Sexual Life in Ancient India: A Study in the Comparative History of Indian Culture v2.c11.150

Language: English

v2.c11.150.1

how the trees, rising as though to mountain-heights, stand up like rocky steeps. But I, who am parched through with sorrow, I am tortured by agonies of soul in my grief for Bharata, and for the raped princess of Videha. The flower-crowned creepers around us clasp everywhere the flower-laden trees. This season with its grateful wind, the scented moon of spring, when flowers and fruits have come forth on the trees, kindles a strong love. Behold, O son of Sumitrā, all the shapes of the rich-flowered forests, that shed a rain of flowers, as the clouds shed water. And on the lovely plains all the manifold trees of the grove, shaken by the strength of the wind, bestrew the earth with blossoms. The wind blowing forth from the mountain-caves seems to sing, through the notes of the drunken kokila-bird, bringing, as it were, the trees to dance. How grateful is its touch as it blows along cool as sandal-wood, carrying hither a pure scent and bearing weariness away. The trees seem to sing with their wreaths of bees; their tops are roofed with flowers, much shaken by the up-tossing wind. The joyfully stirred water-cock by the enchanting waterfall, sets me, a prisoner of love, sorrowing with his notes. Ere now in the hermitage my beloved heard his call, called me to her in delight and welcomed him in utmost joy. With the water-cock’s cry of love’s delight, and the song of the male kokila-bird these trees resound, setting the passion of my love afire.

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This fire—the spring, whose (glowing) embers are the flowery clusters of the açoka grove, whose crackling and roaring are the notes of the bees, and whose red flames are the young shoots—this fire will burn me up. For life has no meaning for me, O son of Sumitrā, if I do not see this woman with the soft-lashed eyes, lovely hair, and gentle speech. Look, O Lakshmaṇa, the love-racked peahen dances on the mountain-top to the dancing peacock, her mate, and the peacock hastens, filling with longing, to the darling one, spreading his shining wings, and, as it were, laughing while he calls. Clear it is that the Rākshasa has not robbed the peacock in the forest of his beloved. And to me, too, would come the great-eyed daughter of Janaka in welling maze and love, were she not robbed from me. Even if ’tis spring there where my darling is, yet Sītā, in the power of another, will of a surety be mourning just as I am. But without a doubt spring does not touch that place; for how could she with the black lotus-eyes go on living without me! For of a truth Sītā’s soul is sunk in me, and my soul is utterly sunk in Sītā. This coolness-bringing wind, scattering the flowers, and softly caressing, is for me, who am thinking of my sweet one, as fire. I could bear the love that came to me, were it not that spring, which brings the trees to blossom, were wounding me. My eye believes it sees the petals of the lotus-cups—ah! Lakshmaṇa, so do the flower-cups of Sītā’s eyes indeed appear.

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Mingled with the threads of the lotus-flowers, and coming through the trees, the delightful wind blows hither like Sītā’s breath.¹ The creepers follow after (the loved ones) like drunken women, climbing from tree to tree, from rock to rock, from forest to forest. Without compare shimmers the dark-green and yellow sward, bespread with the various flowers of the trees as with rugs—it stretches away like a bed. If but my beloved were to be seen, if we could both dwell here, then should I not envy the king of the gods, nor Ayodhyā. For if I could take joy together with her on this delightful grassy floor, then should I be filled with care no more, nor any longing after other things. See, the he-gazelles that rove with their mates this way and that, on the many-coloured mountain-tops, rend my soul, for eyes like the young gazelle has the princess of Videha from whom I am parted. Ah! Where is Sītā now, my darling one, who, obedient to virtue, came slowly after me, when I was sent into the forest by my father? To me, who am now consumed by love, she spoke kind words, she, the brown one, the kind one, although in the depths of the forest and suffering, and as if free from pain, and filled with joy.’”