Part 14

_Tenth canto. The birth of Kumara_.--To Indra, king of the gods, Fire betakes himself, tells his story, and begs to be relieved of his burden. Indra advises him to deposit it in the Ganges. Fire therefore travels to the Ganges, leaves Shiva's seed in the river, and departs much relieved. But now it is the turn of Ganges to be distressed, until at dawn the six Pleiades come to bathe in the river. They find Shiva's seed and lay it in a nest of reeds, where it becomes a child, Kumara, the future god of war.

_Eleventh canto. The birth of Kumara, continued_.--Ganges suckles the beautiful infant. But there arises a dispute for the possession of the child between Fire, Ganges, and the Pleiades. At this point Shiva and Parvati arrive, and Parvati, wondering at the beauty of the infant and at the strange quarrel, asks Shiva to whom the child belongs. When Shiva tells her that Kumara is their own child, her joy is unbounded.

Because her eyes with happy tears were dim, 'Twas but by snatches that she saw the boy; Yet, with her blossom-hand caressing him, She felt a strange, an unimagined joy.

The vision of the infant made her seem A flower unfolding in mysterious bliss; Or, billowy with her joyful tears, a stream; Or pure affection, perfect in a kiss.

Shiva conducts Parvati and the boy back to Mount Kailasa, where gods and fairies welcome them with music and dancing. Here the divine child spends the days of a happy infancy, not very different from human infancy; for he learns to walk, gets dirty in the courtyard, laughs a good deal, pulls the scanty hair of an old servant, and learns to count: "One, nine, two, ten, five, seven." These evidences of healthy development cause Shiva and Parvati the most exquisite joy.

_Twelfth canto. Kumara is made general_.--Indra, with the other gods, waits upon Shiva, to ask that Kumara, now a youth, may be lent to them as their leader in the campaign against Taraka. The gods are graciously received by Shiva, who asks their errand. Indra prefers their request, whereupon Shiva bids his son assume command of the gods, and slay Taraka. Great is the joy of Kumara himself, of his mother Parvati, and of Indra.

_Thirteenth canto. Kumara is consecrated general_.--Kumara takes an affectionate farewell of his parents, and sets out with the gods. When they come to Indra's paradise, the gods are afraid to enter, lest they find their enemy there. There is an amusing scene in which each courteously invites the others to precede him, until Kumara ends their embarrassment by leading the way. Here for the first time Kumara sees with deep respect the heavenly Ganges, Indra's garden and palace, and the heavenly city. But he becomes red-eyed with anger on beholding the devastation wrought by Taraka.

He saw departed glory, saw the state Neglected, ruined, sad, of Indra's city, As of a woman with a cowardly mate: And all his inmost heart dissolved in pity.

He saw how crystal floors were gashed and torn By wanton tusks of elephants, were strewed With skins that sloughing cobras once had worn: And sadness overcame him as he viewed.

He saw beside the bathing-pools the bowers Defiled by elephants grown overbold, Strewn with uprooted golden lotus-flowers, No longer bright with plumage of pure gold,

Rough with great, jewelled columns overthrown, Rank with invasion of the untrimmed grass: Shame strove with sorrow at the ruin shown, For heaven's foe had brought these things to pass.

Amid these sorrowful surroundings the gods gather and anoint Kumara, thus consecrating him as their general.

_Fourteenth canto. The march_.--Kumara prepares for battle, and marshals his army. He is followed by Indra riding on an elephant, Agni on a ram, Yama on a buffalo, a giant on a ghost, Varuna on a dolphin, and many other lesser gods. When all is ready, the army sets out on its dusty march.

_Fifteenth canto. The two armies clash_.--The demon Taraka is informed that the hostile army is approaching, but scorns the often-conquered Indra and the boy Kumara. Nevertheless, he prepares for battle, marshals his army, and sets forth to meet the gods. But he is beset by dreadful omens of evil.

For foul birds came, a horrid flock to see, Above the army of the foes of heaven, And dimmed the sun, awaiting ravenously The feast of demon corpses to be given.

And monstrous snakes, as black as powdered soot, Spitting hot poison high into the air, Brought terror to the army underfoot, And crept and coiled and crawled before them there.

The sun a sickly halo round him had; Coiling within it frightened eyes could see Great, writhing serpents, enviously glad Because the demon's death so soon should be.

And in the very circle of the sun Were phantom jackals, snarling to be fed; And with impatient haste they seemed to run To drink the demon's blood in battle shed.

There fell, with darting flame and blinding flash Lighting the farthest heavens, from on high A thunderbolt whose agonising crash Brought fear and shuddering from a cloudless sky.

There came a pelting rain of blazing coals With blood and bones of dead men mingled in; Smoke and weird flashes horrified their souls; The sky was dusty grey like asses' skin.

The elephants stumbled and the horses fell, The footmen jostled, leaving each his post, The ground beneath them trembled at the swell Of ocean, when an earthquake shook the host.

And dogs before them lifted muzzles foul To see the sun that lit that awful day, And pierced the ears of listeners with a howl Dreadful yet pitiful, then slunk away.

Taraka's counsellors endeavour to persuade him to turn back, but he refuses; for timidity is not numbered among his faults. As he advances even worse portents appear, and finally warning voices from heaven call upon him to desist from his undertaking. The voices assure him of Kumara's prowess and inevitable victory; they advise him to make his peace while there is yet time. But Taraka's only answer is a defiance.

"You mighty gods that flit about in heaven And take my foeman's part, what would you say? Have you forgot so soon the torture given By shafts of mine that never miss their way?

Why should I fear before a six-days child? Why should you prowl in heaven and gibber shrill, Like dogs that in an autumn night run wild, Like deer that sneak through forests, trembling still?

The boy whom you have chosen as your chief In vain upon his hermit-sire shall cry; The upright die, if taken with a thief: First you shall perish, then he too shall die."

And as Taraka emphasises his meaning by brandishing his great sword, the warning spirits flee, their knees knocking together. Taraka laughs horribly, then mounts his chariot, and advances against the army of the gods. On the other side the gods advance, and the two armies clash.

_Sixteenth canto. The battle between gods and demons_.--This canto is entirely taken up with the struggle between the two armies. A few stanzas are given here.

As pairs of champions stood forth To test each other's fighting worth, The bards who knew the family fame Proclaimed aloud each mighty name.

As ruthless weapons cut their way Through quilted armour in the fray, White tufts of cotton flew on high Like hoary hairs upon the sky.

Blood-dripping swords reflected bright The sunbeams in that awful fight; Fire-darting like the lightning-flash, They showed how mighty heroes clash.

The archers' arrows flew so fast, As through a hostile breast they passed, That they were buried in the ground, No stain of blood upon them found.

The swords that sheaths no longer clasped, That hands of heroes firmly grasped, Flashed out in glory through the fight, As if they laughed in mad delight.

And many a warrior's eager lance Shone radiant in the eerie dance, A curling, lapping tongue of death To lick away the soldier's breath.

Some, panting with a bloody thirst, Fought toward the victim chosen first, But had a reeking path to hew Before they had him full in view.

Great elephants, their drivers gone And pierced with arrows, struggled on, But sank at every step in mud Made liquid by the streams of blood.

The warriors falling in the fray, Whose heads the sword had lopped away, Were able still to fetch a blow That slew the loud-exulting foe.

The footmen thrown to Paradise By elephants of monstrous size, Were seized upon by nymphs above, Exchanging battle-scenes for love.

The lancer, charging at his foe, Would pierce him through and bring him low, And would not heed the hostile dart That found a lodgment in his heart.

The war-horse, though unguided, stopped The moment that his rider dropped, And wept above the lifeless head, Still faithful to his master dead.

Two lancers fell with mortal wound And still they struggled on the ground; With bristling hair, with brandished knife, Each strove to end the other's life.

Two slew each other in the fight; To Paradise they took their flight; There with a nymph they fell in love, And still they fought in heaven above.

Two souls there were that reached the sky; From heights of heaven they could spy Two writhing corpses on the plain, And knew their headless forms again.

As the struggle comes to no decisive issue, Taraka seeks out the chief gods, and charges upon them.

_Seventeenth canto. Taraka is slain_.--Taraka engages the principal gods and defeats them with magic weapons. When they are relieved by Kumara, the demon turns to the youthful god of war, and advises him to retire from the battle.

Stripling, you are the only son Of Shiva and of Parvati. Go safe and live! Why should you run On certain death? Why fight with me? Withdraw! Let sire and mother blest Clasp living son to joyful breast.

Flee, son of Shiva, flee the host Of Indra drowning in the sea That soon shall close upon his boast In choking waves of misery. For Indra is a ship of stone; Withdraw, and let him sink alone.

Kumara answers with modest firmness.

The words you utter in your pride, O demon-prince, are only fit; Yet I am minded to abide The fight, and see the end of it. The tight-strung bow and brandished sword Decide, and not the spoken word.

And with this the duel begins. When Taraka finds his arrows parried by Kumara, he employs the magic weapon of the god of wind. When this too is parried, he uses the magic weapon of the god of fire, which Kumara neutralises with the weapon of the god of water. As they fight on, Kumara finds an opening, and slays Taraka with his lance, to the unbounded delight of the universe.

Here the poem ends, in the form in which it has come down to us. It has been sometimes thought that we have less than Kalidasa wrote,

## partly because of a vague tradition that there were once twenty-three

cantos, partly because the customary prayer is lacking at the end. These arguments are not very cogent. Though the concluding prayer is not given in form, yet the stanzas which describe the joy of the universe fairly fill its place. And one does not see with what matter further cantos would be concerned. The action promised in the earlier

## part is completed in the seventeenth canto.

It has been somewhat more formidably argued that the concluding cantos are spurious, that Kalidasa wrote only the first seven or perhaps the first eight cantos. Yet, after all, what do these arguments amount to? Hardly more than this, that the first eight cantos are better poetry than the last nine. As if a poet were always at his best, even when writing on a kind of subject not calculated to call out his best. Fighting is not Kalidasa's _forte_; love is. Even so, there is great vigour in the journey of Taraka, the battle, and the duel. It may not be the highest kind of poetry, but it is wonderfully vigorous poetry of its kind. And if we reject the last nine cantos, we fall into a very much greater difficulty. The poem would be glaringly incomplete, its early promise obviously disregarded. We should have a _Birth of the War-god_ in which the poet stopped before the war-god was born.

There seems then no good reason to doubt that we have the epic substantially as Kalidasa wrote it. Plainly, it has a unity which is lacking in Kalidasa's other epic, _The Dynasty_ _of Raghu_, though in this epic, too, the interest shifts. Parvati's love-affair is the matter of the first half, Kumara's fight with the demon the matter of the second half. Further, it must be admitted that the interest runs a little thin. Even in India, where the world of gods runs insensibly into the world of men, human beings take more interest in the adventures of men than of gods. The gods, indeed, can hardly have adventures; they must be victorious. _The Birth of the War-god_ pays for its greater unity by a poverty of adventure.

It would be interesting if we could know whether this epic was written before or after _The Dynasty of Raghu_. But we have no data for deciding the question, hardly any for even arguing it. The introduction to _The Dynasty of Raghu_ seems, indeed, to have been written by a poet who yet had his spurs to win. But this is all.

As to the comparative excellence of the two epics, opinions differ. My own preference is for _The Dynasty of Raghu_, yet there are passages in _The Birth of the War-god_ of a piercing beauty which the world can never let die.

* * * * *

THE CLOUD-MESSENGER

In _The Cloud-Messenger_ Kalidasa created a new _genre_ in Sanskrit literature. Hindu critics class the poem with _The Dynasty of Raghu_ and _The Birth of the War-god_ as a _kavya_, or learned epic. This it obviously is not. It is fair enough to call it an elegiac poem, though a precisian might object to the term.

We have already seen, in speaking of _The Dynasty of Raghu_, what admiration Kalidasa felt for his great predecessor Valmiki, the author of the _Ramayana_; and it is quite possible that an episode of the early epic suggested to him the idea which he has exquisitely treated in _The Cloud-Messenger_. In the _Ramayana_, after the defeat and death of Ravana, Rama returns with his wife and certain heroes of the struggle from Ceylon to his home in Northern India. The journey, made in an aërial car, gives the author an opportunity to describe the country over which the car must pass in travelling from one end of India to the other. The hint thus given him was taken by Kalidasa; a whole canto of _The Dynasty of Raghu_ (the thirteenth) is concerned with the aërial journey. Now if, as seems not improbable, _The Dynasty of Raghu_ was the earliest of Kalidasa's more ambitious works, it is perhaps legitimate to imagine him, as he wrote this canto, suddenly inspired with the plan of _The Cloud-Messenger_.

This plan is slight and fanciful. A demigod, in consequence of some transgression against his master, the god of wealth, is condemned to leave his home in the Himalayas, and spend a year of exile on a peak in the Vindhya Mountains, which divide the Deccan from the Ganges basin. He wishes to comfort and encourage his wife, but has no messenger to send her. In his despair, he begs a passing cloud to carry his words. He finds it necessary to describe the long journey which the cloud must take, and, as the two termini are skilfully chosen, the journey involves a visit to many of the spots famous in Indian story. The description of these spots fills the first half of the poem. The second half is filled with a more minute description of the heavenly city, of the home and bride of the demigod, and with the message proper. The proportions of the poem may appear unfortunate to the Western reader, in whom the proper names of the first half will wake scanty associations. Indeed, it is no longer possible to identify all the places mentioned, though the general route followed by the cloud can be easily traced. The peak from which he starts is probably one near the modern Nagpore. From this peak he flies a little west of north to the Nerbudda River, and the city of Ujjain; thence pretty straight north to the upper Ganges and the Himalaya. The geography of the magic city of Alaka is quite mythical.

_The Cloud-Messenger_ contains one hundred and fifteen four-line stanzas, in a majestic metre called the "slow-stepper." The English stanza which has been chosen for the translation gives perhaps as fair a representation of the original movement as may be, where direct imitation is out of the question. Though the stanza of the translation has five lines to four for the slow-stepper, it contains fewer syllables; a constant check on the temptation to padding.

The analysis which accompanies the poem, and which is inserted in Italics at the beginning of each stanza, has more than one object. It saves footnotes; it is intended as a real help to comprehension; and it is an eminently Hindu device. Indeed, it was my first intention to translate literally portions of Mallinatha's famous commentary; and though this did not prove everywhere feasible, there is nothing in the analysis except matter suggested by the commentary.

One minor point calls for notice. The word Himálaya has been accented on the second syllable wherever it occurs. This accent is historically correct, and has some foothold in English usage; besides, it is more euphonious and better adapted to the needs of the metre.

FORMER CLOUD

I

_A Yaksha, or divine attendant on Kubera, god of wealth, is exiled for a year from his home in the Himalayas. As he dwells on a peak in the Vindhya range, half India separates him from his young bride_.

On Rama's shady peak where hermits roam, Mid streams by Sita's bathing sanctified, An erring Yaksha made his hapless home, Doomed by his master humbly to abide, And spend a long, long year of absence from his bride.

II

_After eight months of growing emaciation, the first cloud warns him of the approach of the rainy season, when neglected brides are wont to pine and die_.

Some months were gone; the lonely lover's pain Had loosed his golden bracelet day by day Ere he beheld the harbinger of rain, A cloud that charged the peak in mimic fray, As an elephant attacks a bank of earth in play.

III

Before this cause of lovers' hopes and fears Long time Kubera's bondman sadly bowed In meditation, choking down his tears-- Even happy hearts thrill strangely to the cloud; To him, poor wretch, the loved embrace was disallowed.

IV

_Unable to send tidings otherwise of his health and unchanging love, he resolves to make the cloud his messenger_.

Longing to save his darling's life, unblest With joyous tidings, through the rainy days, He plucked fresh blossoms for his cloudy guest, Such homage as a welcoming comrade pays, And bravely spoke brave words of greeting and of praise.

V

Nor did it pass the lovelorn Yaksha's mind How all unfitly might his message mate With a cloud, mere fire and water, smoke and wind-- Ne'er yet was lover could discriminate 'Twixt life and lifeless things, in his love-blinded state.

VI

_He prefers his request_,

I know, he said, thy far-famed princely line, Thy state, in heaven's imperial council chief, Thy changing forms; to thee, such fate is mine, I come a suppliant in my widowed grief-- Better thy lordly "no" than meaner souls' relief.

VII

O cloud, the parching spirit stirs thy pity; My bride is far, through royal wrath and might; Bring her my message to the Yaksha city, Rich-gardened Alaka, where radiance bright From Shiva's crescent bathes the palaces in light.

VIII

_hinting at the same time that the' cloud will find his kindly labour rewarded by pleasures on the road_,

When thou art risen to airy paths of heaven, Through lifted curls the wanderer's love shall peep And bless the sight of thee for comfort given; Who leaves his bride through cloudy days to weep Except he be like me, whom chains of bondage keep?

IX

_and by happy omens_.

While favouring breezes waft thee gently forth, And while upon thy left the plover sings His proud, sweet song, the cranes who know thy worth Will meet thee in the sky on joyful wings And for delights anticipated join their rings.

X

_He assures the cloud that his bride is neither dead nor faithless_;

Yet hasten, O my brother, till thou see-- Counting the days that bring the lonely smart-- The faithful wife who only lives for me: A drooping flower is woman's loving heart, Upheld by the stem of hope when two true lovers part.

XI

_further, that there will be no lack of travelling companions_.

And when they hear thy welcome thunders break, When mushrooms sprout to greet thy fertile weeks, The swans who long for the Himalayan lake Will be thy comrades to Kailasa's peaks, With juicy bits of lotus-fibre in their beaks.

XII

One last embrace upon this mount bestow Whose flanks were pressed by Rama's holy feet, Who yearly strives his love for thee to show, Warmly his well-beloved friend to greet With the tear of welcome shed when two long-parted meet.

XIII

_He then describes the long journey_,

Learn first, O cloud, the road that thou must go, Then hear my message ere thou speed away; Before thee mountains rise and rivers flow: When thou art weary, on the mountains stay, And when exhausted, drink the rivers' driven spray.

XIV

_beginning with the departure from Rama's peak, where dwells a company of Siddhas, divine beings of extraordinary sanctity_.

Elude the heavenly elephants' clumsy spite; Fly from this peak in richest jungle drest; And Siddha maids who view thy northward flight Will upward gaze in simple terror, lest The wind be carrying quite away the mountain crest.

XV

Bright as a heap of flashing gems, there shines Before thee on the ant-hill, Indra's bow; Matched with that dazzling rainbow's glittering lines, Thy sombre form shall find its beauties grow, Like the dark herdsman Vishnu, with peacock-plumes aglow.

XVI

_The Mala plateau_.

The farmers' wives on Mala's lofty lea, Though innocent of all coquettish art, Will give thee loving glances; for on thee Depends the fragrant furrow's fruitful part; Thence, barely westering, with lightened burden start.

XVII

_The Mango Peak_.

The Mango Peak whose forest fires were laid By streams of thine, will soothe thy weariness; In memory of a former service paid, Even meaner souls spurn not in time of stress A suppliant friend; a soul so lofty, much the less.

XVIII

With ripened mango-fruits his margins teem; And thou, like wetted braids, art blackness quite; When resting on the mountain, thou wilt seem Like the dark nipple on Earth's bosom white, For mating gods and goddesses a thrilling sight.

XIX

_The Reva, or Nerbudda River, foaming against the mountain side_,

His bowers are sweet to forest maidens ever; Do thou upon his crest a moment bide, Then fly, rain-quickened, to the Reva river Which gaily breaks on Vindhya's rocky side, Like painted streaks upon an elephant's dingy hide.

XX

_and flavoured with the ichor which exudes from the temples of elephants during the mating season_.

Refresh thyself from thine exhausted state With ichor-pungent drops that fragrant flow; Thou shalt not then to every wind vibrate-- Empty means ever light, and full means added weight.

XXI