"Hadst thou been never born, Rama, my son, Born for my grief, I had not felt such pain, A childless woman. For the barren one Grief of the heart companions, only one, Complaining, 'I am barren'; this she mourns, She has no cause for any deeper tears.
But I am inexperienced in delight And never of my husband's masculine love Had pleasure,—still I lingered, still endured Hoping to be acquainted yet with joy.
Therefore full many unlovely words that strove To break the suffering heart had I to hear From wives of my husband, I the Queen and highest, From lesser women. Ah what greater pain Than this can women have who mourn on earth, Than this my grief and infinite lament?
O Rama, even at thy side so much I have endured, and if thou goest hence, Death is my certain prospect, death alone. Cruelly neglected, grievously oppressed I have lived slighted in my husband's house As though Kaicayie's serving-woman,—nay, A lesser thing than these. If any honours, If any follows me, even that man Hushes when he beholds Kaicayie's son.
How shall I in my misery endure That bitter mouth intolerable, bear Her ceaseless petulance. O I have lived Seventeen years since thou wast born, my son, O Rama, seventeen long years have lived, Wearily wishing for an end to grief; And now this mighty anguish without end!
I have no strength to bear for ever pain; Nor this worn heart with suffering fatigued To satisfy the scorn of rivals yields More tears. Ah how shall I without thy face Miserably exist, without thy face, My moon of beauty, miserable days? Me wretched, who with fasts and weary toils And dedicated musings reared thee up, Vainly. Alas, the river's giant banks, How great they are! and yet when violent rain Has levelled their tops with water, they descend In ruin, not like this heart which will not break.
But I perceive death was not made for me, For me no room in those stupendous realms Has been discovered; since not even today As on a mourning hind the lion falls Death seizes me or to his thicket bears With his huge leap,—death, ender of all pain.
How livest thou, O hard, O iron heart, Unbroken? O body, tortured by such grief, How sinkst thou not all shattered to the earth? Therefore I know death comes not called—he waits Inexorably his time. But this I mourn, My useless vows, gifts, offerings, self-control, And dire ascetic strenuousness perfected In passion for a son,—yet all like seed Fruitless and given to ungrateful soil. But if death came before his season, if one By anguish of unbearable heavy grief Naturally might win him, then today Would I have hurried to his distant worlds Of thee deprived, O Rama, O my son.
Why should I vainly live without thine eyes, Thou moonlight of my soul? No, let me toil After thee to the savage woods where thou Must harbour; I will trail these feeble limbs Behind thy steps as the sick yearning dam That follows still her ravished young." Thus she Yearning upon her own beloved son;— As over her offspring chained a Centauress Impatient of her anguish deep, so wailed Cowshalya; for her heart with grief was loud.
Sri Aurobindo's Translations - Pieces from the Ramayana
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