The Kathá Sarit Ságara; or, Ocean of the Streams of Story
line of smoke of the sacrificial butter blending together. There king
Chandraprabha fasted, and performed with various pious actions, such
as bathing, distribution of wealth, and so on, the solemn ceremony
of the sráddha, and then he went on to Váránasí, which seemed by the
silken banners of its temples, tossed up and down by gusts of wind,
to cry out from afar, "Come and attain salvation."
In that city he fasted for three days, and then worshipped Siva
with various meat-offerings, as became his own rank, and then set
out for Gayá. As he travelled through the woods, the trees, which
were bent down by the weight of their fruit, and in which the birds
were sweetly singing, seemed at every step to be bowing before him
and praising him at the same time; and the winds, throwing about the
woodland flowers, seemed to honour him with posies. And so he crossed
the forest districts and reached the sacred hill of Gayá. [379]
And there he duly performed a sráddha, in which he bestowed many
gifts on Bráhmans, and then he entered the Holy Wood. And while he
was offering the sacrificial cake to his father in the well of Gayá,
there rose out of it three human hands to take the cake. When the
king saw this, he was bewildered, and said to his own Bráhmans; "What
does this mean? Into which hand am I to put the cake?" They said to
him, "King, this hand in which an iron spike is seen, is certainly
the hand of a thief; and this second hand, which holds a colander,
[380] is the hand of a Bráhman; and this third hand, which has the
ring and the auspicious marks, is the hand of a king. So we do not
know into which hand the sacrificial cake is to be put, or what all
this means." When the Bráhmans said this to the king, he was unable
to arrive at any certain decision.
When the Vetála, on the shoulder of the king, had told this wonderful
tale, he said to king Trivikramasena, "Now into whose hand should the
cake have been put? Let your Highness tell me that; and remember the
previous condition is still binding on you."
When king Trivikramasena, who was well versed in law, heard this from
the Vetála, he broke silence, and answered him; "The sacrificial
cake should have been placed in the hand of the thief, for king
Chandraprabha was his son, raised up to him by his appointment, and
he was not the son of either of the other two. For though the Bráhman
begot him, he cannot be considered his father, as he sold himself for
money for that one night. However he might have been considered the son
of king Súryaprabha, because he had the sacraments performed for him,
and brought him up, if the king had not received his wealth for the
purpose. For the gold, which was placed at the head of the child in
the cradle, was the price paid to king Súryaprabha for bringing him
up, and other services. Accordingly king Chandraprabha was the son,
begotten by another man, of that thief, who received his mother with
the pouring of water over the hands, who gave the order for his being
begotten, and to whom all that wealth belonged; and he ought to have
placed the sacrificial cake in the thief's hand; this is my opinion."
When the king said this, the Vetála left his shoulder, and went to
his own place, and king Trivikramasena again went after him to bring
him back.
NOTE.
It appears from the analysis which Oesterley gives of the Sanskrit
original by Sivadása, that the Hindi version resembles more nearly
the version in the text. In the Sanskrit original there is no touching
of the thief; Dhanavatí of her own accord enters into a conversation
with him. The advice to expose the child at the king's door is given
by the grandmother, after hearing the daughter's dream. The king does
not fetch the boy himself, but has him brought.
CHAPTER XCIV.
(Vetála 20.)
Then king Trivikramasena went and took down that Vetála from the
asoka-tree, and putting him on his shoulder, started off with him
again. And when he had set out in silence, the Vetála spake to him
from his shoulder; "King, what is the meaning of this persistency
of yours? Go, enjoy the good of the night; it is not fitting that
you should carry me to that wicked mendicant. However, if you are
obstinately bent on it, so be it; but listen to this one story."
Story of the Bráhman boy, who offered himself up to save the life of
the king.
There is a city called Chitrakúta, [381] rightly so named, where
the established divisions of the castes never step across the strict
line of demarcation. In it there lived a king, named Chandrávaloka,
the crest-jewel of kings, who rained showers of nectar into the eyes
of those devoted to him. Wise men praised him as the binding-post
of the elephant of valour, the fountain-head of generosity, and the
pleasure-pavilion of beauty. There was one supreme sorrow in the heart
of that young prince, that, though he enjoyed all kinds of prosperity,
he could not obtain a suitable wife.
Now, one day, the king, accompanied by mounted attendants, went out to
a great forest to hunt, in order to dispel that sorrow. There he cleft
with continual shafts the herds of wild swine, as the sun, shining in
the dun sky, [382] disperses the darkness with his rays. Surpassing
Arjuna in strength, he made the lions, impetuous in fight, and
terrible with their yellow manes, repose upon beds of arrows. Like
Indra in might, he stripped of their wings [383] the mountain-like
Sarabhas, and laid them low with the blows of his darts hard as
the thunder-bolt. In the ardour of the chase he felt a longing to
penetrate into the centre of the wood alone, so he urged on his horse
with a smart blow of his heel. The horse, being exceedingly excited
by that blow of his heel, and by a stroke of the whip, cared neither
for rough nor smooth, but darting on with a speed exceeding that of
the wind, in a moment traversed ten yojanas, and carried the king,
the functions of whose senses were quite paralysed, to another forest.
There the horse stopped, and the king, having lost his bearings,
roamed about wearied, until he saw near him a broad lake, which
seemed to make signs to him to approach with its lotuses, that,
bent down towards him and then raised again by the wind, seemed like
beckoning hands. [384] So he went up to it, and relieved his horse
by taking off its saddle and letting it roll, and bathed and watered
it, and then tied it up in the shade of a tree, and gave it a heap
of grass. Then he bathed himself, and drank water, and so dispelled
his fatigue, and then he let his eye wander hither and thither in
the delightful environs of the lake. And in one part he saw, at the
foot of an asoka-tree, a wonderfully beautiful hermit's daughter,
accompanied by her friend. She wore garlands of flowers, and a dress
of bark, which became her well. And she looked exceedingly charming
on account of the elegant way in which her hair was plaited together
after the hermit fashion. And the king, who had now fallen within the
range of the arrows of love, said to himself; "Who can this be? Can
it be Sávitrí come to bathe in the lake? Or can it be Gaurí, who
has slipped away from the arms of Siva, and again betaken herself to
asceticism? Or can it be the beauty of the moon that has taken upon
herself a vow, as the moon has set, now that it is day? So I had
better approach her quietly and find out." Having thus reflected,
the king approached that maiden.
But when she saw him coming, her eyes were bewildered by his beauty,
and her hand relaxed its grasp on the garland of flowers, which she
had before begun to weave, and she said to herself; "Who is this
that has found his way into such a wood as this? Is he a Siddha or a
Vidyádhara? In truth his beauty might satisfy the eyes of the whole
world." When these thoughts had passed through her mind, she rose up,
and modestly looking askance at him she proceeded to go away, though
her legs seemed to want all power of movement.
Then the polite and dexterous monarch approached her and said,
"Fair one, I do not ask you to welcome and entertain a person seen
for the first time, who has come from a distance, and desires no
fruit other than that of beholding you; but how is your running away
from him to be reconciled with the obligations of hermit life?" When
the king said this, the lady's attendant, who was equally dexterous,
sat down there, and entertained the king.
Then the eager king said to her with an affectionate manner, "Worthy
lady, what auspicious family is adorned by this friend of yours? What
are the ear-nectar-distilling syllables of her name? And why does
she torture in this wilderness, with the discipline appropriate to
ascetics, her body, which is soft as a flower?" When her friend heard
this speech of the king's, she answered; "This is the maiden daughter
of the great hermit Kanva, born to him by Menaká; she has been brought
up in the hermitage, and her name is Indívaraprabhá. She has come here
to bathe in this lake by permission of her father, and her father's
hermitage is at no great distance from this place."
When she said this to the king, he was delighted, and he mounted
his horse, and set out for the hermitage of the hermit Kanva,
with the intention of asking him for that daughter of his. He left
his horse outside the hermitage, and then he entered with modest
humility its enclosure, which was full of hermits with matted hair,
and coats of bark, thus resembling in appearance its trees. And in
the middle of it he saw the hermit Kanva surrounded with hermits,
delighting the eye with his brightness, like the moon surrounded
with planets. So he went up to him, and worshipped him, embracing his
feet. The wise hermit entertained him and dispelled his fatigue, and
then lost no time in saying to him; "My son Chandrávaloka, listen to
the good advice which I am about to give you. You know how all living
creatures in the world fear death: so why do you slay without cause
these poor deer? The Disposer appointed the weapon of the warrior for
the protection of the terrified. So rule your subjects righteously,
root up your enemies, and secure fleeting fortune and her gifts by
the warlike training of horse, and elephant, and so on. Enjoy the
delights of rule, give gifts, diffuse your fame throughout the world,
but abandon the vice of hunting, the cruel sport of death. What is
the profit of that mischievous hunting, in which slayer, victim,
and horse [385] are all equally beside themselves? Have you have not
heard what happened to Pándu?"
The intelligent king, Chandrávaloka, heard and accepted cheerfully
this advice of the hermit Kanva, and then answered him, "Reverend
Sir, I have been instructed by you; you have done me a great favour;
I renounce hunting, let living creatures be henceforth free from
alarm." When the hermit heard that, he said, "I am pleased with you
for thus granting security to living creatures; so choose whatever
boon you desire." When the hermit said this, the king, who knew
his time, said to him, "If you are satisfied with me, then give
me your daughter Indívaraprabhá." When the king made this request,
the hermit bestowed on him his daughter, who had just returned from
bathing, born from an Apsaras, a wife meet for him. Then the wives of
the hermits adorned her, and the marriage was solemnized, and king
Chandrávaloka mounted his horse and set out thence quickly, taking
with him his wife, whom the ascetics followed as far as the limits
of the hermitage with gushing tears. And as he went along, the sun,
seeing that the action of that day had been prolonged, [386] sat down,
as if wearied, on the peak of the mountain of setting. And in course
of time appeared the gazelle-eyed nymph of night, overflowing with
love, veiling her shape in a violet robe of darkness.