The Kādambarī of Bāṇa

(376) ‘“Candrāpīḍa went away at her departure, followed by maidens, sent for his amusement by the portress at Kādambarī’s bidding, players on lute and pipe, singers, skilful dice and draught players, practised painters and reciters of graceful verses; he was led by his old acquaintance Keyūraka to the jewelled hall on the playing hill.

‘“When he was gone the Gandharva princess dismissed her girl-friends and attendants, and followed only by a few, went into the palace. There she fell on her couch, while her maidens stayed some way off, full of respect, and tried to comfort her. At length she came to herself, and remaining alone, she was filled with shame. For Modesty censured her: ‘Light one, what hast thou begun?’ Self-respect reproached her: ‘Gandharva Princess, how is this fitting for thee?’ Simplicity mocked her: ‘Where has thy childhood gone before its day was over?’ Youth warned her: ‘Wilful girl, do not carry out alone any wild plan of thine own!’ Dignity rebuked her: ‘Timid child, this is not the course of a high-born maiden.’ Conduct blamed her: ‘Reckless girl, avoid this unseemly behaviour!’ High Birth admonished her: ‘Foolish one, love hath led thee into lightness.’ Steadfastness cried shame on her: ‘Whence comes thine unsteadiness of nature?’ Nobility rebuked her: ‘Self-willed, my authority is set at nought by thee.’

(377) ‘“And she thought within herself, ‘What shameful conduct is this of mine, in that I cast away all fear, and show my unsteadiness and am blinded by folly. In my audacity I never thought he was a stranger; in my shamelessness I did not consider that he would think me light of nature; I never examined his character; I never thought in my folly if I were worthy of his regard; I had no dread of an unexpected rebuff; I had no fear of my parents, no anxiety about gossip. Nay, more, I did not in my unkindness302 remember that Mahāçvetā was in sorrow; in my stupidity I did not notice that my friends stood by and beheld me; in my utter dullness I did not see that my servants behind were observing me. Even grave minds would mark such utter forgetfulness of seemliness; how much more Mahāçvetā, who knows the course of love; and my friends skilled in all its ways, and my attendants who know all its symptoms, and whose wits are sharpened by life at court. The slaves of a zenana have keen eyes in such matters. My evil fate has undone me! Better were it for me now to die than live a shameful life. What will my father and mother and the Gandharvas say when they hear this tale? What can I do? What remedy is there? How can I cover this error? To whom can I tell this folly of my undisciplined senses, (378) and where shall I go, consumed by Kāma, the five-arrowed god? I had made a promise in Mahāçvetā’s sorrow, I had announced it before my friends, I had sent a message of it by the hands of Keyūraka, and how it has now come about that that beguiling Candrāpīḍa has been brought hither, I know not, ill-fated that I am; whether it be by cruel fate or proud love, or nemesis of my former deeds, or accursed death, or anything else. But some power unseen, unknown, unheard of, unthought of and unimagined before, has come to delude me. At the mere sight of him I am a captive in bonds; I am cast into a cage and handed over by my senses; I am enslaved and led to him by Love; I am sent away by affection; I am sold at a price by my feelings; I am made as a household chattel by my heart. I will have nothing to do with this worthless one!’ Thus for a moment she resolved. But having made this resolve, she was mocked by Candrāpīḍa’s image stirred by the trembling of her heart, ‘If thou, in thy false reserve, will have nought to do with me, I will go.’ She was asked by her life, which clung to her in a farewell embrace before starting at the moment of her determination to give up Candrāpīḍa; (379) she was addressed by a tear that rose at that moment, ‘Let him be seen once more with clearer eyes, whether he be worthy of rejection or no’; she was chidden by Love, saying, ‘I will take away thy pride together with thy life;’ and so her heart was again turned to Candrāpīḍa. Overwhelmed, when the force of her meditation had collapsed, by the access of love, she rose, under its sway, and stood looking through the window at the playing hill. And there, as if bewildered by a veil of joyful tears, she saw with her memory, not her eyes; as if fearing to soil with a hot hand her picture, she painted with her fancy, not with her brush; dreading the intervention of a thrill, she offered an embrace with her heart, not her breast; unable to bear his delay in coming, she sent her mind, not her servants, to meet him.

‘“Meanwhile, Candrāpīḍa willingly entered the jewelled house, as if it were a second heart of Kādambarī. On the rock was strewn a blanket, with pillows piled on it at either end, and thereon he lay down, with his feet in Keyūraka’s lap, while the maidens sat round him in the places appointed for them. With a heart in turmoil he betook himself to reflection: ‘Are these graces of Princess Kādambarī, that steal all men’s hearts, innate in her, or has Love, with kindness won by no service of mine, ordained them for me? (380) For she gave me a sidelong glance with loving, reddened eyes half curved as if they were covered with the pollen of Love’s flowery darts as they fell on her heart. She modestly veiled herself with a bright smile fair as silk as I looked at her. She offered the mirror of her cheek to receive my image, as in shame at my gaze she averted her face. She sketched on the couch with her nail the first trace of wilfulness of a heart that was giving me entrance. Her hand, moist with the fatigue of bringing me the betel, seemed in its trembling to fan her hot face, as if it were a tamāla branch she had taken, for a swarm of bees hovered round it, mistaking it for a rosy lotus. Perhaps,’ he went on to reflect, ‘the light readiness to hope so common among mortals is now deceiving me with a throng of vain desires; and the glow of youth, devoid of judgment, or Love himself, makes my brain reel; whence the eyes of the young, as though struck by cataract, magnify even a small spot; and a tiny speck of affection is spread far by youthful ardour as by water. An excited heart like a poet’s imagination is bewildered by the throng of fancies that it calls up of itself, and draws likenesses from everything; youthful feelings in the hand of cunning love are as a brush, and shrink from painting nothing; and imagination, proud of her suddenly gained beauty, turns in every direction. (381) Longing shows as in a dream what I have felt. Hope, like a conjuror’s wand,303 sets before us what can never be. Why, then,’ thought he again, ‘should I thus weary my mind in vain? If this bright-eyed maiden is indeed thus inclined towards me, Love, who is so kind without my asking, will ere long make it plain to me. He will be the decider of this doubt.’ Having at length come to this decision, he rose, then sat down, and merrily joined the damsels in gentle talk and graceful amusements – with dice, song, lute, tabor, concerts of mingled sound, and murmur of tender verse. After resting a short time he went out to see the park, and climbed to the top of the pleasure hill.

‘“Kādambarī saw him, and bade that the window should be opened to watch for Mahāçvetā’s return, saying, ‘She tarries long,’ and, with a heart tossed by Love, mounted to the roof of the palace. There she stayed with a few attendants, protected from the heat by a gold-handled umbrella, white as the full moon, and fanned by the waving of four yaks’ tails pure as foam. She seemed to be practising an adornment fit for going to meet304 Candrāpīḍa, by means of the bees which hovered round her head, eager for the scent of the flowers, which veiled her even by day in darkness. Now she leaned on the point of the cowrie, now on the stick of the umbrella; now she laid her hands on Tamālikā’s shoulder, (382), now she clung to Madalekhā; now she hid herself amidst her maidens, looking with sidelong glance; now she turned herself round; now she laid her cheek on the tip of the portress’s staff; now with a steady hand she placed betel on her fresh lips; now she laughingly ran a few steps in pursuit of her maidens scattered by the blows of the lotuses she threw at them. And in looking at the prince, and being gazed at by him, she knew not how long a time had passed. At last a portress announced Mahāçvetā’s return, and she went down, and albeit unwilling, yet to please Mahāçvetā she bathed and performed the wonted duties of the day.

‘“But Candrāpīḍa went down, and dismissing Kādambarī’s followers, performed the rites of bathing, and worshipped the deity honoured throughout the mountain, and did all the duties of the day, including his meal, on the pleasure hill. There he sat on an emerald seat which commanded the front of the pleasure hill, pleasant, green as a pigeon, bedewed with foam from the chewing of fawns, shining like Yamunā’s waters standing still in fear of Balarāma’s plough, glowing crimson with lac-juice from the girls’ feet, sanded with flower-dust, hidden in a bower, a concert-house of peacocks. He suddenly beheld day eclipsed by a stream of white radiance, rich in glory, (383) light drunk up as by a garland of lotus-fibres, earth flooded as by a Milky Ocean, space bedewed as by a storm of sandal-juice, and the sky painted as with white chunam.

‘“‘What!’ thought he, ‘is our lord, the Moon, king of plants, suddenly risen, or are a thousand shower-baths set going with their white streams let loose by a spring, or is it the heavenly Ganges, whitening the earth with her wind-tossed spray, that has come down to earth in curiosity?’

305‘“Then, turning his eyes in the direction of the light, he beheld Kādambarī, and with her Madalekhā and Taralikā bearing a pearl necklace on a tray covered with white silk. (384) Thereupon Candrāpīḍa decided that it was this necklace that eclipsed306 moonlight, and was the cause of the brightness, and by rising while she was yet far off, and by all wonted courtesies, he greeted the approach of Madalekhā. For a moment she rested on that emerald seat, and then, rising, anointed him with sandal perfume, put on him two white robes, (385) crowned him with mālatī flowers, and then gave him the necklace, saying, ‘This thy gentleness, my Prince, so devoid of pride, must needs subjugate every heart. Thy kindness gives an opening even to one like me; by thy form thou art lord of life to all; by that tenderness shown even where there is no claim on thee, thou throwest on all a bond of love; the innate sweetness of thy bearing makes every man thy friend; these thy virtues, manifested with such natural gentleness, give confidence to all. Thy form must take the blame, for it inspires trust even at first sight; else words addressed to one of such dignity as thou would seem all unmeet. For to speak with thee would be an insult; our very respect would bring on us the charge of forwardness; our very praise would display our boldness; our subservience would manifest lightness, our love self-deception, our speech to thee audacity, our service impertinence, our gift an insult. Nay, more, thou hast conquered our hearts; what is left for us to give thee? Thou art lord of our life; what can we offer thee? Thou hast already bestowed the great favour of thy presence; what return could we make? Thou by thy sight hast made our life worth having; how can we reward thy coming? (386) Therefore Kādambarī with this excuse shows her affection rather than her dignity. Noble hearts admit no question of mine and thine. Away with the thought of dignity. Even if she accepted slavery to one like thee, she would do no unworthy act; even if she gave herself to thee, she would not be deceived; if she gave her life, she would not repent. The generosity of a noble heart is always bent on kindness, and does not willingly reject affection, and askers are less shamefaced than givers. But it is true that Kādambarī knows she has offended thee in this matter. Now, this necklace, called Çesha,307 because it was the only jewel left of all that rose at the churning of nectar, was for that reason greatly valued by the Lord of Ocean, and was given by him to Varuṇa on his return home. By the latter it was given to the Gandharva king, and by him to Kādambarī. And she, thinking thy form worthy of this ornament, in that not the earth, but the sky, is the home of the moon, hath sent it to thee. And though men like thee, who bear no ornament but a noble spirit, find it irksome to wear the gems honoured by meaner men, yet here Kādambarī’s affection is a reason for thee to do so. (387) Did not Vishṇu show his reverence by wearing on his breast the kaustubha gem, because it rose with Lakshmī; and yet he was not greater than thee, nor did the kaustubha gem in the least surpass the Çesha in worth; nor, indeed, does Lakshmī approach in the slightest degree to imitating Kādambarī’s beauty. And in truth, if her love is crushed by thee, she will grieve Mahāçvetā308 with a thousand reproaches, and will slay herself. Mahāçvetā therefore sends Taralikā with the necklace to thee, and bids me say thus: “Let not Kādambarī’s first impulse of love be crushed by thee, even in thought, most noble prince.”’ Thus having said, she fastened on his breast the necklace that rested like a bevy of stars on the slope of the golden mountain. Filled with amazement, Candrāpīḍa replied: ‘What means this, Madalekhā? Thou art clever, and knowest how to win acceptance for thy gifts. By leaving me no chance of a reply, thou hast shown skill in oratory. Nay, foolish maiden, what are we in respect of thee, or of acceptance and refusal; truly this talk is nought. Having received kindness from ladies so rich in courtesy, let me be employed in any matter, whether pleasing or displeasing to me. But truly there lives not the man whom the virtues of the most courteous lady Kādambarī do not discourteously309 enslave.’ (388) Thus saying, after some talk about Kādambarī, he dismissed Madalekhā, and ere she had long gone the daughter of Citraratha dismissed her attendants, rejected the insignia of wand, umbrella, and cowrie, and accompanied only by Tamālikā, again mounted to the roof of her palace to behold Candrāpīḍa, bright with pearls, silk raiment and sandal, go to the pleasure hill, like the moon to the mount of rising. There, with passionate glances imbued with every grace, she stole his heart. (390) And when it became too dark to see, she descended from the roof, and Candrāpīḍa, from the slope of the hill.

‘“Then the moon, source of nectar, gladdener of all eyes, arose with his rays gathered in; he seemed to be worshipped by the night-lotuses, to calm the quarters whose faces were dark as if with anger, and to avoid the day-lotuses as if from fear of waking them; under the guise of his mark he wore night on his heart; he bore in the glow of rising the lac that had clung to him from the spurning of Rohiṇī’s feet; he pursued the sky, in its dark blue veil, like a mistress; and by reason of his great goodwill, spread beauty everywhere.

‘“And when the moon, the umbrella of the supreme rule of Kāma, the lord of the lotuses, the ivory earring that decks the night, had risen, and when the world was turned to whiteness, as though overlaid with ivory, Candrāpīḍa lay down on a cool moonlit slab, pearl white, pointed out by Kādambarī’s servants. It was washed with fresh sandal, garlanded with pure sinduvāra flowers, and carved round with a leafy tracery of lotus petals. It lay on the shore of a palace lotus tank, that seemed from the full moonlight to be made of night-lotuses,310 with steps white with bricks washed by the waves, as it wafted a breeze fanned by the ripples; (391) pairs of haṃsas lay there asleep, and pairs of cakravākas kept up their dirge of separation thereon. And while the Prince yet rested there Keyūraka approached him, and told him that Princess Kādambarī had come to see him. Then Candrāpīḍa rose hastily, and beheld Kādambarī drawing near. Few of her friends were with her; all her royal insignia were removed; she was as it were a new self, in the single necklace she wore; her slender form was white with the purest sandal-juice; an earring hung from one ear; she wore a lotus-petal in the ear, soft as a budding digit of the moon; she was clad in robes of the kalpa-tree,311 clear as moonlight; and in the garb that consorted with that hour she stood revealed like the very goddess of moonrise, as she rested on the hand offered by Madalekhā. Drawing near, she showed a grace prompted by love, and took her seat on the ground, where servants are wont to sit, like a maiden of low degree; and Candrāpīḍa, too, though often entreated by Madalekhā to sit on the rocky seat, took his place on the ground by Madalekhā; and when all the women were seated he made an effort to speak, saying, ‘Princess, to one who is thy slave, and whom even a glance gladdens, there needs not the favour of speech with thee, far less so great a grace as this. (392) For, deeply as I think, I cannot see in myself any worth that this height of favour may befit. Most noble and sweet in its laying aside of pride is this thy courtesy, in that such grace is shown to one but newly thy servant. Perchance thou thinkest me a churl that must be won by gifts. Blessed, truly, is the servant over whom is thy sway! How great honour is bestowed on the servants deemed worthy of the bestowal of thy commands. But the body is a gift at the service of any man, and life is light as grass, so that I am ashamed in my devotion to greet thy coming with such a gift. Here am I, here my body, my life, my senses! Do thou, by accepting one of them, raise it to honour.’

‘“Madalekhā smilingly replied to this speech of his: ‘Enough, Prince. My friend Kādambarī is pained by thy too great ceremony. Why speakest thou thus? She accepts thy words without further talk. And why, too, is she brought to suspense by these too flattering speeches?’ and then, waiting a short time, she began afresh: ‘How is King Tārāpīḍa, how Queen Vilāsavatī, how the noble Çukanāsa? What is Ujjayinī like, and how far off is it? What is the land of Bharata? And is the world of mortals pleasant?’ So she questioned him. (393) After spending some time in such talk, Kādambarī rose, and summoning Keyūraka, who was lying near Candrāpīḍa, and her attendants, she went up to her sleeping-chamber. There she adorned a couch strewn with a coverlet of white silk. Candrāpīḍa, however, on his rock passed the night like a moment in thinking, while his feet were rubbed by Keyūraka, of the humility, beauty, and depth of Kādambarī’s character, the causeless kindness of Mahāçvetā, the courtesy of Madalekhā, the dignity of the attendants, the great splendour of the Gandharva world, and the charm of the Kimpurusha land.

‘“Then the moon, lord of stars, weary of being kept awake by the sight of Kādambarī, descended, as if to sleep, to the forest on the shore, with its palms and tamālas, tālis, banyans, and kandalas,312 cool with the breeze from the hardly stirred313 ripples. As though with the feverish sighs of a woman grieving for her lover’s approaching absence, the moonlight faded away. Lakshmī, having passed the night on the moon lotuses, lay on the sun lotuses, as though love had sprung up in her at the sight of Candrāpīḍa. At the close of night, when the palace lamps grew pale, as if dwindling in longing as they remembered the blows of the lotuses in maidens’ ears, the breezes of dawn, fragrant with creeper-flowers, were wafted, sportive with the sighs of Love weary from ceaselessly discharging his shafts; the stars were eclipsed by the rising dawn, and took their abode, as through fear, in the thick creeper bowers of Mount Mandara.314 (394) Then when the sun arose, with its orb crimson as if a glow remained from dwelling in the hearts of the cakravākas, Candrāpīḍa, rising from the rock, bathed his lotus face, said his morning prayer, took his betel, and then bade Keyūraka see whether Princess Kādambarī was awake or no, and where she was; and when it was announced to him by the latter on his return that she was with Mahāçvetā in the bower of the courtyard below the Mandara palace, he started to see the daughter of the Gandharva king. There he beheld Mahāçvetā surrounded by wandering ascetic women like visible goddesses of prayer, with marks of white ash on their brow, and hands quickly moving as they turned their rosaries; bearing the vow of Çiva’s followers, clad in robes tawny with mineral dyes, bound to wear red cloth, robed in the ruddy bark of ripe cocoanuts, or girdled with thick white cloth; with fans of white cloth; with staves, matted locks, deer-skins, and bark dresses; with the marks of male ascetics; reciting the pure praises of Çiva, Durgā, Kārtikeya, Viçravasa,315 Kṛishṇa, Avalokiteçvara, the Arhat, Viriñca.316 Mahāçvetā herself was showing honour to the elder kinswomen of the king, the foremost of the zenana, by salutes, courteous speeches, by rising to meet them and placing reed seats for them.

(395) ‘“He beheld Kādambarī also giving her attention to the recitation of the Mahābhārata, that transcends all good omens, by Nārada’s sweet-voiced daughter, with an accompaniment of flutes soft as the murmur of bees, played by a pair of Kinnaras sitting behind her. She was looking in a mirror fixed before her at her lip, pale as beeswax when the honey is gone, bathed in the moonlight of her teeth, though within it was darkened by betel. She was being honoured by a sunwise turn in departing by a tame goose wandering like the moon in a fixed circle, with wide eyes raised to her sirīsha earrings in its longing for vallisneria. Here the prince approached, and, saluting her, sat down on a seat placed on the dais. After a short stay he looked at Mahāçvetā’s face with a gentle smile that dimpled his cheek, and she, at once knowing his wish, said to Kādambarī: ‘Dear friend, Candrāpīḍa is softened by thy virtues as the moonstone by the moon, and cannot speak for himself. He wishes to depart; for the court he has left behind is thrown into distress, not knowing what has happened. Moreover, however far apart you may be from each other, this your love, like that of the sun and the day lotus, or the moon and the night lotus, will last till the day of doom. Therefore let him go.’

(396) ‘“‘Dear Mahāçvetā,’ replied Kādambarī, ‘I and my retinue belong as wholly to the prince as his own soul. Why, then, this ceremony?’ So saying, and summoning the Gandharva princes, she bade them escort the prince to his own place, and he, rising, bowed before Mahāçvetā first, and then Kādambarī, and was greeted by her with eyes and heart softened by affection; and with the words, ‘Lady, what shall I say? For men distrust the multitude of words. Let me be remembered in the talk of thy retinue,’ he went out of the zenana; and all the maidens but Kādambarī, drawn by reverence for Candrāpīḍa’s virtues, followed him on his way like his subjects to the outer gate.

‘“On their return, he mounted the steed brought by Keyūraka, and, escorted by the Gandharva princes, turned to leave Hemakūṭa. His whole thoughts on the way were about Kādambarī in all things both within and without. With a mind wholly imbued with her, he beheld her behind him, dwelling within him in his bitter grief for the cruel separation; or before him, stopping him in his path; or cast on the sky, as if by the force of longing in his heart troubled by parting, so that he could perfectly see her face; he beheld her very self resting on his heart, as if her mind were wounded with his loss. When he reached Mahāçvetā’s hermitage, he there beheld his own camp, which had followed the tracks of Indrāyudha.

(397) ‘“Dismissing the Gandharva princes, he entered his own abode amidst the salutations of his troops full of joy, curiosity, and wonder; and after greeting the rest of the court, he spent the day mostly in talk with Vaiçampāyana and Patralekhā, saying, ‘Thus said Mahāçvetā, thus Kādambarī, thus Madalekhā, thus Tamālikā, thus Keyūraka.’ No longer did royal Glory, envious at the sight of Kādambarī’s beauty, find in him her joy; for him night passed in wakefulness as he thought, with a mind in ceaseless longing, of that bright-eyed maiden. Next morning, at sunrise, he went to his pavilion with his mind still fixed on her, and suddenly saw Keyūraka entering with a doorkeeper; and as the latter, while yet far off, cast himself on the ground, so that his crest swept the floor, Candrāpīḍa cried, ‘Come, come,’ greeting him first with a sidelong glance, then with his heart, then with a thrill. Then at last he hastened forward to give him a hearty and frank embrace, and made him sit down by himself. Then, in words brightened by the nectar of a smile, and transfused with overflowing love, he reverently asked: ‘Say, Keyūraka, is the lady Kādambarī well, and her friends, and her retinue, and the lady Mahāçvetā?’ With a low bow, Keyūraka, as though he had been bathed, anointed, and refreshed by the smile that the prince’s deep affection had prompted, replied respectfully: