Vetala Panchavimshati - 24

Vikram - Betal : Concluded

So King Trivikrama came to the monk Shantisheela with the body on his shoulder. And he saw the monk along in the dark night, sitting under the cemetery tree and looking down the road. He had made a magic circle with yellow powdered bones in a spot smeared with blood. In it he had put a jug filled with blood and lamps with magic oil. He had kindled a fire and brought together the things he needed for worship.

The monk rose to greet the king who came carrying the body, and he said: "O King, you have done me a great favour, and a hard one. This is a strange business and a strange time and place for such as you. They say truly that you are the best of kings, for you serve others without thinking of yourself. This is the very thing that makes the greatness of a great man, when he does not give a thing up, though it costs his very life."

So the monk felt sure the he was quite successful, and he took the body from the

king's shoulder. He bathed it and put garlands on it, and set it in the middle of the circle. Then he smeared his own body with ashes, put on a cord made of human hair, wrapped himself in dead man's clothes, and stood a moment, deep in thought. And the Betal was attracted by his thought into the body, and the monk worshipped him.

First he offered liquor in a skull, then he

gave him human teeth carefully cleaned, and human eyes and flesh. So he completed his worship, then he said to the king: "O King, fall flat on the ground before this master magician in an attitude of reverence, so that he may give you what you want."

And the king remembered the words of the Betal. He said to the monk: "Holy sir, I do not know that attitude of reverence. Do you show me first, and afterwards I will do it in the same way."

And when the monk fell on the ground to show the attitude of reverence, the king cut off his head with a sword, and cut out his heart and split it open. And he gave the head and the heart to the Betal.

Then all the little gods were delighted and cried: "Well done!" And the Betal was

pleased and spoke to the king from the body he was living in: "O King, this monk was trying to become king of the fairies. But you shall be that when you have been king of the whole world."

And the king answered the Betal: "O magic creature, if you are pleased with me, I have nothing more to wish for. Yet I ask you to make me one promise, that these twenty-two different, charming puzzle-stories shall be known all over the world and be received with honour."

And the Betal answered: "O King, so be it. And I will tell you something more. Listen. When anyone tells or hears with proper respect even a part of these stories, he shall be immediately free from sin. And wherever these stories are told, Yakshas and Rakshasas and Dakini and Betals and Kushmanda shall have no power."

Then the Betal left the dead body by magic, and went where he wanted to. Then Shiva appeared there with all the little gods, and he was well pleased. When the king bowed before him, he said: "My son, you did well to kill this sham monk who tried by

force to become king of the fairies. Therefore you shall establish the whole earth, and then become king of the fairies yourself. And when you have long enjoyed the delights of heaven and at last give them up of your own accord, then you shall be united with me. So receive from me this sword called Aparajita. While you have it, everything you say will come true."

So Shiva gave him the magic sword, received his flowery words of worship, and vanished with the gods.

<The End>.

Vetala Panchavimshati - 23

The Father and Son who married Daughter and Mother. What relation were their children?

The king paid no attention to the terrible witch of night, clad in black darkness, with the funeral piles as flaming eyes. He bravely went through the dreadful cemetery to the sissoo tree, put the Betal on his shoulder, and started as before. And as he walked along, the Betal said to him: "O King, I am very tired with these comings and goings, but you do not seem to be. So I will tell you my Great Puzzle. Listen."

Long ago there was a king named Mandalikah in the southern country. He was the best of righteous men, and was born in a great family. His wife came from the Malwa country, and her name was Chandravati. And they had one daughter, whom they named Lavanyavati.

When this daughter was grown up, the relatives conspired to wreck the kingdom and

drive King Mandalikah out. But he escaped by night, took a great many jewels, and fled from his kingdom with his beautiful wife and his daughter. He started for his father-in-law's house in Malwa, and came with his wife and daughter to the Vindhya forest. There they spent a weary night.

In the morning the blessed sun arose in the east, stretching out his rays like hands to warn the king not to go into the forest where robbers lived. The king went on foot with his trembling daughter and his wife, and their feet were wounded by the thorny grass. So they came to a fortified village. It was like the city of Death; for there were no righteous people there, and it was filled with robber-men who killed and robbed other people.

As the king drew near with his fine garments and his gems, many robbers saw him from a distance, and ran out armed to rob him. When the king saw them coming, he said to his wife and daughter: "These are wild men. They must not touch you. Go into the thick woods." So the queen with her daughter Lavanyavati fled in fear into the middle of the forest.

But the brave king took his sword and shield and killed many of the wild men as they charged down, raining arrows on him. Then their leader gave an order, and all the robbers fell on the king at once, wounded every limb in his body, and killed him; for he was all alone. So the robbers took the jewels and went away.

Now the queen had hidden in a thicket, and had seen her husband killed. Then she fled a long distance in fear and came with her daughter into another thick wood. The rays of the midday sun were so fierce that travellers had to sit in the shade. So Queen Chandravati and Princess Lavanyavati sat down under an ashoka tree near a lotus-pond in terrible weariness and fear and grief.

Now a gentleman named Chandasimha who lived near came on horseback with his son into that wood to hunt. The son's name was SimhaParakrama. And the father saw the footprints of the queen and the princess, and he said to his son: "My son, these footprints are clean-cut and ladylike. Let us follow them. And if we find two women, you shall marry one of them, whichever you choose."

And the son SimhaParakrama said: "Father, the one who has the little feet in this line of footprints, seems to be the wife for me. The one with the bigger feet must be older. She is the wife for you."

But Chandasimha said: "My son, what do you mean? Your mother went to heaven before your eyes. When so good a wife is gone, how could I think of another?"

But his son said: "Not so, Father. A householder's house is an empty place without a wife. Besides, you have surely heard what the poet says:

What fool would go into a house?

 It's a prisoner's abode,

Unless a dutiful wife is there,

Looking down the road.'

So, Father, I beg you on my life to marry the second one, whom I have chosen for you."

Then Chandasimha said "Very well," and went on slowly with his son, following the

footprints. And when he came to the pond, he saw Queen Chandravati, radiant with beauty and charm. And with his son he eagerly approached her. But when she saw him, she rose in terror, fearing that he was a robber.

But her sensible daughter said: "There is no reason to fear. These two men are not robbers. They are two well-dressed gentlemen, who probably came here to hunt." Still the queen swung in doubt.

Then Chandasimha dismounted and stood before her. And he said: "Beautiful lady, do not be frightened. We came here to hunt. Pluck up heart and tell me without fear who you are. Why have you come into this lonely wood? For your appearance is that of ladies who wear gems and sit on pleasant balconies. And why should feet fit to saunter in a court, press this thorny ground? It is a strange sight. For the wind-blown dust settles on your faces and robs them of beauty. It hurts us to see the fierce rays of the sun fall upon such figures. Tell us your story. For our hearts are sadly grieved to see you in such a plight. And we cannot see how you could live in a forest filled with wild beasts."

Then the queen sighed, and between shame and grief she stammered out her story. And Chandasimha saw that she had no husband to care for her. So he comforted her and

soothed her with tender words, and took care of her and her daughter. His son helped the two ladies on horseback and led them to his own city, rich as the city of the god of wealth. And the queen seemed to be in another life. She was helpless and widowed and miserable. So she consented. What could she do, poor woman?

Then, because the queen had smaller feet, the son SimhaParakrama married Queen Chandravati. And Chandasimha, the father, married her daughter, the princess Lavanyavati, because of the bigness of her feet. Who would break a promise that had been made solemnly?

Thus, because of their inconsistent feet, the daughter became the wife of the father and the mother-in-law of her own mother. And the mother became the wife of the son and the daughter-in-law of her own daughter. And as time passed, sons and daughters were born to each pair.

When the Betal had told this story, he asked the king: "O King, when children were born to the father and daughter, and other children to the son and mother, what relation were those children to one another? If you know and do not tell, then remember the curse I spoke of before?"

When the king heard the Betal's question, he turned the thing this way and that, but could not say a word. So he went on in silence. And when the Betal saw that he could not answer the question, he laughed in his heart and thought: "This king cannot give an answer to my Great Puzzle. So he just walks on in silence. And he cannot deceive me because of the power of the curse. Well, I am pleased with his wonderful character. So I will cheat that rogue of a monk, and give the magic power he is striving after to this king."

So the Betal said aloud: "O King, you are weary with your comings and goings in this dreadful cemetery in the black night, yet you seem happy, and never hesitate at all. I am astonished and pleased at your perseverance. So now you may take the dead body and go ahead. I will leave the body. And I will tell you something that will do you good, and you must do it. The monk Shantisheela for whom you are carrying this body, is a rogue. He will call upon me and worship me and he will try to kill you as a sacrifice. (See the First Episode for details)

He will say: Lie flat on the ground in an attitude of reverence (to offer prayers to the God of sacrifice).' O King, you must say to that rascal: I do not know this attitude of reverence. Show me first, and then I will do likewise.' Then when he lies on the ground to show you the attitude of reverence, cut off his head with your sword. Then you will get the kingship over the fairies which he is trying to get. Otherwise, the monk will kill you and get the magic power. That is why I have delayed you so long. Now go ahead, and win magic power."

So the Betal left the body on the king's shoulder and went away. And the king reflected how the monk Shantisheela was planning to hurt him. He took the body and joyfully went to the fig-tree.

To be continued...

Vetala Panchavimshati - 22

The Old Hermit who exchanged his Body for that of the Dead Boy. Why did he weep and dance?

Then the king went back to the sissoo tree, put the Betal on his shoulder in spite of all its writhings, and set out in silence. And the Betal on his shoulder said: "O king of kings, you are terribly obstinate about this impossible task. So to amuse the weary journey I will tell a story. Listen."

In the Kalinga country was a city called Shobhavatu, where people lived as happily as in heaven. There ruled a famous king named Pradyumna. And in a part of this city was a region set apart by the king, where many Brahmans lived. Among them was a learned, wealthy, pious, hospitable Brahman named Yajnasoma.

In his old age a single son was born to him and his worthy wife. The boy grew under the fostering care of his father, and showed signs of excellence. He was called Devasoma by his father, and his parents were entirely devoted to him.

In his sixteenth year the boy attracted everyone by his learning and modesty. Then he suddenly fell ill of a fever and died. When his father and mother saw that he was really dead, they embraced the body and wept aloud. But their love for him would not permit them to burn the body.

So the old relatives gathered, and said to the father: "Brahman, life is imaginary like a city in the sky. Do you not know this, you who know things above and things below? The kings who enjoyed themselves like gods upon the earth, they have gone one by one to cemeteries filled with processions of weeping ghosts. Their bodies were burned by the flesh-devouring fire and eaten by jackals. No one could prevent it in their case. How much less in the case of others? Therefore, as you are a wise man, tell us what you mean by embracing this dead body?"

So at last the relatives persuaded him to let his son go, and they put the body in a litter and brought it to the cemetery with weeping and wailing.

At that time a hermit was fulfilling a hard vow, and was living in a hut in the cemetery. He was very thin because of his age and his hard life. His veins stuck out like cords to bind him, as if afraid that he would break in pieces. His hair was tawny like the lightning.

This hermit heard the wailing of the people, and turned to his pupil who begged food for him. Now this pupil was proud and arrogant. And the hermit said: "My boy, what is this wailing we hear? Go outside and find out, then return and tell me why this unheard-of commotion is taking place."

But the pupil said: "I will not go. Go yourself. My hour for begging is passing by."

Then the teacher said: "Fool! Glutton! What do you mean by your hour for begging? Only one half of the first watch of the day is gone."

Then the bad pupil became angry and said: "Decrepit old man! I am not your pupil. And you are not my teacher. I am going away. Do your begging yourself." And he angrily threw down his staff and bowl before the old man, and got up, and went away.

Then the hermit laughed. He left his hut and went to the place where the dead

Brahman boy had been brought to be burned. He saw how the people mourned over such youthful freshness dead, and felt his own age and weakness. So he made up his mind to exchange his body for the other by magic.

He went aside and wept at the top of his voice. Then he danced with all the proper gestures.

After that, full of the longing to enjoy the happiness of youth, he left his own withered body by magic and entered the body of the Brahman youth. So the Brahman youth came to life on the funeral pyre and stood up. And a cry of joy arose from all the relatives: "See! The boy is alive! He is alive!"

Then the magician in the body of the Brahman boy said to the relatives: "I went to the other world, and Shiva gave me life and directed me to perform a great vow. So now I am going off to perform the vow. If I do not, my life will not last. Do you then go home, and I will come later."

So he spoke to those gathered there, having made up his mind what to do, and sent them home full of joy and grief. He went himself and threw his old body into a pit, and then went off, a young man.

When the Betal had told this story, he said to King Trivikrama, who was walking through the night: "O King, when the magician entered another person's body, why did he weep before doing it, or why did he dance? I have a great curiosity about this point."

And the king was afraid of the curse, so he broke silence and said: "Listen, Betal. He thought: I am leaving to-day this body with which I won magic powers, the body which my parents petted when I was a child.' So first he wept from grief, and from love of his

body which he found it hard to leave. Then he thought: With a new body I can learn more magic.' So he danced from joy at getting youth."

When the Betal heard this answer, he returned quickly to the sissoo tree. And the king pursued him, undismayed.

To be continued...

Vetala Panchavimshati - 21

The Four Brothers who brought a Dead Lion to Life. Which is to blame when he kills them all?

Then the king went back to the sissoo tree, took the Betal, put him on his shoulder, and started for the place he wished to reach. And as he walked along the road, the Betal began to talk again: "Bravo, King! You are a remarkable character. So I will tell you another story, and a strange one. Listen."

There is a city called Kusumapura. There lived a king named Dharanivaraah. In his kingdom was a farm where a Brahman lived whose name was Vishnuswami. His wife was named Swaha. And four sons were born to them.

After a time the father died, and the relatives took all the money. So the four brothers consulted together: "There is nothing for us to do here. Suppose we go somewhere." And after a long journey they came to the house of their maternal grandfather in a village called Yajnasthala. The grandfather was dead, but their uncles sheltered them, and they continued their studies.

But they did not amount to much, so in time their uncles became scornful in such matters as food and clothing. And they were troubled.

Then the eldest took the others aside and said: "Brothers, no man can do anything anywhere on earth. Now I was wandering about discouraged, and I came to a wood. There I saw to-day a dead man whose limbs lay relaxed on the ground. And I wished for the same fate, and I thought: He is happy. He is free from the burden of woe.' So I made up my mind to die, and hanged myself with a rope from a tree. I lost consciousness, but before the breath of life was gone, the cord was cut and I fell to the ground. And when I came to myself, I saw a compassionate man who had happened by at that moment, and he was fanning me with his garment. 

And he said to me: My friend, you are an educated man. Tell me why you are so despondent. The righteous man finds happiness, the unrighteous man finds unhappiness because of his unrighteousness, and for no other reason. If you made up your mind to this because of unhappiness, practice righteousness instead. Why seek the pains of hell by suicide?' Thus the man comforted me and went away. And I gave up the idea of suicide and came here. You see I could not even die when fate was unwilling. Now I shall burn my body at some holy place, that I may not again feel the woes of poverty."

Then the younger brothers said to him: "Sir, why is an intelligent man sad for lack of money? Do you not know that money is uncertain as an autumn cloud? No matter how carefully won and guarded, three things are fickle and bring sorrow at the last: evil friendships, a flirt, and money. The resolute and sensible man should by all means acquire that virtue which brings him Happiness a captive in bonds."

So the eldest brother straightway plucked up heart, and said: "What virtue is it which we should acquire?"

Then they all reflected, and took counsel together: "We will wander over the earth, and each of us will learn some one science." So they appointed a place for meeting, and the four brothers started in four different directions.

After a time they all gathered at the meeting-place, and asked one another what they had learned. The first said: "I have learned a science by which I can take the skeleton of any animal whatever and put the proper kind of flesh on it."

The second said: "I have learned a science by which I can put on the flesh-covered skeleton the proper hair and skin."

The third said: "My science is this. When the skin and the flesh and the hair are there, I can put in the eyes and the other organs of sense."

The fourth said: "When the organs are there, I can give the creature the breath of life."

So all four went into the forest to find a skeleton and test their various sciences. As fate would have it, they found the skeleton of a lion there. And they took that, not knowing the difference.

The first fitted out the skeleton with appropriate flesh. The second added the skin and hair. The third provided all the organs. The fourth gave life to the thing, and it was a

lion. The lion arose with terrible massive mane, dreadful teeth in his mouth, and curving claws in his paws. He arose and killed his four creators, then ran into the forest.

Thus the Brahman youths all perished because they did wrong to make a lion. Who could expect a good result from creating a bad-tempered creature? Thus, if fate opposed, even a virtue that has been painfully acquired does not profit, but rather injures. But the tree of manhood, with the water of intelligence poured into its watering-trench of conduct about the vigorous root of fate, generally bears good fruit.

When the Betal had told this story, he asked the king who was walking through the night: "O King, remember the curse I mentioned, and tell me which of them was most to blame for creating the lion?"

And the king reflected in silence: "He wants to escape again. Very well. I will catch him again." So he said: "The one who gave life to the lion, is the sinner. The others did not know what kind of an animal it was, and just showed their skill in creating flesh and skin and hair and organs. They were not to blame because they were ignorant. But the one

who saw that it was a lion and gave it life just to exhibit his skill, he was guilty of the murder of Brahmans."

Then the Betal went home. And the king followed him again, and came to the sissoo tree.

To be continued...

Vetala Panchavimshati - 20

The Man, his Wife, and her Lover, who all died for Love. Which was the most foolish?

Then the king went back under the sissoo tree, took the Betal on his shoulder, and set out in haste. And as he walked along, the Betal on his shoulder said: "O King, I will tell you a story about a great love. Listen."

There is a city called Shakrapuri, which seems like a divine city made by the Creator Brahma for the pious who have fallen from heaven. In this city there was a famous king named Padmanabha. He delighted the good, and defeated the king of the demons.

While he was king, a merchant named Arthadatta, richer than the god of wealth, lived in the city. He had one daughter named AnangaManjari, who seemed the model from whom the Creator had made the nymphs of heaven. This merchant gave his daughter to a merchant named Manivarma from Tamralipti.

As he was a tender father and had no other children, the merchant stayed with his daughter AnangaManjari and her husband. Now AnangaManjari came to hate Manivarma as a sick man hates a pungent, biting medicine. But the beautiful woman was dearer than life to her husband, dear as long-fathered wealth to a miser.

One day Manivarma started for Tamralipti to pay a loving visit to his parents. Then the hot summer came, and the roads were blocked for travellers by the sharp arrows of the sun. The winds blew soft with the fragrance of jasmine and trumpet-flower, like sighs from the mouths of mountains separated from the springtime. And wind-swept dust-clouds flew to the sky like messengers from the burning earth begging for clouds. And the feverish days moved slowly like wayfarers who cling to the shade of trees. And the nights clad in pale yellow moonlight became very feeble without the invigorating embrace of winter.

At this time AnangaManjari, anointed with cooling sandal, and clad in thin garments stood at her lattice-window. And she saw a handsome youth with a friend whom he trusted. He seemed the god of love born anew and seeking his bride. He was the son of the king's priest, and his name was Kamalakara.

And when Kamalakara saw the lovely girl, he expanded with delight as lotuses in a lake expand at the sight of the moon. When the two young people saw each other, their hearts embraced each other at the bidding of Love, their teacher.

So Kamalakara was smitten with love, and was led home with difficulty by his friend. And AnangaManjari was equally maddened by love. First she learned from her friend his name and home, then slowly withdrew to her room. There she thought of him and became feverish with love, simply tossing on her couch, seeing nothing and hearing nothing.

After two or three days spent in this way, she felt bashful and fearful, pale and thin from the separation, and hopeless of union with her lover. So, as if drawn on by the moonbeam which shone through her window, she went out at night when her people were asleep, determined to die. And she came to a pool under a tree in her garden.

There stood a family image of the goddess Gauri, set up by her father. She drew near to this image, bowed before the goddess, praised her, and said: "O Goddess, since I could not have Kamalakara as my husband in this life, may he be my husband in some other life!" And she made a noose of her garment, and tied it to the ashoka tree before the goddess.

At that moment her trusty friend awoke, and not finding her in the room, hunted about and came luckily into the garden. There she saw the girl fastening the noose about her neck, and she cried, "No, no!" And running up, she cut the noose.

When AnangaManjari saw that it was her own friend who had run up and taken the noose away, she fell to the ground in great agony. But her friend comforted her and asked the reason of her sorrow. Then she arose and said: "Mallika, my friend, I cannot be united with him I love. I am dependent on my father and other people. Death is the happiest thing for me."

And as she spoke, she was terribly scorched by the fiery darts of love, and determined to feel no more hope, and fainted. And her friend Mallika lamented: "Alas! Love is a hard master. It has reduced her to this condition." But she gradually brought her back to life with cool water and fans and things. She made an easy bed of lotus-leaves. She put pearls cool as snow on her heart.

Then AnangaManjari came to herself and slowly said to her weeping friend: "My dear, the fire within me cannot be quenched by such things as pearls. If you want to save my life, be clever enough to bring my lover to me."

And the loving Mallika said: "My dear, the night is almost over. In the morning I will bring your lover here to meet you. Be brave and go now to your room."

AnangaManjari  was contented. She took the pearls from her neck and gave them to her friend as a present. And she said: "Let us go now. Then in the morning you must keep your promise." So she went to her room.

In the morning Mallika crept out without being seen to hunt for the house of Kamalakara. When she got there, she found Kamalakara under a tree in the garden. He was lying on a couch of lotus-leaves moistened with sandal, and the friend who knew his

secret was fanning him with plantain-leaf fans, for he was tortured by the flames of love. And Mallika hid, to find out whether this was lovesickness for her friend or not.

Then the friend said to Kamalakara: "My friend, comfort your heart by glancing a moment at this charming garden. Do not be so troubled."

But he said to his friend: "My heart has been stolen by AnangaManjari. It is no longer in my body. How can I comfort it? Love has made an empty quiver of me. So invent some plan by which I may meet the thief of my heart."

Then Mallika came out joyfully and without fear and showed herself. And she said: "Sir, AnangaManjari has sent me to you, and I am the bearer of a message to you. Is it good manners to enter the heart of an innocent girl by force, steal her thoughts, and run away? It is strange, but the sweet girl is ready to give her person and her life to you, her charmer. For day and night she heaves sighs hot as the smoke from the fire of love that burns in her heart. And teardrops carry her rouge away and fall, like bees longing for the honey of her lotus-face. So, if you wish it, I will tell you what is good for both of you."

And Kamalakara said: "My good girl, the words which tell me that my love is lonely and longing, frighten me and comfort me. You are our only refuge. Devise a plan."

And Mallika answered: "This very night I will bring AnangaManjari secretly to the garden. You must be outside. Then I will cleverly let you in, and so you two will be united." Thus Mallika delighted the Brahman's son, and went away successful to please AnangaManjari with the news.

Then the sun and the daylight fled away, pursuing the twilight. And the East adorned her face with the moon. And the white night-blooming lotuses laughed, their faces expanding at the thought of the glory that was coming to them. At that hour the lover Kamalakara came secretly, adorned and filled with longing, to the garden-gate of his beloved. And Mallika led AnangaManjari secretly into the garden, for she had lived through the day somehow.

Then Mallika made her sit down under the mango trees, while she went and let Kamalakara in. So he entered and looked upon AnangaManjari as the traveller looks upon the shade of trees with thick foliage. And as he drew near, she saw him and ran to him, for love took away her modesty, and she fell on his neck. "Where would you go? I have caught you, thief of my heart!" she cried. Then excessive joy stopped her breathing and she died. She fell on the ground like a vine broken by the wind. Strange are the mysterious ways of Love.

When Kamalakara saw that terrible fall, he cried: "Oh, what does it mean?" And he fainted and fell down. Presently he came to himself, and took his darling on his lap. He embraced her and kissed her and wept terribly. He was so borne down by the terrible burden of grief that his own heart broke. And when they were both dead, the night seemed to die away in shame and fear.

In the morning the relatives heard the story from the gardeners, and came there filled with timidity and wonder and grief and madness. They did not know what to do, but stood a long time with downcast eyes. Unfaithful women disgrace a family.

Presently the husband Manivarma came back from his father's house in Tamralipti, filled with love for AnangaManjari. When he came to his father-in-law's house and saw the business, he was blinded by tears and went thoughtfully into the garden. There he saw his wife dead in another man's arms, and his body was scorched by flames of grief, and he died immediately.

Then the whole household shouted and screamed so that all the citizens heard the story and came there. The demi-gods themselves were filled with pity and prayed to the goddess Gauri whose image had been set up there before by Love-cluster's father: "Oh, Mother, the merchant who set up this statue was always devoted to you. Show mercy to him in his affliction."

And the gracious goddess heard their prayer. She said: "All three shall live again, and shall forget their love." Then through her grace they all arose like people waking from sleep. They were alive, and their love was gone. While all the people there rejoiced at what had happened. Kamalakara went home, bending his head in shame. And the merchant took his shamefaced daughter and her husband and went into the house and made a feast.

When the Betal had told this story on the road in the night, he said: "O King, which was the most foolish among those who died for love? If you know and do not tell, you must remember the curse I spoke of before."

Then the king answered: "O magic creature, Manivarma was the most foolish of them. When he saw that his wife had died for love of another man, he should have been angry.

Instead, he was loving, and died of grief."

Then the Betal slipped from the king's shoulder and quickly set out for his home. And the king ran after him again, eager as before.

To be continued...

Vetala Panchavimshati - 19

The Boy whom his Parents, the King, and the Giant conspired to Kill. Why did he laugh at the moment of death?

Then the king went to the sissoo tree, put the Betal on his shoulder as before, and started in silence. And the Betal on his shoulder saw that he was silent and said: "O King, why are you so obstinate? Go home. Spend the night in rest. You ought not to take me to that rascally monk. But if you insist, then I will tell you another story. Listen."

There is a city called Chitrakoota. There lived a glorious king named Chandravaloka, who delighted the eyes of his subjects. Wise men said that he was brave, generous, and the very home of beauty. But in spite of all his wealth, he was very sad at heart. For he found no wife worthy of him.

One day this king went with soldiers on horseback into a great wood, to hunt there and forget his sorrow. There he split open many boars with his arrows as the sun splits the black darkness, and made fierce lions into cushions for his arrows, and slew mountainous monsters with his terrible darts.

As he hunted, he spurred his horse and beat him terribly. And the horse was so hurt by the spur and the whip that he could not tell rough from smooth. He dashed off quicker than the wind, and in a moment carried the king into another forest a hundred miles away.

There the king lost his way, and as he wandered about wearily, he saw a great lake. He stopped there, unsaddled his horse, let him bathe and drink, and found him some grass in the shade of the trees. Then he bathed and drank himself, and when he had rested, he looked all about him.

And he saw a hermit's daughter of marvellous beauty under an ashoka tree with another girl. She had no ornaments but flowers. She was charming even in a dress of bark. She was particularly attractive because of her thick masses of hair arranged in a girlish way.

And the king fell in love with her and thought: "Who is she? Is she a goddess come to bathe in these waters? Or Gauri, separated from her husband Shiva, leading a hard life to win him again? Or the lovely moon, taking a human form, and trying to be attractive in the daytime? I will go to her and find out."

So he drew near to her. And when she saw him coming, she was astonished at his beauty and dropped her hands, which had been weaving a garland of flowers. And she thought: "Who can he be in this forest? Some fairy perhaps. Blessed are my eyes this day."

So she rose, modestly looking another way, and started to go away, though her limbs failed her. Then the king approached and said: "Beautiful maiden, I have come a long distance, and you never saw me before. I ask only to look at you, and you should welcome me. Is this hermit manners, to run away?"

Then her clever friend made the king sit down and treated him as an honoured guest. And the king respectfully asked her: "My good girl, what happy family does your friend adorn? What are the syllables of her name, which must be a delight to the ear? Or why at her age does she torture a body as delicate as a flower with a hermit's life in a lonely wood?"

And the friend answered: "Your Majesty, she is the daughter of the hermit Kanva and the heavenly nymph Menaka. She grew up here in the hermitage, and her name is

Indivaraprabha. With her father's permission she came here to the lake to bathe. And her father's hermitage is not far from here."

Then the king was delighted. He mounted his horse and rode to the hermitage of holy Kanva, to ask for the girl. And he entered the hermitage in modest garb, leaving his horse outside. Then he was surrounded by hermits with hoary crowns and bark garments like the trees, and saw the sage Kanva radiant and cool like the moon. And he drew near and fell at his feet.

And the wise hermit greeted him and let him rest, then said: "My son Chandravaloka, I will tell you something to your advantage. Listen. I know what fear of death there is in mortal creatures. Why then do you uselessly kill the wild beasts? Warriors were made by the Creator to protect the timid. Therefore protect your subjects in righteousness, and root out evil. As Happiness flees before you, strive to overtake her with all your means, elephants and horses and things. Enjoy your kingship. Be generous. Become glorious. Abandon this vice of hunting, this sport of Death. For slayer and slain are equally deceived. Why spend your time in such an evil pursuit?"

The sensible king was pleased and said: "Holy sir, I am instructed. And great is my gratitude for this instruction. From now on I hunt no more. Let the wild animals live without fear."

Then the hermit said: "I am pleased with your protection of the animals. Choose any boon you will."

Then the quick-witted king said: "Holy sir, if you are kindly disposed, give me your daughter Indivaraprabha."

So the hermit gave him his daughter, the child of the nymph, who then came up after her bath. So they were married, and the king wore cheerful garments, and Indivaraprabha was adorned by the hermits' wives. And the weeping hermits accompanied them in procession to the edge of the hermitage. Then the king took his wife Indivaraprabha, mounted his horse, and started for his city.

At last the sun, seeing the king tired with his long journeying, sank wearily behind the western mountain. And fawn-eyed night appeared, clad in the garment of darkness, like a woman going to meet her lover. And the king saw an ashvattha tree on the shore of a pond in a spot covered with grass and twigs, and he decided to spend the night there.

So he dismounted, fed and watered his horse, brought water from the pond, and rested with his beloved. And they passed the night there.

In the morning he arose, performed his devotions, and prepared to set out with his wife to rejoin his soldiers. Then, like a cloud black as soot with tawny lightning-hair, there appeared a great giant. He wore a chaplet of human entrails, a cord of human hair, he was chewing the head of a man, and drinking blood from a skull.

The giant laughed aloud, spit fire in his wrath, and showed his dreadful fangs. And he scolded the king and said: "Scoundrel! I am a giant named Jvalamukham. This tree is my home; even the gods do not dare to trespass here. But you and your wife have trespassed and enjoyed yourselves. Now swallow your own impudence, you rascal! You are lovesick, so I will split open your heart and eat it, and I will drink your blood."

The king was frightened when he saw that the giant was invincible, and his wife was trembling, so he said respectfully: "I trespassed ignorantly. Forgive me. I am your guest, seeking protection in your hermitage. And I will give you a human sacrifice, so that you will be satisfied. Be merciful then and forget your anger."

Then the giant forgot his anger, and thought: "Very well. Why not?" And he said: "O King, I want a noble, intelligent Brahman boy seven years old, who shall give himself up of his own accord for your sake. And when he is killed, his mother must hold his hands tightly to the ground, and his father must hold his feet, and you must cut off his head with your own sword. If you do this within seven days, then I will forgive the insult you have offered me. If not, I will kill you and all your people."

And the king was so frightened that he consented. Then the giant disappeared.

Then King Chandravaloka mounted his horse with his wife Indivaraprabha and rode away sad at heart, seeking for his soldiers. And he thought: "Alas! I was bewildered by hunting and by love, and I find myself ruined. Where can I find such a sacrifice for the giant? Well, I will go to my own city now, and see what happens."

So he continued his search, and found his soldiers and his city Chitrakoota. There his subjects were delighted because he had found a wife worthy of him, and they made a great feast. But it was a day of despondency and dreadful agony for the king.

On the next day he told his counsellors the whole story. And one counsellor named Sumati said: "Your Majesty, do not despair. I will find a victim for the sacrifice. The world is a strange place."

Thus the counsellor comforted the king, and made a statue of a boy out of gold. And he sent the statue about the land, with constant beating of drums and this proclamation: "We want a noble Brahman boy seven years old who will offer himself as a sacrifice to a giant with the permission of his parents. And when he is killed, his mother must hold his hands, and his father must hold his feet. And as a reward, the king will give his parents a hundred villages and this statue of gold and gems."

Now there was a Brahman boy on a farm, who was only seven years old, but wonderfully brave. He was of great beauty, and even in childhood he was always thinking

about others. He said to the heralds: "Gentlemen, I will give you my body. Wait a moment. I will hurry back after telling my parents."

So they told the boy to go. And he went into the house, bowed before his parents, and said: "Mother! Father! I am going to give this wretched body of mine in order to win lasting happiness. Pray permit me. And I will take the king's gift, this statue of myself made of gold and gems, and give it to you together with the hundred villages. Thus I will pay my debt to you, and do some real good. And you will never be poor again, and will have plenty more sons."

But his parents immediately said: "Son, what are you saying? Have you the rheumatism? Or are you possessed by a devil? If not, why do you talk nonsense? Who would sacrifice his child for money? And what child would give his body?"

But the boy said: "I am not mad. Listen. My words are full of sense. The body is the seat of unnameable impurities, it is loathsome and full of pain. It perishes in no long time at best. If some good can be done with the worthless thing, that is a great advantage in this weary life, so wise men say. And what good is there except helping others? If anyone can serve his parents so easily, then how lightly should the body be esteemed!"

Thus the boy, with his bold words and his firm purpose, persuaded his grieving parents. And he went and got from the king's men the golden statue and the hundred villages, and gave them to his parents.

So the boy with his parents followed the king's men to the city Chitrakoota. And the king looked upon the brave boy as a magic jewel for his own preservation, and rejoiced greatly. He adorned the boy with garlands and perfumes, put him on an elephant, and took him with his parents to the home of the giant.

There the priest traced a magic circle beside the tree, and reverently lit the holy fire. Then the horrible giant Jvalamukham appeared, mumbling words of his own. He staggered, for he was drunk with blood, and snorted and yawned. His eyes flashed fire and his shadow made the whole world dark.

And the king said respectfully: "Great being, here is the human sacrifice you asked for, and this is the seventh day since I promised it. Be merciful. Accept this sacrifice."

And the giant licked his chops, and looked the boy over, who was to be the sacrifice. Then the noble boy thought: "I have done some good with this body of mine. May I never rest in heaven or in eternal salvation, but may I have many lives in which to do some good with my body." And the air was filled with the chariots of gods who rained down flowers.

Then the boy was laid before the giant. His mother held his hands, and his father held his feet. When the king drew his sword and was ready to strike, the boy laughed so heartily that all of them, even the giant, forgot what they were doing, looked at the boy's face, and bowed low before him.

When the Betal had told this strange story, he asked the king: "O King, why did the boy laugh at the moment of death? I have a great curiosity about this point. If you know and will not tell, then your head will fly into a hundred pieces."

And the king said: "Listen. I will tell you why the boy laughed. When danger comes to any weak creature, he cries for life to his mother and father. If they are not there, he begs protection from the king, whom heaven made his protector. Failing the king, he cries to a god. Some one of these should be his protector. But in the case of this boy everything was contrary. His parents held his hands and feet because they wanted money. And the king was ready to kill him with his own hand, to save his own life. And the giant, who is a kind of a god, had come there especially to eat him. So the boy thought: They are ridiculously fooled about their bodies, which are fragile, worthless, the seat of pain and suffering. The bodies of the greatest gods perish. And such creatures as these imagine that their bodies will endure!' So when he saw their strange madness, and felt that his own wishes were fulfilled, the Brahman boy laughed in astonishment and delight."

Then the Betal slipped from the king's shoulder and went back to his home. And the king followed with determination. The heart of a good man is like the heart of the ocean. It cannot be shaken.

To be continued...