by Sivadasa
Unfortunately, Vijayabala had some treacherous kinsmen who wanted to usurp his kingdom. One dark night, they crept up with a large army at their command, and surrounded the capital city. Panic-stricken, Vijayabala’s guards ran to inform him, saying that their city was under siege, and that the situation was precarious. The anxious king roused his sleeping wife. ‘My beloved one,’ he said, ‘we are in grave danger. I will defend my city stoutly against the invaders, but the course of battle is always unpredictable. Who knows what might befall you and our dear Lavanyavati if the enemy manages to break in? Please leave the city secretly with her and find refuge in a safe place. When you get the news that I have vanquished our foes, you can return.’
The queen shed bitter tears but left post-haste with her daughter. King Vijayabala armed his soldiers and sallied forth to fight with the invaders. A fierce battle took place, and the brave king was killed while he defended his city.
The queen fled with the princess in the night and finally reached a lake. It seemed far enough from the city to be secure. In any case, they were too exhausted to go farther, so they lay down and rested. When dawn broke, they decided to head farther away.
By chance, the king of Kusumapura, a neighbouring kingdom, had come to hunt in the same forest with his son. When they arrived in the vicinity of the lake, the prince noticed the women’s footprints on the damp earth. ‘Look, father,’ he pointed out, ‘what elegant footprints! They must belong to some lovely ladies.’
The king examined them and said, ‘Elegant, indeed. I suspect they belong to some high-born ladies. But what would they be doing in this deserted place? I wonder if they are fleeing from some danger.’
‘If that is so, as brave warriors, it is our duty to rescue them,’ said the prince immediately. Then he paused to think. ‘Father . . .’ he began hesitantly, ‘if you don’t mind my saying so . . . it’s been more than a year since my dear mother passed away. You are so lonely. I think it’s about time you remarried. I, too, am a bachelor. Do you think fate might have deliberately placed these noble ladies in our way?’
The king sighed. ‘I miss your dear mother sorely. It’s hard to think of putting anyone in her place,’ he said sadly. ‘But they say it’s not advisable for a ruler to stay unmarried, without a queen to participate in important ceremonies. You, too, are of a marriageable age, my son. It does seem strange that we should come across these footprints.’
‘So let’s follow them!’ cried the prince. ‘We must help the ladies. And if they seem agreeable, we can present our proposal. I rather like the small, dainty feet. Can I marry the lady they belong too?’
The king laughed. ‘Of course, my son! The first choice is yours. Frankly, I prefer the long, graceful feet.’
Following the trail, they soon found the queen and princess, hidden in a thicket. The queen let out a little shriek of fear when she saw them. But Lavanyavati said, ‘Mother, they look like decent people. I don’t think we need to be afraid.’
‘The young maiden is right,’ said the king with a bow. ‘We saw your footprints, gentle lady, and feared you were in distress. We have come to help you, if you need our assistance.’
Queen Chandraprabha broke down, weeping in relief. Then she composed herself and said, ‘I am Chandraprabha, the unfortunate queen of the kingdom of Prabhavati. And this is my daughter, Lavanyavati.’ She then narrated the tragic train of events that had overtaken them. ‘Thank heavens you have come to our rescue!’ she ended.
The prince, however, was examining the feet of the two ladies. He took his father aside and whispered to him, ‘Father, there’s a problem. The mother is the lady with the small, dainty feet. What should we do?’
The king frowned and said, ‘Yes, I noticed that too. But fate has led us to them and we made a promise to each other. As royalty, we cannot go back on it.’
They went back and put forward their proposal. The queen was taken aback, but the princess said, ‘Mother, it may seem strange to contemplate that I will be your mother-in-law. But don’t you think it is far better to live with honour, and in comfort, in a palace, than struggle to survive in this dangerous world?’
‘Your daughter is right,’ said the king. ‘It was a quirk of destiny that my son and I chose you on the basis of your footprints. But it was the footprints that led us to you. You will be treated with great respect, my lady.’
Chandraprabha saw their point, and the two women sat behind the king and the prince on their horses and returned to their capital. The weddings were duly celebrated. Within a year, both mother and daughter gave birth to children, one to a son and the other to a daughter. But a question arose—what relationship did the two babies have with each other?
* * *
‘What is your answer to this vexing question, O king?’ asked the vetal.
The wise King Vikram thought and thought. But for all his efforts, he could not solve this riddle.
The Vetal’s Revelation
When the king did not speak but continued to trudge towards his destination in silence, the vetal said, ‘I know why you do not speak, O king. True, you do not have an answer, but you refrain from saying anything at all because you feel I will trick you again and escape. Let me tell you that I am extremely pleased with your courage and determination. I have the power to grant you a boon. Ask what you will.’
The king made no response. The vetal then said, ‘You do not want to take the risk of replying, but I will repeat that I am highly impressed with your daring and resolution. For that reason, I would like to give you some advice. If you take it, you will be able to save your life. Else you will fall prey to the evil Kshantishila’s designs.
‘We vetals inhabit corpses according to our choice. But if a human wishes to bring us under his control, he has to perform certain rites that force us to take possession of a particular dead body. You are not aware of it, but Kshantishila intends to sacrifice you in order to gain unlimited power. When you meet him at the cremation ground, he will take this corpse you are carrying and worship it with incense and sandalwood. To complete the ritual, he will summon me back. “O king,” he will say next, “prostrate yourself completely, with eight parts of your body touching the ground.” If you do that, he will cut off your head and offer you to the deity. To escape that fate, you must say, “I am a king, and all who come to me prostrate themselves before me. I do not know how to attempt that pose. O great ascetic, kindly demonstrate it, so I know how to do it correctly.”
‘When he prostrates himself to show you, immediately draw your sword and chop off his head. Then offer his blood to me as an oblation. You will acquire the eight siddhis if you do this, and become all-powerful. If you fail to follow my instructions, you will lose your life and Kshantishila will gain supreme power.’
The vetal abandoned the body now and Vikramaditya felt it go slack and silent. He hurried through the cremation ground to reach the yogi, lost in thought, barely noticing the ghastly scenes around him.
The naked ascetic, Kshantishila, was waiting for him. At the sight of the mandala, the magic circle Kshantishila had prepared, the king felt a shiver of apprehension. Kshantishila was so delighted to see the king that his eyes glowed like hot coals as he cried out, ‘What a heroic deed you have accomplished, O great king! No one else could have been courageous enough to carry this body through the cremation ground. Now, please place the corpse within the mandala.’
Silently, Vikramaditya did so, and Kshantishila began the ritual. He lit lamps and placed them all around the circle, along with flowers, incense, sandalwood and the other offerings required in the ritual. He began to recite potent mantras to invoke the vetal. When the body stirred, indicating that the spirit had arrived, he worshipped it and offered libations. The king watched, taut with anticipation. When this part of the ritual was complete, the ascetic turned to the king. ‘Now please walk all around the corpse and then do a complete prostration, O king, with eight parts of your body touching the ground.’
King Vikram’s breat
h seemed to stop for a minute. Whom was he to trust? The yogi who had offered him so many precious gifts or the vetal who had teased him all the way? What was the correct answer to this riddle?
Then, making a quick decision, he replied in measured tones, ‘Revered yogi, you know I’m a monarch. I have never prostrated myself before anyone in my whole life, hence I have no idea how this is done. Please show me how to do it, lest I do it incorrectly and ruin your ritual.’
Impatient to achieve his ends, the yogi rose and demonstrated the required prostration. The king drew his sword in one, swift movement and lopped off his head. Then he lifted the severed head and offered the blood flowing from it to the vetal.
To his amazement, a shower of flowers fell upon him from the sky. It was the gandharvas. Then he heard a celestial voice proclaiming, ‘O great king, your actions have pleased us greatly! You have gained the eight siddhis as well as supremacy over the whole earth. We would like to grant you a boon. Ask whatever you will.’
The king folded his hands and bowed low. ‘Immortal powers, please grant that these stories narrated by the vetal become famous throughout the world and that whoever hears them gains great merit. Grant, too, I beg you, that the vetal become my minister and execute my commands.’
Then the holy trinity, Brahma–Vishnu–Mahesh, descended on earth and rained benedictions on the king. ‘You are Vikramaditya, the Sun of Valour,’ they said, ‘the most dazzling jewel among earthly rulers. You will reign over this earth in glory, as a Chakravarti king—the one who turns the wheel of the empire. After your mortal days are done, you will continue to rule as the king of the vidyadharas.’
Vikramaditya returned to his capital city as quietly as he had come. True to the prediction, his power and influence grew from day to day. He continued to rule justly and wisely and is still revered as the ideal ruler. And as he had asked, the twenty-five tales of the vetal have endured and enjoy great popularity to this day.
Epilogue: The Last Riddle
King Vikramaditya remains transparently the same person throughout the story. But who was the vetal? And who was the mendicant Kshantishila, who mysteriously appeared at Vikramaditya’s court and offered him precious jewels hidden in a bilva fruit? Why did Kshantishila want to kill Vikramaditya and why did the vetal try to save him?
If we go back to the beginning and remember that three boys were born at the same time, and it was predicted that one of them would slay the other two and become master of the three worlds, we can answer this riddle. Kshantishila is the potter’s son, who cunningly befriended the oil merchant’s son and killed him and hung him on the sinsipa tree. After he fled the kingdom, he fell in with a guru who instructed him in the tantric arts. It was his guru who informed him how he could fulfil the prophecy and become master of the universe. The ancient corpse is that of the oil merchant’s son, which has been possessed by a potent spirit, the vetal, whom Kshantishila wishes to enslave, by performing the ritual in which he planned to slay King Vikramaditya as well.
A Note on the Text
How can one convey the fascination of a series of tales featuring a valiant king and a supernatural being? I first encountered the Vetala Panchavimshati—or Baital Pacchisi—the twenty-five tales of the vetal, in the pages of the popular children’s magazine Chandamama, as a child. The Vikram–vetal stories had me hooked right from the start. At the time, when I read these intriguing tales in Hindi, however, I little knew that they were part of the ancient tradition of storytelling and had originally been penned in Sanskrit hundreds of years ago.
We do not know who first created these extraordinary stories, widely retold down the ages, but the authors of the four well-known Sanskrit versions have been identified. One was Somadeva, who composed the classic Kathasaritasagara, a in Kashmir around 1070 CE, and included these tales in this vast collection. Kshemendra, also writing in Kashmir around twenty years prior to that, had incorporated them in his work Brihadkathamanjari as well. The two other Sanskrit versions are independent collections by Sivadasa and Jambhaladatta.
While all the stories revolve around the legendary King Vikramaditya, the wily vetal and the mysterious sadhu Kshantishila, the retellings differ in many ways. In fact, the Hindi, Tamil and Marathi versions, which have been around for a long time, vary from these, too. This is a common feature in traditional tales, where each storyteller adds something to the story from her or his own imagination. I have done something similar.
This retelling is based on Sivadasa’s version, with one or two stories taken from Jambhaladatta’s work.
Chandra Rajan, a famous Sanskrit scholar, who originally translated these stories, tells us that Sivadasa composed his work in the popular champu style of writing in Sanskrit—a mixture of prose and verse. Somadeva and Kshemendra wrote entirely in verse, while Jambhaladatta mostly used prose.
What makes Sivadasa’s version of these widely circulated tales stand apart from the others? There is a specific style of narration used in a majority of the ancient works of fiction written in Sanskrit. There is a frame story, or introductory tale, within which the other stories are set. For example, in the Panchatantra, we are told that a king despairs because his sons are poor learners. He is advised to entrust the princes to the renowned scholar Vishnu Sharma, who then uses the stories that follow to educate the princes.
In the Vetala Panchavimshati, a mysterious ascetic arrives at King Vikramaditya’s court, bearing valuable gifts, in return for which he requests the monarch for a favour. While performing an arduous task at the sadhu’s bidding, King Vikram encounters the vetal, who narrates twenty-four tales, each ending with a question.
All versions follow this structure. Sivadasa, however, added a preliminary tale that sketches out a connection between King Vikram, the vetal and the sadhu Kshantishila, which binds the three main characters in a credible way, adding a motive for their actions. This adds an extra story to the collection. The very last story is actually a clarification of the first. There is also one in between that I’ve taken from Jambhaladatta’s version, which makes it twenty-eight tales in all. However, since this collection has always been known as the Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Vetal, we have stuck to it.
Sivadasa’s stories are also briefer and more to the point than, say, Somadeva’s. He seems to be more concerned with focusing on moral and ethical issues rather than rounding out the stories with descriptions and events. To this end, he also omits incidents highlighted in the other versions. As was the custom then, each story begins with an invocation, in verse, to a deity—most often to Ganesha and Shiva, but also to Saraswati, the goddess of learning.
When I first read the Vikram–vetal stories, the delicious horror of the setting—the ghostly cremation ground—sent a shiver up my spine. The element of adventure and the eeriness of the spirit that inhabited a corpse and teased the king with its riddle-like tales kept me enthralled. These entertaining stories belonged to a world quite different from mine—one peopled with princes and princesses, rich merchants and Brahmins, not to forget, robbers both wicked and noble. I realized that in promising to fulfil the sadhu’s request, King Vikram was upholding the dharma of an honourable monarch. But I did wonder at the vetal’s perversity in flying back to the sinsipa tree each time the king answered its question correctly. What was the point of making Vikram march back and forth across the cremation ground? Why compel the noble king to respond to his sometimes pointless-sounding questions and prolong his task? Many of the characters in the stories seemed very eccentric—especially the strangely extra-sentimental lovers declaring they would kill themselves, at the drop of a hat, the ridiculously delicate queens and the overly fastidious Brahmins. Why were some so noble and others shockingly evil?
Much later, as an adult, especially after reading Sivadasa’s version, I realized that there was more depth to these oft-told tales. That many of these stories highlight the perils of hasty decisions, of moral misconduct, and the importance of making the right choices in life. That each question po
sed by the vetal is like a challenge thrown at the king—a test of his judgement. It is as if the king is undergoing a trial to prove his skills as a ruler, as any decision he takes affects thousands of lives. Several times, the vetal argues with him and forces him to justify his stance. It struck me that his commitment to a ruler’s dharma and to keeping his promise is also being verified by this ordeal. In the final story, there is a sense of irony when the vetal reveals the truth and one realizes that an ideal ruler is extremely vulnerable when confronted with pure evil.
As for the vetal, it is not really a demon, ghost or a bloodsucking vampire—as it is often labelled—but a powerful supernatural being that can be manipulated by performing special rites. And that’s exactly what Kshantishila’s goal is. In the Singhasan Battisi, the other set of stories featuring Vikramaditya, the king brings the vetal under his control and summons him when required.
These stories were written in the distant past, for an adult audience, though now they are placed in the realm of children’s fiction. With that in mind, I would describe this book as a retelling that, I hope, will appeal to a twenty-first-century child. I have not followed Sivadasa’s style of alternating prose and poetry, except where the verse adds to the reading experience or helps move the story along. I have also filled out the occasionally sparse patches of storytelling, creating scenes and adding dialogue that would keep a child engaged.
While reading the stories, I had to keep reminding myself that they were written in a time far-off, and that the original creator was a person with a mindset very different from how we think today. It was the only way I could deal with the prejudiced depiction of women, who often come across as fickle and deceitful, especially in stories like ‘The Parrot and the Myna’. Tempted as I was to change the story completely around, I decided not to—so as to give you a glimpse of the attitude towards women in ancient India. You will also notice that most of the characters are kings and queens, princes and princesses, Brahmins, aristocrats and rich merchants. This again reflects the caste and class values of the time. So, dear reader, keep that in mind while reading these stories.