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

by active 11th century Somadeva Bhatta

And after two or three days had passed, as they were sailing on the sea, there suddenly arose a great hurricane. And the ranges of forest on the shores of the sea shook to and fro, as if in astonishment at the unprecedented character of the gale. And the waters of the sea, inverted by the wind, were turned upside down, again and again, as affections are by lapse of time. And an offering of jewels was made to the sea accompanied by a loud cry of woe; and the pilots let loose the sail and relaxed their efforts at the same time; and all excitedly flung out very heavy stones on all sides, fastened by chains, and flung away their hopes of life at the same time; and the two vessels, driven to and fro by the waves, as elephants by elephant-drivers,[15] wandered about in the sea, as if in the mêlée of a battle.

Then Sundarasena, beholding that, was moved from his seat, as if from his self-command,[16] and said to king Mahendráditya, “It is through my demerits in former births that this day of doom has suddenly come upon you. So I cannot endure to witness it; I will fling myself into the sea.” When the prince had said this, he quickly girt his upper garment round his loins, and flung himself then and there into the sea. And when his five friends, Chaṇḍaprabha and the others, saw that, they too flung themselves in, and Mahendráditya did the same. And while, having recovered their presence of mind, they were swimming across the ocean, they all went in different directions, being separated by the force of the waves. And immediately the wind fell, and the sea became hushed and calm, and bore the semblance of a good man whose wrath is appeased.[17]

And in the meanwhile Sundarasena, with whom was Dṛiḍhabuddhi, found a ship that had been driven from somewhere or other by the wind, and with that minister of his as his only companion he climbed up on it, as it were on a second swing of incertitude oscillating between rescue and destruction. Then, having lost all courage, he drifted, not knowing his bearings, looking on the whole world as made of water, confiding in his god: and the ship, which was wafted along by a gentle and favourable breeze, as if by a deity, carried him to the shore in three days. There it stuck fast, and he and his companion sprang to shore and to a hope of life at the same moment.

And when there, he recovered breath, and said to Dṛiḍhabuddhi; “I have escaped even from the sea, from the infernal regions, though I went below; but since I have not been able to do so without causing the death of my ministers Vikramaśakti, and Vyághraparákrama, and Chaṇḍaprabha and Bhímabhuja, such fine fellows as they were, and also of king Mahendráditya, who became without cause so good a friend to me,—of all these,—how can I now live with honour?” When he said this, his minister Dṛiḍhabuddhi said to him, “Prince, recover your composure; I am persuaded that we shall have good fortune; for they may perhaps make their way across the sea, as we have done. Who can discern the mysterious way of Destiny?”

While Dṛiḍhabuddhi was saying this and other things of the same kind, two hermits came there to bathe. The good men, seeing that the prince was despondent, came up to him, and asked him his story, and said kindly to him; “Wise sir, even the gods are not able to alter the mighty influence of actions in a previous state of existence, that bestow joy and sorrow. So a resolute man, who wishes to take leave of sorrow, should practise right doing; for right doing is the true remedy for it, not regrets, nor emaciation of the body. So abandon despondency, and preserve your body by resolute endurance; as long as the body is preserved, what object of human endeavour cannot be attained? Moreover, you possess auspicious marks; you are certain to enjoy prosperity.” Saying this the hermits consoled him, and took him to their hermitage.

And prince Sundarasena remained waiting there for some days, accompanied by Dṛiḍhabuddhi.

And in the meanwhile his ministers Bhímabhuja and Vikramaśakti, having swum across the sea, reached the shore in a separate place. And hoping that perhaps the prince might have escaped from the sea like themselves, they entered that great forest, and searched for him bewildered with grief. And his other two ministers, Chaṇḍaprabha and Vyághraparákrama, and king Mahendráditya, in the same way escaped from the sea, and sorrowfully sought for Sundarasena, and when they did not find him, were afflicted; and at last they found their ship unharmed and went to Śaśánkapura. Then those two ministers, and the army that had been left in that city, hearing what had happened,[18] went weeping to their own city Alaká. And when they arrived without the prince, lamenting their loss, the citizens wept, and one universal wail was heard in the city. When king Mahásena and his queen heard that news of their son, they were in such a state that they would have died, if it were not that their allotted term of life had not yet expired. And when the king and the queen were bent on suicide, the ministers dissuaded them with various speeches, which gave them reasons for entertaining hope. Then the king remained in a temple of Svayambhú[19] outside the town, engaged in asceticism with his attendants, enquiring for news of his son.

And in the meanwhile king Mandáradeva, in Hansadvípa, heard the news of the shipwreck of his daughter, and of that of his proposed son-in-law. And he also came to know that his son-in-law’s two ministers had arrived in Alaká, and that king Mahásena there was keeping himself alive by hope, being engaged in practising austerities. Then that king also, who was afflicted by grief for the loss of his daughter, and was only prevented by his ministers from committing suicide, entrusted to them the care of his kingdom, and with the queen Kandarpasená went to the city of Alaká to visit king Mahásena, who was his partner in misfortune. And he made up his mind that he would do whatever that king did, as soon as he had trustworthy intelligence with regard to the fate of his son. And so he came to king Mahásena, who was still more grieved when he heard of the fate of Mandáravatí, and sorrowed in sympathy with him. Then that king of Hansadvípa remained practising austerities with the king of Alaká, restraining his senses, eating little, sleeping on darbha-grass.

When they had been all scattered in this way in different directions by the Disposer, as leaves by a wind, it happened that Sundarasena set forth from the hermitage in which he was, and reached that hermitage of Matanga, in which Mandáravatí was staying. There he beheld a lake of clear water, the bank of which was thickly planted with trees bent down with the weight of many ripe fruits of various flavours. As he was weary, he bathed in that lake, and ate sweet fruits, and then walked on with Dṛiḍhabuddhi, and reached a forest stream. And going along its bank, he saw some hermit maidens engaged in gathering flowers near a temple containing a Linga. And in the midst of them he beheld one hermit maiden, who seemed to be the peerless beauty of the world, illuminating the whole wood with her loveliness, as if with moonlight, making all the regions full of blown blue lilies with her glance, and sowing with her foot-falls a thicket of lotuses in the forest.

Then the prince said to Dṛiḍhabuddhi, “Who can this be? Can she be a nymph of heaven worthy of being gazed upon by the hundred-eyed Indra; or is she the presiding goddess of the forest with her shoot-like fingers clinging to the flowers? Surely the Creator framed this very wonderful form of hers after he had perfected his skill by continual practice in creating many nymphs of heaven. And lo! she exactly resembles in appearance my beloved Mandáravatí, whose beauty I beheld in a picture. Why should she not be the lady herself? But how can this be? She is in Hansadvípa far away from this heart of the forest. So I cannot[20] conceive who this fair one is, and whence she comes, and how she comes to be here.” And Dṛiḍhabuddhi, when he saw that fair maid, said to the prince, “She must be whom you suppose her to be, otherwise how could her ornaments, though made of forest flowers, thus resemble a necklace, a zone, a string of bells, and the other ornaments usually worn? Moreover, this beauty and delicacy are not produced in a forest; so you may be certain that she is some heavenly nymph, or some princess, not the daughter of a hermit. Let us rise up and stand here[21] a moment to find out.” When Dṛiḍhabuddhi had said this, they both of them stood there concealed by a tree.