[29] The word may mean “man of romantic anecdote.”
Chapter LXXIV.
Then Mṛigánkadatta, as he gradually travelled along in the Vindhya forest, accompanied by those ministers, Śrutadhi and the four others, reached a wood, which was refreshing with the shade of its goodly fruit-laden trees, and in which there was a tank of very pure sweet cold water. He bathed in it with his ministers and ate many fruits, and lo! he suddenly thought that he heard conversation in a place shut in with creepers. So he went and looked into that bower of creepers, and he saw inside it a great elephant, which was refreshing a blind way-worn man by throwing over him showers of water from his trunk, by giving him fruits, and fanning him with his ears. And like a kind man, the elephant said to him lovingly, over and over again, with articulate voice, “Do you feel at all better?” When the prince saw that, he was astonished, and he said to his companions, “Look! how comes it that a wild elephant conducts itself like a man? So you may be sure that this is some higher being translated into this form for some reason. And this man is very like my friend Prachaṇḍaśakti. But he is blind. So let us keep a sharp lookout.” When Mṛigánkadatta had said this to his friends, he remained there concealed, and listened attentively. In the meanwhile the blind man recovered a little, and the elephant said to him, “Tell me; who are you, and how did you come here, being blind?” Then the blind man said to that mighty elephant, “There is in this land a king of the name of Amaradatta, lord of the city of Ayodhyá, he has a son of excellent qualities, named Mṛigánkadatta, of auspicious birth, and I am that prince’s servant. For some reason or other his father banished him from his native land, with us his ten companions. We had set out for Ujjayiní to obtain Śaśánkavatí, when we were separated in the forest by the curse of a Nága. And I was blinded by his curse, and wandering about I have arrived here, living on the fruits, and roots, and water I could get on the way. And to me death by falling into a chasm, or in some other way, would be most desirable, but alas! Providence has not bestowed it on me, but makes me endure calamity. However I feel convinced that, as my pangs of hunger have been to-day assuaged by your favour, so my blindness also will be somewhat alleviated, for you are a divinity.” When he said this, Mṛigánkadatta felt certain who he was, and with a mind wavering between joy and grief he said to those ministers, “It is our friend Prachaṇḍaśakti that is reduced to this melancholy state, but it will not do for us to be in a hurry to greet him immediately. Perhaps this elephant will cure his blindness. But if he were to see us, he would flee away; so we must stop here and look at him.” When the prince had said this, he remained listening with his followers. Then Prachaṇḍaśakti said to that elephant, “Now great-souled one, tell me your history; who are you? How comes it that, though you are an elephant, and are subject to the fury of elephants, you speak in this gentle way?” When the great elephant heard this, he sighed, and said to him, “Listen! I will tell you my story from the beginning.”
Story of Bhímabhaṭa.
Long ago, in the city of Ekalavyá, there was a king named Śrutadhara, and he had two sons by two wives. When the king went to heaven, his younger son, named Satyadhara, expelled the elder son, named Śíladhara, from the throne. Śíladhara was angry on that account, so he went and propitiated Śiva, and craved the following boon from the god, who was pleased with his asceticism, “May I become a Gandharva, in order that I may be able to move through the air, and so slay with ease that kinsman of mine, Satyadhara!” When the holy god Śiva heard this, he said to him, “This boon shall be granted to thee, but that enemy of thine has to-day died a natural death. And he shall be again born in the city of Ráḍhá, as Samarabhaṭa, the favourite son of king Ugrabhaṭa. But thou shalt be born as Bhímabhaṭa, his elder brother, by a different mother, and thou shalt kill him and rule the kingdom. But because thou didst perform these ascetic penances under the influence of anger, thou shalt be hurled from thy rank by the curse of a hermit, and become a wild elephant, that remembers its birth and possesses articulate speech, and when thou shalt comfort a guest in distress and tell him thy history, then thou shalt be freed from thy elephant-nature and become a Gandharva, and at the same time a great benefit will be conferred upon that guest.” When Śiva had said this, he disappeared, and Śíladhara, seeing that his body was emaciated by long penance, flung himself into the Ganges.
At this point of my tale it happened that, while that king named Ugrabhaṭa, whom I have before mentioned, was living happily in the city of Ráḍhá with his wife Manoramá who was equal to him in birth, there came to his court from a foreign country an actor named Lásaka. And he exhibited before the king that dramatic piece in which Vishṇu, in the form of a woman, carries off the amṛita from the Daityas. And in that piece the king saw the actor’s daughter Lásavatí dancing in the character of Amṛitiká. When he saw her beauty, that was like that of the real Amṛitá, with which Vishṇu bewildered the Dánavas, he fell in love with her. And at the end of the dance he gave her father much wealth, and immediately introduced her into his harem. And then he married that dancer Lásavatí, and lived with her, having his eyes riveted upon her face. One day he said to his chaplain named Yajuḥsvámin, “I have no son, so perform a sacrifice in order to procure me a son.” The chaplain obeyed, and performed duly, with the help of learned Bráhmans, a sacrifice for that king’s benefit. And, as he had been previously gained over by Manoramá, he gave her to eat, as being the eldest queen, the first half of the oblation purified with holy texts.[1] And he gave the rest to the second queen Lásavatí. Then those two, Śíladhara and Satyadhara, whom I have before mentioned, were conceived in those two queens. And when the time came, Manoramá, the consort of that king, brought forth a son with auspicious marks. And at that moment a distinct utterance was heard from heaven, “This child who is born shall be a famous king under the name of Bhímabhaṭa.” On the next day Lásavatí also brought forth a son, and the king his father gave him the name of Samarabhaṭa. And the usual sacraments were performed for them, and the two boys gradually grew up. But the eldest Bhímabhaṭa surpassed the youngest in all accomplishments, and rivalry in these increased the natural ill-feeling between them.
One day, as they were engaged in wrestling, Samarabhaṭa, being jealous, struck Bhímabhaṭa with his arm with great force on the neck. Then Bhímabhaṭa was enraged, and immediately throwing his arms round Samarabhaṭa, he lifted him up and flung him on the ground. The fall gave him a severe shock, and his servants took him up and carried him to his mother, discharging blood from all the apertures in his body. When she saw him, and found out what had taken place, she was alarmed on account of her love for him, and she placed her face close to his and wept bitterly. At that moment the king entered, and when he saw this sight, he was much troubled in mind, and asked Lásavatí what it meant, and she gave the following answer: “This son of mine has been reduced to this state by Bhímabhaṭa. And he is always ill-treating him, but I have never told you, king; however now, that I have seen this, I must say, I cannot[2] understand how your majesty can be safe with such a son as this, but let your majesty decide.” When king Ugrabhaṭa was thus appealed to by his favourite wife, he was angry, and banished Bhímabhaṭa from his court. And he took away from him his allowance, and appointed a hundred Rájpúts with their retainers to guard that Samarabhaṭa. And he put his treasury at the disposal of the younger son, but he drove the elder son from his presence, and took away all that he possessed.
Then his mother Manoramá sent for him and said, “Your father has thrown you over, because he is in love with a dancer. So go to the palace of my father in Páṭaliputra, and when you arrive there, your grandfather will give you his kingdom, for he has no son. But, if you remain here, your enemy, this Samarabhaṭa, will kill you, for he is powerful.” When Bhímabhaṭa heard this speech of his mother’s, he said, “I am a Kshatriya, and I will not sneak away from my native land, like a coward. Be of good cheer, mother! what wretch is able to injure me?” When he said this, his mother answered him, “Then procure a numerous body of companions to guard you, by means of my wealth.” When Bhímabhaṭa heard this proposal, he said, “Mother, this is not becoming; for if I did this, I should be really opposing my father. You may be quite at your ease, for your blessing alone will procure me good fortune.” When Bhímabhaṭa had encouraged her with these words, he left her. In the meanwhile all the citizens came to hear of it, and they thought, “Alas! a great injustice has been done to Bhímabhaṭa by the king. Surely Samarabhaṭa does not think he is going to rob him of the kingdom. Well it is an opportunity for us to do him a service, before he comes to the throne.” Having formed this resolution, the citizens secretly supplied Bhímabhaṭa with such abundance of wealth, that he lived in great comfort with his servants. But the younger brother was ever on the look out to kill his elder brother, supposing that this was his father’s object in furnishing him with a guard.