The Penguin Book of Classical Indian Love Stories and Lyrics Page 11

Anasuya and Pryamvada hastened to help Shakuntala put on her wonderful array and, little as these simple girls could know of such splendours, Shakuntala soon stepped forth as fitted the bride of a king.

  Now arrived the auspicious hour for her departure. She was loath to leave the peaceful hermitage, her woods and her pets, the little fawns and flowering creepers and plants, and the silver brook Malini, which formed part of her being. Still more unwilling was she to leave for ever her bosom friends, Anasuya and Pryamvada, without whom she knew not how she could live. The time had come to bid farewell to all her girlhood had known and loved. The young tender leaves of the jasmine and mallika creepers waved to and fro as if beckoning her back to them. Shakuntala went to them and, embracing a madhavi creeper whose crimson blossoms lit the grove, she said: ‘O most radiant of twining plants! receive my embraces and return them with thy clinging arms. Sweet friend, I am going far away from thee!’ She next took leave of the beloved Malini, on whose emerald bank she had passed her childhood, saying a loving word to every tree that grew about it.

  Suddenly Shakuntala, whose feet faltered, loath to leave the little brook, found herself held back by something clinging to the skirts of her robe. She turned round, exclaiming: ‘Ah, what detains me?’ It was a little motherless fawn which had so often been fed by her loving hand that it had caught her garment to hold her for a last caress. She fondled and patted it and then said to it, with tears in her eyes: ‘Why dost thou weep for me, tender fawn? Go back, my darling; alas! that we must part!’

  The aged Kanva, whose eyes overflowed with tears, now gave Shakuntala his last embrace and blessed her, saying, ‘Mayst thou ever retain the love of thine husband! O Shakuntala, thou art the Queen of Dushmanta, the Overlord of the World. Thou sharest, O my daughter, the loftiest of earthly thrones. Be as kind to thy servants as thou hast ever been to the beasts and birds of this hermitage, and seek not thine own gratification, nor forget the precious lessons of the forest. Whenever thou art weary of the cares of princely state, seek again tranquillity in this loved and consecrated grove.’

  With these words of counsel and consolation, Kanva gave her a parting embrace, and Shakuntala began to sob and weep. ‘Thy tears, O my child, ill befit the going of a Queen!’ said Kanva.

  Shakuntala now for the last time went round the peaceful groves and delightful haunts of her childhood, and said: ‘O all ye trees of this sacred wood, in which the sylvan goddesses have their abode! Shakuntala has come to take her leave of you—she who quenched not her own thirst until you were watered, she who left ungathered your fresh emerald leaves though she would fain have had your richest to adorn her locks.’

  Anasuya and Pryamvada threw their arms round Shakuntala and wept. The antelopes looked up sorrowfully at her; the peacocks stayed their dance; the very trees of the grove seemed to shed tears with their falling leaves.

  Thus Shakuntala left the hermitage for the golden palace of her husband, in the company of Mother Gautami and two pupils of Father Kanva.

  After she had left the hermitage Father Kanva wept in silence beneath the last tree on the outskirts of the hermitage until, checking his immoderate grief, he said to himself: ‘Since the body is bound to part company with the soul some day, why should I grieve when the weaker bonds of outside relations are loosened or even broken?’

  Shakuntala was attended on her way by delightful breezes. Pools of crystal water aflame with lotus-blooms refreshed her, and birds cheered her along with their sweet songs. But on the way it chanced that she descended into the clear waters of a wayside stream to bathe, and there she dropped the graven ring her lord had given her, and went on her journey unaware of her loss. Alas! the means of undoing Durvasha’s curse was gone!

  Stage by stage she travelled till at last she reached the golden palace of her husband, rising storey on storey, and spreading over many a mile. The palace had seven rows of buildings, one enclosing the other, with courtyards between, after the design of a lotus enfolding petals within petals. In the first mahal or division of this sevenfold palace was the audience-hall of Dushmanta, with pillars of gold upholding a golden dome. Beneath this golden dome there was his golden throne, and there his Ministers were busy dispensing justice.

  In the second mahal was his temple, with walls of gold adorned with frescoes of birds in diamonds, fruits in pearls and leaves in emeralds, and in the midst of it was the sacred hearth-fire, burning day and night.

  The third mahal was his guest-house, and there every day a hundred thousand guests were entertained to costly viands on golden plates.

  The fourth mahal was a ballroom, and on its varnished golden floor were dancing beauteous dames flashing with jewels, their anklets tinkling in sweet music with their measured paces, and their graceful movements reflected on the crystal walls.

  The fifth mahal was a hall of music, and here all the varied instruments of the world were being played by skilful jewelled fingers, and strains of enchanting music thrilled the scented air.

  In the sixth mahal were the inner or private apartments for royal ladies, and the seventh, with a large pleasure park beautifully laid out with shady trees and sparkling fountains, was the king’s own abode.

  In this mahal the king lay on a golden couch, surrounded by every treasure of beauty and of riches, forgetful through the curse of Durvasha of his hermit-bride. Into this mahal Shakuntala was conducted, veiled from head to foot, and, as she walked in, the strains of a tender, melancholy song came floating to her ears: ‘How canst thou, sweet bee, ever fond of the mango blossom, desert the first object of thy love for the water-lily?’

  ‘Who art thou, and whence dost thou come, O fair maid?’ asked Dushmanta of the veiled one. ‘Dost thou desire wealth or some other boon? Speak, and it shall be thine.’

  ‘Dost thou not know me, O king?’ said Shakuntala, unveiling her face. ‘I am Shakuntala, foster-daughter of Father Kanva, and thy wedded Queen. How canst thou forget me so soon? I ask no wealth of thee, but come to claim thee as my husband.’

  The king paused a while as if trying to recapture an elusive memory of her, then said: Thou art the daughter of a hermit, and I am the Overlord of the World. What a gulf divides us! Could we be joined in marriage even in a dream? Ask for wealth or jewels, and nothing shall be denied thee, but seek not to be my Queen.’

  The worst fears of Shakuntala were now realized. She burst into tears and said in fear and trembling: ‘Canst thou forget me, O king? Surely thou wilt recall the flowering of our love. Dost thou not remember the bee which was buzzing about my face? I was asking my friend Pryamvada to drive it away, and she said, smiling: “Call on King Dushmanta, the sole chastiser of the wicked.” And as she spoke thou didst appear and drive the bee away, exclaiming: “Ah, while king Dushmanta yet governs the world, how dares a bee molest the lovely daughters of the pious hermit?” Does this not linger in thy mind, O King?’ asked Shakuntala, looking eagerly into his face for a sign of recognition.

  The king said, ‘Nay!’

  ‘Let me recall another word of thine,’ said Shakuntala, still more confused and surprised. ‘One day, as we sat together beneath the madhavi bower on the bank of the Malini, a thirsty fawn approached me and thou gavest it water, saying: “Drink, little fawn, drink.” It refused to drink from thy hand, but received the water eagerly from mine; and thou didst say, with a smile: “Ye are both foresters, so this fawn loves thee.” Is that gone from thy mind?’

  ‘I resemble a bee,’ exclaimed the king, ‘fluttering at the close of night over a blossom filled with dew. Thou art bright as a gem; none could forget thee if he beheld thee but once. Yet am I perplexed by thee, for my mind retains no memory of the face. Hast thou not something more tangible than honeyed words to stir my recollection?’

  ‘Thou floutest honeyed words!’ exclaimed Shakuntala, overcome with shame and indignation. ‘Alas! the honey of thy words did win my trust whilst thy heart concealed the weapon that was to pierce mine. Thou gavest me a ring on the day of our parting, saying: “O my be
loved! repeat each day one of the letters engraved on this gem; and when thou hast spelt the word Dushmanta, a golden chariot shall come to carry thee to my golden palace.” Would it arouse thy memory, if I showed the ring?’ But when she sought to display the ring, it was not on her finger. The last means of breaking the spell laid on her husband’s memory was gone.

  ‘O Mother! I am undone,’ cried Shakuntala, and fell in a swoon, wounding her forehead and staining the golden floor with her purple blood.

  Menaka, the stony-hearted nymph-mother of Shakuntala, was even then playing on the lyre in the hall of Indra. Suddenly, as though by her daughter’s fall, the strings of the lyre were sundered, and she knew that danger threatened her child. Leaving the halls of heaven, she flew into the palace of Dushmanta, dazzling his eyes by the lustre of her beauty, and carried away Shakuntala in her arms. She left her at the hermitage of the patriarch Kashyapa, on Hemakunt, the golden peak of Himalaya, the abode of the apsaras; and there in due time Shakuntala was delivered of a Prince, bearing on its little palms the marks of empire.

  King Dushmanta, his senses still obscured by the curse of Durvasha, was bewildered by what had happened, and could neither rest nor sleep for many a day. Time passed wearily until a wondrous chance dispelled the curse. Some fishermen were one day ordered to catch fish in the river Shachi for the royal household. They caught many fishes of varied colours and sizes; silver carps, moony pomfrets, snaky eels, golden grabs armed with pincers, and red lobsters by the score. The golden and silver fishes were all heaped up in baskets on the bank. At last it grew dark, the shades of evening fell over the sky, the river and the roads, and the fishermen departed with their booty. One of them, however, remained behind, and, whirling his net over his head for a last throw, cast it on the water. Dark as a cloud it covered the river from bank to bank, and a giant fish, the king of the fishes in the river, found itself entangled in the net. It was dragged on shore with great difficulty by the delighted fisherman, who cut it open then and there lest it should escape into the water—and behold! he found in its stomach a ring, bright with a large gem worth a king’s ransom. He was offering it for sale in the market when he was caught by the king’s officers and brought up before the king himself for punishment. The fisherman told the king how he had found the ring inside a fish, and the king took it and at once recognized it. The curse of Durvasha was broken, and the king’s memory of Shakuntala revived as in a flash.

  The fisherman was sent away with a large reward; but the king, realizing that he had spurned and rejected his beloved bride, lost all his happiness and was sunk in woe.

  ‘Alas!’ he cried, in the agony of his despair, ‘what frenzy blotted out the memory of my love for the daughter of the sage? Events are foredoomed by Heaven. The peerless Shakuntala is my wedded wife, and I have cast her from me, I know not why.’

  Tears veiled his eyes, and a cloud came over his senses. He cried ‘Shakuntala!’ and fell into a trance of melancholy. When the inmates of the palace spoke to him, the name of Shakuntala would fall from his lips; then he would sit silent with his head on his knees, his lips parched with the heat of his sighs, and his eyes fixed open for want of sleep.

  He felt no joy, waking or dreaming; he took no interest in his State business. His crown was a burden to him, and his parks gave him no pleasure. The hall of song was silent, the ballroom no longer echoed to the measured steps of the bejewelled beauties of the court.

  In the meantime the eternal feud between the gods and demons had broken out afresh, and Dushmanta’s services were demanded by the King of Gods. He went up to heaven and inflicted a crushing blow on the demons. After a few days’ sojourn in Heaven, Dushmanta left for his home on Earth, loaded with celestial honours and garlanded with a wreath of mandar flowers from Paradise. The nymphs of Heaven engraved on the leaves of Kalpataru, the golden tree of wishes, the glorious deeds of Dushmanta.

  Matali, the charioteer of Indra, conducted Dushmanta back in the flying car of his master over the celestial river Mandakini, the Milky Way. The chariot moved over clouds laden with showers, for his rolling wheels dispersed their crystal waters; the horse of Indra sparkled with lightning; the high mountain tops seemed level with the lowlands; the trees strained aloft their branchy shoulders, but seemed leafless; the rivers made bright lines, but their waters were lost to view; and lo! the globe of Earth itself seemed thrown upwards to him by some stupendous force.

  Soon he was passing over Hemkunt, the mountain of the gandharvas, the celestial musicians, which forms a golden zone between the eastern and western Seas. Here was the hermitage of the patriarch Kashyapa. Here the air was balmy and pure, and here were rills to bathe in, dyed yellow with the golden dust of the lotus, and caves for meditation whose pebbles were flawless gems.

  Dushmanta descended on this mountain to pay his homage to Sage Kashyapa, and beheld a boy pulling a lion’s whelp towards him by the mane in rough play.

  ‘Open thy mouth, lion’s whelp,’ the boy was calling, ‘that I may count thy teeth.’

  This boy was the son of Shakuntala, Sarvadamana, the All-subduing. He did what he pleased with the wild beasts of Hemkunt. Under the shade of a giant banyan he used to play, with all the birds and beasts for his playmates. His throne he would make of a giant python, coiled up in a hundred folds, and there he would sit, surrounded by his companions, the denizens of the wood. The snakes would join their hoods one to another and spread them out like a royal umbrella over his head. On either side of him would stand two elephants, fanning him with broad lotus-leaves. The bear was his minister, the lion general, the tiger his guard, and the jackal his spy. The parrot was his bosom friend—how it amused him by telling funny stories and its adventures in the lands it had visited! Sarvadamana thus made himself the king of the beasts and birds. He was loved by all, and he feared none.

  When Dushmanta alighted on this mountain, the boy was playing with the lion’s whelp, which had been forcibly dragged from the breast of the lioness. Now he opened its mouth to count its teeth, now rode on its back as he would ride on a pony, or pulled it about by the mane in play.

  ‘The lioness will eat thee up if thou release not her whelp,’ the attendant shouted. ‘Set free this young prince of wild beasts and I will give thee a prettier toy to play with.’

  The boy immediately stretched out his hand for the toy, and the king, as he gazed upon it, was surprised to find the little palms glowing with the splendour of the lotus-bloom and bearing the marks of royalty.

  The attendant ran back to the hermitage to get the toy and soon returned with a clay peacock, exclaiming, ‘Look, Sarvadamana, at the beauty of this bird, Shakuntala-vanyam,’

  ‘Shakuntala! Where is Mamma? Where is Mamma?’ cried out the boy, looking eagerly around.

  The surprise and delight of the king now knew no bounds. He cried to the boy, gathering him into his embrace, ‘Now I know thee for my own.’

  ‘No, Dushmanta is my father and not thou,’ replied the boy, showing his white pearls of teeth, and struggling violently away from his arms.

  At that moment Shakuntala herself appeared in search of her son, robed in mourning apparel, with her long hair twisted in a single braid and flowing down her back. ‘O my husband! O my husband!’ she exclaimed as she caught sight of Dushmanta, and fainted away with excess of joy as he rushed forward and caught her in his arms.

  When she revived she wept mingled tears of joy and sorrow, and, noticing on his finger the ring whose loss had been the cause of all her troubles, she exclaimed:

  ‘Ah! is that the fatal ring?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dushmanta, ‘by the miraculous recovery of it my memory was restored. Take it back, my beloved.’

  ‘No,’ replied Shakuntala, ‘keep it with thee lest I again should lose it, and with it thy love.’

  With the blessings of the sage Kashyapa, Dushmanta returned with Shakuntala and their son Sarvadamana to Pratisthan, his capital, and lived there happily for many a year.

  In due time they inst
alled Sarvadamana on the throne under the name of Bharata, after which India is still called Bharatavarsha, or the land of Bharata, and themselves returned to the hermitage of Father Kanva to pass the evening of their lives in peace and tranquillity. Then Shakuntala of the antelope’s eyes rejoiced to find herself back amidst the delightful scenes of her childhood, and to dwell again among her beloved subjects, the creatures of the wood.

  ‘Dushmanta and Shakuntala’, from Tales of the Gods of India by Shovana Devi. London, 1920.

  Love Poems

  Amaru

  Man

  1

  The tenuous bamboo bridge spanning the double tide of the Malini has been carried away, and now my handsome is cut off from me upon an island. Has her father enough black millet? The rain continues. Each night I climb up the hill from which I can see the trembling light of the house of Sarmicha. It shines in the wet darkness like a glance through tears.

  2

  Her robe clung close to her body, and the tissue of it became transparent. I thank you, rain. You were, Sanabavi, as if you were naked. But, when the rainbow broke in flower, who warmed your little shivering breasts for you?

  3

  If I had the talent of Valmiki I would write a poem with my lover as heroine. The first ten parts would be given over to the ten fingers of her hands, for they wove a veil in which I have wrapped up all my ancient loves. And I would consecrate the ten others to the ten nights we spent at Mabhahat.

  4

  ‘Pity!’ she says, with bruised breasts and disordered hair. With eyes closed and legs still trembling, ‘Finish!’ she says. She says in a choked voice: ‘It is enough!’ And now her silence grows eternal. Is she dead or sleeping, is she meditating in delight on what has happened, or thinking of another?

  5

  My tender friend, my Sodara, returns to her dwelling at sunset; Narayani, the guardian of the temple, leaves me as soon as the star Asva is shining, and I sleep alone on my reed mat. Too seldom I dream Narayani has stayed, caressing me until the dawn.