Chapter
LXXXVI
(Vetála)
Then king
Trivikramasena again went to the aśoka-tree, and recovered the Vetála, and
placed him on his shoulder, and set out with him again silently, as before.
Then the Vetála again said to him from his seat on his shoulder; “King, I love
you much because you are so indomitable, so listen, I will tell you this delightful
story to amuse you.”
Story
of king Yaśaḥketu, his Vidyádharí wife, and his faithful minister.
In the land
of Anga there was a young king named Yaśaḥketu, like a second and unburnt god
of love come to earth to conceal his body. He conquered by his great valour all
his enemies; and as Indra has Vṛihaspati for a minister, he had Dírghadarśin.
Now, in course of time, this king, infatuated with his youth and beauty,
entrusted to that minister his realm, from which all enemies had been
eradicated, and became devoted to pleasure only. He remained continually in the
harem instead of the judgment-hall; he listened to delightful songs in the
womens’ apartments, instead of hearkening to the voice of his well-wishers; in
his thoughtlessness, he was devoted to latticed windows and not to the affairs
of his kingdom, though the latter also were full of holes.
But the
great minister Dírghadarśin continued unweariedly upholding the burden of his
kingdom’s cares, day and night. And a general rumour spread to the following
effect, “Dírghadarśin has plunged in dissipation the sovereign, who is
satisfied with the mere name of king, and so he manages now to enjoy himself
all his master’s power.” Then the minister Dírghadarśin said of himself to his
wife Medhávatí, “My dear, as the king is addicted to pleasure, and I do his
work, a calumny has been circulated among the people against me, to the effect
that I have devoured the realm. And a general rumour, though false, injures
even great men in this world; was not Ráma compelled by a slanderous report to
abandon his wife Sítá? So what course must I adopt in this emergency?” When the
minister said this, his firm-souled wife Medhávatí, who was rightly named, said
to him; “Take leave of the king on the pretext of a pilgrimage to holy
bathing-places; it is expedient, great-minded Sir, that you should go to a
foreign land for a certain time. So you will be seen to be free from ambition,
and the calumny against you will die out; and while you are absent, the king
will bear the burden of the kingdom himself, and then this vicious tendency of
his will gradually diminish, and when you return, you will be able to discharge
your office of minister without blame.”
When
Dírghadarśin’s wife said this to him, he said, “I will do so,” and he went and
said to the king Yaśaḥketu in the course of conversation, “Give me leave to
depart, king, I am going on a pilgrimage for some days, for my heart is set on
that religious duty.” When the king heard that, he said, “Do not do so! Cannot
you, without going on pilgrimages, perform in your house noble religious
duties, such as charity and so on, which will procure you heaven?” When the
minister heard this, he said, “King, that purity which comes of wealth is
sought by charity and so on, but holy bathing-places have an everlasting
purity. And a wise man must visit them, while he is young; for otherwise how
can he be sure of reaching them, as this body cannot be relied on?” While he
was saying this, and the king was still trying to dissuade him, a warder
entered, and said to the king, “King, the sun is plunging into the middle of
the lake of heaven, so rise up, this is the hour appointed for you to bathe in,
and it is rapidly passing away.” When the king heard this, he immediately rose
up to bathe, and the minister, whose heart was set on pilgrimage, bowed before
him, and went home to his own house.
There he
left his wife, whom he forbade to follow him, and managed cunningly to set out
in secret, without even his servants suspecting his departure. And alone he
wandered from country to country with resolute perseverance, and visited holy
bathing-places, and at last he reached the land of Pauṇḍra. In a certain city
in that country not far from the sea, he entered a temple of Śiva, and sat down
in a courtyard attached to it. There a merchant, named Nidhidatta, who had come
to worship the god, saw him exhausted with the heat of the sun’s rays, dusty
with his long journey. The merchant, being a hospitable man, seeing that the
traveller, who was in such a state, wore a Bráhmanical thread, and had
auspicious marks, concluded that he was a distinguished Bráhman, and took him
home to his own house. There he honoured him with a bath, food, and other
refreshments in the most luxurious style, and when his fatigue was removed, he
said to him, “Who are you, whence do you come, and where are you going?” And
the Bráhman gave him this reserved answer; “I am a Bráhman of the name of
Dírghadarśin; I have come here on pilgrimage from the land of Anga.” Then the
merchant prince Nidhidatta said to him, “I am about to go on a trading
expedition to the Island of Gold; so you must live in my house, until I return;
and then you will have recovered from the fatigue which you have incurred by
roaming to holy places, and you can go home.” When Dírghadarśin heard that, he
said, “Why should I remain here? I will go with you, great merchant, if you
like.” The good man said, “So be it,” and then the minister, who had long
discarded the use of beds, spent that night in his house.
The next
day he went with that merchant to the sea, and embarked on a ship laden with
his merchandise. He travelled along in that ship, and beheld the awful and
wonderful ocean, and in course of time reached the Isle of Gold. What had a man
holding the office of prime minister to do with sea-voyages? But what will not
men of honour do to prevent their fame from being sullied? So he remained some
time in that island with that merchant Nidhidatta, who was engaged in buying
and selling.
And as he
was returning with him on the ship, he suddenly saw a wave rise up, and then a
wishing-tree arise out of the sea; it was adorned with boughs glittering with
gold, which were embellished with sprays of coral, and bore lovely fruits and
flowers of jewels. And he beheld on its trunk a maiden, alluring on account of
her wonderful beauty, reclining on a gem-bestudded couch. He reflected for a
moment, “Dear me! What can this be?” And thereupon the maiden, who had a lyre
in her hand, began to sing this song, “Whatever seed of works any man has sown
in a former life, of that he, without doubt, eats the fruit; for even fate
cannot alter what has been done in a previous state of existence.” When the
heavenly maiden had sung this song, she immediately plunged into that sea, with
the wishing-tree, and the couch on which she was reclining. Then Dírghadarśin
reflected, “I have to-day seen a wonderful sight; one would never have expected
to find in the sea a tree, with a heavenly maiden singing on it, appearing and
disappearing as soon as beheld. Or rather, this admirable treasure-house of the
sea is ever the same; did not Lakshmí, and the moon, and the Párijáta tree, and
other precious things come out of it?” But the steersman and the rest of the
crew, perceiving that Dírghadarśin was astonished and puzzled, said to him,
“This lovely woman always appears here in the same way, and sinks down again at
once; but this sight is new to you.”
This is
what they said to the minister, but he still continued in a state of wonder,
and so he reached in course of time on the ship, with that Nidhidatta, the
coast for which they were making. There the merchant disembarked his wares,
gladdening the hearts of his servants, and the minister went in high spirits
with him to his house, which was full of mirth at his arrival. And after he had
remained there a short time, he said to Nidhidatta, “Merchant prince, I have
long reposed comfortably in your house, now I wish to return to my own land; I
wish you all happiness.” With these words he took leave of the merchant prince,
who was sorely unwilling to let him go, and with his virtue for his only
companion he set out thence, and having in course of time accomplished the long
journey, he reached his own native land of Anga.
There the
spies, who had been placed by king Yaśaḥketu to watch for his return, saw him
coming, before he entered the city, and informed the king; and then the king,
who had been much afflicted by his absence, went out from the city to meet him;
and came up to him and welcomed him with an embrace. Then the king conducted
into the palace his minister, who was emaciated and begrimed with his long
journey, and said to him, “Why did you leave me, bringing your mind to this
cruel heartless step, and your body into this squalid state from its being
deprived of unguents? But who knows the way of the mighty god Fate, in that you
suddenly fixed your mind on pilgrimage to holy waters and other sacred places?
So tell me, what lands have you wandered through, and what novel sights have
you seen?” Then Dírghadarśin described his journey to the Island of Gold, in
all its stages, and so was led to tell the king of that maiden, the jewel of
the three worlds, whom he had seen rise out of the sea, and sit on the
wishing-tree singing. All this he narrated exactly as it took place.
The moment
the king heard all this, he fell so deeply in love with her, that he considered
his kingdom and life valueless without her. And taking his minister aside, he
said to him, “I must certainly see that maiden, otherwise I cannot live. I will
go by the way which you have described, after worshipping Fate. And you must
not dissuade, and you must by no means follow me, for I will travel alone
incognito, and in the meanwhile you must take care of my kingdom. Do not
disobey my order, otherwise my death will lie at your door.” Thus spake the
king, and refused to hear his minister’s answer, and then dismissed him to his
own house to see his relations, who had long been wishing for his return.
There, in the midst of great rejoicing Dírghadarśin remained despondent; how
can good ministers be happy, when their lord’s vices are incurable?
And the
next night the king Yaśaḥketu set out, disguised as an ascetic, having
entrusted his kingdom to the care of that minister. And on the way, as he was
going along, he saw a hermit, named Kuśanábha, and he bowed before him. The
hermit said to the king who was disguised as an ascetic, “Go on your way
boldly; by going to sea in a ship with the merchant Lakshmídatta you shall
obtain that maiden whom you desire.” This speech delighted the king
exceedingly, and bowing again before the hermit, he continued his journey; and
after crossing many countries, rivers, and mountains, he reached the sea, which
seemed to be full of eagerness to entertain him. Its eddies looked like eyes
expanded to gaze at him, eyes of which waves were the curved brows, and which
were white with shrill-sounding conchs for pupils. On the shore he met the
merchant Lakshmídatta spoken of by the hermit, who was on the point of setting
out for the Isle of Gold. The merchant prostrated himself before him, when he
saw the signs of his royal birth, such as the discus-marked foot-print and so
on; and the king embarked on the ship with him, and set out with him on the
sea. And when the ship had reached the middle of the ocean, that maiden arose
from the water, seated on the trunk of the wishing-tree, and while the king was
gazing at her, as a partridge at the moonlight, she sang a song which the
accompaniment of her lyre made more charming; “Whatever seed of works any man
has sown in a former life, of that he, without doubt, eats the fruit, for even
Fate cannot alter what has been done in a previous state of existence. So a man
is helplessly borne along to experience precisely that lot which Fate has
appointed for him, in that place and in that manner which Fate has decreed; of
this there can be no doubt.” When the king heard her singing this song, and
thus setting forth the thing that must be, he was smitten with the arrow of
love, and remained for some time motionless, gazing at her. Then he began, with
bowed head, to praise the sea in the following words, “Hail, to thee,
store-house of jewels, of unfathomable heart, since by concealing this lovely
nymph thou hast cheated Vishṇu out of Lakshmí. So I throw myself on thy
protection, thou who canst not be sounded even by gods, the refuge of mountains
that retain their wings; grant me to obtain my desire.” While he was uttering
this, the maiden disappeared in the sea, with the tree, and when the king saw
that, he flung himself into the sea after her, as if to cool the flames of
love’s fire.
When the
merchant Lakshmídatta saw that unexpected sight, the good man thought the king
had perished, and was so afflicted that he was on the point of committing
suicide, but he was consoled by the following utterance, that came from the
heavens, “Do not act rashly; he is not in danger, though he has plunged into
the sea; this king, Yaśaḥketu by name, has come, disguised as an ascetic, to
obtain this very maiden, for she was his wife in a former state of existence,
and as soon as he has won her, he shall return to his realm of Anga.” Then the
merchant continued his intended voyage, to accomplish his purposes.
But when
king Yaśaḥketu plunged into the sea, he suddenly beheld to his astonishment a
splendid city. It gleamed with palaces that had bright pillars of precious
stone, walls flashing with gold, and latticed windows of pearl. It was adorned
with gardens in which were tanks with flights of steps composed of slabs of
every kind of gem, and wishing-trees that granted every desire. He entered
house after house in that city, which, though opulent, was uninhabited, but he
could not find his beloved anywhere. Then, as he was looking about, he beheld a
lofty jewelled palace, and going up to it he opened the door and went in. And
when he had entered it, he beheld a solitary human form stretched out upon a
gem-bestudded couch, with its whole length covered with a shawl. Wondering
whether it could be that very lady, he uncovered its face with eager
expectation, and saw his lady-love. Her beautiful moon-like countenance smiled,
when the black robe fell from it like darkness; and she seemed like a night,
illumined with moonlight, gone to visit Pátála in the day. At sight of her the
king was in a state of ecstasy, like that which a man, travelling through a
desert in the season of heat, experiences on beholding a river. She, for her
part, opened her eyes, and when she saw that hero of auspicious form and bodily
marks thus suddenly arrived, sprang from her couch in a state of excitement.
She welcomed him, and with downcast countenance, seemed to honour him by
flinging on his feet the full-blown lotuses of her wide-expanded eyes; and then
she slowly said to him, “Who are you, and why have you come to this
inaccessible lower region? And why, though your body is marked with the signs
of royalty, have you undertaken the vow of an ascetic? Condescend to tell me
this, distinguished Sir, if I have found favour in your sight.” When the king
had heard this speech of hers, he gave her this answer; “Fair one, I am the
king of Anga, by name Yaśaḥketu, and I heard from a friend on whom I can rely,
that you were to be seen here every day in the sea. So I assumed this disguise,
and abandoned my kingdom for your sake, and I have come here and followed you
down through the sea. So tell me who you are.” When he said this, she answered
him with mixed feelings of shame, affection, and joy; “There is a fortunate
king of the Vidyádharas named Mṛigánkasena; know that I am his daughter, Mṛigánkavatí
by name. That father of mine, for some reason unknown to me, has left me alone
in this city of his, and has gone somewhere or other with his subjects. So I,
feeling melancholy in my solitary abode, rise up out of the sea on a moveable
wishing-tree, and sing of the decrees of Fate.” When she had said this, the
brave king, remembering the speech of the hermit, courted her so assiduously
with speeches tender with love, that she was overpowered with affection, and
promised to become his wife at once, but insisted on the following condition;
“My husband, for four days in every month, the fourteenth and eighth of the
white and black fortnights, I am not my own mistress; and whithersoever I may
go on those days, you must not question me on the subject nor forbid me, for
there is a reason for it.” When the heavenly maiden had stated in these words
the only condition on which she would consent to marry the king, he agreed to
it, and married her by the Gándharva form of marriage.
And one
day, while the king was living happily with Mṛigánkavatí, she said to him, “You
must stop here, while I go somewhere for a certain business, for to-day is the
fourteenth day of the black fortnight of which I spoke to you. And while you
are waiting here, my husband, you must not enter this crystal pavilion, lest
you should fall into a lake there and go to the world of men.” When she had
said this, she took leave of him, and went out of that city, and the king took
his sword and followed her secretly, determined to penetrate the mystery.
Then the
king saw a terrible Rákshasa approaching, looking like Hades embodied in a
human shape, with his cavernous mouth, black as night, opened wide. That
Rákshasa uttered an appalling roar, and swooping down on Mṛigánkavatí, put her
in his mouth and swallowed her. When the mighty king saw that, he was at once,
so to speak, on fire with excessive anger, and rushing forward with his great
sword, black as a snake that has cast its slough, drawn from the sheath, he cut
off with it the head of the charging Rákshasa, the lips of which were firmly
pressed together. Then the burning fire of the king’s anger was quenched by the
stream of blood that poured forth from the trunk of the Rákshasa, but not the
fire of his grief at the loss of his beloved. Then the king was blinded with
the darkness of bewilderment, and at a loss what to do, when suddenly Mṛigánkavatí
cleft asunder the body of that Rákshasa, which was dark as a cloud, and emerged
alive and uninjured, illuminating all the horizon like a spotless moon. When
the king saw his beloved thus delivered from danger, he rushed eagerly forward
and embraced her, exclaiming, “Come! Come!” And he said to her, “My beloved,
what does all this mean? Is it a dream or a delusion?” When the king asked the
Vidyádharí this question, she remembered the truth, and said: “Listen, my
husband! This is no delusion, nor is it a dream; but such was the curse imposed
upon me by my father, a king of the Vidyádharas. For my father, who formerly
lived in this city, though he had many sons, was so fond of me, that he would
never take food when I was not present. But I, being devoted to the worship of
Śiva, used always to come to this uninhabited place on the fourteenth and
eighth days of the two fortnights.
“And one
fourteenth day I came here and worshipped Gaurí for a long time; and, as fate
would have it, so ardent was my devotion that the day came to an end before my
worship was finished. That day my father ate nothing and drank nothing, though
he was hungry and thirsty, as he waited for me, but he was very angry with me.
And when I returned in the evening with downcast countenance, conscious of my
fault, his love for me was so completely overpowered by the force of Destiny,
that he cursed me in the following words; ‘As owing to your arrogance I was
devoured to-day by hunger, so on the eighth and fourteenth days of the two
fortnights of every month, and on those days only, a Rákshasa named Kṛitántasantrása
shall swallow you, when you go to that place outside the city to worship Śiva;
and on every occasion you shall make your way through his heart and come out
alive. But you shall not remember the curse, nor the pain of being swallowed;
and you shall remain alone here.’ When my father had uttered this curse, I
managed gradually to propitiate him, and after thinking a little he appointed
this termination to my curse; ‘When a king named Yaśaḥketu, lord of the land of
Anga, shall become your husband, and shall see you swallowed by the Rákshasa,
and shall slay him, then you shall issue from his heart, and shall be delivered
from your curse, and you shall call to mind your curse and the other
circumstances, and all your supernatural sciences.’
“When he
had appointed this end of my curse, he left me alone here, and went with his
retinue to the mountain of Nishada in the world of men. And I remained here,
thus engaged, bewildered by the curse. But that curse has now come to an end,
and I remember all. So I will immediately go to my father on the Nishada
mountain; the law, that governs us celestial beings, is, that when our curse is
at an end we return to our own place. You are perfectly free to remain here or
go to your kingdom, as you like.” When she had said this, the king was sorry,
and he made this request to her; “Fair one, do me the favour not to go for
seven days. Let us in the meanwhile cheat the pain of parting by amusing
ourselves here in the garden. After that you shall go to your father’s abode,
and I will return to mine.” When he made this proposal, the fair one agreed to
it. Then the king diverted himself with her for six days in the gardens, and in
tanks, the lotus-eyes of which were full of tears, and that seemed to toss
aloft their waves like hands, and in the cries of their swans and cranes to
utter this plaintive appeal, “Do not leave us!” And on the seventh day he
artfully decoyed his darling to that pavilion, where was the tank that served
as a magic gate conducting to the world of men; and throwing his arms round her
neck, he plunged into that tank, and rose up with her from a tank in the garden
of his own city. When the gardeners saw that he had arrived with his beloved,
they were delighted, and they went and told his minister Dírghadarśin. And the
minister came and fell at his feet, and seeing that he had brought with him the
lady of his aspirations, he and the citizens escorted him into the palace. And
he thought to himself, “Dear me! I wonder how the king has managed to obtain
this celestial nymph, of whom I caught a transient glimpse in the ocean, as one
sees in the heaven a lightning-flash. But the fact is, whatever lot is written
for a man by the Disposer in the inscription on his forehead, infallibly
befalls him, however improbable.”
Such were
the reflections of the prime minister; while the rest of his subjects were full
of joy at the return of the king, and of astonishment at his having won the
celestial nymph. But Mṛigánkavatí, seeing that the king had returned to his own
kingdom, longed, as the seven days were completed, to return to the home of the
Vidyádharas. But the science of flying up into the air did not appear to her,
though she called it to mind. Then she felt as one robbed of a treasure, and
was in the deepest despondency. And the king said to her, “Why do you suddenly
appear despondent, tell me, my darling?” Then the Vidyádharí answered him,
“Because I remained so long, after I had been released from my curse, out of
love for you, my science has abandoned me, and I have lost the power of
returning to my heavenly home.” When king Yaśaḥketu heard this, he said, “Ha! I
have now won this Vidyádharí,” and so his rejoicing was complete.
When the
minister Dírghadarśin saw this, he went home, and at night, when he was in bed,
he suddenly died of a broken heart. And Yaśaḥketu, after he had mourned for
him, remained long bearing the burden of empire himself, with Mṛigánkavatí for
his consort.
When the
Vetála, seated on the shoulder of king Trivikramasena, had told him this story
on the way, he went on to say to him, “So tell me, king; why did the heart of
that great minister suddenly break, when his master had thus succeeded so
completely? Did his heart break through grief at not having won the nymph
himself? Or was it because he longed for the sovereign power, and thus was
disappointed at the king’s return? And if you know this, king, and do not tell
me on the spot, your merit will at once disappear, and your head will fly in
pieces.” When king Trivikramasena heard that, he said to the Vetála; “Neither
of these two feelings actuated that excellent and virtuous minister. But he said
to himself; ‘This king neglected his kingdom out of devotion to mere human
females, much more will he do so now, that he is attached to a heavenly nymph.
So, though I have gone through much suffering, the disease has been aggravated
by it, instead of being cured, as I had hoped.’ It was under the influence of
such reflections that the minister’s heart broke.” When the king had said this,
that juggling Vetála returned to his own place, and the resolute king ran
swiftly after him, to bring him back again by force.
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