The Penguin Book of Classical Indian Love Stories and Lyrics Page 14
They were married by the gandharva rite, the exchange of garlands, the rite befitting heroes. ‘O Moon,’ they said together, ‘and O Rohini, his beloved! Resplendent pair! hearken and bear witness to our sacred vows of love!’
Then Pururava and his nymph-bride betook themselves to the storied wood of Akalush, and by its silvery brooks, beneath the shade of its rich groves, passed many a happy hour. Together they would ramble through the blossoming woods and gather flowers and delight each other with songs.
But one day, as they roamed along the emerald bank of a stream, Urvashi stole away from her husband’s side and entered a park forbidden to her sex, the park of the unwedded god, Kartick, the commander of the army of the gods. As a punishment, she was immediately turned into a vine.
Pururava looked around and about him for Urvashi, but found her not. He cried aloud, ‘Urvashi! Urvashi! where art thou?’ No answer came but the echo of his call. Frantic with sorrow, he rushed through the wood in search of his lost bride, nor desisted from the quest by night or day.
Once he looked up towards the Heavens and beheld a dark cloud fraught with lightning. ‘Ah! thou dark fiend, thou hast stolen my beauteous bride,’ he cried, mistaking the cloud for a demon and the lightning for Urvashi. ‘I will slay thee, O felon demon!’ With that he shot an arrow at the cloud, but it poured down cooling showers upon him and dazzled his eyes with flashes of lightning. He laughed wildly to himself, saying, This is no demon, but a friendly cloud. Refreshing raindrops fall, not deadly arrows, and I mistook the lightning for my love Urvashi.’
He pressed onward till he beheld a peacock, with neck outstretched and tail outspread, perched on a jutting crag. He made appeal to it: ‘O bird of rainbow splendour, hast thou seen my beloved Urvashi? Tell me if, soaring skyward on thy wings, thou hast seen my nymph-bride in wood, meadow or dale? Thou canst not fail to know her by her large, soft eyes and her graceful gait.’ But the peacock began to strut about and gave no answer.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Pururava, reproachfully, ‘thou wouldst be ashamed to show thy paltry plumage before the flowing tresses of my Urvashi. She is far away, so for a time thou mayest dance without a peer.’
He hastened on and next met a koel rending the air with its love-cries, and said, ‘O nursling of a stranger’s nest, hast thou chanced to behold my beloved Urvashi amidst these groves, warbling to herself melodious strains sweeter than thine own?’ But the koel flew away, unheeding. Thou, too, O bird of tuneful song, desertest me like my beloved,’ cried Pururava sorrowfully.
Pururava continued his quest, and at last heard a sound as of tinkling anklets like to Urvashi’s; it was the plaintive note of migrating swans. He addressed the leader of the flock: ‘Forbear awhile the course and hear my suit, O golden-winged Swan! Hast thou, by chance, on thy far wanderings beheld my fair Urvashi? Thou hast some tidings of my love; thy motions have a grace thou hast surely stolen from her. Know me to be King Pururava, the punisher of theives.’ Away flew the swan with his flock as if frightened by a threat.
He next saw a chakravaka, or ruddy goose, playing hide-and-seek in a pond with its mate. Thou mayest measure my affliction,’ said Pururava to the drake, ‘by what thou feelest, if, but for a moment, thy fair companion hides in sport behind a lotus leaf. Say then truly, hast thou seen my beloved Urvashi?’ The chakravaka answered not, but dived in the water.
Pururava went away, lamenting: ‘Alas! Alas! the luckless have no friends.’ He next turned to a swarm of gilded bees murmuring amidst the petals of a lotus, and said, ‘O plunderers of the honeyed dew, have ye beheld my beloved Urvashi? It is folly to ask; ye would have sought her lips and not this lotus. Let me seek for her elsewhere.’
He went deeper into the wood and there found an elephant standing against a kadamva tree, and said to him, ‘O King of the Forest, whose sports have felled the stateliest trees, know me to be thine equal. The golden Sun and silver Moon, these two, are my progenitors. Their grandson am I, and the chosen lord of the Earth and of Urvashi. Say then, hast thou by chance beheld my wandering bride? She is more bright than the Moon, her voice is more sweet than the sweetest note of music, and her glowing tresses wear the golden hue of the jasmine.’ For answer the elephant trumpeted as if to say: ‘Get thee hence and let me have peace in my forest.’
More melancholy than ever, Pururava journeyed on until he came to a grotto on the mountain side. ‘Ay, such places are ever haunts of the nymphs of earth and air,’ said he to himself. ‘Perchance my Urvashi lurks within this grotto.’ He looked in, then cried out: ‘Ah! no, it cannot be, or the cave would be lit up by the lustre of her beauty. O Monarch of Hills, from whose hoary brows the streams rush down, hast thou seen a nymph daring with slender frame thy rocks and chasms, or resting in thy crowning woods?’ But the mountain rolled back the words to him in mockery.
Thus flouted and ridiculed, he repaired to the bank of a silvery stream. ‘What fond imaginings possess my soul as I look on thee!’ said Pururava. ‘Thy rippling wave is like to the arching brow of my fair Urvashi. Thy foamy spray is her white, loose, floating vest, and the flow of the waters her undulating gait. Thou art indeed my Urvashi, my lost Urvashi! Relent and return to mine arms.’ But the stream flowed on oceanward, unmindful of his words.
‘Thou art not my Urvashi,’ cried Pururava, ‘or thou wouldst not quit me even for the Ocean King.’
Hastening onward, he came to where a black buck lay reclining. Pururava addressed him: ‘O deer of the soft dark eye, hast thou seen my fair Urvashi whose eyes rival thine own? O tell me if, wandering through the tangled maze of this wood, she has enchanted thy gaze?’ But the buck sprang forward to join his mate and made no reply.
Thus mortally disappointed, the King wandered on and on like one possessed, until he came near a rock, through the cleft of which something sent forth a ray of light. ‘Ah! that is my beloved Urvashi,’ cried Pururava, bending down to see if it was she. It was no Urvashi, but a ruby more roseate than the blush of the Ashoka blossom. He picked up the ruby and said to it, ‘O glowing gem! a ruby always brings luck to its owner. Be thou for me the Ruby of Reunion and restore to me my love.’
With the gem in his hand Pururava chanced upon the park of Kartick and there beheld a vine. What strange emotions stir my heart as I approach thee, O vine!’ he exclaimed. ‘No blossoms deck thy boughs, no bees court thee with their songs. And yet, O mournful creeper, there clings about thee something of the grace of my slender Urvashi.’ He clasped the vine, saying, ‘O vine of the wilderness, behold in me a long, heart-broken wretch. Thou art surely my love, and should relenting Fate restore thee to these fond arms, never more will I return to this unfriendly wood.’ And behold! through the poser of the Ruby of Reunion, the creeper at once became transformed to Urvashi. She fell fainting in his arms, and Pururava caught her to his heart.
‘The Hero and the Nymph’, from Tales of the Gods of India by Shovana Devi. London, 1920.
Soma and Tara
Shovana Devi
Tara, the star, was betrothed to Soma, the Moon god, already the husband of the twenty-seven daughters of the demiurge Dakshya. Despite her betrothal to Soma, Tara was married to Vrihaspati, son of a solar deity and preceptor of the Gods. He is now said to be the deity presiding over the planet of the same name, Vrihaspati or Jupiter.
The marriage, however, did not prove a happy one for Vrihaspati, for his newly-wed bride in her secret heart loved Soma and so suffered herself to be carried off by him.
There was great commotion in Heaven. There was much rushing and a great fight rushing to and fro among the gods, and a great fight ensued for the recovery of Tara. The gods were divided into two hostile camps. Some of them, headed by Indra, King of Heaven, fought against Soma, whilst others took his side in this battle for a bride. At this stage Brahma intervened, and at his request Soma released Tara.
Samudra or Ocean, father of Soma (for did he not arise from the churning of the Sea of Milk?), was wroth with him for his abduction of Tara. He expelled him fro
m Heaven and placed him among the stars by way of degradation. To this day Soma bears in the dark spots on his bright body the indelible stigma of his crime.
‘Soma and Tara’, from Tales of the Gods of India by Shovana Devi. London, 1920.
Samvarana and Tapati
Shovana Devi
Tapati, the Burning One, was another Sun-maiden, who burned, as the name implies, with excess of beauty.
For a long time the Sun god, her father, could find no fit mate for her, and this caused him perplexity and grief.
At that time there lived on Earth a votary of the Sun god himself, a certain King Samvarana. Samvarana was much given to the chase, and paid no heed to dalliance. ‘Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.’ One day, as he was out hunting deer on the mountains, he rode after a splendid stag, chasing him over hills and through valleys until his horse dropped dead from sheer exhaustion before he could overtake the stag. Undaunted, the king followed up the game on foot, and tracked it at last to a grove. There, instead of the stag, he found a charming maiden. Her golden hair wantoned with the breeze, and her beauty had all the splendour of the lotus blossom and was spotless as the crescent moon. The flowers and creepers in the grove caught the reflection of her radiant loveliness and seemed transformed into gold. She was Tapati, daughter of Surya, the Sun god.
The King straightaway fell in love with her and cried out as he beheld her: ‘O large-eyed maiden, who art thou? Surely a goddess, a dryad of the wood, or the Queen of elves and fairies, for no mortal woman could own such dazzling beauty. Whoever thou art, O fair one, be my bride!’
‘I am the daughter of the Sun god, and my name is Tapati,’ replied the maiden, blushing so rosily that for a moment Samvarana’s eyes fell before her resplendent beauty. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, and lo! she was gone! The King fell to the earth in a swoon.
When he came to, he dedicated himself to the worship of the Sun god. For twelve days without ceasing he did him worship, and the god, pleased with his devotion, at last bestowed upon him his daughter. Long and happily did Samvarana dwell with his bride, the Sun-maiden.
‘Samvarana and Tapati’, from Tales of the Gods of India by Shovana Devi. London, 1920.
The Ashvins and Surya
Shovana Devi
Surya, the Sun-maiden, was a young nymph of dazzling beauty, as a daughter of the Sun god well might be. She was betrothed by her father to Soma, the Moon god, or, some say, to his namesake, Soma the Vine, the Indian Bacchus. Nevertheless, all the gods were in love with her likewise, and all of them desired her hand, so wondrous were her charms even among goddesses. There was rivalry in Heaven over this Child of Light.
‘Let us run a race,’ said the gods at last, ‘and as a prize the winner shall have her for a bride.’ So it was agreed that they should run a race for her hand.
Indra, Lord of Heaven, Soma, the Moon god, Agni, God of Fire, Varuna, King of the Waters, Yama, Lord of the Dead, Vayu, God of the Winds, Kubera, God of Gold, and the brothers Ashvins all joined in the race. They started together, but were soon left far behind by the fleet-footed Ashvins, whom neither arrow nor steed could outstrip. The brothers Ashvins won the race and carried off the Sun-maiden in triumph in a golden chariot.
‘The Ashvins and Surya’, from Tales of the Gods of India by Shovana Devi. London, 1920.
Damayanti and Her Divine Suitors
Shovana Devi
Once upon a time there reigned at Vidarva a famous King named Bhima the Terrible. His chief title to fame was that he had an exquisite daughter named Damayanti. This Princess was waited upon day and night by a band of handmaids of surpassing beauty, but she shone among them like the moon among the stars, and her hand was sought, it is said, by both gods and mortals.
Nala, King of Nishada, came to hear of Damayanti’s beauty, and was struck with passion for her. One day while he was seated in a grove, musing upon the beauteous maiden, he saw a flock of swans, with wings all flecked with gold, alight and begin to disport themselves close by him. Nala crept up to the leader of the flock and seized him. ‘O mighty king,’ said the swan, ‘set me free, and I will do thy bidding, whatever it be.’
‘If a bird can do a mortal any service,’ replied Nala, ‘fly to my love, Damayanti, O bird of golden wings, and tell her how much I love her.’ With that he released the bird, and away it flew to Vidarva, rejoicing.
When the bird arrived there, Damayanti was reposing in her park surrounded by her beauteous maids of honour. ‘What a lovely bird!’ cried Damayanti, with wonder-dilated eyes. ‘Behold its graceful form, its wings all edged with gold!’ Then she called out to the swan, saying: ‘O wondrous bird, whence dost thou come, and hast thou any message for me?’ The swan came close to her and suffered himself to be made captive by her perfect hand.
‘O Princess!’ he said, ‘treat me not harshly. I come to thee as a messenger of love from Nala, King of Nishada. He is himself as beauteous as the God of Love and has no peer on Earth. The union of such a youth and maiden would be an union of the peerless with the peerless. Wed him, and thou shalt be the happiest of brides.’
Much did the maiden wonder at the bird’s strange story and when he had delivered his message to her she set him free, saying: ‘O sweet bird! speak in like manner unto Nala for me.’
‘So be it,’ said the swan, and flew back to Nala with her answering message of love.
Ere long a svayamvara was held for Damayanti, and many were the princes who came to woo her, allured by the stories of her beauty. The gods of Sumeru, equally enamoured of her rosy charms, came down to Earth to woo her. Most prominent among them were the four great guardians of the world: Indra, God of Heaven; Agni, God of Fire; Varuna, God of Waters; and Yama, God of Death.
Damayanti now stepped into the svayamvara hall, bejewelled from head to foot, bearing a garland of flowers to put round the neck of the one she would choose for her husband, and every eye and heart was entranced by her dazzling beauty. She was taken round to each of the assembled princes, according to the rite, until she came to where her lover, Nala, was seated; but great was her dismay when she beheld five Nalas, each indistinguishable from the other except by the eyes of gods.
Damayanti paused for a moment, garland in hand, and then threw round the neck of her beloved, the real Nala, the wreath of bright flowers she carried in her hand. She had noticed that the gods, who had assumed his shape to baffle her, cast no shadows because they were spirits, and that their eyes never winked because they were the ever-wakeful guardian gods, and that their garlands were not, withered, being woven of the unfading blooms of the groves of Paradise. By these tokens did the princess recognise the gods who had assumed the likeness of her lover in the hope of cheating her into choosing one of them. Turning to them, she said: ‘Forgive me, O mighty gods, that I have not chosen my husband from among you. Since I heard the sweet endearing words of the golden-winged swan, Nala’s messenger of love to me, I have pledged my heart to this prince, and the vow so pledged is sacred. Forgive me, therefore, ye guardians of the rulers of Heaven.’
Thus did Damayanti, the peerless, choose Nala for her lord with the gods themselves, her divine wooers, as witnesses. The happy pair then did homage before the gods, and these resplendent guardians of the Earth bestowed upon them divine nuptial gifts in reward for her constancy, and thereafter were borne back to Sumeru.
‘Damayanti and Her Divine Suitors’, from Tales of the Gods of India by Shovana Devi. London, 1920.
Love Conquers All
Ruskin Bond
Long long ago there was a king who ruled over a large part of India. He was a great horseman, and when he rode he was like a strong wind rushing by. Horses knew and loved him, and because of his power over them he was known as Lord-of-Horses.
In spite of his fame and popularity, the king was unhappy, for no children had been born to him, and in India this was always considered a great calamity. He went from temple to temple, praying and offering sacrifices, but to no avail—it seemed as t
hough the gods were displeased with him.
Finally he consulted the great sage Narada.
‘How can I please the gods?’ he asked. ‘I have been married five years, but still there is no heir to the throne.’
‘Build a new temple,’ said Narada. ‘Build a temple to Brahma the Creator.’
‘I shall build the most beautiful temple in the land,’ said the king, and he immediately summoned his best workmen and told them to build a temple taller than any other.
‘Let it be taller than three palm trees,’ he said. ‘Paint it gold within and gold without. A hundred steps of pure white marble must lead up to it.’
Within a few months a beautiful golden temple was built, surrounded by flowering trees and shrubs. And every day the king visited the temple, making special offerings to Brahma, God of Creation, and his wife Savitri, that they might send him a son.
His queen and his nobles, and even the sage Narada, had almost given up hope, when one day, as the king laid his offerings before the shrine, he thought he saw a figure growing out of the flames that had sprung up from his sacrifice. And then he heard a voice—the voice, he thought, of a goddess, because though it was small and sweet it filled the temple with its sound.
‘You have pleased me with your devotion,’ were the words he heard. ‘I am Savitri, wife of Brahma. What is it you seek?’
His voice trembling, the king said, ‘Goddess, I desire a son, so that my name may not perish from the land.’