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

by active 11th century Somadeva Bhatta

Then the king found out the star, under which the princess was born, from her father’s ambassador; and he asked his astrologers when a favourable time would arrive for the marriage of his son. And they answered that an auspicious time would present itself in three months for bridegroom and bride, on the fifth day of the white fortnight of the month Kártika. And so the king of Alaká informed Mandáradeva that the marriage ought to take place on that day, and that he would send his son, and this he wrote in a letter, and committed it to the care of the ambassador Kumáradatta, and another ambassador of his own named Chandrasvámin. So the ambassadors departed, and gave the letter as they were directed, and told the king of Hansadvípa all that had taken place. The king approved, and after honouring Chandrasvámin, the ambassador of Mahásena, he sent him back to his master. And he returned to Alaká, and reported that the business was satisfactorily settled; and then all on both sides remained eagerly expecting the auspicious day.

And in the meanwhile Mandáravatí in Hansadvípa, who had long ago fallen in love with the prince from seeing his picture, thought that the auspicious day for the marriage was a long way off, and felt unable to endure so much delay; and being affectionate, she became desperately enamoured, and was grievously tormented with the fire of love. And in the eager longing of her heart for Sundarasena, even the anointing with sandal-wood ointment became a shower of hot coals on her body, and a bed of lotus-leaves was to her a bed of hot sand, and the rays of the moon seemed like the scorching points of flame of a forest conflagration. She remained silent, avoiding food, adopting a vow of loneliness; and when her confidante questioned her in her anxiety, she was at last, with difficulty, induced to make the following avowal; “My friend, my marriage is far off, and I cannot bear to wait for the time, separated from my intended husband, the son of the king of Alaká. Distant is the time, and the place, and various is the course of Fate; so who knows what will happen to any one here in the meantime? So I had better die.” Saying this, Mandáravatí, being sick with separation, passed immediately into a miserable state.

When her father and mother heard that from the mouth of her confidante, and saw her in such a condition, they deliberated with the ministers, and came to the following conclusion, “That king Mahásena, the sovereign of Alaká, is on good terms with us, and the princess Mandáravatí is unable to endure the delay here, so why should we feel any delicacy about it? Happen what will, let us send her to Alaká, for when she is near her beloved, she will be able patiently to endure the delay.” When king Mandáradeva had gone through these deliberations, he comforted his daughter Mandáravatí, and made her embark on a ship with wealth and attendants, and after her mother had recited a prayer for her good fortune, he sent her off from Hansadvípa by sea on an auspicious day, to travel to Alaká, in order that she might be married there; and he sent with her a minister of his own, named Vinítamati.

And after the princess, travelling in a ship on the ocean, had left Hansadvípa some days’ sail behind her, there suddenly rose up against her a roaring cloud, as it were a bandit, showering raindrops like arrows, that sang terribly in the whistling wind. And the gale, like mighty fate, in a moment dragged her ship to a distance, and smote it, and broke it in pieces. And those attendants were drowned, and among them Vinítamati; and all her treasure was whelmed in the ocean.

But the sea lifted up the princess with a wave, as it were with an arm, and flung her up alive in a forest on the shore, near the scene of the shipwreck. To think that she should have fallen into the sea, and that a towering wave should have landed her in a forest! Behold now, how nothing is impossible to Destiny! Then she, in such a situation, terrified and confused, seeing that she was alone in a solitary wood, was again plunged in a sea, but this time it was the sea of grief. She exclaimed, “Where have I arrived? Surely it is a very different place from that for which I set out! Where too are those attendants of mine? Where is Vinítamati? Why has this suddenly happened to me? Where shall I go, ill-starred as I am? Alas! I am undone! What shall I do? Cursed Fate, why did you rescue me from the sea? Ah! father! Ah, mother! Ah, husband, son of the king of Alaká! Look; I am perishing before I reach you; why do you not deliver me?” While uttering these and similar exclamations, Mandáravatí wept copiously with tears that resembled the pearls of a broken necklace.

And at that very time a hermit, named Matanga, came there from his hermitage, which was not far off, to bathe in the sea. That sage, who was accompanied by his daughter, named Yamuná, who had observed a vow of virginity from her childhood, heard the sound of Mandáravatí’s weeping. And with his daughter he approached her kindly, and he saw her, looking like a doe separated from a herd of deer, casting her sorrowing eyes in every direction. And the great sage said to her with an affectionate voice, “Who are you, and how did you get into this wood, and why do you weep?” Then Mandáravatí, seeing that he was a compassionate man, slowly recovered herself, and told him her story, with face dejected from shame.

Then the hermit Matanga, after meditating, said to her, “Princess, cease to despair; recover your composure! Though you are delicate of body as a śirísha-flower, the calamity of sorrow afflicts you; do misfortunes ever consider whether their victim is tender or not? But you shall soon obtain the husband you desire; so come to this hermitage of mine, which is at no great distance from this place; and remain there with this daughter of mine as in your own house.” When the great hermit had comforted her with these words, he bathed, and accompanied by his daughter, led Mandáravatí to his hermitage. There she remained leading an ascetic life, longing to meet her husband, delighting herself with waiting upon that sage, accompanied by his daughter.

And in the meanwhile Sundarasena, who was emaciated with long expectation, remained killing the time in Alaká, continually counting the days, eager for his marriage with Mandáravatí, and his friend Chaṇḍaprabha and the rest were trying to console him. And in course of time, as the auspicious day drew nigh, his father, the king, made preparations for his journey to Hansadvípa. And after prayers had been offered for a prosperous journey, prince Sundarasena started from his home on an auspicious day, shaking the earth with his armies.

And as he was marching along with his ministers, he reached in course of time, to his delight, that city Śaśánkapura, which adorned the shore of the sea. There king Mahendráditya, hearing of his approach, came to meet him, bowing humbly, and the prince entered the city with his followers, and mounted on an elephant, he reached the palace of the king. And as he went along, the splendour of his beauty fluttered the hearts of the ladies of the city, as the hurricane flutters the lotus-bed. In the palace, king Mahendráditya shewed him every attention, and promised to accompany him: and so he rested there that day. And he spent the night in such thoughts as these, “Shall I ever get across the sea, and win that blushing bride?”

And next morning he left his army in that very city, and went with king Mahendráditya to the shore of the sea. There he and his ministers, together with that king, embarked on a large ship, that was well supplied with food and water. And the prince made the small retinue, that he could not help taking, embark on a second ship. Then the ship was let go, and its flag fluttered in the wind, and those two kings, who were in it, shaped their course towards the south-western quarter.