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

by active 11th century Somadeva Bhatta

And immediately the princess Hansávalí sent that maid to him as an ambassadress of love, with the message for which he longed. The maid came up to him and said to him in secret, “Prince, the princess Hansávalí solicits you thus, ‘When you see me, who love you, being carried away by the stream of love, you should rescue me quickly, you should not remain indifferent upon the bank[15]‘” When Bhímabhaṭa heard from the messenger the nectar of his beloved’s message, he was delighted at having his life saved, and said to her, “I am in the current, I am not upon the bank; does not my beloved know that? But now, that I have obtained some hope to cling to,[16] I will gladly do her bidding. I will this night come and wait upon her in her private apartments, and no one shall see me, for I will enter concealed by a charm.” When he said this to the maid, she was pleased, and went and told it to Hansávalí, and then she remained anxiously expecting an interview with him.

And he, in the early part of the night, went adorned with heavenly ornaments, and making himself invisible by repeating forwards the charm bestowed on him by Gangá, entered her splendid chamber which she had previously cleared of attendants. In that chamber, which suggested thoughts of love, which was perfumed with aloes, and adorned with nose-gays of flowers of five hues[17] arranged there, and which therefore resembled the garden of the god of love, he beheld that lovely one exhaling heavenly fragrance, like a blossom put forth by the creeper of the wonderful charm bestowed by Gangá. And then the handsome prince recited the charm backwards, and immediately became visible to that princess. When he beheld her timidly trembling with a joyful agitation that made her hair stand on end, his ornaments immediately tinkled like musical instruments, and he seemed to be dancing with joy to their music. And the maiden hid her face with the shame of love, and seemed to be asking her heart, that caused all that display of emotion, what she was to do now. Then Bhímabhaṭa said to her, “Fair one, why do you allow your heart to exhibit shame, though its feelings have been already revealed? It does not deny the state of affairs; besides how is it possible to conceal this trembling of the limbs and this bursting boddice?” Then Bhímabhaṭa with such words, and other loving persuasions, made the fair one forget her modesty, and married her by the Gándharva form of marriage. And after he had spent that night with her, in sporting like a bee round the lotus of her mouth, he at last tore himself away, and saying, “I will come again at night,” returned to his house.

And when the chamberlains belonging to Hansávalí entered her chamber the next morning, they saw that her lover had been with her. The ends of her curls were disordered, she had marks of moist teeth and nails, and she seemed as if the god of Love had appeared in person and afflicted her with the wounds of all his arrows. They immediately went and reported the matter to the king, and he secretly appointed spies to watch at night. And Bhímabhaṭa spent the day with his friends in their usual employments, and in the beginning of the night again repaired to the bower of his beloved. When the spies saw that he had entered without being seen, by virtue of his charm, and discovered that he possessed supernatural powers, they went out, and told the king, and he gave them this order, “The being, who has entered a well-guarded room without being seen, cannot be a mere man; so bring him here that I may see what this means. And say to him politely from me, ‘Why did you not openly ask me for my daughter? Why did you make a secret of it? For it is difficult to obtain a bridegroom for my daughter as accomplished as yourself.’” When the king had sent off the spies with this message, they went as he commanded, and stood at the door and delivered this message to Bhímabhaṭa. And the resolute prince, perceiving that the king had discovered him, answered them boldly from inside; “Tell the king from me, that to-morrow I will enter his hall of audience, and tell him the truth, for now it is the dead of night.” They then went and gave this message to the king and he remained silent. And in the morning Bhímabhaṭa went to rejoin his friends. And putting on a magnificent costume, he went with those seven heroes to the hall of king Chandráditya. When the king saw his splendour, his resolute bearing and handsome appearance, he received him kindly, and made him sit on a throne equal to his own, and then his friend, the Bráhman Śankhadatta, said to the king, “King, this is the son of Ugrabhaṭa the king of Ráḍhá, Bhímabhaṭa by name; his might is irresistible on account of the wonderful power of the charm which he possesses. And he has come here to sue for the hand of your daughter.” When the king heard that, he remembered the occurrence of the night, and seeing that he was a suitable match for his daughter, he exclaimed, “I am fortunate indeed,” and accepted the proposal. And after he had made splendid preparations for the marriage, he bestowed his daughter Hansávalí on Bhímabhaṭa with much wealth. Then Bhímabhaṭa, having obtained many elephants, horses, and villages, remained there in great comfort, possessed of Hansávalí and the goddess of Fortune. And in a few days his father-in-law gave him that kingdom of Láṭa, and, being childless and old, retired to the forest. Then the successful Bhímabhaṭa, having obtained that kingdom, ruled it admirably with the help of those seven heroes, Śankhadatta and the others.

Then, in the course of some days, he heard from his spies, that his father king Ugrabhaṭa had gone to Prayága and died there; and that, when he was intent on death, he had anointed his youngest son Samarabhaṭa, the son of the dancing-girl, king of Ráḍhá. Then he mourned for his father, and performed his funeral ceremonies, and sent a messenger to that Samarabhaṭa with a letter. And in the letter, he sent the following message to the pretender who was treating him unjustly, “Foolish son of a dancing-girl, what business have you to sit on my father’s throne, for it belongs to me, though I have this kingdom of Láṭa; so you must not ascend it.” And the messenger went, and after announcing himself, delivered the letter to that Samarabhaṭa, when he was in the hall of assembly. And when Samarabhaṭa read this letter of such an import, under his brother’s sign manual, he was angry, and answered, “This baseless presumption is becoming in this ill-conducted man, who was long ago banished by my father from the country, because he was not fit to remain in it. Even the jackal apes the lion, when he is comfortably ensconced in his native cavern, but when he comes within view of the lion, he is discovered to be only a jackal.” Such was the answer he roared forth, and he wrote to the same effect in a letter, and sent his return-messenger to carry it to Bhímabhaṭa.

So the return-messenger went, and gave, when introduced by the warder, that letter to the king of Láṭa. And when Bhímabhaṭa had read that letter, he laughed loudly, and said to the return-messenger of his brother—“Go, messenger, and tell that dancing-girl’s son from me, ‘On that former occasion when you tried to seize the horse, I saved you from Śankhadatta, because you were a child and dear to my father, but I will no longer endure your insolence. I will certainly send you to my father who is so fond of you. Make ready, and know that in a few days I shall have arrived.’” With these words he dismissed the messenger, and then he began his expedition. When that moon of kings, glorious in his magnificence,[18] mounted his elephant which resembled a hill, the great sea of his army was agitated and surged up with a roar, and the horizon was filled with innumerable feudal chiefs and princes arrived for war,[19] and setting out with their forces; and the earth, swiftly trampled by the elephants and horses trooping along in great numbers, groaned and trembled under the weight, as if afraid of being cleft open. In this fashion Bhímabhaṭa marched and came near Ráḍhá, eclipsing the light of the sun in the heavens with the clouds of dust raised by his army.

In the meanwhile king Samarabhaṭa heard of it, and became indignant; and armed himself, and went out with his army to meet him in battle. And those two armies met, like the eastern and western seas, and a great battle took place between the heroes on both sides, awful as the destruction of the world. Then the fire, produced by the loud clashing of swords, which seemed as if it had been kindled by the gnashing of the teeth of the angry god of Death, hid the sky; and javelins flew with their long points resembling eyelashes, and seemed like the glances of the nymphs of heaven, as they gazed on the warriors. Then the field of battle appeared like a stage; its canopy was dust, its music was the shouting of the army, and its dancers palpitating trunks. And a furious[20] torrent of blood, sweeping along heads, and garlanded with trunks, carried off all living creatures, like the night of destruction at the end of the world.

But the archer Bhímabhaṭa soon routed the army of his enemies, by means of a combined attack of the mighty warriors Śankhadatta, and Akshakshapaṇaka, and Chaṇḍabhujanga and his fellows, skilled in wrestling, resembling impetuous elephants. And Samarabhaṭa was furious, when his army was routed, and he dashed forward on his chariot, and began to churn the sea of battle, as Mount Mandara churned the ocean.[21] Then Bhímabhaṭa, who was mounted on an elephant, attacked him, and cut his bow in two with his arrows, and also killed all the four horses of his chariot. Then Samarabhaṭa, being prevented from using his chariot, ran and struck with a javelin on the forehead the splendid elephant of Bhímabhaṭa, and the elephant, as soon as it was struck, fell dead on the ground. Then both of them, being deprived of their means of conveyance, had to fight on foot. And the two angry kings, armed with sword and shield, engaged in single combat. But Bhímabhaṭa, though he might have made himself invisible by means of his charm, and so have killed him, out of a regard for fairness, would not kill his enemy in that way. But being a skilful swordsman, he contended against him in open fight, and cut off with his sword the head of that son of the dancing-girl.

And when that Samarabhaṭa was slain with his soldiers, and the bands of the Siddhas had applauded from the heavens, and the fight had come to an end, Bhímabhaṭa with his friends entered the city of Ráḍhá, being praised by heralds and minstrels. Then, returning from a long absence, after slaying his enemy, he delighted his mother, who was eager to behold him, as Ráma did Kauśalyá. And the citizens welcomed him, and then he adorned the throne of his father, and took his seat on it, honoured by his father’s ministers, who loved his good qualities. And then he honoured all his subjects, who made high festival; and on a lucky day he gave to Śankhadatta the kingdom of Láṭa. And he sent him to the territory of Láṭa, escorted by a force composed of natives of that country; and he gave villages and wealth to Akshakshapaṇaka and his fellows, and he remained surrounded by them, ruling his ancestral realm, with that queen Hansávalí, the daughter of the king of Láṭa. And, in course of time, he conquered the earth, and carried off the daughters of kings, and became exclusively addicted to the enjoyment of their society. And he devolved his duties on his ministers, and amused himself with the women of his harem, and never left its precincts, being engrossed with drinking and other vices.

Then, one day, the hermit Uttanka came of his own accord to visit him, as if he were the time of accomplishment of the previous decree of Śiva. And when the hermit came to the door, the king, being blinded with passion, intoxication, and the pride of sovereignty, would not listen, though the warders announced his arrival. Then the hermit was angry, and denounced this curse on the king, “O man blinded with intoxication, you shall fall from your throne, and become a wild elephant.” When the king heard that, fear dispelled his intoxication, and he went out, and prostrating himself at the foot of the hermit, began to appease him with humble words. Then the anger of the great sage was calmed, and he said to him, “King, you must become an elephant, that decree cannot be altered; but when you shall have relieved a minister of Mṛigánkadatta’s, named Prachaṇḍaśakti, afflicted with the curse of a Nága and blinded, who shall become your guest, and shall tell him your story, you shall be delivered from this curse; and you shall return to the state of a Gandharva, as Śiva foretold to you, and then that guest of yours shall recover the use of his eyes.” When the hermit Uttanka had said this, he returned as he came, and Bhímabhaṭa was hurled from his throne, and became an elephant.

“So know, my friend, that I am that very Bhímabhaṭa, become an elephant, and you are Prachaṇḍaśakti; I know that my curse is now at an end.” When Bhímabhaṭa had said this, he abandoned the form of an elephant, and at once became a Gandharva of heavenly might. And immediately Prachaṇḍaśakti recovered, to his intense delight, the use of his eyes, and looked upon that Gandharva there. And in the meanwhile the discreet Mṛigánkadatta, who had heard their conversation from the bower of creepers, with his other ministers, having discovered that it was indeed his friend, rushed quickly and impetuously forth, and threw his arms round the neck of his minister Prachaṇḍaśakti. And Prachaṇḍaśakti looked at him, and feeling as if his body had been irrigated with a sudden flood of nectar, immediately embraced the feet of his lord.