by Sivadasa
‘Maybe you are saying it wrong,’ said the yogi. ‘Let me help you.’
He stepped into the sacred fire too, but for all his attempts, he failed to summon her.
Puzzled, the guru came out muttering to himself. ‘How could this happen? I have never failed before. Has the mantra lost its power?’
* * *
‘Why do you think Gunakara failed despite all his efforts, O king?’ asked the vetal.
‘The yakshini did not answer his call because she felt he was concentrating on repeating the mantra, rather than on summoning her,’ Vikram said.
‘But didn’t he enter the fire, as his guru had instructed?’ the vetal disputed. ‘How can you say he was not single-minded?’
‘Didn’t he abandon his meditation in the middle and go off to see his family?’ Vikram retorted. ‘Wasn’t his attention divided?’
‘All right, but why didn’t the yakshini answer the guru’s call?’ asked the vetal.
‘The yakshini felt that the yogi had imparted that sacred knowledge to an undeserving pupil, a man who lacked understanding and true commitment,’ explained the king. ‘This annoyed her, therefore she did not respond to the yogi either.’
Barely had he answered than the vetal returned to its haunt and King Vikramaditya had to repeat his weary trek.
Who Is Prince Haridatta’s Real Father?
The king brought down the corpse from the sinsipa tree and made his way stoically towards his destination.
‘This is indeed a tedious mission for you, O king. Fortunately, I have another tale to tell,’ said the vetal.
* * *
In the city of Kankolam ruled a king named Sundara. A merchant prince named Dhanaksaya resided in the same city. He had a daughter, Dhanavati, who was married to Gauridatta, a wealthy merchant living in another city, called Alaka. Dhanavati was expecting a child, but when the baby was born, a girl, her husband passed away unexpectedly.
This turned out to be a greater calamity than she could have imagined. Her husband’s relatives grabbed all his riches, using the excuse that she had no son to inherit them. Even the ruler of the city did not come to her aid. The unfortunate Dhanavati was forced to leave the city with her baby daughter in the middle of the night. It was a particularly dark one, without even a glimmer of moonlight to help her find her way. With a shock she found that she had wandered into the cremation ground. She could hear someone groaning and, after looking around, realized it was a robber who had been impaled on an iron spike. ‘Each and every thing that happens is the result of the deeds of your past lives—both good and bad,’ he was whispering hoarsely.
‘Who may you be, sir?’ Dhanavati asked. ‘Why have you been left to suffer like this?’
‘A robber. Does that frighten you? I have been punished for my crimes by being impaled on this stake,’ said the man hoarsely. ‘Three painful days have passed. I long for deliverance, but my breath will not leave me.’
‘But why?’ Dhanavati asked.
‘Because I am not married. The thought that I don’t have a child to complete my last rites keeps my spirit chained to this suffering body,’ gasped the robber. ‘If someone would agree to marry their daughter to me, I promise to compensate them with a hundred thousand gold coins.’
Dhanavati thought of her pitiful situation. She replied, ‘I agree to marry my daughter to you. But she is a baby yet and you are awaiting death. How will you father a son?’
‘There is a way,’ said the robber. ‘When your daughter grows up, find a man who will marry her for money and let him father a son on my behalf. I can foresee that an accomplished young Brahmin will be the man.’
Dhanavati then married her baby daughter to the robber by pouring water over his hands.
‘Listen, kind lady,’ whispered the robber with an effort. ‘There is a banyan tree that lies east of here. You will find one lakh gold coins buried near its roots. That treasure is for you and my wife.’
Barely had he finished speaking than the robber’s head hung down, lifeless.
Dhanavati found the robber’s buried loot, tied it up in a bundle and set off for the city of Kankolam, where she had been born. With part of the gold, she bought a magnificent mansion for herself and began to lead a comfortable life. She named her daughter Mohini, and in the course of time, Mohini grew into a young woman.
One day, as the girl stood on the terrace of her mansion, she noticed a Brahmin passing by, a man very pleasing in appearance. Mohini felt attracted towards him and said to her companion, ‘Why don’t you ask him into the house? Tell him my mother would like to meet him.’
Her friend did as Mohini had suggested. As soon as Dhanavati saw the young man, she recalled the robber’s prophecy. She entertained the Brahmin youth lavishly and then put forth her plan, saying, ‘Good sir, I have a proposal that will be much to your advantage. I will pay you a hundred and one gold coins to marry my daughter and father a son for her.’
The Brahmin agreed. A fine feast was arranged and the two were married. Soon, Mohini became pregnant. The Brahmin, however, who was an irresponsible fellow, abandoned her.
When her time came, Mohini gave birth to a baby boy. Six days after the baby was born, she had a strange dream. Perturbed, she went to her mother the next morning and said, ‘Dear mother, I had such a peculiar dream last night! I saw a figure with matted hair coiled on his head, wearing a crescent-moon crown. His body was smeared with ash and he wore a garland of skulls around his neck. He was seated on a white lotus and a white serpent circled his waist. He held a trident in his right hand and was also armed with a sword and club. What could it mean?’
‘I had the same dream!’ Dhanavati exclaimed. ‘Dear child, that was Lord Shiva. And this means that your baby is destined for kingship. He told me to place the baby in a basket along with a thousand and one gold coins and leave him at the palace gates. Let us call our most trusted maid and do this right away.’
The baby boy was left at the palace gates.
It so happened that King Sundara, who was childless, also had a dream the same night. Lord Shiva, in the form of a fierce ten-armed and five-faced ascetic with three eyes and a crescent-moon diadem, came to him and said, ‘O king, send a man to your palace gates and you will find your heir. Look for a new-born baby in a basket.’
The king confided in his wife. ‘My Lord,’ the queen said, ‘this is worth investigating. Without a moment’s delay, let us send the woman who guards the inner apartments to go and check quietly.’
The lady doorkeeper went to the gate and found the baby. She brought him inside, and when the king lifted the cloth covering the infant, he discovered a thousand and one gold coins beneath it.
The king then sent for men who could read auspicious signs and asked them to examine the baby. The experts looked him over carefully and declared that he possessed all the thirty-two signs of good fortune on his body. The shape of his limbs, and other parts of his body, foretold a bright future. He also possessed the five marks of a ruler—a well-defined jaw and nose, wide eyes, long arms and a broad chest.
Hearing this, the king took off his pearl necklace and put it around the baby’s neck. Then he placed the baby in the queen’s lap to signify that he had adopted the child.
The news that the king had been blessed with an heir was announced. A magnificent celebration was held, and the people of the city lined up to present gifts. At his naming ceremony, the baby was christened Haridatta. He grew up to be an intelligent boy. By the age of sixteen, he had acquired knowledge of all the sacred and secular texts, and was accomplished in all the arts.
When the king passed away, Haridatta succeeded him on the throne. And then one day, out of the blue, it struck him that he had not performed the rituals due to his father and forefathers, at Gaya. Without any delay, he set out and reached the sacred city, where all the ceremonies that needed to be performed were organized. He followed the instructions of the Brahmin priests as he offered the prescribed oblation—a sacrificial cake—in the
name of his father. To his astonishment, three hands appeared to accept it. Baffled, Haridatta turned to the priests and asked, ‘Revered sirs, which hand should I place the offering in?’
But the priests were equally confused. ‘We have never seen anything like this,’ they said. ‘One hand has a spike pierced through it, which means it is a robber’s. The second seems to be a Brahmin’s, because it holds a sieve. And the third has a signet ring, which symbolizes kingship. What could this mean?’
* * *
‘What do you think, O king?’ asked the vetal. ‘In which hand should Haridatta place the oblations due to his father?’
‘The robber’s,’ said the king.
‘Why, though? Isn’t the Brahmin Haridatta’s natural father?’ the vetal said, disagreeing. ‘The king who adopted him and brought him up is more of a father, too. How can the robber have any claim?’
‘The Brahmin agreed to father this child for gold and left the mother before he was born,’ the king argued. ‘The king received the child as a gift, along with money for his upkeep. It was the robber who married Mohini when she was a baby, and asked her mother to ensure that a child was fathered in his name. Therefore, he is the real father.’
The king had barely finished proving his point when he found that the vetal had left. He retraced his steps, attempting to complete the task he had undertaken.
The Boy Who Laughed
The king repeated the same actions—taking the corpse down from the tree, heaving it over his shoulders and heading towards the ascetic, Kshantishila.
The corpse was, however, still in a mood to continue its storytelling and launched into another tale.
* * *
Once, King Rupasena, who ruled over the beautiful city of Chitrakutam, went hunting. He rode at such speed that he was soon separated from his retinue. Exhausted and thirsty, around noon, he came upon a lake. He dismounted and decided to rest a while under a shady tree.
As he was taking in his surroundings, his eyes fell on a lovely maiden, who was picking flowers. She seemed to be the daughter of a sage, and the king realized that there must be a hermitage close by! The girl was about to turn away, when the king, who was keen to make her acquaintance, called out, ‘Fair maiden, I am an unexpected visitor to your hermitage. Won’t you offer a thirsty man some hospitality before you leave? As you know, any guest, rich or poor, should be made welcome.’
The maiden glanced up and blushed. Just then, her father, a highly respected sage who had undertaken many rigorous penances, arrived on the scene. Seeing him, the king bowed low and the sage blessed him.
‘How is it that you are here, in this distant region, O king, all alone, without any attendants?’ asked the sage.
‘My passion for the chase led me here,’ replied the king. ‘I rode so swiftly that I left my retinue far behind.’
‘Why do you indulge in this monstrous sport, O king?’ cried the rishi, dismayed. ‘Don’t you know that your wrongdoing can cause great suffering to your innocent subjects? You may be the guilty one, but your actions will affect those who are blameless.’
‘Venerable sage,’ replied the king humbly, ‘I did not realize this. I beg you to teach me about right and wrong conduct, so I can fulfil my duties as a king.’
‘I will be happy to, O king,’ said the sage. ‘Deer live peacefully in the woods. They feed on grass that grows wild, and drink water from streams that flow naturally, not depriving anyone. Yet men kill them for sport. Remember, no sacrificial offering holds as much merit as permitting all beings to live without fear,’ the sage continued. ‘Also, patience, contentment, compassion and the desire for knowledge are the most important qualities in a king. The guilty man who repents should be forgiven, O king. And remember, too, that there is no gift as great as the gift of sanctuary.’ And thus, the sage continued to explain all the rules of proper moral conduct to the king.
Rupasena gave attentive ear. Finally, he bowed and said, ‘Revered sage, from now on, I will abide by your teachings and make sure that my subjects benefit from it.’
The king’s words pleased the sage. ‘O king, your humility brings me much joy,’ he replied. ‘I wish to grant you a boon. Let me know what you would wish for.’
‘Your Holiness,’ said the king eagerly. ‘If you are indeed pleased with me, kindly allow me to marry your daughter.’
The sage agreed, and the two were married by Gandharva rites, exchanging garlands. Then the king rode back to the capital city with his bride. The day had advanced quite a bit, and while they were still in the forest, the sun set. Rupasena decided to spend the night under a tree with his wife.
They were fast asleep when a Brahmarakshasa, the spirit of an evil Brahmin, arrived there. He woke up the king, growling, ‘I will eat your wife, O king!’
Rupasena was stricken with terror. ‘I beg you to spare her,’ he cried. ‘I’m a king, I promise to find you any substitute you ask for.’
‘All right,’ said the spirit, ‘you will have to cut off the head of a seven-year-old Brahmin boy and offer it to me. Only then will I spare your wife.’
‘I promise,’ said the king. ‘However, you will have to give me time to arrange this. Come to my capital city after a week.’
‘I will hold you to your word,’ said the fiend.
Rupasena arrived in Chitrakutam at dawn, along with his new bride. He celebrated his wedding in grand style, but the Brahmarakshasa’s threat hung heavily over his head. He called his prime minister and narrated the whole incident to him. ‘What am I to do now?’ he said. ‘The demon will arrive here on the seventh day from now.’
‘Do not worry, Your Majesty,’ said the minister. ‘I will take care of the problem.’
The prime minister asked the goldsmiths to fashion a large figure of a man out of solid gold. Then he placed it on a cart and had it wheeled around the city. The town crier accompanied it, beating his drums. ‘This figure of gold is worth many lakhs,’ he shouted. ‘It will be given to a Brahmin who agrees to offer his seven-year-old son to the king, who will then sever the boy’s head in a special sacrifice.’
People came out of their houses to gaze at the figure and comment on this strange announcement. A poor Brahmin with three sons heard the cry. He went to his wife, saying, ‘There is a chance to acquire great riches and live in the lap of luxury for the rest of our lives. Only, we have to let the king sacrifice one of our sons.’
‘What an opportunity!’ cried his wife. ‘But I refuse to let my youngest go.’
‘I cannot bear to part with my eldest,’ said the Brahmin. ‘In any case, neither of them is the required age.’
The middle son, who was seven years old, had been listening. ‘Father, why don’t you let me go?’ he volunteered. ‘I am ready to offer myself for the good of the family.’
The Brahmin took the boy to the king at once and received the golden figure in exchange. True to its word, the Brahmarakshasa arrived on the seventh day. Preparations were made for the sacrifice. When all was ready, the king worshipped the demon with rice, flowers, perfume, incense, paan and supari. Fruit and fine cloth was placed before it, along with the choicest of dishes. After the king completed the ritual by waving lighted lamps before it, the boy was brought forward. At the exact moment that the king lifted his sword to cut off his head, the boy laughed loudly, astonishing everyone.
* * *
‘Why, O king, do you think the boy laughed at the moment he was about to die?’ asked the vetal.
‘It seems strange that a boy being sacrificed so cruelly laughed when he was about to be killed,’ said the king. ‘It seems to me that he was thinking—a mother’s instinct is to protect her child against all harm, a father would dote on his young son and look out for his welfare. But, impelled by greed, both his parents readily sent him to his death. The king, his protector, too, was prepared to offer him to this bloodthirsty demon. None of these selfish people had any pity for him. He thought, Why should I grieve then, that I am to die so young? That’s why he l
aughed.’
The king’s answer satisfied the vetal and it flew to the tree. King Vikramaditya followed swiftly.
The Star-Crossed Lovers
Without exhibiting any sign of impatience, the king pulled down the dead body from the sinsipa tree and slung it on his shoulder.
He had barely walked a few steps when the corpse began to speak again. ‘This is a very tedious task you’re engaged in, O king,’ it said. ‘But you won’t give up. Neither will I! Here’s another story to pass the time.’
* * *
King Vipulshekhara ruled over the city of Visala. A merchant named Arthadatta lived in that city. He had a daughter called Anangamanjari, who was married to Maninabha, another merchant from the city of Alaka. Maninabha set off on a long voyage for the purposes of trade and left his young wife behind in her parental home. Several months passed and, from a girl, she grew into a woman.
One evening, as she stood on the terrace of her father’s house to enjoy the cool breeze, her eyes fell on a young Brahmin, named Kamalakara, who was walking past. He happened to look up, too, and they fell in love.
Anangamanjari confided in her best friend, Malayavati, who advised her to forget him. ‘You are already married, Anangamanjari,’ she said. ‘Find other ways to distract yourself. Listen to your favourite stories, or to uplifting music. Be strong, my friend. I am confident you can do it.’
But just as Malayavati was about to leave, Anangamanjari prepared a noose with her uttariya, saying, ‘Dear friend, you have given me good advice, but I feel so miserable that I cannot bear to live any longer. I think it would be better to end my life.’
Malayavati turned around and grabbed her hands just in time. ‘Please don’t take this rash step!’ she cried. ‘If you are in such a state of despair, then fine, I will go and ask Kamalakara to come and meet you.’
She hurried to the young Brahmin’s house and found him with a friend—who was trying to console him too. ‘Kamalakara, come quick,’ she said. ‘I’m Anangamanjari’s companion. She is so despondent that she is about to take her life.’