Madhumalati
Page 20
that they did not awaken even when turned.
They cast the Prince down in Kanaigiri,
and took Madhumālatī to her palace.
The Queen then left the picture-pavilion, went to Madhurā and said,
‘If you will permit me, I should like to return home tomorrow morning.’
346. When the Prince woke up in Kanaigiri,
he was perplexed and utterly bewildered.
He could not tell if it had been a dream or reality.
Astonished, he contemplated what had happened.
He beat his head repeatedly and cried,
washing his lotus-face with tears of blood,
throwing dust on his head as he wept.
Where was that heavenly pavilion?
Where was the nymph with whom he had been?
As night passed and morning broke,
the Prince set out to find his woman, thinking,
‘How wonderful was that heavenly pavilion, and being together with that nymph!
Who was it who destroyed my royal happiness,* all in one quick instant?’
347. Smearing ashes on his head, he set off weeping,
no companion with him but the Creator, thinking,
‘I will hold my beloved in my eyes and meditate on her.
What can appeal to me in worldly life now?’
Intoxicated with love, he had no companion.
Never did his love lessen, and never did he speak.
Night and day he travelled on alone,
accompanied only by the love of Madhumālatī.
With just the glowing radiance of his love,
dauntless, he crossed forest and ocean,
traversing everything that lay in his path.
He was following that very same path that had brought him success in the past.
But when Madhumālatī awoke, she wept, for she saw she had lost her treasure.
348. When Madhumālatī awoke, her body burned,
consumed by separation from head to toe.
She sighed deeply and her heart brimmed over.
Abandoning shame, she wept tears of blood.
When streams like the spring rains of Bharai*
burst forth from her eyes, her bed seemed
as if it had been flooded with scarlet ladybirds.
When she opened her mouth to cry aloud,
her teeth flashed like lightning amidst roaring thunder.
Her flowing locks opened like the dark night
that obscures the full moon in the rainy month of Bhādo.*
As the pain of love-in-separation assailed her body, Madhumālatī wept and wept,
and people, astonished, found a second rainy season sweeping through the world.
The Queen and Madhumālatī
349. When she had taken leave of Madhurā,
the Queen returned to her city of Mahāras.
She rushed to Madhumālatī’s side,
and found her weeping and sighing deeply.
Her golden body now resembled the dust,
and her tears had drenched her moon-like face.
She was tearing her bodice into threads,
and her eyes were red and inflamed with weeping.
Remembering her beloved’s likeness,
the maiden cried and covered her head with dust.
When first love had sprung up in her, she was still an innocent girl.
Now she was in her prime, so how could she be satisfied with just her darling’s name?
350. When one is hopelessly, madly in love,
one does not listen to what anyone says.
When separation’s pain rules the body,
awareness, wisdom, and shame remain no more.
The maiden could in no way be consoled,
but flung herself about on the ground weeping.
The Queen approached her saying,
‘You have destroyed the honour of our family.’
With both hands she slapped Madhumālatī.
‘You are the ruin of our family! What has come over you?
You have barely stopped drinking mother’s milk, so how can you feel this separation?
Why do you not stay here peaceful and chaste, until the moment of destiny comes?
351. ‘You have disgraced your mother and father.
O ruin of the family, why did you not die at birth?
Wicked girl, you have blackened our family name.
I am bitterly sorry you were ever born.
If, O destroyer of the family, you were dead,
we would not be the laughing stock of the land.
How can we remove this blackest of marks?
Any other stain would have washed off,
but not this one.’ The Queen tried hard
to make Madhumālatī see reason in many ways.
But the girl, maddened by her love,
refused to listen to even one word.
Although the Queen made many attempts, her daughter could not understand her.
How can someone accept any instruction, if their life is not in their hands?
352. When the Queen failed to make her understand,
she tried first soft words, and then harsh ones.
The girl would not listen to her mother’s screaming,
but recited only the name of the siddha yogi.*
When wisdom and advice had no effect,
the Queen was perplexed, as if she’d been robbed.
Only the intelligent can listen to wise counsel,
how can one give advice to the mad?
Then the Queen became afraid and said,
‘What shall I do? I fear that no good will come
to my family as a result of their meeting.’
Taking a handful of water, the Queen uttered a spell and sprinkled it over her face.
The moment that it touched Madhumālatī, the girl became a bird and flew away.
Madhumālatī Transformed*
353. Madhumālatī was in the form of a bird,
and no one knew where she had flown.
As it is, she was maddened by love;
with wings, she became even more deceptive.
She flew faster even than the wind.
Many pursued her, but no one could catch her.
The whole city rose up and ran after her,
but none found even a feather, let alone the bird.
Rūpamañjarī repented her deed in her heart and said,
‘What have I done? Why was I so foolish?’
Both father and mother wept themselves senseless over their daughter.
Their tears washed the black pupils of their eyes until they were purest white.
354. Madhumālatī abandoned all her concerns,
except to repeat in her heart, ‘Beloved, beloved.’
She left aside all worldly attachments,
and renounced her family and relations,
the girlfriends with whom she had played,
all desire for joy, happiness, and amusement.
The enjoyment of all worldly pleasures
she renounced, and the hope of life.
She gave up her parental house,
left all her wealth and worldly goods,
and all her friends, companions, and relatives.
She renounced her kingdom, the comfort of her bed, sleep at night, and food in the day.
She abandoned all the desires and joys of her heart, and made the trees her home.
355. Madhumālatī left all behind and flew off,
anxiously searching, seeking her love.
She was distraught and roamed restlessly,
as if maddened by a scorpion’s sting.
She roamed over mountains, seas, and forests,
but she could not find the object of her search.
In her grief, she wandered the world,
over vast deserts and to great cities,
but her heart’s desire was not fulfilled.
She sought him in every tre
e and house,
in countries far and near, and among all people,
ranging from kings to lowly beggars.
She visited all the places of pilgrimage—the Kadalī forest* and the Godāvarī river,*
Mathurā,* Gayā,* and Prayāg,* and Jagannāth* and Dvārkā, * seeking only her lord and lover.
356. Day and night she wandered restlessly,
maddened by love and quite intoxicated.
One day, as the maiden was flying along,
she saw someone who looked like a Prince.
Pausing for a moment on her way,
she saw he was a radiantly handsome Prince.
That Prince’s name was Tārācand.*
He came from the Citadel of Winds, Pavaneri*
in the fair Fortress of Respect, Māngah.*
He was handsome, well formed, and wise,
and wore the bright garb of a brave warrior.
He was complete in knowledge, of noble birth, and the image of the God of Love.
So very like was he to Manohar,* that Madhu saw him and felt drawn to him.
The Wondrous Bird
357. She flew down and perched on a tower,
looking extremely lovely and attractive.
Her feathers were green, her legs red.
Her beak was beautiful, and her eyes
were large and gleamed like a pair of pearls.
As she fixed her eyes on Manohar’s likeness,
she found a refuge from the fire of separation.
When the Prince’s gaze fell on the bird,
compassion and affection awoke in his heart.*
His eyes concentrated for a moment on her.
Beggars, noblemen, and courtiers observed her.
Everyone said, ‘Such a rare bird never has been seen before in this Kali age.
Millions of years have passed in this world, but such a wonder has not been seen.’
358. Madhumālatī was overjoyed to see his likeness
to Manohar, and hoping that it was he,
flew down and perched on a rooftop.
She thought, ‘Let me cool my burning eyes,
and quench the fires of separation by looking at him.
A drowning man rushes to clutch a straw—
even a straw supports those who are sinking fast.
Can one who wants mangoes be sated with sour berries?*
One whose heart is burning with separation’s fire,
cannot be content by looking at a likeness.’
But when Madhumālatī gazed at his face, she became immersed in his beauty.
Prince Tārācand’s heart also became restless, like a fish that is parted from water.
359. The Prince was entranced by the bird’s beauty,
and signalled to an attendant with his eyebrows.
The attendant understood and sent servants running.
They returned bringing all the fowlers in the city.
He ordered them to spread their nets everywhere,
and to take grain and to scatter it there.
Love held the bird’s heart captive,
and her two eyes remained gazing at the Prince.
She paid no attention to the snare and the net,
but kept on contemplating the Prince’s face.
A moment passed and the bird became alert and wished in her mind to fly away.
But the Prince cried out, ‘If that bird flies away, my heart goes with her!’
The Fowlers’ Net
360. The net was spread out all around her,
and grain was scattered here and there.
Had she been a bird, no doubt her heart
would have been greedy for the grain,
but she had forgotten herself in love.
For a moment she cherished his likeness
to Manohar, then spread her wings to fly.
As she flapped her wings to fly away,
the Prince stood up wringing his hands
and said, ‘If this bird flies away,
all my senses and intelligence will go with her!’
Said the Prince, ‘She is flying away! Let me catch her in my hands!’
As he ran to catch her his crown jumped off, and all its pearls were scattered.
361. The pearls* fell and rolled through the net.
The bird, seeing this, turned to look properly.
Although she wished to fly away,
she paused for a moment, attracted to the pearls.
The Prince cried out, ‘This bird lives on pearls.’
People brought him many shining pearls,
and the Prince took them by the handful.
They brought many unpierced pearls,
and scattered them around everywhere
like the bright stars shining in the sky.
Then Madhumālatī decided in her mind to sacrifice her life on the path of love.
She came into the fowlers’ net herself, that she might obtain her desire, Manohar.
362. When Madhumālatī knew for certain
that love for Manohar filled her heart,
she thought, ‘I have been in this form
for a year, but have heard no news of him.
This face that so resembles him,
brought me hope so I forgot myself
and settled here for just a moment.
Now let me fall into his snare
and divine all of his secrets.
Then I can tell him my heart’s secret.
Perhaps in doing so I shall find
some news about my darling.
Or if I die, I will obtain the reward
of travelling on the path of love.’
Resolving thus she dropped down quickly, like a moth into the lamp of love.
She enmeshed her feet in the net, so that she could not free herself.
363. When the bird was ensnared, the fowlers ran
and brought net and bird living to the Prince.
When the Prince saw her his mind exulted,
like a lotus blossoming at sunrise.
He brought a cage made all of gold,
and put the delightful bird in it.
His gaze did not leave her for an instant.
He scattered before her jewels and pearls,
and all the kinds of food that birds eat.
The Prince did not leave the cage for an instant, nor did he entrust it to anyone.
He kept the cage himself, holding it close to his heart day and night.
The Wondrous Bird Speaks to Tārācand
364. Three days passed in this manner.
Neither bird nor Prince ate anything at all.
Then the maiden thought in her heart,
‘Why is he killing himself for me?
He is a young and handsome Prince.
If he dies, on my head lies the guilt for it.’
Thinking thus the Princess said,
‘Why, O Prince, are you full of sorrow?
What kind of love could there be between us?
How can a bird and a man be in love?
I am a bird—I have given up my life and youth to obtain this sorrow.
You are a pleasure-loving Prince—why do you have to endure this grief?’
365. The bird again opened its immortal mouth
and uttered delightful, matchless words,
‘I am a bird and you are a Prince.
How can love flourish between us?
You are a Prince who enjoys every pleasure,
I, a bird who wanders stricken by separation.
What kind of love do you envisage between us,
that you have given up food and water for three days?
Had you seen my former beauty but once,
then everything you could do would be inadequate.
But the Creator robbed me of the kingdom of my beauty and made me into a bird.
I simply do not know my future. What lines has fate traced on my forehead?’*
366. The Prince thrilled to h
ear her speaking,
like a cakora gazing at the moon.
When the royal Prince heard her words,
he was amazed and became very thoughtful.
Then he made her swear a solemn oath,
and asked, ‘Tell me the unbiased truth about yourself.
You are on oath, lest you not speak true.
Are you an animal, bird or human being?
How were you transformed into a bird?
You have sworn to speak only the truth.
What is your name? Where are you from? In what country lies your home?
What sin, what misdeed did you commit? How did you come to be a bird?’
367. When the bird heard the Prince’s speech,
her eyes welled up with tears of blood.
She cried bitterly as she answered,
‘Since you have asked me the truth on oath,
I will tell you all my heart’s secrets.
There is a city called Mahāras,
and its king is Vikram Rāi.
He is my father, mighty and powerful,
ruler of the country of Bhārata
in Jambu, island of the rose-apple tree.*
Over his head is the parasol of royalty,
and he adorns both throne and kingdom.
I was born the daughter of his house,
but suddenly this strange condition befell me.
My name is Madhumālatī, and I am a princess from a royal house.
O Prince, who can erase the lines of fate God has inscribed on one’s brow?’
368. Then Madhumālatī told the Prince everything,
all that had transpired with her in the past.
She told him truly of that first wondrous night
when they had been brought together in love.
She described in great detail, one by one,
all the sorrows she had suffered in separation.
She told him, too, of how they had met
a second time in Pemā’s picture-pavilion,
how they had been separated as they slept,
and how, when they awoke once more,
they found themselves in different places.
She told how her mother had sprinkled water and cast a spell for her family’s honour.
She related the whole story for the Prince, from beginning to end in every detail.
369. Then she related the tale of Prince Manohar,
from its beginnings to the present moment:
the first night when he recognized her,
and the sacred promise of love they took,
of how the Prince left his father’s palace,
and how his ship sank with all his goods.
She told how he happened to meet Pemā,
and how he was comforted to hear news
of the beautiful Madhumālatī. The Prince,
she recounted, had killed the demon to save Pemā,