The Ramayana Part 61

Haste to my father, and relate While time allows, my sudden fate, Lest he consume thee as the fire Burns up the forest, in his ire.

This little path, O King, pursue: My father's cot thou soon wilt view.

There sue for pardon to the sage, Lest he should curse thee in his rage.

First from the wound extract the dart That kills me with its deadly smart, E'en as the flushed impetuous tide Eats through the river's yielding side."

I feared to draw the arrow out, And pondered thus in painful doubt: "Now tortured by the shaft he lies, But if I draw it forth he dies."

Helpless I stood, faint, sorely grieved: The hermit's son my thought perceived; As one o'ercome by direst pain He scarce had strength to speak again.

With writhing limb and struggling breath, Nearer and ever nearer death "My senses undisturbed remain, And fort.i.tude has conquered pain: Now from one tear thy soul be freed.

Thy hand has made a Brahman bleed.

Let not this pang thy bosom wring: No twice-born youth am I, O King, For of a Vaisya sire I came, Who wedded with a Sudra dame."

These words the boy could scarcely say, As tortured by the shaft he lay, Twisting his helpless body round, Then trembling senseless on the ground.

Then from his bleeding side I drew The rankling shaft that pierced him through.

With death's last fear my face he eyed, And, rich in store of penance, died."

Canto LXIV. Dasaratha's Death.

The son of Raghu to his queen Thus far described the unequalled scene, And, as the hermit's death he rued, The mournful story thus renewed: "The deed my heedless hand had wrought Perplexed me with remorseful thought, And all alone I pondered still How kindly deed might salve the ill.

The pitcher from the ground I took, And filled it from that fairest brook, Then, by the path the hermit showed, I reached his sainted sire's abode.

I came, I saw: the aged pair, Feeble and blind, were sitting there, Like birds with clipped wings, side by side, With none their helpless steps to guide.

Their idle hours the twain beguiled With talk of their returning child, And still the cheering hope enjoyed, The hope, alas, by me destroyed.

Then spoke the sage, as drawing near The sound of footsteps reached his ear: "Dear son, the water quickly bring; Why hast thou made this tarrying?

Thy mother thirsts, and thou hast played, And bathing in the brook delayed.

She weeps because thou camest not; Haste, O my son, within the cot.

If she or I have ever done A thing to pain thee, dearest son, Dismiss the memory from thy mind: A hermit thou, be good and kind.

On thee our lives, our all, depend: Thou art thy friendless parents' friend.

The eyeless couple's eye art thou: Then why so cold and silent now?"

With sobbing voice and bosom wrung I scarce could move my faltering tongue, And with my spirit filled with dread I looked upon the sage, and said, While mind, and sense, and nerve I strung To fortify my trembling tongue, And let the aged hermit know His son's sad fate, my fear and woe: "High-minded Saint, not I thy child, A warrior, Dasaratha styled.

I bear a grievous sorrow's weight Born of a deed which good men hate.

My lord, I came to Sarju's sh.o.r.e, And in my hand my bow I bore For elephant or beast of chase That seeks by night his drinking place.

There from the stream a sound I heard As if a jar the water stirred.

An elephant, I thought, was nigh: I aimed, and let an arrow fly.

Swift to the place I made my way, And there a wounded hermit lay Gasping for breath: the deadly dart Stood quivering in his youthful heart.

I hastened near with pain oppressed; He faltered out his last behest.

And quickly, as he bade me do, From his pierced side the shaft I drew.

I drew the arrow from the rent, And up to heaven the hermit went, Lamenting, as from earth he pa.s.sed, His aged parents to the last.

Thus, unaware, the deed was done: My hand, unwitting, killed thy son.

For what remains, O, let me win Thy pardon for my heedless sin."

As the sad tale of sin I told The hermit's grief was uncontrolled.

With flooded eyes, and sorrow-faint, Thus spake the venerable saint: I stood with hand to hand applied, And listened as he spoke and sighed: "If thou, O King, hadst left unsaid By thine own tongue this tale of dread, Thy head for hideous guilt accursed Had in a thousand pieces burst.

A hermit's blood by warrior spilt, In such a case, with purposed guilt, Down from his high estate would bring Even the thunder's mighty King.

And he a dart who conscious sends Against the devotee who spends His pure life by the law of Heaven- That sinner's head will split in seven.

Thou livest, for thy heedless hand Has wrought a deed thou hast not planned, Else thou and all of Raghu's line Had perished by this act of thine.

Now guide us," thus the hermit said, "Forth to the spot where he lies dead.

Guide us, this day, O Monarch, we For the last time our son would see: The hermit dress of skin he wore Rent from his limbs distained with gore; His senseless body lying slain, His soul in Yama's dark domain."

Alone the mourning pair I led, Their souls with woe disquieted, And let the dame and hermit lay Their hands upon the breathless clay.

The father touched his son, and pressed The body to his aged breast; Then falling by the dead boy's side, He lifted up his voice, and cried:

"Hast thou no word, my child, to say?

No greeting for thy sire to-day?

Why art thou angry, darling? why Wilt thou upon the cold earth lie?

If thou, my son, art wroth with me, Here, duteous child, thy mother see.

What! no embrace for me, my son?

No word of tender love-not one?

Whose gentle voice, so soft and clear, Soothing my spirit, shall I hear When evening comes, with accents sweet Scripture or ancient lore repeat?

Who, having fed the sacred fire, And duly bathed, as texts require, Will cheer, when evening rites are done, The father mourning for his son?

Who will the daily meal provide For the poor wretch who lacks a guide, Feeding the helpless with the best Berries and roots, like some dear guest?

How can these hands subsistence find For thy poor mother, old and blind?

The wretched votaress how sustain, Who mourns her child in ceaseless pain?

Stay yet a while, my darling, stay, Nor fly to Yama's realm to-day.

To-morrow I thy sire and she Who bare thee, child, will go with, thee.(337) Then when I look on Yama, I To great Vivasvat's son will cry: "Hear, King of justice, and restore Our child to feed us, I implore.

Lord of the world, of mighty fame, Faithful and just, admit my claim, And grant this single boon to free My soul from fear, to one like me."

Because, my son, untouched by stain, By sinful hands thou fallest slain, Win, through thy truth, the sphere where those Who die by hostile darts repose.

Seek the blest home prepared for all The valiant who in battle fall, Who face the foe and scorn to yield, In glory dying on the field.

Rise to the heaven where Dhundhumar And Nahush, mighty heroes, are, Where Janamejay and the blest Dilipa, Sagar, Saivya, rest: Home of all virtuous spirits, earned By fervent rites and Scripture learned: By those whose sacred fires have glowed, Whose liberal hands have fields bestowed: By givers of a thousand cows, By lovers of one faithful spouse: By those who serve their masters well, And cast away this earthly sh.e.l.l.

None of my race can ever know The bitter pain of lasting woe.

But doomed to that dire fate is he Whose guilty hand has slaughtered thee."

Thus with wild tears the aged saint Made many a time his piteous plaint, Then with his wife began to shed The funeral water for the dead.

But in a shape celestial clad, Won by the merits of the lad, The spirit from the body brake And to the mourning parents spake: "A glorious home in realms above Rewards my care and filial love.

You, honoured parents, soon shall be Partakers of that home with me."

He spake, and swiftly mounting high, With Indra near him, to the sky On a bright car, with flame that glowed, Sublime the duteous hermit rode.

The father, with his consort's aid, The funeral rites with water paid, And thus his speech to me renewed Who stood in suppliant att.i.tude: "Slay me this day, O, slay me, King, For death no longer has a sting.

Childless am I: thy dart has done To death my dear, my only son.

Because the boy I loved so well Slain by thy heedless arrow fell, My curse upon thy soul shall press With bitter woe and heaviness.

I mourn a slaughtered child, and thou Shalt feel the pangs that kill me now.

Bereft and suffering e'en as I, So shalt thou mourn thy son, and die.

Thy hand unwitting dealt the blow That laid a holy hermit low, And distant, therefore, is the time When thou shalt suffer for the crime.

The hour shall come when, crushed by woes Like these I feel, thy life shall close: A debt to pay in after days Like his the priestly fee who pays."

This curse on me the hermit laid, Nor yet his tears and groans were stayed.

Then on the pyre their bodies cast The pair; and straight to heaven they pa.s.sed.

As in sad thought I pondered long Back to my memory came the wrong Done in wild youth, O lady dear, When 'twas my boast to shoot by ear.

The deed has borne the fruit, which now Hangs ripe upon the bending bough: Thus dainty meats the palate please, And lure the weak to swift disease.

Now on my soul return with dread The words that n.o.ble hermit said, That I for a dear son should grieve, And of the woe my life should leave."

Thus spake the king with many a tear; Then to his wife he cried in fear: "I cannot see thee, love; but lay Thy gentle hand in mine, I pray.

Ah me, if Rama touched me thus, If once, returning home to us, He bade me wealth and lordship give, Then, so I think, my soul would live.

Unlike myself, unjust and mean Have been my ways with him, my Queen, But like himself is all that he, My n.o.ble son, has done to me.

His son, though far from right he stray, What prudent sire would cast away?

What banished son would check his ire, Nor speak reproaches of his sire?