contined from vol 8 issue 47

In the woods of Chitra-kuta where the Malyavati flows, Sixth day of their weary wand’rings ended in a sweet repose.

TALE OF THE HERMIT’S SON

Wise Sumantra chariot-driver came from Ganga’s sacred wave, And unto Ayodhya’s monarch,
banished Rama’s message gave, Dasa-ratha’s heart was shadowed by the deepening shade of night,
As the darkness of the eclipse glooms the sun’s meridian light!
On the sixth night,-when his Rama slept in Chitra-kuta’s bower,- Memory of an ancient sorrow flung on him its fatal power, Of an ancient crime and anguish, unforgotten, dark and dread,
Through the lapse of years and seasons casting back its death-like shade! And the gloom of midnight deepened, Dasa-ratha sinking fast,
To Kausalya sad and sorrowing spake his memories of the past: “Deeds we do in life,
Kausalya, be they bitter, be they sweet, Bring their fruit and retribution, rich reward or suffering meet.
Heedless child is he, Kausalya, in his fate who doth not scan Retribution of his karma,
sequence of a mighty plan! Oft in madness and in folly we destroy the mango grove,
Plant the gorgeous gay palasa for the red flower that we love, Fruitless as the red palasa is the karma I have sown, And my barren lifetime withers through the deed which is my own! Listen to my tale,
Kausalya, in my days of youth renowned, I was called a sabda-bedhi, archer prince who shot by sound,
I could hit the unseen target, by the sound my aim could tell,– Blindly drinks a child the poison,
blindly in my pride I fell! I was then my father’s Regent, thou a maid to me unknown,
Hunting by the fair Sarayu in my car I drove alone, Buffalo or jungle tusker might frequent the river’s brink,
Nimble deer or watchful tiger stealing for his nightly drink, Stalking with a hunter’s patience,
loitering in the forests drear, Sound of something in the water struck my keen and listening ear,
In the dark I stood and listened, some wild beast the water drunk, ‘Tis some elephant,
I pondered, lifting water with its trunk. I was called a sabda-bedhi, archer prince who shot by sound,
On the unseen fancied tusker dealt a sure and deadly wound, Ah! too deadly was my arrow and like hissing cobra fell, On my startled car and bosom smote a voice of human wail,
Dying voice of lamentation rose upon the midnight high, Till my weapons fell in tremor and a darkness dimmed my eye! Hastening with a nameless terror soon I reached Sarayu’s shore,
Saw a boy with hermit’s tresses, and his pitcher lay before, Weltering in a pool of red blood, lying on a gory bed,
Feebly raised his voice the hermit, and in dying accents said: ‘What offence,
O mighty monarch, allunknowing have I done, That with quick and kingly justice slayest thus a hermit’s son? Old and feeble are my parents, sightless by the will of fate, Thirsty in their humble cottage for their duteous boy they wait, And thy shaft that kills me, monarch, bids my ancient parents die. Helpless,
friendless, they will perish, in their anguish deep and high! Sacred lore and lifelong penance change not mortal’s earthly state, Wherefore else they sit unconscious when their son is doomed by fate.
Or if conscious of my danger, could they dying breath recall, Can the tall tree save the sapling doomed by woodman’s axe to fall? Hasten to my parents, monarch, soothe their sorrow and their ire,
For the tears of good and righteous wither like the forest fire,
Short the pathway to the asram, soon the cottage thou shalt see, Soothe their anger by entreaty,
ask their grace and pardon free! But before thou goest,
monarch, take, O take thy torturing dart, For it rankles in my bosom with a cruel burning smart,
And it eats into my young life as the river’s rolling tide By the rains of summer swollen eats into its yielding side.’ Writhing in his pain and anguish thus the wounded hermit cried, And I drew the fatal arrow,
and the holy hermit died! Darkly fell the thickening shadows, stars their feeble radiance lent,
As I filled the hermit’s pitcher, to his sightless parents went, Darkly fell the moonless midnight,
deeper gloom my bosom rent, As with faint and falt’ring footsteps to the hermits slow I went.
Like two birds bereft of plumage, void of strength, deprived of flight,
Were the stricken ancient hermits, friendless, helpless, void of sight,
Lisping in their feeble accents still they whispered of their child. Of the stainless boy whose red blood Dasaratha’s hands defiled! And the father heard my footsteps,
spake in accents soft and kind: ‘Come, my son, to waiting parents, wherefore dost thou stay behind,
Sporting in the rippling water didst thou midnight’s hour beguile,
But thy faint and thirsting mother anxious waits for thee the while,
Rath my heedless word or utterance caused thy boyish bosom smart, But a feeble father’s failings may not wound thy filial heart, Help of helpless, sight of sightless, and thy parents’ life and joy,
Wherefore art thou mute and voiceless, speak, my brave and beauteous boy!’ Thus the sightless father welcomed cruel slayer of his son, And an anguish tore my bosom for the action I had done.
Scarce upon the sonless parents could I lift my aching eye,
Scarce in faint and faltering accents to the father make reply, For a tremor shook my person and my spirit sank in dread. Straining all my utmost prowess, thus in quavering voice I said: ‘Not thy son, O holy hermit, but a Khsatra warrior born, Dasa-ratha stands before thee by a cruel anguish torn,
For I came to slay the tusker by Sarayu’s wooded brink,
Buffalo or deer of jungle stealing for his midnight drink, And I heard a distant gurgle,
some wild beast the water drunk,– So I thought,–some jungle tusker lifting water with its trunk, And I sent my fatal arrow on the unknown, unseen prey, Speeding to the spot I witnessed,-there a dying hermit lay!

TO BE CONTINUED