The Kādambarī of Bāṇa

‘“Now, Tārāpīḍa while yet a child had conquered the whole earth ringed by the seven Dvīpas by the might of his arm, thick as the trunk of Indra’s elephant, and he devolved the weight of the empire on that councillor named Çukanāsa, and having made his subjects perfectly contented, he searched for anything else that remained to be done.

‘“And as he had crushed his enemies and had lost all cause for fear, and as the strain of the world’s affairs had become a little relaxed, for the most part he began to pursue the ordinary pleasures of youth.

(124) ‘“And some time passed while the king pursued the pleasures of youth, and entrusted the affairs of state to his minister; and after a time he came to the end of all the other pleasures of life, and the only one he did not get was the sight of a son born to him; so that his zenana was like reeds showing only flowers without fruit; and as youth went by there arose in him a regret produced by childlessness, and his mind was turned away from the desire of the pleasures of sense, and he felt himself alone, though surrounded by a thousand princes; blind, though possessed of sight; without support, though supporting the world.

(125) ‘“But the fairest ornament of this king was his queen Vilāsavatī; as the moon’s digit to the braided hair of Çiva, as the splendour of the Kaustubha gem to the breast of the foe210 of Kaiṭabha, as the woodland garland to Balarāma, as the shore to the ocean, as the creeper to the tree, as the outburst of flowers to the spring, as the moonlight to the moon, as the lotus-bed to the lake, as the array of stars to the sky, as the circling of haṃsas to Lake Mānasa, as the line of sandal-woods to Mount Malaya, as the jewelled crest to Çesha, so was she to her lord; she reigned peerless in the zenana, and created wonder in the three worlds, as though she were the very source of all womanly grace.

‘“And it chanced once that, going to her dwelling, he beheld her seated on a stately211 couch, weeping bitterly, surrounded by her household mute in grief, their glances fixed in meditation, and attended by her chamberlains, who waited afar with eyes motionless in anxious thought, while the old women of the zenana were trying to console her. Her silken robes were wet with ceaseless tears; her ornaments were laid aside; her lotus-face rested on her left hand; and her tresses were unbound and in disorder. As she arose to welcome him, the king placed her on the couch again, and sitting there himself, ignorant of the cause of her weeping, and in great alarm, wiped away with his hand the tears from her cheeks, saying: (126) ‘My queen, what means this weeping, voiceless and low with the weight of the heavy sorrow concealed in thy heart? For these eyelashes of thine are stringing, as it were, a network of pearls of dropping tears. Why, slender one, art thou unadorned? and why has not the stream of lac fallen on thy feet like early sunlight on rosy lotus-buds? And why are thy jewelled anklets, with their murmur like teals on the lake of love, not graced with the touch of thy lotus-feet? And why is this waist of thine bereft of the music of the girdle thou hast laid aside? And why is there no device painted on thy breast like the deer on the moon? and why is that slender neck of thine, fair-limbed queen, not adorned with a rope of pearls as the crescent on Çiva’s brow by the heavenly stream? And why dost thou, erst so gay, wear in vain a face whose adornment is washed away with flowing tears? And why is this hand, with its petal-like cluster of soft fingers, exalted into an ear-jewel, as though it were a rosy lotus? (127) And why, froward lady, dost thou raise thy straight brow undecked with the mark of yellow pigment, and surrounded by the mass of thine unbound tresses? For these flowing locks of thine, bereft of flowers, grieve my eyes, like the loss of the moon in the dark fortnight, clouded in masses of thickest gloom. Be kind, and tell me, my queen, the cause of thy grief. For this storm of sighs with which the robe on thy breast is quivering bows my loving heart like a ruddy tendril. Has any wrong been done by me, or by any in thy service? Closely as I examine myself, I can truly see no failure of mine towards thee. For my life and my kingdom are wholly thine. Let the cause of thy woe, fair queen, be told.’ But Vilāsavatī, thus addressed, made no reply, and turning to her attendants, he asked the cause of her exceeding grief. Then her betel-nut bearer, Makarikā, who was always near her, said to the king: ‘My lord, how could any fault, however slight, be committed by thee? (128) And how in thy presence could any of thy followers, or anyone else, offend? The sorrow of the queen is that her union with the king is fruitless, as though she were seized by Rāhu, and for a long time she has been suffering. For at first our lady was like one in heavy grief, was only occupied with difficulty by the persuasion of her attendants in the ordinary duties of the day, however fitting they might be, such as sleeping, bathing, eating, putting on of ornaments, and the like, and, like a Lakshmī of the lower world, ceaselessly upbraided divine love.212 But in her longing to take away the grief of my lord’s heart, she did not show her sad change. Now, however, as it was the fourteenth day of the month, she went to worship holy Mahākāla, and heard in a recitation of the Mahābhārata, “No bright abodes await the childless, for a son is he who delivers from the sunless shades”; and when she heard this, she returned to her palace, and now, though reverently entreated thereto by her attendants, she takes no pleasure in food, nor does she busy herself in putting on her jewels, nor does she vouchsafe to answer us; (129) she only weeps, and her face is clouded with a storm of ever-flowing tears. My lord has heard, and must judge.’ So saying, she ceased; and, with a long and passionate sigh, the king spoke thus:

‘“‘My queen, what can be done in a matter decreed by fate? Enough of this weeping beyond measure! For it is not on us that the gods are wont to bestow their favours. In truth, our heart is not destined to hold the bliss of that ambrosial draught, the embrace of a child of our own. In a former life no glorious deed was done; for a deed done in a former life brings forth fruit in man’s life on earth; even the wisest man cannot change destiny. Let all be done that may be done in this mortal life. Do more honour to the gurus; redouble thy worship of the gods; let thy good works be seen in thy reverence to the ṛishis; for the ṛishis are a powerful deity, and if we serve them with all our might, they will give boons that fulfil our heart’s desire, hard though it be to gain. (130) For the tale is an old one how King Bṛihadratha in Magadha won by the power of Caṇḍakauçika a son Jarāsandha, victor of Vishṇu, peerless in prowess, fatal to his foes. Daçaratha, too, when very old, received by the favour of Ṛishyaçṛinga, son of the great saint Vibhāṇḍaka, four sons, unconquerable as the arms of Nārāyaṇa, and unshaken as the depths of the oceans.213 And many other royal sages, having conciliated ascetics, have enjoyed the happiness of tasting the ambrosia of the sight of a son. For the honour paid to saints is never without its reward.

‘“‘And for me, when shall I behold my queen ready to bear a child, pale as the fourteenth night when the rising of the full moon is at hand; and when will her attendants, hardly able to bear the joy of the great festival of the birth of my son, carry the full basket of gifts? When will my queen gladden me wearing yellow robes, and holding a son in her arms, like the sky with the newly-risen sun and the early sunlight; and when will a son give me joy of heart, with his curly hair yellow with many a plant, a few ashes mixed with mustard-seed on his palate, which has a drop of ghī on it as a talisman, (131) and a thread bright with yellow dye round his neck, as he lies on his back and smiles with a little toothless mouth; when will this baby destroy all the darkness of sorrow in my eyes like an auspicious lamp welcomed by all the people, handed from one to another by the zenana attendants, shining tawny with yellow dye; and when will he adorn the courtyard, as he toddles round it, followed by my heart and my eyes, and gray with the dust of the court; and when will he walk from one place to another and the power of motion be formed in his knees, so that, like a young lion, he may try to catch the young tame deer screened behind the crystal walls? And when, running about at will in the courtyard, will he run after the tame geese, accompanied by the tinkling of the anklets of the zenana, and weary his nurse, who will hasten after him, following the sound of the bells of his golden girdle; (132) and when will he imitate the antics of a wild elephant, and have his cheeks adorned with a line of ichor painted in black aloe, full of joy at the sound of the bell held in his mouth, gray with the dust of sandal-wood scattered by his uplifted hand, shaking his head at the beckoning of the hooked finger; and when will he disguise the faces of the old chamberlains with the juice of handfuls of lac left after being used to colour his mother’s feet; and when, with eyes restless in curiosity, will he bend his glance on the inlaid floors, and with tottering steps pursue his own shadow; and when will he creep about during the audience in front of me as I stand in my audience-hall, with his eyes wandering bewildered by the rays of the gems, and have his coming welcomed by the outstretched arms of a thousand kings? Thinking on a hundred such desires, I pass my nights in suffering. Me, too, the grief arising from our want of children burns like a fire day and night. The world seems empty; I look on my kingdom as without fruit. But what can I do towards Brahmā, from whom there is no appeal? Therefore, my queen, cease thy continual grief. Let thy heart be devoted to endurance and to duty. For increase of blessings is ever nigh at hand for those who set their thoughts on duty.’ (133) Thus saying, with a hand like a fresh tendril, he took water and wiped her tear-stained face, which showed as an opening lotus; and having comforted her again and again with many a speech sweet with a hundred endearments, skilled to drive away grief, and full of instruction about duty, he at last left her. And when he was gone, Vilāsavatī’s sorrow was a little soothed, and she went about her usual daily duties, such as putting on of her adornments. And from that time forth she was more and more devoted to propitiating the gods, honouring Brahmans, and paying reverence to all holy persons; whatever recommendation she heard from any source she practised in her longing for a child, nor did she count the fatigue, however great; she slept within the temples of Durgā, dark with smoke of bdellium ceaselessly burnt, on a bed of clubs covered with green grass, fasting, her pure form clothed in white raiment; (134) she bathed under cows endued with auspicious marks, adorned for the occasion by the wives of the old cowherds in the herd-stations, with golden pitchers laden with all sorts of jewels, decorated with branches of the pipal, decked with divers fruits and flowers and filled with holy water; every day she would rise and give to Brahmans golden mustard-leaves adorned with every gem; she stood in the midst of a circle drawn by the king himself, in a place where four roads meet, on the fourteenth night of the dark fortnight, and performed auspicious rites of bathing, in which the gods of the quarters were gladdened by the various oblations offered; she honoured the shrines of the siddhas and sought the houses of neighbouring Mātṛikās,214 in which faith was displayed by the people; she bathed in all the celebrated snake-ponds; with a sun-wise turn, she worshipped the pipal and other trees to which honour was wont to be shown; after bathing, with hands circled by swaying bracelets, she herself gave to the birds an offering of curds and boiled rice placed in a silver cup; she offered daily to the goddess Durgā a sacrifice consisting of parched grain of oblation, boiled rice, sesamum sweetmeats, cakes, unguents, incense, and flowers, in abundance; (135) she besought, with a mind prostrate in adoration, the naked wandering ascetics, bearing the name of siddhas, and carrying their begging-bowls filled by her; she greatly honoured the directions of fortune-tellers; she frequented all the soothsayers learned in signs; she showed all respect to those who understood the omens of birds; she accepted all the secrets handed down in the tradition of a succession of venerable sages; in her longing for the sight of a son, she made the Brahmans who came into her presence chant the Veda; she heard sacred stories incessantly repeated; she carried about little caskets of mantras filled with birch-leaves written over in yellow letters; she tied strings of medicinal plants as amulets; even her attendants went out to hear passing sounds and grasped the omens arising from them; she daily threw out lumps of flesh in the evening for the jackals; she told the pandits the wonders of her dreams, and at the cross-roads she offered oblation to Çiva.

‘“And as time went on, it chanced once that near the end of night, when the sky was gray as an old pigeon’s wing, and but few stars were left, the king saw in a dream the full moon entering the mouth of Vilāsavatī, as she rested on the roof of her white palace, like a ball of lotus-fibres into the mouth of an elephant. (136) Thereupon he woke, and arising, shedding brightness through his dwelling by the joyous dilation of his eyes, he straightway called Çukanāsa and told him the dream; whereto the latter, filled with sudden joy, replied: ‘Sire, our wishes and those of thy subjects are at length fulfilled. After a few days my lord will doubtless experience the happiness of beholding the lotus-face of a son; for I, too, this night in a dream saw a white-robed Brahman, of godlike bearing and calm aspect, place in Manoramā’s215 lap a lotus that rained drops of honey, with a hundred outspread white petals, like the moon’s digits, and a thousand quivering stamens forming its matted locks. Now, all auspicious omens which come to us foretell the near approach of joy; and what other cause of joy can there be than this? for dreams seen at the close of night are wont to bear fruit in truth. (137) Certainly ere long the queen shall bear a son that, like Māndhātṛi, shall be a leader among all royal sages, and a cause of joy to all the world; and he shall gladden thy heart, O king, as the lotus-pool in autumn with its burst of fresh lotuses gladdens the royal elephant; by him thy kingly line shall become strong to bear the weight of the world, and shall be unbroken in its succession as the stream of a wild elephant’s ichor.’ As he thus spoke, the king, taking him by the hand, entered the inner apartments and gladdened the queen, with both their dreams. And after some days, by the grace of the gods, the hope of a child came to Vilāsavatī, like the moon’s image on a lake, and she became thereby yet more glorious, like the line of the Nandana wood with the tree of Paradise, or the breast of Vishṇu with the Kaustubha gem.

(138) ‘“On one memorable day the king had gone at evening to an inner pavilion, where, encircled by a thousand lamps, burning bright with abundance of scented oil, he was like the full moon in the midst of stars, or like Nārāyaṇa seated among the thousand jewelled hoods of the king of snakes; he was surrounded only by a few great kings who had received the sprinkling of coronation; his own attendants stood at some distance; close by Çukanāsa was sitting on a high stool, clad in white silk, with little adornment, a statesman profound as the depths of ocean; and with him the king was holding a conversation on many topics, full of the confidence that had grown with their growth, when he was approached by the handmaiden Kulavardhanā, the queen’s chief attendant, always skilled in the ways of a court, well trained by nearness to royalty, and versed in all auspicious ceremonies, who whispered in his ear the news about Vilāsavatī. (139) At her words, so fresh to his ears, the king’s limbs were bedewed as if with ambrosia, a thrill passed through his whole body, and he was bewildered with the draught of joy; his cheeks burst into a smile; under the guise of the bright flash of his teeth he scattered abroad the happiness that overflowed his heart, and his eye, with its pupil quivering, and its lashes wet with tears of gladness, fell on the face of Çukanāsa. And when Çukanāsa saw the king’s exceeding joy, such as he had never seen before, and beheld the approach of Kulavardhanā with a radiant smile on her face, though he had not heard the tidings, yet, from constantly revolving the matter in his mind, he saw no other cause befitting the time of this excess of gladness; (140) he saw all, and bringing his seat closer to the king, said in a low voice: ‘My lord, there is some truth in that dream; for Kulavardhanā has her eyes radiant, and thy twin eyes announce a cause of great joy, for they are dilated, their pupils are tremulous, and they are bathed in tears of joy, and as they seem to creep to the lobes of thy ears in their eagerness to hear the good tidings, they produce, as it were, the beauty of an ear-pendant of blue lotuses. My longing heart yearns to hear the festival that has sprung up for it. Therefore let my lord tell me what is this news.’ When he had thus said, the king replied with a smile: ‘If it is true as she says, then all our dream is true; but I cannot believe it. How should so great a happiness fall to our lot? For we are no fitting vessel for the bearing of such good tidings. Kulavardhanā is always truthful, and yet when I consider how unworthy I am of such joy, I look upon her as having changed her nature. Rise, therefore; I myself will go and ask the queen if it is true, and then I shall know.’ (141) So saying, he dismissed all the kings, and taking off his ornaments, gave them to Kulavardhanā, and when, on his gracious dismissal of her with gifts, he received her homage paid with a deep reverence as she touched the earth with her straight brow, he rose with Çukanāsa and went to the inner apartments, hurried on by a mind filled with exceeding happiness, and gladdened by the throbbing of his right eye, which seemed to mimic the play of a blue lotus-petal stirred by the wind. He was followed by a scanty retinue, as befitted so late a visit, and had the thick darkness of the courtyard dispelled by the brightness of the lamps of the women who went before him, though their steady flame flickered in the wind.”’

[Bāṇa then describes the birth of Tārāpīḍa’s son, who is named Candrāpīḍa, from the king’s dream about the moon, and also that of Çukanāsa’s son Vaiçampāyana.216]

(155) ‘“And as Candrāpīḍa underwent in due course all the circle of ceremonies, beginning with the tying of his top-knot, his childhood passed away; and to prevent distraction, Tārāpīḍa had built for him a palace of learning outside the city, stretching half a league along the Siprā river, surrounded by a wall of white bricks like the circle of peaks of a snow-mountain, girt with a great moat running along the walls, guarded by very strong gates, having one door kept open for ingress, with stables for horses and palanquins close by, and a gymnasium constructed beneath – a fit palace for the immortals. He took infinite pains in gathering there teachers of every science, and having placed the boy there, like a young lion in a cage, forbidding all egress, surrounding him with a suite composed mainly of the sons of his teachers, removing every allurement to the sports of boyhood, and keeping his mind free from distraction, on an auspicious day (156) he entrusted him, together with Vaiçampāyana, to masters, that they might acquire all knowledge. Every day when he rose, the king, with Vilāsavatī and a small retinue, went to watch him, and Candrāpīḍa, undisturbed in mind and kept to his work by the king, quickly grasped all the sciences taught him by teachers, whose efforts were quickened by his great powers, as they brought to light his natural abilities; the whole range of arts assembled in his mind as in a pure jewelled mirror. He gained the highest skill in word, sentence, proof, law, and royal policy; in gymnastics; in all kinds of weapons, such as the bow, quoit, shield, scimitar, dart, mace, battle-axe, and club; in driving and elephant-riding; in musical instruments, such as the lute, fife, drum, cymbal, and pipe; in the laws of dancing laid down by Bharata and others, and the science of music, such as that of Nārada; in the management of elephants, the knowledge of a horse’s age, and the marks of men; in painting, leaf-cutting, the use of books, and writing; in all the arts of gambling, knowledge of the cries of birds, and astronomy; in testing of jewels, (157) carpentry, the working of ivory; in architecture, physic, mechanics, antidotes, mining, crossing of rivers, leaping and jumping, and sleight of hand; in stories, dramas, romances, poems; in the Mahābhārata, the Purāṇas, the Itihāsas, and the Rāmāyaṇa; in all kinds of writing, all foreign languages, all technicalities, all mechanical arts; in metre, and in every other art. And while he ceaselessly studied, even in his childhood an inborn vigour like that of Bhīma shone forth in him and stirred the world to wonder. For when he was but in play the young elephants, who had attacked him as if he were a lion’s whelp, had their limbs bowed down by his grasp on their ears, and could not move; with one stroke of his scimitar he cut down palm-trees as if they were lotus-stalks; his shafts, like those of Paraçurāma when he blazed to consume the forest of earth’s royal stems, cleft only the loftiest peaks; he exercised himself with an iron club which ten men were needed to lift; and, except in bodily strength, he was followed close in all his accomplishments by Vaiçampāyana, (158) who, by reason of the honour Candrāpīḍa felt for his deep learning, and of his reverence due to Çukanāsa, and because they had played in the dust and grown up together, was the prince’s chief friend, and, as it were, his second heart, and the home of all his confidences. He would not be without Vaiçampāyana for a moment, while Vaiçampāyana never for an instant ceased to follow him, any more than the day would cease to follow the sun.

‘“And while Candrāpīḍa was thus pursuing his acquaintance with all knowledge, the spring of youth, loved of the three worlds as the amṛita draught of the ocean, gladdening the hearts of men as moonrise gladdens the gloaming; transient in change of iridescent glow, like the full arch of Indra’s bow to the rainy season; weapon of love, like the outburst of flowers to the tree of desire; beautiful in ever freshly revealed glow, like sunrise to the lotus-grove; ready for all play of graceful motion, like the plumes of the peacock, became manifest and brought to flower in him, fair as he was, a double beauty; love, lord of the hour, stood ever nigh, as if to do his bidding; his chest expanded like his beauty; his limbs won fulness, like the wishes of his friends; his waist became slender, like the host of his foes; (159) his form broadened, like his liberality; his majesty grew, like his hair; his arms hung down more and more, like the plaits of his enemies’ wives; his eyes became brighter, like his conduct; his shoulders broad, like his knowledge; and his heart deep, like his voice.

‘“And so in due course the king, learning that Candrāpīḍa had grown to youth, and had completed his knowledge of all the arts, studied all the sciences, and won great praise from his teachers, summoned Balāhaka, a mighty warrior, and, with a large escort of cavalry and infantry, sent him on a very auspicious day to fetch the prince. And Balāhaka, going to the palace of learning, entered, announced by the porters, and bending his head till its crest-jewels rested on the ground, sat down, by the prince’s permission, on a seat befitting his office, as reverently as though in the king’s presence; after a short pause he approached Candrāpīḍa and respectfully gave the king’s message: ‘Prince, the king bids me say: “Our desires are fulfilled; the çāstras have been studied; all the arts have been learnt; thou hast gained the highest skill in all the martial sciences. (160) All thy teachers give thee permission to leave the house of learning. Let the people see that thou hast received thy training, like a young royal elephant come out from the enclosure, having in thy mind the whole orb of the arts, like the full moon newly risen. Let the eyes of the world, long eager to behold thee, fulfil their true function; for all the zenanas are yearning for thy sight. This is now the tenth year of thine abode in the school, and thou didst enter it having reached the experience of thy sixth year. This year, then, so reckoned, is the sixteenth of thy life. Now, therefore, when thou hast come forth and shown thyself to all the mothers longing to see thee, and hast saluted those who deserve thy honour, do thou lay aside thy early discipline, and experience at thy will the pleasures of the court and the delights of fresh youth. Pay thy respects to the chiefs; honour the Brahmans; protect thy people; gladden thy kinsfolk. There stands at the door, sent by the king, this horse, named Indrāyudha, swift as Garuḍa or as the wind, the chief jewel of the three worlds; (161) for in truth the monarch of Persia, who esteemed him the wonder of the universe, sent him with this message: ‘This noble steed, sprung straight from the waters of ocean, was found by me, and is worthy for thee, O king, to mount;’ and when he was shown to those skilled in a horse’s points, they said: ‘He has all the marks of which men tell us as belonging to Uccaiḥçravas; there never has been nor will be a steed like him.’ Therefore let him be honoured by thy mounting him. These thousand princes, all sons of anointed kings, highly-trained, heroic, wise, and accomplished, and of long descent, sent for thine escort, wait on horseback, all eager to salute thee.”’ Having thus said, Balāhaka paused, and Candrāpīḍa, laying his father’s command on his head, in a voice deep as a new cloud gave the order, ‘Let Indrāyudha be brought,’ for he desired to mount him.