The story of Śivavarman.
There reigned here long ago a king named Ádityavarman, and he had a very wise minister, named Śivavarman. Now it came to pass that one of that king’s queens became pregnant, and when he found it out, the king said to the guards of the harem, “It is now two years since I entered this place, then how has this queen become pregnant? Tell me.” Then they said, “No man except your minister Śivavarman is allowed to enter here, but he enters without any restriction.” When he heard that, the king thought,—“Surely he is guilty of treason against me, and yet if I put him to death publicly, I shall incur reproach,”—thus reflecting, that king sent that Śivavarman on some pretext to Bhogavarman a neighbouring chief,[7] who was an ally of his, and immediately afterwards the king secretly sent off a messenger to the same chief, bearing a letter by which he was ordered to put the minister to death. When a week had elapsed after the minister’s departure, that queen tried to escape out of fear, and was taken by the guards with a man in woman’s attire, then Ádityavarman when he heard of it was filled with remorse, and asked himself why he had causelessly brought about the death of so excellent a minister. In the meanwhile Śivavarman reached the Court of Bhogavarman, and that messenger came bringing the letter; and fate would have it so that after Bhogavarman had read the letter he told to Śivavarman in secret the order he had received to put him to death.
The excellent minister Śivavarman in his turn said to that chief,—“put me to death; if you do not, I will slay myself with my own hand.” When he heard that, Bhogavarman was filled with wonder, and said to him, “What does all this mean? Tell me Bráhman, if you do not, you will lie under my curse.” Then the minister said to him, “King, in whatever land I am slain, on that land God will not send rain for twelve years.” When he heard that, Bhogavarman debated with his minister,—“that wicked king desires the destruction of our land, for could he not have employed secret assassins to kill his minister? So we must not put this minister to death, moreover we must prevent him from laying violent hands on himself.” Having thus deliberated and appointed him guards, Bhogavarman sent Śivavarman out of his country that moment; so that minister by means of his wisdom returned alive, and his innocence was established from another quarter, for righteousness cannot be undone.
In the same way your innocence will be made clear, Kátyáyana; remain for a while in my house; this king too will repent of what he has done. When Śakatála said this to me, I spent those days concealed in his house, waiting my opportunity.
Then it came to pass that one day, O Káṇabhúti, a son of that Yogananda named Hiraṇyagupta went out hunting, and when he had somehow or other been carried to a great distance by the speed of his horse, while he was alone in the wood the day came to an end; and then he ascended a tree to pass the night. Immediately afterwards a bear, which had been terrified by a lion, ascended the same tree; he seeing the prince frightened, said to him with a human voice, “Fear not, thou art my friend,” and thus promised him immunity from harm. Then the prince confiding in the bear’s promise went to sleep, while the bear remained awake. Then the lion below said to the bear, “Bear, throw me down this man, and I will go away.” Then the bear said, “Villain, I will not cause the death of a friend.” When in course of time the bear went to sleep while the prince was awake, the lion said again, “Man, throw me down the bear.” When he heard that, the prince, who through fear for his own safety wished to propitiate the lion, tried to throw down the bear, but wonderful to say, it did not fall, since Fate caused it to awake. And then that bear said to the prince, “become insane, thou betrayer of thy friend,”[8] laying upon him a curse destined not to end until a third person guessed the whole transaction. Accordingly the prince, when he reached his palace in the morning went out of his mind, and Yogananda seeing it, was immediately plunged in despondency; and said, “If Vararuchi were alive at this moment, all this matter would be known; curse on my readiness to have him put to death!” Śakatála, when he heard this exclamation of the king’s, thought to himself, “Ha! here is an opportunity obtained for bringing Kátyáyana out of concealment, and he being a proud man will not remain here, and the king will repose confidence in me.” After reflecting thus, he implored pardon, and said to the king, “O King, cease from despondency, Vararuchi remains alive.” Then Yogananda said, “Let him be brought quickly.” Then I was suddenly brought by Śakatála into the presence of Yogananda and beheld the prince in that state; and by the favour of Sarasvatí I was enabled to reveal the whole occurrence; and I said, “King, he has proved a traitor to his friend”; then I was praised by that prince who was delivered from his curse; and the king asked me how I had managed to find out what had taken place. Then I said, “King, the minds of the wise see everything by inference from signs, and by acuteness of intellect. So I found out all this in the same way as I found out that mole.” When I had said this, that king was afflicted with shame. Then without accepting his munificence, considering myself to have gained all I desired by the clearing of my reputation, I went home: for to the wise character is wealth. And the moment I arrived, the servants of my house wept before me, and when I was distressed at it Upavarsha came to me and said, “Upakośá, when she heard that the king had put you to death, committed her body to the flames, and then your mother’s heart broke with grief.” Hearing that, senseless with the distraction produced by recently aroused grief, I suddenly fell on the ground like a tree broken by the wind: and in a moment I tasted the relief of loud lamentations; whom will not the fire of grief, produced by the loss of dear relations, scorch? Varsha came and gave me sound advice in such words as these, “The only thing that is stable in this ever-changeful world is instability, then why are you distracted though you know this delusion of the Creator”? By the help of these and similar exhortations I at length, though with difficulty, regained my equanimity; then with heart disgusted with the world, I flung aside all earthly lords, and choosing self-restraint for my only companion, I went to a grove where asceticism was practised.
Then, as days went by, once on a time a Bráhman from Ayodhyá came to that ascetic-grove while I was there: I asked him for tidings about Yogananda’s government, and he recognizing me told me in sorrowful accents the following story:
“Hear what happened to Nanda after you had left him. Śakatála after waiting for it a long time, found that he had now obtained an opportunity of injuring him. While thinking how he might by some device get Yogananda killed, he happened to see a Bráhman named Cháṇakya digging up the earth in his path; he said to him, “Why are you digging up the earth?” The Bráhman, whom he had asked, said, I am rooting up a plant of darbha grass here, because it has pricked my foot.[9] When he heard that, the minister thought that Bráhman who formed such stern resolves out of anger, would be the best instrument to destroy Nanda with. After asking his name he said to him, “Bráhman, I assign to you the duty of presiding at a śráddha on the thirteenth day of the lunar fortnight, in the house of king Nanda; you shall have one hundred thousand gold pieces by way of fee, and you shall sit at the board above all others; in the meanwhile come to my house.” Saying this, Śakatála took that Bráhman to his house, and on the day of the śráddha he showed the Bráhman to the king, and he approved of him. Then Cháṇakya went and sat at the head of the table during the śráddha, but a Bráhman named Subandhu desired that post of honour for himself. Then Śakatála went and referred the matter to king Nanda, who answered, “Let Subandhu sit at the head of the table, no one else deserves the place.” Then Śakatála went, and, humbly bowing through fear, communicated that order of the king’s to Cháṇakya, adding, “it is not my fault.” Then that Cháṇakya, being, as it were, inflamed all over with wrath, undoing the lock of hair on the crown of his head, made this solemn vow, “Surely this Nanda must be destroyed by me within seven days, and then my anger being appeased I will bind up my lock.” When he had said this, Yogananda was enraged; so Cháṇakya escaped unobserved, and Śakatála gave him refuge in his house. Then being supplied by Śakatála with the necessary instruments, that Bráhman Cháṇakya went somewhere and performed a magic rite; in consequence of this rite Yogananda caught a burning fever, and died when the seventh day arrived; and Śakatála, having slain Nanda’s son Hiraṇyagupta, bestowed the royal dignity upon Chandragupta a son of the previous Nanda. And after he had requested Cháṇakya, equal in ability to Bṛihaspati,[10] to be Chandragupta’s prime-minister, and established him in the office, that minister, considering that all his objects had been accomplished, as he had wreaked his vengeance on Yogananda, despondent through sorrow for the death of his sons, retired to the forest.”[11]
After I had heard this, O Káṇabhúti, from the mouth of that Bráhman, I became exceedingly afflicted, seeing that all things are unstable; and on account of my affliction I came to visit this shrine of Durgá, and through her favour having beheld you, O my friend, I have remembered my former birth.
And having obtained divine discernment I have told you the great tale: now as my curse has spent its strength, I will strive to leave the body; and do you remain here for the present, until there comes to you a Bráhman named Guṇáḍhya, who has forsaken the use of three languages,[12] surrounded with his pupils, for he like myself was cursed by the goddess in anger, being an excellent Gaṇa Mályaván by name, who for taking my part has become a mortal. To him you must tell this tale originally told by Siva, then you shall be delivered from your curse, and so shall he.
Having said all this to Káṇabhúti, that Vararuchi set forth for the holy hermitage of Badariká in order to put off his body. As he was going along he beheld on the banks of the Ganges a vegetable-eating[13] hermit, and while he was looking on, that hermit’s hand was pricked with kuśa grass. Then Vararuchi turned his blood, as it flowed out, into sap[14] through his magic power, out of curiosity, in order to test his egotism; on beholding that, the hermit exclaimed, “Ha! I have attained perfection;” and so he became puffed up with pride. Then Vararuchi laughed a little and said to him, “I turned your blood into sap in order to test you, because even now, O hermit, you have not abandoned egotism. Egotism is in truth an obstacle in the road to knowledge hard to overcome, and without knowledge liberation cannot be attained even by a hundred vows. But the perishable joys of Svarga cannot attract the hearts of those who long for liberation, therefore, O hermit, endeavour to acquire knowledge by forsaking egotism.” Having thus read that hermit a lesson, and having been praised by him prostrate in adoration, Vararuchi went to the tranquil site of the hermitage of Badarí.[15] There he, desirous of putting off his mortal condition, resorted for protection with intense devotion to that goddess who only can protect, and she manifesting her real form to him told him the secret of that meditation which arises from fire, to help him to put off the body. Then Vararuchi having consumed his body by that form of meditation, reached his own heavenly home; and henceforth that Káṇabhúti remained in the Vindhya forest eager for his desired meeting with Guṇáḍhya.
[1] Dr. Liebrecht in Orient und Occident, Vol. I, p. 341 compares with this story one in the old French romance of Merlin. There Merlin laughs because the wife of the emperor Julius Cæsar had twelve young men disguised as ladies-in-waiting. Benfey, in a note on Dr. Liebrecht’s article, compares with the story of Merlin one by the Countess D’Aulnoy, No. 36 of the Pentamerone of Basile, Straparola IV. I, and a story in the Śuka Saptati. This he quotes from the translation of Demetrios Galanos. In this some cooked fish laugh so that the whole town hears them. The reason is the same as in the story of Merlin and in our text.
[2] Cp. the following passage in a Danish story called Svend’s exploits, in Thorpe’s Yuletide Stories, page 341. Just as he was going to sleep, twelve crows came flying and perched in the elder trees over Svend’s head. They began to converse together, and the one told the other what had happened to him that day. When they were about to fly away, one crow said, “I am so hungry; where shall I get something to eat?” “We shall have food enough to-morrow when father has killed Svend,” answered the crow’s brother. “Dost thou think then that such a miserable fellow dares fight with our father?” said another. “Yes, it is probable enough that he will, but it will not profit him much as our father cannot be overcome but with the Man of the Mount’s sword, and that hangs in the mound, within seven locked doors, before each of which are two fierce dogs that never sleep.” Svend thus learned that he should only be sacrificing his strength and life in attempting a combat with the dragon, before he had made himself master of the Man of the Mount’s sword. So Sigfrid hears two birds talking above his head in Hagen’s Helden-Sagen, Vol. I, p. 345. In the story of Lalitánga extracted by Professor Nilmani Mukerjea from a collection of Jaina tales called the Kathá Kosha, and printed in his Sáhitya Parichaya, Part II, we have a similar incident.
[3] Compare the “mole cinque-spotted” in Cymbeline.
[4] Compare Measure for Measure.
[5] Cp. the story of Œdipus and the Mahábhárata, Vanaparvan, C. 312. where Yudhishṭhira is questioned by a Yaksha. Benfey compares Mahábhárata XIII (IV, 206) 5883–5918 where a Bráhman seized by a Rákshasa escaped in the same way. The reader will find similar questioning demons described in Veckenstedt’s Wendische Sagen, pp. 54–56, and 109.
[6] Reading chuddhis for the chudis of Dr. Brockhaus’ text.
[7] Sâmanta seems to mean a feudatory or dependent prince.
[8] Benfey considers that this story was originally Buddhistic. A very similar story is quoted by him from the Karmaśataka. (Panchatantra I, p. 209) cp. also c. 65 of this work.
[9] Probably his foot bled, and so he contracted defilement.
[10] The preceptor of the gods.
[11] See the Mudrá Rákshasa for another version of this story. (Wilson, Hindu Theatre, Vol. II.) Wilson remarks that the story is also told differently in the Puráṇas.
[12] Sanskrit, Prákrit and his own native dialect.
[13] I change Dr. Brockhaus’s Śákásana into Śákáśana.
[14] As, according to my reading, he ate vegetables, his blood was turned into the juice of vegetables. Dr. Brockhaus translates machte dass das herausströmende Blut zu Krystallen sich bildete.
[15] A celebrated place of pilgrimage near the source of the Ganges, the Bhadrinath of modern travellers. (Monier Williams, s. v.)