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Love Stories from The Mahabharata  
Parikshit and Sushobhana – 3

Sushobhana’s palms tingle with delight. In the lover’s speech it is inner suffering that throbs. Now, after so long, this foolish man’s love has become sincere. Sushobhana’s campaign for conquering the inner being has become successful.

Thereafter, not much longer. The day the sky was overcast with new monsoon clouds, sportive Sushobhana, richly bedecked, brimming with joy takes her lover’s hand and says,

“Roam with me in the garden, beloved.  Today my heart wishes to enchant your ears with my dancing anklets.”

Immediately on entering the garden, the calls of peacocks echo from all sides from within the shade of the tamaal tree. Holding her lover’s hand, Sushobhana runs to the tamaal tree as though truly thrilled, like a peahen longing for her mate.

Suddenly Sushobhana asks, “Dearest, what is the name of this lovely-leafed tree beloved of the peacock?”
“Tamaal!”
“A fine thing to show me, O king!”
Biting back a smile, the actress Sushobhana looks miserably at the lover. “The curse is come upon me. Be prepared to lose me now, King!”
The lover cries aloud in agony. He flings himself to the ground to clasp her lac-tinged feet. Sushobhana moves away. “Today let me remain in solitude, O king.”

Evening comes. Darkness congeals below the tamaal. Sushobhana sits there alone. Then, she cannot be found any more.

The lover knows, no amount of seeking will find her. That unknown marvellous beauty, churned out of the fragrance of all the flowers of this blue forest expanse, has been lost in the darkness of this clouded evening. That lovely lipped, surprising, nameless beloved is dead.  Gazing with thirsty eyes at the blue garden sits princess Sushobhana. Before her sits her companion, Subinita, fanning her.

Moistening the stubs of new leaves in the juice of red kumkum flowers, she draws designs on Sushobhana’s breast. Waving the whisk she fans Sushobhana’s cheeks, pained with beads of perspiration. Like an expert hairdresser, with gentle fingers she arranges the rebellious ringlets on Sushobhana’s forehead into an artful disarray. On the coiffure, arranged like layers of clouds, she pins a brilliant white moonstone. Then, raising Sushobhana’s chin with one hand, she scrutinises anxiously whether anything else is wanting in touching-up the loveliness of the princess’ face.

Glancing sidelong in amusement at her companion, princess Sushobhana asks, “What are you looking at, Subinita?”
“Your beauty, princess.”
“And how does it seem?”
“Beautiful.”
“How beautiful?”
“Bright as a bejewelled sword-blade, intoxicating like the wine of the golden dhatura, delicate as a flower-laden thorn-bush. Your voice is plangent like the insubstantial echo. Like the monsoon lightning, you are a dancing, vanishing flame.
Surprised, Sushobhana asks, “You speak like an expert poetess, Subinita. But I cannot follow the meaning of your words.”

– Continued

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