Story of Bhímabhaṭa.
Long ago, in the city of Ekalavyá, there was a king named Śrutadhara, and he had two sons by two wives. When the king went to heaven, his younger son, named Satyadhara, expelled the elder son, named Śíladhara, from the throne. Śíladhara was angry on that account, so he went and propitiated Śiva, and craved the following boon from the god, who was pleased with his asceticism, “May I become a Gandharva, in order that I may be able to move through the air, and so slay with ease that kinsman of mine, Satyadhara!” When the holy god Śiva heard this, he said to him, “This boon shall be granted to thee, but that enemy of thine has to-day died a natural death. And he shall be again born in the city of Ráḍhá, as Samarabhaṭa, the favourite son of king Ugrabhaṭa. But thou shalt be born as Bhímabhaṭa, his elder brother, by a different mother, and thou shalt kill him and rule the kingdom. But because thou didst perform these ascetic penances under the influence of anger, thou shalt be hurled from thy rank by the curse of a hermit, and become a wild elephant, that remembers its birth and possesses articulate speech, and when thou shalt comfort a guest in distress and tell him thy history, then thou shalt be freed from thy elephant-nature and become a Gandharva, and at the same time a great benefit will be conferred upon that guest.” When Śiva had said this, he disappeared, and Śíladhara, seeing that his body was emaciated by long penance, flung himself into the Ganges.
At this point of my tale it happened that, while that king named Ugrabhaṭa, whom I have before mentioned, was living happily in the city of Ráḍhá with his wife Manoramá who was equal to him in birth, there came to his court from a foreign country an actor named Lásaka. And he exhibited before the king that dramatic piece in which Vishṇu, in the form of a woman, carries off the amṛita from the Daityas. And in that piece the king saw the actor’s daughter Lásavatí dancing in the character of Amṛitiká. When he saw her beauty, that was like that of the real Amṛitá, with which Vishṇu bewildered the Dánavas, he fell in love with her. And at the end of the dance he gave her father much wealth, and immediately introduced her into his harem. And then he married that dancer Lásavatí, and lived with her, having his eyes riveted upon her face. One day he said to his chaplain named Yajuḥsvámin, “I have no son, so perform a sacrifice in order to procure me a son.” The chaplain obeyed, and performed duly, with the help of learned Bráhmans, a sacrifice for that king’s benefit. And, as he had been previously gained over by Manoramá, he gave her to eat, as being the eldest queen, the first half of the oblation purified with holy texts.[1] And he gave the rest to the second queen Lásavatí. Then those two, Śíladhara and Satyadhara, whom I have before mentioned, were conceived in those two queens. And when the time came, Manoramá, the consort of that king, brought forth a son with auspicious marks. And at that moment a distinct utterance was heard from heaven, “This child who is born shall be a famous king under the name of Bhímabhaṭa.” On the next day Lásavatí also brought forth a son, and the king his father gave him the name of Samarabhaṭa. And the usual sacraments were performed for them, and the two boys gradually grew up. But the eldest Bhímabhaṭa surpassed the youngest in all accomplishments, and rivalry in these increased the natural ill-feeling between them.
One day, as they were engaged in wrestling, Samarabhaṭa, being jealous, struck Bhímabhaṭa with his arm with great force on the neck. Then Bhímabhaṭa was enraged, and immediately throwing his arms round Samarabhaṭa, he lifted him up and flung him on the ground. The fall gave him a severe shock, and his servants took him up and carried him to his mother, discharging blood from all the apertures in his body. When she saw him, and found out what had taken place, she was alarmed on account of her love for him, and she placed her face close to his and wept bitterly. At that moment the king entered, and when he saw this sight, he was much troubled in mind, and asked Lásavatí what it meant, and she gave the following answer: “This son of mine has been reduced to this state by Bhímabhaṭa. And he is always ill-treating him, but I have never told you, king; however now, that I have seen this, I must say, I cannot[2] understand how your majesty can be safe with such a son as this, but let your majesty decide.” When king Ugrabhaṭa was thus appealed to by his favourite wife, he was angry, and banished Bhímabhaṭa from his court. And he took away from him his allowance, and appointed a hundred Rájpúts with their retainers to guard that Samarabhaṭa. And he put his treasury at the disposal of the younger son, but he drove the elder son from his presence, and took away all that he possessed.
Then his mother Manoramá sent for him and said, “Your father has thrown you over, because he is in love with a dancer. So go to the palace of my father in Páṭaliputra, and when you arrive there, your grandfather will give you his kingdom, for he has no son. But, if you remain here, your enemy, this Samarabhaṭa, will kill you, for he is powerful.” When Bhímabhaṭa heard this speech of his mother’s, he said, “I am a Kshatriya, and I will not sneak away from my native land, like a coward. Be of good cheer, mother! what wretch is able to injure me?” When he said this, his mother answered him, “Then procure a numerous body of companions to guard you, by means of my wealth.” When Bhímabhaṭa heard this proposal, he said, “Mother, this is not becoming; for if I did this, I should be really opposing my father. You may be quite at your ease, for your blessing alone will procure me good fortune.” When Bhímabhaṭa had encouraged her with these words, he left her. In the meanwhile all the citizens came to hear of it, and they thought, “Alas! a great injustice has been done to Bhímabhaṭa by the king. Surely Samarabhaṭa does not think he is going to rob him of the kingdom. Well it is an opportunity for us to do him a service, before he comes to the throne.” Having formed this resolution, the citizens secretly supplied Bhímabhaṭa with such abundance of wealth, that he lived in great comfort with his servants. But the younger brother was ever on the look out to kill his elder brother, supposing that this was his father’s object in furnishing him with a guard.
In the meanwhile a heroic and wealthy young Bráhman, of the name of Śankhadatta, who was a friend of both brothers, came and said to Samarabhaṭa, “You ought not to carry on hostility with your elder brother; it is not right, and you cannot do him an injury; on the contrary the result of a quarrel would be disgraceful to you.” When he said this, Samarabhaṭa abused and threatened him; good advice given to a fool does not calm but rather enrages him. Then the resolute Śankhadatta went away indignant at this treatment, and made a strict friendship with Bhímabhaṭa, in order to have the opportunity of conquering Samarabhaṭa.
Then a merchant, of the name of Maṇidatta, came there from a foreign country, bringing with him an excellent horse; it was as white as the moon; the sound of its neighing was as musical as that of a clear conch or other sweet-sounding instrument; it looked like the waves of the sea of milk surging on high; it was marked with curls on the neck; and adorned with the crest-jewel, the bracelet, and other signs, which it seemed as if it had acquired by being born in the race of the Gandharvas. When Bhímabhaṭa heard of that splendid horse, which was mentioned to him by Śankhadatta, he went and bought it for a high price from that merchant-prince. At that moment Samarabhaṭa, hearing of it, came and tried to buy the horse from the merchant for double the price. But he refused to give it him, as it had already been sold to another; then Samarabhaṭa, out of envy, proceeded to carry it off by force. Then there took place a fierce combat between those two princes, as the adherents of both came running up with weapons in their hands. Then the mighty arm of Bhímabhaṭa laid low the attendants of Samarabhaṭa, and he himself abandoned the horse, and began to retire through fear of his brother. But as he was retiring, Śankhadatta, full of overpowering anger, pursued him, and laying hold of his hair behind, was on the point of killing him, when Bhímabhaṭa rushed up and prevented him, saying, “Let be for the present, it would be a grief to my father.” Then Śankhadatta let Samarabhaṭa go, and he fled in fear, discharging blood from his wounds, and repaired to his father.
Then the brave Bhímabhaṭa took possession of the horse, and immediately a Bráhman came up to him, and taking him aside, said to him, “Your mother the queen Manoramá, and the chaplain Yajuḥsvámin, and Sumati, the minister of your father, send you the following advice at this juncture. “You know,[3] dear boy, how the king is always affected towards you, and he is especially angry with you at present, now that this misfortune has happened. So if you feel disposed to save your own life, and to preserve glory, and justice inviolate, if you have any regard for the future, if you consider us well disposed towards you; leave this place unobserved this very evening, as soon as the sun has set, and make for the palace of your maternal grandfather, and may good fortune attend you. This is the message they gave me for you, and they sent you this casket full of precious jewels and gold; receive it from my hand.” When the wise Bhímabhaṭa heard this message, he accepted it, saying, “I consent to act thus,” and he took that casket of gold and valuable jewels. And he gave him an appropriate message to take back, and then dismissed him, and mounted that horse, sword in hand. And Śankhadatta took some gold and jewels, and mounted another horse. And then prince Bhímabhaṭa set out with him, and after he had gone a long distance, he reached at dead of night a great thicket of reeds that lay in his way. As he and his companion pursued their course through it without stopping, a couple of lions, roused by the noise, which the reeds made when trampled by the horses’ hoofs, rushed out roaring, with their cubs, and began to rip up the bellies of the horses with their claws. And immediately the hero and his companion cut off the limbs of the lions with their swords, and killed them. Then he got down with his friend to look at the state of the two horses, but as their entrails were torn out, they immediately fell down dead. When Bhímabhaṭa saw that, he felt despondent, and he said to Śankhadatta, “Friend, by a great effort we have escaped from our hostile relatives. Tell me, where, even by a hundred efforts, shall we find an escape from Fate, who has now smitten us even here, not allowing us even to retain our horses. The very horse, for which I abandoned my native land, is dead; so how can we travel on foot through this forest at night?” When he said this, his friend Śankhadatta answered him, “It is no new thing for hostile Fate to conquer courage. This is its nature, but it is conquered by firm endurance. What can Fate do against a firm unshaken man, any more than the wind against a mountain? So come, let us mount upon the horse of endurance and so plod on here.” When Śankhadatta said this, Bhímabhaṭa set out with him. Then they slowly crossed that thicket, wounding their feet with the canes, and at last the night came to an end. And the sun, the lamp of the world, arose, dispelling the darkness of night, and the lotus-flowers in the lotus-clumps, by the side of their path, with their expanding cups and the sweet murmur of their bees, seemed to be looking at one another and saying, “It is a happy thing that this Bhímabhaṭa has crossed this thicket full of lions and other dangerous animals.” So travelling on, he at last reached with his friend the sandy shore of the Ganges, dotted with the huts of hermits. There he drank its sweet waters, which seemed to be impregnated with the nectar of the moon, from dwelling on the head of Śiva, and he bathed in them, and felt refreshed. And he ate, by way of sustenance, some venison, which they had bought from a hunter whom they happened to meet, and which Śankhadatta brought to him roasted. And seeing that the Ganges was full and difficult to cross, for with its waves uplifted like hands it seemed again and again to warn him back, he proceeded to roam along the bank of the river. And there he saw a young Bráhman in the court of an out-of-the-way hut, engaged in the study of the Vedas. So he went up to him and said, “Who are you, and what are you doing in this solitary place?” Then the young Bráhman answered him:
“I am Nílakaṇṭha, the son of a Bráhman named Śríkaṇṭha, who lived at Váráṇasí, and after all the ceremonies had been performed for me, and I had learnt knowledge in the family of my spiritual preceptor, I returned home and found all my relations dead. That left me helpless and poor, and as I was not in a position to carry on the duties of a householder, I became despondent, and repaired to this place, and had recourse to severe asceticism. Then the goddess Gangá gave me some fruits in a dream, and said to me, ‘Remain here living on these fruits, until you obtain your desire.’ Then I woke up and went and bathed, and when the morning came, I found in the water some fruits, that had been washed here by the stream of the Ganges. I brought those fruits, delicious as nectar, into my hut, and ate them there, and so I remain here engaged in asceticism, receiving these fruits day by day.”
When he said this, Bhímabhaṭa said to Śankhadatta, “I will give this virtuous youth enough wealth to enable him to enter the householder-state.” Śankhadatta approved his speech; whereupon the prince gave the Bráhman the wealth that his mother gave him. For what is the use of the greatness of great ones, who have abundant courage and wealth, if they do not put a stop to the sufferings of their neighbour as soon as they hear of them?
And after he had made the fortune of the Bráhman, Bhímabhaṭa searched in every direction for some means of crossing the Ganges, but could not find any. Then he tied his ornaments and sword on his head, and plunged in with Śankhadatta to swim across it.
And in the middle of the river the current carried his friend to a distance from him, and he himself was swept away by the waves, and reached the bank with difficulty. When he reached the other side, he could not see his friend Śankhadatta, and while he was looking for him along the bank, the sun set. Then he began to despair, and he exclaimed in bitter grief, “Alas my friend!” and it being now the beginning of the night, he prepared to drown himself in the waters of the Ganges. He said, “Goddess Jáhnaví, you have taken from me my life in the form of my friend, so now receive also this empty vessel of my body,” and he was on the point of plunging in, when Gangá appeared to him from the middle of the flood. And pleased with his violent agitation she said to him then and there, “Do not act rashly, my son! your friend is alive, and in a short time you shall be reunited with him. Now receive from me this charm called, ‘Forwards and Backwards.’ If a man repeats it forwards, he will become invisible to his neighbour, but if he repeats it backwards, he will assume whatever shape he desires.[4] Such is the force of this charm only seven syllables long, and by its help you shall become a king on this earth.” When the goddess Gangá had said this, and given him the charm, she disappeared from his eyes, and he gave up the idea of suicide, now that he had got a hope of regaining his friend and of other successes. And being anxious to regain his friend, he passed the night in impatience, like the lotus-flower, and the next morning he set out in search of him.
Then, as he was travelling about in search of Śankhadatta, he one day reached alone the district of Láṭa, where, though the colours of the castes are not mixed, the people lead a diversified and richly coloured life, which though a seat of fine arts, is not reputed a home of crimes.[5] In this city he wandered about, looking at the temples and the dwelling-houses, and at last he reached a hall of gamblers. He entered it and saw a number of fraudulent dice-players, who though they were clothed in a loin-rag only, shewed by their handsome, well-shaped, stout limbs, which indicated good living and plenty of exercise, that they were men of rank though they concealed it, and that they had resorted to that occupation for the sake of making money. They began to talk to him, so he sat down to play with them, and they fancied that they would make a fine thing out of him and his ornaments. Then he beat them at the dice-play, and won from the rogues all the wealth which they had acquired by cheating others.
Then those gamblers, having lost their wealth, were preparing to go home, when Bhímabhaṭa set his arms against the door and stopped them, and said to them, “Where are you going? Take back this wealth; I do not want it. I must give it away to my friends, and are not you my friends? Where can I find[6] such dear friends as you?” When he said this, and they declined to take the money out of shame, a gambler there, of the name of Akshakshapaṇaka, said, “Undoubtedly it is the definition of gambling that what is won is not returned, but if this gentleman becomes our friend, and gives us of his own accord wealth which he has fairly won, why should we not take it?” The others, when they heard this, exclaimed, “It is fitting, if he makes such an eternal friendship with us.” When they said this, he came to the conclusion that they were men of spirit, and he at once consented to swear eternal friendship to them, and gave them back their wealth. And at their request he went into a garden with them and their families, and refreshed himself with food, and wine, and other luxuries, supplied by them. Then, at the request of Akshakshapaṇaka and the others, he told his name, race, and history, and asked them also for theirs. Then Akshakshapaṇaka told him the story of his life.