novelraw Arc 4 - Nalopakhyana - Chapter 2 - The Svayaṃvara of Damayantī and the Game Of Ruin
Arc 4 - Nalopakhyana - Chapter 2 - The Svayaṃvara of Damayantī and the Game Of Ruin
Vṛhadasva continued:
“At the sacred hour of the blessed lunar day, in the season made auspicious by rite and omen, King Bhīma summoned the monarchs to the svayaṃvara of Damayantī.
Hearing the call, all the lords of earth, smitten with desire, came swiftly, eager to win the jewel of Vidarbha.
They entered the amphitheatre, its golden pillars gleaming, its archways lofty, like mighty lions entering a cavern in the mountains. Garlands fragrant hung upon them, ornaments shone at their ears, and they seated themselves on their thrones like stars set in the firmament. Their broad arms, strong as iron maces, coiled like serpents, their brows noble, their faces radiant—thus did the assembly gleam, a forest of kings like Bhogavatī filled with nāgas.
Then Damayantī entered.
Her beauty lit the crowded hall,
A lightning flame, a moonrise tall.
Eyes and hearts were hers to take,
No gaze could move, no glance could break.
At that moment, her heralds proclaimed the names of kings. But Damayantī, lifting her eyes, beheld five forms identical—each like Nala. No difference in visage or frame could she discern, and doubt like a storm seized her heart.
‘Alas,’ she thought, ‘how shall I know my chosen lord from these, who are all alike? How shall I discern the mortal king from the gods who have assumed his form?’
Grief overcame her, and she recalled what the elders had told her of the marks of immortals:
“The gods know no sweat, their eyes never blink,
Their garlands fade not, nor with dust they sink.
They float above earth, untouched by ground—
By such signs only are the celestials found.”
So, reflecting, the daughter of Bhīma bowed low in prayer, joining her palms, her voice trembling with truth:
“Since the speech of the swans I heard,
I chose the Niṣādha king, my lord.
For the sake of truth, reveal him now—
O gods, fulfil my sacred vow.
I have not swerved in word or thought,
For Nala’s sake this rite I sought.
If ye be guardians of the world,
Let truth’s bright banner be unfurled.
Show me the man to whom I bend,
On whom my love and vow depend.
Assume, O gods, your forms divine,
And grant me now the king as mine.”
Hearing her piteous plea, beholding her steadfast love and spotless devotion, the guardians of the worlds revealed themselves. Their eyes shone unwinking, their garlands fresh, their bodies untouched by dust or sweat, their feet not pressing the ground.
And beside them stood Nala: his garland withered, his limbs stained with dust, his brow moist with sweat, his eyes blinking like a mortal’s, his shadow cast upon the floor.
Then Damayantī knew. With bashful joy she took his garment’s hem and placed upon his neck a floral wreath of grace.
She chose the king, her vow made whole,
Her truth fulfilled, her single goal.
The hall resounded, “Oh! Alas!”—
As jealous cries among kings did pass.
But the celestials and ṛṣis bright
Exclaimed in wonder at the sight:
“Excellent! Excellent! Well is it done—
Damayantī hath chosen the Niṣādha’s son.”
Vṛhadasva continued:
“O Kauravya, the royal son of Vīrasena, filled with gladness, turned to the beauteous Damayantī and spoke with tender assurance:
‘Since thou, O blessed one, hast chosen a mortal even in the presence of the celestials, know me henceforth as thy husband—ever obedient to thy word. And truly I tell thee, as long as breath abides in me, I shall be thine, and thine alone.’
Damayantī, with folded hands, replied in equal devotion, offering homage to Nala in words that matched his vow. And the happy pair, beholding Agni and the other gods, sought their protection in thought.
Then the shining guardians of the worlds,
Pleased at the truth of love unfurled,
Bestowed on Nala boons divine—
Eight bright gifts, eternal, fine.
Indra, lord of Sachi, gave him vision of his godship in sacrifice, and promised him blessed hosts in the world to come. Agni granted his presence whenever Nala desired, and regions glowing bright as fire. Yama bestowed subtle taste in food, and the crown of virtue among men. Varuṇa, lord of waters, promised his own presence at will, and garlands of fragrance rare. Thus each granted him two boons, and with hearts content the gods returned to heaven.
The kings who had gathered, beholding Damayantī’s steadfast choice, marveled greatly, and then, pleased at heart, returned to their own realms.
King Bhīma, her father, his soul filled with joy, celebrated with due rite the wedding of Nala and Damayantī. When a time had passed, Naishadha, best of men, took leave of Bhīma and returned with his radiant bride to his own city.
There Nala shone like the sun in glory,
Ruling the earth in righteous story.
With Damayantī, pearl of women bright,
He passed his days in love’s delight.
Like Indra sporting with Sachi, he roamed with her through gardens and groves, and like Yayāti, son of Nahusha, he performed the horse-sacrifice and many other rites, pouring abundant gifts upon the Brahmanas.
In time, Damayantī bore unto him a son, Indrasena, and a daughter also named Indrasenā, both radiant as the dawn. Surrounded by sacrifice, wealth, and joy, the king ruled the earth with justice, giving satisfaction to all his subjects.
Vṛhadasva said:
“When the blazing guardians of the worlds were returning, after Damayantī had chosen Naishadha, they encountered on their path Dvāpara in company with Kali.
Beholding them, Śakra, slayer of Vala and Vṛtra, said:
‘O Kali, whither goest thou with Dvāpara at thy side?’
And Kali replied:
‘To Damayantī’s svayaṃvara I hasten.
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That maiden of radiant grace shall I win for my wife,
For my heart is set upon her alone.’
Indra smiled and answered:
‘The svayaṃvara is over, O Kali.
Before our eyes Damayantī chose Nala,
The king of Niṣādhas, for her lord.’
At this word, Kali, that vilest of celestials, inflamed with wrath, cried aloud to all the gods:
‘Since in your presence she hath chosen a mortal,
So must this maiden bear a heavy doom!’
But the celestials, calm and radiant, replied:
‘With our sanction hath Damayantī chosen.
What maiden would not choose king Nala,
Endued with every virtue, lord of all duties?
He hath mastered the four Vedas,
With the Purāṇas that are counted the fifth.
Gentle to all beings, truth-telling, firm in vow,
He keeps the ordinance of sacrifice,
Ever pleasing the gods in his house.
In him are truth and forbearance,
Knowledge and self-control,
Purity and perfect tranquillity of soul.
Like a guardian of the worlds he stands.
The fool who curses such a one
Curseth himself and falls to ruin.
He who seeks to curse Naishadha,
Crowned with virtue,
Shall sink into the pit of torment—
Hell without bottom, full of woe.’
Thus rebuked, the celestials departed heavenward. But when they had gone, Kali turned to Dvāpara and spoke in fury:
‘I cannot master this wrath, O Dvāpara.
Nala shall yet be mine to undo.
I will enter him and seize his soul,
Strip him of kingdom, rob him of joy,
Till no more shall he sport with Bhīma’s daughter.
But thou, O Dvāpara, must aid me:
Enter the dice, and be my snare,
That through the play I may ruin him.’”
Vṛhadasva said:
“Having sealed his dark compact with Dvāpara, Kali went to the land of the Niṣādhas and lingered there, ever watchful for a flaw in Nala’s righteousness. For twelve years he waited, patient as a snake in its hole.
Then came the hour. One day, when the king had answered the call of nature, he touched water and offered his twilight prayers—yet he had not first washed his feet. Through that single omission, Kali entered him, seizing his soul.
By one small breach the darkness crept,
Into the king whose dharma kept;
Through feet unwashed and prayer unclean,
The demon found a path unseen.
Possessed by Kali, Nala lost his balance, and the dark one went at once to Pushkara, Nala’s brother, and spoke with venomous counsel:
‘Go, challenge Nala at dice. I shall aid thee. Through me thou shalt win his treasures and kingdom. Defeat him, and rule the Niṣādhas in his stead.’
Thus urged, Pushkara approached the king and challenged him. Dvāpara too entered the dice, becoming the chief die called Vṛṣa. Again and again Pushkara pressed: ‘Let us play together!’
Nala, though reluctant, could not refuse before Damayantī. The time was fixed, and the play began. But possessed by Kali, the lord of Niṣādhas lost at every cast—his gold, his silver, his shining cars with their steeds, his robes and ornaments.
Madness of dice consumed his soul,
No friend could check, no voice control.
The more he lost, the more he staked,
Till all was gone that fortune made.
The citizens of Niṣādha, grieving at heart, gathered with the chief councillors. Coming before Damayantī, the charioteer said:
‘O lady, the citizens and officers of the state wait at the gate. They cannot bear the sight of their king’s calamity. Speak to him, entreat him to grant them an audience.’
Stricken with sorrow, Damayantī went to Nala. Her voice choked with grief, her eyes filled with tears, she said:
‘O king, thy people, loyal and faithful, wait at the gate with the elders of the realm. They desire to see thee—grant them but this!’
But Nala, held fast by Kali, sat silent, not answering his queen’s lament.
The councillors and citizens, overwhelmed with grief and shame, departed murmuring: “The king is dead to us.”
And thus, O Bhārata, for many months did Nala and Pushkara play, and always the virtuous Nala was defeated.”
Vṛhadasva said:
“Bhīma’s daughter, the cool-headed Damayantī, saw her lord—righteous Nala—maddened by dice, bereft of reason, and her heart filled with grief and alarm. She knew calamity had fastened upon him. And as the throws fell always against him, she understood at last that her husband had lost everything.
Turning to her nurse and faithful maid Vrihatsenā, renowned for skill, loyalty, and sweet speech, she said:
‘Go swiftly, Vrihatsenā, summon the councillors in Nala’s name. Tell them what is lost, and what yet remains.’
The councillors, hearing the summons, rejoiced, saying, “Fortunate are we! The king will yet listen.” And they came in a body to the palace. But when Damayantī spoke of their presence, Nala gave her no heed.
Silent he sat, with fevered eye,
Bound by the dice, he made no reply.
Her words unheard, her counsel vain,
Her heart was pierced with grief and shame.
Thus disregarded, the princess returned to her chambers, her face downcast. But learning again that Nala had lost everything, she turned once more to her nurse and said:
‘Go now, Vrihatsenā, summon Varṣṇeya, the king’s charioteer. The matter grows most grave.’
Obeying, the nurse sent trusty servants, and Varṣṇeya was brought. Then Damayantī, blameless and wise, addressed him with gentle but urgent words:
‘O charioteer, thou knowest well how kindly the king hath dealt with thee. He is now in peril. The more he loseth, the more fiercely he playeth. The dice fall ever for Pushkara, never for Nala. Absorbed in play, he heeds not the words of kin or friend, nor even mine.
I do not blame my lord, for he is possessed by fate. But, O faithful one, I seek thy help. My heart forebodes disaster. Take therefore the king’s favourite steeds, swift as thought, and yoke them to the car. Place upon it my children—the boy Indrasena and the girl Indrasenā—and drive to my father’s city, Kuṇḍina.
Leave the children there, together with the steeds and chariot, in my kindred’s care. There remain thyself, or go where thou wilt, as thy heart directs. Only preserve the children, for the king may fall to ruin.’
Thus spoke Damayantī, her voice trembling yet resolute. Varṣṇeya, grieving at heart, went to the chief officers and shared her words. With their assent, he harnessed the steeds, placed the children upon the car, and set out swiftly.
He reached Kuṇḍina and left the young prince and princess with Damayantī’s kin, together with the shining car and the horses. With sorrow he bade farewell to King Bhīma, and wandering for a time, he came at last to Ayodhyā.
There, his heart heavy with grief for Nala, Varṣṇeya presented himself before King Ṛtuparṇa and entered his service as charioteer.”
Vṛhadasva said:
“After Varṣṇeya had gone, Pushkara, with Kali at his side, won from Nala both kingdom and wealth. And laughing in triumph he taunted the fallen king:
‘Let the play go on, O Naishadha! What stake hast thou left? All else is mine—only Damayantī remaineth. If thou wilt, let her be the wager now!’
At these cruel words the virtuous Nala’s heart swelled with rage as though it would burst, yet he spoke not a word. With anguish in his eyes, he cast off his ornaments, stripped himself of all save a single cloth, and renounced his wealth. Attired thus, bare of glory, he left the city. Damayantī, in a single garment, followed close behind her lord.
On the outskirts of the city, they dwelt for three nights. But Pushkara proclaimed: ‘Whoso offers aid or honor to Nala shall meet death!’ Out of fear and sorrow the citizens, though once devoted, turned their faces away. Thus, the king, unregarded though worthy, lived three nights on water alone.
Then, driven by hunger, he sought fruits and roots in the forest, with Damayantī still following faithfully behind. In the agony of famine, Nala beheld birds with plumage of gold.
‘These,’ he thought, ‘shall be both my food and my wealth.’
He cast his single garment upon them, but the birds rose aloft, bearing it away. And from the sky they mocked him, saying:
‘O foolish king, we are the dice! We came to take from thee thy last possession. It pleased us not that thou shouldst depart with even a cloth.’
Naked he stood, his eyes cast down,
The dice as birds had stripped his gown.
Bereft of kingdom, wealth, and pride,
He turned to Damayantī and sighed:
‘They who through anger robbed my reign,
Who left me starving, mocked my pain,
They now in birdlike form have flown,
And seized the garment that was mine alone.
O gentle one, O faithful wife,
I am thy lord through every strife.
Hear me: here the roads divide,
Southward paths on every side.
This way lieth Avanti’s plain,
And Rikṣavat’s cloud-shadowed chain.
Yon, the Vindhya’s mountain rise,
And Payasvinī seaward flies.
There the hermits’ holy bowers stand,
Beyond them lies Kosala’s land.
This road leadeth to Vidarbha’s halls,
Where once thy father heard my calls.’
So spoke the king in grief, pointing out the ways again and again. But Damayantī, with voice choked by tears, replied:
‘O king, thy words pierce my heart with dread. Shall I leave thee here in the wild, stripped of kingdom, wealth, and garment, faint with hunger and toil?
When in the woods thou recallest past joys and sinkest in weariness, I will soothe thee with gentle words. For physicians say—no medicine in sorrow is equal to a wife. This truth I know, O Nala, and for this I speak.’
Then Nala answered tenderly:
‘Slender-waisted Damayantī, thou speakest truth. To a man in distress, no friend nor balm equals the wife who shares his burden. Think not I wish to renounce thee. Myself I could abandon—but never thee.’
But Damayantī wept and said:
‘If thou intendest not to forsake me, why dost thou point out again and again the road to Vidarbha? Thy distracted mind may one day desert me. This, O lord, deepens my grief.
If it is truly thy will that I should go to my kin, then let us go together. My father Bhīma will receive thee with honor. There, in Vidarbha’s halls, O king, thou shalt find respect, and together we shall live in peace.’”
Nala said:
“Surely, thy father’s kingdom is mine as well. But there, in such misery, I cannot go. Once I came to Vidarbha in glory, bringing thee joy. How could I return now, stripped and broken, to add only to thy grief?”
Vṛhadasva continued:
Thus, speaking again and again to Damayantī, Nala, clad in half a garment, sought to comfort his beloved. Weary with hunger and thirst, the two wandered until at last they came to a traveller’s shed. There the king of the Niṣādhas sat upon the bare earth with the princess of Vidarbha. Dust-stained, gaunt, and ragged, they lay down together, wrapped in the same torn cloth, and sank into sleep.
Damayantī, innocent and delicate, unused to such sorrow, fell into a deep slumber. But Nala, his heart burning, could not find rest. He turned in anguish, reflecting on the loss of his kingdom, the desertion of his friends, the disgrace of his plight.
“What use to linger thus in shame?
What if I die, or quit her name?
She suffers for my sake alone—
Is it not kinder if I am gone?
If left, she may find kin once more,
If kept, she suffers ever sore.
Better she live, though not with me,
Than waste her youth in misery.”
Thus, bound by Kali’s shadow, his mind decided on desertion. Yet love tugged at him still. Thinking of his nakedness, he resolved to cut half of Damayantī’s garment.
Pacing the shed, he found a sword lying unsheathed. With trembling hand he cut the cloth in two, cast away the blade, and turned to leave. But his heart failed. Returning, he stood over his sleeping queen, and tears poured down his face.
“Alas! she whom neither wind nor sun
Had ever touched till now,
Sleeps on the bare earth desolate,
Forsaken, yet my vow.
Clad in a ragged, severed cloth,
How will she wake alone?
How will she wander forest paths,
Amongst the beasts unknown?
O gentle one, may Vasus guard,
The Ādityas light thy way,
The Aśvins and the Maruts keep
Their watch on thee alway.
Thy virtue is thy brightest shield,
Thy dharma shall defend;
But woe that I, thy chosen lord,
Desert thee in the end!”
So lamenting, Nala tried to go, yet again returned. Drawn away by Kali, pulled back by love, he moved like a swing between the shed and the woods. At length, bewildered and broken, he departed in sorrow, leaving Damayantī asleep and alone in the lonely forest.