No More Learning

On the
twenty-second day the cow is attacked by a lion, and when the king
hastens to draw an arrow, his arm is magically numbed, so that he
stands helpless. To increase his horror, the lion speaks with a human
voice, saying that he is a servant of the god Shiva, set on guard
there and eating as his appointed food any animals that may appear.
Dilipa perceives that a struggle with earthly weapons is useless, and
begs the lion to accept his own body as the price of the cow's
release. The lion tries sophistry, using the old, hollow arguments:

Great beauty and fresh youth are yours; on earth
As sole, unrivalled emperor you rule;
Should you redeem a thing of little worth
At such a price, you would appear a fool.

If pity moves you, think that one mere cow
Would be the gainer, should you choose to die;
Live rather for the world! Remember how
The father-king can bid all dangers fly.

And if the fiery sage's wrath, aglow
At loss of one sole cow, should make you shudder,
Appease his anger; for you can bestow
Cows by the million, each with pot-like udder.

Save life and youth; for to the dead are given
No long, unbroken years of joyous mirth;
But riches and imperial power are heaven--
The gods have nothing that you lack on earth.

The lion spoke and ceased; but echo rolled
Forth from the caves wherein the sound was pent,
As if the hills applauded manifold,
Repeating once again the argument.

Dilipa has no trouble in piercing this sophistical argument, and again
offers his own life, begging the lion to spare the body of his fame
rather than the body of his flesh. The lion consents, but when the
king resolutely presents himself to be eaten, the illusion vanishes,
and the holy cow grants the king his desire. The king returns to his
capital with the queen, who shortly becomes pregnant.


_Third canto. Raghu's consecration_. --The queen gives birth to a
glorious boy, whom the joyful father names Raghu. There follows a
description of the happy family, of which a few stanzas are given
here:

The king drank pleasure from him late and soon
With eyes that stared like windless lotus-flowers;
Unselfish joy expanded all his powers
As swells the sea responsive to the moon.

The rooted love that filled each parent's soul
For the other, deep as bird's love for the mate,
Was now divided with the boy; and straight
The remaining half proved greater than the whole.

He learned the reverence that befits a boy;
Following the nurse's words, began to talk;
And clinging to her finger, learned to walk:
These childish lessons stretched his father's joy,

Who clasped the baby to his breast, and thrilled
To feel the nectar-touch upon his skin,
Half closed his eyes, the father's bliss to win
Which, more for long delay, his being filled.

The baby hair must needs be clipped; yet he
Retained two dangling locks, his cheeks to fret;
And down the river of the alphabet
He swam, with other boys, to learning's sea.

Religion's rites, and what good learning suits
A prince, he had from teachers old and wise;
Not theirs the pain of barren enterprise,
For effort spent on good material, fruits.

This happy childhood is followed by a youth equally happy. Raghu is
married and made crown prince. He is entrusted with the care of the
horse of sacrifice,[1] and when Indra, king of the gods, steals the
horse, Raghu fights him. He cannot overcome the king of heaven, yet he
acquits himself so creditably that he wins Indra's friendship. In
consequence of this proof of his manhood, the empire is bestowed upon
Raghu by his father, who retires with his queen to the forest, to
spend his last days and prepare for death.


_Fourth canto. Raghu conquers the world_. --The canto opens with
several stanzas descriptive of the glory of youthful King Raghu.

He manifested royal worth
By even justice toward the earth,
Beloved as is the southern breeze,
Too cool to burn, too warm to freeze.

The people loved his father, yet
For greater virtues could forget;
The beauty of the blossoms fair
Is lost when mango-fruits are there.

But the vassal kings are restless

For when they knew the king was gone
And power was wielded by his son,
The wrath of subject kings awoke,
Which had been damped in sullen smoke.

Raghu therefore determines to make a warlike progress through all
India. He marches eastward with his army from his capital Ayodhya (the
name is preserved in the modern Oudh) to the Bay of Bengal, then south
along the eastern shore of India to Cape Comorin, then north along the
western shore until he comes to the region drained by the Indus,
finally east through the tremendous Himalaya range into Assam, and
thence home. The various nations whom he encounters, Hindus, Persians,
Greeks, and White Huns, all submit either with or without fighting. On
his safe return, Raghu offers a great sacrifice and gives away all his
wealth. [2]


_Fifth canto. Aja goes wooing_. --While King Raghu is penniless, a
young sage comes to him, desiring a huge sum of money to give to the
teacher with whom he has just finished his education. The king,
unwilling that any suppliant should go away unsatisfied, prepares to
assail the god of wealth in his Himalayan stronghold, and the god,
rather than risk the combat, sends a rain of gold into the king's
treasury. This gold King Raghu bestows upon the sage, who gratefully
uses his spiritual power to cause a son to be born to his benefactor.
In course of time, the son is born and the name Aja is given to him.
We are here introduced to Prince Aja, who is a kind of secondary hero
in the poem, inferior only to his mighty grandson, Rama. To Aja are
devoted the remainder of this fifth canto and the following three
cantos; and these Aja-cantos are among the loveliest in the epic. When
the prince has grown into young manhood, he journeys to a neighbouring
court to participate in the marriage reception of Princess
Indumati. [3]

One evening he camps by a river, from which a wild elephant issues and
attacks his party. When wounded by Aja, the elephant strangely changes
his form, becoming a demigod, gives the prince a magic weapon, and
departs to heaven. Aja proceeds without further adventure to the
country and the palace of Princess Indumati, where he is made welcome
and luxuriously lodged for the night. In the morning, he is awakened
by the song of the court poets outside his chamber. He rises and
betakes himself to the hall where the suitors are gathering.


_Sixth canto. The princess chooses_. --The princely suitors assemble in
the hall; then, to the sound of music, the princess enters in a
litter, robed as a bride, and creates a profound sensation.

For when they saw God's masterpiece, the maid
Who smote their eyes to other objects blind,
Their glances, wishes, hearts, in homage paid,
Flew forth to her; mere flesh remained behind.

The princes could not but betray their yearning
By sending messengers, their love to bring,
In many a quick, involuntary turning,
As flowering twigs of trees announce the spring.

Then a maid-servant conducts the princess from one suitor to another,
and explains the claim which each has upon her affection. First is
presented the King of Magadha, recommended in four stanzas, one of
which runs:

Though other kings by thousands numbered be,
He seems the one, sole governor of earth;
Stars, constellations, planets, fade and flee
When to the moon the night has given birth.

But the princess is not attracted.

The slender maiden glanced at him; she glanced
And uttered not a word, nor heeded how
The grass-twined blossoms of her garland danced
When she dismissed him with a formal bow.

They pass to the next candidate, the king of the Anga country, in
whose behalf this, and more, is said:

Learning and wealth by nature are at strife,
Yet dwell at peace in him; and for the two
You would be fit companion as his wife,
Like wealth enticing, and like learning true.

Him too the princess rejects, "not that he was unworthy of love, or
she lacking in discernment, but tastes differ. " She is then conducted
to the King of Avanti:

And if this youthful prince your fancy pleases,
Bewitching maiden, you and he may play
In those unmeasured gardens that the breezes
From Sipra's billows ruffle, cool with spray.

The inducement is insufficient, and a new candidate is presented, the
King of Anupa,

A prince whose fathers' glories cannot fade,
By whom the love of learned men is wooed,
Who proves that Fortune is no fickle jade
When he she chooses is not fickly good.

But alas!

She saw that he was brave to look upon,
Yet could not feel his love would make her gay;
Full moons of autumn nights, when clouds are gone,
Tempt not the lotus-flowers that bloom by day.

The King of Shurasena has no better fortune, in spite of his virtues
and his wealth. As a river hurrying to the sea passes by a mountain
that would detain her, so the princess passes him by. She is next
introduced to the king of the Kalinga country;

His palace overlooks the ocean dark
With windows gazing on the unresting deep,
Whose gentle thunders drown the drums that mark
The hours of night, and wake him from his sleep.

But the maiden can no more feel at home with him than the goddess of
fortune can with a good but unlucky man. She therefore turns her
attention to the king of the Pandya country in far southern India. But
she is unmoved by hearing of the magic charm of the south, and rejects
him too.

And every prince rejected while she sought
A husband, darkly frowned, as turrets, bright
One moment with the flame from torches caught,
Frown gloomily again and sink in night.

The princess then approaches Aja, who trembles lest she pass him by,
as she has passed by the other suitors. The maid who accompanies
Indumati sees that Aja awakens a deeper feeling, and she therefore
gives a longer account of his kingly line, ending with the
recommendation:

High lineage is his, fresh beauty, youth,
And virtue shaped in kingly breeding's mould;
Choose him, for he is worth your love; in truth,
A gem is ever fitly set in gold.

The princess looks lovingly at the handsome youth, but cannot speak
for modesty. She is made to understand her own feelings when the maid
invites her to pass on to the next candidate. Then the wreath is
placed round Aja's neck, the people of the city shout their approval,
and the disappointed suitors feel like night-blooming lotuses at
daybreak.


_Seventh canto. Aja's marriage_. --While the suitors retire to the
camps where they have left their retainers, Aja conducts Indumati into
the decorated and festive city. The windows are filled with the faces
of eager and excited women, who admire the beauty of the young prince
and the wisdom of the princess's choice. When the marriage ceremony
has been happily celebrated, the disappointed suitors say farewell
with pleasant faces and jealous hearts, like peaceful pools concealing
crocodiles. They lie in ambush on the road which he must take, and
when he passes with his young bride, they fall upon him. Aja provides
for the safety of Indumati, marshals his attendants, and greatly
distinguishes himself in the battle which follows. Finally he uses the
magic weapon, given him by the demigod, to benumb his adversaries, and
leaving them in this helpless condition, returns home. He and his
young bride are joyfully welcomed by King Raghu, who resigns the
kingdom in favour of Aja.


_Eighth canto. Aja's lament_. --As soon as King Aja is firmly
established on his throne, Raghu retires to a hermitage to prepare for
the death of his mortal part. After some years of religious meditation
he is released, attaining union with the eternal spirit which is
beyond all darkness. His obsequies are performed by his dutiful son.
Indumati gives birth to a splendid boy, who is named Dasharatha. One
day, as the queen is playing with her husband in the garden, a wreath
of magic flowers falls upon her from heaven, and she dies. The
stricken king clasps the body of his dead beloved, and laments over
her.

If flowers that hardly touch the body, slay it,
The simplest instruments of fate may bring
Destruction, and we have no power to stay it;
Then must we live in fear of everything?

No! Death was right. He spared the sterner anguish;
Through gentle flowers your gentle life was lost
As I have seen the lotus fade and languish
When smitten by the slow and silent frost.

Yet God is hard. With unforgiving rigour
He forged a bolt to crush this heart of mine;
He left the sturdy tree its living vigour,
But stripped away and slew the clinging vine.

Through all the years, dear, you would not reprove me,
Though I offended. Can you go away
Sudden, without a word? I know you love me,
And I have not offended you to-day.

You surely thought me faithless, to be banished
As light-of-love and gambler, from your life,
Because without a farewell word, you vanished
And never will return, sweet-smiling wife.

The warmth and blush that followed after kisses
Is still upon her face, to madden me;
For life is gone, 'tis only life she misses.
A curse upon such life's uncertainty!

I never wronged you with a thought unspoken,
Still less with actions. Whither are you flown?
Though king in name, I am a man heartbroken,
For power and love took root in you alone.

Your bee-black hair from which the flowers are peeping,
Dear, wavy hair that I have loved so well,
Stirs in the wind until I think you sleeping,
Soon to return and make my glad heart swell.

Awake, my love! Let only life be given,
And choking griefs that stifle now, will flee
As darkness from the mountain-cave is driven
By magic herbs that glitter brilliantly.

The silent face, round which the curls are keeping
Their scattered watch, is sad to look upon
As in the night some lonely lily, sleeping
When musically humming bees are gone.

The girdle that from girlhood has befriended
You, in love-secrets wise, discreet, and true,
No longer tinkles, now your dance is ended,
Faithful in life, in dying faithful too.

Your low, sweet voice to nightingales was given;
Your idly graceful movement to the swans;
Your grace to fluttering vines, dear wife in heaven;
Your trustful, wide-eyed glances to the fawns:

You left your charms on earth, that I, reminded
By them, might be consoled though you depart;
But vainly! Far from you, by sorrow blinded,
I find no prop of comfort for my heart.

Remember how you planned to make a wedding,
Giving the vine-bride to her mango-tree;
Before that happy day, dear, you are treading
The path with no return. It should not be.

And this ashoka-tree that you have tended
With eager longing for the blossoms red--
How can I twine the flowers that should have blended
With living curls, in garlands for the dead?

The tree remembers how the anklets, tinkling
On graceful feet, delighted other years;
Sad now he droops, your form with sorrow sprinkling,
And sheds his blossoms in a rain of tears.

Joy's sun is down, all love is fallen and perished,
The song of life is sung, the spring is dead,
Gone is the use of gems that once you cherished,
And empty, ever empty, is my bed.

You were my comrade gay, my home, my treasure,
You were my bosom's friend, in all things true,
My best-loved pupil in the arts of pleasure:
Stern death took all I had in taking you.

Still am I king, and rich in kingly fashion,
Yet lacking you, am poor the long years through;
I cannot now be won to any passion,
For all my passions centred, dear, in you.

Aja commits the body of his beloved queen to the flames. A holy hermit
comes to tell the king that his wife had been a nymph of heaven in a
former existence, and that she has now returned to her home. But Aja
cannot be comforted. He lives eight weary years for the sake of his
young son, then is reunited with his queen in Paradise.


_Ninth canto. The hunt_. --This canto introduces us to King Dasharatha,
father of the heroic Rama. It begins with an elaborate description of
his glory, justice, prowess, and piety; then tells of the three
princesses who became his wives: Kausalya, Kaikeyi, and Sumitra. In
the beautiful springtime he takes an extended hunting-trip in the
forest, during which an accident happens, big with fate.

He left his soldiers far behind one day
In the wood, and following where deer-tracks lay,
Came with his weary horse adrip with foam
To river-banks where hermits made their home.

And in the stream he heard the water fill
A jar; he heard it ripple clear and shrill,
And shot an arrow, thinking he had found
A trumpeting elephant, toward the gurgling sound.

Such actions are forbidden to a king,
Yet Dasharatha sinned and did this thing;
For even the wise and learned man is minded
To go astray, by selfish passion blinded.

He heard the startling cry, "My father! " rise
Among the reeds; rode up; before his eyes
He saw the jar, the wounded hermit boy:
Remorse transfixed his heart and killed his joy.

He left his horse, this monarch famous far,
Asked him who drooped upon the water-jar
His name, and from the stumbling accents knew
A hermit youth, of lowly birth but true.

The arrow still undrawn, the monarch bore
Him to his parents who, afflicted sore
With blindness, could not see their only son
Dying, and told them what his hand had done.

The murderer then obeyed their sad behest
And drew the fixed arrow from his breast;
The boy lay dead; the father cursed the king,
With tear-stained hands, to equal suffering.

"In sorrow for your son you too shall die,
An old, old man," he said, "as sad as I. "
Poor, trodden snake! He used his venomous sting,
Then heard the answer of the guilty king:

"Your curse is half a blessing if I see
The longed-for son who shall be born to me:
The scorching fire that sweeps the well-ploughed field,
May burn indeed, but stimulates the yield.

The deed is done; what kindly act can I
Perform who, pitiless, deserve to die? "
"Bring wood," he begged, "and build a funeral pyre,
That we may seek our son through death by fire. "

The king fulfilled their wish; and while they burned,
In mute, sin-stricken sorrow he returned,
Hiding death's seed within him, as the sea
Hides magic fire that burns eternally.

Thus is foreshadowed in the birth of Rama, his banishment, and the
death of his father.

Cantos ten to fifteen form the kernel of the epic, for they tell the
story of Rama, the mighty hero of Raghu's line. In these cantos
Kalidasa attempts to present anew, with all the literary devices of a
more sophisticated age, the famous old epic story sung in masterly
fashion by the author of the _Ramayana_. As the poet is treading
ground familiar to all who hear him, the action of these cantos is
very compressed.


_Tenth canto. The incarnation of Rama_. --While Dasharatha, desiring a
son, is childless, the gods, oppressed by a giant adversary, betake
themselves to Vishnu, seeking aid. They sing a hymn of praise, a part
of which is given here.

O thou who didst create this All,
Who dost preserve it, lest it fall,
Who wilt destroy it and its ways--
To thee, O triune Lord, be praise.

As into heaven's water run
The tastes of earth--yet it is one,
So thou art all the things that range
The universe, yet dost not change.

Far, far removed, yet ever near;
Untouched by passion, yet austere;
Sinless, yet pitiful of heart;
Ancient, yet free from age--Thou art.

Though uncreate, thou seekest birth;
Dreaming, thou watchest heaven and earth;
Passionless, smitest low thy foes;
Who knows thy nature, Lord? Who knows?

Though many different paths, O Lord,
May lead us to some great reward,
They gather and are merged in thee
Like floods of Ganges in the sea.

The saints who give thee every thought,
Whose every act for thee is wrought,
Yearn for thine everlasting peace,
For bliss with thee, that cannot cease.

Like pearls that grow in ocean's night,
Like sunbeams radiantly bright,
Thy strange and wonder-working ways
Defeat extravagance of praise.

If songs that to thy glory tend
Should weary grow or take an end,
Our impotence must bear the blame,
And not thine unexhausted name.

Vishnu is gratified by the praise of the gods, and asks their desire.
They inform him that they are distressed by Ravana, the giant king of
Lanka (Ceylon), whom they cannot conquer. Vishnu promises to aid them
by descending to earth in a new avatar, as son of Dasharatha. Shortly
afterwards, an angel appears before King Dasharatha, bringing in a
golden bowl a substance which contains the essence of Vishnu. The king
gives it to his three wives, who thereupon conceive and dream
wonderful dreams. Then Queen Kausalya gives birth to Rama; Queen
Kaikeyi to Bharata; Queen Sumitra to twins, Lakshmana and Shatrughna.
Heaven and earth rejoice. The four princes grow up in mutual
friendship, yet Rama and Lakshmana are peculiarly drawn to each other,
as are Bharata and Shatrughna. So beautiful and so modest are the four
boys that they seem like incarnations of the four things worth living
for--virtue, money, love, and salvation.


_Eleventh canto. The victory over Rama-with-the-axe_. --At the request
of the holy hermit Vishvamitra, the two youths Rama and Lakshmana
visit his hermitage, to protect it from evil spirits. The two lads
little suspect, on their maiden journey, how much of their lives will
be spent in wandering together in the forest. On the way they are
attacked by a giantess, whom Rama kills; the first of many giants who
are to fall at his hand. He is given magic weapons by the hermit, with
which he and his brother kill other giants, freeing the hermitage from
all annoyance. The two brothers then travel with the hermit to the
city of Mithila, attracted thither by hearing of its king, his
wonderful daughter, and his wonderful bow. The bow was given him by
the god Shiva; no man has been able to bend it; and the beautiful
princess's hand is the prize of any man who can perform the feat. On
the way thither, Rama brings to life Ahalya, a woman who in a former
age had been changed to stone for unfaithfulness to her austere
husband, and had been condemned to remain a stone until trodden by
Rama's foot. Without further adventure, they reach Mithila, where the
hermit presents Rama as a candidate for the bending of the bow.

The king beheld the boy, with beauty blest
And famous lineage; he sadly thought
How hard it was to bend the bow, distressed
Because his child must be so dearly bought.

He said: "O holy one, a mighty deed
That full-grown elephants with greatest pain
Could hardly be successful in, we need
Not ask of elephant-cubs. It would be vain.

For many splendid kings of valorous name,
Bearing the scars of many a hard-fought day,
Have tried and failed; then, covered with their shame,
Have shrugged their shoulders, cursed, and strode away. "

Yet when the bow is given to the youthful Rama, he not only bends, but
breaks it. He is immediately rewarded with the hand of the Princess
Sita, while Lakshmana marries her sister. On their journey home with
their young brides, dreadful portents appear, followed by their cause,
a strange being called Rama-with-the-axe, who is carefully to be
distinguished from Prince Rama. This Rama-with-the-axe is a Brahman
who has sworn to exterminate the entire warrior caste, and who
naturally attacks the valorous prince. He makes light of Rama's
achievement in breaking Shiva's bow, and challenges him to bend the
mightier bow which he carries. This the prince succeeds in doing, and
Rama-with-the-axe disappears, shamed and defeated. The marriage party
then continues its journey to Ayodhya.


_Twelfth canto. The killing of Ravana_. --King Dasharatha prepares to
anoint Rama crown prince, when Queen Kaikeyi interposes. On an earlier
occasion she had rendered the king a service and received his promise
that he would grant her two boons, whatever she desired. She now
demands her two boons: the banishment of Rama for fourteen years, and
the anointing of her own son Bharata as crown prince. Rama thereupon
sets out for the Dandaka forest in Southern India, accompanied by his
faithful wife Sita and his devoted brother Lakshmana. The stricken
father dies of grief, thus fulfilling the hermit's curse. Now Prince
Bharata proves himself more generous than his mother; he refuses the
kingdom, and is with great difficulty persuaded by Rama himself to act
as regent during the fourteen years.
Even so, he refuses to enter the
capital city, dwelling in a village outside the walls, and preserving
Rama's slippers as a symbol of the rightful king. Meanwhile Rama's
little party penetrates the wild forests of the south, fighting as
need arises with the giants there. Unfortunately, a giantess falls in
love with Rama, and

In Sita's very presence told
Her birth--love made her overbold:
For mighty passion, as a rule,
Will change a woman to a fool.

Scorned by Rama, laughed at by Sita, she becomes furious and
threatening.

Laugh on! Your laughter's fruit shall be
Commended to you. Gaze on me!
I am a tigress, you shall know,
Insulted by a feeble doe.

Lakshmana thereupon cuts off her nose and ears, rendering her
redundantly hideous. She departs, to return presently at the head of
an army of giants, whom Rama defeats single-handed, while his brother
guards Sita. The giantess then betakes herself to her brother, the
terrible ten-headed Ravana, king of Ceylon. He succeeds in capturing
Sita by a trick, and carries her off to his fortress in Ceylon. It is
plainly necessary for Rama to seek allies before attempting to cross
the straits and attack the stronghold. He therefore renders an
important service to the monkey king Sugriva, who gratefully leads an
army of monkeys to his assistance. The most valiant of these, Hanumat,
succeeds in entering Ravana's capital, where he finds Sita, gives her
a token from Rama, and receives a token for Rama. The army thereupon
sets out and comes to the seashore, where it is reinforced by the
giant Vibhishana, who has deserted his wicked brother Ravana. The
monkeys hurl great boulders into the strait, thus forming a bridge
over which they cross into Ceylon and besiege Ravana's capital. There
ensue many battles between the giants and the monkeys, culminating in
a tremendous duel between the champions, Rama and Ravana. In this duel
Ravana is finally slain. Rama recovers his wife, and the principal
personages of the army enter the flying chariot which had belonged to
Ravana, to return to Ayodhya; for the fourteen years of exile are now
over.


_Thirteenth canto. The return from the forest_. --This canto describes
the long journey through the air from Ceylon over the whole length of
India to Ayodhya. As the celestial car makes its journey, Rama points
out the objects of interest or of memory to Sita. Thus, as they fly
over the sea:

The form of ocean, infinitely changing,
Clasping the world and all its gorgeous state,
Unfathomed by the intellect's wide ranging,
Is awful like the form of God, and great.

He gives his billowy lips to many a river
That into his embrace with passion slips,
Lover of many wives, a generous giver
Of kisses, yet demanding eager lips.

Look back, my darling, with your fawn-like glances
Upon the path that from your prison leads;
See how the sight of land again entrances,
How fair the forest, as the sea recedes.

Then, as they pass over the spot where Rama searched for his stolen
wife:

There is the spot where, sorrowfully searching,
I found an anklet on the ground one day;
It could not tinkle, for it was not perching
On your dear foot, but sad and silent lay.

I learned where you were carried by the giant
From vines that showed themselves compassionate;
They could not utter words, yet with their pliant
Branches they pointed where you passed of late.

The deer were kind; for while the juicy grasses
Fell quite unheeded from each careless mouth,
They turned wide eyes that said, "'Tis there she passes
The hours as weary captive" toward the south.

There is the mountain where the peacocks' screaming,
And branches smitten fragrant by the rain,
And madder-flowers that woke at last from dreaming,
Made unendurable my lonely pain;

And mountain-caves where I could scarce dissemble
The woe I felt when thunder crashed anew,
For I remembered how you used to tremble
At thunder, seeking arms that longed for you.

Rama then points out the spots in Southern India where he and Sita had
dwelt in exile, and the pious hermitages which they had visited;
later, the holy spot where the Jumna River joins the Ganges; finally,
their distant home, unseen for fourteen years, and the well-known
river, from which spray-laden breezes come to them like cool,
welcoming hands. When they draw near, Prince Bharata comes forth to
welcome them, and the happy procession approaches the capital city.


_Fourteenth canto. Sita is put away_. --The exiles are welcomed by
Queen Kausalya and Queen Sumitra with a joy tinged with deep
melancholy. After the long-deferred anointing of Rama as king, comes
the triumphal entry into the ancestral capital, where Rama begins his
virtuous reign with his beloved queen most happily; for the very
hardships endured in the forest turn into pleasures when remembered in
the palace. To crown the king's joy, Sita becomes pregnant, and
expresses a wish to visit the forest again. At this point, where an
ordinary story would end, comes the great tragedy, the tremendous test
of Rama's character. The people begin to murmur about the queen,
believing that she could not have preserved her purity in the giant's
palace. Rama knows that she is innocent, but he also knows that he
cannot be a good king while the people feel as they do; and after a
pitiful struggle, he decides to put away his beloved wife. He bids his
brother Lakshmana take her to the forest, in accordance with her
request, but to leave her there at the hermitage of the sage Valmiki.
When this is done, and Sita hears the terrible future from Lakshmana,
she cries:

Take reverent greeting to the queens, my mothers,
And say to each with honour due her worth:
"My child is your son's child, and not another's;
Oh, pray for him, before he comes to birth. "

And tell the king from me: "You saw the matter,
How I was guiltless proved in fire divine;
Will you desert me for mere idle chatter?
Are such things done in Raghu's royal line?

Ah no! I cannot think you fickle-minded,
For you were always very kind to me;
Fate's thunderclap by which my eyes are blinded
Rewards my old, forgotten sins, I see.

Oh, I could curse my life and quickly end it,
For it is useless, lived from you apart,
But that I bear within, and must defend it,
Your life, your child and mine, beneath my heart.

When he is born, I'll scorn my queenly station,
Gaze on the sun, and live a hell on earth,
That I may know no pain of separation
From you, my husband, in another birth.

My king! Eternal duty bids you never
Forget a hermit who for sorrow faints;
Though I am exiled from your bed for ever,
I claim the care you owe to all the saints. "

So she accepts her fate with meek courage. But

When Rama's brother left her there to languish
And bore to them she loved her final word,
She loosed her throat in an excess of anguish
And screamed as madly as a frightened bird.

Trees shed their flowers, the peacock-dances ended,
The grasses dropped from mouths of feeding deer,
As if the universal forest blended
Its tears with hers, and shared her woeful fear.

While she laments thus piteously, she is discovered by the poet-sage
Valmiki, who consoles her with tender and beautiful words, and
conducts her to his hermitage, where she awaits the time of her
confinement. Meanwhile Rama leads a dreary life, finding duty but a
cold comforter. He makes a golden statue of his wife, and will not
look at other women.


_Fifteenth canto. Rama goes to heaven_. --The canto opens with a rather
long description of a fight between Rama's youngest brother and a
giant. On the journey to meet the giant, Shatrughna spends a night in
Valmiki's hermitage, and that very night Sita gives birth to twin
sons. Valmiki gives them the names Kusha and Lava, and when they grow
out of childhood he teaches them his own composition, the _Ramayana_,
"the sweet story of Rama," "the first path shown to poets. " At this
time the young son of a Brahman dies in the capital, and the father
laments at the king's gate, for he believes that the king is unworthy,
else heaven would not send death prematurely. Rama is roused to stamp
out evil-doing in the kingdom, whereupon the dead boy comes to life.
The king then feels that his task on earth is nearly done, and
prepares to celebrate the great horse-sacrifice. [4]

At this sacrifice appear the two youths Kusha and Lava, who sing the
epic of Rama's deeds in the presence of Rama himself. The father
perceives their likeness to himself, then learns that they are indeed
his children, whom he has never seen. Thereupon Sita is brought
forward by the poet-sage Valmiki and in the presence of her husband
and her detractors establishes her constant purity in a terrible
fashion.

"If I am faithful to my lord
In thought, in action, and in word,
I pray that Earth who bears us all
May bid me in her bosom fall. "

The faithful wife no sooner spoke
Than earth divided, and there broke
From deep within a flashing light
That flamed like lightning, blinding-bright.

And, seated on a splendid throne
Upheld by serpents' hoods alone,
The goddess Earth rose visibly,
And she was girded with the sea.

Sita was clasped in her embrace,
While still she gazed on Rama's face:
He cried aloud in wild despair;
She sank, and left him standing there.

Rama then establishes his brothers, sons, and nephews in different
cities of the kingdom, buries the three queens of his father, and
awaits death. He has not long to wait; Death comes, wearing a hermit's
garb, asks for a private interview, and threatens any who shall
disturb their conference. Lakshmana disturbs them, and so dies before
Rama. Then Rama is translated.

Cantos sixteen to nineteen form the third division of the epic, and
treat of Rama's descendants. The interest wanes, for the great hero is
gone.


_Sixteenth canto. Kumudvati's wedding_. --As Kusha lies awake one
night, a female figure appears in his chamber; and in answer to his
question, declares that she is the presiding goddess of the ancient
capital Ayodhya, which has been deserted since Rama's departure to
heaven. She pictures the sad state of the city thus:

I have no king; my towers and terraces
Crumble and fall; my walls are overthrown;
As when the ugly winds of evening seize
The rack of clouds in helpless darkness blown.

In streets where maidens gaily passed at night,
Where once was known the tinkle and the shine
Of anklets, jackals slink, and by the light
Of flashing fangs, seek carrion, snarl, and whine.

The water of the pools that used to splash
With drumlike music, under maidens' hands,
Groans now when bisons from the jungle lash
It with their clumsy horns, and roil its sands.

The peacock-pets are wild that once were tame;
They roost on trees, not perches; lose desire
For dancing to the drums; and feel no shame
For fans singed close by sparks of forest-fire.

On stairways where the women once were glad
To leave their pink and graceful footprints, here
Unwelcome, blood-stained paws of tigers pad,
Fresh-smeared from slaughter of the forest deer.

Wall-painted elephants in lotus-brooks,
Receiving each a lily from his mate,
Are torn and gashed, as if by cruel hooks,
By claws of lions, showing furious hate.

I see my pillared caryatides
Neglected, weathered, stained by passing time,
Wearing in place of garments that should please,
The skins of sloughing cobras, foul with slime.

The balconies grow black with long neglect,
And grass-blades sprout through floors no longer tight;
They still receive but cannot now reflect
The old, familiar moonbeams, pearly white.

The vines that blossomed in my garden bowers,
That used to show their graceful beauty, when
Girls gently bent their twigs and plucked their flowers,
Are broken by wild apes and wilder men.

The windows are not lit by lamps at night,
Nor by fair faces shining in the day,
But webs of spiders dim the delicate, light
Smoke-tracery with one mere daub of grey.

The river is deserted; on the shore
No gaily bathing men and maidens leave
Food for the swans; its reedy bowers no more
Are vocal: seeing this, I can but grieve.

The goddess therefore begs Kusha to return with his court to the old
capital, and when he assents, she smiles and vanishes. The next
morning Kusha announces the vision of the night, and immediately sets
out for Ayodhya with his whole army. Arrived there, King Kusha quickly
restores the city to its former splendour. Then when the hot summer
comes, the king goes down to the river to bathe with the ladies of the
court. While in the water he loses a great gem which his father had
given him. The divers are unable to find it, and declare their belief
that it has been stolen by the serpent Kumuda who lives in the river.
The king threatens to shoot an arrow into the river, whereupon the
waters divide, and the serpent appears with the gem. He is accompanied
by a beautiful maiden, whom he introduces as his sister Kumudvati, and
whom he offers in marriage to Kusha. The offer is accepted, and the
wedding celebrated with great pomp.


_Seventeenth canto. King Atithi_. --To the king and queen is born a
son, who is named Atithi. When he has grown into manhood, his father
Kusha engages in a struggle with a demon, in which the king is killed
in the act of killing his adversary. He goes to heaven, followed by
his faithful queen, and Atithi is anointed king. The remainder of the
canto describes King Atithi's glorious reign.


_Eighteenth canto. The later princes_. --This canto gives a brief,
impressionistic sketch of the twenty-one kings who in their order
succeeded Atithi.


_Nineteenth canto. The loves of Agnivarna_. --After the twenty-one
kings just mentioned, there succeeds a king named Agnivarna, who gives
himself to dissipation. He shuts himself up in the palace; even when
duty requires him to appear before his subjects, he does so merely by
hanging one foot out of a window. He trains dancing-girls himself, and
has so many mistresses that he cannot always call them by their right
names. It is not wonderful that this kind of life leads before long to
a consuming disease; and as Agnivarna is even then unable to resist
the pleasures of the senses, he dies. His queen is pregnant, and she
mounts the throne as regent in behalf of her unborn son. With this
strange scene, half tragic, half vulgar, the epic, in the form in
which it has come down to us, abruptly ends.

If we now endeavour to form some critical estimate of the poem, we are
met at the outset by this strangely unnatural termination. We cannot
avoid wondering whether the poem as we have it is complete. And we
shall find that there are good reasons for believing that Kalidasa did
not let the glorious solar line end in the person of the voluptuous
Agnivarna and his unborn child. In the first place, there is a
constant tradition which affirms that _The Dynasty of Raghu_
originally consisted of twenty-five cantos. A similar tradition
concerning Kalidasa's second epic has justified itself; for some time
only seven cantos were known; then more were discovered, and we now
have seventeen. Again, there is a rhetorical rule, almost never
disregarded, which requires a literary work to end with an epilogue in
the form of a little prayer for the welfare of readers or auditors.
Kalidasa himself complies with this rule, certainly in five of his
other six books. Once again, Kalidasa has nothing of the tragedian in
his soul; his works, without exception, end happily. In the drama
_Urvashi_ he seriously injures a splendid old tragic story for the
sake of a happy ending. These facts all point to the probability that
the conclusion of the epic has been lost. We may even assign a
natural, though conjectural, reason for this. _The Dynasty of Raghu_
has been used for centuries as a text-book in India, so that
manuscripts abound, and commentaries are very numerous. Now if the
concluding cantos were unfitted for use as a text-book, they might
very easily be lost during the centuries before the introduction of
printing-presses into India. Indeed, this very unfitness for use as a
school text seems to be the explanation of the temporary loss of
several cantos of Kalidasa's second epic.

On the other hand, we are met by the fact that numerous commentators,
living in different parts of India, know the text of only nineteen
cantos. Furthermore, it is unlikely that Kalidasa left the poem
incomplete at his death; for it was, without serious question, one of
his earlier works. Apart from evidences of style, there is the
subject-matter of the introductory stanzas, in which the poet presents
himself as an aspirant for literary fame. No writer of established
reputation would be likely to say:

The fool who seeks a poet's fame,
Must look for ridicule and blame,
Like tiptoe dwarf who fain would try
To pluck the fruit for giants high.

In only one other of his writings, in the drama which was undoubtedly
written earlier than the other two dramas, does the poet thus present
his feeling of diffidence to his auditors.

It is of course possible that Kalidasa wrote the first nineteen cantos
when a young man, intending to add more, then turned to other matters,
and never afterwards cared to take up the rather thankless task of
ending a youthful work.

The question does not admit of final solution. Yet whoever reads and
re-reads _The Dynasty of Raghu_, and the other works of its author,
finds the conviction growing ever stronger that our poem in nineteen
cantos is mutilated. We are thus enabled to clear the author of the
charge of a lame and impotent conclusion.

Another adverse criticism cannot so readily be disposed of; that of a
lack of unity in the plot. As the poem treats of a kingly dynasty, we
frequently meet the cry: The king is dead. Long live the king! The
story of Rama himself occupies only six cantos; he is not born until
the tenth canto, he is in heaven after the fifteenth. There are in
truth six heroes, each of whom has to die to make room for his
successor. One may go farther and say that it is not possible to give
a brief and accurate title to the poem. It is not a _Ramayana_, or
epic of Rama's deeds, for Rama is on the stage during only a third of
the poem. It is not properly an epic of Raghu's line, for many kings
of this line are unmentioned. Not merely kings who escape notice by
their obscurity, but also several who fill a large place in Indian
story, whose deeds and adventures are splendidly worthy of epic
treatment. _The Dynasty of Raghu_ is rather an epic poem in which Rama
is the central figure, giving it such unity as it possesses, but which
provides Rama with a most generous background in the shape of selected
episodes concerning his ancestors and his descendants.

Rama is the central figure. Take him away and the poem falls to pieces
like a pearl necklace with a broken string. Yet it may well be doubted
whether the cantos dealing with Rama are the most successful. They are
too compressed, too briefly allusive. Kalidasa attempts to tell the
story in about one-thirtieth of the space given to it by his great
predecessor Valmiki. The result is much loss by omission and much loss
by compression. Many of the best episodes of the _Ramayana_ are quite
omitted by Kalidasa: for example, the story of the jealous humpback
who eggs on Queen Kaikeyi to demand her two boons; the beautiful scene
in which Sita insists on following Rama into the forest; the account
of the somnolent giant Pot-ear, a character quite as good as
Polyphemus. Other fine episodes are so briefly alluded to as to lose
all their charm: for example, the story of the golden deer that
attracts the attention of Rama while Ravana is stealing his wife; the
journey of the monkey Hanumat to Ravana's fortress and his interview
with Sita.

The Rama-story, as told by Valmiki, is one of the great epic stories
of the world. It has been for two thousand years and more the story
_par excellence_ of the Hindus; and the Hindus may fairly claim to be
the best story-tellers of the world. There is therefore real matter
for regret in the fact that so great a poet as Kalidasa should have
treated it in a way not quite worthy of it and of himself. The reason
is not far to seek, nor can there be any reasonable doubt as to its
truth. Kalidasa did not care to put himself into direct competition
with Valmiki. The younger poet's admiration of his mighty predecessor
is clearly expressed. It is with especial reference to Valmiki that he
says in his introduction:

Yet I may enter through the door
That mightier poets pierced of yore;
A thread may pierce a jewel, but
Must follow where the diamond cut.

He introduces Valmiki into his own epic, making him compose the
_Ramayana_ in Rama's lifetime. Kalidasa speaks of Valmiki as "the
poet," and the great epic he calls "the sweet story of Rama," "the
first path shown to poets," which, when sung by the two boys, was
heard with motionless delight by the deer, and, when sung before a
gathering of learned men, made them heedless of the tears that rolled
down their cheeks.

Bearing these matters in mind, we can see the course of Kalidasa's
thoughts almost as clearly as if he had expressed them directly. He
was irresistibly driven to write the wonderful story of Rama, as any
poet would be who became familiar with it. At the same time, his
modesty prevented him from challenging the old epic directly. He
therefore writes a poem which shall appeal to the hallowed association
that cluster round the great name of Rama, but devotes two-thirds of
it to themes that permit him greater freedom. The result is a formless
plot.

This is a real weakness, yet not a fatal weakness. In general,
literary critics lay far too much emphasis on plot. Of the elements
that make a great book, two, style and presentation of character,
hardly permit critical analysis. The third, plot, does permit such
analysis. Therefore the analyst overrates its importance. It is fatal
to all claim of greatness in a narrative if it is shown to have a bad
style or to be without interesting characters. It is not fatal if it
is shown that the plot is rambling. In recent literature it is easy to
find truly great narratives in which the plot leaves much to be
desired. We may cite the _Pickwick Papers, Les Miserables, War and
Peace_.

We must then regard _The Dynasty of Raghu_ as a poem in which single
episodes take a stronger hold upon the reader than does the unfolding
of an ingenious plot. In some degree, this is true of all long poems.
The _AEneid_ itself, the most perfect long poem ever written, has dull
passages. And when this allowance is made, what wonderful passages we
have in Kalidasa's poem! One hardly knows which of them makes the
strongest appeal, so many are they and so varied. There is the
description of the small boy Raghu in the third canto, the choice of
the princess in the sixth, the lament of King Aja in the eighth, the
story of Dasharatha and the hermit youth in the ninth, the account of
the ruined city in the sixteenth. Besides these, the Rama cantos, ten
to fifteen, make an epic within an epic. And if Kalidasa is not seen
at his very best here, yet his second best is of a higher quality than
the best of others. Also, the Rama story is so moving that a mere
allusion to it stirs like a sentimental memory of childhood. It has
the usual qualities of a good epic story: abundance of travel and
fighting and adventure and magic interweaving of human with
superhuman, but it has more than this. In both hero and heroine there
is real development of character. Odysseus and AEneas do not grow; they
go through adventures. But King Rama, torn between love for his wife
and duty to his subjects, is almost a different person from the
handsome, light-hearted prince who won his bride by breaking Shiva's
bow. Sita, faithful to the husband who rejects her, has made a long,
character-forming journey since the day when she left her father's
palace, a youthful bride. Herein lies the unique beauty of the tale of
Rama, that it unites romantic love and moral conflict with a splendid
story of wild adventure. No wonder that the Hindus, connoisseurs of
story-telling, have loved the tale of Rama's deeds better than any
other story.

If we compare _The Dynasty of Raghu_ with Kalidasa's other books, we
find it inferior to _The Birth of the War-god_ in unity of plot,
inferior to _Shakuntala_ in sustained interest, inferior to _The
Cloud-Messenger_ in perfection of every detail. Yet passages in it are
as high and sweet as anything in these works. And over it is shed the
magic charm of Kalidasa's style.