novelraw Arc 4 - Nalopakhyana - Chapter 4 - Nala’s Transformation and Hidden Service
Arc 4 - Nalopakhyana - Chapter 4 - Nala’s Transformation and Hidden Service
The next day, O king, the remnants of that caravan left the place, mourning with heavy hearts. Fathers bewailed sons, sons bewailed fathers, and friends bewailed friends, all struck down by the trampling herd. Their cries still lingered in the air as the princess of Vidarbha, pale as the waning autumn moon, walked behind them in sorrow.
She said within herself:
“Alas, what sin have I wrought?
The crowd of men I found in this forest of beasts,
They perished through my ill-starred fate,
Crushed beneath the fury of elephants.
Surely my doom is long and bitter,
For Destiny marks me for sorrow.
I have heard it said by elders of old,
That none dies before his destined time.
It is for this, and this alone,
That my wretched self yet lives uncrushed.
For what deed of mine is this affliction born?
In childhood I harmed no creature,
By thought, by word, by deed I sinned not.
Yet still I wander in anguish.
Ah! Perhaps it is the wrath of the guardians of the worlds—
Those Lokapālas who came to my svayaṃvara,
But whom I rejected for the sake of Nala.
For their pride slighted burns against me still,
And by their will I am sundered from my lord.”
Thus did she bewail her fate as she pressed on, devoted to her absent husband. With a few Brāhmaṇas who had survived the slaughter, she moved onward until, as evening fell, she came to the mighty city of Suvāhu, truth-telling king of the Cedis.
Clad in but half a garment, her hair dishevelled and soiled with dust, her body wasted with grief, she entered the city. The citizens, seeing her thin frame, her maniac-like mien, and yet her shining beauty, followed her in wonder, as children gather about a strange vision. Surrounded thus, she came before the palace.
From the terrace, the queen-mother of the Cedis beheld her and was struck by her radiance. She said to her nurse:
“Go, bring that woman to me.
She is forlorn and vexed by the crowd.
Surely she has fallen into distress,
And stands in need of succour.
Though dishevelled, she shines like Lakṣmī herself,
Her large eyes glowing like lotus-petals,
Her beauty illumines even my house,
As lightning shines through clouds.”
The nurse went forth, dispersed the crowd, and brought Damayantī before the terrace. Struck with wonder at her dignity amid ruin, she said:
“O lady, though burdened by such grief,
Thou bearest a form that glows with splendour.
Like lightning flashing amidst dark clouds,
So shinest thou among us.
Tell me, who art thou? Whose daughter, whose wife?
Surely thou art no mortal woman,
For thy beauty is more than human,
Though thou art bereft of jewels and aid.”
Hearing these gentle words, Damayantī bowed her head and answered in humble tones:
“Know me to be but a mortal woman,
Bound only to my lord.
I am of good lineage,
A servant of my husband’s will.
I wander as fate ordains,
Sustaining life on roots and fruits,
Lodging where night descends upon me.
My husband—O noble lady—
Was owner of countless virtues,
True to dharma, gentle to all,
And I, devoted, followed him
As shadow follows form.
But once, alas, he fell to dice,
And stripped of kingdom, wealth, and joy,
He wandered in the forest clad in rags.
I too, in a single garment,
Followed him in grief, unsleeping many nights,
Till hunger, thirst, and madness seized him.
And in that hour of torment,
He cut my cloth in twain
And forsook me, who had done him no wrong.
Since then I search for him—
That lotus-hued king,
That delight of my heart,
That lord of the Niṣadhas,
Whose mien is like the gods.
Yet day and night I burn in grief,
Unable to behold his face.”
Unto Bhīma’s daughter, lamenting with tear-filled eyes, her voice broken by grief, the queen-mother of the Cedis spoke with gentle compassion:
“O blessed maiden, remain with me.
My heart is pleased by thy virtue.
My men shall search the forests for thy lord,
Or, by fortune’s path, he may come here of his own accord.
Residing in this palace, fair lady,
Thou shalt once more behold thy husband.”
Damayantī, though trembling with sorrow, answered firmly, setting forth her vow:
“O mother of heroes, hear my conditions.
I will not eat the leavings of another’s dish,
Nor wash the feet of any man,
Nor converse with strangers.
If any man should seek me for wife or mistress,
Let him be punished by thy hand.
And if, with wicked persistence,
He harasses me again, let him meet with death.
This vow I have made and will not break.
I ask also leave to meet the Brāhmaṇas,
Should they set forth to search for my lord.
If thou grantest these, I will remain.
If not, then I cannot dwell here.”
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The queen-mother, hearing her, rejoiced in heart and said with delight:
“Gladly will I uphold these vows.
Thou hast spoken well, noble lady,
And thy resolve is worthy of thy lineage.”
Then, O king, she turned to her daughter Sunandā and said:
“O Sunandā, receive this lady as thy own.
Regard her as a goddess, and let her be thy sairindhrī.
She is of thine age, let her be thy companion.
Sport with her in joy, free from care.”
Sunandā, obedient and glad, accepted Damayantī, and with her maidens led the princess to her own chambers. Treated with honor and kindness, Damayantī’s heart found rest. Free from fear and want, her vows preserved and her dignity intact, she dwelt there in peace, her hopes yet fixed on the day she would behold her beloved Nala again.
Vrihadaswa said:
Having deserted Damayantī, King Nala wandered through the wilds until he beheld a mighty conflagration raging amidst the trees. The forest burned like the end of an age, and in the midst of the flames he heard a voice calling again and again:
“O righteous Nala, come hither!”
At once the son of Virasena cried back, “Fear not,” and strode into the fire as if drawn by destiny. There, coiled and trembling, he beheld a serpent of vast size, bowing with joined hands. The Naga spake in a voice subdued by fear:
“O king, I am Karkotaka by name. Once I deceived the great Ṛṣi Nārada, ascetic of blazing austerities. In wrath he cursed me, saying:
‘Remain here, motionless as a stone, until one named Nala shall bear thee hence.
Only then shall thy curse be broken, and thou be freed.’
Thus bound by his words, I lie helpless in this fire.
Take me with thee, O lord of men, and I will become thy friend.
There is no serpent equal to me.
I shall be light in thy hands, and I will guide thee to welfare.”
So speaking, Karkotaka shrank until his body was no larger than a man’s thumb. Nala lifted him gently and bore him through the wall of flame, emerging at last into an open place. There he would have laid the serpent down, but again Karkotaka spake:
“O king of Niṣadhas, walk yet a few steps with me.
When thou hast counted ten, I will do thee great good.”
Obediently, Nala counted his steps. But as he marked the tenth, the serpent suddenly struck him. At once the king’s form began to change—his radiant beauty was dimmed, his features altered beyond recognition. Astonished, Nala beheld also that the serpent’s own form had taken the likeness of his former self.
Then Karkotaka spoke with words of comfort:
“I have veiled thy beauty, O king,
That men may not know thee in thy wanderings.
But he who deceived thee, who cast thee into misery—
That cruel Kali—shall dwell within thy body,
Writhing in torment, burned by my venom.
Fear not the fangs of beasts,
Fear not the arrows of enemies,
Nor the curses of Brāhmaṇas versed in the Vedas.
Through my grace thou shalt be unharmed,
Through my grace thou shalt be victorious.”
And the Naga, resplendent in serpentine majesty, gave Nala counsel for his path:
“Go this very day to Ayodhyā,
To the palace of King Ṛtuparṇa of the Ikṣvāku line,
Master of dice and lord of prosperity.
Say unto him: ‘I am Vāhuka, skilled in steeds,
A charioteer who knows the heart of horses.’
He will teach thee the secret of dice,
And thou in return shalt share thy lore of steeds.
Thus equipped with fortune’s art,
Thou shalt regain thy wife, thy children, and thy throne.
Grieve not, O son of Niṣadhas, for this I tell thee truly.
When thou wouldst recover thy proper form,
Remember me, and wear this garment.”
So saying, Karkotaka bestowed upon him two celestial raiments, woven with the sheen of immortality. Having given his gift and prophecy, the king of serpents vanished like smoke into the air, leaving Nala alone upon the forest floor, his heart heavy with sorrow yet steadied by hope.
Vrihadaswa said:
After the serpent-king Karkotaka had vanished, Nala, humbled and disguised, pressed onward through the wilderness. On the tenth day of his journey he came at last to the city of Ayodhyā, where reigned King Ṛtuparṇa of the Ikṣvāku line.
Entering the palace, he bowed before the monarch and spoke thus:
“My name is Vāhuka.
None on earth can match me in guiding steeds;
My counsel is sound in matters of skill,
And in every art, even the art of cooking,
I strive until success is won.
Therefore, O king, keep me at thy side.”
Ṛtuparṇa, gladdened by such words, answered warmly:
“O Vāhuka, remain with me.
Good fortune attend thee here.
I have ever longed for a driver swift as the wind;
Make thou my steeds like arrows in their flight.
I appoint thee lord of my stables;
Thy wage shall be ten thousand coins.
Varṣṇeya and Jīvāla shall serve beneath thy hand.
Dwell here, O charioteer, and live in comfort.”
So it was that Nala, under the name of Vāhuka, entered the service of Ṛtuparṇa. Treated with respect, he lived there among Varṣṇeya and Jīvāla as his companions. Yet each evening, when the day’s duties were done, grief overtook him, and he would recite in a low, broken voice:
“Where lieth now that helpless one,
Afflicted with hunger and thirst,
Worn with toil, forsaken, alone—
Upon whom doth she wait in her sorrow?”
One night, as these words escaped his lips, Jīvāla, curious and troubled, asked him:
“O Vāhuka, whose fate dost thou bewail?
Night after night thou utterest these words,
As one pierced with hidden grief.
Tell me, I pray, whose spouse is she,
Whose loss so burneth thy heart?”
Then Nala, concealing his own tale beneath a parable, answered softly:
“There was once a man devoid of sense,
Who had a wife well-known and noble.
That wretch was false in promise,
And through folly he lost her.
Bereft of her, he wandered the earth,
Restless by day and sleepless by night.
Each evening, remembering her,
He sang these sorrowful lines.
She too, when calamity befell,
Followed him into the desolate woods.
But deserted by that man of little virtue,
Her life itself was placed in peril.
Alone, unskilled in the paths of the world,
Faint with hunger and parched with thirst,
She wandered as prey for beasts of the forest.
Thus, O friend, is her sorrow—and his shame.”
Thus speaking in veiled lament for Damayantī, the king of Niṣadhas dwelt in Ayodhyā, unknown to all, his heart consumed by grief yet sustained by hope.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Nala, stripped of his kingdom, had become a bondsman with his wife, King Bhīma of Vidarbha, eager to recover his beloved son-in-law and his daughter, summoned learned Brāhmaṇas and dispatched them in all directions. Laden with wealth, he charged them with solemn words:
“Go forth, ye seekers, into every city and province.
Find for me Niṣadha’s fallen king,
And my daughter, the lotus-eyed Damayantī.
He who brings them hither shall gain from me
A thousand kine, fertile fields, and a village fair as a town.
Even he who cannot bring them,
But discovers where they dwell,
Shall yet receive wealth equal to a thousand kine.”
So instructed, the Brāhmaṇas set forth with joy, ranging across kingdoms, forests, and rivers, inquiring in halls and hermitages. Yet nowhere did they behold Nala or his faithful spouse.
At last, in the splendid city of the Cedis, during the hour of the king’s prayers, a Brāhmaṇa named Sudeva caught sight of the princess of Vidarbha. She was seated within the palace beside Sunandā, pale and emaciated, her splendour veiled—like a flame half-smothered by smoke. Yet to his discerning eyes, the truth was clear: this was Damayantī.
And Sudeva’s heart stirred, and he spoke within himself:
“As once I beheld her, so is she still—
Though sorrow hath dimmed her radiance,
She shines like Śrī herself, delight of the worlds,
Her beauty undiminished, though shadowed by grief.
Her eyes are great lotuses, her form bright as the full moon.
She is like Rati, the delight of Kāma,
Like a lotus-stalk torn from Vidarbha’s lake
And sullied with mire by cruel fortune.
Alas, she is as the night of the full moon
When swallowed by shadowy Rāhu;
As a river run dry, bereft of its current;
As a lake ravaged by elephants,
Its blossoms crushed, its birds scattered in fear.
This delicate one, born for jewelled halls,
Dwells now in dust like a lotus scorched by the sun.
Her beauty endures, but without her lord she gleams not,
Even as the veiled moon behind dark clouds.
For verily, the husband is the fairest ornament of woman;
And without him her radiance lies hidden.
It is a marvel that Nala yet endures,
Living apart from such a wife,
Whose face is the autumn moon,
Whose heart is steadfast as dharma itself.
Ah, when shall this dark-eyed queen,
Bearing marks of fortune and devotion,
Cross this ocean of grief
And rejoin her beloved,
As Rohiṇī rejoins the Moon in heaven?
And when Nala takes her hand again,
His joy shall equal that of a king
Who regains his lost realm.
They are of equal worth—
In birth, in beauty, in spirit.
He deserveth her, and she him.
It is meet that I, beholding her sorrow,
Should bring words of comfort to Vidarbha’s daughter,
Whose heart burneth ever with the thought of her lord.”
Thus resolved, Sudeva prepared to console Damayantī, the moon-faced queen, who endured a distress she had never known, yet in all her suffering thought only of Nala.
Vṛhadaśva continued:
Having pondered these many signs and proofs, the Brāhmaṇa Sudeva, steady in heart and quick in purpose, approached the sorrowful Damayantī. With gentle voice he spoke:
“O princess of Vidarbha, lotus-eyed and steadfast in virtue, know me. I am Sudeva, dear companion of thy brother. By the command of King Bhīma, thy sire, I have come to seek thee.
Thy father yet lives in strength, thy mother also, and thy brothers bloom like young trees in spring. Thy son and daughter, blessed with long years, flourish in peace. Yet thy kin, though alive, are consumed with grief on thy account, as if half-dead. Countless Brāhmaṇas now roam the earth, searching for thee with anxious hearts.”
At these words, O Bhārata, Damayantī recognized him. One by one she questioned him of her father, her mother, her brothers, her children, and her kin. And as she heard, sorrow welled within her like a river in flood. Her eyes, dark as lotus petals, poured tears; her voice faltered; and the sight of Sudeva, her brother’s cherished friend, broke her long-endured restraint. She wept bitterly, oppressed with grief, her slender frame trembling with emotion.
Sunandā, daughter of the queen-mother, beheld this from afar. Troubled in heart, she went swiftly to her mother and said:
“Sairindhrī weeps without measure, in the presence of a Brāhmaṇa. They speak together in secret, yet her tears flow ceaselessly. If it pleases thee, come and see for thyself.”
Then the queen-mother of the Cedis, moved by concern, left her inner chambers and came to the place where Damayantī sat beside that noble Brāhmaṇa. Beholding the maiden in such plight, she addressed Sudeva with grave inquiry:
“Tell me truly, O Brāhmaṇa of holy vows—whose daughter is this beauteous lady, and whose wife? By what fate is she bereft alike of kin and husband? How camest thou to know her story, she who now suffers in silence? Speak, for I long to hear the truth of this maiden whose beauty is like that of a goddess.”
Thus questioned, O king, Sudeva, foremost of Brāhmaṇas and rich in wisdom, sat calmly in the assembly. With collected thoughts and tranquil heart, he prepared to recount the true history of Damayantī, jewel among women.
Sudeva spoke with reverence:
“There is a virtuous monarch, lord of the Vidarbhas, by name Bhīma, steadfast in dharma and famed among kings. This radiant lady is his daughter, blessed and well known as Damayantī.
And there is a noble ruler of the Niṣadhas, Nala, son of Vīrasena, righteous and wise. This lady is his queen, the faithful wife of that lion among kings. Yet, alas, deceived at dice by his brother and stripped of his realm, that monarch wandered forth into exile, bearing his beloved wife beside him, unseen by men.
We have searched the whole wide earth for her, and now, at last, this lotus-faced princess is found here in the house of thy son.
No woman in all the worlds may rival her beauty. Between her brows, the Creator himself placed from birth a mole, bright as a lotus, sign of unending prosperity. Long known to us, it is now half-hidden, veiled by dust, like the young crescent moon dimmed by clouds. Yet even thus, her splendour abides. Though clothed in sorrow and careless of adornment, her beauty shines forth, radiant as fire concealed by smoke, or gold wrapped in dust.”
Hearing these words of truth, Sunandā, moved by love, gently washed the dust from her brow. Then the mole appeared again, luminous as the moon emerging from clouds. At the sight of that mark of fortune, Sunandā and the queen-mother burst into tears. Embracing Damayantī, they stood silent for a time, hearts overwhelmed.
At last the queen-mother spoke with tender voice:
“By this mole I know thee, child! Thou art indeed the daughter of my own sister. O fairest one, thy mother and I were both daughters of the high-souled Sudāman, lord of the Daśārṇas. She was given in marriage to mighty Bhīma, king of Vidarbha, and I to Vīravāhu. I myself witnessed thy birth in our father’s palace. O Damayantī, my house is to thee as thy father’s house, and all this wealth is thine as much as mine.”
Hearing these words, Damayantī bowed low with glad heart and said:
“Unrecognised, I have dwelt happily under thy roof, every want supplied, every care lifted by thy kindness. Blessed indeed has been my stay here. Yet, O mother, long have I lived in exile, parted from my children. My son and daughter dwell now in my father’s house, bereft of both parents. Stricken with sorrow, how do they pass their days? If thou wouldst grant me what is dearest to me, permit me now to depart. Let a carriage be made ready without delay, for I long to return to the Vidarbhas.”
Then the queen-mother, sister to Damayantī’s mother, embraced her with joy and answered with a gladdened heart:
“So be it.”
With the king’s permission, the queen-mother, her heart heavy yet obedient to Damayantī’s plea, sent her forth in a splendid litter borne by strong men. She was guarded by a great escort, furnished with food, drink, and garments of the finest kind. Thus, like a moon returning to its natal sky, Damayantī came at last to the land of the Vidarbhas.
Her kinsmen rejoiced in her arrival, welcoming her with reverence. She beheld again her children, her parents, and the maidens of her house, all safe and well. Lifting her heart in gratitude, she offered worship to the gods and honored the Brāhmaṇas with the superior rites due to them.