Before long, the fair princess woke up, and when she perceived that she was all alone, she uttered a piteous scream and cried out: “Oh! where are you, my king, my lord, my sole protector? I am lost. Oh! I am undone. I am helpless and alone in the perilous wood. Ah! Now you are but deceiving me. Do not mock me, my lord. Are you hidden there among the bushes? Oh, speak! Why do you not answer? I do not sorrow for myself only. I cannot well endure that you should be alone, thirsty, hungered and very weary, and without me to give you comfort.”

So she wailed as she searched through the forest for Nala, now casting herself upon the ground, now sitting to pine in silence, and crying out in her grief. At length, she said: “Oh, may he who caused Nala to suffer, endure even greater agony than he endures, and may he live forever in darkness and in misery!”

Hither and thither she wandered, seeking her lord, and ever was she heard crying: “Alas! O alas! My husband.”

Suddenly a great serpent rose in its wrath and coiled itself around her fair body.

“Oh! my guardian,” she cried, “I am now undone. The serpent has seized me. Why are you not near? Ah! Who will comfort you now in your sorrow, O blameless Nala?”

As she lamented thus, a passing huntsman heard her cries. He broke through the jungle and beheld Damayantí in the coils of the serpent. Nimbly he darted forward and with a single blow smote off the monster’s head and thus rescued the beautiful lady from her great peril. Then he washed her body and gave her food, and she was refreshed.

“Who are you, O fair-eyed one?” he asked. “Why do you wander alone in the perilous wood?”

Damayantí of faultless form related to the huntsman the story of her sorrow. As she spoke, his frail heart was moved by her great beauty, and he uttered amorous words with a whining voice. Perceiving his evil intent, she was roused to fierce anger. Her chastity was her sole defence, and she cursed him so that he immediately fell dead like a tree that has been smitten by lightning and is suddenly blasted.

Freed thus from the savage huntsman of wild beasts, the lotus-eyed Damayantí wandered on through the deep forest, which resounded everywhere with the song of the cricket. All around her were trees of every form and name. She beheld shady arbours, deep valleys, wooded hill summits, lakes and pools, loud resounding waterfalls, and great flowing rivers. The forest was drear and appalling: it was full of lions and tigers, of countless birds and fierce robbers. She saw buffaloes and wild boars feeding and the fierce and awesome forms there also—serpents and giants and terrible demons. However, protected by her virtue, she wandered on all alone without fear. Her sole anxiety was for Nala, and she wept for him, crying: “Ah! where are you? O blameless one, remember now your vows and your faith. Remember the words which the gold-winged swan addressed to you. Am I not your loved one? Oh! Why do you not make answer in this dark and perilous forest? The savage beasts are gaping to devour me. Why are you not near to save? I am weak and pallid and dust-stained and need you, my protector. Whom can I ask for, Nala? The tiger is before me, the king of the forest, and I am not afraid. I address him, saying: ‘Oh! I am lonely, wretched, and sorrowful, seeking my exiled husband. If you have seen him, console me; if you hast not seen him, devour me, and set me free from this misery.’ But the tiger turns down to the riverbank, and I wander onward towards the holy mountain, the monarch of hills.

“‘Hear me!’ I cry. I salute you, O Mountain. I am a king’s daughter and the consort of a king, the illustrious lord of Nishadha, the pious, the faultless one, who is courageous as the elephant. Have you seen my Nala, O mighty Mountain? Ah! Why do you not answer me? Comfort you me now as if I were your own child. Oh! Shall I ever behold him again, and ever hear again his honey-sweet voice, like music, saying: ‘Daughter of Vidarbha,’ while it soothes all my pain with its blessed sound?”

Having thus addressed the mountain, Damayantí turned northward and wandered on for three days and nights. Then she reached a holy grove, and entered it humbly and without fear. She beheld there the cells of hermits and their bright sacred fires. The holy men were struck with wonder because of her beauty, and they bade her welcome, saying: “Are you a goddess of the wood, or the mountain, or the river? O speak and tell.”

Damayantí made answer: “I am not a goddess of the wood, or a mountain spirit, or yet a river nymph, but a mortal woman.”

Then she related to the holy men the story of her sorrow and her wandering. These seers said: “The time comes soon, a time of beauty when you will again behold Nala in splendour and sin-released ruling over his people.”

When they had spoken thus, all the holy men vanished, and their sacred fires vanished also. Damayantí stood for a while in silent wonder, and in her heart, she said: “Have I seen a vision?” Then she went towards another region.

Lamenting for Nala, the fair one came to a beauteous Asoka tree. Its green branches were gemmed with gleaming fruit and melodious with birds’ songs. “O happy tree,” she cried, “take away all my grief. Say, have you beheld my Nala, the slayer of his enemies, my beloved lord? Oh! Have you seen my one love, with smooth, bright skin, wandering alone in the forest? Answer me, O blessed Asoka, so that I may depart from you in joy. Ah! Hear and speak you happy tree.”

So, wailing in her deep anguish, Damayantí moved around the Asoka. Then she went towards a lonelier and more fearsome region. She passed many a river and many mountains, and she saw numerous birds and deer as she wandered on and on, searching for her lost lord.

At length, she beheld a great caravan of merchants. Ponderous elephants, eager camels, prancing horses, and rumbling cars came through a river. The river banks were fringed by cane and tangled undergrowth. The curlew called aloud there; red geese were clamouring; turtles were numerous, as were the fish and the serpents likewise. All the noble animals of the caravan came splashing noisily across the ford.

The great concourse of travellers stared with wonder on the slender-waisted, maniac-like woman, clad in but half a garment, smeared with dust and pale and sorrowful, her long hair all matted and miry. Some there were who fled from her in fear. But others took pity and said: “Who are you, O lady, and what do you seek in the lonely forest? Are you a goddess of the mountain, or of the forest, or of the plain? We pray for your protection. Be mindful of our welfare so that we may prosper upon our journey.”

Then Damayantí told the story of her misfortune and sorrow. All the travellers gathered around to hear—boys and young men and grey-haired sages. “Oh! Have you beheld my lord, my Nala?” she cried unto them.

The band captain answered her “No.” And she asked him where the caravan was bound for, at which he said: “We are going towards the realm of Chedi, over which Subáhu is king.” When the merchants resumed their journey, Damayantí went with them.

They travelled a long distance through the forest, and at evening, they reached the green shore of a beautiful wide lake that sparkled with bright lotus blooms. The camp was pitched in the middle of a deep grove. Gladly did the men bathe with their wearied animals in the delicious, ice-cool waters.

At midnight all slept. In the deep silence, a herd of wild forest elephants, with moisture oozing from their temples, came down to drink from the gurgling stream which flowed to the camp. When they scented the tame elephants lying crouched in slumber, they trumpeted aloud, and of a sudden, charged ponderously and fell upon them like to mountain peaks tumbling into the valleys beneath. Trees and tents were thrown down as they trampled through the camping ground, and the travellers awoke panic-stricken, crying: “Oh! Alas! Ah! Oh!” Some fled through the forest, others, blind with sleep, stood gasping with wonder, and the elephants slew them. The camp was scattered in dire confusion; many animals were gored. Men overthrew one another, endeavouring to escape; many shrieked in terror, and a few climbed trees. Voices were heard calling: “It is a fire!” and merchants screamed, “Why fly away so speedily? Save the precious jewels, O cowards.”

Amidst the tumult and the slaughter, Damayantí awoke, trembling with fear, and she made a swift escape, and did not suffer any wound. In the deep forest, she came near the few men who had found refuge, and she heard them say one to another:

“What deed have we done to bring this misfortune upon us? Have we forgotten to adore Manibhadra, the high king of the Yakshas? Did we not worship, before we headed out, the dread spirits which bring disasters? Was it doomed that all omens should be belied? How come such a disaster has fallen on us?”

Others who had been bereft of their kindred and their wealth, and were in misery, said: “Who was she—that ill-omened, maniac-eyed woman who came amongst us? In truth she seemed scarcely human. Surely it is by reason of her evil power that disaster has befallen us. Ah! She is a witch, or she is a sorceress, or mayhap a demon. Without doubt she is the cause of all our woes. Would that we could find her—oh the evil destroyer! Oh the curse of our host! Let us slay the murderess with clods and with stones, with canes and with staves, or else with our fists.”

When the terrified and innocent Damayantí heard these fearsome threats, she fled away through the trees, lamenting her fate and wailing: “Alas! Alas! My terrible doom still haunts me. Misfortune dogs my footsteps. I have no memory of any sin of thought or deed—of any wrong done by me to living beings. Maybe, oh, alas! I did sin in my former life and am now suffering due punishment. For I suffer, indeed. I have lost my husband; my kingdom is lost; I have lost my kindred; my noble Nala has been taken from me, and I am far removed from my children, and I wander alone in the wood of serpents.”

When morning broke, the sorrowful queen met with some holy Brahmans who had escaped the night’s disaster, and she went with them towards the city of Chedi.

The people gazed with wonder on Damayantí when she walked through the streets with her dust-smeared body and matted hair. The children danced about her as she wandered about like to a maniac, so miserable and weary and emaciated.

It chanced that the sorrowing woman came to the royal palace. The mother of the king looked forth from a window and beheld her and said: “Hurry, and bring this poor wanderer here. Although stricken and half-clothed, she has, I think, the beauty of Indra’s long-eyed queen. Let her have refuge from those staring men.”

Damayantí was then led before the queen mother, who said gently: “Although bowed down with grief, you are beautiful of form. You do not fear anyone. Who are you so well protected by your own chastity?”

Bhima’s daughter wept, lamenting her fate, and related all that had befallen her but did not reveal who she was. Then the queen mother said: “Live here with me, and our servants shall go on quest of your husband.”

Damayantí said: “O mother of heroes, if I abide here with you I must eat not of food remnants, nor do menial service, nor can I hold converse with any man save the holy Brahmans who promise to search for my husband.”

The royal lady answered: “As you desire, so let it be.” Then she said to Sunanda, her daughter: “This lady will be to you a handmaiden and a friend. She is of your own age and a worthy peer. Be happy together.”

At these words, the Princess Sunanda was made glad, and she led the strange woman to her own abode, where all her virgin handmaidens sat.

There Damayantí dwelt for a time, waiting for her lost husband.

This story was first written by Donald Alexander Mackenzie. It has been adapted for Readomania by our editorial team.