Part 26

After gratifying the Bodisat with these words, the King of the Gods, Śakra, said to himself: “As this man, when alone and without support, might be driven into a corner, I will ask him for Madrī.” So he took the form of a Brahman, came to the Bodisat, and said to him: “Give me as a slave this lovely sister, fair in all her limbs, unblamed by her husband, prized by her race.” Then in anger spake Madrī to the Brahman: “O shameless and full of craving, do you long after her who is not lustful like you, O refuse of Brahmans, but takes her delight according to the upright law.” Then the Bodisat, Viśvaṇtara, began to look upon her with compassionate heart, and Madrī said to him: “I have no anxiety on my own account, I have no care for myself; my only anxiety is as to how you are to exist when remaining alone.” Then said the Bodisat to Madrī: “As I seek after the height which surmounts endless anguish, no complaint must be uttered by me, O Madrī, upon this earth. Do you, therefore, follow after this Brahman without complaining. I will remain in the hermitage, living after the manner of the gazelles.”

When he had uttered these words, he said to himself with joyous and exceedingly contented mind: “This gift here in this forest is my best gift. After I have here absolutely given away Madrī too, she shall by no means be recalled.” Then he took Madrī by the hand, and said to that Brahman: “Receive, O most excellent Brahman, this my dear wife, loving of heart, obedient to orders, charming in speech, demeaning herself as one of lofty race.”

When, in order to attain to supreme insight, he had given away his beautiful wife, the earth quaked six times to its extremities like a boat on the water. And when Madrī had passed into the power of the Brahman, overcome by pain at being severed from her husband, her son, and her daughter, with faltering breath and in a voice which huskiness detained within her throat, she spoke thus: “What crime have I committed in my previous existence that now, like a cow whose calf is dead, I am lamenting in an uninhabited forest?” Then the King of the Gods, Śakra, laid aside his Brahman’s form, assumed his proper shape, and said to Madrī: “O fortunate one, I am not a Brahman, nor am I a man at all. I am the King of the Gods, Śakra, the subduer of the Asuras. As I am pleased that you have manifested the most excellent morality, say what desire you would now wish to have satisfied by me.”

Rendered happy by these words, Madrī prostrated herself before Śakra, and said: “O thou of the thousand eyes, may the lord of the three and thirty set my children free from thraldom and let them find their way to their grandfather.” After these words had been spoken the Prince of the Gods entered the hermitage and addressed the Bodisat. Taking Madrī by the left hand, he thus spake to the Bodisat: “I give you Madrī for your service. You must not give her to any one. If you give away what has been entrusted to you, fault will be found with you.”

Afterwards the King of the Gods, Śakra, deluded the Brahman who had carried off the boy and girl, so that under the impression that it was another city, he entered the selfsame city from which they had departed, and there set to work to sell the children. When the ministers saw this they told the king, saying, “O king, your grandchildren, Kṛishṇa and Jālinī, have been brought into this good city in order to be sold, by an extremely worthless Brahman.” When the king heard these words, he said indignantly, “Bring the children here, forthwith.”

When this command had been attended to by the ministers, and the townspeople had hastened to appear before the king, one of the ministers brought the children before him. When the king saw his grandchildren brought before him destitute of clothing and with foul bodies, he fell from his throne to the ground, and the assembly of ministers, and the women, and all who were present began to weep. Then the king said to the ministers: “Let the bright-eyed one, who, even when dwelling in the forest, delights in giving, be summoned hither at once, together with his wife.”

After this the King of the Gods, Śakra, having paid reverence to the Bodisat, returned to his own habitation.

Now, when King Viśvāmitra was dead, the Brahmans, the ministers, the towns-people, and the country people, went to the hermitage and with entreaties invited the Bodisat to come to the city. There they installed him as king. Thereafter King Viśvaṇtara was known by the name of Viśvatyāga (all-giver). And after he had made presents of various kinds to the Śramaṇas, Brahmans, the poor and needy, his friends and relations, his acquaintances and servants, he uttered these ślokas: “In order to obtain supreme insight have I fearlessly bestowed gifts on Kshatriyas, Brahmans, Vaiśyas, Sūdras, Chaṇḍālas, and Pukkasas, with gold and silver, oxen and horses, jewelled earrings, and labouring slaves. For giving is the most excellent of virtues. With a heart free from passion have I given away my wife and children, and obtained thereby power over men in this and the other world.”

As King Viśvāmitra had, for Viśvaṇtara’s sake, bestowed great treasures on the Brahman Jujaka, who had thereby attained to great wealth, Jujaka’s friends and relations, and those who were dear to him, came to him and said: “Your property and wealth and high fortune all depend upon Viśvaṇtara.” He replied: “What have I to do with Prince Viśvaṇtara? As I was born in the first caste, I have obtained the recompense of the world, and therefore have I become so wealthy.”

XVII.

THE FULFILLED PROPHECY. [143]

In long past times King Sarjarasin [144] reigned in Vārāṇasī, over that great, rich, prosperous, blissful, and populous city. He took to wife the daughter of another king, and lived with her. She became with child, and after the lapse of eight or nine months, when the sun was high at midday, she gave birth to a very fine boy. When the boy’s birth-feast was held, and it was asked what name should be given to him, the ministers said: “O king, as the boy was born at the time when the sun [sūrya] is highest, let him be named Sūryanemi.” When he had received that name, he was entrusted to eight nurses, two for carrying, two for suckling, two for cleansing, and two for playing. These eight nurses nourished him with milk, curdled milk, butter, melted butter, butter-foam, and other excellent kinds of food, and he grew apace like a lotus in a pool. When he had grown up he learnt writing, reckoning, drawing, and hand-reckoning, and the arts and accomplishments which befitted a prince of the Kshatriya race, destined to be a king. King Sarjarasin’s first wife was named Dharmikā, and his prime minister, in whom the king placed the greatest confidence, Goshṭhila.

After some time Dharmikā again became with child. The diviners declared that a son would be born, who would take the king’s life, and usurp royal power, setting the diadem on his own head. After a time King Sarjarasin fell ill, and when his illness could not be cured, although remedies of all kinds were applied, he reflected, after he had learnt the state of his body, that it would be necessary to take precautions in order that Sūryanemi, after becoming king on his decease, should not cause Dharmikā to be put to death. So he determined to entrust her to his minister, Goshṭhila, whom he had supplied with valuable property. Having sent for him, he said to him: “Dharmikā is my first wife, you are my first minister. As I am aware of my position, and I am undoubtedly about to lose my life, you must out of love for me take care that Sūryanemi does not put Dharmikā to death.”

The minister gave him a consoling promise. When Sarjarasin had died and his body had been burned with all pomp, Sūryanemi was consecrated as king. He gave orders to his ministers to put Dharmikā to death. Goshṭhila remonstrated against this, saying: “O king, is it just to put her to death rashly? Who can tell whether she will bear a son or a daughter? If a son is born, he shall be put to death.” King Sūryanemi ordered him to act in accordance with this saying, and to keep watch over the queen. So Goshṭhila took her to his own house, where, after eight or nine days, she gave birth to a son. That same day a fisherman’s wife gave birth to a girl. Immediately after the confinement Goshṭhila, who had gained over the fisherman’s wife with money, exchanged the children, and told the king that Dharmikā had been delivered of a girl. The boy was suckled and brought up by the fisherwoman. When he had grown up he learnt reading and writing, and as he took to making verses, he was called the verse-writing fisher-lad.

Goshṭhila informed Dharmikā that she had a son who was a poet, and she felt a desire to see him. The minister tried to dissuade her from that, but she could not overcome her longing. Goshṭhila saw how dangerous the matter was, and perceived that some precaution must be taken, and he sent the lad to the queen with a fish. When the youth entered the palace the king became aware that this poetic fisher-lad was he of whom of the diviners had predicted that he would take the king’s life, place the diadem on his own head, and usurp the regal power. So he ordered the ministers to lay hands on him in order that he might not escape. The youth heard of this as the order passed from mouth to mouth, so he ran this way and that way until he came to the house of an old woman who hid him away. From thence, after his body had been anointed with oil of mustard and sesame, and laid upon a bier as if it had been a corpse, he was carried out to the cemetery and deposited there. A man who was looking for fruits and flowers there saw him get up and run away. The men who were sent in pursuit of him asked this man if he had seen a person of such and such a height, and such and such an appearance, going that way. He told them in what direction the youth had gone, and they followed after him.

The youth reached a hill-town, entered into the house of a dyer, and told him his story. So when his pursuers began to search the town, the dyer placed the youth in a clothes chest, which he set upon an ass, and so took him out of the town to a bath-house, where he left him. The youth stood up, looked around on all four sides and went away. But there also he was seen by a man, who disclosed the fact to his pursuers, and showed them the road which he had taken. The youth came to another village, and entered the house of a shoemaker, to whom he told his story, and whom he asked to make him a pair of shoes, the toes of which should be where the heels generally are. The shoemaker declared he had never made shoes of that kind. The youth replied in verse:—

“Manifold is the mind, numerous are gifts. They cannot be weighed in the same scale. So make me, O shoemaker, what I have ordered, with the heels in front.”

According to these instructions, the shoemaker made him shoes of that kind. As the town was surrounded by a wall, the youth put on the shoes, crept out through a cistern, and got away. His pursuers, following the traces left by his shoes, were led back by them to the village, and they perceived that he had escaped. He took to the water, and was conveyed by the Nāgas to their residence.

As the news of this passed from mouth to mouth, King Sūryanemi learnt that the Nāgas had received the youth into their dwelling-place. Thereupon he ordered his ministers to summon into his presence all the snake-charmers who lived in his realm. When they had done this, the king said to the snake-charmers, “Honoured sirs, go and question the Nāgas in such and such a Nāga residence.” In compliance with the king’s orders, the snake-charmers all betook themselves thither.

Now a Yaksha named Pingala, who lived upon flesh and blood, dwelt in a certain wilderness. As the wild beasts, not to speak of human beings, had deserted this wilderness from fear of him, it was called the Pingala wilderness. When the snake-charmers made their preparations for the purpose of endangering the Nāgas by spells, the youth became frightened, and, knowing no other way of escape, fled into the Pingala-wilderness. The Nāgas took counsel together, and decided that it would not be right if they were not to save the youth from the Pingala-wilderness, and that it would do them a hurt if he were to be killed by Pingala; but they did not know what to do. However, the Nāga king told them to give information to the snake-charmers. The Nāgas said to them, “Honoured ones, he on whose account ye have troubled us has been put to death by our contrivance, for he has fled into the Pingala-wilderness.” The snake-charmers reported the matter to the king, who gave orders to continue the search after the youth. Meanwhile the youth took to wandering about in the Pingala-wilderness.

The Yaksha Pingala was sitting at a certain spot surrounded by his dogs. When he and his dogs saw the youth from afar, he reflected that he had heard that the youth would kill him, and he thought that he had come for that purpose. So he set the dogs on the youth. But the youth outstripped them and climbed up a tree. Pingala and the dogs lay in wait for him at the foot of the tree. Pingala asked him if he had not heard that a demon named Pingala dwelt in the Pingala wilderness, and put to death all who came thither. And he summoned him to come down, seeing that he must die. The youth replied, “So long as I live I shall remain here.” As soon as the Yaksha Pingala, who had placed himself in the shade with his ascetic’s cloth, [145] had gone to sleep, the youth threw down on him a part of his clothes. The dogs thought that it was the youth who had fallen down, so they ate up the Yaksha Pingala and went away.

The youth slowly descended from the tree, and, after wandering to and fro, remembered that he had an uncle, who had retired from the world among the Rishis, and he determined to go to him. He lived in a hill district, in a grove which was well provided with excellent roots, flowers, fruit, and water, with clumps of various trees, and with the song of different kinds of birds. By means of inquiries the youth gradually made his way thither, and he informed his uncle of his relationship to him, and took up his abode with him. But even there the king’s men searched for him, and they were on the point of laying hands on him, when he jumped down a precipice. As he sprang into the air, a man seized hold of his head-dress, and the head-dress remained in the man’s hands. As the pursuers supposed that he was dead, they determined to go away. So they took the head-dress, and went to the king, and said to him, “O king, the fisher-lad poet is dead, here is his head-dress.” And the king provided them with good things.

After a while a deity, who dwelt in the Rishi-grove, said to that Rishi, “Do not you take any interest, then, in your nephew, who is reduced to despair, subjected to intolerable woes?” The Rishi replied, “If I keep him in mind no more, may I die upon the spot!” The Rishi was in possession of spells and magic formulas, and knew one spell by which a man might be turned into a woman and back again into a man. This spell he taught to his nephew, and said to him, “Now, go away, and be fearless and free from anxiety.” The youth, by means of the spell, assumed the form of an incomparably beautiful woman, and betook himself to Vārāṇasī. While abiding in the king’s park he was seen by the keeper, who was astounded, and set off instantly and informed King Sūryanemi, saying, “O king, a woman of supreme beauty and youth is dwelling in the park.” The king ordered him to fetch the woman. By the powerful dispensation of fortune the woman was brought to the palace, and King Sūryanemi became violently enamoured of her. But when an opportunity occurred, the youth put the king to death in a solitary spot. Then he reversed the spell and became a man again. Afterwards he set the crown on his head, and, after making the minister Goshṭhila acquainted with the matter, assumed the regal power. A deity said in a śloka, “He whose head has not been cut off, he is not dead. He gets up again and completes his work. Like unto the poet, when he found his opportunity and slew the son of Sarjarasin.”

XVIII.

THE TWO BROTHERS. [146]

In long past times, a king came to the throne in the palace of a country well provided with riches, prosperity, good harvests, and numerous inhabitants. Some time afterwards his wife became with child, and, after the lapse of eight or nine months, gave birth to a very handsome boy, complete in limbs and joints, whose skin was the colour of gold, whose head stood out like a canopy, and who had long arms, a broad forehead, interlacing eyebrows, and a high-arched nose. At his birth there occurred many thousands of happy events. When his birth-feast was held, and the question arose as to giving him a name, the ministers said, “O king, as many thousands of happy events have taken place at his birth, let him be called Ksheman·kara. [147]” This name was given to him, and he was entrusted to eight nurses, two to carry him, two to suckle him, two to cleanse him, and two to play with him. These nurses brought him up on various milk products and other excellent forms of nourishment, so that he shot up like a lotus in a pool.

The king’s wife again became with child, and after the lapse of eight or nine months a boy was born, at whose birth many thousands of unfortunate events took place, on which account there was given to him the name of Pāpan·kara. [148] He also thrived apace and grew up.

The young Ksheman·kara, who was of a friendly and merciful nature, and compassionate towards all living creatures, loved to give, taking his delight in bestowing, and conferred gifts upon the Śramaṇas and Brahmans, the poor and the needy who begged of him. His father said to him, “O son, do not be constantly making presents. If you give away so freely, where are we to find the necessary riches?”

Now, in accordance with the nature of things, many men take delight in gifts and giving, and when they thus delight themselves their fame is extolled in words and verses, and celebrated in all parts of the world. The king of another country, who had heard of the great virtues of the prince, wished to give him his daughter. The prince’s father was highly pleased, and wanted to go to meet her. But Ksheman·kara said, “Until I have acquired wealth I will not marry. Allow me, O father, to go to sea.” He replied, “Do so.” When he set forth for the sea with his merchandise, his brother, Pāpan·kara, said to himself—

“As he is now liked and loved by many men, he will be still more liked and loved by many men when he shall have equipped a sea-ship and have returned home. And as there will be an opportunity of his being invested with the regal power during our father’s lifetime, therefore I, too, instead of remaining here to see whose turn will come, will go to sea along with him, and will take away his life out there, and then I shall be invested with the heirship even against my father’s will.” With these thoughts in his mind he went to his father, and said to him, “O father, as Ksheman·kara is going to sea I will go with him.” His father said, “Do so.”

Now Ksheman·kara ordered proclamation to be made throughout the land as follows: “Listen, O honourable merchants inhabiting the city. As Prince Ksheman·kara is going to sea with merchandise, and as he among you who is inclined to go to sea under Prince Ksheman·kara’s guidance will be freed from tolls, taxes, and freight-money, therefore get ready the goods which are to be taken to sea.” Many hundreds of merchants got ready goods to be taken to the sea. Then Ksheman·kara, as the leading trader, accompanied by his brother Pāpan·kara, after performing ceremonies for the sake of obtaining a successful result, surrounded by many hundreds of merchants, taking with him in waggons, carts, chests, and hampers, and on camels, oxen, and asses, quantities of goods to be transported by sea, set out on his way. Visiting lands, towns, villages, commercial emporiums, and estates, he came by degrees to the sea-coast. There he purchased a ship for five hundred kārshāpaṇas, and after making proclamation three times, set out on the ocean, taking with him five hundred servants, diggers, cleansers, fishermen, mariners, and pilots. When on board ship he said to his brother Pāpan·kara: “Should a shipwreck take place in the middle of the ocean, then throw your arms round my neck without hesitation.” Pāpan·kara replied, “Good, I will do so.”

After a time the ship arrived with a favourable wind at the Island of Jewels, and the steersman said: “Listen, O honourable merchants of Jambudvīpa! as ye have heard that the Island of Jewels is a mine of diamonds, lapis lazuli, turquoises, emeralds, and divers other precious stones, therefore have we come hither. Now then, take yourselves as many jewels as ye wish.”

They searched for them with joy and desire, and they filled the ship full, as though with rice, pease, sesame, and the like. Now, as Bodisats are wise and sharp-witted, Prince Ksheman·kara made fast to his girdle some large jewels of great value. On the way back, when not far from shore, the ship was rendered useless in consequence of an injury inflicted by a sea monster. Therefore Pāpan·kara threw his arms round the neck of Ksheman·kara, who by great exertions brought him ashore. Exhausted by the burden, Ksheman·kara fell asleep. As he lay sleeping, Pāpan·kara caught sight of the jewels fastened to his girdle, and thought: “Ought I to return with empty hands while he comes back with such jewels?” Then he took away the jewels from his soundly sleeping brother, put both his eyes out with a thorn, and left him sightless on the ocean shore.

By a fortunate chance some oxherds who were tending their cattle came to that spot. When they saw the prince, they said, “Ho, friend, who are you?” He told them everything that had occurred. When they had heard his story they were filled with compassion, and they led him to the house of the chief herdsman. There he took to playing on the lute. The chief herdsman’s wife, who was charmed by his youth and beauty, heard the sound of his lute and tried to allure him. But he, thinking of a course of life acquired by good deeds, closed his ears and did not stir. As there is nothing which they may not do who are seized by desire, she said to her husband: “This blind man is trying to tempt me, will you put up with such people?” The prince reflected that, of all kinds of anger, the worst is the anger of a wife, and perceived that there was nothing left for him, in order not to be smitten thereby, but to go away. So he left the house, and along all manner of streets, market places, and by-roads, he gained himself a living by his music.

On the death of his father his brother, Pāpan·kara, came to the throne. And after a time he himself arrived at the town of that neighbouring king who had formerly wished to give him his daughter in marriage. She had by this time grown up, but when there came to woo her the sons of kings, ministers, and purohitas, dwelling in many lands, her father said: “O daughter, Prince Ksheman·kara, for whom I had intended you, went to sea and there died in consequence of a misfortune. As suitors have now arrived, and as those who do not obtain you will be discontented, the question arises, what is to be done?” She replied: “O father, if this be the case, let orders be given to have the city swept and garnished; I will choose a husband for myself.”