Part 21

'Amazed at this story, which he could not have even in a dream imagined, Candrapida wondered: "What can be the cause of his resolve to leave all and dwell in the woods? I see no fault of my own. He shares everything with me. Has anything been said that could hurt him by my father or Çukanasa?" (517) He at length returned to Ujjayini, thinking that where Vaiçampayana was there was Kadambari also, and resolved to fetch him back. (518) He heard that the king and queen had gone to Çukanasa's house, and followed them thither. (519) There he heard Manorama lamenting the absence of the son without whose sight she could not live, and who had never before, even in his earliest years, shown neglect of her. (520) On his entrance the king thus greeted him: "I know thy great love for him. Yet when I hear thy story my heart suspects some fault of thine." But Çukanasa, his face darkened with grief and impatience, said reproachfully: "If, O king, there is heat in the moon or coolness in fire, then there may be fault in the prince. (521) Men such as Vaiçampayana are portents of destruction, (522) fire without fuel, polished mirrors that present everything the reverse way; (523) for them the base are exalted, wrong is right, and ignorance wisdom. All in them makes for evil, and not for good. Therefore Vaiçampayana has not feared thy wrath, nor thought that his mother's life depends on him, nor that he was born to be a giver of offerings for the continuance of his race. (524) Surely the birth of one so evil and demoniac was but to cause us grief." (525) To this the king replied: "Surely for such as I to admonish thee were for a lamp to give light to fire, or daylight an equal splendour to the sun. Yet the mind of the wisest is made turbid by grief as the Manasa Lake by the rainy season, and then sight is destroyed. Who is there in this world who is not changed by youth? When youth shows itself, love for elders flows away with childhood. (528) My heart grieves when I hear thee speak harshly of Vaiçampayana. Let him be brought hither. Then we can do as is fitting." (529) Çukanasa persisted in blaming his son; but Candrapida implored leave to fetch him home, and Çukanasa at length yielded. (532) Then Candrapida summoned the astrologers, and secretly bade them name the day for his departure, when asked by the king or Çukanasa, so as not to delay his departure. "The conjunction of the planets," they answered him, "is against thy going. (533) Yet a king is the determiner of time. On whatever time thy will is set, that is the time for every matter." Then they announced the morrow as the time for his departure; and he spent that day and night intent on his journey, and deeming that he already beheld Kadambari and Vaiçampayana before him.

'(534) And when the time came, Vilasavati bade him farewell in deep sorrow: "I grieved not so for thy first going as I do now. My heart is torn; my body is in torture; my mind is overwhelmed. (535) I know not why my heart so suffers. Stay not long away." He tried to console her, and then went to his father, who received him tenderly, (539) and finally dismissed him, saying: "My desire is that thou shouldst take a wife and receive the burden of royalty, so that I may enter on the path followed by royal sages; but this matter of Vaiçampayana is in the way of it, and I have misgivings that my longing is not to be fulfilled; else how could he have acted in so strange a way? Therefore, though thou must go, my son, return soon, that my heart's desire may not fail." (540) At length he started, and spent day and night on his journey in the thought of his friend and of the Gandharva world. (544) And when he had travelled far the rainy season came on, and all the workings of the storms found their counterpart in his own heart. (548) Yet he paused not on his way, nor did he heed the entreaties of his chieftains to bestow some care on himself, but rode on all day. (549) But a third part of the way remained to traverse when he beheld Meghanada, and, asking him eagerly concerning Vaiçampayana, (550) he learnt that Patralekha, sure that the rains would delay his coming, had sent Meghanada to meet him, and that the latter had not been to the Acchoda lake. (552) With redoubled grief the prince rode to the lake, and bade his followers guard it on all sides, lest Vaiçampayana should in shame flee from them; but all his search found no traces of his friend. (553) "My feet," thought he, "cannot leave this spot without him, and yet Kadambari has not been seen. Perchance Mahaçveta may know about this matter; I will at least see her." So he mounted Indrayudha, and went towards her hermitage. There dismounting, he entered; but in the entrance of the cave he beheld Mahaçveta, with difficulty supported by Taralika, weeping bitterly. (554) "May no ill," thought he, "have befallen Kadambari, that Mahaçveta should be in this state, when my coming should be a cause of joy." Eagerly and sorrowfully he questioned Taralika, but she only gazed on Mahaçveta's face. Then the latter at last spoke falteringly: "What can one so wretched tell thee? Yet the tale shall be told. When I heard from Keyuraka of thy departure, my heart was torn by the thought that the wishes of Kadambari's parents, my own longing, and the sight of Kadambari's happiness in her union with thee had not been brought about, and, cleaving even the bond of my love to her, I returned home to yet harsher penance than before. (555) Here I beheld a young Brahman, like unto thee, gazing hither and thither with vacant glance. But at the sight of me his eyes were fixed on me alone, as if, though unseen before, he recognised me, though a stranger, he had long known me, and gazing at me like one mad or possessed, he said at last: 'Fair maiden, only they who do what is fitting for their birth, age, and form escape blame in this world. Why toilest thou thus, like perverse fate, in so unmeet an employment, in that thou wastest in stern penance a body tender as a garland? (556) The toil of penance is for those who have enjoyed the pleasures of life and have lost its graces, but not for one endowed with beauty. If thou turnest from the joys of earth, in vain does Love bend his bow, or the moon rise. Moonlight and the Malaya wind serve for naught.'"

'"But I, caring for nothing since the loss of Pundarika, asked no questions about him, (557) and bade Taralika keep him away, for some evil would surely happen should he return. But in spite of being kept away, whether from the fault of love or the destiny of suffering that lay upon us, he did not give up his affection; and one night, while Taralika slept, and I was thinking of Pundarika, (559) I beheld in the moonlight, clear as day, that youth approaching like one possessed. The utmost fear seized me at the sight. 'An evil thing,' I thought, 'has befallen me. If he draw near, and but touch me with his hand, this accursed life must be destroyed; and then that endurance of it, which I accepted in the hope of again beholding Pundarika, will have been in vain.' While I thus thought he drew near, and said: 'Moon-faced maiden, the moon, Love's ally, is striving to slay me. Therefore I come to ask protection. Save me, who am without refuge, and cannot help myself, for my life is devoted to thee. (560) It is the duty of ascetics to protect those who flee to them for protection. If, then, thou deign not to bestow thyself on me, the moon and love will slay me.' At these words, in a voice choked by wrath, I exclaimed: 'Wretch, how has a thunderbolt failed to strike thy head in the utterance of these thy words? Surely the five elements that give witness of right and wrong to mortals are lacking in thy frame, in that earth and air and fire and the rest have not utterly destroyed thee. Thou hast learnt to speak like a parrot, without thought of what was right or wrong to say. Why wert thou not born as a parrot? (561) I lay on thee this fate, that thou mayest enter on a birth suited to thine own speech, and cease to make love to one such as I.' So saying, I turned towards the moon, and with raised hands prayed: 'Blessed one, lord of all, guardian of the world, if since the sight of Pundarika my heart has been free from the thought of any other man, may this false lover by the truth of this my saying, fall into the existence pronounced by me.' Then straightway, I know not how, whether from the force of love, or of his own sin, or from the power of my words, he fell lifeless, like a tree torn up by the roots. And it was not till he was dead that I learnt from his weeping attendants that he was thy friend, noble prince." Having thus said, she bent her face in shame and silently wept. But Candrapida, with fixed glance and broken voice, replied: "Lady, thou hast done thine utmost, and yet I am too ill-fated to have gained in this life the joy of honouring the feet of the lady Kadambari. Mayest thou in another life create this bliss for me." (562) With these words his tender heart broke, as if from grief at failing to win Kadambari, like a bud ready to open when pierced by a bee.

'Then Taralika burst into laments over his lifeless body and into reproaches to Mahaçveta. And as the chieftains, too, raised their cry of grief and wonder, (564) there entered, with but few followers, Kadambari herself, attired as to meet her lover, though a visit to Mahaçveta was the pretext of her coming, and while she leant on Patralekha's hand, she expressed her doubts of the prince's promised return, (565) and declared that if she again beheld him she would not speak to him, nor be reconciled either by his humility or her friend's endeavours. Such were her words; but she counted all the toil of the journey light in her longing to behold him again. But when she beheld him dead, with a sudden cry she fell to the ground. And when she recovered from her swoon, she gazed at him with fixed eyes and quivering mouth, like a creeper trembling under the blow of a keen axe, and then stood still with a firmness foreign to her woman's nature. (566) Madalekha implored her to give her grief the relief of tears, lest her heart should break, and remember that on her rested the hopes of two races. "Foolish girl," replied Kadambari, with a smile, "how should my adamantine heart break if it has not broken at this sight? These thoughts of family and friends are for one who wills to live, not for me, who have chosen death; for I have won the body of my beloved, which is life to me, and which, whether living or dead, whether by an earthly union, or by my following it in death, suffices to calm every grief. It is for my sake that my lord came hither and lost his life; how, then, could I, by shedding tears, make light of the great honour to which he has raised me? or how bring an ill-omened mourning to his departure to heaven? or how weep at the joyous moment when, like the dust of his feet, I may follow him? Now all sorrow is far away. (567) For him I neglected all other ties; and now, when he is dead, how canst thou ask me to live? In dying now lies my life, and to live would be death to me. Do thou take my place with my parents and my friends, and mayest thou be the mother of a son to offer libations of water for me when I am in another world. Thou must wed the young mango in the courtyard, dear to me as my own child, to the madhavi creeper. Let not a twig of the açoka-tree that my feet have caressed be broken, even to make an earring. Let the flowers of the malati creeper I tended be plucked only to offer to the gods. Let the picture of Kama in my room near my pillow be torn in pieces. The mango-trees I planted must be tended so that they may come to fruit. (568) Set free from the misery of their cage the maina Kalindi and the parrot Parihasa. Let the little mongoose that rested in my lap now rest in thine. Let my child, the fawn Taralaka, be given to a hermitage. Let the partridges on the pleasure-hill that grew up in my hand be kept alive. See that the hamsa that followed my steps be not killed. Let my poor ape be set free, for she is unhappy in the house. Let the pleasure-hill be given to some calm-souled hermit, and let the things I use myself be given to Brahmans. My lute thou must lovingly keep in thine own lap, and anything else that pleases thee must be thine own. But as for me, I will cling to my lord's neck, and so on the funeral pyre allay the fever which the moon, sandal, lotus-fibres, and all cool things have but increased." (569) Then she embraced Mahaçveta, saying: "Thou indeed hast some hope whereby to endure life, even though its pains be worse than death; but I have none, and so I bid thee farewell, dear friend, till we meet in another birth."

'As though she felt the joy of reunion, she honoured the feet of Candrapida with bent head, and placed them in her lap. (570) At her touch a strange bright light arose from Candrapida's body, and straightway a voice was heard in the sky: "Dear Mahaçveta, I will again console thee. The body of thy Pundarika, nourished in my world and by my light, free from death, awaits its reunion with thee. The other body, that of Candrapida, is filled with my light, and so is not subject to death, both from its own nature, and because it is nourished by the touch of Kadambari; it has been deserted by the soul by reason of a curse, like the body of a mystic whose spirit has passed into another form. Let it rest here to console thee and Kadambari till the curse be ended. Let it not be burnt, nor cast into water, nor deserted. It must be kept with all care till its reunion."

'All but Patralekha were astounded at this saying, and fixed their gaze on the sky; but she, recovering, at the cool touch of that light, from the swoon brought on by seeing the death of Candrapida, rose, hastily seizing Indrayudha from his groom, saying: "However it may be for us, thou must not for a moment leave thy master to go alone without a steed on his long journey;" and plunged, together with Indrayudha, into the Acchoda Lake. (571) Straightway there rose from the lake a young ascetic, and approaching Mahaçveta, said mournfully: "Princess of the Gandharvas, knowest thou me, now that I have passed through another birth?" Divided between joy and grief, she paid homage to his feet, and replied: "Blessed Kapiñjala, am I so devoid of virtue that I could forget thee? And yet this thought of me is natural, since I am so strangely ignorant of myself and deluded by madness that when my lord Pundarika is gone to heaven I yet live. (572) Tell me of Pundarika." He then recalled how he had flown into the sky in pursuit of the being who carried off Pundarika, and passing by the wondering gods in their heavenly cars, he had reached the world of the moon. "Then that being," he continued, "placed Pundarika's body on a couch in the hall called Mahodaya, and said: 'Know me to be the moon! (573) When I was rising to help the world I was cursed by thy friend, because my beams were slaying him before he could meet his beloved; and he prayed that I, too, might die in the land of Bharata, the home of all sacred rites, knowing myself the pains of love. But I, wrathful at being cursed for what was his own fault, uttered the curse that he should endure the same lot of joy or sorrow as myself. When, however, my anger passed away, I understood what had happened about Mahaçveta. Now, she is sprung from the race that had its origin in my beams, and she chose him for her lord. Yet he and I must both be born twice in the world of mortals, else the due order of births will not be fulfilled. I have therefore carried the body hither, and I nourish it with my light lest it should perish before the curse is ended, and I have comforted Mahaçveta. (574) Tell the whole matter to Pundarika's father. His spiritual power is great, and he may find a remedy.' And I, rushing away in grief, leapt off another rider in a heavenly chariot, and in wrath he said to me: 'Since in the wide path of heaven thou hast leapt over me like a horse in its wild course, do thou become a horse, and descend into the world of mortals.' To my tearful assurance that I had leapt over him in the blindness of grief, and not from contempt, he replied: 'The curse, once uttered, cannot be recalled. But when thy rider shall die, thou shalt bathe and be freed from the curse.' Then I implored him that as my friend was about to be born with the moon-god, in the world of mortals, I might, as a horse, constantly dwell with him. (575) Softened by my affection, he told me that the moon would be born as a son to King Tarapida at Ujjayini, Pundarika would be the son of his minister, Çukanasa, and that I should be the prince's steed. Straightway I plunged into the ocean, and rose as a horse, but yet lost not consciousness of the past. I it was who purposely brought Candrapida hither in pursuit of the kinnaras. And he who sought thee by reason of the love implanted in a former birth, and was consumed by a curse in thine ignorance, was my friend Pundarika come down to earth."

'Then Mahaçveta beat her breast with a bitter cry, saying: "Thou didst keep thy love for me through another birth, Pundarika; I was all the world to thee; and yet, like a demon, born for thy destruction even in a fresh life, I have received length of years but to slay thee again and again. (576) Even in thee, methinks, coldness must now have sprung up towards one so ill-fated, in that thou answerest not my laments;" and she flung herself on the ground. But Kapiñjala pityingly replied: "Thou art blameless, princess, and joy is at hand. Grieve not, therefore, but pursue the penance undertaken by thee; for to perfect penance naught is impossible, and by the power of thine austerities thou shalt soon be in the arms of my friend."

'(577) Then Kadambari asked Kapiñjala what had become of Patralekha when she plunged with him into the tank. But he knew naught of what had happened since then, either to her, or his friend, or Candrapida, and rose to the sky to ask the sage Çvetaketu, Pundarika's father, to whom everything in the three worlds was visible.

'(577-578) Then Mahaçveta counselled Kadambari, whose love to her was drawn the closer from the likeness of her sorrow, that she should spend her life in ministering to the body of Candrapida, nothing doubting that while others, to gain good, worshipped shapes of wood and stone that were but images of invisible gods, she ought to worship the present deity, veiled under the name of Candrapida. Laying his body tenderly on a rock, Kadambari put off the adornments with which she had come to meet her lover, keeping but one bracelet as a happy omen. She bathed, put on two white robes, rubbed off the deep stain of betel from her lips, (579) and the very flowers, incense, and unguents she had brought to grace a happy love she now offered to Candrapida in the worship due to a god. That day and night she spent motionless, holding the feet of the prince, and on the morrow she joyfully saw that his brightness was unchanged, (581) and gladdened her friends and the prince's followers by the tidings. (582) The next day she sent Madalekha to console her parents, and they sent back an assurance that they had never thought to see her wed, and that now they rejoiced that she had chosen for her husband the incarnation of the moon-god himself. They hoped, when the curse was over, to behold again her lotus-face in the company of their son-in-law. (583) So comforted, Kadambari remained to tend and worship the prince's body. Now, when the rainy season was over, Meghanada came to Kadambari, and told her that messengers had been sent by Tarapida to ask the cause of the prince's delay, (584) and that he, to spare her grief, had told them the whole story, and bade them hasten to tell all to the king. They, however, had replied that this might doubtless be so; yet, to say nothing of their hereditary love for the prince, the desire to see so great a marvel urged them to ask to be allowed to behold him; their long service deserved the favour; and what would the king say if they failed to see Candrapida's body? (585) Sorrowfully picturing to herself what the grief of Tarapida would be, Kadambari admitted the messengers, (586) and as they tearfully prostrated themselves, she consoled them, saying that this was a cause for joy rather than sorrow. "Ye have seen the prince's face, and his body free from change; therefore hasten to the king's feet. Yet do not spread abroad this story, but say that ye have seen the prince, and that he tarries by the Acchoda Lake. For death must come to all, and is easily believed; but this event, even when seen, can scarce win faith. It profits not now, therefore, by telling this to his parents, to create in them a suspicion of his death; but when he comes to life again, this wondrous tale will become clear to them." (587) But they replied: "Then we must either not return or keep silence. But neither course is possible; nor could we so greet the sorrowing king." She therefore sent Candrapida's servant Tvaritaka with them, to give credit to the story, for the prince's royal retinue had all taken a vow to live there, eating only roots and fruits, and not to return till the prince himself should do so.