The Kādambarī of Bāṇa

‘(534) And when the time came, Vilāsavatī bade him farewell in deep sorrow: “I grieved not so for thy first going as I do now. My heart is torn; my body is in torture; my mind is overwhelmed. (535) I know not why my heart so suffers. Stay not long away.” He tried to console her, and then went to his father, who received him tenderly, (539) and finally dismissed him, saying: “My desire is that thou shouldst take a wife and receive the burden of royalty, so that I may enter on the path followed by royal sages; but this matter of Vaiçampāyana is in the way of it, and I have misgivings that my longing is not to be fulfilled; else how could he have acted in so strange a way? Therefore, though thou must go, my son, return soon, that my heart’s desire may not fail.” (540) At length he started, and spent day and night on his journey in the thought of his friend and of the Gandharva world. (544) And when he had travelled far the rainy season came on, and all the workings of the storms found their counterpart in his own heart. (548) Yet he paused not on his way, nor did he heed the entreaties of his chieftains to bestow some care on himself, but rode on all day. (549) But a third part of the way remained to traverse when he beheld Meghanāda, and, asking him eagerly concerning Vaiçampāyana, (550) he learnt that Patralekhā, sure that the rains would delay his coming, had sent Meghanāda to meet him, and that the latter had not been to the Acchoda lake. (552) With redoubled grief the prince rode to the lake, and bade his followers guard it on all sides, lest Vaiçampāyana should in shame flee from them; but all his search found no traces of his friend. (553) “My feet,” thought he, “cannot leave this spot without him, and yet Kādambarī has not been seen. Perchance Mahāçvetā may know about this matter; I will at least see her.” So he mounted Indrāyudha, and went towards her hermitage. There dismounting, he entered; but in the entrance of the cave he beheld Mahāçvetā, with difficulty supported by Taralikā, weeping bitterly. (554) “May no ill,” thought he, “have befallen Kādambarī, that Mahāçvetā should be in this state, when my coming should be a cause of joy.” Eagerly and sorrowfully he questioned Taralikā, but she only gazed on Mahāçvetā’s face. Then the latter at last spoke falteringly: “What can one so wretched tell thee? Yet the tale shall be told. When I heard from Keyūraka of thy departure, my heart was torn by the thought that the wishes of Kādambarī’s parents, my own longing, and the sight of Kādambarī’s happiness in her union with thee had not been brought about, and, cleaving even the bond of my love to her, I returned home to yet harsher penance than before. (555) Here I beheld a young Brahman, like unto thee, gazing hither and thither with vacant glance. But at the sight of me his eyes were fixed on me alone, as if, though unseen before, he recognised me, though a stranger, he had long known me, and gazing at me like one mad or possessed, he said at last: ‘Fair maiden, only they who do what is fitting for their birth, age, and form escape blame in this world. Why toilest thou thus, like perverse fate, in so unmeet an employment, in that thou wastest in stern penance a body tender as a garland? (556) The toil of penance is for those who have enjoyed the pleasures of life and have lost its graces, but not for one endowed with beauty. If thou turnest from the joys of earth, in vain does Love bend his bow, or the moon rise. Moonlight and the Malaya wind serve for naught.’”

‘“But I, caring for nothing since the loss of Puṇḍarīka, asked no questions about him, (557) and bade Taralikā keep him away, for some evil would surely happen should he return. But in spite of being kept away, whether from the fault of love or the destiny of suffering that lay upon us, he did not give up his affection; and one night, while Taralikā slept, and I was thinking of Puṇḍarīka, (559) I beheld in the moonlight, clear as day, that youth approaching like one possessed. The utmost fear seized me at the sight. ‘An evil thing,’ I thought, ‘has befallen me. If he draw near, and but touch me with his hand, this accursed life must be destroyed; and then that endurance of it, which I accepted in the hope of again beholding Puṇḍarīka, will have been in vain.’ While I thus thought he drew near, and said: ‘Moon-faced maiden, the moon, Love’s ally, is striving to slay me. Therefore I come to ask protection. Save me, who am without refuge, and cannot help myself, for my life is devoted to thee. (560) It is the duty of ascetics to protect those who flee to them for protection. If, then, thou deign not to bestow thyself on me, the moon and love will slay me.’ At these words, in a voice choked by wrath, I exclaimed: ‘Wretch, how has a thunderbolt failed to strike thy head in the utterance of these thy words? Surely the five elements that give witness of right and wrong to mortals are lacking in thy frame, in that earth and air and fire and the rest have not utterly destroyed thee. Thou hast learnt to speak like a parrot, without thought of what was right or wrong to say. Why wert thou not born as a parrot? (561) I lay on thee this fate, that thou mayest enter on a birth suited to thine own speech, and cease to make love to one such as I.’ So saying, I turned towards the moon, and with raised hands prayed: ‘Blessed one, lord of all, guardian of the world, if since the sight of Puṇḍarīka my heart has been free from the thought of any other man, may this false lover by the truth of this my saying, fall into the existence pronounced by me.’ Then straightway, I know not how, whether from the force of love, or of his own sin, or from the power of my words, he fell lifeless, like a tree torn up by the roots. And it was not till he was dead that I learnt from his weeping attendants that he was thy friend, noble prince.” Having thus said, she bent her face in shame and silently wept. But Candrāpīḍa, with fixed glance and broken voice, replied: “Lady, thou hast done thine utmost, and yet I am too ill-fated to have gained in this life the joy of honouring the feet of the lady Kādambarī. Mayest thou in another life create this bliss for me.” (562) With these words his tender heart broke, as if from grief at failing to win Kādambarī, like a bud ready to open when pierced by a bee.

‘Then Taralikā burst into laments over his lifeless body and into reproaches to Mahāçvetā. And as the chieftains, too, raised their cry of grief and wonder, (564) there entered, with but few followers, Kādambarī herself, attired as to meet her lover, though a visit to Mahāçvetā was the pretext of her coming, and while she leant on Patralekhā’s hand, she expressed her doubts of the prince’s promised return, (565) and declared that if she again beheld him she would not speak to him, nor be reconciled either by his humility or her friend’s endeavours. Such were her words; but she counted all the toil of the journey light in her longing to behold him again. But when she beheld him dead, with a sudden cry she fell to the ground. And when she recovered from her swoon, she gazed at him with fixed eyes and quivering mouth, like a creeper trembling under the blow of a keen axe, and then stood still with a firmness foreign to her woman’s nature. (566) Madalekhā implored her to give her grief the relief of tears, lest her heart should break, and remember that on her rested the hopes of two races. “Foolish girl,” replied Kādambarī, with a smile, “how should my adamantine heart break if it has not broken at this sight? These thoughts of family and friends are for one who wills to live, not for me, who have chosen death; for I have won the body of my beloved, which is life to me, and which, whether living or dead, whether by an earthly union, or by my following it in death, suffices to calm every grief. It is for my sake that my lord came hither and lost his life; how, then, could I, by shedding tears, make light of the great honour to which he has raised me? or how bring an ill-omened mourning to his departure to heaven? or how weep at the joyous moment when, like the dust of his feet, I may follow him? Now all sorrow is far away. (567) For him I neglected all other ties; and now, when he is dead, how canst thou ask me to live? In dying now lies my life, and to live would be death to me. Do thou take my place with my parents and my friends, and mayest thou be the mother of a son to offer libations of water for me when I am in another world. Thou must wed the young mango in the courtyard, dear to me as my own child, to the mādhavī creeper. Let not a twig of the açoka-tree that my feet have caressed be broken, even to make an earring. Let the flowers of the mālatī creeper I tended be plucked only to offer to the gods. Let the picture of Kāma in my room near my pillow be torn in pieces. The mango-trees I planted must be tended so that they may come to fruit. (568) Set free from the misery of their cage the maina Kālindī and the parrot Parihāsa. Let the little mongoose that rested in my lap now rest in thine. Let my child, the fawn Taralaka, be given to a hermitage. Let the partridges on the pleasure-hill that grew up in my hand be kept alive. See that the haṃsa that followed my steps be not killed. Let my poor ape be set free, for she is unhappy in the house. Let the pleasure-hill be given to some calm-souled hermit, and let the things I use myself be given to Brahmans. My lute thou must lovingly keep in thine own lap, and anything else that pleases thee must be thine own. But as for me, I will cling to my lord’s neck, and so on the funeral pyre allay the fever which the moon, sandal, lotus-fibres, and all cool things have but increased.” (569) Then she embraced Mahāçvetā, saying: “Thou indeed hast some hope whereby to endure life, even though its pains be worse than death; but I have none, and so I bid thee farewell, dear friend, till we meet in another birth.”

‘As though she felt the joy of reunion, she honoured the feet of Candrāpīḍa with bent head, and placed them in her lap. (570) At her touch a strange bright light arose from Candrāpīḍa’s body, and straightway a voice was heard in the sky: “Dear Mahāçvetā, I will again console thee. The body of thy Puṇḍarīka, nourished in my world and by my light, free from death, awaits its reunion with thee. The other body, that of Candrāpīḍa, is filled with my light, and so is not subject to death, both from its own nature, and because it is nourished by the touch of Kādambarī; it has been deserted by the soul by reason of a curse, like the body of a mystic whose spirit has passed into another form. Let it rest here to console thee and Kādambarī till the curse be ended. Let it not be burnt, nor cast into water, nor deserted. It must be kept with all care till its reunion.”

‘All but Patralekhā were astounded at this saying, and fixed their gaze on the sky; but she, recovering, at the cool touch of that light, from the swoon brought on by seeing the death of Candrāpīḍa, rose, hastily seizing Indrāyudha from his groom, saying: “However it may be for us, thou must not for a moment leave thy master to go alone without a steed on his long journey;” and plunged, together with Indrāyudha, into the Acchoda Lake. (571) Straightway there rose from the lake a young ascetic, and approaching Mahāçvetā, said mournfully: “Princess of the Gandharvas, knowest thou me, now that I have passed through another birth?” Divided between joy and grief, she paid homage to his feet, and replied: “Blessed Kapiñjala, am I so devoid of virtue that I could forget thee? And yet this thought of me is natural, since I am so strangely ignorant of myself and deluded by madness that when my lord Puṇḍarīka is gone to heaven I yet live. (572) Tell me of Puṇḍarīka.” He then recalled how he had flown into the sky in pursuit of the being who carried off Puṇḍarīka, and passing by the wondering gods in their heavenly cars, he had reached the world of the moon. “Then that being,” he continued, “placed Puṇḍarīka’s body on a couch in the hall called Mahodaya, and said: ‘Know me to be the moon! (573) When I was rising to help the world I was cursed by thy friend, because my beams were slaying him before he could meet his beloved; and he prayed that I, too, might die in the land of Bharata, the home of all sacred rites, knowing myself the pains of love. But I, wrathful at being cursed for what was his own fault, uttered the curse that he should endure the same lot of joy or sorrow as myself. When, however, my anger passed away, I understood what had happened about Mahāçvetā. Now, she is sprung from the race that had its origin in my beams, and she chose him for her lord. Yet he and I must both be born twice in the world of mortals, else the due order of births will not be fulfilled. I have therefore carried the body hither, and I nourish it with my light lest it should perish before the curse is ended, and I have comforted Mahāçvetā. (574) Tell the whole matter to Puṇḍarīka’s father. His spiritual power is great, and he may find a remedy.’ And I, rushing away in grief, leapt off another rider in a heavenly chariot, and in wrath he said to me: ‘Since in the wide path of heaven thou hast leapt over me like a horse in its wild course, do thou become a horse, and descend into the world of mortals.’ To my tearful assurance that I had leapt over him in the blindness of grief, and not from contempt, he replied: ‘The curse, once uttered, cannot be recalled. But when thy rider shall die, thou shalt bathe and be freed from the curse.’ Then I implored him that as my friend was about to be born with the moon-god, in the world of mortals, I might, as a horse, constantly dwell with him. (575) Softened by my affection, he told me that the moon would be born as a son to King Tārāpīḍa at Ujjayinī, Puṇḍarīka would be the son of his minister, Çukanāsa, and that I should be the prince’s steed. Straightway I plunged into the ocean, and rose as a horse, but yet lost not consciousness of the past. I it was who purposely brought Candrāpīḍa hither in pursuit of the kinnaras. And he who sought thee by reason of the love implanted in a former birth, and was consumed by a curse in thine ignorance, was my friend Puṇḍarīka come down to earth.”

‘Then Mahāçvetā beat her breast with a bitter cry, saying: “Thou didst keep thy love for me through another birth, Puṇḍarīka; I was all the world to thee; and yet, like a demon, born for thy destruction even in a fresh life, I have received length of years but to slay thee again and again. (576) Even in thee, methinks, coldness must now have sprung up towards one so ill-fated, in that thou answerest not my laments;” and she flung herself on the ground. But Kapiñjala pityingly replied: “Thou art blameless, princess, and joy is at hand. Grieve not, therefore, but pursue the penance undertaken by thee; for to perfect penance naught is impossible, and by the power of thine austerities thou shalt soon be in the arms of my friend.”

‘(577) Then Kādambarī asked Kapiñjala what had become of Patralekhā when she plunged with him into the tank. But he knew naught of what had happened since then, either to her, or his friend, or Candrāpīḍa, and rose to the sky to ask the sage Çvetaketu, Puṇḍarīka’s father, to whom everything in the three worlds was visible.

‘(577–578) Then Mahāçvetā counselled Kādambarī, whose love to her was drawn the closer from the likeness of her sorrow, that she should spend her life in ministering to the body of Candrāpīḍa, nothing doubting that while others, to gain good, worshipped shapes of wood and stone that were but images of invisible gods, she ought to worship the present deity, veiled under the name of Candrāpīḍa. Laying his body tenderly on a rock, Kādambarī put off the adornments with which she had come to meet her lover, keeping but one bracelet as a happy omen. She bathed, put on two white robes, rubbed off the deep stain of betel from her lips, (579) and the very flowers, incense, and unguents she had brought to grace a happy love she now offered to Candrāpīḍa in the worship due to a god. That day and night she spent motionless, holding the feet of the prince, and on the morrow she joyfully saw that his brightness was unchanged, (581) and gladdened her friends and the prince’s followers by the tidings. (582) The next day she sent Madalekhā to console her parents, and they sent back an assurance that they had never thought to see her wed, and that now they rejoiced that she had chosen for her husband the incarnation of the moon-god himself. They hoped, when the curse was over, to behold again her lotus-face in the company of their son-in-law. (583) So comforted, Kādambarī remained to tend and worship the prince’s body. Now, when the rainy season was over, Meghanāda came to Kādambarī, and told her that messengers had been sent by Tārāpīḍa to ask the cause of the prince’s delay, (584) and that he, to spare her grief, had told them the whole story, and bade them hasten to tell all to the king. They, however, had replied that this might doubtless be so; yet, to say nothing of their hereditary love for the prince, the desire to see so great a marvel urged them to ask to be allowed to behold him; their long service deserved the favour; and what would the king say if they failed to see Candrāpīḍa’s body? (585) Sorrowfully picturing to herself what the grief of Tārāpīḍa would be, Kādambarī admitted the messengers, (586) and as they tearfully prostrated themselves, she consoled them, saying that this was a cause for joy rather than sorrow. “Ye have seen the prince’s face, and his body free from change; therefore hasten to the king’s feet. Yet do not spread abroad this story, but say that ye have seen the prince, and that he tarries by the Acchoda Lake. For death must come to all, and is easily believed; but this event, even when seen, can scarce win faith. It profits not now, therefore, by telling this to his parents, to create in them a suspicion of his death; but when he comes to life again, this wondrous tale will become clear to them.” (587) But they replied: “Then we must either not return or keep silence. But neither course is possible; nor could we so greet the sorrowing king.” She therefore sent Candrāpīḍa’s servant Tvaritaka with them, to give credit to the story, for the prince’s royal retinue had all taken a vow to live there, eating only roots and fruits, and not to return till the prince himself should do so.

(589) ‘After many days, Queen Vilāsavatī, in her deep longing for news of her son, went to the temple of the Divine Mothers of Avantī,345 the guardian goddesses of Ujjayinī, to pray for his return; and on a sudden a cry arose from the retinue: “Thou art happy, O Queen! The Mothers have shown favour to thee! Messengers from the prince are at hand.” Then she saw the messengers, with the city-folk crowding round them, asking news of the prince, or of sons, brothers, and other kinsfolk among his followers, (591) but receiving no answers. She sent for them to the temple court, and cried: “Tell me quickly of my son. (592) Have ye seen him?” And they, striving to hide their grief, replied: “O Queen, he has been seen by us on the shore of the Acchoda Lake, and Tvaritaka will tell thee the rest.” “What more,” said she, “can this unhappy man tell me? For your own sorrowful bearing has told the tale. Alas, my child! Wherefore hast thou not returned? When thou didst bid me farewell, I knew by my forebodings that I should not behold thy face again. (593) This all comes from the evil deeds of my former birth. Yet think not, my son, that I will live without thee, for how could I thus even face thy father? And yet, whether it be from love, or from the thought that one so fair must needs live, or from the native simplicity of a woman’s mind, my heart cannot believe that ill has befallen thee.” (594) Meanwhile, the news was told to the king, and he hastened to the temple with Çukanāsa, and tried to rouse the queen from the stupor of grief, saying: (595) “My queen, we dishonour ourselves by this show of grief. Our good deeds in a former life have carried us thus far. We are not the vessel of further joys. That which we have not earned is not won at will by beating the breast. The Creator does what He wills, and depends on none. We have had the joy of our son’s babyhood and boyhood and youth. We have crowned him, and greeted his return from his world conquest. (596) All that is lacking to our wishes is that we have not seen him wed, so that we might leave him in our place, and retire to a hermitage. But to gain every desire is the fruit of very rare merit. We must, however, question Tvaritaka, for we know not all yet.” (597) But when he heard from Tvaritaka how the prince’s heart had broken, he interrupted him, and cried that a funeral pyre should be prepared for himself near the shrine of Mahākāla. (598) All his treasure was to be given to Brahmans, and the kings who followed him were to return to their own lands. Then Tvaritaka implored him to hear the rest of the story of Vaiçampāyana, and his grief was followed by wonder; while Çukanāsa, showing the desire of a true friend to forget his own grief and offer consolation, said: (599) “Sire, in this wondrous transitory existence, wherein wander gods, demons, animals and men, filled with joy and grief, there is no event which is not possible. Why then doubt concerning this? If from a search for reason, how many things rest only on tradition, and are yet seen to be true? As the use of meditation or certain postures to cure a poisoned man, the attraction of the loadstone, the efficacy of mantras, Vedic or otherwise, in actions of all kinds, wherein sacred tradition is our authority. (600) Now there are many stories of curses in the Purāṇas, the Rāmāyaṇa, the Mahābhārata, and the rest. For it was owing to a curse that Nahusha346 became a serpent, Saudāsa347 a cannibal, Yayāti decrepit, Triçaṃku348 a Caṇḍāla, the heaven-dwelling Mahābhisha was born as Çāntanu, while Gangā became his wife, and the Vasus,349 his sons. Nay, even the Supreme God, Vishṇu, was born as Yamadagni’s son, and, dividing himself into four, he was born to Daçaratha, and also to Vasudeva at Mathurā. Therefore the birth of gods among mortals is not hard of belief. And thou, sire, art not behind the men of old in virtue, nor is the moon greater than the god from whom the lotus springs. Our dreams at our sons’ birth confirm the tale; the nectar that dwells in the moon preserves the prince’s body, (601) and his beauty that gladdens the world must be destined to dwell in the world. We shall therefore soon see his marriage with Kādambarī, and therein find all the past troubles of life more than repaid. Do then thine utmost by worshipping gods, giving gifts to Brahmans, and practising austerities, to secure this blessing.” (602–604) The king assented, but expressed his resolve to go himself to behold the prince, and he and the queen, together with Çukanāsa and his wife, went to the lake. (605) Comforted by the assurance of Meghanāda, who came to meet him, that the prince’s body daily grew in brightness, he entered the hermitage; (606) while, at the news of his coming, Mahāçvetā fled in shame within the cave, and Kādambarī swooned. And as he looked on his son, who seemed but to sleep, the queen rushed forward, and with fond reproaches entreated Candrāpīḍa to speak to them. (608) But the king reminded her that it was her part to comfort Çukanāsa and his wife. “She also, to whom we shall owe the joy of again beholding our son alive, even the Gandharva princess, is yet in a swoon; do thou take her in thine arms, and bring her back to consciousness.” Then she tenderly touched Kādambarī, saying “Be comforted, my mother,350 for without thee, who could have preserved the body of my son Candrāpīḍa? Surely thou must be wholly made of amṛita, that we are again able to behold his face.” (609) At the name of Candrāpīḍa and the touch of the queen, so like his own, Kādambarī recovered her senses, and was helped by Madalekhā to pay due honour, though with face bent in shame, to his parents. She received their blessing – “Mayest thou live long, and long enjoy an unwidowed life” – and was set close behind Vilāsavatī. The king then bade her resume her care of the prince, and took up his abode in a leafy bower near the hermitage, provided with a cool stone slab, and meet for a hermit, (610) and told his royal retinue that he would now carry out his long-cherished desire of an ascetic life, and that they must protect his subjects. “It is surely a gain if I hand over my place to one worthy of it, and by this enfeebled and useless body of mine win the joys of another world.”

‘So saying, he gave up all his wonted joys, and betook himself to the unwonted life in the woods; he found a palace beneath the trees; the delights of the zenana, in the creepers; the affection of friends, in the fawns; the pleasure of attire, in rags and bark garments. (611) His weapons were rosaries; his ambition was for another world; his desire for wealth was in penance. He refused all the delicacies that Kādambarī and Mahāçvetā offered him, and so dwelt with his queen and Çukanāsa, counting all pains light, so that every morning and evening he might have the joy of seeing Candrāpīḍa.’