Festivities like never before began to take place in Nīlā's mansion. Initially, it was a source of wonder to everyone. Everyone came, and everyone left.
Nīlā treated Kāḷindī, the Crown Prince's wife, with the highest degree of reverence. The respect she offered her eldest sister-in-law was equal to what she showed her own mother-in-law. To the observers, this appeared entirely natural.
As everyone was departing, Nīlā said to Kāḷindī: "Sister! Please stay and depart a little late. I was supposed to come to your mansion myself; many times I thought of coming. I am naturally prone to sloth (alasata). I hold great respect for certain people, and if I fail to express it, it is only due to my laziness and no other reason. I have so much respect for you; please stay for a moment, forgive my lapse, and pardon me."
Faced with such overwhelming humility, what could Kāḷindī say? After informing her mother-in-law, she stayed behind. Once everyone had left, Nīlā moved to massage Kāḷindī's feet. Kāḷindī refused. Nīlā said: "Sister! You are a Maharaja's daughter. I am a child of a poor house. It is only because your brother-in-law showed me mercy that I entered the royal harem; otherwise, where would I have been?" Thus, she displayed an excess of humility.
Kāḷindī immediately felt a suspicion regarding Nīlā. It took root in her. However, she did not betray her suspicion externally. She did not allow even a single hair of her eyebrows—which might stimulate doubt—to twitch. Not even a trace of suspicion manifested upon her delicate lips.
Kāḷindī replied instantly: "Sister! Many people say many things about you. I know you are naturally a humble woman. I have been telling everyone that you must be very good. You are truly as virtuous as I imagined. It is true I am a Maharaja's daughter, but what does that matter, dear? Once we arrive here, we are all one. What bond remains with our birth homes? The lives of princesses are like this—only until we go to our husbands' homes. After coming here, we are but parrots in a cage. It is said that Bhāma had four elder sisters, and they and Bhāma lived together in great harmony. Now, who knows where they are! Whenever I think of this matter, one thing comes to my memory—do you know the story of King Nala?"
Nīlā did not know it. She thought that if she said she didn't know, Kāḷindī might laugh, and she might appear as someone lacking knowledge of her own land's history. If she said she knew, what questions might this woman ask? Therefore, she remained silent, neither saying she knew nor that she didn't. Kāḷindī realized that she did not know the history of Nala.
Without revealing her realization, Kāḷindī continued: "King Nala abandoned Damayantī and departed. In the forest, he tore her single sari in half and went away. She wandered through the wilderness until she reached the Cēdi country. The Queen of Cēdi was her maternal aunt. She stayed there for some time. Sudēva[1]came searching for Damayantī from the Vidarbha country. He had to inform the Queen of Cēdi that this woman was the daughter of the King of Vidarbha. From then on, the Queen of Cēdi began to treat Damayantī with even more love and respect. She was her aunt, and this woman was her elder sister's daughter. They did not know each other. That aunt had not even come to Damayantī's wedding. Our Kṣatriya kinships are like this."
"In ordinary families, even distant relationships are easily known. A marriage simply does not happen without all relatives attending. What can we do? Therefore, since we have gathered in one place, we are sisters. You might ask, isn't there a great distance between the Niṣadha and Cēdi countries? Why should they not know each other? There is no distance at all. Between the Kṛṣṇā and Gōdāvarī is the Āndhra country. To the west of this Āndhra country is Vidarbha. On the other bank of Gōdāvarī is the Puṇḍra country. That is my birthplace. On this side of Gōdāvarī is Vidarbha. Once you cross the Tapatī river, there are the Cēdi and Niṣadha countries. They are adjacent, just like the Āndhra and Vidarbha countries. There is no great distance.
Why say there is no distance there? What is the distance between these Āndhra and Puṇḍra countries? Neither do I go there, nor do these people send me. Nor do they ask to send me.
I believe in previous yugas, there wasn't such difficulty in travel. Why wouldn't it be? The story of Nala happened in the Kṛta Yuga, right!
But perhaps by the time of Rāmāyaṇa wasn't like this. We hear that Kausalyā, Kaikēyī, and Sumitrā all traveled for Śrī Rāmacandra's wedding. How true that is? Why bother about those words now? We three have fallen in one place. To me, Bhāma and you are one and the same."
Nīlā did not understand what she was hearing. She also did not know that there were matters in the ancient stories of India that required interpreted explanation. She had heard that Kāḷindī was a scholar. Nīlā was a woman who grew up freely in villages but did not know mental discipline. All the culture in her heart had been inherited from Rēlaṅgi. To that, Dussala gave encouragement. Nīlā was naturally wise. She did not understand Kāḷindī's true form. She didn't know if she was taking wrong steps. If she spoke something by mistake, Dussala's instruction would go to waste.
Unknown to her, a desire to hear a new story arose in Nīlā's heart. Regardless of Dussala or what Kāḷindī thought, she wanted to know: Why did King Nala tear his wife Damayantī's sari in the middle of the forest and leave? She thought she should ask Kāḷindī and learn that story. Would it be proper to ask? She decided to remain quiet this time and ask another time, or perhaps ask her husband. She was in this contemplation. In the meantime, Kāḷindī departed, saying she would return. After she left, Nīlā thought, "I do not know how to speak with her! How can I stop her here?"
Nevertheless, she went up to the doorway, took leave of Kāḷindī, and returned. That day, Dussala arrived late. She said, "You must have been talking with the Crown Princess. I did not wish to meet her today. That is why I came late."
Nīlā said: "I could not stop her for long. She started something about King Nala tearing Damayantī's sari in the forest, the Cēdi country, and how the Queen of Cēdi was some relative to that Damayantī. They supposedly didn't know each other. She spoke in the same flow for exactly ten liptas. I didn't even have a chance to catch my breath. I don't even know those names. What answer could I give? My situation became like a lizard fallen into milk."
To this, Dussala replied: "Suppose you do not know a story. When others mention subjects we don't know while talking, one must have a skill. Even if we don't know the names in the story, any story is something that happens in the human world, isn't it? In this world, there are only two things: joy and sorrow. All stories are based on them, right? When joy comes, if you smile, and when sorrowful things are told, if you say words like 'Alas! Poor thing!' or 'Yes, that's exactly how it happened!', the other person won't know that you don't know the story. Before this, we must be able to kill the trait of being stunned (nivverapōvuṭa) at what we don't know. You are a young girl, raised in the forest. Do as I say this time. One might wonder if this trait should be natural to the mind or if it can be learned. Before going to talk to anyone, if one firms the mind saying—no matter what they say, I will not feel hatred, I will not be stunned, I will not show wonder—then one can be at ease. It can be said that the mind has a trait of guarding itself on its own."
Nīlā thought of asking Dussala to tell that story. Would it be a mistake to ask? It wasn't a story of the Mlecchas; it was an Indian story. Dussala did not have as much affection for Indian stories as she had for Mleccha stories. Even if Dussala knew the story, one had to hear it from Kāḷindī to grasp the beauty within the tale.
When another festival took place in Nīlā's house, all the female relatives left. Without Nīlā even requesting, Kāḷindī lingered. "I am thinking of staying for a while, dear. It didn't feel like I came or stayed the other day. I had some urgent work at home that day and left. Today I came intending to stay for a bit," said Kāḷindī, and she sat upon the gem-carpet spread on the platform in the hall.
One of Nīlā's worries was resolved. The question of how to stop her had been in her mind, and she had stayed uninvited. Nīlā sat humbly beside her. The humility in Nīlā had acquired some naturalness without her even knowing. Kāḷindī looked at her and smiled. Before Kāḷindī's pleasant smile, before the radiance of her eyes, before the gravity in her cheeks, and before the sovereign majesty of her eyebrows, what was Nīlā? What was her worth? Nīlā softened in a minute. She didn't feel like a sister-in-law; she felt like some servant. All her sense of freedom seemed to vanish in a moment.
The way Kāḷindī sat was as if saying, "Ask anything, I shall give; question anything, I shall answer." Nīlā composed herself and said: "Sister! Out of kindness, you stayed on your own. From that day until today, I have been wanting to hear that story. Why did Nala leave Damayantī in the forest? What is this about tearing the sari? Why did he tear it? What story is behind it? What is this about tearing a wife's sari? I didn't understand anything. Tell me that story."
Kāḷindī smiled and said: "I understand your doubt. As for why he tore it—both of them were wearing the same single cloth, dear! She was sleeping. He thought of leaving her and going. If he didn't tear the sari in the middle, how could he go?"
As soon as she heard these words, Nīlā's body experienced thrills. In her mind, it was as if moonlight from a moon cleared of clouds had spread over a strange world of śṛṅgāra (romance). Did both husband and wife wear the same garment? What a unique romance is this! Are they both that much one? In those who were so unified, why did the husband tear the sari and leave? Was it to play hide and seek? Where were they then? Were they in a single bed? Were they sleeping in a room in their mansion? Were they in some mountains? Would he go and hide behind some rock? If she called, would he answer? Would all the mountains echo her call? Would it break out in the waves of mountain winds like the sound of a flute? Would there be cracks in the air waves? How would it be when he answered back? This is a romance that surpasses the romance of Ārama and Gīlā! Thinking thus, without mentioning the names of Gīlā and Ārama, she showered questions. Kāḷindī was delighted by the sharpness of her imagination. She thought, This girl, with such beautiful imaginative elegance, yet saddened that such a fine mind was being spoiled by hidden agendas.
Then, for a period of two or three ghadiyas, Kāḷindī told the entire history of Nala to Nīlā. The story moved in a zig-zag manner. It didn't go from beginning to end. Because Nīlā kept asking questions until the very end, and answering those questions turned the story around. How can one describe the beauty in those questions? If one wrote the story based on her questions and these answers, it could become a supreme, unique Kāvyam (poem). What kind of questions occurred to her! She wouldn't ask a simple question. For every trunk, she would identify twenty branches. All those branches were as delicate as half-blossomed creepers.
If Kāḷindī's mind itself were a person, that person's olfactory satisfaction would be the supreme experience of the fresh and pure fragrance emanating from those half-blossomed flower bunches. Kāḷindī forgot she was the Crown Princess. Nīlā forgot she was a sister-in-law. She forgot she was Dussala's disciple. She forgot the effort of detaining Kāḷindī there at Dussala's encouragement. Kāḷindī remained in the sweet worlds born of the rocking waves of that river of stories. One was the Guru, the other the disciple. One the elder sister, the other the younger. As if telling their troubles to each other, listening to the sorrowful story of Nala and Damayantī—their hearts were being struck by a romantic sentiment (śṛṅgāra bhāva) that was immersed in an ocean of grief born of eternal waiting, pushed away from the state of experience. Was the primary rasa[2]in that story śōka (grief) or śṛṅgāra (romance)? What is the relationship between śōka rasa and śṛṅgāra rasa? Everything behind the story was their mutual love for each other. It was by their love that the grief was governed. Even though their hearts were experiencing grief, in their vital characteristics, śṛṅgāra rasa was flowing as a living stream.
Eventually, no more questions remained to be asked about the story. By then, two or three ghadiyas of the day had passed. Dussala arrived and, from the doorway, observed the two of them in their state of total immersion (tanmaya-sthiti). She understood nothing of what was happening or what they were discussing. Nīlā looked toward her, and was pulled back from that world of imagination. At that moment, Nīlā's situation felt extremely peculiar. Dussala was already her Guru; it was her daily habit to show her respect the moment she arrived. But Dussala was merely a Guru; seated before her was the Crown Princess. Within these three ghadiyas, Kāḷindī had also occupied the position of a Guru. Beyond that, she possessed the sovereign status of the Crown Princess. If Nīlā rose immediately to show respect to Dussala, it would undoubtedly be a slight to the Crown Princess. If she did not, it would be an act of insolence toward Dussala.
Suddenly, a deceptive thought (kaitavam) flashed in Nīlā's mind. She did not know why this artifice occurred to her, but she reasoned: "I have proceeded in this task under Dussala's encouragement. If I show her insolence now, it will damage some major plan unknown to me. I can seek Kāḷindī's forgiveness in private later." Deciding this, she rose immediately, went to Dussala, led her inside, and seated her on another platform.
She then said to Kāḷindī: "Sister! Her name is Dussala. Her son's name is Jayadratha. I do not know which country they belong to—I recall being told it was the Sindhu country. Six years ago, her son came to our court to seek employment. My father-in-law had this mother and son stay at the Dharmaśālā. For these six years, they have not been granted an audience. They are being sent a daily allowance. Occasionally, her son requests permission for a royal audience, but my father-in-law keeps postponing it. It hasn't been just a day or two; it has been six years. She is an elderly woman and wished to have your darśanam[3]. She visits my mansion frequently and asked me to arrange a meeting with you. The other day, when you came, she tried to stop you just to make this request. Today, she arrived while you were still here. Please forgive me!"
Dussala was stunned. Who was this Nīlā? Was she truly her disciple? What was this talk? What was this humility? Was there truly such respect in Nīlā for the Crown Princess? This was only the second time she was meeting the Crown Princess. When she stood at the doorway and watched, the way Nīlā sat and her mental absorption did not look like the traits of her disciple. If the Crown Princess had exerted such influence over Nīlā in just these two or three ghadiyas, then far from turning Kāḷindī to her side, Dussala feared she might lose Nīlā's devotion entirely. Or was this all an act? Such refined acting was not in Nīlā's nature. Dussala, who had watched over Nīlā for months, was at a loss.
She looked toward Kāḷindī. What did her face reveal? She was a woman of such radiance that she was fit to be the Queen of vast empires. There was a brilliance emanating from her eyes. Dussala began to analyze that light as if it were divided into sixteen rays.
One ray suggested:[4] Has she and her son been here for six years? Was the father-in-law merely sending an allowance without granting an audience? I must find out who this son is.
Another ray: I am the Crown Princess. There is a certain respect she owes me, which she has not shown. What is the reason for this lack of respect? She must hold some authority over Nīlā. Nīlā must be someone who follows her bidding. Relying on that support, she behaves thus with me!
Behind this was another ray: That authority is not ordinary; it is distinct. It seems related to spiritual matters, yet it does not appear truly spiritual. There is some non-traditional trait in it!
Yet another ray: It seems she intends to make me her disciple. What would she instruct me? Who is she?
Dussala perceived that Kāḷindī was thinking thus. How is it possible for such deep thoughts to be reflected in a mere glance? The minds and gazes of those whose thoughts dive ten fathoms deep and rise a hundred fathoms high are different. Their recognition (abhijñānam) is different.
Kāḷindī looked at Dussala. It felt to Kāḷindī as though she, despite being the Crown Princess, should rise and salute Dussala. An audacity was dancing in Dussala's eyes. It was the kind of audacity where some people believe themselves to be extremely great because they frequently associate with those of dull intellect who praise them to the skies. Such people do not realize that there are truly great souls or scholars more learned than themselves. They believe everyone who approaches them must respect them; that they were born solely to receive such honor.
This trait was visible in Dussala's eyes. The Āndhra people have a specific word for this—Dhārṣṭīkam. Its nature is such that even when it recognizes the talent of another, it refuses to honor it. It might even tell its followers that the other person's talent is non-existent. This is a Mleccha thought—a thought devoid of Dharma.
This mutual observation and reading of each other's thoughts happened in a mere moment. Kāḷindī said: "Is your name Dussala-Dēvi[5]? I feel I have heard this name somewhere. I have never had your darśanam. If you had sent me a small message, I would have granted permission to visit. You are elderly and seem like one with great worldly experience. You appear to be of noble birth. There is an inherent authority in you, a trait of being accustomed to being honored by others. If you have any work with me, I will do what I can."
Dussala was perplexed. There was sarcasm (vyangyam), objection, and shrewdness in those words. The final sentence—"ask me if you need anything and I will do it"—suggested there was no relationship between them beyond that.
Dussala replied: "Yes, madam! It has been six years since we arrived. My son is not getting a royal audience. He asked me many times to seek your darśanam. It is a trait of the human mind that when there is work with an official, one immediately thinks of who can influence them rather than approaching directly. This seems to be a fixed flaw in human intellect. I know this NīlāDēvi[6]—though I do not truly know her. Her parents are residents of Śambara-dīvi. My son and I lived there for two years. We are well-acquainted with her parents. Based on that connection, I came to her mansion."
Kāḷindī scrutinized every word. Nīlā was her sister-in-law, a queen in her own right, yet Dussala showed her no respect in her speech, nor did she show respect to Kāḷindī. More importantly, Kāḷindī's royal instinct caught onto something else: they had lived in Śambara-dīvi for two years. Was this true?
Dussala had mentioned this lie because her son had told her it would explain their closeness to Nīlā. She assumed a Princess would not bother to verify such details.
Kāḷindī said: "This is not in my hands. I will mention it to the Crown Prince and have him speak with the Maharaja. It is not right to keep you there for six years merely on an allowance. What is your son's name?"
Dussala: "Jayadratha."
Immediately, it struck Kāḷindī—Dussala and Jayadratha? She had heard parts of the Bhārata story from Vinaya Śarma. What were these names? What was this strange connection? She asked: "What is his expertise?"
Dussala: "He knows many arts, primarily swordsmanship. He has studied it in many lands. He could be appointed as a commander (Daḷādhipati), or he is an expert in politics and could be an Under-minister (Upamantri)."
Kāḷindī: "He could be made a commander. My brother-in-law Vijaya Simha is there! If your son's skill in swordsmanship had been made known to him, there wouldn't have been this much trouble."
But another thought came to Kāḷindī. There had been many displays of swordsmanship over the years. Why hadn't he participated in any? If he were such an expert, everyone would be talking about him. This son must be someone who does not want to be a mere commander. He wants a political role. Who stays in a Dharmaśālā for six years just for a job? Only those who wish to achieve some greater objective.
Kāḷindī felt she was on the verge of finding what she had been searching for. Who was this Jayadratha? Had her husband fallen under his influence? Had Dussala trapped the innocent Nīlā in a web of delusion? Kāḷindī realized she had to leave and investigate. She needed to send word to Vinaya Śarma immediately. Was it true that Dussala and Jayadratha lived in Śambara-dīvi for two years before coming here?
Translation by Vishal Royal
[1] sudeva is the envoy sent by king Bhima to search for his daughter damayanti and Nala
[2] maybe essense
[3] get an audience with crown princess
[4] these are interpretations by dussala of kalindi's gaze
[5] 'devi' is not pat of her name, but people refer 'devi' other women who may need to be shown respect
[6] not her name, but people refer 'devi' other women who may need to be shown respect