by Sivadasa
The king, hearing her words was transported with joy. He ordered a second celebration to be held in the city. As the festivities commenced, the minister, Prajnakośa, died, broken-hearted.
Having related this tale, the genie asked the king a question: ‘Tell me, O king,’ he said. ‘Why did the minister die the moment the festivities in the capital commenced?’
King Vikramasena promptly replied, reciting these lines:
‘A man of wholly virtuous conduct,
proficient in all the fields of knowledge,
long-suffering, having conquered anger;
a man contented and persevering,
one self-restrained, a liberal donor;
a philosopher, illustrious;
a speaker of truth and self-possessed;
a man with a well-ordered mind,
one who acts above all
without a trace of self-interest:
‘To such a minister, a king ought to be beholden, always.’ And the king continued:
‘The minister, Prajnakośa reflected: “Where a king is totally devoted, heart and mind, to his queen, and takes no thought for his kingdom, the subjects are helpless, orphaned; and the realm itself goes to rack and ruin. As the saying goes:
Pitiful is a man unlettered,
pitiful is conjugal love without offspring,
pitiful are subjects unsupported,
pitiful too a realm anarchical.”
‘With these thoughts the minister died.’
Having heard this, the genie was gone.
Thus ends the eleventh tale in the Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie composed by Śivadāsa.
TALE 12:
Of the Royal Priest Who Lost All
Having bowed in reverence to Sarasvatī,
The Word, rising from the Ocean of Nectar,
wreathed in garlands of billowing waves,
I here arrange this tale.
Once more the king went back to that same śinśipā tree and hauled down the corpse. As he settled it on his shoulders and started walking, the corpse commenced its storytelling. The genie began:
There is a city named Ćūdāpura, ruled by a king named Ćūdāmani. The Royal Priest was one Harisvāmi, son of Devasvāmi. In looks the Royal Priest was as handsome as Love, the dolphin-bannered god; in learning he was another Brhaspati, Preceptor of the Gods; in wealth he was Vaiśravana, the Lord of Riches himself. He wedded the daughter of a certain Brāhmana. She was as beautiful as one of the daughters of the gods and her name was Lāvanyavatī, the maiden with the loveliness of lustrous pearls. They loved each other deeply.
Once, the couple were sleeping on the terrace of their mansion on a summer night. Seeing Lāvanyavatī sleeping naked, some Vidyādhara or other flying in the sky became enamoured of her beauty and swooping down, he picked her up in his arms and took her to his own palace in his aerial chariot.
When Harisvāmi awakened from sleep and sat up, he could not find his beloved wife. ‘Where is she? Who has taken her away?’ With such thoughts seething in his mind, Harisvāmi went searching in the entire city, but there was no trace of his wife. He returned to his mansion. He gazed on the empty bed, grieving and lamenting. ‘O, my darling! O, faithful wife! My heart’s beloved, dear as life to me! Abandoning me, where have you fled? Speak to me! Reply me!’ Lamenting in this manner he fell down.
‘Go, go, gentle breeze
where my beloved is,
caress her, then come, caress me.
breathing that air, I shall live
until I see her again.’
Having lamented like this, Harisvāmi turned his mind to something else, the renunciation of the world.
For many, for the most part,
there is only one of two ways:
Fine garments,
or the holy man’s patched old gown;
a girl in hand, young and blooming,
or, prayer-beads by Gangā’s waters rippling.
‘What use is this vain and profitless life of mine. Shall I therefore resort to a sacred ford, a place of pilgrimage and starve to death? Or shall I undertake austere penances?’ thought Harisvāmi.
Having come to a decision, he put on the dress of an ascetic and left his home. As he was walking along, at noon, he reached some city or other. Making a bowl of palāśa leaves he went begging for alms. He entered the house of a certain Brāhmaṇa and called out: ‘Give me alms.’
Oh! What a sorry turn-about!
Once, the two syllables, ‘nā-sti,’ ‘nā-sti,’
—it is not, it is not—were, learnt and repeated;
now, it has come to saying two other syllables
—‘de-hi,’ ‘de-hi’—‘give me,’ ‘give me.’
A man struck a blow by Fate, does not give,
he does not eat or drink,
disoriented, he gathers things,
one thing after another:
just as a daughter, one’s flesh and blood,
is really meant for another;
just as wealth in the house of a miser
is really hoarded for another.
The Brahmāni, the lady of the house, placed a portion of rice cooked in milk with butter and candied sugar in his leaf-bowl. Accepting the alms, Harisvāmi went to a pool nearby. He placed the leaf-bowl in the shade of a banyan tree there and went to wash his hands and feet in the waters of the pool. In a hollow in that banyan tree lived a large snake and the venom from its jaws dripped into the bowl of rice and the ascetic, Harisvāmi, inadvertently ate the poisoned food. As soon as he had eaten, Harisvāmi went into the Brāhmana lady’s house, shaking in all his limbs and unsteady. He exclaimed: ‘Ha… ha… You have fed me poison, lady; I shall die presently.’
Even as he spoke these words, Harisvāmi dropped dead at the door of the Brāhmana’s house. The master of the house flew into a rage and threw his wife out, crying: ‘Begone! Begone! You, murderess of a Brāhmana!’
Having narrated this tale the genie asked his question: ‘Tell me, O king,’ he said, ‘who bears the guilt of Brāhmanicide?’
King Vikramasena replied: ‘Ah! Who is to blame? Listen, I’ll tell you. A snake bears venom in its jaws according to the laws of nature; therefore no guilt attaches to him, does it? The Brāhmana lady, good-hearted offered the Brāhmana good food, honouring him. So is she guilty of wrongdoing? No. The Brāhmana ascetic ate the poisoned food unawares. Therefore, what can he be guilty of? Nothing. The guilt, therefore lies squarely on the head of the man who spoke so rashly, without thinking, without going into the matter.’
Hearing the king’s answer, the genie went right back to the same śinśipā tree to hang from its branches.
Thus ends the twelfth tale in the Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie set down by śivadāsa.
TALE 13:
Of the Merchant’s Daughter Who Loved a Robber
Salutations to śambhu, the Beneficent,
The Kernel of the Universe,
who maintains the world, who dissolves it,
who is the composer of the Cosmic Drama113
and its stage manager.
Once again the king went back to the śinśipā tree, took down the corpse and as he slung it across his shoulders and started walking, it began its storytelling. The genie began:
There is a city named Ćandradarśanam, ruled by a king whose name was Ranadhīra, steadfast-in-battle. In this city lived the merchant-prince Dharmadhvaja, banner-of-virtue. He had a daughter named Ksobhinī. So beautiful was she that even the sun was enamoured of her. Growing up in beauty in her father’s mansion, Ksobhinī reached womanhood.
At that time robbers roaming around in the city nights, disturbed the peace. The leading citizens got together and petitioned the king: ‘Your Majesty, the city is going to rack and ruin on account of the robbers.’ The king heard their complaint and said, ‘This problem will not continue any longer.’ He detailed chariot after chariot of mounted guards to patrol the city at night. Even so, the city was not free of the menace of robbers
. The citizens were in an uproar. So the king reassured them saying: ‘I shall myself be at the centre of the city today at midnight and all alone I shall move around the streets.’
Later that night, as the king kept a lone watch moving around the centre of the city, he noticed a man. The king called out: ‘Hey, fellow, who are you?’
‘I am a robber’ answered the man; and he in turn questioned the king: ‘And who are you?’
‘I too am a robber,’ was the king’s reply.
The robber observed: ‘Why, this is a piece of good luck, indeed. We two shall plunder the city together tonight.’
Having tramped through the city all night, the king went outside the city walls at daybreak with the robber and entered a well and reached a mansion underground. The robber left the king posted at the door and went inside. Then a servant girl belonging to the robber’s household came out of the mansion and noticing the king standing there, exclaimed: ‘My lord, what brings you here to the home of this evil-hearted man? Go quickly from this place before you meet your death here.’ The king said: ‘But I do not know the way out.’ The girl then showed him the way and the king returned to his capital.
The next day, the king gathered his whole army in full battle and surrounded the well. The robber emerged from the well and slew large numbers of the king’s men: warriors mounted on horses, warriors riding in chariots and foot soldiers as well. Then the king challenged the robber to single combat by wrestling and threw him down with great difficulty and then too only by resorting to a feint. The robber was bound fast with ropes and brought to the city where he was marched right round the city to the beat of drums that heralded an execution, and then led to the place of execution to be impaled. The whole city watched this, with people standing on their terraces and rooftops and murmuring: ‘Look, look, this is the mighty robber who plundered our city.’
The daughter of the merchant prince Dharmadhvaja was also watching. She saw the robber and fell violently in love with him. She went to her father and pleaded: ‘Dear father, go to the palace, offer the king all the wealth you possess and get this robber released from royal custody.’
The merchant was aghast and he spoke severely: ‘Listen, this robber destroyed the royal forces; he plundered the city; how can you think that the king will let him go?’
To this the girl replied: ‘Dear father, if you will not have this man set free, I shall die.’
Hearing these terrible words, the poor merchant went to the palace and petitioned the king: ‘Your Majesty, I offer you one hundred thousand pieces of gold if you will only set this robber free.’
‘What?’ exclaimed the king. ‘This man plundered my capital; he destroyed the flower of my army; and here you are asking me to set him free; how can I do that?’
The merchant prince came back and told his daughter: The king will not set the man free.’
News of this came to the robber’s ears. Learning of what had transpired, he first wept bitterly; then he laughed loudly; then he dropped dead.
When the merchant’s daughter learnt that the robber was dead, she had firewood brought and a funeral pyre built. She sat on the pyre with the body of the robber on her lap and as she gave the order to have the pyre lit, the mother goddess appeared in the sky and spoke: ‘Daughter, I am pleased with your daring. Ask for a boon; whatever your heart desires.’
The girl replied: ‘Great goddess, if you are truly pleased with me, then restore this robber to life and let his body be whole, unblemished. And let him be my husband.’
‘So be it,’ said the goddess. The Elixir of Life was fetched from Pãtãla, the underworld, and the robber restored to life. He married the daughter of the merchant prince and took her down to his mansion in the underworld.
Having narrated this tale, the genie said to the king: ‘Tell me, O king, why did the robber at the moment of death first weep and then laugh? What is the reason for such behaviour?’
King Vikramasena promptly replied: ‘Well, I know why the robber wept; the thought that passed through his mind at that point was this: “How can I ever repay him who was ready to give the king all his wealth to save my life?” He wept for that reason. Why did he then laugh? I know the reason for that too. He was thinking: “Mark! A woman’s whim and her determination! Even at the moment of death, she is in the grip of passion!” As it has been rightly said:
‘A man lacks all distinction, yet, Lakṣmi,
Goddess of Wealth and Beauty comes to him;
A man may be a knave, vile and churlish,
yet, Sarasvatī, Goddess of Art, is his;
women take pleasure in undeserving men;
Indra, the storm-god pours rain on the mountains.
‘Who has seen or heard of these:
cleanliness in a crow, truth in a gambler;
patience in a snake, friendship in a king;
courage in a eunuch,
philosophy in a drunken sot; or,
a woman who is satiated with sex.’
Having heard all this the genie went away.
Thus ends of thirteenth tale in the Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie composed by Śivadāsa.
TALE 14:
Of Mūladeva, Prince of Tricksters
Big-bellied God! Lover of Rich Sweetmeats!114
I pray to you, dispel, O, Lord,
all impediments, at all times,
in all the works I undertake.’
The king went back again to the same spot and took the corpse down from the śinśipā tree. Laying it across his shoulders he started walking when it began its storytelling. ‘Listen, O, king, while I tell you a tale,’ it said. The genie began:
There is a city by the name of Kusumavatī; there King Suvićāra ruled. He had a daughter named Ćandraprabhā. She had just entered womanhood and was ready for marriage.
One day, during the Spring Festival she resorted to the pleasure groves with her companions to gather flowers. And at the very spot where the princess was, a young Brāhmana, named Vāmanasvāmi came and stood. He saw her; she saw him too. Their eyes met and they gazed at each other.
The princess was smitten with love. Burning with love she managed to return to the palace with the utmost difficulty. As for the young Brāhmana, he fell down at that very spot, overwhelmed by love. He was beside himself.
At that moment, along came that pair of confidence tricksters, Mūladeva and Śaśi. Mūladeva noticed the Brāhmana lying on the ground and turning to his friend remarked: ‘Hey, Śaśi, look, look at the state this Brāhmana is in. As it is said:
‘So long as showers of pinpoints of light
from lovely blue-lotus eyes do not alight on him,
wisdom born of learning assuredly arises
in the mind of an intelligent man.
‘So long as arrow-glances fringed by those dark lashes
and released from the fully-drawn bow
of an arching eyebrow of charming women
do not fly, sounding sweet to the ear, straight
to the heart
to wreak havoc on his fortitude;
so long as he keeps to the right way,
a man is master of his senses;
only then does he retain his innate sense of shame;
only then does he keep a firm hold on modesty.’
Mūladeva asked the prostrate Brāhmana: ‘Hey there, sir, Brāhmana, how did you come to such a pitiful pass? Give me the reason.’
Vāmanasvāmi replied with these lines:
‘Sorrows should be shared with someone
who can help to allay those sorrows;
But if a man can’t do a thing to relieve them
why should he ask questions?
‘Why these particular questions? The reasons for my sorrows are many. If you wish to do me a favour, then get me some firewood; what else?’
Mūladeva spoke soothingly to the young man: ‘Well, well, friend Brāhmana; refrain from such rashness. Nevertheless, tell me the reasons for your sorrow and I shall blow it out
of existence.’
Vāmanasvāmi was encouraged to talk about his troubles. ‘It is like this,’ he said. ‘I have fallen deeply in love with the princess; and I have got to have her, whatever it takes. Otherwise, I swear I shall enter the fire.’
Mūladeva said: ‘Look, my friend, what on earth do you want with the princess? I shall give you enormous wealth; and you can have any number of women. Don’t persist in such a stubborn attitude.’
And Vāmanasvāmi answered:
‘No pleasure in this world, not even the Elixir of Life
exceeds the pleasure of making love with a woman,
whereby all the senses instantly realize
altogether, their fullest potential.
‘Of all flavourful things, golden melted butter is the
best;
the oblation is the best part of that melted butter,
offered into the Sacred Fire; of that oblation115
the essence is the attainment of Paradise;
and Woman is the quintessence of Paradise.
‘An incomparable gem is Woman,
far above all precious gems.
For the sake of women do men crave wealth;