Episode of Manorathaprabhá and Raśmimat.
There is here, on the table-land of the Himálayas, a city named Kánchanábha, and in it there dwells a king of the Vidyádharas named Padmakúṭa. Know that I am the daughter of that king by his queen Hemaprabhá, and that my name is Manorathaprabhá, and my father loves me more than his life. I, by the power of my science, used to visit, with my female companions, the isles, and the principal mountains, and the woods, and the gardens, and after amusing myself, I made a point of returning every day at my father’s meal-time, at the third watch of the day, to my palace. Once on a time I arrived here as I was roaming about, and I saw on the shore of the lake a hermit’s son with his companion. And being summoned by the splendour of his beauty, as if by a female messenger, I approached him, and he welcomed me with a wistful look. And then I sat down, and my friend, perceiving the feelings of both, put this question to him through his companion, “Who are you, noble sir, tell me?” And his companion said; “Not far from here, my friend, there lives in a hermitage a hermit named Dídhitimat. He, being subject to a strict vow of chastity, was seen once, when he came to bathe in this lake, by the goddess Śrí, who came there at the same time. As she could not obtain him in the flesh, as he was a strict ascetic, and yet longed for him earnestly with her mind, she conceived a mind-born son. And she took that son to Dídhitimat, saying to him, ‘I have obtained this son by looking at you; receive it.’ And after giving the son to the hermit, Śrí disappeared. And the hermit gladly received the son, so easily obtained, and gave him the name of Raśmimat, and gradually reared him, and after investing him with the sacred thread, taught him out of love all the sciences. Know that you see before you in this young hermit that very Raśmimat the son of Śrí, come here with me on a pleasure journey.” When my friend had heard this from the youth’s friend, she, being questioned by him in turn, told my name and descent as I have now told it to you.
Then I and the hermit’s son became still more in love with one another from hearing one another’s descent, and while we were lingering there, a second attendant came and said to me, “Rise up, your father, fair one, is waiting for you in the dining-room of the palace.” When I heard that, I said—“I will return quickly,” and leaving the youth there, I went into the presence of my father out of fear. And when I came out, having taken a very little food, the first attendant came to me and said of her own accord: “The friend of that hermit’s son came here, my friend, and standing at the door of the court said to me in a state of hurried excitement—‘Raśmimat has sent me here now, bestowing on me the power of travelling in the air, which he inherits from his father, to see Manorathaprabhá: he is reduced to a terrible state by love and cannot retain his breath a moment longer, without that mistress of his life.’” The moment I heard this, I left my father’s palace, and, accompanied by that friend of the hermit’s son, who showed me the way, and my attendant, I came here, and when I arrived here, I saw that that hermit’s son, separated from me, had resigned, at the rising of the moon, the nectar of his life. So I, grieved by separation from him, was blaming my vital frame, and longing to enter the fire with his body. But at that very moment a man, with a body like a mass of flame, descended from the sky, and flew up to heaven with his body.
Then I was desirous to hurl myself into the fire alone, but at that moment a voice issued from the air here; “Manorathaprabhá, do not do this thing, for at the appointed time thou shalt be re-united to this thy hermit’s son.” On hearing this, I gave up the idea of suicide, and here I remain full of hope, waiting for him, engaged in the worship of Śiva. And as for the friend of the hermit’s son, he has disappeared somewhere.
When the Vidyádhara maiden had said this, Somaprabha said to her, “Then, why do you remain alone, where is that female attendant of yours?” When the Vidyádhara maiden heard this, she answered: “There is a king of the Vidyádharas, named Sinhavikrama, and he has a matchless daughter named Makarandiká; she is a friend of mine, dear as my life, who sympathizes with my grief, and she to-day sent her attendant to learn tidings of me. So I sent back my own attendant to her, with her attendant; it is for that reason that I am at present alone.” As she was saying this, she pointed out to Somaprabha her attendant descending from heaven. And she made the attendant, after she had told her news, strew a bed of leaves for Somaprabha, and also give grass to his horse.
Then, after passing the night, they rose up in the morning, and saw approaching a Vidyádhara, who had descended from heaven. And that Vidyádhara, whose name was Devajaya, after sitting down, spoke thus to Manorathaprabhá—“Manorathaprabhá, king Sinhavikrama informs you that your friend, his daughter Makarandiká, out of love for you, refuses to marry until you have obtained a bridegroom. So he wishes you to go there and admonish her, that she may be ready to marry.” When the Vidyádhara maiden heard this, she prepared to go, out of regard for her friend, and then Somaprabha said to her:—“Virtuous one, I have a curiosity to see the Vidyádhara world: so take me there, and let my horse remain here supplied with grass.” When she heard that, she consented, and taking her attendant with her, she flew through the air, with Somaprabha, who was carried in the arms of Devajaya.
When she arrived there, Makarandiká welcomed her, and seeing Somaprabha, asked, “Who is this?” And when Manorathaprabhá told his story, the heart of Makarandiká was immediately captivated by him. He, for his part, thought in his mind, deeming he had come upon Good Fortune in bodily form—“Who is the fortunate man destined to be her bridegroom?”
Then, in confidential conversation, Manorathaprabhá put the following question to Makarandiká; “Fair one, why do you not wish to be married?” And she, when she heard this, answered:—“How could I desire marriage until you have accepted a bridegroom, for you are dearer to me than life?” When Makarandiká said this in an affectionate manner, Manorathaprabhá said—“I have chosen a bridegroom, fair one; I am waiting here in hopes of union with him.” When she said this, Makarandiká said—“I will do as you direct.”[4]
Then Manorathaprabhá, seeing the real state of her feelings, said to her, “My friend, Somaprabha has come here as your guest, after wandering through the world, so you must entertain him as a guest with becoming hospitality.” When Makarandiká heard this, she said:—“I have already bestowed on him, by way of hospitality, every thing but myself, but let him accept me, if he is willing.” When she said this, Manorathaprabhá told their love to her father, and arranged a marriage between them. Then Somaprabha recovered his spirits, and delighted said to her:—“I must go now to your hermitage, for possibly my army, commanded by my minister, may come there tracking my course, and if they do not find me, they may return, suspecting something untoward. So I will depart, and after I have learned the tidings of the host, I will return, and certainly marry Makarandiká on an auspicious day.” When Manorathaprabhá heard that, she consented, and took him back to her own hermitage, making Devajaya carry him in his arms.
In the meanwhile his minister Priyankara came there with the army, tracking his footsteps. And while Somaprabha, in delight, was recounting his adventures to his minister, whom he met there, a messenger came from his father, with a written message that he was to return quickly. Then, by the advice of his minister, he went with his army back to his own city, in order not to disobey his father’s command, and as he started, he said to Manorathaprabhá and Devajaya, “I will return as soon as I have seen my father.”
Then Devajaya went and informed Makarandiká of that, and in consequence she became afflicted with the sorrow of separation. She took no pleasure in the garden, nor in singing, nor in the society of her ladies-in-waiting, nor did she listen to the amusing voices of the parrots; she did not take food; much less did she care about adorning herself. And though her parents earnestly admonished her, she did not recover her spirits. And she soon left her couch of lotus-fibres, and wandered about like an insane woman, causing distress to her parents. And when she would not listen to their words, though they tried to console her, her parents in their anger pronounced this curse on her, “You shall fall for some time among the unfortunate race of the Nishádas, with this very body of yours, without the power of remembering your former birth.” When thus cursed by her parents, Makarandiká entered the house of a Nisháda, and became that very moment a Nisháda maiden. And her father Sinhavikrama, the king of the Vidyádharas, repented, and through grief for her died, and so did his wife. Now that king of the Vidyádharas was in a former birth a ṛishi who knew all the śástras, but now on account of some remnant of former sin he has become this parrot, and his wife also has been born as a wild sow, and this parrot, owing to the power of former austerities, remembers what it learned in a former life.
“So I laughed, considering the marvellous results of his works. But he shall be released, as soon as he has told this tale in the court of a king. And Somaprabha shall obtain the parrot’s daughter in his Vidyádhara birth, Makarandiká, who has now become a Nisháda female. And Manorathaprabhá also shall obtain the hermit’s son Raśmimat, who has now become a king; but Somaprabha, as soon as he had seen his father, returned to her hermitage, and remains there propitiating Śiva in order to recover his beloved.”
When the hermit Pulastya had said thus much, he ceased, and I remembered my birth, and was plunged in grief and joy. Then the hermit Maríchi, who carried me out of pity to the hermitage, took me and reared me. And when my wings grew, I flew about hither and thither with the flightiness natural to a bird,[5] displaying the miracle of my learning. And falling into the hands of a Nisháda, I have in course of time reached your court. And now my evil works have spent their force, having been brought with me into the body of a bird.
When the learned and eloquent parrot had finished this tale in the presence of the court, king Sumanas suddenly felt his soul filled with astonishment, and disturbed with love. In the meanwhile Śiva, being pleased, said to Somaprabha in a dream—“Rise up, king, and go into the presence of king Sumanas, there thou wilt find thy beloved. For the maiden, named Makarandiká, has become, by the curse of her father, a Nisháda maiden, named Muktálatá, and she has gone with her own father, who has become a parrot, to the court of the king. And when she sees thee, her curse will come to an end, and she will remember her existence as a Vidyádhara maiden, and then a union will take place between you, the joy of which will be increased by your recognizing one another.” Having said this to that king, Śiva, who is merciful to all his worshippers, said to Manorathaprabhá, who also was living in his hermitage, “The hermit’s son Raśmimat, whom thou didst accept as thy bridegroom, has been born again under the name of Sumanas, so go to him and obtain him, fair one; he will at once remember his former birth, when he beholds thee.” So Somaprabha and the Vidyádhara maiden, being separately commanded in a dream by Śiva, went immediately to the court of that Sumanas. And there Makarandiká, on beholding Somaprabha, immediately remembered her former birth, and being released from her long curse, and recovering her heavenly body, she embraced him. And Somaprabha, having, by the favour of Śiva, obtained that daughter of the Vidyádhara prince, as if she were the incarnate fortune of heavenly enjoyment, embraced her, and considered himself to have attained his object. And king Sumanas, having beheld Manorathaprabhá, remembered his former birth, and entered his former body, that fell from heaven, and became Raśmimat the son of the chief of hermits. And once more united with his beloved, for whom he had long yearned, he entered his own hermitage, and king Somaprabha departed with his beloved to his own city. And the parrot too left the body of a bird, and went to the home earned by his asceticism.
“Thus you see that the appointed union of human beings certainly takes place in this world, though vast spaces intervene.” When Naraváhanadatta heard this wonderful, romantic, and agreeable story from his own minister Gomukha, as he was longing for Śaktiyaśas, he was much pleased.
[1] Cp. the falcon in Chaucer’s Squire’s Tale and the parallels quoted by Skeat in his Introduction to Chaucer’s Prioresses Tale &c., p. xlvii.
[2] An elaborate pun on dvija and śákhá.
[3] For the conception of the sun as an eye see Kuhn, Die Herabkunft des Feuers und des Göttertranks, pp. 52, 53. The idea is common in English poetry. See for instance Milton, P. L. V. 171, Spenser’s Faery Queene, I, 3, 4. For instances in classical poetry, see Ovid, Met. IV, 228, Ar. Nub. 286, Soph. Tr. 101.
[4] I read tvadvákyam with the Sanskrit College MS. and ahitáśanki tachcha in śl. 141 with the same MS.
[5] Cp. Aristophanes, Aves, pp. 169, 170.
ἄνθρωπος ὄρνις ἀστάθμητος, πετόμενος
ἀτέκμαρτος, οὐδὲν οὐδέποτ’ ἐν ταὐτῷ μένων