The Sanskrit Epics

by Delphi Classics

  Yea, even children, as they played

  At cottage doors beneath the shade.

  The royal street with flowers was strown

  Which loving hands in heaps had thrown,

  And here and there rich incense lent

  Its fragrance to the garland’s scent;

  And all was fresh and fair and bright

  In honour of the coming rite.

  With careful foresight to illume

  With borrowed blaze the midnight gloom,

  The crowds erected here and there

  Trees in each street gay lamps to bear.

  The city thus from side to side

  In festal guise was beautified.

  The people of the town who longed

  To view the rite together thronged,

  And filling every court and square

  Praised the good king in converse there:

  “Our high-souled king! He throws a grace

  On old Ikshváku’s royal race.

  He feels his years’ increasing weight,

  And makes his son associate.

  Great joy to us the choice will bring

  Of Ráma for our lord and king.

  The good and bad to him are known,

  And long will he protect his own.

  No pride his prudent breast may swell,

  Most just, he loves his brothers well,

  And to us all that love extends,

  Cherished as brothers and as friends.

  Long may our lord in life remain,

  Good Daśaratha, free from stain,

  By whose most gracious favour we

  Ráma anointed king shall see.”

  Such were the words the townsmen spoke

  Heard by the gathering countryfolk,

  Who from the south, north, east, and west,

  Stirred by the joyful tidings, pressed.

  For by their eager longing led

  To Ráma’s consecration sped

  The villagers from every side,

  And filled Ayodhyá’s city wide.

  This way and that way strayed the crowd,

  While rose a murmur long and loud,

  As when the full moon floods the skies

  And Ocean’s waves with thunder rise.

  That town, like Indra’s city fair,

  While peasants thronged her ways,

  Tumultuous roared like Ocean, where

  Each flood-born monster plays.

  Canto VII. Manthará’s Lament.

  IT CHANCED A slave-born handmaid, bred

  With Queen Kaikeyí, fancy-led,

  Mounted the stair and stood upon

  The terrace like the moon that shone.

  Thence Manthará at ease surveyed

  Ayodhyá to her eyes displayed,

  Where water cooled the royal street,

  Where heaps of flowers were fresh and sweet,

  And costly flags and pennons hung

  On roof and tower their shadow flung;

  With covered ways prepared in haste,

  And many an awning newly placed;

  With sandal-scented streams bedewed,

  Thronged by a new bathed multitude:

  Whose streets were full of Bráhman bands

  With wreaths and sweetmeats in their hands.

  Loud instruments their music raised,

  And through the town, where’er she gazed,

  The doors of temples glittered white,

  And the maid marvelled at the sight.

  Of Ráma’s nurse who, standing by,

  Gazed with a joy-expanded eye,

  In robes of purest white attired,

  The wondering damsel thus inquired:

  “Does Ráma’s mother give away

  Rich largess to the crowds to-day,

  On some dear object fondly bent,

  Or blest with measureless content?

  What mean these signs of rare delight

  On every side that meet my sight?

  Say, will the king with joy elate

  Some happy triumph celebrate?”

  The nurse, with transport uncontrolled,

  Her glad tale to the hump-back told:

  “Our lord the king to-morrow morn

  Will consecrate his eldest-born,

  And raise, in Pushya’s favouring hour,

  Prince Ráma to the royal power.”

  As thus the nurse her tidings spoke,

  Rage in the hump-back’s breast awoke.

  Down from the terrace, like the head

  Of high Kailása’s hill, she sped.

  Sin in her thoughts, her soul aflame,

  Where Queen Kaikeyí slept, she came:

  “Why sleepest thou?” she cried, “arise,

  Peril is near, unclose thine eyes.

  Ah, heedless Queen, too blind to know

  What floods of sin above thee flow!

  Thy boasts of love and grace are o’er:

  Thine is the show and nothing more.

  His favour is an empty cheat,

  A torrent dried by summer’s heat.”

  Thus by the artful maid addressed

  In cruel words from raging breast,

  The queen, sore troubled, spoke in turn;

  “What evil news have I to learn?

  That mournful eye, that altered cheek

  Of sudden woe or danger speak.”

  Such were the words Kaikeyí said:

  Then Manthará, her eyeballs red

  With fury, skilled with treacherous art

  To grieve yet more her lady’s heart,

  From Ráma, in her wicked hate,

  Kaikeyí’s love to alienate,

  Upon her evil purpose bent

  Began again most eloquent:

  “Peril awaits thee swift and sure,

  And utter woe defying cure;

  King Daśaratha will create

  Prince Ráma Heir Associate.

  Plunged in the depths of wild despair,

  My soul a prey to pain and care,

  As though the flames consumed me, zeal

  Has brought me for my lady’s weal,

  Thy grief, my Queen, is grief to me:

  Thy gain my greatest gain would be.

  Proud daughter of a princely line,

  The rights of consort queen are thine.

  How art thou, born of royal race,

  Blind to the crimes that kings debase?

  Thy lord is gracious, to deceive,

  And flatters, but thy soul to grieve,

  While thy pure heart that thinks no sin

  Knows not the snares that hem thee in.

  Thy husband’s lips on thee bestow

  Soft soothing word, an empty show:

  The wealth, the substance, and the power

  This day will be Kauśalyá’s dower.

  With crafty soul thy child he sends

  To dwell among thy distant friends,

  And, every rival far from sight,

  To Ráma gives the power and might.

  Ah me! for thou, unhappy dame,

  Deluded by a husband’s name,

  With more than mother’s love hast pressed

  A serpent to thy heedless breast,

  And cherished him who works thee woe,

  No husband but a deadly foe.

  For like a snake, unconscious Queen,

  Or enemy who stabs unseen,

  King Daśaratha all untrue

  Has dealt with thee and Bharat too.

  Ah, simple lady, long beguiled

  By his soft words who falsely smiled!

  Poor victim of the guileless breast,

  A happier fate thou meritest.

  For thee and thine destruction waits

  When he Prince Ráma consecrates.

  Up, lady, while there yet is time;

  Preserve thyself, prevent the crime.

  Up, from thy careless ease, and free

  Thyself, O Queen, thy son, and me!”

  Delighted at the words she said,r />
  Kaikeyí lifted from the bed,

  Like autumn’s moon, her radiant head,

  And joyous at the tidings gave

  A jewel to the hump-back slave;

  And as she gave the precious toy

  She cried in her exceeding joy:

  “Take this, dear maiden, for thy news

  Most grateful to mine ear, and choose

  What grace beside most fitly may

  The welcome messenger repay.

  I joy that Ráma gains the throne:

  Kauśalyá’s son is as mine own.”

  Canto VIII. Manthará’s Speech.

  THE DAMSEL’S BREAST with fury burned:

  She answered, as the gift she spurned:

  “What time, O simple Queen, is this

  For idle dreams of fancied bliss?

  Hast thou not sense thy state to know,

  Engulfed in seas of whelming woe;

  Sick as I am with grief and pain

  My lips can scarce a laugh restrain

  To see thee hail with ill-timed joy

  A peril mighty to destroy.

  I mourn for one so fondly blind:

  What woman of a prudent mind

  Would welcome, e’en as thou hast done,

  The lordship of a rival’s son,

  Rejoiced to find her secret foe

  Empowered, like death, to launch the blow;

  I see that Ráma still must fear

  Thy Bharat, to his throne too near.

  Hence is my heart disquieted,

  For those who fear are those we dread.

  Lakshmaṇ, the mighty bow who draws,

  With all his soul serves Ráma’s cause;

  And chains as strong to Bharat bind

  Śatrughna, with his heart and mind,

  Now next to Ráma, lady fair,

  Thy Bharat is the lawful heir:

  And far remote, I ween, the chance

  That might the younger two advance.

  Yes, Queen, ’tis Ráma that I dread,

  Wise, prompt, in warlike science bred;

  And oh, I tremble when I think

  Of thy dear child on ruin’s brink.

  Blest with a lofty fate is she,

  Kauśalyá; for her son will be

  Placed, when the moon and Pushya meet,

  By Bráhmans on the royal seat,

  Thou as a slave in suppliant guise

  Must wait upon Kauśalyá’s eyes,

  With all her wealth and bliss secured

  And glorious from her foes assured.

  Her slave with us who serve thee, thou

  Wilt see thy son to Ráma bow,

  And Sítá’s friends exult o’er all,

  While Bharat’s wife shares Bharat’s fall.”

  As thus the maid in wrath complained,

  Kaikeyí saw her heart was pained,

  And answered eager in defence

  Of Ráma’s worth and excellence:

  “Nay, Ráma, born the monarch’s heir,

  By holy fathers trained with care,

  Virtuous, grateful, pure, and true,

  Claims royal sway as rightly due.

  He, like a sire, will long defend

  Each brother, minister, and friend.

  Then why, O hump-back, art thou pained

  To hear that he the throne has gained?

  Be sure when Ráma’s empire ends,

  The kingdom to my son descends,

  Who, when a hundred years are flown,

  Shall sit upon his fathers’ throne.

  Why is thine heart thus sad to see

  The joy that is and long shall be,

  This fortune by possession sure

  And hopes which we may count secure?

  Dear as the darling son I bore

  Is Ráma, yea, or even more.

  Most duteous to Kauśalyá, he

  Is yet more dutiful to me.

  What though he rule, we need not fear:

  His brethren to his soul are dear.

  And if the throne Prince Ráma fill

  Bharat will share the empire still.”

  She ceased. The troubled damsel sighed

  Sighs long and hot, and thus replied:

  “What madness has possessed thy mind,

  To warnings deaf, to dangers blind?

  Canst thou not see the floods of woe

  That threaten o’er thine head to flow:

  First Ráma will the throne acquire,

  Then Ráma’s son succeed his sire,

  While Bharat will neglected pine

  Excluded from the royal line.

  Not all his sons, O lady fair,

  The kingdom of a monarch share:

  All ruling when a sovereign dies

  Wild tumult in the state would rise.

  The eldest, be he good or ill,

  Is ruler by the father’s will.

  Know, tender mother, that thy son

  Without a friend and all undone,

  Far from the joyous ease of home

  An alien from his race will roam.

  I sped to thee for whom I feel,

  But thy fond heart mistakes my zeal,

  Thy hand a present would bestow

  Because thy rival triumphs so.

  When Ráma once begins his sway

  Without a foe his will to stay,

  Thy darling Bharat he will drive

  To distant lands if left alive.

  By thee the child was sent away

  Beneath his grandsire’s roof to stay.

  Even in stocks and stones perforce

  Will friendship spring from intercourse.

  The young Śatrughna too would go

  With Bharat, for he loved him so.

  As Lakshmaṇ still to Ráma cleaves,

  He his dear Bharat never leaves.

  There is an ancient tale they tell:

  A tree the foresters would fell

  Was saved by reeds that round it stood,

  For love that sprang of neighbourhood.

  So Lakshmaṇ Ráma will defend,

  And each on each for aid depend.

  Such fame on earth their friendship wins

  As that which binds the Heavenly Twins.

  And Ráma ne’er will purpose wrong

  To Lakshmaṇ, for their love is strong.

  But Bharat, Oh, of this be sure,

  Must evil at his hands endure.

  Come, Ráma from his home expel

  An exile in the woods to dwell.

  The plan, O Queen, which I advise

  Secures thy weal if thou be wise.

  So we and all thy kith and kin

  Advantage from thy gain shall win.

  Shall Bharat, meet for happier fate,

  Born to endure his rival’s hate,

  With all his fortune ruined cower

  And dread his brother’s mightier power!

  Up, Queen, to save thy son, arise;

  Prostrate at Ráma’s feet he lies.

  So the proud elephant who leads

  His trooping consorts through the reeds

  Falls in the forest shade beneath

  The lion’s spring and murderous teeth.

  Scorned by thee in thy bliss and pride

  Kauśalyá was of old defied,

  And will she now forbear to show

  The vengeful rancour of a foe?

  O Queen, thy darling is undone

  When Ráma’s hand has once begun

  Ayodhyá’s realm to sway,

  Come, win the kingdom for thy child

  And drive the alien to the wild

  In banishment to-day.”

  Canto IX. The Plot.

  AS FURY LIT Kaikeyí’s eyes

  She spoke with long and burning sighs:

  “This day my son enthroned shall see,

  And Ráma to the woods shall flee.

  But tell me, damsel, if thou can,

  A certain way, a skilful plan

  That Bharat may the empire ga
in,

  And Ráma’s hopes be nursed in vain.”

  The lady ceased. The wicked maid

  The mandate of her queen obeyed,

  And darkly plotting Ráma’s fall

  Responded to Kaikeyí’s call.

  “I will declare, do thou attend,

  How Bharat may his throne ascend.

  Dost thou forget what things befell?

  Or dost thou feign, remembering well?

  Or wouldst thou hear my tongue repeat

  A story for thy need so meet?

  Gay lady, if thy will be so,

  Now hear the tale of long ago,

  And when my tongue has done its part

  Ponder the story in thine heart.

  When Gods and demons fought of old,

  Thy lord, with royal saints enrolled,

  Sped to the war with thee to bring

  His might to aid the Immortals’ King.

  Far to the southern land he sped

  Where Daṇḍak’s mighty wilds are spread,

  To Vaijayanta’s city swayed

  By Śambara, whose flag displayd

  The hugest monster of the sea.

  Lord of a hundred wiles was be;

  With might which Gods could never blame

  Against the King of Heaven he came.

  Then raged the battle wild and dread,

  And mortal warriors fought and bled;

  The fiends by night with strength renewed

  Charged, slew the sleeping multitude.

  Thy lord, King Daśaratha, long

  Stood fighting with the demon throng,

  But long of arm, unmatched in strength,

  Fell wounded by their darts at length.

  Thy husband, senseless, by thine aid

  Was from the battle field conveyed,

  And wounded nigh to death thy lord

  Was by thy care to health restored.

  Well pleased the grateful monarch sware

  To grant thy first and second prayer.

  Thou for no favour then wouldst sue,

  The gifts reserved for season due;

  And he, thy high-souled lord, agreed

  To give the boons when thou shouldst need.

  Myself I knew not what befell,

  But oft the tale have heard thee tell,

  And close to thee in friendship knit

  Deep in my heart have treasured it.

  Remind thy husband of his oath,

  Recall the boons and claim them both,

  That Bharat on the throne be placed

  With rites of consecration graced,

  And Ráma to the woods be sent

  For twice seven years of banishment.

  Go, Queen, the mourner’s chamber270 seek,

  With angry eye and burning cheek;

  And with disordered robes and hair

  On the cold earth lie prostrate there.

  When the king comes still mournful lie,

  Speak not a word nor meet his eye,