The Five and Twenty Tales of the Genie (Penguin Classics)

by Sivadasa

  In contest or quarrel,

  at the start of a journey

  or cultivation of lands,

  and at entry into any place,

  remember Lord Vināyaka

  think upon him with total devotion.

  Once again, King Vikramāditya took the corpse down from theŚinśipā tree, slung it across his shoulders and started walking. As he went along, the corpse began its storytelling. The genie began:

  There is a fair city named Ćampakā, ruled over by King Campakeśvara. His queen was named Suloćanā and they had a daughter named Tribhuvanasundarī who was in the first flush of youth, ready for marriage.

  Soft-spoken and steadfast,

  smiling whenever she spoke,

  never harsh or cruel,

  attentive to the words of her elders,

  modest and decorous;

  blessed with natural beauty, sweetness and charm,

  possessing dignity and courage,

  lettered and accomplished, she was

  the best among beautiful young women.

  All those who were kings or princes on the face of the earth, wrote the praises of the princess on strips of silk cloth and presented them to her. Her father, the king, asked her: ‘Dear daughter, does any one of these suitors please you?’

  ‘No, dear father. Among all these suitors, I cannot find a single one who pleases me,’ replied the princess.

  ‘In that case, you should have a svayamvara,90 our traditional ceremony of self choice for princesses when out of many kings and princes gathered in an open assembly, a princess makes her choice of a husband,’ suggested the king.

  ‘No, I will not have a svayamvara,’ said the princess decisively. ‘Choose for me a husband who has these three qualities, dear father: beauty, strength and learning.’

  Four suitors from different countries came to Ćampakā, hearing about the resolve of the princess and the conditions she had laid down for a suitable husband for herself. They were brought into the Hall of Audience. To each of them, the king addressed this question. Tell us of your virtues and qualifications.’

  One of the suitors said: ‘In one single day, I can take in hand91 five villages. One I shall give to Brāhmaṇas, one I shall dedicate to the gods, a third one I shall give to my kinsfolk and a fourth to my wives; the fifth I shall sell and use the proceeds for my food and flowers, paan and so on. In fighting battles no man can come remotely close to me. As for personal appearance, you see that for yourself.’

  The second suitor now spoke: ‘I understand the language of all creatures, of those that live on land or in the waters. In strength no man can come remotely close to me. As for my personal appearance, it is here before your eyes to see.’

  The third suitor made his claim: ‘I am well-versed in all the sciences; in strength no man can come remotely close to me. My personal appearance is for all to see.’

  Finally, the fourth suitor spoke: ‘I roam sword in hand; in battles I am invincible. My personal appearance is for the world to see.’

  The king listened carefully to all their claims; he was lost in thought, perplexed. ‘To whom shall I marry my daughter? All four of them possess the three qualities that she specified.’ The king turned to his daughter and asked her tenderly: ‘Dear daughter, whose wife would you like to be?’ The princess remained silent out of bashfulness.

  Having related this tale, the genie said: ‘Tell me, O, king, whose wife should the princess be?’

  King Vikramasena replied: ‘She ought to marry the Ksatriya,92 because he would be of the same warrior-class as herself.’ For it is said:

  A wise man marries a high born maiden,

  even one ill-favoured, of his own class;

  not a woman of a lower class

  however beautiful she might be

  marriages are right between equals.

  But the genie demurred: ‘But the suitors are all of equal merit; why do you say that the princess should be the bride of the Ksatriya?’

  King Vikramasena explained: ‘The suitor who would settle five villages in a day, is a Śudra; he who knew the speech of all living things is a Vaiśya; the third suitor, the learned scholar is a Brāhmana. Therefore the Ksatriya, the warrior, ought to marry the princess.’

  Hearing the king’s answer, the genie got away, back to the śinśipā tree to hang once again from its branches.

  Thus ends the seventh tale of the Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie, set down by Śivadāsa.

  TALE 8:

  Of King Gunādhipa’s Gratitude

  I bow to Bhāratī,93 Word Incarnate,

  who holds the lute and the book in her hands;

  by her infinite grace is gained

  unfailing eloquence of utterance.

  Once again the king returned to the śinśipā tree, took the corpse down, laid it across his shoulders and started on his way back, when the corpse began once more its storytelling. The genie began:

  There is a fair city named Mālavatī where King Gunādhipa ruled. A princely warrior from some distant land came once to the palace gates seeking employment in the king’s service. Day after day, he walked on the paths of the pleasure gardens attached to the palace, but not once was he able to have a sight of the king. The money he had brought with him was spent during the course of the year during which he waited to see the king; the retainers who had accompanied him went away; he was left alone.

  One day, the king went hunting and rode far out miles and miles. His retinue took another path. And right in the middle of the dense forest, the king found himself all alone. He had lost his way. ‘How am I going to find my way back to the capital?’ he reflected.

  While he was lost in anxious thought, the needy Rajput prince who had come seeking employment, suddenly stood there before the king, bowing low.

  The king asked in surprise: Hey there, brave Rajput, how did you get here?’

  The prince replied: ‘Your Majesty, I came in hot haste following your horse on foot.’

  ‘Why do you appear so weak and dejected?’ asked the king.

  To this question, the prince replied with these verses:

  ‘That we did not obtain our cherished wish,

  is no fault of yours, great lord!

  But the fruit of my own past ill deeds.

  If the owl cannot see in the daylight,

  is that any fault of the sun,

  the god wreathed in golden rays?

  ‘Springtime comes to green the groves of śāla trees:94 But, if the trees do not put forth leaves,

  is spring to blame?

  ‘On the other hand, perhaps the attainment of prosperity is not in the cards for the poor.

  ‘While I was as yet in the womb,

  He who provided the milk, means,

  to sustain my infant years,

  is He asleep? Or dead?

  That He provides me no means of livelihood?

  ‘Good fortune dawns, and all flock to serve the man.

  Once good fortune sets,

  then most of these turn enemy.

  ‘Far, far better is it to drink

  the deadly poison that instantly kills,

  than face the twisted knitting of brows

  of men with enormous wealth.

  ‘Familiarity with young boys,

  laughing for no good reason,

  arguing with women,

  serving despicable masters,

  using rough and rude speech, riding an ass:

  these six things bring a man into disrepute.

  ‘Occupation, wealth and the span of life,

  learning, the time and mode of death as well:

  these five are determined for any man

  while he lies yet in the womb.

  ‘Service in the employ of a good master will in the long run bring its own rewards.’

  The king remarked: ‘Listen, good Rajput, I am famished.’

  ‘Your Majesty, there seems to be no way of getting food anywhere here,’ observed the Rajput. But from somew
here or other he managed to get two ripe Āmalaka fruit95 which he gave to the king to eat. The king ate these and was satisfied.

  ‘Now show me the way back to the capital, good Rajput,’ said the king. And the Rajput guided the king through the forests. The king reached his capital and straightaway took the Rajput into his service and furnished him with fine clothes and jewels.

  On a certain occasion, the Rajput was sent to the coast on business by the king. As he was sailing, he saw in mid ocean, a shrine of the goddess. There he saw a lady who was leaving the shrine after completing her worship of the goddess. He followed her. The lady turned and enquired: ‘Gentleman, why have you come to this place?’

  ‘I am here smitten by passion and wish to enjoy love’s pleasure,’ he answered.

  ‘Well then, bathe in this sacred pool and enter my palace,’ said the lady.

  No sooner had he entered the pool than he found himself

  back in his own city. He went to the king and related all the events in detail. The king then exclaimed: ‘Let me go to that same place and see for myself.’

  The king accompanied by his retainer, the Rajput, travelled to the ocean’s edge and saw the shrine of the goddess. At that moment, the lady arrived at the shrine with her companions. When the lady had worshipped the goddess and was about to return to her palace, she saw the king and with him the retainer she had met before. She fell deeply in love with the handsome king and spoke to him in great tenderness: ‘O, king, I am yours to command. Whatever you ask of me, whether it is proper or improper, I shall do it.’

  ‘Well then, if you will heed my words, lady, then become the wife of this man, my retainer,’ replied the king.

  And the lady answered:. ‘O, king, I am passionately in love with you; how can I become this man’s wife?’

  ‘Remember what you said to me,’ observed the king; ‘You said this, my lady: “I shall do your bidding, even if it happens to be something improper.” If you honour your word, then do my bidding: marry my retainer.’

  She had to accept. Then and there, the two were married according to the Gandharva rites.96 The king, with his retainer then returned to his own kingdom.

  Having related this tale, the goblin asked a question: ‘Tell me, O, king, between these two, the king and his retainer, whom do you consider the nobler man?’

  ‘The retainer,’ replied King Vikramasena.

  The genie demurred: ‘Why do you say this? Why, is not the king more noble when he had the chance to marry a fairy princess but gave her up and handed her over to his retainer as his bride?’ exclaimed the genie.

  ‘No,’ replied the king. ‘He who rendered assistance first, he is the nobler man.’ As it has been said:

  If the noblest among benefactors

  performs a good and noble deed,

  is that something to be applauded?

  But, if someone who has cause to do harm

  performs a good and noble deed

  the virtuous praise him as noble.

  Hearing these words, the genie went back to hang on the same branch as before.

  Thus ends the eighth tale in the Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie set down by Śivadāsa.

  TALE 9:

  Of Madanasenā Who Kept Her Vows

  With supreme devotion having bowed

  to the Muse mounted on a swan

  and obtained Her gracious benediction,

  I now narrate this tale.

  Once again the king returned to the same place and took the corpse down from the śinśipā tree. Having slung it over his shoulders, he set out on the road; the corpse began its storytelling. The genie began:

  There is a great city known as Madanapuram where King Madanavira ruled. In that city lived a merchant prince named Hiranyadatta who had a daughter called Madanasenā. One day, during the Spring Festival, she went with her companions to the great groves in the city, to amuse herself with her favourite sports. As it happened, the young merchant Dharmadatta, son of Somadatta, also came to those groves with his friend. When he saw the lovely Madanasenā, his heart became deeply disturbed with intense emotion. ‘Ah! If only this maiden would become my wife! How fulfilled my life on earth could be!’ he thought.

  The night passed with the greatest difficulty as he lay tormented by not possessing the maiden he had fallen in love with. Next morning, at daybreak he resorted to the very spot in the groves where he had seen her previously. And there she was, alone, all by herself.

  He took her right hand97 and spoke earnestly: ‘If you do not consent to be my wife, I swear I shall give up my life right before your very eyes’. For, as the poet says:

  On your brow blazes this jewel98

  shaped like an arrow’s tip;

  drawing taut the curved bow of your eyebrows,

  I know not, fair maiden, whom you plan to strike.

  O, what unprecedented art is this!

  The archer’s art, of that most glorious Power!

  The god who wildly churns all hearts and minds;

  whose arrows go straight to the heart

  hidden deep within, piercing it;

  but leaves the body whole, without a mark.

  Madanasenā replied: ‘Five days hence, the young merchant, son of the merchant prince, Āmadatta, is to wed me.’

  Dharmadatta now burst out: ‘I shall take you by force.’

  ‘O, no, no, do no such thing; a virgin am I; you will be guilty of a serious offence if you touch me,’ exclaimed Madanasenā.

  ‘Nobly-born men do not force themselves

  on a girl who in modesty

  upholds her family’s honour,

  even if the breath struggles in their throats.’

  To this appeal Dharmadatta replied:

  ‘Why! Were there not beauteous women,

  celestial, lotus-eyed, in the Realms of Light?

  That its ruler, Indra, should seek out and force

  Ahalya, Lady of Penances?

  When Passion’s fire blazes

  in the heart’s little hut of straw,

  who pauses to weigh what is right, and what is not?

  None, not even the wisest of men.’

  ‘Ah! If such be the case, pray wait awhile. On the fifth day from today, my wedding will be celebrated. After the ceremony, I shall come straight to you. Only then shall I enjoy the embraces of love with my wedded husband.’ And Madanasenā swore an oath to this effect.

  When Madanasenā had given him her solemn promise, Dharmadatta released her. She returned to her own residence and he to his.

  On the fifth day after this meeting, Madanasenā’s wedding was duly celebrated. When her husband put his arms round her later that night, she stopped him.

  ‘Why? Is there some reason for your not wanting me?’ asked the bridegroom anxiously.

  ‘Listen carefully to my words,’ she replied. And she disclosed everything that had taken place when she was still an unmarried young girl.

  ‘Well, if this is so, then go to him,’ said the bridegroom.

  As she was on her way to meet Dharmadatta, a robber saw her. The robber was overjoyed seeing this young girl, walking all alone; and he thought to himself: ‘Ah! What a piece of luck! Now I shall grab all her jewels.’ He addressed Madanasenā

  ‘Where, O, where are you going,

  O, lady with beautiful thighs?’

  ‘Where he lives, my heart’s beloved,

  dearer to me than my life.’

  ‘You walk alone, tell me truly,

  sweet maiden, are you not afraid?’

  ‘Not at all, for Madana, Love himself,

  with his feathered arrows, walks beside me.’

  And Madanasenā apprised the robber of the preceding events. The robber let her pass in peace; he told himself: ‘Oh, how could I even think of depriving her of her jewels when she is on her way, beautifully dressed and adorned, to meet her beloved, Dharmadatta, eagerly waiting for her in his bedchamber!’

  When Madanasenā arrived at Dharmadatta’s place, he looke
d at her in wonder and exclaimed:

  ‘Ah! What do I see? Whom do I behold?

  A Yaksinī, genius of the woodland,

  or else a Gandharvī, an aerial nymph,

  one of the band of musicians to the gods?

  A Kinnarī, spirit of woods and hills,

  or Suresvarī, celestial lady?

  A nāga maiden perhaps, a mermaid?

  The daughter of some great sage,

  or Siddha, perfected being

  possessing superhuman powers?

  Are you a nymph who flies by night?

  Or Vidyādharī, a fairy

  who assumes forms and shapes at will?

  Are you an Apsarā, born of the waters

  who dances in the hall of the immortals?

  Or some wondrous creature that walks on earth?

  Or, are you a mortal woman?

  Who you are, gracious lady, I cannot tell,

  or where you come from.’

  To this Madanasenā replied: ‘I am Madanasenā, daughter of the merchant-prince Hiranyadatta, the same girl whom you met once in the depths of the great groves; whom you seized by force; which act brought about the making of a solemn promise by her. I am that girl, now here. Though married, I have come to you. Do with me as it pleases you.’