Canto XXXIV: Brahmadatta

A king of Brahmá's seed who bore The name of Kúsa reigned of yore. Just, faithful to his vows, and true, He held the good in honor due. His bride, a queen of noble name, Of old Vidarbha's monarchs came. Like their own father, children four, All valiant boys, the lady bore. In glorious deeds each nerve they strained, And well their Warrior part sustained. To them most just, and true, and brave, Their father thus his counsel gave:-- "Beloved children, ne'er forget Protection is a prince's debt: The noble work at once begin, High virtue and her fruits to win." The youths, to all the people dear, Received his speech with willing ear; And each went forth his several way, Foundations of a town to lay. Kuśámba, prince of high renown, Was builder of Kauśámbí's town, And Kuśanábha, just and wise, Bade high Mahodaya's towers arise. Amúrtarajas chose to dwell In Dharmáranya's citadel, And Vasu bade his city fair The name of Girivraja bear. This fertile spot whereon we stand Was once the high-souled Vasu's land. Behold! as round we turn our eyes, Five lofty mountain peaks arise. See! bursting from her parent hill, Sumágadhí, a lovely rill, Bright gleaming as she flows between The mountains, like a wreath is seen-- And then through Magadh's plains and groves With many a fair meander roves. And this was Vasu's old domain, The fertile Magadh's broad champaign, Which smiling fields of tilth adorn And diadem with golden corn. The queen Ghritáchí, nymph most fair, Married to Kuśanábha, bare A hundred daughters lovely faced, With every charm and beauty graced. It chanced the maidens, bright and gay As lightning-flashes on a day Of rain-time, to the garden went With song and play and merriment-- And there in gay attire they strayed, And danced, and laughed, and sang, and played. The God of Wind who roves at will All places, as he lists, to fill, Saw the young maidens dancing there, Of faultless shape and mien most fair-- "I love you all, sweet girls," he cried, "And each shall be my darling bride. Forsake, forsake your mortal lot, And gain a life that withers not. A fickle thing is youth's brief span, And more than all is mortal man. Receive unending youth, and be Immortal, O my loves, with me," The hundred girls, to wonder stirred, The wooing of the Wind-God heard, Laughed, as a jest, his suit aside, And with one voice they thus replied:-- "O mighty Wind, free spirit who All life pervadest, through and through-- Thy wondrous power we maidens know; Then wherefore wilt thou mock us so? Our sire is Kuśanábha, King; And we, forsooth, have charms to bring A God to woo us from the skies; But honor first we maidens prize. Far may the hour, we pray, be hence, When we, O thou of little sense, Our truthful father's choice refuse, And for ourselves our husbands choose. Our honored sire our lord we deem, He is to us a God supreme-- And they to whom his high decree May give us shall our husbands be."

He heard the answer they returned, And mighty rage within him burned. On each fair maid a blast he sent-- Each stately form he bowed and bent. Bent double by the Wind-God's ire They sought the palace of their sire, There fell upon the ground with sighs, While tears and shame were in their eyes. The King himself, with, troubled brow, Saw his dear girls so fair but now, A mournful sight all bent and bowed-- And grieving, thus he cried aloud:-- "What fate is this, and what the cause? What wretch has scorned all heavenly laws? Who thus your forms could curve and break? You struggle, but no answer make." They heard the speech of that wise king Of their misfortune questioning. Again the hundred maidens sighed, Touched with their heads his feet, and cried:-- "The God of Wind, pervading space, Would bring on us a foul disgrace, And choosing folly's evil way From virtue's path in scorn would stray. But we in words like these reproved The God of Wind whom passion moved:-- 'Farewell, O Lord! A sire have we, No women uncontrolled and free. Go, and our sire's consent obtain If thou our maiden hands wouldst gain. No self-dependent life we live: If we offend, our fault forgive,' But led by folly as a slave, He would not hear the rede we gave, And even as we gently spoke We felt the Wind-God's crushing stroke." The pious King, with grief distressed, The noble hundred thus addressed:-- "With patience, daughters, bear your fate, Yours was a deed supremely great When with one mind you kept from shame The honor of your father's name. Patience, when men their anger vent, Is woman's praise and ornament; Yet when the Gods inflict the blow Hard is it to support the woe. Patience, my girls, exceeds all price-- 'Tis alms, and truth, and sacrifice. Patience is virtue, patience fame: Patience upholds this earthly frame. And now, I think, is come the time To wed you in your maiden prime. Now, daughters, go where'er you will: Thoughts for your good my mind shall fill." The maidens went, consoled, away:-- The best of kings, that very day, Summoned his ministers of state About their marriage to debate. Since then, because the Wind-God bent The damsels' forms for punishment, That royal town is known to fame By Kanyákubja's borrowed name.

There lived a sage called Chúli then, Devoutest of the sons of men; His days in penance rites he spent, A glorious saint, most continent. To him absorbed in tasks austere The child of Urmílá draw near-- Sweet Somadá, the heavenly maid, And lent the saint her pious aid. Long time near him the maiden spent, And served him meek and reverent, Till the great hermit, pleased with her, Thus spoke unto his minister:-- "Grateful am I for all thy care-- Blest maiden, speak, thy wish declare." The sweet-voiced nymph rejoiced to see The favor of the devotee, And to that excellent old man, Most eloquent she thus began:-- "Thou hast, by heavenly grace sustained, Close union with the Godhead gained. I long, O Saint, to see a son By force of holy penance won. Unwed, a maiden life I live: A son to me, thy suppliant, give." The saint with favor heard her prayer, And gave a son exceeding fair. Him, Chúli's spiritual child, His mother Brahmadatta styled. King Brahmadatta, rich and great, In Kámpilí maintained his state-- Ruling, like Indra in his bliss, His fortunate metropolis. King Kuśanábha planned that he His hundred daughters' lord should be. To him, obedient to his call, The happy monarch gave them all. Like Indra then he took the hand Of every maiden of the band. Soon as the hand of each young maid In Brahmadatta's palm was laid, Deformity and cares away, She shone in beauty bright and gay. Their freedom from the Wind-God's might Saw Kuśanábha with delight. Each glance that on their forms he threw Filled him with raptures ever new. Then when the rites were all complete, With highest marks of honor meet The bridegroom with his brides he sent To his great seat of government. The nymph received with pleasant speech Her daughters; and, embracing each, Upon their forms she fondly gazed, And royal Kuśanábha praised.