BOOK VIII.
Damayanti then beholding—Punyasloka, king of men,[60]
Undistracted, him distracted—with the maddening love of play.
In her dread and in her sorrow—thus did Bhima's daughter speak;
Pondering on the weighty business—that concerned the king of men.
Trembling at his guilty frenzy—yet to please him still intent.
Nala, 'reft of all his treasures—when the noble woman saw,
Thus addressed she Vrihatsena,—her old faithful slave and nurse,
Friendly in all business dextrous—most devoted, wise in speech:
"Vrihatsena, go, the council—as at Nala's call convene,
Say what he hath lost of treasure—and what treasure yet remains."
Then did all that reverend council—Nala's summons as they heard,
"Our own fate is now in peril"—speaking thus, approach the king.
And a second time his subjects—all assembling, crowded near,
And the queen announced their presence;—of her words he took no heed.
All her words thus disregarded—when king Bhima's daughter found,
To the palace, Damayanti—to conceal her shame returned.
When the dice she heard for ever—adverse to the king of men,
And of all bereft, her Nala—to the nurse again she spake:
"Go again, my Vrihatsena,—in the name of Nala, go,
To the charioteer, Varshneya,—great the deed must now be done."
Vrihatsena on the instant—Damayanti's words she heard,
Caused the charioteer be summoned—by her messengers of trust.
Bhima's daughter to Varshneya—winning with her gentle voice,
Spake, the time, the place well choosing—for the deed, nor spake in vain:
"Well thou know'st the full reliance—that in thee the king hath placed,
In his fatal hour of peril—wilt not thou stand forth to aid?
As by Pushkara is worsted—ever more and more the king,
More and more the fatal frenzy—maddens in his heart for play.
As to Pushkara obedient—ever fall the lucky dice,
Thus those dice to royal Nala—still with adverse fortune fall.
Nor the voice of friend or kindred—as beseems him, will he hear;
Even to me he will not listen—in the madness of his heart.
Of the lofty-minded Nala—well I know 'tis not the sin,
That my words this senseless monarch—in his frenzy will not hear.
Charioteer, to thee my refuge—come I, do thou my behest;
I am not o'er calm in spirit—haply he may perish thus.
Yoke the much-loved steeds of Nala—fleet of foot, as thought, are they,
In the chariot place our children—to Cundina's city go.[61]
Leave the children with my kindred—and the chariot and the steeds;
Then or dwell there at thy pleasure—or depart where'er thou wilt."
When the speech of Damayanti—heard king Nala's charioteer,
He, the chief of Nala's council—thus in full divan addressed,
Weighed within their solemn conclave—and their full assent obtained,
With the children in the chariot—to Vidarbha straight he drove.
There he rendered up the horses—with the chariot there he left.
That young maiden Indrasena—Indrasen, that noble boy.
To king Bhima paid his homage—sad, for Nala's fall distressed,
Thence departing, to Ayodhya[62]—took the charioteer his way.
In his grief to Rituparna—that illustrious king, he came,
As his charioteer, the service—entered of the lord of earth.
BOOK IX.
Scarce Varshneya had departed—still the king of men played on,
Till to Pushkara his kingdom—all that he possessed, was lost.
Nala then, despoiled of kingdom—smiling Pushkara bespake:
"Throw we yet another hazard—Nala, where is now thy stake?
There remains but Damayanti—all thou hast beside, is mine.
Throw we now for Damayanti—come, once more the hazard try."
Thus as Pushkara addressed him—Punyasloka's inmost heart
By his grief was rent asunder—not a single word he spake.
And on Pushkara, king Nala—in his silent anguish gazed.
All his ornaments of splendour—from his person stripped he off,
With a single vest, scarce covered,—'mid the sorrow of his friends.
Slowly wandered forth the monarch—fallen from such an height of bliss.
Damayanti with one garment—slowly followed him behind.
Three long nights Nishadha's monarch—there without the gates had dwelt.
Proclamation through the city—then did Pushkara bid make,
"Whosoe'er befriendeth Nala—shall to instant death be doomed."
Thus, as Pushkara gave order—in the terror of his power,
Might the citizens no longer—hospitably serve the king.
Near the walls, of kind reception—worthiest, but by none received;
Three nights longer staid the monarch—water was his only drink,
He in unfastidious hunger—plucked the fruits, the roots of earth.
Then went forth again the outcast:—Damayanti followed slow.
In the agony of famine—Nala, after many days,
Saw some birds around him settling—with their golden tinctured wings.
Then the monarch of Nishadha—thought within his secret heart,
These to-day my welcome banquet—and my treasure these will be.
Over them his single garment—spreading light he wrapped them round:
Up that single garment bearing—to the air they sprang away;
And the birds above him hovering—thus in human accents spake,
Naked as they saw him standing—on the earth, and sad, and lone:—
"Lo, we are the dice, to spoil thee—thus descended, foolish king!
While thou hadst a single garment—all our joy was incomplete."
When the dice he saw departing—and himself without his robe,
Mournfully did Punyasloka—thus to Damayanti speak:
"They, O blameless, by whose anger—from my kingdom I am driven,
Life-sustaining food unable—in my misery to find—
They, through whom Nishadha's people—may not house their outcast king—
They, the forms of birds assuming—my one robe have borne away.
In the dark extreme of misery—sad and frantic as I am,
Hear me, princess, hear and profit—by thy husband's best advice.
Hence are many roads diverging—to the region of the south,[63]
Passing by Avanti's city[64]—and the height of Rishavàn;
Vindhya here, the mighty mountain[65]—and Payoshni's seaward stream;[66]
And the lone retreats of hermits—on the fruits of earth that live;
This will lead thee to Vidarbha—this to Cosala away,[67]
Far beyond the region stretches—southward to the southward clime."
In these words to Damayanti—did the royal Nala speak,
More than once to Bhima's daughter—anxious pointing out the way.
She, with voice half choked with sorrow—with her weight of woe oppressed,
These sad words did Damayanti—to Nishadha's monarch speak:—
"My afflicted heart is breaking—and my sinking members fail,
When, O king, thy desperate counsel—once I think of, once again.
Robbed of kingdom, robbed of riches—naked, thirst and hunger worn;
How shall I depart and leave thee—in the wood by man untrod.
When thou sad and famine-stricken—thinkest of thy former bliss,
In the wild wood, oh, my husband,—I thy weariness will soothe.
Like a wife, in every sorrow—this the wise physicians own,
Healing herb is none or balsam—Nala, 'tis the truth I speak."
Nala spake.
Slender-waisted Damayanti—true, indeed, is all thou'st said;
Like a wife no friendly medicine—to afflicted man is given.
Fear not that I thee abandon—Wherefore, timid, dread'st thou this?
Oh, myself might I abandon—and not thee, thou unreproached.
Damayanti spake.