Madhumalati
Page 12
‘Listen, O maiden, bear this sorrow
for a few days yet; this too will pass.
The fruits of joy grow from sorrow’s blossoms.
Without grief, no one can ever find happiness.
O best of maidens, only if the soul knows grief
can one enjoy the blessing of a lover.
Only by staying awake through darkest night
can one experience the radiant dawn.
In this world, no flower grows without a thorn.
Who has ever found nectar without a snake?’*
Manjhan says, in this Kali age, no one can find joy without suffering.
Trees must first shed their autumn leaves before new greenery can be born.
144. ‘Just as you are distraught away from him,
so must he worry and suffer for you.
Separation does not just wound one person,
dear friend, it is a double-edged sword!
The Creator who gave this pain to you
will grant its remedy; be patient in your heart.
That which the Lord has decreed for tomorrow
can never be won today, not even by force.
First cross the snake-infested thicket of thorns!
Then you can enjoy the fruits and flowers.’
Here the Princess suffered night and day the fierce flames of love-in-separation,
but now let me tell you what happened there when Prince Manohar awoke.
The Prince Awakes
145. When the Prince woke up and looked around,
from that instant his body burned,
consumed by the flames of separation.
That palace was no more, nor the night of love,
nor the passionate Princess who was steeped in love.
Feeling faint he looked around.
At every moment he wept, sighing deeply.
The more he remembered his darling,
the more he lost control of his senses.
As he recalled Madhumālatī’s words,
separation’s fire permeated all his limbs.
Sometimes his mind was conscious, and sometimes it could not be contained.
He beat his head against the ground, and cried as he recalled her beauty and virtues.
146. Sahajā* was the Prince’s nurse.
She ran to him, crying, ‘My son! My son!
Tell me, my boy, what’s the matter?
I am as much your mother as Kamalā.
My son, what grief has been born in you,
which makes the tears fall from your eyes?
Your face has withered away like a flower,
what sorrow has afflicted you thus?
Tell me what you suffer, my son,
so that I may find a remedy.’
He opened his eyes and looked at her face. Sighing deeply, he addressed her,
‘There is no hope of a remedy, nurse, for the pain that has been born in my heart.
147. ‘Nurse, the disease that afflicts my heart
has no medicine or cure.
My soul has gone away to dwell
in a place where intelligence is lame.
And my mind and my heart have gone,
to where the mind’s eye is afraid to enter.
What I have seen cannot be described,
for I went to a place where all awareness fled.
My soul was stolen away, O nurse,
for only an empty frame has returned!
My soul remained with my darling, and my body lies here lifeless.
Was it a dream or was it reality? I do not know who robbed me of my soul.
148. ‘Was it reality? Was it a dream?
I wish I could say, but I cannot.
How can I call it a dream,
when all that I found was so real?
I see before my eyes an ornamented bed,
and a maiden with a ring on her finger.
On her lips are marks of kohl,
and red betel stains on her eyes.
On her breast I see her necklace.
All these are clear before my eyes.
O nurse, the flames of separation have taken hold within my body.
Only death can extinguish them, or union with Madhumālatī!
149. ‘Listen, nurse, to the tale of my sorrow.
I’ll tell you everything, frankly and openly.
Life has departed, leaving this body,
and my soulless body is on the point of death.
I cannot speak further of my grief—
if my soul were here, I could talk again.
Since my life’s love has stolen my soul
my body has become lifeless, dead.
Madhumālatī holds my life in her hands.
Nurse, my body doesn’t contain a soul.
Listen, nurse, no one in this world should be parted from his love.
It is better to lose your life, far better than to lose your beloved.
150. ‘Why did my eyes ever look at that girl,
for whom I was flung into separation’s fire?
How can a man enjoy pleasure and happiness,
once love comes into his heart?
The soul in my body was a moth,
consumed utterly in the blaze of love.
Love’s trade has cunningly fooled the world,
for in it there’s no profit, only loss of capital.
The world knows the truth of the saying:
the man who’s mad for profit loses money.
Happiness, joy, pleasure, and self-respect—all have left me, dear nurse!
All that remains in my heart is the sorrow of parting from Madhumālatī.
151. ‘When the fire of love is kindled in the heart,
it consumes everything except the beloved.
Love’s agony is the hardest of all sorrows,
a thousand deaths every moment, every day.
My life’s breath is gone, leaving my body—
why did God make the grievous pain of love?
My royal pride, my precious youth have gone,
since my soul came under separation’s sway.
Now I climb the hard, dangerous path of love—
either I lose my life, or I find that maiden again!
Nurse, watch me run to plunge myself into the ocean of love!
I will either bring out the pearl, or give up my life in the attempt.
152. ‘No one knows how hard parting is,
only my body knows this pain, and God knows!
I renounce all royal pleasures as poison,
and cling to separation’s sorrow as nectar.
Now I have set my soul on this path,
may love take me to its very limit.
Either I shall lose my life on the path,
or God will unite me with my darling again!
Nurse, how little of my suffering you have heard,
for the tale is long, and life is short.
I cannot recount this matter of love, O nurse, with only my own mouth.
Even if I had a thousand tongues and all four aeons, still I could not reach its end.’
Manohar’s Illness
153. The sun rose and the world became radiant.
But the Prince woke up ablaze with separation.
His senses gone, his soul maddened—
separation took command of his body’s fort.
The drum of separation resounded everywhere.
His soul was a subject, and separation king.
He had climbed up on the path of love,
and could not turn his body from it.
He ripped up his clothes and tore out his hair.
The sorrow of separation was too hard to bear.
He stood up and knocked himself down again.
Hearing the uproar in the palace, his family and subjects all came running.
His mother Kamalāvatī ran to him, restless, tearing her sari in agitation.
154. Through town and country the rumour spread,
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br /> that a tumult raged in the royal palace.
Physicians, exorcists, wise men came,
mother and father and relatives ran to him.
The King said, ‘I gave up my life, my wealth for him.
May his life increase by my remaining years!
Spend whatever wealth you need,
but make the Prince live again somehow.
Help me, bring my son back to me.
Take my life if you need, but revive him!’
The physicians came and felt his pulse, began to search out his illness.
But the channels of sun and moon were clean, and his body perfectly sound.
155. Again and again they took his pulse.
But how could they diagnose his trouble, separation?
They used all the methods of medicine,
but could not find the Prince’s disease.
Then one of the doctors spoke,
‘This seems to be the pain of separation.
The Prince has been struck by the arrows of love.
This disease is none of our business,
for his body has no defect in it.
Let us go and inform the King.’
The pandits, exorcists, and doctors rose, very disappointed with their findings.
For the Prince was suffering from love’s agony, for which no cure is known.
A Mehtā with a Cure
156. In the kingdom there was a Mehtā,
a village headman renowned to be clever.
No one could match him in any way,
the world called him a treasury of wisdom.
His skill was famous in all quarters.
Justly was he called the Sahadeva* of the age,
for his virtues were known throughout the world.
He was very learned in the fourteen sciences,
and understood the problems of the heart.
He knew the uses of gems and incantations.
For one herb, he could quote a thousand applications.
Hearing that the Prince was stricken, he came to investigate his affliction.
He took the Prince’s pulse with his hand, and declared his body free from illness.
157. He examined the Prince in many ways,
and found his humours—wind, phlegm, and bile—
to be perfectly balanced and normal.
He said to himself, ‘His disease
is not hidden in his veins at all.
All eight limbs are healthy and sound.
At every moment, his eyes shut and open.
The channels of sun and moon are clear,
but why does he heave such deep sighs?
Why does he never close his eyes in sleep?
This is nothing but the pain of separation.
Tears drip down from both his eyes, his senses are beyond his control.
For the one who is wounded by the sword of love, there can be no cure at all.’
158. Then he addressed the Prince face to face:
‘O Prince, to whom have you pledged your heart?
Who has robbed you of intelligence?
Where did you taste the nectar of love?
If you tell me everything, I’ll see to it
that you meet the one you love.
Even if she is a heavenly nymph,
I’ll bring you together through a magic spell.
O Prince, do not let your soul lose hope,
for I will traverse the three worlds
to fulfil your heart’s desire.
Tell me truly, privately, just where and to whom did you lose your soul?
For with my skills and magic, I can unite the cakora bird with the moon.*
159. ‘If she exists in heaven, earth, or hell,
I will bring her here to meet you.
I can climb up to heaven and draw
nectar from the moon, and bring down
a heavenly nymph with my magic spells.
Ask me the mysteries of the worlds
of gods, men, or serpents, and I’ll tell all.
I can bring back the ones who have gone,
and raise the dead with my incantations.
Through magic I can invoke Śea* or Indra.
If you want, I can move the mountain, Sumeru.*
Tell me then, do not hide anything, the person for whom your heart is in pain.
Did this agony arise spontaneously, or did someone give you this pain?’
160. The Mehtā’s words were full of rasa,
and the Prince was deeply moved.
Since he found him sympathetic to his grief,
he told him all about his dream.
‘O Prince,’ said the headman,
‘Life is most precious in this world.
Do not throw it away for a woman.
A woman is never faithful to anyone,
nor does anyone benefit from loving her.
The man who loves a woman in his heart
is disappointed like the parrot on the silk-cotton tree.*
No one who makes a woman his own knows anything in this world.
Can you make the bitter nīm tree* sweet by sprinkling it with nectar?
161. ‘If woman’s behaviour had been good,
would she be called “snake” in the Turkish tongue?*
No one can control a woman in this world.
Woman is only medicine for those sick for beauty.
She is a demon incarnate in the world.
No one should fall for her outer adornments.
If she loves you she’ll burn you with separation.
If she’s weary of you she’ll kill you instantly.
She appears as pure as the full moon,
but within she is black as the darkest night.
Woman is the thorn on the ketakī blossom*—O wandering bee, keep well away!
As you look at her beautiful form, never forget that it brings grief in the end.
162. ‘The moment you see her, she robs your senses.
When she touches you, she destroys all wisdom.
It’s well known: when you make love to a woman,
she devours the vital spirit in your body.
Don’t think that woman is a blessing to the world.
Man is a bee, woman the ketakī bud.
As long as she slakes her own desire,
she will love more passionately than a man.
She will love a man warmly, forcibly,
but only for satisfying her own purpose.
Understand well in your mind that women have never been faithful in all four ages.
Do not lose your self in vain, O Prince, for the sake of this love for a woman.
163. ‘O Prince, do not take on sorrow
by giving away your soul in vain.
In this world it is futile to love a woman.
If a man associates with a woman,
both are struck by a thousand thunderbolts.
Give up entanglement with women, O Prince!
Has a woman ever kept faith in this world?
Woman was born from the left side,
always know her to be inauspicious, O Prince.
Even the scriptures call her “Vāmā”,* of the left.
Only a madman would consider her right, auspicious.
In woman are concentrated all signs of ill omen, excepting one auspicious virtue:
from women—that’s all they’re good for—are born all the great men of the world.’
The Prince Rejects the Mehtā’s Approach
164. The Prince, when he heard these unpleasant words,
was astonished and couldn’t contain himself.
‘Headman,’ he retorted, ‘You are the Sahadeva
of the Kali age, but if someone else had just said that,
I would have told him off. Only a man
whose heart has never known love’s agony
could say such foolish, mad things.
How can such talk come out of your mouth,
when you know th
e nature of the three worlds?
I have lost my selfhood, but if my soul
were in my body I might heed your advice.
Listen, O Mehtā, I have lost my soul and embarked on the road of love.
Were my soul still in this bodily frame, I might have heard your preaching.
165. ‘Love has never blossomed in your heart,
so how could you know another’s pain?
You’re skilful and clever, certainly no fool,
so why do you knowingly give such advice?
Borax transforms gold in separation’s fire,*
but neither fire nor smoke touches your body.
My body has become ashes and flown away,
who can listen to your tales and teachings?
The snake has gone, why beat at its hole?
Why do you knowingly make a fool of me?
Rise, O Mehtā! I touch your feet, for I had hopes of you both now and in the hereafter.
But why do you, a man of understanding, try uselessly to tie up the wind in a net?
166. ‘Separation’s anguish is difficult to bear.
No one knows the agony of the sufferer.
People come and speak pleasant words,
but fire blazes up in his breast as he listens.
Once love has entered one’s heart,
it only leaves with the life’s breath departing.
How can intelligence overcome love?
Separation’s wind blows out the lamp of reason.
Only madmen do not know this:
where there is love, no reason prevails.’
The Prince’s ailment was incurable. No herb, no mantra* in this world could heal him.
Those who try to obscure the sun of love in clouds of dust are fools.
The Prince and his Parents
167. Then the Mehtā came to the conclusion
that this illness was beyond his powers.
He tried everything—words, medicines,
all his skills as a healer—but all proved useless.
When his heart lost all hope of a cure,
he became dejected and left the Prince.
He went to the King and cried out,
‘Go quickly to the royal apartments!
Go now and protect your son!’
The King heard these words and panicked.
Too shocked to utter a word, he ran.
The King cried out loud in his grief, and the whole palace was in an uproar.
Hearing the tumult in the royal house, the city was overwhelmed with sorrow.
168. The King flung his turban on the ground,
and all the ladies of the palace wept.
Kamalā came and fell at her son’s feet:
‘Son, what disaster has happened to you?
Don’t make me lose hope, my son!
You are my hope in this world and the next.
Tell us your pain, your mother implores you.