Chapter 17 - The fulfilled prophecy

[Source: Kah-gyur, iv. ff. 233-236.]

In long past times King Sarjarasin ^[1] reigned in Vārāṇasī, over that great, rich, prosperous, blissful, and populous city. He took to wife the daughter of another king, and lived with her. She became with child, and after the lapse of eight or nine months, when the sun was high at midday, she gave birth to a very fine boy. When the boy’s birth-feast was held, and it was asked what name should be given to him, the ministers said: “O king, as the boy was born at the time when the sun [sūrya] is highest, let him be named Sūryanemi. When he had received that name, he was entrusted to eight nurses, two for carrying, two for suckling, two for cleansing, and two for playing. These eight nurses nourished him with milk, curdled milk, butter, melted butter, butter-foam, and other excellent kinds of food, and he grew apace like a lotus in a pool. When he had grown up he learnt writing, reckoning, drawing, and hand-reckoning, and the arts and accomplishments which befitted a prince of the Kṣatriya race, destined to be a king. King Sarjarasin’s first wife was named Dharmikā, and his prime minister, in whom the king placed the greatest confidence, Goṣṭhila.

After some time Dharmikā again became with child. The diviners declared that a son would be born, who would take the king’s life, and usurp royal power, setting the diadem on his own head. After a time King Sarjarasin fell ill, and when his illness could not be cured, although remedies of all kinds were applied, he reflected, after he had learnt the state of his body, that it would be necessary to take precautions in order that Sūryanemi, after becoming king on his decease, should not cause Dharmikā to be put to death. So he determined to entrust her to his minister, Goṣṭhila, whom he had supplied with valuable property. Having sent for him, he said to him: “Dharmikā is my first wife, you are my first minister. As I am aware of my position, and I am undoubtedly about to lose my life, you must out of love for me take care that Sūryanemi does not put Dharmikā to death.”

The minister gave him a consoling promise. When Sarjarasin had died and his body had been burned with all pomp, Sūryanemi was consecrated as king. He gave orders to his ministers to put Dharmikā to death. Gosh-ṭhila remonstrated against this, saying: “O king, is it just to put her to death rashly? Who can tell whether she will bear a son or a daughter? If a son is born, he shall be put to death.” King Sūryanemi ordered him to act in accordance with this saying, and to keep watch over the queen. So Goṣṭhila took her to his own house, where, after eight or nine days, she gave birth to a son. That same day a fisherman’s wife gave birth to a girl. Immediately after the confinement Goṣṭhila, who had gained over the fisherman’s wife with money, exchanged the children, and told the king that Dharmikā had been delivered of a girl. The boy was suckled and brought up by the fisherwoman. When he had grown up he learnt reading and writing, and as he took to making verses, he was called the verse-writing fisher-lad.

Goṣṭhila informed Dharmikā that she had a son who was a poet, and she felt a desire to see him. The minister tried to dissuade her from that, but she could not overcome her longing. Goṣṭhila saw how dangerous the matter was, and perceived that some precaution must be taken, and he sent the lad to the queen with a fish. When the youth entered the palace the king became aware that this poetic fisher-lad was he of whom of the diviners had predicted that he would take the king’s life, place the diadem on his own head, and usurp the regal power. So he ordered the ministers to lay hands on him in order that he might not escape. The youth heard of this as the order passed from mouth to mouth, so he ran this way and that way until he came to the house of an old woman who hid him away. From thence, after his body had been anointed with oil of mustard and sesame, and laid upon a bier as if it had beeṇ a corpse, he was carried out to the cemetery and deposited there. A man who was looking for fruits and flowers there saw him get up and run away. The men who were sent in pursuit of him asked this man if he had seen a person of such and such a height, and such and such an appearance, going that way. He told them in what direction the youth had gone, and they followed after him.

The youth reached a hill-town, entered into the house of a dyer, and told him his story. So when his pursuers began to search the town, the dyer placed the youth in a clothes chest, which he set upon an ass, and so took him out of the town to a bath-house, where he left him. The youth stood up, looked around on all four sides and went away. But there also he was seen by a man, who disclosed the fact to his pursuers, and showed them the road which he had taken. The youth came to another village, and entered the house of a shoemaker, to whom he told his story, and whom he asked to make him a pair of shoes, the toes of which should be where the heels generally are. The shoemaker declared he had never made shoes of that kind. The youth replied in verse:—

“Manifold is the mind, numerous are gifts. They cannot be weighed in the same scale. So make me, O shoemaker, what I have ordered, with the heels in front.”

According to these instructions, the shoemaker made him shoes of that kind. As the town was surrounded by a wall, the youth put on the shoes, crept out through a cistern, and got away. His pursuers, following the traces left by his shoes, were led back by them to the village, and they perceived that he had escaped. He took to the water, and was conveyed by the Nāgas to their residence.

As the news of this passed from mouth to mouth, King Sūryanemi learnt that the Nāgas had received the youth into their dwelling - place. Thereupon he ordered his ministers to summon into his presence all the snake-charmers who lived in his realm. When they had done this, the king said to the snake-charmers, “Honoured sirs, go and question the Nāgas in such and such a Nāga residence.” In compliance with the king’s orders, the snake-charmers all betook themselves thither.

Now a Yakṣa named Piṅgala, who lived upon flesh and blood, dwelt in a certain wilderness. As the wild beasts, not to speak of human beings, had deserted this wilderness from fear of him, it was called the Piṅgala wilderness. When the snake-charmers made their preparations for the purpose of endangering the Nāgas by spells, the youth became frightened, and, knowing no other way of escape, fled into the Piṅgala-wilderness. The Nāgas took counsel together, and decided that it would not be right if they were not to save the youth from the Piṅgalawilderness, and that it would do them a hurt if he were to be killed by Piṅgala; but they did not know what to do. However, the Nāga king told them to give information to the snake-charmers. The Nāgas said to them, “Honoured ones, he on whose account ye have troubled us has been put to death by our contrivance, for he has fled into the Piṅgala-wilderness.” The snake-charmers reported the matter to the king, who gave orders to continue the search after the youth. Meanwhile the youth took to wandering about in the Piṅgala-wilderness.

The Yakṣa Piṅgala was sitting at a certain spot surrounded by his dogs. When he and his dogs saw the youth from afar, he reflected that he had heard that the youth would kill him, and he thought that he had come for that purpose. So he set the dogs on the youth. But the youth outstripped them and climbed up a tree. Piṅgala and the dogs lay in wait for him at the foot of the tree. Piṅgala asked him if he had not heard that a demon named Piṅgala dwelt in the Piṅgala wilderness, and put to death all who came thither. And he summoned him to come down, seeing that he must die. The youth replied, “So long as I live I shall remain here.” As soon as the Yakṣa Piṅgala, who had placed himself in the shade with his ascetic’s cloth,^[2] had gone to sleep, the youth threw down on him a part of his clothes. The dogs thought that it was the youth who had fallen down, so they ate up the Yakṣa Piṅgala and went away.

The youth slowly descended from the tree, and, after wandering to and fro, remembered that he had an uncle, who had retired from the world among the Rishis, and he determined to go to him. He lived in a hill district, in a grove which was well provided with excellent roots, flowers, fruit, and water, with clumps of various trees, and with the song of different kinds of birds. By means of inquiries the youth gradually made his way thither, and he informed his uncle of his relationship to him, and took up his abode with him. But even there the king’s men searched for him, and they were on the point of laying hands on him, when he jumped down a precipice. As he sprang into the air, a man seized hold of his headdress, and the head-dress remained in the man’s hands. As the pursuers supposed that he was dead, they determined to go away. So they took the head-dress, and went to the king, and said to him, “O king, the fisher-lad poet is dead, here is his head-dress.” And the king provided them with good things.

After a while a deity, who dwelt in the Rishi-grove, said to that Rishi, “Do not you take any interest, then, in your nephew, who is reduced to despair, subjected to intolerable woes?” The Rishi replied, “If I keep him in mind no more, may I die upon the spot!” The Rishi was in possession of spells and magic formulas, and knew one spell by which a man might be turned into a woman and back again into a man. This spell he taught to his nephew, and said to him, “Now, go away, and be fearless and free from anxiety.” The youth, by means of the spell, assumed the form of an incomparably beautiful woman, and betook himself to Vārāṇasī. While abiding in the king’s park he was seen by the keeper’, who was astounded, and set off instantly and informed King Sūryanemi, saying, “O king, a woman of supreme beauty and youth is dwelling in the park.” The king ordered him to fetch the woman. By the powerful dispensation of fortune the woman was brought to the palace, and King Sūryanemi became violently enamoured of her. But when an opportunity occurred, the youth put the king to death in a solitary spot. Then he reversed the spell and became a man again. Afterwards he set the crown on his head, and, after making the minister Goṣṭhila acquainted with the matter, assumed the regal power. A deity said in a śloka, “He whose head has not been cut off, he is not dead. He gets up again and completes his work. Like unto the poet, when he found his opportunity and slew the son of Sarjarasin.”

Footnotes and references:

[1]:

In Tibetan, Sartsi-ldan, which is evidently a corrupt form.—S. Professor Schiefner has in one in. stance altered the name from Sarjarasin to Archismant [Arciṣmant?].

[2]:

The equivalent of the Sanskrit yogapatta. See Böhtlingk-Roth.—S. “The cloth thrown over the back and knees of an ascetic during meditation.”