KATHA SARIT SAGARA Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXII

 

Then the artful minister Yaugandharáyaṇa came the next morning to the king of Vatsa, who was expecting him, and made the following representation—“O king, why do you not immediately enquire about an auspicious moment for celebrating the happy marriage of your highness with Kalingasená, the daughter of Kalingadatta, the king of Takshaśilá?” When the king heard that, he said—“The same desire is fixed in my heart, for my mind cannot endure to remain a moment without her.” Having said this, the simple-hearted monarch gave orders to a warder, who stood before him, and summoned the astrologers. When he questioned them, they, having had their cue previously given them by the prime minister, said, “For the king there will be a favourable moment in six months from this time.”

 

When Yaugandharáyaṇa heard this, he pretended to be angry, and the cunning fellow said to the king, “Out on these blockheads! That astrologer, whom your highness previously honoured on the ground of his cleverness, has not come to-day, ask him, and then do what is proper.” When he heard this speech of his minister’s, the king of Vatsa immediately summoned that very astrologer with mind in an agony of suspense. He also stuck to his agreement, and in order to put off the day of the marriage he named when asked, after some reflection, a moment six months off. Then Yaugandharáyaṇa pretending to be distracted, said to the king—“Let your majesty command what is to be done in this matter!” The king, being impatient and longing for a favourable moment, said, after reflecting—“You must ask Kalingasená, and see what she says.” When Yaugandharáyaṇa heard this, he took with him two astrologers and went into the presence of Kalingasená. She received him politely, and beholding her beauty, he reflected—“If the king were to obtain her, he would abandon the whole kingdom in his reckless passion.” And he said to her, “I am come with these astrologers to fix the moment of your marriage; so let these servants inform me of the particular star in the lunar mansions under which you were born.” When the astrologers heard the lunar mansion stated by her attendants, they pretended to investigate the matter, and kept saying in the course of their calculations, “It is not on this side, it must be after that.” At last, in accordance with their agreement with the minister, they named again that very moment at the end of six months. When Kalingasená heard that distant date fixed, she was cast down in spirit, but her chamberlain said, “You must first fix a favourable moment, so that this couple may be happy all their lives, what matters it whether it be near or far off?” When they heard this speech of the chamberlain’s, all there immediately exclaimed—“Well said.” And Yaugandharáyaṇa said, “Yes, and if an inauspicious moment is appointed for us, the king Kalingadatta, our proposed connexion, will be grieved.” Then Kalingasená, being helpless, said to them all—“Let it be as you appoint in your wisdom”—and remained silent. And at once accepting that speech of hers, Yaugandharáyaṇa took leave of her, and went with the astrologers into the presence of the king. Then he told the proceedings to the king of Vatsa, exactly as they had happened, and so having settled his mind by an artifice, he went to his own house.

 

So having attained his object of putting off the marriage, in order to complete the scheme he had in view, he called to mind his friend, the Bráhman-Rákshasa, named Yogeśvara. He, according to his previous promise, when thought of, readily came to the minister, and bowed before him and said—“Why am I called to mind?” Then Yaugandharáyaṇa told him the whole incident of Kalingasená which was tempting his master to vice, and again said to him—“I have managed to gain time, my friend; in that interval, do you, remaining concealed, observe by your skill the behaviour of Kalingasená. For the Vidyádharas and other spirits are without doubt secretly in love with her, since there is no other woman in the three worlds equal to her in beauty. So, if she were to have an intrigue with some Siddha or Vidyádhara, and you were to see it, it would be a fortunate thing. And you must observe the divine lover, though he come disguised, when he is asleep, for divine beings, when asleep, assume their own form. If in this way we are able to discover any offence in her by means of your eyes, the king will be disgusted with her, and will accomplish that object of ours.” When the minister said this to him, the Bráhman-Rákshasa answered, “Why should I not by some artifice cause her to fall or slay her?” When the great minister Yaugandharáyaṇa heard that, he said to him—“This must not be done, for it would be a very wicked deed. And whoever goes his own way without offending against the god of justice, finds that that god comes to his assistance to enable him to attain his objects. So you must discover in her, my friend, a fault self-caused, in order that through your friendship the king’s objects may be accomplished by me.” Having received this order from the excellent minister, the Bráhman-Rákshasa departed, and disguised by magic entered the house of Kalingasená.

 

In the meanwhile Somaprabhá, her friend, the daughter of the Asura Maya, went again into the presence of Kalingasená. And the daughter of Maya, after asking her friend what had happened in the night, said to her who had abandoned her relations, in the hearing of that Rákshasa—“I came here in the forenoon after searching for you, but I remained concealed at your side, seeing Yaugandharáyaṇa. However I heard your conversation, and I understood the whole state of affairs. So why did you make this attempt yesterday though you were forbidden to do so by me? For any business which is undertaken, my friend, without first counteracting the evil omen, will end in calamity; as a proof of this, hear the following tale:”

 

Story of the Bráhman’s son Vishṇudatta and his seven foolish companions.

 

Long ago there lived in Antarvedi a Bráhman named Vasudatta, and he had a son born to him named Vishṇudatta. That Vishṇudatta, after he reached the age of sixteen years, set out for the city of Vallabhí in order to acquire learning. And there joined him seven other young Bráhmans his fellows, but those seven were fools, while he was wise and sprung from a good family. After they had taken an oath not to desert one another, Vishṇudatta set out with them at night without the knowledge of his parents. And after he had set forth, he saw an evil omen presenting itself in front of him, and he said to those friends of his who were travelling with him,—“Ha! Here is a bad omen! it is advisable to turn back now; we will set out again with good hope of success, when we have auspicious omens with us.” When those seven foolish companions heard that, they said, “Do not entertain groundless fear, for we are not afraid of the omen. If you are afraid, do not go, but we will start this moment; to-morrow morning our relations will abandon us, when they hear of our proceedings.” When those ignorant creatures said that, Vishṇudatta set out with them, urged on by his oath, but he first called to mind Hari, the dispeller of sin. And at the end of the night he saw another evil omen, and again mentioned it, and he was rebuked by all those foolish friends of his in the following words; “This is our evil omen, you coward afraid to travel, that you have been brought by us, since you shudder at a crow at every step you take; we require no other evil omen.” Having reviled him in these words, they continued their journey and Vishṇudatta went with them, as he could not help it, but kept silence, reflecting—“One ought not to give advice to a fool bent on going his own crooked way, for it only entails ridicule, being like the beautifying of ordure. A single wise man fallen among many fools, like a lotus in the path of the waves, is surely overwhelmed. So I must not henceforth give these men either good or bad advice, but I must go on in silence; destiny will educe prosperity.” Engaged in these reflections, Vishṇudatta proceeded on the way with those fools, and at the end of the day he reached a Śavara village. There he wandered about in the night and reached a certain house inhabited by a young woman, and asked the woman for a lodging there. She gave him a room, and he entered it with his friends, and those seven in a moment went to sleep. He alone remained awake, as he had entered a house belonging to a savage. For the stupid sleep resolutely, how can the understanding sleep?

 

And in the meanwhile a certain young man secretly entered the inner apartment of the house, and went into the presence of that woman. And she remained in confidential conversation with him, and as fate would have it, they both fell asleep. And Vishṇudatta, perceiving it all through the half-open door by the light of a candle, reflected despondently, “Alas! have we entered the house of a profligate woman? Surely this is her paramour, and not the husband of her youth, for otherwise we should not have this timid secret proceeding; I saw at the first that she was of a flighty disposition; but we have entered here as mutual witnesses, for lack of others.” While he was thinking he heard outside a noise of men, and he saw entering a young chief of the Śavaras with a sword, looking about him, while his attendants remained in the sleeping apartment. When the chief said—“Who are you?” Vishṇudatta, supposing him to be the master of the house, said in his terror—“We are travellers.” But the Śavara entered, and seeing his wife in such a position, he cut off with his sword the head of her sleeping paramour. But he did not punish or even wake his wife; but placing his sword on the ground he went to sleep on another couch. Seeing that by the light of the candle, Vishṇudatta reflected—“He did right not to kill his wife, but to kill the adulterer; but that he should sleep here in confidence, after performing such a deed, is an act of surprising courage, characteristic of men of mighty minds.” While Vishṇudatta was thus reflecting, that wicked woman awoke and beheld her paramour slain, and that husband of hers asleep. So she rose up, and took on her shoulder the body of her lover, and carrying his head in one hand, she went out. And going outside quickly, she threw into an ash-heap the trunk with the head, and came secretly back. And Vishṇudatta going out beheld it all from a distance, and again entering remained as he was, in the midst of his sleeping companions. But the wicked woman came back, and entering the room, cut off with that very sword the head of her sleeping husband. And going out she raised a cry so as to make all the servants hear, “Alas! I am ruined, my husband has been slain by these travellers.” Then the servants, hearing the cry, rushed forward and beholding their master slain, ran upon Vishṇudatta and his friends with uplifted weapons. And when those others, his companions, rose up in terror, as they were about to be slain, Vishṇudatta said quickly—“Cease your attempt to slay Bráhmans! We did not do this deed; this wicked woman herself did it, being in love with another man. But I saw the whole affair from the very beginning, through a half-open door; and I went out and observed what she did, and if you will have patience with me, I will tell you.” Vishṇudatta with these words restrained the Śavaras, and told them the whole affair from the beginning, and took them out and showed them the trunk with the head freshly severed and thrown by the woman on that heap of refuse. Then the woman confessed the truth by the paleness of her face, and all there reviled the wanton, and said—“Whom will not a wicked woman kill, when won over by another man, like a sword in an enemy’s hand, since enticed by love she commits reckless crime without being taught.” Having said this, they thereupon let Vishṇudatta and his companions go; and then the seven companions praised Vishṇudatta, saying, “You became to us, while we were asleep at night, a protecting jewel-lamp, through your kindness we escaped to-day from death produced by an evil omen.” In these words they praised Vishṇudatta, and ceased henceforth their reviling, and after bowing before him they set out in the morning on their errand, accompanied by him.

 

Having told this story to Kalingasená in their mutual conversation, Somaprabhá again said to that friend of hers in Kauśámbí.—“Thus, my friend, an evil omen presenting itself to people engaged in any undertaking, if not counteracted by delay and other methods, produces misfortune. And so people of dull intelligence, neglecting the advice of the wise, and acting impetuously, are afflicted in the end. Accordingly you did not act wisely in sending a messenger to the king of Vatsa, asking him to receive you, when there was an inauspicious omen. May Fate grant you to be married without any impediment, but you came from your house in an unlucky moment, therefore your marriage is far off. And the gods too are in love with you, so you must be on your guard against this. And you must think of the minister Yaugandharáyaṇa, who is expert in politic wiles; he, fearing that the king may become engrossed in pleasure, may throw impediments in your way in this business; or he may even bring a charge against you after your marriage is celebrated: but no, being virtuous, he will not bring a false accusation; nevertheless, my friend, you must at all events be on your guard against your rival wife, I will tell you a story illustrative of this, listen.”

 

Story of Kadalígarbhá.

 

There is in this land a city named Ikshumatí, and by the side of it there runs a river called by the same name; both were created by Viśvámitra. And near it there is a great forest, and in it a hermit of the name of Mankaṇaka had made himself a hermitage and performed penance with his heels upwards. And while he was performing austerities, he saw an Apsaras of the name of Menaká coming through the air, with her clothes floating on the breeze. Then his mind was bewildered by Cupid, who had found his opportunity, and there was born to him a daughter named Kadalígarbhá, beautiful in every limb. And since she was born in the interior of a plantain, her father, the hermit Mankaṇaka, gave her the name of Kadalígarbhá. She grew up in his hermitage like Kṛipí the wife of Droṇa, who was born to Gautama on his beholding Rambhá. And once on a time Dṛiḍhavarman, a king born in Madhyadeśa, who in the excitement of the chase was carried away by his horse, entered that hermitage. He beheld Kadalígarbhá clothed in garments of bark, having her beauty exceedingly set off by the dress appropriate to the daughter of an ascetic. And she, when seen, captivated the heart of that king so completely, that she left no room in it for the women of his harem. While thinking to himself—“Shall I be able to obtain as a wife this daughter of some hermit or other, as Dushyanta obtained Śakuntalá the daughter of the hermit Kanva?”—the king beheld that hermit Mankaṇaka coming with fuel and kuśa-grass. And leaving his horse, he approached him and worshipped at his feet, and when questioned, discovered himself to that hermit. Then the hermit gave the following order to Kadalígarbhá—“My dear child, prepare the arghya for this king our guest.” She said—“I will do so”—and bowing, prepared the hospitable offering, and then the king said to the hermit—“Whence did you obtain this maiden who is so beautiful?”—Then the hermit told the king the story of her birth, and her name Kadalígarbhá, which indicated the manner of it. Then the king, considering the maiden born from the hermit’s thinking on Menaká to be an Apsaras, earnestly craved her hand of her father. And the sage gave him that daughter named Kadalígarbhá, for the actions of the sages of old time, guided by divine insight, were without hesitation. And the nymphs of heaven, discovering the fact by their divine power, came there out of love for Menaká, and adorned her for the wedding. And on that very occasion they put mustard-seeds into her hand and said to her,—“As you are going along the path, sow them, in order that you may know it again. If, daughter, at any time your husband should scorn you, and you should wish to return here, then you will be able, as you come along, to recognise the path by these, which will have sprung up.” When they had said this to her, and her marriage had been celebrated, the king Dṛiḍhavarman placed Kadalígarbhá on his horse, and departed thence. His army came up and escorted him, and in company with that bride of his, who sowed the mustard-seeds all along the path, he reached his own palace. There he became averse to the society of his other wives, and dwelt with that Kadalígarbhá, after telling her story to his ministers.

 

Then his principal wife, being exceedingly afflicted, said to his minister in secret, after reminding him of the benefits she had conferred upon him: “The king is now exclusively attached to his new wife and has deserted me, so take steps to make this rival of mine depart.” When that minister heard that, he said—“Queen, it is not appropriate for people like me to destroy or banish their masters’ wives. This is the business of the wives of wandering religious mendicants, addicted to jugglery and such practices, associating with men like themselves. For those hypocritical female ascetics, creeping unforbidden into houses, skilled in deception, will stick at no deed whatever.” When he said this to her, the queen, as if abashed, said to him in affected shame—“Then I will have nothing to do with this proceeding disapproved of by the virtuous.” But she laid up his speech in her heart, and dismissing that minister, she summoned by the mouth of her maid a certain wandering female ascetic. And she told her all that desire of hers from the beginning, and promised to give her great wealth if the business were successfully accomplished. And the wicked female ascetic, from desire of gain, said to the afflicted queen—“Queen, this is an easy matter, I will accomplish it for you, for I know very many expedients of various kinds.” Having thus consoled the queen, that female ascetic departed; and after reaching her house, she reflected as one afraid, “Alas! whom will not excessive desire of gain delude, since I rashly made such a promise before the queen? But the fact is, I know no device of the kind, and it is not possible to carry on any deception in the palace, as I do in other places, for the authorities might perhaps find it out and punish me. There may be one resource in this difficulty, for I have a friend, a barber, and as he is skilled in devices of the kind, all may yet go well, if he exert himself in the matter.” After thus reflecting, she went to the barber, and told him all her plan that was to bring her prosperity. Then the barber, who was old and cunning, reflected—“This is good luck, that an opportunity of making something has now presented itself to me. So we must not kill the king’s new wife, but we must preserve her alive, for her father has divine insight, and would reveal the whole transaction. But by separating her from the king we will now batten upon the queen, for great people become servants to a servant who shares their criminal secrets. And in due time I will re-unite her to the king, and tell him the whole story, in order that he and the sage’s daughter may become a source of subsistence to me. And thus I shall not have done anything very wrong, and I shall have a livelihood for a long time.” Having thus reflected, the barber said to the hypocritical female ascetic—“Mother, I will do all this, but it would not be proper to slay that new wife of the king’s by means of magic, for the king might some day find it out, and then he would destroy us all: besides we should incur the sin of woman-murder, and her father the sage would curse us. Therefore it is far better that she should be separated from the king by means of our ingenuity, in order that the queen may be happy, and we may obtain wealth [punctuation missing in scan] And this is an easy matter to me, for what can I not accomplish by force of intellect? Hear my ingenuity, I will relate a story which illustrates it.”

 

Story of the king and the barber’s wife

 

This king Dṛiḍhavarman had an immoral father. And I was then his servant, being engaged in the duties which belong to me. He, one day, as he was roaming about here, cast eyes on my wife; and as she was young and beautiful, his mind became attached to her. And when he asked his attendants who she was, they said—“The barber’s wife.” He thought—“What can the barber do?” So the wicked king entered my house, and after enjoying at will the society of my wife, departed. But, as it happened, I was away from my house that day, being absent somewhere or other. And the next day, when I entered, I saw that my wife’s manner had altered, and when I asked her the reason, she told me the whole story, being full of pride at what had occurred. And in that way the king went on puffing up my wife by continual visits, which I was powerless to prevent. A prince distracted by unholy passion makes no distinction between what is lawful and what is illicit. The forest is like straw to a sylvan fire fanned by the wind. So, not being in possession of any other expedient for restraining my sovereign, I reduced myself with spare diet, and took refuge in feigned sickness. And in this state I went into the presence of that king to perform my duties, sighing deeply, pale and emaciated. Then the king, seeing that I seemed to be ill, asked me meaningly the following question—“Holla! tell me why you have become thus?” And after he had questioned me persistently, I answered the king in private, after imploring immunity from punishment—“King, my wife is a witch. And when I am asleep she extracts my entrails and sucks them, and then replaces them as before—This is how I have become lean. So how can continual refreshment and eating nourish me?” When I said this to the king, he became anxious and reflected—“Can she really be a witch? Why was I captivated by her? I wonder whether she will suck my entrails also, since I am well nourished with food. So I will myself contrive to test her this very night.” Having thus reflected, the king caused food to be given me on the spot. Then I went home and shed tears in the presence of my wife, and when she questioned me, I said to her—“My beloved, you must not reveal to any one what I am about to tell you. Listen! That king has teeth as sharp as the edge of a thunderbolt, where teeth are not usually found, and they broke my razor to-day while I was performing my duties. And in this way I shall break a razor every time. So how am I to be continually procuring fresh razors? This is why I weep, for the means of supporting myself in my home are destroyed.” When I had said this to my wife, she made up her mind to investigate the marvel of the concealed teeth while the king was asleep, since he was to visit her at night. But she did not perceive that such a thing had never been seen since the world was, and could not be true. Even clever women are deceived by the tales of an impostor.

 

So the king came at night and visited my wife at will, and as if fatigued, pretended to go to sleep, remembering what I had said. Then my wife, thinking he was asleep, slowly stretched out her hand to find his concealed teeth. And as soon as her hand reached him, the king exclaimed—“A witch! A witch!” and left the house in terror. Henceforth my wife, having been abandoned by the king out of fear, became satisfied with me and devoted to me exclusively. In this way I saved my wife on a former occasion from the king by my intelligence.

 

Having told this story to the female ascetic, the barber went on to say—“So, my good lady, this desire of yours must be accomplished by wisdom; and I will tell you, mother, how it is to be done, listen to me. Some old servant of the harem must be won over to say to this king in secret every day, ‘Your wife Kadalígarbhá is a witch.’ For she, being a forest maiden, has no attendants of her own, and what will not all alien servants do for gain, being easily corrupted? Accordingly, when the king becomes apprehensive on hearing what the old servant says, you must contrive to place at night hands and feet and other limbs in the chamber of Kadalígarbhá. Then the king will see them in the morning, and concluding that what the old man says is true, will be afraid of Kadalígarbhá and desert her of his own accord. So the queen will be delighted at getting rid of a rival wife, and entertain a favourable opinion of you, and we shall gain some advantage.” When the barber said this to the female ascetic, she consented and went and told the whole matter to the king’s head queen. And the queen carried out her suggestions, and the king, who had been warned, saw the hands and feet in the morning with his own eyes, and abandoned Kadalígarbhá, thinking her to be wicked. So the female ascetic, together with the barber, enjoyed to the full the presents which the queen secretly gave to her, being pleased with her aid.

 

So Kadalígarbhá, being abandoned by Dṛiḍhavarman, went out from the palace, grieved because the king would be cursed. And she returned to the hermitage of her father by the same path by which she came, which she was able to recognise by the mustard-seeds she had sown, which had sprung up. Her father, the hermit Mankaṇaka, when he saw her suddenly arrived there, remained for some time suspecting immorality on her part. And then he perceived the whole occurrence by the power of contemplation, and after lovingly comforting her, departed thence with her. And he went and told the king, who bowed before him, the whole treacherous drama, which the head queen had got up out of hatred for her rival. At that moment the barber himself arrived, and related the whole occurrence to the king, and then proceeded to say this to him; “In this way, my sovereign, I sent away the lady Kadalígarbhá, and so delivered her from the danger of the incantations which would have been practised against her, since I satisfied the head queen by an artifice.” When the king heard that, he saw that the speech of the great hermit was certainly true, and he took back Kadalígarbhá, recovering his confidence in her. And after respectfully accompanying the departing hermit, he rewarded the barber with wealth, thinking that he was attached to his person: kings are the appointed prey of rogues. Then the king, being averse to the society of his queen, lived in great comfort with Kadalígarbhá.

 

“Many false accusations of this kind do rival wives bring, O Kalingasená of irreproachable beauty. And you are a maiden, the auspicious moment of whose marriage is fixed at a distant date, and even the gods, whose goings transcend our thought, are in love with you. So do you yourself preserve yourself now, as the one jewel of the world, dedicated to the king of Vatsa only, from all assaults, for your own excellence brings you enmity. I indeed, my friend, shall never return to you, since you are now established in the palace of your husband: good women do not visit the house of a friend’s husband, O fair one! besides I have been forbidden by my own lord. And it is not possible for me to come here secretly, induced by my affection for you, inasmuch as my husband possesses divine insight and would find it out; with difficulty in truth did I obtain his permission to come here to-day. And since I can be of no use to you now, my friend, I will return home, but if my husband should give me permission, I will come here again, disregarding modesty.” Thus Somaprabhá, the daughter of the Asura king, spake weeping to Kalingasená, the daughter of the mortal king, whose face also was washed with tears, and after embracing her, departed swiftly to her own palace, as the day was passing away.