In the court of Rituparna, the man once known as King Nala now lived under the name Bahuka. His strange appearance—a short, dark, and deformed form—hid the splendour of a once-glorious monarch. Yet despite his outward change, his heart was fixed upon Damayanti, whose memory dwelt unceasingly in his soul. One night, as he lay in troubled sleep, he murmured, “O Damayanti, your graceful walk and royal bearing still shine before my eyes. How fares my helpless beloved in the wilds? Have the beasts of the forest spared you? Did you reach your parents as I desired, or do you still wander, forlorn and weary?” His voice trembled; sweat gathered on his brow; and sighs escaped him in his slumber.
Jīvala, his attendant, hearing these words, marvelled greatly. He looked upon Bahuka’s distorted frame and thought, “How could such a man be bound in love with a lady of surpassing beauty? If love springs between equals, then surely the one he speaks of must be as deformed as he.” Amused by his own crude reasoning, he questioned Bahuka, “How were you parted from your wife?”
Bahuka smiled faintly, perceiving the mockery hidden in the man’s curiosity. “Men laugh at me,” he said. “They think it folly that one such as I should have loved or been loved. When there is no beloved, what talk can there be of separation? Yet, in ancient days, a warrior named Maṇḍaprajña was parted from his beloved and wandered long in search of her, crying out her name in anguish. Perhaps, in my sleep, I repeated his words—and so you heard the echo of another’s sorrow.” Thus, he lightly veiled his grief beneath a veil of wit.
Though outwardly calm, Bahuka’s heart was a sea of longing. Amid his labours in Ayodhyā, he remembered his wife and children. Far away in Vidarbha, King Bhīma, father of Damayantī, lamented the loss of both his daughter and his son-in-law. To discover their fate, he sent forth learned brāhmins, richly rewarded and instructed to search in every land with courtesy and care. To whoever brought tidings of the lost pair, he promised a thousand gold gadyanas, and to whoever restored them, whole villages and herds of cows.
The brāhmins travelled far, through towns and forests, until at last they came to the kingdom of Cedi, ruled by Subāhu. Among them was Sudeva, a wise scholar. While attending the royal rites in the palace, his gaze fell upon a lady seated beside Princess Sunandā. Her beauty shone through sorrow like a flame through mist, or a moon glimpsed behind clouds. Her face bore a faint birthmark between the brows, the sign by which Sudeva knew her to be Damayantī herself. “Alas,” thought he, “she is as a lotus in mud, a pond without water, a creeper without blossom, yet radiant through her chastity—the true jewel of womanhood, which no thief can steal and no time can dim.”
Approaching her gently, he spoke: “O noble lady, your parents, your children, and your kin are safe, though grieving for your absence. Now shall they rejoice at your return. I am Sudeva, a brāhmin of your father’s court, and by fortune I have found you here.” Hearing his words, Damayantī wept with both sorrow and relief. Princess Sunandā, seeing her friend so moved, reported all to her mother, the queen. The queen, filled with wonder, came at once to see the stranger.
“O learned one,” said she, “tell me who this noble lady may be.” Sudeva bowed low and answered, “O lotus-eyed queen, this is Damayantī, princess of Vidarbha and wife of King Nala. By fate her husband lost his kingdom, and she followed him into exile. King Bhīma sent many brāhmins to seek her; by divine grace, I have found her here. The birthmark between her brows, set by Brahmā himself, is her seal.”
The queen, moved by the revelation, washed Damayantī’s face and beheld the mark shining like a star in the sky. Then, embracing her, she said with tears, “You are as my own daughter. Your mother and I are both daughters of the king of Daśārṇa. She became queen of Vidarbha, and I of Vīrabāhu. Come, stay with us in peace.”
After some days, Damayantī spoke softly to her aunt: “Mother, both Vidarbha and this land are homes to me, yet my heart yearns for my children and my kin. Permit me to return.” The queen, with tender affection, sent her forth in royal splendour. Thus, Damayantī came again to Vidarbha, but lived quietly, her mind ever fixed upon her lost husband.
At last, she said to her mother, “My life is barren without him. Send forth men to search for Nala; I am sure he yet lives.” Her plea was carried to King Bhīma, who called the brāhmins once more. Damayantī instructed them: “The king of Niṣadha, stripped of wealth and power, must now wander in disguise. Yet some signs will reveal him—a noble gait, discerning eyes, and mastery in handling horses. Wherever you go, proclaim thus: ‘O righteous king, you left your faithful wife alone in the forest. Is this the act of virtue? A husband must protect his wife in all trials. Show mercy to the jewel of chastity whom you forsook.’ He who responds to these words will be none other than Nala himself. Bring him home with honour, and if he remains silent, mark his place and return.”
Thus, with careful counsel and steadfast purpose, the search began anew. Destiny’s web unfolded through toil and devotion, through trial and discovery, revealing that fate, though powerful, yields before persistence, wisdom, and faith. And from this tale, the wise may learn that the will of heaven may bend to human effort when guided by love, constancy, and truth.
