Nala, chosen by Bhima's daughter—the bright guardians of the world,
As they parted thence, with Kali[54]—Dwapara approaching saw.
Kali as he saw, did Indra—did the giant-killer say,
"Here, with Dwapara attended—whither, Kali, dost thou go?"
Kali spake, "the Swayembara—we of Damayanti seek;
Her I go to make my consort—into her mine heart hath passed."
"Closed and ended is that bridal,"—Indra answered with a smile,
"Nala she hath chosen for husband—in the presence of us all."
Thus addressed by Indra, Kali—in the transport of his wrath,
All the heavenly gods saluting,—thus his malediction spake,
"Since before the Immortals' presence—she a mortal spouse did choose,
Of her impious crime most justly—heavy be the penal doom."
Kali hardly thus had spoken—than the heaven-born gods replied:
"With our full and liberal sanction—Damayanti chose her lord.
Who to Nala, with all virtue—rich endowed, would not incline?
He that rightly knows each duty—he who ever rightly acts,
He who reads the whole four Vedas—the Puranas too the fifth,[55]
In his palace with pure offerings—ever are the gods adored,
Gentle to all living creatures—true in word and strict in vow;
Good and constant he, and generous—holy, temperate, patient, pure;
His are all these virtues ever—equal to the earth-guarding gods.
Thus endowed, the noble Nala—he, O Kali, that would curse,
On himself recoil his curses—only fatal to himself.
Nala, gifted with such virtues—he, O Kali, who would curse—
Be he plunged in hell's dark torments—in the deep and vasty lake."
Thus the gods to Kali speaking—to their native heavens arose.
Soon as they had parted, Kali—thus to Dwapara began:
"I my wrath can curb no longer—I henceforth in Nala dwell;
From his kingdom will I cast him—from his bliss with his sweet bride.
Thou within the dice embodied—Dwapara my cause assist."

Bound by that malignant treaty—Kali with his dark ally,
Haunted they the stately palace—where Nishadha's monarch ruled;
Watching still the fatal instant—in Nishadha long they dwelt.
Twelve long years had passed ere Kali—saw that fatal instant come.
Nala after act uncleanly—the ablution half performed,[56]
Prayed at eve, with feet unwashen—Kali seized the fatal hour.
Into Nala straight he entered—and possessed his inmost soul.
Pushkara in haste he summoned—come with Nala play at dice,
Ever in the gainful hazard—by my subtle aid thou'lt win,
Even the kingdom of Nishadha—even from Nala all his realm.
Pushkara by Kali summoned—to his brother Nala came,
In the dice of dice embodied[57]—Dwapara stood silent by.
Pushkara the hero-slayer—to king Nala standing near:
"Play we with the dice, my brother,"—thus again, again he said.
Long the lofty-minded raja—that bold challenge might not brook,
In Vidarbha's princess' presence—deemed he now the time for play.
For his wealth, his golden treasures—for his chariots, for his robes,
Then possessed by Kali, Nala—in the game was worsted still.
He with love of gaming maddened,—of his faithful friends not one
Might arrest the desperate frenzy—of the conqueror of his foes.
Came the citizens assembling—with the counsellors of state,
To behold the king approached they—to restrain his dread disease.
Then the charioteer advancing[58]—thus to Damayanti spake:
"All the city, noble princess—stands assembled at the gate,
Say thou to Nishadha's monarch—'All his subjects here are met;
Ill they brook this dire misfortune[59]—in their justice-loving king'."
Then, her voice half choked with anguish—spake the sorrow-stricken queen,
Spirit-broken, Bhima's daughter—to Nishadha's sovereign spake,
"Raja, lo! the assembled city—at the gate their king to see:
With the counsellors of wisdom—by their loyal duty led.
Deign thou, monarch, to admit them,"—thus again, again she said.
To the queen with beauteous eyelids—uttering thus her sad lament,
Still possessed by wicked Kali—answered not the king a word.
Then those counsellors of wisdom—and those loyal citizens,
"'Tis not he," exclaimed in sorrow,—and in shame and grief went home.
Thus of Pushkara and Nala—still went on that fatal play;
Many a weary month it lasted—and still lost the king of men.

Damayanti then beholding—Punyasloka, king of men,[60]
Undistracted, him distracted—with the maddening love of play.
In her dread and in her sorrow—thus did Bhima's daughter speak;
Pondering on the weighty business—that concerned the king of men.
Trembling at his guilty frenzy—yet to please him still intent.
Nala, 'reft of all his treasures—when the noble woman saw,
Thus addressed she Vrihatsena,—her old faithful slave and nurse,
Friendly in all business dextrous—most devoted, wise in speech:
"Vrihatsena, go, the council—as at Nala's call convene,
Say what he hath lost of treasure—and what treasure yet remains."
Then did all that reverend council—Nala's summons as they heard,
"Our own fate is now in peril"—speaking thus, approach the king.
And a second time his subjects—all assembling, crowded near,
And the queen announced their presence;—of her words he took no heed.
All her words thus disregarded—when king Bhima's daughter found,
To the palace, Damayanti—to conceal her shame returned.
When the dice she heard for ever—adverse to the king of men,
And of all bereft, her Nala—to the nurse again she spake:
"Go again, my Vrihatsena,—in the name of Nala, go,
To the charioteer, Varshneya,—great the deed must now be done."
Vrihatsena on the instant—Damayanti's words she heard,
Caused the charioteer be summoned—by her messengers of trust.
Bhima's daughter to Varshneya—winning with her gentle voice,
Spake, the time, the place well choosing—for the deed, nor spake in vain:
"Well thou know'st the full reliance—that in thee the king hath placed,
In his fatal hour of peril—wilt not thou stand forth to aid?
As by Pushkara is worsted—ever more and more the king,
More and more the fatal frenzy—maddens in his heart for play.
As to Pushkara obedient—ever fall the lucky dice,
Thus those dice to royal Nala—still with adverse fortune fall.
Nor the voice of friend or kindred—as beseems him, will he hear;
Even to me he will not listen—in the madness of his heart.
Of the lofty-minded Nala—well I know 'tis not the sin,
That my words this senseless monarch—in his frenzy will not hear.
Charioteer, to thee my refuge—come I, do thou my behest;
I am not o'er calm in spirit—haply he may perish thus.
Yoke the much-loved steeds of Nala—fleet of foot, as thought, are they,
In the chariot place our children—to Cundina's city go.[61]
Leave the children with my kindred—and the chariot and the steeds;
Then or dwell there at thy pleasure—or depart where'er thou wilt."
When the speech of Damayanti—heard king Nala's charioteer,
He, the chief of Nala's council—thus in full divan addressed,
Weighed within their solemn conclave—and their full assent obtained,
With the children in the chariot—to Vidarbha straight he drove.
There he rendered up the horses—with the chariot there he left.
That young maiden Indrasena—Indrasen, that noble boy.
To king Bhima paid his homage—sad, for Nala's fall distressed,
Thence departing, to Ayodhya[62]—took the charioteer his way.
In his grief to Rituparna—that illustrious king, he came,
As his charioteer, the service—entered of the lord of earth.

Scarce Varshneya had departed—still the king of men played on,
Till to Pushkara his kingdom—all that he possessed, was lost.
Nala then, despoiled of kingdom—smiling Pushkara bespake:
"Throw we yet another hazard—Nala, where is now thy stake?
There remains but Damayanti—all thou hast beside, is mine.
Throw we now for Damayanti—come, once more the hazard try."
Thus as Pushkara addressed him—Punyasloka's inmost heart
By his grief was rent asunder—not a single word he spake.
And on Pushkara, king Nala—in his silent anguish gazed.
All his ornaments of splendour—from his person stripped he off,
With a single vest, scarce covered,—'mid the sorrow of his friends.
Slowly wandered forth the monarch—fallen from such an height of bliss.
Damayanti with one garment—slowly followed him behind.
Three long nights Nishadha's monarch—there without the gates had dwelt.
Proclamation through the city—then did Pushkara bid make,
"Whosoe'er befriendeth Nala—shall to instant death be doomed."
Thus, as Pushkara gave order—in the terror of his power,
Might the citizens no longer—hospitably serve the king.
Near the walls, of kind reception—worthiest, but by none received;
Three nights longer staid the monarch—water was his only drink,
He in unfastidious hunger—plucked the fruits, the roots of earth.
Then went forth again the outcast:—Damayanti followed slow.
In the agony of famine—Nala, after many days,
Saw some birds around him settling—with their golden tinctured wings.
Then the monarch of Nishadha—thought within his secret heart,
These to-day my welcome banquet—and my treasure these will be.
Over them his single garment—spreading light he wrapped them round:
Up that single garment bearing—to the air they sprang away;
And the birds above him hovering—thus in human accents spake,
Naked as they saw him standing—on the earth, and sad, and lone:—
"Lo, we are the dice, to spoil thee—thus descended, foolish king!
While thou hadst a single garment—all our joy was incomplete."
When the dice he saw departing—and himself without his robe,
Mournfully did Punyasloka—thus to Damayanti speak:
"They, O blameless, by whose anger—from my kingdom I am driven,
Life-sustaining food unable—in my misery to find—
They, through whom Nishadha's people—may not house their outcast king—
They, the forms of birds assuming—my one robe have borne away.
In the dark extreme of misery—sad and frantic as I am,
Hear me, princess, hear and profit—by thy husband's best advice.
Hence are many roads diverging—to the region of the south,[63]
Passing by Avanti's city[64]—and the height of Rishavàn;
Vindhya here, the mighty mountain[65]—and Payoshni's seaward stream;[66]
And the lone retreats of hermits—on the fruits of earth that live;
This will lead thee to Vidarbha—this to Cosala away,[67]
Far beyond the region stretches—southward to the southward clime."
In these words to Damayanti—did the royal Nala speak,
More than once to Bhima's daughter—anxious pointing out the way.
She, with voice half choked with sorrow—with her weight of woe oppressed,
These sad words did Damayanti—to Nishadha's monarch speak:—
"My afflicted heart is breaking—and my sinking members fail,
When, O king, thy desperate counsel—once I think of, once again.
Robbed of kingdom, robbed of riches—naked, thirst and hunger worn;
How shall I depart and leave thee—in the wood by man untrod.
When thou sad and famine-stricken—thinkest of thy former bliss,
In the wild wood, oh, my husband,—I thy weariness will soothe.
Like a wife, in every sorrow—this the wise physicians own,
Healing herb is none or balsam—Nala, 'tis the truth I speak."

Slender-waisted Damayanti—true, indeed, is all thou'st said;
Like a wife no friendly medicine—to afflicted man is given.
Fear not that I thee abandon—Wherefore, timid, dread'st thou this?
Oh, myself might I abandon—and not thee, thou unreproached.

If indeed, oh mighty monarch—thou wilt ne'er abandon me,
Wherefore then towards Vidarbha—dost thou point me out the way.
Well, I know thee, noble Nala—to desert me far too true,
Only with a soul distracted—would'st thou leave me, lord of earth.
Yet, again, the way thou pointest—yet, again, thou best of men,
Thus my sorrow still enhancing—oh, thou like the immortal gods;
If this be thy better counsel—'to her kindred let her go,'
Be it so, and both together—to Vidarbha set we forth.
Thee Vidarbha's king will honour—honour'd in his turn by thee;
Held in high respect and happy—in our mansion thou shall dwell.

"Mighty is thy father's kingdom—once was mine as mighty too;
Never will I there seek refuge—in my base extremity.
There I once appeared in glory—to the exalting of thy pride;
Shall I now appear in misery—to the increasing of thy shame?"
Nala thus to Damayanti—spake again, and yet again,
Comforting the noble lady—scant in half a garment clad.
Both together by one garment[68]—covered, roamed they here and there;
Wearied out by thirst and famine—to a cabin drew they near.
When they reached that lowly cabin—then did great Nishadha's king
With the princess of Vidarbha—on the hard earth seat them down;
Naked, with no mat to rest on—wet with mire and stained with dust.
Weary then with Damayanti—on the earth he fell asleep.
Sank the lovely Damayanti—by his side with sleep opprest,
She thus plunged in sudden misery—she the tender, the devout.
But while on the cold earth slumbered—Damayanti, all distraught
Nala in his mind by sorrow—might no longer calmly sleep;
For the losing of his kingdom—the desertion of his friends,
And his weary forest wanderings—painful on his thought arose;
"If I do it, what may follow?—what if I refuse to do?
Were my instant death the better—or to abandon her I love.
But to me too deep devoted—suffers she distress and shame;
Reft of me she home may wander—to her royal father's house;
Faithful wandering ever with me—certain sorrow will she bear,
But if separated from me—chance of solace may be hers."
Long within his heart he pondered—and again, again weighed o'er.
Best he thought it Damayanti—to desert, that wretched king.
From her virtue none dare harm her[69]—in the lonely forest way,
Her the fortunate, the noble—my devoted wedded wife.
Thus his mind on Damayanti—dwelt in its perverted thought,
Wrought by Kali's evil influence—to desert his lovely wife.
Of himself without a garment—and of her with only one.
As he thought, approached he near her—to divide that single robe.
"How shall I divide the garment—by my loved one unperceived?"
Pondering this within his spirit—round the cabin Nala went;
In that narrow cabin's circuit—Nala wandered here and there,
Till he found without a scabbard—shining, a well-tempered sword.
Then when half that only garment—he had severed, and put on,
In her sleep Vidarbha's princess—with bewildered mind he fled.
Yet, his cruel heart relenting—to the cabin turns he back;
On the slumbering Damayanti—gazing, sadly wept the king;
"Thou, that sun nor wind hath ever—roughly visited, my love!
On the hard earth in a cabin—sleepest with thy guardian gone.
Thus attired in half a garment—she that aye so sweetly smiled,
Like to one distracted, beauteous—how at length will she awake?
How will't fare with Bhima's daughter—lone, abandoned by her lord,
Wandering in the savage forest—where wild beasts and serpents dwell.
May the suns and winds of heaven—may the genii of the woods,[70]
Noblest, may they all protect thee—thine own virtue thy best guard."
To his wife of peerless beauty—on the earth, 'twas thus he spoke.
Then of sense bereft by Kali—Nala hastily set forth;
And departing, still departing—he returned again, again;
Dragged away by that bad demon—ever by his love drawn back.
Nala, thus his heart divided—into two conflicting parts,
Like a swing goes backward, forward—from the cabin, to and fro.
Torn away at length by Kali—flies afar the frantic king,
Leaving there his wife in slumber—making miserable moans.
Reft of sense, possessed by Kali—thinking still on her he left,
Passed he in the lonely forest—leaving his deserted wife.

Scarcely had king Nala parted—Damayanti now refreshed,
Wakened up, the slender-waisted—timorous in the desert wood.
When she did not see her husband—overpowered with grief and pain,
Loud she shriek'd in her first anguish—"Where art thou, Nishadha's king?
Mighty king! my soul-protector—O, my lord! desert'st thou me.
Oh, I'm lost! undone for ever—helpless in the wild wood left;
Faithful once to every duty—wert thou not, and true in word.
Art thou faithful to thy promise—to desert me thus in sleep.
Could'st thou then depart, forsaking—thy devoted, constant wife;
Her in sooth that never wronged thee—wronged indeed, but not by her.
Keep'st thou thus thy solemn promise—oh, unfaithful lord of men,
There, when all the gods were present—plighted to thy wedded wife?
Death is but decreed to mortals—at its own appointed time,
Hence one moment, thus deserted[71]—one brief moment do I live.—
But thou'st had thy sport—enough then—now desist, O king of men,
Mock not thou a trembling woman—show thee to me, O my lord!
Yes, I see thee, there I see thee—hidden as thou think'st from sight,
In the rushes why conceal thee?—answer me, why speak'st thou not.
Wherefore now ungentle stay'st thou—like to one forsworn, aloof?
Wherefore wilt thou not approach me—to console me in my woe?
For myself I will not sorrow—nor for aught to me befalls.
Thou art all alone, my husband,—I will only mourn for thee.
How will't fare with thee, my Nala—thirsting, famished, faint with toil.
Nor beholding me await thee—underneath the trees at eve."
Then, in all her depth of anguish—with her trouble as on fire,
Hither, thither, went she weeping—all around she went and wailed.
Now springs up the desolate princess—now falls down in prostrate grief;
Now she pines in silent sorrow—now she shrieks and wails aloud.
So consumed with inward misery—ever sighing more and more,
Spake at length king Bhima's daughter—spake the still devoted wife:
"He, by whose dire imprecation—Nala this dread suffering bears,
May he far surpass in suffering—all that Nala suffers now,
May the evil one, to evil—who the blameless Nala drives,
Smitten by a curse as fatal—live a dark unblessed life."
Thus her absent lord lamenting—that high-minded raja's queen,
Every-where her lord went seeking—in the satyr-haunted wood.[72]
Like a maniac, Bhima's daughter—wandered wailing here and there;
And "alas! alas! my husband"—every-where her cry was heard.
Her beyond all measure wailing—like the osprey screaming shrill,
Miserably still deploring—still renewing her lament.
Suddenly king Bhima's daughter—as she wandered near his lair,
Seized a huge gigantic serpent—in his raging famine fierce.
In the grasp of that fierce serpent—round about with terror girt,
Not herself she pities only—pities she Nishadha's king.
"O my guardian, thus unguarded—in this savage forest seized,
Seized by this terrific serpent—wherefore art not thou at hand?
How will't be, when thou rememberest—once again thy faithful wife,
From this dreadful curse delivered—mind, and sense, and wealth returned?
When thou'rt weary, when thou'rt hungry—when thou'rt fainting with fatigue,
Who will soothe, O blameless Nala—all thy weariness, thy woe."
Then a huntsman as he wandered—in the forest jungle thick,
As he heard her thus bewailing—in his utmost haste drew near.
In the grasp when he beheld her—of that long-eyed serpent fell,
Instant did the nimble huntsman—rapidly as he came on,
Pierce that unresisting serpent—with a sharp and mortal shaft:
In her sight he slew that serpent—skill'd in slaughter of the chase.
Her released he from her peril—washed he then with water pure,
And with sylvan food refreshed her—and with soothing words address'd:
"Who art thou that roam'st the forest—with the eyes of the gazelle;
How to this extreme of misery—noble lady, hast thou fallen?"
Damayanti, by the huntsman—thus in soothing tone addressed,
All the story of her misery-told him, as it all befell;
Her, scant-clothed in half a garment—with soft swelling limbs and breast,
Form of youthful faultless beauty—and her fair and moonlike face,
And her eyes with brows dark arching—and her softly-melting speech,
Saw long time that wild beast hunter—kindled all his heart with love.
Then with winning voice that huntsman—bland beginning his discourse,
Fain with amorous speech would soothe her—she his dark intent perceived.
Damayanti, chaste and faithful,—soon as she his meaning knew,
In the transport of her anger—her indignant soul took fire.
In his wicked thought the dastard—her yet powerless to subdue,
On the unsubdued stood gazing—as like some bright flame she shone.
Damayanti, in her sorrow—of her realm, her lord bereft,
On the instant she found language—uttered loud her curse of wrath,[73]—
"As my pure and constant spirit—swerves not from Nishadha's lord,
Instant so may this base hunter—lifeless fall upon the earth."
Scarce that single word was uttered—suddenly that hunter bold
Down upon the earth fell lifeless—like a lightning blasted tree.

Slain that savage wild-beast hunter—onward went the lotus-eyed,
Through the dread, and desert forest—ringing with the cricket's song;
Full of lions, pards, and tigers—stags, and buffalos, and bears,
Where all kinds of birds were flocking—and wild men and robbers dwelt.
Trees of every form and stature[74]—every foliage, every name;
Pregnant with rich mines of metal—many a mountain it enclosed,
Many a shady resonant arbour—many a deep and wondrous glen;
Many a lake, and pool, and river—birds and beasts of every shape.
She, in forms terrific round her—serpents, elves, and giants saw:[75]
Pools, and tanks of lucid water—and the shaggy tops of hills,
Flowing streams and headlong torrents—saw, and wondered at the sight.
And the princess of Vidarbha—gazed where in their countless herds,
Buffalos and bears were feeding—boars, and serpents of the wood.
Safe in virtue, bright in beauty—glorious and of high resolve,
Now alone, Vidarbha's daughter—wandering, her lost Nala sought.
Yet no fear king Bhima's daughter—for herself might deign to feel,
Travelling the dreary forest—only for her lord distressed;
Him she mourned, that noble princess—him in bitterest anguish wailed,
Every limb with sorrow trembling—stood she on a beetling rock;
"Monarch, with broad chest capacious—monarch with the sinewy arm,
Me in this dread forest leaving—whither hast thou fled away?
Thou the holy Aswamedha—thou each sacrificial rite,
Hast performed, to me, me only—in thy holy faith thou'st failed.
That which thou, O best of husbands—in mine hearing hast declared,
Thy most solemn vow remember—call to mind thy plighted faith.
Of the swift-winged swans the language—uttered, monarch, by thy side,
That thyself, before my presence—didst renew, bethink thee well.
Thou the Vedas, thou the Angas—with the Upangas oft hast read,
Of each heaven-descended volume—one and simple is the truth.
Therefore, of thy foes the slayer!—reverence thou the sacred truth
Of thy solemn plighted promise—in my presence sworn so oft.
Am not I the loved so dearly—purely, sinlessly beloved;
In this dark and awful forest—wherefore dost thou not reply?
Here with monstrous jaws wide yawning—with his fierce and horrid form,
Gapes the forest king to slay me—and thou art not here to save.
None but I, thou'st said, for ever—none but I to thee am dear!
Make this oft-repeated language—make this oft-sworn promise true.
To thy queen bereft of reason—to thy weeping wife beloved,
Why repliest thou not—her only thou desir'st—she only thee.
Meagre, miserable, pallid—tainted with the dust and mire,
Scantly clad in half a garment—lone, with no protector near;
Like a large-eyed hind that wanders—separate from the wonted herd,
Thou regard'st me not, thus weeping—oh thou tamer of thy foes.
Mighty king, a lonely wanderer—in this vast and trackless wood,
Damayanti, I address thee—wherefore answerest not my voice?
Nobly born, and nobly minded—beautiful in every limb,
Do I not e'en now behold thee—in this mountain, first of men,
In this lion-haunted forest—in this tiger-howling wood,
Lying down or seated, standing—or in majesty and might
Moving, do I not behold thee—the enhancer of my woe?
Who shall I address, afflicted—wasted by my grief away;
'Hast thou haply seen my Nala—in the solitary wood?'
Who this day will show the monarch—wandering in the forest depth,
Beautiful and royal-minded—conqueror of an host of foes!
'Him thou seek'st with eyes of lotus—Nala, sovereign of men—
Lo, he's here!' whose voice of music—may I hear thus sweetly speak?
Lo, with fourfold tusks before me—and with wide and gaping jaws,
Stands the forest king, the tiger—I approach him without fear.
Of the beasts art thou the monarch—all this forest thy domain,
For the daughter of Vidarbha—Damayanti, know thou me,
Consort of Nishadha's sovereign—Nala, slayer of his foes—
Seeking here my exile husband—lonely, wretched, sorrow-driven,
Thou, O king of beasts, console me—if my Nala thou hast seen;
Or, O lord of all the forest—Nala if thou canst not show,
Best of savage beasts, devour me—from my misery set me free.
Hearing thus my lamentation-now does that fell king of beasts
Go towards the crystal river—flowing downward to the sea.'—
To this mountain then the holy—crowned with many a lofty peak,
In its soul-exalting splendour—rising, many-hued, to heaven;
Full within of precious metal—rich with many a glowing gem,
Rising o'er the spreading forest—like a banner broad and high,
Ranged by elephants and lions—tigers, bears, and boars, and stags;
And of many birds the voices—sweetly sound o'er all its cliffs;
All the trees of richest foliage[76]—all the trees of stateliest height,
All the flowers and golden fruitage—on its crested summits wave,
Down its peaks in many a streamlet—dip the water-birds their wings:
This, the monarch of all mountains—ask I of the king of men;
'O, all-honoured Prince of Mountains, with thy heaven-ward soaring peaks,
Refuge of the lost, most noble—thee, O Mountain, I salute;
I salute thee, lowly bowing—I, the daughter of a king;
Of a king the royal consort—of a king's son I the bride.
Of Vidarbha the great sovereign—mighty hero is my sire.
Named the lord of earth, king Bhima—of each caste the guardian he;
Of the holy Aswamedha—of the regal sacrifice,[77]
He the offerer, best of monarchs—known by his commanding eye,
Pious, and of life unblemished—true in word, of generous speech,
Affable, courageous, prosperous—skilled in every duty, pure.
Of Vidarbha the protector—conqueror of a host of foes;
Know me of that king the daughter—lowly thus approaching thee.
In Nishadha, mighty Mountain! dwelt the father of my lord.
High the name he won, the illustrious—Virasena was he called.
Of this king the son, the hero—prosperous and truly brave,
He who rules his father's kingdom—by hereditary right,
Slayer of his foes, dark Nala—Punyasloka is he called;
Holy, Veda read, and eloquent—soma quaffing, fire adoring,[78][79]
Sacrificer, liberal giver—warrior, in all points a king,—
Of this monarch, best of mountains—know, the wife before thee stands.
Fallen from bliss, bereft of husband—unprotected, sorrow-doomed,
Seeking every where her husband—him the best of noblest men.
Best of mountains, heaven-upsoaring—with thy hundred stately peaks,
Hast thou seen the kingly Nala—in this dark and awful wood:
Like the elephant in courage—wise, impetuous, with long arms,
Valiant, and of truth unquestioned—my heroic, glorious lord;
Hast thou seen Nishadha's sovereign—mighty Nala hast thou seen?
Why repliest thou not, oh Mountain—sorrowing, lonely, and distressed,
With thy voice why not console me—as thine own afflicted child?
Hero, mighty, strong in duty—true of promise, lord of earth,
If thou art within the forest—show thee in thy proper form.
When so eloquently deep-toned—like the sound of some dark cloud,
Shall I hear thy voice, oh Nala!—sweet as the amrita draught,[80]
Saying, 'daughter of Vidarbha!'—with distinct, with blessed sound,
Musical as holy Veda—rich, and soothing all my pain;
Thus console me, trembling, fainting—thou, oh virtue-loving king!"
To the holiest of mountains—spake the daughter of the king.
Damayanti then set forward—toward the region of the north.
Three days long, three nights she wandered—then that noble woman saw,
The unrivalled wood of hermits—like to a celestial grove.
To the ancient famous hermits[81]—equal was that sacred crew;
Self-denying, strict in diet[82]—temperate, and undefiled;
Water-drinking, air inhaling—and the leaves their simple food;
Mortified, for ever blessed—seeking the right way to heaven;
Bark for vests and skins for raiment—wore those hermits, sense-subdued.
She beheld the pleasant circle—of those hermits' lonely cells;
Round them flocks of beasts were grazing—wantoned there the monkey tribes.
When she saw those holy dwellings—all her courage was revived.
Lovely browed, and lovely tressed—lovely bosom'd, lovely lipp'd,[83]
In her brightness, in her glory—with her large dark beauteous eyes,
Entered she those hermit dwellings—wife of Virasena's son;
Pearl of women, ever blessed-Damayanti the devout,
She those holy men saluting—stood with modest form half bent.
"Hail, and welcome!" thus those hermits—instant with one voice exclaimed.
And those sacred men no sooner—had the fitting homage paid,
"Take thy seat," they said, "oh lady[84]—and command what we must do."
Thus replied the slender waisted—"Blessed are ye, holy men.
In your sacred fires, your worship[85]—blameless, with your beasts and birds.[86]
Doth the grace of heaven attend you—in your duties, in your deeds?"
Answered they, "The grace of heaven—ever blesses all our deeds.
But say thou, of form so beauteous—who thou art, and what thou would'st?
As thy noble form we gaze on—on thy brightness as we gaze,
In amaze we stand and wonder—cheer thee up, and mourn no more.
Of the wood art thou the goddess—or the mountain goddess thou;
Or the goddess of the river?—Blessed Spirit, speak the truth.
Nor the sylvan goddess am I,"—to the Wise she thus replied;
"Neither of the mountain, Brahmins—nor the river nymph am I.
Know me but a mortal being—O, ye rich in holiness!
All my tale at length, I'll tell ye—if meet audience ye will give.
In Vidarbha, mighty guardian—Bhima, dwells the lord of earth;
Of that noble king the daughter—twice-born Sages, know ye me.[87]
And the monarch of Nishadha—Nala named, the great in fame;
Brave in battle, conqueror, prudent—is my lord, the peasants' king;
To the gods devout in worship—friendly to the Brahmin race,
Of Nishadha's race the guardian—great in glory, great in might,
True in word, and skilled in duty—and the slayer of his foes.
Pious, heaven-devoted, prosperous—conqueror of hostile towns;
Nala named, the best of sovereigns—splendid as the king of gods.
Know that large-eyed chief, my husband—like the full-orbed moon his face,
Giver he of costly offerings—deep in th' holy volumes read;
Slayer of his foes in battle—glorious as the sun and moon.
He to some most evil minded—unrespected, wicked men,
After many a challenge, studious—he of virtue and of truth,
To these skilful gamesters, fraudful—lost his kingdom and his wealth.
Know ye me the hapless consort—of that noble king of kings,
Damayanti, so they name me—yearning for my husband's sight.
I through forests, over mountains—stagnant marsh and river broad,
Lake with wide pellucid surface—through the long and trackless wood,
Ever seeking for my husband—Nala, skilful in the fight.
Mighty in the use of weapons—wander desolate and sad.
Tell me, to this pleasant sojourn—sacred to these holy men,
Hath he come, the royal Nala?—hath Nishadha's monarch come?
For whose sake through ways all trackless—terrible, have I set forth,
In this drear, appalling forest—where the lynx and tiger range,
If I see not noble Nala—ere few days, few nights are o'er,
I to happiness will join me—from this mortal frame set free.
Reft of him, my princely husband—what have I to do with life—
How endure existence longer—for my husband thus distressed."
To the lady thus complaining—lonely in the savage wood,
Answered thus those holy hermits—spake the gifted seers the truth:—
"There will be a time hereafter—beautiful, the time will come,
Through devotion now we see him[88]—and thou too wilt see him soon;
That good monarch of Nishadha—Nala, slayer of his foes;
That dispenser of strict justice—Bhima's daughter! free from grief,
From all sin released, thou'lt see him—glittering in his royal gems,
Governing that noble city—o'er his enemies supreme.
To his foemen causing terror—to his friends allaying grief,
Thou, oh noble, shalt thy husband—see, that king of noble race."
To the much-loved wife of Nala—to the princess speaking thus,
Vanished then those holy hermits—with their sacred fires, their cells.
As she gazed upon the wonder—wrapt in mute amaze she stood;
Damayanti, fair-limbed princess—wife of Virasena's son;
"Have I only seen a vision—what hath been this wondrous chance?
Where are all those holy hermits—where the circle of their cells?
Where that pure and pleasant river—haunted by the dipping birds?
Where those trees with grateful umbrage—with their pendant fruits and flowers?"
Long within her heart she pondered—Damayanti with sweet smile,
For her lord, to grief abandoned—miserable, pale of hue;
To another region passed she—there with voice by weeping choked,
Mourns she, till with eyes o'erflowing—an Asoca tree she saw.
Best of trees, the Asoca blooming[89]—in the forest she approached,
Gemmed all o'er with glowing fruitage—vocal with the songs of birds.
"Ah, behold amid the forest—flourishes this happy tree,
With its leafy garlands radiant—as the joyous mountain king.
O thou tree with pleasant aspect—from my sorrow set me free.
Vitasoca, hast thou seen him—hast the fearless raja seen,
Nala, of his foes the slayer—Damayanti's lord beloved?
Hast thou seen Nishadha's monarch—hast thou seen mine only love,
Clad in half a single garment—with his soft and delicate skin;
Hast thou seen th' afflicted hero—wandering in the forest lone.
That I may depart ungrieving—fair Asoca, answer me.
Truly be thou named Asoca[90]—as the extinguisher of grief."
Thus in her o'erpowering anguish—moved she round the Asoca tree.
Then she went her way in sadness—to another region dread.
Many a tree she stood and gazed on—many a river passed she o'er;
Passed she many a pleasant mountain—many a wild deer, many a bird;
Many a hill and many a cavern—many a bright and wondrous stream,
Saw king Bhima's wandering daughter—as she sought her husband lost.
Long she roamed her weary journey—Damayanti with sweet smile,
Lo, a caravan of merchants—elephants, and steeds, and cars,
And beyond, a pleasant river—with its waters cool and clear.
'Twas a quiet stream, and waveless—girt about with spreading canes;
There the cuckoo, there the osprey—there the red-geese clamouring stood;
Swarmed the turtles, fish and serpents—there rose many a stately isle.
When she saw that numerous concourse—Nala's once all-glorious wife,
Entered she, the slender-waisted—in the midst of all the host;
Maniac-like in form and feature—and in half a garment clad,
Thin and pallid, travel-tainted—matted all her locks with dust.
As they all beheld her standing—some in terror fled away;
Some stood still in speechless wonder—others raised their voice and cried;
Mocked her some with cruel tauntings—others spake reproachful words;
Others looked on her with pity—and enquired her state, her name.
"Who art thou? whose daughter. Lady—in the forest seek'st thou aught?
At thy sight we stand confounded—art thou of our mortal race?
Of this wood art thou the goddess?—of this mountain? of that plain?
Who art thou, O noble Lady—thee, our refuge, we adore.
Art thou sylvan nymph or genius—or celestial nymph divine?
Every-way regard our welfare—and protect us, undespised:
So our caravan in safety—may pursue its onward way,
So ordain it, O illustrious!—that good fortune wait on all."
Thus addressed by that assemblage—Damayanti, kingly-born,
Answered thus with gentle language—grieving for her husband lost.
Of that caravan the leader—and the whole assembled host,
Youths and boys, and grey-haired elders—and the guides, thus answered she:
"Know me, like yourselves, a mortal—daughter of a king of men,
Of another king the consort—seeking for my royal lord;
Know, Vidarbha's king, my father—and Nishadha's king, my lord,
Nala, is his name, the glorious—him, th' unconquered do I seek;
Know ye aught of that good monarch—tell me, quick, of my beloved,
Of the tiger hero, Nala—slayer of a host of foes."
Of the caravan the captain—thus the lovely-limbed addressed,
Suchi was his name, the merchant—"Hear, illustrious queen, my speech;
Of this caravan the captain—I, O Lady with sweet smile,
Him that bears the name of Nala—nowhere have these eyes beheld.
Elephants, and pards, and tigers—lynxes, buffaloes, and bears,
See I in this trackless forest—uninhabited by men;
Save thyself, of human feature—nought, or human form, I've seen.
So may he, the king of Yakshas—Manibhadra, guard us well."[91]
To the merchants then she answered—to the leader of the host,
"Tell me whither do ye travel!—whither bound your caravan?"