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

by active 11th century Somadeva Bhatta

There king Prasenajit, who had returned from a distant hunting expedition, saw that prince of noble form and feature. The king approached him full of curiosity, and asked him his name and lineage, and then, being much delighted, courteously conducted him to his palace. It was full of troops of elephants, adorned with lines of horses, and looked like a pavilion for the Fortune of empire to rest in, when wearied with her wanderings. Wherever a man born to prosperity may be, felicities eagerly approach him, as women do their beloved one. This accounts for the fact that the king, being an admirer of excellence, gave Naraváhanadatta his own daughter, named Bhagírathayaśas. And the prince lived happily there with her in great luxury, as if with Good Fortune created by the Disposer in flesh and blood for his delectation.

One evening, when the lover of the night had arisen, raining joy into the eyes of men, looking like the full-orbed face[5] of the nymph of the eastern quarter, or rather the countenance of Bhagírathayaśas charming as nectar, reflected in the pure mirror of the cloudless heaven, he drank wine with that fair one at her request on the top of a palace silvered over with the elixir of moonlight. He quaffed the liquor which was adorned with the reflection of his beloved’s face, and so gave pleasure to his eyes as well as to his palate. And then he considered the moon as far inferior in beauty to his charmer’s face, for it wanted the intoxicating[6] play of the eyes and eyebrows. And after his drinking-bout was over he went inside the house, and retired to his couch with Bhagírathayaśas.

Then Naraváhanadatta awoke from sleep, while his beloved was still sleeping, and suddenly calling to mind his home, exclaimed, “Through love for Bhagírathayaśas I have, so to speak, forgotten my other wives; how can that have happened? But in this too Fate is all-powerful. Far away too are my ministers. Of them Marubhúti takes pleasure in nought but feats of prowess, and Hariśikba is exclusively devoted to policy; of those two I do not now feel the need, but it grieves me that the dexterous Gomukha, who has been my friend in all emergencies, is far away from me.” While he was thus lamenting, he suddenly heard the words “Ah! how sad!” uttered in a low soft tone, like that of a woman, and they at once banished sleep. When he heard them, he got up, and lighted a candle, and looked about, and he saw in the window a lovely female face. It seemed as if the Disposer had determined out of playfulness to show him a second but spotless moon not in the sky, as he had that night seen the spot-beflecked moon of heaven. And not being able to discern the rest of her body, but eager to behold it, his eyes being attracted by her beauty, he immediately said to himself, “Long ago, when the Daitya Átápin was impeding the creation of Brahmá, that god employed the artifice of sending him to Nandana, saying to him, ‘Go there and see a very curious sight;’ and when he got there, he saw only the foot of a woman, which was of wonderful beauty; and so he died from an insane desire to see the rest of her body.[7] In the same way it may be that the Disposer has produced this lady’s face only to bring about my destruction.” While he was making this momentary surmise, the lady displayed her shoot-like finger at the window, and beckoned to him to come towards her.

Then he deliberately went out of the chamber in which his beloved was sleeping, and with eager impatience approached that heavenly lady: and when he came near, she exclaimed, “Madanamanchuká, they say that your husband is in love with another woman: alas! you are undone.” When Naraváhanadatta heard this, he called to mind his beloved, and the fire of separation flamed up in his bosom, and he said to that fair one, “Who are you? Where did you see my beloved Madanamanchuká? And why have you come to me? Tell me!” Then the bold lady took the prince away to a distance in the night, and saying to him, “Hear the whole story,” she thus began to speak.

“There is in the city of Pushkarávatí a prince of the Vidyádharas named Pingalagándhára, who has become yellow with continually adoring the fire. Know that I am his unmarried daughter, named Prabhávatí, for he obtained me by the special favour of the god of fire, who was pleased with his adoration. I went to the city of Asháḍbapura to visit my friend Vegavatí, and I did not find her there, as she had gone somewhere to perform asceticism. But hearing from her mother Pṛithivídeví that your beloved Madanamanchuká was there, I went to her. I beheld her emaciated with fasting, pale and squalid, with only one lock, weeping, talking only of your virtues, surrounded by tearful bands of Vidyádhara princesses, who were divided between grief produced by seeing her, and joy produced by hearing of you. She told me what you were like, and I comforted her by promising to bring you, for my mind was overpowered by pity for her, and attracted by your excellences. And finding out by means of my magic skill that you were here at present, I came to you, to inserve her interests and my own also. But when I found that you had forgotten your first love and were talking here of other persons, I bewailed the lot of that wife of yours, and exclaimed ‘Ah! how sad!’”

When the prince had been thus addressed by her, he became impatient and said, “Take me where she is, and impose on me whatever command you think fit.” When the Vidyádharí Prabhávatí heard that, she flew up into the air with him, and proceeded to journey on through the moonlit night. And as she was going along, she saw a fire burning in a certain place, so she took Naraváhanadatta’s hand, and moved round it, keeping it on the right. In this way the bold lady managed by an artifice to go through the ceremony of marriage with Naraváhanadatta, for all the actions of heavenly beings have some important end in view.[8] Then she pointed out to her beloved from the sky the earth looking like a sacrificial platform, the rivers like snakes, the mountains like ant-hills, and many other wonders did she show him from time to time, until at last she had gradually accomplished a long distance.

Then Naraváhanadatta became thirsty with his long journey through the air, and begged for water; so she descended to earth from her airy path. And she took him to the corner of a forest, and placed him near a lake, which seemed to be full of molten silver, as its water was white with the rays of the moon. So his craving for water was satisfied by the draught which he drank in that beautiful forest, but there arose in him a fresh craving as he felt a desire to embrace that lovely lady.[9] But she, when pressed, would hardly consent; for her thoughts reverted with pity to Madanamanchuká, whom she had tried to comfort; in truth the noble-minded, when they have undertaken to forward the interests of others, put out of sight their own. And she said to him, “Do not think ill, my husband, of my coldness; I have an object in it; and now hear this story which will explain it.”

Story of the child that died of a broken heart because his mother forgot to bring him a sweetmeat.

Once on a time, there lived in the city of Páṭaliputra a certain widow who had one child; she was young, and beautiful, but poor. And she was in the habit of making love to a strange man for her gratification, and at night she used to leave her house and roam where she pleased. But, before she went, she used invariably to console her infant son by saying to him, “My boy, I will bring you a sweetmeat to-morrow morning,” and every day she brought him one. And the child used to remain quiet at home, buoyed up by the hope of that sweetmeat.