She said:
What bitter words are these, my friend,
when you talk about him like that
at the time of our estrangement?
For mature women like ourselves
there is plenty work to keep us busy
in the rich house of my husband,
from the land where a black buffalo
with her great horns,
grazes on the fresh paddy shoots,
not straying from the place
where the farmer has tethered
her new-born calf.
(181)
She said:
Upon a great, mature frond
(182)
She said:
In this season
(183)
He said:
The wise do not conceal
(184)
She said:
'A sicky pallor upon her brow,
(185)
The rainy season has come and still the heroine's lover has not returned. When her friend tries to console her, she says that she does not doubt her lover, but, as for her eyes, that is another story. She said to her friend:
It is my eyes
(186)
She said to her friend:
The heart of my Lord
(187)
She said:
In this cold season of rains,
(188)
He said to his charioteer:
Let's leave today and return tomorrow –
(189)
Unable to sleep, the heroine hears the sound of single bell from the cowshed. If he could hear such a bell, perhaps her lover would abandon his quest and return, she feels. She said to her friend:
Bless you, my friend,
(190)
She said to her friend:
What words can explain it?
(191)
She said:
You who stay with me, sharing my pain,
(192)
Visiting her in her marital home, the heroine's friend remarks upon how happy she is. The heroine replies that this is on a account of her loving husband, whose affection for her remains unchanged after their marriage. She said:
My husband from the land
(193)
She said to her friend:
Thunder rumbles in the massing clouds
(194)
She said:
The fierce heat of the sun cools
(195)
Her friend said to her lover:
Before, if my friend gave you a bitter neem fruit,
(196)
She said:
My friend,
(197)
The heroine's friend speaks to the hero, indicating to him the need to change the location of their clandestine meeting. Her friend said:
You whose chest
(198)
He said:
If I cannot win the dusky maiden
from the head of luxuriant palmyra
I shall hang bells,
and a beautiful, big garland of flowers,
in the customary manner,
and, wearing a necklace of white bones,
just for that one day
I shall appear before her,
Abandoning my reserve
as I ride through the village street,
an object of ridicule to passers-by.
How else can I get through to her,
she whose beauty shines in her swaying gait
the foolish girl,
whose heart will not melt towards me?
the pretty golden flowers
of the konrai trees
in the country where he has gone,
will be mimicking my own sickly pallor.
And will he see there a single stag –
whose head, beneath its curling antlers,
is small like hers –
separated from his mate,
out in that wild woodland,
where the great branches
of the kaya trees,
laden with blossoms,
no longer withered,
look like the downy throats
of peacocks?
what they know to be true –
Be sure to steer clear
of that little village,
in the groves by the seashore,
where the artless daughters
of the fishermen with their fine nets,
like mannequins,
their beautiful hair coiled,
like the eyes on a peacock's tail,
cast nets with their own eyes.
My own dear heart was caught up in them,
unable to tell what was good for it,
and remains lost there.
beauty spots faded,
her long, soft arms,
smooth like bamboo, wasted,
so that the bangles slip down –
this is what she has become,
because of you!'
If you were to describe thus
the sorry state
of my fair dark body,
to my Lord from the country
where bright kantal blossoms,
succumbing to the east wind,
carpet the rocks,
their petals closed,
like the shruken hoods
of multi-striped snakes –
what harm could it do?
that have forsaken sleep,
on account of my Lord
from the land where,
amidst the rumble of thunder,
clouds merge
with the upland fields,
and the mullai,
with its fine tendrils,
puts forth buds,
like pointed teeth.
from the land
where the young of a mountain sheep,
at home upon those steep slopes,
drinks its fill of the sweet milk
the flows generously
from its mother's teat,
and gambols in the shady places
amongst the high mountains,
is as steadfast as a rock.
My heart only suffers, my friend,
because it can't see this.
the jasmin buds have burst into flower,
and with their flowering
the beauty of these broad woodlands
has become complete.
But he has not returned,
he who has caused these fine jewels
to hang loose,
and evening is upon us,
seeking out my fair womanhood
as it target.
our white chariot rushing on,
like a stream rushing down the mountainside,
its wheels bright like crescent moons,
scything through the ripe crops
like fireballs fallen from the heavens,
speeding like the wind –
we'll return by evening, to my girl
with small stacks of white bangles,
and rejoice
in the manifold beauty of her embrace.
At dead of night
when powerful thunderbolts crack,
striking off the greenish heads
of ferocious snakes,
with their spots and stripes,
wiil he hear,
each time a noble bull moves
in a cowshed with many cows,
the tinkling of a solitary bell,
he who stroked my wide shoulders
and dark wavy locks,
then left to seek his fortune
making these bangles, once tight,
hang loose?
he left me
even though he could hear,
in the heavy boughs above,
a great flock of birds
calling sweetly to each other,
happy to be with their mates,
unconcerned
about the feelings of parted lovers.
If that stranger comes back,
I shall say to him.
'Don't decorate
my luxuriant tresses with flowers.
and don't touch me!',
Just see if I don't!
you say to me:
'Don't be sad, he's on his way here,
right now,'
yet how can I not weep?
Even in this season of spring,
when in the mango tree's branches
the black kuyil with his fine, shiny feathers
is pecking at the fragant pollen
so that he looks like a touchstone,
speckled with powdered gold,
here I am, stroking my own
loosely-gathered, undressed hair.
whose tanks with their narrow mouths,
looking like blue vials filled with toddy,
resound to the croaking,
like wooden rattles,
of gap-mouthed frogs,
embraced my wide shoulders
beneath the white light
of last month's waxing moon.
Even today
his scent of jasmin buds
is still upon them.
and lightening flashes;
not only that, the forest peacocks
are quick to echo the noise
with their own plaintive cries.
My foolish heart is sorely troubled,
my friend,
by the combined effect
of these two discordant sounds.
What can I say of its sorry condition?
as it sinks behind the Western Mount,
and desolate eventide comes on
bringing its burden of sorrow.
Yet where can he be?
Intent on seeking his fortune
did he not think,
'Oh, what pain she must be suffering?'
and does he not know how my body,
like a doll, all dressed up,
has become altered,
buffeted by the north wind's gusts?
you would say it was the finest sweet sugar-candy,
but now, if she gave you clear ice-cold water
from the tanks of Lord Pari on Mount Parambu,
chilled by the chilly month of Tai,
you would say that it was lukewarn and brackish.
That's how much your love has changed, my Lord.
What help is there for us?
Echoing our suffering,
the dense rains of the monsoon,
which comes bringing the ocean's waters
and what all else in its train,
have stupidly got all mixed up
with the cold north wind of winter,
in whose form Death now comes,
making me, separated from my lover,
its target.
bears the scent of sandalwood
from the forests of Mulur Malaiyan,
in whose powerful hand
shines a spear fit to slay his enemies,
my mother come here a lot,
so don't you come.
We'll be going by the path
where the ya trees
have been cut and burnt,
to scare away the parrots
that attack the red millet,
whose green stalks
are as fat as sugar-cane,
and whose densely clustering yellow ears -
curved like a lady elephant's trunk,
bent, like a blacksmith's tongs -
are filled with sap.
whose heavy tresses, sleek and black,
are fragrant like the breezes
that waft across the forests of Ori,
he of the sturdy chariot and strong arms,
there remains one certainty, my heart:
there is no way that this lovesickness will die.
Enduring even as it is today
it will follow us
into the world of our next birth.