Chapter LXVII

INVOCATION

HONOUR to the elephant-headed god who averts all hindrances, who is the cause of every success, who ferries us over the sea of difficulties.

 

[M] (Main story line continued) Thus Naravāhanadatta obtained Śaktiyaśas, and besides he had those wives he married before, Ratnaprabhā and others, and his consort the head wife Madanamañcukā, and with his friends he led a happy life at the court of his father in Kauśāmbī.

And one day, when he was in the garden, two brothers, who were princes, and who had come from a foreign land, suddenly paid him a visit. He received them cordially, and they bowed before him, and one of them said to him:

“We are the sons by different mothers of a king in the city of Vaiśākha. My name is Ruciradeva and the name of this brother of mine is Potraka.

“I have a swift female elephant, and he has two horses; and a dispute has arisen between us about them. I say that the elephant is the fleetest, he maintains that his horses are both fleeter. I have agreed that if I lose the race, I am to surrender the elephant, but if he loses, he is to give me both his horses. Now no one but you is fit to be a judge of their relative speed, so come to my house, my lord, and preside over this trial. Accede to our request. For you are the wishing-tree that grants all petitions, and we have come from afar to petition you about this matter.”

When the prince received this invitation from Ruciradeva, he consented out of good nature, and out of the interest he took in the elephant and the horses. He set out in a chariot drawn by swift horses, which the brothers had brought, and he reached with them that city of Vaiśākha.

When he entered that splendid city, the ladies, bewildered and excited, beheld him with eyes the lashes of which were turned up, and made these comments on him:

“Who can this be? Can it be the God of Love newly created from his ashes without Rati? Or a second moon roaming through the heaven without a spot on its surface? Or an arrow of desire made by the Creator, in the form of a man, for the sudden complete overthrow of the female heart.”

Then the king beheld the all-lovely temple of the God of Love, whose worship had been established there by men of old time. He entered and worshipped that god, the source of supreme felicity, and rested for a moment, and shook off the fatigue of the journey. Then he entered as a friend the house of Ruciradeva, which was near that temple, and was honoured by being made to walk in front of him. He was delighted at the sight of that magnificent palace, full of splendid horses and elephants, which was in a state of rejoicing on account of his visit. There he was entertained with various hospitalities by Ruciradeva, and there he beheld his sister, of splendid beauty. His mind and his eyes were so captivated by her glorious beauty, that he forgot all about his absence from home and his separation from his family. She too threw lovingly upon him her expanded eye, which resembled a garland of full-blown blue lotuses, and so chose him as her husband.^[1] Her name was Jayendrasenā, and he thought so much upon her that the Goddess of Sleep did not take possession of him at night, much less did other females.^[2]

The next day Potraka brought that pair of horses equal to the wind in swiftness; but Ruciradeva, who was skilled in all the secrets of the art of driving, himself mounted the female elephant, and partly by the animal’s natural speed, partly by his dexterity in urging it on, beat them in the race. When Ruciradeva had beaten those two splendid horses, the son of the King of Vatsa entered the palace, and at that very moment arrived a messenger from his father.

The messenger, when he saw the prince, fell at his feet, and said:

“The king, hearing from your retinue that you have come here, has sent me to you with this message:

‘How comes it that you have gone so far from the garden without letting me know? I am impatient for your return, so abandon the diversion that occupies your attention, and return quickly.’”

When he heard this message from his father’s messenger, Naravāhanadatta, who was also intent on obtaining the object of his flame, was in a state of perplexity.

And at that very moment a merchant, in a great state of delight, came, bowing at a distance, and praised that prince, saying:

“Victory to thee, O thou God of Love without the flowery bow! Victory to thee, O Lord, the future Emperor of the Vidyādharas! Wast thou not seen to be charming as a boy, and when growing up, the terror of thy foes? So surely the god shall behold thee like Viṣṇu, striding victorious over the heaven, conquering Bali.”

With these and other praises the great merchant magnified the prince; then having been honoured by him, he proceeded at his request to tell the story of his life.

 

160. Story of the Merchant and his Wife Velā

There is a city called Lampā, the crown of the earth; in it there was a rich merchant named Kusumaśara. I, Prince of Vatsa, am the son of that merchant, who lives and moves in religion, and I was gained by the propitiation of Śiva. Once on a time I went with my friends to witness a procession of idols, and I saw other rich men giving to beggars. Then I formed the design of acquiring wealth to give away, as I was not satisfied with the vast fortune accumulated by my father. So I embarked in a ship, laden with many jewels, to go across the sea to another country. And my ship, impelled by a favourable wind, as if by Fate, reached that island in a few days.

There the king found out that I was an unknown man dealing in valuable jewels, and out of avarice he threw me into prison. While I was remaining in that prison, which resembled hell, on account of its being full of howling criminals, suffering from hunger and thirst, like wicked ghosts, a merchant, named Mahīdhara, a resident in that town, who knew my family, went and interceded with the king on my behalf, and said:

“King, this is the son of a great merchant, who lives in the city of Lampā, and, as he is innocent, it is not creditable to your Majesty to keep him in prison.”

On his making representations of this kind, the king ordered me to be released from prison, and summoned me into his presence, and honoured me with a courteous reception.

So, by the favour of the king and the support of that merchant, I remained there doing a splendid business.

One day I saw, at a spring festival in a garden, a handsome girl, the daughter of a merchant named Śikhara. I was quite carried off my feet by her, who was like a wave of the sea of love’s insolence, and when I found out who she was, I demanded her in marriage from her father.

Her father reflected for a moment, and at last said to me:

“I cannot give her to you myself; there is a reason for my not doing so. But I will send her to her grandfather by the mother’s side, in the island of Laṅkā; go there and ask for her again, and marry her. And I will send her there with such instructions that your suit will certainly be accepted.”

When Śikhara had said this, and had paid me the usual courtesies, he dismissed me to my own house. And the next day he put the maiden on board ship, with her attendants, and sent her to the island of Laṅkā, across the sea.

I was preparing with the utmost eagerness to go there, when this rumour, which was terrible as a lightning-stroke, was spread abroad where I was:

“The ship in which the daughter of Śikhara started has gone to pieces in the open sea, and not a soul has been saved out of it.”

That report altogether broke my self-command, and being anxious about the ship, I suddenly fell into a hopeless sea of despondency.

So I, though comforted by my elders, made up my mind to throw away my property and prospects,^[3] and I determined to go to that island to ascertain the truth. Then, though patronised by the king, and loaded with all manner of wealth, I embarked in a ship on the sea and set out.

Then a terrible pirate, in the form of a cloud, suddenly arose against me as I was pursuing my course, and discharged at me pattering drops of rain, like showers of arrows.

The contrary wind, which it brought with it, tossed my ship to and fro like powerful destiny, and at last broke it up. My attendants and my wealth were whelmed in the sea, but I myself, when I fell into the water, laid hold of a large spar.^[4] By the help of this, which seemed like an arm suddenly extended to me by the Creator, I managed to reach the shore of the sea, being slowly drifted there by the wind. I climbed up upon it in great affliction, exclaiming against destiny, and suddenly I found a little gold which had been left by accident in an out-of-the-way part of the shore. I sold it in a neighbouring village, and bought with it food and other necessaries, and after purchasing a couple of garments, I gradually began to get over, to a certain extent, the fatigue produced by my immersion in the sea.

Then I wandered about, not knowing my way, separated from my beloved, and I saw the ground full of liṅgas of Śiva formed of sand. And daughters of hermits were wandering about among them. And in one place I saw a maiden engaged in worshipping a liṅga, who was beautiful, although dressed in the garb of a dweller in the forest. I began to think:

“This girl is wonderfully like my beloved. Can she be my beloved herself? But how comes it that I am so lucky as to find her here?”

And while these thoughts were passing in my mind, my right eye throbbed frequently, as if with joy, [see notes on the throbbing of the right eye] and told me that it was no other than she.

And I said to her:

“Fair one, you are fitted to dwell in a palace; how comes it that you are here in the forest?”

But she gave me no answer.

Then, through fear of being cursed by a hermit, I stood concealed by a bower of creepers, looking at her with an eye that could not have enough. And after she had performed her worship, she went slowly away from the spot, as if thinking over something, and frequently turned round to look at me with loving eye. When she had gone out of sight, the whole horizon seemed to be obscured with darkness, as I looked at it, and I was in a strange state of perturbation, like the Brāhmany drake at night.

And immediately I beheld the daughter of the hermit Mātaṅga, who appeared unexpectedly. She was in brightness like the sun, subject to a vow of chastity from her earliest youth, with body emaciated by penance.

She possessed divine insight, and was of auspicious countenance, like Resignation incarnate. She said to me:

“Candrasāra, call up all your patience and listen. There is a great merchant in another island named Śikhara.

When a lovely girl was born to him, he was told by a mendicant, his friend, who possessed supernatural insight, and whose name was Jinarakṣita^[5]:

‘You must not give away this maiden yourself, for she has another mother. You would commit a crime in giving her away yourself; such is the righteous prescription of the law.’

Since the mendicant had told him this, the merchant wished to give his daughter, when she was of marriageable age, and you asked her hand, to you, by the agency of her maternal grandfather. Then she was sent off on a voyage to her maternal grandfather in the island of Laṅkā, but the vessel was wrecked, and she fell into the sea. And as she was fated not to die, a great wave brought her here like destiny, and flung her up upon the shore. Just at that time my father, the hermit Mātaṅga, came to the sea to bathe with his disciples, and saw her almost dead.

He, being of compassionate nature, brought her round, and took her to his hermitage, and entrusted her to me, saying:

‘Yamunā, you must cherish this girl.’

And because he found her on the shore (vela) of the sea, he called the girl, who was beloved by all the hermits, Velā. And though I have renounced the world by a vow of perpetual chastity, it still impedes my soul, on account of my affection for her, in the form of love and tenderness for offspring. And my mind is grieved, Candrasāra, as often as I look upon her, unmarried, though in the bloom of youth and beauty. Moreover, she was your wife in a former life. So knowing, my son, by the power of my meditation that you had come here, I have come to meet you. Now follow me and marry that Velā, whom I will bestow on you. Let the sufferings, which you have both endured, produce fruits of happiness.”

Speaking thus, the saintly woman refreshed me with her voice as with cloudless rain, and then she took me to the hermitage of her father, the great hermit Mātaṅga. And at her request the hermit bestowed on me that Velā, like the happiness of the kingdom of the imagination incarnate in bodily form. But one day, as I was living happily with Velā, I commenced a splashing match with her in the water of a tank. And I and Velā, not seeing the hermit Mātaṅga, who had come there to bathe, sprinkled him inopportunely with some of the water which we threw.

That annoyed him, and he pronounced a curse on me and my wife, saying:

“You shall be separated, you wicked couple.”

Then Velā clung to his knees, and asked him with plaintive voice to appoint a period for the duration of our curse, and he, after thinking, fixed its end as follows:

“When thou shalt behold at a distance, Naravāhanadatta, the future mighty Emperor of the Vidyādharas, who shall beat^[6] with a swift elephant a pair of fleet horses, then thy curse shall be at an end, and thou shalt be reunited with thy wife.”

When the Ṛṣi Mātaṅga had said this, he performed the ceremony of bathing and other ceremonies, and went to Śvetadvīpa through the air to visit the shrine of Viṣṇu.

And Yamunā said to me and my wife:

“I give you now that shoe covered with valuable jewels, which a Vidyādhara long ago obtained, when it had slipped off from Śiva’s foot, and which I seized in childish sport.”

Thereupon Yamunā also went to Śvetadvīpa. Then I having obtained my beloved, and being disgusted with dwelling in the forest, through fear of being separated from my wife, felt a desire to return to my own country. And setting out for my native land, I reached the shore of the sea; and finding a trading vessel, I put my wife on board, and was preparing to go on board myself, when the wind, conspiring with the hermit’s curse, carried off that ship to a distance. When the ship carried off my wife before my eyes, my whole nature was stunned by the shock, and distraction seemed to have found an opening in me, and broke into me and robbed me of consciousness.

Then an ascetic came that way, and seeing me insensible, he compassionately brought me round and took me to his hermitage. There he asked me the whole story, and when he found out that it was the consequence of a curse, and that the curse was to end, he animated me with resolution to bear up. Then I found an excellent friend, a merchant, who had escaped from his ship that had foundered in the sea, and I set out with him in search of my beloved. And supported by the hope of the termination of the curse, I wandered through many lands, and lasted out many days, until I finally reached this city of Vaiśākha, and heard that you, the jewel of the noble family of the King of Vatsa, had come here. Then I saw you from a distance beat that pair of swift horses with the female elephant, and the weight of the curse fell from me, and I felt my heart lightened.^[7] And immediately I saw that dear Velā coming to meet me, whom the good merchants had brought in their ship. Then I was reunited with my wife, who had with her the jewels bestowed by Yamunā, and having by your favour crossed the ocean of separation, I came here, Prince of Vatsa, to pay you my respects, and I will now set out cheerfully for my native land with my wife.^[8]

 

[M] (Main story line continued) When that excellent merchant Candrasāra, who had accomplished his object, had gone, after prostrating himself before the prince, and telling his story, Ruciradeva, pleased at beholding the greatness of his guest, was still more obsequious to him. And in addition to the elephant and the pair of horses, he gave his sister, making the duty of hospitality an excuse for doing so, to the prince who was captivated by her beauty. She was a good match for the prince, and her brother had long desired to bestow her upon him in marriage. Naravāhanadatta then took leave of Ruciradeva, and with his new wife, the elephant, and the two horses, returned to the city of Kauśāmbī. And he remained there, gladdening his father with his presence, living happily with her and his other wives, of whom Madanamañcukā was the chief.

Footnotes and references:

[1]:

An allusion to the custom of choosing a husband in the svayaṃvara ceremony, by throwing a garland on the neck of the favoured suitor.——See Vol. IV, p. 238.—n.m.p.

[2]:

Dr Kern would read āsala.

[3]:

This seems strange, and is partly contradicted by the next sentence, where we find he willingly accepts “all manner of wealth from the king.” The D. text reads cittam āśābhir ākṣipan,

“though comforted by my elders, I cherished, my mind with hope and determined...”

See Speyer, op. cit., p. 129.—N.M.P.

[4]:

Cf. Book III of the novel of Achilles Tatius, c. 5.

[5]:

I.e. under the protection of a Buddha.

[6]:

See note at the end of the story.—n.m.p.

[7]:

So Malegis in “Die Heimonskinder” represents that his blind brother will be freed from his affliction when he comes to a place where the horse Bayard is being ridden (Simrock’s Die Deutschen Volksbücher, vol. ii, p. 96).

[8]:

At the beginning of the story we saw that Naravāhanadatta was merely a judge of the race between the elephant and the horses. As the tale proceeds, however, Somadeva apparently forgets this, and in two places the race is referred to as that of Naravāhanadatta himself. The reading in the D. text is similar to that in B.—n.m.p.