Madhumalati
Page 22
Then that alluring maiden regained her beauty and left behind the body of a bird.
394. When she was set free from being a bird,
she took a mirror and looked at her face.
When she saw that her form had been restored,
she joined her hands and bowed down to God.
Her maids took her quickly and bathed her,
and dressed her in the finest clothes.
They adorned her with fine ornaments
and brought her back to the assembly.
The Queen could not contain her joy
when she saw her. She took a lamp
and worshipped her with it in thanksgiving.
She then hugged her close from moment to moment.
Then the King and the Queen talked together and considered carefully
whether they should offer the Princess to Prince Tārācand in marriage.
395. Then the Queen summoned her family
and they all put their heads together
to discuss the matter. They all said,
‘People say that when a girl matures
her father’s house is not proper for her.
If a daughter is ready to be married,
she does not adorn her parents’ house.
Many a family has been ruined
through the downfall of a daughter.
Either she should live in her husband’s house,
or dwell in the halls of death.
Until she is eight, a daughter is a girl.
If she lives at her parents’ when she’s nine,
people begin to abuse her father.
The Prince is endowed with every virtue and is from an illustrious family.
Let her be betrothed to him at once, do not delay the engagement.’
The Queen and Tārācand
396. Then the Queen approached the Prince
and told him what she had in mind.
She said, ‘O Prince, my heart desires
to offer you Madhumālatī in marriage.’
When he heard this the Prince said,
‘Listen, mother, we have given our word
to each other with God as our witness,
that your daughter is my sister.
You are a mother to me as well,
just as you are to my sister.
A good man’s word follows his soul:
if it goes, his life goes with it,
and if it is kept, he remains alive.
My duty now is to abide by what I have promised your daughter.
Only if she meets her Prince Manohar can my heart be happy again.
397. ‘Mother, you must arrange it
so that she meets him once more.
He is as dear to her as life itself.
I have seen her grievous sorrow
searching through harsh, difficult places,
wandering through the world,
intoxicated with love for him—
I shall only have peace of mind
when she meets her love again.
Call all the courtiers of the King.
Command them to go to find Manohar.
I have heard this saying from my elders:
whoever searches, finds his desire.
Mother, do whatever you can, arrange it so she can be joined with her Prince.
Only when their burning hearts have been cooled will my heart be at peace.’
398. When the Queen heard Tārācand’s answer,
she told him everything from the beginning,
‘On the day that the two met in the garden
at Citbisarāu, surrounded on all sides
by countless serving maids, we knew
that these two should have to wander
in every direction for their heart’s desire.
In the grip of anger I spoke to her,
my mind quite clouded by darkness.
I was quite out of my mind,
but now my reason has returned.
In my anger, I could not look at the girl.
I had him sent home and put her here.
She would stand all day long, staring into space, eyes lifted to the sky.
All night she would lie here in despair, weeping as she recalled his face.
399. ‘Were I to speak of my sorrow, O Prince,
even a stone would shatter if it heard.
O Prince, I have suffered for my actions.
For suddenly a shock of grief beset my mind,
and I did something so cruel and heartless
that nobody in the Kali age could have done.
If you throw away the jewel in your hand,
how can you find it even when you search?
Let me send someone to Pemā now.
It may be possible to find him once more.’
When Tārācand heard this he said, ‘Send someone as quickly as you can.
Maybe we can find the lover burning in separation and all will be accomplished.’
400. Then the Queen called messengers to her,
and picked a clever pair from among them.
She wrote down all the news on paper,
all the events that had happened:
how Madhumālatī had become a bird,
and wandered the earth in search of Manohar,
of how Tārācand had ensnared her in his net,
and how she came with the Prince to Mahāras,
adding that he was a kind-hearted Prince
who had caused her to find the Princess again.
Everything that had happened she thought over and wrote down.
Then she sent the messengers off, with her seal-ring as a token for Pemā.
The Seasons of Madhumālatī s Separation
401. Then Madhumālatī, unbeknownst to her mother,
entreated the messengers with folded hands,
to explain everything to Pemā thus:
‘You kindled this fire in my heart.
O friend, I have wandered the earth for my love,
but the fire in my heart was never quenched.
Maybe, O Princess, you can find him.
If you do, reunite me with my match.’
She recounted all her past sufferings
that she had endured, parted from the Prince.
‘In the form of a bird, I wandered every day for a year to find my Prince.
Everything I shall reveal to you in detail, so listen carefully, dear friend.*
402. ‘In the month of Sāvan,* when massing clouds thundered,
my eyes recalled my loved one with tears.
No one could know my unfathomable sorrow.
The days would not pass in my grief.
My eyes were in flood like the Gangā and Jamuna.
When my tears of blood fell to the earth,
they became the scarlet ladybirds of Sāvan.
She who enjoys in this difficult season
the delights of the couch and the excitement of love,
enjoys the blessings that life has to offer.
I wandered as a cuckoo through every garden,
eyes bloodshot, body burning in separation.
Only a stubborn soul can stay in its body without a lover in the month of Sāvan,
with its massing clouds and torrents of rain, its endless nights and flashing lightnings.
403. ‘In the fearsome nights of the dark month of Bhādo,*
only separation’s fierce fire shared my bed.
In the rains, the constellations of Maghā* and the Lion
tossed my body to and fro in pain.
The water of love dripped from my two eyes.
All the eight physical signs of love
were aroused in my body, and the seven skies
bowed down low to touch the earth.
Thunder crashed frighteningly all around me.
I was sure my soul would leave me at last.
What hope of life can a woman have,
who does not sleep by her lover
I wandered alone through wood and forest, with the pain of separation in my heart.
Yet such a sinner was my shameless soul that it did not leave my body.
404. ‘The nine nights of the festival of Navarātra*
heralded the cruel month of Kuvār.*
The wind whistled of the winter to come.
In the crisp autumn nights, the moon
shone cool and bright in the sky.
Everyone was celebrating the festive season,
but I was alone, exiled to the forest.
Night after night, cranes screeched in the lakes.
The colourful wagtails returned to the world.
As the birds reappeared, the rains subsided,
and the wet earth became firm again.
The season of Kuvār was happy and festive,
and young women blossomed with joy.
But my heart suffers such agony in separation that my mouth cannot speak at all,
and my eyes rain torrents of tears: how can I write down my sorrow, O friend?
405. ‘The full moon of Kārtik* tormented this girl.
Its rays of nectar streamed down like poison.
Maidens were blossoming like lotuses,
night lotuses in the radiance of the moon.
They delighted in the cool nights of autumn,
spent in their lovers’ passionate embraces.
My body was consumed with the fire of separation.
In the cool autumn moonlight,
I made my bed on burning embers.
Only she can enjoy those precious days,
who shares her bed with a sweet-talking lover.
The autumn nights are pleasant only for her, who lies in her lover’s embrace.
Everyone celebrated the festival of lights, and I was alone in the forest.
406. ‘Through the month of Aghan,*
the cold weather was at its prime,
bodies trembled with cold, warm fire felt good.
The days and my joys drew shorter together,
at every moment, nights and sorrows grew longer.
Each dark night passed like an age,
as I wandered from branch to branch in the forest.
Only she knows this harrowing agony,
who has suffered separation while in love.
My gravest fault, dear friend, was this:
I did not die when I parted from my love.
My sinning soul stained me with a terrible disgrace:
on the day we parted, why did it not leave my body lifeless?
407. ‘The nights of Pūs* were intolerably difficult.
I, a weak woman, could barely endure them and survive.
How can a woman’s nature bear a night
in which each watch passes like an age?
Everyone’s heart held desire for their love,
and I wandered alone through the forest,
making my nest on the branches of trees.
Lovers take pleasure in the season of Pūs,
for youth is fleeting as the afternoon sun.
The steed of youth gallops on furiously,
and will not turn back despite your regrets.
Fortune turned away from me, O friend, when my lover turned his face away.
How could my lover abandon me blossoming in the prime of youth?
408. ‘Listen, dear friend, how hard the month of Māgh:*
my love was in a foreign land,
and I had no friend but separation.
How could I bear the harsh cold winter,
without a lover in my bed, and I a young girl?
Suffering the agony of parting,
I perched on wintry branches all night,
hail and snow beating down on me.
How did Madhumālatī endure difficult Māgh,
her days of separation growing longer each moment?
Happiness went along with my love, and sorrow stayed to keep me company.
And separation’s shears hacked at me, cutting away at bone and flesh.
409. ‘And in the month of Phāgun,* my friend,
a disaster befell my suffering body:
I was burnt on the pyre like Holikā.
Not a single leaf remained on the trees,
the forest-fire of separation destroyed them.
Forests suffered a fall of leaf,
and all the gardens turned to dry thorns.
All the birds renounced the woods
when they saw red blossoms
light up the flame-of-the-forest.
Not a tree remained in the world,
to which I did not cling weeping in despair.
Dear friend, I had not yet found my love—I was sobbing myself to death.
My body, bursting with new youth, wasted away into dry thorn bushes.
410. ‘Tender new leaves came out in Caita,*
and nature put on a fresh green sari.
Black honey-bees hummed everywhere,
and leaves and flowers adorned the branches.
Blossoms raised their heads from the bough,
and trees grew fresh flowering limbs.
The trees which shed all their leaves in Phāgun
grew green and fresh with leaf once more.
Without my lord, my own fall of leaf
has not, dear friend, grown green again.
My love gave me sorrow and abandoned me, my mother cast me into exile.
The sun beat down its harsh rays on me, as it entered the eighth mansion.
411. ‘Sorely I suffered, dear friend, in Baisākh,*
when the forest was green but my body was burning.
Only if she shares her bed of joy with a lover
can a woman enjoy the bliss of spring in Baisākh.
Forests and gardens clothed themselves with flowers.
For me, spring was barren without my love.
How was Madhumālatī to survive Baisākh,
when the fire of separation consumed her every moment?
Petals and leaves of every colour,
clothed the trees yellow, green, and red.
Without my dear lord, O companion of my childhood, my youth bore no fruit,
its blossoms withered and fell to the ground, jasmine in the wood.
412. ‘My heart cried out, “My love! My love!”
in the cruel summer month of Jeh.*
The sun shone a thousand times more fiercely.
The flames of separation raged inside my heart,
and the sun rained fire for all to see.
Secretly, separation burnt me up,
and openly, the sun’s fire consumed me:
how could a woman survive between two fires?
Night and day, Jeth kept me burning.
Where could I find my lord* to cool me in bed?
Wherever this girl rested for a moment,
a forest-fire of separation leapt up around her.
First, I was separated, second, in exile, third, without friend or companion,
fourth, I was without form or beauty: when I sought to die, death would not come.
413. ‘Dear friend, lightning flashed in the heavens
to herald the unbearable month of Asāh.*
Dark clouds like elephants turned to look back,
at the lightning which goaded them on.
Crickets and grasshoppers clamoured in tumult.
The scorched grass grew back,
mango trees blossomed once more.
The earth sprouted with life again,
but love never sprouted in my love’s heart.
People built up pavilions and shelters,
and birds made their nests in trees.
Asāh passed in torment for me, dear friend, and all twelve months.
Now please, for the sake of the Creator, help me so I may be redeemed.
414. ‘If the Prince come in search of you,
tell him every detail of my sufferings
<
br /> entreating him with tears in your eyes.
Tell my lord I gave up my life for him,
wandering round the earth’s nine regions.
Nowhere did I find a trace of you,
but my shameless soul did not leave my body.
Just as love is passionately attached to beauty,
my soul is intoxicated with love-in-separation.
Although my body could not reach you,
my soul was with you, my lord, night and day!
From the moment I was separated from you, I have been weeping myself to death.
Even though my body is far away from you, my soul is always at your feet.
415. ‘When love for you awoke in my heart,
I gave up all my other friendships.
Just as my soul is with you, my lord,
give me your soul in exchange!
Or else, take out from my breast
the pain of love which afflicts my heart.
Listen, I am sinking in the ocean of love,
and without you I have no support at all.
You brought me love in secret, my lord,
but openly, you took my soul away by force.
In the body of a cuckoo, weeping tears of blood, my tongue repeated my lover’s name.
I merged with the beauty of my beloved, roaming the world with my life* in my hands.
416. ‘From the moment you came into my eyes,
I have been weeping night and day.
I am amazed, for although I wept incessantly,
I could not wash you from my eyes.
All the worries that were in my mind
were forgotten in my worry for my master.
Every concern fled from my mind
the moment I became anxious for you.*
May my beloved make me the dust
on whichever path he sets his foot!
I wish I could worship him with the lamp of my life at every step,
but the Creator has only given me one life to sacrifice for his sake.
417. ‘For your sake, my darling,
I have become the dust on your path
that I may touch your feet somehow.
Though my life were to leave my body,
my grief for you will not desert this frame.
My lord, do to me whatever you please,
but do not inflict on me the pain of separation!
If you were to kill me with your own hand,
my love, I’d give up not one but a hundred lives.
But if I could find peace by sacrificing my life,
why did I not die sooner for your sake?
Do not think that an everlasting love will lessen upon separation.
Rather, love grows ever stronger as the days of parting lengthen!’
418. She wrote down all she had suffered,
adding much more in words to be told.
Madhumālatī fell at the feet of the couriers,