meagre, miserable, pallid—tainted with the dust and mire,
Scantly clad in half a garment—lone, with no protector near;
Like a large-eyed hind that wanders—separate from the wonted herd,
Thou regard'st me not, thus weeping—oh thou tamer of thy foes.
Mighty king, a lonely wanderer—in this vast and trackless wood,
Damayanti, I address thee—wherefore answerest not my voice?
Nobly born, and nobly minded—beautiful in every limb,
Do I not e'en now behold thee—in this mountain, first of men,
In this lion-haunted forest—in this tiger-howling wood,
Lying down or seated, standing—or in majesty and might
Moving, do I not behold thee—the enhancer of my woe?
Who shall I address, afflicted—wasted by my grief away;
'Hast thou haply seen my Nala—in the solitary wood?'
Who this day will show the monarch—wandering in the forest depth,
Beautiful and royal-minded—conqueror of an host of foes!
'Him thou seek'st with eyes of lotus—Nala, sovereign of men—
Lo, he's here!' whose voice of music—may I hear thus sweetly speak?
Lo, with fourfold tusks before me—and with wide and gaping jaws,
Stands the forest king, the tiger—I approach him without fear.
Of the beasts art thou the monarch—all this forest thy domain,
For the daughter of Vidarbha—Damayanti, know thou me,
Consort of Nishadha's sovereign—Nala, slayer of his foes—
Seeking here my exile husband—lonely, wretched, sorrow-driven,
Thou, O king of beasts, console me—if my Nala thou hast seen;
Or, O lord of all the forest—Nala if thou canst not show,
Best of savage beasts, devour me—from my misery set me free.
Hearing thus my lamentation-now does that fell king of beasts
Go towards the crystal river—flowing downward to the sea.'—
To this mountain then the holy—crowned with many a lofty peak,
In its soul-exalting splendour—rising, many-hued, to heaven;
Full within of precious metal—rich with many a glowing gem,
Rising o'er the spreading forest—like a banner broad and high,
Ranged by elephants and lions—tigers, bears, and boars, and stags;
And of many birds the voices—sweetly sound o'er all its cliffs;
All the trees of richest foliage[76]—all the trees of stateliest height,
All the flowers and golden fruitage—on its crested summits wave,
Down its peaks in many a streamlet—dip the water-birds their wings:
This, the monarch of all mountains—ask I of the king of men;
'O, all-honoured Prince of Mountains, with thy heaven-ward soaring peaks,
Refuge of the lost, most noble—thee, O Mountain, I salute;
I salute thee, lowly bowing—I, the daughter of a king;
Of a king the royal consort—of a king's son I the bride.
Of Vidarbha the great sovereign—mighty hero is my sire.
Named the lord of earth, king Bhima—of each caste the guardian he;
Of the holy Aswamedha—of the regal sacrifice,[77]
He the offerer, best of monarchs—known by his commanding eye,
Pious, and of life unblemished—true in word, of generous speech,
Affable, courageous, prosperous—skilled in every duty, pure.
Of Vidarbha the protector—conqueror of a host of foes;
Know me of that king the daughter—lowly thus approaching thee.
In Nishadha, mighty Mountain! dwelt the father of my lord.
High the name he won, the illustrious—Virasena was he called.
Of this king the son, the hero—prosperous and truly brave,
He who rules his father's kingdom—by hereditary right,
Slayer of his foes, dark Nala—Punyasloka is he called;
Holy, Veda read, and eloquent—soma quaffing, fire adoring,[78][79]
Sacrificer, liberal giver—warrior, in all points a king,—
Of this monarch, best of mountains—know, the wife before thee stands.
Fallen from bliss, bereft of husband—unprotected, sorrow-doomed,
Seeking every where her husband—him the best of noblest men.
Best of mountains, heaven-upsoaring—with thy hundred stately peaks,
Hast thou seen the kingly Nala—in this dark and awful wood:
Like the elephant in courage—wise, impetuous, with long arms,
Valiant, and of truth unquestioned—my heroic, glorious lord;
Hast thou seen Nishadha's sovereign—mighty Nala hast thou seen?
Why repliest thou not, oh Mountain—sorrowing, lonely, and distressed,
With thy voice why not console me—as thine own afflicted child?
Hero, mighty, strong in duty—true of promise, lord of earth,
If thou art within the forest—show thee in thy proper form.
When so eloquently deep-toned—like the sound of some dark cloud,
Shall I hear thy voice, oh Nala!—sweet as the amrita draught,[80]
Saying, 'daughter of Vidarbha!'—with distinct, with blessed sound,
Musical as holy Veda—rich, and soothing all my pain;
Thus console me, trembling, fainting—thou, oh virtue-loving king!"
To the holiest of mountains—spake the daughter of the king.
Damayanti then set forward—toward the region of the north.
Three days long, three nights she wandered—then that noble woman saw,
The unrivalled wood of hermits—like to a celestial grove.
To the ancient famous hermits[81]—equal was that sacred crew;
Self-denying, strict in diet[82]—temperate, and undefiled;
Water-drinking, air inhaling—and the leaves their simple food;
Mortified, for ever blessed—seeking the right way to heaven;
Bark for vests and skins for raiment—wore those hermits, sense-subdued.
She beheld the pleasant circle—of those hermits' lonely cells;
Round them flocks of beasts were grazing—wantoned there the monkey tribes.
When she saw those holy dwellings—all her courage was revived.
Lovely browed, and lovely tressed—lovely bosom'd, lovely lipp'd,[83]
In her brightness, in her glory—with her large dark beauteous eyes,
Entered she those hermit dwellings—wife of Virasena's son;
Pearl of women, ever blessed-Damayanti the devout,
She those holy men saluting—stood with modest form half bent.
"Hail, and welcome!" thus those hermits—instant with one voice exclaimed.
And those sacred men no sooner—had the fitting homage paid,
"Take thy seat," they said, "oh lady[84]—and command what we must do."
Thus replied the slender waisted—"Blessed are ye, holy men.
In your sacred fires, your worship[85]—blameless, with your beasts and birds.[86]
Doth the grace of heaven attend you—in your duties, in your deeds?"
Answered they, "The grace of heaven—ever blesses all our deeds.
But say thou, of form so beauteous—who thou art, and what thou would'st?
As thy noble form we gaze on—on thy brightness as we gaze,
In amaze we stand and wonder—cheer thee up, and mourn no more.
Of the wood art thou the goddess—or the mountain goddess thou;
Or the goddess of the river?—Blessed Spirit, speak the truth.
Nor the sylvan goddess am I,"—to the Wise she thus replied;
"Neither of the mountain, Brahmins—nor the river nymph am I.
Know me but a mortal being—O, ye rich in holiness!
All my tale at length, I'll tell ye—if meet audience ye will give.
In Vidarbha, mighty guardian—Bhima, dwells the lord of earth;
Of that noble king the daughter—twice-born Sages, know ye me.[87]
And the monarch of Nishadha—Nala named, the great in fame;
Brave in battle, conqueror, prudent—is my lord, the peasants' king;
To the gods devout in worship—friendly to the Brahmin race,
Of Nishadha's race the guardian—great in glory, great in might,
True in word, and skilled in duty—and the slayer of his foes.
Pious, heaven-devoted, prosperous—conqueror of hostile towns;
Nala named, the best of sovereigns—splendid as the king of gods.
Know that large-eyed chief, my husband—like the full-orbed moon his face,
Giver he of costly offerings—deep in th' holy volumes read;
Slayer of his foes in battle—glorious as the sun and moon.
He to some most evil minded—unrespected, wicked men,
After many a challenge, studious—he of virtue and of truth,
To these skilful gamesters, fraudful—lost his kingdom and his wealth.
Know ye me the hapless consort—of that noble king of kings,
Damayanti, so they name me—yearning for my husband's sight.
I through forests, over mountains—stagnant marsh and river broad,
Lake with wide pellucid surface—through the long and trackless wood,
Ever seeking for my husband—Nala, skilful in the fight.
Mighty in the use of weapons—wander desolate and sad.
Tell me, to this pleasant sojourn—sacred to these holy men,
Hath he come, the royal Nala?—hath Nishadha's monarch come?
For whose sake through ways all trackless—terrible, have I set forth,
In this drear, appalling forest—where the lynx and tiger range,
If I see not noble Nala—ere few days, few nights are o'er,
I to happiness will join me—from this mortal frame set free.
Reft of him, my princely husband—what have I to do with life—
How endure existence longer—for my husband thus distressed."
To the lady thus complaining—lonely in the savage wood,
Answered thus those holy hermits—spake the gifted seers the truth:—
"There will be a time hereafter—beautiful, the time will come,
Through devotion now we see him[88]—and thou too wilt see him soon;
That good monarch of Nishadha—Nala, slayer of his foes;
That dispenser of strict justice—Bhima's daughter! free from grief,
From all sin released, thou'lt see him—glittering in his royal gems,
Governing that noble city—o'er his enemies supreme.
To his foemen causing terror—to his friends allaying grief,
Thou, oh noble, shalt thy husband—see, that king of noble race."
To the much-loved wife of Nala—to the princess speaking thus,
Vanished then those holy hermits—with their sacred fires, their cells.
As she gazed upon the wonder—wrapt in mute amaze she stood;
Damayanti, fair-limbed princess—wife of Virasena's son;
"Have I only seen a vision—what hath been this wondrous chance?
Where are all those holy hermits—where the circle of their cells?
Where that pure and pleasant river—haunted by the dipping birds?
Where those trees with grateful umbrage—with their pendant fruits and flowers?"
Long within her heart she pondered—Damayanti with sweet smile,
For her lord, to grief abandoned—miserable, pale of hue;
To another region passed she—there with voice by weeping choked,
Mourns she, till with eyes o'erflowing—an Asoca tree she saw.
Best of trees, the Asoca blooming[89]—in the forest she approached,
Gemmed all o'er with glowing fruitage—vocal with the songs of birds.
"Ah, behold amid the forest—flourishes this happy tree,
With its leafy garlands radiant—as the joyous mountain king.
O thou tree with pleasant aspect—from my sorrow set me free.
Vitasoca, hast thou seen him—hast the fearless raja seen,
Nala, of his foes the slayer—Damayanti's lord beloved?
Hast thou seen Nishadha's monarch—hast thou seen mine only love,
Clad in half a single garment—with his soft and delicate skin;
Hast thou seen th' afflicted hero—wandering in the forest lone.
That I may depart ungrieving—fair Asoca, answer me.
Truly be thou named Asoca[90]—as the extinguisher of grief."
Thus in her o'erpowering anguish—moved she round the Asoca tree.
Then she went her way in sadness—to another region dread.
Many a tree she stood and gazed on—many a river passed she o'er;
Passed she many a pleasant mountain—many a wild deer, many a bird;
Many a hill and many a cavern—many a bright and wondrous stream,
Saw king Bhima's wandering daughter—as she sought her husband lost.
Long she roamed her weary journey—Damayanti with sweet smile,
Lo, a caravan of merchants—elephants, and steeds, and cars,
And beyond, a pleasant river—with its waters cool and clear.
'Twas a quiet stream, and waveless—girt about with spreading canes;
There the cuckoo, there the osprey—there the red-geese clamouring stood;
Swarmed the turtles, fish and serpents—there rose many a stately isle.
When she saw that numerous concourse—Nala's once all-glorious wife,
Entered she, the slender-waisted—in the midst of all the host;
Maniac-like in form and feature—and in half a garment clad,
Thin and pallid, travel-tainted—matted all her locks with dust.
As they all beheld her standing—some in terror fled away;
Some stood still in speechless wonder—others raised their voice and cried;
Mocked her some with cruel tauntings—others spake reproachful words;
Others looked on her with pity—and enquired her state, her name.
"Who art thou? whose daughter. Lady—in the forest seek'st thou aught?
At thy sight we stand confounded—art thou of our mortal race?
Of this wood art thou the goddess?—of this mountain? of that plain?
Who art thou, O noble Lady—thee, our refuge, we adore.
Art thou sylvan nymph or genius—or celestial nymph divine?
Every-way regard our welfare—and protect us, undespised:
So our caravan in safety—may pursue its onward way,
So ordain it, O illustrious!—that good fortune wait on all."
Thus addressed by that assemblage—Damayanti, kingly-born,
Answered thus with gentle language—grieving for her husband lost.
Of that caravan the leader—and the whole assembled host,
Youths and boys, and grey-haired elders—and the guides, thus answered she:
"Know me, like yourselves, a mortal—daughter of a king of men,
Of another king the consort—seeking for my royal lord;
Know, Vidarbha's king, my father—and Nishadha's king, my lord,
Nala, is his name, the glorious—him, th' unconquered do I seek;
Know ye aught of that good monarch—tell me, quick, of my beloved,
Of the tiger hero, Nala—slayer of a host of foes."
Of the caravan the captain—thus the lovely-limbed addressed,
Suchi was his name, the merchant—"Hear, illustrious queen, my speech;
Of this caravan the captain—I, O Lady with sweet smile,
Him that bears the name of Nala—nowhere have these eyes beheld.
Elephants, and pards, and tigers—lynxes, buffaloes, and bears,
See I in this trackless forest—uninhabited by men;
Save thyself, of human feature—nought, or human form, I've seen.
So may he, the king of Yakshas—Manibhadra, guard us well."[91]
To the merchants then she answered—to the leader of the host,
"Tell me whither do ye travel!—whither bound your caravan?"
The Captain of the caravan spake.
"To the realm of Chedi's sovereign[92]—truth-discerning Subahu,
Soon this caravan will enter—travelling in search of gain."
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.