KATHA SARIT SAGRA Chapter CXXIV.

 

Chapter CXXIV.

 

Then King Vikramáditya put this question to the friend of the young merchant, who came with him, “You said that you recovered your wife alive after she was dead; how could that be? Tell us, good sir, the whole story at length.” When the king said this to the friend of the young merchant, the latter answered, “Listen, king, if you have any curiosity about it; I proceed to tell the story.”

 

Story of Chandrasvámin who recovered his wife alive after her death.

 

I am a young Bráhman of the name of Chandrasvámin, living on that magnificent grant to Bráhmans, called Brahmasthala, and I have a beautiful wife in my house. One day I had gone to the village for some object, by my father’s orders, and a kápálika, who had come to beg, cast eyes on that wife of mine. She caught a fever from the moment he looked at her, and in the evening she died. Then my relations took her, and put her on the pyre during the night. And when the pyre was in full blaze, I returned there from the village; and I heard what had happened from my family who wept before me.

 

Then I went near the pyre, and the kápálika came there with the magic staff dancing on his shoulder, and the booming drum in his hand. He quenched the flume of the pyre, king, by throwing ashes on it, and then my wife rose up from the midst of it uninjured. The kápálika took with him my wife who followed him, drawn by his magic power, and ran off quickly, and I followed him with my bow and arrows.

 

And when he reached a cave on the bank of the Ganges, he put the magic staff down on the ground, and said exultingly to two maidens who were in it, “She, without whom I could not marry you, though I had obtained you, has come into my possession; and so my vow has been successfully accomplished,” Saying this he shewed them my wife, and at that moment I flung his magic staff into the Ganges; and when he had lost his magic power by the loss of the staff, I reproached him, exclaiming, “Kápálika, as you wish to rob me of my wife, you shall live no longer.” Then the scoundrel, not seeing his magic staff, tried to run away; but I drew my bow and killed him with a poisoned arrow. Thus do heretics, who feign the vows of Śiva only for the pleasure of accomplishing nefarious ends, fall, though their sin has already sunk them deep enough.

 

Then I took my wife, and those other two maidens, and I returned home, exciting the astonishment of my relations. Then I asked those two maidens to tell me their history, and they gave me this answer, “We are the daughters respectively of a king and a chief merchant in Benares, and the kápálika carried us off by the same magic process by which he carried off your wife, and thanks to you we have been delivered from the villain without suffering insult.” This was their tale; and the next day I took them to Benares, and handed them over to their relations, after telling what had befallen them.

 

And as I was returning thence, I saw this young merchant, who had lost his wife, and I came here with him. Moreover, I anointed my body with an ointment that I found in the cave of the kápálika; and, observe, perfume still exhales from it, even though it has been washed.

 

“In this sense did I recover my wife arisen from the dead.” When the Bráhman had told this story, the king honoured him and the young merchant, and sent them on their way. And then that king Vikramáditya, taking with him Guṇavatí, Chandravatí, and Madanasundarí, and having met his own forces, returned to the city of Ujjayiní, and there he married Guṇavatí and Chandravatí.

 

Then the king called to mind the figure carved on a pillar that he had seen in the temple built by Viśvakarman, and he gave this order to the warder, “Let an ambassador be sent to Kalingasena to demand from him that maiden whose likeness I saw carved on the pillar.” When the warder received this command from the king, he brought before him an ambassador named Suvigraha, and sent him off with a message.

 

So the ambassador went to the country of Kalinga, and when he had seen the king Kalingasena, he delivered to him the message with which he had been entrusted, which was as follows, “King, the glorious sovereign Vikramáditya sends you this command, ‘You know that every jewel on the earth comes to me as my due; and you have a pearl of a daughter, so hand her over to me, and then by my favour you shall enjoy in your own realm an unopposed sway.’” When the king of Kalinga heard this, he was very angry, and he said, “Who is this king Vikramáditya? Does he presume to give me orders and ask for my daughter as a tribute? Blinded with pride he shall be cast down.” When the ambassador heard this from Kalingasena, he said to him, “How can you, being a servant, dare to set yourself up against your master? You do not know your place. What, madman, do you wish to be shrivelled like a moth in the fire of his wrath?”

 

When the ambassador had said this, he returned and communicated to king Vikramáditya that speech of Kalingasena’s. Then king Vikramáditya, being angry, marched out with his forces to attack the king of Kalinga, and the Vetála Bhútaketu went with him. As he marched along, the quarters, re-echoing the roar of his army, seemed to say to the king of Kalinga, “Surrender the maiden quickly,” and so he reached that country. When king Vikramáditya saw the king of Kalinga ready for battle, he surrounded him with his forces; but then he thought in his mind, “I shall never be happy without this king’s daughter; and yet how can I kill my own father-in-law? Suppose I have recourse to some stratagem.”

 

When the king had gone through these reflections, he went with the Vetála, and by his supernatural power entered the bedchamber of the king of Kalinga at night, when he was asleep, without being seen. Then the Vetála woke up the king, and when he was terrified, said to him laughing, “What! do you dare to sleep, when you are at war with king Vikramáditya?” Then the king of Kalinga rose up, and seeing the monarch, who had thus shown his daring, standing with a terrible Vetála at his side, and recognising him, bowed trembling at his feet, and said, “King, I now acknowledge your supremacy; tell me what I am to do.” And the king answered him, “If you wish to have me as your overlord, give me your daughter Kalingasená.” Then the king of Kalinga agreed, and promised to give him his daughter, and so the monarch returned successful to his camp.

 

And the next day, queen, your father the king of Kalinga bestowed you on king Vishamaśíla with appropriate ceremonies, and a splendid marriage-gift. Thus, queen, you were lawfully married by the king out of his deep love for you, and at the risk of his own life, and not out of any desire to triumph over an enemy.

 

“When I heard this story, my friends, from the mouth of the kárpaṭika Devasena, I dismissed my anger, which was caused by the contempt with which I supposed myself to have been treated. So, you see, this king was induced to marry me by seeing a likeness of me carved on a pillar, and to marry Malayavatí by seeing a painted portrait of her.” In these words Kalingasená, the beloved wife of king Vikramáditya, described her husband’s might, and delighted his other wives. Then Vikramáditya, accompanied by all of them, and by Malayavatí, remained delighting in his empire.

 

Then, one day, a Rájpút named Kṛishṇaśakti, who had been oppressed by the members of his clan, came there from the Dakkan. He went to the palace-gate surrounded by five hundred Rájpúts, and took on himself the vow of kárpaṭika to the king. And though the king tried to dissuade him, he made this declaration, “I will serve king Vikramáditya for twelve years.” And he remained at the gate of the palace, with his followers, determined to carry out this vow, and while he was thus engaged, eleven years passed over his head.

 

And when the twelfth year came, his wife, who was in another land, grieved at her long separation from him, sent him a letter; and he happened to be reading this Áryá verse which she had written in the letter, at night, by the light of a candle, when the king, who had gone out in search of adventures, was listening concealed, “Hot, long, and tremulous, do these sighs issue forth from me, during thy absence, my lord, but not the breath of life, hard-hearted woman that I am!”

 

When the king had heard this read over and over again by the kárpaṭika, he went to his palace and said to himself, “This kárpaṭika, whose wife is in such despondency, has long endured affliction, and if his objects are not gained, he will, when this twelfth year is at an end, yield his breath. So I must not let him wait any longer.” After going through these reflections, the king at once sent a female slave, and summoned that kárpaṭika. And after he had caused a grant to be written, he gave him this order, “My good fellow, go towards the northern quarter through Omkárapíṭha; there live on the proceeds of a village of the name of Khaṇḍavaṭaka, which I give you by this grant; you will find it by asking your way as you go along.”

 

When the king had said this, he gave the grant into his hands; and the kárpaṭika went off by night without telling his followers. He was dissatisfied, saying to himself, “How shall I be helped to conquer my enemies by a single village that will rather disgrace me? Nevertheless my sovereign’s orders must be obeyed.” So he slowly went on, and having passed Omkárapíṭha, he saw in a distant forest many maidens playing, and then he asked them this question, “Do you know where Khaṇḍavaṭaka is?” When they heard that, they answered, “We do not know; go on further; our father lives only ten yojanas from here; ask him; he may perhaps know of that village.”

 

When the maidens had said this to him, the kárpaṭika went on, and beheld their father, a Rákshasa of terrific appearance. He said to him, “Whereabouts here is Khaṇḍavaṭaka? Tell me, my good fellow.” And the Rákshasa, quite taken aback by his courage, said to him, “What have you got to do there? The city has been long deserted; but if you must go, listen; this road in front of you divides into two: take the one on the left hand, and go on until you reach the main entrance of Khaṇḍavaṭaka, the lofty ramparts on each side of which make it attract the eye.”

 

When the Rákshasa had told him this, he went on, and reached that main street, and entered that city, which, though of heavenly beauty, was deserted and awe-inspiring. And in it he entered the palace, which was surrounded with seven zones, and ascended the upper storey of it, which was made of jewels and gold. There he saw a gem-bestudded throne, and he sat down on it. Thereupon a Rákshasa came with a wand in his hand, and said to him, “Mortal, why have you sat down here on the king’s throne?” When the resolute kárpaṭika Kṛishṇaśakti heard this, he said, “I am lord here; and you are tribute-paying house-holders whom king Vikramáditya has made over to me by his grant.”

 

When the Rákshasa heard that, he looked at the grant, and bowing before him, said, “You are king here, and I am your warder; for the decrees of king Vikramáditya are binding everywhere.” When the Rákshasa had said this, he summoned all the subjects, and the ministers and the king’s retinue presented themselves there; and that city was filled with an army of four kinds of troops. And every one paid his respects to the kárpaṭika; and he was delighted, and performed his bathing and his other ceremonies with royal luxury.

 

Then, having become a king, he said to himself with amazement; “Astonishing truly is the power of king Vikramáditya; and strangely unexampled is the depth of his dignified reserve, in that he bestows a kingdom like this and calls it a village!” Full of amazement at this, he remained there ruling as a king: and Vikramáditya supported his followers in Ujjayiní.

 

And after some days this kárpaṭika become a king went eagerly to pay his respects to king Vikramáditya, shaking the earth with his army. And when he arrived and threw himself at the feet of Vikramáditya, that king said to him, “Go and put a stop to the sighs of your wife who sent you the letter.” When the king despatched him with these words, Kṛishṇaśakti, full of wonder, went with his friends to his own land. There he drove out his kinsmen, and delighted his wife, who had been long pining for him; and having gained more even than he had ever wished for, enjoyed the most glorious royal fortune.

 

So wonderful were the deeds of king Vikramáditya.

 

Now one day he saw a Bráhman with every hair on his head and body standing on end; and he said to him, “What has reduced you, Bráhman, to this state?” Then the Bráhman told him his story in the following words:

 

         

Story of Devasvámin the permanently horripilant Bráhman.

 

There lived in Páṭaliputra a Bráhman of the name of Agnisvámin, a great maintainer of the sacrificial fire; and I am his son, Devasvámin by name. And I married the daughter of a Bráhman who lived in a distant land, and because she was a child, I left her in her father’s house. One day I mounted a mare, and went with one servant to my father-in-law’s house to fetch her. There my father-in-law welcomed me; and I set out from his house with my wife, who was mounted on the mare, and had one maid with her.

 

And when we had got half way, my wife got off the mare, and went to the bank of the river, pretending that she wanted to drink water. And as she remained a long time without coming back, I sent the servant, who was with me, to the bank of the river to look for her. And as he also remained a long time without coming back, I went there myself, leaving the maid to take care of the mare. And when I went and looked, I found that my wife’s mouth was stained with blood, and that she had devoured my servant, and left nothing of him but the bones. In my terror I left her, and went back to find the mare, and lo! her maid had in the same way eaten that. Then I fled from the place, and the fright I got on that occasion still remains in me, so that even now I cannot prevent the hair on my head and body from standing on end.

 

“So you, king, are my only hope.” When the Bráhman said this, Vikramáditya by his sovereign fiat relieved him of all fear. Then the king said, “Out on it! One cannot repose any confidence in women, for they are full of daring wickedness.” When the king said this, a minister remarked, “Yes, king! women are fully as wicked as you say. By the bye, have you not heard what happened to the Bráhman Agniśarman here?”

 

Story of Agniśarman.

 

There lives in this very city a Bráhman named Agniśarman, the son of Somaśarman; whom his parents loved as their life, but who was a fool and ignorant of every branch of knowledge. He married the daughter of a Bráhman in the city of Vardhamána; but her father, who was rich, would not let her leave his house, on the ground that she was a mere child.

 

And when she grew up, Agniśarman’s parents said to him, “Son, why do you not now go and fetch your wife?” When Agniśarman heard that, the stupid fellow went off alone to fetch her, without taking leave of his parents. When he left his house a partridge appeared on his right hand, and a jackal howled on his left hand, a sure prophet of evil. And the fool welcomed the omen saying, “Hail! Hail!” and when the deity presiding over the omen heard it, she laughed at him unseen. And when he reached his father-in-law’s place, and was about to enter it, a partridge appeared on his right, and a jackal on his left, boding evil. And again he welcomed the omen, exclaiming “Hail! Hail!” and again the goddess of the omen, hearing it, laughed at him unseen. And that goddess presiding over the omen said to herself, “Why, this fool welcomes bad luck as if it were good! So I must give him the luck which he welcomes, I must contrive to save his life.” While the goddess was going through these reflections, Agniśarman entered his father-in-law’s house, and was joyfully welcomed. And his father-in-law and his family asked him, why he had come alone, and he answered them, “I came without telling any one at home.”

 

Then he bathed and dined in the appropriate manner, and when night came on, his wife came to his sleeping apartment adorned. But he fell asleep fatigued with the journey; and then she went out to visit a paramour of hers, a thief, who had been impaled. But, while she was embracing his body, the demon that had entered it, bit off her nose; and she fled thence in fear. And she went and placed an unsheathed dagger at her sleeping husband’s side; and cried out loud enough for all her relations to hear, “Alas! Alas! I am murdered; this wicked husband of mine has got up and without any cause actually cut off my nose.” When her relations heard that, they came, and seeing that her nose was cut off, they beat Agniśarman with sticks and other weapons. And the next day they reported the matter to the king, and by his orders they made him over to the executioners, to be put to death, as having injured his innocent wife.

 

But when he was being taken to the place of execution, the goddess presiding over that omen, who had seen the proceedings of his wife during the night, said to herself, “This man has reaped the fruit of the evil omens, but as he said, ‘Hail! Hail!’ I must save him from execution.” Having thus reflected, the goddess exclaimed unseen from the air, “Executioners, this young Bráhman is innocent; you must not put him to death: go and see the nose between the teeth of the impaled thief.” When she had said this, she related the proceedings of his wife during the night. Then the executioners, believing the story, represented it to the king by the mouth of the warder, and the king, seeing the nose between the teeth of the thief, remitted the capital sentence passed on Agniśarman, and sent him home; and punished that wicked wife, and imposed a penalty on her relations also.

 

“Such, king, is the character of women.” When that minister had said this, King Vikramáditya approved his saying, exclaiming, “So it is.” Then the cunning Múladeva, who was near the king, said, “King, are there no good women, though some are bad? Are there no mango-creepers, as well as poisonous creepers? In proof that there are good women, hear what happened to me.”

 

Story of Múladeva.

 

I went once to Páṭaliputra with Śaśin, thinking that it was the home of polished wits, and longing to make trial of their cleverness. In a tank outside that city I saw a woman washing clothes, and I put this question to her, “Where do travellers stay here?” The old woman gave me an evasive answer, saying, “Here the Brahmany ducks stay on the banks, the fish in the water, the bees in the lotuses, but I have never seen any part where travellers stay.” When I got this answer, I was quite nonplussed, and I entered the city with Śaśin.

 

There Śaśin saw a boy crying at the door of a house, with a warm rice-pudding on a plate in front of him, and he said, “Dear me! this is a foolish child not to eat the pudding in front of him, but to vex himself with useless weeping.” When the child heard this, he wiped his eyes, and said laughing, “You fools do not know the advantages I get by crying. The pudding gradually cools and so becomes nice, and another good comes out of it; my phlegm is diminished thereby. These are the advantages I derive from crying; I do not cry out of folly; but you country bumpkins are fools because you do not see what I do it for.”

 

When the boy said this, Śaśin and I were quite abashed at our stupidity, and we went away astonished to another part of the town. There we saw a beautiful young lady on the trunk of a mango-tree, gathering mangoes, while her attendants stood at its foot. We said to the young lady, “Give us also some mangoes, fair one.” And she answered, “Would you like to eat your mangoes cold or hot?” When I heard that, I said to her, wishing to penetrate the mystery, “We should like, lovely one, to eat some warm ones first, and to have the others afterwards.” When she heard this, she flung down some mango-fruits into the dust on the ground. We blew the dust off them and then ate them. Then the young lady and her attendants laughed, and she said to us, “I first gave you these warm mangoes, and you cooled them by blowing on them, and then ate them; catch these cool ones, which will not require blowing on, in your clothes.” When she had said this, she threw some more fruits into the flaps of our garments.

 

We took them, and left that place thoroughly ashamed of ourselves. Then I said to Śaśin and my other companions, “Upon my word I must marry this clever girl, and pay her out for the way in which she has made a fool of me; otherwise what becomes of my reputation for sharpness?” When I said this to them, they found out her father’s house, and on a subsequent day we went there disguised so that we could not be recognised.

 

And while we were reading the Veda there, her father the Bráhman Yajnasvámin came up to us, and said, “Where do you come from?” We said to that rich and noble Bráhman, “We have come here from the city of Máyápurí to study;” thereupon he said to us, “Then stay the next four months in my house; shew me this favour, as you have come from a distant country.” When we heard this, we said, “We will do what you say, Bráhman, if you will give us, at the end of the four months, whatever we may ask for.” When we said this to Yajnasvámin, he answered, “If you ask for anything that it is in my power to give, I will certainly give it.” When he made this promise, we remained in his house. And when the four months were at an end, we said to that Bráhman, “We are going away, so give us what we ask for, as you long ago promised to do.” He said, “What is that?” Then Śaśin pointed to me and said, “Give your daughter to this man, who is our chief.” Then the Bráhman Yajnasvámin, being bound by his promise, thought, “These fellows have tricked me; never mind; there can be no harm in it; he is a deserving youth.” So he gave me his daughter with the usual ceremonies.

 

And when night came, I said laughing to the bride in the bridal chamber, “Do you remember those warm and those cool mangoes?” When she heard this, she recognised me, and said with a smile, “Yes, country bumpkins are tricked in this way by city wits.” Then I said to her, “Rest you fair, city wit; I vow that I the country bumpkin will desert you and go far away.” When she heard this, she also made a vow, saying, “I too am resolved, for my part, that a son of mine by you shall bring you back again.” When we had made one another these promises, she went to sleep with her face turned away, and I put my ring on her finger, while she was asleep. Then I went out, and joining my companions, started for my native city of Ujjayiní, wishing to make trial of her cleverness.

 

The Bráhman’s daughter, not seeing me next morning, when she woke up, but seeing a ring on her finger marked with my name, said to herself, “So he has deserted me, and gone off; well, he has been as good as his word; and I must keep mine too, dismissing all regrets. And I see by this ring that his name is Múladeva; so no doubt he is that very Múladeva, who is so renowned for cunning. And people say that his permanent home is Ujjayiní; so I must go there, and accomplish my object by an artifice.” When she had made up her mind to this, she went and made this false statement to her father, “My father, my husband has deserted me immediately after marriage; and how can I live here happily without him; so I will go on a pilgrimage to holy waters, and will so mortify this accursed body.”

 

Having said this, and having wrung a permission from her unwilling father, she started off from her house with her wealth and her attendants. She procured a splendid dress suitable to a hetæra, and travelling along she reached Ujjayiní, and entered it as the chief beauty of the world. And having arranged with her attendants every detail of her scheme, that young Bráhman lady assumed the name of Sumangalá. And her servants proclaimed everywhere, “A hetæra named Sumangalá has come from Kámarúpa, and her goodwill is only to be procured by the most lavish expenditure.”

 

Then a distinguished hetæra of Ujjayiní, named Devadattá, came to her, and gave her her own palace worthy of a king, to dwell in by herself. And when she was established there, my friend Śaśin first sent a message to her by a servant, saying, “Accept a present from me which is won by your great reputation.” But Sumangalá sent back this message by the servant, “The lover who obeys my commands may enter here: I do not care for a present, nor for other beast-like men.” Śaśin accepted the terms, and repaired at night-fall to her palace.

 

And when he came to the first door of the palace, and had himself announced, the door-keeper said to him, “Obey our lady’s commands. Even though you may have bathed, you must bathe again here; otherwise you cannot be admitted.” When Śaśin heard this, he agreed to bathe again as he was bid. Then he was bathed and anointed all over by her female slaves, in private, and while this was going on, the first watch of the night passed away. When he arrived, having bathed, at the second door, the door-keeper said to him, “You have bathed; now adorn yourself appropriately.” He consented, and thereupon the lady’s female slaves adorned him, and meanwhile the second watch of the night came to an end. Then he reached the door of the third zone, and there the guards said to him, “Take a meal, and then enter.” He said “Very well,” and then the female slaves managed to delay him with various dishes until the third watch passed away. Then he reached at last the fourth door, that of the lady’s private apartments, but there the door-keeper reproached him in the following words, “Away, boorish suitor, lest you draw upon yourself misfortune. Is the last watch of the night a proper time for paying the first visit to a lady?” When Śaśin had been turned away in this contemptuous style by the warder, who seemed like an incarnation of untimeliness, he went away home with countenance sadly fallen.

 

In the same way that Bráhman’s daughter, who had assumed the name of Sumangalá, disappointed many other visitors. When I heard of it, I was moved with curiosity, and after sending a messenger to and fro I went at night splendidly adorned to her house. There I propitiated the warders at every door with magnificent presents, and I reached without delay the private apartments of that lady. And as I had arrived in time I was allowed by the door-keepers to pass the door, and I entered and saw my wife, whom I did not recognise, owing to her being disguised as a hetæra. But she knew me again, and she advanced towards me, and paid me all the usual civilities, made me sit down on a couch, and treated me with the attentions of a cunning hetæra. Then I passed the night with that wife of mine, who was the most beautiful woman of the world, and I became so attached to her, that I could not leave the house in which she was staying.

 

She too was devoted to me, and never left my side, until, after some days, the blackness of the tips of her breasts shewed that she was pregnant. Then the clever woman forged a letter, and shewed it to me, saying, “The king my sovereign has sent me a letter: read it.” Then I opened the letter and read as follows, “The august sovereign of the fortunate Kámarúpa, Mánasinha, sends thence this order to Sumangalá, ‘Why do you remain so long absent? Return quickly, dismissing your desire of seeing foreign countries.’”

 

When I had read this letter, she said to me with affected grief, “I must depart; do not be angry with me; I am subject to the will of others.” Having made this false excuse, she returned to her own city Páṭaliputra: but I did not follow her, though deeply in love with her, as I supposed that she was not her own mistress.

 

And when she was in Páṭaliputra, she gave birth in due time to a son. And that boy grew up and learned all the accomplishments. And when he was twelve years old, that boy in a childish freak happened to strike with a creeper a fisherman’s son of the same age. When the fisherman’s son was beaten, he flew in a passion and said, “You beat me, though nobody knows who your father is; for your mother roamed about in foreign lands, and you were born to her by some husband or other.”

 

When this was said to the boy, he was put to shame; so he went and said to his mother, “Mother, who and where is my father? Tell me!” Then his mother, the daughter of the Bráhman, reflected a moment, and said to him, “Your father’s name is Múladeva: he deserted me, and went to Ujjayiní.” After she had said this, she told him her whole story from the beginning. Then the boy said to her, “Mother, then I will go and bring my father back a captive; I will make your promise good.”

 

Having said this to his mother, and having been told by her how to recognise me, the boy set out thence, and reached this city of Ujjayiní. And he came and saw me playing dice in the gambling-hall, making certain of my identity from the description his mother had given him, and he conquered in play all who were there. And he astonished every one there by shewing such remarkable cunning, though he was a mere child. Then he gave away to the needy all the money he had won at play. And at night he artfully came and stole my bedstead from under me, letting me gently down on a heap of cotton, while I was asleep. So when I woke up, and saw myself on a heap of cotton, without a bedstead, I was at once filled with mixed feelings of shame, amusement and astonishment.

 

Then, king, I went at my leisure to the market-place, and roaming about, I saw that boy there selling the bedstead. So I went up to him and said, “For what price will you give me this bedstead?” Then the boy said to me, “You cannot get the bedstead for money, crest-jewel of cunning ones; but you may get it by telling some strange and wonderful story.” When I heard that, I said to him, “Then I will tell you a marvellous tale. And if you understand it and admit that it is really true, you may keep the bedstead; but if you say that it is not true and that you do not believe it, you will be illegitimate, and I shall get back the bedstead. On this condition I agree to tell you a marvel; and now listen!—Formerly there was a famine in the kingdom of a certain king; that king himself cultivated the back of the beloved of the boar with great loads of spray from the chariots of the snakes. Enriched with the grain thus produced the king put a stop to the famine among his subjects, and gained the esteem of men.”

 

When I said this, the boy laughed and said, “The chariots of the snakes are clouds; the beloved of the boar is the earth, for she is said to have been most dear to Vishṇu in his Boar incarnation; and what is there to be astonished at in the fact that rain from the clouds made grain to spring on the earth?”

 

When the cunning boy had said this, he went on to say to me, who was astonished at his cleverness, “Now I will tell you a strange tale. If you understand it, and admit that it is really true, I will give you back this bedstead, otherwise you shall be my slave.”

 

I answered “Agreed;” and then the cunning boy said this, “Prince of knowing ones, there was born long ago on this earth a wonderful boy, who, as soon as he was born, made the earth tremble with the weight of his feet, and when he grew bigger, stepped into another world.”

 

When the boy said this, I, not knowing what he meant, answered him, “It is false; there is not a word of truth in it.” Then the boy said to me, “Did not Vishṇu, as soon as he was born, stride across the earth, in the form of a dwarf, and make it tremble? And did he not, on that same occasion, grow bigger, and step into heaven? So you have been conquered by me, and reduced to slavery. And these people present in the market are witnesses to our agreement. So, wherever I go, you must come along with me.” When the resolute boy had said this, he laid hold of my arm with his hand; and all the people there testified to the justice of his claim.

 

Then, having made me his prisoner, bound by my own agreement, he, accompanied by his attendants, took me to his mother in the city of Páṭaliputra. And then his mother looked at him, and said to me, “My husband, my promise has to-day been made good, I have had you brought here by a son of mine begotten by you.” When she had said this, she related the whole story in the presence of all.

 

Then all her relations respectfully congratulated her on having accomplished her object by her wisdom, and on having had her disgrace wiped out by her son. And I, having been thus fortunate, lived there for a long time with that wife, and that son, and then returned to this city of Ujjayiní.

 

“So you see, king, honourable matrons are devoted to their husbands, and it is not the case that all women are always bad.” When king Vikramáditya had heard this speech from the mouth of Múladeva, he rejoiced with his ministers. Thus hearing, and seeing, and doing wonders, that king Vikramáditya conquered and enjoyed all the divisions of the earth.

 

“When the hermit Kanva had told during the night this story of Vishamaśíla, dealing with separations and reunions, he went on to say to me who was cut off from the society of Madanamanchuká; ‘Thus do unexpected separations and reunions of beings take place, and so you, Naraváhanadatta, shall soon be reunited to your beloved. Have recourse to patience, and you shall enjoy for a long time, son of the king of Vatsa, surrounded by your wives and ministers, the position of a beloved emperor of the Vidyádharas.’ This admonition of the hermit Kanva enabled me to recover patience; and so I got through my time of separation, and I gradually obtained wives, magic, science, and the sovereignty over the Vidyádharas. And I told you before, great hermits, how I obtained all these by the favour of Śiva, the giver of boons.”

 

By telling this his tale, in the hermitage of Kaśyapa, Naraváhanadatta delighted his mother’s brother Gopálaka and all the hermits. And after he had passed there the days of the rainy season, he took leave of his uncle and the hermits in the grove of asceticism, and mounting his chariot, departed thence with his wives and his ministers, filling the air with the hosts of his Vidyádharas. And in course of time he reached the mountain of Ṛishabha his dwelling-place; and he remained there delighting in the enjoyments of empire, in the midst of the kings of the Vidyádharas, with queen Madanamanchuká, and Ratnaprabhá and his other wives; and his life lasted for a kalpa.

 

This is the story called Vṛihatkathá, told long ago, on the summit of mount Kailása, by the undaunted Śiva, at the request of the daughter of the Himálaya, and then widely diffused in the world by Pushpadanta and his fellows, who were born on the earth wearing the forms of Kátyáyana and others, in consequence of a curse. And on that occasion that god her husband attached the following blessing to this tale, “Whoever reads this tale that issued from my mouth, and whoever listens to it with attention, and whoever possesses it, shall soon be released from his sins, and triumphantly attain the condition of a splendid Vidyádhara, and enter my everlasting world.”

 

End of the Collection of Tales called the Kathá Sarit Ságara.