The Kathá Sarit Ságara; or, Ocean of the Streams of Story
post for fastening the elephant of youth, and with beautiful feet,
like the shoots of the asoka. And all, when they beheld that life-like
likeness of the king, applauded that painter, and said to him; "We
do not like to see the king alone on the picture-panel, so paint on
it one of these queens by his side, carefully choosing one, that will
be a worthy pendant to him; let the feast of our eyes be complete."
When they said this, the painter looked at the picture and said,
"Though there are many of these queens, there is none among them like
the king, and I believe there is no woman on the earth a match for
him in beauty, except one princess--listen, I will tell you about her.
"In Vidarbha there is a prosperous town named Kundina, and in it
there is a king of the name of Devasakti. And he has a queen named
Anantavatí, dearer to him than life, and by her there was born to him a
daughter named Madanasundarí. How could one like me presume to describe
her beauty with this one single tongue, but so much will I say. When
the Creator had made her, through delight in her he conceived a desire
to make another like her, but he will not be able to do it even in the
course of yugas. That princess, alone on the earth, is a match for
this king in shape, beauty and refinement, in age and birth. For I,
when I was there, was once summoned by her by the mouth of a maid,
and I went to her private apartments. There I beheld her, freshly
anointed with sandal unguent, having a necklace of lotus-fibres,
tossing on a bed of lotuses, being fanned by her ladies-in-waiting
with the wind of plantain leaves, pale and emaciated, exhibiting
the signs of love's fever. And in these words was she dissuading
her ladies occupied in fanning her,--'O my friends, away with this
sandal unguent and these breezes wafted by plantain leaves; for these,
though cool, scorch up unhappy me.' And when I saw her in this state,
I was troubled to divine the reason, and after doing obeisance, I
sat down in front of her. And she said, 'Teacher, paint such a form
as this on canvas and give it me.'
"And then she made me paint a certain very handsome youth, slowly
tracing out the form on the ground with trembling, nectar-distilling
hand, to guide me. And when I had so painted that handsome youth, I
said to myself--'She has made me paint the god of Love in visible form;
but, as I see that the flowery bow is not represented in his hand, I
know that it cannot be the god of Love, it must be some extraordinarily
handsome young man like him. And her outburst of love-sickness has
to do with him. So I must depart hence, for this king, her father
Devasakti, is severe in his justice, and if he heard of this proceeding
of mine, he would not overlook it.' Thus reflecting, I did obeisance
to that princess Madanasundarí, and departed, honoured by her.
"But when I was there, O king, I heard from her attendants, as they
talked freely together, that she had fallen in love with you from
hearing of you only. So I have secretly taken a picture of that
princess on a sheet of canvas, and have come here quickly to your
feet. And when I beheld your majesty's appearance, my doubt was at
an end, for it was clearly your majesty that the princess caused to
be painted by my hand. And as it is not possible to paint her twice,
such as she is, I will not represent her in the picture as standing
at your side, though she is equal to you in beauty."
When Roladeva said this, the king said to him--"Then shew her as
she is represented on the canvas you have brought with you." Then the
painter looked out a piece of canvas which was in a bag, and shewed the
king Madanasundarí in a painting. And the king Kanakavarsha, seeing
that even in a painting she was wonderfully beautiful, immediately
became enamoured of her. And he loaded that painter with much gold,
and taking the picture of his beloved, retired into his private
apartments. There he remained with his mind fixed on her alone,
abandoning all occupations, and his eyes were never satisfied with
gazing on her beauty. It seemed as if the god of love was jealous
of his good looks, for now that he had obtained an opportunity, he
tormented him, smiting him with his arrows and robbing him of his
self-control. And the love-pain, which he had inflicted on women
enamoured of his handsome shape, was now visited on that king a
hundredfold.
And in the course of some days, being pale and emaciated, he told
to his confidential ministers, who questioned him, the thought of
his heart. And after deliberating with them, he sent to the king
Devasakti, as ambassador, to ask for the hand of his daughter,
a trustworthy Bráhman of good birth, named Sangamasvámin, who was
skilled in affairs, knew times and seasons, and could speak in a sweet
and lofty style. That Sangamasvámin went to Vidarbha with a great
retinue, and entered the city of Kundina. And there he had a formal
interview with the king Devasakti, and on behalf of his master asked
for the hand of his daughter. And Devasakti reflected--"I must give
away this daughter of mine to some one, and this king Kanakavarsha
has been described as my equal, and he asks for her; so I will give
her to him." Accordingly he granted the prayer of Sangamasvámin,
and the king displayed to the ambassador the astonishing elegance in
the dance of his daughter Madanasundarí. Then the king sent away,
after honouring him, and promising to give his daughter, that
Sangamasvámin, who was charmed with his sight of her. And he sent
with him a counter-ambassador to say, "Fix an auspicious moment and
come here for the marriage. And Sangamasvámin returned, accompanied
by the counter-ambassador, and told the king Kanakavarsha that his
object was effected. Then the king ascertained a favourable moment,
and honoured that ambassador, and heard from him over and over again
how Madanasundarí was in love with him. And then the king Kanakavarsha
set out for the city of Kundina, in order to marry her, with mind
at ease on account of his own irresistible valour, mounted on the
horse Asíkala, [760] and he smote the Savaras that inhabited the
border-forests, and took the lives of living creatures, like lions
and other wild beasts. And he reached Vidarbha, and entered that city
of Kundina, with king Devasakti, who came out to meet him. Then he
entered the king's palace, in which preparations had been made for
the marriage, robbing the ladies of the city of the feast which he
had given to their eyes. And there he rested a day with his retinue,
pleased at the noble reception which king Devasakti gave him. And on
the next day Devasakti gave him his daughter Madanasundarí, together
with all his wealth, retaining only his kingdom.
And king Kanakavarsha, after he had remained there seven days,
returned to his own city with his recently-married bride. And when
he arrived with his beloved, giving joy to the world, like the moon
with the moonlight, that city was full of rejoicing. Then that queen
Madanasundarí was dearer than life to that king, though he had many
wives, as Rukminí is to Vishnu. And the wedded couple remained fastened
together by their eyes with lovely eyelashes, which were fixed on one
another's faces, resembling the arrows of love. And in the meanwhile
arrived the lion of spring, with a train of expanding filaments for
mane, tearing to pieces the elephant of female coyness. And the garden
made ready blossoming mango-plants, by way of bows for the god of Love,
with rows of bees clinging to them by way of bowstring. And the wind
from the Malaya mountain blew, swaying the love-kindled hearts of the
wives of men travelling in foreign lands, as it swayed the suburban
groves. And the sweetly-speaking cuckoos seemed to say to men,
"The brimming of the streams, the flowers of the trees, the digits
of the moon wane and return again, but not the youth of men. [761]
Fling aside coyness and quarrelling, and sport with your beloved ones."
And at that time king Kanakavarsha went with all his wives to a
spring-garden, to amuse himself. And he eclipsed the beauty of the
asokas with the red robes of his attendants, and with the songs of
his lovely ladies the song of the cuckoos and bees. There the king,
though all his wives were with him, amused himself with Madanasundarí
in picking flowers and other diversions. And after roaming there a
long time, the king entered the Godávarí with his wives to bathe,
and began the water-game. His ladies surpassed the lotuses with their
faces, with their eyes the blue water-lilies, with their breasts the
couples of Brahmany ducks, with their hips the sandbanks, and when
they troubled the bosom of the stream, it showed frowns of anger
in the form of curling waves. Then the mind of Kanakavarsha took
pleasure in them, while they displayed the contours of their limbs
in the splashing-game. And in the ardour of the game, he splashed
one queen with water from his palms on her breast.
When Madanasundarí saw it, she was jealous, and got angry with him,
and in an outburst of indignation said to him, "How long are you
going to trouble the river?" And going out of the water, she took her
other clothes and rushed off in a passion to her own palace, telling
her ladies of that fault of her lover's. Then king Kanakavarsha,
seeing her state of mind, stopped his water-game, and went off to her
apartments. Even the parrots in the cages warned him off in wrath,
when he approached, and entering he saw within the queen afflicted with
wrath: with her downcast lotus-like face supported on the palm of her
left hand, with tear-drops falling like transparent pearls. And she
was repeating, with accents charming on account of her broken speech,
in a voice interrupted with sobs, shewing her gleaming teeth, this
fragment of a Prákrit song: "If you cannot endure separation, you must
cheerfully abandon anger. If you can in your heart endure separation,
then you must increase your wrath. Perceiving this clearly, remain
pledged to one or the other; if you take your stand on both, you will
fall between two stools." And when the king saw her in this state,
lovely even in tears, he approached her bashfully and timidly. And
embracing her, though she kept her face averted, he set himself to
propitiate her with respectful words tender with love. And when her
retinue signified her scorn with ambiguous hints, he fell at her feet,
blaming himself as an offender. Then she clung to the neck of the king,
and was reconciled to him, bedewing him with the tears that flowed on
account of that very annoyance. And he, delighted, spent the day with
his beloved, whose anger had been exchanged for good-will, and slept
there at night.
But in the night he saw in a dream his necklace suddenly taken from
his neck, and his crest-jewel snatched from his head, by a deformed
woman. Then he saw a Vetála, with a body made up of the limbs of
many animals, and when the Vetála wrestled with him, he hurled him
to earth. And when the king sat on the Vetála's back, the demon flew
up with him through the air, like a bird, and threw him into the
sea. Then, after he had with difficulty struggled to the shore, he
saw that the necklace was replaced on his neck, and the crest-jewel
on his head. When the king had seen this, he woke up, and in the
morning he asked a Buddhist mendicant, who had come to visit him as
an old friend, the meaning of the dream. And the mendicant answered
clearly--"I do not wish to say what is unpleasant, but how can I help
telling you when I am asked? The fact that you saw your necklace and
crest-jewel taken away, means that you will be separated from your
wife and from your son. And the fact that, after you had escaped
from the sea, you found them again, means that you will be reunited
with them, when your calamity comes to an end." Then the king said,