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

by active 11th century Somadeva Bhatta

There is a city on the shore of the eastern sea, named Támraliptí; in that city there was a king of the name of Chaṇḍasinha; he turned away his face from the wives of others, but not from battle-fields; he carried off the fortune of his foes, but not the wealth of his neighbours.

Once on a time a popular Rájpút of the Dekkan, named Sattvaśíla, came to the palace-gate of that king. And he announced himself, and then, on account of his poverty, he and some other Rájpúts tore a ragged garment in the presence of that king. Thus he became a dependent,[1] and remained there for many years perpetually serving the king, but he never received any reward from him. And he said to himself, “If I have been born in a royal race, why am I so poor? And considering my poverty is so great, why did the Creator make my ambition so vast? For though I serve the king so diligently, and my followers are sorely afflicted, and I have long been pining with hunger, he has never, up to the present time, deigned to notice me.”

While such were the reflections of the dependent, the king one day went out to hunt. And he went, surrounded with horses and footmen, to the forest of wild beasts, while his dependent ran in front of him bearing a stick. And after he had hunted for some time, he followed up closely a boar that had escaped, and soon he reached another distant wood. And in that vast jungle, where the path was obscured with leaves and grass, the king lost the boar, and he became exhausted, and was unable to find his way. And the dependent was the only one that kept up with him, running on foot, regardless of his own life, tortured with hunger and thirst, though the king was mounted upon a horse swift as the wind. And the king, when he saw that the dependent had followed him, in spite of his being in such a condition, said to him in a kind voice, “Do you know the way by which we came?” When the dependent heard that, he put his hands together in an attitude of supplication, and said, “I do know it, but let my lord rest here for some time. For the sun, which is the centre-jewel of the girdle of the sky-bride, is now burning fiercely with all its rays flickering forth.” When the king heard this, he said to him graciously, “Then see if you can find water anywhere here.” The dependent said, “I will,” and he climbed up a high tree, and saw a river, and then he came down again, and led the king to it. And he took the saddle off his horse, and let him roll, and gave him water and mouthfuls of grass, and so refreshed him. And when the king had bathed, he brought out of a corner of his garment delicious[2] ámalaka fruits, and washed them, and gave them to him. And when the king asked where he got them, he said to him kneeling with the ámalakas in his hand, “Ten years have now passed since I, living continually on these fruits, have been performing, in order to propitiate my sovereign, the vow of a hermit that does not dwell in solitude.” When the king heard that, he answered him, “It cannot be denied that you are rightly named Sattvaśíla.” And being filled with compassion and shame, he said to himself; “Fie on kings who do not see who among their servants is comfortable or miserable, and fie on their courtiers who do not inform them of such matters!” Such were the king’s thoughts, but he was at last induced by the importunity of the dependent to take two ámalakas from him. And after eating them and drinking water, he rested for a while in the company of the dependent, having satiated his hunger and thirst on fruits and water.

Then his dependent got his horse ready, and he mounted it, and the dependent went in front of him to shew him the way, but however much the king entreated him, he would not get up on the horse behind him, and so the king returned to his own city, meeting his army on the way. There he proclaimed the devotion of the dependent, and he loaded him with wealth and territories, and did not consider even then that he had recompensed him as he deserved. Then Sattvaśíla became a prosperous man, and discarding the life of a dependent, he remained henceforth about the person of king Chaṇḍasinha.

And one day the king sent him to the island of Ceylon, to demand for him the hand of the king’s daughter. He had to go there by sea; so he worshipped his patron divinity, and went on board a ship with the Bráhmans, whom the king appointed to accompany him. And when the ship had gone half-way, there suddenly rose from the sea a banner that excited the wonder of all in the ship. It was so lofty that its top touched the clouds, it was made of gold, and emblazoned like a waving flag of various hues. And at that very moment a bank of clouds suddenly arose, and began to pour down rain, and a mighty wind blew. And the ship was forced on to that flag by the rain and the wind, and thus fastened to it, as elephant-drivers force on an elephant and bind him to a post. And then the flag began to sink with the ship in the billowy sea.

And then the Bráhmans in the ship, distracted with fear, called on their king Chaṇḍasinha, crying out for help. And when Sattvaśíla heard their cries, so great was his devotion to his master that he could not restrain himself, but with his sword in his hand, and his upper garment girded round him, the brave fellow daringly plunged into the billows, following the flag, in order to counteract the violence of the sea, not suspecting the real cause. And as soon as he had plunged in, that ship was carried to a distance by the wind and waves, and all the people, who were in it, fell into the mouths of the sea-monsters.

And when Sattvaśíla, who had fallen into the sea, began to look about him, he found that he was in a splendid city,[3] but he could not see the sea anywhere. That city glittered with palaces of gold supported on pillars of jewels, and was adorned with gardens in which were tanks with steps of precious gems, and in it he beheld the temple of Durgá, lofty as mount Meru, with many walls of costly stone, and with a soaring banner studded with jewels. There he prostrated himself before the goddess, and praised her with a hymn, and sat down wondering whether it was all the effect of enchantment.

And in the meanwhile a heavenly maiden suddenly opened a door, and issued from a bright enclosure in front of the temple of the goddess. Her eyes were like blue lotuses, her face full-blown, her smile like a flower, her body was soft like the taper fibre of a water-lily’s root, so that she resembled a moving lotus-lake. And waited on by a thousand ladies, she entered the inner shrine of the goddess and the heart of Sattvaśíla at the same time. And after she had worshipped, she left the inner shrine of the goddess, but nothing would make her leave the heart of Sattvaśíla. And she entered once more into the shining enclosure, and Sattvaśíla entered after her.

And when he had entered, he beheld another splendid city, which seemed like a garden where all the enjoyments of the world had agreed to meet. In it Sattvaśíla saw that maiden sitting on a couch studded with gems, and he went up to her, and sat down by her side. And he remained with his eyes fixed on her face, like a man in a painting, expressing his passion by his trembling limbs, the hairs on which stood erect. And when she saw that he was enamoured of her, she looked at the faces of her attendants, and then they, understanding the expression of her face, said to him, “You have arrived here as a guest, so enjoy the hospitality provided by our mistress, rise up, bathe, and then take food.” When he heard that, he entertained some hope, and he rose up, though not without a struggle, and he went to a tank in the garden which they shewed him. And the moment that he plunged into it, he rose up, to his astonishment, in the middle of a tank in the garden of king Chaṇḍasinha in Támraliptí.[4] And seeing himself suddenly arrived there, he said to himself, “Alas! what is the meaning of this? Now I am in this garden, and a moment ago I was in that splendid city; I have exchanged in an instant the nectarous vision of that fair one for the grievous poison of separation from her. But it was not a dream, for I saw it all clearly in a waking state. It is clear that I was beguiled like a fool by those maidens of Pátála.”

Thus reflecting, he wandered about in that garden like a madman, being deprived of that maiden, and wept in the anguish of disappointed passion. And the gardeners, when they beheld him in that state, with body covered with the yellow pollen of flowers wafted by the wind, as if with the fires of separation, went and told king Chaṇḍasinha, and he, being bewildered, came himself and saw him; and after calming him, he said to him, “Tell me, my friend; what is the meaning of all this? You set out for one place and reached another, your arrows have not struck the mark at which they were aimed.” When Sattvaśíla heard that, he told the king all his adventures, and he, when he heard them, said to himself, “Strange to say, though this man is a hero, he has, happily for me,[5] been beguiled by love, and I now have it in my power to discharge my debt of gratitude to him.” So the brave king said to him, “Abandon now your needless grief, for I will conduct you by the same course into the presence of that beloved Asura maiden.” With these words the king comforted him, and refreshed him with a bath and other restoratives.