Chapter LIX.
Early the next day, Naraváhanadatta, after he had performed his necessary duties, went to his garden by way of amusement. And while he was there, he saw first a blaze of splendour descend from heaven, and after it a company of many Vidyádhara females. And in the middle of those glittering ones, he saw a maiden charming to the eye like a digit of the moon in the middle of the stars, with face like an opening lotus, with rolling eyes like circling bees, with the swimming gait of a swan, diffusing the perfume of a blue lotus, with dimples charming like waves, with waist adorned with a string of pearls, like the presiding goddess of the lovely lake in Cupid’s garden, appearing in bodily form. And the prince, when he saw that charming enamoured creature, a medicine potent to revive the god of love, was disturbed like the sea, when it beholds the orb of the moon. And he approached her, saying to his ministers—“Ah! extraordinary is the variety in producing fair ones that is characteristic of Providence!” And when she looked at him with a sidelong look tender with passion, he asked her—“Who are you, auspicious one, and why have you come here?” When the maiden heard that, she said, “Listen, I will tell you.”
“There is a town of gold on the Himálayas, named Kánchanaśṛinga. In it there lives a king of the Vidyádharas, named Sphaṭikayaśas, who is just, and kind to the wretched, the unprotected, and those who seek his aid. Know that I am his daughter, born to him by the queen Hemaprabhá, in consequence of a boon granted by Gaurí. And I, being the youngest child, and having five brothers, and being dear to my father as his life, kept by his advice propitiating Gaurí with vows and hymns. She, being pleased, bestowed on me all the magic sciences, and deigned to address me thus—‘Thy might in science shall be tenfold that of thy father, and thy husband shall be Naraváhanadatta, the son of the king of Vatsa, the future emperor of the Vidyádharas. After the consort of Śiva had said this, she disappeared, and by her favour I obtained the sciences and gradually grew up. And last night the goddess appeared to me and commanded me—‘To-morrow, my daughter, thou must go and visit thy husband, and thou must return here the same day, for in a month thy father, who has long entertained this intention, will give thee in marriage.’ The goddess, after giving me this command, disappeared, and the night came to an end; so here I am come, your Highness, to pay you a visit. So now I will depart.” Having said this, Śaktiyaśas flew up into the heaven with her attendants, and returned to her father’s city.
But Naraváhanadatta, being eager to marry her, went in disappointed, considering the month as long as a yuga. And Gomukha, seeing that he was despondent, said to him, “Listen, prince, I will tell you a delightful story.”
Story of king Sumanas, the Nisháda maiden and the learned parrot.[1]
In old time there was a city named Kánchanapurí, and in it there lived a great king named Sumanas. He was of extraordinary splendour, and crossing difficult and inaccessible regions, he conquered the fortresses and fastnesses of his foes. Once, as he was sitting in the hall of assembly, the warder said to him—“King, the daughter of the king of the Nishádas, named Muktálatá, is standing outside the door with a parrot in a cage, accompanied by her brother Víraprabha, and wishes to see your Majesty.” The king said “Let her enter,” and, introduced by the warder, the Bhilla maiden entered the enclosure of the king’s hall of assembly. And all there, when they saw her beauty, thought—“This is not a mortal maiden, surely this is some heavenly nymph.” And she bowed before the king and spoke as follows—“King, here is a parrot that knows the four Vedas, called Śástraganja, a poet skilled in all the sciences and in the graceful arts, and I have brought him here to-day by the order of king Maya, so receive him.” With these words she handed over the parrot, and it was brought by the warder near the king, as he had a curiosity to see it, and it recited the following śloka:
“King, this is natural, that the black-faced smoke of thy valour should be continually increased by the windy sighs of the widows of thy enemies, but this is strange, that the strong flame of thy valour blazes in the ten cardinal points all the more fiercely on account of the overflowing of the copious tears wrung from them by the humiliation of defeat.”
When the parrot had recited this śloka, it began to reflect, and said again, “What do you wish to know? tell me from what śástra I shall recite.”
Then the king was much astonished, but his minister said—“I suspect, my lord, this is some ṛishi of ancient days become a parrot on account of a curse, but owing to his piety he remembers his former birth, and so recollects what he formerly read.” When the ministers said this to the king, the king said to the parrot—“I feel curiosity, my good parrot, tell me your story, where is your place of birth? How comes it that in your parrot condition you know the śástras? Who are you?” Then the parrot shed tears and slowly spoke: “The story is sad to tell, O king, but listen, I will tell it in obedience to thy command.”