The Grief That Became a Verse

A little while after Nārada had gone, Vālmīki went down to the river Tamasā, not far from the Gaṅgā, with his disciple Bharadvāja. He saw a clear ford there, free of mud, and said, Look at this ford, Bharadvāja. Its water is as clear as the mind of a good man. Put down the water-pot, child, and give me my bark garment. I will bathe here.

Bharadvāja handed him the garment, and the sage walked a little way, looking at the great forest around him. Nearby he saw a pair of krauñca birds, a male and a female, wandering together and calling sweetly, harming no one. As he watched, a hunter, full of hatred, shot the male bird. The bird fell on the ground, covered in blood, writhing, and his mate, seeing him there, cried out pitifully for her companion with the red crest.

The sage saw the bird struck down, and pity rose in him, and seeing that it was a wrong against dharma and hearing the female bird weep, he spoke:

Hunter, you will find no rest for endless years, since from this pair of krauñcas, lost in love, you have killed one.

When he had spoken, he began to wonder. What is this I have said, in my grief for the bird? And thinking about it, the wise sage understood, and said to his disciple, Bound in four quarters of equal syllables, fit to be sung to the strings and the beat, let this, which came from my grief, my śoka, be called a śloka, a verse. His disciple took up the verse with joy, and the teacher was pleased.

He bathed in the ford as the rites required and turned back, still thinking about what had happened, and Bharadvāja walked behind him with the full water-pot. In the hermitage he sat down and, lost in thought, spoke with his disciples of other things.