सर्ग ७

It chanced a slave-born handmaid, bred With Queen Kaikeyí, fancy-led, Mounted the stair and stood upon The terrace like the moon that shone. Thence Manthará at ease surveyed Ayodhyá to her eyes displayed, Where water cooled the royal street, Where heaps of flowers were fresh and sweet, And costly flags and pennons hung On roof and tower their shadow flung; With covered ways prepared in haste, And many an awning newly placed; With sandal-scented streams bedewed, Thronged by a new bathed multitude: Whose streets were full of Bráhman bands With wreaths and sweetmeats in their hands. Loud instruments their music raised, And through the town, where’er she gazed, The doors of temples glittered white, And the maid marvelled at the sight.

Of Ráma’s nurse who, standing by, Gazed with a joy-expanded eye, In robes of purest white attired, The wondering damsel thus inquired:

“Does Ráma’s mother give away Rich largess to the crowds to-day, On some dear object fondly bent, Or blest with measureless content? What mean these signs of rare delight On every side that meet my sight? Say, will the king with joy elate Some happy triumph celebrate?”

The nurse, with transport uncontrolled, Her glad tale to the hump-back told: “Our lord the king to-morrow morn Will consecrate his eldest-born, And raise, in Pushya’s favouring hour, Prince Ráma to the royal power.” As thus the nurse her tidings spoke, Rage in the hump-back’s breast awoke. Down from the terrace, like the head Of high Kailása’s hill, she sped. Sin in her thoughts, her soul aflame, Where Queen Kaikeyí slept, she came: “Why sleepest thou?” she cried, “arise, Peril is near, unclose thine eyes. Ah, heedless Queen, too blind to know What floods of sin above thee flow! Thy boasts of love and grace are o’er: Thine is the show and nothing more. His favour is an empty cheat, A torrent dried by summer’s heat.”

Thus by the artful maid addressed In cruel words from raging breast, The queen, sore troubled, spoke in turn; “What evil news have I to learn? That mournful eye, that altered cheek Of sudden woe or danger speak.”

Such were the words Kaikeyí said: Then Manthará, her eyeballs red With fury, skilled with treacherous art To grieve yet more her lady’s heart, From Ráma, in her wicked hate, Kaikeyí’s love to alienate, Upon her evil purpose bent Began again most eloquent: “Peril awaits thee swift and sure, And utter woe defying cure; King Daśaratha will create Prince Ráma Heir Associate. Plunged in the depths of wild despair, My soul a prey to pain and care, As though the flames consumed me, zeal Has brought me for my lady’s weal, Thy grief, my Queen, is grief to me: Thy gain my greatest gain would be. Proud daughter of a princely line, The rights of consort queen are thine. How art thou, born of royal race, Blind to the crimes that kings debase? Thy lord is gracious, to deceive, And flatters, but thy soul to grieve, While thy pure heart that thinks no sin Knows not the snares that hem thee in. Thy husband’s lips on thee bestow Soft soothing word, an empty show: The wealth, the substance, and the power This day will be Kauśalyá’s dower. With crafty soul thy child he sends To dwell among thy distant friends, And, every rival far from sight, To Ráma gives the power and might. Ah me! for thou, unhappy dame, Deluded by a husband’s name, With more than mother’s love hast pressed A serpent to thy heedless breast, And cherished him who works thee woe, No husband but a deadly foe. For like a snake, unconscious Queen, Or enemy who stabs unseen, King Daśaratha all untrue Has dealt with thee and Bharat too. Ah, simple lady, long beguiled By his soft words who falsely smiled! Poor victim of the guileless breast, A happier fate thou meritest. For thee and thine destruction waits When he Prince Ráma consecrates. Up, lady, while there yet is time; Preserve thyself, prevent the crime. Up, from thy careless ease, and free Thyself, O Queen, thy son, and me!”

Delighted at the words she said, Kaikeyí lifted from the bed, Like autumn’s moon, her radiant head, And joyous at the tidings gave A jewel to the hump-back slave; And as she gave the precious toy She cried in her exceeding joy: “Take this, dear maiden, for thy news Most grateful to mine ear, and choose What grace beside most fitly may The welcome messenger repay. I joy that Ráma gains the throne: Kauśalyá’s son is as mine own.”