Chapter XXXVII
Then Naraváhanadatta’s
minister Gomukha said to him, by way of capping the tale, which had been told
by Ratnaprabhá: “It is true that chaste women are few and far between, but
unchaste women are never to be trusted; in illustration of this, hear the
following story.”
Story of
Niśchayadatta.
There is in
this land a town of the name of Ujjayiní, famous throughout the world: in it
there lived of old time a merchant’s son, named Niśchayadatta. He was a gambler
and had acquired money by gambling, and every day the generous man used to
bathe in the water of the Siprá, and worship Mahákála: his custom was first to
give money to the Bráhmans, the poor, and the helpless, and then to anoint
himself and indulge in food and betel.
Every day,
when he had finished his bathing and his worship, he used to go and anoint
himself in a cemetery near the temple of Mahákála, with sandalwood and other
things. And the young man placed the unguent on a stone pillar that stood
there, and so anointed himself every day alone, rubbing his back against it. In
that way the pillar eventually became very smooth and polished. Then there came
that way a draughtsman with a sculptor; the first, seeing that the pillar was
very smooth, drew on it a figure of Gaurí, and the sculptor with his chisel in
pure sport carved it on the stone. Then, after they had departed, a certain
daughter of the Vidyádharas came there to worship Mahákála, and saw that image
of Gaurí on the stone. From the clearness of the image she inferred the
proximity of the goddess, and, after worshipping, she entered that stone pillar
to rest. In the meanwhile Niśchayadatta, the merchant’s son, came there, and to
his astonishment beheld that figure of Umá carved on the stone. He first
anointed his limbs, and then placing the unguent on another part of the stone,
began to anoint his back by rubbing it against the stone. When the rolling-eyed
Vidyádhara maiden inside the pillar saw that, her heart being captivated by his
beauty, she reflected—“What! has this handsome man no one to anoint his back?
Then I will now rub his back for him.” Thus the Vidyádharí reflected, and,
stretching forth her hand from inside the pillar, she anointed his back then
and there out of affection. Immediately the merchant’s son felt the touch, and heard
the jingling of the bracelet, and caught hold of her hand with his. And the
Vidyádharí, invisible as she was, said to him from the pillar—“Noble sir, what
harm have I done you? let go my hand.” Then Niśchayadatta answered her—“Appear
before me, and say who you are, then I will let go your hand.” Then the
Vidyádharí affirmed with an oath—“I will appear before your eyes, and tell you
all.” So he let go her hand. Then she came out visibly from the pillar,
beautiful in every limb, and sitting down, with her eyes fixed on his face,
said to him, “There is a city called Pushkarávatí on a peak of the Himálayas,
in it there lives a king named Vindhyapara. I am his maiden daughter, named
Anurágapará. I came to worship Mahákála, and rested here to-day. And thereupon
you came here, and were beheld by me anointing your back on this pillar,
resembling the stupefying weapon of the god of love. Then first my heart was
charmed with affection for you, and afterwards my hand was smeared with your
unguent, as I rubbed your back. The sequel you know. So I will now go to my
father’s house.”
When she
said this to the merchant’s son, he answered—“Fair one, I have not recovered my
soul which you have taken captive; how can you thus depart, without letting go
the soul which you have taken possession of?” When he said this to her, she was
immediately overcome with love, and said—“I will marry you, if you come to my
city. It is not hard for you to reach; your endeavour will be sure to succeed.
For nothing in this world is difficult to the enterprising.” Having said this,
Anurágapará flew up into the air and departed; and Niśchayadatta returned home
with mind fixed upon her. Recollecting the hand that was protruded from the
pillar, like a shoot from the trunk of a tree, he thought—“Alas! though I
seized her hand I did not win it for my own. Therefore I will go to the city of
Pushkarávatí to visit her, and either I shall lose my life, or Fate will come
to my aid.” So musing, he passed that day there in an agony of love, and he set
out from that place early the next morning, making for the north. As he
journeyed, three other merchants’ sons, who were travelling towards the north,
associated themselves with him as companions. In company with them he travelled
through cities, villages, forests, and rivers, and at last reached the northern
region abounding in barbarians.
There he
and his companions were found on the way by some Tájikas, who took them and
sold them to another Tájika. He sent them in the care of his servants as a
present to a Turushka, named Muravára. Then those servants took him and the
other three, and hearing that Muravára was dead, they delivered them to his
son. The son of Muravára thought—“These men have been sent me as a present by
my father’s friend, so I must send them to him to-morrow by throwing them into
his grave.” Accordingly the Turushka fettered Niśchayadatta and his three
friends with strong chains, that they might be kept till the morning. Then,
while they were remaining in chains at night, Niśchayadatta said to his three
friends, the merchant’s sons, who were afflicted with dread of death—“What will
you gain by despondency? Maintain steadfast resolution. For calamities depart
far away from the resolute, as if terrified at them. Think on the peerless adorable
Durgá, that deliverer from calamity.”
Thus
encouraging them, he devoutly worshipped that goddess Durgá: “Hail to thee, O
goddess! I worship thy feet that are stained with a red dye, as if it were the
clotted gore of the trampled Asura clinging to them. Thou, as the all-ruling
power of Śiva, dost govern the three worlds, and inspired by thee they live and
move. Thou didst deliver the worlds, O slayer of the Asura Mahisha. Deliver me
that crave thy protection, O thou cherisher of thy votaries.” In these and
similar words he and his companions duly worshipped the goddess, and then they
all fell asleep, being weary. And the goddess Durgá in a dream commanded
Niśchayadatta and his companions—“Rise up, my children, depart, for your
fetters are loosed.” Then they woke up at night, and saw that their fetters had
fallen off of themselves, and after relating to one another their dream, they
departed thence delighted. And after they had gone a long journey, the night
came to an end, and then those merchant’s sons, who had gone through such
terrors, said to Niśchayadatta; “Enough of this quarter of the world infested
with barbarians! We will go to the Deccan, friend, but do you do as you
desire.”—When they said this to him, he dismissed them to go where they would,
and set out alone vigorously on his journey, making towards that very northern
quarter, drawn by the noose of love for Anurágapará, flinging aside fear. As he
went along, he fell in, in course of time, with four Páśupata ascetics, and
reached and crossed the river Vitastá. And after crossing it, he took food, and
as the sun was kissing the western mountain, he entered with them a forest that
lay in their path. And there some woodmen, that met them, said to them:
“Whither are you going, now that the day is over. There is no village in front
of you: but there is an empty temple of Śiva in this wood. Whoever remains
there during the night inside or outside, falls a prey to a Yakshiṇí, who
bewilders him, making horns grow on his forehead, and then treats him as a
victim, and devours him.” Those four Páśupata ascetics, who were travelling
together, though they heard this, said to Niśchayadatta, “Come along! what can
that miserable Yakshiṇí do to us? For we have remained many nights in various
cemeteries.” When they said this, he went with them, and finding an empty
temple of Śiva, he entered it with them to pass the night there. In the court
of that temple the bold Niśchayadatta and the Páśupata ascetics quickly made a
great circle with ashes, and entering into it, they lighted a fire with fuel,
and all remained there, muttering a charm to protect themselves.
Then at
night there came there dancing the Yakshiṇí Śṛingotpádiní, playing from afar on
her lute of bones, and when she came near, she fixed her eye on one of the four
Páśupata ascetics, and recited a charm, as she danced outside the circle. That
charm produced horns on him, and bewildered he rose up, and danced till he fell
into the blazing fire. And when he had fallen, the Yakshiṇí dragged him half-burnt
out of the fire, and devoured him with delight. Then she fixed her eye on the
second Páśupata ascetic, and in the same way recited the horn-producing charm
and danced. The second one also had horns produced by that charm, and was made
to dance, and falling into the fire, was dragged out and devoured before the
eyes of the others. In this way the Yakshiṇí maddened one after another at
night the four ascetics, and after horns had been produced on them, devoured
them. But while she was devouring the fourth, it came to pass that, being
intoxicated with flesh and blood, she laid her lute down on the ground.
Thereupon the bold Niśchayadatta rose up quickly, and seized the lute, and
began to play on it, and dancing round with a laugh, to recite that horn-producing
charm, which he had learnt from hearing it often, fixing at the same time his
eye on the face of the Yakshiṇí. By the operation of the charm she was
confused, and dreading death, as horns were just about to sprout on her
forehead, she flung herself prostrate, and thus entreated him; “Valiant man, do
not slay me, a helpless woman. I now implore your protection, stop the recital
of the charm, and the accompanying movements. Spare me! I know all your story,
and will bring about your wish; I will carry you to the place, where
Anurágapará is.” The bold Niśchayadatta, when thus confidingly addressed by
her, consented, and stopped the recital of the charm, and the accompanying
movements. Then, at the request of the Yakshiṇí, he mounted on her back, and
being carried by her through the air, he went to find his beloved.
And when
the night came to an end, they had reached a mountain wood; there the Guhyakí
bowing thus addressed Niśchayadatta; “Now that the sun has risen, I have no
power to go upwards, so spend this day in this charming wood, my lord; eat
sweet fruits and drink the clear water of the brooks. I go to my own place, and
I will return at the approach of night; and then I will take you to the city of
Pushkarávatí, the crown of the Himálayas, and into the presence of
Anurágapará.” Having said this, the Yakshiṇí with his permission set him down
from her shoulder, and departed to return again according to her promise.
When she
had gone, Niśchayadatta beheld a deep lake, transparent and cool, but tainted
with poison, lit up by the sun, that stretching forth the fingers of its rays,
revealed it as an example illustrative of the nature of the heart of a
passionate woman. He knew by the smell that it was tainted with poison, and
left it, after necessary ablutions, and being afflicted with thirst he roamed
all over that heavenly mountain in search of water. And as he was wandering
about, he saw on a lofty place what seemed to be two rubies glittering, and he
dug up the ground there.
And after he had removed the earth,
he saw there the head of a living monkey, and his eyes like two rubies. While
he was indulging his wonder, thinking what this could be, that monkey thus
addressed him with human voice; “I am a man, a Bráhman transformed into a
monkey; release me, and then I will tell you all my story, excellent sir.” As
soon as he heard this, he removed the earth, marvelling, and drew the ape out
of the ground. When Niśchayadatta had drawn out the ape, it fell at his feet,
and continued—“You have given me life by rescuing me from calamity. So come,
since you are weary, take fruit and water, and by your favour I also will break
my long fast. Having said this, the liberated monkey took him to the bank of a
mountain-torrent some distance off, where there were delicious fruits, and
shady trees. There he bathed and took fruit and water, and coming back, he said
to the monkey who had broken his fast—“Tell me how you have become a monkey,
being really a man.” Then that monkey said, “Listen, I will tell you now.”
Story of Somasvámin.
In the city
of Váráṇasí there is an excellent Bráhman named Chandrasvámin, I am his son by
his virtuous wife, my friend. And my father gave me the name of Somasvámin. In
course of time it came to pass that I mounted the fierce elephant of love,
which infatuation makes uncontrollable. When I was at this stage of my life,
the youthful Bandhudattá, the daughter of the merchant Śrígarbha, an inhabitant
of that city, and the wife of the great merchant of Mathurá Varáhadatta, who
was dwelling in her father’s house, beheld me one day, as she was looking out
of the window. She was enamoured of me on beholding me, and after enquiring my
name, she sent a confidential female friend to me, desiring an interview. Her
friend came up secretly to me who was blind with love, and, after telling her
friend’s desire, took me to her house. There she placed me, and then went and
brought secretly Bandhudattá, whose eagerness made her disregard shame. And no
sooner was she brought, than she threw her arms round my neck, for excessive
love in women is your only hero for daring. Thus every day Bandhudattá came at
will from her father’s house, and sported with me in the house of her female
friend.
Now one day
the great merchant, her husband, came from Mathurá to take her back to his own
house, as she had been long absent. Then Bandhudattá, as her father ordered her
to go, and her husband was eager to take her away, secretly made a second
request to her friend. She said “I am certainly going to be taken by my husband
to the city of Mathurá, and I cannot live there separated from Somasvámin. So
tell me what resource there is left to me in this matter.” When she said this,
her friend Sukhaśayá, who was a witch, answered her, “I know two spells; by
reciting one of them a man can be in a moment made an ape, if a string is
fastened round his neck, and by the second, if the string is loosed, he will
immediately become a man again; and while he is an ape his intelligence is not
diminished. So if you like, fair one, you can keep your lover Somasvámin; for I
will turn him into an ape on the spot, then take him with you to Mathurá as a
pet animal. And I will shew you how to use the two spells, so that you can turn
him, when near you, into the shape of a monkey, and when you are in a secret
place, make him once more a beloved man.” When her friend had told her this,
Bandhudattá consented, and sending for me in secret, told me that matter in the
most loving tone. I consented, and immediately Sukhaśayá fastened a thread on
my neck and recited the spell, and made me a young monkey. And in that shape
Bandhudattá brought and shewed me to her husband, and she said—“A friend of
mine gave me this animal to play with.” And he was delighted when he saw me in her
arms as a plaything, and I, though a monkey, retained my intelligence, and the
power of articulate speech. And I remained there, saying to myself with inward
laughter—“Wonderful are the actions of women.” For whom does not love beguile?
The next day Bandhudattá, having been taught that spell by her friend, set out
from her father’s house to go to Mathurá with her husband. And the husband of
Bandhudattá, wishing to please her, had me carried on the back of one of his
servants during the journey. So the servant and I and the rest went along, and
in two or three days reached a wood, that lay in our way, which was perilous
from abounding in monkeys. Then the monkeys, beholding me, attacked me in
troops on all sides, quickly calling to one another with shrill cries. And the
irrepressible apes came and began to bite that merchant’s servant, on whose
back I was sitting. He was terrified at that, and flung me off his back on to
the ground, and fled for fear, so the monkeys got hold of me then and there. And
Bandhudattá, out of love for me, and her husband and his servants, attacked the
apes with stones and sticks, but were not able to get the better of them. Then
those monkeys, as if enraged with my evil actions, pulled off with their teeth
and nails every hair from every one of my limbs, as I lay there bewildered. At
last, by the virtue of the string on my neck, and by thinking on Śiva, I
managed to recover my strength, and getting loose from them, I ran away. And
entering into the depths of the wood, I got out of their sight, and gradually,
roaming from forest to forest, I reached this wood. And while I was wandering
about here in the rainy season, blind with the darkness of grief, saying to
myself, “How is it that even in this life adultery has produced for thee the
fruit of transformation into the shape of a monkey, and thou hast lost
Bandhudattá?” Destiny, not yet sated with tormenting me, inflicted on me
another woe, for a female elephant suddenly came upon me, and seizing me with
her trunk flung me into the mud of an ant-hill that had been saturated with
rain. I know it must have been some divinity instigated by Destiny, for, though
I exerted myself to the utmost, I could not get out of that mud. And while it
was drying up, not only did I not die, but knowledge was produced in me, while
I thought continually upon Śiva. And all the while I never felt hunger nor
thirst, my friend, until to-day you drew me out of this trap of dry mud. And
though I have gained knowledge, I do not even now possess power sufficient to
set myself free from this monkey nature. But when some witch unties the thread
on my neck, reciting at the same time the appropriate spell, then I shall once
more become a man.
“This is my
story, but tell me now, my friend, how you came to this inaccessible wood, and
why.” When Niśchayadatta was thus requested by the Bráhman Somasvámin, he told
him his story, how he came from Ujjayiní on account of a Vidyádharí, and how he
was conveyed at night by a Yakshiṇí, whom he had subdued by his presence of mind.
Then the wise Somasvámin, who wore the form of a monkey, having heard that
wonderful story, went on to say; “You, like myself, have suffered great woe for
the sake of a female. But females, like prosperous circumstances, are never
faithful to any one in this world. Like the evening, they display a short-lived
glow of passion, their hearts are crooked like the channels of rivers, like
snakes they are not to be relied on, like lightning they are fickle. So, that
Anurágapará, though she may be enamoured of you for a time, when she finds a
paramour of her own race, will be disgusted with you, who are only a mortal. So
desist now from this effort for the sake of a female, which you will find like
the fruit of the Colocynth, bitter in its after-taste. Do not go, my friend, to
Pushkarávatí, the city of the Vidyádharas, but ascend the back of the Yakshiṇí
and return to your own Ujjayiní. Do what I tell you, my friend; formerly in my
passion I did not heed the voice of a friend, and I am suffering for it at this
very moment. For when I was in love with Bandhudattá, a Bráhman named
Bhavaśarman, who was a very dear friend of mine, said this to me in order to
dissuade me;—‘Do not put yourself in the power of a female, the heart of a
female is a tangled maze; in proof of it I will tell you what happened to
me—listen!’”
Story of Bhavaśarman.
In this
very country, in the city of Váráṇasí, there lived a young and beautiful
Bráhman woman named Somadá, who was unchaste and secretly a witch. And as
destiny would have it, I had secret interviews with her, and in the course of
our intimacy my love for her increased. One day I wilfully struck her in the
fury of jealousy, and the cruel woman bore it patiently, concealing her anger
for the time. The next day she fastened a string round my neck, as if in loving
sport, and I was immediately turned into a domesticated ox. Then I, thus
transformed into an ox, was sold by her, on receiving the required price, to a
man who lived by keeping domesticated camels. When he placed a load upon me, a
witch there, named Bandhamochaniká, beholding me sore burdened, was filled with
pity. She knew by her supernatural knowledge that I had been made an animal by
Somadá, and when my proprietor was not looking, she loosed the string from my
neck. So I returned to the form of a man, and that master of mine immediately
looked round, and thinking that I had escaped, wandered all about the country
in search of me. And as I was going away from that place with Bandhamochiní, it
happened that Somadá came that way and beheld me at a distance. She, burning
with rage, said to Bandhamochiní, who possessed supernatural knowledge,—“Why
did you deliver this villain from his bestial transformation? Curses on you!
wicked woman, you shall reap the fruit of this evil deed. To-morrow morning I
will slay you, together with this villain.” When she had gone after saying
this, that skilful sorceress Bandhamochiní, in order to repel her assault, gave
me the following instructions—“She will come to-morrow morning in the form of a
black mare to slay me, and I shall then assume the form of a bay mare. And when
we have begun to fight, you must come behind this Somadá, sword in hand, and
resolutely strike her. In this way we will slay her; so come to-morrow morning
to my house.” After saying this, she pointed out to me her house. When she had
entered it, went home, having endured more than one birth in this very life.
And in the morning I went to the house of Bandhamochiní, sword in hand. Then
Somadá came there, in the form of a black mare. And Bandhamochiní, for her
part, assumed the form of a bay mare; and then they fought with their teeth and
heels, biting and kicking. Then I struck that vile witch Somadá a blow with my
sword, and she was slain by Bandhamochiní. Then I was freed from fear, and
having escaped the calamity of bestial transformation, I never again allowed my
mind to entertain the idea of associating with wicked women. Women generally
have these three faults, terrible to the three worlds, flightiness,
recklessness, and a love for the congregation of witches. So why do you run
after Bandhudattá, who is a friend of witches? Since she does not love her
husband, how is it possible that she can love you?
“Though my
friend Bhavaśarman gave me this advice, I did not do what he told me; and so I
am reduced to this state. So I give you this counsel; do not suffer hardship to
win Anurágapará, for when she obtains a lover of her own race, she will of a
surety desert you. A woman ever desires fresh men, as a female humble bee
wanders from flower to flower; so you will suffer regret some day, like me, my
friend.” This speech of Somasvámin, who had been transformed into a monkey, did
not penetrate the heart of Niśchayadatta, for it was full of passion. And he
said to that monkey; “She will not be unfaithful to me, for she is born of the
pure race of the Vidyádharas.” Whilst they were thus conversing, the sun, red
with the hues of evening, went to the mountain of setting, as if wishing to
please Niśchayadatta. Then the night arrived, as the harbinger of the Yakshiṇí
Śṛingotpádiní, and she herself came soon afterwards. And Niśchayadatta mounted
on her back, and went off to go to his beloved, taking leave of the ape, who
begged that he might ever be remembered by him. And at midnight he reached that
city of Pushkarávatí, which was situated on the Himálayas, and belonged to the
king of the Vidyádharas, the father of Anurágapará. At that very moment
Anurágapará, having known by her power of his arrival, came out from that city
to meet him. Then the Yakshiṇí put down Niśchayadatta from her shoulder, and
pointing out to him Anurágapará, said—“Here comes your beloved, like a second
moon giving a feast to your eyes in the night, so now I will depart,” and
bowing before him, she went her way. Then Anurágapará, full of the excitement
produced by expectation, went up to her beloved, and welcomed him with embraces
and other signs of love. He too embraced her, and now that he had obtained the
joy of meeting her after enduring many hardships, he could not be contained in
his own body, and as it were entered hers. So Anurágapará was made his wife by
the Gándharva ceremony of marriage, and she immediately by her magic skill
created a city. In that city, which was outside the metropolis, he dwelt with
her, without her parents suspecting it, as their eyes were blinded by her
skill. And when, on her questioning him, he told her those strange and painful
adventures of his journey, she respected him much, and bestowed on him all the
enjoyments that heart could wish.
Then
Niśchayadatta told that Vidyádharí the strange story of Somasvámin, who had
been transformed into a monkey, and said to her, “If this friend of mine could
by any endeavour on your part be freed from his monkey condition, then my
beloved, you would have done a good deed.” When he told her this, Anurágapará
said to him—“This is in the way of witches’ spells, but it is not our province.
Nevertheless I will accomplish this desire of yours, by asking a friend of
mine, a skilful witch named Bhadrarúpá. When the merchant’s son heard that, he
was delighted, and said to that beloved of his—“So come and see my friend, let
us go to visit him.” She consented, and the next day, carried in her lap,
Niśchayadatta went through the air to the wood, which was the residence of his
friend. When he saw his friend there in monkey form, he went up to him with his
wife, who bowed before him, and asked after his welfare. And the monkey
Somasvámin welcomed him, saying—“It is well with me to-day, in that I have
beheld you united to Anurágapará,” and he gave his blessing to Niśchayadatta’s
wife. Then all three sat down on a charming slab of rock there, and held a
conversation about his story, the various adventures of that ape, previously
discussed by Niśchayadatta with his beloved. Then Niśchayadatta took leave of
that monkey, and went to the house of his beloved, flying up into the air,
carried by her in her arms.
And the
next day he again said to that Anurágapará, “Come, let us go for a moment to
visit that ape our friend;” then she said to him—“Go to-day yourself, receive
from me the science of flying up, and also that of descending.” When she had
said this to him, he took those two sciences, and flew through the air to his
friend the ape. And as he remained long conversing with him, Anurágapará went
out of the house into the garden. While she was seated there, a certain
Vidyádhara youth, who was wandering at will through the air, came there. The
Vidyádhara, knowing by his art that she was a Vidyádharí who had a mortal
husband, the moment he beheld her, was overpowered with a paroxysm of love, and
approached her. And she, with face bent on the ground, beheld that he was
handsome and attractive, and slowly asked him out of curiosity, who he was and
whence he came. Then he answered her, “Know, fair one, that I am a Vidyádhara,
by name Rágabhanjana, distinguished for my knowledge of the sciences of the
Vidyádharas. The moment I beheld you, O gazelle-eyed one, I was suddenly
overpowered by love, and made your slave, so cease to honour, O goddess, a
mortal, whose abode is the earth, and favour me, your equal, before your father
finds out your intrigue.” When he said this, the fickle-hearted one, looking
timidly at him with a sidelong glance, thought—“Here is a fit match for me.”
When he had thus ascertained her wishes, he made her his wife: when two are of
one mind, what more does secret love require?
Then
Niśchayadatta arrived from the presence of Somasvámin, after that Vidyádhara
had departed. And when he came, Anurágapará, having lost her love for him, did
not embrace him, giving as an excuse that she had a headache. But the
simple-minded man, bewildered by love, not seeing through her excuse, thought
that her pain was due to illness and spent the day in that belief. But the next
day, he again went in low spirits to see his friend the ape, flying through the
air by the force of the two sciences he possessed. When he had gone,
Anurágapará’s Vidyádhara lover returned to her, having spent a sleepless night
without her. And embracing round the neck her, who was eager for his arrival
owing to having been separated during the night, he was at length overcome by
sleep. She by the power of her science concealed her lover, who lay asleep in
her lap, and weary with having kept awake all night, went to sleep herself. In
the meanwhile Niśchayadatta came to the ape, and his friend, welcoming him,
asked him—“Why do I seem to see you in low spirits to-day? Tell me.” Then
Niśchayadatta said to that ape, “Anurágapará is exceedingly ill, my friend; for
that reason I am grieved, for she is dearer to me than life.” Then that ape,
who possessed supernatural knowledge, said to him—“Go, take her in your arms
asleep as she is, and flying through the air by the help of the science she
bestowed, bring her to me, in order that I may this very day shew you a great
marvel.” When Niśchayadatta heard this, he went through the air and lightly
took up that sleeping fair, but he did not see that Vidyádhara, who was asleep
in her lap, and had been previously made invisible by the power of her science.
And flying up into the air, he quickly brought Anurágapará to that ape. That
ape, who possessed divine insight, immediately shewed him a charm, by which he
was able to behold the Vidyádhara clinging to her neck. When he saw this, he
exclaimed—“Alas! what does this mean?” And the ape, who was able to discern the
truth, told him the whole story. Then Niśchayadatta fell into a passion, and
the Vidyádhara, who was the lover of his wife, woke up, and flying up into the
air, disappeared. Then Anurágapará woke up, and seeing that her secret was
revealed, stood with face cast down through shame. Then Niśchayadatta said to
her with eyes gushing with tears—“Wicked female, how could you thus deceive me
who reposed confidence in you? Although a device is known in this world for
fixing that exceedingly fickle metal quicksilver, no expedient is known for
fixing the heart of a woman.” While he was saying this, Anurágapará, at a loss
for an answer, and weeping, slowly soared up into the air, and went to her own
home.
Then
Niśchayadatta’s friend, the ape, said to him—“That you are grieved is the fruit
of the fierce fire of passion, in that you ran after this fair one, though I
tried to dissuade you. For what reliance can be placed on fickle fortunes and
fickle women? So cease your regret. Be patient now. For even the Disposer
himself cannot o’erstep destiny.” When Niśchayadatta heard this speech from the
ape, he flung aside that delusion of grief, and abandoning passion, fled to
Śiva as his refuge. Then, as he was remaining in that wood with his friend the
ape, it happened that a female hermit of the name of Mokshadá came near him.
She seeing him bowing before her, proceeded to ask him—“How comes this strange
thing to pass that, though a man, you have struck up a friendship with this
ape?” Then he related to her his own melancholy story and afterwards the sad
tale of his friend, and thereupon thus said to her; “If you, reverend lady,
know any incantation or spell by which it can be done, immediately release this
excellent Bráhman, my friend, from his ape-transformation.” When she heard
that, she consented, and employing a spell, she loosed the string from his
neck, and Somasvámin abandoned that monkey form and became a man as before.
Then she disappeared like lightning, clothed with celestial brightness, and in
time Niśchayadatta and the Bráhman Somasvámin, having performed many
austerities, attained final beatitude.
“Thus fair
ones, naturally fickle, bring about a series of evil actions which produce true
discernment, and aversion to the world. But here and there you will find a
virtuous one among them, who adorns a glorious family, as the streak of the
moon the broad sky.”
When
Naraváhanadatta, accompanied by Ratnaprabhá, heard this wonderful tale from the
mouth of Gomukha, he was highly pleased.
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