The Kathá Sarit Ságara; or, Ocean of the Streams of Story
he longed for the sovereign power, and thus was disappointed at the
king's return? And if you know this, king, and do not tell me on the
spot, your merit will at once disappear, and your head will fly in
pieces." When king Trivikramasena heard that, he said to the Vetála;
"Neither of these two feelings actuated that excellent and virtuous
minister. But he said to himself; 'This king neglected his kingdom
out of devotion to mere human females, much more will he do so now,
that he is attached to a heavenly nymph. So, though I have gone through
much suffering, the disease has been aggravated by it, instead of being
cured, as I had hoped.' It was under the influence of such reflections
that the minister's heart broke." When the king had said this, that
juggling Vetála returned to his own place, and the resolute king ran
swiftly after him, to bring him back again by force.
CHAPTER LXXXVII.
(Vetála 13.)
Then the king went back to the asoka-tree, [331] and taking the
Vetála from it, placed him on his shoulder, and brought him along,
and as he was going along with him, the Vetála again said to the king,
"Listen, king, I will tell you a short story."
The story of Harisvámin, who first lost his wife, and then his life.
There is a city of the name of Váránasí, the abode of Siva. In it there
lived a Bráhman, named Devasvámin, honoured by the king. And that
rich Bráhman had a son named Harisvámin; and he had an exceedingly
lovely wife, named Lávanyavatí. I think the Disposer must have made
her after he had acquired skill by making Tilottamá and the other
nymphs of heaven, for she was of priceless beauty and loveliness.
Now, one night Harisvámin fell asleep, as he was reposing with her
in a palace cool with the rays of the moon. At that very moment a
Vidyádhara prince, by name Madanavega, roaming about at will, came
that way through the air. He saw that Lávanyavatí sleeping by the side
of her husband, and her robe, that had slipped aside, revealed her
exquisitely moulded limbs. His heart was captivated by her beauty;
and blinded by love, he immediately swooped down, and taking her up
in his arms asleep, flew off with her through the air.
Immediately her husband, the young man Harisvámin, woke up, and not
seeing his beloved, he rose up in a state of distraction. He said
to himself, "What can this mean? Where has she gone? I wonder if
she is angry with me. Or has she hidden herself to find out my real
feelings, and is making fun of me?" Distracted by many surmises of
this kind, he wandered hither and thither that night, looking for
her on the roof, and in the turrets of the palace. He even searched
in the palace-garden, and when he could not find her anywhere, being
scorched with the fire of grief, he sobbed and lamented, "Alas! my
beloved with face like the moon's orb, fair as the moonlight; did
this night grudge your existence, hating your charms that rival
hers [332]? That very moon, that, vanquished by your beauty, seemed
to be in fear, and comforted me with its rays cool as sandalwood,
now that I am bereaved of you, seems to have seen its opportunity,
and smites me with them, as if with burning coals, or arrows dipped
in poison." While Harisvámin was uttering these laments, the night
at last slowly passed away, not so his grief at his bereavement.
The next morning the sun dispelled with his rays the deep darkness
that covered the world, but could not dispel the dense darkness
of despondency that had settled on him. The sound of his bitter
lamentations, that seemed to have been reinforced by wailing power
bestowed on him by the chakravákas, whose period of separation was
at an end with the night, was magnified a hundredfold. The young
Bráhman, though his relations tried to comfort him, could not recover
his self-command, now that he was bereaved of his beloved, but was
all inflamed with the fire of separation. And he went from place
to place, exclaiming with tears, "Here she stood, here she bathed,
here she adorned herself, and here she amused herself."
But his friends and relations said to him, "She is not dead, so why
do you kill yourself? If you remain alive, you will certainly recover
her somewhere or other. So adopt a resolute tone, and go in search
of your beloved; there is nothing in this world that a resolute man,
who exerts himself, cannot obtain." When Harisvámin had been exhorted
in these terms by his friends and relations, he managed at last,
after some days, to recover his spirits by the aid of hope. And he
said to himself, "I will give away all that I have to the Bráhmans,
and visit all the holy waters, and wash away all my sins. For if
I wipe out my sin, I may perhaps, in the course of my wanderings,
find that beloved of mine." After going through these reflections
suitable to the occasion, he got up and bathed, and performed all his
customary avocations, and the next day he bestowed on the Bráhmans
at a solemn sacrifice various meats and drinks, and gave away to them
all his wealth without stint.
Then he left his country, with his Bráhman birth as his only fortune,
and proceeded to go round to all the holy bathing-places in order to
recover his beloved. And as he was roaming about, there came upon him
the terrible lion of the hot season, with the blazing sun for mouth,
and with a mane composed of his fiery rays. And the winds blew with
excessive heat, as if warmed by the breath of sighs furnaced forth
by travellers grieved at being separated from their wives. And the
tanks, with their supply of water diminished by the heat, and their
drying white mud, appeared to be shewing their broken hearts. And
the trees by the roadside seemed to lament [333] on account of the
departure of the glory of spring, making their wailing heard in the
shrill moaning of their bark, [334] with leaves, as it were lips,
parched with heat. At that season Harisvámin, wearied out with the
heat of the sun, with bereavement, hunger and thirst, and continual
travelling, disfigured, [335] emaciated and dirty, and pining for
food, reached in the course of his wanderings, a certain village,
and found in it the house of a Bráhman called Padmanábha, who was
engaged in a sacrifice. And seeing that many Bráhmans were eating
in his house, he stood leaning against the door-post, silent and
motionless. And the good wife of that Bráhman named Padmanábha, seeing
him in this position, felt pity for him, and reflected; "Alas! mighty
is hunger! Whom will it not bring down? For here stands a man at the
door, who appears to be a householder, desiring food, with downcast
countenance; evidently come from a long journey, and with all his
senses impaired by hunger. So is not he a man to whom food ought to
be given?" Having gone through these reflections, the kind woman took
up in her hands a vessel full of rice boiled in milk, with ghee and
sugar, and brought it, and courteously presented it to him, and said;
"Go and eat this somewhere on the bank of the lake, for this place
is unfit to eat in, as it is filled with feasting Bráhmans."
He said, "I will do so," and took the vessel of rice, and placed it
at no great distance under a banyan-tree on the edge of the lake;
and he washed his hands and feet in the lake, and rinsed his mouth,
and then came back in high spirits to eat the rice. But while he was
thus engaged, a kite, holding a black cobra with its beak and claws,
came from some place or other, and sat on that tree. And it so happened
that poisonous saliva issued from the mouth of that dead snake, which
the bird had captured and was carrying along. The saliva fell into
the dish of rice which was placed underneath the tree, and Harisvámin,
without observing it, came and ate up that rice. [336] As soon as in
his hunger he had devoured all that food, he began to suffer terrible
agonies produced by the poison. He exclaimed, "When fate has turned
against a man, everything in this world turns also; accordingly this
rice dressed with milk, ghee and sugar, has become poison to me."
Thus speaking, Harisvámin, tortured with the poison, tottered to
the house of that Bráhman, who was engaged in the sacrifice, and
said to his wife; "The rice, which you gave me, has poisoned me;
so fetch me quickly a charmer who can counteract the operation of
poison; otherwise you will be guilty of the death of a Bráhman." When
Harisvámin had said this to the good woman, who was beside herself
to think what it could all mean, his eyes closed, and he died.
Accordingly the Bráhman, who was engaged in a sacrifice, drove out
of his house his wife, though she was innocent and hospitable, being
enraged with her for the supposed murder of her guest. The good woman,
for her part, having incurred groundless blame from her charitable
deed, and so become branded with infamy, went to a holy bathing-place
to perform penance.
Then there was a discussion before the superintendent of religion,
as to which of the four parties, the kite, the snake, and the couple
who gave the rice, were guilty of the murder of a Bráhman, but the
question was not decided. [337]
"Now you, king Trivikramasena, must tell me, which was guilty of
the murder of a Bráhman; and if you do not, you will incur the
before-mentioned curse."
When the king heard this from the Vetála, he was forced by the curse
to break silence, and he said, "No one of them could be guilty of
the crime; certainly not the serpent, for how could he be guilty
of anything, when he was the helpless prey of his enemy, who was
devouring him? To come to the kite; what offence did he commit in
bringing his natural food which he had happened to find, and eating
it, when he was hungry? And how could either of the couple, that
gave the food, be in fault, since they were both people exclusively
devoted to righteousness, not likely to commit a crime? Therefore
I think the guilt of slaying a Bráhman would attach to any person,
who should be so foolish as, for want of sufficient reflection,
to attribute it to either of them."
When the king had said this, the Vetála again left his shoulder,
and went to his own place, and the resolute king again followed him.
CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
(Vetála 14.)
Then king Trivikramasena went to the asoka-tree, and again got hold of
the Vetála, and took him on his shoulder; and when the king had set
out, the Vetála again said to him, "King, you are tired; so listen,
I will tell you an interesting tale.
Story of the Merchant's daughter who fell in love with a thief.
There is a city of the name of Ayodhyá, which was the capital of
Vishnu, when he was incarnate as Ráma, the destroyer of the Rákshasa
race. In it there lived a mighty king, of the name of Víraketu,
who defended this earth, as a rampart defends a city. During the
reign of that king there lived in that city a great merchant, named
Ratnadatta, who was the head of the mercantile community. And there
was born to him, by his wife Nandayantí, a daughter named Ratnavatí,
who was obtained by propitiating the deities. And that intelligent
girl grew up in her father's house, and as her body grew, her innate
qualities of beauty, gracefulness, and modesty developed also. And
when she attained womanhood, not only great merchants, but even kings
asked her in marriage from her father. But she disliked the male sex so
much that she did not desire even Indra for a husband, and would not
even hear of marriage, being determined to die, sooner than consent
to it. That made her father secretly sorrow much, on account of his
affection for her, and the report of her conduct spread all over the
city of Ayodhyá.
At that time all the citizens were continually being plundered by
thieves, so they assembled together, and made this complaint to king
Víraketu; "Your Majesty, we are continually being robbed by thieves