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

by active 11th century Somadeva Bhatta

And when Jímútaváhana was made crown-prince, the ministers of his father, desiring his welfare, came to him and said, “Prince, you must continually worship this wishing-tree invincible by all creatures,[3] which grants all our desires. For, as long as we have this, not even Indra could injure us, much less any other enemy.” When Jímútaváhana heard this, he inly reflected, “Alas! our predecessors, though they possessed such a divine tree, never obtained from it any fruit worthy of it; some of them asked it for wealth and did nothing more; so the mean creatures made themselves and this noble tree contemptible. Well, I will make it inserve a design which I have in my mind.”

After the noble prince had formed this resolution, he went to his father, and gained his goodwill by paying him all kinds of attentions, and said to him in private, as he was sitting at ease; “Father, you know that in this sea of mundane existence, all that we behold is unsubstantial, fleeting as the twinkling of the wave. Especially are the twilight, the dawn, and Fortune shortlived, disappearing as soon as revealed; where and when have they been seen to abide? Charity to one’s neighbour is the only thing that is permanent in this cycle of change; it produces holiness and fame that bear witness for hundreds of yugas. So with what object, father, do we keep for ourselves such an unfailing wishing-tree, as all these phenomenal conditions are but momentary? Where, I ask, are those our predecessors who kept it so strenuously, exclaiming, ‘It is mine, it is mine?’ Where is it now to them? For which of them does it exist, and which of them exists for it? So, if you permit, father, I will employ this wishing-tree, that grants all desires, for attaining the matchless fruit of charity to one’s neighbour.”

His father gave him leave, saying, “So be it!” And Jímútaváhana went and said to the wishing-tree, “O god, thou didst fulfil all the cherished wishes of our predecessors, so fulfil this one solitary wish of mine! Enable me to behold this whole earth free from poverty; depart, and good luck attend thee; thou art bestowed by me on the world that desires wealth.” When Jímútaváhana had said this with joined hands, a voice came forth from the tree, “Since thou hast relinquished me, I depart.” And in a moment the wishing-tree flew up to heaven, and rained wealth on the earth so plenteously, that there was not one poor man left on it. Then the glory of that Jímútaváhana spread through the three worlds, on account of that ardent compassion of his for all creatures.

That made all his relations impatient with envy; and thinking that he and his father would be easy to conquer, as they were deprived of the calamity-averting tree which they had bestowed on the world, they put their heads together and formed a design, and then girded on their harness for war, to deprive Jímútaváhana and his father of their realm. When Jímútaváhana saw that, he said to his father, “Father, what other has might, when thou hast taken up arms? But what generous man desires to possess a realm, if he must do so by slaying his relations for the sake of this wicked perishable body? So of what use is sovereignty to us? We will depart to some other place, and practise virtue that brings happiness in both worlds. Let these miserable relations that covet our kingdom, joy their fill!” When Jímútaváhana said this, his father Jímútaketu answered him, “My son, I desire a realm for your sake only; if you, being penetrated with compassion, give it up, of what value is it to me, who am old?” When Jímútaváhana’s father agreed to his proposal, he went with him and his mother to the Malaya mountain, abandoning his kingdom. There he made him a retreat in the valley of a brook, the stream of which was hidden by sandal-wood trees, and spent his time in waiting on his parents. And there he made a friend of the name of Mitrávasu, the son of Viśvávasu a king of the Siddhas, who dwelt on that mountain.

Now, one day, as Jímútaváhana was roaming about, he went into a temple of the goddess Gaurí, that was situated in a garden, in order to worship in the presence of the image. And there he saw a beautiful maiden accompanied by her attendants, playing on the lyre, intent on pleasing the daughter of the mountain.[4] And the deer were listening to the sweet sound of the lyre in the musical performance, standing motionless, as if abashed at beholding the beauty of her eyes.[5] She had a black pupil in her white eye, and it seemed as if it strove to penetrate to the root of her ear.[6] She was thin and elegant in her waist, which appeared as if the Creator had compressed it in his grasp, when making her, and deeply impressed on it the marks of his fingers in the form of wrinkles. The moment Jímútaváhana saw that beauty, it seemed as if she entered by his eyes, and stole away his heart. And when the maiden saw him, adorning the garden, producing longing and disturbance of soul, looking as if he were the god of spring retired to the forest through disgust at the burning up of the body of the god of Love, she was overpowered with affection, and so bewildered, that her lyre, as if it had been a friend, became distracted and mute.

Then Jímútaváhana said to an attendant of hers, “What is your friend’s auspicious name, and what family does she adorn?” When the attendant heard that, she said, “She is the sister of Mitrávasu, and the daughter of Viśvávasu the king of the Siddhas, and her name is Malayavatí.” When she had said this to Jímútaváhana, the discreet woman asked the son of the hermit, who had come with him, his name and descent, and then she made this brief remark to Malayavatí, smiling as she spoke, “My friend, why do you not welcome this prince of the Vidyádharas who has come here? For he is a guest worthy of being honoured by the whole world.” When she said this, that daughter of the king of the Siddhas was silent, and her face was cast down through shame. Then her attendant said to Jímútaváhana, “The princess is bashful, permit me to shew you the proper courtesy in her place.” So she alone gave him a garland with the arghya. Jímútaváhana, as soon as the garland was given to him, being full of love, took it, and threw it round the neck of Malayavatí. And she, looking at him with loving sidelong looks, placed, as it were, a garland of blue lotuses on him.

Thus they went through a sort of silent ceremony of mutual election, and then a maid came and said to that Siddha maiden, “Princess, your mother desires your presence, come at once.” When the princess heard that, she withdrew regretfully and reluctantly from the face of her beloved her gaze, that seemed to be fastened to it with the arrows of love, and managed not without a struggle to return to her house. And Jímútaváhana, with his mind fixed on her, returned to his hermitage.

And when Malayavatí had seen her mother, she went at once and flung herself down on her bed, sick of separation from her beloved. Then her eyes were clouded, as it were by the smoke of the fire of love that burnt in her bosom, she shed floods of tears, and her body was tortured with heat; and though her attendants anointed her with sandal-wood unguent, and fanned her with the leaves of lotuses, she could not obtain any relief on the bed, in the lap of her attendant, or on the ground. Then the day retired somewhere with the glowing evening, and the moon ascending kissed the laughing forehead of the east, and though urged on by love she was too bashful to send a female messenger to her chosen one, or to adopt any of the measures that lovers usually take, but she seemed loth to live. And she was contracted in her heart, and she passed that night, which the moon made disagreeable to her, like a lotus which closes at night, and bewilderment hung round her, like a cloud of bees.

And in the meanwhile Jímútaváhana, who was tortured at parting with her, though lying on his bed, spent the night as one who had fallen into the hand of Cupid; though his glow of love was of recent birth, a pallid hue began to shew itself in him; and though shame made him dumb, he uttered the pain which love produced.

Next morning he returned with excessive longing to that temple of Gaurí, where he had seen the daughter of the king of the Siddhas. And while, distracted with the fire of passion, he was being consoled by the hermit’s son, who had followed him there, Malayavatí also came there; for, as she could not bear separation, she had secretly gone out alone into a solitary place to abandon the body. And the girl, not seeing her lover, who was separated from her by a tree, thus prayed, with eyes full of tears, to the goddess Gaurí, “Goddess, though my devotion to thee has not made Jímútaváhana my husband in this life, let him be so in my next life!” As soon as she had said this, she made a noose with her upper garment, and fastened it to the branch of the aśoka-tree in front of the temple of Gaurí. And she said “Prince Jímútaváhana, lord renowned over the whole world, how is it, that, though thou art compassionate, thou hast not delivered me?” When she had said this, she was proceeding to fasten the noose round her throat, but at that very moment a voice spoken by the goddess came from the air, “Daughter, do not act recklessly, for the Vidyádhara prince Jímútaváhana, the future emperor, shall be thy husband.”