The Kādambarī of Bāṇa

(319) ‘“‘The firmament was now flooded with moonlight, as if the moon’s orb, which had not yet risen far, was, like the waterpipe of the temple of the universe, discharging a thousand streams of the heavenly Ganges, pouring forth the waves of an ambrosial ocean, shedding many a cascade of sandal-juice, and bearing floods of nectar; the world seemed to learn what life was in the White Continent, and the pleasures of seeing the land of Soma; the round earth was being poured out from the depths of a Milky Ocean by the moon, which was like the rounded tusk of the Great Boar; the moonrise offerings were being presented in every house by the women with sandal-water fragrant with open lotuses; the highways were crowded with thousands of women-messengers sent by fair ladies; girls going to meet their lovers ran hither and thither, veiled in blue silk and fluttered by the dread of the bright moonlight as if they were the nymphs of the white day lotus groves concealed in the splendours of the blue lotuses; the sky became an alluvial island in the river of night, with its centre whitened by the thick pollen of the groves of open night lotuses; while the night lotus-beds in the house-tanks were waking, encircled by bees which clung to every blossom; (320) the world of mortals was, like the ocean, unable to contain the joy of moonrise, and seemed made of love, of festivity, of mirth, and of tenderness: evening was pleasant with the murmur of peacocks garrulous in gladness at the cascade that fell from the waterpipes of moonstone.

‘“‘Taralikā accompanied me, holding powders, perfumes, unguents, betel, and various flowers, and I had also that napkin, wet with the sandal ointment which had been applied in my swoon, and which had its nap slightly disordered and gray with the partly-dried mark of sandalwood clinging to it; the rosary was on my neck; the pārijāta spray was kissing the tip of my ear; veiled in red silk that seemed fashioned from rays of rubies, I went down from the top of that palace, unseen by any of my devoted attendants. On my way I was pursued by a swarm of bees, which hastened, leaving lotus-beds and deserting gardens, drawn by the scent of the pārijāta spray, sportively forming a blue veil round me. I departed through the door of the pleasure-grove and set out to meet Puṇḍarīka. (321) As I went, I thought, seeing myself attended by Taralikā only: “What needs pomp of retinue when we seek our dearest! Surely our servants then but play a mockery of attendance, for Love follows me with shaft fitted to the strung bow; the moon, stretching out a long ray,276 draws me on like a hand; passion supports me at every step from fear of a fall; my heart rushes on with the senses, leaving shame behind; longing has gained certainty, and leads me on.” Aloud I said: “Oh, Taralikā, would that this miscreant moon would with its beams seize him by the hair and draw him forward like myself!” As I thus spoke, she smilingly replied: “Thou art foolish, my princess! What does the moon want with Puṇḍarīka? Nay, rather, he himself, as though wounded by Love, does all these things for thee; for under the guise of his image he kisses thy cheeks marked with drops of perspiration; with trembling ray he falls on thy fair breast; he touches the gems of thy girdle; entangled in thy bright nails, he falls at thy feet; moreover, the form of this lovesick moon wears the pallor of a sandal unguent dried by fever; (322) he stretches out his rays277 white as lotus-fibres; under the guise of his reflection he falls on crystal pavements; with rays278 gray as the dust from the filaments inside the ketakī, he plunges into lotus-pools; he touches with his beams279 the moonstones wet with spray; he hates the day lotus-groves with their pairs of cakravākas once severed.” With such discourse fitting for the time I approached that spot in her company. I then bathed my feet, gray with pollen from the creeper flowers on our path, in a spot near Kapiñjala’s abode which had a stream of moonstone, liquefied by moonrise, flowing from Kailāsa’s slope; and there, on the left bank of the lake, I heard the sound of a man’s weeping, softened by distance. Some fear had arisen within me at first, from the quivering of my right eye, and now that my heart was yet more torn by this cry, as if my downcast mind were telling some dreadful tidings within, I cried in terror: “Taralikā, what means this?” And with trembling limbs I breathlessly hastened on.

‘“‘Then I heard afar a bitter cry, clear in the calm of night: “Alas, I am undone! I am consumed! I am deceived! What is this that has befallen me? What has happened? I am uprooted! (323) Cruel demon Love, evil and pitiless, what shameful deed hast thou brought to pass? Ah, wicked, evil, wanton Mahāçvetā, how had he harmed thee? Ah, evil, wanton, monstrous280 moon, thou hast gained thy desire. Cruel soft breeze of the South, thy softness is gone, and thy will is fulfilled. That which was to be done is done. Go now as thou wilt! Ah, venerable Çvetaketu, tender to thy son, thou knowest not that thy life is stolen from thee! Dharma, thou art dispossessed! Penance, thou art protectorless! Eloquence, thou art widowed! Truth, thou art lordless! Heaven, thou art void! Friend, protect me! Yet I will follow thee! I cannot remain even a moment without thee, alone! How canst thou now suddenly leave me, and go thy way like a stranger on whom my eyes had never rested? Whence comes this thy great hardness? Say, whither, without thee, shall I go? Whom shall I implore? What refuge shall I seek? I am blinded! For me space is empty! Life is aimless, penance vain, the world void of joy! With whom shall I wander, to whom speak, with whom hold converse? Do thou arise! Grant me an answer. Friend, where is thine old love to me? Where that smiling welcome that never failed me?”

(324) ‘“‘Such were the words I heard Kapiñjala utter; and as I heard them I uttered a loud cry, while yet far off, as if my life had fallen; and with my silk cloak torn as it clung to the creepers by the lake’s bank, and my feet placed on the ground regardless of its being rough or even, and as hastily as I could, I went on to that place, stumbling at every step, and yet as if led on by one who lifted me up again.

‘“‘There I beheld Puṇḍarīka lying on a couch made on a slab of moonstone wet with showers of cool spray, close to the lake; it was made of lotus-fibres like a garland of tender flowers from all lilies, and seemed to be formed wholly of the points of Love’s arrows. Puṇḍarīka seemed from his great stillness to be listening for the sound of my step. He seemed to have gained a moment’s happiness in sleep, as if Love’s pain had been quenched by inward wrath; he seemed engaged in a yoga penance of holding his breath, as an atonement for his breach of ascetic duty; he seemed to murmur, with bright yet trembling lip: “By thy deed am I come to this pass.” He seemed pierced by the moonbeams which, under the guise of his bright finger-nails placed on a heart throbbing with Love’s fire, fell on his back as he lay averted in hatred of the moon. (325) He bore a mark on his brow of a line of sandal, which, by its being pale from dryness, was like a digit of Love’s waning moon portending his own destruction. Life seemed to leave him in anger, saying: “Fool, another is dearer to thee than I!” His eyes were not wholly closed; their pupils were slightly turned to look; they were red with ceaseless weeping; they seemed to drop blood, since by failure of breath his tears were exhausted; and they were partly curved in pain at Love’s darts. He now experienced the pain of unconsciousness, as if together with the torment of love he were also yielding life itself; he seemed to meditate a new version of Love’s mystery, and to practise an unwonted retention of breath. His life seemed to be carried off as a prize281 by Love, who had in kindness arranged my coming. On his brow was a sandal tripuṇḍraka mark; he wore a sacrificial thread of juicy lotus-fibre; his dress clung to his shoulder beautiful as the leaf that ensheathes a plantain; his rosary had only the thickness of a single row;282 the ashes on his brow were of abundant white camphor-powder; he was fair with the string of lotus-fibre, bound on his arm as an amulet; he seemed to wear the garb of Love’s vow, as if completing a charm for my coming. With his eye he tenderly uttered the reproach: “Hard-hearted! I was but followed by one glance, and never again received thy favour.” (326) His lips were slightly open, so that his form gleamed white in the rays of his teeth, which came forth as if they were moonbeams that had entered him to take away his life; with his left hand placed on a heart breaking with the pain of love, he seemed to say: “Be kind, depart not with my life, thou that art dear as life!” and so to hold me firmly in his heart; his right hand, which from the uneven rays of his nails jutting forth seemed to drop sandal, was raised as if to ward off the moonlight; near him stood his pitcher, the friend of his penance, with neck upright, as if it gazed at the path by which his life was just rising; the garland of lotus-fibres which adorned his neck bound him as if with a rope of moonbeams to lead him to another world; and when, at the sight of me, Kapiñjala, with a cry of “Help, help!” raised his hands, and crying aloud with redoubled tears, fell on his neck, at that very moment I, wicked and ill-fated as I was, beheld that noble youth yield up his life. The darkness of a swoon came upon me, and I descended into hell; nor knew I anything of whither I then went, or what I did or said. Neither knew I why my life did not at that moment leave me; (327) whether from the utter hardness of my stupefied heart, or from the callousness to bear thousands of troubles of my wretched body, or from being fated to endure a long grief, or from being a vessel of evil earned in another birth, or from the skill of my cruel destiny in bestowing sorrow, or from the singular perversity of malign accursed love. Only this I know: that when at length in my misery I regained consciousness, I found myself writhing on the ground, tortured, as if I had fallen on a fire, by a grief too hard to bear. I could not believe aught so impossible as that he should die and I yet live, and rising with a bitter cry of “Alas, what is this – mother, father, friends?” I exclaimed: “Ah, my Lord, thou who upholdest my life, speak to me! Whither goest thou, pitilessly leaving me alone and protectorless? Ask Taralikā what I have suffered for thy sake. Hardly have I been able to pass the day, drawn out into a thousand ages. Be gracious! Utter but one word! Show tenderness to her that loves thee! Look but a little on me! Fulfil my longing! I am wretched! I am loyal! I am thine in heart! I am lordless! I am young! I am helpless! I am unhappy! I am bereft of other refuge! I am vanquished by Love! Why showest thou no pity? Say what I have done or left undone, what command I have neglected, or in what thing pleasing to thee I have not shown affection, that thou art wroth. (328) Fearest thou not the reproach of men in that thou goest, deserting me, thy handmaid, without cause? Yet why think of me, perverse and wicked, and skilled to deceive by false shows of love! Alas, I yet live! Alas, I am accursed and undone! For why? I have neither thee, nor honour, nor kinsfolk, nor heaven. Shame on me, a worker of evil deeds, for whose sake this fate hath befallen thee. There is none of so murderous a heart as I who went home, leaving one so peerless as thou. What to me were home, mother, father, kinsfolk, followers? Alas, to what refuge shall I flee? Fate, show pity to me! I entreat thee. Lady of destiny, give me a boon of mercy! Show compassion! Protect a lordless lady! Ye woodland goddesses, be kind! Give back his life! Help, Earth, that bringest favours to all! Night, showest thou no mercy? Father Kailāsa, thy protection I implore. Show thy wonted pity!” Such were my laments, so far as I remember, and I murmured incoherently as one held by a demon, or possessed or mad, or struck down by an evil spirit. In the tears that fell in torrents upon me I was turned to water, I melted away, I took upon me a shape of water; my laments, followed by the sharp rays of my teeth, fell as if with showers of tears; (329) my hair, with its flowers ever falling, seemed to shed teardrops, and my very ornaments by the tears of pure gemlight that sprang from them seemed to raise their lament. I longed for my own death as for his life; I yearned to enter his heart with my whole soul, dead though he were; with my hand I touched his cheeks, and his brow with the roots of his hair, white with dry sandal, and his shoulders with the lotus-fibres on them, and his heart covered with lotus-leaves and flecks of sandal-juice. With the tender reproach, “Thou art cruel, Puṇḍarīka! Thou carest nought that I am thus wretched!” I again sought to win him back. I again embraced him, I again clasped his neck, and wept aloud. Then I rebuked that string of pearls, saying: “Ah, wicked one, couldst not even thou have preserved his life till my coming?” Then again I fell at Kapiñjala’s feet with the prayer, “Be kind, my lord; restore him to life!” and again, clinging to Taralikā’s neck, I wept. Even now, when I think of it, I know not how these piteous, tender words came forth from my ill-fated heart – words all unthought, unlearnt, untaught, unseen before; nor whence these utterances arose; nor whence these heart-rending cries of despair. My whole being was changed. (330) For there rose a deluge wave of inward tears, the springs of weeping were set loose, the buds of wailing came forth, the peaks of sorrow grew lofty and a long line of madness was begun.’ And so, as she thus told her own tale, she seemed again to taste the bitterness of that former plight, so cruel, and so hardly endured, and a swoon bereft her of sense. In the force of her swoon she fell on the rock, and Candrāpīḍa hastily stretched out his hand, like her servant, and supported her, full of sorrow. At length he brought her back to consciousness by fanning her with the edge of her own bark garment, wet with tears. Filled with pity, and with his cheeks bathed in tears, he said to her, as she came to life: ‘Lady, it is by my fault that thy grief has been brought back to its first freshness, and that thou hast come to this pass. Therefore no more of this tale. Let it be ended. Even I cannot bear to hear it. For the story even of past sorrow endured by a friend pains us as if we ourselves were living through it.283 Thou wilt not therefore surely place on the fire of grief that life so precious and so hardly preserved?’ (331) Thus addressed, with a long, hot sigh and eyes dissolved in tears, she despairingly replied: ‘Prince, even in that dreadful night my hated life did not desert me;284 it is not likely that it will leave me now. Even blessed Death turns away his eyes from one so ill-fated and wicked. Whence could one so hard-hearted feel grief? all this can be but feigned in a nature so vile. But be that as it may, that shameless heart has made me chief among the shameless. For to one so adamantine as to have seen love in all his power, and yet to have lived through this, what can mere speaking of it matter?

‘“‘Or what could there be harder to tell than this very thing, which is supposed to be impossible to hear or say? I will at least briefly tell the marvel that followed on that thunderbolt, and I will tell, too, what came as a tiny dim cause of my prolonging my life, which by its mirage so deludes me that I bear about a hated body, almost dead, alien to me, burdensome, unfitted to my needs, and thankless for my care. That shall suffice. Afterwards, in a sudden change285 of feeling, with resolve firmly set on death, lamenting bitterly, I cried to Taralikā: “Rise, cruel-hearted girl; how long wilt thou weep? Bring together wood and make a pile. I will follow the lord of my life.”

(332) ‘“‘Straightway a being swiftly left the moon’s orb and descended from the sky. Behind him he trailed a silken vesture hanging from his crest, white as the foam of nectar, and waving in the wind; his cheeks were reddened with the bright gems that swayed in his ears; on his breast he bore a radiant necklace, from the size of its pearls like a cluster of stars; his turban was tied with strips of white silk; his head was thick with curling locks, and dark as bees; his earring was an open moon lotus; on his shoulder was the impress of the saffron lines that adorned his wives; he was white as a moon lotus, lofty in stature, endowed with all the marks of greatness, and godlike in form; he seemed to purify space by the light shed round him clear as pure water, and to anoint it as by a thick frost with a dewy ambrosial shower that created a chill as he shed it from his limbs, cool and fragrant, and to besprinkle it with a rich store of goçīrsha286 sandal-juice.

‘“‘With arms sturdy as the trunk of Airāvata, and fingers white as lotus-fibres and cool to the touch, he lifted my dead lord, (333) and, in a voice deep as a drum, he said to me: “Mahāçvetā, my child, thou must not die; for thou shalt again be united with him!” And with these words, tender as a father’s, he flew into the sky with Puṇḍarīka.

‘“‘But this sudden event filled me with fear, dismay, and eager anxiety, and with upraised face I asked Kapiñjala what it might mean. He, however, started up hastily without replying, and with the cry, “Monster, whither goest thou with my friend?” with uplifted eyes and sudden wrath he hastily girt up his loins, and following him in his flight, in hot pursuit he rose into the sky; and while I yet gazed they all entered amongst the stars. But the departure of Kapiñjala was to me like a second death of my beloved, and it redoubled my grief, so that my heart was rent asunder. Bewildered what to do, I cried to Taralikā: “Knowest thou not? Tell me what this means!” But she, with all a woman’s timidity at the sight, was at that very moment trembling in all her limbs, overcome by a fear stronger than her grief, and was frightened, moreover, by the dread of my death; and so with downcast heart she piteously replied: “Princess, wretch that I am, I know not! Yet this is a great miracle. The man is of no mortal mould, and thou wert pityingly comforted by him in his flight as by a father. Such godlike beings are not wont to deceive us, even in sleep, much less face to face; and when I think it over I cannot see the least cause for his speaking falsely. (334) It is meet, therefore, that thou shouldst weigh it, and restrain thy longing for death. In thy present state it is in truth a great ground for comfort. Moreover, Kapiñjala has gone in pursuit of Puṇḍarīka. From him thou canst learn whence and who this being is, and why Puṇḍarīka on his death was by him raised and carried off, and whither he is carried, and wherefore thou wert consoled by him with the boon of a hope of reunion that exceeds thought; then thou canst devote thyself either to life or death. For when death is resolved upon, it is easy to compass. But this can wait; for Kapiñjala, if he lives, will certainly not rest without seeing thee; therefore let thy life be preserved till his return.” Thus saying, she fell at my feet. And I, from the thirst for life that mortals find so hard to overcome, and from the weakness of woman’s nature, and from the illusion his words had created, and from my anxiety for Kapiñjala’s return, thought that that plan was best for the time, and did not die. For what will not hope achieve?

‘“‘That night I spent in Taralikā’s company on the bank of the lake. To my wretchedness it was like a night of doom,287 drawn out to a thousand years, all torment, all grief, all hell, all fire. (335) Sleep was rooted out, and I tossed on the ground; my face was hidden by the loosened and dishevelled tresses that clung to my cheeks, wet with tears and gray with dust, and my throat was weak, for my voice failed, broken with piteous weeping.

‘“‘At dawn I arose and bathed in the lake, and having formed my resolve, I took, for love of Puṇḍarīka, his pitcher and his bark garments and his rosary; for I clearly knew the worthlessness of the world. I perceived my own lack of merit; I pictured to myself the remediless cruelty of the blows of fate; I pondered the inevitableness of grief; I beheld the harshness of destiny; I meditated the course of love, rich in sorrow; I learnt the inconstancy of earthly things; I considered the frailness of all joys. Father and mother were disregarded; kinsfolk and followers abandoned; the joys of earth were banished from my mind; the senses held in firm restraint.

‘“‘I took the ascetic vow, and sought the protection of Çiva, lord of the three worlds and helper of the helpless. Next day my father came, having somehow learnt my story, bringing with him my mother and kinsfolk. Long he wept, and strove with all his might and by every means – prayers, admonitions, and tender words of every kind – to lead me home. (336) And when he understood my firm resolve, and knew that I could not be turned from that infatuation, he could not, even though without hope, part with his love for his child; and though I often bade him go, he stayed for some days, and went home at length full of grief, and with his heart hot within him.

‘“‘After his going, it was only by empty tears that I could show my gratitude to my lord; by many a penance I wasted my hated body, worn away by love of him, rich in ill, devoid of shame, ill-omened, and the home of a thousand tortures of grief; I lived but on water and the roots and fruits of the wood; under the guise of telling my beads I counted his virtues; thrice a day I bathed in the lake; I daily worshipped Çiva, and in this cell I dwelt with Taralikā, tasting the bitterness of a long grief. Such am I, evil, ill-omened, shameless, cruel, cold, murderous, contemptible, useless, fruitless, helpless, and joyless. (337) Why should one so noble as thou deign to look on or speak with me, the doer of that monstrous crime, the slaughter of a Brahman?’ Thus saying, she covered her face with the white edge of her bark garment, as if veiling the moon with a fleck of autumn cloud, and, unable to quell the irresistible torrent of her tears, she gave way to her sobs, and began to weep loud and long.

‘“From the very first Candrāpīḍa had been filled with reverence by her beauty, modesty, and courtesy; by the charm of her speech, her unselfishness and her austerity; and by her serenity, humility, dignity, and purity. But now he was carried away both by the story of her life, which showed her noble character, and by her devoted spirit, and a fresh tenderness arose in him. With softened heart he gently said: ‘Lady, those may weep who fear pain, and are devoid of gratitude, and love pleasure, for they are unable to do anything worthy of love, and show their affection merely by vain tears. But thou who hast done all rightly, what duty of love hast thou left undone, that thou weepest? For Puṇḍarīka’s sake, thy kinsfolk who from thy birth have been around thee, dear as they were, have been forsaken as if they were strangers. (338) Earthly pleasures, though at thy feet, have been despised and reckoned light as grass. The joys of power, though their riches excelled the empire of Indra, have been resigned. Thy form has been emaciated by dread penances, even though by nature it was slender as a lotus-stalk. Thou hast taken the ascetic vow. Thy soul has been devoted to great penance. Thou hast dwelt in the woods, hard though it be for a woman. Moreover, life is easily resigned by those whom sorrow has overwhelmed, but it needs a greater effort not to throw away life in heavy grief. This following another to death is most vain! It is a path followed by the ignorant! It is a mere freak of madness, a path of ignorance, an enterprise of recklessness, a view of baseness, a sign of utter thoughtlessness, and a blunder of folly, that one should resign life on the death of father, brother, friend, or husband. If life leaves us not of itself, we must not resign it. For this leaving of life, if we examine it, is merely for our own interest, because we cannot bear our own cureless pain. To the dead man it brings no good whatever. For it is no means of bringing him back to life, or heaping up merit, or gaining heaven for him, or saving him from hell, or seeing him again, or being reunited with him. (339) For he is led helplessly, irresistibly to another state meet for the fruits of his own deeds. And yet he shares in the guilt of the friend who has killed himself. But a man who lives on can help greatly, by offerings of water and the like, both the dead man and himself; but by dying he helps neither. Remember how Rati, the sole and beloved wife of Love, when her noble husband, who won the hearts of all women, was burnt up by the fire of Çiva, yet did not yield her life; and remember also Kuntī, of the race of Vṛishṇi, daughter of Sūrasena, for her lord was Pāṇḍu the wise; his seat was perfumed by the flowers in the crests of all the kings whom he had conquered without an effort, and he received the tribute of the whole earth, and yet when he was consumed by Kindama’s curse she still remained alive. Uttarā, too, the young daughter of Virāṭa, on the death of Abhimanyu, gentle and heroic, and joyful to the eyes as the young moon, yet lived on. And Duḥçalyā, too, daughter of Dhṛitarāshṭra, tenderly cared for by her hundred brothers; when Jayadratha, king of Sindhu, was slain by Arjuna, fair as he was and great as he had become by Çiva’s288 gift, yet made no resignation of her life. (340) And others are told of by thousands, daughters of Rākshasas, gods, demons, ascetics, mortals, siddhas and Gandharvas, who when bereft of their husbands yet preserved their lives. Still, where reunion is doubtful, life might be yielded. But for thee, thou hast heard from that great being a promise of reunion. What doubt can there be in a matter of thine own experience, and how could falsehood find a place in the words of such noble truth-speaking saints, even when there might be greater cause? And what union could there be between the dead and the living? Therefore of a surety that wondrous being was filled with pity and carried away Puṇḍarīka to heaven solely to bring him back to life. For the power of great men transcends thought. Life has many aspects. Destiny is manifold. Those skilled in penance are fitted for wondrous miracles. Many are the forms of power gained by previous actions. Moreover, however subtly we may consider the matter, what other cause can we imagine for Puṇḍarīka’s being taken away, but the gift of fresh life. And this, thou must know, is not impossible. It is a path often trodden. (341) For Pramadvarā, daughter of Viçvāvasu, king of the Gandharvas and Menakā, lost her life through a poisonous snake at the hermitage of Sthūlakeça, and the young ascetic Ruru, son of Pramati and grandson of the Bhṛigu Cyavana, provided her with half his own life. And when Arjuna was following the Açvamedha steed, he was pierced in the van of the battle by an arrow from his own son Babhruvāhana, and a Nāga maiden, Ulūpā, brought him back to life. When Parīkshit, Abhimanyu’s son, was consumed by Açvatthāma’s fiery dart, though he had already died at birth, Kṛishṇa, filled with pity by Uttarā’s lament, restored his precious life. And at Ujjayinī, he whose steps are honoured by the three worlds, carried off from the city of death the son of Sandīpani the Brahman, and brought him back.289 And in thy case, too, the same will somehow come to pass. For by thy present grief, what is effected or what won? Fate is all-powerful. Destiny is strong. We cannot even draw a breath at our own will. The freaks of that accursed and most harsh destiny are exceeding cruel. A love fair in its sincerity is not allowed long to endure; for joys are wont to be in their essence frail and unlasting, while sorrows by their nature are long-lived. (342) For how hardly are mortals united in one life, while in a thousand lives they are separated. Thou canst not surely then blame thyself, all undeserving of blame. For these things often happen to those who enter the tangled path of transmigration, and it is the brave who conquer misfortune.’ With such gentle and soothing words he consoled her, and made her, albeit reluctantly, bathe her face with water brought in his joined hands from the cascade.