Who is to blame for the Brahmana’s death?
Then the King went
back under the sissoo tree, put the Betal on his shoulder, and started as
before. And as he walked along, the Betal said to him again: "O King,
listen to a very condensed story."
There is a city called Benares .
In it lived a Brahman named Devaswami, whom the king honoured. He was very
rich, and he had a son named Hariswami. This son had a wonderful wife, and her
name was Lavanyavati. No doubt the Creator put together in her the priceless
elements of charm and loveliness after his practice in making the nymphs of
heaven.
One night
Hariswami was sleeping on a balcony cooled by the rays of the moon. And a fairy
prince named Madanavega was flying through the air, and as he passed he saw Lavanyavati
asleep beside her husband. He took her, still asleep, and carried her off
through the air.
Presently
Hariswami awoke, and not seeing the mistress of his life, he rose in anxiety.
And he wondered: "Oh, where has my wife gone? Is she angry with me? Or is
she playing hide-and-seek with me, to see how I will take it?" So he
roamed anxiously all over the balcony during the rest of the night. But he did
not find her, though he searched as far as the garden.
Then he was
overcome by his sorrow and sobbed convulsively. "Oh, Lavanyavati, my
darling! Fair as the moon! White as the moonlight! Was the night jealous of
your beauty; did she carry you away? Your loveliness shamed the moon who
refreshed me with beams cool as sandal; but now that you are gone, the same
beams torment me like blazing coals, like poisoned arrows!"
And as Hariswami
lamented thus, the night came to an end, but his anguish did not end. The
pleasant sun scattered the darkness, but could not scatter the blind darkness
of Hariswami's madness. His pitiful lamentations increased a hundredfold, when
the nightly cries of the birds ended. His relatives tried to comfort him, but
he could not pluck up courage while his loved one was lost. He went here and
there, sobbing out: "Here she stood. And here she bathed. And here she
adorned herself. And here she played."
His relatives and
friends gave him good advice. "She is not dead," they said. "Why
should you make way with yourself? You will surely find her. Pluck up courage
and hunt for her. Nothing is impossible to the brave and determined man."
And when they urged him, Hariswami after some days plucked up heart.
He thought:
"I will give all my fortune to the Brahmans, and then wander to holy
places. Thus I will wear away my sins, and when my sins are gone, perhaps I
shall find my darling in my wanderings." So he arose and bathed.
On the next day he
provided food and drink, and made a great feast for the Brahmans, and gave them
all he had except his piety. Then he started to wander to holy places, hoping
to find his wife.
As he wandered,
the summer came on him like a lion, the blazing sun its mouth, and the sunbeams
its mane. And the hot wind blew, made hotter yet by the sighs of travellers
separated from their wives. And the yellow mud dried and cracked, as if the
lakes were broken-hearted at the loss of their lotuses. And the trees, filled
with chirping birds, seemed to lament the absence of the spring, and their
withering leaves seemed like lips that grow dry in the heat.
At this time
Hariswami was distressed by the heat and the loss of his wife, by hunger, thirst,
and weariness. And as he sought for food, he came to a village. There he saw
many Brahmans eating in the house of a Brahman named Padmanabha, and he leaned
against the doorpost, speechless and motionless.
Then the good wife
of that pious Brahman pitied him, and she thought: "Hunger is a heavy
burden. It makes anyone light. Look at this hungry man standing with bowed head
at the door. He looks like a pious man who has come from a far country, and he
is tired. Therefore he is a proper person for me to feed."
So the good woman
took in her hands a dish filled with excellent rice, melted butter, and candied
sugar, and courteously gave it to him. And she said: "Go to the edge of
our pond, and eat it."
He thanked her,
took the dish, went a little way, and set it down under a fig-tree on the edge
of the pond. Then he washed his hands and feet in the pond, rinsed his mouth,
and joyfully drew near to eat the good food.
At that moment a
hawk settled on the tree, carrying a black snake in his beak and claws. And the
snake died in the grasp of the hawk, and his mouth opened, and a stream of
poison came out. This poison fell into the dish of food.
But Hariswami did
not see it. He came up hungry, and ate it all. And immediately he felt the
terrible effects of the poison. He stammered out: "Oh, when fate goes
wrong, everything goes wrong. Even this rice and the milk and the melted butter
and the candied sugar is poison to me." And he staggered up to the
Brahman's wife and said: "Oh, Brahman's wife, I have been poisoned by the
food you gave me. Bring a poison-doctor at once. Otherwise you will be the
murderer of a Brahman."
And the good woman
was terribly agitated. But while she was running about to find a poison-doctor,
Hariswami turned up his eyes and died. Thus, though she was not to blame,
though she was really charitable, the poor wife was reproached by the angry
Brahman who thought she had murdered her guest. She was falsely accused for a
really good action. So she was dejected and went on a pilgrimage.
When he had told this story, the Betal said: "O King, who murdered the Brahman? the snake, or the hawk, or the
woman who gave him the food, or her husband? This was discussed in the presence
of the god of death, but they could not decide. Therefore, O King, do you say.
Who killed the Brahman? Remember the curse, if you know and do not tell the
truth."
Then the king
broke silence and said: "Who did the murder? The snake cannot be blamed,
because he was being eaten by his enemy and could not help himself. The hawk
was hungry and saw nothing. He was not to blame. And how can you blame either
or both of the charitable people who gave food to a guest who arrived
unexpectedly? They were quite virtuous, and cannot be blamed. I should say that
the dead man himself was to blame, for he dared to accuse one of the
others."
When the Betal heard this, he jumped from the king's shoulder and escaped to the sissoo tree.
And the king ran after him again, determined to catch him.
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