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

by Sivadasa

  Then Kṣāntiśīla replied: ‘Listen, mighty monarch, I intend to perform the Rite of the Corpse and for this Your Majesty has to serve as my assistant. By performing this rite, I shall attain success and gain magic powers. When I acquire magic powers, Your Majesty will also gain those same powers.’

  To these words, the king replied: ‘Whether or not I gain magic powers is beside the point. You had better go ahead with your arrangements, O Skull-bearer. Only inform me what my part in all this is to be.’

  The skull-bearer then said: ‘By the river Ghargharā,12 somewhat to the north grows a śinśipā tree.13 On one of its upper branches hangs an unmutilated corpse. Take it down, place it across your shoulders, and bring it here quickly in complete silence disregarding what the corpse might say to you; for it will utter many clever, deceitful words. As soon as you arrive here with the corpse, I shall wash that corpse ritually within a magic circle constructed of diverse materials of worship; then I shall offer due worship to the divinities and utter a powerful incantation. By means of this rite, I shall accomplish my purpose and gain magic powers. You too, Your Majesty, will gain whatever you wish for.’

  The king listened and following the anchorite’s directions, came to the river-bank where he saw the corpse as described. The corpse noticed the king and seemed gripped by terrible fear. The moment the king came close and stretched out one hand to grab it, the corpse, inhabited by a genie, jumped up to the topmost branch and hung there.

  King Vikramakesarī laughed heartily and addressed the corpse: ‘Hey fellow! What are you but a corpse? Why are you running away? Now watch; I shall climb this great tree and take you down.’

  The corpse, terribly frightened, kept leaping from branch to branch. But even as the corpse kept leaping from one branch to another, King Vikramāditya caught it while it was still on one branch and held on to it. Then slowly and carefully, the king crept up that great tree and with a single, sharp blow of his sword, severed the corpse from the branch it was clinging to and let it drop to the ground at the foot of the tree.

  Now the corpse pretending to be badly hurt by the fall screeched loudly, making squeaky sounds–kichi-kichi-kichi. Changing its tone to one of plaintive pleading, the corpse now spoke humbly to the king: ‘Listen, O, king; tell me, in what way have I offended you? Here I am, outside the pale of the living world, a miserable thing, unoffending and deserving of pity, merely hanging on to the branch of a solitary tree in an uninhabited wilderness. Why are you harassing me in this way? The bones in my poor frame are broken to bits from the fall.’

  Hearing the corpse speak, the monarch answered: ‘Indeed I am not to blame, O, corpse! This happens to be your fate, it seems. Do not be afraid. However, I have to carry you away, that is certain.’

  With these words, the king climbed down the tree. But even as he stretched his hand out to pick it up, the corpse leapt up to the topmost branch of the tree and hung there. In this way the corpse repeatedly made things difficult for the king. After trying half a dozen times, the king paused to reflect how best to succeed in seizing and holding the corpse. Then, he again climbed up the tree, severed the corpse from the branch it was clinging to with one sharp blow of his sword, felled it to the ground and immediately jumped, falling on top of the corpse. Despite the fact that it started yelling loudly, the king raised the corpse onto his shoulders and started walking briskly towards the place where the anchorite was waiting for him.

  The genie that lived within the corpse now spoke to the king, wishing to break his silence. ‘Well, if you really have to carry me off like this, O King, let us at least pass the time as we go on our way, by telling each other riddling stories, shall we? By doing so, we shall not feel the weariness of the way too greatly. Your Majesty, it is I who will tell the tale. But you had better listen to it carefully, because the story poses a problem and you have to solve it. If you have the solution and knowingly refrain from telling it, you shall be guilty of wrongdoing. However, if in truth you do not have the solution, then no blame will attach to you.’

  With these words, the genie begins his tale.

  TALE 7:

  Of King Praćanḍasinha and his Friend the Skull-bearer

  The genie heard the king’s answer;

  laughing loudly, left his shoulder,

  he went back again in a great hurry

  to hang from that same śinśipā tree.

  As he was being carried along once more, the genie began another tale.

  Your Majesty, (began the genie), a long time ago there was a city named Tāmraliptikā, ruled over by King Praćanḍasinha. There was a skull-bearing anchorite named Sattvaśīla for whom the king bore a deep affection. Once, the king entered a great forest with his friend, to hunt deer. Roaming around in the forest, the king became weary after a while and suffered acute hunger and thirst. To appease the king’s hunger and thirst, Sattvaśīa gave him two marvellous Āmalaki14 fruits to eat. Having eaten the fruit, the king, freed from the torments of hunger and thirst felt refreshed. And by this gift of two Āmalaki fruits, Sattvaśīla became dearer than life itself to his friend the king. King Praćanḍasinha spent his days in great happiness with his friend.

  Sometime later, the king of Sinhala Island, having heard reports of the valour, nobility and high breeding of King Praćanḍasinha decided to give him his daughter, Kuvalayavatī in marriage. So an eminent emissary was sent in a ship laden with rich gifts to Tāmraliptikā to Praćanḍasinha, who, on receiving the emissary, ordered Sattvaśīla to go and inspect Kuvalayavatī’s beauty.

  Sattvaśīla in obedience to the king’s orders went with the emissary from Sinhala Island. On the way, a wild storm blew up and the ship sank. As Sattvaśīla was swimming in the waters of the ocean, he saw rise before him, a jewelled mountain peak. On it there was an image of the goddess Pārvatī. A maiden whose beauty bewitched the three worlds was rising after worshipping the image and was leaving with her companion. Sattvaśīla fell violently in love with her.

  Noticing the companion coming his way, Sattvaśīla spoke to her and conveyed his passion for the beautiful maiden. She listened to him and then said: ‘Worthy gentleman, wait right here, while I go and acquaint my lady of your passion for her.’

  The girl went to her mistress and told her of Sattvaśīla’s infatuation. When the beautiful lady heard of the state of the shipwrecked Sattvaśīla from her companion’s mouth, she laughed gaily and said: ‘Go, my friend, tell the man that he should first bathe in the waters of the pool inside my palace and only then come into my presence.’

  The companion went back to Sattvaśīla and said, ‘First go and bathe in my lady’s pool, O, best of men, and then come to see her.’

  With great joy, Sattvaśīla plunged into the pool and when he arose, found himself in the pool in the pleasure gardens of his friend, King Praćanḍasinha. He sat on the edge of the pool with no other thought but of the beautiful maiden he had glimpsed and sat lamenting.

  Now, King Praćanḍasinha’s men noticed him sitting and pining and lamenting his fate and went at once to inform the king. ‘Your Majesty,’ they stated, ‘that Sattvaśīla whom you ordered to go to Sinhala Island to note and report on the beauty of the princess Kuvalayavatī, is back here beside the pool in the pleasure gardens, weeping.

  Hearing this the king was astonished and went to the pool’s edge to see what the matter was. ‘My friend, what’s all this?’ he asked Sattvaśīla.

  On being questioned, Sattvaśīla blurted out everything from the very beginning. And the king, seized of the matter, joyously took ship, accompanied by his friend and went to the same spot where the marvellous events that Sattvaśīla mentioned had happened. And when he set eyes on that beautiful maiden, King Praćanḍasinha was overwhelmed with love for her. The maiden too fell deeply in love with the king the moment she saw him.

  Though it was hard for her to bring herself to do this, the maiden honoured the king and offered due hospitality to him sending gifts through one of her companions. Then, she s
ent another of her companions to the king disclosing her love for him.

  The king listened to the girl and replied; ‘Go girl, tell your lady to give herself to me; go and tell her that.’ The girl hurried back to her mistress and conveyed King Praćanḍasinha’s demand.

  The lady heard it and ordered her companion: ‘Go, give this message to the king: “I offer myself; let the king do what he pleases with me.”’

  Obeying her mistress’ command, the girl returned to the king’s presence and delivered the message. The king listened and ordered: ‘Let her come to me.’

  Lāvanyavatī,15 accompanied by her companion, came into the king’s presence. Seeing her approaching, the king said: ‘Lāvanyavatī, since you have given yourself to me, now you are mine to give to this man here, Sattvaśīla, my friend, who is dearer to me than life itself. If you disregard my words, it will amount to taking back a gift that you have made; you will then be guilty of grave transgression.’

  To avoid the blame of taking back a gift, the maiden said: ‘Do whatever it is that pleases you.’ And by the king’s command, she gave herself to Sattvaśīla, who spent days of ineffable happiness with her.

  The king now addressed Sattvaśīla: The gift of a pair of Āmalaki fruits has gained you this peerless maiden, Lāvanyavatī; and Your Honour will acquire great merit in the life after.’

  Sattvaśīla answered: ‘Your Majesty! Through your favour, what is there that I might not gain!’

  Then, Lāvanyavatī said once to Sattvaśīla: ‘Listen, my lord; the great monarch Praćanḍasinha tarries here abandoning his kingdom. This is a grave offence. So, I have this to say: “Let us plunge into the magic pool and go home.”’

  ‘Now tell me, O, king! Of these two men, King Praćanḍasinha and Sattvaśīla, who is the nobler, the more magnanimous?’

  ‘Oh! You genie, listen to me,’ answered King Vikramāditya. ‘The nobler man, the more magnanimous, is King Praćanḍasinha, without doubt. Because, he, King Praćandasinha, remembering the gift of two Āmalaki fruits he had once received, made a gift of an enchantingly beautiful girl that he was madly in love with, to his friend Sattvaśīla.’

  Even as the king was speaking, the genie went back to the śinśipā tree to hang there once again.

  This genie so cussed abandoned the king

  who had broken his vow of silence by speaking;

  away the genie fled to dwell on the branch of a tree.

  Once more the king walked back uncomplainingly

  even to the foot of that same śinśipā tree

  that grew on Ghargarā’s farther bank, solitary.

  The Lord of the Earth, lost in wonder,

  seized once more that sly, powerful creature

  and slung him right over his shoulder.

  King Vikramārka turned round and went on his way

  through the night compact of blinding darkness.

  Thus ends tale seven in the Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie.

  TALE 11:

  Of the Three Flower-like Delicate Queens

  O, king, (began the genie), once, King Dharmadhvaja ruled over the kingdom of Kānćanapura. He had three queens, named Śṛṅgāravatī, Mṛgānkavatī, and Tārāvatī, all three richly blessed with youth and loveliness.

  One day, the king accompanied by Queen Śṛṅgāravatī went to the pavilion standing on the edge of his pleasure pool. As he was making love to her, a water lily placed behind his ear dropped on the queen. Struck by the fall of the lily, the queen turned away and became unconscious. To revive her and dispel this calamity, the king arranged for an ongoing regimen of medical treatment. He gave away vast sums of money to Brāhmanas. As a result of all the merit accruing from the giving of charity, Queen Śṛṅgāravatī was with great difficulty restored to life.

  Then, another day, the king accompanied by Queen Mṛgānkavatī, eager to sport with her, went at once to the jewelled pavilion in the palace; and he made love to her. And Mṛgānkavatī’s whole body became crushed and bruised as it were when moonbeams fell on her. The king became deeply troubled and unhappy over this incident. He set in motion a complete system of medication for her; he gave away vast sums of money to gods and Brāhmanas; he had countless auspicious rites performed and recitation of sacred chants carried out for the well-being of the queen. And finally she managed to regain her health and life.

  Yet another day, the king took Queen Tārāvatī and went there. He sported with her, dallying in love. And at that time, a sound was heard from the far distance, of a servant maid pounding grain. That very moment, the sound of the pestle caused the queen’s whole body to break out into blisters. And the king, having recourse to the same means employed to restore Queen Mṛgānkavatī to good health, managed to restore Tārāvatī to health.

  ‘Now, speak, O, king,’ demanded the genie. Tell me, of these three queens, which one possessed limbs of unimaginable delicacy?’

  ‘Ah, listen, Oh! You genie!’ snapped King Vikramāditya. ‘Surely it is Queen Tārāvatī, for her body broke out in blisters by the mere sound of a pestle in a mortar. The other two queens at least suffered the impact of some object.’

  Even as King Vikramāditya said this, the genie went back to the śinśipā tree to hang on it once more.

  Thus ends tale eleven of the Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie.

  And that genie, carried along once more by the king, told another tale.

  TALE 20:

  Of the Ascetic Who Entered the Corpse of a Brāhmaṇa Youth

  Your Majesty, (began the genie), in the land of the Kaliṅgas there flourished the city of Yajnasthala. And there resided the Brāhmana Yajnasoma. His wife was Somadattā on whom he begat a son named Brahmāsvāmī. Though he had complete mastery over all fields of knowledge, Brahmāsvāmī was cut down by the hand of Fate. The parents, bewailing his death bitterly, picked up his body and accompanied by friends and relatives, took it to the burning grounds to perform the last sacred rites.

  A yogī who made the burning grounds his home, saw the body being brought there of a Brāhmana youth of uncommon beauty and unparalleled learning in all the fields of knowledge, who had met an untimely death. And he cried out loudly in the most pitiful, high-pitched tones and began to dance wildly in frenetic excitement. Then, all of a sudden, he rose up, abandoned his old, shrivelled body and entered the body of the Brāhmana youth. The dead youth at once sat up as if awakening from deep sleep. The joy of his parents knew no bounds. All the friends and relatives gathered there rejoiced. But Brahmāsvāmī, having regained life, gave up all comforts and desires and remained absorbed in yogic meditation.

  ‘Why is it that the yogī, dweller of the burning grounds, cried out wildly and then danced. Tell me the reason, Your Majesty,’ asked the genie.

  ‘Listen then, you, you genie,’ said King Vikramāditya. ‘The ascetic cried out loudly because he had to give up a body that he had possessed for a very long time. Then, seeing that he was giving up an old, shrivelled body for that of the Brāhmaṇa youth in which the finest qualities had found a home, he danced for joy.’

  Even as the king said this, the genie was back again hanging on the sśinśipā tree.

  Thus ends tale twenty in the Five-and-Twenty Tales of the Genie.

  Again brought back and carried along, the genie tells another tale.

  TALE 21:

  Of How Four Merchant Princes Fared With the Courtesan

  Your majesty, (began the genie), in the land to the south there reigned at one time, the great monarch, Vikramabāhu. In his kingdom was situated the fair city of Puskarāvatī where one Nidhipatidatta resided, a prince among merchants and owner of caravans whose wealth surpassed even that of Kubera the Lord of Wealth16 himself. He had four wives whose names were Kāmasenā, Vāsavadattā, Kṣamāvatī, and Ćampāvatī. On these four wives he begot four sons: Ratnadatta, Manidatta, Kumāradatta and Kanakadatta.

  Now the eldest of these, Ratnadatta, studied the Fine Arts. No one in this whole wide world was his equal in t
he field of music, dance and allied arts. The second son, Manidatta, studied the martial arts. No one in this whole wide world could equal his mastery of weapons of different sorts. Kumāradatta studied the liberal arts. No one in this whole wide world had his learning. And Kanakadatta studied the moral sciences. His equal in the knowledge of polity and statecraft and ethics was not to be seen. These four brothers who were endowed with all the finest qualities, who were radiant with beauty that put the god of love in the shade, who ravished the hearts of lovely, young women with their appearance and whose manliness was celebrated over all the known world, lived in great happiness with their wives enjoying all the good things of life. After some time their father departed to the other world. Soon after, by the play of Fate, though all four were one in mind and spirit, they were forced to separate on account of the bickering of their wives. The father’s wealth amounting to crores was divided amicably among the brothers except for one item, three resplendent gems that remained in common, because their father, Nidhipatidatta had previously charged them thus: ‘If at any time you four should separate, then, to which ever among you my dear friend, King Vikramabāhu, awards the gems, he alone will possess them.’

  Recollecting their father’s words, the four brothers proceeded to the king’s court. Seeing his friend’s sons before him, King Vikramabāhu enquired: ‘Ah! You sons of my best friend, what is your purpose in coming to me?’