The Ramayana Part 37

Vile foe, thou cause of all mine ill, Obtain at last thy cursed will.

A widow soon shalt thou enjoy The sweets of empire with thy boy.

O Princess, sure some evil fate First brought thee here to devastate, In whom the night of ruin lies Veiled in a consort's fair disguise.

The scorn of all and deepest shame Will long pursue my hated name, And dire disgrace on me will press, Misled by thee to wickedness.

How shall my Rama, whom, before, His elephant or chariot bore, Now with his feet, a wanderer, tread The forest wilds around him spread?

How shall my son, to please whose taste, The deftest cooks, with earrings graced, With rivalry and jealous care The dainty meal and cates prepare- How shall he now his life sustain With acid fruit and woodland grain?

He spends his time unvext by cares, And robes of precious texture wears: How shall he, with one garment round His limbs recline upon the ground?

Whose was this plan, this cruel thought Unheard till now, with ruin fraught, To make thy son Ayodhya's king, And send my Rama wandering?

Shame, shame on women! Vile, untrue, Their selfish ends they still pursue.

Not all of womankind I mean.

But more than all this wicked queen.

O worthless, cruel, selfish dame, I brought thee home, my plague and woe.

What fault in me hast thou to blame, Or in my son who loves thee so?

Fond wives may from their husbands flee, And fathers may their sons desert, But all the world would rave to see My Rama touched with deadly hurt.

I joy his very step to hear, As though his G.o.dlike form I viewed; And when I see my Rama near I feel my youth again renewed.

There might be life without the sun, Yea, e'en if Indra sent no rain, But, were my Rama banished, none Would, so I think, alive remain.

A foe that longs my life to take, I brought thee here my death to be, Caressed thee long, a venomed snake, And through my folly die. Ah me!

Rama and me and Lakshma? slay, And then with Bharat rule the state; So bring the kingdom to decay, And fawn on those thy lord who hate, Plotter of woe, for evil bred, For such a speech why do not all Thy teeth from out thy wicked head Split in a thousand pieces fall?

My Rama's words are ever kind, He knows not how to speak in ire: Then how canst thou presume to find A fault in him whom all admire?

Yield to despair, go mad, or die, Or sink within the rifted earth; Thy fell request will I deny, Thou shamer of thy royal birth.

Thy longer life I scarce can bear, Thou ruin of my home and race, Who wouldst my heart and heartstrings tear, Keen as a razor, false and base.

My life is gone, why speak of joy?

For what, without my son, were sweet?

Spare, lady, him thou canst destroy; I pray thee as I touch thy feet."

He fell and wept with wild complaint, Heart-struck by her presumptuous speech, But could not touch, so weak and faint, The cruel feet he strove to reach.

Canto XIII. Dasaratha's Distress.

Unworthy of his mournful fate, The mighty king, unfortunate, Lay prostrate in unseemly guise, As, banished from the blissful skies, Yayati, in his evil day.

His merit all exhausted, lay.(276) The queen, triumphant in the power Won by her beauty's fatal dower, Still terrible and unsubdued, Her dire demand again renewed: "Great Monarch, 'twas thy boast till now To love the truth and keep the vow; Then wherefore would thy lips refuse The promised boon 'tis mine to choose?"

King Dasaratha, thus addressed, With anger raging in his breast, Sank for a while beneath the pain, Then to Kaikeyi spoke again: "Childless so long, at length I won, With mighty toil, from Heaven a son, Rama, the mighty-armed; and how Shall I desert my darling now?

A scholar wise, a hero bold, Of patient mood, with wrath controlled, How can I bid my Rama fly, My darling of the lotus eye?

In heaven itself I scarce could bear, When asking of my Rama there, To hear the G.o.ds his griefs declare, And O, that death would take me hence Before I wrong his innocence!"

As thus the monarch wept and wailed, And maddening grief his heart a.s.sailed, The sun had sought his resting-place, And night was closing round apace.

But yet the moon-crowned night could bring No comfort to the wretched king.

As still he mourned with burning sighs And fixed his gaze upon the skies: "O Night whom starry fires adorn, I long not for the coming morn.

Be kind and show some mercy: see, My suppliant hands are raised to thee.

Nay, rather fly with swifter pace; No longer would I see the face Of Queen Kaikeyi, cruel, dread, Who brings this woe upon mine head."

Again with suppliant hands he tried To move the queen, and wept and sighed: "To me, unhappy me, inclined To good, sweet dame, thou shouldst be kind; Whose life is well-nigh fled, who cling To thee for succour, me thy king.

This, only this, is all my claim: Have mercy, O my lovely dame.

None else have I to take my part, Have mercy: thou art good at heart.

Hear, lady of the soft black eye, And win a name that ne'er shall die: Let Rama rule this glorious land, The gift of thine imperial hand.

O lady of the dainty waist, With eyes and lips of beauty graced, Please Rama, me, each saintly priest, Bharat, and all from chief to least."

She heard his wild and mournful cry, She saw the tears his speech that broke, Saw her good husband's reddened eye, But, cruel still, no word she spoke.

His eyes upon her face he bent, And sought for mercy, but in vain: She claimed his darling's banishment, He swooned upon the ground again.

Canto XIV. Rama Summoned.

The wicked queen her speech renewed, When rolling on the earth she viewed Ikshvaku's son, Ayodhya's king, For his dear Rama sorrowing: "Why, by a simple promise bound, Liest thou prostrate on the ground, As though a grievous sin dismayed Thy spirit! Why so sore afraid?

Keep still thy word. The righteous deem That truth, mid duties, is supreme: And now in truth and honour's name I bid thee own the binding claim.

Saivya, a king whom earth obeyed, Once to a hawk a promise made, Gave to the bird his flesh and bone, And by his truth made heaven his own.(277) Alarka, when a Brahman famed For Scripture lore his promise claimed, Tore from his head his bleeding eyes And unreluctant gave the prize.

His narrow bounds prescribed restrain The Rivers' Lord, the mighty main, Who, though his waters boil and rave, Keeps faithful to the word he gave.

Truth all religion comprehends, Through all the world its might extends: In truth alone is justice placed, On truth the words of G.o.d are based: A life in truth unchanging past Will bring the highest bliss at last.

If thou the right would still pursue, Be constant to thy word and true: Let me thy promise fruitful see, For boons, O King, proceed from thee.

Now to preserve thy righteous fame, And yielding to my earnest claim- Thrice I repeat it-send thy child, Thy Rama, to the forest wild.

But if the boon thou still deny, Before thy face, forlorn, I die."

Thus was the helpless monarch stung By Queen Kaikeyi's fearless tongue, As Bali strove in vain to loose His limbs from Indra's fatal noose.

Dismayed in soul and pale with fear, The monarch, like a trembling steer Between the chariot's wheel and yoke, Again to Queen Kaikeyi spoke, With sad eyes fixt in vacant stare, Gathering courage from despair: "That hand I took, thou sinful dame, With texts, before the sacred flame, Thee and thy son, I scorn and hate, And all at once repudiate.

The night is fled: the dawn is near: Soon will the holy priests be here To bid me for the rite prepare That with my son the throne will share, The preparation made to grace My Rama in his royal place- With this, e'en this, my darling for My death the funeral flood shall pour.

Thou and thy son at least forbear In offerings to my shade to share, For by the plot thy guile has laid His consecration will be stayed.

This very day how shall I brook To meet each subject's altered look?

To mark each gloomy joyless brow That was so bright and glad but now?"

While thus the high-souled monarch spoke To the stern queen, the Morning broke, And holy night had slowly fled, With moon and stars engarlanded.

Yet once again the cruel queen Spoke words in answer fierce and keen, Still on her evil purpose bent, Wild with her rage and eloquent: "What speech is this? Such words as these Seem sprung from poison-sown disease.

Quick to thy n.o.ble Rama send And bid him on his sire attend.

When to my son the rule is given; When Rama to the woods is driven; When not a rival copes with me, From chains of duty thou art free."

Thus goaded, like a generous steed Urged by sharp spurs to double speed, "My senses are astray," he cried, "And duty's bonds my hands have tied.

I long to see mine eldest son, My virtuous, my beloved one."

And now the night had past away; Out shone the Maker of the Day, Bringing the planetary hour And moment of auspicious power.

Vasish?ha, virtuous, far renowned, Whose young disciples girt him round, With sacred things without delay Through the fair city took his way.

He traversed, where the people thronged, And all for Rama's coming longed, The town as fair in festive show As his who lays proud cities low.(278) He reached the palace where he heard The mingled notes of many a bird, Where crowded thick high-honoured bands Of guards with truncheons in their hands.

Begirt by many a sage, elate, Vasish?ha reached the royal gate, And standing by the door he found Sumantra, for his form renowned, The king's ill.u.s.trious charioteer And n.o.ble counsellor and peer.

To him well skilled in every part Of his hereditary art Vasish?ha said: "O charioteer, Inform the king that I am here, Here ready by my side behold These sacred vessels made of gold, Which water for the rite contain From Ganga and each distant main.

Here for installing I have brought The seat prescribed of fig-wood wrought, All kinds of seed and precious scent And many a gem and ornament; Grain, sacred gra.s.s, the garden's spoil, Honey and curds and milk and oil; Eight radiant maids, the best of all War elephants that feed in stall; A four-horse car, a bow and sword.

A litter, men to bear their lord; A white umbrella bright and fair That with the moon may well compare; Two chouries of the whitest hair; A golden beaker rich and rare; A bull high-humped and fair to view, Girt with gold bands and white of hue; A four-toothed steed with flowing mane, A throne which lions carved sustain; A tiger's skin, the sacred fire, Fresh kindled, which the rites require; The best musicians skilled to play, And dancing-girls in raiment gay; Kine, Brahmans, teachers fill the court, And bird and beast of purest sort.

From town and village, far and near, The n.o.blest men are gathered here; Here merchants with their followers crowd, And men in joyful converse loud, And kings from many a distant land To view the consecration stand.

The dawn is come, the lucky day; Go bid the monarch haste away, That now Prince Rama may obtain The empire, and begin his reign."

Soon as he heard the high behest The driver of the chariot pressed Within the chambers of the king, His lord with praises honouring.

And none of all the warders checked His entrance for their great respect Of him well known, in place so high, Still fain their king to gratify.

He stood beside the royal chief, Unwitting of his deadly grief, And with sweet words began to sing The praises of his lord and king: "As, when the sun begins to rise, The sparkling sea delights our eyes, Wake, calm with gentle soul, and thus Give rapture, mighty King, to us.

As Matali(279) this selfsame hour Sang lauds of old to Indra's power, When he the t.i.tan hosts o'erthrew, So hymn I thee with praises due.

The Vedas, with their kindred lore, Brahma their soul-born Lord adore, With all the doctrines of the wise, And bid him, as I bid thee, rise.

As, with the moon, the Lord of Day Wakes with the splendour of his ray Prolific Earth, who neath him lies, So, mighty King, I bid thee rise.

With blissful words, O Lord of men, Rise, radiant in thy form, as when The sun ascending darts his light From Meru's everlasting height.

May Siva, Agni, Sun, and Moon Bestow on thee each choicest boon, Kuvera, Varu?a, Indra bless Kakutstha's son with all success.