novelraw Arc 5 – Ulūka Agamana Parva - Chapter 6 - Amba’s Pain
Arc 5 – Ulūka Agamana Parva - Chapter 6 - Amba’s Pain
And so, O king, that maiden of luminous eyes, once a princess garlanded with hopes, now clad herself in bark garments, dwelling among ascetics—her heart fixed upon one burning vow: to avenge the cause of her sorrow, the invincible Bhīṣma himself.
Bhīṣma said:
“Then those ascetics, pure in conduct and devoted to truth, sat together beneath the forest boughs, their hearts troubled as they pondered what should be done for that forsaken maiden.
Some said, ‘Let her be sent back to her father’s house.’ Others counseled, ‘No, the king of Kāśī will reproach us.’ Some thought, ‘Let us entreat the ruler of the Śālvas again to receive her,’ but others replied, ‘Nay, he hath rejected her once; it would bring her only further shame.’
Thus, O Bhārata, as the wise debated, the day declined. Then, with gentleness, the elders among the ṛṣis addressed the sorrowing girl:
“O blessed one, what can forest-dwellers do?
Renounce this path of hardship too.
Go hence, fair maid, to thy father’s hall,
For he alone must answer all.
The daughter findeth in her sire
Her guardian, when the world turns dire.
The husband guardeth in his stead,
But thou art neither wife nor wed.
The hermit’s life is pain and cold,
Unfit for one so fair and bold.
Return, O princess, to thy gate—
There comfort and thy kin await.”
But others among the ascetics said, ‘Nay, if she dwells alone amidst the wilds, the eyes of kings may fall upon her, and she may be wronged. Let her not wander unprotected through these woods.’
Hearing these words, Amvā lifted her tear-stained face and replied with firm resolve:
“I cannot, O sages, return to Kāśī’s court;
My kin would mock me and distort
The tale of what hath come to pass—
My honour’s glass lies cracked, alas!
In my father’s home I was a child,
But shame hath now my name defiled.
Here in these woods, in penance deep,
I’ll sow new roots, my vows to keep.
Through tapas fierce my soul shall rise,
Freed from the world and all disguise.
The grief I bear is mine to burn,
That no such fate again return.”
Then, O King, while those Brahmanas pondered her words in silence, there came into that forest the royal sage Hotravāhana, the aged ruler among the Śṛñjayas, radiant with ascetic fire. The hermits rose at once, offering him water for his feet and words of welcome, and after he had rested a while, they recounted to him the tale of the maiden of Kāśī.
Hearing of her sorrow and her rejection, that venerable sage, who was none other than the maternal grandsire of Amvā, was deeply moved. Trembling with compassion, he took the forlorn girl upon his lap and said softly:
“O child, thou art born of royal race,
Yet grief hath marred thy gentle face.
Fear not—thy mother’s sire am I,
I shall not let thy hope now die.
Go thou, my daughter, to the son of Jamadagni—
The mighty Rāma, master of all arms and penance.
If Bhīṣma heareth not my word, that lion-sage
Shall bring thy vengeance forth in battle’s rage.”
The maiden, hearing this command from her grandsire, bowed with folded palms and spoke with modest doubt:
“Revered one, I obey thy word,
But can I reach that peerless lord?
Will the son of Bhṛgu hear my plea,
A wandering girl of misery?
How shall he free this heart from flame—
This grief that bears Bhīṣma’s name?”
Then Hotravāhana, full of tenderness, replied:
“Fear not, O blessed child of Kāśī,
For Rāma of the axe is mercy’s sea.
In Mahendra’s heights that ascetic dwells,
Where clouds embrace the forest dells.
Go, salute him with my name;
Say, ‘Hotravāhana sends his flame—
The grief of Kāśī’s daughter plead,
For Bhīṣma wrought her cruel deed.’
That sage, who loves me as his friend,
Will bring thy sorrow to its end.”
Even as he spoke, O King, there appeared before them Ākṛtavraṇa, the dear companion and disciple of Rāma, luminous as fire itself. All the ascetics rose to greet him with words of honour. When the rites of hospitality were done, Hotravāhana inquired gently, “O wise one, where dwells now the mighty son of Jamadagni, foremost among sages and warriors?”
Ākṛtavraṇa smiled and replied, “O royal sage, Rāma often speaks of thee with affection, saying, ‘Hotravāhana of the Śṛñjayas is dear to me as my own self.’ Tomorrow at dawn he will come here, desiring to meet thee. Yet tell me, who is this maiden who weeps by thy side?”
Then the sage of the Śṛñjayas answered:
“She is the daughter of the king of Kāśī, my daughter’s child, known as Amvā, eldest of three. Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu, bore her and her sisters away from their svayaṃvara, vanquishing all the assembled kings. The younger two were wedded to Vichitravīrya; this maiden, however, declared her heart given to the ruler of the Śālvas. But Bhīṣma, bound by his vow, released her, and she went to Sālva only to be spurned. Bereft and shamed, she fled to this forest to embrace the life of penance.”
At these words, Amvā herself joined her palms and spoke:
“All this, O sage, is truth indeed.
I stand dishonoured, heart that bleeds.
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I dare not face my father’s eyes,
For shame is death in woman’s guise.
On Rāma’s counsel hangs my fate—
His word alone shall change my state.
Whate’er he bids, that will I do,
O holy one, in trust of you.”
Thus, O Bhārata, that fateful night passed in the hermitage, the fire of Amvā’s vow newly kindled. Around her the sages moved in silence, and above them the stars seemed to listen—for destiny itself had begun to turn its gaze toward Bhīṣma and Rāma, whose meeting would shake the very heavens.
Vaiśampāyana said—When the murmurs of counsel had ceased, Ākṛtavrāṇa — friend and messenger of Rāma — spoke plainly to the weeping maiden, questioning which grief she wished first to be undone.
He asked, with a sharper kindness than pity, whether she sought merely to win King Sālva to accept her as wife, for in that case the mighty Rāma would surely press the suit; or whether she sought the sterner justice of having Bhīṣma himself humbled or slain for the wrong he had wrought. He urged that, after hearing both Hotravāhana’s account and the maiden’s own saying, they should resolve that very day what remedy to pursue.
Amvā, pale with sorrow yet steady of purpose, bowed her head and answered with the frankness of one who has weighed a wound until it becomes a resolve. She told them plainly that she had been taken by Bhīṣma by force—he knew not, she said, that her heart had been pledged to Sālva. “Decide,” she entreated, “what is just. Do what the law allows: whether thou wilt press Sālva to receive me, or whether thou wilt chastise the Kuru who made me miserable. I have declared the root of my suffering; do what reason and righteousness demand.”
Ākṛtavrāṇa listened and, with grave counsel, made answer: were Bhīṣma never to have borne her off, Salwa would gladly have welcomed her when urged by Rāma. But because Bhīṣma seized her with the visible triumph of a conqueror, suspicion fell upon her in Sālva’s mind; therefore the pearl of blame must be cast back upon Bhīṣma himself. “Let thy vengeance,” he counselled, “fall on Bhīṣma, not another.”
“If force had not uprooted maiden’s grace,
Then Sālva’s hands would clasp thy rightful place;
But victory’s clutch hath fired the jealous mind—
Strike, then, at him who set this grief in kind.”
Amvā received this verdict as if it were already her own. “So have I thought,” she said; “if it be possible, let Bhīṣma be caused to fall. Punish him or Sālva as seems meet; but in my heart the guilt lies with Bhīṣma, who by his violence has made my life a ruin. Do what is just, O holy men.”
Thus the day waned into night, mild and breathful, and with the dawn-star yet distant they waited in that forest hermitage. Then at last Rāma, scion of Jamadagni, appeared — a figure of austere splendour: matted locks, deer-skin raiment, the bow across his shoulder, sword and axe at his side. Around him gathered austere disciples; a silence rose, and all rose to meet him with devotion.
The sages did him honour with honey and curds; Hotravāhana and the assembled ascetics sat in discourse, and when the tale of the maiden was told, Hotravāhana appealed to his friend and kinsman. Rāma, regarding the girl whose grief shone like a wound, bade her come forward. She cast herself at his feet and, lifted by his presence as by a sheltering tree, poured forth her tale in tears.
Moved, Rāma sat awhile in compassion, as a firekeeper sitting long before the flame he must tend. Then, with the calm that belongs to one who masters both axe and scripture, he spoke, bidding her tell all; and when she had done, he weighed the matter and declared his will.
“Go home, or stay, — thy plea I hear;
If Bhīṣma heed my word, his hand I’ll clear.
If not — then by my arm shall justice fall;
I’ll smite him if he will not heed my call.”
Bhīma’s wrong, Rāma said, should not go unredressed. He promised first to send word to Bhīṣma, invoking the duty of the grandsire; and if the old warrior refused the reparation that justice required, Rāma vowed to consume him in battle, with his counsellors, like a sacrificial fire. As an alternative, if the maiden preferred, Rāma would urge Sālva to take her in marriage.
“I will send my voice to Bhīṣma’s ear;
If honour bows not, then my arm shall clear.
Or if thy choice be wed, I will persuade —
Both law and wrath in Rāma’s hand are weighed.”
Amvā, urged on by the flame that had long hid beneath shame, answered without shrinking. She declared that Bhīṣma was the root of her calamity; he had borne her away by violence, and thereby sown the fatal seeds that left her spurned. She entreated Rāma to judge rightly with his great strength and truth.
“Bhīṣma, by force, my fate to ruin hurled;
He is the cause that darkens all my world.
If law avail not, then by axe and flame,
Let Bhīṣma bear the burden of my shame.”
Hearing this, Rāma — son of Bhrigu’s line, stern and swift as the Yuga-fire in deed — accepted the charge in spirit. He promised to act according to justice: first to send Bhīṣma counsel; and if counsel were spurned, to chastise the grandsire in battle. The maiden’s appeal, fervent as a votive flame, was taken into his keeping; the sages rose with grave joy, and the hermitage settled beneath the stars, heavy with the sense that a mighty hand had been put to the plough of destiny.
Thus did Amvā lay her sorrow upon Rāma’s knee and ask for Bhīṣma’s doom; thus did the ascetic prince answer that he would not leave the wrong unavenged. The forest listened, and the great wheel of fate turned one notch more — toward the meeting of vows and arms on the field that soon would flame.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then spoke the aged Bhīṣma, O King, narrating to Dhṛtarāṣṭra the ancient tale of wrath and vow:
When the maiden Amvā, her eyes red with tears, still implored vengeance upon him who had wronged her, the son of Jamadagni, reverend Rāma, answered in gentleness.
“O daughter of Kāśi,” said he, “I have long renounced the taking up of arms except at the word of the Brāhmaṇas. I war now only for the sake of dharma, not desire. Speak, therefore, what else I may do for thee, for both Bhīṣma and the lord of Saubha are obedient to me. Fear not—thy wish shall be fulfilled, yet without the sword’s awakening. I will persuade him to restore thy honour; but weapons I draw not save for the defense of sacred truth.”
Then said the maiden, with clasped palms and trembling voice:
“O holy one, my misery is deep as night. It sprang from Bhīṣma, who seized me though my heart was bound elsewhere. If thou art my refuge, then let this grief be slain with him! Delay not, O Rāma of mighty vows, lest my soul burn away unavenged!”
But Rāma, compassionate though resolute, answered:
“Say but the word, O daughter of Kāśi, and Bhīṣma—though worthy of thy reverence—shall at my command bow his head to thy feet. Such power I have among men of arms and dharma.”
Yet Amvā cried again, her words quivering with passion:
“He roars like an Asura, proud of his strength,
Mocking the gods with his warrior’s length.
Summon him, Rāma!—let justice meet;
Strike down the wrong, make promise complete!”
Then the sage Ākṛtavrāṇa, friend of Rāma and knower of vows, spoke gravely:
“O mighty-armed Bhārgava, it befits thee not to forsake this girl who seeks thy protection. Should Bhīṣma answer thy summons and declare himself defeated, or should he obey thy word, then her purpose is accomplished and thy truth preserved.
Remember, O Rāma, the vow thou once didst make before the Brāhmaṇas, after conquering the earth of Kṣatriyas—that thou wouldst not forsake one who comes in fear for refuge, and that thou wouldst strike down any proud warrior, be he of whatever varṇa, who became foe to the Brāhmaṇas. Bhīṣma, mighty in vow and victory, has won triumph over all Kṣatriyas—go then, son of Bhṛgu, and challenge him in battle!”
Hearing this righteous appeal, Rāma, that tiger among ascetics, inclined his head and said:
“O best of Ṛṣis, I recall my vow. Yet before the arrow, I shall first try the path of conciliation. The task this maiden seeks is grave. I will take her to where Bhīṣma dwells, and if the proud scion of Kuru refuses my word, then shall I strike him down. My resolve is fixed.
The shafts that leave my bow pierce no mortal flesh—they pass through life as fire through mist. This ye have seen when I laid low the Kṣatriyas of old. Now let us go, and if need be, justice shall once more blaze through war.”
Having spoken, the son of Bhṛgu rose, radiant as the dawn. The forest hermits performed their morning rites—oblations to fire, recitation of hymns—and set forth in his train.
Through the groves they passed, where wind was still,
The birds grew hushed on each green hill.
Before them shone, in saffron flame,
The wrathful scion of Bhṛgu’s name.
And so it was, O King, that Rāma of unyielding vow departed from the hermitage, accompanied by the maiden Amvā, by Hotravāhana her grandsire, by Ākṛtavrāṇa the seer, and by hosts of ascetics devoted to Brahman.
In due time they reached the sacred land of Kurukṣetra, the field of ancient righteousness. There, on the banks of the holy Sarasvatī, clear as crystal and murmuring of time’s eternity, the great ascetic Rāma made his camp. Around him the Brāhmaṇas kindled their fire, and the river winds whispered like the chanting of the Vedas.
Thus stood the son of Jamadagni upon the soil that would one day drink the blood of nations—ready to summon Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu, to the duel decreed by destiny.
Vaiśampāyana said—Hear now, O King, how the vow-born tempest gathered on Kurukṣetra, when Rāma Bhārgava summoned Bhīṣma, and destiny set two mountains face to face.
On the third day after he had quartered by the Sarasvatī, the son of Jamadagni sent word: “I am here; do what is pleasing to me.” Bhīṣma, rejoicing to honour his ancient preceptor, went forth with Brahmanas and priests, a gift-cow in front, and worshipped him as one worships fire.
Rāma spoke without ornament, like a blade laid bare:
“O Bhīṣma, desireless as thou claimest to be,
with what mind didst thou seize the Kāśī princess at her svayaṃvara,
and then cast her off? Touched by thy hand, rejected by Śālva,
who shall wed her now? Take her thyself—restore her honour.”
Bhīṣma answered, palms joined yet iron in resolve: he could not bestow her on Vichitravīrya, for she had avowed her heart to Śālva; nor could he himself take one whose vow ran elsewhere—this, he said, was the Kṣatriya’s law he would not forsake for fear, pity, lust, or gain.
Then Rāma’s eyes burned red; the forest hushed to hear:
“If thou obey not, son of the Kurus,
I shall strike thee down this very day—
thee and the counsellors that stand behind.”
Bhīṣma bowed again, and asked why his teacher sought battle with a disciple. Rāma replied: “Thou knowest me thy preceptor, yet wilt not please me. Take the maiden, preserve thy line.”
Bhīṣma’s voice was still, but the steel had shown:
“Thou art my preceptor—therefore I revere;
but a teacher astray in dharma may be renounced.
I will not bring into my house a heart vowed elsewhere,
a sweetness turned to poison.
I will not slay a Brahmana; yet he who takes up arms as a Kṣatriya
and fights in wrath incurs the Kṣatriya’s due.
If thou persist, O Bhārgava, then meet me as warriors meet.
Come to Kurukṣetra. There shall we weigh our vows in iron.”
He taunted the old boast—how the Kṣatriyas of former days had fallen—but “No Bhīṣma then had stood upon the earth,” he said; “the straw of old is not the steel of now.”
Rāma laughed, fierce and glad. “By good fortune thou desirest battle. Come then—let Gaṅgā see her son laid low; let the plain be fed with thy pride.” Bhīṣma bowed—“So be it.”