The Ashes of a God

by F. W. Bain

And as he listened, all at once the heart of that old Brahman bounded in his body like a deer. And every vestige of his purpose and his muttering vanished from his soul like a dream. And he ran with feet that resembled wings straight towards them, crying aloud in agony and despair, not knowing what he said: Ah! she is mine. Ah! robber of a king, she is not thine. Ah! she is mine. And he reached them, and ran between them, and threw himself upon Watsatarí, and caught her in his arms, and kissed her, weeping in an ecstasy of grief and repentance and delight, exclaiming as he did so: Ah! dearer than my life; ah! Watsatarí; ah! noble wife, forgive me, for I did not know.

And then, strange! as she threw around his neck soft clinging arms, returning his kisses with her own, there came from her lips a peal of laughter, that rang in his very face. And as he drew back in amazement, he looked, and lo! he was holding in his arms not Watsatarí, but another woman, absolutely strange to him, who gazed upon him as she laughed with derision in her eyes. And she exclaimed: Ha! Trishodadhi, I am not blind, but I see thee very well. And now it is not easy to decide, between thy wife and thyself, which is the better lover. For as it seems it was not she, so much as thou, that needed a little of that medicine of oblivion, to enable thee to play the part of an ascetic, to whom women are as nothing in comparison with austerity and penance. Surely thy love for Watsatarí was wonderful, for thou hast utterly forgotten all thy muttering, and bartered all the mountain of thy merit for a kiss. Yet this much I will tell thee, to console thee, that it is not a nymph of heaven to whom thou hast succumbed.

And then with a laugh she disappeared. And as Trishodadhi stood, struck with the thunderbolt of stupefaction, he looked, and lo! Ruru also vanished, and instead of him, Indra stood before him in the guise of a devotee. And he looked with cold eyes upon Trishodadhi, and said very slowly: O Trishodadhi, the wise strive for wisdom, and gain at least humility. But thine was a false devotion, and could not stand the test. And now, as she said, the mountain of thy merit is utterly annihilated, consumed in a single instant of impure desire like a blade of dry grass in a forest conflagration. And as experiment has proved, regret for the things of sense was not extinct in thee, and the sparks of vanity and egoism and delusion in the form of women lay lurking in the ashes of thy soul, needing only a little breeze of recollection to fan them into flame. And now thou hast allowed the sorrow for the loss of old mundane ties of long ago to conquer thy desire of emancipation and break in upon thy devotion to thy vow. And thou hast been guilty of sinister designs against heaven, springing not from the seed of true and single-hearted resignation, but selfishness and wounded vanity and malice. Fall therefore as a punishment instantly into the body of a dog without a tail. And after that thou shall become an ape, and then a worm, and afterwards a ravenous flesh-eating Rákshasa, and a jackal, and a domba, and a leather-worker, and a chandàla, and a woman, and many other such garments of a guilty soul, and like a drop of water thou shalt run through an interminable series of miserable births, never discerning any end. For this action of thine has dyed thy soul with so indelible a stain, that the ocean could more easily divest itself of colour and of brine, than thy soul will find it to regain its crystal purity, by cleansing its essence of such an inky blot.

And then, like a flash of lightning, that culprit of a Brahman disappeared.

So then, as the Moony-Crested deity made an end, instantly the Daughter of the Snowy Mountain asked him: O Wearer of the Moon, was then the story told by Indra as an elephant to that crafty Kalánidhi as a tree, a true story, or a figment devised between them to delude him?

And Maheshwara answered: O Snowy One, it was absolutely true, in every item and particular and detail. For Indra came to me, and I told him all about it, showing it to him, exactly as it happened, in the mirror of the past. And even its upshot might have taught thee, that the story was true. For he who listens to a recital of a past, of which he was himself a part, resembles a swan, swift to separate the milk of reality from the water of invention, and the very slightest deviation on the part of the narrator, giving rise to a suspicion, and jarring on the ear like a false note in a harmony, would have burst the illusion like a bubble. For there is no form of persuasion or deception so potent as the simple truth.

Then said Párwati again: Then am I very sorry for that poor old Brahman, who was much to be pitied.

And the Lord of the Moony Tire said: Nay, O Daughter of the Snow, thou art in error. Waste not thy pity on one who deserves absolutely none. For had he really loved Watsatarí his wife, who well deserved it, he would never have gone away and left her, condemning her without appeal, unheard, relying on nothing but the very fallacious testimony of his eyes. For there is no degree of evidence, whether of eyes, or of ears, or of any other sense, which true love would not utterly refuse to credit or receive, against that conviction begotten by love, confiding in its object, seeing that love is absolutely free from any shadow of suspicion, and clings to its faith in spite and in the teeth of all. But jealousy belongs only to a spurious love that is really only vanity and egoism in disguise, and is therefore never sure, but everlastingly uneasy, like Trishodadhi. And as his love was founded on selfishness and vanity, so was also the ambition that replaced it, and they both failed miserably when subjected to the test. And being thus unable either to trust in his wife, or forget her, he deserves nothing but contempt, and came to that miserable end which destiny prepares for all who dishonour the sublime by fraudulent and feeble imitation or pretence. For pure love resembles yonder rock, that refuses to be shaken by any wind whatever, and pure renunciation resembles yonder bird, that floats in the inaccessible serenity of heaven far above, not for parade, but simply because it is its very nature to soar into the blue.

And now, as I said, here is Kailàs, and this is the termination of the tale.

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