The Pancatantra

by Visnu Sarma

‘And further:

  (190) If a weak man sets forth with great pride

  against a strong foe,

  like an elephant with broken tusks,

  he beats a hasty retreat.’

  Dim Wit rasped out, ‘And what business is it of yours? Just show me where that imposter is, hiding in his fortress.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ replied the hare. ‘Let His Majesty follow me.’ And he set out leading the way.

  In a little while they came to a well. The hare stopped and addressed Dim Wit; ‘See, my lord: who can stand before Your Majesty’s prowess? Seeing you approaching at a distance, this imposter has lost no time slipping into his fortress. Come: let me show this fellow to you, my lord.’

  At these words, Dim Wit spoke with some impatience: ‘Quick, show him to me quickly, my good friend.’ And the hare pointed to the well. Dim Wit, whom we all know to be a complete idiot, looked down the well and seeing his own reflection in the water, let out a tremendous roar, which, resounding inside the well was magnified and came out at him twice as loud. ‘Oh! What a powerful lion he is!’ exclaimed Dim Wit and leaped headlong into the well, flinging himself on his own reflection; and thus he died.

  The hare bounded back, exultant, to the assembly of animals. With unbounded joy, he apprised them of all that had taken place and the happy outcome of his mission. Profusely congratulated and praised by the grateful animals, the hare lived happily in that forest.

  Wily concluded his tale with: ‘So you see why I say to you: “He who has intelligence, has strength…” and so on.’

  ‘Purely accidental,’ retorted Wary, loftily, ‘What is known as “the crow-palm fruit fallacy.”14 Granted, the hare did succeed in luring the lion to his death, but it is still unwise on the part of a weak person to practise deceit on the high and mighty and hope to get away with it.’

  Wily retorted, ‘Be that as it may: whether a person is powerful or powerless, he still has to take a crack at what he thinks is worth attempting. As the proverb puts it:

  (191) Fortune is surely his who constantly strives;

  it is cowards who wail, ‘O, my fate, it’s my fate.’

  Strike fate a blow; show your manliness

  using whatever strength you have:

  What matter if your efforts fail.

  ‘Another point: the gods themselves befriend those who are ready and persist in their efforts: as the following well illustrates:

  (192) When men are determined, gods come through for them;

  as Viṣṇu, his discus and his divine mount15

  came at the weaver’s call to help him in his fight.

  ‘And also:

  (193) A well-contrived stratagem

  is beyond even Brahmā’s16 ken.

  The weaver assumed Viṣṇu’s guise,

  and lay in the arms of the princess.’

  Wary pricked up his ears and asked, ‘Oh! How did that happen? Can success really follow on a well-devised plan that is carried out cleverly and with determination? Even if it is a deceitful plan?’ And Wily began the tale of The Weaver and Princess Charming.

  In the eastern region known as Gauda, there was a flourishing city called White Lotuses, where lived two friends, a weaver and a chariot-maker. Being master craftsmen in their respective trades, they had amassed so much wealth that they kept no count of their spending. They dressed in the most expensive clothes, fine and richly coloured; adorned themselves with flower garlands of various sorts; chewed scented betel leaves and nuts; and were redolent of the fine perfumes of sparkling camphor, musk and aloes that were wafted around them. Daily, they worked at their trade for three watches and devoted the last watch to their personal care, after which they met every day in the public squares, or in temples and other such places that people resorted to: the theatre, assemblies, friends’ houses where birthday feasts and banquets were held, halls where festivals and other events were being celebrated. They returned home at dusk. And so their days glided by.

  Once, during a great festival, all the citizenry turned out in their finest, dressed in whatever garments and jewels they could afford and sauntered through the city meeting in temples and other public places that people normally resorted to. The two friends, the weaver and the chariot-maker were also out, dressed in beautiful clothes and jewellery. As they walked around, watching the finely-attired and beautifully adorned citizens milling around, they happened to pass by a great mansion, dazzling white. In an upper balcony sat the princess surrounded by her companions. Her twin breasts, firm and budding in the springtime of youth, marked with beauty the space over her heart; her waist was slender, sloping charmingly down to compact hips; her hair, glossy and dark blue like rain clouds, flowed in gentle waves; golden circlets in her ears swayed lightly as if they were made to be swings for Love himself to dally in pleasure; her face was radiant with the delicate loveliness of a lotus freshly opened. Like blessed Sleep holding in her grasp the eyes of the whole world, she appeared as a vision before the two friends who gazed on her.

  As he stood with his eyes riveted on that maiden of incomparable loveliness, the poor weaver was pierced right through his heart and mind by all the five arrows17 of the mind-born god.18 Summoning up all his firmness of mind, he somehow managed not to let his appearance and bearing betray his emotions and returned home, where, he saw only the princess in whichever direction he looked. Breathing out long, hot sighs, the lovesick weaver threw himself on the coverlet spread over the couch and lay there, thinking only of the princess and picturing her before his eyes as he had seen her earlier. And he murmured his longing in verse:

  (194) ‘Where beauty is, there virtues19 dwell,

  so poets say, neither true nor well:

  seated in my heart

  so close, and yet so far,

  formed in every limb of loveliness exquisite,

  my beloved consumes my body.

  ‘Or to see it differently:

  (195) One heart drooping shot through with yearning,

  the other by my beloved abducted,

  yet another sustains my life:

  Say, how many hearts have I then!.

  ‘On the other hand:

  (196) If to the whole world, virtues are the cause

  of only happiness, then why in the world

  does the happy blend of virtues

  in this doe-eyed girl, burn me thus?

  (197) Whoever makes a place his home

  will surely guard it well;

  You live in my heart, my artless charmer!

  Yet you burn it cruelly, unrelenting.

  (198) The coral berry of her lower lip;

  those twin globes, her breasts,

  rising high in the pride of youth;

  her navel’s hollow, and diminutive waist;

  her hair by Nature’s own hand curled:

  all these my mind contemplates;

  and bitter pain through my frame surges,

  all at once: that comes as no surprise:

  but, that the curves of her cheeks

  gleaming with lustre of pearls

  should burn me over and over again—

  Is there any justice in that?

  (199) Wearied after passion’s ardent play

  will I be fortunate ever to rest

  and sleep for the briefest moment

  the sleep that follows love’s celebration—

  my chest on her breasts moist with sandal paste

  and glowing like the globed temples of a tusker

  maddened by spring fever,

  while caged within her arms she holds me fast?

  (200) If it is Destiny’s Will

  that I be slain, are there no other means

  to compass that end

  but this doe-eyed girl?

  (201) If my eyes grow weary gazing out,

  teach these eyes too, O my heart,

  that same magic whereby you see my beloved face to face

  though far away she stays.

  Even her sweet co
mpany sought after,

  is certain to rouse intense anguish for you

  —for you are all alone, my heart—

  Those lost in themselves—they never find happiness;

  blest are they who desire the happiness of others.

  (202) The moon’s pearly lustre, she has stolen;

  but the moon is a dull, cold, clod;

  Her eyes’ glowing loveliness is that of the moon-lotus,

  and that is not unpardonable, I guess;

  that sportive gait an exuberant elephant displays—

  the poor beast does not know, it is his no more:

  From me, the slender beauty has carried away,

  my heart, knowing—the more to marvel in that!

  (203) She appears everywhere; on the earth,

  in the sky; in the far corners of space.

  I’ll call her to mind with my life’s last breath;

  the lissom maid pervades my universe.

  (204) All states of mind are transitory, Buddha claimed,

  O what an untrue statement that!

  Thinking perpetually upon my love,

  the moments of my life are an eternity.’

  Bitterly lamenting his fate in this manner, the weaver with his thoughts and feelings in a mad whirl, passed the night with great difficulty. The next day, at the customary hour, the chariot-maker, elegantly dressed, came to the weaver’s house. What does he see but his friend sprawled on his unmade bed, breathing out long, burning sighs, his cheeks pale and tears trickling down. Seeing him in that state, the chariot-maker exclaimed, ‘Oh! My friend! What is the matter with you? You are in such a state.’ But the weaver, though his friend pressed him repeatedly to disclose what had gone wrong, would not speak out of embarrassment. Then the chariot-maker, in a fit of desperation, spoke this verse:

  (205) ‘He is no friend whose anger you fear;

  nor is he a friend on whose words you hang

  for fear you know not where you stand;

  he is a friend whom you can trust,

  as you can trust your mother;

  what are others but mere acquaintances.’

  Then the chariot-maker after feeling his friend’s heart and other vital spots with a skilled hand, said, ‘My friend; this is no ordinary fever that has brought you to this state; it is love’s fever, I think.’

  His friend’s comment provided the weaver the opportunity to speak. He sat up and recited this verse:

  (206) ‘The man who discloses his grief

  to a faithful wife, a loyal servant

  a sincere friend, or sensitive master,

  is bound to find relief.’

  Having said this, the weaver recounted his whole, sad tale, in detail, from the moment he had set eyes on the princess.

  The chariot-maker fell into deep thought; and then he asked his friend, ‘Are you not afraid of transgressing the Law? You are an artisan, belonging to the class of traders and merchants—those who carry on business; the king belongs to the class of warriors, those who are rulers and administrators of the kingdom.’

  The weaver replied immediately; ‘The Law allows a warrior a third wife, as you well know. Who knows if the princess is not the daughter of a lady of my class, belonging to the business community. All I know is that I am head over heels in love with her. How well the poet20 has expressed it:

  (207) I have no doubt that by the Law, a warrior’s bride

  she can rightly be, for my noble heart yearns deeply for her,

  when in doubt, the heart’s truest prompting is

  to the virtuous, unassailable authority.’

  Realizing that nothing could change his friend’s mind, the chariot-maker, who was in a quandary, remarked, ‘My dear friend, what is to be done?’ To which the weaver replied, ‘How should I know? Because you are my friend, I have told you everything.’ And he fell silent.

  At last the chariot-maker said, ‘Get up, my dear friend; have a bath; and give up this hopeless despondence. I shall think of some way of helping you, so that you will enjoy the delights of love with the princess.’

  With his hopes revived by his friend’s promise, the weaver now rose and went about the normal routine of his life. The following day, the chariot-maker returned, bearing a mechanical contraption fashioned like a bird; like the golden eagle that was the Lord Viṣṇu’s mount. It was made of wood and gaily painted in different colours and had cleverly devised pegs to operate it in an unusually novel manner. He set it down and explained its working to the weaver.

  ‘Look, my friend, here is this mechanical bird that I have constructed for you. See how it works; if you push these wooden pegs in, it will rise and fly wherever you wish to go. Then if you retract the pegs, the flying machine will begin to descend wherever you wish to dismount. Now, this very night when all the world is asleep you are going to use it. After you have attended to your bath and other preparations to get ready, I shall make use of my skill and knowledge to dress and adorn you in the guise of Lord Viṣṇu Himself. You will then mount this bird to fly to the palace and bring it down on the terrace adjoining the princess’ own private apartment. Once there you may make whatever arrangements you wish with the princess. I have already ascertained that she sleeps on the terrace, alone.’

  Having instructed his friend, the chariot-maker left. The weaver passed the remaining hours of the day in a hundred fond imaginings. In the evening, he bathed, burnt incense whose smoke perfumed his whole body, dusted himself all over with fine sandalwood powder; rubbed his limbs with delicately scented creams; made his breath sweet and fragrant by chewing betel leaves and scented nuts; sprinkled flower fragrances on himself; and put on richly-dyed and perfumed silken garments with his friend’s help. A diadem and other fine jewels and garlands of fragrant flowers completed the weaver’s costume as Viṣṇu.

  Meanwhile, the princess lay on her bed, alone with her thoughts, gazing up at the moon that drenched the terrace with its cool, ambrosial rays. Thoughts of love flitted lightheartedly through her mind. Suddenly, she saw the form of Lord Viṣṇu mounted on the divine eagle in the sky; the bird alighted on the terrace and the godlike form stepped out. The princess gazed on that form for an instant and then jumped up from her bed in a flurry; she fell at the feet of the divine personage, worshipped him and spoke in low, reverent tones, ‘For what purpose am I graciously favoured by this divine vision, Supreme Lord? What service is required of me? Command me, Lord.’

  Replying to the princess, the weaver spoke in sonorous, measured tones and with infinite tenderness, ‘Gracious Lady! It is you who have brought me here.’

  ‘Lord, what am I but a poor mortal maiden?’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, no, no,’ replied the god, ‘No mere mortal, my lady, but my true, divine consort, banished to earth by a dire curse. I have protected you until this day from all contact with a mortal man. Tonight, I shall wed you by the Gandharva21 mode of marriage.’

  Reflecting that this was a happy event far beyond her wildest dreams, the princess assented. ‘Yes, Lord,’ she whispered; and they became man and wife; the marriage was consummated.

  The days flew by in paradisal bliss as the couple enjoyed all the raptures and delights of love; and their love grew fuller and richer day by day. And everyday before the night had run its full course, the weaver would rise, mount the bird, saying, ‘My love, I have to return to the Realms of Light, to Vaikuṇf̣ṭa.’ Bidding her a fond farewell, he would return home before daybreak and quickly slip into his house without being seen.

  Then it happened that one day, the palace-guards in charge of the apartments of the princess noticed that she was seeing a man. Fearing for the safety of their lives if they ignored this fact, they went in great trepidation to the king. ‘Great lord; assure us first of the safety of our persons and lives, for we have something of the utmost importance to convey to His Majesty.’ When the king promised, ‘Yes, you have my sworn word,’ they began: ‘Your Majesty, even though we have done our utmost to protect our gracious Pr
incess Charming and to ensure that no man enters her apartments, we have noticed that the princess appears to be in love and to be meeting a lover. This is a matter beyond our control and competence. His Majesty has to decide what to do.’

  The king was astounded; his mind was in a welter of anxious thoughts; and he reflected thus:

  (208) ‘A daughter is born’ — start of a world of worries:

  ‘Find the fittest bridegroom’ — the biggest problem of all:

  Once wed, will she be happy, or will she weep:

  ‘Father of a girl!’ — just another name for grief.

  ‘Moreover:

  (209) No sooner born than her mother’s heart she steals;

  growing up she brings pain to loving hearts:

  given in marriage, she can still bring dishonour:

  Daughters! unavoidable disasters!

  ‘Similarly:

  (210) Having brought into the world his creation,

  like a daughter, the poet too agonizes.

  Will it be read and judged by the worthy?

  Will it give them pleasure? And be free of faults?’

  Revolving such distressing thoughts in his mind, the king went to the queen and addressed her. ‘My lady, pray listen carefully to what the attendants of the Royal Household have to report. Think who this man might be who has committed a treacherous act and incurred the wrath of the God of Death Himself.’

  When the queen had heard what the attendants attached to the apartments of the princess said they had noted, she was extremely agitated; hastening to her daughter’s private apartments, she looked carefully at the princess. Her daughter’s lips were bruised by having been kissed with great ardour; there were nail-scratches present on her body.22 The queen burst out in anger, ‘You wicked girl! You spoiler of family honour! What’s this that you have done? You have permitted the violation of your maidenly honour? Who is this man who has dared to come near you? Who has seen Death face to face, to do such a thing? Speak and tell me the whole truth.’

  And the princess overwhelmed by shame bent her head and lowering her eyes, keeping them fixed on the floor, slowly retailed the recent events in her life: the coming of Lord Viṣṇu mounted on the celestial bird; his courting of her, and her marriage.