Kathasaritsagara (the Ocean of Story)

by Somadeva | 1924 | 1,023,469 words | ISBN-13: 9789350501351

This is the English translation of the Kathasaritsagara written by Somadeva around 1070. The principle story line revolves around prince Naravāhanadatta and his quest to become the emperor of the Vidhyādharas (‘celestial beings’). The work is one of the adoptations of the now lost Bṛhatkathā, a great Indian epic tale said to have been composed by ...

Chapter CVI

[M] (main story line continued) THEN a certain Gandharva, of the name of Vīṇādatta, saw Naravāhanadatta in that well. Truty, if there were not great souls in this world, born for the benefit of others, relieving distress as wayside trees heat, the world would be a withered forest.

Thus the good Gandharva, as soon as he saw Naravāhanadatta, asked him his name and lineage, and supporting him with his hand, drew him out of that well, and said to him[1]:

“If you are a man and not a god, how did you reach this city of the Gandharvas inaccessible to man? Tell me!” 

Then Naravāhanadatta answered him:

“A Vidyādharī brought me here, and threw me into the well by her power.”

Then the good Gandharva Vīṇādatta, seeing that he had the veritable signs of an emperor, took him to his own dwelling, and waited upon him with all the luxuries at his command. And the next day Naravāhanadatta, perceiving that the inhabitants of the city carried lyres in their hands, said to his host:

“Why have all these people, even down to the children, got lyres in their hands?”

Then Vīṇādatta gave him this answer:

Sāgaradatta, the King of the Gandharvas, who lives here, has a daughter named Gandharvadattā, who eclipses the nymphs of heaven: it seems as if the Creator had blended nectar, the moon, and sandalwood and other choice things, in order to compose her body, as a specimen of his skill in making all that is fair. She is always singing to the lyre the hymn of Viṣṇu, which the god himself bestowed on her, and so she has attained supreme skill in music.[2] And the princess has firmly resolved that whoever is so well skilled in music that he can play on the lyre, and sing perfectly in three scales a song in praise of Viṣṇu, shall be her husband.[3] The consequence is, that all here are trying to learn to play the lyre, but they have not acquired the amount of skill demanded by the princess.”

Prince Naravāhanadatta was delighted at hearing this speech from the mouth of Vīṇādatta, and he said to him:

“All the accomplishments have chosen me for a husband, and I know all the music that there is in the three worlds.”

When he said this, his friend Vīṇādatta conducted him into the presence of King Sāgaradatta, and said there:

“Here is Naravāhanadatta, the son of the King of Vatsa, who has fallen into your city from the hand of a Vidyādharī. He is an adept in music, and he knows the song in praise of Viṣṇu, in which the Princess Gandharvadattā takes so much pleasure.”

When the king heard this, he said:

“It is true. I heard so much before from the Gandharvas; so I must to-day receive him with respect here. And he is an emanation of a divinity; he is not out of place in the abode of gods; otherwise, if he were a man, how could he have come here by associating with a Vidyādharī? So summon Gandharvadattā quickly and let us test him.”

When the king said this, the chamberlains went to fetch her.

And the fair one came there, all glorious with flower-ornaments, agitating with her beauty, as if with a wind, the creepers of spring. She sat down at her father’s side, and the servants told her what had taken place, and immediately, at his command, she sang a song to the lyre. When she was joining the notes to the quarter-tones, like Sarasvatī, the wife of Brahmā, Naravāhanadatta was astonished at her singing and her beauty.

Then he said to her:

“Princess, your lyre does not seem to me to sound well. I think there must be a hair on the string.”

Thereupon the lyre was examined, and they found the hair where he said, and that astonished even the Gandharvas.

Then the king took the lyre from his daughter’s hand and gave it to him, saying:

“Prince, take this, and pour nectar into our ears.”

Then he played on it, and sang the hymn of Viṣṇu with such skill that the Gandharvas there became motionless as painted pictures.

Then Gandharvadattā herself threw on him a look tender with affection, as it were a garland of full-blown blue lotuses,[4] and therewith chose him as her husband. When the king saw it, and called to mind his promise of that import, he at once gave him his daughter Gandharvadattā in marriage. As for the wedding that thereupon took place, gladdened by the drums of the gods and other festal signs, to what could we compare it, as it served as the standard by which to estimate all similar rejoicings. Then Naravāhanadatta lived there with his new bride Gandharvadattā in heavenly bliss.

And one day he went out to behold the beauty of the city, and after he had seen all kinds of places he entered the park attached to it. There he saw a heavenly female descending from the sky with her daughter, like the lightning with the rain in a cloudless atmosphere.

And she was saying to her daughter, as she descended, recognising him by her knowledge:

“This, my daughter, is your future husband, the son of the King of Vatsa.”

When he saw her alight and come towards him, he said to her:

“Who are you, and why have you come?”

And the heavenly female said to him, thus introducing the object of her desire:

“Prince, I am Dhanavatī, the wife of a chief of the Vidyādharas, named Siṃha, and this is my unmarried daughter, the sister of Caṇḍasiṃha, and her name is Ajināvatī. You were announced as her future husband by a voice that came from heaven. Then, learning by my magic science that you, the future emperor of the Vidyādharas, had been deposited here by Vegavatī, I came to tell you my desire. You ought not to remain in such a place as this, which is accessible to the Vidyādharas, for they might slay you out of enmity, as you are alone, and have not obtained your position of emperor. So come, let us now take you to a land which is inaccessible to them. Does not the moon delay to shine when the circle of the sun is eclipsed?[5] And when the auspicious day arrives you shall marry this daughter of mine.”

When she had said this, she took him and flew up into the air with him, and her daughter accompanied them. And she took him to the city of Śrāvastī, and deposited him in a garden, and then she disappeared with her daughter Ajināvatī.

There King Prasenajit, who had returned from a distant hunting expedition, saw that prince of noble form and feature. The king approached him full of curiosity, and asked him his name and lineage, and then, being much delighted, courteously conducted him to his palace. It was full of troops of elephants, adorned with lines of horses, and looked like a pavilion for the Fortune of Empire to rest in when wearied with her wanderings. Wherever a man born to prosperity may be, felicities eagerly approach him, as women do their beloved one. This accounts for the fact that the king, being an admirer of excellence, gave Naravāhanadatta his own daughter, named Bhagīrathayaśas. And the prince lived happily there with her in great luxury, as if with Good Fortune created by the Disposer in flesh and blood for his delectation.

One evening, when the lover of the night had arisen, raining joy into the eyes of men, looking like the full-orbed face[6] of the nymph of the eastern quarter, or rather the countenance of Bhagīrathayaśas, charming as nectar, reflected in the pure mirror of the cloudless heaven, he drank wine with that fair one at her request on the top of a palace silvered over with the elixir of moonlight. He quaffed the liquor which was adorned with the reflection of his beloved’s face, and so gave pleasure to his eyes as well as to his palate. And then he considered the moon as far inferior in beauty to his charmer’s face, for it wanted the intoxicating[7] play of the eyes and eyebrows. And after his drinking-bout was over he went inside the house, and retired to his couch with Bhagīrathayaśas.

Then Naravāhanadatta awoke from sleep while his beloved was still sleeping, and suddenly calling to mind his home, exclaimed:

“Through love for Bhagīrathayaśas I have, so to speak, forgotten my other wives! How can that have happened? But in this, too, Fate is all-powerful. Far away too are my ministers. Of them Marubhūti takes pleasure in naught but feats of prowess, and Hariśikha is exclusively devoted to policy; of those two I do not feel the need, but it grieves me that the dexterous Gomukha, who has been my friend in all emergencies, is far away from me.”

While he was thus lamenting he suddenly heard the words, “Ah, how sad!” uttered in a low soft tone, like that of a woman, and they at once banished sleep. When he heard them he got up, lighted a lamp,[8] and looked about, and he saw in the window a lovely female face. It seemed as if the Disposer had determined out of playfulness to show him a second but spotless moon not in the sky, as he had that night seen the spot-beflecked moon of heaven.

And not being able to discern the rest of her body, but eager to behold it, his eyes being attracted by her beauty, he immediately said to himself:

“Long ago, when the Daitya Ātāpin was impeding the creation of Brahmā, that god employed the artifice of sending him to Nandana, saying to him, ‘Go there and see a very curious sight,’ and when he got there he saw only the foot of a woman, which was of wonderful beauty; and so he died from an insane desire to see the rest of her body.[9] In the same way it may be that the Disposer has produced this lady’s face only to bring about my destruction.”

While he was making this momentary surmise, the lady displayed her shootlike finger at the window, and beckoned to him to come towards her.

Then he deliberately went out of the chamber in which his beloved was sleeping, and with eager impatience approached that heavenly lady; and when he came near she exclaimed:

Madanamañcukā, they say that your husband is in love with another woman! Alas, you are undone!”[10]

When Naravāhanadatta heard this, he called to mind his beloved, and the fire of separation flamed up in his bosom, and he said to that fair one:

“Who are you? Where did you see my beloved Madanamañcukā? And why have you come to me? Tell me!”

Then the bold lady took the prince away to a distance in the night, and saying to him, “Hear the whole story,” she thus began to speak:

“There is in the city of Puṣkarāvatī a prince of the Vidyādharas named Piṅgalagāndhāra, who has become yellow with continually adoring the fire. Know that I am his unmarried daughter, named Prabhāvatī, for he obtained me by the special favour of the God of Fire, who was pleased with his adoration. I went to the city of Āṣāḍhapura to visit my friend Vegavatī, and I did not find her there, as she had gone somewhere to perform asceticism. But hearing from her mother Pṛthivīdevī that your beloved Madanamañcukā was there, I went to her. I beheld her emaciated with fasting, pale and squalid, with only one lock, weeping, talking only of your virtues, surrounded by tearful bands of Vidyādhara princesses, who were divided between grief produced by seeing her, and joy produced by hearing of you. She told me what you were like, and I comforted her by promising to bring you, for my mind was overpowered by pity for her, and attracted by your excellences. And finding out by means of my magic skill that you were here at present, I came to you, to inserve[11] her interests and my own also. But when I found that you had forgotten your first love and were talking here of other persons, I bewailed the lot of that wife of yours, and exclaimed: ‘Ah, how sad!’”

When the prince had been thus addressed by her, he became impatient and said:

“Take me where she is, and impose on me whatever command you think fit.”

When the Vidyādharī Prabhāvatī heard that, she flew up into the air with him, and proceeded to journey on through the moonlit night. And as she was going along she saw a fire burning in a certain place, so she took Naravāhanadatta’s hand, and moved round it, keeping it on the right. In this way the bold lady managed by an artifice to go through the ceremony of marriage with Naravāhanadatta, for all the actions of heavenly beings have some important end in view.[12] Then she pointed out to her beloved from the sky the earth looking like a sacrificial platform, the rivers like snakes, the mountains like ant-hills, and many other wonders did she show him from time to time, until at last she had gradually accomplished a long distance.

Then Naravāhanadatta became thirsty with his long journey through the air, and begged for water; so she descended to earth from her airy path. And she took him to the corner of a forest, and placed him near a lake, which seemed to be full of molten silver, as its water was white with the rays of the moon. So his craving for water was satisfied by the draught which he drank in that beautiful forest, but there arose in him a fresh craving as he felt a desire to embrace that lovely lady.[13] But she, when pressed, would hardly consent; for her thoughts reverted with pity to Madanamañcukā, whom she had tried to comfort. In truth the noble-minded, when they have undertaken to forward the interests of others, put out of sight their own.

And she said to him:

“Do not think ill, my husband, of my coldness; I have an object in it. And now hear this story which will explain it.


165. Story of the Child and the Sweetmeat

Once upon a time there lived in the city of Pāṭaliputra a certain widow who had one child. She was young and beautiful, but poor, and she was in the habit of making love to a strange man for her gratification, and at night she used to leave her house and roam where she pleased.

But, before she went, she used invariably to console her infant son by saying to him,

“My boy, I will bring you a sweetmeat to-morrow morning,”

and every day she brought him one. And the child used to remain quiet at home, buoyed up by the hope of that sweetmeat.

But one day she forgot, and did not bring him the sweetmeat. And when the child asked for the sweetmeat, she said to him:

“Sweetmeat indeed! I know of no sweet but my sweetheart!”

Then the child said to himself:

“She has not brought me a sweetmeat because she loves another better than me.”

So he lost all hope, and his heart broke.


[M] (main story line continued)

“So if I were over-eager to appropriate you whom I have long loved, and if Madanamañcukā, whom I consoled with the hope of a joyful reunion with you, were to hear of it, and lose all hope through me, her heart, which is as soft as a flower, would break.[14] It is this desire to spare her feelings which prevents me from being so eager now for your society, before I have consoled her, though you are my beloved, dearer to me than life.”

When Prabhāvatī said this to Naravāhanadatta, he was full of joy and astonishment, and he said to himself:

“Well, Fate seems to take a pleasure in perpetually creating new marvels, since it has produced Prabhāvatī, whose conduct is so inconceivably noble!”

With these thoughts in his mind, the prince lovingly praised her, and said:

“Then take me where that Madanamañcukā is.”

When Prabhāvatī heard that, she took him up, and in a moment carried him through the air to the mountain Āṣāḍhapura. There she bestowed him on Madanamañcukā, whose body had long been drying up with grief, as a shower bestows fullness on a river.

Then Naravāhanadatta beheld that fair one there, afflicted with separation, thin and pale, like a digit of the new moon. That reunion of those two seemed to restore them to life, and gave joy to the world like the union of the night and the moon. And the pair embraced, scorched with the fire of separation, and as they were streaming with fatigue they seemed to melt into one. Then they both partook at their ease of luxuries suddenly provided in the night by the might of Prabhāvatī’s sciences. And, thanks to her science, no one there but Madanamañcukā saw Naravāhanadatta.

The next morning Naravāhanadatta proceeded to loose Madanamañcukā’s one lock,[15] but she, overpowered with resentment against her enemy, said to her beloved:

“Long ago I made this vow:

‘That lock of mine must be loosened by my husband when Mānasavega is slain, but not till then; and if he is not slain, I will wear it till my death, and then it shall be loosed by the birds, or consumed with fire.’

But now you have loosed it while this enemy of mine is still alive; that vexes my soul. For though Vegavatī flung him down on Agniparvata, he did not die of the fall. And you have now been made invisible here by Prabhāvatī by means of her magic power; otherwise the followers of that enemy, who are continually moving near you here, would see you, and would not tolerate your presence.”

When Naravāhanadatta had been thus addressed by his wife, he, recognising the fact[16] that the proper time for accomplishing his object had not yet arrived, said to her by way of calming her:

“This desire of yours shall be fulfilled. I will soon slay that enemy. But first I must acquire the sciences. Wait a little, my beloved.”

With speeches of this kind Naravāhanadatta consoled Madanamañcukā, and remained there in that city of the Vidyādharas.

Then Prabhāvatī disappeared herself, and, by the power of her magic science, bestowed in some incomprehensible way on Naravāhanadatta her own shape. And the prince lived happily there in her shape, and without fear of discovery, enjoying pleasures provided by her magic science.

And all the people there thought:

“This friend of Vegavatī’s is attending on Madanamañcukā, partly out of regard for Vegavatī, and partly on account of the friendly feelings which she herself entertains for the captive princess”;

for they all supposed that Naravāhanadatta was no other than Prabhāvatī, as he was disguised in her shape. And this was the report that they carried to Mānasavega.

Then one day something caused Madanamañcukā to relate to Naravāhanadatta her adventures in the following words:

“When Mānasavega first brought me here, he tried to win me to his will by his magic power, endeavouring to alarm me by cruel actions.

And then Śiva appeared in a terrible form, with drawn sword and lolling tongue, and making an appalling roar, said to Mānasavega:

‘How is it that, while I still exist, thou dost presume to treat disrespectfully the wife of him who is destined to be emperor over all the Vidyādhara kings?’

When the villain Mānasavega had been thus addressed by Śiva, he fell on the earth vomiting blood from his mouth. Then the god disappeared, and that villain immediately recovered, and went to his own palace, and again began to practise cruelties against me.[17]

“Then in my terror, and in the agony of separation, I was thinking of abandoning my life, but the attendants of the harem[18] came to me, and said to me by way of consolation:

‘Long ago this Mānasavega beheld a certain beautiful hermit maiden and tried to carry her off by force, but was thus cursed by her relations:

“When, villain, you approach another’s wife against her will, your head shall split into a thousand fragments.”

So he will never force himself on the wife of another: do not be afraid. Moreover, you will soon be reunited with your husband, as the god announced.’

Soon after the maids had said this to me, Vegavatī, the sister of that Mānasavega, came to me to talk me over; but when she saw me, she was filled with compassion, and she comforted me by promising to bring you. And you already know how she found you.

“Then Pṛthivīdevī, the good mother of that wicked Mānasavega, came to me, looking, with her garments white as moonlight, like the orb of Candra without a spot, seeming to bathe me with nectar by her charming appearance; and with a loving manner she said to me:

‘Why do you refuse food and so injure your bodily health, though you are destined to great prosperity? And do not say to yourself:

“How can I eat an enemy’s food?”

For my daughter Vegavatī has a share in this kingdom, bestowed on her by her father, and she is your friend, for your husband has married her. Accordingly her wealth, as belonging to your husband, is yours as much as hers. So enjoy it. What I tell you is true, for I have discovered it by my magic knowledge.’

This she said, and confirmed it with an oath, and then, being attached to me, on account of her daughter’s connection, she fed me with food suited to my condition. Then Vegavatī came here with you, and conquered her brother and saved you. The sequel I do not know.

“So I, remembering the magic skill of Vegavatī and the announcement of the god, did not surrender my life, which was supported by the hope of regaining you, and, thanks to the power of the noble Prabhāvatī, I have regained you, although I am thus beset by my enemies. But my only anxiety is as to what would happen to us if Prabhāvatī here were deprived of her power, and you were so to lose her shape, which she has bestowed on you by way of disguise.”

This and other such things did Madanamañcukā say, while the brave Naravāhanadatta remained there with her, endeavouring to console her. But one night Prabhāvatī went to her father’s palace, and in the morning Naravāhanadatta, owing to her being at a distance, lost her shape, which she had bestowed on him.

And next day the attendants beheld him there in male form, and they all ran bewildered and alarmed to the king’s court, and said, “Here is an adulterer crept in,” thrusting aside the terrified Madanamañcukā, who tried to stop them.

Then King Mānasavega came there at full speed, accompanied by his army, and surrounded him.

Then the king’s mother Pṛthivīdevī hurried thither and said to him:

“It will not do for you or me either to put this man to death. For he is no adulterer, but Naravāhanadatta, the son of the King of Vatsa, who has come here to visit his own wife. I know this by my magic power. Why are you so blinded with wrath that you cannot see it? Moreover, I am bound to honour him, as he is my son-in-law, and sprung from the race of the moon.”

When Mānasavega’s mother said this to him, he flew into a passion, and said: “Then he is my enemy.”

Then his mother, out of love for her son-in-law, used another argument with him.

She said:

“My son, you will not be allowed to act wrongfully in the world of the Vidyādharas. For here there exists a court of the Vidyādharas to protect the right. So accuse him before the president of that court.[19] Whatever step you take with regard to your captive in accordance with the court’s decision will be commendable; but if you act otherwise, the Vidyādharas will be displeased, and the gods will not tolerate it.”

Mānasavega, out of respect for his mother, consented to follow her advice, and attempted to have Naravāhanadatta bound, with the intention of taking him before the court. But he, unable to endure the indignity of being bound, tore a pillar from the arched gateway, and killed with it a great number of his captor’s servants. And the hero, whose valour was godlike, snatched a sword from one of those that he had killed, and at once slew with it some more of his opponents. Then Mānasavega fettered him by his superhuman powers, and took him, with his wife, before the court. Then the Vidyādharas assembled there from all quarters, summoned by the loud sound of a drum, even as the gods assemble in Sudharmā.[20]

And the president of the court, King Vāyupatha, came there, and sat down on a jewelled throne surrounded by Vidyādharas, and fanned by chowries which waved to and fro, as if to winnow away all injustice.

And the wicked Mānasavega stood in front of him, and said as follows:

“This enemy of mine, who, though a mortal, has violated my harem, and seduced my sister, ought immediately to be put to death; especially as he actually wishes to be our sovereign.”

When the president heard this, he called on Naravāhanadatta for an answer, and the hero said in a confident tone:

“That is a court where there is a president; he is a president who says what is just; that is just in which there is truth; that is truth in which there is no deceit. Here I am bound by magic, and on the floor, but my adversary here is on a seat, and free: what fair controversy can there be between us?”

When Vāyupatha heard this, he made Mānasavega also sit upon the floor, as was just, and had Naravāhanadatta set free from his bonds.

Then before Vāyupatha, and in the hearing of all, Naravāhanadatta made the following reply to the accusations of Mānasavega:

“Pray, whose harem have I violated by coming to visit my own wife, Madanamañcukā here, who has been carried off by this fellow? And if his sister came and tricked me into marrying her by assuming my wife’s form, what fault have I committed in this? As for my desiring empire, is there anyone who does not desire all sorts of things?”

When King Vāyupatha heard this, he reflected a little, and said:

“This noble man says what is quite just: take care, my good Mānasavega, that you do not act unjustly towards one whom great exaltation awaits.”

Though Vāyupatha said this, Mānasavega, blinded with delusion, refused to turn from his wicked way; and then Vāyupatha flew into a passion. Then, out of regard for justice, he engaged in a contest with Mānasavega, in which fully equipped armies were employed on both sides. For resolute men, when they sit on the seat of justice, keep only the right in view, and look upon the mighty as weak, and one of their own race as an alien.[21]

And then Naravāhanadatta, looking towards the nymphs of heaven, who were gazing at the scene with intense interest, said to Mānasavega:

“Lay aside your magic disguises, and fight with me in visible shape, in order that I may give you a specimen of my prowess by slaying you with one blow.”

Accordingly those Vidyādharas there remained quarrelling among themselves, when suddenly a splendid pillar in the court cleft asunder in the middle with a loud noise,[22] and Śiva issued from it in his terrific form. He filled the whole sky, in colour like antimony; he hid the sun; the gleams of his fiery eyes flickered like flashes of lightning; his shining teeth were like cranes flying in a long row; and so he was terrible like a roaring cloud of the great day of doom.

The great god exclaimed,

“Villain, this future emperor of the Vidyādharas shall not be insulted!”

and with these words he dismissed Mānasavega with face cast down, and encouraged Vāyupatha. And then the adorable one took Naravāhanadatta up in his arms, and, in order to preserve his life, carried him in this way to the beautiful and happy mountain Ṛṣyamūka, and, after setting him down there, disappeared. And then the quarrel among the Vidyādharas in that court came to an end, and Vāyupatha went home again accompanied by the other Vidyādharas his friends. But Mānasavega, making Madanamañcukā, who was distracted with joy and grief, precede him, went despondent to Āṣāḍhapura, his own dwelling.

Footnotes and references:


I follow Dr Kern in deleting the inverted commas, and the comma after dṛṣṭvā.


I read satataṃ sā cha gāyantī vīnāyām Śaurinā svayam Dattam svagītakaṃ kāṣtāṃ gāndharve paramāṃ gatā. In this all the three India Office MSS. substantially agree. No. 1882 writes gāyantī with both short and long i and gandharva, No. 2166 has kāṣthāṃ with short a, and all three have a short a in Gandharve. It is curious to see how nearly this agrees with Dr Kern’s conjecture. I find that the MS. lent me by the Principal of the Sanskrit College agrees with the reading I propose, except that it gives gandharva.


Cf. Kathākoça (Tawney, p. 65), where a lyre-playing contest takes place at a Svayaṃvara. The name of the heroine is also Gandharvadattā.—n.m.p.


In the Svayaṃvara the election used to be made by throwing a garland on the neck of the favoured suitor.——See Vol. IV, pp. 238-240. —n.m.p.


The meaning is far from clear, and we at once suspect a corrupted reading in the B. text. The reading is Nenduḥ kṣipati kiṃ kālaṃ, parikṣīṇe’rka-maṇḍale? “Why should the eclipse of the sun be mentioned?” It needs only the moon’s conjunction with the sun to obliterate the light. Besides, the comparison with Naravāhanadatta is meaningless.

Kālaṃ kṣipati may mean “to delay,” but not “to delay to shine.”

Now the D. text reads: Nenduḥ kṣipati kim kālaṃ parikṣīṇorkamaṇḍale? “Does not the moon, when he is in a state of weakness, spend some time within the circle of the sun?” Here the simile is clear. Naravāhanadatta is in a weak state at the moment, like the new moon. As the moon resides with the sun, to await his time and regain his strength, so Naravāhanadatta is to reside at Śrāvastī with King Prasenajit. A pun is apparently contained in maṇḍale which can mean both “circle” and “territory.” See Speyer, op. cit., pp. 142, 143.—n.m.p.


MSS. Nos. 1882 and 2166 read mukhamaṇḍanei.e. “face-ornament.”


Perhaps the word also conveys the meaning “intoxicated.” MSS. Nos. 1882 and 2166 give samadātāmranetra, the other, by mistake, ātāma. This would mean the “play of the eyes a little red with intoxication and of the eyebrow.” The word I have translated “palate” means the tongue, considered as the organ of taste. The MS. kindly lent me by the Principal of the Sanskrit College reads samadāttāmranetra-bhrūvibhramāḥ.


Tawney translated “candle” for some inexplicable reason. The B. text reads dīpte dīpe, “a lamp having been lit,” but the D. text has the locative case, dīpradīpe, literally, “in a bright lamp,” or, as we would translate, “by the light of a lamp.” Thus it might easily have been alight while Naravāhanadatta was sleeping. —n.m.p.


The three India Office MSS., which Dr Rost has kindly lent me, read tadanyāṅga. So does the Sanskrit College MS.


The D. text reads praśaṃsantī, which seems preferable: “Alas, Madanamañcukā, you are undone! For you praise a husband who is attached to other women.” See Speyer, op. cit., p. 143.—n.m.p.


This is the second time Tawney has used this obsolete word (cf Vol. VII, p. 50). Murray, Oxford Dictionary, gives but a single reference (1683) of its use.—N.M.P.


I have altered the division of the words, as there appears to be a misprint in Brockhaus’ text.


The three India Office MSS. give Śrāntaṃ jalatṛṣā. In No. 1882 the line begins with atra, in the other two with tatra: I have given what I believe to be the sense taking tṛṣā as the instrumental. Śrānta appears to be sometimes used for śānta. The Sanskrit College MS. reads tatra śāntaṃ jalatṛṣā tasya pitāmbhaso vane. This exactly fits in with my rendering.


I delete the stop at the end of śl. 100. All the India Office MSS. read kṛtāśvāśā, and so does the Sanskrit College MS., but kṛtāśā sā makes sense.


A single braid of hair worn by a woman as a mark of mourning for an absent husband. Monier Williams, sub voceekaveṇi.”


The B. text is corrupted. Śl. 118 should read: evam uktas tayā patnyā sādhvyā, kālānurodhavān Naravāhanadatto ’tha sāntvayan sa jagāda tām: “When Naravāhanadatta had been thus addressed by his faithful wife, he, taking account of the present circumstances, said to her by way of calming her.” See Speyer, op. cit., p. 143. —n.m.p.


MSS. Nos. 1882 and 2166 read na cha for mayi: “and did not practise cruelties”; No. 3003 has mayī. The Sanskrit College MS. has mama krauryānnyavartatā (sic).


See Vol. II, pp. l61n4, 162n, 163n. —n.m.p.


I read tatrāsya tatpradhānāgre doṣaṃ śirasi pātaya. The three India Office MSS. give tatrāsya; No. 1882 has prasādāgre and dhāraya; No. 3003 pradhānāgre and dhāraya; No. 2166 pradhānāgre and pātaya. The Sanskrit College MS. agrees with Brockhaus’ text.


Originally belonging to the gods, but given to Kṛṣṇa, when it becomes the great hall where the Yādavas held their court. See the Mahābhārata, i, 220; ii, 3; and xvi, 7. —n.m.p.


Dr Kern would read na cha for vatu: “Righteous kings and judges see no difference between a feeble and powerful person, between a stranger and a kinsman.” But the three India Office MSS. read vata. So does the MS. which the Principal of the Sanskrit College has kindly lent me.


The Petersburg lexicographers are of opinion that riśad should be ṭaśad or ṭasad. Two of the India Office MSS. seem to read ṭasad.

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