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JAIN JOURNAL
Trishala :
A mother can always forgive, whenever the son goes amiss. My days are numbered. It was my great desire to see my son being garlanded by a bride, my courtyard being decorated by auspicious jars. The streets of Kundagram being lighted with lamps and the whole city wearing a festive look with multicoloured festoons and buntings all over. The ladies of the household would have watched the wedding-procession of my son from the balconies. But all this was not be. It was an eerie dream. I must carry to my grave my pent-up yarnings. (Covers her face in her raiments and sobs in tears]
[Voices from inside : “Long Live the King! Victory to
our King ! Hail, King Siddhartha !”]
Vardhaman :
Mummy, father is coming this side. Put up on your best appearances.
[Enter King Siddhartha]
Siddhartha :
Hullo, both mother and son are here. But, my dear queen, why these tears in your eyes ?
Vardhaman :
Father, I have insulted mummy.
Siddhartha :
You cannot possibly insult your mother, even in your dreams. Something else has transpired. I would like to hear from your mother.
Vardhaman :
Mother was discussing about my marriage but I declined the offer. That is how I have insulted my mother. I crave your indulgence, father. I also solicit my mother's forgiveness.
Siddhartha :
Trishala, you are worked up, you are very much agitated. Retire to your bed-room and rest. I shall talk to Vardhaman alone.
[Exit Trishala, weeping and sobbing]
Siddhartha :
So, you have refused to marry. You cannot fathom mother's love for her progeny. Mother's heart is
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