novelraw Arc 4 - Nalopakhyana - Chapter 5 - Damayantī's Ploy and the Kali Exorcism
Arc 4 - Nalopakhyana - Chapter 5 - Damayantī's Ploy and the Kali Exorcism
King Bhīma, delighted at the sight of his daughter, bestowed upon Sudeva a thousand kine, with wealth and a village as reward for his service. Having passed that night in her father’s mansion and recovered from fatigue, Damayantī turned to her mother with earnest words:
“O mother, if it is thy wish that I should live, then bring unto me Nala, my husband, that hero among men. Only thus shall my life be sustained.”
Hearing her daughter’s voice, the venerable queen was pierced with sorrow. She shed hot tears and could frame no reply. At her grief, all the women of the inner apartments raised cries of “Alas! Alas!” and wept bitterly.
At length the queen, her face streaming with tears, went before mighty Bhīma and said:
“Thy daughter Damayantī mourns for her lord. She has cast aside all bashfulness and openly spoken to me of her longing. Therefore, O king, let thy men go forth and seek Nala, that righteous one.”
Thus urged, King Bhīma summoned Brāhmaṇas and gave them command:
“Go ye in every direction. Spare no effort. Discover where Nala dwells, though disaster has overtaken him.”
They came before Damayantī to receive her charge, and she instructed them with steadfast resolve:
“Go forth to every realm and every assembly, proclaiming these words:
‘O beloved gambler, where hast thou fled, cutting away half my garment, leaving thy devoted wife sleeping in the forest? She waits for thee still, in tatters, consumed by grief.
O king, O hero, relent! Answer her who weeps incessantly in sorrow.
As fire consumes the forest when fanned by the wind, so grief devours her life.
Know, the wife is to be ever protected by her husband. Why then, thou who art versed in dharma, hast thou abandoned this duty?
Possessed of wisdom, fame, and noble birth, why hast thou shown unkindness? Surely my ill fortune has darkened thy mind.
O lord of men, remember: kindness is the highest virtue.’
If any man responds to these words, mark well who he is and where he dwells. Learn whether he is rich or poor, mighty or destitute of power. Bring back to me his words, yet let none suspect that ye speak at my command, nor that ye will return to me.”
So instructed, the Brāhmaṇas, obedient and eager, set out in every direction. They sought Nala in cities and villages, in kingdoms and hermitages, among cowherds and ascetics. And wherever they went, they repeated faithfully the lament of Damayantī, as though her very voice echoed through them.
Vrihadaśva said:
After a long span of time, a Brāhmaṇa named Pārṇada returned to the city of the Vidarbhas and stood before Damayantī. Bowing low, he spoke these words:
“O princess, I went in search of thy lord, the king of the Niṣādhas, until at last I reached Ayodhyā and entered the court of the son of Bhaṅgasura, the blessed king Ṛtuparṇa. In the presence of that ruler I proclaimed, again and again, the lament thou hadst entrusted to us.
But, O noble lady, neither he nor his courtiers gave any reply. Dismissed from the hall, I was approached by one in his service—Vāhuka by name, charioteer to the king. His form was unsightly, his arms short, yet he is master of steeds and skilled in the culinary art.
And that man, sighing heavily and weeping often, questioned me of my welfare. Then, with words heavy with grief, he said:
‘A chaste woman, even if plunged into sorrow, protecteth herself by virtue, and in so doing secureth heaven.
Though deserted by her husband, she casteth not away her patience, for women of chastity live ever in the armour of righteousness.
She should not be wrathful against him who, stripped of his garment by birds while seeking sustenance, was consumed in sorrow and calamity.
Though treated well or ill, the faithful wife beholdeth her husband deprived of kingdom and fortune, oppressed by hunger, and should not, in such a plight, abandon compassion.’
Hearing this, I hastened hither, for I believe I have found trace of thy lord. Do thou act now as seemeth fit, and reveal this matter to the king, if thou so desirest.”
Hearing the Brāhmaṇa’s tale, Damayantī’s eyes filled with tears. She went to her mother in secret and said in trembling voice:
“O mother, by no means must King Bhīma learn of my intent. In thy presence only will I employ Sudeva, that best of Brāhmaṇas, for this task. If thou carest for my welfare, let him be dispatched at once to Ayodhyā. As before he brought me swiftly to my kin, so now let him, through auspicious rites, bring back my husband to me. Hide my purpose from my father, for this is the only way.”
So saying, she honored Pārṇada with wealth and gifts, bowing in gratitude. With folded palms she added:
“O Brāhmaṇa, when Nala returneth to me, I shall reward thee anew with riches untold. None other could have rendered me such service as thou hast, for through thee my hope of reunion with my lord awakens once more.”
Pārṇada, consoled by her words and blessing her with benedictions of good fortune, took his leave, deeming his mission accomplished.
But Damayantī, though strengthened in resolve, was yet weighed with grief. Calling for Sudeva, she spoke before her mother, saying:
“O Sudeva, go swiftly to Ayodhyā as a bird in flight. Speak thus unto King Ṛtuparṇa:
‘Bhīma’s daughter, Damayantī, will hold another svayaṃvara.
Princes and lords from all realms hasten there.
Counting the time, she seeth the rite shall be held tomorrow.
If it is within thy power, come swiftly, for at sunrise she shall choose a second husband, knowing not whether the heroic Nala liveth still.’
Carry these words with speed, and let none delay thee.”
Thus commanded, the faithful Sudeva set forth at once, and reaching Ayodhyā, delivered to Ṛtuparṇa the message entrusted by Damayantī.
Vṛhadaśva said:
Hearing the words of Sudeva, King Ṛtuparṇa turned to Vāhuka with a smile and spoke gently:
“O Vāhuka, thou art unmatched in guiding steeds. If it please thee, I would fain go to the svayaṃvara of Damayantī, and reach the Vidarbhas in a single day.”
At these words, Nala’s heart trembled. Grief surged like fire within him, and sorrow burned his soul. He pondered in silence:
“Hath Damayantī, blinded by despair, conceived this course?
Or hath she devised this ruse for my sake alone?
Alas, cruel is the fate she endureth, deceived by me—
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By me, the sinner, of clouded mind and fallen fortune.
They say the heart of woman is inconstant,
Yet can she, the mother of my children, turn from me?
No—my slender-waisted queen, grieving and steadfast,
Will not abandon her love, though sorrow consume her.
Whether true or false, I must know her purpose.
I shall see with mine own eyes, and learn her heart’s decree.
I will serve both Ṛtuparṇa’s command and my own desire—
To behold once more the princess of Vidarbha.”
Thus resolved, Vāhuka bowed to the king and said with folded hands:
“O monarch, thy command is mine. In one day I shall bear thee to the city of the Vidarbhas.”
Then, at Ṛtuparṇa’s urging, Vāhuka went to the royal stables. He examined the steeds with long and careful scrutiny. Rejecting many, he chose four that were lean yet sinewy, born in Sindhu, swift as the wind, of noble breed, with clear nostrils and swelling cheeks, free of faults and marked with auspicious curls.
When the king beheld them, he spoke in doubt:
“These horses are frail and weak of breath. Surely thou mockest me, Vāhuka! How can such creatures carry us across so great a distance?”
But Vāhuka replied calmly:
“O King, each steed beareth the ten auspicious whorls—one on the brow, two at the temples, four at the sides, four at the chest, and one upon the back. Horses marked thus are strong as the wind. They shall bear us swiftly to Vidarbha. Yet if thy mind leaneth elsewhere, choose others, and I shall yoke them for thee.”
Ṛtuparṇa, reassured, said:
“O Vāhuka, thou art master of the science of horses, even as I have heard. Yoke then those thou deemest worthy.”
So Nala, skilled beyond all men, harnessed the four noble steeds. The king mounted swiftly, but the horses, trembling, sank to their knees. Then Vāhuka, soothing them with reins and words, raised them to their strength, and placing Varṣṇeya, once his own charioteer, upon the car, prepared to set forth.
Urged by Vāhuka’s hand, the steeds leapt forward—swift as the rushing gale, they seemed to soar into the sky, and the rattle of the car filled the heavens.
Ṛtuparṇa gazed in wonder, astonished at such speed. And Varṣṇeya, beholding the mastery of Vāhuka, mused within himself:
“Is he Māṭali, the charioteer of Indra?
Or Salihotra, the sage of horses, in human guise?
Or is he Nala, conqueror of cities, returned?
The skill is the same, the grace of hand the same,
The wisdom of steeds equal in measure.
Though unsightly in form, he is Nala in spirit—
For fate can strip the body, but not the soul’s mastery.
In age they are alike, in knowledge too.
I think—yea, surely—I behold my lord!”
Thus thought Varṣṇeya, lost in wonder and doubt. And Ṛtuparṇa also, delighted by Vāhuka’s art and tireless ardour, rejoiced exceedingly, praising him in his heart as they sped like wind toward Vidarbha.
Vṛhadaśva said:
Like a bird coursing through the heavens, Nala guided the chariot. Rivers and mountains, forests and lakes, fled behind them as the wind-borne steeds devoured the path.
As they sped onward, the upper garment of King Ṛtuparṇa slipped from his shoulders and fell upon the earth. The monarch, son of Bhāṅgasura, spoke quickly to Vāhuka:
“O master of steeds, hold them fast till Varṣṇeya recovers my robe.”
But Nala replied:
“O King, a yojana already lieth between us and that spot. That garment cannot be regained.”
Even as he spoke, they came upon a great Vibhitaka tree, heavy with fruits, standing solitary in the forest. Ṛtuparṇa looked upon it and smiled, saying:
“Behold, O Vāhuka, the measure of my knowledge.
Countless are the leaves and fruits men see,
Yet I tell thee with certainty:
Those scattered upon the earth exceed those on the boughs by one hundred and one.
Upon these two branches are fifty millions of leaves,
And fruits two thousand and ninety-five in number.”
He spoke with confidence, his words echoing like a riddle of the gods.
Vāhuka reined in the steeds and said with humility:
“O Crusher of foes, thy claim surpasseth my perception. Yet let me test it with my hands and eyes. For truth is proven by direct sight. I will fell the tree before thee, and count its burden. Let Varṣṇeya for a while guide the reins.”
Ṛtuparṇa answered:
“There is no time to waste.”
But Nala persisted, calm and steady:
“If haste presseth upon thee, then set forth with Varṣṇeya as thy driver. The road is even and clear. Yet if thou trustest me, grant me this moment, and I shall proceed.”
Soothing him, Ṛtuparṇa spoke:
“O Vāhuka, there is none in this world equal to thee in horsemanship. It is by thy hand alone that I hope to reach Vidarbha before the sun’s ascent. Whatever thou desirest, I shall grant, but hinder me not.”
Then Vāhuka answered firmly:
“After I have counted the leaves and fruits of this Vibhitaka, I shall bear thee onward. Grant me this, O King.”
Reluctantly, the monarch assented. “Count then, and thou shalt see my words are true.”
At once Vāhuka leapt down from the car. With a stroke of his blade he felled the tree. And when the fruits and leaves were gathered and reckoned, they proved to be in exact accord with the king’s declaration. Amazed, Nala bowed and said:
“O monarch, thy power of reckoning is wondrous. Tell me, I pray, the art by which thou hast such knowledge.”
Ṛtuparṇa, intent still on haste, replied:
“Know, O Vāhuka, that I am master of numbers, and in especial, skilled at the fall of dice.”
At these words, Nala bowed low and answered:
“O King, grant me that knowledge, and in return accept my lore of steeds. For among men, each art must find its place in another’s hand.”
Ṛtuparṇa, knowing his fate rested in Vāhuka’s skill, and coveting the knowledge of horses, consented:
“So be it. Take from me this science of dice, and let thy mastery of steeds remain in trust with me.”
Thus saying, the king imparted to Nala the hidden wisdom of numbers and chance. And lo—when Nala received that lore, the dark spirit Kāli, who so long had clung to him, was forced forth from his body. Vomiting the venom of Karkoṭaka, Kāli issued shrieking from Nala’s frame, powerless to remain.
Thus the veil of misfortune was lifted.
By knowledge gained and fate fulfilled,
The poison was purged, the shadow cast away—
And Nala stood once more his true self,
A lion among men, his radiance restored.
And when Kali, long afflicted by Damayantī’s curse, was forced forth from Nala’s body, the fire of that curse too departed with him. For many years the king had borne that torment, as though unregenerate, scorched by a shadow not his own.
In wrath, Nala, lord of the Niṣādhas, prepared to curse Kali anew. But trembling, with hands joined in fear, Kali spoke:
“Restrain thy anger, O mighty monarch!
I will make thee illustrious among men.
Long ago, when thou didst abandon Damayantī,
she cursed me in her sorrow.
Since then I have endured unceasing torment—
burning night and day
with the venom of Karkoṭaka, the prince of serpents.
Oppressed and wasted, I have dwelt within thee,
and now I seek thy protection.
If thou wilt spare me, O Naishadha,
then men who recite thy sacred tale
shall never fear me again.”
Hearing these words of supplication, the noble Nala mastered his wrath. And Kali, trembling still, fled swiftly into the Vibhitaka tree standing there. To all others he was unseen, but to Nala he spake and departed.
From that moment the Vibhitaka tree, tainted by the touch of Kali, fell into disrepute among men.
Freed of the dark spirit, his heart lightened, his strength renewed, Nala once more mounted the car. With radiant joy he seized the reins, and urged the noble steeds. Like winged beings they leapt into the sky, springing forward again and again as if borne upon the wind.
Thus the king, unshackled from misfortune, sped swiftly toward Vidarbha, his soul blazing with hope.
And when Nala had gone far away, Kali too withdrew, returning to his own abode. Abandoned at last by that fell power, O King, the son of Niṣadha was free of calamity, though he had not yet taken again his true and shining form.
Vṛhadaswa continued:
When Rituparṇa, whose prowess could not be baffled, reached Vidarbha at evening, word of his arrival sped to King Bhīma. At Bhīma’s invitation, the king of Ayodhyā entered Kuṇḍinā, and the rattle of his chariot filled all ten quarters of the horizon—north and south, east and west, and the spaces between—as though the very firmament trembled.
In that city dwelt the steeds once cherished by Nala. Hearing the familiar thunder of the car, their hearts leapt with joy, as if their true master had returned to them. And Damayantī too heard it, that sound of Nala’s hand upon the reins—the deep, rolling resonance like the monsoon’s first clouds. Bhīma himself thought it no different from the clatter once raised by Nala’s own chariot.
The elephants in their stalls lifted their trunks and trumpeted. The peacocks upon the terraces unfurled their jeweled tails. The horses whinnied, tossing their manes. For that sound, like the voice of the storm, stirred in them the rapture they felt when the clouds truly roared.
And Damayantī, trembling in her chamber, spoke with anguish and hope entwined:
“This rattle of the car, filling the earth with its thunder, gladdens my heart—
surely it is my Nala who has come!
If I do not behold his moon-bright face today,
I shall not survive the night.
If I am not clasped in the arms of that hero,
my life will depart as the flame leaps from the golden pyre.
If Naishadha, whose voice is deep as the clouds,
does not call to me, I shall cast myself into fire.
Where is that lion among kings,
strong as an infuriated elephant,
who never uttered untruth even in jest,
who wronged none, who forgave all?
Faithful to his vow, untouched by other women,
radiant, heroic, magnificent,
he is exalted above all rulers of men.
My heart, dwelling day and night upon his image,
is ready to break in grief if he comes not this very hour.”
Thus she cried, her soul suspended between despair and the trembling joy of recognition, for in the rattle of that chariot she heard not Rituparṇa, but her lost lord himself.
Thus bewailing, her senses almost unmoored, Damayantī, O Bhārata, ascended the high terrace of her mansion, longing to behold once more the righteous Nala. From that vantage she gazed down into the courtyard of the central palace, where King Rituparṇa had arrived upon his car with Varṣṇeya and the one called Vāhuka.
She beheld them descend. Varṣṇeya and Vāhuka unyoked the coursers, tended them carefully, and placed the chariot in order. Then Rituparṇa, lord of Ayodhyā, descended also and presented himself before mighty Bhīma of Vidarbha, whose prowess was like the storm. Bhīma received him with honour, for even if no occasion were at hand, a great guest cannot be turned away.