DAMAYANTI
I
Far back in the golden ages of India, Bhimsen, a great and powerful Maharajah, reigned over the rich kingdom of Bidarva, North-West of India. The poor and oppressed never sought his gates in vain and the land rang with his praises. Yet with all this the Maharajah was not happy. A crumpled leaf lay in his bed of roses, and whichever way he turned he felt it, for no child had come to bless his manhood and his whole being yearned for the joy of hearing the name of father fall from baby lips.
The years sped on and Bhimsen’s face grew sad and sadder, and at last all Bidarva knew that some trouble preyed upon their King’s mind. Their wonclerings and conjectures may have reached the ears of a holy hermit named Dainana. This rishi visited one day at the kingdom and long and earnest were the conversations which the King and this sage held together. Damana was surprised and pleased to find that all the praise bestowed on Bhimsen by his adoring subjects was well deserved. He noticed that the Maharajali was ever ready to hear his people’s cries, and that none cried in vain. Daily he witnessed large sums of money being distributed to relieve suering, sickness and want. Yet trouble was shown on the King’s brow and it furrowed every feature of; his face. The rishi determined to console his sorrow. “Maharajah-ji," he asked earnestly one evening as they sat in the garden under the stars, “What ails you? Tell me the cause of your sorrow.”
"Revered Sir, Great and Kind Mooni/’ the Maharajah replied, with clasped hands, “my, only trouble is that I am childless and the people want an heir.”
On hearing this the moani asked the Maharajah to have a big Yagna and many holy men came to it and they all prayed for the welfare of the Maharajah. When it was over, Damana Mooni said, “King and friend, despair not, grieve
