Madhav & Kama by A. N. D. Haksar

Author:A. N. D. Haksar [Subramanyam, Arati]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789351940609
Publisher: Roli Books

The Parting

As he was about to leave, Mádhavánala spoke to Kámakandalá with great tenderness. ‘You must remember me, my beauty,’ he said, ‘even though I have to go away.’

‘For that, my lord, you must tell me how to remember you in rebirth.’

‘Darling! Where is the question of such remembrances in this very life?’

‘My life, traveller, goes with you. For me, this birth will be over today itself.’

At last Madhav sought Kama’s permission. ‘Let me go my love,’ he entreated her. ‘It’s not possible for me to stay any longer.’ These sad words hit her like a thunderbolt. ‘To break out of my embrace and leave is no great feat,’ she replied lightly. ‘It would be something if you could quit my heart.’ Then, bursting into tears, she flung her arms around his neck. He too could not maintain his composure, and wept as he left the lamenting girl.

Once he was out of sight, Kámakandalá collapsed on the ground, burning in the flames of separation. As goes the ballad:

Dawn of youth and first love,

separation in spring time,

and exile in the rains,

who can bear such flames?(55)

Having to accept charity,

living in another’s house

with a worthless spouse,

then acting like a guest:

O who can bear such fires?(56)

In infancy, the loss of mother,

in prime of youth, the loss of wife,

in old age the death of one’s child:

all three are heavy sorrows.(57)

Regaining consciousness for a moment, Kámakandalá still beheld Madhav before her, and cried:

‘The day becomes a thousand years,

the night becomes an aeon,

the moon’s afire, sandal burns,

food’s like poison, and desire

is one’s daily enemy too:

what is not torture for a girl

separated from her lover?’(58)

Madhav listened and replied. ‘The moon becomes fierce like the sun,’ he said, ‘soft breezes turn dagger-sharp. Garlands prick one like needles and clothes feel like made of stone. Light turns dark. Life becomes a burden. Alas, the time of separation is like the end of the world.’

Kámakandalá listened and wept. ‘Will you come now, my love, or later, or when the day is done?’ she recited. ‘Thus does a girl wait day after day for her beloved, tears trickling from her eyes.’

‘Don’t delude me with cool and smooth leaves of plantain, my friend. Don’t you know that the wind makes fire blaze even more?’ replied Madhav.

‘You have gone away, my love, after robbing me of my senses and setting my heart on fire. To grace another’s home? But you will not be saved, my dear, even if you go to the sacred Ganga,’ lamented Kama.

‘Happy the land where you have gone to embellish someone else’s house, traveller. Here all is desolate. How will I see you again?

‘Sandalwood and camphor essence,

a cooling flow of every fragrance,

recreation and mind’s elation,

what will you obtain, my lord,

by going to someone else?’(59)

‘O my young beauty!’ cried Mádhavánala. ‘O you of the radiant face and the graceful gait, of lovely eyes and pleasing talk. How indeed will I see you again?’

‘Now it is time for you to leave,’ sighed Kámakandalá. ‘For whatever reason you go, my charmer, may all your hopes be fulfilled.

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