The Ramayana/Book II/Canto LXIII: The Hermit's Son

But soon by rankling grief oppressed The king awoke from troubled rest, And his sad heart was tried again With anxious thought where all was pain. Ráma and Lakshman's mournful fate On Das'aratha, good and great As Indra, pressed with crushing weight, As when the demon's might assails The Sun-God, and his glory pales. Ere yet the sixth long night was spent. Since Rama to the woods was sent, The king at midnight sadly thought Of the old crime his hand had wrought, And thus to Queen Kausalyá cried Who still for Ráma moaned and sighed: 'If thou art waking, give, I pray, Attention to the words I say. Whate'er the conduct men pursue, Be good or ill the acts they do, Be sure, dear Queen, they find the meed Of wicked or of virtuous deed. A heedless child we call the man Whose feeble judgment fails to scan The weight of what his hands may do, Its lightness, fault, and merit too. One lays the Mango garden low, And bids the gay Palás'as grow: Longing for fruit their bloom he sees, But grieves when fruit should bend the trees. Cut by my hand, my fruit-trees fell, Palás'a trees I watered well. My hopes this foolish heart deceive, And for my banished son I grieve. Kaus'alyá, in my youthful prime Armed with my bow I wrought the crime, Proud of my skill, my name renowned, An archer prince who shoots by sound. The deed this hand unwitting wrought This misery on my soul has brought, As children seize the deadly cup And blindly drink the poison up. As the unreasoning man may be Charmed with the gay Palás'a tree, I unaware have reaped the fruit Of joying at a sound to shoot. As regent prince I shared the throne. Thou wast a maid to me unknown. The early Rain-time duly came, And strengthened love's delicious flame. The sun had drained the earth that lay All glowing 'neath the summer day, And to the gloomy clime had fled Where dwell the spirits of the dead. The fervent heat that moment ceased. The darkening clouds each hour increased And frogs and deer and peacocks all Rejoiced to see the torrents fall. Their bright wings heavy from the shower, The birds, new-bathed, had scarce the power To reach the branches of the trees Whose high tops swayed beneath the breeze. The fallen rain, and falling still, Hung like a sheet on every hill, Till, with glad deer, each flooded steep Showed glorious as the mighty deep. The torrents down its wooded side Poured, some unstained, while others dyed

Gold, ashy, silver, ochre, bore The tints of every mountain ore. In that sweet time, when all are pleased, My arrows and my bow I seized; Keen for the chase, in field or grove, Down Sarjú's bank my car I drove. I longed with all my lawless will Some elephant by night to kill, Some buffalo that came to drink, Or tiger, at the river's brink. When all around was dark and still, I heard a pitcher slowly fill, And thought, obscured in deepest shade, An elephant the sound had made. I drew a shaft that glittered bright, Fell as a serpent's venomed bite; I longed to lay the monster dead, And to the mark my arrow sped. Then in the calm of morning, clear A hermit's wailing smote my ear: 'Ah me, ah me,' he cried, and sank, Pierced by my arrow, on the bank. E'en as the weapon smote his side, I heard a human voice that cried: 'Why lights this shaft on one like me, A poor and harmless devotee? I came by night to fill my jar From this lone stream where no men are. Ah, who this deadly shaft has shot Whom have I wronged, and knew it not? Why should a boy so harmless feel The vengeance of the winged steel? Or who should slay the guiltless son Of hermit sire who injures none, Who dwells retired in woods, and there Supports his life on woodland fare? Ah me, ah me, why am I slain, What booty will the murderer gain? In hermit coils I bind my hair, Coats made of skin and bark I wear. Ah, who the cruel deed can praise Whose idle toil no fruit repays, As impious as the wretch's crime Who dares his master's bed to climb? Nor does my parting spirit grieve But for the life which thus I leave: Alas, my mother and my sire,-- I mourn for them when I expire. Ah me, that aged, helpless pair, Long cherished by my watchful care, How will it be with them this day When to the Five I pass away? Pierced by the self-same dust we die, Mine aged mother, sire, and I. Whose mighty hand, whose lawless mind Has all the three to death consigned!'

When I, by love of duty stirred, That touching lamentation heard,

Pierced to the heart by sudden woe, I threw to earth my shafts and bow. My heart was full of grief and dread As swiftly to the place I sped, Where, by my arrow wounded sore, A hermit lay on Sarjú's shore. His matted hair was all unbound. His pitcher empty on the ground, And by the fatal arrow pained, He lay with dust and gore distained. I stood confounded and amazed: His dying eyes to mine he raised, And spoke this speech in accents stern, As though his light my soul would burn: 'How have I wronged thee, King, that I Struck by thy mortal arrow die? The wood my home, this jar I brought, And water for my parents sought. This one keen shaft that strikes me through Slays sire and aged mother too. Feeble and blind, in helpless pain, They wait for me and thirst in vain. They with parched lips their pangs must bear, And hope will end in blank despair. Ah me, there seems no fruit in store For holy zeal or Scripture lore, Or else ere now my sire would know That his dear son is lying low. Yet, if my mournful fate he knew, What could his arm so feeble do? The tree, firm-rooted, ne'er may be The guardian of a stricken tree. Haste to my father, and relate While time allows, my sudden fate, Lest he consume thee as the fire Burns up the forest, in his ire. This little path, O King, pursue: My father's cot thou soon wilt view. There sue for pardon to the sage. Lest he should curse thee in his rage. First from the wound extract the dart That kills me with its deadly smart, E'en as the flushed impetuous tide Eats through the river's yielding side.'

I feared to draw the arrow out, And pondered thus in painful doubt: 'Now tortured by the shaft he lies, But if I draw it forth he dies.' Helpless I stood, faint, sorely grieved: The hermit's son my thought perceived; As one o'ercome by direst pain He scarce had strength to speak again. With writhing limb and struggling breath, Nearer and ever nearer death My senses undisturbed remain, And fortitude has conquered pain: Now from one tear thy soul be freed. Thy hand has made a Bráhman bleed. Let not this pang thy bosom wring: No twice-born youth am I, O King,

For of a Vais'ya sire I came, Who wedded with a S'udrá dame.

These words the boy could scarcely say, As tortured by the shaft he lay. Twisting his helpless body round, Then trembling senseless on the ground. Then from his bleeding side I drew The rankling shaft that pierced him through. With death's last fear my face he eyed, And, rich in store of penance, died.'