Note 238 — KĀDAMBARĪ. (continued 2)

‘“‘“As I thus spoke he wiped with his hand his eyes streaming with tears poured through his eyelashes, and while he yet leant on me, replied, rebuking my speech: ‘Friend, what need of many words? Thou at least art untouched! Thou hast not fallen within the range of Love’s shafts, cruel with the poison of snakes! It is easy to teach another! and when that other has his senses and his mind, and sees, hears, and knows what he has heard, and can discern good and evil, he is then fit for advice. But all this is far from me; all talk of stability, judgment, firmness, reflection, has come to an end. How do I even breathe but by strong effort? The time for advice is long past. The opportunity for firmness has been let slip; the hour for reflection is gone; the season for stability and judgment has passed away. Who but thee could give advice at this time, or could attempt to restrain my wandering? To whom but thee should I listen? or who else in the world is a friend like thee? What ails me that I cannot restrain myself? Thou sawest in a moment my wretched plight. The time, then, for advice is now past. (309) While I breathe, I long for some cure for the fever of love, violent as the rays of twelve suns238 at the end of the world. My limbs are baked, my heart is seething, my eyes are burning, and my body on fire. Do, therefore, what the time demands.’ He then became silent, and after this speech I tried again and again to rouse him; but as he did not listen even when tenderly and affectionately exhorted in the words of the pure teaching of the çāstras full of cases like his own, together with the legendary histories, I thought, ‘He is gone too far; he cannot be turned back. Advice is now useless, so I will make an effort just to preserve his life.’ With this resolve I rose and went, and tore up some juicy lotus-fibres from the lake; then, taking some lotus-petals marked by water, I plucked lotuses of all kinds, sweet with the fragrance of the aromatic pollen within, and prepared a couch on that same rock in the bower. And as he rested there at ease (310), I crushed soft twigs of the sandal-trees hard by, and with its juice, naturally sweet and cold as ice, made a mark on his brow, and anointed him from head to foot. I allayed the perspiration by camphor-dust powdered in my hand, broken from the interstices of the split bark of the trees near, and fanned him with a plantain-leaf dripping with pure water, while the bark robe he wore was moist with the sandal placed on his breast; and as I again and again strewed fresh lotus couches, and anointed him with sandal, and removed the perspiration, and constantly fanned him, the thought arose in my mind, ‘Surely nothing is too hard for Love! For how far apart would seem Puṇḍarīka, by nature simple and content with his woodland home, like a fawn, and Mahāçvetā, the Gandharva princess, a galaxy of graces: surely there is nothing for Love in the world hard, or difficult, or unsubdued, or impossible. He scornfully attempts the hardest tasks, nor can any resist him. For why speak of beings endowed with sense when, if it so please him, he can bring together even things without sense? For the night lotus-bed falls in love with the sun’s ray, and the day-lotus leaves her hatred of the moon, and night is joined to day, (311) and moonlight waits on darkness, and shade stands in the face of light, and lightning stays firm in the cloud, and old age accompanies youth; and what more difficult thing can there be than that one like Puṇḍarīka, who is an ocean of unfathomable depth, should thus be brought to the lightness of grass? Where is his former penance, and where his present state? Truly it is a cureless ill that has befallen him! What must I now do or attempt, or whither go, or what refuge or resource, or help or remedy, or plan, or recourse, is there by which his life may be sustained? Or by what skill, or device, or means, or support, or thought, or solace, may he yet live?’ These and other such thoughts arose in my downcast heart. But again I thought, ‘What avails dwelling on this useless thought? His life must be preserved by any means, good or bad, (312) and there is no other way to save it but by her union with him; and as he is timid by reason of his youth, and moreover thinks the affairs of love contrary to his vow, unseemly, and a mockery in himself, he certainly, even at his last breath, will not gratify his longing by himself approaching her. This his disease of love admits no delay. Good men always hold that a friend’s life must be saved even by a blameworthy deed; so that though this is a shameful and wrong action, it has yet become imperative for me. What else can be done? What other course is there? I will certainly go to her. I will tell her his state.’ Thus thinking, I left the place on some pretext, and came hither without telling him, lest perchance he should feel that I was engaged in an unseemly employment, and should in shame hold me back. This being the state of affairs, thou, lady, art the judge of what action is needful for the time, worthy of so great a love, fitting for my coming, and right for thyself.” With these words he became silent, fixing his eyes on my face to see what I should say. But I, having heard him, was plunged, as it were, into a lake of ambrosial joy, or immersed in an ocean of the sweets of love, floating above all joys, mounting to the pinnacle of all desires, resting at the utmost bound of gladness. I showed my happiness by joyful tears pouring clear, large, and heavy, because my eyelashes were not closed, strung like a garland by their unceasing succession, and not touching my cheek, because my face was somewhat bent in sudden shame; (313) and I thought at once: “0 joy, that Love entangles him as well as me, so that even while tormenting me, he has in part showed me kindness; and if Puṇḍarīka is indeed in such a plight, what help has not Love given me, or what has he not done for me, or what friend is like him, or how could a false tale, even in sleep, pass the lips of the calm-souled Kapiñjala? And if this be so, what must I do, and what must I say in his presence?” While I was thus deliberating, a portress hastily entered, and said to me: “Princess, the Queen has learnt from her attendants that thou art ill, and is now coming.” On hearing this, Kapiñjala, fearing the contact of a great throng, quickly rose, saying: “Princess, a cause of great delay has arisen. The sun, the crest-jewel of the three worlds, is now sinking, so I will depart. But I raise my hands in salutation as a slight offering for the saving of my dear friend’s life; that is my greatest treasure.” (314) Then, without awaiting my reply, he with difficulty departed, for the door was blocked by the entrance of the attendants that heralded my Lady Mother. There were the portresses bearing golden staves; the chamberlains with unguents, cosmetics, flowers, and betel, holding waving cowries; and in their train were humpbacks, barbarians, deaf men, eunuchs, dwarfs, and deaf mutes.