‘The divine Savitri displays his banner on high, diffusing light through all worlds.’
‘Contemplating all things, the Sun has filled heaven and earth and the firmament with his rays.’
‘The tremulous rays of the Sun throw off the darkness, which is spread like a skin over the firmament.’
‘Oh, divine Sun, thou proceedest with most powerful horses, spreading thy web of rays and cutting down the black abode of night!’
These texts being carved in the original tongue—Sanskrit—Swami’s English visitors were very little the wiser for having gazed upon them. Indeed, many persons imagined them to convey some deep mystic meaning that the great man would have been most unwilling to reveal. After all, if they could have looked over his shoulder and have seen how he spent his moments of relaxation, they would have discovered him perusing sundry very harmless works in his native language, for even collections of fables and fairy tales, which was a favourite form of literature in the East, served occasionally to relieve the weariness of his tired brain.
Here is a story of a Jaina ascetic, taken from a work named ‘The Panchatantra,’ a collection of fables and tales that long ago found their way into Persia. Nûshîrvân, the King of Persia sent a physician to India in search of medical knowledge and books; the physician not only brought back medical books, but collections of fables also, which, being translated into Pehlevi went forth to the world as the fables of Pilpay.
The book opens by stating that a certain king was concerned at finding that his sons were growing up without knowledge. He called a council at which the necessity of acquiring knowledge was discussed, and also the length of time required for the acquisition of such kinds of knowledge that was considered indispensable.
The conclusion at which the councillors arrived was that the king must be advised to entrust his sons to a Brahman named Vishnusarman, who undertook to teach them nîti in six months. This being arranged, Vishnusarman took the young princes to his house, and composed for their benefit a series of fables—the ‘Panchatantra,’ so called from ‘pancha,’ five, and ‘tantra,’ section—namely, five narratives. They are stories within stories, woven most intricately one within the other; here is a short one, treating of the cunning ascetic.
A certain king who reigned in Ayodhyâ, the capital of Kosala, sent his minister to subdue a rebellion among some of the Rajahs in the hills. Whilst the minister was absent a religious mendicant came to Kosala, who by his skill in divination, his knowledge of hours, omens, aspects, and ascensions; his dexterity in solving numbers, answering questions, and detecting things covertly concealed, and his proficiency in all similar branches of knowledge, acquired such fame and influence that it might be said he had purchased the country, and it was his own.
The fame of this man at last reached the king, who sent for him, and found his conversation so agreeable that he wanted him constantly beside him. One day, however, the mendicant did not appear, and when he next came, he accounted for his absence by stating that he had been upon a visit to Paradise, and that the deities sent their compliments to the king. The king was simple enough to believe him and was filled with astonishment and delight.