The Kathá Sarit Ságara; or, Ocean of the Streams of Story

by active 11th century Somadeva Bhatta

Chapter XLIX.

Then Súryaprabha, lying on his couch at night, eager for battle, apart from his wives, said to his minister Vítabhíti—“I cannot sleep, so tell me, my friend, some strange story of courage and endurance, to amuse me during the night.” When Vítabhíti heard this request of Súryaprabha’s, he answered—“I will obey your order,” and he told this story.

Story of king Mahásena and his virtuous minister Guṇaśarman.

There is a city Ujjayiní, the ornament of this earth, full of numberless jewels of pellucid water. In that city there lived a king named Mahásena, beloved by the virtuous, an unequalled treasury of accomplishments, having the beauty both of the sun and moon. He had a wife named Aśokavatí, whom he loved as his life, there was not another woman in the three worlds equal to her in beauty. The king ruled his realm with her for consort, and he had besides a friend, a Bráhman named Guṇaśarman, whom he respected and loved. And that Bráhman was brave and very handsome, and, though young, had thoroughly mastered the lore of the Vedas, and knew the accomplishments, the Śástras, and the use of weapons, and was always in attendance on the king.

And one day, as he was within the palace, a conversation arose about dancing, and the king and queen said to Guṇaśarman, who was in attendance,—“You know everything, there is no doubt about that; so we have a curiosity to see you dancing; if you know how to dance, kindly exhibit your skill.” When Guṇaśarman heard this, he said with a smile on his face; “I know how to dance, but dancing is a thing not becoming in the king’s court; foolish dancing is generally ridiculous and is censured in the Śástras. And far from me be shame here in the presence of the king and queen.” When Guṇaśarman said that, the king answered him, being urged on to it by the queen out of curiosity—“This will not be like a dance on the stage, or in such places, which would make a man feel ashamed, but merely a private display of skill in the society of friends. And at present I am not your king, I am your friend without ceremony, so rest assured that I will not eat to-day, until I have seen your skill in dancing.” When the king pressed him in this style, the Bráhman consented to do it. For how can servants refuse the request of an importunate lord? Then that Guṇaśarman danced so skilfully with his body, that the hearts of both the king and queen danced for joy. And, at the end of it, the king gave him a lyre to play upon, and the moment he tested its tones, he said to the king, “This lyre is not in good order, so give me another one, there is a puppy inside this, your Majesty,—I know that by the indications of the twanging of the strings.” Saying this, Guṇaśarman let go the lyre from under his arm. Then the king sprinkled it, and unscrewed and examined it, and a puppy came out of it. Then king Mahásena praised Guṇaśarman’s omniscience, and was much astonished, and had another lyre brought. He played on that lyre which, like the Ganges that flows in three worlds,[1] was charming from its swift stream of music,[2] and purged the ear by its sound. Then in presence of the king, who with his wife looked on astonished, he exhibited in turn his skill in the nobler studies. Then the king said to him, “If you are skilled in fighting, then shew me a specimen of the art of binding the enemy’s limbs with your own hands unarmed.” The Bráhman answered him—“King, take your weapons and strike at me, that I may shew you a specimen of my skill.” Then, as fast as the king took a sword or other weapon and struck at him, Guṇaśarman, by that artifice of fettering the limbs immediately disarmed him with ease, and frequently fettered his hand and body, without receiving a wound. Then the king, seeing that he was capable of aiding him in his political affairs, praised that excellent Bráhman of transcendent ability, and honoured him highly.

But queen Aśokavatí, having beheld again and again the beauty and abilities of that Bráhman, suddenly fell in love with him. She thought to herself, “If I cannot obtain him, of what use is my life to me.” Then she artfully said to the king—“Do me a kindness, my husband, and order this Guṇaśarman to teach me to play on the lyre. For when I beheld to-day his skill in playing on the lyre, I took a desperate fancy to the instrument.” When the king heard this, he said to Guṇaśarman—“By all means teach the queen to play on the lyre.” Then Guṇaśarman said, “I will do so, my sovereign, we will begin the practising on an auspicious day.” Then he took leave of the king and went home. But he put off for many days beginning to teach the queen the lyre, seeing the changed expression of the queen, and afraid of some mischief.

One day he was standing near the king when he was eating, and when the cook was giving him some condiment, he prevented him, saying, “Stop! stop!” The king asked what this meant, then the discreet man said, “This sauce is poisoned, and I detected it by certain indications. For when the cook was giving you the sauce, he looked at my face, trembling with fear, and with an eye that rolled apprehensively. And we can at once find out whether I am right; let this sauce be given to some one to eat, and I will counteract the effect of the poison.” When he said this, the king made the cook eat the sauce, and immediately after he had eaten it, he became senseless. Then Guṇaśarman counteracted the effect of the poison on the cook by a spell, and when the king asked the cook the truth of the whole matter, he said this—“King, your enemy king Vikramaśakti, sovereign of Gauḍa, sent me here to give you poison. I introduced myself to your majesty as a foreigner skilful in the culinary art, and entered your kitchen. So to-day I have been discovered by that shrewd man in the act of giving you poison in sauce; your majesty knows what to do now.” When the cook said this, the king punished him, and being much pleased, gave Guṇaśarman a thousand villages for saving his life.

And the next day, as the queen kept vigorously pressing him, the king made Guṇaśarman begin to teach her the lyre. Then, while he was teaching her the lyre, the queen Aśokavatí indulged in perpetual coquetry, laughter, and mirth. One day, wounded with the arrow of love, she scratched him with her nails frequently in secret, and said to the chaste Guṇaśarman, who entreated her to desist, “It was yourself that I asked for, handsome man, under the pretext of learning to play the lute, for I am desperately in love with you, so consent to my wishes.” When she said this, Guṇaśarman answered her, “Do not talk so, for you are my master’s wife, and such a one as I am should not commit such treason, desist from this reckless conduct.” When Guṇaśarman said this, the queen continued, “Why do you possess in vain this beauty and skill in accomplishments? How can you look with a passionless eye on me who love you so much?” When Guṇaśarman heard this, he answered sarcastically, “You are right. What is the use of that beauty and skill, which is not tarnished with infamy by seducing the wife of another, and which does not in this world and the next cause one to fall into the ocean of hell?” When he said this, the queen said to him, pretending to be angry, “I am determined to die, if you do not do what I say, so being despised by you, I will slay you before I die.” Then Guṇaśarman said, “By all means, let it be so. For it is better to live for one moment, bound by the bonds of righteousness, than to live unrighteously for hundreds of crores of kalpas. And it is far preferable for me to die without reproach, having done no wrong, than for me to have done wrong, and to be put to death by the king, with reproach attaching to my name.” When the queen heard that, she went on to say to him—“Do not commit treason against yourself and me; listen, I will tell you something. The king does not neglect to do what I tell him, even if it is impossible; so I will ask him and get territories given to you, and I will have all your servants made barons, so you will become a king, for you are distinguished for good qualities. So what have you to fear? Who can overpower you and how? So grant my wishes fearlessly, otherwise you will not live.” When the king’s wife said this, seeing that she was determined, Guṇaśarman said to her artfully, in order to put her off for a moment,—“If you are persistently set on this, then I will obey your command, but it will not be advisable to do so immediately, for fear it should get abroad; wait for some days; believe that what I say is true; what object have I in incurring your enmity which would ensure my destruction?” Thus Guṇaśarman comforted her with that hope, and agreed to her request, and then departed with heart lightened.