Part 4: Story of Durgandhā

On another day the King of Magadha, filling the directions with the sound of the bells of a troop of elephants; blocking the ground with horses, talking to each other, as it were, in the guise of neighs, dancing in the theater of the road; with the people of the army replendent with umbrellas of peacock-feathers that imitated the beauty of a bank of clouds descending from the sky; his jeweled ear-ornaments dancing quickly as if in rivalry with the prancing riding-horse; born in the saddle, as it were; with a white umbrella rivaling a full moon; with fly-whisks, waved by courtesans resembling Jāhnavī and Yamunā; hymned by bards beautified by gold ornaments, like Sutrāman on earth, went to bow to the son of the Jṭātas who was in a samavasaraṇa.

At that time there was a baby-girl on the road, who had been abandoned as soon as born. She had an evil odor from pus, et cetera, like a part of hell that had come. All, unable to bear smelling the odor, held their noses, like reciters of the gāyatrī,^[1] doing breath-exercises, in the evening. Śreṇika asked, “What is this?” and his attendants told him about the evil-smelling girl who had been abandoned newly-born. The king who had heard constantly the twelve reflections from the lips of the Arhat, indifferent to disgust, looked at the girl himself and went away. After he had gone to the samavasaraṇa and paid homage to the Supreme Lord, at the proper time the king asked for the story of the evil-smelling girl.

The Master related: “In Śāligrāma in a neighboring country there were a wealthy sheth, Dhanamitra, and his daughter, Dhanaśrī. One time when the sheth had commenced Dhanaśrī’s wedding, some sādhus on their tour came in the hot weather. Her father instructed her, ‘Give food to the sādhus.’ She, well-mannered, began at once to give them food. As she was giving them food, she smelled a bad odor from the munis whose bodies and clothes were wet with perspiration. She, whose clothes were fragrant and clean, wearing various ornaments, anointed with unguent, confused by her fine apparel, thought: ‘All the dharma taught by the Arhats is beyond censure. (But) if one should bathe in water free from life, what sin would it be?’ Bad karma arose from the disgust at the bad odor from the munis’ perspiration, as she had died without confessing and repenting that.

After death, O king, she entered a courtesan’s womb in Rājagṛha and even in the womb caused her mother distress. Daily the courtesan drank remedies to make a miscarriage, but the embryo did not fall. What remedy is stronger than karma? The courtesan bore this daughter evil-smelling because of the karma and abandoned her like excrement, as soon as she left the womb.”

Again Śreṇika asked the Supreme Lord, “Will she experience pleasant or unpleasant things?” The Master said: “She has consumed all the unpleasant. Hear how she will experience pleasant things. For eight years she will be your chief-queen. This will be the sign causing her recognition in this. Whoever makes swan-play on your back as you play in the harem, know that this one is she, King of Magadha.” Thinking, “Oh! this is a wonder. How will she become my wife?” the king bowed to the Supreme Lord and went home.

The odor left Durgandhā from the wearing away of karma and she was seen and taken up by the childless wife of a cowherd. Cherished by the cowherd’s wife like her own child, she grew up gradually endowed with beauty and grace.

One day in the city there was a charming full moon-festival, resembling the pleasure of a play with a wealth of the erotic sentiment. She, just mature, a snare for the deer of young men’s eyes, went along from a desire to see the festival. Śreṇika and Abhaya, covered completely with white garments, went there like bridegrooms who had set out for a wedding. In the great crush of the festival, Śreṇika’s hand touched the chest, the place of curved breasts, of the cowherd’s daughter. The king, whose love was quickly aroused, tied his ring in the hem of her garment, like a surety of pleasure.

He informed Abhaya: “My seal-ring has been stolen by someone, while my attention was distracted. You must ascertain who took it.” Abhaya, the chief of intelligent persons, closed the doors of the arena and began to move the people about, one by one, like a gambler moving game-pieces. Abhaya, the depository of the treasure of shrewdness, examined the clothes, hair-dressings, and mouths of everyone. When he was examining the clothes, et cetera of the cowherd’s daughter, he saw the ring marked with the king’s name tied in the hem.

He asked her, “How did you get this ring?” She covered her ears and said, “I do not know anything about it.” When he saw that she was beautiful, he, the first of the intelligent, thought: “Surely my father has fallen in love with this cow-herd’s daughter. The king himself submissive to love, certainly tied his own ring, a token for finding her.”

With this thought Abhaya led her into the king’s presence. The king asked him: “Have you found the thief, illustrious sir?” Abhaya replied: “Majesty, this is the thief by whom your heart was stolen. Enough of this story about the ring.” The king smiled and said: “I am going to marry her. Have you not heard that a woman-jewel is acceptable even from a low family?” So saying, the king at once married her whose body was perfect and made her chief-queen because of his great love.

One day the king played with dice with the queens; and in this game there was a wager that the winner should mount on the back of the loser like a horse. When any of the highborn queens defeated the king, they merely laid a cloth, indicating victory, on the king’s back. One day the queen, who was a courtesan’s daughter, defeated the king and she, hard-hearted, unhesitatingly mounted on his back. The king recalled the Blessed One’s speech and laughed suddenly. She got down and asked him insistently about the reason for his laughter. The king told her the events described by the Master, beginning with her former birth and ending with the mounting on his back. When she heard that, she became disgusted with existence quickly and, having respectfully obtained her husband’s permission, she became a mendicant at Śrī Mahāvīra’s feet.

Footnotes and references:

[1]:

A sacred verse recited by Brāhmans in morning and evening devotions.