by Sivadasa
Better milk than a hundred cows;
better one grain than a hundred;
better a prayer-seat than lofty mansions;
What remain are the highest glories beyond.
‘Therefore, I shall not be guilty of the heinous crime of taking life. The great Yudhisthira was stricken by remorse after he had slain his kinsmen.’
‘Well, if that is how you feel, then the only thing to be done is to hand over our kingdom to our kinsmen and retire to the great forests to perform penance,’ observed Jīmūtavāhana.
Having taken their decision, father and son handed over the kingdom to their kinsmen and set out for the Malaya Mountains.117 They selected a spot on the mountains, built a little thatched hut and lived there. There, Jīmūtavāhana met one Madhura, son of an ascetic who became his close friend and the two of them roamed all over the Malaya Mountains.
One day as he was roaming around on the mountains, Jīmūtavāhana came upon a shrine of the goddess. He saw a maiden seated before the goddess, playing on a lute. Her eyes fell upon Jīmūtavāhana. They fell instantly in love. With great difficultly, the maiden managed to tear herself away from that spot to return home, where’ she sat pining for the young man she had seen. Jīmūtavāhana also returned to his hut.
The next day, the maiden made it a point to visit the same shrine and worship the White Goddess.118 Jīmūtavāhana also decided to visit that shrine at the same time. He asked the maiden’s companion: ‘Lady, whose daughter is she?’
The companion replied: ‘She is the Princess Malayavati, daughter of King Malayaketu.’ And in return she asked Jīmūtavāhana ‘And pray who may you be, Sir, who seem to be the incarnation of Manmatha, God of Love? Where are you from?’
There is a king of the Vidyādharas, Jīmūtaketu by name; I am his son; my name is Jīmūtavāhana,’ replied the young prince; and added: ‘Thrown out of power, the two of us, father and son have come here.’
The companion passed on this information to Malayavatī. Getting acquainted with each other, the two young people found themselves extremely tormented by the pain of love.
Princess Malayavatī now prayed earnestly to the White Goddess: ‘Glorious Goddess! If I cannot have Jīmūtavāhana for my wedded husband, I shall slip a noose round my neck and hang myself.’ And she set about making a noose to slip round her neck right there in the presence of the goddess, when the divine voice rang out: ‘Dear daughter, I am well pleased with you; Jīmūtavāhana will be your husband; rest assured.’
All this time, Jīmūtavāhana had remained concealed and seen and heard what went oh. He went back to the little hermitage he and his father had made, burning with love. The princess returned to the palace in a state of uncertainty, greatly tormented by love’s wounding darts. She confided what had taken place in the shrine to her companion, who went immediately to the queen and reported everything. The queen decided to have a talk with King Malayaketu; she began: ‘My lord, our daughter has blossomed into youthful womanhood and is ready for marriage. Yet, His Majesty has not thought of looking for a suitable husband for her.’
The queen’s words started the king thinking: ‘To whom should I offer my daughter in marriage?’
At that very moment, the Crown Prince, Mitrāvasu came in and spoke to his father: ‘Your Majesty, I have some news. I have learnt that Jīmūtaketu, King of the Vidyàdharas is here with his son, Jīmūtavāhana. It seems that they have been thrown out of their kingdom.’
Hearing the news his son had brought him, an idea struck the king. He said: ‘think it is a good idea to wed the princess to this Jīmūtavāhana.’
With these words he entrusted his son with an important mission. ‘Look, my son, you better go to the hermitage of King Jīmūtaketu and bring Jīmūtavāhana here to us.’
Commanded by his royal father, Prince Mitrāvasu went at once to the hermitage and requested an audience with King Jīmūtaketu. He formally offered the hand of his sister to Prince Jīmūtavāhana. The offer accepted, Jīmūtavāhana came to King Malayaketu’s court and on an auspicious date his marriage to Princess Malayavatī was duly celebrated. After the wedding ceremonies, Jīmūtavāhana accompanied by his brother-in-law, Mitrāvasu, brought his bride to his father’s hermitage. There Malayavatī bowed low before her parents-in-law.
Sometime later, Jīmūtavāhana went early one morning with his brother-in-law, Mitrāvasu, to walk on the Malaya Mountains. At a particular spot, they saw a large, white mound. Jīmūtavāhana prompted by curiosity, asked his brother-in-law; ‘Look, look, what is this?’
‘Ah! This? This is a heap of serpent-bones. The Serpent Youths come up from their kingdom in the Underworld and Garuda, the Golden Eagle who is the’ King of Birds, eats them. He has eaten tens of thousands of these Serpent Youths; these are their bones that you see,’ answered his brother-in-law.
Jīmūtavāhana listened attentively. Then he said to his brother-in-law: ‘Listen, dear Mitrāvasu, why don’t you go home and have your meal. I feel rather apprehensive that the hour of my morning prayers might soon pass.’
The brother-in-law started towards his palace; and Jīmūtavāhana walked onwards. As he walked, he heard the sound of an old woman weeping and wailing: ‘O, my son; alas, my son.’
Jīmūtavāhana followed the sound and came upon the sorrowing lady. He questioned her. ‘Listen, mother, why are you wailing like this?’
‘Today is the day of death for my son Śankhaćūda. Garuda will come here to eat him up; I weep out of grief for my son,’ she replied.
Jīmūtavāhana promptly replied, consoling her: ‘Listen, Mother, don’t weep. Today I shall offer myself in your son’s place as food for Garuda and thereby protect your son’s life.’
The mother said in dismay: ‘No, no, my son, don’t do this. I look upon you as more precious than my son Śankhćūda.’ At this moment, Śankhćūda arrived on the scene; he spoke these lines:
‘Insignificant beings such as myself
rise and then fall away;
how often is a man like you born
who girds himself to protect others!
‘To wish upon someone else what is hostile to one’s own self! Oh! No! That is not the way of men of good conduct.’
Then Jīmūtavāhana countered these arguments:
‘All creatures protect their own lives
by making use of the lives of others;
there is one alone who saves another life,
giving up his own: I, Jīmūtavāhana.
‘I have given my word; it cannot be gainsaid. Now go back whence you came.’
Hearing this Śankhaćūda went to worship the Lord and pray. And Jīmūtavāhana climbed the rock of slaughter and lay face down after laying aside his weapons. He saw Garuda come swooping down from the sky:
The son of Tarksa, the Primal Being,
he had vowed to annihilate the Snakes;
a bird of truly terrifying prowess;
his feet rested firmly in the Underworld,
his wings spanned all space, covering them;
in his belly the seven celestial planes,
in his throat, Brahmā’s Egg, the Cosmos;
his two eyes were the Sun and Moon;
the point of his beak ten leagues in extent,
was open ready to seize; his whole form
awe-inspiring beyond all imagining;
Lord of the World of Birds, Tarksa’s son
pecked him with the point of his beak.
Pecking a second time, he seized Jīmūtavāhana in his beak and flew up into the sky. As Garuda flew around wheeling in midair, eating him, a jewel marked with Jīmūtavāhana’s name, and dripping with his life-blood fell on Malayavati’s lap. One look at that jewel all bloodied, and Malayavati swooned away. In a moment, regaining consciousness, she ran to her parents and showed them this jewel belonging to her husband.
Her parents saw the jewel and crying out aloud they rushed to the rock of slaughter. Malayavatī swiftly followed them to the same spot. Śankhaćūda
also arrived there that very moment. He shouted, ‘Set him free, set him free, O, Garuda. He is not your food; I am the Snake Youth, Śankhaćūda; I am your food.’
Garuda heard him and was overcome by grave doubts. ‘What! Am I eating some Brāhmana? Or some warrior-prince? Alas! What evil have I done?’ He was dismayed.
Garuda now questioned Jīmūtavāhana: ‘Listen, man, who are you? Why were you stretched out on the rock of slaughter?’
Jīmūtavāhana retorted: ‘Do what you have to do; why do you bother over other matters?’
Garuda then exclaimed: ‘O, high-souled man! Tell me, why are you sacrificing your life for another?’
Jīmūtavāhana replied with these lines:
‘They provide shade to others
while they themselves stand in the sun;
they bear fruit for others,
those mighty trees, magnanimous.
‘Rivers do not drink their own waters;
trees do not eat their own sweet fruit;
the raincloud does not pour its water for its own good;
to help others is the glory of the noble.
‘Ground and ground again repeatedly,
sandalwood has a lovely fragrance;
chopped and chipped again repeatedly,
the sugar cane’s stem is sweet to taste;
heated and heated again repeatedly,
gold gains a richer hue;
even as life draws to a close,
noble natures endure no change.
‘Whether they are censured or praised,
by scholars well-versed in ethics;
whether Fortune stays with them
or leaves as she pleases;
whether death comes today
or in the years to come,
the steps of men of fortitude never stray off the Right Way.
‘They pay no need to others’ possessions
but set their mind on their own actions;
evil are those seduced from right conduct,
saintly are the noblest of men.
‘Dumb beasts live only to fill their bellies;
he truly lives who lives for others;
he deserves the highest praise.
‘He who does not use his body
in the service of other beings,
why does he serve his own body,
day after day, the wretched fool!
What use is a well-fed body, strong and lasting long,
if a man does not help all living things?
though living, he is but a hollow man.
A life spent in the service of others,
that life is indeed true living.
Even a crow fills its belly,
but what kind of a life is that!
He who gives up his life for cows and Brāhmanas,
for his friends or for his master,
or in the service of women,
his is Final Bliss, whole and unalloyed.’
Then, Jīmūtavāhana fainted away from the wounds caused by Garuda’s pecking. At that moment, his wife Malayavati who had found the bloodied ornament with her husband’s name on it arrived there with her family and companions, overwhelmed by sorrow. Seeing her husband lying unconscious, she called out to him piteously: ‘Ha! Lord of my life! Husband! Ah! Noble soul who helps others! Ah! How magnanimous you are beyond compare! Ha! Lord dear to your people! Have pity on me! Reply me!’
Garuda, hearing the piteous lament of the princess, went down at once to the underworld to fetch the Elixir of Life and anointed Jīmūtavāhana’s entire body with it. And the prince was healed and made whole.
Then Garuda said to Jīmūtavāhana: ‘O, Soul of Magnanimity! I am amazed and pleased with your steadfast courage. Ask for a boon.’
And Jīmūtavāhana answered: ‘Listen, Glorious Bird, if you are in fact pleased with me, then grant me this: that from this day on you shall never kill and eat the Snakes; and that you will now restore to life all those whom you have in the past killed and eaten.’
That is a promise,’ said Garuḍa. With these words, Garuḍa descended once again to the underworld, fetched more of the Elixir of Life and brought every one of the dead snakes back to life. And he spoke again to the prince: ‘Ah! Jīmūtavāhana! Listen to me; by my benediction, you shall rule as the Paramount Sovereign on this earth.’
Having bestowed his benediction on the prince, Garuda flew up to his own abode. Śankhaćūda also returned to his own dwelling. Jīmūtavāhana now returned to the hermitage with his parents and his wife.
The Vidyādhara kinsmen of Jīmūtavāhana and his father having heard of Garuda’s benediction and afraid of the wrath of the fabulous bird, came there. Falling at the feet of the prince they gave him back his kingdom.
Having narrated this tale, the genie said: ‘Tell me, O, King; as between Jīmūtavāhana and Śankhaćūda, who is the more magnanimous?’
‘Why, Śankhaćūda, to be sure; his magnanimity is greater,’ answered King Vikramasena.
‘Why do you say that?’ questioned the genie.
The king replied: ‘Because, having once left the rock of slaughter, he returned. Then he stopped Garuda from eating the prince, saying: ‘Eat me’; by that, he forbade right at the start itself the death of another person in his place.’
The genie observed: ‘You think so? Really? And what about the man who was ready to sacrifice his life for another? How can you declare that he is not the more magnanimous of the two? Answer me that.’
The king answered: ‘In birth after birth into the world, it was always the practice119 of Jīmūtavāhana to sacrifice his own life to save another’s. That kind of sacrifice never troubled him; nor caused him harm. Moreover:
‘Whoever observes the practice of giving,
of studying the sacred texts, of penance
by the repeated recollection
of such acts, will again perform the same act.
‘Therefore, I declare that Śankhaćūda’s magnanimity is the greater.’
Having heard this, the genie returned once again to that same spot, to hang from the branches of the śinśipā tree.
Thus ends the fifteenth tale in the Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie set down by Śivadāsa.
TALE 16:
Of Unmādinī’s Fatal Beauty
I bow to the Luminous One, Sarasvatī120
worshipped by a multitude of poets; she
who dwells in the mine of gems, the ocean,
she who enjoys continually the fullness
of the nine moods and sentiments121 of Poesy.
Once again the king returned to that same spot to take the corpse down from the śinśā tree; and as he set out on the road back it started its storytelling. Then the genie said to the king: ‘Listen, O, king; I shall tell you a tale.’
There is a fair city known as Vijayapuram. Its ruler was King Dharmaśīla. There a merchant prince named Ratnadatta lived. He had a daughter who was, called Unmādinī or the enchantress, because she bewitched all who set eyes on her with her loveliness. Now, Unmādinī was in the first flush of youth ready to be given in marriage.
The merchant prince went to the king and said: ‘Your Majesty, I have in my home a peerless gem of a maiden, my daughter. If it pleases His Majesty, he may accept her as his bride; if not I shall wed her to some other person.’
When the king heard this, he sent for certain celebrated men who were experts in judging the marks of beauty in women and dispatched them to judge the beauty of the merchant’s daughter. When they arrived at the merchant’s mansion and saw the maiden they were all enraptured with her beauty; for she had all the marks of beauty:
Large and lustrous expansive eyes,
a face glowing with the splendour of the moon;
the ears, what were they but the snares of Love!
Cheeks radiant as campaka blossoms;
the nose shaped like the pretty sesamum flower,
twin arching eyebrows bent like Love’s own bow;
teeth that da
zzled like brilliant diamonds,
a pair of lips red as richest coral;
gathered tresses gorgeous as the peacock’s train;
the space of the throat charming as a conch
shaped with its three graceful curves;
arms straight and graceful as Mādhavī122 vines;
hands glowing like rose-red lotuses
with palms branching into slender fingers
tapering to rosy fingernails; breasts
high, firm, well-rounded like shapely jars,
distinct, sweet as springtime and nestling close
like a pair of loving Ćakravāka123 birds;
the smallest waist, unsurpassed, easily clasped
within the circle of the fingers of one hand;
and, the charm of the navel, a perfect circle,
deep as a pool—Ah! Who has words to describe its charm—
bounded by three delicate folds of skin:
into which descends the fine line of down;
the belly’s soft curve; ah! What artless grace!
the discs of the buttocks, those lovely planes
formed to be the seat of the god of love;
smooth thighs, tapered like a pair of plantain stems
that induce the longings of love in recollection;
the joints, sinews and veins, just right, supple,
possessing the resilient grace of young jasmine vines;
the feet, a pair of rose-pink lotuses,
well-matched, finely arched and equally placed; their rosy toenails well-marked with pale half moons: