-01_Speech of Dussaruth.htm

Labouring for the good of all mankind.

My people, Nature fails me! I have lived

Thousands of years and many lives of men

And all my worn heart wearies for repose.

Weary am I of bearing up this heavy

Burden austere of the great world, duties

Not sufferable by souls undisciplined:

O folk, to rest from greatness I desire.

Therefore with your august, assembled will,

O powers and O twice-born nations, I

Would share with Rama this great kingdom’s crown,

Rama, my warrior son, by kingly birth

And gifts inherited confessed my son,

Rama, a mighty nation’s joy. Less fair

Yoked with his favouring constellation bright

The regent moon shall be than Rama’s face

When morn upon his crowning smiles. O folk,

Say then shall Luxman’s brother be your lord,

Glory’s high favourite who empire breathes?

Yea, if the whole vast universe should own

My son for king, it would be kinged indeed

And regal: Lords, of such desirable

Fortune I would possess the mother of men;

Then would I be at peace, at last repose

Transferring to such shoulders Earth. Pronounce

If I have nobly planned, if counselled well;

Grant me your high permissive voices, People,

But if my narrower pleasure, private hope,

Of welfare general the smooth disguise

Have in your censure donned, then let the folk

Themselves advise their monarch or command.

For other is disinterested thought

And by the clash of minds dissimilar

Counsel increases.”

Then with a deep sound

As when a cloud with rain and thunder armed

Invades the skies, the jewelled peacocks loud

Clamour, assembled monarchs praised their king.

And like a moving echo came the voice

Of the great commons answering them, a thunder

And one exultant roar. Earth seemed to rock

Beneath the noise. Thus by their Emperor high

Admitted to his will great conclave was

Of clergy and of captains and of kings

And of the people of the provinces

And of the people metropolitan. All these

Deliberated and became one mind.

Resolved, they answered then their aged King.

Coshala by the Soroyou, a land

Smiling at heaven, of riches measureless

And corn abounding glad; in that great country

Ayodhya was, the city world-renowned,

Ayodhya by King Manou built, immense.

Twelve yojans long the mighty city lay

Grandiose and wide three yojans. Grandly-spaced

Ayodhya’s streets were and the long high-road

Ran through it spaciously with sweet cool flowers

Hourly new-paved and hourly watered wide.

Dussaruth in Ayodhya, as in heaven

Its natural lord, abode, those massive walls

Ruling, and a great people in his name

Felt greater, — door and wall and ponderous arch

And market-places huge. Of every craft

Engines mechanical and tools there thronged

And craftsmen of each guild and manner. High rang

With heralds and sonorous eulogists

The beautiful bright city imperial.

High were her bannered edifices reared,

With theatres and dancing-halls for joy

Of her bright daughters, and sweet-scented parks

Were round and gardens cool. High circling all

The city with disastrous engines stored

In hundreds, the great ramparts like a zone

Of iron spanned in her moated girth immense

Threatening with forts the ancient sky. Defiant

Ayodhya stood, armed, impregnable,

Inviolable in her virgin walls.

And in her streets was ever large turmoil,

Passing of elephants, the steed and ox,

Mules and rich-laden camels. And through them drove

The powerful barons of the land, great wardens

Of taxes, and from countries near and far

The splendid merchants came much marvelling

To see those orgulous high-builded homes

With jewels curiously fretted, topped

With summer-houses for the joy of girls,

Like some proud city in heaven. Without a gap

On either side as far as eye could reach

Mass upon serried mass the houses rose,

Seven-storied architectures metrical

Upon a level base and made sublime

Splendid Ayodhya octagonally built,

The mother of beautiful women and of gems

A world. Large granaries of rice unhusked

She had and husked rice for the fire, and sweet

Her water, like the cane’s delightful juice,

Cool down the throat. And a great voice throbbed of drums,

The tabour and the tambourine, while ever

The lyre with softer rumours intervened.

Nor only was she grandiosely built,

A city without earthly peer, — her sons

Were noble, warriors whose arrows scorned to pierce

The isolated man from friends cut off

Or guided by a sound to smite the alarmed

And crouching fugitive; but with sharp steel

Sought out the lion in his den or grappling

Unarmed they murdered with their mighty hands

The tiger roaring in his trackless woods

Or the mad tusked boar. Even such strong arms

Of heroes kept that city and in her midst

Regnant King Dussaruth the nations ruled

“Hadst thou been never born, Rama, my son,

Born for my grief, I had not felt such pain,

A childless woman. For the barren one

Grief of the heart companions, only one,

Complaining, I am barren’; this she mourns,

She has no cause for any deeper tears.

But I am inexperienced in delight

And never of my husband’s masculine love

Had pleasure, — still I lingered, still endured

Hoping to be acquainted yet with joy.

Therefore full many unlovely words that strove

To break the suffering heart had I to hear

From wives of my husband, I the Queen and highest,

From lesser women. Ah what greater pain

Than this can women have who mourn on earth,

Than this my grief and infinite lament?

O Rama, even at thy side so much

I have endured, and if thou goest hence,

Death is my certain prospect, death alone.

Cruelly neglected, grievously oppressed

I have lived slighted in my husband’s house

As though Kaicayie’s serving-woman, — nay,

A lesser thing than these. If any honours

If any follows me, even that man

Hushes when he beholds Kaicayie’s son.

How shall I in my misery endure

That bitter mouth intolerable, bear

Her ceaseless petulance. O I have lived

Seventeen years since thou wast born, my son,

O Rama, seventeen long years have lived,

Wearily wishing for an end to grief;

And now this mighty anguish without end!

I have no strength to bear for ever pain;

Nor this worn heart with suffering fatigued

To satisfy the scorn of rivals yields

More tears. Ah how shall I without thy face

Miserably exist, without thy face,

My moon of beauty, miserable days?

Me wretched, who with fasts and weary toils

And dedicated musings reared thee up,

Vainly. Alas, the river’s giant banks,

How great they are! and yet when violent rain

Has levelled their tops with water, they descend

In ruin, not like this heart which will not break.

But I perceive death was not made for me,

For me no room in those stupendous realms

Has been discovered; since not even today

As on a mourning hind the lion falls

Death seizes me or to his thicket bears

With his huge leap, — death, ender of all pain.

How livest thou, O hard, O iron heart,

Unbroken? O body, tortured by such grief,

How sinkst thou not all shattered to the earth?

Therefore I know death comes not called — he waits

Inexorably his time. But this I mourn,

My useless vows, gifts, offerings, self-control,

And dire ascetic strenuousness perfected

In passion for a son, — yet all like seed

Fruitless and given to ungrateful soil.

But if death came before his season, if one

By anguish of unbearable heavy grief

Naturally might win him, then today

Would I have hurried to his distant worlds

Of thee deprived, O Rama, O my son.

Why should I vainly live without thine eyes,

Thou moonlight of my soul? No, let me toil

After thee to the savage woods where thou

Must harbour; I will trail these feeble limbs

Behind thy steps as the sick yearning dam

That follows still her ravished young.” Thus she

Yearning upon her own beloved son; —

As over her offspring chained a Centauress

Impatient of her anguish deep, so wailed

Cowshalya; for her heart with grief was loud.

But Sita all the while, unhappy child,

Worshipped propitious gods. Her mind in dreams

August and splendid coronations dwelt

And knew not of that woe. Royal she worshipped,

A princess in her mind and mood, and sat

With expectation thrilled. To whom there came

Rama, downcast and sad, his forehead moist

From inner anguish. Dark with thought and shaken

He entered his august and jubilant halls.

She started from her seat, transfixed, and trembled,

For all the beauty of his face was marred,

Who when he saw his young beloved wife

Endured no longer; all his inner passion

Of tortured pride was opened in his face.

And Sita, shaken, cried aloud, “What grief

Comes in these eyes? Was not today thine hour

When Jupiter, the imperial planet, joins

With Pushya, that high constellation? Why

Art thou then pale, disturbed? Where is thy pomp,

Thy crowning where? No foam-white softness silk

With hundred-shafted canopy o’erhues

Thy kingly head, no fans o’erwave thy face

Like birds that beat their bright wings near a flower;

Minstrel nor orator attends thy steps

To hymn thy greatness, nor are heralds heard

Voicing high stanzas. Who has then forbade

The honeyed curds that Brahmins Veda-wise

Should pour on thy anointed brow, — the throngs

That should behind thee in a glory surge, —

The ministers and leading citizens

And peers and commons of the provinces

And commons metropolitan? Where stays

Thy chariot by four gold-clad horses drawn,

Trampling, magnificent, wide-maned? thy huge

High-omened elephant, a thunder-cloud

Or moving mountain in thy front? thy seat

Enriched with curious gold? Such are the high

Symbols men lead before anointed kings

Through streets flower-crowned. But thou com’st careless, dumb,

Alone. Or if thy coronation still,

Hero, prepares and nations for thee wait,

Wherefore comes this grey face not seen before

In which there is no joy?” Trembling she hushed.

Then answered her the hope of Raghou’s line,

“Sita, my sire exiles me to the woods.

O highborn soul, O firm religious mind,

Be strong and hear me. Dussaruth, my sire,

Whose royal word stands as the mountains pledged

To Bharuth’s mother boons of old, her choice

In her selected time, who now prefers

Athwart the coronation’s sacred pomp

Her just demand; me to the Dundac woods

For fourteen years exiled and in my stead

Bharuth, my brother, royally elect

To this wide empire. Therefore I come, to visit

And clasp thee once, ere to far woods I go.

But thou before King Bharuth speak my name

Seldom; thou knowest great and wealthy men

Are jealous and endure not others’ praise.

Speak low and humbly of me when thou speakest,

Observing all his moods; for only thus

Shall man survive against a monarch’s brow.

He is a king, therefore to be observed;

Holy, since by a monarch’s sacred hands

Anointed to inviolable rule.

Be patient; thou art wise and good. For I

Today begin exile, Sita, today

Leave thee, O Sita. But when I am gone

Into the paths of the ascetics old

Do thou in vows and fasts spend blamelessly

Thy lonely seasons. With the dawn arise

And when thou hast adored the Gods, bow down

Before King Dussaruth, my father, then

Like a dear daughter tend religiously

Cowshalya, my afflicted mother old;

Nor her alone, but all my father’s queens

Gratify with sweet love, smiles, blandishments

And filial claspings; — they my mothers are,

Nor than the breasts that suckled me less dear.

But mostly I would have thee show, beloved,

To Shatrughna and Bharuth, my dear brothers,

More than my life-blood dear, a sister’s love

And a maternal kindness. Cross not Bharuth

Even slightly in his will. He is thy king,

Monarch of thee and monarch of our house

And all this nation. ‘Tis by modest awe

And soft obedience and high toilsome service

That princes are appeased, but being crossed

Most dangerous grow the wrathful hearts of kings

And mischief mean. Monarchs incensed reject

The sons of their own loins who durst oppose

Their mighty policies, and raise, of birth

Though vile, the strong and serviceable man.

Here then obedient dwell unto the King,

Sita; but I into the woods depart.”

He ended, but Videha’s daughter, she

Whose words were ever soft like one whose life

Is lapped in sweets, now other answer made

In that exceeding anger born of love,

Fierce reprimand and high. “What words are these,

Rama, from thee? What frail unworthy spirit

Converses with me uttering thoughts depraved,

Inglorious, full of ignominy, unmeet

For armed heroical great sons of Kings?

With alien laughter and amazed today

I hear the noblest lips in all the world

Uttering baseness. For father, mother, son,

Brother or son’s wife, all their separate deeds

Enjoying their own separate fates pursue.

But the wife is the husband’s and she has

Her husband’s fate, not any private joy.

Have they said to thee Thou art exiled’? Me

That doom includes, me too exiles. For neither

Father nor the sweet son of her own womb

Nor self, nor mother, nor companion dear

Is woman’s sanctuary; only her husband

Whether in this world or beyond is hers.

If to the difficult dim forest then,

Rama, this day thou journeyest, I will walk

Before thee, treading down the thorns and sharp

Grasses, smoothing with my torn feet thy way;

And henceforth from my bosom as from a cup

Stale water, jealousy and wrath renounce.

Trust me, take me; for, Rama, in this breast

Sin cannot harbour. Heaven-spacious terraces

Of mansions, the aerial gait of Gods

With leave to walk among those distant stars,

Man’s winged aspiration or his earth

Of sensuous joys, tempt not a woman’s heart:

She chooses at her husband’s feet her home.

My father’s lap, my mother’s knees to me

Were school of morals, Rama; each human law

Of love and service there I learned, nor need

Thy lessons. All things else are wind; I choose

The inaccessible inhuman woods,

The deer’s green walk or where the tigers roam,

Life savage with the multitude of beasts,

Dense thickets; there will I dwell in desert ways,

Happier than in my father’s lordly house,

A pure-limbed hermitess. How I will tend thee

And watch thy needs, and thinking of no joy

But that warm wifely service and delight

Forget the unneeded world, alone with thee.

We two shall dalliance take in honied groves

And scented springtides. These heroic hands

Can in the forest dangerous protect

Even common men, and will they then not guard

A woman and the noble name of wife?

I go with thee this day, deny who will,

Nor aught shall turn me. Fear not thou lest I

Should burden thee, since gladly I elect

Life upon fruits and roots and still before thee

Shall walk, not faltering with fatigue, eat only

Thy remnants after hunger satisfied,

Nor greater bliss conceive. O I desire

That life, desire to see the large wide lakes,

The cliffs of the great mountains, the dim tarns,

Not frighted since thou art beside me, and visit

Fair waters swan-beset in lovely bloom.

In thy heroic guard my life shall be

A happy wandering among beautiful things.

For I shall bathe in those delightful pools,

And to thy bosom fast-devoted, wooed

By thy great beautiful eyes, yield and experience

On mountains and by rivers large delight.

Thus if a hundred years should pass or many

Millenniums, yet I should not tire nor change.

For wandering so not heaven itself would seem

Desirable, but this were rather heaven.

O Rama, Paradise and thou not there

No Paradise were to my mind; I should

Grow miserable and reject the bliss.

I rather mid the gloomy entangled boughs

And sylvan haunts of elephant and ape,

Clasping my husband’s feet, intend to lie

Obedient, glad, and feel about me home.”

But Rama, though his heart approved her words,

Yielded not to entreaty, for he feared

Her dolour in the desolate wood; therefore

Once more he spoke and kissed her brimming eyes.

“Of a high blood thou comest and thy soul

Turns naturally to duties high. Now too,

O Sita, let thy duty be thy guide;

Elect thy husband’s will. Thou shouldst obey,

Sita, my words, who art a woman weak.

The woods are full of hardship, full of peril,

And ’tis thy ease that I command. Nay, nay,

But listen and this forestward resolve

Thou wilt abandon: Love! for I shall speak

Of fears and great discomforts. There is no pleasure

In the vast woodlands drear, but sorrows, toils,

Wretched privations. Thundering from the hills

The waterfalls leap down, and dreadfully

The mountain lions from their caverns roar

Hurting the ear with sound. This is one pain.

Then in vast solitudes the wild beasts sport

Untroubled, but when they behold men, rage

And savage onset move. Unfordable

Great rivers thick with ooze, the python’s haunt,

Or turbid with wild elephants, sharp thorns

Beset with pain and tangled creepers close

The thirsty tedious paths impracticable

That echo with the peacock’s startling call.

At night thou must with thine own hands break off

The soon-dried leaves, thy only bed, and lay

Thy worn-out limbs fatigued on the hard ground,

And day or night no kindlier food must ask

Than wild fruit shaken from the trees, and fast

Near to the limits of thy fragile life,

And wear the bark of trees for raiment, bind

Thy tresses piled in a neglected knot,

And daily worship with large ceremony

New-coming guests and the high ancient dead

And the great deities, and three times twixt dawn

And evening bathe with sacred accuracy,

And patiently in all things rule observe.

All these are other hardships of the woods.

Nor at thy ease shalt worship, but must offer

The flowers by thine own labour culled, and deck

The altar with observance difficult,

And be content with little and casual food.

Abstinent is their life who roam in woods,

O Mithilan, strenuous, a travail. Hunger

And violent winds and darkness and huge fears

Are their companions. Reptiles of all shapes

Coil numerous where thou walkest, spirited,

Insurgent, and the river-dwelling snakes

That with the river’s winding motion go,

Beset thy path, waiting. Fierce scorpions, worms,

Gadflies and gnats continually distress

And the sharp grasses pierce and thorny trees

With an entangled anarchy of boughs

Oppose. O many bodily pains and swift

Terrors the habitants in forests know.

They must expel desire and wrath expel,

Austere of mind, who such discomforts choose,

Nor any fear must feel of fearful things.

Dream not of it, O Sita; nothing good

The mind recalls in that disastrous life

For thee unmeet; only stern miseries

And toils ruthless and many dangers drear.”

Then Sita with the tears upon her face

Made answer very sad and low, “Many

Sorrows and perils of that forest life

Thou hast pronounced, discovered dreadful ills.

O Rama, they are joys if borne for thee,

For thy dear love, O Rama. Tiger or elk,

The savage lion and fierce forest-bull,

Marsh-jaguars and the creatures of the woods

And desolate peaks, will from thy path remove

At unaccustomed beauty terrified.

Fearless shall I go with thee if my elders

Allow, nor they refuse, themselves who feel

That parting from thee, Rama, is a death.

There is no danger! Hero, at thy side

Who shall touch me? Not sovran Indra durst,

Though in his might he master all the Gods,

Assail me with his thunder-bearing hands.

O how can woman from her husband’s arms

Divorced exist? Thine own words have revealed,

Rama, its sad impossibility.

Therefore my face is set towards going, for I

Preferring that sweet service of my lord,

Following my husband’s feet, surely shall grow

All purified by my exceeding love.

O thou great heart and pure, what joy is there

But thy nearness? To me my husband is

Heaven and God. O even when I am dead,

A bliss to me will be my lord’s embrace.

Yea thou who knowst, wilt thou, forgetful grown

Of common joys and sorrows sweetly shared,

The faithful heart reject, reject the love?

Thou carest nothing then for Sita’s tears?

Go! poison or the water or the fire

Shall yield me sanctuary, importuning death.”

Thus while she varied passionate appeal

And her sweet miserable eyes with tears

Swam over, he her wrath and terror and grief

Strove always to appease. But she alarmed,

Great Janac’s daughter, princess Mithilan,

Her woman’s pride of love all wounded, shook

From her the solace of his touch and weeping

Assailed indignantly her mighty lord.

“Surely my father erred, great Mithila

Who rules and the Videhas, that he chose

Thee with his line to mate, Rama unworthy,

No man but woman in a male disguise.

What casts thee down, wherefore art thou then sad,

That thou art bent thus basely to forsake

Thy single-hearted wife? Not Savitry

So loved the hero Dyumathsena’s son

As I love thee and from my soul adore.

I would not like another woman, shame

Of her great house, turn even in thought from thee

To watch a second face; for where thou goest

My heart follows. ‘Tis thou, O shame! ’tis thou

Who thy young wife and pure, thy boyhood’s bride

And bosom’s sweet companion, like an actor,

Resignst to others. If thy heart so pant

To be his slave for whom thou art oppressed,

Obey him thou, court, flatter, for I will not.

Alas, my husband, leave me not behind,

Forbid me not from exile. Whether harsh

Asceticism in the forest drear

Or Paradise my lot, either is bliss

From thee not parted, Rama. How can I,

Guiding in thy dear steps my feet, grow tired

Though journeying endlessly? as well might one

Weary, who on a bed of pleasure lies.

The bramble-bushes in our common path,

The bladed grasses and the pointed reeds

Shall be as pleasant to me as the touch

Of cotton or of velvet, being with thee.

And when the storm-blast rises scattering

The thick dust over me, I, feeling then

My dear one’s hand, shall think that I am smeared

With sandal-powder highly-priced. Or when

From grove to grove upon the grass I lie,

In couches how is there more soft delight

Or rugs of brilliant wool? The fruits of trees,

Roots of the earth or leaves, whate’er thou bring,

Be it much or little, being by thy hands

Gathered, I shall account ambrosial food.

I shall not once remember, being with thee,

Father or mother dear or my far home.

Nor shall thy pains by my companionship

Be greatened — doom me not to parting, Rama.

For only where thou art is Heaven; ’tis Hell

Where thou art not. O thou who knowst my love,

If thou canst leave me, poison still is left

To be my comforter. I will not bear

Their yoke who hate thee. And if today I shunned

Swift solace, grief at length would do its work

With torments slow. How shall the broken heart

That once has beaten on thine, absence endure

Ten years and three to these and yet one more?”

So writhing in the fire of grief, she wound

Her body about her husband, fiercely silent,

Or sometimes wailed aloud; as a wild beast

That maddens with the fire-tipped arrows, such

Her grief ungovernable and like the stream

Of fire from its stony prison freed,

Her quick hot tears, or as when the whole river

From new-culled lilies weeps, — those crystal brooks

Of sorrow poured from her afflicted lids.

And all the moon-bright glories of her face

Grew dimmed and her large eyes vacant of joy.

But he revived her with sweet words, “Weep not;

If I could buy all heaven with one tear

Of thine, Sita, I would not pay the price,

My Sita, my beloved. Nor have I grown,

I who have stood like God by nature planted

High above any cause of fear, suddenly

Familiar with alarm. Only I knew not

Thy sweet and resolute courage, and for thee

Dreaded the misery that sad exiles feel.

But since to share my exile and o’erthrow

God first created thee, O Mithilan,

Sooner shall high serenity divorce

From the self-conquering heart, than thou from me

Be parted. Fixed I stand in my resolve

Who follow ancient virtue and the paths

Of the old perfect dead; ever my face

Turns steadfast to that radiant goal, self-vowed

Its sunflower. To the drear wilderness I go.

My father’s stainless honour points me on,

His oath that must not fail. This is the old

Religion brought from dateless ages down,

Parents to honour and obey; their will

Should I transgress, I would not wish to live.

For how shall man with homage or with prayer

Approach the distant Deity, yet scorn

A present godhead, father, mother, sage?

In these man’s triple objects live, in these

The triple world is bounded, nor than these

Has all wide earth one holier thing. Large eyes,

These therefore let us worship. Truth or gifts,

Or honour or liberal proud sacrifice,

Nought equals the effectual force and pure

Of worship filial done. This all bliss brings,

Compels all gifts, compels harvests and wealth,

Knowledge compels and children. All these joys,

These human boons great filial souls on earth

Recovering here enjoy and in that world

Heaven naturally is theirs. But me whatever,

In the strict path of virtue while he stands,

My father bids, my heart bids that. I go,

But not alone, o’ercome by thy sweet soul’s

High courage. O intoxicating eyes,

O faultless limbs, go with me, justify

The wife’s proud name, partner in virtue. Love,

Warm from thy great, high-blooded lineage old

Thy purpose springing mates with the pure strain

Of Raghou’s ancient house. O let thy large

And lovely motion forestward make speed

High ceremonies to absolve. Heaven’s joys

Without thee now were beggarly and rude.

Haste then, the Brahmin and the pauper feed

And to their blessings answer jewels. All

Our priceless diamonds and our splendid robes,

Our curious things, our couches and our cars,

The glory and the eye’s delight, do them

Renounce, nor let our faithful servants lose

Their worthy portion.” Sita of that consent

So hardly won sprang joyous, as on fire,

Disburdened of her wealth, lightly to wing

Into dim wood and wilderness unknown.