For twelve bright years, Nala and Damayantí lived happily together. The great rajah ruled his people justly. He offered up every sacrifice to the gods, and gave sumptuous gifts to holy men. Fair Damayantí became the mother of a beauteous daughter, who was named Indrasena, and a comely son, who was named Indrasen. So were the blessings of life showered upon the blissful pair.

But at length, there came a day when, after performing an unclean act, Nala sipped holy water and went to prayer with unwashed feet. The watchful Kali seized this fatal opportunity and straightway entered the rajah and possessed his inmost soul. Then that evil demon summoned Push’kara, the brother of Nala, saying: “Come now and throw dice with the king. I will give you my aid, so that you will be enabled to win the whole realm for yourself.”

Pushkara challenged his brother, at which point the wicked spirit Dwapara entered the dice.

Nala gave ready consent to take part in the game of hazard, for he was swayed by evil Kali. Then the two rivals began to play together in the presence of Damayantí.

The great rajah staked his wealth, and he lost; he risked his golden treasures, and he gambled his chariots, and still, he lost; he staked his rich attire, and he continued to lose. The passion for dice had possessed Nala like to sudden madness, and it was in vain that his friends endeavoured to restrain him.

In time rumours of dire happenings went abroad through the city, whereupon the rajah’s faithful subjects, accompanied by high counsellors of state, assembled at the palace gate with the desire to prevail upon him to cease playing. They urged upon Damayantí to intervene, and the spirit-broken daughter of Bhima approached Nala in anguish and in dismay. With tear-choking voice, she spoke to him, saying: “All your subjects are gathered outside, for they cannot endure the thought that misfortune should fall upon you.”

Nala heard her but answered not a word because his soul was clouded by evil Kali. Then the wise men said: “It is not he,” and they departed to their homes in sorrow and in shame.

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

So the play went on. Daily, it went on through many weary months, and Nala was always lost.

When, in the end, Damayantí perceived that all the treasures were lost, she sent for the faithful charioteer, Várshneya, and spoke to him, saying: “Hasten now and yoke Nala’s swift and much-loved steeds, and place my children in the chariot. Then drive quickly to the city of my kindred and leave them in care of my father, the Rajah Bhima. When you have done me that service, O Varshneya, you may go wherever you wish.”

So the charioteer conveyed the beauteous girl Indrasena and the comely boy Indrasen to the city of Vidarbha, and he delivered them safely unto Bhima, whom he informed fully regarding the fall of Nala. After that, he departed, sorrowing greatly, and went to the city of Ayodhyá, where he took service with the renowned Rajah Rituparna.

Nala played on. He continued to throw the dice until, at length, he had lost all his possessions. Then Pushkara smiled and spoke to his stricken brother, saying: “Now, throw but one more hazard. Where is your stake? Ah! You have naught left now save Damayantí. Let us throw the dice for her.”

At these words, Nala’s heart was rent in two. Mute with sorrow, he gazed upon his brother. He arose and stripped off his rich vestments one by one in the presence of his lamenting friends. Then slowly and in silence, he went forth, naked and alone. Damayantí, wearing but a single garment, followed him behind. Together they stood at the city gates.

Then Pushkara, who had become rajah, caused to be proclaimed throughout the city the dread decree: “Whosoever gives food or drink to Nala shall be immediately put to death”.

In their terror, the people could not give further help to the fallen king, and for three days and three nights, he drank water only. Then he plucked wild fruit and roots from the earth, which he ate. Nala thereafter wandered away from Nishadha, an outcast among men, and Damayantí followed him.

Tortured by hunger, the fallen king at length beheld on the ground a flock of birds with gold-flecked wings, and he said in his heart: “Now I will make a welcome feast.”

So he crept forward and flung over them his single garment, but they rose in the air, carrying it away with them. As they went, they cried out mockingly in human language and said: “Know now, O foolish king, that we are the dice. We came here to rob you utterly, for so long as you have a single garment left our joy was incomplete.”

Then Nala spoke to Damayantí in his anguish, saying: “O blameless one, by whose anger have I been driven from my kingdom and rendered thus unable to procure any food? Listen now to my counsel. The roads diverge here before us, and one leads southward past the caves of holy hermits, which are stored with food, towards the kingdom of your royal sire.”

Anxiously did Nala point out the way and urge upon Bhima’s fair daughter to take refuge in Vidarbha before he would enter the great forest.

Weighed down by her heavy sorrow, Damayantí made answer with tear-choking voice: “Alas! Your words of counsel cause my heart to break and my limbs to fail me. How can I leave you all alone in trackless forest when you have lost your kingdom and riches, and while you are thirsty and tortured by hunger? Rather let me comfort you, O my husband, when in your grief, and, famine-stricken as you now are, You ponder wearily over your lost happiness. In truth have wise physicians said that a wife is the only balsam and the only healing herb for her husband’s sorrow.”

Said Nala: “You have spoken truly. There is indeed no medicine for a stricken man like to his wife’s love. Think not that I desire to part from you. Would that I could abandon myself!”

Damayantí wept and said: “If you would not leave me, why, O king, do you make heavier my sorrow by pointing out the way to Vidarbha? You are too noble to abandon me, yet you show me the road southward. If I should return to my father, you should come with me, and he will bid you welcome, and we could dwell together happily in his palace.”

Nala made answer sadly: “Ah! never can I return in my shame to that city where I have appeared in early days in pride and in splendour.”

Then, comforting Damayantí, Nala wandered on with her through the deep forest, and they made one garment serve them both. Greatly they suffered from hunger and thirst, and when at length they came to a lonely hut, they sat down on the hard ground, nor had they even a mat to rest upon. Damayantí was overcome with weariness, and soon she sank asleep; she lay all naked on that bare floor. But there was no rest for Nala. He thought with pain of his lost kingdom and the friends who had deserted him, and of the weary journey, he must make in the midst of the great forest. “Ah! Would it be better to die now and end all,” he mused, “or to desert her whom I love? She is devoted to me more deeply than I deserve. Maybe if she were abandoned, she would return to Vidarbha. She is unable to endure my sufferings and the constant sorrow which must be mine.”

Long he pondered thus until Kali swayed him to desert his faithful wife. So he severed her garment and used half of it. He turned away from the fair princess as she lay fast asleep.

Repenting in his heart, Nala returned speedily and gazed upon fair Damayantí with pity and with love. He wept bitterly, saying: “Ah! You sleep on the bare hard ground whom neither sun nor storm has ever used roughly. O my loved one, you have always wake up with a smile. How will you fare when you discover that your lord has abandoned you in the midst of the perilous forest? May sun and wind and the spirits of the wood protect you, and may you be shielded ever by your own great virtue!”

Then the distracted rajah, prompted by Kali again, hastened away. But his heart was torn by his love, which drew him back. So time and again, he came and went, like to a swing, backward and forward, until in the end, the evil spirit conquered him, and he departed from Damayantí, who moaned fitfully in her sleep and he plunged into the depths of the forest.