novelraw Arc 4 - Nalopakhyana - Chapter 3 - Damayantī 's Plight
Arc 4 - Nalopakhyana - Chapter 3 - Damayantī 's Plight
Vṛhadaśva said:
O king, when Nala had gone away, the beauteous Damayantī awoke at last from her slumber. Refreshed in body yet stricken in spirit, she looked about in that lonely forest, but her lord was nowhere to be seen. And when the daughter of Bhīma beheld herself abandoned, her heart was pierced with terror, and she cried aloud in grief.
“O lord, O king, O husband mine!
Hast thou forsaken me in this wild?
Alas! I am undone, alone,
Frighted like a wandering child.
Thou wert ever true in speech,
Steadfast in dharma, wise in word—
Why then, O monarch, hast thou fled,
Leaving thy faithful, blameless bride?
Once in the presence of the gods
Thou gav’st thy solemn pledge to me;
How canst thou break thy sacred vow
And leave me here in misery?
O mighty bull among all men,
This life endures by fate’s decree;
Else at the moment of thy loss,
I would have perished instantly.”
Thus, she lamented, calling out in anguish. Then, imagining him near, her eyes clouded with tears, she said:
“O Naishadha, I see thee there,
Concealed behind the forest leaves.
Why dost thou hide and mock my grief,
And give no answer to my pleas?
If thou beholdest me so worn,
Trembling, broken, wild with pain,
Is it not cruel, O my lord,
To stay apart and not sustain?
I grieve not, king, for mine own lot,
But for the life that waits on thee—
When hunger strikes and thirst consumes,
And I no longer near thee be.”
So, saying, Damayantī, faint and distraught, wandered through the woods like one bereft of reason. At times she sprang up in frenzy, at times she sank down in stupor. She wept, she wailed, she cried aloud like an osprey in sorrow, rushing here and there in anguish.
And sighing ever more, she cursed the unseen cause of her woe:
“He by whose curse this grief hath come,
On sinless Nala, true and kind—
May sorrow greater still than ours
Forever torment heart and mind!”
Thus lamenting, the princess sought her husband in the dark woods, haunted by beasts of prey. And as she wandered, wailing in unceasing agony, a monstrous serpent rose before her. Huge, hungry, and fierce, it seized Bhīma’s daughter within its dreadful coils.
Even so, caught in that serpent’s grasp, Damayantī wept not for herself but only for her lord:
“O king, O husband, hast thou gone,
And left me helpless in this snare?
The serpent binds me in its coils—
O Naishadha, why art thou not here?
When thou regainest wealth and throne,
And mem’ry wakes of what hath been,
How wilt thou bear, O sinless one,
The thought of me, who was thy queen?
Who then will soothe thy weariness,
When hunger burns, when toil o’erwhelms?
Who, lord, will comfort thee in grief,
O tiger of unconquered realms?”
And while Damayantī wept in the coils of the serpent, her cries pierced the forest depths. A huntsman, ranging those wild woods, heard her voice and hastened swiftly to the spot. Beholding the lotus-eyed queen bound fast within the serpent’s folds, he raised his sharp weapon and struck. With a single blow he severed the monster’s head, and the reptile, slain, fell lifeless to the earth.
The huntsman then set Bhīma’s daughter free, sprinkling her with water, giving her food, and speaking words of comfort.
“O gazelle-eyed lady,” said he, “who art thou, so fair and gentle, wandering in this desolate forest? How comest thou into such misery, and what dire fate hath brought thee to this plight?”
Damayantī, thus questioned, told him all: her husband’s fall, her own abandonment, her wandering through the wilds.
But when the hunter beheld her beauty—her half-clad form, her swelling bosom and rounded hips, her limbs delicate and flawless, her face like the full moon, her lashes curved and eyes wide as a doe’s, and her voice sweet as honey—his heart, inflamed by desire, became a prey to Kāma.
“With gentle words he sought to soothe,
With soft entreaties, smiles, and sighs;
But Damayantī, pure of soul,
Beheld the lust within his eyes.
And when she knew his mind debased,
Her wrath blazed forth, a fiery flame;
The faithful queen, in anger fierce,
Thus spake aloud her righteous claim:
‘Never have I in thought or dream
Desired a man but Nala’s grace;
Therefore, thou wretch of evil heart,
Lie lifeless here, fallen in disgrace!’”
At that curse, the huntsman fell as if consumed by fire, his body crashing lifeless to the ground. So perished that lust-blinded man, while Damayantī, steadfast in virtue, stood radiant in her grief, guarded by her chastity as by a blazing flame.
Vṛhadāśva continued:
Having slain that hunter with her curse, Damayantī of lotus-leaf eyes pressed onward through the fearful, solitary forest, where the shrill cries of crickets echoed unceasingly. Lions and leopards prowled there, tigers and buffaloes, bears, deer, and Rurus. The air resounded with the calls of countless birds, while thieves and mleccha tribes haunted its depths.
There stood towering trees—śālas, dhavas, and bamboos, aśvatthas, tindukas, ingudas, and flaming kiṁśukas; also arjunas, nimvas, tinisas, salmalas, jambu trees and mangoes, lodhras, catechu and cane, padmakas and amalakas, plakṣas and kadambas, udumvaras and vadaris, bilvas and banyans, piyālas, palms and date-trees, haritakas and vibhitakas.
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She saw mountains streaked with ore, valleys alive with winged choirs, rivers, lakes, and tanks sparkling in the sun, and forests swarming with goblins, serpents, and rakṣasas of grim visage. Yet the princess of Vidarbha, safe in her chastity and glowing with patience, roamed on unafraid, distressed only by the loss of her lord.
At length, she sat upon a stone, trembling in grief, and thus lamented:
“O king of the Niṣadhas, broad-chested and mighty-armed,
Where hast thou gone, abandoning me to this desolation?
Once thou didst perform the aśvamedha, gifting wealth to Brahmanas;
Why now play false to me alone, thy faithful wife?
Thou didst declare before the guardians of the worlds—
‘Save thee, none is dear to me upon this earth.’
Remember the words spoken by the sky-ranging swans,
When they bore tidings of love between us.
The Vedas in all their vastness with their aṅgas and upāṅgas on one side,
Balanced against a single truth spoken, weigh the same.
Therefore, O slayer of foes, make true thy word,
For truth alone upholdeth dharma and fame.
Alas, O Naishadha, sinless one, I am perishing here,
Thy beloved, abandoned in this dreadful wilderness.
O hero, why dost thou not answer me?
This tiger, lord of the forest, fills me with fear.
Once thou wouldst say, ‘Save thee, none is dear to me’;
O king, fulfil thy vow, return to thy forlorn queen!
See me, emaciated, pale, clad in half a garment,
Wandering like a solitary doe, bereft of her herd.
O Nala, O noble-born, O moon-eyed sovereign,
Why dost thou not reply to my cries?
Shall I ask the beasts, the streams, the mountains,
‘Hast thou seen the royal Nala, destroyer of foes?’
Lo, yonder comes the tiger, king of the forest,
Majestic with gleaming fangs and noble stride.
To him I cry: O lord of beasts, hear Damayantī’s plea,
Tell me of my husband, or devour me and end my grief!”
Thus did Bhīma’s daughter wail, her words echoing through glens and mountains. The trees stood still, the rivers hushed their murmur, as if all creation paused to share her sorrow.
Vṛhadāśva continued:
Then Damayantī, her eyes brimming with tears, turned to the sacred hill before her, its peaks ablaze with sunlight, its caverns echoing with the cries of wild beasts and the calls of birds. Raising her arms, she bowed low and addressed the mountain with trembling voice:
“O king of mountains, pillar of the earth,
Crested with heaven-kissing peaks of many hues,
Adorned with gems and ores of every kind,
Ranged by lions, tigers, elephants, and boars—
O sacred one, O wondrous sight,
O refuge of the distressed, to thee I bow!
I am Damayantī—daughter of Bhīma,
That mighty monarch of Vidarbha’s realm,
Victor in the Rājasūya and Aśvamedha,
Protector of the four orders, giver of gifts,
Truthful, pure, and lord of boundless wealth.
I am the wife of Nala, son of Vīrasena,
King of Niṣadhas, golden in hue,
Pious, eloquent, fire-worshipping,
A chastiser of foes, a quaffer of Soma,
Beloved of Brahmanas, renowned as Puṇyaśloka.
Him, the righteous, the fearless in battle,
Do I, bereft of joy, seek in this forest.
O mountain, O thou of a hundred peaks,
Hast, thou seen my husband, lion among men,
Long-armed, radiant, patient, and famed,
With tread like that of a mighty elephant?
If thou hast seen him, reveal to me his path;
If not, O holy one, speak and soothe me
As though I were thy daughter lost in sorrow.”
Thus, she poured out her grief, her voice rising like a Vedic chant, each word heavy with longing. She pressed her face against the rugged stone as though it were her lord’s bosom, and her tears fell like streams upon its moss. The forest hushed around her; the wind stilled, the birds grew silent, as if the mountain itself listened but could not speak.
Vṛhadāśva continued:
Having bowed before the silent mountain, Damayantī, the noble daughter of Bhīma, turned her steps northward. For three days and nights she wandered, her bare feet torn by thorns, her body weakened by hunger, yet her spirit unbent. At last, amidst the wild forest, she beheld a grove radiant like a celestial garden, filled with the hush of austerity and the fragrance of sacred fire.
There, dwelt ascetics like unto Vasiṣṭha, Bhṛgu, and Atri—men with senses subdued, clad in bark and deer-skins, their minds steady, their passions restrained. Some lived on water alone, some on fallen leaves, some on the air itself. All were intent upon the path of heaven. Herds of deer moved fearlessly among them, and the cries of monkeys echoed like mantras in the grove.
Seeing this hermitage, Damayantī, weary and sorrowful, felt her heart gladden for the first time in many days. Entering that holy asylum, bright as a lotus though clad in half a garment, with graceful brows, large dark eyes, and tresses disheveled by the wind, she bowed low before the venerable Ṛṣis.
They welcomed her with blessings:
“Welcome, O beauteous one! Sit, and tell us what thou desirest. Speak, for thy presence fills this hermitage with wonder.”
The ascetics, beholding her brilliance, marvelled among themselves:
“Is she a goddess of the forest?
Or the presiding spirit of river or hill?
Her form dazzles like the moon’s light,
Yet sorrow veils her radiant eyes.”
Damayantī answered them with humility, her voice like trembling veena-strings:
“I am no goddess, O blessed Ṛṣis,
Nor spirit of forest, mountain, or stream.
I am but mortal, the daughter of Bhīma,
King of Vidarbha, protector of Dharma.
My husband is Nala, lord of Niṣadhas,
Golden-hued, broad-armed, fearless in battle,
Truthful, devout, crusher of foes,
Honoured by Brahmanas, radiant as Indra.
Versed in the Vedas, lord of sacrifice,
Guardian of his people, keeper of vows,
Gentle, eloquent, gracious, wise—
That hero is my beloved husband.
But through deceit of wretches at dice,
He was stripped of kingdom and wealth.
Banished, broken, yet steadfast in soul,
He vanished from me in the wilderness.
I am Damayantī, his faithful queen,
Wandering in forests haunted by beasts,
Seeking the lotus-eyed son of Virasena,
My lord, my king, my very life.
O holy ones, hath Nala the noble,
That tiger among men, come hither?
If within days I behold him not,
Then shall I renounce this body in grief.
For what is life bereft of my husband,
That moon among men, my only refuge?
Without him, sorrow consumes me entire—
O sages, tell me if ye have seen him.”
Hearing these words, the forest itself seemed to pause, as if the trees and deer awaited the Ṛṣis’ reply.
The truth-telling ascetics, beholding Bhīma’s daughter lamenting alone in the forest, spoke with serene voices:
“O blessed lady of lotus eyes, sorrow shall not always be thine.
By our ascetic sight we see thy future bright with joy.
Thou wilt again behold Niṣadha’s lord,
Freed from distress, crowned with gems,
Chastising foes, delighting friends,
And ruling once more his city with splendour.”
Having spoken thus, the holy ones, with their sacred fires and their hermitage, vanished from her sight like mist dissolving in the morning sun.
Damayantī, beholding this wonder, stood amazed. “Was it a dream?” she thought. “What marvel have I witnessed? Where are those seers, their fires, their hermitage? Where is that river bright with birds, those trees adorned with fruit and blossom? All have vanished as if swallowed by the sky.” Again, her face grew pale, her heart weighed down with grief, and she wandered deeper into the forest.
There she came upon an Aśoka tree, radiant with blossoms, alive with the cries of birds. Standing before it with streaming eyes, she spoke in anguish:
“O graceful Aśoka, flowering in splendour,
Thou standest like a king amid the woods.
Vindicate thy name, destroy my grief!
Tell me, hast thou seen Niṣadha’s lord—
My Nala, clothed in rags, yet radiant as fire,
Slayer of foes, my husband beloved?”
With trembling steps, she circumambulated the tree thrice, seeking solace, yet finding none. Then, torn by longing, she pressed onward into a darker, more fearful part of the forest, where cliffs rose like walls and rivers wound in glittering coils. She passed through groves filled with deer and birds, and caves echoing with strange cries.
At last, she came upon a broad road, where a caravan of merchants had halted beside a river clear and wide, its waters cool and filled with tortoises, fish, and crocodiles. The banks were covered with cane thickets, and cranes, ospreys, and chakravāka birds cried across the rippling current.
Seeing them, Damayantī rushed forward—wild-eyed, clad in half a garment, her body lean and smudged with dust, her hair disheveled. Some of the merchants fled in fear, thinking her a spirit; some stood anxious and amazed; some laughed, others jeered, yet some pitied her deeply. They cried out to her in wonder:
“Who art thou, O radiant one?
Art thou goddess of forest or mountain,
Yakṣiṇī, Rākṣasī, or celestial maid?
Bless us, protect us, that this caravan
May prosper on its journey.”
Then Damayantī, steadying her breath though her voice was broken with sorrow, answered:
“Think me not goddess nor spirit, O merchants,
But mortal, a king’s daughter and wife.
Bhīma of Vidarbha is my father,
Nala of Niṣadha is my lord.
Robbed of him, I wander these woods,
Seeking the golden-hued, lotus-eyed king.
If ye have seen that lion among men,
Speak quickly, for without him I perish.”
The caravan leader, a merchant named Śuci, bowed respectfully and replied:
“O noble lady, hear me.
We have seen no man named Nala in this vast wilderness.
Here dwell only beasts—elephants, leopards, tigers, bears—
But no human, save thee alone.
By the Yakṣa-king Maṇibhadra may we be protected!”
Then Damayantī, sighing heavily, asked: “Tell me at least, O good merchants, whither lies your road, and what city ye seek.”
Śuci replied: “O daughter of a great king, we journey toward the city of Suvāhu, the truth-telling ruler of the Cedis. Thither this caravan goes, seeking profit and safety.”
Vṛhadaśva continued:
Having heard the words of the caravan leader, Damayantī of flawless limbs went forth with them, her heart fixed on finding her lord. For many days they journeyed through the dense wilderness, until at last they came upon a vast lake, fragrant with lotuses and cool with shining waters. Its banks abounded in grass, flowers, and fruit; it was filled with birds of every hue and ringed with groves of trees. Captivated by its beauty and wearied with toil, the merchants resolved to rest there, spreading themselves about the woods with their horses, elephants, and wares.
But when midnight came, and silence lay upon the world, a great herd of wild elephants, their temples streaming with ichor, came down to the waters to drink. Seeing the tamed elephants of the caravan, the wild beasts grew furious and charged upon them, trumpeting like thunder.
Like peaks torn from mountains rolling down upon the plain,
So came the tusked giants with irresistible might.
Their trampling feet crushed men in sleep,
Their trunks tore lives asunder,
Their tusks pierced flesh like spears in war,
And the night became a field of slaughter.
Cries of “Alas!” and “Save us!” rang through the air as the caravan awoke in terror. Men fled blindly into thickets and ravines, some trampling others underfoot, some climbing trees only to fall in panic, while horses, camels, and oxen were cut down in heaps. The uproar was such that it seemed to shake the three worlds. Amidst the chaos some shouted:
“Look! A fire is upon us—fly, fly!
Seize the jewels scattered on the ground!
Wealth is nothing—life is all!
Do not tarry, heed my words, or death is sure!”
Amid these cries Damayantī awoke, her heart quivering like a frightened deer. She beheld the massacre around her—men slain, beasts destroyed, wealth overturned—and rose trembling, breathless, her lotus eyes wide with fear.
When morning came, the survivors gathered, broken and bereft. They asked one another, bewildered: “Of what deed is this the consequence? Surely, we neglected to worship Maṇibhadra, king of the Yakṣas, or failed to honour noble Vaiśravaṇa. Perhaps the portents of birds we saw were ill omens unheeded. Why has this calamity fallen upon us, if not by divine wrath?”
But others, more embittered, turned their anger against the innocent queen:
“That strange woman who came among us,
Dust-stained, half-clad, with wandering eyes—
She is no mortal, but a Rākṣasī,
A Yakṣī, or a Piśācī in disguise.
It is her doing, this ruin of merchants.
If ever we see her again,
Stones and dust, wood and fists
Shall strike her down for our revenge!”
Hearing such dreadful words, Damayantī, crushed by terror and shame, fled into the dark woods alone. Her heart lamented within her:
“Alas! The wrath of the gods pursues me everywhere.
Peace does not follow my steps.
What wrong have I done, in thought or in deed?
I recall no cruelty, no falsehood of mine.
Surely it is sins of a former birth
That bear fruit now in sorrow—
The loss of my husband’s kingdom,
His defeat at the hands of kinsmen,
This bitter separation from my lord and children,
This unprotected wandering in a forest of beasts.”
Thus blaming herself, the lotus-eyed queen pressed deeper into the wilderness, her soul heavy with grief.