The Kathá Sarit Ságara; or, Ocean of the Streams of Story
like a thief, by the Gándharva rite; and a thief has no lawful title
to the possessions of another."
When the Vetála heard this answer of the king's, he quickly left
his shoulder, and went back to his own place, and the king hurried
after him.
NOTE.
Oesterley tells us that in the Turkish Tútínámah (Rosen, II, p. 178,)
a sorceress takes the place of Múladeva. She gives the young man a
small seal in place of the pill or globule. He is then married to a
son of the king's. Then the young man escapes with the princess, who in
the day keeps the seal in her mouth and so appears as a man; then the
sorceress goes in the form of a Bráhman to the king, who has to give
her 10,000 gold pieces as he cannot give back her daughter. The story
is No. 23 in the Persian Tútínámah, Iken, p. 97. Oesterley refers also
to the story in the 7th Chapter of the Kathá Sarit Ságara; (Oesterley's
Baitál Pachísí, pages 203-205). The tale in one way resembles the Greek
fable of Cæneus, and also that of Tiresias. The story of Iphis and
Ianthe is perhaps still more apposite. According to Sir Thomas Brown,
(Vulgar Errors, Book III, ch. 17) hares are supposed by some to be both
male and female. He mentions Tiresias and Empedocles as instances of
"transexion." Benfey gives a number of stories of this kind in the
1st Volume of his Panchatantra, pp. 41-52. He traces them all back
to a tendency of the Indo-Germanic race to look upon their deities
as belonging to both sexes at once.
CHAPTER XC.
(Vetála 16.)
Then king Trivikramasena went back to the asoka-tree, and again took
the Vetála from it, and set out with him on his shoulder; and as
he was returning from the tree, the Vetála once more said to him,
"Listen, king, I will tell you a noble story."
Story of Jímútaváhana. [349]
There is in this earth a great mountain named Himavat, where all
jewels are found, which is the origin of both Gaurí and Gangá, the
two goddesses dear to Siva. Even heroes cannot reach its top; [350]
it towers proudly above all other mountains; and as such its praises
are sung in strains of sooth in the three worlds. On the ridge of
that Himavat there is that city rightly named the Golden City, which
gleams like a mass of the sun's rays deposited by him on earth.
Of old there lived in that splendid city a fortunate lord of the
Vidyádharas, named Jímútaketu, who dwelt there like Indra on Meru. In
his palace-garden there was a wishing-tree, which was an heirloom
in his family, which was well known as the Granter of Desires, and
not named so without reason. The king supplicated that divine tree,
and obtained by its favour a son, who remembered his former birth,
and was the incarnation of a portion of a Bodhisattva. He was a hero
in munificence, of great courage, compassionate to all creatures,
attentive to the instructions of his spiritual adviser, and his name
was Jímútaváhana. And when he grew up to manhood, his father, the
king, made him crown-prince, being impelled thereto by his excellent
qualities, and the advice of the ministers.
And when Jímútaváhana was made crown-prince, the ministers of his
father, desiring his welfare, came to him and said, "Prince, you must
continually worship this wishing-tree invincible by all creatures,
[351] which grants all our desires. For, as long as we have this,
not even Indra could injure us, much less any other enemy." When
Jímútaváhana heard this, he inly reflected, "Alas! our predecessors,
though they possessed such a divine tree, never obtained from it
any fruit worthy of it; some of them asked it for wealth and did
nothing more; so the mean creatures made themselves and this noble
tree contemptible. Well, I will make it inserve a design which I have
in my mind."
After the noble prince had formed this resolution, he went to his
father, and gained his goodwill by paying him all kinds of attentions,
and said to him in private, as he was sitting at ease; "Father, you
know that in this sea of mundane existence, all that we behold is
unsubstantial, fleeting as the twinkling of the wave. Especially are
the twilight, the dawn, and Fortune shortlived, disappearing as soon
as revealed; where and when have they been seen to abide? Charity to
one's neighbour is the only thing that is permanent in this cycle of
change; it produces holiness and fame that bear witness for hundreds
of yugas. So with what object, father, do we keep for ourselves such
an unfailing wishing-tree, as all these phenomenal conditions are but
momentary? Where, I ask, are those our predecessors who kept it so
strenuously, exclaiming, 'It is mine, it is mine?' Where is it now
to them? For which of them does it exist, and which of them exists
for it? So, if you permit, father, I will employ this wishing-tree,
that grants all desires, for attaining the matchless fruit of charity
to one's neighbour."
His father gave him leave, saying, "So be it!" And Jímútaváhana went
and said to the wishing-tree, "O god, thou didst fulfil all the
cherished wishes of our predecessors, so fulfil this one solitary
wish of mine! Enable me to behold this whole earth free from poverty;
depart, and good luck attend thee; thou art bestowed by me on the
world that desires wealth." When Jímútaváhana had said this with joined
hands, a voice came forth from the tree, "Since thou hast relinquished
me, I depart." And in a moment the wishing-tree flew up to heaven,
and rained wealth on the earth so plenteously, that there was not
one poor man left on it. Then the glory of that Jímútaváhana spread
through the three worlds, on account of that ardent compassion of
his for all creatures.
That made all his relations impatient with envy; and thinking that
he and his father would be easy to conquer, as they were deprived
of the calamity-averting tree which they had bestowed on the world,
they put their heads together and formed a design, and then girded
on their harness for war, to deprive Jímútaváhana and his father
of their realm. When Jímútaváhana saw that, he said to his father,
"Father, what other has might, when thou hast taken up arms? But what
generous man desires to possess a realm, if he must do so by slaying
his relations for the sake of this wicked perishable body? So of
what use is sovereignty to us? We will depart to some other place,
and practise virtue that brings happiness in both worlds. Let these
miserable relations that covet our kingdom, joy their fill!" When
Jímútaváhana said this, his father Jímútaketu answered him, "My son,
I desire a realm for your sake only; if you, being penetrated with
compassion, give it up, of what value is it to me, who am old?" When
Jímútaváhana's father agreed to his proposal, he went with him and
his mother to the Malaya mountain, abandoning his kingdom. There he
made him a retreat in the valley of a brook, the stream of which
was hidden by sandal-wood trees, and spent his time in waiting on
his parents. And there he made a friend of the name of Mitrávasu,
the son of Visvávasu a king of the Siddhas, who dwelt on that mountain.
Now, one day, as Jímútaváhana was roaming about, he went into a temple
of the goddess Gaurí, that was situated in a garden, in order to
worship in the presence of the image. And there he saw a beautiful
maiden accompanied by her attendants, playing on the lyre, intent
on pleasing the daughter of the mountain. [352] And the deer were
listening to the sweet sound of the lyre in the musical performance,
standing motionless, as if abashed at beholding the beauty of her
eyes. [353] She had a black pupil in her white eye, and it seemed
as if it strove to penetrate to the root of her ear. [354] She was
thin and elegant in her waist, which appeared as if the Creator had
compressed it in his grasp, when making her, and deeply impressed
on it the marks of his fingers in the form of wrinkles. The moment
Jímútaváhana saw that beauty, it seemed as if she entered by his eyes,
and stole away his heart. And when the maiden saw him, adorning the
garden, producing longing and disturbance of soul, looking as if
he were the god of spring retired to the forest through disgust at
the burning up of the body of the god of Love, she was overpowered
with affection, and so bewildered, that her lyre, as if it had been
a friend, became distracted and mute.
Then Jímútaváhana said to an attendant of hers, "What is your friend's
auspicious name, and what family does she adorn?" When the attendant
heard that, she said, "She is the sister of Mitrávasu, and the daughter
of Visvávasu the king of the Siddhas, and her name is Malayavatí." When
she had said this to Jímútaváhana, the discreet woman asked the
son of the hermit, who had come with him, his name and descent, and
then she made this brief remark to Malayavatí, smiling as she spoke,
"My friend, why do you not welcome this prince of the Vidyádharas
who has come here? For he is a guest worthy of being honoured by the
whole world." When she said this, that daughter of the king of the
Siddhas was silent, and her face was cast down through shame. Then
her attendant said to Jímútaváhana, "The princess is bashful, permit
me to shew you the proper courtesy in her place." So she alone gave
him a garland with the arghya. Jímútaváhana, as soon as the garland
was given to him, being full of love, took it, and threw it round the
neck of Malayavatí. And she, looking at him with loving sidelong looks,
placed, as it were, a garland of blue lotuses on him.
Thus they went through a sort of silent ceremony of mutual election,
and then a maid came and said to that Siddha maiden, "Princess, your
mother desires your presence, come at once." When the princess heard
that, she withdrew regretfully and reluctantly from the face of her
beloved her gaze, that seemed to be fastened to it with the arrows of
love, and managed not without a struggle to return to her house. And
Jímútaváhana, with his mind fixed on her, returned to his hermitage.
And when Malayavatí had seen her mother, she went at once and flung
herself down on her bed, sick of separation from her beloved. Then her
eyes were clouded, as it were by the smoke of the fire of love that
burnt in her bosom, she shed floods of tears, and her body was tortured
with heat; and though her attendants anointed her with sandal-wood
unguent, and fanned her with the leaves of lotuses, she could not
obtain any relief on the bed, in the lap of her attendant, or on the
ground. Then the day retired somewhere with the glowing evening, and
the moon ascending kissed the laughing forehead of the east, and though
urged on by love she was too bashful to send a female messenger to her
chosen one, or to adopt any of the measures that lovers usually take,
but she seemed loth to live. And she was contracted in her heart,
and she passed that night, which the moon made disagreeable to her,
like a lotus which closes at night, and bewilderment hung round her,
like a cloud of bees.
And in the meanwhile Jímútaváhana, who was tortured at parting with
her, though lying on his bed, spent the night as one who had fallen
into the hand of Cupid; though his glow of love was of recent birth,
a pallid hue began to shew itself in him; and though shame made him
dumb, he uttered the pain which love produced.
Next morning he returned with excessive longing to that temple of
Gaurí, where he had seen the daughter of the king of the Siddhas. And
while, distracted with the fire of passion, he was being consoled by
the hermit's son, who had followed him there, Malayavatí also came
there; for, as she could not bear separation, she had secretly gone
out alone into a solitary place to abandon the body. And the girl,
not seeing her lover, who was separated from her by a tree, thus
prayed, with eyes full of tears, to the goddess Gaurí, "Goddess,