Trishashti Shalaka Purusha Caritra

by Helen M. Johnson | 1931 | 742,503 words

This page describes The fight between Bharata and Bahubali which is the eleventh part of chapter V of the English translation of the Adisvara-caritra, contained within the “Trishashti Shalaka Purusha Caritra”: a massive Jain narrative relgious text composed by Hemacandra in the 12th century. Adisvara (or Rishabha) in jainism is the first Tirthankara (Jina) and one of the 63 illustrious beings or worthy persons.

Part 11: The fight between Bharata and Bāhubali

Then at the command of Bāhubali, the door-keeper mounted an elephant and roaring like a mighty elephant, said to his soldiers: “Oh, all you warriors, your master’s work, desired like the gain of a son, is now at hand for you thinking about it for a long time. But because of your little merit, this god (Bāhubali), powerful, was asked by the gods to fight a duel with Bharata. Desiring a duel himself, and asked moreover by the gods, your master, whose strength is equal to Indra’s, restrains you from battle. While he fights, strong (malla) in one limb like Hastimalla,[1] you must look on, indifferent as the gods. Turn your chariots, horses, and elephants, O heroes, and go away like retrograde planets. Throw your swords into their scabbards, like serpents into baskets; put your lances raised like comets into their sheaths. Bend down your raised hammers like elephants their trunks. Take the string from the bow like an eye-brow from the brow. Put the arrow in the quiver again, like money in a deposit. Cover your spears, like clouds lightning.”

Agitated by the door-keeper’s speech which was like the noise of a thunderbolt, Bāhubali’s soldiers thought to themselves: “Alas! now the battle-festival is prevented by the gods persuading our lord, like merchants terrified of the coming battle, like men who had taken large bribes from the Lord of Bharata’s soldiers, like enemies of our former births who have suddenly appeared. This battle-festival which had come was taken away by fate from us like a dish in front of those who have sat down for food, like a son from the couch of those approaching to caress, like a rope for pulling up from those leaving a well. What other opponent will there be, the equal of Bharata, by battle with whom we shall become free from debt to the master? For no purpose, we take money from Bāhubali, like heirs, like thieves, like sons of women living in their fathers’ houses. Now this valor of our arms has gone in vain, like the fragrance of the blossoms of forest-trees. To no purpose we made a collection of missies, like eunuchs of women, and practice in swords like parrots the study of the śāstras. This infantry which we collected is without result, like knowledge of treatises on love on the part of ascetic-youths. In vain, too, did we, bereft of understanding, make these elephants practice fighting and the horses conquer fatigue. We thundered as vainly as autumn-clouds, and leered terribly as vainly as buffaloes. In vain this pregnancy of pride was equipped by us like people exhibiting a complete equipment, since the pregnancy-whim for fighting is unsatisfied.” Filled with the poison of depression at these thoughts, they went away making sūt-sounds, like serpents making phūt-sounds.

Then the Lord of Bharata, possessing a wealth of kṣatriya-customs, sent away his own army, like the ocean the tide. When his soldiers had been sent away by the powerful Cakrin, they formed into groups here and there and reflected: “By the advice of what enemy, under pretext of being a minister, did the master consent to this dud, like an ordinary man? Fighting with the master, eating with buttermilk,[2] they are finished, alas! Henceforth, what are we to do? Did any one escape from us in the fighting-business with the kings of six-part Bharata-kṣetra, that we are restrained from battle? When the soldiers have fled, been conquered, or killed, it is fitting for the lord to fight, not otherwise. For the course of battle is varied. Certainly we do not fear any risk to the master in battle with any adversary except Bāhubali alone. There is doubt about victory even for Pākaśāsana, to say nothing of others, in battle with long-armed Bāhubali. It is not fitting for the lord to battle in the beginning with him whose violence is hard to endure like that of a great river’s flood. After we have fought first, then battle is suitable for the lord, like mounting a horse first broken by horse-trainers.”

When the Cakrabhṛt had seen the soldiers calling out to each other these remarks, knowing (their) nature, he summoned them by gestures and said, “Just as the rays precede the sun in destroying darkness, so you precede me in fighting with an enemy. No enemy has approached me, when you were fighting, just as an elephant does not approach the bank of a rampart in a deep moat. Since you have not seen me in such a battle before, you are needlessly afraid. For devotion sees fear even in the wrong place. All together, see the strength of my arm, so your fear will disappear instantly, like sickness as a result of medicine.”

Immediately after this speech, the Cakrin had a very wide and deep ditch dug by his diggers. The Lord of Bharata sat on the bank of the ditch, like Mt. Sahya on the bank of the southern ocean. On his left arm he tied chains and small attached chains close together, like the hanging roots of the banyan tree. With a thousand of these the Cakrabhṛt looked like the ‘thousand-rayed’ (sun) with its rays; like a big tree with creepers. Then he said to the kings, “You with your army and transport animals, pull me fearlessly, like oxen pulling great carts. All of you, pulling with all your strength, make me fall into the ditch here. There is no suspicion of disrespect on your part to the master in testing the strength of my arm. Let this bad dream that we saw be repelled. For it will be ineffective, if its action is carried out by oneself.”

Again and again instructed by the Cakrin, the kings with the soldiers reluctantly agreed. For the command of the master is very powerful. The soldiers pulled the series of chains on the Cakrin’s arm, like the gods and demons the snake turned into a rope for the mountain used as a churning-stick.[3] While they were clinging closely to the chains hanging from the Cakrin’s arm they looked like monkeys in the top branches of a tall tree. The Cakrin himself, looked at the soldiers pulling him, like elephants dividing a mountain, for the sake of the spectacle. Then the Cakrin put ointment on his breast with the same hand (to which they clung), and they fell together like a row of jars fastened in a circle. The Cakrin’s arm, with the soldiers close together clinging to it, looked like a branch of a wild date tree with its date-fruit. Delighting in the master’s strength, the soldiers at once abandoned the chains on his arms, as well as their former anxiety.

Then, mounted on an elephant, the Cakrabhṛt took again the former field of battle, like a singer the introductory part of a piece. Between the two armies there was an extensive flat plain that looked like the altar-like country between the Gaṅgā and Yamunā. Then the Maruts, delighted at the preservation from destruction of the people, gradually removed the dust from the ground, like servants. The gods, knowing what was fitting, sprinkled perfumed water on the earth just as on the ground of the samavasaraṇa. The gods cast blooming flowers on the battle-ground, like sorcerers in a circle on the ground. Both the elephants of kings descended from their elephants and entered the battle-field, roaring like elephants. Even though advancing easily, as both were very powerful, they put the king of tortoises[4] in danger of his life at every step.

As they had agreed, “It must be fought with the eye-fight,” they stood facing each other, their eyes unwinking, like another Śakra and Īśāna. Facing, they looked at each other’s face, their eyes red, looking like the sky at twilight with the sun and moon on its two sides. Both stood looking at each other for a long time with immovable eyes, like Yogis meditating. The eyes of Ṛṣabha’s eldest son closed, like a blue lotus overcome by the rays of the sun. The Cakrin’s eyes gave water in the guise of tears, as it were, for the funeral ceremony of the great fame arising from the conquest of six-part Bharata. Then the gods made a rain of flowers on Bāhubali, like trees shaking their tops at dawn. The heroes, Somaprabha, etc., made a great outcry of joy, like that of birds at sunrise, at Bāhubali’s victory. Then King Bāhubali’s army played instruments of victory, excited as if at the beginning of a dance by the dancer Fame. The powers of Bharata’s soldiers were checked, as if they had swooned, or were asleep, or suffering from disease. The two armies were united with depression and joy, just like the two sides of Meru with darkness and light.

The King said to the Cakrin, “Fight with the voice-fight. Do not say ‘It was won by the law of the crow and palm-tree.’” Like a serpent touched by the foot, the Cakrin said angrily to the King, “Very well, O conqueror.” Bharata gave a loud battle-cry like the bellow of Īśāna’s bull,[5] like the trumpeting of śakra’s elephant, like a cloud’s thunder. His battle-cry, going forth, penetrated heaven and earth, like the flood-water of a great river the banks on both sides, as if to make fall the aerial-cars of the gods who were witnesses of the fight, as if to make disappear the planets, constellations, and stars from the sky, as if to shake the high peaks of the principal mountain-ranges, as if to make the waters of the oceans rise on all sides. The chariot-horses ignored the reins, like evil-minded people the command of an elder; the elephants disregarded the goads, like slanderous persons the speech of the good. The horses were unconscious of the bridles, like persons with a cold unconscious of something pungent; the camels did not heed the nose-rope, like voluptuaries shame; the mules did not recognize blows with whips, as if they were possessed by demons. Terrified by that cry, no one maintained firmness.

Then Bāhubali gave a battle-cry, very terrifying, spreading below and above, as if in rivalry with the lokanāli.[6] Very unpleasant to hear, it was heard by serpents wishing to enter Pātāla even from Pātāla, as it were, from the idea that it was the noise of the wings of Garuḍa descending; by the sea-monsters in the ocean completely terrified by the fear that it was the noise of the churning of Mt. Mandara that had entered the ocean; by the chief mountain-ranges which were shaking, fearing their own destruction because they thought it was the noise of the thunderbolt discharged by Jambhāri again; by the inhabitants of the middle world, rolling on the ground, with the mistaken idea that it was the noise of lightning discharged by the Puṣkarāvarta clouds at the end of the world; by the groups of gods confused by the error that it was the noise of an unexpected attack by demons. Again Bharata, very powerful, gave a battle-cry frightening the Vaimānika-women like deer. So in turn the Cakrin and King made a great noise as if terrifying the middle world for sport. Gradually the noise made by the Lord of Bharata decreased very much, like the trunk of an elephant, like the body of a snake. Bāhubali’s lion’s-roar increased very, very much, like the current of a river, like the friendship of good people. The Lord of Bharata, the defendant, was defeated by the hero Bāhubali, plaintiff, also in the voice-fight according to the śāstras.

Then the two brothers fastened their girdles for the arm-fight, like the best elephants with their girths fastened. Then Bāhubali’s chief door-keeper, carrying a golden staff, roaring like the ocean with high waves, said: “O earth, be firm, especially leaning on the mountains like adamant pillars, resorting to all your strength. Completely surrounding and holding in the wind, O serpent-king, becoming firm like a mountain, support the earth. Rolling in the mud of the ocean and, leaving your former fatigue, revived again, O great boar, embrace the earth. Contracting your legs on all sides, considering yourself adamant, O best of tortoises, make your back firm and bear the earth. Do not go to sleep from carelessness or rutting, (but) as before[7] attentive with your whole soul, support the earth, O elephants of the quarters. For Bāhubali, having the nature of adamant, is ready now to engage in a prize-fight with his adamantine arms.”

Then the two great wrestlers challenged each other, clapping their hands like the noise of a mountain struck by lightning. They advanced with an easy gait with dangling earrings, like two Kṣudramerus that had come with the sun and moon from Dhātakīkhaṇḍa. With loud shouts they struck at each other’s hands, like elephants at each other’s tusks. In a moment they were united, and in a moment they were separated, like big trees close together stirred by a violent wind. The heroes jumped up one minute; they came down the next, like the waves of the ocean stirred up by bad weather. Then running from impatience as if from affection, both, powerful, embraced each other, pressing body against body. One minute, one was below; the next, he was on top, subject to skill in wrestling, like a soul subject to karma. They could not be distinguished by the people enough to say “He is on top. He is below,” changing about frequently with the speed of a fish in water. They displayed skill in coiling around each other like serpents; and suddenly kept each other off like quick-moving monkeys. Gray with dust from rolling on the ground frequently, they looked like elephants with ichor in the form of dust. Unable to bear their weight like that of moving mountains, the earth cried out, as it were, with the noise of the whirlwind of their feet.

Then Bāhubali, angered, possessing cruel strength, seized the Cakrin with one hand like a śarabha an elephant. He tossed him up in the air like an elephant an animal. Alas! creation is endless. There are stronger even than the strong. Like an arrow shot from a bow, like a stone from a machine, Bharata went far up in the sky. Then all the Khecaras looking at the fight fled from Bharata falling, as they would flee from a thunderbolt discharged by Śakra. A great cry of “Ha! Ha!” arose from both armies. For who would not be pained at the arrival of destruction to the great?

Thinking, “Shame on this strength of my arm! Shame! Shame on me for my rashness! Shame on the ministers of both kingdoms for allowing this action. Still, enough of blaming them. To keep my elder brother from being broken into pieces by falling on the ground, I shall catch him as he falls from the sky,” Bāhubali held out his arms, equal to couches, under him. Bāhubali stood for a moment with his arms raised like an ascetic who keeps his arms raised,[8] his face turned up like an ascetic who gazes at the sun. Standing as if about to fly by the power of the tip of the foot, he caught at once his elder brother as he fell, as easily as a ball. The joy of the armies at his protection quickly modified the depression that had arisen from the throwing-up of Bharata, like an exception modifying a general rule. The people praised the nobility of Ṛṣabha’s younger son because of the discernment resulting in the protection of his brother, as well as for the qualities of knowledge and good conduct. The gods showered flowers on Bāhubali, and yet—what importance is this to him possessing such heroism?

Then Bharata was filled with embarrassment and anger simultaneously, like a fire with smoke and flame. To remove his elder brother’s embarrassment, Bāhubali said in a stammering voice, his lotus-face bent from shame, “Do not be embarrassed, O Lord of the World, very strong, very powerful. Sometimes even a conqueror is conquered by some one else by chance. You are not conquered because of such a thing; I am not a conqueror because of such a thing. I consider that my victory today happened like a letter in wood by a worm.[9] Up to this time you alone are a hero, O Lord of the World. The ocean churned by the gods is still an ocean, not a pond. O Lord of six-part Bharata, why do you remain like a tiger that has missed his jump? Stand up! Stand up for the business of your fight.” Bharata said, “This arm, exhibiting its fist, will wipe out its fault.” Then raising his fist, like the lord of serpents his hood, his eyes red from anger, after drawing back a little, the Cakrabhṛt ran up. Bharata struck the King’s chest with his fist, like an elephant the door of a city-gate with its tusk. The Cakrin’s blow with his fist on the King’s chest was as useless as a gift to an unworthy person, as a whisper in the ear of a deaf person, as a benefit to a slanderer, as rain on saline ground, as a concert in a large forest, as a fall of fire on a mass of snow.

Then the son of Sunandā (Bāhubali) raised his fist high, watched by the gods with anxiety at the thought, “Is he angry with us?” He struck the Cakrin on the breast with his fist like a mahout striking an elephant on the temple with a goad. From that blow the Lord of Bharata fell on the ground in a swoon, like a mountain from a blow with a thunderbolt. The earth trembled at his fall, like a well-born woman at the fall of her husband. The mountains also shook, like relatives at the fall of a relative. “What is this evil whim of warriors for persistence in heroism in which there is such a quarrel between brothers ending in destruction? If my elder brother does not live, enough of life for me.” With these thoughts, Bāhubali made a fan out of his upper garment and fanned Bharata, sprinkling him with tears. He is indeed a brother, who is a brother. The Cakrin regained consciousness in a moment, as if he had been asleep, and stood up. He saw Bāhubali standing like a servant in front of him. The two brothers stood apart with downcast faces. Ah! Defeat by others, and victory also, are sources of shame to the great. The Cakrabhṛt withdrew a little, walking backwards. For this is characteristic of a desire to fight on the part of men exhibiting strength.

“I suspect the noble lord wishes to fight again with some kind of fight. For the proud never abandon pride at all, so long as they live. There will certainly be strong censure of Bāhubali, caused by his striking his brother. I think it will not stop even at death.” While Bāhubali was engaged in these reflections for a moment, the Cakravartin took his staff, like Daṇḍapāṇī (Yama). With his staff upraised, the Cakrabhṛt looked like a mountain with its peak, like the sky with the Milky Way. Then the Lord of Bharata whirled the staff in the sky for a moment, giving the impression of an unexpected comet. The Cakrin struck the King on the head with his staff, like a young lion the ground with his tail. There was a loud noise from the Cakrin’s blow on his head with the staff, like that of ocean waves striking on Mt. Sahya. The Cakrin reduced to powder the diadem on the King’s head, like iron on an anvil with an iron hammer. Pieces of the diadem’s jewels fell on the ground from the King’s head like flowers from tree-tops shaken by the wind. The King’s eyes closed at once from the blow, and the people’s eyes closed from the terrible noise.

When he opened his eyes, Bāhubali, like a fighting-elephant, took in his hand a long iron staff. “Will he make me fall?” “Will he make me fly up?” The. sky and earth, respectively, were terrified at these thoughts. The long iron staff in Bāhubali’s hand looked like a snake on an ant-hill on a mountain-top. Then the Lord of Takṣaśilā whirled his staff violently like a signal-cloth for summoning Death even from afar. The King of Bahalī struck the Cakrin mercilessly on the heart with it, like a bundle of seed-grain with a club. The Cakravartin’s armor, though it was strong, was broken into pieces at once by that blow, like a jar. His armor broken, the Cakravartin blazed from anger, like a cloudless sun, like a smokeless fire. Confused for half a moment, Bharata did not consider at all, like an elephant in the seventh stage of rutting.[10] Unhesitatingly, clinging to prowess of arm like a dear friend, the Cakrabhṛt raised his staff again and ran at the King. Biting his lower lip, terrifying because of his frowns, Bharata whirled his staff which resembled a whirlpool of submarine fire. Cakrapāṇi (Bharata) struck Bāhubali on the head with it, like a cloud at the end of the world striking a mountain with a flash of lightning. From that blow, Bāhubali sank into the ground up to his knees, like a diamond beaten into an iron anvil. After striking Bāhubali, who was as hard as adamant, Bharata’s staff flew into pieces, as if terrified at its own crime.

Buried in the ground up to his knees, like a mountain with its foundations in the ground, the rest of his body projecting, Bāhubali looked like Śeṣanāga. He shook his head from the pain of the blow as if surprised inwardly at his elder brother’s strength. For a moment, Bāhubali, suffering from that blow, heard nothing, like a Yogi rejoicing in the supreme spirit. Then Sunandā’s son left the ground, like an elephant the mud on the bank of a dried-up river. He, chief of the angry, looked at his own arms and staff with glances red as lac, as if blaming them. The King of Takṣaśilā whirled his staff, disagreeable to look at like a snake, constantly in one hand. The staff, whirled very rapidly by Sunandā’s son, had the appearance of the revolving circle of the rādhāvedha.[11] Revolving like the Ādimatsya[12] in the vortex of a whirlpool of the ocean at the end of the world, it made the eyes whirl when it was looked at. “Flying up, it will crack the sun like a brazen kettle; it will reduce to powder the moon-disc like a bhāraṇḍa’s[13] egg; it will knock down the multitudes of stars like the fruit of the myrobalan, and will make fall the aerial cars of the Vaimānikas like nests; while falling, it will split the mountain-peaks like ant-hills; it will crush the arbors of trees like huts of grass; it will split the earth like a ball of unbaked clay, if the staff should fly from his hand by chance.”

Watched by the soldiers and the gods filled with terror at these thoughts, the King hit the Cakrin on the head with the staff. As a result of this violent blow with the staff, the Cakravartin entered the ground up to his neck like a nail struck by a hammer. The Master’s (Bharata’s) attendants, sorrowful, fell to the ground, as if thinking, “Give us the same kind of a hole that was given to our master.” The Cakravartin being buried in the ground, like the Sun devoured by Rāhu,[14] a great tumult arose from men on earth and gods in the sky. His eyes closed, his face dark, the Lord of six-part Bharata remained in the ground for a moment, as if from shame. After a moment he left the ground, shining with light, like the sun at daybreak. Then he reflected, “I have been defeated by him in all the contests, like a blind gambler in gambling. Why should Bharatakṣetra have been conquered by me for his benefit, like dūrvā-grass consumed by the cow for the benefit of the milkman? Two Cakravartins at the same time have never been seen nor heard of in this Bharatakṣetra, like two swords in one scabbard. Indra is conquered by the gods and the Cakravartin by kings! Formerly, this was as unheard of as a horned donkey. Am I, defeated by him, not to be Cakravartin? Unconquered by me, invincible to all, he will be Cakravartin.”

As he was thinking this, the cakra was brought and put into his hand by the Yakṣa-kings, as if they had been wish-jewels. Thinking himself a cakrin from confidence in the cakra, he whirled it in the sky, like a whirlwind a circle of pollen from lotuses. Like an inopportune fire at the end of the world, like another submarine fire, like a sudden fire from a thunderbolt, just like a mass of meteors, like a falling sun, like a wandering ball of lightning, terrifying from its mass of flame, the cakra appeared in the sky. When he perceived the cakra being whirled by the Cakravartin for his destruction, the proud king of Bahalī thought to himself: “Shame on his thinking himself his father’s son! Shame on his heroism, since the Lord of Bharata took the cakra against me who had a staff for a weapon. In the presence of the gods he promised the best fight. Shame on such an action like a child’s play.[15] Displaying the cakra, like an angered ascetic a hot flash, just as he has terrified everyone, he wishes to terrify me. As he has learned the strength of his arms and staff, so let him learn the power of the cakra.” As Bāhubali, strong of arm, was thinking this, the Lord of Bharata hurled the cakra at Bāhubali, throwing it with all his strength.

“Shall I break it quickly with the staff, like an old dish? Or shall I strike it gently and then throw it back like a ball? Or shall I throw it up in the sky as easily as a knife? Or shall I put it in the ground like an infant’s navel-cord?[16] Or shall I catch it in my hand like a young sparrow flying up? Or shall I merely repel it to a distance immediately like a criminal unworthy of slaughter? Or shall I speedily crush the thousand Yakṣas, its guardians, with my staff, like grain with a grindstone? Still, all this must be considered later: first I must know the extent of its power.” While the King of Takṣaśilā was making these reflections, the cakra approached and made the pradakṣinā to him, like a pupil to his guru. The Cakravartin’s cakra has no effect on even an ordinary man belonging to the same family, and especially such a man with the very best body. The cakra returned to the Cakravartin’s hand again, like a bird to its resting-place, like a horse to its stable.

“Henceforth, let it alone, effective in the business of killing, and nothing else be his wealth, like poison to a snake. So, I will crush him with my fist, even though he has the cakra, since he committed a crime by throwing the cakra at me who had a staff for a weapon.” With these angry reflections, Sunandā’s son raised his powerful fist and ran up, terrifying like Yama. The Lord of Takṣaśilā went near Bharata, his hand doubled up, like an elephant with its trunk raised as a hammer. Suddenly he stopped, like the ocean at the earth as a boundary and, noble, thought to himself: “Shame on a brother’s murder which I, as well as he, greedy for a kingdom, more wicked even than a hunter, have undertaken. When in the beginning brothers, brothers’ sons, etc., are killed, who would seek a kingdom like a śākinī-mantra?[17] Contentment for men is not produced by the Śrī of sovereignty, even though attained and enjoyed at will, like that of a drinker by wine. Even though being worshipped, the Śrī of sovereignty would avert her face, like a cruel divinity, if she had the least pretext. The Śrī of sovereignty is very dark like the might before the new moon. For what other reason did my father abandon her like grass? I, even though my father’s son, understood her only after a long time, because of my bad conduct. How will another understand her? By all means, she must be abandoned.” With this thought in his mind, noble Bāhubali said to the Cakravartin, “Bear patiently, O Lord of the World, that you were harassed by me in this way merely for a kingdom, like an enemy, O brother. Enough of sovereignty, brothers, sons, wives, etc., resembling a net in this great pool of existence. I shall become now a traveler on the road of my father, Master of the Three Worlds, sole dispenser of the gift of fearlessness to all.”

Footnotes and references:

[1]:

Indra’s elephant. The ‘one limb’ refers to the eye, voice, and arm with which they fought.

[2]:

Usually taken, at the end of the meal by Indians, and a very important part of the diet.

[3]:

A reference to the churning of the ocean. See N. 89. Mt. Mandara was the churning stick.

[4]:

The tortoise supporting the earth.

[5]:

The bull is the vehicle of Īśāna, the Indra of the second heaven. The tortoise supporting the earth.

[6]:

See App. I.

[7]:

The position of the pūrvavat certainly favors taking it with the first clause, but I have not been able to find any account of the elephants going to sleep.

[8]:

This refers to the practice of some ascetics of maintaining difficult and unnatural positions for long periods.

[9]:

I.e., it would be only by chance that a hole made by a worm would have the shape of a letter.

[10]:

In the Hastyāyurveda, Bk. 4, Chap. 31, the 7 stages of rutting are treated in detail. They are considered to be connected with the 7 elements; chyle, blood, flesh, fat, bone, marrow, and semen. They are progressively intensive and, if the seventh is reached, the elephant becomes blind and deaf and eventually dies.

[11]:

In the rādhāvedha, the archer must hit the left eye of a doll fastened to a revolving wheel. According to some, he could not look at the doll, but only at its reflection in a basin of oil below.

[12]:

The fish-incarnation of Viṣṇu. See Wilkins, pp. 113 ff.

[13]:

Fabulous three-legged birds.

[14]:

See below, n. 410.

[15]:

Saṃvyānādāna. This is said to refer to children’s play, in which they put their garments over their head and dance, in imitation of peacocks. There is a Gujarātī proverb which compares a shameless person with a child playing in this way.

[16]:

As in the description of the birth ceremonies in Chap. II.

[17]:

The name of a mantra which causes injury. A śākinī is a kind of evil spirit. See Folklore of Gujarat, p. 115.

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