by Ruskin Bond
The victors had scarcely withdrawn when the messenger rode in, shouting the news to victors and vanquished alike. The chief of Yemen heard it and wept for his son. Noufal heard it and said, "Laylá is nothing to us now; at dawn we shall dictate our own terms." Ibn Salám and Laylá's father heard the news without grief, and Ibn said, "Now there can be no obstacle to thy daughter's consent, for she is a woman, and must know that the living is more desirable than the dead. I have already helped thee, O Chief, and we have failed. But thy daughter has only to speak the word and a further host of my warriors—more than treble the number that fought today—will come out of the desert at my call. Half will come to aid our defence, and half will attack the hosts of Yemen from the desert. Thus your foes will be scattered like chaff in the wind. Go to thy daughter and show her now how a word from her will save thee from destruction and make thee great."
The chief of Basráh went to his daughter, and, when Ibn heard sounds of a woman wailing, he knew that the false news of Majnún's death was believed. Long time the chief pleaded with Laylá, urging the uselessness of weeping for Majnún when, by accepting Ibn in marriage, she could save Basráh and make it a great kingdom. Then he spoke of her duty to him, her father, in this terrible plight, from which her word alone could save him; and Laylá saw, through her tears, that for her father's sake the sacrifice must be made; and through duty, not love she mournfully pledged herself to Ibn Salám.
As soon as Ibn knew this, he called some of his warriors and questioned them on the matter of his hosts in reserve.
"Four thousand," he said, when he had heard their replies.
"The foe is but three thousand, and we are little more than one thousand."
Then he gave orders to some chosen messengers and bade them steal forth secretly and deliver them to his generals. Half the four thousand was to arrive by night under cover of the mountains and be ready for battle at sunrise. The other half was to make a circuit of the desert and fall upon the foe from behind when the battle was at its hottest. On this sudden stroke he relied for complete victory.
And he was not wrong. When dawn broke over the desert, and the mountain peaks were flushed with sunrise fire, the dark shadows at the base were two thousand strong. There they waited hidden from the foe while as the sun rose, a herald came to the gates. In the name of Yemen, he dictated the terms of surrender without any condition in regard to Laylá.
The chief of Basrah laughed him to scorn. "Go tell the chief of Yemen and his robber friend of the desert," he said, "that if they desire my domains they must take them by force of arms. Tell them that Basráh never surrenders: he prefers to live free, or to die fighting."
The herald took back this proud answer of defiance. On hearing it Yemen wondered and questioned, but Noufal, who was a man of the desert, sudden in temper and quick to act, counselled an immediate attack.
The battle was joined. At the first shock came Ibn's two thousand warriors from their concealment, and the invaders fell back in astonishment. Yet they rallied again, and fiercely raged the fight between the opposing hosts, now equally matched in numbers. Laylá looked from her window in horror. She noted how the battle swayed this way, then that. And now it seemed that the foe was steadily gaining the mastery. But what was that in the distance of the desert? What was that, thrust forward from the desert? A great cloud of dust, quickly approaching. It drew near, its cause quickly outstripping it. A mighty host of warriors now shook the earth with the thunder of their horses' feet. They drew nearer. Now like a whirlwind they hurled themselves upon the invaders and bore them down like trodden wheat—sweeping the flying remainder of them like chaff to the four winds.
Yemen was slain. Noufal, flying from numbers on swifter steeds than his, laughed back at his pursuers, then slew himself, dying, as he had lived, at full gallop.
Basráh was victorious. That night Laylá was given by her father to Ibn Salám. That night, too, the chief of Basráh having been previously wounded in the battle, died. Ibn ruled now over three vast territories welded into one. And, where he was king, Laylá was queen.
Years passed by, and Laylá reigned in peace. The palace of her father was their abode, and the bird of paradise and the two white doves were often her companions, recalling to her heart a lost, but never-to-be-forgotten, love. The faithful Zeyd, who had wandered long in the desert searching in vain for his master, was now her servant.
One day news came secretly to Zeyd that Majnún, long mourned as dead, had returned disguised as a merchant from distant parts, and would be waiting for him at a certain spot on the outskirts of the desert at sunset. Zeyd said nothing of this to his mistress, but unknown to her, he caught one of the doves and took it away with him to the meeting-place, for he reasoned that what had happened once would happen again with like result. Full of joy was the meeting between Majnún and Zeyd on the edge of the desert as the sun went down.
Now, Laylá, when she retired to her high chamber that evening, was astonished to find one of her doves missing. She sent the other forth to the great tree, thinking the two might return together, but presently it returned alone. Then wondering greatly, she sat by the window, musing on the past: how, three years ago, the dove had returned after an absence, bearing a love-message from Majnún, and how she had met him again and again at the lovers' fountain in the forest. Alas! All was changed: Majnún was dead, and she was the wife of another. Her eyes filled with tears, and, bowing her head on her arms upon the window-sill, she wept silently.
For a long time she remained like this. Then suddenly, she was aroused from her weeping by a sound. It was the "coo, coo, coo" of the missing dove, and it came from the great tree. Immediately the other dove fanned her hair as it sped past her to its mate. It made her long for wings that she too might fly away and away to her lover.
Presently the two birds fluttered in at the window and came to her. What strange thing was this? There, wrapped round the leg of one was a small strip of soft parchment as on that night long ago. With trembling fingers she unfastened and read what was written thereon. It was from Majnún. He was alive and well! As before, the writing begged her to come that very night to the lover's fountain at moonrise.
In her sudden joy at learning that her lover was alive and near at hands, Laylá forgot all, and, as the gibbous moon was already brightening the horizon, she arose and cloaked herself and stole down the stairway of the palace. She reached the side door unobserved. She passed out and closed it behind her. Her heart flew before her to Majnún, but suddenly, as she hastened, it rebounded swiftly and almost stopped beating. Her footstep faltered and she clutched at a bough of a tree for support. Her husband! Her duty! Once she had given all for duty's sake: should she take it back now, and in this way? What would it mean? With Majnún's arms around her she would forget all—husband, duty, her people: all, all would be forgotten, and the step once taken could not be retraced. Alas! This was not the act of a wife! It was not the act of a queen! She groaned as she grasped the bough, and her body swayed with her spirit's woe as she then and there rejected her purpose and accepted her sorrow.
Slowly Laylá strengthened herself; then, like one in a dream, she turned and retraced her steps to the palace, no sigh, no sob escaping her. All that night she refused sleep or comfort, dry-eyed; and it was only when the dawn came that tears came too, to save her reason on its throne.
Majnún waited long by the lovers' fountain, and, at last, learning from Zeyd that his mistress had ventured forth and had returned, he went away, treasuring to his heart a love that could not give one glance without giving all; for, from Zeyd's story, he knew this to be so. As Laylá had gone back to the palace, silent and strong, so Majnún set his face towards distant cities, praying ever that the years might bring surcease of woe, if not the rapture of the love of Laylá.
Two years passed by, and Fate stepped in. Ibn Salám fell stricken with a fever and died. The news spread far, and one day Majnún, in a distant city, looked up and heard that Laylá, the queen of Yemen a
nd Basrah, was free. Swift, then, were the steeds that bore him to Yemen. But, remembering how she had twice sacrificed herself for duty, he forbore to approach her until the expiration of the prescribed term of widowhood—four moons and half a moon. This period he spent, alone and unknown, in an abode from which he could see the lights of Laylá's palace. His longing ate into his heart, and it was harder to bear than his former distraction, by which he had earned his name of Majnún ('mad with love'). But, as in the first instance, his reason had borne the strain, so now it bore the stress of all this weary waiting at the gates of Paradise.
Zeyd bore tidings of Laylá to Majnún, but from Majnún to Laylá no message passed until, on a day when the prescribed term had passed, Zeyd took word to her that Majnún would come to her at the palace at noon, or, according to her choice, wait for her at the lovers' fountain at two hours after sunset.
Zeyd brought back the delayed message: "Noon has passed but noon will come again—after this eventide." Which was not unlike the answer Majnún had expected.
The saddest part of the history of these ill-destined lovers is yet to be told. Two hours after sunset Majnún kept the tryst. Two hours after sunset Laylá, her eyes smouldering with a pent-up fire, cloaked herself as of old and went out by the side door of the palace. There was no moon, but the stars shed a soft light upon the gardens. She passed among the trees; her heart beat fast and her breath came quick. The whole of her life seemed wrapped up in her two feet, which ran a hot race with each other. She reached the edge of the forest and paused, clasping her hands over her bosom. She must regain her breath to show Majnún how little she had hastened. Then, before she had regained it, she ran on, losing it the more. There was the fountain—the fountain where lovers had always met—she saw it sparkling in the starlight through the trees. Now she stood on the edge of the open space, the folds of her cloak parted, her masses of raven hair fallen loose, her breast heaving.
A figure darted from the fountain's side. She faltered forward, swaying. A moaning cry escaped her as Majnún caught her in a wild embrace.
Who knows if it was but a moment or a thousand years? Love has no dial. But that moment two hours after sunset was their swift undoing. At the touch of her lips upon his, Majnún's reason was wrenched away. At the touch of his lips upon hers, she swooned in his arms. He let her fall, and ran, shrieking, out of the forest and into the desert; shrieking her name, far into the desert.
"Laylá! Laylá! Laylá"—his maniac cries echoed on and on until, in the hopeless waste of wilderness, he fell exhausted. But Zeyd, who had followed his voice, at last found him. Many a day and night he tended his master, but to no purpose. Joy had done what grief had failed to do: he was mad!
Laylá awoke from her swoon, and, hearing her own name repeated again and again—that wild cry coming from farther and farther in the desert—divined the truth and returned, slowly and wringing her hands, to the palace.
From time to time Zeyd sent news of Majnún and his undying love, which even his madness had failed to touch.
Day by day, and week by week, Laylá's eyes grew brighter and her cheeks paler. Slowly she pined away, and then she died of a broken heart. Her last words were a message to Majnún—a message of love that could not die, though it must quit the beautiful, unhappy house of clay in which it had suffered so much.
"And tell him," she said, "that my body shall be buried by the side of the fountain where he first clasped me in his arms. And tell him, too, these very words: 'Majnún, lift thine eyes! See, yonder are the Fields of Light, and a fountain springing in the sunshine—yonder—a fountain of eternal waters, where lovers meet, never to part again; thou shalt find me there!'" And with that she died, and her spirit sped on her parting thought to that place of lovers' meeting; the immortal font of lovers' meeting.
Dawn was breaking on the desert when two figures came running. Each held the other by the hand, and on the face of one was that look which told how he had been driven mad by love. Majnún, outstripping Zeyd, left him to follow, and plunged into the forest. Soon he came to the open space in which the fountain played. Well he knew the spot where he had first clasped Laylá in his arms. There was now a newly made grave. Exhausted, not with running, but with love, madness, and grief, he flung himself upon it.
"Laylá! Laylá!" he moaned, with a heart-bursting pang. "I will come soon—ah, soon! Hold thy shroud of night about thee! Hide thy beauty in the Light—until I find thee there!"
And, as the sun rose, Zeyd came and stood by the grave, gazing down upon his master through tears of grief;—gazing down upon the dead through bitter tears of grief.
The Pillar of Heliodoros
ANONYMOUS
The only Yavana (Greek) king whose name has yet been found on an Indian Monument is Antialcidas. At Besnagar, near Bhilsa in the former Gwalior State is a stone column once crowned by a figure of Garuda. The inscription records that it was erected in honour of Krishna (Vasudeva) by a Greek named Heliodoros, son of Dion who had come to Vidisa as an ambassador from Antialcidas, king of Taxila to king Kasiputra Bhagabhadra. The inscription is full of interest as proving that a Greek had adopted an Indian faith and as evidencing the contact which was then (2nd century BC) taking place between Malwa and the Greek kingdoms.
Taxila's great city wall stood boldly against the clear shining green sky of an early spring day in the year 140 BC. It was sunset and the doves, bulbuls, parakeets and crows were homing to their nests in hundreds. Outside the western gate a small group of men were watching the road. A thick cloud of dust clearly marked the route. Apparently, a cavalcade was approaching. As it drew near, the watchers could distinguish a band of horsemen escorting an elephant on which sat a young lad, evidently a person of some importance. When the portal was reached the mahout touched the beast and rearing its trunk it saluted with loud trumpetings. Then with heavings to and fro it knelt and the boy descended. Immediately, an elderly man stepped forward from the waiting group. His countenance was grave yet kindly, dignified with refined features, and the respect shown to him by his companions indicated a position of authority. He was, in fact, Dion the royal chamberlain.
His voice was kindly as he greeted the young stranger. "Welcome, Prince Bhadrasena to our land. My master, great Antialcidas, has ordered me to see to thy comfort for tonight. Tomorrow, when thou hast rested he would talk with thee. This is my only son, Heliodoros, even now a student at the university," and turning, he presented a young man to the prince.
The company entered the city and mounting some gaily caparisoned horses were soon riding down the broad high street. Taxila was a town of great importance, the first large Indian city at which merchants who had come down the Kabul valley and crossed the Indus above Attock arrived. The streets were filled with a jostling crowd. Sturdy, vigorous men of the Hindu Kush, who had brought their highland-bred horses to sell in this city outside which stretched the wide, open plain where many a gay hawking party rode, rubbed shoulders with students from all corners of Hindustan. Taxila was famous as a centre of learning and to it scholars of all classes flocked for instruction.
As the little company passed along, Dion pointed out the various buildings of interest. Near the gate by which they had entered stood the king's palace. A poor place for a sovereign, thought Bhadrasena. True, it was large, but of sombre grey stone and with little decoration it looked to him just the same as the buildings on either side of the wide street. Their flat roofs were of mud; only narrow, slit windows looked on to the street, most of the rooms facing inwards, towards the courtyard.
This was really the university quarters, Heliodoros explained. Here the prince would reside. The chamberlain's house was farther down the street, near the great Buddhist temple. And there they dismounted.
The next morning Bhadra rose early. This strange, strong land interested him. His father, King of Vidisa, had sent him to study the Vedas but the lad felt that there were other things worth studying in this northern outpost of India. He dressed himself with care for the
interview with King Antialcidas, then stepped to the verandah which faced northwards. What a wall of magic encircling the beautiful river valley was this white wonder of snow-capped hills!
Antialcidas received the prince with ceremonious kindness. A fine, upstanding man was this keeper of the country through which passed the great trade route from the ford at Und to the fertile south. His complexion was of the colour of ripe wheat. Full cheeks, straight nose and firm chin showed his descent from the Greeks. He alone wore a round, flat cap of vividly embroidered cloth.
For many months the fear of a northern invasion had hung over the king's council. It was imperative to strengthen the army and what better unit than a strong elephant corps? These beasts were found at their best in Malwa and the father of this boy ruled in Vidisa, part of that land. It was wise to make friends with such a one.
Bhadrasena bent to the ground as he presented his father's gifts to Taxila. The noblest was the huge animal, Moti which he had ridden yesterday when he came to the town. She was outside in the palace courtyard, dressed in all the ornaments and housings for parade on occasions of state. A frontlet of gold and silver diaper with fringes of fish-shaped ornaments in thin beaten silver, necklaces of large silver hawkbells and hanging chains of silver cartouches decked her. Above towered the howdah glittering with gilded plates; all shone resplendently as the sun's rays beat down. The interview over, Dion charged Heliodoros to show their guest the city's sights.
"Hast seen a tiger, a mighty jungle cat?" he queried.
"Many." was the astounding reply. "With my gracious father I often hunted the striped one."
The grey-blue eyes of the northerner widened. One of Taxila's great sights was the royal menagerie of wild beasts. Outside the northern gate deep pits had been dug and here behind strong bars the leopard, the tiger and even the lion paced the weary paths of captivity. But it would be no pleasure to show these beasts to a boy who knew them in their own haunts. Perhaps this dark-eyed, rather silent youth cared for old places. There were many such around.
