Story of Akshakshapaṇaka.
There lived in Hastinápura a Bráhman named Śivadatta, a very rich man, and I am his son, and my real name is Vasudatta. And in my youth I learnt skill in arms as well as in the Vedas. Then my father made me marry a wife from a family equal in rank to my own. But my mother was a great scold, implacable, and very passionate. And she worried my father so intolerably, that as soon as he saw me married, he left his home, and went away somewhere where he could not be traced. When I saw that, I was afraid, and I earnestly enjoined on my wife to study carefully my mother’s disposition, and she, being terrified, did so. But my mother was bent on quarrelling, and it was impossible for my wife to please her in any way. The ill-natured woman interpreted her silence as contempt, her plaintive lamentation as hypocrisy, and her attempts at explanation as wrangling. For who can deprive the fire of its tendency to burn? Then her disagreeable behaviour in a short time worried my wife also so much, that she left the house and fled I know not where.
Then I was so despondent that I made up my mind to abandon family life, but my wretched relations assembled together and forced me to take another wife. That second wife of mine also was so worried by my mother, that she committed suicide by hanging herself. Then I was exceedingly vexed, and I determined to go to a foreign country. And when my relations tried to prevent me, I told them of the wickedness of my mother. They assigned another reason for my father’s leaving the country, and would not believe my story; so I adopted the following artifice. I had a wooden doll made, and pretended to marry it privately as a third wife, and I brought it and placed it in another secluded house which I locked up. And I made another female puppet to guard her, dressed like a servant. And I said to my mother, “I have put this wife of mine in a separate house. So you and I must for the present remain apart from her in our own house; you must not go there and she must not come here. For she is timid as yet, and does not know how to win your affection.” To this arrangement my mother gave her consent.
After some days had elapsed, my mother, finding that she could not manage anyhow to get at that supposed daughter-in-law of hers, who was in a private house kept always locked, took a stone one day and struck herself on the head, and remained in the courtyard in front of her own house, streaming with blood, and lamenting with loud cries. Then I and all my relations came in, hearing the cries, and when we saw her, we said, “Tell us, what is the matter?” When we asked her this question, she said spitefully, “My daughter-in-law came without any reason and reduced me to this state; so now my only remedy is death.” When my relations heard this, they were furious, and they took her and me with them to the house where I kept the wooden doll. They removed the fastening, and opened the door, and went in, and lo! they saw nothing there but a wooden doll. Then they laughed at my mother, who was covered with shame, having imposed on no one but herself, and they began to repose confidence in what I had said, and so they went away again.
And I left that country, and travelled about till I came to this region, and here I happened to enter a gambling-hall. And there I saw these five men playing, this man named Chaṇḍabhujanga, and that Páśupata, and this Śmaśánavetála, and that Kálavaráṭaka, and this Śáriprastara, heroes equal in valour. And I gambled with them on this mutual understanding, that whoever was conquered should be the slave of the conqueror. Then they became my slaves by being beaten by me in gambling, but I have become their slave by being won over by their good qualities. And dwelling with them I have forgotten my woes.
So know that here I bear the name of Akshakshapaṇa,[7] a name suited to my condition. Here I have lived with these excellent men of good family, who conceal their real position, and now you have joined us. So now you are our chief, and it was with this view that we took that money of yours originally, being charmed with your virtues.
When Akshakshapaṇa had told his story in these words, all the others in succession also told their adventures. And prince Bhímabhaṭa perceived that his friends were heroes, who had disguised their real character by taking up gambling practices for the sake of gaining wealth, so he had much more pleasant chat with them, and spent the day in amusement, and then seeing that the eastern quarter had adorned its face with the rising moon, as with an ornamental patch, he went from that garden with Akshakshapaṇaka and the other six to their dwelling. And while he was there with them, the rainy season arrived, seeming to announce with the roarings of its joyous clouds his recovery of his friend. And then the impetuous river there, named Vipáśá, that flowed into the sea, was filled with an influx of sea-water and began to flow backwards, and it deluged that shore with a great inundation, and then owing to the cessation of that influx,[8] it seemed to flow on again to the sea. Now at that time the sudden influx of sea-water brought in a great fish, and on account of its unwieldy size it was stranded on the bank of the river. And the inhabitants, when they saw the fish stranded, ran forward with all kinds of weapons to kill it, and ripped open its stomach. And when its stomach was cut open, there came out of it alive a young Bráhman; and the people, astonished at that strange sight, raised a shout.[9] When Bhímabhaṭa heard that, he went there with his friends, and saw his friend Śankhadatta, who had just issued from the inside of the fish. So he ran and embraced him, and bedewed him with copious tears, as if he wished to wash off the evil smell he had contracted by living in the gulf of the fish’s maw.[10] Śankhadatta, for his part, having escaped that calamity, and having found and embraced his friend, went from joy to joy. Then being questioned out of curiosity by Bhímabhaṭa, he gave this brief account of his adventures.
“On that occasion, when I was swept out of your sight by the force of the waves of the Ganges, I was suddenly swallowed by a very large fish. Then I remained for a long time inside the capacious habitation of his stomach, eating in my hunger his flesh, which I cut off with a knife. To-day Providence somehow or other brought this fish here, and threw it up upon the bank, so that it was killed by these men and I was taken out of its stomach. I have seen again you and the light of the sun, the horizon has been once more illuminated for me. This, my friend, is the story of my adventures, I know no more than this.”
When Śankhadatta said this, Bhímabhaṭa and all that were present exclaimed in astonishment, “To think that he should have been swallowed in the Ganges by a fish, and that that fish should have got into the sea, and then that from the sea it should have been brought into the Vipáśá, and that it should have been killed, and then that Śankhadatta should have come out of it alive. Ah! the way of fate is inscrutable, and wonderful are its works!” While uttering such remarks with Akshakshapaṇaka and the others, Bhímabhaṭa took Śankhadatta to his own dwelling. And there in high delight he entertained with a bath, clothes, and other needful things, his friend, who had, as it were, been born a second time with the same body from the belly of a fish.
And while Bhímabhaṭa was living with him in that country, there came on there a festive procession in honour of Vásuki the king of the snakes. In order to see it, the prince went, surrounded with his friends, to the temple of that chief of the snakes, where great crowds were assembling. He worshipped there in the temple, where his idol was, which was full of long wreaths[11] of flowers in form like serpents, and which therefore resembled the abyss of Pátála, and then going in a southerly direction, he beheld a great lake sacred to Vásuki, studded with red lotuses, resembling the concentrated gleams of the brilliance of the jewels on snakes’ crests;[12] and encircled with blue lotuses, which seemed like clouds of smoke from the fire of snake-poison; overhung with trees, that seemed to be worshipping with their flowers blown down by the wind. When he saw it, he said to himself in astonishment, “Compared with this expanded lake, that sea from which Vishṇu carried off the goddess of Fortune, seems to me to be only worthy of neglect, for its fortune of beauty is not to be taken from it by anything else.”[13] In the meanwhile he saw a maiden, who had come there to bathe, by name Hansávalí, the beautiful daughter of Chandráditya, king of Láṭa, by Kuvalayavatí; her mortal nature, which was concealed by all her other members moulded like those of gods, was revealed by the winking of her rolling eye. She had ten million perfections darting forth from her flower-soft body, she was with her waist, that might be spanned with the hand, a very bow of Cupid, and the moment she looked at Bhímabhaṭa, she pierced him in the heart with the sidelong arrows of her eyes, and bewildered him.[14] He too, who was a thief of the world’s beauty, entered by the oblique path of her eyes the treasure-chamber of her heart, and robbed her of her self-control. Then she sent secretly a trustworthy and discreet maid, and enquired from his friends his name and residence. And after she had bathed, she was taken back to her palace by her attendants, frequently turning round her face to fix her eyes on him. And then Bhímabhaṭa, accompanied by his friends, went to his dwelling, with faltering steps, for he was entangled with the net which his beloved had cast over him.
And immediately the princess Hansávalí sent that maid to him as an ambassadress of love, with the message for which he longed. The maid came up to him and said to him in secret, “Prince, the princess Hansávalí solicits you thus, ‘When you see me, who love you, being carried away by the stream of love, you should rescue me quickly, you should not remain indifferent upon the bank[15]‘” When Bhímabhaṭa heard from the messenger the nectar of his beloved’s message, he was delighted at having his life saved, and said to her, “I am in the current, I am not upon the bank; does not my beloved know that? But now, that I have obtained some hope to cling to,[16] I will gladly do her bidding. I will this night come and wait upon her in her private apartments, and no one shall see me, for I will enter concealed by a charm.” When he said this to the maid, she was pleased, and went and told it to Hansávalí, and then she remained anxiously expecting an interview with him.
And he, in the early part of the night, went adorned with heavenly ornaments, and making himself invisible by repeating forwards the charm bestowed on him by Gangá, entered her splendid chamber which she had previously cleared of attendants. In that chamber, which suggested thoughts of love, which was perfumed with aloes, and adorned with nose-gays of flowers of five hues[17] arranged there, and which therefore resembled the garden of the god of love, he beheld that lovely one exhaling heavenly fragrance, like a blossom put forth by the creeper of the wonderful charm bestowed by Gangá. And then the handsome prince recited the charm backwards, and immediately became visible to that princess. When he beheld her timidly trembling with a joyful agitation that made her hair stand on end, his ornaments immediately tinkled like musical instruments, and he seemed to be dancing with joy to their music. And the maiden hid her face with the shame of love, and seemed to be asking her heart, that caused all that display of emotion, what she was to do now. Then Bhímabhaṭa said to her, “Fair one, why do you allow your heart to exhibit shame, though its feelings have been already revealed? It does not deny the state of affairs; besides how is it possible to conceal this trembling of the limbs and this bursting boddice?” Then Bhímabhaṭa with such words, and other loving persuasions, made the fair one forget her modesty, and married her by the Gándharva form of marriage. And after he had spent that night with her, in sporting like a bee round the lotus of her mouth, he at last tore himself away, and saying, “I will come again at night,” returned to his house.
And when the chamberlains belonging to Hansávalí entered her chamber the next morning, they saw that her lover had been with her. The ends of her curls were disordered, she had marks of moist teeth and nails, and she seemed as if the god of Love had appeared in person and afflicted her with the wounds of all his arrows. They immediately went and reported the matter to the king, and he secretly appointed spies to watch at night. And Bhímabhaṭa spent the day with his friends in their usual employments, and in the beginning of the night again repaired to the bower of his beloved. When the spies saw that he had entered without being seen, by virtue of his charm, and discovered that he possessed supernatural powers, they went out, and told the king, and he gave them this order, “The being, who has entered a well-guarded room without being seen, cannot be a mere man; so bring him here that I may see what this means. And say to him politely from me, ‘Why did you not openly ask me for my daughter? Why did you make a secret of it? For it is difficult to obtain a bridegroom for my daughter as accomplished as yourself.’” When the king had sent off the spies with this message, they went as he commanded, and stood at the door and delivered this message to Bhímabhaṭa. And the resolute prince, perceiving that the king had discovered him, answered them boldly from inside; “Tell the king from me, that to-morrow I will enter his hall of audience, and tell him the truth, for now it is the dead of night.” They then went and gave this message to the king and he remained silent. And in the morning Bhímabhaṭa went to rejoin his friends. And putting on a magnificent costume, he went with those seven heroes to the hall of king Chandráditya. When the king saw his splendour, his resolute bearing and handsome appearance, he received him kindly, and made him sit on a throne equal to his own, and then his friend, the Bráhman Śankhadatta, said to the king, “King, this is the son of Ugrabhaṭa the king of Ráḍhá, Bhímabhaṭa by name; his might is irresistible on account of the wonderful power of the charm which he possesses. And he has come here to sue for the hand of your daughter.” When the king heard that, he remembered the occurrence of the night, and seeing that he was a suitable match for his daughter, he exclaimed, “I am fortunate indeed,” and accepted the proposal. And after he had made splendid preparations for the marriage, he bestowed his daughter Hansávalí on Bhímabhaṭa with much wealth. Then Bhímabhaṭa, having obtained many elephants, horses, and villages, remained there in great comfort, possessed of Hansávalí and the goddess of Fortune. And in a few days his father-in-law gave him that kingdom of Láṭa, and, being childless and old, retired to the forest. Then the successful Bhímabhaṭa, having obtained that kingdom, ruled it admirably with the help of those seven heroes, Śankhadatta and the others.
Then, in the course of some days, he heard from his spies, that his father king Ugrabhaṭa had gone to Prayága and died there; and that, when he was intent on death, he had anointed his youngest son Samarabhaṭa, the son of the dancing-girl, king of Ráḍhá. Then he mourned for his father, and performed his funeral ceremonies, and sent a messenger to that Samarabhaṭa with a letter. And in the letter, he sent the following message to the pretender who was treating him unjustly, “Foolish son of a dancing-girl, what business have you to sit on my father’s throne, for it belongs to me, though I have this kingdom of Láṭa; so you must not ascend it.” And the messenger went, and after announcing himself, delivered the letter to that Samarabhaṭa, when he was in the hall of assembly. And when Samarabhaṭa read this letter of such an import, under his brother’s sign manual, he was angry, and answered, “This baseless presumption is becoming in this ill-conducted man, who was long ago banished by my father from the country, because he was not fit to remain in it. Even the jackal apes the lion, when he is comfortably ensconced in his native cavern, but when he comes within view of the lion, he is discovered to be only a jackal.” Such was the answer he roared forth, and he wrote to the same effect in a letter, and sent his return-messenger to carry it to Bhímabhaṭa.
So the return-messenger went, and gave, when introduced by the warder, that letter to the king of Láṭa. And when Bhímabhaṭa had read that letter, he laughed loudly, and said to the return-messenger of his brother—“Go, messenger, and tell that dancing-girl’s son from me, ‘On that former occasion when you tried to seize the horse, I saved you from Śankhadatta, because you were a child and dear to my father, but I will no longer endure your insolence. I will certainly send you to my father who is so fond of you. Make ready, and know that in a few days I shall have arrived.’” With these words he dismissed the messenger, and then he began his expedition. When that moon of kings, glorious in his magnificence,[18] mounted his elephant which resembled a hill, the great sea of his army was agitated and surged up with a roar, and the horizon was filled with innumerable feudal chiefs and princes arrived for war,[19] and setting out with their forces; and the earth, swiftly trampled by the elephants and horses trooping along in great numbers, groaned and trembled under the weight, as if afraid of being cleft open. In this fashion Bhímabhaṭa marched and came near Ráḍhá, eclipsing the light of the sun in the heavens with the clouds of dust raised by his army.
In the meanwhile king Samarabhaṭa heard of it, and became indignant; and armed himself, and went out with his army to meet him in battle. And those two armies met, like the eastern and western seas, and a great battle took place between the heroes on both sides, awful as the destruction of the world. Then the fire, produced by the loud clashing of swords, which seemed as if it had been kindled by the gnashing of the teeth of the angry god of Death, hid the sky; and javelins flew with their long points resembling eyelashes, and seemed like the glances of the nymphs of heaven, as they gazed on the warriors. Then the field of battle appeared like a stage; its canopy was dust, its music was the shouting of the army, and its dancers palpitating trunks. And a furious[20] torrent of blood, sweeping along heads, and garlanded with trunks, carried off all living creatures, like the night of destruction at the end of the world.
But the archer Bhímabhaṭa soon routed the army of his enemies, by means of a combined attack of the mighty warriors Śankhadatta, and Akshakshapaṇaka, and Chaṇḍabhujanga and his fellows, skilled in wrestling, resembling impetuous elephants. And Samarabhaṭa was furious, when his army was routed, and he dashed forward on his chariot, and began to churn the sea of battle, as Mount Mandara churned the ocean.[21] Then Bhímabhaṭa, who was mounted on an elephant, attacked him, and cut his bow in two with his arrows, and also killed all the four horses of his chariot. Then Samarabhaṭa, being prevented from using his chariot, ran and struck with a javelin on the forehead the splendid elephant of Bhímabhaṭa, and the elephant, as soon as it was struck, fell dead on the ground. Then both of them, being deprived of their means of conveyance, had to fight on foot. And the two angry kings, armed with sword and shield, engaged in single combat. But Bhímabhaṭa, though he might have made himself invisible by means of his charm, and so have killed him, out of a regard for fairness, would not kill his enemy in that way. But being a skilful swordsman, he contended against him in open fight, and cut off with his sword the head of that son of the dancing-girl.
And when that Samarabhaṭa was slain with his soldiers, and the bands of the Siddhas had applauded from the heavens, and the fight had come to an end, Bhímabhaṭa with his friends entered the city of Ráḍhá, being praised by heralds and minstrels. Then, returning from a long absence, after slaying his enemy, he delighted his mother, who was eager to behold him, as Ráma did Kauśalyá. And the citizens welcomed him, and then he adorned the throne of his father, and took his seat on it, honoured by his father’s ministers, who loved his good qualities. And then he honoured all his subjects, who made high festival; and on a lucky day he gave to Śankhadatta the kingdom of Láṭa. And he sent him to the territory of Láṭa, escorted by a force composed of natives of that country; and he gave villages and wealth to Akshakshapaṇaka and his fellows, and he remained surrounded by them, ruling his ancestral realm, with that queen Hansávalí, the daughter of the king of Láṭa. And, in course of time, he conquered the earth, and carried off the daughters of kings, and became exclusively addicted to the enjoyment of their society. And he devolved his duties on his ministers, and amused himself with the women of his harem, and never left its precincts, being engrossed with drinking and other vices.
Then, one day, the hermit Uttanka came of his own accord to visit him, as if he were the time of accomplishment of the previous decree of Śiva. And when the hermit came to the door, the king, being blinded with passion, intoxication, and the pride of sovereignty, would not listen, though the warders announced his arrival. Then the hermit was angry, and denounced this curse on the king, “O man blinded with intoxication, you shall fall from your throne, and become a wild elephant.” When the king heard that, fear dispelled his intoxication, and he went out, and prostrating himself at the foot of the hermit, began to appease him with humble words. Then the anger of the great sage was calmed, and he said to him, “King, you must become an elephant, that decree cannot be altered; but when you shall have relieved a minister of Mṛigánkadatta’s, named Prachaṇḍaśakti, afflicted with the curse of a Nága and blinded, who shall become your guest, and shall tell him your story, you shall be delivered from this curse; and you shall return to the state of a Gandharva, as Śiva foretold to you, and then that guest of yours shall recover the use of his eyes.” When the hermit Uttanka had said this, he returned as he came, and Bhímabhaṭa was hurled from his throne, and became an elephant.
“So know, my friend, that I am that very Bhímabhaṭa, become an elephant, and you are Prachaṇḍaśakti; I know that my curse is now at an end.” When Bhímabhaṭa had said this, he abandoned the form of an elephant, and at once became a Gandharva of heavenly might. And immediately Prachaṇḍaśakti recovered, to his intense delight, the use of his eyes, and looked upon that Gandharva there. And in the meanwhile the discreet Mṛigánkadatta, who had heard their conversation from the bower of creepers, with his other ministers, having discovered that it was indeed his friend, rushed quickly and impetuously forth, and threw his arms round the neck of his minister Prachaṇḍaśakti. And Prachaṇḍaśakti looked at him, and feeling as if his body had been irrigated with a sudden flood of nectar, immediately embraced the feet of his lord.
Then the Gandharva Bhímabhaṭa comforted those two, who were weeping, both deeply moved at being reunited after so long a separation. And Mṛigánkadatta, bowing, said to that Gandharva, “That I have recovered this friend of mine, and that he has recovered his eyesight, is all due to your wondrous might. Honour to you!” When the Gandharva heard that, he said to that prince, “You shall soon recover all your other ministers, and obtain Śaśánkavatí as a wife, and become king of the whole earth. So you must not lose heart. Now, auspicious one, I depart, but I will appear to you when you think of me.”
When the matchless chief of the Gandharvas had said this to the prince, and so testified his friendship for him, as his curse was at an end, and he had obtained prosperous felicity, he flew up swiftly into the sky, making the whole air resound with the tinkling of his beautiful bracelet and necklace.
And Mṛigánkadatta, having recovered Prachaṇḍaśakti, and so regained his spirits, spent that day in the wood, accompanied by his ministers.
[1] Cp. Vol. I, pp. 355 and 577.
[2] The Sanskrit College MS. reads na for tu.
[3] I read jánási with the Sanskrit College MS. instead of jánámi which Dr. Brockhaus gives in his text.
[4] For European methods of attaining invisibility see Brand’s Popular Antiquities, Vol. I, p. 315; Bartsch, Sagen, Märchen, und Gebräuche aus Meklenburg, Vol. II, pp. 29 and 31; Kuhn, Westfälische Märchen, Vol. I, p. 276, Vol. II, p. 177. The virtues of the Tarnkappe are well-known. In Europe great results are expected from reciting certain sacred formulæ backwards. A somewhat similar belief appears to exist among the Buddhists. Milton’s “backward muttering of dissevering charms” is perhaps hardly a case in point.
[5] An elaborate pun! varṇa = caste and also colour: kalá = digit of the moon and accomplishment, or fine art: doshákara = mine of crimes and also the moon. Dowson, in his Classical Dictionary of Hindu Mythology, tells us that Láṭa is a country comprising Kandesh and part of Guzerat about the Mhye river. It is now called Lár and is the Λαρικη of Ptolemy.
[6] I read prápnomyaham the reading of the Sanskrit College MS.
[7] i. e. Dice-mendicant.
[8] I conjecture oghapraśántyaiva.
[9] Cp. No. LXVI in the English Gesta, page 298 of Herrtage’s edition, and the end of No. XII of Miss Stokes’s Fairy Tales. See also Prym und Socin, Syrische Märchen, pp. 83 and 84.
[10] Cp. Odyssey, Book IV, 441–442.
[11] I read dámabhiḥ for dhámabhiḥ.
[12] Benfey (Panchatantra, Vol. I, p. 214, note,) traces this superstition through all countries.
[13] This passage is a concatenation of puns.
[14] The whole passage is an elaborate pun. The lady is compared to a bow, the string of which vibrates in the notches, and the middle of which is held in the hand.
[15] I read, with the MS. in the Sanskrit College, drutam anuddhṛitya for drutam anugatya.
[16] As a life-buoy to prevent him from drowning.
[17] There must be a reference to the five flowery arrows of the god of Love.
[18] When applied to the moon, it means “glorious in its rising.”
[19] Böhtlingk and Roth give upasankhya as überzählig (?).
[20] I adopt pramattá the reading of the Sanskrit College MS.
[21] The gods and Asuras used it as a churning-stick at the churning of the ocean for the recovery of the Amṛita, and other precious things lost during the deluge.