The RÁMÁYAN of VÁLMÍKI - Part 2 - 74 books and stories free download online pdf in English

The RÁMÁYAN of VÁLMÍKI - Part 2 - 74

74
Canto LXXIV. 
Bharat's Lament.
When Bharat's anger-sharpened tongue

Reproaches on the queen had flung,

Again, with mighty rage possessed,

The guilty dame he thus addressed:

“Flee, cruel, wicked sinner, flee,

Let not this kingdom harbour thee.

Thou who hast thrown all right aside,

Weep thou for me when I have died.

Canst thou one charge against the king,

Or the most duteous Ráma bring?

The one thy sin to death has sent,

The other chased to banishment.

Our line's destroyer, sin defiled

Like one who kills an unborn child,

Ne'er with thy lord in heaven to dwell,

Thy portion shall be down in hell

Because thy hand, that stayed for naught,

This awful wickedness has wrought,

And ruined him whom all held dear,

My bosom too is stirred with fear.

My father by thy sin is dead,

And Ráma to the wood is fled;

And of thy deed I bear the stain,

And fameless in the world remain.

Ambitious, evil-souled, in show

My mother, yet my direst foe.

My throning ne'er thine eyes shall bless,

Thy husband's wicked murderess.

Thou art not Aśvapati's child,

That righteous king most sage and mild,

But thou wast born a fiend, a foe

My father's house to overthrow.

Thou who hast made Kauśalyá, pure,

Gentle, affectionate, endure

The loss of him who was her bliss,—

What worlds await thee, Queen, for this?

Was it not patent to thy sense

That Ráma was his friends' defence,

Kauśalyá's own true child most dear,

The eldest and his father's peer?

Men in the son not only trace

The father's figure, form, and face,

But in his heart they also find

The offspring of the father's mind;

And hence, though dear their kinsmen are,

To mothers sons are dearer far.

There goes an ancient legend how

Good Surabhí, the God-loved cow,

Saw two of her dear children strain,

Drawing a plough and faint with pain.

She saw them on the earth outworn,

Toiling till noon from early morn,

And as she viewed her children's woe,

A flood of tears began to flow.

As through the air beneath her swept

The Lord of Gods, the drops she wept,

Fine, laden with delicious smell,

Upon his heavenly body fell.

And Indra lifted up his eyes

And saw her standing in the skies,

Afflicted with her sorrow's weight,

Sad, weeping, all disconsolate.

The Lord of Gods in anxious mood

Thus spoke in suppliant attitude:

“No fear disturbs our rest, and how

Come this great dread upon thee now?

Whence can this woe upon thee fall,

Say, gentle one who lovest all?”

Thus spake the God who rules the skies,

Indra, the Lord supremely wise;

And gentle Surabhí, well learned

In eloquence, this speech returned:

“Not thine the fault, great God, not thine

And guiltless are the Lords divine:

I mourn two children faint with toil,

Labouring hard in stubborn soil.

Wasted and sad I see them now,

While the sun beats on neck and brow,

Still goaded by the cruel hind,—

No pity in his savage mind.

O Indra, from this body sprang

These children, worn with many a pang.

For this sad sight I mourn, for none

Is to the mother like her son.”

He saw her weep whose offspring feed

In thousands over hill and mead,

And knew that in a mother's eye

Naught with a son, for love, can vie.

He deemed her, when the tears that came

From her sad eyes bedewed his frame,

Laden with their celestial scent,

Of living things most excellent.

If she these tears of sorrow shed

Who many a thousand children bred,

Think what a life of woe is left

Kauśalyá, of her Ráma reft.

An only son was hers and she

Is rendered childless now by thee.

Here and hereafter, for thy crime,

Woe is thy lot through endless time.

And now, O Queen, without delay,

With all due honour will I pay

Both to my brother and my sire

The rites their several fates require.

Back to Ayodhyá will I bring

The long-armed chief, her lord and king,

And to the wood myself betake

Where hermit saints their dwelling make.

For, sinner both in deed and thought!

This hideous crime which thou hast wrought

I cannot bear, or live to see

The people's sad eyes bent on me.

Begone, to Daṇḍak wood retire,

Or cast thy body to the fire,

Or bind around thy neck the rope:

No other refuge mayst thou hope.

When Ráma, lord of valour true,

Has gained the earth, his right and due,

Then, free from duty's binding debt,

My vanished sin shall I forget.”

Thus like an elephant forced to brook

The goading of the driver's hook,

Quick panting like a serpent maimed,

He fell to earth with rage inflamed.