Chapter XXI.
Victory to the conqueror of obstacles,[1] who marks with a line like the parting of the hair, the principal mountains[2] by the mighty fanning of his ear-flaps, pointing out, as it were, a path of success!
Then Udayana, the king of Vatsa, remaining in Kauśámbí, enjoyed the conquered earth which was under one umbrella; and the happy monarch devolved the care of his empire upon Yaugandharáyaṇa and Rumaṇvat, and addicted himself to pleasure only in the society of Vasantaka. Himself playing on the lute, in the company of the queen Vásavadattá and Padmávatí, he was engaged in a perpetual concert. While the notes of his lyre were married to the soft sweet song of the queens, the rapid movement of his executing finger alone indicated the difference of the sounds. And while the roof of the palace was white with moonlight as with his own glory, he drank wine in plenteous streams as he had swallowed the pride of his enemies[3]; beautiful women brought him, as he sat retired, in vessels of gold, wine flaming with rosy glow,[4] as it were the water of his appointment as ruler in the empire of love; he divided between the two queens the cordial liquor red, delicious, and pellucid, in which danced the reflection of their faces; as he did his own heart, impassioned, enraptured and transparent, in which the same image was found; his eyes were never sated with resting on the faces of those queens, which had the eyebrows arched, and blushed with the rosy hue of love, though envy and anger were far from them; the scene of his banquet, filled with many crystal goblets of wine, gleamed like a lake of white lotuses tinged red with the rising sun. And occasionally, accompanied by huntsmen, clad in a vest dark green as the paláśa tree, he ranged, bow and arrows in hand, the forest full of wild beasts, which was of the same colour as himself. He slew with arrows herds of wild boars besmeared with mud, as the sun disperses with its dense rays the masses of darkness; when he ran towards them, the antelopes fleeing in terror, seemed like the sidelong glances of the quarters previously conquered[5] by him.
And when he slew the buffaloes, the ground, red with blood, looked like a bed of red lotuses, come to thank him humbly for delivering it from the goring of their horns. When the lions too were transfixed by his javelins falling in their open mouths, and their lives issued from them with a suppressed roar, he was delighted. In that wood he employed dogs in the ravines, and nets in the glades; this was the method of his pursuit of the chase in which he relied only upon his own resources. While he was thus engaged in his pleasant enjoyments, one day the hermit Nárada came to him as he was in the hall of audience, diffusing a halo with the radiance of his body, like the sun, the orb of heaven, descending therefrom out of love for the Solar dynasty. The king welcomed him, inclining before him again and again, and the sage stood a moment as if pleased, and said to that king, “Listen, O king, I will tell you a story in few words; you had an ancestor once, a king of the name of Páṇḍu; he like you had two noble wives; one wife of the mighty prince was named Kuntí and the other Mádrí. That Páṇḍu conquered this sea-engirdled earth, and was very prosperous, and being addicted to the vice of hunting he went one day to the forest. There he let fly an arrow and slew a hermit of the name of Arindama, who was sporting with his wife in the form of a deer.[6] That hermit abandoned that deer-form, and with his breath struggling in his throat cursed that Páṇḍu, who in his despair had flung away his bow; ‘Since I have been slain while sporting at will by thee, inconsiderate one, thou also shalt die in the embraces of thy wife.’ Having been thus cursed, Páṇḍu, through fear of its effect, abandoned the desire of enjoyment, and accompanied by his wives lived in a tranquil grove of ascetic quietism. While he was there, one day impelled by that curse, he suddenly approached his beloved Mádrí, and died. So you may rest assured that the occupation called hunting is a madness of kings, for other kings have been done to death by it, even as the various deer they have slain. For how can hunting produce benign results, since the genius of hunting is like a female Rákshasa, roaring horribly, intent on raw flesh, defiled with dust, with upstanding hair and lances for teeth. Therefore give up that useless exertion, the sport of hunting; wild elephants and their slayers are exposed to the same risk of losing their lives. And you, who are ordained for prosperity, are dear to me on account of my friendship with your ancestors, so hear how you are to have a son who is to be a portion of the god of love. Long ago, when Rati worshipped Śiva with praises in order to effect the restoration of Káma’s body, Śiva being pleased told her this secret in few words; ‘This Gaurí,[7] desiring a son, shall descend to earth with a part of herself, and after propitiating me, shall give birth to an incarnation of Káma.’ Accordingly, king, the goddess has been born in the form of this Vásavadattá, daughter of Chaṇḍamahásena, and she has become your queen. So she, having propitiated Śiva, shall give birth to a son who shall be a portion of Káma, and shall become the emperor of all the Vidyádharas.” By this speech the Ṛishi Nárada, whose words command respect, gave back to the king the earth which he had offered him as a present, and then disappeared. When he had departed, the king of Vatsa in company with Vásavadattá, in whom had arisen the desire of obtaining a son, spent the day in thinking about it.
The next day the chief warder called Nityodita, came to the lord of Vatsa while he was in the hall of assembly, and said to him; “A certain distressed Bráhman woman, accompanied by two children, is standing at the door, O king, desiring to see your Highness.” When the king heard this, he permitted her to enter, and so that Bráhman woman entered, thin, pale, and begrimed, distressed by the tearing of her clothes and wounding of her self-respect, carrying in her bosom two children looking like Misery and Poverty. After she had made the proper obeisance, she said to the king, “I am a Bráhman woman of good caste, reduced to such poverty; as fate would have it, I gave birth to these two boys at the same time, and I have no milk for them, O king, without food. Therefore I have come in my misery and helplessness for protection to the king, who is kind to all who fly to him for protection; now, my lord the king must determine what my lot is to be.” When the king heard that, he was filled with pity, and said to the warder, “Take this woman and commend her to the queen Vásavadattá.” Then that woman was conducted into the presence of the queen by that warder, as it were by her own good actions marching in front of her. The queen, when she heard from that warder that the Bráhman woman who had come had been sent by the king, felt all the more confidence in her. And when she saw that the woman, though poor, had two children, she thought, “This is exceedingly unfair dealing on the part of the Creator! Alas! he grudges a son to me who am rich, and shews affection to one who is poor! I have not yet one son, but this woman has these twins.” Thus reflecting, the queen, who was herself desiring a bath, gave orders to her servants to provide the Bráhman woman with a bath and other restoratives. After she had been provided with a bath, and had had clothes given her, and had been supplied by them with agreeable food, that Bráhman woman was refreshed like the heated earth bedewed with rain. And as soon as she had been refreshed, the queen Vásavadattá, in order to test her by conversation, artfully said to her, “O Bráhman lady, tell us some tale,” when she heard that, she agreed and began to tell this story.