Story of Anangarati in a former birth when she was a Vidyádharí named Anangaprabhá.
There is a city on the Himálayas named Vírapura; and in it there dwells a sovereign of Vidyádharas named Samara. He had a daughter, named Anangaprabhá, born to him by his queen Anangavatí. When, in the pride of her youth and beauty, she refused to have any husband, her parents, enraged at her persistence, cursed her—
“Become a human being, and even in that state you shall not enjoy the happiness of married life. When you are a maiden of sixteen years, you shall abandon the body and come here. But an ugly mortal, who has become such by a curse, on account of his falling in love with the daughter of a hermit, and who possesses a magic sword, shall then become your husband, and he shall carry you off against your will to the world of mortals. There you, being unchaste, shall be separated from your husband. Because that husband in a former life carried off the wives of eight other men, he shall endure sorrow enough for eight births. And you, having become a mortal by the loss of your supernatural science, shall endure in that one birth the sufferings of eight births.[8] For to every one the association with the evil gives an evil lot, but to women the union with an evil husband is equivalent to evil. And having lost your memory of the past, you shall there take many mortal husbands, because you obstinately persisted in detesting the husband fitted for you. That Vidyádhara Madanaprabha, who, being equal in birth, demanded you in marriage, shall become a mortal king and at last become your husband. Then you shall be freed from your curse, and return to your own world, and you shall obtain that suitable match, who shall have returned to his Vidyádhara state.” So that maiden Anangaprabhá has become Anangarati on the earth, and returning to her parents, has once more become Anangaprabhá.
“So go to Vírapura and conquer in fight her father, though he is possessed of knowledge and protected by his high birth, and obtain that maiden. Now take this sword, and as long as you hold it in your hand, you will be able to travel through the air, and moreover you will be invincible.” Having said this, and having given the sword to him, the goddess vanished, and he woke up, and beheld in his hand a heavenly sword. Then Jívadatta rose up delighted and praised Durgá, and all the exhaustion produced by his penance was removed by the refreshment caused by the nectar of her favour. And he flew up into the air with his sword in his hand, and after roaming all round the Himálayas, he found that prince of the Vidyádharas Samara in Vírapura. He conquered him in fight, and then the king gave him his daughter Anangaprabhá, and he married her, and lived in heavenly felicity. And after he had remained there some time, he said to his father-in-law Samara and to his beloved Anangaprabhá, “Let us two go to the world of men, for I feel a longing for it, for one’s native land is exceedingly dear to living beings, even though it may be an inferior place.”[9] When the father-in-law heard that, he consented, but the far-seeing Anangaprabhá was with difficulty induced to consent; then Jívadatta descended from heaven to the world of mortals, taking that Anangaprabhá in his arms. And Anangaprabhá, beholding there a pleasant mountain, being wearied, said to him—“Let us immediately rest here.” Then he consented, and descending there with her, he produced food and drink by the power of the various sciences. Then Jívadatta, being impelled by fate, said to Anangaprabhá—“Dear one, sing some sweet song.” When she heard that, she began to sing devoutly the praise of Śiva, and with that sound of her singing the Bráhman was sent to sleep.
In the meanwhile a king, named Harivara, wearied out with hunting, came that way in search of spring-water; he was attracted by hearing the sound of that singing, as deer are attracted, and, leaving his chariot, he went there alone. The king first had happiness announced by omens, and then he beheld that Anangaprabhá like the real brightness of the god of love. Then, as his heart was distracted with her song and her beauty, the god of love cleft it at will with his arrows. Anangaprabhá too, seeing that he was handsome, came within the range of the god of the flowery bow, and said to herself—“Who is this? is he the god of love, without his flowery bow? Is he the incarnation of the favour of Śiva towards me, he being pleased with my song?” Then maddened with love, she asked him—“Who are you, and how have you come to this forest, tell me.” Then the king told her who he was, and why he had come; then he said to her, “Tell me, who are you, fair one? And who is this, O lotus-faced one, who is sleeping here?” When he asked these questions, she answered him briefly: “I am a Vidyádharí, and this is my husband, who possesses a magic sword, and now I have fallen in love with you at first sight. So come, let us quickly go to your city, before he awakes; then I will tell my story at length.” When the king heard that, he agreed, and felt as much delighted as if he had obtained the sovereignty of the three worlds. And Anangaprabhá hurriedly thought in her heart, “I will take this king in my arms, and quickly fly up to the heaven,” but in the meanwhile her knowledge was stripped from her by her treachery to her husband; and remembering her father’s curse, she became at once despondent. When the king saw that, he asked the cause, and then said to her—“This is not the time for despondency; your husband here may awake. And you ought not to lament, my beloved, over this matter which depends on destiny. For who can escape from the shadow of his own head, or the course of destiny? So come, let us depart.” When the king Harivara said this, she consented to his proposal, and he took her quickly up in his arms. Then he went off quickly thence, as delighted as if he had obtained a treasure, and ascended his chariot, welcomed with joy by his servants. And he reached his city in that chariot, which travelled swift as thought, accompanied by his beloved, and he aroused curiosity in his subjects. Then king Harivara remained in heavenly enjoyments in that city, which was named after him, in the society of that Anangaprabhá. And Anangaprabhá remained there devotedly attached to him, forgetting all her supernatural power, bewildered by the curse.
In the meanwhile Jívadatta woke up on the mountain, and saw that not only Anangaprabhá was gone, but his sword also. He thought “Where is that Anangaprabhá? Alas! Where is that sword? Has she gone off with it? Or were they both carried off by some being?” In his perplexity, he made many surmises of this sort, and he searched that mountain for three days, being consumed with the fire of love. Then he came down, and wandered through the forests for ten days, but did not find a trace of her anywhere. He kept crying out—“Alas spiteful fortune, how did you carry off, together with the magic power of the sword, my beloved Anangaprabhá, both which you granted with difficulty?” Thus employed he wandered about without food, and at last reached a village, and there he entered the opulent mansion of a Bráhman. There the handsome and well-dressed mistress of the house, Priyadattá by name, made him sit down on a seat, and immediately gave this order to her maids—“Wash quickly the feet of this Jívadatta, for to-day is the thirteenth day that he has gone without food on account of his separation.” When Jívadatta heard that, he was astonished, and reflected in his own mind—“Can Anangaprabhá have come here, or is this woman a witch?” Thus he reflected, and after his feet were washed, and he had eaten the food that she gave, he humbly asked Priyadattá in his great grief—“Tell me one thing: how do you know my history, blameless one? And tell me another thing, where are my sword and my beloved gone?” When the devoted wife Priyadattá heard that, she said—“No one but my husband has any place in my heart even in a dream, my son, and I look on all other men as brothers, and no guest leaves my house without entertainment; by virtue of that I know the past, the present and the future. And that Anangaprabhá of yours has been carried off by a king named Harivara, living in a town named after him, who, as destiny would have it, came that way, while you were asleep, attracted by her song. And you cannot recover her, for that king is very powerful; moreover that unchaste woman will in turn leave him and go to another man. And the goddess Durgá gave you that sword only that you might obtain that lady; having accomplished that, the weapon, in virtue of its divine nature, has returned to the goddess, as the lady has been carried off. Moreover, how have you forgotten what the goddess was pleased to tell you, when she told the story of the curse of Anangaprabhá? So why are you so distracted about an event, which was destined to take place? Abandon this chain of sins, which again and again produces extreme sorrow. And of what profit can be to you now, my brother, that wicked female, who is attached to another, and who has become a mortal, having lost her science by her treachery against you?” When that virtuous woman said this to Jívadatta, he abandoned all passion for Anangaprabhá, being disgusted with her fickleness, and thus answered the Bráhman lady—“Mother, my delusion has been brought to an end by this true speech of thine; whom does not association with persons of virtuous conduct benefit? This misfortune has befallen me in consequence of my former crimes, so I will abandon jealousy, and go to holy places to wash them out. What can I gain by taking up an enmity with others on account of Anangaprabhá? For one, who has conquered anger, conquers this whole world.” While he was saying this, the righteous husband of Priyadattá, who was hospitable to guests, returned to the house. The husband also welcomed him, and made him forget his grief, and then he rested, and taking leave of them both, started on his pilgrimage to holy places.
Then, in course of time, he roamed round to all the holy bathing-places on the earth, enduring many toils in difficult ways, living on roots and fruits. And after visiting holy bathing-places, he went to the shrine of the dweller in the Vindhya hills; there he went through a severe penance, without food, on a bed of kuśa grass. And Ambiká, satisfied with his asceticism, said to him, appearing to him in bodily form—“Rise up, my son, for you four are four gaṇas of mine. Three are Panchamúla, Chaturvaktra, and Mahodaramukha, and thou art the fourth, last in order, and thy name is Vikaṭavadana. You four once went to the sand of the Ganges to amuse yourselves, and saw there a hermit’s daughter bathing. She was called Chápalekhá, the daughter of Kapilajaṭa. And she was solicited by all of you, distracted with love. When she said ‘I am a maiden, go away all of you,’ the three others remained quiet, but thou didst forcibly seize her by the arm. And she cried out—‘Father, Father, deliver me.’ Then the hermit, who was near, came up in wrath. Then thou didst let go her arm; then he immediately cursed you, saying—‘Wicked ones, be born, all of you, as human beings.’ Then you asked the hermit that the curse might end, and he said—‘When the princess Anangarati shall be demanded in marriage by you, and shall go to the Vidyádhara world, then three of you shall be released from your curse. But when she has become a Vidyádharí, then thou, Vikaṭavadana, shalt gain her, and lose her again, and then thou shalt suffer great sorrow. But after propitiating the goddess Durgá for a long time, thou shalt be released from this curse. This will happen to thee, because thou didst touch the hand of this Chápalekhá, and also because thou hast much guilt attaching to thee, on account of having carried off the wives of others.’ You four gaṇas of mine, whom that hermit thus cursed, became four heroes in the Dekhan, Panchaphuṭṭika, and Bháshájna, and Khaḍgadhara, these three friends, and you the fourth Jívadatta. Now the first three, when Anangarati returned to her own place, came here, and by my favour were freed from their curse. And thou hast propitiated me now, therefore thy curse is at an end. So take this fiery meditation, and abandon this body; and consume at once the guilt, which it would take eight births to exhaust.” When the goddess Durgá had said this, she gave him the meditation, and disappeared. And with that meditation he burned up his wicked mortal body, and at last was freed from the curse, and became once more an excellent gaṇa. When even gods have to endure so much suffering by associating with the wives of others, what must be the result of it to inferior beings?
In the meanwhile Anangaprabhá became head-queen in Harivara, the city of the king Harivara. And the king remained day and night with his mind fixed on her, and entrusted the great burden of his kingdom to his minister named Sumantra. And once on a time there came to that king from Madhyadeśa,[10] a fresh teacher of dancing, named Labdhavara. The king, having seen his skill in music and dancing, honoured him, and made him the instructor in dancing of the ladies of the harem. He brought Anangaprabhá to such excellence in dancing, that she was an object of admiration even to her rival wives. And from associating with the professor of dancing, and from the delight she took in his teaching, she fell in love with him. And the professor of dancing, attracted by her youth and beauty, gradually learnt a new strange[11] dance, thanks to the god of Love. And once she approached the professor of dancing secretly in the dancing-hall, and being desperately in love with him, said to him—“I shall not be able to live for a moment without you, and the king Harivara, when he hears of it, will not tolerate it, so come, let us depart elsewhere, where the king will not find us out. You have wealth in the form of gold, horses, and camels, given by the king, pleased with your dancing, and I have ornaments. So let us quickly go and dwell where we shall be secure.” The professor of dancing was pleased with her proposal, and consented to this. Then she put on the dress of a man, and went to the house of the professor of dancing, accompanied by one female servant, who was exceedingly devoted to her. Thence she started on horseback, with that teacher of dancing, who placed his wealth on the back of a camel. First she abandoned the splendour of the Vidyádharas, then of a throne, and now she put herself under the shelter of a bard’s fortune; alas! fickle is the mind of women! And so Anangaprabhá went with the teacher of dancing, and reached a distant city named Viyogapura. There she dwelt in happiness with him, and the distinguished dancer thought that by obtaining her his name of Labdhavara[12] had been justified.
And in the meanwhile king Harivara, finding out that his beloved Anangaprabhá had gone somewhere or other, was ready to abandon the body out of grief. Then the minister Sumantra said to the king to comfort him, “Why do you appear as if you do not understand the matter? Consider it yourself? How, my sovereign, could you expect that a woman, who deserted a husband, that had by means of his sword obtained the power of a Vidyádhara, and repaired to you as soon as she saw you, would be faithful even to you? She has gone off with something that she has managed to get, having no desire for anything good, as one to whom a blade of grass is a sprout of jewels, falling in love at sight with a blade of grass. Certainly the teacher of dancing has gone off with her, for he is nowhere to be seen. And I hear that they both were in the concert-hall in the morning. So tell me, king; why are you so persistent about her, though you know all this? The truth is, a fickle dame is like a sunset, momentarily aglow for every one.” When the minister said this to him, the king fell into a musing, and thought—“Yes, that wise man has told me the truth. For a fickle dame is like human life; connexion with her is unstable, she changes every moment, and is terrible, bringing disgust at the end. The wise man never falls into the power of deep rivers or of women, both which drown him who falls into their power, while they exhibit wanton sportfulness. Those men are truly masters of themselves, who are free from excitement about pleasures, who are not puffed up in prosperity, and who are unshrinking in dangers; such men have conquered the world.” After saying this, king Harivara abandoned his grief by the advice of his minister, and remained satisfied with the society of his own wives.
And after Anangaprabhá had dwelt some time with the teacher of dancing, in the city named Viyogapura, he, as fate would have it, struck up an acquaintance with a young gambler named Sudarśana; then the gambler, before the eyes of Anangaprabhá, soon stripped the teacher of dancing of all his wealth. Then Anangaprabhá deserted her husband, who was stripped of all his fortune, as if in anger on that account, and threw herself into the arms of Sudarśana. Then the teacher of dancing, having lost his wife and his wealth, having no refuge, in disgust with the world, matted his hair in a knot, and went to the banks of the Ganges to practise mortification of the flesh. But Anangaprabhá, who was ever taking new paramours, remained with that gambler. But one night, her lord Sudarśana was robbed of all that he had by some robbers, who entered his house in the darkness. Then Sudarśana, seeing that Anangaprabhá was uncomfortable and unhappy on account of their poverty, said to her: “Come and let us borrow something from a rich friend of mine, named Hiraṇyagupta, a distinguished merchant.” After saying this, he, being deprived of his senses by destiny, went with his wife, and asked that great merchant Hiraṇyagupta to lend him some money. And the merchant, when he saw her, immediately fell in love with her, and she also with him, the moment that she beheld him. And the merchant said politely to Sudarśana—“To-morrow I will give you gold, but dine here to-day.” When Sudarśana heard this, beholding the altered bearing of those two, he said—“I did not come here to-day to dine.” Then the great merchant said—“If this be the case, at any rate let your wife dine here, my friend, for this is the first time that she has visited my house.” When Sudarśana was thus addressed by him, he remained silent in spite of his cunning, and that merchant went into his house with Anangaprabhá. There he indulged in drinking and other pastimes with that fair one, unexpectedly thrown in his way, who was merry with all the wantonness of wine. But Sudarśana, who was standing outside, waiting for her to come out, had the following message brought to him by the merchant’s servants, in accordance with their master’s orders: “Your wife has dined and gone home; you must have failed to see her going out. So what are you doing here so long? Go home.” He answered—“She is within the house, she has not come out, and I will not depart.” Thereupon the merchant’s servants drove him away from the house with kicks. Then Sudarśana went off, and sorrowfully reflected with himself: “What! has this merchant, though my friend, robbed me of my wife? Or rather, in this very birth the fruit of my sin has in such a form fallen to my lot. For what I did to one, another has done to me. Why should I then be angry with another, when my own deeds merit anger? So I will sever the chain of works, so that I may not be again humiliated.” Thus reflecting, the gambler abandoned his anger, and going to the hermitage of Badariká,[13] he proceeded to perform such austerities as would cut the bonds of mundane existence.
And Anangaprabhá, having obtained that exceedingly handsome merchant for a dear husband, was as pleased as a bee that has lighted on a flower. And in course of time she attained undisputed control over the wealth, as well as over the heart of that opulent merchant, who was deeply in love with her. But the king Vírabáhu, though he heard of the matchless beauty residing there, did not carry her off, but remained strictly within the limits of virtue. And in course of time, the wealth of the merchant began to diminish, on account of the expenditure of Anangaprabhá; for, in a house presided over by an unchaste woman, Fortune pines as well as virtuous women. Then the merchant Hiraṇyagupta got together wares, and went off to an island named Suvarnabhúmi to trade, and he took that Anangaprabhá with him, out of fear of being separated from her, and journeying on his way, he at last reached the city of Ságarapura. There he fell in with a chief of fishermen, a native of that place, Ságaravíra by name, whom he found in that city near the sea. He went with that sea-faring man to the shore of the sea, and with his beloved embarked on a ship which he provided. And after the merchant had travelled in anxiety for some days over the sea, in that ship, accompanied by Ságaravíra, one day a terrible black cloud of doom appeared, with flashing eyes of lightning, filling them with fear of destruction. Then that ship, smitten by a mighty wind, with a violent shower of rain, began to sink in the waves. That merchant Hiraṇyagupta, when the crew raised a cry of lamentation, and the ship began to break up like his own hopes, fastened his cloak round his loins, and looking at the face of Anangaprabhá, exclaimed “Ah! my beloved, where art thou,” and threw himself into the sea. And he oared himself along with his arms, and, as luck would have it, he reached a merchant-ship, and he caught hold of it, and climbed up into it.
But that Ságaravíra tied together some planks with a cord, and quickly placed Anangaprabhá upon them. And he himself climbed up upon them, and comforted that terrified woman, and went paddling along in the sea, throwing aside the water with his arms. And as soon as the ship had been broken to pieces, the clouds disappeared from the heaven, and the sea was calm, like a good man whose wrath is appeased. But the merchant Hiraṇyagupta, after climbing up into the ship, which was impelled by the wind, as fate would have it, reached in five days the shore of the sea. Then he went on shore, grieved at the loss of his beloved, but he reflected that the dispensations of Destiny were irremediable; and he went slowly home to his own city, and being of resolute soul, he recovered his self-command, and again acquired wealth, and lived in great comfort.
But Anangaprabhá, seated on the plank, was piloted to the shore of the sea in one day by Ságaravíra. And there that chief of the fishermen, consoling her, took her to his own palace in the city of Ságarapura. There Anangaprabhá, reflecting that that chief of the fishermen was a hero who had saved her life, and was equal to a king in opulence, and in the prime of youth and good looks, and obedient to her orders, made him her husband: a woman who has lost her virtue does not distinguish between high and low. Then she dwelt with that chief of fishermen, enjoying in his house his wealth that he put at her disposal.
One day she saw from the roof of the palace a handsome Kshatriya youth, named Vijayavarman, going along the high street of the town. Falling in love with his good looks, she went up to him, and said—“Receive me, who am in love with you, for my mind has been fascinated by the sight of you.” And he gladly welcomed that fairest woman of the three worlds, who had fallen to him, as it were, from the sky, and took her home to his house. But Ságaravíra, finding that his beloved had gone somewhere or other, abandoned all, and went to the river Ganges, intending to leave the body by means of ascetic practices; and no wonder that his grief was great, for how could a man of servile caste ever have expected to obtain such a Vidyádharí? But Anangaprabhá lived at ease in that very town with Vijayavarman, free from restraint.
Then, one day the king of that place, named Ságaravarman, mounted a female elephant and went out to roam round his city. And while the king was looking at that well-built city named after him, he came along the street where the house of Vijayavarman was. And Anangaprabhá, finding out that the king was coming that way, went up to the top of the house, out of curiosity to behold him. And, the moment she saw the king, she fell so desperately in love with him, that she insolently exclaimed to the elephant-driver—“Mahout, I never in my life have ridden on an elephant, so give me a ride on yours, and let me see how pleasant it is.” When the elephant-driver heard this, he looked at the face of the king, and in the meanwhile the king beheld her, like the splendour of the moon fallen from heaven. And the king, drinking her in with insatiate eye like a partridge, having conceived the hope of gaining her, said to his elephant-driver—“Take the elephant near and comply with her wish, and without delay seat this moon-faced dame on the elephant.” When the king said this, the elephant-driver at once brought that elephant close under the house. When Anangaprabhá saw that the elephant had come near, she immediately flung herself into the lap of the king Ságaravarman. How came it that, though at first she was averse to a husband, she now showed such an insatiable appetite for husbands? Surely her father’s curse made her exhibit a great change of character. And she clasped the king round the neck, as if afraid of falling, and he, when his limbs were irrigated with the nectar of her touch, was much delighted. And the king quickly carried off to his own palace her, who had surrendered herself by an artifice, being desirous of being kissed. There he made that Vidyádharí enter his harem, and after she had told him her story, he made her his principal wife. And then that young Kshatriya, finding out that she had been carried off by the king, came and attacked the king’s servants outside the palace, and there he left his corpse, not turning his back in fight, for brave men do not submit to insult on account of a woman. And it seemed as if he was carried off to the abode of the gods by the nymphs of heaven, saying—“What have you to do with this contemptible woman? Come to Nandana and court us.”
As for that Anangaprabhá, when she had come into the possession of the king Ságaravarman, she roamed no more, but remained faithful to him, as rivers are at rest in the bosom of the sea. And owing to the force of destiny, she thought herself fortunate in having obtained that husband, and he thought that his life was complete by his having obtained her for a wife.
And in some days Anangaprabhá, the queen of that king Ságaravarman, became pregnant, and in due time gave birth to a son. And the king made a great feast on account of the birth of a noble son, and gave the boy the name of Samudravarman. And when that son attained his full stature, and became a young man distinguished for might, the king appointed him crown-prince. Then he brought to his court Kamalavatí the daughter of a certain king named Samaravarman, to be married to him. And when that son Samudravarman was married, the king, being impressed by his virtues, gave him his own kingdom. That brave son Samudravarman, being thoroughly acquainted with the duties of Kshatriyas, when he had obtained the kingdom, said to his father, bowing before him: “Father, give me leave to depart; I am setting out to conquer the regions. A lord of earth, that is not intent on conquest, is to be blamed as much as the effeminate husband of a woman. And in this world, only that fortune of kings is righteous and glorious, which is acquired by one’s own strength after conquering the kingdoms. What is the use, father, of the sovereignty of those kings, who hold it merely for the sake of oppressing the poor? They devour their own subjects, ravenous like cats.”[14] When he had said this, his father Ságaravarman replied, “Your rule, my boy, is young; so for the present secure that; no demerit or disgrace attaches to one who rules his subjects justly. And war is not meet for kings without considering their power; though, you my child, are a hero, and your army is numerous, still you ought not to rely upon the fortune of victory, which is fickle in fight.” Though his father used these and similar arguments with him, the brave Samudravarman at last, with great difficulty, induced him to consent, and marched out to conquer the regions. And having conquered the regions in due course, and reduced the kings under his sway, he returned to his own city in possession of elephants, horses, gold, and other tributes. And there he humbly honoured the feet of his delighted parents with great jewels produced in various regions. And the glorious prince gave, by their orders, to the Bráhmans great gifts of elephants, horses, gold and jewels. Then he showered gold in such profusion upon suppliants and servants, that the only thing in the country devoid of wealth was the word poor, which had become without meaning.[15] The king Ságaravarman, dwelling with Anangaprabhá, when he beheld the glory of his son, considered that his objects in life had been accomplished.
And the king, after spending those days in feasting, said to his son Samudravarman in the presence of the ministers—“I have accomplished, my son, what I had to accomplish in this birth; I have enjoyed the pleasures of rule, I have not experienced defeat from my enemies, and I have seen you in possession of sovereignty, what else does there remain for me to obtain? So I will retire to a holy bathing-place, while my body retains strength. For see, old age whispers at the root of my ear—‘Since this body is perishable, why do you still remain in your house?’” Having said this, the king Ságaravarman, all whose ends were attained, went, though his son was opposed to it, to Prayága with his beloved. And Samudravarman escorted his father there, and, after returning to his own city, ruled it in accordance with the law.
And the king Ságaravarman, accompanied by his wife Anangaprabhá, propitiated the god Śiva in Prayága with asceticism. And at the end of the night, the god said to him in a dream—“I am pleased with this penance of yourself and your wife, so hear this—This Anangaprabhá and you, my son, are both of the Vidyádhara race, and to-morrow the curse will expire, and you will go to your own world.” When the king heard that, he woke up, and Anangaprabhá too, who had seen a similar dream, and they told their dreams to one another. And then Anangaprabhá, delighted, said to the king—“My husband, I have now remembered all the history of my former birth; I am the daughter of Samara, a prince of the Vidyádharas, in the city of Vírapura, and my name has always been Anangaprabhá. And I came here owing to the curse of my father, having become a human being by the loss of my science, and I forgot my Vidyádharí nature. But now I have recovered consciousness of it.” While she was saying this, her father Samara descended from heaven; and after he had been respectfully welcomed by the king Ságaravarman, he said to that daughter Anangaprabhá, who fell at his feet, “Come, daughter, receive these sciences, your curse is at an end. For you have endured in one birth the sorrows of eight births.”[16] Saying this, he took her on his lap, and gave her back the sciences; then he said to the king Ságaravarman—“You are a prince of the Vidyádharas, named Madanaprabha, and I am by name Samara, and Anangaprabhá is my daughter. And long ago, when she ought to have been given in marriage, her hand was demanded by several suitors, but being intoxicated by her beauty, she did not desire any husband. Then she was asked in marriage by you, who were equal in merit, and very eager to marry her, but as fate would have it, she would not then accept even you. For that reason I cursed her, that she might go to the world of mortals. And you, being passionately in love with her, fixed your heart on Śiva the giver of boons, and wished intently that she might be your wife in the world of mortals, and then you abandoned your Vidyádhara body by magic art. Then you became a man and she became your wife. Now return to your own world linked together.” When Samara said this to Ságaravarman, he, remembering his birth, abandoned his body in the water of Prayága,[17] and immediately became Madanaprabha. And Anangaprabhá was rekindled with the brightness of her recovered science, and immediately becoming a Vidyádharí, gleamed with that very body, which underwent a heavenly change. And then Madanaprabha, being delighted, and Anangaprabhá also, feeling great passion stir in both their hearts at the sight of one another’s heavenly bodies, and the auspicious Samara, king of the sky-goers, all flew up into the air, and went together to that city of the Vidyádharas, Vírapura. And there Samara immediately gave, with due rites, his daughter Anangaprabhá to the Vidyádhara king, Madanaprabha. And Madanaprabha went with that beloved, whose curse had been cancelled, to his own city, and there he dwelt at ease.
“Thus divine beings fall by virtue of a curse, and owing to the consequences of their own wickedness, are incarnate in the world of men, and after reaping the fruit appropriate to their bad conduct, they again go to their own home on account of previously acquired merit.”
When Naraváhandadatta heard this tale from his minister Gomukha, he and Alankáravatí were delighted, and then he performed the duties of the day.
[1] Dim traditions of this mountain seem to have penetrated to Greece and Rome. Aristophanes (Acharnians v. 82) speaks of the king of Persia as engaged for 8 months ἐπὶ χρυσῶν ὀρῶν. Clark tells us that Bergler quotes Plautus, Stichus 24, Neque ille mereat Persarum sibi montes qui esse perhibentur aurei. (Philological Journal, VIII. p. 192.) See also Ter. Phormio I, 2, 18, Pers. III, 65. Naraváhanadatta’s journey through the air may remind the reader of the air-voyage of Alexander in the Pseudo-Callisthenes, II, 41. He sees a serpent below him, and a ἅλως in the middle of it. A divine being, whom he meets, tells him, that these objects are the earth and the sea.
[2] I. e. Śiva.
[4] i. e. city of heroes. See Cunningham’s Ancient Geography of India, p. 99.
[5] Cp. the properties of the magic ring given to Canace in the Squire’s tale, and Grimm’s story of “Die drei Sprachen,” (No. 33, Kindermärchen). See also Tylor’s Primitive Culture, Vol. I, pp. 18, 423. In the Edda, Sigurd learns to understand the language of birds by tasting the blood of Fafner. For other parallels see Liebrecht’s Dunlop, p. 184, and note 248.
[6] Cp. the 77th chapter of this work, the second in the Vetála Panchavinśati, and Ralston’s exhaustive note, in his Russian Folk-tales, pp. 231, 232, 233. Cp. also Bernhard Schmidt’s Griechische Märchen, p. 114, and Bartsch’s Sagen, Märchen, und Gebräuche aus Meklenburg, Vol. I, p. 486. The Pseudo-Callisthenes (Book II, c. 40) mentions a fountain that restored to life a salt fish, and made one of Alexander’s daughters immortal. This is perhaps the passage that was in Dunlop’s mind, when he said (page 129 of Liebrecht’s translation) that such a fountain is described in the Greek romance of Ismenias and Ismene, for which Liebrecht takes him to task. See the parallels quoted by Dunlop and Liebrecht. Wheeler, in his Noted Names of Fiction, tells us that there was a tradition current among the natives of Puerto Rico, that such a fountain existed in the fabulous island of Bimini, said to belong to the Bahama group. This was an object of eager and long-continued quest to the celebrated Spanish navigator, Juan Ponce de Leon. By Ismenias and Ismene Dunlop probably means Hysminias and Hysmine. See also Birlinger, Aus Schwaben, p. 185. Kuhn in his “Herabkunft des Feuers” traces this story back to the Śatapatha Bráhmaṇa.
[7] Here there is an elaborate pun. “King” may also mean “mountain,” “race” may mean “wings,” and the whole passage refers to Indra’s clipping the wings of the mountains.
[8] Compare the remarkable passage which M. Lévêque quotes from the works of Empedocles (Les Mythes et les Légendes de l’Inde, p. 90).
Ἔστιν ἀνάγκης χρῆμα, θεῶν ψήφισμα παλαιόν,
ἀίδιον, πλατέεσσι κατεσφρηγισμένον ὅρκοις,
εὖτέ τις ἀμπλακίῃσι φονῳ φίλα γῦια μιήνῃ
αἵμασιν ἢ ἐπίορκον ἁμαρτήσας ἐπομόσσῃ
δαίμων, οἵ τε μακραίωνος λελάχασι βίοιο,
τρὶς μιν μυρίας ὥρας ἀπὸ μακάρων ἀλάλησθαι,
φυόμενον παντοῖα διὰ χρόνου εἴδεα θνητῶν,
ἀργαλέας βιότοιο μεταλλάσσοντα κελεύθους.
I have adopted the readings of Ritter and Preller, in their Historia Philosophiæ, in preference to those of M. Lévêque. It is clear that Empedocles supposed himself to be a Vidyádhara fallen from heaven in consequence of a curse. As I observed in an article in the Calcutta Review of 1875, “The Bhagavad Gítá and Christianity,” his personality is decidedly Indian.
[9] Cp. Odyssey IX. 27, 28.
[10] Comprising the modern provinces of Allahabad, Agra, Delhi and Oude.
[11] For anṛityata I should like to read anartyata.
[12] i. e., one who has obtained a prize.
[13] Badarínátha is a place sacred to Vishṇu in the Himálayas. The Badarínátha peaks, in British Gurwhal, form a group of six summits, from 22,000 to 23,400 feet above the sea. The town of Badarínátha is 55 miles north-east of Śrínagar, on the right bank of the Vishṇuganga, a feeder of the Alakananda. The temple is situated in the highest part of the town, and below it a tank, supplied by a sulphureous thermal spring, is frequented by thousands of pilgrims. The temple is 10,294 feet above the sea. (Akbar, an Eastern Romance, by Dr. Van Limburg-Brouwer, with an introduction by Clements Markham, p. 1, note.)
[14] Prajá means subjects and also offspring.
[15] The word artha means wealth, and also meaning.
[16] The story of Anangaprabhá may be the origin of the seventh Novel of the IInd day in the Decameron of Boccacio.
[17] Prayága—Allahabad, the place of sacrifice κατ’ ἐξοχην. Here the Gangá and Yamuná unite with the supposed subterranean Sarasvatí.