Story of the ascetic who conquered anger.
There lived long ago, in a certain beautiful garden on the banks of the Ganges, a hermit animated by the desire of experiencing all asceticism. And while he was engaged in mortifying the flesh, it happened that a certain king came there to amuse himself with the women of his harem. And after he had amused himself, he fell asleep under the influence of his potations, and while he was in this state, his queens left him out of thoughtlessness and roamed about in the garden. And beholding in a corner of the garden that hermit engaged in meditation, they stood round him out of curiosity, wondering what on earth he could be. And as they remained there a long time, that king woke up, and not seeing his wives at his side, wandered all round the garden. And then he saw the queens standing all round the hermit, and being enraged, he slashed the hermit with his sword out of jealousy. What crime will not sovereign power, jealousy, cruelty, drunkenness, and indiscretion cause separately, much more deadly are they when combined, like five fires.[5] Then the king departed, and though the hermit’s limbs were gashed, he remained free from wrath; whereupon a certain deity appeared and said to him,—“Great-souled one, if you approve I will slay by my power that wicked man who did this to you in a passion.” When the hermit heard that, he said, “O goddess, say not so, for he is my helper in virtue, not a harmer of me. For by his favour I have attained the grace of patience; to whom could I have shown patience, O goddess, if he had not acted thus towards me? What anger does the wise man shew for the sake of this perishing body? To shew patience equally with regard to what is agreeable and disagreeable is to have attained the rank of Brahmá.” When the hermit said this to the deity, she was pleased, and after healing the wounds in his limbs, she disappeared.
“In the same way as that king was considered a benefactor by the hermit, you, my mother, have increased my asceticism by causing me to tear out my eye.” Thus spake the self-subduing hermit to the merchant’s wife, who bowed before him, and being regardless of his body, lovely though it was, he passed on to perfection.
“Therefore, though our youth be very charming, why should we cling to this perishable body? But the only thing which, in the eye of the wise man, it is good for, is to benefit one’s fellow-creatures. So we will lay down our bodies to benefit living creatures in this cemetery, the natural home of happiness.” Having said this to their attendants, those seven princesses did so, and obtained therefrom the highest beatitude.
“Thus you see that the wise have no selfish affection even for their own bodies, much less for such worthless things[6] as son, wife, and servants.”
When the king Kalingadatta had heard these and other such things from the religious teacher in the monastery, having spent the day there, he returned to his palace. And when he was there, he was again afflicted with grief on account of the birth of a daughter to him, and a certain Bráhman, who had grown old in his house, said to him—“King, why do you despond on account of the birth of a pearl of maidens? Daughters are better even than sons, and produce happiness in this world and the next. Why do kings care so much about those sons that hanker after their kingdom, and eat up their fathers like crabs? But kings like Kuntibhoja and others, by the virtues of daughters like Kuntí and others, have escaped harm from sages like the terrible Durvásas. And how can one obtain from a son the same fruit in the next world, as one obtains from the marriage of a daughter? Moreover I now proceed to tell the tale of Sulochaná, listen to it.”
Story of Sulochaná and Sushena.
There was a young king named Sushena on the mountain of Chitrakúṭa, who was created like another god of love by the Creator to spite Śiva. He made at the foot of that great mountain a heavenly garden, which was calculated to make the gods averse to dwelling in the garden of Nandana. And in the middle of it he made a lake with full-blown lotuses, like a new productive bed for the lotuses with which the goddess of Fortune plays. This lake had steps leading down into it made of splendid gems, and the king used to linger on its bank without a bride, because there were no eligible matches for him. Once on a time Rambhá, a fair one of heaven, came that way, wandering at will through the air from the palace of Indra. She beheld the king roaming in that garden like an incarnation of the Spring in the midst of a garden of full-blown flowers. She said—“Can this be the moon, that has swooped down from heaven in pursuit of the goddess of Fortune fallen into a cluster of lotuses of the lake? But that cannot be, for this hero’s fortune in the shape of beauty never passes away.[7] Surely this must be the god of the flowery arrows come to the garden in quest of flowers. But where has Rati, his companion, gone?” Thus Rambhá described him in her eagerness, and descending from heaven in human form, she approached that king. And when the king suddenly beheld her advancing towards him, he was astonished and reflected—“Who can this be of incredible beauty? She cannot surely be a human being, since her feet do not touch the dust, and her eye does not wink, therefore she must be some divine person. But I must not ask her who she is, for she might fly from me. Divine beings, who visit men for some cause or other, are generally impatient of having their secrets revealed.” While such thoughts were passing in the monarch’s mind, she began a conversation with him, which led in due course to his throwing his arms round her neck then and there. And he sported long there with this Apsaras, so that she forgot heaven; love is more charming than one’s native home. And the land of that king was filled with heaps of gold, by means of the Yakshiṇís, friends of hers, who transformed themselves into trees, as the heaven is filled with the peaks of Meru. And in course of time that excellent Apsaras became pregnant, and bore to king Sushena an incomparably beautiful daughter, and no sooner had she given her birth, than she said to the king—“O king, such has been my curse, and it is now at an end; for I am Rambhá, a heavenly nymph that fell in love with you on beholding you: and as I have given birth to a child, I must immediately leave you and depart. For such is the law that governs us heavenly beings; therefore take care of this daughter; when she is married, we shall again be united in heaven.” When the Apsaras Rambhá had said this, she departed, sorely against her will, and through grief at it, the king was bent on abandoning life. But his ministers said to him, “Did Viśvámitra, though despondent, abandon life when Menaká had departed after giving birth to Śakuntalá?” When the king had been plied by them with such arguments, he took the right view of the matter, and slowly recovered his self-command, taking to his heart the daughter who was destined to be the cause of their re-union. And that daughter, lovely in all her limbs, her father, who was devoted to her, named Sulochaná, on account of the exceeding beauty of her eyes.
In time she grew up to womanhood, and a young hermit, named Vatsa, the descendant of Kaśyapa, as he was roaming about at will, beheld her in a garden. He, though he was all compact of asceticism, the moment he beheld that princess, felt the emotion of love, and he said to himself then and there; “Oh! exceedingly wonderful is the beauty of this maiden! If I do not obtain her as a wife, what other fruit of my asceticism can I obtain?” While thinking thus, the young hermit was beheld by Sulochaná, and he seemed to her all glorious with brightness, like fire free from smoke. When she saw him with his rosary and water vessel, she fell in love also and thought—“Who can this be that looks so self-restrained and yet so lovely?” And coming towards him as if to select him for her husband, she threw over his body the garland[8] of the blue lotuses of her eyes, and bowed before that hermit. And he, with mind overpowered by the decree of Cupid, hard for gods and Asuras to evade, pronounced on her the following blessing—“Obtain a husband.” Then the excellent hermit was thus addressed by that lady, whose modesty was stolen away by love for his exceeding beauty, and who spoke with downcast face—“If this is your desire, and if this is not jesting talk, then, Bráhman, ask the king, my father, who has power to dispose of me.” Then the hermit, after hearing of her descent from her attendants, went and asked the king Sushena, her father, for her hand. He, for his part, when he saw that the young hermit was eminent both in beauty and asceticism, entertained him, and said to him—“Reverend sir, this daughter is mine by the nymph Rambhá, and by my daughter’s marriage I am to be re-united with her in heaven; so Rambhá told me when she was returning to the sky; consider, auspicious sir, how that is to be accomplished.” When the hermit heard that, he thought for a moment—“Did not the hermit Ruru, when Pramadvará the daughter of Menaká was bitten by a snake, give her the half of his life, and make her his wife? Was not the Chaṇḍála Triśanku carried to heaven by Viśvámitra? So why should not I do the same by expending my asceticism upon it?” Having thus reflected, the hermit said—“There is no difficulty in it,” and exclaimed—“Hearken ye gods, may this king mount with his body to heaven to obtain possession of Rambhá by virtue of part of my asceticism.” Thus the hermit spoke in the hearing of the court, and a distinct answer was heard from heaven—“So be it.” Then the king gave his daughter Sulochaná to the hermit Vatsa, the descendant of Kaśyapa, and ascended to heaven. There he obtained a divine nature, and lived happily with that Rambhá of god-like dignity, appointed his wife by Indra.