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... 

Vetala Panchavimshati - 18

The Youth who went through the Proper Ceremonies. Why did he fail to win the magic spell?

Then the king went back through the night to the cemetery filled with ghouls, terrible with funeral piles that seemed like ghosts with wagging tongues of flame. But when he came to the sissoo tree, he was surprised to see a great many bodies hanging on the tree. They were all alike, and in each was a Betal twitching its limbs.

And the king thought: "Ah, what does this mean? Why does that magic Betal keep wasting my time? For I do not know which of all these I ought to take. If I should not succeed in this night's endeavour, then I would burn myself alive rather than become a laughing-stock."

But the Betal understood the king's purpose, and was pleased with his character. So he gave up his magic arts. Then the king saw only one Betal in one body. He took him down as before, put him on his shoulder, and started once more.

And as he walked along, the Betal said: "O King, if you have no objections, I will tell you a story. Listen."

There is a city called Ujjain, whose people delight in noble happiness, and feel no longing for heaven. In that city there is real darkness at night, real intelligence in poetry, real madness in elephants, real coolness in pearls, sandal, and moonlight.

There lived a king named Chandraprabha. He had as counsellor a famous Brahman named Devaswami, rich in money, rich in piety, rich in learning. And the counsellor had a son named Chandraswami.

This son went one day to a great resort of gamblers to play. There the dice, beautiful as the eyes of gazelles, were being thrown constantly. And Calamity seemed to be looking on, thinking: "Whom shall I embrace?" And the loud shouts of angry gamblers seemed to suggest the question: "Who is there that would not be fleeced here, were he the god of wealth himself?"

This hall the youth entered, and played with dice. He staked his clothes and everything else, and the gamblers won it all. Then he wagered money he did not have, and lost that. And when they asked him to pay, he could not. So the gambling-master caught him and beat him with clubs.

When he was bruised all over by the clubs, the Brahman youth became motionless like a stone, and pretended to be dead, and waited. After he had lain thus for two or three days, the heartless gambling-master said to the gamblers: "He lies like a stone. Take him somewhere and throw him into a blind well. I will pay you the money he owes."

So the gamblers picked Chandraswami up and went far into the forest, looking for a well. Then one old gambler said to the others: "He is as good as dead. What is the use of throwing him into a well now? We will leave him here and go back and say we have left him in a well." And all the rest agreed, and left him there, and went back.

When they were gone, Chandraswami rose and entered a deserted temple to Shiva. When he had rested a little there, he thought in great anguish: "Ah, I trusted the rascally gamblers, and they cheated me. Where shall I go now, naked and dusty as I am? What would my father say if he saw me now, or any relative, or any friend? I will stay here for the present, and at night I will go out and try to find food somehow to appease my hunger."

While he reflected in weariness and nakedness, the sun grew less hot and disappeared. Then a terrible hermit named Mahavrati came there, and he had smeared his body with ashes. When he had seen Chandraswami and asked who he was and heard his story, he said, as the youth bent low before him: "Sir, you have come to my hermitage, a guest fainting with hunger. Rise, bathe, and partake of the meal I have gained by begging."

Then Chandraswami said to him: "Holy sir, I am a Brahman. How can I partake of such a meal?"

Then the hermit-magician went into his hut and out of tenderness to his guest he thought of a magic spell(Mantra) which grants all desires. And the spell(Mantra) appeared in bodily form, and said: "What shall I do?" And the hermit said: "Treat that man as an honoured guest."

Then Chandraswami was astonished to see a golden palace rise before him and a grove with women in it. They came to him from the palace and said: "Sir, rise, come, bathe, eat, and meet our mistress." So they led him in and gave him a chance to bathe and anoint himself and dress. Then they led him to another room.

There the youth saw a woman of wonderful beauty, whom the Creator must have made to see what he could do. She rose and offered him half of her seat. And he ate heavenly food and various fruits and chewed betel leaves and sat happily with her on the couch.

In the morning he awoke and saw the temple to Shiva, but the heavenly creature was gone, and the palace, and the women in it. So he went out in distress, and the hermit in his hut smiled and asked him how he had spent the night. And he said: "Holy sir, through your kindness I spent a happy night, but I shall die without that heavenly creature."

Then the hermit laughed and said: "Stay here. You shall have the same happiness again to-night." So Chandraswami enjoyed those delights every night through the favour of the hermit.

Finally Chandraswami came to see what a mighty spell(Mantra) that was. So, driven on by his fate, he respectfully begged the hermit: "Holy sir, if you really feel pity for a poor suppliant like me, teach me that spell which has such power."

And when he insisted, the hermit said: "You could never win the spell. One has to stand in the water to win it. And it weaves a net of magic to bewilder the man who is repeating the words, so that he cannot win it. For as he mumbles it, he seems to lead another life, first a baby, then a boy, then a youth, then a husband, then a father. And he falsely imagines that such and such people are his friends, such and such his enemies. He forgets his real life and his desire to win the spell. But if a man mumbles it constantly for twenty-four years, and remembers his own life, and is not deceived by the network of magic, and then at the end burns himself alive, he comes out of the water, and has real magic power. It comes only to a good pupil, and if a teacher tries to teach it to a bad pupil, the teacher loses it too. Now you have the real benefit through my magic power. Why insist on more? If I lost my powers, then your happiness would go too."

But Chandraswami said: "I can do anything. Do not fear, holy sir." And the hermit promised to teach him the spell. What will holy men not do out of regard to those who seek aid?

So the hermit went to the river bank, and said: "My son, mumble the words of the spell. And while you are leading an imaginary life, you will at last be awakened by my magic. Then plunge into the magic fire which you will see. I will stand here on the bank while you mumble it."

So he purified himself and purified Chandraswami and made him sip holy water, and then he taught him the magic spell. And Chandraswami bowed to his teacher on the bank, and plunged into the river.

And as he mumbled the words of the spell in the water, he was bewildered by its magic. He forgot all about his past life, and went through another life. He was born in another city as the son of a Brahman. Then he grew up, was consecrated, and went to school. Then he took a wife, and after many experiences half pleasant, half painful, he found himself the father of a family. Then he lived for some years with his parents and his relatives, devoted to wife and children, and interested in many things.

While he was experiencing all these labours of another life, the hermit took pity on him and repeated magic words(mantras) to enlighten him. And Chandraswami was enlightened in the midst of his new life. He remembered himself and his teacher, and saw that the other life was a network of magic. So he prepared to enter the fire in order to win magic power.

But older people and reliable people and his parents and his relatives tried to prevent him. In spite of them he hankered after heavenly pleasures, and went to the bank of a river where a funeral pile had been made ready. And his relatives went with him. But when he got there he saw that his old parents and his wife and his little children were weeping.

And he was perplexed, and thought: "Alas! If I enter the fire, all these my own people will die. And I do not know whether my teacher's promise will come true or not. Shall I go into the fire, or go home? No, no. How could a teacher with such powers promise falsely? Indeed, I must enter the fire." And he did.

And he was astonished the feel the fire as cool as snow, and lost his fear of it. Then he came out of the water of the river, and found himself on the bank. He saw his teacher standing there, and fell at his feet, and told him the whole story, ending with the blazing funeral pile.

Then his teacher said: "My son, I think you must have made some mistake. Otherwise, why did the fire seem cool to you? That never happens in the winning of this magic spell."

And Chandraswami said: "Holy sir, I do not remember making any mistake." Then his teacher was eager to know about it, so he tried to remember the spell himself. But it would not come to him or to his pupil. So they went away sad, having lost their magic.

When the Betal had told this story, he asked the king: "O King, explain the matter to me. Why did they lose their magic, when everything had been done according to precept?"

Then the king said: "O magic creature, I see that you are only trying to waste my time. Still, I will tell you. Magic powers do not come to a man because he does things that are hard, but because he does things with a pure heart. The Brahman youth was defective at that point. He hesitated even when his mind was enlightened. Therefore he failed to win the magic. And the teacher lost his magic because he taught it to an unworthy pupil."

Then the Betal went back to his home. And the king ran to find him, never hesitating.

To be continued...

Vetala Panchavimshati - 17

The King who died for Love of his General's Wife; the General follows him in Death. Which is the more worthy?

Then the king went back under the sissoo tree, put the Betal on his shoulder as before, and started. And the Betal said to him: "O King, I will tell you another little story to relieve your weariness. Listen."

Long ago there was a city named Kanakapuram on the bank of the Ganges, where a quarter of the old perfect virtue still lingers in these evil days. There was a king named Yashodhana, and he deserved the name. His bravery kept the world from being overflowed, like the shore of the sea.

In this king's city lived a great merchant, who had a daughter named Unmaadini. Everyone who saw her fell in love and went mad with passion.

When she grew to be a young woman, the virtuous merchant went to King Yashodhana and said: "Your Majesty, I have a daughter, the gem of the three worlds, and

she is old enough to marry. I could not give her to anyone without consulting your Majesty. For you are the master of all gems in the world. Pray marry her and thus lay me under obligations."

So the king sent his own Brahmans to examine her qualities. But when the Brahmans saw her supreme loveliness, they were troubled and thought: "If the king should marry her, his kingdom would be ruined. He would think only of her, and would doubtless neglect his kingdom. Therefore we must not report her good qualities to the king."

So they returned to the king and said: "Your Majesty, she has bad qualities." So the king did not marry the merchant's daughter. But he bade the merchant give his daughter to a general named Baladhara. And she lived happily with her husband in his house.

After a time the lion of spring came dancing through the forest and slew the elephant of winter. And King Yashodhana went forth on the back of an elephant to see the spring festival. And the drum was beaten to warn virtuous women to stay within doors. Otherwise they would have fallen in love with his beauty, and love-sickness might be expected.

But when Unmaadini heard the drum, she did not like to be left alone. She went out on the balcony, that the king might see her. She seemed like the flame of love which the spring-time was fanning with southern breezes. And the king saw her, and his whole being was shaken. He felt her beauty sinking deep in his heart like a victorious arrow of Love, and he fainted.

His servants brought him back to consciousness, and he returned to the city. There he made inquiries and learned that this was Unmaadini whom he had rejected before. So he banished from the country the Brahmans who had said that she had bad qualities, and he thought longingly of her every day.

And as he thought of her, he burned over the flame of love, and wasted away day and night. And though from shame he tried to conceal it, he finally told the reason of his anguish to responsible people who asked him.

They said: "Do not suffer. Why do you not seize her?" But the virtuous king would not do it.

Then General Baladhara heard the story. He came and bowed at the feet of the king and said: "Your Majesty, she is the wife of your slave, therefore she is your slave. I give her to you of my own accord. Pray take my wife. Or better yet, I will leave her here in the palace. Then you cannot be blamed if you marry her." And the general begged and insisted.

But the king became angry and said: "I am a king. How can I do such a wicked thing? If I should transgress, who would be virtuous? You are devoted to me. Why do you urge me to a sin which is pleasant for the moment, but causes great sorrow in the next world? If you abandon your wedded wife, I shall not pardon you. How could a man in my position overlook such a transgression? It is better to die." Thus the king argued against it. For the truly great throw away life rather than virtue. And when all the citizens came together and urged him, he was steadfast and refused.

So he slowly shrivelled away over the fever-flame of love and died. There was nothing left of King Yashodhana except his glory. And the general could not endure the death of his king. He burned himself alive. The actions of devoted men are blameless.

When the Betal on the king's shoulder had told this story, he asked the king: "O King, which of these two, the king and the general, was the more deserving? Remember the curse before you answer."

The king said: "I think the king was the more deserving."

And the Betal said reproachfully: "O King, why was not the general better? He offered the king a wife like that, whose charms he knew from a long married life. And when his king died, he burned himself like a faithful man. But the king gave her up without really knowing her attractions."

Then the king laughed and said: "True enough, but not surprising. The general was a gentleman born, and acted as he did from devotion to his superior. For servants must protect their masters even at the cost of their own lives. But kings are like mad elephants who cannot be goaded into obedience, who break the binding-chain of virtue. They are insolent, and their judgment trickles from them with the holy water of consecration. Their eyes are blinded by the hurricane of power, and they do not see the road. From the most ancient times, even the kings who conquered the world have been maddened by love and have fallen into misfortune. But this king, though he ruled the whole world, though he was maddened by the girl Unmaadini, preferred to die rather than set his foot

on the path of iniquity. He was a hero. He was the better of the two."

Then the Betal escaped by magic from the king's shoulder and went back. And the king pursued him, undiscouraged. No great man stops in the middle of the hardest undertaking.

To be continued...

Vetala Panchavimshati - 16

The Fairy Prince JeemutaVahana and the Serpent ShankaChuda. Which is the more self-sacrificing?

So the king went back as before under the sissoo tree, put the Betal on his shoulder, and started toward the monk. And as he walked along, the Betal said: "O king, listen to a story the like of which was never heard."

There is a mountain called Himalaya where all gems are found. It is the king of mountains. Its proud loftiness is everywhere the theme of song. The sun himself has not seen its top.

On its summit is a city called Kanchanapuram, brilliant like a heap of sunbeams left in trust by the sun. There lived a glorious fairy-king named JeemutaKetu. In the garden of his palace was a wishing-tree which had come down to him from his ancestors.

King JeemutaKetu had worshipped the tree which was really a god, and by its grace had obtained a son named JeemutaVahana. This son remembered his former lives. He was destined to be a Buddha in a future life. He was generous, noble, merciful to all creatures, and obedient to his parents.

When he grew up, the king anointed him crown prince, persuaded thereto by his counsellors as well as by the remarkable virtues of the youth. While JeemutaVahana was crown prince, his father's counsellors came to him one day and kindly said: "Crown prince, you must always honour this wishing-tree in your garden; for it yields all desires, and cannot be taken away by anybody. As long as it is favourably disposed to us, the king of the gods could not conquer us, and of course nobody else could."

Then JeemutaVahana thought: "Alas! The men of old had this heavenly tree, yet they did not pluck from it any worthy fruit. They were mean-spirited. They simply begged it for some kind of wealth. And so they degraded themselves and the great tree too. But I will get from it the wish which is in my heart."

With this thought the noble creature went to his father. He showed such complete deference as to delight his father, then when his father was comfortably seated, he whispered: "Father, you know yourself that in this sea of life all possessions, including our own bodies, are uncertain as a rippling wave. Especially is money fleeting, uncertain, fickle as the twilight lightning. The only thing in life which does not perish is service. This gives birth to virtue and glory, twin witnesses through all the ages to come. Father! Why do we keep such a wishing-tree for the sake of transient blessings? Our ancestors clung to it, saying: It is mine, it is mine.' And where are they now? What is it to them, or they to it? Then, if you bid me, I will beg this generous wishing-tree for the one fruit that counts, the fruit of service to others."

His father graciously assented, and JeemutaVahana went to the wishing-tree, and said: "O god, you have fulfilled the wishes of our fathers. Fulfil now my one single wish. Remove poverty from the world. A blessing be with you. Go. I give you to the needy world." And as JeemutaVahana bowed reverently, there came a voice from the tree: "I go, since you give me up." And the wishing-tree immediately flew from heaven and rained so much money on the earth that nobody was poor. And JeemutaVahana’s reputation for universal benevolence was spread about.

But all the relatives were jealous and envious. They thought that they could easily conquer JeemutaVahana and his father without the wishing-tree, and they prepared to fight to take away his kingdom. But JeemutaVahana said to his father: "Father, how can you take your weapons and fight? What high-minded man would want a kingdom after killing his relatives just for the sake of this wretched, perishable body? Let us abandon the kingdom, and go away somewhere to devote ourselves entirely to virtue. Then we shall be blessed in both worlds. And let these wretched relatives enjoy the kingdom which they hanker after."

And Jeemutaketu said: "My son, I only want the kingdom for you, and if you give it up from benevolent motives, what good is it to me? I am an old man."

So JeemutaVahana left the kingdom and went with his father and mother to the Malabar hills. There he built a hermit's retreat, and waited on his parents.

One day, as he wandered about, he met Mitravasu, the son of Vishwavasu, who lived there as king of the Siddhas. And JeemutaVahana spoke to him and made friends with him.

Then one day JeemutaVahana saw a shrine to the goddess Gauri in the grove, and entered there. And he saw a slender, lovely maiden surrounded by her girl friends and playing on a lute, in honour of Gauri. The deer listened to her music and her song, motionless as if ashamed because her eyes were lovelier than their own. When JeemutaVahana saw the slender maiden, his heart was ravished.

And he seemed to her to make the garden beautiful like the spring-time. A strange longing came over her. She became so helpless that her friends were alarmed.

Then JeemutaVahana asked one of her friends: "My good girl, what is your friend's sweet name? What family does she adorn?"

And the friend said: "This is Malayavati, sister of Mitravasu, and daughter of the king of the Siddhas." Then she earnestly asked for the name and family of JeemutaVahana from a hermit's son who had come with him. And then she spoke to Malayavati with words punctuated by smiles: "My dear, why do you not show hospitality to the fairy prince? He is a guest whom all the world would be glad to honour."

But the bashful princess remained silent with downcast eyes. Then the friend said: "She is bashful. Accept a hospitable greeting from me." And she gave him a garland.

JeemutaVahana, far gone in love, took the garland and put it around Malayavati’s neck. And the loving, sidelong glance which she gave him seemed like another garland of blue lotuses. So they pledged themselves without speaking a word.

Then a serving-maid came and said to the princess: "Princess, your mother remembers you. Come at once." And she went slowly, after drawing from her lover's face a passionate glance, for which Love's arrow had wedged a path. And JeemutaVahana went to the hermitage, thinking of her; while she, sick with the separation from the lord of her life, saw her mother, then tottered to her bed and fell upon it. Her eyes were blinded as if by smoke from the fire of love within her, her limbs tossed in fever, she shed tears. And though her friends anointed her with sandal and fanned her with lotus-leaves, she found no rest on her bed or in the lap of a friend or on the ground.

Then when the day fled away with the passionate red twilight, and the moon drew near to kiss the face of the laughing East, she despaired of life, and her modesty would not let her send a message in spite of all her love. But somehow she lived through the night. And JeemutaVahana too was in anguish at the separation. Even in his bed he was fallen into the hand of Love. Though his passion was so recent, he had already grown pale. Though shame kept him silent, his looks told of the pangs of love. And so he passed the night.

In the morning he arose and went to the shrine of Gauri. And his friend, the hermit's son, followed him and tried to comfort him. At that moment the lovelorn Malayavati came out of her house alone, for she could not endure the separation, and crept to that lonely spot to end her life there.

She did not see her lover behind a tree, and with eyes brimming with tears she prayed to the goddess Gauri: "O goddess, since I could not in this life have JeemutaVahana as my husband, grant that in another life at last he may be my husband."

Then she tied her garment to the limb of an ashoka tree before the goddess and cried: "Alas, my lord! Alas, JeemutaVahana! They say your benevolence is universal. Why did you not save me?"

But as she fastened the garment about her neck, a voice from the sky was heard in the air: "My daughter, do nothing rash. JeemutaVahana the future king of the fairies, shall be your husband."

And JeemutaVahana heard the heavenly voice, and with his friend approached his rejoicing sweetheart. The friend said to the girl: "Here is the gift which the goddess grants you." And JeemutaVahana spoke more than one tender word and loosed the garment from her neck with his own hand.

Then a girl friend who had been gathering flowers there and had seen what was happening, came up joyfully and said, while Malayavati’s modest eyes seemed to be tracing a figure on the ground: "My dear, I congratulate you. Your wish is granted. This very day Prince Mitravasu said in my presence to King Vishwavasu, your father: Father, the fairy prince, who deserves honour from all the world, who gave away the wishing-tree, is here, and we should treat him as an honoured guest. We could not find another bridegroom like him. So let us welcome him with the gift of Malayavati who is a pearl of a girl.' And the king agreed, and your brother Mitravasu has this moment gone to the hermitage of the noble prince. I think your marriage will soon take place. So go to your chamber, and let the noble prince go to his hermitage."

So she went slowly and happily and lovingly. And JeemutaVahana hastened to the hermitage. There he greeted Mitravasu and heard his message, and told him about his own birth and former life. Then Mitravasu was delighted and told JeemutaVahana’s parents who were also delighted. Then he went home and made his own parents happy with the news.

That very day he invited JeemutaVahana to his home. And they made a great feast as was proper, and married the fairy prince and Malayavati on the spot. Then JeemutaVahana was completely happy and spent some time there with his bride Malayavati.

One day he took a walk for pleasure about the hills with Mitravasu and came to the seashore. There he saw great heaps of bones, and he asked Mitravasu: "What creatures did these heaps of bones belong to?" His brother-in-law Mitravasu said to the merciful prince: "Listen, my friend. I will tell you the story briefly."

Long ago Kadru, the mother of the serpents, made a wager with her rival Vinata, the mother of the great bird Garuda. She won the wager and enslaved her rival. Now Garuda's anger continued even after he had freed his mother from slavery. He kept going into the underworld where Kadru's offspring, the serpents, live, to eat them. Some he killed, others he crushed.

Then Vasuki, king of the serpents, feared that in time all would be lost if the serpents were all to be slain thus. So he made an agreement with Garuda. He said: "O king of birds, I will send one serpent every day to the shore of the southern sea for you to eat. But you are never to enter the underworld again. What advantage would it be to you if all the serpents were slain at once?" And Garuda agreed, with an eye to his own advantage.

Since that time Garuda every day eats the snake sent by Vasuki here on the seashore. And these heaps of bones from the serpents that have been eaten, have in time formed a regular mountain.

When JeemutaVahana heard this story from the lips of Mitravasu, he was deeply grieved and said: "My friend, wretched indeed is that king Vasuki who deliberately sacrifices his own subjects to their enemy. He is a coward. He has a thousand heads, yet could not find a single mouth to say: O Garuda, eat me first.' How could he be so mean as to beg Garuda to destroy his own race? Or how can Garuda, the heavenly bird, do such a crime? Oh, insolent madness!"

So the noble JeemutaVahana made up his mind that he would use his poor body that day to save the life of one serpent at least. At that moment a door-keeper, sent by Mitravasu’s father, came to summon them home. And JeemutaVahana said: "Do you go first. I will follow." So he dismissed Mitravasu, and remained there himself.

As he walked about waiting for the thing he hoped for, he heard a pitiful sound of weeping at a distance. He went a little way and saw near a lofty rock a sorrowful, handsome youth. He was at that moment abandoned by a creature that seemed to be a policeman, and was gently persuading his old, weeping mother to return. And JeemutaVahana wished to know who it might be. So he hid himself and listened, his heart melting with pity.

The old mother was bowed down by anguish, and started to lament over the youth. "Oh, ShankaChuda! Oh, my virtuous son, whom I fondled, not counting the labour and the pain! Oh, my son, my only son! Where shall I see you again? Oh, my darling! When your bright face is gone, your old father will fall into black despair. How can he live then? Your tender form is hurt by the rays of the sun. How can it bear the pangs of being eaten by Garuda? Oh, my unhappy fate! Why did the Creator and the serpent-king choose my only son from the broad serpent-world, and seize upon him?"

And as she lamented, the youth, her son, said: "Mother, I am unhappy enough. Why torture me yet more? Return home. For the last time I bow before you. It is time for Garuda to come."

And the mother cried: "Alas, alas for me! Who will save my son?" And she gazed about wildly and wept aloud.

All this JeemutaVahana, the future Buddha, saw and heard. And with deep pity he thought: "Alas! This is a serpent named ShankaChuda, sent here by Vasuki for Garuda to eat. And this is his mother, following him out of her great love. He is her only son, and she is mourning in pain and bitter anguish. I should forever curse my useless life if I did not save one in such agony at the cost of a body which must perish anyway some day."

So JeemutaVahana joyfully approached and said to the old mother: "Serpent-mother, I will save your son. Do not weep."

But the old mother thought that this was Garuda, and she screamed: "O Garuda, eat me! Eat me!"

Then ShankaChuda said: "Mother, this is not Garuda. Do not be alarmed. What a difference between one who soothes our feelings like the moon, and the fearful Garuda."

And JeemutaVahana said: "Mother, I am a fairy, come to save your son. I will put on his garment and offer my own body to the hungry bird. Do you take your son and go home."
But the old mother said: "No, no. You are more than a son to me. To think that such as you should feel pity for such as we!"

And JeemutaVahana answered: "Mother, I beg you not to disappoint me." But when he insisted, ShankaChuda said: "Noble being, you have certainly shown compassion, but I do not wish to save my body at the expense of yours. Who would save a common stone at the cost of a pearl? The world is full of creatures like me, who are merciful only to themselves. But creatures like you, who are merciful to all the world, are very rare. Oh, pious being, I could not stain the pure family of Shell-guard, as the dark spot stains the disk on the moon."

Then ShankaChuda said to his mother: "Mother, return from this desolate place. Do you not see the rock of sacrifice wet with the blood of serpents, the terrible plaything of Death? I will go for a moment to the shore and worship the god Shiva there. And I will return quickly before Garuda comes."

So ShankaChuda took leave of his mother and went to worship Shiva. And JeemutaVahana thought: "If Garuda should come in this interval, I should be happy."

Then he saw the trees stiffening themselves against the wind made by the sweeping wings of the king of birds. "Garuda is coming," he thought, and climbed the rock of sacrifice, eager to give his life for another.

And Garuda straightway pounced upon the noble creature and lifted him from the rock in his beak. While JeemutaVahana's blood flowed in streams and the gem fell from his forehead, Garuda carried him off and began to eat him on the summit of the Malabar hills. And while he was being eaten, JeemutaVahana thought: "In every future life of mine may my body do some good to somebody. I would not attain heaven and salvation without doing some good first." Then a shower of flowers fell from heaven on the fairy prince.

At that moment the blood-stained gem from his forehead fell in front of his wife Malayavati. She was in anguish at the sight, and as her parents-in-law were near, she tearfully showed it to them. And they were alarmed at the sight of their son's gem and wondered what it meant. Then King JeemutaKetu discovered the truth by his magic arts, and he and his queen started to run with JeemutaVahana's wife Malayavati.

At that moment ShankaChuda returned from his worship of Shiva. He saw the rock stained with blood, and cried: "Alas for me, poor sinner! Surely that noble, merciful creature has given his body to Garuda in place of mine. I must find him. Where has the great being been carried by my enemy? If I find him alive, then I shall not sink into the slough of infamy." So he followed weeping the broad trail of blood.

Now Garuda noticed that JeemutaVahana was happy while being eaten, and he thought: "This must be some strange, great being, for he is happy while I am eating him. He does not die, and what remains of him is thrilled with delight. And he turns a gracious, benevolent look upon me. Surely, he is no serpent, but some great spirit. I will stop eating him and ask him."

But while he reflected, JeemutaVahana said: "O king of birds, why do you stop? There is still some flesh and blood on me, and I see that you are not satisfied. Pray continue to eat."

When the king of birds heard these remarkable words, he said: "You are no serpent. Tell me who you are."

But JeemutaVahana continued to urge him: "Certainly I am a serpent. What does the question mean? Continue your meal. What fool would begin a thing and then stop?"

At that moment ShankaChuda shouted from afar: "O Garuda, do not commit a great and reckless crime. What madness is this? He is not a serpent. I am the serpent."

And he ran between them and spoke again to the agitated bird: "O Garuda, what madness is this? Do you not see that I have the hood and the forked tongue? Do you not see how gentle his appearance is?"

While he was speaking, JeemutaVahana's wife Malayavati and his parents hurried up. And when his parents saw how he was lacerated, they wept aloud and lamented: "Alas, my son! Alas, JeemutaVahana! Alas for my merciful darling, who gave his life for others!"

But when they cried: "Alas, Garuda! How could you do this thoughtless thing?" then Garuda was filled with remorse and thought: "Alas! How could I be mad enough to eat a future Buddha? This must be JeemutaVahana, who gives his life for others, whose fame is trumpeted abroad through all the world. If he is dead, I am a sinner, and ought to burn myself alive. Why does the fruit of the poison-tree of sin taste sweet?"

While Garuda was thus deep in anxious thought, JeemutaVahana saw his relatives gathered, fell down, and died from the pain of his wounds. Then, while his grief-stricken parents were loudly lamenting, while ShankaChuda was accusing himself, Malayavati looked up to heaven and, in a voice stammering with tears, reproached the goddess Gauri who had graciously given her this husband: "Oh, Mother! You told me that the fairy prince should be my husband, but it is my fate that you spoke falsely."

Then Gauri appeared in a visible form, and said: "Daughter, my words are not false." And she sprinkled JeemutaVahana with nectar from a jar. And straightway he stood up alive, unhurt and more beautiful than before.

As they all bent low in worship, and JeemutaVahana rose only to bend again, the goddess said: "My son, I am pleased with your gift of your own body. With my own hand I anoint you king of the fairies." And she anointed JeemutaVahana with liquor from the jar, and then disappeared, followed by the worship of the company. And showers of heavenly blossoms fell from the sky, and the drums of the gods were joyfully beaten in heaven.

Then Garuda reverently said to JeemutaVahana: "O King, I am pleased with your more than human character. For you have done a strange thing of unparalleled nobility, to be marvelled at throughout the universe, to be written upon the walls of heaven. Therefore I am at your service. Choose from me what boon you will."

The noble creature said to Garuda: "O Garuda, you must repent and eat no more serpents. And you must restore to life those that you ate before, who now are nothing but bones."

And Garuda said: "So be it. I will eat no serpents hereafter. And those that I have eaten shall come to life."

Then all the serpents who had been eaten down to the bones, suddenly stood up. And through the grace of Gauri all the leading fairies learned immediately the wonderful deed of JeemutaVahana. So they all came and bowed at his feet and took him, freshly anointed by the very hand of Gauri, with his rejoicing relatives and friends to the Himalaya mountain. There JeemutaVahana lived happily with his father and his mother and his wife Malayavati and Mitravasu and the generous ShankaChuda. And he ruled the fairy world radiant with gems.

When the Betal had told this long, strange story, he said to the king: "O King, tell me. Which was the more self-sacrificing, JeemutaVahana or ShankaChuda? If you know and do not tell, then the curse I mentioned before will be fulfilled."

And the king said: "There was nothing remarkable in what JeemutaVahana did. He was prepared for it by the experiences of many past lives. But ShankaChuda deserves praise. He was saved from death. His enemy had another victim, and was far away. Yet he ran after and offered his body to Garuda."

When the Betal heard this, he went back to the sissoo tree. And the king returned to catch him again.

To be continued...