THE DYNASTY OF RAGHU
Project Gutenberg EPUB edition
Kālidāsa and Ryder, Arthur W. (Arthur William)
Thirteenth canto. The return from the forest.—This canto describes the long journey through the air from Ceylon over the whole length of India to Ayodhya. As the celestial car makes its journey, Rama points out the objects of interest or of memory to Sita. Thus, as they fly over the sea:
The form of ocean, infinitely changing, Clasping the world and all its gorgeous state, Unfathomed by the intellect's wide ranging, Is awful like the form of God, and great.
He gives his billowy lips to many a river That into his embrace with passion slips, Lover of many wives, a generous giver Of kisses, yet demanding eager lips.
Look back, my darling, with your fawn-like glances Upon the path that from your prison leads; See how the sight of land again entrances, How fair the forest, as the sea recedes.
Then, as they pass over the spot where Rama searched for his stolen wife:
There is the spot where, sorrowfully searching, I found an anklet on the ground one day; It could not tinkle, for it was not perching On your dear foot, but sad and silent lay.
I learned where you were carried by the giant From vines that showed themselves compassionate; They could not utter words, yet with their pliant Branches they pointed where you passed of late.
The deer were kind; for while the juicy grasses Fell quite unheeded from each careless mouth, They turned wide eyes that said, "'Tis there she passes The hours as weary captive" toward the south.
There is the mountain where the peacocks' screaming, And branches smitten fragrant by the rain, And madder-flowers that woke at last from dreaming, Made unendurable my lonely pain;
And mountain-caves where I could scarce dissemble The woe I felt when thunder crashed anew, For I remembered how you used to tremble At thunder, seeking arms that longed for you.
Rama then points out the spots in Southern India where he and Sita had dwelt in exile, and the pious hermitages which they had visited; later, the holy spot where the Jumna River joins the Ganges; finally, their distant home, unseen for fourteen years, and the well-known river, from which spray-laden breezes come to them like cool, welcoming hands. When they draw near, Prince Bharata comes forth to welcome them, and the happy procession approaches the capital city.
Fourteenth canto. Sita is put away.—The exiles are welcomed by Queen Kausalya and Queen Sumitra with a joy tinged with deep melancholy. After the long-deferred anointing of Rama as king, comes the triumphal entry into the ancestral capital, where Rama begins his virtuous reign with his beloved queen most happily; for the very hardships endured in the forest turn into pleasures when remembered in the palace. To crown the king's joy, Sita becomes pregnant, and expresses a wish to visit the forest again. At this point, where an ordinary story would end, comes the great tragedy, the tremendous test of Rama's character. The people begin to murmur about the queen, believing that she could not have preserved her purity in the giant's palace. Rama knows that she is innocent, but he also knows that he cannot be a good king while the people feel as they do; and after a pitiful struggle, he decides to put away his beloved wife. He bids his brother Lakshmana take her to the forest, in accordance with her request, but to leave her there at the hermitage of the sage Valmiki. When this is done, and Sita hears the terrible future from Lakshmana, she cries:
Take reverent greeting to the queens, my mothers, And say to each with honour due her worth: "My child is your son's child, and not another's; Oh, pray for him, before he comes to birth."
And tell the king from me: "You saw the matter, How I was guiltless proved in fire divine; Will you desert me for mere idle chatter? Are such things done in Raghu's royal line?
Ah no! I cannot think you fickle-minded, For you were always very kind to me; Fate's thunderclap by which my eyes are blinded Rewards my old, forgotten sins, I see.
Oh, I could curse my life and quickly end it, For it is useless, lived from you apart, But that I bear within, and must defend it, Your life, your child and mine, beneath my heart.
When he is born, I'll scorn my queenly station, Gaze on the sun, and live a hell on earth, That I may know no pain of separation From you, my husband, in another birth.
My king! Eternal duty bids you never Forget a hermit who for sorrow faints; Though I am exiled from your bed for ever, I claim the care you owe to all the saints."
So she accepts her fate with meek courage. But
When Rama's brother left her there to languish And bore to them she loved her final word, She loosed her throat in an excess of anguish And screamed as madly as a frightened bird.
Trees shed their flowers, the peacock-dances ended, The grasses dropped from mouths of feeding deer, As if the universal forest blended Its tears with hers, and shared her woeful fear.
While she laments thus piteously, she is discovered by the poet-sage Valmiki, who consoles her with tender and beautiful words, and conducts her to his hermitage, where she awaits the time of her confinement. Meanwhile Rama leads a dreary life, finding duty but a cold comforter. He makes a golden statue of his wife, and will not look at other women.
Fifteenth canto. Rama goes to heaven.—The canto opens with a rather long description of a fight between Rama's youngest brother and a giant. On the journey to meet the giant, Shatrughna spends a night in Valmiki's hermitage, and that very night Sita gives birth to twin sons. Valmiki gives them the names Kusha and Lava, and when they grow out of childhood he teaches them his own composition, the Ramayana, "the sweet story of Rama," "the first path shown to poets." At this time the young son of a Brahman dies in the capital, and the father laments at the king's gate, for he believes that the king is unworthy, else heaven would not send death prematurely. Rama is roused to stamp out evil-doing in the kingdom, whereupon the dead boy comes to life. The king then feels that his task on earth is nearly done, and prepares to celebrate the great horse-sacrifice. 4 At this sacrifice appear the two youths Kusha and Lava, who sing the epic of Rama's deeds in the presence of Rama himself. The father perceives their likeness to himself, then learns that they are indeed his children, whom he has never seen. Thereupon Sita is brought forward by the poet-sage Valmiki and in the presence of her husband and her detractors establishes her constant purity in a terrible fashion.
"If I am faithful to my lord In thought, in action, and in word, I pray that Earth who bears us all May bid me in her bosom fall."
The faithful wife no sooner spoke Than earth divided, and there broke From deep within a flashing light That flamed like lightning, blinding-bright.
And, seated on a splendid throne Upheld by serpents' hoods alone, The goddess Earth rose visibly, And she was girded with the sea.
Sita was clasped in her embrace, While still she gazed on Rama's face: He cried aloud in wild despair; She sank, and left him standing there.
Rama then establishes his brothers, sons, and nephews in different cities of the kingdom, buries the three queens of his father, and awaits death. He has not long to wait; Death comes, wearing a hermit's garb, asks for a private interview, and threatens any who shall disturb their conference. Lakshmana disturbs them, and so dies before Rama. Then Rama is translated.
Cantos sixteen to nineteen form the third division of the epic, and treat of Rama's descendants. The interest wanes, for the great hero is gone.
Sixteenth canto. Kumudvati's wedding.—As Kusha lies awake one night, a female figure appears in his chamber; and in answer to his question, declares that she is the presiding goddess of the ancient capital Ayodhya, which has been deserted since Rama's departure to heaven. She pictures the sad state of the city thus:
I have no king; my towers and terraces Crumble and fall; my walls are overthrown; As when the ugly winds of evening seize The rack of clouds in helpless darkness blown.
In streets where maidens gaily passed at night, Where once was known the tinkle and the shine Of anklets, jackals slink, and by the light Of flashing fangs, seek carrion, snarl, and whine.
The water of the pools that used to splash With drumlike music, under maidens' hands, Groans now when bisons from the jungle lash It with their clumsy horns, and roil its sands.
The peacock-pets are wild that once were tame; They roost on trees, not perches; lose desire For dancing to the drums; and feel no shame For fans singed close by sparks of forest-fire.
On stairways where the women once were glad To leave their pink and graceful footprints, here Unwelcome, blood-stained paws of tigers pad, Fresh-smeared from slaughter of the forest deer.
Wall-painted elephants in lotus-brooks, Receiving each a lily from his mate, Are torn and gashed, as if by cruel hooks, By claws of lions, showing furious hate.
I see my pillared caryatides Neglected, weathered, stained by passing time, Wearing in place of garments that should please, The skins of sloughing cobras, foul with slime.
The balconies grow black with long neglect, And grass-blades sprout through floors no longer tight; They still receive but cannot now reflect The old, familiar moonbeams, pearly white.
The vines that blossomed in my garden bowers, That used to show their graceful beauty, when Girls gently bent their twigs and plucked their flowers, Are broken by wild apes and wilder men.
The windows are not lit by lamps at night, Nor by fair faces shining in the day, But webs of spiders dim the delicate, light Smoke-tracery with one mere daub of grey.