सर्ग ४२

While yet the dust was seen afar That marked the course of Ráma’s car, The glory of Ikshváku’s race Turned not away his eager face. While yet his duteous son he saw He could not once his gaze withdraw, But rooted to the spot remained With eyes that after Ráma strained. But when that dust no more he viewed, Fainting he fell by grief subdued. To his right hand Kauśalyá went, And ready aid the lady lent, While Bharat’s loving mother tried To raise him on the other side. The king, within whose ordered soul Justice and virtue held control, To Queen Kaikeyí turned and said, With every sense disquieted: “Touch me not, thou whose soul can plot All sin. Kaikeyí, touch me not. No loving wife, no friend to me, I ne’er again would look on thee; Ne’er from this day have aught to do With thee and all thy retinue; Thee whom no virtuous thoughts restrain, Whose selfish heart seeks only gain. The hand I laid in mine, O dame, The steps we took around the flame,(317) And all that links thy life to mine Here and hereafter I resign. If Bharat too, thy darling son, Joy in the rule thy art has won, Ne’er may the funeral offerings paid By his false hand approach my shade.”

Then while the dust upon him hung, The monarch to Kauśalyá clung, And she with mournful steps and slow Turned to the palace, worn with woe. As one whose hand has touched the fire, Or slain a Bráhman in his ire, He felt his heart with sorrow torn Still thinking of his son forlorn. Each step was torture, as the road The traces of the chariot showed, And as the shadowed sun grows dim So care and anguish darkened him. He raised a cry, by woe distraught, As of his son again he thought. And judging that the car had sped Beyond the city, thus he said: “I still behold the foot-prints made By the good horses that conveyed My son afar: these marks I see, But high-souled Ráma, where is he? Ah me, my son! my first and best, On pleasant couches wont to rest, With limbs perfumed with sandal, fanned By many a beauty’s tender hand: Where will he lie with log or stone Beneath him for a pillow thrown, To leave at morn his earthy bed, Neglected, and with dust o’erspread, As from the flood with sigh and pant Comes forth the husband elephant? The men who make the woods their home Shall see the long-armed hero roam Roused from his bed, though lord of all, In semblance of a friendless thrall. Janak’s dear child who ne’er has met With aught save joy and comfort yet, Will reach to-day the forest, worn And wearied with the brakes of thorn. Ah, gentle girl, of woods unskilled, How will her heart with dread be filled At the wild beasts’ deep roaring there, Whose voices lift the shuddering hair! Kaikeyí, glory in thy gain, And, widow queen, begin to reign: No will, no power to live have I When my brave son no more is nigh.”

Thus pouring forth laments, the king Girt by the people’s crowded ring, Entered the noble bower like one New-bathed when funeral rites are done. Where’er he looked naught met his gaze But empty houses, courts, and ways. Closed were the temples: countless feet No longer trod the royal street, And thinking of his son he viewed Men weak and worn and woe-subdued. As sinks the sun into a cloud, So passed he on, and wept aloud, Within that house no more to be The dwelling of the banished three, Brave Ráma, his Vedehan bride, And Lakshmaṇ by his brother’s side: Like broad still waters, when the king Of all the birds that ply the wing Has swooped from heaven and borne away The glittering snakes that made them gay. With choking sobs and voice half spent The king renewed his sad lament: With broken utterance faint and low Scarce could he speak these words of woe: “My steps to Ráma’s mother guide, And place me by Kauśalyá’s side: There, only there my heart may know Some little respite from my woe.”

The warders of the palace led The monarch, when his words were said, To Queen Kauśalyá’s bower, and there Laid him with reverential care. But while he rested on the bed Still was his soul disquieted. In grief he tossed his arms on high Lamenting with a piteous cry: “O Ráma, Ráma,” thus said he, “My son, thou hast forsaken me. High bliss awaits those favoured men Left living in Ayodhyá then, Whose eyes shall see my son once more Returning when the time is o’er.” Then came the night, whose hated gloom Fell on him like the night of doom. At midnight Daśaratha cried To Queen Kauśalyá by his side: “I see thee not, Kauśalyá; lay Thy gentle hand in mine, I pray. When Ráma left his home my sight Went with him, nor returns to-night.”