Story of Kusumáyudha and Kamalalochaná.
There was in a town named Chandrapura a Bráhman named Devasvámin: he had a very beautiful daughter named Kamalalochaná. And he had a young Bráhman pupil named Kusumáyudha; and that pupil and his daughter loved one another well.
One day her father made up his mind to give her to another suitor, and at once that maiden sent by her confidante the following message to Kusumáyudha, “Though I have long ago fixed my heart on you for a husband, my father has promised to give me to another, so devise a scheme for carrying me off hence.” So Kusumáyudha made an arrangement to carry her off, and he placed outside her house at night a servant with a mule for that purpose. So she quietly went out and mounted the mule, but that servant did not take her to his master; he took her somewhere else, to make her his own.
And during the night he took Kamalalochaná a long distance, and they reached a certain city by the morning, when that chaste woman said to the servant, “Where is my husband your master? Why do you not take me to him?” When the cunning rogue heard this, he said to her who was alone in a foreign country, “I am going to marry you myself: never mind about him; how can you get to him now?” When the discreet woman heard this, she said, “Indeed I love you very much.”[19] Then the rascal left her in the garden of the city, and went to the market to buy the things required for a wedding. In the meanwhile that maiden fled, with the mule, and entered the house of a certain old man who made garlands. She told him her history, and he made her welcome, so she remained there. And the wicked servant, not finding her in the garden, went away from it disappointed, and returned to his master Kusumáyudha. And when his master questioned him, he said, “The fact is, you are an upright man yourself, and you do not understand the ways of deceitful women. No sooner did she come out and was seen, than I was seized there by those other men, and the mule was taken away from me. By good luck I managed to escape and have come here.” When Kusumáyudha heard this, he remained silent, and plunged in thought.
One day his father sent him to be married, and as he was going along, he reached the city, where Kamalalochaná was. There he made the bridegroom’s followers encamp in a neighbouring garden, and while he was roaming about alone, Kamalalochaná saw him, and told the garland-maker in whose house she was living. He went and told her intended husband what had taken place, and brought him to her. Then the garland-maker collected the necessary things, and the long-desired marriage between the youth and the maiden was immediately celebrated. Then Kusumáyudha punished that wicked servant, and married in addition that second maiden, who was the cause of his finding Kamalalochaná, and in order to marry whom he had started from home, and he returned rejoicing to his own country with those two wives.
“Thus the fortunate are reunited in the most unexpected manner, and so you may be certain, Keśaṭa, of regaining your beloved soon in the same way.” When Yajnasvámin had said this, Kandarpa, Sumanas and Keśaṭa, remained for some days in his house, and then they set out for their own country. But on the way they reached a great forest, and they were separated from one another in the confusion produced by a charge of wild elephants. Of the party Keśaṭa went on alone and grieved, and in course of time reached the city of Káśí and found his friend Kandarpa there. And he went with him to his own city Páṭaliputra, and he remained there some time welcomed by his father. And there he told his parents all his adventures, beginning with his marrying Rúpavatí, and ending with the story of Kandarpa.
In the meanwhile Sumanas fled, terrified at the elephants, and entered a thicket, and while she was there, the sun set for her. And when night came on, she cried out in her woe, “Alas, my husband! Alas, my father! Alas, my mother!” and resolved to fling herself into a forest fire. And in the meanwhile that company of witches, that were so full of pity for Kandarpa, having conquered the other witches, reached their own temple. There they remembered Kandarpa, and finding out by their supernatural knowledge that his wife had lost her way in a wood, they deliberated as follows, “Kandarpa, being a resolute man, will unaided obtain his desire; but his wife, being a young girl, and having lost her way in the forest, will assuredly die. So let us take her and put her down in Ratnapura, in order that she may live there in the house of Kandarpa’s father with his other wife.” When the witches had come to this conclusion, they went to that forest and comforted Sumanas there, and took her and left her in Ratnapura.
When the night had passed, Sumanas, wandering about in that city, heard the following cry in the mouths of the people who were running hither and thither, “Lo! the virtuous Anangavatí, the wife of the Bráhman Kandarpa, who, after her husband had gone somewhere or other, lived a long time in hope of reunion with him, not having recovered him, has now gone out in despair to enter the fire, followed by her weeping father-in-law and mother-in-law.” When Sumanas heard that, she went quickly to the place where the pyre had been made, and going up to Anangavatí, said to her, in order to dissuade her, “Noble lady, do not act rashly, for that husband of yours is alive.” Having said this, she told the whole story from the beginning. And she shewed the jewelled ring that Kandarpa gave her. Then all welcomed her, perceiving that her account was true. Then Kandarpa’s father honoured that bride Sumanas and gladly lodged her in his house with the delighted Anangavatí.
Then Kandarpa left Páṭaliputra[20] without telling Keśaṭa, as he knew he would not like it, in order to roam about in search of Sumanas. And after he had gone, Keśaṭa, feeling unhappy without Rúpavatí, left his house without his parents’ knowledge, and went to roam about hither and thither. And Kandarpa, in the course of his wanderings, happened to visit that very city, where Keśaṭa, married Rúpavatí. And hearing a great noise of people, he asked what it meant, and a certain man said to him, “Here is Rúpavatí preparing to die, as she cannot find her husband Keśaṭa,; the tumult is on that account; listen to the story connected with her.” Then that man related the strange story of Rúpavatí’s marriage with Keśaṭa and of her adventure with the Rákshasa, and then continued as follows:
“Then that old Bráhman, having tricked Keśaṭa, went on his way, taking with him Rúpavatí for his son: but nobody knew where Keśaṭa had gone after marrying her. And Rúpavatí, not seeing Keśaṭa on the journey, said, ‘Why do I not see my husband here, though all the rest of the party are travelling along with me?’ When the old Bráhman heard that, he shewed her that son of his, and said to her, ‘My daughter, this son of mine is your husband; behold him.’ Then Rúpavatí said in a rage to the old man there, ‘I will not have this ugly fellow for a husband; I will certainly die, if I cannot get that husband, who married me yesterday.’
“Saying this, she at once stopped eating and drinking; and the old Bráhman, through fear of the king, had her taken back to her father’s house. There she told the trick that the old Bráhman had played her, and her father, in great grief, said to her, ‘How are we to discover, my daughter, who the man that married you, is?’ Then Rúpavatí said, ‘My husband’s name is Keśaṭa, and he is the son of a Bráhman named Deśaṭa in Páṭaliputra; for so much I heard from the mouth of a Rákshasa.’ When she had said this, she told her father the whole story of her husband and the Rákshasa. Then her father went and saw the Rákshasa lying dead, and so he believed his daughter’s story, and was pleased with the virtue of that couple.
“He consoled his daughter with hopes of reunion with her husband, and sent his son to Keśaṭa’s father in Páṭaliputra, to search for him. And after some time they came back and said, ‘We saw the householder Deśaṭa in Páṭaliputra. But when we asked him where his son Keśaṭa was, he answered us with tears, “My son Keśaṭa is not here; he did return here, and a friend of his named Kandarpa came with him; but he went away from here without telling me, pining for Rúpavatí”—When we heard this speech of his, we came back here in due course.’
“When those sent to search had brought back this report, Rúpavatí said to her father, ‘I shall never recover my husband, so I will enter the fire; how long, father, can I live here without my husband?’ She went on saying this, and as her father has not been able to dissuade her, she has come out to-day to perish in the fire. And two maidens, friends of hers, have come out to die in the same way; one is called Śṛingáravatí and the other Anurágavatí. For long ago, at the marriage of Rúpavatí, they saw Keśaṭa and made up their minds that they would have him for a husband, as their hearts were captivated by his beauty. This is the meaning of the noise which the people here are making.”
When Kandarpa heard this from that man, he went to the pyre which had been heaped up for those ladies. He made a sign to the people from a distance to cease their tumult, and going up quickly, he said to Rúpavatí, who was worshipping the fire; “Noble lady; desist from this rashness; that husband of yours Keśaṭa is alive; he is my friend; know that I am Kandarpa.” When he had said this, he told her all Keśaṭa’s adventures, beginning with the circumstance of the old Bráhman’s treacherously making him embark on the boat. Then Rúpavatí believed him, as his story tallied so completely with what she knew, and she joyfully entered her father’s house with those two friends. And her father kindly welcomed Kandarpa and took good care of him; and so he remained there, to please him.
In the meanwhile it happened that, as Keśaṭa was roaming about, he reached Ratnapura and found there the house of Kandarpa, in which his two wives were. And as he was wandering about near the house, Sumanas, the wife of Kandarpa, saw him from the top of the house and said delighted to her father-in-law and mother-in-law, and the other people in the house, “Here now is Keśaṭa my husband’s friend arrived; we may hear news of my husband from him; quickly invite him in.” Then they went and on some pretext or other brought in Keśaṭa as she advised, and when he saw Sumanas come towards him, he was delighted. And after he had rested she questioned him, and he immediately told her his own and Kandarpa’s adventures, after the scare produced by the wild elephants.
He remained there some days, hospitably entertained, and then a messenger came from Kandarpa with a letter. The messenger said, “Kandarpa and Rúpavatí are in the town where Kandarpa’s friend Keśaṭa married Rúpavatí;” and the contents of the letter were to the same effect; and Keśaṭa communicated the tidings with tears to the father of Kandarpa.
And the next day Kandarpa’s father sent in high glee a messenger to bring his son, and dismissed Keśaṭa, that he might join his beloved. And Keśaṭa went with that messenger, who brought the letter, to that country where Rúpavatí was living in her father’s house. There, after a long absence, he greeted and refreshed the delighted Rúpavatí, as the cloud does the chátakí. He met Kandarpa once more, and he married at the instance of Rúpavatí her two before-mentioned friends, Anurágavatí and Śṛingáravatí. And then Keśaṭa went with Rúpavatí and them to his own land, after taking leave of Kandarpa. And Kandarpa returned to Ratnapura with the messenger, and was once more united to Sumanas and Anangavatí and his relations. So Kandarpa regained his beloved Sumanas, and Keśaṭa his beloved Rúpavatí, and they lived enjoying the good things of this life, each in his own country.
Thus men of firm resolution, though separated by adverse destiny, are reunited with their dear ones, despising even terrible sufferings, and taking no account of their interminable duration. So rise up quickly my friend, let us go; you also will find your wife, if you search for her; who knows the way of Destiny? I myself regained my wife alive after she had died.
“Telling me this tale my friend encouraged me; and himself accompanied me; and so roaming about with him, I reached this land, and here I saw a mighty elephant and a wild boar. And, (wonderful to say!) I saw that elephant bring my helpless wife out of his mouth, and swallow her again; and I followed that elephant, which appeared for a moment and then disappeared for a long time, and in my search for it I have now, thanks to my merits, beheld your Majesty here.”
When the young merchant had said this, Vikramáditya sent for his wife, whom he had rescued by killing the elephant, and handed her over to him. And then the couple, delighted at their marvellous reunion, recounted their adventures to one another, and their mouths were loud in praise of the glorious king Vishamaśíla.
[1] See Vol. I, pp. 199 and 515; and Vol. II, p. 265.
[2] Cp. Iliad V, 265 and ff.; and (still better) Aeneid VII, 280, and ff.
[3] Devíyasím is a misprint for davíyasím, as Dr. Kern points out.
[4] In European superstition we find the notion that witches can fly through the air by anointing themselves with the fat of a toad. Veckenstedt, Wendische Märchen, p. 288. In Bartsch, Sagen und Gebräuche aus Meklenburg, we read (Vol. II, p. 19) that Margretha Detloses confesses that she smeared her feet with some black stuff that Satan brought, and then said, Auf und darvan und nergens an. Anneke Mettinges (ibid. p. 23) smeared herself with yellow fat; Anneke Swarten (ibid. p. 27) with black stuff from an unused pot.
[5] See page 104 of this volume. An older form of that story is perhaps the Saccam̱kirajátaka, No. 73, Fausböll, Vol. I, p. 323. Tho present story bears perhaps a closer resemblance to that of Androclus, Aulus Gellius, N. A. V, 14, the Indian form of which may be found in Miss Stokes’s tale of “The Man who went to seek his fate.”
[6] Valí should of course be vallí.
[7] Cp. Oesterley’s Baitál Pachísí, p. 14; and the note on p. 176. In Aelian’s Varia Historia, III, 19, there is a tree, the fruit of which makes an old man become gradually younger and younger until he reaches the antenatal state of non-existence. The passage is referred to by Rohde, Der Griechische Roman, p. 207. Baring Gould, in Appendix A to his Curious Myths of the Middle Ages, gives a very curious passage from the Bragda Mágus Saga, an Icelandic version of the romance of Maugis. Here we have a man named Vidförull who was in the habit of changing his skin and becoming young again. He changed his skin once when he was 330 years old, a second time at the age of 215, and a third time in the presence of Charlemagne. It is quite possible that the story in the text is a form of the fable of the Wandering Jew.
[8] I read devakumárau.
[9] I. e. Sea of virtues.
[10] See Vol. I, p. 207, and Vol. II, p. 224, and Rohde’s note on page 196 of Der Griechische Roman. This is probably the incident depicted on the Bharhat Stúpa. See General Cunningham’s work, Plate XXXIV, Medallion 2.
[11] A certain dark-coloured precious stone. B. and R. s. v.
[12] The Petersburg lexicographers explain it as a statue of śála-wood. They explain stambhotkirna too as wie aus einem Pfosten geschnitten, wie eine Statue von Holz. But could not the figures be cut in stone, as the Bharhut sculptures are?
[13] See Vol. I, pp. 86 and 573. The parallel to the story of the Wright’s Chaste Wife is strikingly close.
[14] Dr. Kern would read avidito. This is confirmed by the Sanskrit College MS. and by No. 1882; No. 3003 has avadito.
[15] Both the India Office MSS. and the Sanskrit College MS. have yásyasi for páyasi. The latter would mean, “Where will you drink.”
[16] Cp. Vol. II, p. 63.
[17] I insert subhagam̱ before khád, from the Sanskrit College MS.
[18] Both the India Office MSS read Vakrapura. The Sanskrit College MS. supports Brockhaus’s text.
[19] No. 1882 and the Sanskrit College MS. give tarhi for tvam̱ hi and priyam̱ for priyaḥ. No 3003 agrees with the above MSS. in the first point and in the second with Brockhaus.
[20] I read Páṭaliputrakát.