Story of the child that died of a broken heart because his mother forgot to bring him a sweetmeat.
Once on a time, there lived in the city of Páṭaliputra a certain widow who had one child; she was young, and beautiful, but poor. And she was in the habit of making love to a strange man for her gratification, and at night she used to leave her house and roam where she pleased. But, before she went, she used invariably to console her infant son by saying to him, “My boy, I will bring you a sweetmeat to-morrow morning,” and every day she brought him one. And the child used to remain quiet at home, buoyed up by the hope of that sweetmeat.
But one day she forgot, and did not bring him the sweetmeat. And when the child asked for the sweetmeat, she said to him, “Sweetmeat indeed! I know of no sweet, but my sweetheart.” Then the child said to himself, “She has not brought me a sweetmeat, because she loves another better than me.” So he lost all hope, and his heart broke.
“So if I were over-eager to appropriate you whom I have long loved, and if Madanamanchuká, whom I consoled with the hope of a joyful reunion with you, were to hear of it, and lose all hope through me, her heart, which is as soft as a flower, would break.[10] It is this desire to spare her feelings, which prevents me from being so eager now for your society, before I have consoled her, though you are my beloved, dearer to me than life.”
When Prabhávatí said this to Naraváhanadatta, he was full of joy and astonishment, and he said to himself, “Well! Fate seems to take a pleasure in perpetually creating new marvels, since it has produced Prabhávatí, whose conduct is so inconceivably noble.” With these thoughts in his mind, the prince lovingly praised her, and said, “Then take me where that Madanamanchuká is.” When Prabhávatí heard that, she took him up, and in a moment carried him through the air to the mountain Ásháḍhapura. There she bestowed him on Madanamanchuká, whose body had long been drying up with grief, as a shower bestows fullness on a river.
Then Naraváhanadatta beheld that fair one there, afflicted with separation, thin and pale, like a digit of the new moon. That reunion of those two seemed to restore them to life, and gave joy to the world, like the union of the night and the moon. And the pair embraced, scorched with the fire of separation, and as they were streaming with fatigue, they seemed to melt into one. Then they both partook at their ease of luxuries suddenly provided in the night by the might of Prabhávatí’s science. And thanks to her science, no one there but Madanamanchuká, saw Naraváhanadatta.
The next morning Naraváhanadatta proceeded to loose Madanamanchuká’s one lock,[11] but she, overpowered with resentment against her enemy, said to her beloved, “Long ago I made this vow, ‘That lock of mine must be loosed by my husband, when Mánasavega is slain, but not till then; and if he is not slain, I will wear it till my death, and then it shall be loosed by the birds, or consumed with fire.’ But now you have loosed it, while this enemy of mine is still alive; that vexes my soul. For though Vegavatí flung him down on Agniparvata, he did not die of the fall. And you have now been made invisible here by Prabhávatí by means of her magic power; otherwise the followers of that enemy, who are continually moving near you here, would see you, and would not tolerate your presence.”
When Naraváhanadatta had been thus addressed by his wife, he, recognising the fact that the proper time for accomplishing his object had not yet arrived, said to her by way of calming her, “This desire of yours shall be fulfilled; I will soon slay that enemy; but first I must acquire the sciences; wait a little, my beloved.” With speeches of this kind Naraváhanadatta consoled Madanamanchuká; and remained there in that city of the Vidyádharas.
Then Prabhávatí disappeared herself, and, by the power of her magic science, bestowed in some incomprehensible way on Naraváhanadatta her own shape. And the prince lived happily there in her shape, and without fear of discovery, enjoying pleasures provided by her magic science. And all the people there thought, “This friend of Vegavatí’s is attending on Madanamanchuká, partly out of regard for Vegavatí, and partly on account of the friendly feelings which she herself entertains for the captive princess;” for they all supposed that Naraváhanadatta was no other than Prabhávatí, as he was disguised in her shape: and this was the report that they carried to Mánasavega. Then, one day, something caused Madanamanchuká to relate to Naraváhanadatta her adventures in the following words,