The Kādambarī of Bāṇa

Having told this tale,351 the sage Jābāli said with a scornful smile to his son Hārīta and the other ascetics: ‘Ye have seen how this story has had power to hold us long, and to charm our hearts. And this is the love-stricken being who by his own fault fell from heaven, and became on earth Vaiçampāyana, son of Çukanāsa. He it is who, by the curse of his own wrathful father, and by Mahāçvetā’s appeal to the truth of her heart, has been born as a parrot.’ (612) As he thus spoke, I awoke, as it were, out of sleep, and, young as I was, I had on the tip of my tongue all the knowledge gained in a former birth; I became skilled in all arts; I had a clear human voice, memory, and all but the shape of a man. My affection for the prince, my uncontrolled passion, my devotion to Mahāçvetā, all returned. A yearning arose in me to know about them and my other friends, and though in deepest shame, I faintly asked Jābāli: ‘Now, blessed saint, that thou hast brought back my knowledge, my heart breaks for the prince who died in grief for my death. (613) Vouchsafe to tell me of him, so that I may be near him; even my birth as an animal will not grieve me.’ With mingled scorn and pity he replied: ‘Wilt thou not even now restrain thine old impatience? Ask, when thy wings are grown.’ Then to his son’s inquiry how one of saintly race should be so enslaved by love, he replied that this weak and unrestrained nature belonged to those born, like me, from a mother only. For the Veda says, ‘As a man’s parents are, so is he,’ (614) and medical science, too, declares their weakness. And he said my life now would be but short, but that when the curse was over, I should win length of years. I humbly asked by what sacrifices I should gain a longer life, but he bade me wait, and as the whole night had passed unobserved in his story, (615) he sent the ascetics to offer the morning oblation, while Hārīta took me, and placed me in his own hut near his couch, and went to his morning duties. (616) During his absence, I sorrowfully thought how hard it would be to rise from being a bird to being a Brahman, not to say a saint, who has the bliss of heaven. Yet if I could not be united to those I loved in past lives why should I yet live? But Hārīta then returned, and told me that Kapiñjala was there. (617–618) When I saw him weary, yet loving as ever, I strove to fly to him, and he, lifting me up, placed me in his bosom, and then on his head. (619) Then he told me, ‘Thy father Çvetaketu knew by divine insight of thy plight, and has begun a rite to help thee. As he began it I was set free from my horse’s shape; (620) but he kept me till Jābāli had recalled the past to thee, and now sends me to give thee his blessing, and say that thy mother Lakshmī is also helping in the rite.’ (621) Then, bidding me stay in the hermitage, he rose to the sky, to take part in the rite. (622) After some days, however, my wings were grown, and I resolved to fly to Mahāçvetā, so I set off towards the north; (623) but weariness soon overtook me, and I went to sleep in a tree, only to wake in the snare of a terrible Caṇḍāla. (624) I besought him to free me, for I was on the way to my beloved, but he said he had captured me for the young Caṇḍāla princess, who had heard of my gifts. With horror I heard that I, the son of Lakshmī and of a great saint, must dwell with a tribe shunned even by barbarians; (625) but when I urged that he could set me free without danger, for none would see him, he laughed, and replied: ‘He, for whom there exist not the five guardians of the world,352 witnesses of right and wrong, dwelling within his own body to behold his actions, will not do his duty for fear of any other being.’ (626) So he carried me off, and as I looked out in hope of getting free from him, I beheld the barbarian settlement, a very market-place of evil deeds. It was surrounded on all sides by boys engaged in the chase, unleashing their hounds, teaching their falcons, mending snares, carrying weapons, and fishing, horrible in their attire, like demoniacs. Here and there the entrance to their dwellings, hidden by thick bamboo forests, was to be inferred, from the rising of smoke of orpiment. On all sides the enclosures were made with skulls; (627) the dustheaps in the roads were filled with bones; the yards of the huts were miry with blood, fat, and meat chopped up. The life there consisted of hunting; the food, of flesh; the ointment, of fat; the garments, of coarse silk; the couches, of dried skins; the household attendants, of dogs; the animals for riding, of cows; the men’s employment, of wine and women; the oblation to the gods, of blood; the sacrifice, of cattle. The place was the image of all hells. (628) Then the man brought me to the Caṇḍāla maiden, who received me gladly, and placed me in a cage, saying: ‘I will take from thee all thy wilfulness.’ What was I to do? Were I to pray her to release me, it was my power of speech that had made her desire me; were I silent, anger might make her cruel; (629) still, it was my want of self-restraint that had caused all my misery, and so I resolved to restrain all my senses, and I therefore kept entire silence and refused all food.

Next day, however, the maiden brought fruits and water, and when I did not touch them she said tenderly: ‘It is unnatural for birds and beasts to refuse food when hungry. If thou, mindful of a former birth, makest distinction of what may or may not be eaten, yet thou art now born as an animal, and canst keep no such distinction. (630) There is no sin in acting in accordance with the state to which thy past deeds have brought thee. Nay, even for those who have a law concerning food, it is lawful, in a time of distress, to eat food not meet for them, in order to preserve life. Much more, then, for thee. Nor needst thou fear this food as coming from our caste; for fruit may be accepted even from us; and water, even from our vessels, is pure, so men say, when it falls on the ground.’ I, wondering at her wisdom, partook of food, but still kept silence.

‘After some time, when I had grown up, I woke one day to find myself in this golden cage, and beheld the Caṇḍāla maiden as thou, O king, hast seen her. (631) The whole barbarian settlement shewed like a city of the gods, and before I could ask what it all meant, the maiden brought me to thy feet. But who she is and why she has become a Caṇḍāla, and why I am bound or brought hither, I am as eager as thou, O king, to learn.’

Thereupon the king, in great amazement, sent for the maiden, and she, entering, overawed the king with her majesty, and said with dignity: ‘Thou gem of earth, lord of Rohiṇī, joy of Kādambarī’s eyes – thou, O moon, hast heard the story of thy past birth, and that of this foolish being. Thou knowest from him how even in this birth he disregarded his father’s command, and set off to seek his bride. Now I am Lakshmī, his mother, and his father, seeing by divine insight that he had started, bade me keep him in safety till the religious rite for him was completed, and lead him to repentance. (632) The rite is now over. The end of the curse is at hand. I brought him to thee that thou mightest rejoice with him thereat. I became a Caṇḍāla to avoid contact with mankind. Do ye both therefore, straightway leave bodies beset with the ills of birth, old age, pain, and death, and win the joy of union with your beloved.’ So saying, she suddenly rose to the sky, followed by the gaze of all the people, while the firmament rang with her tinkling anklets. The king, at her words, remembered his former birth and said: ‘Dear Puṇḍarīka, now called Vaiçampāyana, happy is it that the curse comes to an end at the same moment for us both’; but while he spoke, Love drew his bow, taking Kādambarī as his best weapon, and entered into the king’s heart to destroy his life. (635) The flame of love wholly consumed him, and from longing for Mahāçvetā, Vaiçampāyana, who was in truth Puṇḍarīka, endured the same sufferings as the king.

Now at this time there set in the fragrant season of spring, as if to burn him utterly, (636) and while it intoxicated all living beings, it was used by Love as his strongest shaft to bewilder the heart of Kādambarī. On Kāma’s festival she passed the day with great difficulty, and at twilight, when the quarters were growing dark, she bathed, worshipped Kāma, and placed before him the body of Candrāpīḍa, washed, anointed with musk-scented sandal, and decked with flowers. (637) Filled with a deep longing, she drew nigh, as if unconsciously and suddenly, bereft by love of a woman’s native timidity, she could no longer restrain herself, and clasped Candrāpīḍa’s neck as though he were yet alive. At her ambrosial embrace the prince’s life came back to him, and, clasping her closely, like one awakened from sleep (638), he gladdened her by saying: ‘Timid one, away with fear! Thine embrace hath brought me to life; for thou art born of the Apsaras race sprung from nectar, and it was but the curse that prevented thy touch from reviving me before. I have now left the mortal shape of Çūdraka, that caused the pain of separation from thee; but this body I kept, because it won thy love. Now both this world and the moon are bound to thy feet. Vaiçampāyana, too, the beloved of thy friend Mahāçvetā, has been freed from the curse with me.’ While the moon, hidden in the shape of Candrāpīḍa, thus spoke, Puṇḍarīka descended from the sky, pale, wearing still the row of pearls given by Mahāçvetā, and holding the hand of Kapiñjala. (639) Gladly Kādambarī hastened to tell Mahāçvetā of her lover’s return, while Candrāpīḍa said: ‘Dear Puṇḍarīka, though in an earlier birth thou wast my son-in-law,353 thou must now be my friend, as in our last birth.’ Meanwhile, Keyūraka set off to Hemakūṭa to tell Haṃsa and Citraratha, and Madalekhā fell at the feet of Tārāpīḍa, who was absorbed in prayer to Çiva, Vanquisher of Death, and Vilāsavatī, and told them the glad tidings. (640) Then the aged king came, leaning on Çukanāsa, with the queen and Manoramā, and great was the joy of all. Kapiñjala too brought a message to Çukanāsa from Çvetakatu, saying: ‘Puṇḍarīka was but brought up by me; but he is thy son, and loves thee; do thou therefore keep him from ill, and care for him as thine own. (641) I have placed in him my own life, and he will live as long as the moon; so that my desires are fulfilled. The divine spirit of life in me now yearns to reach a region surpassing the world of gods.’ That night passed in talk of their former birth; and next day the two Gandharva kings came with their queens, and the festivities were increased a thousandfold. Citraratha, however, said: ‘Why, when we have palaces of our own, do we feast in the forest? Moreover, though marriage resting only on mutual love is lawful among us,354 yet let us follow the custom of the world.’ ‘Nay,’ replied Tārāpīḍa. ‘Where a man hath known his greatest happiness, there is his home, even if it be the forest.15 (642) And where else have I known such joy as here?355 All my palaces, too, have been given over to thy son-in-law; take my son, therefore, with his bride, and taste the joys of home.’ Then Citraratha went with Candrāpīḍa to Hemakūṭa, and offered him his whole kingdom with the hand of Kādambarī. Haṃsa did the same to Puṇḍarīka; but both refused to accept anything, for their longings were satisfied with winning the brides dear to their hearts.

Now, one day Kādambarī, though her joy was complete, asked her husband with tears: ‘How is it that when we all have died and come to life, and have been united with each other, Patralekhā alone is not here, nor do we know what has become of her?’ ‘How could she be here, my beloved?’ replied the prince tenderly. ‘For she is my wife Rohiṇī, and, when she heard I was cursed, grieving for my grief, she refused to leave me alone in the world of mortals, and though I sought to dissuade her, she accepted birth in that world even before me, that she might wait upon me. (643) When I entered on another birth, she again wished to descend to earth; but I sent her back to the world of the moon. There thou wilt again behold her.’ But Kādambarī, in wonder at Rohiṇī’s nobility, tenderness, loftiness of soul, devotion, and charm, was abashed, and could not utter a word.

The ten nights that Candrāpīḍa spent at Hemakūṭa passed as swiftly as one day; and then, dismissed by Citraratha and Madirā, who were wholly content with him, he approached the feet of his father. There he bestowed on the chieftains who had shared his sufferings a condition like his own, and laying on Puṇḍarīka the burden of government, followed the steps of his parents, who had given up all earthly duties. Sometimes from love of his native land, he would dwell in Ujjayinī, where the citizens gazed at him with wide, wondering eyes; sometimes, from respect to the Gandharva king, at Hemakūṭa, beautiful beyond compare; sometimes, from reverence to Rohiṇī, in the world of the moon, where every place was charming from the coolness and fragrance of nectar; sometimes, from love to Puṇḍarīka, by the lake where Lakshmī dwelt, on which the lotuses ever blossomed night and day, and often, to please Kādambarī, in many another fair spot.

With Kādambarī he enjoyed many a pleasure, to which the yearning of two births gave an ever fresh356 and inexhaustible delight. Nor did the Moon rejoice alone with Kādambarī, nor she with Mahāçvetā, but Mahāçvetā with Puṇḍarīka, and Puṇḍarīka with the Moon, all spent an eternity of joy in each other’s company, and reached the very pinnacle of happiness.