Story of king Sinhabala and his fickle wife.
Formerly there dwelt in the Deccan a king, of the name of Sinhabala. And his wife named Kalyáṇavatí, the daughter of a prince of Málava, was dear to him above all the women of his harem. And the king ruled the realm with her as consort, but once on a time he was expelled from his kingdom by his powerful relations, who banded together against him. And then the king, accompanied by the queen, with his weapons and but few attendants, set out for the house of his father-in-law in Málava.
And as he was going along through a forest, which lay in his road, a lion charged him, and the hero easily cut it in two with a stroke of his sword. And when a wild elephant came at him trumpeting, he circled round it and cut off with his sword its trunk and feet, and stripped it of its jewel, and killed it. And alone he dispersed the hosts of bandits like lotuses, and trampled them, as the elephant, lord of the forest, tramples the beds of white water-lilies. Thus he accomplished the journey, and his wonderful courage was seen, and so he reached Málava, and then this sea of valour said to his wife: “You must not tell in your father’s house this that happened to me on the journey, it will bring shame to me, my queen, for what is there laudable in courage displayed by a man of the military caste?” After he had given her this injunction, he entered his father-in-law’s house with her, and when eagerly questioned by him, told his story. His father-in-law honoured him, and gave him elephants and horses, and then he repaired to a very powerful king named Gajáníka. But being intent on conquering his enemies, he left his wife Kalyáṇavatí there in her father’s house.
Some days after he had gone, his wife, while standing at the window, saw a certain man. The moment she saw him, he captivated her heart by his good looks; and being drawn on by love, she immediately thought, “I know, no one is more handsome or more brave than my husband, but alas! my mind is attracted towards this man. So let what must be, be. I will have an interview with him.” So she determined in her own mind, and told her desire to a female attendant, who was her confidante. And she made her bring him at night, and introduce him into the women’s apartments by the window, pulling him up with a rope. When the man was introduced, he had not courage to sit boldly on the sofa on which she was, but sat apart on a chair. The queen, when she saw that, was despondent, thinking he was a mean man, and at that very moment a snake, which was roaming about, came down from the roof. When the man saw the snake, he sprang up quickly in fear, and taking his bow, he killed the snake with an arrow. And when it fell dead, he threw it out of the window, and in his delight at having escaped that danger, the coward danced for joy. When Kalyáṇavatí saw him dancing, she was cast down, and thought to herself over and over again: “Alas! alas! What have I to do with this mean-spirited coward?” And her friend, who was a discerning person, saw that she was disgusted, and so she went out, and quickly returned with assumed trepidation, and said, “Queen, your father has come, so let this young man quickly return to his own house by the way by which he came.” When she said this, he went out of the window by means of the rope, and being overpowered by fear, he fell, but as luck would have it, he was not killed.
When he had gone, Kalyáṇavatí said to her confidante,—“My friend, you have acted rightly in turning out this low fellow.[3] You penetrated my feelings, for my heart is vexed. My husband, after slaying tigers and lions, conceals it through modesty, and this cowardly man, after killing a snake, dances for joy. So why should I desert such a husband and fall in love with a common fellow? Curse on my unstable mind, or rather curse on women, who are like flies that leave camphor and haste to impurity!” The queen spent the night in these self-reproaches, and afterwards remained waiting in her father’s house for the return of her husband. In the meanwhile Sinhabala, having been supplied with another army by king Gajáníka, slew those five wicked relations. Then he recovered his kingdom, and at the same time brought back his wife from her father’s house, and after loading his father-in-law with abundance of wealth, he ruled the earth for a long time without opposition.
“So you see, king, that the mind of even discerning women is fickle, and, though they have brave and handsome husbands, wanders hither and thither, but women of pure character are scarce.”
When Naraváhanadatta, the son of the king of Vatsa, had heard this story related by Marubhúti, he sank off into a sound sleep and so passed the night.
[1] Ralston remarks (Songs of the Russian people, p. 327.) “The fact that in Slavonic lands, a thousand years ago, widows used to destroy themselves, in order to accompany their dead husbands to the world of spirits, seems to rest upon incontestable evidence, and there can be no doubt that ‘a rite of suttee, like that of modern India’ prevailed among the heathen Slavonians, the descendant, perhaps as Mr. Tylor remarks (Primitive Culture, I, 421) of ‘widow-sacrifice’ among many of the European nations, of ‘an ancient Aryan rite belonging originally to a period even earlier then the Veda’”. See also Zimmer, Alt-Indisches Leben, pp. 329–331.
[2] i. e., of bad character.