Sexual Life in Ancient India: A Study in the Comparative History of Indian Culture v1.c8.16

Language: English

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The, in parts very clumsy, legend of Pāṇḍu seems to be an imitation of this last one. The king shot at a couple of antelopes that were just in the joys of pairing.² But it was really a young Ṛishi, who had thus transformed himself and his wife, and was then love-making with her. With a human voice spoke he that had been brought to the ground: “Even they that are seized by hot desire and rage, they that are robbed of understanding, even men that take their delight in evil shun gruesome deeds. Born thou wast in the glorious race of men whose soul lived ever in virtue; how then couldst thou, overcome by desire and greed, so go astray in thy mind?” Pāṇḍu insisted he had every right to slay the beasts of the forest.³ But the male antelope said: “It is not for my own sake that I upbraid thee for killing the antelopes. But thou shouldst out of friendly thoughtfulness have taken heed that I was just pairing. For what man of sense could bring himself at such a time dear to all beings, longed after by all beings, to slay in the forest an antelope when in the act of pairing? For thee, born of the race of the Pauravas, unwearied in the doing of noble deeds, this deed is not seemly, which is cruel, unheard of, one that all men will condemn, which leads not to heaven, but to shame, and is called accursed.

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Thou, who understandest well the particularities and excellences of the enjoyment of women, and knowest the books of the doctrine, and the nature of religious duty and human well-being, shouldst not have done a thing which thus brings about the loss of heaven. I am a Muni purified through asceticism, my name is Kindama. It was because I felt ashamed and shy before men that I did pair with the she-antelope. Turned into an antelope, I roam about with antelopes in the depths of the forest. But as thou didst not know that, for thee it will not be as the murder of a Brahman that thou hast thus slain me, who was wearing an antelope’s shape, and was mazed with love. Yet, O blinded one, thou shalt have this requital: when thou, bewildered with love, art in the embraces of thy wedded wife, thou wilt in this very state go into the world of the dead. The loved one whom thou art embracing at the time of thy death will, however, out of loving devotion, follow thee, O best of the prudent, when thou hast reached the city of the dead, into which all beings come but unwillingly.” When these words had died away life left the antelope, and Pāṇḍu at once was gripped with sorrow (i, 118). From that time on he lived in strict continence as a forest penitent, together with his two wives, and he had his five sons through the gods. “One day the king with his wives was wandering through the forest in spring-time, when the forest blooms and living beings are all mazed.

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When Pāṇḍu beheld the forest with its bloom- and fruit-laden trees, its varied waters and lotus-clumps, love came into his heart. As now he roamed there with joy-lifted mind like an immortal, Mādrī wearing magnificent garb, alone was with him. As now he gazed on the youthful one, clad in thin garments, his love blazed up, like a fire lit in the thick forest. And as he stealthily beheld the lotus-eyed one thus alone, he was overcome with longing and could not keep back his passion. And then the king fell with force on her that was alone, although the queen kept him off, and sought with the strength of her body to wrest herself away. But his senses filled with love, he gave no thought to the curse. In love's longing, forcibly he drew nigh to Mādrī, and himself drew nigh to death, fallen under the spell of love's desire, as he bade fear begone, goaded on by fate. As Pāṇḍu, the Kuru scion of highly virtuous mind, united himself with his wife in the joys of love, he united himself with death. Then Mādrī clasped the lifeless king, and again and again uttered loud cries of woe. Kuntī with her sons, and Mādrī's two children came to where the king was lying in this state. Then spoke Mādrī in torture these words to Kuntī : ‘Come thou hither quite alone;

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the children must stay there.’ When Kuntī heard these words of hers, she left the children there and ran quickly to her, screaming out : ‘I am death's own!’ She now upbraided Mādrī with having led the king on to being stirred with love (praharsha), and called her blessed withal in that she had gazed on the prince's face stirred with love. Mādrī told her how the king would not be held back, and Kuntī claimed as eldest wife, to die with him. Mādrī, she said, must rise, and take the children into her care. But Mādrī spoke: ‘I shall follow after my brave husband, for I have not yet taken my fill of love; let the elder one grant me this. And as he was drawing nigh to me, he lost love. How should I cut this love off from him in Yama's abode there? And I cannot fully make atonement by having borne myself impartially towards thy sons; and so a sin would be laid upon me. With the king's body shall this dead body of mine, well wrapped, be burned. Do this for love of me, O noble one! And take good care for the children, and love me.¹ I do not see anything more to charge thee with.’ After these words the law-keeping wife, the splendid daughter of the king of the Madras, climbed swiftly up to him as he lay on the funeral pyre.”[²] See, too, Rām., i, 36.5 ff.