Then an evil-minded queen among them, named Ayaśolekhá, deliberated with all the others and entered into a conspiracy; and when the king came home one day, she exhibited an assumed sadness in her face. The king asked her the reason, and she said with apparent reluctance—“My husband, why do you endure patiently the disgrace of your house? you avert disgrace from others, why do you not avert it from yourself? You know the young superintendent of the women’s apartments named Surakshita; your queen Guṇavará is secretly devoted to him. Since no man but he can penetrate into the women’s apartments, which are strictly watched by guards, she associates with him. And this is a well-known subject of gossip in the whole harem.” When she said this to the king, he pondered and reflected; and went and asked the other queens one after another in private, and they were faithful to their treacherous plot, and told him the same story. Then that wise king conquered his anger, and reflected—“This accusation against these two is improbable, and yet such is the gossip. So I must not without reflecting reveal the matter to any one; but they must by an artifice be separated now, to enable me to see the termination of the whole matter.” Having determined on this, next day he summoned Surakshita, the superintendent of the womens’ apartments, into his judgment-hall, and with assumed anger, said to him—“I have learned, villain, that you have slain a Bráhman, so I cannot endure to see your face until you have made a pilgrimage to holy places.” When he heard that, he was amazed and began to murmur—“How can I have slain a Bráhman, my sovereign?” But the king went on to say; “Do not attempt to brazen it out, but go to Káśmír to wash away your sin, (where are those holy fields, Vijayakshetra, and Nandikshetra the purifying, and the kshetra[2] of the Boar), the land which was hallowed by Vishṇu the bow-handed god, where the stream of the Ganges bears the name of Vitastá, where is the famous Maṇḍapakshetra, and where is Uttaramánasa; when your sin has been washed away by a pilgrimage to these holy places, you shall behold my face again, but not till then.”
With this speech the king Vírabhuja dismissed the helpless Surakshita, sending him to a distance on the pretence of a pilgrimage to holy places. Then the king went into the presence of that queen Guṇavará, full of love and anger and sober reflection. Then she, seeing that his mind was troubled, asked him anxiously, “My husband, why are you seized to-day with a sudden fit of despondency?” When the king heard that, he gave her this feigned answer—“To-day, queen, a great astrologer came to me and said—‘King, you must place the queen Guṇavará for some time in a dungeon, and you must yourself live a life of chastity, otherwise your kingdom will certainly be overthrown, and she will surely die.’ Having said this, the astrologer departed; hence my present despondency.” When the king said this, the queen Guṇavará, who was devoted to her husband, distracted with fear and love, said to him—“Why do you not cast me this very day into a dungeon, my husband? I am highly favoured, if I can benefit you even at the sacrifice of my life. Let me die, but let not my lord have misfortune. For a husband is the chief refuge of wives in this world and in the next.” Having heard this speech of hers, the king said to himself with tears in his eyes; “I think there is no guilt in her, nor in that Surakshita, for I saw that the colour of his face did not change, and he seemed without fear. Alas! nevertheless I must ascertain the truth of that rumour.” After reflecting thus, the king in his grief said to the queen—“Then it is best that a dungeon should be made here, queen!” She replied—“Very good”—so the king had a dungeon easy of access made in the women’s apartments, and placed the queen in it. And he comforted her son Śṛingabhuja, (who was in despair and asked the reason,) by telling him exactly what he told the queen. And she, for her part, thought the dungeon heaven, because it was all for the king’s good. For good women have no pleasure of their own; to them their husbands’ pleasure is pleasure.[3]
When this had been done, that other wife of the king’s, named Ayaśolekhá, said of her own accord to her son, who was named Nirvásabhuja,—“So, our enemy Guṇavará has been thrown into a dungeon, and it would be a good thing if her son were banished from this country. So, my boy, devise a scheme with the help of your other brothers by which Śṛingabhuja may be quickly banished from the country.” Having been addressed in this language by his mother, the jealous Nirvásabhuja told his other brothers, and continued to ponder over a scheme.
And one day, as the king’s sons were practising with their weapons of war, they all saw an enormous crane in front of the palace. And while they were looking with astonishment at that misshapen bird, a Buddhist mendicant, who possessed supernatural knowledge, came that way and said to them—“Princes, this is not a crane, it is a Rákshasa named Agniśikha, who wanders about in an assumed shape destroying towns. So pierce him with an arrow, that being smitten he may depart hence.” When they heard this speech of the mendicant’s, the ninety-nine elder brothers shot their arrows, but not one struck the crane. Then that naked mendicant again said to them—“This younger brother of yours, named Śṛingabhuja, is able to strike this crane, so let him take a bow suitable for the purpose.” When Nirvásabhuja heard that, the treacherous one remembered the injunction of his mother, an opportunity for carrying out which had now arrived, and reflected—“This will be a means of getting Śṛingabhuja out of the country.[4] So let us give him the bow and arrow belonging to our father. If the crane is pierced and goes off with our father’s golden arrow sticking in it, Śṛingabhuja will follow it, while we are searching for the arrow. And when he does not find, in spite of his search, that Rákshasa transformed into a crane, he will continue to roam about hither and thither, he will not come back without the arrow.” Thus reflecting, the treacherous one gave to Śṛingabhuja his father’s bow with the arrow, in order that he might smite the crane. The mighty prince took it and drew it, and pierced that crane with the golden arrow, the notch of which was made of a jewel. The crane, as soon as it was pierced, went off with the arrow sticking in its body, and flying away departed with drops of blood falling from the wound. Then the treacherous Nirvásabhuja and the other brothers, instigated by his hints, said to the brave Śṛingabhuja—“Give us back the golden arrow that belongs to our father, otherwise we will abandon our bodies before your eyes. For unless we produce it, our father will banish us from this country, and its fellow is not to be made or obtained.” When Śṛingabhuja heard that, he said to those crafty ones—“Be of good cheer! Do not be afraid—Abandon your terror! I will go and slay that miserable Rákshasa and bring back the arrow.” Having said this, Śṛingabhuja took his own bow and arrows, and went in the same direction in which the Rákshasa had gone, quickly following up the track of the drops of blood, that had fallen on the ground. The other sons returned delighted to their mothers, and Śṛingabhuja, as he went on step by step, at last reached a distant forest. Seeking about in it, he found in the wood a great city, like the fruit of his own tree of merit fallen to him in due time for enjoyment. There he sat down at the root of a tree to rest, and as if in a moment beheld a maiden of wonderful beauty coming there, appearing to have been made by the Creator in some strange way of ambrosia and poison; since by her absence she deprived of life, and by her presence she bestowed it. And when the maiden slowly approached him, and looked at him with an eye raining love, the prince fell in love with her and said to her—“Gazelle-eyed one, what is the name of this city, and to whom does it belong? Who are you, and why have you come here? tell me.” Then the pearly-toothed maid turned her face sideways, and fixed her eye on the ground, and spake to him with sweet and loving voice—“This city is Dhúmapura, the home of all felicity; in it lives a mighty Rákshasa by name Agniśikha; know that I am his matchless daughter, Rúpaśikhá by name, who have come here with mind captivated by your unparalleled beauty. Now you must tell me who you are, and why you have come here.” When she said this, he told her who he was, and of what king he was the son, and how he had come to Dhúmapura for the sake of an arrow. Then Rúpaśikhá, having heard the whole story, said—“There is no archer like you in the three worlds, since you pierced even my father with a great arrow, when he was in the form of a crane. And I took that golden arrow for my own, by way of a plaything. But my father’s wound was at once healed by the minister Mahádanshṭra, who excels all men in knowledge of potent drugs for curing wounds. So I will go to my father, and after I have explained the whole matter, I will quickly introduce you into his presence, my husband; so I call you, for my heart is now fully set upon you.”
Having said this, Rúpaśikhá left Śṛingabhuja there, and immediately went into the presence of her father Agniśikha, and said—“Father, there has come here a wonderful prince named Śṛingabhuja, matchless for gifts of beauty, birth, character and age. I feel certain that he is not a man, he is some portion of a god incarnate here below, so, if he does not become my husband, I will certainly abandon my life.” When she said this to him, her father the Rákshasa said to her—“My daughter, men are our appropriate food, nevertheless, if your heart is set upon it, let it be so; bring your prince here, and shew him to me.” When Rúpaśikhá heard that, she went to Śṛingabhuja, and after telling him what she had done, she took him into the presence of her father. He prostrated himself, and Agniśikha, the father of the maiden, after saluting him courteously, said to him—“Prince, I will give you my daughter Rúpaśikhá, if you never disobey my orders.” When he said this, Śṛingabhuja, bending low, answered him—“Good! I will never disobey your orders.” When Śṛingabhuja said this to him, Agniśikha was pleased and answered—“Rise up! Go and bathe, and return here from the bath-room.” After saying this to him, he said to his daughter—“Go and bring all your sisters here quickly.” When Agniśikha had given these orders to Śṛingabhuja and Rúpaśikhá, they both of them went out, after promising to obey them.
Then the wise Rúpaśikhá said to Śṛingabhuja—“My husband, I have a hundred sisters, who are princesses, and we are all exactly alike, with similar ornaments and dresses, and all of us have similar necklaces upon our necks. So our father will assemble us in one place, and in order to bewilder you, will say ‘Choose your own love out of the midst of these.’ For I know that such is his treacherous intention, otherwise why is he assembling all of us here. So when we are assembled, I will put my necklace on my head instead of my neck, by that sign you will recognise me; then throw over my neck the garland of forest flowers. And this father of mine is somewhat silly, he has not a discerning intellect; besides what is the use against me of those powers which he possesses by being a Rákshasa? So, whatever he says to entrap you, you must agree to, and must tell it to me, and I shall know well enough what further steps to take.” Having said this, Rúpaśikhá went to her sisters, and Śṛingabhuja, having agreed to do what she said, went to bathe. Then Rúpaśikhá came with her sisters into the presence of her father, and Śṛingabhuja returned, after he had been washed by a female servant. Then Agniśikha gave a garland of forest flowers to Śṛingabhuja, saying, “Give this to that one of these ladies, who is your own love.” He took the garland and threw it round the neck of Rúpaśikhá,[5] who had previously placed the necklace on her head by way of token. Then Agniśikha said to Rúpaśikhá and Śṛingabhuja,—“I will celebrate your marriage ceremony to-morrow morning.”
Having said this, he dismissed those two lovers and his other daughters to their apartments, and in a short time he summoned Śṛingabhuja and said this to him; “Take this yoke of oxen, and go outside this town, and sow in the earth the hundred khárís[6] of sesame-seed which are piled there in a heap.” When Śṛingabhuja heard that, he was troubled, and he went and told it to Rúpaśikhá, and she answered him as follows—“My husband, you need not be in the least despondent about this, go there at once; I will easily perform this by my magic power.” When he heard this, the prince went there, and, seeing the sesame-seeds in a heap, despondently began to plough the land and sow them, but while he was beginning, he saw the land ploughed and all the seeds sown in due course by the might of his lady-love’s magic power, and he was much astonished.
So he went to Agniśikha, and told him that this task was accomplished; then that treacherous Rákshasa again said to him—“I do not want the seeds sown, go and pile them up again in a heap.” When he heard that, he again went and told Rúpaśikhá. She sent him to that field, and created innumerable ants,[7] and by her magic power made them gather together the sesame-seeds. When Śṛingabhuja saw that, he went and told Agniśikha that the seeds had been piled up again in a heap.
Then the cunning but stupid Agniśikha said to him—“Only two yojanas from this place, in a southerly direction, there is an empty temple of Śiva in a wood. In it lives my dear brother Dhúmaśikha—go there at once, and say this in front of the temple, ‘Dhúmaśikha, I am sent by Agniśikha as a messenger to invite you and your retinue: come quickly, for to-morrow the ceremony of Rúpaśikhá’s marriage is to take place.’ Having said this, come back here to-day with speed, and to-morrow marry my daughter Rúpaśikhá.” When Śṛingabhuja was thus addressed by the rascal, he said—“So be it”—and went and recounted the whole to Rúpaśikhá. The good girl gave him some earth, some water, some thorns, and some fire, and her own fleet horse, and said to him—“Mount this horse and go to that temple, and quickly repeat that invitation to Dhúmaśikha as it was told to you, and then you must at once return on this horse at full gallop, and you must often turn your head and look round; and if you see Dhúmaśikha coming after you, you must throw this earth behind you in his way; if in spite of that, Dhúmaśikha pursues you, you must in the same manner fling the water behind you in his path; if in spite of that he comes on, you must in like manner throw these thorns in his way. If in spite of them he pursues, throw this fire in his way; and if you do this, you will return here without the Daitya; so do not hesitate—go, you shall to-day behold the power of my magic.”—When she said this to him, Śṛingabhuja took the earth and the other things and said, “I will do so,” and mounting her horse went to the temple in the wood. There he saw an image of Śiva, with one of Párvatí on his left and one of Gaṇeśa on his right, and, after bowing before the Lord of the Universe,[8] he quickly addressed to Dhúmaśikha the form of invitation told him by Agniśikha, and fled from the place at full speed, urging on his horse. And he soon turned his head and looked round, and he beheld Dhúmaśikha coming after him. And he quickly threw that earth behind him in his way, and the earth, so flung, immediately produced a great mountain. When he saw that the Rákshasa had, though with difficulty, climbed over that mountain, and was coming on, the prince in the same way threw the water behind him. That produced a great river in his path with rolling waves: the Rákshasa with difficulty got across it and was coming on, when Śṛingabhuja quickly strewed those thorns behind him. They produced a dense thorny wood in Dhúmaśikha’s path. When the Rákshasa emerged from it, the prince threw the fire behind him, which set on fire the path with the herbs and the trees. When Dhúmaśikha saw that the fire was hard to cross, like Kháṇḍava,[9] he returned home, tired and terrified. For on that occasion the Rákshasa was so bewildered by the magic of Rúpaśikhá that he went and returned on his feet, he did not think of flying through the air.
Then Śṛingabhuja returned to Dhúmapura, free from fear, commending in his heart that display of his love’s magic power. He gave up the horse to the delighted Rúpaśikhá, and related his adventure, and then went in to the presence of Agniśikha. He said, “I went and invited your brother Dhúmaśikha.” When he said this, Agniśikha being perplexed, said to him—“If you really went there, mention some peculiarity of the place.” When the crafty Rákshasa said this to Śṛingabhuja, he answered him—“Listen, I will tell you a token: in that temple there is a figure of Párvatí on the left side of Śiva, and of Gaṇeśa on his right.” When Agniśikha heard that, he was astonished and thought for a moment—“What! did he go there, and was my brother not able to devour him? Then he cannot be a mere man, he must be a god, so let him marry my daughter, as he is a fitting match for her.” After thus reflecting, he sent Śṛingabhuja as a successful suitor to Rúpaśikhá, but he never suspected that there was a traitor in his own family. So Śṛingabhuja went, eager for his marriage, and after eating and drinking with her, managed somehow to get through the night. And the next morning Agniśikha gave to him Rúpaśikhá with all the magnificence appropriate to his magic power, according to due form, in the presence of the fire. Little in common have Rákshasas’ daughters and princes, and strange the union of such! Wonderful indeed are the results of our deeds in a previous state of existence! The prince, after he had obtained that beloved daughter of the Rákshasa, seemed like a swan who had got hold of a soft lotus, sprung from mud. And he remained there with her, who was devoted to him alone, enjoying various dainty delights provided by the magic power of the Rákshasa.