The Kādambarī of Bāṇa

‘“Straightway the sun began to sink, as if he were leaving the day’s duties from grief at hearing Mahāçvetā’s story. Then day faded away; the sun hung shining red as the pollen of a cluster of priyangu in full blossom; the quarters of space were losing the glow of sunset soft as silk dyed in the juice of many lotuses; (343) the sky was tinged with red, glowing like the pupils of a partridge,290 while its blue was hidden; twilight was reddening and lighting up the earth, tawny as a pigeon’s eye; the clusters of stars shone forth, vying with each other; the darkness of night was deepening into black, and stealing away the broad path of the stars with its form dark as a forest buffalo; the woodland avenues seemed massed together as their green was hidden by deep gloom; the wind wandered cooled by night-dew, with its path tracked by the perfume of the wild flowers as it stirred the tangle of trees and creepers; and when night had its birds all still in sleep Mahāçvetā slowly rose, and saying her evening prayers, washed her feet with water from the pitcher and sat down with a hot, sorrowful sigh on her bark couch. Candrāpīḍa, too, rose and poured a libation of water strewn with flowers, said his evening prayer, and made a couch on the other rock with soft creeper boughs. As he rested upon it he went over Mahāçvetā’s story again in his mind. ‘This evil Love,’ thought he, ‘has a power hard alike to cure and to endure. For even great men, when overcome by him, regard not the course of time, but suddenly lose all courage and surrender life. Yet all hail to Love, whose rule is honoured throughout the three worlds!’ (344) And again he asked her: ‘She that was thy handmaiden, thy friend in the resolve to dwell in the woods, and the sharer of the ascetic vow taken in thy sorrow – Taralikā, where is she?’ ‘Noble sir,’ she replied, ‘from the race of Apsarases sprung from ambrosia of which I told you, there was born a fair-eyed daughter named Madirā,291 who married King Citraratha, the king whose footstool was formed of the buds in the crests of all the Gandharvas. Charmed by her countless virtues, he showed his favour by giving her the title of Chief Queen, bearing with it cowrie, sceptre and umbrella, marked by a golden throne, and placing all the zenana below her – a woman’s rarest glory! And, as they pursued together the joys of youth in their utter devotion to each other, a priceless daughter was in due time born to them, by name Kādambarī, most wondrous, the very life of her parents, and of the whole Gandharva race, and even of all living beings. From her birth she was the friend of my childhood, and shared with me seat, couch, meat and drink; on her my deepest love was set, and she was the home of all my confidence, and like my other heart. Together we learnt to dance and sing, and our childhood passed away free from restraint in the sports that belong to it. (345) From sorrow at my unhappy story she made a resolve that she would in nowise accept a husband while I was still in grief, and before her girl friends she took an oath, saying: “If my father should in anywise or at any time wish to marry me against my will and by force, I will end my life by hunger, fire, cord, or poison.” Citraratha himself heard all the resolution of his daughter, spoken of positively in the repeated gossip of her attendants, and as time went on, seeing that she was growing to full youth, he became prey to great vexation, and for a time took pleasure in nothing, and yet, as she was his only child and he dearly loved her, he could say nothing to her, though he saw no other resource. But as he deemed the time now ripe, he considered the matter with Queen Madirā, and sent the herald Kshīroda to me at early dawn with the message: “Dear Mahāçvetā, our hearts were already burnt up by thy sad fate, and now this new thing has come upon us. To thee we look to win back Kādambarī.” Thereupon, in reverence to the words of one so respected, and in love to my friend, I sent Taralikā with Kshīroda to bid Kādambarī not add grief to one already sad enough; (346) for if she wished me to live she must fulfil her father’s words; and ere Taralikā had been long gone, thou, noble sir, camest to this spot.’ So saying she was silent.

‘“Then the moon arose, simulating by his mark the heart of Mahāçvetā, burnt through by the fire of grief, bearing the great crime of the young ascetic’s death, showing the long ingrained scar of the burning of Daksha’s curse,292 white with thick ashes, and half covered by black antelope skin, like the left breast of Durgā, the crest-jewel of Çiva’s thick locks. (347) Then at length Candrāpīḍa beheld Mahāçvetā asleep, and quietly lay down himself on his leafy couch and fell asleep while thinking what Vaiçampāyana and sorrowing Patralekhā and his princely compeers would then be imagining about him.

‘“Then at dawn, when Mahāçvetā had honoured the twilight and was murmuring the aghamarshaṇa, and Candrāpīḍa had said his morning prayer, Taralikā was seen coming with a Gandharva boy named Keyūraka (348). As she drew near, she looked long at Candrāpīḍa, wondering who he might be, and approaching Mahāçvetā, she bowed low and sat respectfully by her. Then Keyūraka, with head low bent even from afar, took his place on a rock some way off, assigned to him by a glance from Mahāçvetā, and was filled with wonder at the sight of Candrāpīḍa’s marvellous beauty, rare, mocking that of gods, demons, Gandharvas, and Vidyādharas, and surpassing even the god of love.

(349) ‘“When she had finished her prayers, Mahāçvetā asked Taralikā, ‘Didst thou see my dear Kādambarī well? and will she do as I said?’ ‘Princess,’ said Taralikā, in a very sweet voice, with head respectfully inclined, ‘I saw Princess Kādambarī well in all respects, and told her all thine advice; and what was her reply, when with a continuous stream of thick tears she had heard it, that her lute-player Keyūraka, whom she has sent, shall tell thee;’ and as she ceased Keyūraka said, ‘Princess Mahāçvetā, my lady Kādambarī, with a close embrace, sends this message, “Is this, that Taralikā has been sent to tell me, said to please my parents or to test my feelings, or to subtly reproach me for my crime in dwelling at home; or is it a desire to break our friendship, or a device to desert one who loves her, or is it simply anger? Thou knowest that my heart overflows with a love that was inborn in me. How wert thou not ashamed to send so cruel a message? Thou, erst so soft of speech, from whom hast thou learnt to speak unkindness and utter reproach? Who in his senses would, even if happy, make up his mind to undertake even a slight matter that would end in pain? how much less one like me, whose heart is struck down by deep grief? For in a heart worn by a friend’s sorrow, what hope is there of joy, what contentment, what pleasures or what mirth? (350) How should I fulfil the desire of Love, poisonous, pitiless, unkind, who has brought my dear friend to so sad a plight? Even the hen cakravāka, when the lotus-beds are widowed by the sun’s setting, renounces from the friendship that arises from dwelling among them, the joys of union with her lord; how much more, then, should women! While my friend dwells day and night sorrowing for the loss of her lord and avoiding the sight of mankind, how could anyone else enter my heart; and while my friend in her sorrow tortures herself with penances and suffers great pain, how could I think so lightly of that as to seek my own happiness and accept a husband, or how could any happiness befall me? For from love of thee I have in this matter accepted disgrace by embracing an independent life contrary to the wont of maidens. I have despised noble breeding, transgressed my parent’s commands, set at nought the gossip of mankind, thrown away modesty, a woman’s inborn grace; how, tell me, should such a one go back? Therefore I salute thee, I bow before thee, I embrace thy feet; be gracious to me. As thou hast gone hence into the forest, taking my life with thee, make not this request in thy mind, even in a dream.”’ (351) Thus having said, he became silent, and Mahāçvetā thought long, and then dismissed Keyūraka, saying, ‘Do thou depart; I will go to her and do what is fitting.’ On his departure she said to Candrāpīḍa, ‘Prince, Hemakūṭa is pleasant and the royal city of Citraratha marvellous; the Kinnara country is curious, the Gandharva world beautiful, and Kādambarī is noble and generous of heart. If thou deemest not the journey too tedious, if no serious business is hindered, if thy mind is curious to behold rare sights, if thou art encouraged by my words, if the sight of wonders gives thee joy, if thou wilt deign to grant my request, if thou thinkest me worthy of not being denied, if any friendship has grown up between us, or if I am deserving of thy favour, then thou canst not disdain to fulfil this prayer. Thou canst go hence with me, and see not only Hemakūṭa, that treasure of beauty, but my second self, Kādambarī; and having removed this foolish freak of hers, thou canst rest for one day, and return hither the next morn. For by the sight of thy kindness so freely293 given, my grief has become bearable, since I have told thee my story, breathed out as it was from a heart long overwhelmed with the darkness of grief. (352) For the presence of the good gives joy even to those who are sad at heart, and a virtue springs from such as thou art that wholly tends to make others happy.’

‘“‘Lady,’ replied Candrāpīḍa, ‘from the first moment of seeing thee I have been devoted to thy service. Let thy will be imposed without hesitation’; so saying, he started in her company.

‘“In due time he reached Hemakūṭa, the royal city of the Gandharvas, and passing through the seven inner courts with their golden arches, the prince approached the door of the maidens’ dwelling. Escorted by porters, who ran forward at the sight of Mahāçvetā, bowing while yet far off, and holding their golden staves, he entered and beheld the inside of the maidens’ palace. It seemed a new woman’s world, consisting wholly of women in countless numbers, as if the womankind of the three worlds had been gathered together to make such a total; or it might be a fresh manless creation, a yet unborn continent of girls, a fifth women’s era, a fresh race created by Prajāpati out of hatred for men, or a treasury of women prepared for the making of many yugas. The wave of girlish beauty which surrounded it on all sides, which flooded space, sprinkled nectar on the day, rained splendour on the interstices of the world, and shone lustrous as an emerald, made the place all aglow as if with thousands of moons; (353) it seemed modelled in moonlight; jewels made another sky; service was done by bright glances; every part was made for youthful pleasures; here was an assemblage for Rati’s sports, a material for Love’s practice; here the entrance of all was made smooth by Love; here all was affection, beauty, the supreme deity of passion, the arrows of Love, here all was wonder, marvel, and tenderness of youth. (356) When he had gone a little way in he heard the pleasant talk of the maidens round Kādambarī as they wandered hither and thither. Such as ‘Lavalikā, deck the lavalī trenches with ketakī pollen. Sāgarikā, sprinkle jewelled dust in the tanks of scented water. Mṛiṇālikā, inlay with saffron dust the pairs of toy294 cakravākas in the artificial lotus-beds. Makarikā, scent the pot-pourri with camphor-juice. Rajanikā, place jewelled lamps in the dark tamāla avenues. Kumudikā, cover the pomegranates with pearly nets to keep off the birds. Nipuṇikā, draw saffron lines on the breasts of the jewelled dolls. Utpalikā, sweep with golden brooms the emerald arbour in the plaintain house. Kesarikā, sprinkle with wine the houses of bakul flowers. Mālatikā, redden with red lead the ivory roof of Kāma’s shrine. Nalinikā, give the tame kalahaṃsas lotus-honey to drink. Kadalikā, take the tame peacocks to the shower-bath. Kamalinikā, give some sap from the lotus-fibres to the young cakravākas. Cūtalatikā, give the caged pigeons their meal of mango-buds. Pallavikā, distribute to the tame haritāla pigeons some topmost leaves of the pepper-tree. Lavaṅgikā, throw some pieces of pippalī leaves into the partridges’ cages. Madhukarikā, make some flowery ornaments. Mayūrikā, dismiss the pairs of kinnaras in the singing-room. Kandalikā, bring up the pairs of partridges to the top of the playing hill. Hariṇikā, give the caged parrots and mainas their lesson.’

(358) ‘“Then he beheld Kādambarī herself in the midst of her pavilion encircled by a bevy of maidens sitting by her, whose glittering gems made them like a cluster of kalpa trees.295 (359) She was resting on her bent arms, which lay on a white pillow placed on a small couch covered with blue silk; she was fanned by cowrie-bearers, that in the motion of their waving arms were like swimmers in the wide-flowing stream of her beauty, as if it covered the earth, which was only held up by the tusks of Mahāvarāha.

‘“And as her reflection fell, she seemed on the jewelled pavement below to be borne away by serpents; on the walls hard by to be led by the guardians of space; on the roof above to be cast upwards by the gods; to be received by the pillars into their inmost heart; to be drunk in by the palace mirrors, to be lifted to the sky by the Vidyādharas scattered in the pavilion, looking down from the roof; to be surrounded by the universe concealed in the guise of pictures, all thronging together to see her; to be gazed at by the palace itself, which had gained a thousand eyes to behold her, in that the eyes of its peacocks’ tails were outspread as they danced to the clashing of her gems; and to be steadily looked on by her own attendants, who seemed in their eagerness to behold her to have gained a divine insight.

‘“Her beauty bore the impress of awakening love, though but yet in promise, and she seemed to be casting childhood aside like a thing of no worth.

(365) ‘“Such was Kādambarī as the prince beheld her. Before her was seated Keyūraka, loud in praise of Candrāpīḍa’s beauty, as Kādambarī questioned him, saying, ‘Who is he, and what are his parentage, name, appearance, and age? What did he say, and what didst thou reply? How long didst thou see him? how has he become so close a friend to Mahāçvetā? and why is he coming hither?’

‘“Now, on beholding the moonlike beauty of Kādambarī’s face, the prince’s heart was stirred like the tide of ocean. ‘Why,’ thought he, ‘did not the Creator make all my senses into sight, or what noble deed has my eye done that it may look on her unchecked? Surely it is a wonder! The Creator has here made a home for every charm! Whence have the parts of this exceeding beauty been gathered? Surely from the tears that fell from the Creator’s eyes in the labour of thought, as he gently moulded her with his hands, all the lotuses in the world have their birth.’

(366) ‘“And as he thus thought his eye met hers, and she, thinking, ‘This is he of whom Keyūraka spoke,’ let her glance, widened by wonder at his exceeding beauty, dwell long and quietly on him. Confused by the sight of Kādambarī, yet illumined by the brightness of her gaze, he stood for a moment like a rock, while at the sight of him a thrill rose in Kādambarī, her jewels clashed, and she half rose. Then love caused a glow, but the excuse was the effort of hastily rising; trembling hindered her steps – the haṃsas around, drawn by the sound of the anklets, got the blame; the heaving of a sigh stirred her robe – it was thought due to the wind of the cowries; her hand fell on her heart, as if to touch Candrāpīḍa’s image that had entered in – it pretended to cover her bosom; she let fall tears of joy – the excuse was the pollen falling from the flowers in her ear. Shame choked her voice – the swarm of bees hastening to the lotus sweetness of her mouth was the cause; (367) the pain of the first touch of Love’s arrow caused a sigh – the pain of the ketakī thorns amidst the flowers shared the guilt; a tremor shook her hand – keeping off the portress who had come with a message was her pretence; and while love was thus entering into Kādambarī, a second love, as it were, arose, who with her entered the heart of Candrāpīḍa. For he thought the flash of her jewels but a veil, her entrance into his heart a favour, the tinkling of her gems a conversation, her capture of all his senses a grace, and contact with her bright beauty the fulfilment of all his wishes. Meanwhile Kādambarī, advancing with difficulty a few steps, affectionately and with yearning embraced her friend, who also yearned for the sight of her so long delayed; and Mahāçvetā returned her embrace yet more closely, and said, ‘Dear Kādambarī, in the land of Bharata there is a king named Tārāpīḍa, who wards off all grief296 from his subjects, and who has impressed his seal on the Four Oceans by the edge of the hoofs of his noble steeds; and this his son, named Candrāpīḍa, decked297 with the orb of earth resting on the support of his own rock-like arms, has, in pursuit of world conquest, approached this land; and he, from the moment I first beheld him, has instinctively become my friend, though there was nought to make him so; and, though my heart was cold from its resignation of all ties, yet he has attracted it by the rare and innate nobility of his character. (368) For it is rare to find a man of keen mind who is at once true of heart, unselfish in friendship, and wholly swayed by courtesy. Wherefore, having beheld him, I brought him hither by force. For I thought thou shouldst behold as I have done a wonder of Brahmā’s workmanship, a peerless owner of beauty, a supplanter of Lakshmī, earth’s joy in a noble lord, the surpassing of gods by mortals, the full fruition of woman’s eyes, the only meeting-place of all graces, the empire of nobility, and the mirror of courtesy for men. And my dear friend has often been spoken of to him by me. Therefore dismiss shame on the ground of his being unseen before, lay aside diffidence as to his being a stranger, cast away suspicion rising from his character being unknown, and behave to him as to me. He is thy friend, thy kinsman, and thy servant.’ At these words of hers Candrāpīḍa bowed low before Kādambarī, and as she glanced sideways at him affectionately there fell from her eyes, with their beautiful pupils turned towards the corner of their long orbs, a flood of joyous tears, as though from weariness. The moonlight of a smile, white as nectar, darted forth, as if it were the dust raised by the heart as it hastily set out; one eyebrow was raised as if to bid the head honour with an answering reverence the guest so dear to the heart; (369) her hand crept to her softly parting lips, and might seem, as the light of an emerald ring flashed between the fingers, to have taken some betel. She bowed diffidently, and then sat down on the couch with Mahāçvetā, and the attendants quickly brought a stool with gold feet and a covering of white silk, and placed it near the couch, and Candrāpīḍa took his seat thereon. To please Mahāçvetā, the portresses, knowing Kādambarī’s wishes, and having by a hand placed on closed lips received an order to stop all sounds, checked on every side the sound of pipe, lute and song, and the Magadha women’s cry of ‘All hail!’ (370) When the servants had quickly brought water, Kādambarī herself washed Mahāçvetā’s feet, and, drying them with her robe, sat on the couch again; and Madalekhā, a friend worthy of Kādambarī, dear as her own life and the home of all her confidence, insisted on washing Candrāpīḍa’s feet, unwilling though he were. Mahāçvetā meanwhile asked Kādambarī how she was, and lovingly touched with her hand the corner of her friend’s eyes, which shone with the reflected light of her earrings; she lifted the flowers in Kādambarī’s ear, all covered with bees, and softly stroked the coils of her hair, roughened by the wind of the cowries. And Kādambarī, ashamed, from love to her friend, of her own well-being, as though feeling that in still dwelling at home she had committed a crime, said with an effort that all was well with her. Then, though filled with grief and intent on gazing at Mahāçvetā’s face, yet her eye, with its pupil dark and quivering as it looked out sideways, was, under the influence of love, with bow fully bent, irresistibly drawn by Candrāpīḍa’s face, and she could not turn it away. At that same moment she felt jealousy298 of his being pictured on the cheek of her friend standing near – the pain of absence as his reflection faded away on her own breast, pierced by a thrill – the anger of a rival wife as the image of the statues fell on him – the sorrow of despair as he closed his eyes, and blindness as his image was veiled by tears of joy.

(371) ‘“At the end of a moment Mahāçvetā said to Kādambarī as she was intent on giving betel: ‘Dear Kādambarī, the moment has approached for us to show honour to our newly arrived guest, Candrāpīḍa. Therefore give him some.’ But averting her bent face, Kādambarī replied slowly and indistinctly, ‘Dear friend, I am ashamed to do so, for I do not know him. Do thou take it, for thou canst without the forwardness there would be in me, and give it him’; and it was only after many persuasions, that with difficulty, and like a village maiden, she resolved to give it. Her eyes were never drawn from Mahāçvetā’s face, her limbs trembled, her glance wavered, she sighed deeply, she was stunned by Love with his shaft, and she seemed a prey to terror as she stretched forth her hand, holding the betel as if trying to cling to something under the idea she was falling. The hand Candrāpīḍa stretched out, by nature pink, as if red lead had fallen upon it from the flapping of his triumphal elephant, was darkened by the scars of the bowstring, and seemed to have drops of collyrium clinging to it from touching the eyes of his enemies’ Lakshmī, weeping as he drew her by the hair; (372) its fingers by the forth-flashing rays of his nails seemed to run up hastily, to grow long and to laugh, and the hand seemed to raise five other fingers in the five senses that, in desire to touch her, had just made their entry full of love. Then contending feelings299 took possession of Kādambarī as if they had gathered together in curiosity to see the grace at that moment so easy of access. Her hand, as she did not look whither it was going, was stretched vainly forth, and the rays of its nails seemed to hasten forward to seek Candrāpīḍa’s hand; and with the murmur of the line of bracelets stirred by her trembling, it seemed to say, as drops of moisture arose on it, ‘Let this slave offered by Love be accepted,’300 as if she were offering herself, and ‘Henceforth it is in thy hand,’ as if she were making it into a living being, and so she gave the betel. And in drawing back her hand she did not notice the fall of her bracelet, which had slipped down her arm in eagerness to touch him, like her heart pierced by Love’s shaft; and taking another piece of betel, she gave it to Mahāçvetā.

(373) ‘“Then there came up with hasty steps a maina, a very flower, in that her feet were yellow as lotus filaments, her beak was like a campak bud, and her wings blue as a lotus petal. Close behind her came a parrot, slow in gait, emerald-winged, with a beak like coral and neck bearing a curved, three-rayed rainbow. Angrily the maina began: ‘Princess Kādambarī, why dost thou not restrain this wretched, ill-mannered, conceited bird from following me? If thou overlookest my being oppressed by him, I will certainly destroy myself. I swear it truly by thy lotus feet.’ At these words Kādambarī smiled; but Mahāçvetā, not knowing the story, asked Madalekhā what she was saying, and she told the following tale: ‘This maina, Kālindī, is a friend of Princess Kādambarī, and was given by her solemnly in marriage to Parihāsa, the parrot. And to-day, ever since she saw him reciting something at early dawn to Kādambarī’s betel-bearer, Tamālikā, alone, she has been filled with jealousy, and in frowardness of wrath will not go near him, or speak, or touch, or look at him; and though we have all tried to soothe her, she will not be soothed.’ (374) Thereat a smile spread over Candrāpīḍa’s face, and he softly laughed and said, ‘This is the course of gossip. It is heard in the court; by a succession of ears the attendants pass it on; the outside world repeats it; the tale wanders to the ends of the earth, and we too hear how this parrot Parihāsa has fallen in love with Princess Kādambarī’s betel-bearer, and, enslaved by love, knows nothing of the past. Away with this ill-behaved, shameless deserter of his wife, and away with her too! But is it fitting in the Princess not to restrain her giddy slave? Perhaps her cruelty, however, was shown at the first in giving poor Kālindī to this ill-conducted bird. What can she do now? For women feel that a shared wifehood is the bitterest matter for indignation, the chief cause for estrangement, and the greatest possible insult. Kālindī has been only too patient that in the aversion caused by this weight of grief she has not slain herself by poison, fire, or famine. For nothing makes a woman more despised; and if, after such a crime, she is willing to be reconciled and to live with him again, shame on her! enough of her! let her be banished and cast out in scorn! Who will speak to her or look at her again, and who will mention her name?’ A laugh arose among Kādambarī’s women as they heard301 his mirthful words. (375) But Parihāsa, hearing his jesting speech, said: ‘Cunning Prince, she is clever. Unsteady as she is, she is not to be taken in by thee or anyone else. She knows all these crooked speeches. She understands a jest. Her mind is sharpened by contact with a court. Cease thy jests. She is no subject for the talk of bold men. For, soft of speech as she is, she knows well the time, cause, measure, object, and topic for wrath and for peace.’ Meanwhile, a herald came up and said to Mahāçvetā: ‘Princess, King Citraratha and Queen Madirā send to see thee,’ and she, eager to go, asked Kādambarī, ‘Friend, where should Candrāpīḍa stay?’ The latter, inwardly smiling at the thought that he had already found a place in the heart of thousands of women, said aloud, ‘Dear Mahāçvetā, why speak thus? Since I beheld him I have not been mistress of myself, far less than of my palace and my servants. Let him stay wherever it pleases him and my dear friend’s heart.’ Thereon Mahāçvetā replied, “Let him stay in the jewelled house on the playing hill of the royal garden near thy palace,’ and went to see the king.