"One only way I find To slay this fiend of evil mind. He prayed me once his life to guard From demon, god, and heavenly bard, And spirits of the earth and air, And I, consenting, heard his prayer. But the proud giant in his scorn Recked not of man of woman born; None else may take his life away And only man the fiend can slay."

At Brahma's request, Vishnu not only consented to become man, but elected to enter the body of the rajah's oldest son—one of the four children obtained in answer to prayer. Meantime he charged his fellow gods diligently to beget helpers for him, so they proceeded to produce innumerable monkeys. The poem next informs us that Rama, son of the Rajah's favorite wife, being a god,—an incarnation of Vishnu,—came into the world with jewelled crown and brandishing four arms, but that, at his parents' request, he concealed these divine attributes, assumed a purely human form, and cried lustily like a babe. Two other wives of the rajah, having received lesser portions of the divine beverage, gave birth to three sons (Bharata, Lakshmana, and Satrughna), and the news that four heirs had arrived in the palace caused great rejoicings in the realm.

These four princes grew up in the most promising fashion, Rama in particular developing every virtue, and showing even in childhood marked ability as an archer. Such was his proficiency in athletic sports that a hermit besought him, at sixteen, to rid his forest of the demons which were making life miserable for him and his kin. To enable Rama to triumph over these foes, the hermit bestowed upon him divine weapons, assuring him they would never fail him.

"And armed with these, beyond a doubt, Shall Rama put those fiends to rout."

The hermit also beguiled the weariness of their long journey to the forest by relating to Rama the story of the Ganges, the sacred stream of India. We are told that a virtuous king, being childless, betook himself to the Himalayas, where, after spending a hundred years in austerities, Brahma announced he should have one son by one of his wives and sixty thousand by the other, adding that his consorts might choose whether to bear one offspring or many. Given the first choice, the favorite wife elected to be the mother of the son destined to continue the royal race, while the other brought into the world a gourd, wherein a hermit discovered the germs of sixty thousand brave sons, all of whom, thanks to his care, grew up to perform wonders in behalf of their father and brother.

On one occasion, a horse chosen for sacrifice having been stolen, the father despatched these sixty thousand braves in quest of it, and, as they were not able to discover any traces of it on earth, bade them dig down to hell. Not only did they obey, but continued their search until they struck in turn the four elephants on whose backs the Hindus claim our earth peacefully reposes. Here the diggers disturbed the meditations of some god, who, in his anger, burned them up. The poor father, anxious to purify the ashes of his dead sons, learned he would never be able to do so until the Ganges—a river of heaven—was brought down to earth. By dint of penance and prayer, the bereaved parent induced Vishnu to permit this stream—which until then had only flowed in heaven—to descend to earth, warning the king that the river, in coming down, would destroy the world unless some means were found to stem the force of its current. Our clever rajah obviated this difficulty by persuading the god Siva to receive the cataract on the top of his head, where the sacred waters, after threading their way through his thick locks, were divided into the seven streams which feed the sacred springs of India. Thus safely brought to earth, the Ganges penetrated to hell, where it purified the ashes of the sixty thousand martyrs, and ever since then its waters have been supposed to possess miraculous powers.

For sin and stain were banished thence, By the sweet river's influence.

The hermit also told how the gods procured the Water of Life (Amrita) by churning the ocean, saying they used Mount Meru as a dasher, and a huge serpent as the rope whereby to twirl it around.

Led by this hermit, Rama not only slew the ravaging monsters, but went on to take part in a tournament, where King Janak offered his daughter, Sita, in marriage to any archer who would span a bow he had obtained from Siva. On arriving at the place where this test was to be made, Rama saw the huge bow brought forth on a chariot drawn by five thousand men, and, although no one else had even been able to raise it, took it up and bent it until it broke with a crack which terrified all present. By this feat young Rama won the hand of Sita, a beautiful princess, whom her father turned up from the soil while ploughing one day, and who is hence the Hindu personification of Spring.

The wedding of Rama and Sita was honored by the presence of both kings, and Rama's three brothers were made as happy as he by receiving the hands of three of Sita's sisters, the father telling each bridegroom:

"A faithful wife, most blest is she, And as thy shade will follow thee."

When the four bridal couples returned to Oude, Rama's father decided to name his eldest son assistant king, and therefore gave orders to prepare for the ceremony. The mere rumor that Rama was about to be crowned aroused the jealousy of the king's youngest wife (Kaikeyi), who, instigated by an evil-minded, hunch-backed maid, sent for her aged spouse and reminded him how once, when he was ill, he had promised in return for her care to grant any two boons she asked. The infatuated monarch, seeing her grief, rashly renewed this promise, swearing to keep it by Rama's head.

As some wild elephant who tries To soothe his consort as she lies Struck by the hunter's venomed dart, So the great king, disturbed in heart, Strove with soft hand and fond caress To soothe his darling queen's distress, And in his love addressed with sighs The lady of the lotus eyes.

Hearing him confirm his former oath, the favorite wife bade him banish his heir to the forest for fourteen years and appoint her son as viceroy in his brother's stead. In vain the old king pleaded; the favorite wife insisted so vehemently that when morning dawned the bewildered old rajah sent for Rama to ask his advice. Although this prince fully expected to be crowned that day, he was far too virtuous not to perceive that a promise must be kept at any cost, so without a murmur he prepared to go to the forest of Dandaka and dwell there in hermit garb fourteen years.

"The orders of my sire," he cried, "My will shall ne'er oppose: I follow still, whate'er betide, The path which duty shows."

His first duty, however, was to return to his palace to inform his wife that they must part; but, on hearing what had occurred, Sita piteously begged to share his fate, although he eloquently described the hardships to which she would be exposed should she venture to accompany him. Her wifely devotion was, however, proof against all he could urge, for she declared with tears there was no happiness for her save at his side.

"With thee is heaven, where'er the spot; Each place is hell where thou are not."

Hearing this declaration, Rama finally consented to take her with him, and, bidding farewell to father and mother, left the city, accompanied by his wife and favorite brother (Lakshman) and escorted by his mourning subjects.

His father, broken-hearted at parting with his favorite son, took to his bed, which he was never to leave again confiding to Rama's mother that he was being sorely punished for a sin of his youth. It seems that, while out hunting one night, hearing a gurgle by a stream, and fancying some wild beast was there drinking, he let fly a shaft, which only too surely reached its goal. Startled by a human cry, the rajah rushed down to the river, only to discover that he had mortally wounded a youth who had come down to draw water for his blind parents.

"Then in the dusk I heard the sound of gurgling water; Quickly I took my bow, and, aiming toward the sound, shot off the dart. A cry of mortal agony came from the spot,—a human voice Was heard, and a poor hermit's son fell pierced and bleeding in the stream."

Before dying this lad implored his slayer to hasten back to the hermitage with water, as the old people were longing for a drink. On hearing footsteps, the blind parents peevishly reproached their son for tarrying, and, when the unfortunate murderer tried to explain what had occurred, cursed him vehemently, declaring he would some day experience the loss of a son. It was, therefore, in fulfilment of this curse that the old rajah died thirteen days after Rama's departure.

Meantime the banished prince, riding in one of his father's chariots, had reached the junction of the Jumna and Ganges, where he spent the first night of his exile beneath a banyan on the banks of the sacred stream. There he built a raft, by means of which he crossed to the other side, and from there sadly watched his faithful subjects wending homeward. Then he plunged into the forest, arranging that Sita should always tread its narrow paths between him and his brother, to make sure no harm befall her.

The Indian poet now favors us with a wonderful description of the tropical forest, with its huge trees, brilliant flowers, strange birds and monkeys, all of which gives the reader a vivid impression of the color, beauty, perfume, and luxuriance of the tropics.

On rocky heights beside the way And lofty trees with blossoms gay; And streamlets running fair and fast, The royal youths and Sita passed.

The exiles, wandering thus in single file, finally arrived at Citra-kuta, where they joined a colony of hermits and built a rustic booth, where they dwelt happily for some time. One day the rumor of a coming host roused their curiosity, and Lakshman, descrying a long procession from the top of a high tree, excitedly warned Rama that his brother was probably coming to annihilate them.

Rama, who always ascribes good motives to every one, now declares it is impossible this should be true, and feels sure his brother is coming for some affectionate purpose. Greeting Bharata kindly, therefore, he soon discovers his previsions are correct, for the young prince, after announcing his father's death, implores Rama to return and reign over Oude. Not only does he protest he will never supplant his senior, but reviles his mother for having compelled her husband to drive Rama into exile.

Although all present unite in his entreaties, Rama, too virtuous to break a promise, decides to remain in the forest the allotted fourteen years and resume his regal state only at the end of that time. He adds that during his banishment he will live in such a fashion that his exile will prove a blessing to his people.

"Many a blessing yet will spring From banished Rama's wanderings."

This decided, Rama urges his brother to act meanwhile as vice-regent; whereupon Bharata, taking Rama's golden sandals, proclaims they alone shall occupy the throne beneath the royal umbrella, although he consents to rule in his brother's name. This settled, the gorgeous procession slowly wends its way back to Oude, where for fourteen years every one does homage to Rama's golden sandals!

Meantime life in the hermitage continues its peaceful course, the royal ascetics being disturbed only by the demons (Rakshasas) who haunt the forest and try to injure the hermits, simply because they are good. Sita is perfectly happy in this humble home because she enjoys the constant presence of her husband, who, taking her one day to visit an aged female ascetic, implores this woman to bestow a boon upon his faithful spouse. The old woman then and there endowed Sita with eternal youth and beauty, declaring that no matter what hardships she encounters, she will always be as dainty and young as at present.

One of the female demons finally becomes so anxious to win Rama's love, that she disguises herself as a beautiful creature in hopes of fascinating him. Angry because all her efforts fail, she next tries to injure Sita, whereupon Rama, by cutting off her nose and ears, forces her to resume her usual shape. In her anger this demon bids her brothers avenge her wrongs, whereupon fourteen fiends attack Rama, who, having slain them all, is almost immediately afterward forced to face thousands of demons. He defeats them single-handed, while his brother watches over Sita, hidden in a neighboring cave.

Such a trifle as the massacre of twenty-one thousand of his fiends in three hours' time, naturally enrages Ravana, whose abode is in Ceylon, in a golden palace which has such high walls that no one can peep over them. This king of demons, who is also called the "Courage of the Three Worlds," has the power of increasing his stature until he can reach up to the stars with his score of arms. Owing to his ten heads, his appearance is terrifying, especially as his eyebrows are composed of live black snakes which writhe around continually. No sooner does his sister appear before him, reporting she has been mutilated by Rama, who has besides slain hosts of his subjects, than Ravana swears revenge, adding he will first kidnap Sita, for his sister's description of her matchless charms has fired his imagination.

In his golden chariot Ravana, therefore, flies to the forest, where he bids his sister change herself into a wonderful deer, and in that shape lure Rama away, so he can abduct Sita. The three hermits are, therefore, calmly seated before their hut when a deer darts past, exhibiting so unusual a pelt that Sita, fired with the desire to possess it, urges Rama to pursue it. To gratify this whim, Rama starts out to track this game, calling to his brother to mount guard over his wife during his absence. Lured farther and farther away from home, Rama finally brings down his quarry, which, in falling, calls for help in a voice so exactly like his own that his brother, hearing the despairing accent, is torn between the desire to rush to his rescue and the necessity of remaining to protect Sita. But the little wife, sure her husband is in danger, so vehemently urges her brother-in-law to leave her that he finally dashes off. A moment later Sita sees an old hermit draw near to ask alms. While she is entertaining this holy guest, he frightens her by suddenly announcing that he is Ravana, king of the demons. As Sita resists all his advances, Ravana, suddenly resuming his wonted shape, snatches her up in his arms and whisks her off in his flying chariot. Notwithstanding the rapidity of his course, the king of the vultures, seeing them dart through the air and hoping to rescue the frantic Sita, attacks Ravana, only to fall mortally wounded to earth. Because Sita—the personification of vegetation—has now been abducted by the demon,—who typifies winter,—the whole earth shows signs of mourning, and the two brothers hurry back to the hut, their hearts filled with nameless apprehensions.

Like streamlet in the winter frost, The glory of her lilies lost. With leafy tears the sad trees wept As a wild wind their branches swept. Mourned bird and deer; and every flower Drooped fainting round the lovely bower. The sylvan deities had fled The spot where all the light was dead.

Reaching their hermitage and finding their worst fears justified, both brothers set out in quest of Sita, and soon come across the dying vulture, who reports what he has seen, and bids them, after burning his body, find the monkey king, Sugriva, who will aid them. After piously fulfilling the brave vulture's last wishes, Rama and his brother visit the monkey monarch, who reports that, as the demon flew over his head, Sita flung down a few of her ornaments, begging that they be taken to Rama. An alliance is now concluded between Rama and Sugriva, and, as each party pledges himself to help the other, Rama begins by slaying the brother and chief foe of the monkey king, who in his turn undertakes to trace Sita.

To discover where she may be, Hanuman, the monkey general, sets out, and, following Sita's traces, discovers she has been carried to Ceylon. But, on arriving at the southern point of the Indian peninsula and finding some two hundred miles of water between him and this island, Hanuman, son of the god of the winds, transforms himself into a huge ape, and in that shape takes a flying leap from the top of Mount Mandara (the fabled centre of the earth) to the top of Mount Sabula, which overlooks the capital of Ceylon. Then, reconnoitring from this point, the monkey general perceives that Ravana's palace is so closely guarded that he can only steal into it in the guise of a cat. Prowling through the royal premises, he searches for Sita until he finally discovers her in a secluded garden, bitterly mourning for her spouse.

In spite of the fact that she has already been some time in the demon's power, Ravana has not yet succeeded in winning her affections, and dares not force her lest he incur the wrath of the gods. It is evident, however, that his patience is worn nearly threadbare, for Hanuman overhears him threaten to chop Sita to pieces unless she will yield to his wishes and become his wife within the next two months.

"My cooks shall mince thy limbs with steel And serve thee for my morning meal."

When Sita is left alone, Hanuman, in the guise of a tiny monkey, climbs down to her side, exhibits Rama's ring, which he has brought as a token, and receives from her in return a jewel, after he has assured her that she will soon be delivered.

About to leave Ceylon to report what he has seen, it occurs to the monkey general to do some damage to the foe. In the guise of an immense baboon, he therefore destroys a grove of mango trees, an act of vandalism which so infuriates Ravana that he orders the miscreant seized and fire tied to his tail! But no sooner has the fire been set than the monkey general, suddenly transforming himself into a tiny ape, slips out of his bonds, and scrambling up on the palace roof sets it on fire as well as all the houses in Lanka, his flaming tail serving as a torch.

As earth with fervent heat will glow When comes her final overthrow; From gate to gate, from court to spire, Proud Lanka was one blaze of fire, And every headland, rock, and bay Shone bright a hundred leagues away!

Then, satisfied with the damage he has done, Hanuman hastens back to the sea-shore, whence by another prodigious leap he lands in India, to inform Rama and Sugriva (the monkey king) of the success of his expedition.

A huge monkey army now sets out under Rama's guidance, but general and warriors are equally dismayed on reaching the sea to find an unsurmountable obstacle between them and their goal. In answer to Rama's fervent prayers, however, the god of the sea, rising from the waves, promises that any materials cast into his waters will be held in place, to form a bridge whereby they can cross to Ceylon. All the monkeys now bring stones and tree trunks which they hurl into the sea, where, thanks to the efforts of the Hindu architect Nala, they are welded together and form a magic bridge. It is by means of this causeway that Rama invades Ceylon, and, when Ravana hears the foe is approaching, he musters an army, of which the poem gives a wonderful description. Then begins the dire combat wherein Rama and his forces finally prove victorious, and wherein our hero, after slaying Ravana's son, fights with the demon himself, whose heads he proceeds to cut off. He is justly dismayed, however, to see they have the power of springing up again as soon as hewn, until remembering at last his magic bow, he makes such good use of it that he annihilates the demon, whose numerous wives wail as he falls.

Although many of Rama's adherents have perished in battle, he now proceeds to call them back to life, and graciously receives the praise they bestow upon him for having rid the world of demons.

Soft from celestial minstrels came The sound of music and acclaim; Soft, fresh and cool, a rising breeze Brought odors from the heavenly trees; And, ravishing the sight and smell, A wondrous rain of blossoms fell; And voices breathed round Reghu's son, "Champion of gods, well done, well done."

It is only then that Rama consents to see Sita, who, thanks to her gift of eternal beauty, is still so lovely that all present are awed. But, instead of embracing her, Rama coldly declares that, although he crossed the seas for her sake and slew her foes, she is no longer worthy to dwell in his sight since she has been an inmate of Ravana's harem. In vain Sita urges that she has been faithful throughout. Rama refuses to credit her purity; so the poor little wife, preferring death to disgrace, begs permission to die on a funeral pyre. Even then her stern husband shows no signs of relenting, but allows her to enter a fierce fire, whence the god of the flames bears her out unharmed, and restores her to her husband, declaring that, as her chastity has withstood this fiery test, he can receive her without compunction.

She ceased and, fearless to the last, Within the flames' wild fury passed.

By this time the prescribed fourteen years of exile are finished, so husband and wife set out for home, crossing the ocean bridge in Ravana's magic car, and flying all over India, of which the poet gives a wonderful panoramic description. Rama's return to Oude is joyfully welcomed by his brother, who proudly shows him the golden sandals which have occupied the throne all this time.

Rama's reign proves an Age of Gold for India, but, although all seem happy, some doubt lingers in regard to the propriety of Sita's return. When a famine finally devastates the land, one of the ministers assures Rama this scourge is due to the fact that he has taken back a guilty wife. Rama, therefore, banishes the faithful Sita, who returns to the forest and to the protection of the hermits, where she gives birth to twin sons, Kusa and Lava, the destined singers of Valmiki's wonderful song. These youths are, however, brought up in the forest in total ignorance of their august descent.

Twenty years have passed since Rama repudiated his wife, when he decides to offer a horse sacrifice. But, the steed he selects having been captured by two young men, Rama angrily orders them put to death. As the victims resist all efforts to seize them, the king in person goes forth to capture them. On approaching near enough, he haughtily demands their names and origin, whereupon the youths rejoin their mother is Sita and their tutor Valmiki, but that they do not know their father's name. These words reveal to Rama that he is face to face with his own sons, but, although he rejoices, he still finds it difficult to believe Sita can have been faithful. He, therefore, avers that before reinstating her she will have to undergo a second trial by fire; but Sita, who no longer feels any desire to belong to so heartless a spouse, flatly refuses to accompany him, until Valmiki informs her it is a wife's duty to obey.

Still wearing the crown of eternal youth and beauty, Sita now appears before Rama, in whose presence she implores the earth to open and receive her, thus proving that she has ever been true to her marriage vows and saving her from further suffering. A moment later the king and his court see the earth heave and open, and behold the goddess of the earth, who, taking Sita by the hand, announces she is about to convey her to realms of eternal bliss. Then Sita and the goddess disappear, the earth closes once more, and the gods chant the praises of the faithful wife, showering flowers upon Rama, who grovels on the ground in his agony. A broken-hearted man, he then returns to his palace with his two sons, the first to sing this poem, whose verses are so sacred that those who listen to a few of them are forgiven many sins, while those who hear the whole epic are sure to achieve Paradise.

He shall be From every sin and blemish free: Whoever reads the saving strain, With all his kin the heavens shall gain.

Because the poem is so sacred, its author enjoined upon the youths to recite it often, a task they faithfully performed as long as they lived, and which other bards have continued until to-day in all parts of India.

Recite ye this heroic song In tranquil shades where sages throng; Recite it where the good resort, In lowly home and royal court.

We are told besides that—

As long as mountain ranges stand And rivers flow upon the earth, So long will this Ramayana Survive upon the lips of men.

Rama is finally visited by the God of Time, who offers him the choice of remaining on earth or returning to heaven. When he wisely choses the latter alternative, Rama is bidden bathe in sacred waters, and thence is translated to the better world.

From this poem Tulsi Das has composed a play known as the "Ram Charit Manas," which serves as Bible to a hundred million worshippers in northern India, and is always played at the yearly festivals in the presence of countless admirers.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 41: The quotations in this chapter are taken from Griffeth's translation and from Romesh Dutt's.]



THE MAHABHARATA

The longest poem in existence is composed in Sanscrit, and, although begun before the Ramayana, it was completed only about one hundred years after. It consists of some two hundred and twenty thousand lines, divided into eighteen sections (parvans), each of which forms a large volume. Although the whole work has never been translated into English verse, many portions of it have been reproduced both in verse and prose.

The Hindus consider this one of their most sacred books, attribute its authorship to Vyasa, and claim that the reading of a small portion of it will obliterate sin, while the perusal of the whole will insure heavenly bliss. Its name signifies "the great war," and its historical kernel,—including one-fifth of the whole work,—consists of an account of an eighteen days' battle (in the thirteenth or fourteenth century B.C.) between rival tribes. The poem is, besides, a general repository of the mythological, legendary, and philosophical lore of the Hindus, and reached its present state of development only by degrees and at the end of several centuries.

Bharata, the real founder of the principal Indian dynasty, is so famous a character, that the Hindus often designate their whole country as "the land of Bharata." We are told that Rajah Dushyanta, a descendant of the Moon, while hunting one day beheld the beautiful Sakuntala, daughter of a sage, whom he persuaded to consent to a clandestine marriage. But, after a short time, the bridegroom departed, leaving his bride a ring as a pledge of his troth.

Absorbed in thoughts of her absent lover, Sakuntala once failed to notice the approach of a sage, who cursed her, saying she should be forgotten by the man she loved, but who relenting after a while declared this curse would be annulled when her husband beheld his ring.

Some time after this, on the way to rejoin her spouse to inform him she was about to become a mother, Sakuntala, while bathing in a sacred pool, accidentally dropped this ring. On appearing without it before Dushyanta, he sternly denied all acquaintance with her and ordered her driven out into the jungle, where she soon gave birth to their son Bharata.

The lad was about six years old when a fisherman found in the stomach of a fish the lost ring, which he carried to the rajah. On beholding this token, Dushyanta, remembering all, hastened to seek poor Sakuntala, whom he discovered in the jungle, watching her boy fearlessly play with lion cubs. Proud of such a son, the rajah bore his family home; and Bharata, after having a long reign, gave birth to Hastin, founder of Hastinapur, a city on the bank of the Ganges about sixty miles from the modern Delhi.

A grandson of this Hastin married the Goddess of the Ganges,—who was doing penance on earth,—and their children were animated by the souls of deities condemned for a time to assume human form. In order to enable these fellow-gods to return to heaven as soon as possible, Ganga undertook to drown each of her babies soon after birth, provided the gods would pledge themselves to endow one of her descendants with their strength, and would allow him to live, if not to perpetuate his species.

After seeing seven of his children cast into the water without daring to object, the rajah, although he knew his goddess-wife would leave him if he found fault with anything she did, protested so vehemently against the similar disposal of his eighth son that his wife disappeared with the child. But a few years later this son, Bhishma, the terrible, having grown up, was restored to his father.

To comfort himself for the loss of his first wife, the king now married the beautiful daughter of a fisherman, solemnly promising her son should succeed him, for Bhishma voluntarily relinquished all right to the throne and took a vow to remain celibate. The new wife's main attraction seems to have been a sweet odor, bestowed by a saint, who restored her virginity after she had borne him a son named Vyasa, the author of this poem.

By the Rajah the fishermaid now had two sons, one of whom was slain at the end of a three years' fight, while the other began his reign under the wise regency of Bhishma. When it was time for his royal step-brother to marry, Bhishma sent him to a Bride's Choice (Swayamvara), where three lovely princesses were to be awarded to the victor. Without waiting to win them fairly, the young prince kidnapped all three, and, when the disappointed suitors pursued him, Bhishma held them at bay by shooting ten thousand arrows at once, and thus enabled his step-brother and brides to escape.

Although thus provided with three royal wives, our prince was soon deserted by one of them and was never fortunate enough to have children by the two others. After he had died, custom required that his nearest kinsman should raise issue for him, so,—owing to Bhishma's vow,—Vyasa, who was fabulously ugly, undertook to visit the two widows. One of them, catching a glimpse of him, bore him a blind son (Dhritarashtra), while the other was so frightened that she bore a son of such pale complexion that he was known as Pandu, the White.

Neither of these youths being deemed perfect enough to represent properly the royal race, Vyasa announced he would pay the widows another visit, but this time they hired a slave to take their place, so it was she who brought into the world Vidura, God of Justice. Because one prince was blind and the other the offspring of a slave, the third was set upon his throne by his uncle Bhishma, who in due time provided him with two lovely wives.

With these the monarch withdrew to the Himalayas to spend his honeymoon, and while there proved unfortunate enough to wound a couple of deer who were hermits in disguise. In dying they predicted he would perish in the arms of one of his wives, whereupon Pandu decided to refrain from all intercourse with them, graciously allowing them instead to bear him five sons by five different gods. These youth, known in the poem as the sons of Pandu, the Pandavs (or the Pandavas), are the main heroes of India. As a prediction made by an ascetic was bound to come true, the king, momentarily forgetting the baleful curse, died in the embrace of his second wife, who, in token of grief, was burned with his remains, this being the earliest mention of a suttee.

Meantime the blind prince had married a lady to whom a famous ascetic had promised she should be mother to one hundred sons! All these came into the world at one birth, in the shape of a lump of flesh, which the ascetic divided into one hundred and one pieces, each of which was enclosed in a pot of rarefied butter, where these germs gradually developed into one hundred sons and one daughter.

As long as Pandu sojourned in the Himalayas, the blind prince reigned in his stead, but when he died, his surviving widow brought to the capital (Hastinapur) her five divine sons, the Pandavs. There the blind uncle had them brought up with their cousins, the hundred Kurus (or Kauravas), with whom, however, they were never able to live in perfect peace. Once, as the result of a boyish quarrel, a Kuru flung Bhima, one of the Pandavs, into the Ganges, where, instead of sinking, this hero was inoculated by serpent-bites with the strength of ten thousand elephants before he returned to his wonted place at home.

The young princes, who had all been trained to fight by their tutor, Drona, and who had already given sundry proofs of their proficiency in arms, were finally invited by the blind monarch to give a public exhibition of their skill. The poem gives us a lengthy description of this tournament, expatiating on the flower-decked booths reserved for the principal spectators, and dilating particularly on the fact that the blind monarch, unable to see with, his own eyes, made some one sit beside him to describe all that was going on.

After the preliminary sacrifice offered by the tutor, the skill of the princes, as archers, was tested on foot, on horseback, in howdahs, and in chariots; then they indulged in mock fights with swords and bucklers, closely watched by Drona, who pronounced his favorite Arjuna, the third Pandav, the finest athlete ever seen.

Still the princes shook their weapons, drove the deep resounding car, Or on steed or tusker mounted waged the glorious mimic war! Mighty sword and ample buckler, ponderous mace the princes wield, Brightly gleam their lightning rapiers as they range the listed field, Brave and fearless is their action, and their movements quick and light, Skilled and true the thrust and parry of their weapons flaming bright![42]

Thereupon, from the ranks of the spectators, emerged Karna, son of a charioteer, who challenged Arjuna to fight with him, but the prince refused on the score that they were not of equal rank. Still a legend assures us that Karna was a child of the Sun-god, set afloat by his mother on the river Jumna, whence this Hindu Moses, floating down into the Ganges, was rescued and brought up by the charioteer, his reputed father. Meantime the four Pandav brothers were greatly elated by the eulogy bestowed upon their brother, but their jealous cousins became so enraged that, when the time came for the youths to face each other in club exercises, the sham battle degenerated into an earnest fight.

With ponderous mace they waged the daring fight. As for a tender mate two rival elephants Engage in frantic fury, so the youths Encountered, and amidst the rapid sphere Of fire their whirling weapons clashing wove Their persons vanished from the anxious eye. Still more and more incensed their combat grew, And life hung doubtful on the desperate conflict; With awe the crowd beheld the fierce encounter And amidst hope and fear suspended tossed, Like ocean shaken by conflicting winds.

Seeing this, the horrified tutor separated the contestants, whom he soon after sent off separately to war against a neighboring rajah. In this conflict the one hundred Kurus were badly worsted, while the five Pandavs scored a brilliant triumph. They also subdued sundry other kings, thereby so rousing the jealous hatred of their uncle and cousins that these finally began to plot their death. The five Pandavs and their mother were therefore invited to a feast in a neighboring city (Allahabad), where the Kurus arranged they should be burned alive in their booth. But, duly warned by the God of Justice, the Pandavs had an underground passage dug from their hut to the forest, by means of which they escaped, little suspecting that a beggar woman and her five children—who had sought refuge in the empty hut—would be burned to death there in their stead.

Disguised as Brahmans, the five brothers and their mother now dwelt for a time in the jungle, where they proceeded to slay some demons, to marry others, and to perform sundry astounding feats of strength. We are told, for instance, that whenever the mother and brothers were tired, the strongest of the Pandavs, Bhima, carried them all with the utmost ease.

While in the jungle they were visited by their grandfather Vyasa, who bade them attend the Bride's Choice of Draupadi, daughter of a neighboring king, who—Minerva-like—came into the world full grown.

Human mother never bore her, human bosom never fed, From the altar sprang the maiden who some prince will wed!

She was so beautiful that her father decided the suitor she favored would have to prove himself worthy of her by spanning a bow which no one as yet had been able to bend, and by sending an arrow through a rapidly revolving wheel into the eye of a gold fish stationed beyond it.

Owing to the extreme loveliness of Draupadi, many rajahs flocked to the tournament to compete for her hand, and the five Pandavs betook themselves thither in Brahman garb. After the preliminary exercises, the beautiful princess—to whom all her suitors had been duly named—gave the signal for the contest to begin. The mere sight of the huge bow proved enough to decide several of the contestants to withdraw, but a few determined to risk all in hopes of obtaining Draupadi's hand. No man, however, proved able to bend the bow until Arjuna stepped forward, begging permission to try his luck. While the rajahs were protesting that no Brahman should compete, this Pandav spanned the bow and sent five successive shafts straight to the goal, amid the loud acclamations of all present.

He grasped the ponderous weapon in his hand And with one vigorous effort braced the string. Quickly the shafts were aimed and swiftly they flew; The mark fell pierced; a shout of victory Rang through the vast arena; from the sky Garlands of flowers crowned the hero's head, Ten thousand fluttering scarfs waved in the air, And drum and trumpet sounded forth his triumph.

The beautiful princess, captivated by the goodly appearance of this suitor, immediately hung around his neck the crown of flowers, although the defeated rajahs muttered a mere Brahman should not aspire to the hand of a princess. In fact, had not his four brothers, aided by Krishna (a divine suitor), stood beside him, and had not the king insisted there should be no fracas, the young winner might have had a hard time. Then, as the princess seemed perfectly willing, the wedding was celebrated, and the five brothers returned to the humble hut where they lived on alms, calling out to their mother that they had won a prize! On hearing these tidings, the mother—without knowing what the prize was—rejoined, "Share it among you," an injunction which settled for good and all that Draupadi should be common wife to all five. But the legend adds that this came to pass mainly because the maiden had prayed five times for a husband, and that the gods were answering each of her prayers separately!

Shortly after this fivefold marriage,—which assured the Pandavs a royal ally,—Bhishma persuaded the blind rajah—who had meantime discovered his nephews were not dead—to give them one half of his realm. Taking up their abode there, the Pandavs built the city of Indraprastha (Delhi) on the banks of the Jumna, before they decided that the eldest among them (Yudhishthira) should be king, the others humbly serving as his escort wherever he went.

One day this eldest Pandav went to visit the eldest Kuru, a proficient gambler, with whom he played until he had lost realm, brothers, wife, and freedom! But, when the victor undertook to take forcible possession of the fair Draupadi, and publicly stripped her of her garments, the gods, in pity, supplied her with one layer of vesture after another, so that the brutal Kuru was not able to shame her as he wished. Furious to see the treatment their common wife was undergoing at the victor's hands, the five Pandavs made grim threats, and raised such a protest that the blind uncle, interfering, sent them off to the forest with their wife for twelve years. He also decreed that, during the thirteenth, all must serve in some menial capacity, with the proviso that, if discovered by their cousins, they should never regain their realm.

"'Tis no fault of thine, fair princess! fallen to this servile state, Wife and son rule not their actions, others rule their hapless fate! Thy Yudhishthir sold his birthright, sold thee at the impious play, And the wife falls with the husband, and her duty—to obey!"

During the twelve years which the Pandavs spent in the forest, with the beautiful and faithful Draupadi (who was once carried away by a demon but rescued by one of her spouses), they met with sundry adventures. Not only did they clear the jungle, rescue from cannibals the jealous cousins who came to humiliate them, and perform other astounding feats, but they were entertained by tales told by Vyasa, among which are a quaint account of the Deluge, of the descent of the Ganges, a recitation of the Ramayana, and the romance of Nala and of Savitri, of which brief sketches are given at the end of this article. All this material is contained in the "Forest Book," the third and longest parvan of the Mahabharata, wherein we also find a curious account of Arjuna's voluntary exile because he entered into Draupadi's presence when one of his brothers was with her! To atone for this crime, Arjuna underwent a series of austerities on the Himalayas, in reward for which his father Indra took him up to heaven, whence he brought back sundry weapons, among which we note Siva's miraculous bow.

Meantime his four brothers and Draupadi had undertaken pious pilgrimages to all the sacred waters of India, and had learned sundry useful trades and arts, before they, too, visited the Himalayas. There Arjuna joined them in Indra's chariot, and led them to the top of a mountain, whence they beheld the glittering palace of Kuvera, God of Wealth.

After the twelve years' sojourn in the jungle were ended, the Pandavs, thanks to divine aid, entered the service of a neighboring king as teachers of dice and music, as charioteer, cook, cow-herd, and maid. There the five men and their wife remained for a whole year, without being discovered by their enemies, and, toward the end of their sojourn, rendered so signal a service to their master that he offered his daughter in marriage to Arjuna. Although this prince virtuously refused to accept her for himself, he bestowed her upon a son begotten during his exile when he indulged in sundry romantic adventures.

Having completed their penance, the Pandavs returned home, to demand of the Kurus the surrender of their realm. As these greedy cousins refused to relinquish their authority, both parties prepared for war. Seeing the Kurus had ten allies, the Pandavs became anxious to secure some too. The most powerful person in the region being the rajah Krishna, one of the Kurus hastened to his palace to bespeak his aid, and, finding him asleep, seated himself at the head of the bed. A moment later one of the Pandavs arrived, and modestly placed himself at the foot of the sleeping monarch's couch. On awakening, Krishna, of course, saw the Pandav first, but, after listening impartially to both petitioners, informed them that one party should have the benefit of his advice and the other the aid of his one hundred million soldiers. The greedy Kuru immediately bespoke the use of the army, while the Pandav was only too glad to secure the advice of Krishna (an embodiment of all the gods), who throughout the war acted as Arjuna's charioteer.

All preparations finished, the Great War (Mahabharata) began, the two families pitted against each other meeting on the plain of Kurukshetra (the modern Panipat) where the battle was fought. After many speeches, and after erecting fortifications which bristled with defences and were liberally stocked with jars of scorpions, hot oil, and missiles, the two parties drew up rules of battle, which neither was to infringe under penalty of incurring the world's execration.

Even nature now showed by unmistakable signs that a terrible conflict was about to take place, and when the two armies—which the Hindus claim numbered several billion men—came face to face, Krishna delayed the fight long enough to recite with Arjuna a dialogue of eighteen cantos called the Bhagavad-gita, or Divine Song, which contains a complete system of Indian religious philosophy.

The Pandavs, having besought the aid of the monkeys, were informed they would derive great benefit by bearing a monkey banner, so it was armed with this standard that they marched on to victory.

The sons of Pandu marked the coming storm And swift arrayed their force. The chief divine And Arjuna at the king's request Raised in the van the ape-emblazoned banner, The host's conducting star, the guiding light That cheered the bravest heart, and as it swept The air, it warmed each breast with martial fires.

Throughout the war the Pandav forces were directed by the same general, but their opponents had four. A moment after the first collision, the sky was filled with whistling arrows, while the air resounded with the neighing of horses and the roaring of elephants; the plain shook, and clouds of dust, dimming the light of the sun, formed a heavy pall, beneath which Pandavs and Kurus struggled in deadly fight. This frightful conflict lasted eighteen days, the battle always stopping at sunset, to enable the combatants to recover their strength.

And ever and anon the thunder roared, And angry lightnings flashed across the gloom, Or blazing meteors fearful shot to earth. Regardless of these awful signs, the chiefs Pressed on to mutual slaughter, and the peal Of shouting hosts commingling shook the world.

The Kurus' general, Bhishma, fell on the tenth day,—after a terrible fight with Arjuna,—riddled with so many arrows that his body could not touch the ground. Although mortally wounded, he lay in this state, his head supported by three arrows, for fifty-eight days, and was thus able to bestow good advice on those who came to consult him.

Darker grew the gloomy midnight, and the princes went their way; On his bed of pointed arrows, Bhishma lone and dying lay.

He was succeeded as leader of the Kurus by the tutor Drona, who during his five days' generalship proved almost invincible. But, some one suggesting that his courage would evaporate should he hear his son was dead, a cry arose in the Pandav ranks that Aswathaman had perished! Unable to credit this news, Drona called to the eldest Pandav—who was strictly truthful—to know whether it was so, and heard him rejoin it was true in regard to the elephant by that name, but not of the man.

Said Yudhishthir: "Lordly tusker, Aswathaman named, is dead;" Drona heard but half the accents, feebly dropped his sinking head!

The poor father, who heard only a small part of the sentence—the remainder being drowned by the sound of the trumpets—lost all courage, and allowed himself to be slain without further resistance.

The whole poem bristles with thrilling hand-to-hand conflicts, the three greatest during the eighteen days' battle being between Karna and the eldest Pandav, between the eldest Kuru and Bhima, and between Karna and Arjuna. During the first sixteen days of battle, countless men were slain, including Arjuna's son by one of his many wives. Although the fighting had hitherto invariably ceased at sunset, darkness on the seventeenth day failed to check the fury of the fighters, so when the moon refused to afford them light they kindled torches in order to find each other. It was therefore midnight before the exhausted combatants dropped down on the battle-field, pillowing their heads on their horses and elephants to snatch a brief rest so as to be able to renew the war of extermination on the morrow.

On the eighteenth day—the last of the Great War—the soil showed red with blood and was so thickly strewn with corpses that there was no room to move. Although the Kurus again charged boldly, all but three were slain by the enemies' golden maces. In fact, the fight of the day proved so fierce that only eleven men remained alive of the billions which, according to the poem, took part in the fight. But during that night the three remaining Kurus stole into the Pandav camp, killed the five sons which Draupadi had born to her five husbands, carried off their heads, and laid them at the feet of the mortally wounded eldest Kuru, who fancied at first his cousins had been slain. The battle ending from sheer lack of combatants, the eldest Pandav ordered solemn funeral rites, which are duly described in the poem.

Pious rites are due to foemen and to friends and kinsmen slain, None shall lack a fitting funeral, none shall perish on the plain.

Then, no one being there to dispute it, he took possession of the realm, always dutifully according precedence to his blind uncle, who deeply mourned his fallen sons.

Wishing to govern wisely, the eldest Pandav sought the wounded general, Bhishma,—who still lay on his arrowy bed in the battle-field,—and who, having given him rules for wise government, breathed his last in the presence of this Pandav, who saw his spirit rise from his divided skull and mount to the skies "like a bright star." The body was then covered with flowers and borne down to the Ganges, where, after it had been purified by the sacred waters, it was duly burned.

The new king's mind was, however, so continually haunted by the horrors of the great battle-field that, hoping to find relief, he decided to perform a horse sacrifice. Many chapters of the poem are taken up in relating the twelve adventures of this steed, which was accompanied everywhere by Arjuna, who had to wage many a fight to retain possession of the sacred animal and prevent any hand being laid upon him. Then we have a full description of the seventeen ceremonies pertaining to this strange rite.

Victor of a hundred battles, Arjun bent his homeward way, Following still the sacred charger free to wander as it may, Strolling minstrels to Yudhishthir spake of the returning steed, Spake of Arjun wending homeward with the victor's crown of meed.

Next we learn that the blind king, still mourning the death of his sons, retired to the bank of the Ganges, where he and his wife spent their last years listening to the monotonous ripple of the sacred waters. Fifteen years after the great battle, the five Pandavs and Draupadi came to visit him, and, after sitting for a while on the banks of the sacred stream, bathed in its waters as Vyasa advised them. While doing so they saw the wraiths of all their kinsmen slain in the Great Battle rise from the boiling waters, and passed the night in conversation with them, although these spirits vanished at dawn into thin air. But the widows of the slain then obtained permission to drown themselves in the Ganges, in order to join their beloved husbands beyond the tomb.

"These and other mighty warriors, in the earthly battle slain, By their valor and their virtue walk the bright ethereal plain! They have cast their mortal bodies, crossed the radiant gate of heaven, For to win celestial mansions unto mortals it is given! Let them strive by kindly action, gentle speech, endurance long, Brighter life and holier future unto sons of men belong!"

Then the Pandav brothers and their wife took leave of the blind king, whom they were destined never to see again, for some two years later a terrible jungle fire consumed both cottage and inmates. This death was viewed by the Pandavs as a bad omen, as was also the destruction of Krishna's capital because his people drank too much wine. Krishna himself was slain by accident, while a hurricane or tidal wave sweeping over the "city of Drunkenness" wiped it off the face of the earth.

Having found life a tragedy of sorrow, the eldest Pandav, after reigning thirty-six years, decided to abdicate in favor of Arjuna's grandson, and to start on a pilgrimage for Mount Meru, or Indra's heaven. As the Hindu universe consists of seven concentric rings, each of which is separated by a liquid from the next continent, he had to cross successive oceans of salt water, sugar-cane juice, wine, clarified butter, curdled milk, sweet milk, and fresh water. In the very centre of these alternate rings of land and liquid rises Mount Meru to a height of sixty-four thousand miles, crowned by the Hindu heaven, toward which the Pandav was to wend his way. But, although all their subjects would fain have gone with them, the five brothers, Draupadi, and a faithful dog set out alone in single file, "to accomplish their union with the infinite."

Then the high-minded sons of Pandu and the noble Draupadi Roamed onward, fasting, with their faces toward the east; their hearts Yearning for union with the Infinite, bent on abandonment Of worldly things.

* * * * *

And by degrees they reached the briny sea; They reached the northern region and beheld with heaven-aspiring hearts The mighty mountain Himavat. Beyond its lofty peak they passed Toward a sea of sand, and saw at last the rocky Meru, king Of mountains. As with eager steps they hastened on, their souls intent On union with the Eternal, Draupadi lost hold of her high hope, And faltering fell upon the earth. —Edwin Arnold.

Thus during this toilsome journey, one by one fell, never to rise again, until presently only two of the brothers and the dog were left. The eldest Pandav, who had marched on without heeding the rest, now explained to his companion how Draupadi sinned through excessive love for her husbands, and that his fallen brothers were victims of pride, vanity, and falsehood. He further predicted that the speaker himself would fall, owing to selfishness, a prediction which was soon verified, leaving the eldest Pandav alone with his dog.

On arriving, Indra bade this hero enter heaven, assuring him the other spirits had preceded him thither, but warning him that he alone could be admitted there in bodily form. When the Pandav begged that his dog might enter too, Indra indignantly rejoined that heaven was no place for animals, and inquired why the Pandav made more fuss about a four-legged companion than about his wife and brothers. Thereupon the Pandav returned he had no power to bring the others back to life, but considered it cowardly to abandon a faithful living creature. The dog, listening intently to this dialogue, now resumed his proper form,—for it seems he was the king's father in a former birth,—and, having become human once more, he too was allowed to enter Paradise.

Straight as he spoke, brightly great Indra smiled, Vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there, The lord of death and justice, Dharma's self. —Edwin Arnold.

Beneath a golden canopy, seated on jewelled thrones, the Pandav found his blind uncle and cousins, but failed to discern any trace of his brothers or Draupadi. He, therefore, refusing to remain, begged Indra's permission to share their fate in hell; so a radiant messenger was sent to guide him along a road paved with upturned razor edges, which passed through a dense forest whose leaves were thorns and swords. Along this frightful road the Pandav toiled, with cut and mangled feet, until he reached the place of burning, where he beheld Draupadi and his brothers writhing in the flames. Unable to rescue them, the Rajah determined to share their fate, so bade his heavenly guide return to Paradise without him. This, however, proved the last test to which his great heart was to be subjected, for no sooner had he expressed a generous determination to share his kinsmen's lot, than he was told to bathe in the Ganges and all would be well. He had no sooner done so than the heavens opened above him, allowing him to perceive, amid undying flowers, the fair Draupadi and his four brothers, who, thanks to his unselfishness, had been rescued from hell.

The grandson of Arjuna reigned at Hastinapur until he died of a snake-bite, and his son instituted snake sacrifices, where this epic was recited by a bard who learned it from the mouth of Vyasa. There is also a continuation of the poem in three sections called the Harivamca, which relates that Krishna is an incarnation of Vishnu, and describes his exploits and the future doom of the world.



THE STORY OF THE DELUGE

The detached stories in the Mahabharata are a quaint account of the Deluge, where we learn that an ascetic stood for ten thousand years on one leg, before a small fish implored him to save him from the big ones in the stream. This ascetic placed the petitioner first in an earthen vessel of water, then in a tank, then in the Ganges, "the favorite spouse of the ocean," and finally in the sea, for this fish rapidly outgrew each receptacle. On reaching the ocean, the fish informed the ascetic, with a smile, that the dissolution of the earth was near. He also bade him build an ark provided with a long rope, told him to enter in it with seven other sages and seeds of every kind, and promised to appear as a horned fish to save him from destruction. When the flood came, the horned fish, seizing the rope, dragged the ark to the top of the Himalayas, where it rested securely. There it declared, "I am Brahma who saved you," and directed the ascetic, aided by his learned companions, to recreate everything by means of the seeds.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 42: The long line quotations are from the translation of Romesh Dutt, those in short lines from Griffeth's.]



THE STORY OF NALA AND DAMAYANTI

The romantic story of Nala and Damayanti was told to comfort the eldest Pandav for losing all he had while dicing. It seems that once, while hunting, Nala released a golden bird, because it promised to win for him the affections of Princess Damayanti. Pleased with this prospect, Nala let the bird go, and watched it fly in the direction of Damayanti's palace. There the bird, caught by the princess, praised Nala so eloquently that Damayanti fell in love with him, and, in order to meet him, announced she was about to hold a Bride's Choice. On his way to this tournament, Nala met four gods, all anxious to marry the beautiful princess, and they, after obtaining his promise to execute their wishes, bade him steal unseen into the palace and bid the princess choose one of them as a spouse.

The broken-hearted Nala, forced to sue for the gods, made known their request to Damayanti, who declared she didn't intend to marry any one but himself, as she meant to announce publicly at the Bride's Choice on the morrow.

"Yet I see a way of refuge—'tis a blameless way, O king; Whence no sin to thee, O rajah,—may by any chance arise. Thou, O noblest of all mortals—and the gods by Indra led, Come and enter in together—where the Swayembara meets; Then will I, before the presence—of the guardians of the world, Name thee, lord of men! my husband—nor to thee may blame accrue."

She was, however, sorely embarrassed on arriving there, to find five Nalas before her, for each of the gods had assumed the form of the young prince after the latter had reported what Damayanti had said. Unable to distinguish between the gods and her lover, Damayanti prayed so fervently that she was able to discern that four of her suitors gazed at her with unwinking eyes, exuded no perspiration, and cast no shadow, while the fifth betrayed all these infallible signs of mortality. She, therefore, selected the real Nala, upon whom the four gods bestowed invaluable gifts, including absolute control over fire and water.

The young couple were perfectly happy for some time, although a wicked demon (Kali)—who had arrived too late at the Bride's Choice—was determined to trouble their bliss. He therefore watched husband and wife in hopes of finding an opportunity to injure them, but it was only in the twelfth year of their marriage that Nala omitted the wonted ablutions before saying his prayers. This enabled the demon to enter his heart and inspire him with such a passion for gambling that he soon lost all he possessed.

His wife, seeing her remonstrances vain, finally ordered a charioteer to convey her children to her father's, and they had barely gone when Nala came out of the gambling hall, having nothing left but a garment apiece for himself and his wife. So the faithful Damayanti followed him out of the city into the forest, the winner having proclaimed that no help should be given to the exiled king or queen. Almost starving, Nala, hoping to catch some birds which alighted near him, flung over them as a net his only garment. These birds, having been sent by the demon to rob him of his last possession, flew away with the cloth, calling out to him that they were winged dice sent by Kali.

Over them his single garment—spreading light, he wrapped them round: Up that single garment bearing—to the air they sprang away; And the birds above him hovering—thus in human accents spake, Naked as they saw him standing—on the earth, and sad, and lone: "Lo, we are the dice, to spoil thee—thus descended, foolish king! While thou hadst a single garment—all our joy was incomplete."

Husband and wife now wander on, until one night Nala, arising softly, cut his wife's sole garment in two, and, wrapping himself in part of it, forsook her during her sleep, persuading himself that if left alone she would return to her father and enjoy comfort. The poem gives a touching description of the husband's grief at parting with his sleeping wife, of her frenzy on awakening, and of her pathetic appeals for her husband to return.

Then we follow Damayanti in her wanderings through the forest in quest of the missing Nala, and see how she joins a company of hermits, who predict that her sorrows will not last forever before they vanish, for they are spirits sent to comfort her. Next she joins a merchant caravan, which, while camping, is surprised by wild elephants, which trample the people to death and cause a panic. The merchants fancy this calamity has visited them because they showed compassion to Damayanti, whom they now deem a demon and wish to tear to pieces. She, however, has fled at the approach of the wild elephants, and again wanders alone through the forest, until she finally comes to a town, where, seeing her wan and distracted appearance, the people follow her hooting.

The queen-mother, looking over the battlements of her palace and seeing this poor waif, takes compassion upon her, and, after giving her refreshments, questions her in regard to her origin. Damayanti simply vouchsafes the information that her husband has lost all through dicing, and volunteers to serve the rani, provided she is never expected to eat the food left by others or to wait upon men.

Before she had been there very long, however, her father sends Brahmans in every direction to try and find his missing daughter and son-in-law, and some of these suspect the rani's maid is the lady they are seeking. When they inform the rani of this fact, she declares, if Damayanti is her niece, she can easily be recognized, as she was born with a peculiar mole between her eyebrows. She, therefore, bids her handmaid wash off the ashes which defile her in token of grief, and thus discovers the birth-mole proving her identity.

Damayanti now returns to her father and to her children, but doesn't cease to mourn the absence of her spouse. She, too, sends Brahmans in all directions, singing "Where is the one who, after stealing half of his wife's garment, abandoned her in the jungle?" Meantime Nala has saved from the fire a serpent, which by biting him has transformed him into a dwarf, bidding him at the same time enter the service of a neighboring rajah as charioteer, and promising that after a certain time the serpent poison will drive the demon Kali out of his system. Obeying these injunctions, Nala becomes the charioteer of a neighboring rajah, and while with him hears a Brahman sing the song which Damayanti taught him. He answers it by another, excusing the husband for having forsaken his wife, and, when the Brahman reports this to Damayanti, she rightly concludes her Nala is at this rajah's court.

She, therefore, sends back the Brahman with a message to the effect that she is about to hold a second Bride's Choice, and the rajah, anxious to secure her hand, asks his charioteer whether he can convey him to the place in due time? Nala undertakes to drive his master five hundred miles in one day, and is so clever a charioteer that he actually performs the feat, even though he stops on the way to verify his master's knowledge of figures by counting the leaves and fruit on the branch of a tree. Finding the rajah has accurately guessed them at a glance, Nala begs him, in return for his services as charioteer, to teach him the science of numbers, so that when he dices again he can be sure to win.

On arriving at the court of Damayanti's father, Nala is summoned into the presence of his wife, who, although she does not recognize him in his new form, insists he must be her spouse, for no one else can drive as he does or has the power which he displays over fire and water. At this moment the sway of the demon ends, and Nala, restored to his wonted form, rapturously embraces his wife and children.

Even as thus the wind was speaking,—flowers fall showering all around: And the gods sweet music sounded—on the zephyr floating light.

Then, thanks to his new skill in dicing, Nala recovers all he has lost, and is able to spend the rest of his life in peace and happiness with the faithful Damayanti.



THE STORY OF SAVITRI AND SATYAVAN

Once upon a time a king, mourning because he was childless, spent many years fasting and praying in hopes that offspring would be granted him. One day the goddess of the sun rose out of his sacrificial fire to promise him a daughter, more beauteous than any maiden ever seen before. The king rejoiced, and, when this child was born, every one declared little Savitri the prettiest maiden ever seen. As she grew up she became more and more beautiful, until all the surrounding kings longed to marry her, but dared not propose. Seeing this, her father conferred upon her the right to select her own spouse, and the princess began to travel from court to court inspecting all the marriageable princes. One day, in the course of these wanderings, she paused beneath a banyan tree, where a blind old hermit had taken up his abode. He was just telling the princess that he dwelt there with his wife and son, when a young man appeared, bringing wood for the sacrifice. This youth was Satyavan, his son, who was duly astonished to behold a lovely princess.

On returning home, Savitri informed her father her choice was made, for she had decided to marry the hermit's son! This news appalled the king, because the prime minister assured him Satyavan—although son of a banished king—was doomed to die at the end of the year.

Knowing the unenviable lot of a Hindu widow, the king implored Savitri to choose another mate, but the girl refused, insisting she would rather live one year with Satyavan than spend a long life with any one else!

But Savitri replied: "Once falls a heritage; once a maid yields Her maidenhood; once doth a father say, 'Choose, I abide thy choice.' These three things done, Are done forever. Be my prince to live A year, or many years; be he so great As Narada hath said, or less than this; Once have I chosen him, and choose not twice: My heart resolved, my mouth hath spoken it, My hand shall execute;—this is my mind!" —Edwin Arnold.

So the marriage took place, and, because the hermit and his son had vowed to remain in the jungle until reinstated in their realm, the princess dwelt in their humble hut, laying aside her princely garments and wearing the rough clothes hermits affect.

In spite of poverty, this little family dwelt happily beneath the huge banyan tree, the princess rigidly keeping the secret that her husband had but a year to live. Time passed all too swiftly, however, and as the year drew toward an end the little wife grew strangely pale and still, fasted constantly, and spent most of her time praying that the doom of death might be averted. When the fatal day drew near, she was so weak and faint she could hardly stand; but, when Satyavan announced he was going out into the forest to cut wood, she begged to accompany him, although he objected the way was far too rough and hard for her tender feet. By dint of coaxing, however, Savitri obtained his consent; so hand in hand she passed with her husband through the tropical woods.

While Satyavan was felling a tree, he suddenly reeled and fell at her feet, fainting. In a moment Savitri was bending over him, holding his head in her lap and eagerly trying to recall life in his veins. While doing so, she suddenly became aware of Yama, God of Death, with blood-red clothes, cruel eyes, and the long black noose, with which he snares the soul and draws it out of the body. In spite of Savitri's pleading, he now drew out Satyavan's soul and started off with his prize, leaving the youthful body pale and cold on the ground.

With that the gloomy god fitted his noose, And forced forth from the prince the soul of him— Subtile, a thumb in length—which being reft, Breath stayed, blood stopped, the body's grace was gone, And all life's warmth to stony coldness turned. Then, binding it, the Silent Presence bore Satyavan's soul away toward the South. —Edwin Arnold.

But the little wife, instead of staying with the corpse, followed Yama, imploring him not to bear off her husband's soul! Turning around, Yama sternly bade her go back, as no human mortal could tread the road he was following, and reminding her that it was her duty to perform her husband's funeral rites. She, however, insisting that wherever Satyavan's soul went she would go too, painfully followed the king of death, until in pity he promised to grant her anything she wished, save her husband's soul. Thereupon Savitri begged that her blind father-in-law might recover sight and kingdom, boons which Yama immediately granted, telling Savitri to go and inform her father-in-law so, for the way he had to tread was long and dark.

Weak and weary as she was, Savitri nevertheless persisted in following Yama, until he again turned, declaring he would grant any boon, save her husband's life, to comfort her. The little wife now begged her father might have princely sons, knowing he had long desired an heir. This favor, too, was granted, before Yama bade her go back to light and life; but Savitri still insisted that was impossible, and that as long as she lived she must follow her beloved!

Darkness now settled down on the forest, and although the road was rough and thorny Savitri stumbled on and on, following the sound of Yama's footsteps although she could no longer see him. Finally he turned into a gloomy cavern, but she plodded on, until she so excited his compassion that he promised her one more boon, again stipulating it should not be the soul he held in his hand. When Savitri begged for children,—sons of Satyavan,—Yama smiled and granted her prayer, thinking he would now surely be rid of her at last. But Savitri followed him on into the depths of the cavern, although owls and bats made the place hideous with their cries. Hearing her footsteps still behind him, Yama tried to frighten her away, but she, grasping the hand which held her husband's soul, laid her tear-wet cheek against it, thereby so touching the god's heart that he exclaimed, "Ask anything thou wilt and it shall be thine."

Noticing this time that he made no reservation, Savitri joyfully exclaimed she wished neither wealth nor power, but only her beloved spouse! Conquered by such devotion, Death relinquished into her keeping Satyavan's soul, and promised they should live happy together and have many sons.

After securing this inestimable boon, Savitri hastened out of the cave and back into the woods, where she found the lifeless corpse of her husband just where she had left it, and proceeded to woo it back to life. Before long warmth and consciousness returned to Satyavan, who went home with Savitri, with whom he lived happy ever after, for all the boons Yama had promised were duly granted.

"Adieu, great God!" She took the soul, No bigger than the human thumb, And running swift, soon reached her goal, Where lay the body stark and dumb. She lifted it with eager hands And as before, when he expired, She placed the head upon the bands That bound her breast, which hope new fired, And which alternate rose and fell; Then placed his soul upon his heart, Whence like a bee it found its cell, And lo, he woke with sudden start! His breath came low at first, then deep, With an unquiet look he gazed, As one awakening from a sleep, Wholly bewildered and amazed.

—Miss Toru Dutt.



CHINESE AND JAPANESE POETRY

WHITE ASTER

Epics as they are understood in Europe do not exist in either China or Japan, although orientals claim that name for poems which we would term idyls.

A romantic tale, which passes as an epic in both countries, was written in Chinese verse by Professor Inouye, and has been rendered in classical Japanese by Naobumi Ochiai. It is entitled "The Lay of the Pious Maiden Shirakiku," which is The White Aster.

The first canto opens with an exquisite description of an autumn sunset and of the leaves falling from the trees at the foot of Mount Aso. Then we hear a temple bell ringing in a distant grove, and see a timid maiden steal out weeping from a hut in the extremity of the village to gaze anxiously in the direction of the volcano, for her father left her three days before to go hunting and has not returned. Poor little White Aster fears some harm may have befallen her sire, and, although she creeps back into the hut and kindles a fire to make tea, her heads turns at every sound in the hope that her father has come back at last. Stealing out once more only to see wild geese fly past and the rain-clouds drift across the heavens, White Aster shudders and feels impelled to start in quest of the missing man. She, therefore, dons a straw cloak and red bamboo hat, and, although night will soon fall, steals down the village street, across the marsh, and begins to climb the mountain.

Here the steep path winds with a swift ascent Toward the summit:—the long grass that grew In tufts upon the slopes, shrivelled and dry, Lay dead upon her path;—hushed was the voice Of the blithe chafers.—Only sable night Yawned threatening from the vale.

While she is searching, the rain ceases and the clouds part, but no trace of her missing father does she find. Light has gone and darkness has already invaded the solitude, when White Aster descries a faint red gleam through the trees and hears the droning voice of a priest chanting his prayers. Going in the direction of light and sound, White Aster soon approaches a ruined temple, standing in the midst of a grove of cypress and camphor trees, amid bleached bones and mouldering graves overhung by weeping-willows.

Her light footfall on the broken steps, falling upon the ear of the recluse, makes him fancy some demon is coming to tempt him, so seizing a light he thrusts it out of the door, tremblingly bidding the "fox ghost" begone. In the East foxes being spirits of evil and having the power to assume any form they wish, the priest naturally takes what seems a little maiden for a demon. But, when he catches a glimpse of White Aster's lovely innocent face and hears her touching explanation, he utterly changes his opinion, muttering that she must belong to some noble family, since her eyebrows are like twin "half-moons."

"'Tis clear she comes of noble family: Her eyebrows are as twin half-moons: her hair Lies on her snowy temples, like a cloud: In charm of form she ranks with Sishih's self, That pearl of loveliness, the Chinese Helen."

Taking his visitor gently by the hand, he leads her into the sanctuary, where he seats her at Buddha's feet, before inquiring who she is and what she is doing at night in the wilderness. White Aster timidly explains that, although born in one of the southern islands and cradled in a rich home, the pleasant tenor of her life was suddenly interrupted by the outbreak of war. Her home sacked and destroyed, she and her mother barely escaped with their lives. Taking refuge near a ruined temple, they erected a booth to shelter them, where the girl who had always been lapped in luxury had to perform all kinds of menial tasks. But even under such circumstances her life proved pleasant compared to what she suffered when news came that her father had rebelled against the king, and that he and his adherents had been crushed in the war. No poppy-draught could enable the two poor women to forget such terrible tidings, and it is no wonder the poor mother pined away.

As the stream Flows to the sea and nevermore returns, So ebbed and ebbed her life. I cannot tell What in those days I suffered. Nature's self Seemed to be mourning with me, for the breeze Of Autumn breathed its last, and as it died The vesper-bell from yonder village pealed A requiem o'er my mother. Thus she died, But dead yet lives—for, ever, face and form, She stands before my eyes; and in my ears I ever seem to hear her loving voice, Speaking as in the days when, strict and kind, She taught me household lore,—in all a mother.

Having carefully tended her mother to the end, poor little White Aster lived alone, until one day her father suddenly appeared, having found at last a way to escape and rejoin them. He was, however, broken-hearted on learning of his wife's death, and, hoping to comfort him, White Aster paid him all manner of filial attentions. She could not, however, restore happiness or peace to the bereaved man, who, besides mourning his wife, keenly regretted the absence of his son Akitoshi, whom he had driven from home in anger when the youth proved wild and overbearing.

During this artless narrative the recluse had exhibited signs of deep emotion, and, when White Aster mentioned the name of her brother, he clasped his hands over his face as if to conceal its expression. After listening to her tale in silence, he kindly bade White Aster tarry there until sunrise, assuring her it would not be safe for her to wander in the mountain by night. Little White Aster, therefore slept at Buddha's feet, shivering with cold, for her garments were far too thin to protect her from the keen mountain air. As she slept she dreamt of her father, whose wraith appeared to her, explaining that a false step had hurled him down into a ravine, whence he has vainly been trying to escape for three days past!

The second canto opens with a description of a beautiful red dawn, and of the gradual awakening of the birds, whose songs finally rouse the little maiden, who again sets off on her quest.

Now the red dawn had tipped the mountain-tops, And birds, awaking, peered from out their nests, To greet the day with strains of matin joy; The while, the moon's pale sickle, silver white, Fading away, sunk in the western sky. Clear was the air and cloudless, save the mists That rolled in waves upon the mountain-tops. Or crept along the gullies.

Skirting the trunks of mighty trees, stealing beneath whispering pines, White Aster threads different parts of the solitude, where she encounters deer and other timid game, seeking some trace of her father. She is so intent on this quest that she does not mark two dark forms which gradually creep nearer to her. These are robbers, who finally pounce upon White Aster and drag her into their rocky den, little heeding her tears or prayers; and, although the maiden cries for help, echo alone reiterates her desperate calls.

The brigands' lair is beneath an overhanging cliff, where they have erected a miserable booth, whose broken thatch has to be supplemented by the dense foliage of the ginkgo tree overshadowing it. In front of this hut runs a brawling stream, while the rocks all around are hung with heavy curtains of ivy, which add to the gloom and dampness of the place.

Here the sun Ne'er visits with his parting rays at eve, But all is gloom and silence save the cry Of some belated bird that wakes the night.

Having brought their prisoner safely into this den, the robbers proceed to eat and drink, dispensing with chopsticks, so wolfish is their hunger. Meantime they roughly jeer at their captive, who sits helpless before them, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Having satisfied their first imperious craving for food and drink, the brigands proceed to taunt their prisoner, until the captain, producing a koto or harp, bids her with savage threats make music, as they like to be merry.

"Sit you down, And let us hear your skill; for I do swear That, if you hesitate, then with this sword I'll cut you into bits and give your flesh To yonder noisy crows. Mark well my words."

So proficient is our little maiden on this instrument, that her slender fingers draw from the cords such wonderful sounds that all living creatures are spellbound. Even the robbers remain quiet while it lasts, and are so entranced that they fail to hear the steps of a stranger, stealing near the hut armed with sword and spear. Seeing White Aster in the brigands' power, this stranger bursts open the door and pounces upon the robbers, several of whom he slays after a desperate conflict. One of their number, however, manages to escape, and it is only when the fight is over that White Aster—who has covered her face with her hands—discovers that her rescuer is the kind-hearted recluse. He now informs her that, deeming it unsafe for her to thread the wilderness alone, he had soon followed her, intending to tell her he is her long-lost brother! Then he explains how, after being banished from home, he entered the service of a learned man, with whom he began to study, and that, perceiving at last the wickedness of his ways, he made up his mind to reform. But, although he immediately hastened home to beg his parents' forgiveness, he arrived there only to find his native town in ruins. Unable to secure any information in regard to his kin, he then became a recluse, and it was only because shame and emotion prevented his speaking that he had not immediately told White Aster who he was.

Much then my spirit fought against itself, Wishing to tell my name and welcome you, My long-lost sister: but false shame forbade And kept my mouth tight closed.

His tale ended, the recluse and his small sister leave the robbers' den, and steal hand in hand through the dusk, the forest's silence being broken only by the shrill cries of bands of monkeys. They are just about to emerge from this dark ravine, when the robber who managed to escape suddenly pounces upon the priest, determined to slay him so as to avenge his dead comrades. Another terrible fight ensues, which so frightens poor little White Aster that she runs off, losing her way in the darkness, and is not able to return to her brother's side in spite of all her efforts.

The third canto tells how, after wandering around all night, White Aster finally emerges at dawn on the top of a cliff, at whose base nestles a tiny village, with one of the wonted shrines. Making her way down to this place, White Aster kneels in prayer, but her attitude is so weary that an old peasant, passing by, takes pity upon her and invites her to join his daughter in their little cottage. White Aster thus becomes an inmate of this rustic home, where she spends the next few years, her beauty increasing every day, until her fame spreads all over the land. Hearing of her unparalleled loveliness, the governor finally decides to marry her, although she is far beneath him in rank, and sends a matrimonial agent to bargain for her hand. The old rustic, awed by the prospect of so brilliant an alliance, consents without consulting White Aster, and he and the agent pick out in the calendar a propitious day for the wedding.

When the agent has departed, the old man informs his guest how he has promised her hand in marriage, adding that she has no choice and must consent. But White Aster exclaims that her mother, on her way to the temple one day, heard a strange sound in the churchyard. There she discovered, amongst the flowers, a tiny abandoned girl, whom she adopted, giving her the name of the blossoms around her.

"Once," she said, "Ere morn had scarce begun to dawn, I went To worship at the temple: as I passed Through the churchyard 'twixt rows of gravestones hoar, And blooming white chrysanthemums, I heard The piteous wailing of a little child. Which following, I found, amidst the flowers, A fair young child with crimson-mouthing lips And fresh soft cheek—a veritable gem. I took it as a gift that Buddha sent As guerdon of my faith, and brought it up As my own child, to be my husband's joy And mine: and, as I found thee couched Amidst white-blooming asters, I named thee White Aster in memorial of the day."

The little maiden adds that her adopted mother made her promise never to marry any one save her so-called brother, and declares she is bound in honor to respect this maternal wish. The governor, anxious to secure this beautiful bride, meantime sends the agent hurrying back with a chest full of gifts, the acceptance of which will make the bargain binding. So the clever agent proceeds to exhibit tokens, which so dazzle the old peasant that he greedily accepts them all, while admiring neighbors gape at them in wonder.

Poor little White Aster, perceiving it will be impossible to resist the pressure brought to bear upon her, steals out of the peasant's house at midnight, and, making her way across damp fields to the river, climbs up on the high bridge, whence she intends to fling herself into the rushing waters. She pauses, however, to utter a final prayer, and, closing her eyes, is about to spring when a hand grasps her and a glad voice exclaims she is safe! Turning around, White Aster's wondering eyes rest upon the recluse, who ever since he escaped from the brigand's clutches has vainly been seeking her everywhere. He declares they shall never part again and tenderly leads her home, where she is overjoyed to find her father, who still mourns her absence.

Thankful for the return of his child, the father relates how, having fallen into a ravine,—where he found water and berries in plenty,—he vainly tried to scale the rocks, to escape from its depths and return home. All his efforts having proved vain, he was almost ready to give up in despair, when a band of monkeys appeared at the top of the cliff and by grimaces and sounds showed him how to climb out by means of the hanging vines. Trusting to these weak supports, the father scaled the rocks, but on arriving at the summit was surprised to discover no trace of the monkeys who had taught him how to escape. He remembered, however, that while hunting one day he had aimed at a mother monkey and her babe, but had not injured them because the poor mother had made such distressing sounds of despair. He adds it was probably in reward for this act of mercy that the monkeys saved his life.