King Nala, having lost his wealth, power, and fame, walked out of his kingdom empty-handed with Damayanthi by his side. For three days, they lingered at the outskirts of his realm, watched by the cruel eyes of Kali. Though Nala was beloved among his subjects and esteemed by neighbouring kings, none dared to approach him, fearing the curse of Kali. Even his close kin, who abhorred the game of dice, turned away. The royal pair survived on mere water, pondering their next course in life.
One day, they beheld two birds of golden wings and radiant hues speaking in the voice of men. “O King,” they said, “we are birds commanded by Kali to become dice and deceive you. Now Dwapara has ordered us to take your garments and deliver them to him.” Saying thus, they seized his upper cloth and flew into the sky. For the garments of Nala — the silken robes and sacred bands at his waist and neck — were sanctified, granting him divine sight and swift passage across worlds. With their loss, he was reduced to a mere mortal.
Astonished at the words of the birds, Nala tore a piece from Damayanthi’s robe to cover his bare form. With a sorrowful heart, he said, “This path south leads to Dakshinapatha, that north to Vidarbha, the east to Kosala, and the west to Ujjayini. Tell me, which way shall we go, that suits our fallen state? Yet my heart knows your father’s kingdom is your refuge. I shall escort you safely to Vidarbha and then go into exile. The forests are perilous, my love, filled with wild beasts, deadly serpents, and ruthless tribes. I pray you return to your father and care for our children, Indrasena and Indrasenu. In truth, Vidarbha is your rightful throne. Once I entered that land with honour and wealth, but now, as a pauper, I cannot face them. You, as a daughter, may return without reproach, as decreed by royal law.”
Then Damayanthi, her moon-like face trembling with emotion, replied, “O King, the greatest affliction of humankind is sorrow, and its surest remedy lies in the devoted presence of a wife. The wife is the companion in distress, the counsellor in doubt, the mother in hunger and thirst, the cool breeze in weariness, and the patient earth in endurance. Do not deem me a burden. My life moves in harmony with yours. Let me remain with you, for your presence is my only solace.”
Moved deeply, Nala said, “You are dearer to me than life itself. I shall not abandon you to fate.” Together they journeyed through the dense forests and found a place to rest, sleeping upon the bare earth. Nala’s heart ached—not for the hardness of the ground or loss of riches, but for the shattered hopes of Damayanthi, which vanished like camphor in flame. While she slept in exhausted peace, he lay awake, torn between reason and despair.
“My misfortune,” he thought, “has dragged her into this misery. She endures hardship meant for me alone. If I leave her, she may return to her kin and live without peril. But will she survive without me, she who has bound her life to mine?” His mind, fettered by love and guilt, swayed between duty and despair. The beauty of Damayanthi was her peril; her youth, a curse amid danger. Torn by the pull of Kali, reason abandoned him. In a moment of madness, Nala fled into the darkness, leaving her sleeping form behind.
When Damayanthi awoke, she found herself alone and cried out in anguish, “O Lord of Nishadas, with hands strong and heart tender, how could you leave me in this desolate forest? You, the righteous one, who vowed never to forsake me! Are you hiding to test my spirit, or have you truly deserted me? You who mastered the wisdom of Rig, Yajur, Sama, and Atharva, who knew the truths of Meemamsa, Nyaya, and Dharma, how could all your knowledge fail before truth itself? You swore I was your life—where is that vow now?”
She wandered through the forest, trembling not at beasts or serpents but at Nala’s absence. Her heart throbbed for his safety, thirst, and loneliness. The cries of wild birds, the roars of tigers, and the hissing of serpents surrounded her, yet she pressed on. Parched by heat, she stood beneath trees alive with bears feasting on honeycombs, pushing through tangled vines and thorny shrubs. Suddenly, a giant python seized her in its coils, tightening till she could neither move nor breathe. In a faint voice she cried, “O Nala, come! I am near death. This serpent is nothing before you might!”
A passing hunter heard her cry and swiftly struck the serpent’s head with his double-edged blade, freeing her as the moon breaks free from Rahu. He led her to a pond, offered her fruits and water, and spoke gently, asking her tale. But upon seeing her beauty and helplessness, lust overpowered his pity. “You are mine now,” he said, “for there is no escape from me.”
Damayanthi’s grace became her shield; her chastity, her fire. Though she restrained him with words, the savage advanced. In silent prayer, she invoked her virtue, saying, “By the power of my chastity, let this sinner perish.” Instantly, he fell, burned like a tree struck by lightning.
Alone once more, she resumed her search, her faith unbroken. She called upon the trees and waters, the mountains and winds, as living witnesses of her devotion. “O Indian laurel,” she asked, “have you seen Nala, king of Nishada?” “O bullet-wood tree, O sandalwood, radiant among kings, have you seen my lord?” Her feet burned from the heat, yet she pressed on, standing in cool ponds for relief, climbing slopes and calling his name through caverns and valleys.
Her path was uncertain, but her purpose shone clear as the northern star. Through devotion, purity, and relentless faith, she moved closer to destiny. The tale of Damayanthi speaks to ages—that human perseverance and moral strength surpass even celestial favour. Fate may bring ruin, but steadfast purpose transforms every trial into a step toward the ultimate goal.
