The RÁMÁYAN of VÁLMÍKI - Part 2 - 64 books and stories free download online pdf in English

The RÁMÁYAN of VÁLMÍKI - Part 2 - 64

Canto LXIV. 
Dasaratha's Death.
The son of Raghu to his queen

Thus far described the unequalled scene,

And, as the hermit's death he rued,

The mournful story thus renewed:

“The deed my heedless hand had wrought

Perplexed me with remorseful thought,

And all alone I pondered still

How kindly deed might salve the ill.

The pitcher from the ground I took,

And filled it from that fairest brook,

Then, by the path the hermit showed,

I reached his sainted sire's abode.

I came, I saw: the aged pair,

Feeble and blind, were sitting there,

Like birds with clipped wings, side by side,

With none their helpless steps to guide.

Their idle hours the twain beguiled

With talk of their returning child,

And still the cheering hope enjoyed,

The hope, alas, by me destroyed.

Then spoke the sage, as drawing near

The sound of footsteps reached his ear:

“Dear son, the water quickly bring;

Why hast thou made this tarrying?

Thy mother thirsts, and thou hast played,

And bathing in the brook delayed.

She weeps because thou camest not;

Haste, O my son, within the cot.

If she or I have ever done

A thing to pain thee, dearest son,

Dismiss the memory from thy mind:

A hermit thou, be good and kind.

On thee our lives, our all, depend:

Thou art thy friendless parents' friend.

The eyeless couple's eye art thou:

Then why so cold and silent now?”

With sobbing voice and bosom wrung

I scarce could move my faltering tongue,

And with my spirit filled with dread

I looked upon the sage, and said,

While mind, and sense, and nerve I strung

To fortify my trembling tongue,

And let the aged hermit know

His son's sad fate, my fear and woe:

“High-minded Saint, not I thy child,

A warrior, Daśaratha styled.

I bear a grievous sorrow's weight

Born of a deed which good men hate.

My lord, I came to Sarjú's shore,

And in my hand my bow I bore

For elephant or beast of chase

That seeks by night his drinking place.

There from the stream a sound I heard

As if a jar the water stirred.

An elephant, I thought, was nigh:

I aimed, and let an arrow fly.

Swift to the place I made my way,

And there a wounded hermit lay

Gasping for breath: the deadly dart

Stood quivering in his youthful heart.

I hastened near with pain oppressed;

He faltered out his last behest.

And quickly, as he bade me do,

From his pierced side the shaft I drew.

I drew the arrow from the rent,

And up to heaven the hermit went,

Lamenting, as from earth he passed,

His aged parents to the last.

Thus, unaware, the deed was done:

My hand, unwitting, killed thy son.

For what remains, O, let me win

Thy pardon for my heedless sin.”

As the sad tale of sin I told

The hermit's grief was uncontrolled.

With flooded eyes, and sorrow-faint,

Thus spake the venerable saint:

I stood with hand to hand applied,

And listened as he spoke and sighed:

“If thou, O King, hadst left unsaid

By thine own tongue this tale of dread,

Thy head for hideous guilt accursed

Had in a thousand pieces burst.

A hermit's blood by warrior spilt,

In such a case, with purposed guilt,

Down from his high estate would bring

Even the thunder's mighty King.

And he a dart who conscious sends

Against the devotee who spends

His pure life by the law of Heaven—

That sinner's head will split in seven.

Thou livest, for thy heedless hand

Has wrought a deed thou hast not planned,

Else thou and all of Raghu's line

Had perished by this act of thine.

Now guide us,” thus the hermit said,

“Forth to the spot where he lies dead.

Guide us, this day, O Monarch, we

For the last time our son would see:

The hermit dress of skin he wore

Rent from his limbs distained with gore;

His senseless body lying slain,

His soul in Yama's dark domain.”

Alone the mourning pair I led,

Their souls with woe disquieted,

And let the dame and hermit lay

Their hands upon the breathless clay.

The father touched his son, and pressed

The body to his aged breast;

Then falling by the dead boy's side,

He lifted up his voice, and cried:

“Hast thou no word, my child, to say?

No greeting for thy sire to-day?

Why art thou angry, darling? why

Wilt thou upon the cold earth lie?

If thou, my son, art wroth with me,

Here, duteous child, thy mother see.

What! no embrace for me, my son?

No word of tender love—not one?

Whose gentle voice, so soft and clear,

Soothing my spirit, shall I hear

When evening comes, with accents sweet

Scripture or ancient lore repeat?

Who, having fed the sacred fire,

And duly bathed, as texts require,

Will cheer, when evening rites are done,

The father mourning for his son?

Who will the daily meal provide

For the poor wretch who lacks a guide,

Feeding the helpless with the best

Berries and roots, like some dear guest?

How can these hands subsistence find

For thy poor mother, old and blind?

The wretched votaress how sustain,

Who mourns her child in ceaseless pain?

Stay yet a while, my darling, stay,

Nor fly to Yama's realm to-day.

To-morrow I thy sire and she

Who bare thee, child, will go with, thee.337

Then when I look on Yama, I

To great Vivasvat's son will cry:

“Hear, King of justice, and restore

Our child to feed us, I implore.

Lord of the world, of mighty fame,

Faithful and just, admit my claim,

And grant this single boon to free

My soul from fear, to one like me.”

Because, my son, untouched by stain,

By sinful hands thou fallest slain,

Win, through thy truth, the sphere where those

Who die by hostile darts repose.

Seek the blest home prepared for all

The valiant who in battle fall,

Who face the foe and scorn to yield,

In glory dying on the field.

Rise to the heaven where Dhundhumár

And Nahush, mighty heroes, are,

Where Janamejay and the blest

Dilípa, Sagar, Saivya, rest:

Home of all virtuous spirits, earned

By fervent rites and Scripture learned:

By those whose sacred fires have glowed,

Whose liberal hands have fields bestowed:

By givers of a thousand cows,

By lovers of one faithful spouse:

By those who serve their masters well,

And cast away this earthly shell.

None of my race can ever know

The bitter pain of lasting woe.

But doomed to that dire fate is he

Whose guilty hand has slaughtered thee.”

Thus with wild tears the aged saint

Made many a time his piteous plaint,

Then with his wife began to shed

The funeral water for the dead.

But in a shape celestial clad,

Won by the merits of the lad,

The spirit from the body brake

And to the mourning parents spake:

“A glorious home in realms above

Rewards my care and filial love.

You, honoured parents, soon shall be

Partakers of that home with me.”

He spake, and swiftly mounting high,

With Indra near him, to the sky

On a bright car, with flame that glowed,

Sublime the duteous hermit rode.

The father, with his consort's aid,

The funeral rites with water paid,

And thus his speech to me renewed

Who stood in suppliant attitude:

“Slay me this day, O, slay me, King,

For death no longer has a sting.

Childless am I: thy dart has done

To death my dear, my only son.

Because the boy I loved so well

Slain by thy heedless arrow fell,

My curse upon thy soul shall press

With bitter woe and heaviness.

I mourn a slaughtered child, and thou

Shalt feel the pangs that kill me now.

Bereft and suffering e'en as I,

So shalt thou mourn thy son, and die.

Thy hand unwitting dealt the blow

That laid a holy hermit low,

And distant, therefore, is the time

When thou shalt suffer for the crime.

The hour shall come when, crushed by woes

Like these I feel, thy life shall close:

A debt to pay in after days

Like his the priestly fee who pays.”

This curse on me the hermit laid,

Nor yet his tears and groans were stayed.

Then on the pyre their bodies cast

The pair; and straight to heaven they passed.

As in sad thought I pondered long

Back to my memory came the wrong

Done in wild youth, O lady dear,

When 'twas my boast to shoot by ear.

The deed has borne the fruit, which now

Hangs ripe upon the bending bough:

Thus dainty meats the palate please,

And lure the weak to swift disease.

Now on my soul return with dread

The words that noble hermit said,

That I for a dear son should grieve,

And of the woe my life should leave.”

Thus spake the king with many a tear;

Then to his wife he cried in fear:

“I cannot see thee, love; but lay

Thy gentle hand in mine, I pray.

Ah me, if Ráma touched me thus,

If once, returning home to us,

He bade me wealth and lordship give,

Then, so I think, my soul would live.

Unlike myself, unjust and mean

Have been my ways with him, my Queen,

But like himself is all that he,

My noble son, has done to me.

His son, though far from right he stray,

What prudent sire would cast away?

What banished son would check his ire,

Nor speak reproaches of his sire?

I see thee not: these eyes grow blind,

And memory quits my troubled mind.

Angels of Death are round me: they

Summon my soul with speed away.

What woe more grievous can there be,

That, when from light and life I flee,

I may not, ere I part, behold

My virtuous Ráma, true and bold?

Grief for my son, the brave and true,

Whose joy it was my will to do,

Dries up my breath, as summer dries

The last drop in the pool that lies.

Not men, but blessed Gods, are they

Whose eyes shall see his face that day;

See him, when fourteen years are past,

With earrings decked return at last.

My fainting mind forgets to think:

Low and more low my spirits sink.

Each from its seat, my senses steal:

I cannot hear, or taste, or feel.

This lethargy of soul o'ercomes

Each organ, and its function numbs:

So when the oil begins to fail,

The torch's rays grow faint and pale.

This flood of woe caused by this hand

Destroys me helpless and unmanned,

Resistless as the floods that bore

A passage through the river shore.

Ah Raghu's son, ah mighty-armed,

By whom my cares were soothed and charmed,

My son in whom I took delight,

Now vanished from thy father's sight!

Kauśalyá, ah, I cannot see;

Sumitrá, gentle devotee!

Alas, Kaikeyí, cruel dame,

My bitter foe, thy father's shame!”

Kauśalyá and Sumitrá kept

Their watch beside him as he wept.

And Daśaratha moaned and sighed,

And grieving for his darling died.