The Kathá Sarit Ságara; or, Ocean of the Streams of Story
strewed with coverlets, abounding in dishes, and hung with curtains
and screens, full of all kinds of delicacies and enjoyments, and it
looked like the dancing-ground of the goddesses of good fortune.
There they took their meal, and the sun having retired to rest
with the twilight on the western mountain, they reposed in sleeping
pavilions. And Naraváhanadatta, dividing himself by his science into
many forms, was present in the pavilions of all the queens. But in his
true personality he enjoyed the society of his beloved Madanamanchuká,
who resembled the night in being moon-faced, having eyes twinkling
like stars, and being full of revelry. And the king of Vatsa too, and
his train, spent that night in heavenly enjoyments, seeming as if they
had been born again without changing their bodies. And in the morning
all woke up, and delighted themselves in the same way with various
enjoyments in splendid gardens and pavilions produced by magic power.
Then, after they had spent many days in various amusements, the king of
Vatsa, wishing to return to his own city, went full of affection to his
son the king of all the Vidyádharas, who bowed humbly before him, and
said to him, "My son, who, that has sense, can help appreciating these
heavenly enjoyments? But the love of dwelling in one's mother-country
naturally draws every man; [598] so I mean to return to my own city;
but do you enjoy this fortune of Vidyádhara royalty, for these regions
suit you as being half god and half man. However, you must summon me
again some time, when a suitable occasion presents itself; for this
is the fruit of this birth of mine, that I behold this beautiful moon
of your countenance, full of nectar worthy of being drunk in with the
eyes, and that I have the delight of seeing your heavenly splendour.
When king Naraváhanadatta heard this sincere speech of his father the
king of Vatsa, he quickly summoned Devamáya the Vidyádhara prince, and
said to him in a voice half-choked with a weight of tears, "My father
is returning to his own capital with my mothers, and his ministers,
and the rest of his train, so send on in front of him a full thousand
bháras [599] of gold and jewels, and employ a thousand Vidyádhara
serfs to carry it." When Devamáya had received this order given in
kind tones by his master, he bowed and said, "Bestower of honour,
I will go in person with my attendants to Kausámbí to perform this
duty." Then the emperor sent Váyupatha and Devamáya to attend on their
journey his father and his followers, whom he honoured with presents
of raiment and ornaments. Then the king of Vatsa and his suite mounted
a heavenly chariot, and he went to his own city, after making his
son, who followed him a long way, turn back. And queen Vásavadattá,
whose longing regret rose at that moment with hundred-fold force,
turned back her dutiful son with tears, and looking back at him, with
difficulty tore herself away. And Naraváhanadatta, who, accompanied by
his ministers, had followed his parents and elders, returned to that
mountain of Rishabha with his eyes blinded with tears. There that
emperor remained with his ministers, Gomukha and the rest, who had
grown up with him from his youth, and with hosts of Vidyádhara kings,
with his wives, and with Madanamanchuká at his side, in the perpetual
enjoyment of heavenly pleasures, and he was ever free from satiety.
BOOK XVI.
CHAPTER CXI.
May Ganesa protect you, the ornamental streaks of vermilion on whose
cheeks fly up in the dance, and look like the fiery might of obstacles
swallowed and disgorged by him.
While Naraváhanadatta was thus living on that Rishabha mountain with
his wives and his ministers, and was enjoying the splendid fortune
of emperor over the kings of the Vidyádharas, which he had obtained,
once on a time spring came to increase his happiness. After long
intermission the light of the moon was beautifully clear, and the
earth, enfolded by the young fresh grass, shewed its joy by sweating
dewy drops, and the forest trees, closely embraced again and again
by the winds of the Malaya mountain, were all trembling, bristling
with thorns, and full of sap. [600] The warder of Cupid, the cuckoo,
beholding the stalk of the mango-tree, with his note seemed to forbid
the pride of coy damsels; and rows of bees fell with a loud hum from
the flowery creepers, like showers of arrows shot from the bow of
the great warrior Eros. And Naraváhanadatta's ministers, Gomukha and
the others, beholding at that time this activity of Spring, said to
Naraváhanadatta; "See, king, this mountain of Rishabha is altogether
changed, and is now a mountain of flowers, since the dense lines of
forest with which it is covered, have their blossoms full-blown with
spring. Behold, king, the creepers, which, with their flowers striking
against one another, seem to be playing the castanets; and with the
humming of their bees, to be singing, as they are swayed to and fro by
the wind; while the pollen, that covers them, makes them appear to be
crowned with garlands; and the garden made ready by spring, in which
they are, is like the Court of Cupid. Look at this mango shoot with
its garland of bees; it looks like the bow of the god of love with
loosened string, as he reposes after conquering the world. So come,
let us go and enjoy this festival of spring on the bank of the river
Mandákiní where the gardens are so splendid."
When Naraváhanadatta had been thus exhorted by his ministers, he went
with the ladies of his harem to the bank of the Mandákiní. And there
he diverted himself in a garden resounding with the song of many
birds, adorned with cardamom-trees, clove-trees, vakulas, asokas,
and mandáras. And he sat down on a broad slab of moonstone, placing
queen Madanamanchuká at his left hand, accompanied by the rest of
his harem, and attended by various princes of the Vidyádharas, of
whom Chandasinha and Amitagati were the chief; and while drinking
wine and talking on various subjects, the sovereign, having observed
the beauty of the season, said to his ministers, "The southern breeze
is gentle and soft to the feel; the horizon is clear; the gardens in
every corner are full of flowers and fragrant; sweet are the strains
of the cuckoo, and the joys of the banquet of wine; what pleasure
is wanting in the spring? Still, separation from one's beloved is
during that season hard to bear. Even animals [601] find separation
from their mates in the spring a severe affliction. For instance,
behold this hen-cuckoo here distressed with separation! For she has
been long searching for her beloved, that has disappeared from her
gaze, with plaintive cries, and not being able to find him, she is
now cowering on a mango, mute and like one dead."
When the king had said this, his minister Gomukha said to him, "It is
true, all creatures find separation hard to bear at this time; and
now listen, king; I will tell you in illustration of this something
that happened in Srávastí."
Story of the devoted couple, Súrasena and Sushená. [602]
In that town there dwelt a Rájpút, who was in the service of the
monarch, and lived on the proceeds of a village. His name was Súrasena,
and he had a wife named Sushená, who was a native of Málava. She was in
every respect well suited to him, and he loved her more than life. One
day the king summoned him, and he was about to set out for his camp,
when his loving wife said to him, "My husband, you ought not to go off
and leave me alone; for I shall not be able to exist here for a moment
without you." When Súrasena's wife said this to him, he replied, "How
can I help going, when the king summons me? Do you not understand my
position, fair one? You see, I am a Rájpút, and a servant, dependent
on another for my subsistence." When his wife heard this, she said
to him with tears in her eyes, "If you must of necessity go, I shall
manage to endure it somehow, if you return not one day later than the
commencement of spring." Having heard this, he at last said to her,
"Agreed, my dear! I will return on the first day of the month Chaitra,
even if I have to leave my duty."
When he said this, his wife was at last induced to let him go;
and so Súrasena went to attend on the king in his camp. And his
wife remained at home, counting the days in eager expectation,
looking for the joyful day on which spring begins, on which her
husband was to return. At last, in the course of time, that day of
the spring-festival arrived, resonant with the songs of cuckoos,
that seemed like spells to summon the god of love. The humming of
bees drunk with the fragrance of flowers, fell on the ear, like the
twanging of Cupid's bow as he strung it.
On that day Súrasena's wife Sushená said to herself, "Here is that
spring-festival arrived; my beloved will, without fail, return
to-day. So she bathed, and adorned herself, and worshipped the
god of Love, and remained eagerly awaiting his arrival. But the
day came to an end and her husband did not return, and during the
course of that night she was grievously afflicted by despondency,
and said to herself, "The hour of my death has come, but my husband
has not returned; for those whose souls are exclusively devoted to
the service of another do not care for their own families." While she
was making these reflections, with her heart fixed upon her husband,
her breath left her body, as if consumed by the forest-fire of love.
In the meanwhile Súrasena, eager to behold his wife, and true
to the appointed day, got himself, though with great difficulty,
relieved from attendance on the king, and mounting a swift camel,
accomplished a long journey, and arriving in the last watch of the
night, reached his own house. There he beheld that wife of his lying
dead, with all her ornaments on her, looking like a creeper, with
its flowers full blown, rooted up by the wind. When he saw her, he
was beside himself, and he took her up in his arms, and the bereaved
husband's life immediately left his body in an outburst of lamentation.
But when their family goddess Chandí, the bestower of boons, saw
that that couple had met their death in this way, she restored them
to life out of compassion. And after breath had returned to them,
having each had a proof of the other's affection, they continued
inseparable for the rest of their lives.
"Thus, in the season of spring, the fire of separation, fanned by the
wind from the Malaya mountain, is intolerable to all creatures." When
Gomukha had told this tale, Naraváhanadatta, thinking over it,
suddenly became despondent. The fact is, in magnanimous men, the
spirits, by being elevated or depressed, indicate beforehand the
approach of good or evil fortune. [603]
Then the day came to an end, and the sovereign performed his evening
worship, and went to his bedroom, and got into bed, and reposed
there. But in a dream at the end of the night [604] he saw his
father being dragged away by a black female towards the southern
quarter. The moment he had seen this, he woke up, and suspecting
that some calamity might have befallen his father, he thought upon
the science named Prajnapti, who thereupon presented herself, and
he addressed this question to her, "Tell me, how has my father the
king of Vatsa been going on? For I am alarmed about him on account
of a sight which I saw in an evil dream." When he said this to the
science that had manifested herself in bodily form, she said to him,
"Hear what has happened to your father the king of Vatsa.
"When he was in Kausámbí, he suddenly heard from a messenger, who had
come from Ujjayiní, that king Chandamahásena was dead, and the same
person told him that his wife the queen Angáravatí had burnt herself
with his corpse. This so shocked him, that he fell senseless upon the