The Kathá Sarit Ságara; or, Ocean of the Streams of Story
him; the hearts of great men, as of great seas, are firm and unshaken.
NOTE.
Oesterley (p. 210) tells us that a boy is in the same way sold to
a king as a victim in the 32nd tale of the Turkish collection of
tales, called "The Forty Viziers." When the king is about to rip
up the child's body, the child laughs for the same reason as in our
text. The cause of the sacrifice is however different. The king is
to be healed by placing his feet in the body of a boy.
The promise of a golden image to any one who is willing to
sacrifice his life is also found in the Bengali edition of the
Sinhásana-dvátrinsati. A rich man makes a golden image, with an
inscription on it to the effect that whoever is willing to sacrifice
his life shall have it. Vikramáditya goes to the place disguised, and
cuts off his head, but the goddess heals him, (Benfey's Panchatantra,
Vol. I, p. 109.)
CHAPTER XCV.
(Vetála 21.)
Then king Trivikramasena again went and took the Vetála from the
asoka-tree, and carried him along on his shoulder. And as he was going
along, the Vetála again said to the king, "Listen, king, I will tell
you a story of violent attachment."
Story of Anangamanjarí, her husband Manivarman, and the Bráhman
Kamalákara.
There is a city called Visálá, which is like a second city of Indra,
made by the Creator on earth, for the sake of virtuous people who
have fallen from heaven. In it there lived a fortunate king, named
Padmanábha, who was a source of joy to good men, and excelled king
Bali. In the reign of that king there lived in that city a great
merchant, named Arthadatta, who surpassed in opulence the god of
wealth. And to him there was born a daughter named Anangamanjarí,
who was exhibited on earth by the Creator as a likeness of a heavenly
nymph. And that merchant gave her to the son of a distinguished
merchant, dwelling in Támraliptí, and named Manivarman. But as he
was very fond of his daughter Anangamanjarí, because she was his only
child, he would not let her leave his house, but kept her there with
her husband. But Anangamanjarí's husband Manivarman was as distasteful
to her, as a biting bitter medicine to a sick man. But that lovely
one was dearer than life to her husband, as wealth hardly won and
long hoarded is to a miser.
Now once on a time that Manivarman, longing to see his parents, went
to his home in Támraliptí to visit them. After some days had passed,
the hot season descended upon the land, impeding the journey of men
absent from home with the sharp shafts of the sun's rays. The winds
blew laden with the fragrance of the jasmine and trumpet-flower, and
seemed like the hot [394] sighs of the cardinal points on account of
the departure of spring. Lines of dust raised by the wind flew up to
heaven, like messengers sent by the heated earth to hasten the approach
of the clouds. The days passed slowly, like travellers exhausted by
the severe heat, and longing for the shade of the trees. The nights,
pale-gleaming with moonbeams, became exceedingly [395] reduced owing
to the loss of the spring with all its happy meetings.
One day in that season, that merchant's daughter Anangamanjarí was
sitting with her intimate friend in a lofty window of her house, white
with sandal-wood ointment, and elegantly dressed in a thin garment
of silk. While there, she saw a young Bráhman, named Kamalákara, the
son of the king's chaplain, passing by, and he looked like the god of
Love, risen from his ashes, going to find Rati. And when Kamalákara
saw that lovely one overhead, like the orb of the moon, [396] he was
full of joy, and became like a cluster of kumuda-flowers. The sight
of those two young persons became to one another, by the mighty
command of Cupid, a priceless [397] fascination of the mind. And
the two were overcome by passion, which rooted up their modesty and
carried away by a storm of love-frenzy, which flung their minds to
a distance. And Kamalákara's companion, as soon as he saw that his
friend was love-smitten, dragged him off, though with difficulty,
to his own house.
As for Anangamanjarí, she enquired what his name was, and having no
will of her own, slowly entered the house with that confidante of
hers. There she was grievously afflicted with the fever of love,
and thinking on her beloved, she rolled on the bed, and neither
saw nor heard anything. After two or three days had passed, being
ashamed and afraid, unable to bear the misery of separation, thin
and pale, and despairing of union with her beloved, which seemed a
thing impossible, she determined on suicide. So, one night, when her
attendants were asleep, she went out, drawn as it were, by the moon,
which sent its rays through the window, like fingers, and made for a
tank at the foot of a tree in her own garden. There she approached
an image of the goddess Chandí, her family deity, that had been
set up with much magnificence by her father, and she bowed before
the goddess, and praised her, and said, "Though I have not obtained
Kamalákara for a husband in this life, let him be my husband in a
future birth!" When the impassioned woman had uttered these words
in front of the goddess, she made a noose with her upper garment,
and fastened it to an asoka-tree.
In the meanwhile it happened that her confidante, who was sleeping
in the same room, woke up, and not seeing her there, went to the
garden to look for her. And seeing her there engaged in fastening a
noose round her neck, she cried out, "Stop! stop!" and running up,
she cut that noose which she had made. Anangamanjarí, when she saw
that her confidante had come and cut the noose, fell on the ground in
a state of great affliction. Her confidante comforted her, and asked
her the cause of her grief, and she at once told her, and went on to
say to her, "So you see, friend Málatiká, as I am under the authority
of my parents and so on, and have little chance of being united to
my beloved, death is my highest happiness." While Anangamanjarí was
saying these words, she was exceedingly tortured with the fire of
Love's arrows, and being overpowered with despair, she fainted away.
Her friend Málatiká exclaimed, "Alas! the command of Cupid is hard
to resist, since it has reduced to this state this friend of mine,
who was always laughing at other misguided women, who shewed a want
of self-restraint. [398]" Lamenting in these words, she slowly brought
Anangamanjarí round with cold water, fanning, and so on, and in order
to allay her heat, she made her a bed of lotus-leaves, and placed on
her heart a necklace cool as snow. Then Anangamanjarí, with her eyes
gushing with tears, said to her friend, "Friend, the necklace and the
other applications do not allay my internal heat. But do you by your
cleverness accomplish something which will really allay it. Unite
me to my beloved, if you wish to preserve my life." When she said
this, Málatiká lovingly answered her, "My friend, the night is now
almost at an end, but to-morrow I will make an arrangement with your
beloved, and bring him to this very place. So in the meanwhile control
yourself, and enter your house." When she said this, Anangamanjarí
was pleased, and drawing the necklace from her neck, she gave it
to her as a present. And she said to her, "Now go to your house,
and early to-morrow go thence to the house of my beloved, and may
you prosper!" Having dismissed her confidante in these words, she
entered her own apartments.
And early next morning, her friend Málatiká went, without being seen by
any one, to the house of Kamalákara; and searching about in the garden,
she saw him at the foot of a tree. He was rolling about, burning with
the fire of love, on a bed composed of lotus-leaves moistened with
sandal-wood juice, and a confidential friend of his was trying to give
him relief by fanning him with a plantain-leaf. She said to herself,
"Is it possible that he has been reduced to this stage of love's
malady by separation from her?" So she remained there in concealment,
to find out the truth about it.
In the meanwhile that friend of Kamalákara's said to him, "Cast
your eye, my friend, for a moment round this delightful garden, and
cheer up your heart. Do not give way to despondency." When the young
Bráhman heard this, he answered his friend, "My friend, my heart has
been taken from me by Anangamanjarí the merchant's daughter, and my
breast left empty; so how can I cheer up my heart. Moreover Love,
finding me robbed of my heart, has made me a quiver for his arrows;
so enable me to get hold of that girl, who stole it."
When the young Bráhman said that, Málatiká's doubts were removed,
and she was delighted, and showed herself, and went up to him, and
said, "Happy man, Anangamanjarí has sent me to you, and I hereby
give you her message, the meaning of which is clear, 'What sort of
conduct is this for a virtuous man, to enter a fair one's bosom by
force, and after stealing away her heart, to go off without showing
himself.' It is strange too, that though you have stolen the lady's
heart, she now wishes to surrender to you herself and her life. For
day and night she furnaces forth from her hot sighs, which appear
like smoke rising from the fire of love in her burning heart. And her
tear-drops, black with collyrium, fall frequently, looking like bees
attracted by the fragrance of her lotus-like face. So if you like,
I will say what will be for the good of both of you."
When Málatiká said this, Kamalákara answered her, "My good lady, this
speech of yours, though it comforts me by shewing that my beloved
loves me, terrifies me, as it tells that the fair one is in a state
of unhappiness. So you are our only refuge in this matter; do as you
think best." When Kamalákara said this, Málatiká answered, "I will
to-night bring Anangamanjarí secretly into the garden belonging to
her house, and you must take care to be outside. Then I will manage
by some device of mine to let you in, and so you will be able to
see one another in accordance with your wishes." When Málatiká had
by these words delighted the young Bráhman, she went away, having
accomplished her object, and delighted Anangamanjarí also.
Then the sun, in love with the twilight, departed somewhere or other,
together with the day, and the heaven adorned itself, placing the
moon on its western quarter, like a patch on the forehead. And the
pure white kumuda-cluster laughed joyously with the cheerful faces of
its opened flowers, as if to say, "Fortune has left the lotus-cluster
and come to me." Thereupon the lover Kamalákara also adorned himself,
and full of impatience, slowly approached the outside of the door that
led into the garden of Anangamanjarí's house. Then Málatiká managed
to bring into that garden Anangamanjarí, who had with difficulty got
through the day. And she made her sit in the middle of it, in a bower
of mango-trees, and went out, and brought in Kamalákara also. And when
he entered, he beheld Anangamanjarí in the midst of dense-foliaged
trees, as gladly as the traveller beholds the shade.
While he was advancing towards her, she saw him, and as the violence
of her passion robbed her of shame, she eagerly ran forward, and threw
her arms round his neck. She faltered out, "Where are you going? I
have caught you," and immediately her breath was stopped by the
weight of excessive joy, and she died. And she fell on the ground,
like a creeper broken by the wind. Alas! strange is the course of
love, that is terrible in its consequences. When Kamalákara beheld
that misfortune, which was terrible as a thunder-stroke, he said,
"Alas! what is this?" and fell senseless on the ground. In a moment
he recovered consciousness; and then he took his beloved up in his
arms, and embraced and kissed her, and lamented much. And then he was