Chapter LXXIV
Then Mṛigánkadatta,
as he gradually travelled along in the Vindhya forest, accompanied by those
ministers, Śrutadhi and the four others, reached a wood, which was refreshing
with the shade of its goodly fruit-laden trees, and in which there was a tank
of very pure sweet cold water. He bathed in it with his ministers and ate many
fruits, and lo! he suddenly thought that he heard conversation in a place shut
in with creepers. So he went and looked into that bower of creepers, and he saw
inside it a great elephant, which was refreshing a blind way-worn man by
throwing over him showers of water from his trunk, by giving him fruits, and
fanning him with his ears. And like a kind man, the elephant said to him
lovingly, over and over again, with articulate voice, “Do you feel at all
better?” When the prince saw that, he was astonished, and he said to his
companions, “Look! how comes it that a wild elephant conducts itself like a
man? So you may be sure that this is some higher being translated into this
form for some reason. And this man is very like my friend Prachaṇḍaśakti. But
he is blind. So let us keep a sharp lookout.” When Mṛigánkadatta had said this
to his friends, he remained there concealed, and listened attentively. In the
meanwhile the blind man recovered a little, and the elephant said to him, “Tell
me; who are you, and how did you come here, being blind?” Then the blind man
said to that mighty elephant, “There is in this land a king of the name of
Amaradatta, lord of the city of Ayodhyá, he has a son of excellent qualities,
named Mṛigánkadatta, of auspicious birth, and I am that prince’s servant. For
some reason or other his father banished him from his native land, with us his
ten companions. We had set out for Ujjayiní to obtain Śaśánkavatí, when we were
separated in the forest by the curse of a Nága. And I was blinded by his curse,
and wandering about I have arrived here, living on the fruits, and roots, and
water I could get on the way. And to me death by falling into a chasm, or in
some other way, would be most desirable, but alas! Providence has not bestowed
it on me, but makes me endure calamity. However I feel convinced that, as my
pangs of hunger have been to-day assuaged by your favour, so my blindness also
will be somewhat alleviated, for you are a divinity.” When he said this, Mṛigánkadatta
felt certain who he was, and with a mind wavering between joy and grief he said
to those ministers, “It is our friend Prachaṇḍaśakti that is reduced to this
melancholy state, but it will not do for us to be in a hurry to greet him
immediately. Perhaps this elephant will cure his blindness. But if he were to
see us, he would flee away; so we must stop here and look at him.” When the
prince had said this, he remained listening with his followers. Then Prachaṇḍaśakti
said to that elephant, “Now great-souled one, tell me your history; who are
you? How comes it that, though you are an elephant, and are subject to the fury
of elephants, you speak in this gentle way?” When the great elephant heard
this, he sighed, and said to him, “Listen! I will tell you my story from the
beginning.”
Story of Bhímabhaṭa.
Long ago,
in the city of Ekalavyá, there was a king named Śrutadhara, and he had two sons
by two wives. When the king went to heaven, his younger son, named Satyadhara,
expelled the elder son, named Śíladhara, from the throne. Śíladhara was angry
on that account, so he went and propitiated Śiva, and craved the following boon
from the god, who was pleased with his asceticism, “May I become a Gandharva,
in order that I may be able to move through the air, and so slay with ease that
kinsman of mine, Satyadhara!” When the holy god Śiva heard this, he said to
him, “This boon shall be granted to thee, but that enemy of thine has to-day
died a natural death. And he shall be again born in the city of Ráḍhá, as
Samarabhaṭa, the favourite son of king Ugrabhaṭa. But thou shalt be born as
Bhímabhaṭa, his elder brother, by a different mother, and thou shalt kill him
and rule the kingdom. But because thou didst perform these ascetic penances
under the influence of anger, thou shalt be hurled from thy rank by the curse
of a hermit, and become a wild elephant, that remembers its birth and possesses
articulate speech, and when thou shalt comfort a guest in distress and tell him
thy history, then thou shalt be freed from thy elephant-nature and become a
Gandharva, and at the same time a great benefit will be conferred upon that
guest.” When Śiva had said this, he disappeared, and Śíladhara, seeing that his
body was emaciated by long penance, flung himself into the Ganges.
At this
point of my tale it happened that, while that king named Ugrabhaṭa, whom I have
before mentioned, was living happily in the city of Ráḍhá with his wife
Manoramá who was equal to him in birth, there came to his court from a foreign
country an actor named Lásaka. And he exhibited before the king that dramatic
piece in which Vishṇu, in the form of a woman, carries off the amṛita from the
Daityas. And in that piece the king saw the actor’s daughter Lásavatí dancing
in the character of Amṛitiká. When he saw her beauty, that was like that of the
real Amṛitá, with which Vishṇu bewildered the Dánavas, he fell in love with
her. And at the end of the dance he gave her father much wealth, and
immediately introduced her into his harem. And then he married that dancer
Lásavatí, and lived with her, having his eyes riveted upon her face. One day he
said to his chaplain named Yajuḥsvámin, “I have no son, so perform a sacrifice
in order to procure me a son.” The chaplain obeyed, and performed duly, with
the help of learned Bráhmans, a sacrifice for that king’s benefit. And, as he
had been previously gained over by Manoramá, he gave her to eat, as being the
eldest queen, the first half of the oblation purified with holy texts. And he
gave the rest to the second queen Lásavatí. Then those two, Śíladhara and
Satyadhara, whom I have before mentioned, were conceived in those two queens.
And when the time came, Manoramá, the consort of that king, brought forth a son
with auspicious marks. And at that moment a distinct utterance was heard from
heaven, “This child who is born shall be a famous king under the name of
Bhímabhaṭa.” On the next day Lásavatí also brought forth a son, and the king
his father gave him the name of Samarabhaṭa. And the usual sacraments were
performed for them, and the two boys gradually grew up. But the eldest Bhímabhaṭa
surpassed the youngest in all accomplishments, and rivalry in these increased
the natural ill-feeling between them.
One day, as
they were engaged in wrestling, Samarabhaṭa, being jealous, struck Bhímabhaṭa
with his arm with great force on the neck. Then Bhímabhaṭa was enraged, and
immediately throwing his arms round Samarabhaṭa, he lifted him up and flung him
on the ground. The fall gave him a severe shock, and his servants took him up
and carried him to his mother, discharging blood from all the apertures in his
body. When she saw him, and found out what had taken place, she was alarmed on
account of her love for him, and she placed her face close to his and wept
bitterly. At that moment the king entered, and when he saw this sight, he was
much troubled in mind, and asked Lásavatí what it meant, and she gave the
following answer: “This son of mine has been reduced to this state by Bhímabhaṭa.
And he is always ill-treating him, but I have never told you, king; however
now, that I have seen this, I must say, I cannot understand how your majesty
can be safe with such a son as this, but let your majesty decide.” When king
Ugrabhaṭa was thus appealed to by his favourite wife, he was angry, and
banished Bhímabhaṭa from his court. And he took away from him his allowance,
and appointed a hundred Rájpúts with their retainers to guard that Samarabhaṭa.
And he put his treasury at the disposal of the younger son, but he drove the
elder son from his presence, and took away all that he possessed.
Then his
mother Manoramá sent for him and said, “Your father has thrown you over,
because he is in love with a dancer. So go to the palace of my father in Páṭaliputra,
and when you arrive there, your grandfather will give you his kingdom, for he
has no son. But, if you remain here, your enemy, this Samarabhaṭa, will kill
you, for he is powerful.” When Bhímabhaṭa heard this speech of his mother’s, he
said, “I am a Kshatriya, and I will not sneak away from my native land, like a
coward. Be of good cheer, mother! what wretch is able to injure me?” When he
said this, his mother answered him, “Then procure a numerous body of companions
to guard you, by means of my wealth.” When Bhímabhaṭa heard this proposal, he
said, “Mother, this is not becoming; for if I did this, I should be really
opposing my father. You may be quite at your ease, for your blessing alone will
procure me good fortune.” When Bhímabhaṭa had encouraged her with these words,
he left her. In the meanwhile all the citizens came to hear of it, and they
thought, “Alas! a great injustice has been done to Bhímabhaṭa by the king.
Surely Samarabhaṭa does not think he is going to rob him of the kingdom. Well
it is an opportunity for us to do him a service, before he comes to the
throne.” Having formed this resolution, the citizens secretly supplied Bhímabhaṭa
with such abundance of wealth, that he lived in great comfort with his
servants. But the younger brother was ever on the look out to kill his elder
brother, supposing that this was his father’s object in furnishing him with a
guard.
In the
meanwhile a heroic and wealthy young Bráhman, of the name of Śankhadatta, who
was a friend of both brothers, came and said to Samarabhaṭa, “You ought not to
carry on hostility with your elder brother; it is not right, and you cannot do
him an injury; on the contrary the result of a quarrel would be disgraceful to
you.” When he said this, Samarabhaṭa abused and threatened him; good advice
given to a fool does not calm but rather enrages him. Then the resolute
Śankhadatta went away indignant at this treatment, and made a strict friendship
with Bhímabhaṭa, in order to have the opportunity of conquering Samarabhaṭa.
Then a
merchant, of the name of Maṇidatta, came there from a foreign country, bringing
with him an excellent horse; it was as white as the moon; the sound of its
neighing was as musical as that of a clear conch or other sweet-sounding
instrument; it looked like the waves of the sea of milk surging on high; it was
marked with curls on the neck; and adorned with the crest-jewel, the bracelet,
and other signs, which it seemed as if it had acquired by being born in the
race of the Gandharvas. When Bhímabhaṭa heard of that splendid horse, which was
mentioned to him by Śankhadatta, he went and bought it for a high price from
that merchant-prince. At that moment Samarabhaṭa, hearing of it, came and tried
to buy the horse from the merchant for double the price. But he refused to give
it him, as it had already been sold to another; then Samarabhaṭa, out of envy,
proceeded to carry it off by force. Then there took place a fierce combat
between those two princes, as the adherents of both came running up with
weapons in their hands. Then the mighty arm of Bhímabhaṭa laid low the
attendants of Samarabhaṭa, and he himself abandoned the horse, and began to
retire through fear of his brother. But as he was retiring, Śankhadatta, full
of overpowering anger, pursued him, and laying hold of his hair behind, was on
the point of killing him, when Bhímabhaṭa rushed up and prevented him, saying,
“Let be for the present, it would be a grief to my father.” Then Śankhadatta
let Samarabhaṭa go, and he fled in fear, discharging blood from his wounds, and
repaired to his father.
Then the
brave Bhímabhaṭa took possession of the horse, and immediately a Bráhman came
up to him, and taking him aside, said to him, “Your mother the queen Manoramá,
and the chaplain Yajuḥsvámin, and Sumati, the minister of your father, send you
the following advice at this juncture. “You know, dear boy, how the king is always
affected towards you, and he is especially angry with you at present, now that
this misfortune has happened. So if you feel disposed to save your own life,
and to preserve glory, and justice inviolate, if you have any regard for the
future, if you consider us well disposed towards you; leave this place
unobserved this very evening, as soon as the sun has set, and make for the
palace of your maternal grandfather, and may good fortune attend you. This is
the message they gave me for you, and they sent you this casket full of
precious jewels and gold; receive it from my hand.” When the wise Bhímabhaṭa
heard this message, he accepted it, saying, “I consent to act thus,” and he
took that casket of gold and valuable jewels. And he gave him an appropriate message
to take back, and then dismissed him, and mounted that horse, sword in hand.
And Śankhadatta took some gold and jewels, and mounted another horse. And then
prince Bhímabhaṭa set out with him, and after he had gone a long distance, he
reached at dead of night a great thicket of reeds that lay in his way. As he
and his companion pursued their course through it without stopping, a couple of
lions, roused by the noise, which the reeds made when trampled by the horses’
hoofs, rushed out roaring, with their cubs, and began to rip up the bellies of
the horses with their claws. And immediately the hero and his companion cut off
the limbs of the lions with their swords, and killed them. Then he got down
with his friend to look at the state of the two horses, but as their entrails
were torn out, they immediately fell down dead. When Bhímabhaṭa saw that, he
felt despondent, and he said to Śankhadatta, “Friend, by a great effort we have
escaped from our hostile relatives. Tell me, where, even by a hundred efforts, shall
we find an escape from Fate, who has now smitten us even here, not allowing us
even to retain our horses. The very horse, for which I abandoned my native
land, is dead; so how can we travel on foot through this forest at night?” When
he said this, his friend Śankhadatta answered him, “It is no new thing for
hostile Fate to conquer courage. This is its nature, but it is conquered by
firm endurance. What can Fate do against a firm unshaken man, any more than the
wind against a mountain? So come, let us mount upon the horse of endurance and
so plod on here.” When Śankhadatta said this, Bhímabhaṭa set out with him. Then
they slowly crossed that thicket, wounding their feet with the canes, and at
last the night came to an end. And the sun, the lamp of the world, arose,
dispelling the darkness of night, and the lotus-flowers in the lotus-clumps, by
the side of their path, with their expanding cups and the sweet murmur of their
bees, seemed to be looking at one another and saying, “It is a happy thing that
this Bhímabhaṭa has crossed this thicket full of lions and other dangerous
animals.” So travelling on, he at last reached with his friend the sandy shore
of the Ganges, dotted with the huts of hermits. There he drank its sweet
waters, which seemed to be impregnated with the nectar of the moon, from
dwelling on the head of Śiva, and he bathed in them, and felt refreshed. And he
ate, by way of sustenance, some venison, which they had bought from a hunter
whom they happened to meet, and which Śankhadatta brought to him roasted. And
seeing that the Ganges was full and difficult to cross, for with its waves
uplifted like hands it seemed again and again to warn him back, he proceeded to
roam along the bank of the river. And there he saw a young Bráhman in the court
of an out-of-the-way hut, engaged in the study of the Vedas. So he went up to
him and said, “Who are you, and what are you doing in this solitary place?”
Then the young Bráhman answered him:
“I am
Nílakaṇṭha, the son of a Bráhman named Śríkaṇṭha, who lived at Váráṇasí, and
after all the ceremonies had been performed for me, and I had learnt knowledge
in the family of my spiritual preceptor, I returned home and found all my
relations dead. That left me helpless and poor, and as I was not in a position
to carry on the duties of a householder, I became despondent, and repaired to
this place, and had recourse to severe asceticism. Then the goddess Gangá gave
me some fruits in a dream, and said to me, ‘Remain here living on these fruits,
until you obtain your desire.’ Then I woke up and went and bathed, and when the
morning came, I found in the water some fruits, that had been washed here by
the stream of the Ganges. I brought those fruits, delicious as nectar, into my
hut, and ate them there, and so I remain here engaged in asceticism, receiving
these fruits day by day.”
When he
said this, Bhímabhaṭa said to Śankhadatta, “I will give this virtuous youth
enough wealth to enable him to enter the householder-state.” Śankhadatta
approved his speech; whereupon the prince gave the Bráhman the wealth that his
mother gave him. For what is the use of the greatness of great ones, who have
abundant courage and wealth, if they do not put a stop to the sufferings of
their neighbour as soon as they hear of them?
And after
he had made the fortune of the Bráhman, Bhímabhaṭa searched in every direction
for some means of crossing the Ganges, but could not find any. Then he tied his
ornaments and sword on his head, and plunged in with Śankhadatta to swim across
it.
And in the
middle of the river the current carried his friend to a distance from him, and
he himself was swept away by the waves, and reached the bank with difficulty.
When he reached the other side, he could not see his friend Śankhadatta, and
while he was looking for him along the bank, the sun set. Then he began to
despair, and he exclaimed in bitter grief, “Alas my friend!” and it being now
the beginning of the night, he prepared to drown himself in the waters of the
Ganges. He said, “Goddess Jáhnaví, you have taken from me my life in the form
of my friend, so now receive also this empty vessel of my body,” and he was on
the point of plunging in, when Gangá appeared to him from the middle of the
flood. And pleased with his violent agitation she said to him then and there,
“Do not act rashly, my son! your friend is alive, and in a short time you shall
be reunited with him. Now receive from me this charm called, ‘Forwards and
Backwards.’ If a man repeats it forwards, he will become invisible to his
neighbour, but if he repeats it backwards, he will assume whatever shape he
desires. Such is the force of this charm only seven syllables long, and by its
help you shall become a king on this earth.” When the goddess Gangá had said
this, and given him the charm, she disappeared from his eyes, and he gave up
the idea of suicide, now that he had got a hope of regaining his friend and of
other successes. And being anxious to regain his friend, he passed the night in
impatience, like the lotus-flower, and the next morning he set out in search of
him.
Then, as he
was travelling about in search of Śankhadatta, he one day reached alone the
district of Láṭa, where, though the colours of the castes are not mixed, the
people lead a diversified and richly coloured life, which though a seat of fine
arts, is not reputed a home of crimes. In this city he wandered about, looking
at the temples and the dwelling-houses, and at last he reached a hall of
gamblers. He entered it and saw a number of fraudulent dice-players, who though
they were clothed in a loin-rag only, shewed by their handsome, well-shaped,
stout limbs, which indicated good living and plenty of exercise, that they were
men of rank though they concealed it, and that they had resorted to that
occupation for the sake of making money. They began to talk to him, so he sat
down to play with them, and they fancied that they would make a fine thing out
of him and his ornaments. Then he beat them at the dice-play, and won from the
rogues all the wealth which they had acquired by cheating others.
Then those
gamblers, having lost their wealth, were preparing to go home, when Bhímabhaṭa
set his arms against the door and stopped them, and said to them, “Where are
you going? Take back this wealth; I do not want it. I must give it away to my
friends, and are not you my friends? Where can I find such dear friends as
you?” When he said this, and they declined to take the money out of shame, a
gambler there, of the name of Akshakshapaṇaka, said, “Undoubtedly it is the
definition of gambling that what is won is not returned, but if this gentleman
becomes our friend, and gives us of his own accord wealth which he has fairly
won, why should we not take it?” The others, when they heard this, exclaimed,
“It is fitting, if he makes such an eternal friendship with us.” When they said
this, he came to the conclusion that they were men of spirit, and he at once
consented to swear eternal friendship to them, and gave them back their wealth.
And at their request he went into a garden with them and their families, and
refreshed himself with food, and wine, and other luxuries, supplied by them.
Then, at the request of Akshakshapaṇaka and the others, he told his name, race,
and history, and asked them also for theirs. Then Akshakshapaṇaka told him the
story of his life.
Story
of Akshakshapaṇaka.
There lived
in Hastinápura a Bráhman named Śivadatta, a very rich man, and I am his son,
and my real name is Vasudatta. And in my youth I learnt skill in arms as well
as in the Vedas. Then my father made me marry a wife from a family equal in
rank to my own. But my mother was a great scold, implacable, and very
passionate. And she worried my father so intolerably, that as soon as he saw me
married, he left his home, and went away somewhere where he could not be
traced. When I saw that, I was afraid, and I earnestly enjoined on my wife to
study carefully my mother’s disposition, and she, being terrified, did so. But
my mother was bent on quarrelling, and it was impossible for my wife to please
her in any way. The ill-natured woman interpreted her silence as contempt, her
plaintive lamentation as hypocrisy, and her attempts at explanation as
wrangling. For who can deprive the fire of its tendency to burn? Then her
disagreeable behaviour in a short time worried my wife also so much, that she
left the house and fled I know not where.
Then I was
so despondent that I made up my mind to abandon family life, but my wretched
relations assembled together and forced me to take another wife. That second
wife of mine also was so worried by my mother, that she committed suicide by
hanging herself. Then I was exceedingly vexed, and I determined to go to a
foreign country. And when my relations tried to prevent me, I told them of the
wickedness of my mother. They assigned another reason for my father’s leaving
the country, and would not believe my story; so I adopted the following
artifice. I had a wooden doll made, and pretended to marry it privately as a
third wife, and I brought it and placed it in another secluded house which I
locked up. And I made another female puppet to guard her, dressed like a
servant. And I said to my mother, “I have put this wife of mine in a separate
house. So you and I must for the present remain apart from her in our own
house; you must not go there and she must not come here. For she is timid as
yet, and does not know how to win your affection.” To this arrangement my
mother gave her consent.
After some
days had elapsed, my mother, finding that she could not manage anyhow to get at
that supposed daughter-in-law of hers, who was in a private house kept always
locked, took a stone one day and struck herself on the head, and remained in
the courtyard in front of her own house, streaming with blood, and lamenting
with loud cries. Then I and all my relations came in, hearing the cries, and
when we saw her, we said, “Tell us, what is the matter?” When we asked her this
question, she said spitefully, “My daughter-in-law came without any reason and
reduced me to this state; so now my only remedy is death.” When my relations heard
this, they were furious, and they took her and me with them to the house where
I kept the wooden doll. They removed the fastening, and opened the door, and
went in, and lo! they saw nothing there but a wooden doll. Then they laughed at
my mother, who was covered with shame, having imposed on no one but herself,
and they began to repose confidence in what I had said, and so they went away
again.
And I left
that country, and travelled about till I came to this region, and here I
happened to enter a gambling-hall. And there I saw these five men playing, this
man named Chaṇḍabhujanga, and that Páśupata, and this Śmaśánavetála, and that
Kálavaráṭaka, and this Śáriprastara, heroes equal in valour. And I gambled with
them on this mutual understanding, that whoever was conquered should be the
slave of the conqueror. Then they became my slaves by being beaten by me in
gambling, but I have become their slave by being won over by their good
qualities. And dwelling with them I have forgotten my woes.
So know that
here I bear the name of Akshakshapaṇa, a name suited to my condition. Here I
have lived with these excellent men of good family, who conceal their real
position, and now you have joined us. So now you are our chief, and it was with
this view that we took that money of yours originally, being charmed with your
virtues.
When
Akshakshapaṇa had told his story in these words, all the others in succession
also told their adventures. And prince Bhímabhaṭa perceived that his friends
were heroes, who had disguised their real character by taking up gambling
practices for the sake of gaining wealth, so he had much more pleasant chat
with them, and spent the day in amusement, and then seeing that the eastern
quarter had adorned its face with the rising moon, as with an ornamental patch,
he went from that garden with Akshakshapaṇaka and the other six to their
dwelling. And while he was there with them, the rainy season arrived, seeming
to announce with the roarings of its joyous clouds his recovery of his friend.
And then the impetuous river there, named Vipáśá, that flowed into the sea, was
filled with an influx of sea-water and began to flow backwards, and it deluged
that shore with a great inundation, and then owing to the cessation of that
influx, it seemed to flow on again to the sea. Now at that time the sudden
influx of sea-water brought in a great fish, and on account of its unwieldy
size it was stranded on the bank of the river. And the inhabitants, when they
saw the fish stranded, ran forward with all kinds of weapons to kill it, and
ripped open its stomach. And when its stomach was cut open, there came out of
it alive a young Bráhman; and the people, astonished at that strange sight,
raised a shout. When Bhímabhaṭa heard that, he went there with his friends, and
saw his friend Śankhadatta, who had just issued from the inside of the fish. So
he ran and embraced him, and bedewed him with copious tears, as if he wished to
wash off the evil smell he had contracted by living in the gulf of the fish’s
maw. Śankhadatta, for his part, having escaped that calamity, and having found
and embraced his friend, went from joy to joy. Then being questioned out of
curiosity by Bhímabhaṭa, he gave this brief account of his adventures.
“On that
occasion, when I was swept out of your sight by the force of the waves of the
Ganges, I was suddenly swallowed by a very large fish. Then I remained for a
long time inside the capacious habitation of his stomach, eating in my hunger
his flesh, which I cut off with a knife. To-day Providence somehow or other
brought this fish here, and threw it up upon the bank, so that it was killed by
these men and I was taken out of its stomach. I have seen again you and the
light of the sun, the horizon has been once more illuminated for me. This, my friend,
is the story of my adventures, I know no more than this.”
When
Śankhadatta said this, Bhímabhaṭa and all that were present exclaimed in
astonishment, “To think that he should have been swallowed in the Ganges by a
fish, and that that fish should have got into the sea, and then that from the
sea it should have been brought into the Vipáśá, and that it should have been
killed, and then that Śankhadatta should have come out of it alive. Ah! the way
of fate is inscrutable, and wonderful are its works!” While uttering such
remarks with Akshakshapaṇaka and the others, Bhímabhaṭa took Śankhadatta to his
own dwelling. And there in high delight he entertained with a bath, clothes,
and other needful things, his friend, who had, as it were, been born a second
time with the same body from the belly of a fish.
And while
Bhímabhaṭa was living with him in that country, there came on there a festive
procession in honour of Vásuki the king of the snakes. In order to see it, the
prince went, surrounded with his friends, to the temple of that chief of the
snakes, where great crowds were assembling. He worshipped there in the temple,
where his idol was, which was full of long wreaths of flowers in form like
serpents, and which therefore resembled the abyss of Pátála, and then going in
a southerly direction, he beheld a great lake sacred to Vásuki, studded with
red lotuses, resembling the concentrated gleams of the brilliance of the jewels
on snakes’ crests; and encircled with blue lotuses, which seemed like clouds of
smoke from the fire of snake-poison; overhung with trees, that seemed to be
worshipping with their flowers blown down by the wind. When he saw it, he said
to himself in astonishment, “Compared with this expanded lake, that sea from
which Vishṇu carried off the goddess of Fortune, seems to me to be only worthy
of neglect, for its fortune of beauty is not to be taken from it by anything
else.” In the meanwhile he saw a maiden, who had come there to bathe, by name
Hansávalí, the beautiful daughter of Chandráditya, king of Láṭa, by
Kuvalayavatí; her mortal nature, which was concealed by all her other members
moulded like those of gods, was revealed by the winking of her rolling eye. She
had ten million perfections darting forth from her flower-soft body, she was
with her waist, that might be spanned with the hand, a very bow of Cupid, and
the moment she looked at Bhímabhaṭa, she pierced him in the heart with the
sidelong arrows of her eyes, and bewildered him. He too, who was a thief of the
world’s beauty, entered by the oblique path of her eyes the treasure-chamber of
her heart, and robbed her of her self-control. Then she sent secretly a
trustworthy and discreet maid, and enquired from his friends his name and
residence. And after she had bathed, she was taken back to her palace by her
attendants, frequently turning round her face to fix her eyes on him. And then
Bhímabhaṭa, accompanied by his friends, went to his dwelling, with faltering
steps, for he was entangled with the net which his beloved had cast over him.
And
immediately the princess Hansávalí sent that maid to him as an ambassadress of
love, with the message for which he longed. The maid came up to him and said to
him in secret, “Prince, the princess Hansávalí solicits you thus, ‘When you see
me, who love you, being carried away by the stream of love, you should rescue
me quickly, you should not remain indifferent upon the bank‘” When Bhímabhaṭa
heard from the messenger the nectar of his beloved’s message, he was delighted
at having his life saved, and said to her, “I am in the current, I am not upon
the bank; does not my beloved know that? But now, that I have obtained some
hope to cling to, I will gladly do her bidding. I will this night come and wait
upon her in her private apartments, and no one shall see me, for I will enter
concealed by a charm.” When he said this to the maid, she was pleased, and went
and told it to Hansávalí, and then she remained anxiously expecting an
interview with him.
And he, in
the early part of the night, went adorned with heavenly ornaments, and making
himself invisible by repeating forwards the charm bestowed on him by Gangá,
entered her splendid chamber which she had previously cleared of attendants. In
that chamber, which suggested thoughts of love, which was perfumed with aloes,
and adorned with nose-gays of flowers of five hues arranged there, and which
therefore resembled the garden of the god of love, he beheld that lovely one
exhaling heavenly fragrance, like a blossom put forth by the creeper of the
wonderful charm bestowed by Gangá. And then the handsome prince recited the
charm backwards, and immediately became visible to that princess. When he
beheld her timidly trembling with a joyful agitation that made her hair stand
on end, his ornaments immediately tinkled like musical instruments, and he
seemed to be dancing with joy to their music. And the maiden hid her face with
the shame of love, and seemed to be asking her heart, that caused all that
display of emotion, what she was to do now. Then Bhímabhaṭa said to her, “Fair
one, why do you allow your heart to exhibit shame, though its feelings have
been already revealed? It does not deny the state of affairs; besides how is it
possible to conceal this trembling of the limbs and this bursting boddice?”
Then Bhímabhaṭa with such words, and other loving persuasions, made the fair
one forget her modesty, and married her by the Gándharva form of marriage. And
after he had spent that night with her, in sporting like a bee round the lotus
of her mouth, he at last tore himself away, and saying, “I will come again at
night,” returned to his house.
And when
the chamberlains belonging to Hansávalí entered her chamber the next morning,
they saw that her lover had been with her. The ends of her curls were
disordered, she had marks of moist teeth and nails, and she seemed as if the
god of Love had appeared in person and afflicted her with the wounds of all his
arrows. They immediately went and reported the matter to the king, and he
secretly appointed spies to watch at night. And Bhímabhaṭa spent the day with
his friends in their usual employments, and in the beginning of the night again
repaired to the bower of his beloved. When the spies saw that he had entered
without being seen, by virtue of his charm, and discovered that he possessed supernatural
powers, they went out, and told the king, and he gave them this order, “The
being, who has entered a well-guarded room without being seen, cannot be a mere
man; so bring him here that I may see what this means. And say to him politely
from me, ‘Why did you not openly ask me for my daughter? Why did you make a
secret of it? For it is difficult to obtain a bridegroom for my daughter as
accomplished as yourself.’” When the king had sent off the spies with this
message, they went as he commanded, and stood at the door and delivered this
message to Bhímabhaṭa. And the resolute prince, perceiving that the king had
discovered him, answered them boldly from inside; “Tell the king from me, that
to-morrow I will enter his hall of audience, and tell him the truth, for now it
is the dead of night.” They then went and gave this message to the king and he
remained silent. And in the morning Bhímabhaṭa went to rejoin his friends. And
putting on a magnificent costume, he went with those seven heroes to the hall of
king Chandráditya. When the king saw his splendour, his resolute bearing and
handsome appearance, he received him kindly, and made him sit on a throne equal
to his own, and then his friend, the Bráhman Śankhadatta, said to the king,
“King, this is the son of Ugrabhaṭa the king of Ráḍhá, Bhímabhaṭa by name; his
might is irresistible on account of the wonderful power of the charm which he
possesses. And he has come here to sue for the hand of your daughter.” When the
king heard that, he remembered the occurrence of the night, and seeing that he
was a suitable match for his daughter, he exclaimed, “I am fortunate indeed,”
and accepted the proposal. And after he had made splendid preparations for the
marriage, he bestowed his daughter Hansávalí on Bhímabhaṭa with much wealth.
Then Bhímabhaṭa, having obtained many elephants, horses, and villages, remained
there in great comfort, possessed of Hansávalí and the goddess of Fortune. And
in a few days his father-in-law gave him that kingdom of Láṭa, and, being childless
and old, retired to the forest. Then the successful Bhímabhaṭa, having obtained
that kingdom, ruled it admirably with the help of those seven heroes,
Śankhadatta and the others.
Then, in
the course of some days, he heard from his spies, that his father king Ugrabhaṭa
had gone to Prayága and died there; and that, when he was intent on death, he
had anointed his youngest son Samarabhaṭa, the son of the dancing-girl, king of
Ráḍhá. Then he mourned for his father, and performed his funeral ceremonies,
and sent a messenger to that Samarabhaṭa with a letter. And in the letter, he
sent the following message to the pretender who was treating him unjustly,
“Foolish son of a dancing-girl, what business have you to sit on my father’s
throne, for it belongs to me, though I have this kingdom of Láṭa; so you must
not ascend it.” And the messenger went, and after announcing himself, delivered
the letter to that Samarabhaṭa, when he was in the hall of assembly. And when
Samarabhaṭa read this letter of such an import, under his brother’s sign
manual, he was angry, and answered, “This baseless presumption is becoming in
this ill-conducted man, who was long ago banished by my father from the
country, because he was not fit to remain in it. Even the jackal apes the lion,
when he is comfortably ensconced in his native cavern, but when he comes within
view of the lion, he is discovered to be only a jackal.” Such was the answer he
roared forth, and he wrote to the same effect in a letter, and sent his
return-messenger to carry it to Bhímabhaṭa.
So the
return-messenger went, and gave, when introduced by the warder, that letter to
the king of Láṭa. And when Bhímabhaṭa had read that letter, he laughed loudly,
and said to the return-messenger of his brother—“Go, messenger, and tell that
dancing-girl’s son from me, ‘On that former occasion when you tried to seize
the horse, I saved you from Śankhadatta, because you were a child and dear to
my father, but I will no longer endure your insolence. I will certainly send
you to my father who is so fond of you. Make ready, and know that in a few days
I shall have arrived.’” With these words he dismissed the messenger, and then
he began his expedition. When that moon of kings, glorious in his magnificence,
mounted his elephant which resembled a hill, the great sea of his army was
agitated and surged up with a roar, and the horizon was filled with innumerable
feudal chiefs and princes arrived for war, and setting out with their forces;
and the earth, swiftly trampled by the elephants and horses trooping along in
great numbers, groaned and trembled under the weight, as if afraid of being
cleft open. In this fashion Bhímabhaṭa marched and came near Ráḍhá, eclipsing
the light of the sun in the heavens with the clouds of dust raised by his army.
In the
meanwhile king Samarabhaṭa heard of it, and became indignant; and armed
himself, and went out with his army to meet him in battle. And those two armies
met, like the eastern and western seas, and a great battle took place between
the heroes on both sides, awful as the destruction of the world. Then the fire,
produced by the loud clashing of swords, which seemed as if it had been kindled
by the gnashing of the teeth of the angry god of Death, hid the sky; and
javelins flew with their long points resembling eyelashes, and seemed like the
glances of the nymphs of heaven, as they gazed on the warriors. Then the field
of battle appeared like a stage; its canopy was dust, its music was the
shouting of the army, and its dancers palpitating trunks. And a furious torrent
of blood, sweeping along heads, and garlanded with trunks, carried off all
living creatures, like the night of destruction at the end of the world.
But the
archer Bhímabhaṭa soon routed the army of his enemies, by means of a combined
attack of the mighty warriors Śankhadatta, and Akshakshapaṇaka, and Chaṇḍabhujanga
and his fellows, skilled in wrestling, resembling impetuous elephants. And
Samarabhaṭa was furious, when his army was routed, and he dashed forward on his
chariot, and began to churn the sea of battle, as Mount Mandara churned the
ocean. Then Bhímabhaṭa, who was mounted on an elephant, attacked him, and cut
his bow in two with his arrows, and also killed all the four horses of his
chariot. Then Samarabhaṭa, being prevented from using his chariot, ran and
struck with a javelin on the forehead the splendid elephant of Bhímabhaṭa, and
the elephant, as soon as it was struck, fell dead on the ground. Then both of
them, being deprived of their means of conveyance, had to fight on foot. And
the two angry kings, armed with sword and shield, engaged in single combat. But
Bhímabhaṭa, though he might have made himself invisible by means of his charm,
and so have killed him, out of a regard for fairness, would not kill his enemy
in that way. But being a skilful swordsman, he contended against him in open
fight, and cut off with his sword the head of that son of the dancing-girl.
And when
that Samarabhaṭa was slain with his soldiers, and the bands of the Siddhas had
applauded from the heavens, and the fight had come to an end, Bhímabhaṭa with
his friends entered the city of Ráḍhá, being praised by heralds and minstrels.
Then, returning from a long absence, after slaying his enemy, he delighted his
mother, who was eager to behold him, as Ráma did Kauśalyá. And the citizens
welcomed him, and then he adorned the throne of his father, and took his seat
on it, honoured by his father’s ministers, who loved his good qualities. And
then he honoured all his subjects, who made high festival; and on a lucky day he
gave to Śankhadatta the kingdom of Láṭa. And he sent him to the territory of Láṭa,
escorted by a force composed of natives of that country; and he gave villages
and wealth to Akshakshapaṇaka and his fellows, and he remained surrounded by
them, ruling his ancestral realm, with that queen Hansávalí, the daughter of
the king of Láṭa. And, in course of time, he conquered the earth, and carried
off the daughters of kings, and became exclusively addicted to the enjoyment of
their society. And he devolved his duties on his ministers, and amused himself
with the women of his harem, and never left its precincts, being engrossed with
drinking and other vices.
Then, one
day, the hermit Uttanka came of his own accord to visit him, as if he were the
time of accomplishment of the previous decree of Śiva. And when the hermit came
to the door, the king, being blinded with passion, intoxication, and the pride
of sovereignty, would not listen, though the warders announced his arrival.
Then the hermit was angry, and denounced this curse on the king, “O man blinded
with intoxication, you shall fall from your throne, and become a wild
elephant.” When the king heard that, fear dispelled his intoxication, and he
went out, and prostrating himself at the foot of the hermit, began to appease
him with humble words. Then the anger of the great sage was calmed, and he said
to him, “King, you must become an elephant, that decree cannot be altered; but
when you shall have relieved a minister of Mṛigánkadatta’s, named Prachaṇḍaśakti,
afflicted with the curse of a Nága and blinded, who shall become your guest,
and shall tell him your story, you shall be delivered from this curse; and you
shall return to the state of a Gandharva, as Śiva foretold to you, and then
that guest of yours shall recover the use of his eyes.” When the hermit Uttanka
had said this, he returned as he came, and Bhímabhaṭa was hurled from his
throne, and became an elephant.
“So know,
my friend, that I am that very Bhímabhaṭa, become an elephant, and you are
Prachaṇḍaśakti; I know that my curse is now at an end.” When Bhímabhaṭa had
said this, he abandoned the form of an elephant, and at once became a Gandharva
of heavenly might. And immediately Prachaṇḍaśakti recovered, to his intense
delight, the use of his eyes, and looked upon that Gandharva there. And in the
meanwhile the discreet Mṛigánkadatta, who had heard their conversation from the
bower of creepers, with his other ministers, having discovered that it was
indeed his friend, rushed quickly and impetuously forth, and threw his arms
round the neck of his minister Prachaṇḍaśakti. And Prachaṇḍaśakti looked at
him, and feeling as if his body had been irrigated with a sudden flood of
nectar, immediately embraced the feet of his lord.
Then the
Gandharva Bhímabhaṭa comforted those two, who were weeping, both deeply moved
at being reunited after so long a separation. And Mṛigánkadatta, bowing, said
to that Gandharva, “That I have recovered this friend of mine, and that he has
recovered his eyesight, is all due to your wondrous might. Honour to you!” When
the Gandharva heard that, he said to that prince, “You shall soon recover all
your other ministers, and obtain Śaśánkavatí as a wife, and become king of the
whole earth. So you must not lose heart. Now, auspicious one, I depart, but I
will appear to you when you think of me.”
When the
matchless chief of the Gandharvas had said this to the prince, and so testified
his friendship for him, as his curse was at an end, and he had obtained
prosperous felicity, he flew up swiftly into the sky, making the whole air
resound with the tinkling of his beautiful bracelet and necklace.
And Mṛigánkadatta,
having recovered Prachaṇḍaśakti, and so regained his spirits, spent that day in
the wood, accompanied by his ministers.
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