Listen, O King!

by Sivadasa

  SIVADASA

  Adapted and retold by Deepa Agarwal

  Listen, O King!

  Five-and-Twenty Tales of Vikram and the Vetal

  Introduction by Bibek Debroy

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. How It All Began

  2. The Ascetic’s Visit

  3. The Mysterious Messages

  4. The Most Deserving Suitor

  5. The Parrot and the Myna

  6. The Devoted Servant

  7. Who Should Marry Mahadevi?

  8. Mixed-Up Heads

  9. The Right Man

  10. King Gunadhipa’s Gratitude

  11. Madanasena’s Promise

  12. Three Delicate Queens

  13. The Girl on the Wishing Tree

  14. Who Is Guilty?

  15. The Girl Who Wanted to Marry a Robber

  16. Two Magic Balls

  17. Jimutavahana’s Sacrifice

  18. Fatal Beauty

  19. The Unwise Yogi

  20. Who Is Prince Haridatta’s Real Father?

  21. The Boy Who Laughed

  22. The Star-Crossed Lovers

  23. Four Foolish Brahmins

  24. The Yogi Who Switched Bodies

  25. The Three Fastidious Brahmins

  26. A Baffling Relationship

  27. The Vetal’s Revelation

  28. Epilogue: The Last Riddle

  A Note on the Text

  Classic Plus

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  Introduction

  We know little about King Vikramaditya. ‘Vikramaditya’ is a title, rather than a name. It means: someone whose valour is like that of the sun. There are emperors who have assumed the title of Vikramaditya—Chandragupta II being an example. But there was also a legendary King Vikramaditya, and scholars do not agree about identifying this legendary King Vikramaditya with any one of the known historical King Vikramadityas.

  If you ever visit Ujjain, this illustrious ruler is present everywhere, irrespective of which historical Vikramaditya he is identified with. You will be shown temples built by King Vikramaditya. You will be shown the hill where Vikramaditya’s throne was buried until King Bhoja discovered it in the eleventh century. Thereby hangs a tale.

  Whoever ascended that hill was suffused with immeasurable wisdom. This trait manifested itself in some young cowherds. When this was reported to King Bhoja, he had the hill excavated, and a magnificent throne was discovered; it had thirty-two statuettes. When King Bhoja wished to be seated on the throne, the statuettes restrained him. He was told, ‘This is King Vikramaditya’s throne. He was a phenomenally wise and great king. To be seated on the throne, you must be as wise as him.’ Then, one by one, the thirty-two statuettes (each of which was a cursed apsara) told a story about King Vikramaditya’s wisdom. These stories are collectively known as the Simhasana Dvatrimsika, or Singhasan Battisi. The earliest versions of this text go back to the thirteenth or fourteenth centuries.

  The use of the word ‘version’ is important. There was no printing at the time, and written rendering came much later. Stories were passed down by word of mouth, preserved through oral transmission. Consequently, even though there may have been a common origin, there were regional versions and variations. This is true of the Simhasana Dvatrimsika, as well as of another text associated with the legendary King Vikramaditya—that is the one wonderfully adapted in this book.

  This text is known as the Vetala Panchavimshati, or Baital Pacchisi. A vetal is a demon or spirit, almost always male. But it isn’t any arbitrary demon or spirit. Specifically, it is a demon that possesses a dead body with an ulterior motive. This text, thus, has twenty-five stories about the vetal, more accurately, stories about the vetal and King Vikramaditya. Each story has a puzzle, and King Vikramaditya has to solve the puzzle. And it is not as if the solutions are easy.

  While in the Simhasana Dvatrimsika, King Vikramaditya is depicted as a historical figure, whom King Bhoja hears about from the statuettes, the Vetala Panchavimshati has King Vikramaditya as the primary protagonist. As a text, the Vetala Panchavimshati is also older than the Simhasana Dvatrimsika. The note on the text gives a very good introduction to its antecedents. Indeed, the roots probably go back further still.

  There was a text known as the Brihatkatha, dated around the sixth century and attributed to Gunadhya. It was not written in Sanskrit, but in a language known as Paishachi. Evidently, there is no one around who can speak, understand or read Paishachi any longer. The Brihatkatha can loosely be translated as a large collection of stories.

  The Brihatkatha didn’t survive, but its derivatives did—those stories were passed down through the ages, and featured King Vikramaditya. They were retold in Sanskrit by Kshemendra and Somadeva. There is a version in Nepal, in Sanskrit, a version in old Maharashtrian prose, another in old Tamil verse. All these derivative stories are based on King Vikramaditya, and not on the Vetala Panchavimshati alone. At one point, Kashmir had a rich heritage of works in Sanskrit. And following from this tradition, there are two Sanskrit versions that specifically narrate the Vetala Panchavimshati. These were written by Sivadasa and Jambhaladatta. Both these texts have been translated into English. As the note on the text later mentions, this adaptation is based on Chandra Rajan’s translation of the Sivadasa rendering. There are twenty-eight stories, not twenty-five, but the note at the end explains why.

  I hope you will read the Simhasana Dvatrimsika some day, too. For some reason—perhaps because of the vetal or because there are engaging riddles—young people love the Vetala Panchavimshati much more. Actually, everyone seems to like the Vetala Panchavimshati more. Therefore, despite it having been translated in the past, what’s wrong with another adaptation, especially one directed at the young? Enjoy the stories, they are wonderful! By the way, the sinsipa tree (the Indian rosewood) also figures in the Buddha’s discourses. Once you grow up and have the time and the inclination, I hope you read them in the original Sanskrit too.

  July 2016

  Bibek Debroy

  How It All Began

  King Gandharvasena ruled over the city of Pratishthanpura, that lay on the banks of the river Godavari. A powerful monarch, he had reason to be proud of his might and influence.

  One day, the king went hunting in the forest near the city, as he often did. On the way back, he overheard one of his attendants whispering to another, ‘We’re very close to where the revered hermit Valkalasana lives.’

  ‘Who is he?’ the other attendant asked.

  ‘Haven’t you heard of him?’ The first one sounded surprised. ‘He is a holy man immersed in the most rigorous penance possible. They say he’s been meditating under a nimba tree for a thousand years, without speaking or moving.’

  ‘Why is he torturing his body so?’ The second seemed puzzled.

  ‘You are a fool!’ scoffed the first. ‘Don’t you know why yogis undertake penance? They do it to acquire superhuman powers. He is determined to gain entry into the heavens and become equals with the celestial beings. Imagine, Valkalasana has disciplined his body to the extent that he can survive on a mouthful of tree bark, which he eats punctually at midnight.’ The man’s voice dropped further. ‘They say . . . even his excretory functions have stopped.’

  ‘What?’ Muffled laughter followed.

  The king’s mouth twitched too. He had heard of the ascetic but never seen him in person. He recalled what one of his courtiers had said: ‘Your Majesty, he has attained such a supreme state of holiness, they say, that one’s sins can be washed away simply by setting eyes on him.’ Maybe, thought the king, I should go and pay my respects to this extraordinary sage.

  ‘Do you know where this saintly hermit lives?’ he
asked aloud. ‘I would like to seek his blessings before I leave this place.’

  His attendants rushed up, eager to serve him. They guided him to the nimba tree and the king found the yogi seated under it, just as the man had described, in deep meditation—so deep that the sound of the horses’ hooves and the men’s chatter did not seem to reach him. He continued to sit there, motionless and silent.

  I will wait, thought the king. As soon as he opens his eyes I will fall at his feet.

  Gandharvasena waited quietly, mounted on his horse. He did not utter a word, in case it disturbed the hermit. He even gestured to his attendants to retreat to a distance. But a couple of hours passed, and the hermit didn’t so much as blink. The king was slowly beginning to get annoyed. He was hungry and thirsty from having waited so long. And it was also humiliating to be ignored in the presence of his retinue.

  Finally his patience ran out. ‘What a conceited man!’ he muttered to himself. ‘He is so full of himself that he refuses to acknowledge that I, the king, am waiting for him so humbly. I will make him pay for his rudeness.’

  Gandharvasena returned to his capital city in a foul mood, thinking of ways to teach the arrogant hermit a lesson. The following day, the first thing he did when he entered his court, was announce, ‘There is a proud hermit meditating in the forest. So proud that he doesn’t open his eyes to acknowledge those who come to seek his blessings. He needs to be put in his place. Is there anyone here who will volunteer to interrupt his penance? I will pay handsomely.’

  To the king’s surprise, his words did not elicit any response. Not a single man in the court offered to disturb the hermit. When the uncomfortable silence had stretched on for a long time, a woman suddenly raised her voice. ‘Your Majesty, I will perform this task. I am young and attractive. I can say without boasting that no man alive can resist my charms.’

  ‘Hmm . . . you might just be the right person,’ said the king, looking the woman over. ‘If you can indeed accomplish what I ask, I will reward you with an entire village and much else besides.’

  ‘I swear to you, Your Majesty,’ the woman proclaimed, ‘I will present him here in court soon.’

  Bowing deeply, she hurried out. As soon as she reached home, she began her preparations on how to work her wiles on the hermit. She dressed up in the loveliest clothes and jewellery she possessed, in all the forms of the solah sringar. First, she wrapped a gorgeous silk antariya around her waist and secured it with an intricately embroidered kayabandh. Then she draped a matching uttariya around her shoulders. She concentrated on her hair next—it had to be perfect. She made an elaborate bun and embellished it with ornaments. She wore jewelled earrings and fastened the clasp on an ornate gold necklace. She put on a glittering nose ring, and then a bajubandh to decorate her upper arms, after which she slipped beautiful, heavy bangles on to her slender wrists. She completed her beautification with anklets that tinkled as she walked, her feet painted with alta. And as a final touch, she dabbed a perfume fragrant enough to cast a spell on the most indifferent of men.

  Thus adorned, she set out for the forest and found the hermit under the nimba tree, lost in deep meditation. She walked right up to him, but he didn’t make the slightest movement. The jangling of her bangles, her tinkling anklets and the heady scent of her perfume seemed not to reach him at all. Puzzled, she stood there for a long time, just observing him.

  This is going to be a challenge, she said to herself finally. If he doesn’t open his eyes, what use are my charms? I need to make some other plans.

  She decided to build a little hut and live there for the time being, as she tried to find an opportunity to distract him. Determined he may be, she thought, but he’s human, not yet a god. I’ll discover some weakness in him sooner or later.

  She watched him all day—but without any luck. So she resolved to keep an eye on him through the night. At midnight, the hermit reached out for a mouthful of the bark he lived on.

  An idea flashed through the woman’s mind like a ray of light. She hurried back to the city without delay. Once she reached her house, she went out and bought a large pot of milk. She placed it on the fire and heated it till it thickened into a cream. Then she mixed it with sugar and rolled it into laddoos. Once she had a basketful of delicious laddoos ready, she made her way back to the forest. The yogi was exactly where she’d last seen him, still seated in the lotus position, his eyes shut, barely breathing.

  ‘Hmm,’ murmured the woman, smiling. ‘Let’s see if you can resist this.’ When darkness fell, she quietly placed a laddoo at the foot of the tree and crept back into the shadows.

  The midnight hour arrived and the ascetic reached out for his meal. His hand closed on the laddoo, just as the woman had hoped. And she watched with bated breath as he placed it in his mouth. When he swallowed it, she had to restrain herself from clapping her hands with glee. Encouraged, the next night she placed two laddoos in the same spot. The hermit ate one. Then his hand reached out again, and he gobbled up the other one as well. The following night, she kept four laddoos under the tree. The hermit ate them all. He began to relish the sweets so much that one night, he devoured all twenty laddoos she’d laid out for him. By now, his skinny frame had begun to fill out and, soon, the lure of the laddoos began to affect his powers of concentration.

  One day, he opened his eyes just a tad, and his gaze fell on the young woman seated before him, watching him intently. He was bewitched at once. ‘Ah,’ he breathed, ‘is there anything to compare to the sight of a beautiful woman? Who are you, lovely maiden?’

  The woman demurely covered her face with a veil and said, ‘Revered yogi, I am an attendant to Lord Indra, the king of the immortals. What is your wish?’

  ‘My wish is to marry you,’ the hermit said immediately. ‘Please be my wife and live here with me, in these quiet woods.’

  ‘Oh,’ the woman replied coyly, ‘but my proper place is in the court of Lord Indra.’

  When the hermit begged and pleaded, she pretended to give in. The ascetic used his powers to create a mansion for her in the forest, and they began living there together. In time, the woman became pregnant and gave birth to a little boy. The yogi, by now, had completely forgotten about the penance he had pursued for so long. He was quite happy leading the life of a family man and enjoyed playing with the baby.

  Time passed. When the child turned one, the woman said, ‘Listen, I have something to say. I feel it is about time we moved to the city. You are no longer a hermit—you’re a family man now, and we belong within a community. Besides, it isn’t safe for our child here either. Wild animals roam these woods and he is in constant danger.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said the hermit. ‘Choose the place you’d like to go to, and we’ll move there.’

  ‘Have you seen the city I lived in before I came here? That would be the best place. Why don’t you place our boy in his cradle? We can go there right away,’ the woman cunningly suggested.

  The hermit sat his son in the cradle, heaved it on to his shoulders and followed his wife to the city. She led him straight to the palace and entered the king’s court. ‘Your Majesty,’ she said with a bow, ‘I would like to present the hermit Valkalasana to you.’

  The king was delighted to see the hermit carrying a child in his arms. ‘O most dedicated ascetic,’ he asked with a mocking laugh, ‘is your penance complete now?’

  ‘When you encounter a face as lovely as the moon, a body as graceful as a swan and take that woman to your heart, what room is there for prayers, penance and meditation?’ replied the hermit.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the king. ‘When a beautiful woman appears, adorned in all the bewitching forms of the solah sringar, is there any man in the world who can resist her? Not even an ascetic engaged in the most arduous penance!’

  The king’s words cut the sage to the quick. He recalled the rigorous penance he had observed for so many years and the great goal he had abandoned—just for a woman who had deliberately enticed him! Maddened by rage
, he let out a fearsome shriek and flung his son’s cradle on the floor. The child was thrown out so violently that his body broke into three pieces.

  As the courtiers watched, horrified, the child’s head rolled on the ground before the king, while the trunk and the limbs flew into the air and vanished. The hermit stomped out of the palace, and the woman fled, weeping.

  The trunk landed up in a potter’s house, while the limbs were deposited in an oil merchant’s house. After a while, these body parts disappeared mysteriously. However, three babies were conceived that night—one by the queen, one by the potter’s wife and one by the oil merchant’s wife. Exactly nine months later, the three women gave birth to three boys.

  There was great rejoicing in the palace when the prince was born. The king ordered for five kinds of drums to be beaten, and distributed generous gifts to his subjects. He held a feast for the Brahmins and the bards, and lavished fine garments and other valuables on them. An astrologer was summoned to cast the baby’s horoscope. After he had compared the positions of the planets with the child’s time of birth, he shared his findings.

  ‘Your son is blessed with extraordinary good fortune, O king,’ he proclaimed. ‘He was born under very auspicious signs, with five of the planets at their most powerful. He is destined for greatness. According to the stars, he will demonstrate unusual valour at an early age. I suggest you name him Vikramaditya, meaning “the sun of valour”.’

  After a while, he added, ‘Curiously, two other boys were born at exactly the same time—to a potter and an oil merchant. Their horoscopes are identical. This means . . . that one of them will slay the other two and become master of the whole world.’

  ‘Who else but my son?’ The king smiled complacently. ‘You said he will be blessed with extraordinary courage.’

  The astrologer lowered his head in a bow. He was rewarded handsomely by the elated king—cows, gold and much else. Later, he cast the horoscopes of the two other boys as well, and quietly repeated his prediction, that one would slay the other two and reign supreme over the earth.