Simhasana Dvatrimsika Page 16

“‘The old verse from the conversation between Krishna and Yudhishthira4 in praise of virtuous and charitable conduct is well known:

  Bharata, those who are about to lose

  their fortunes are hostile to astrologers,

  those their lives to physicians,

  and those who are going to lose

  both fortune and life

  are hostile to brahmins.

  “There are many similar sayings in the world. If indulgence is shown to the prince on account of his youth, it will without doubt destroy the family. That is not my wish, and so there is no question but that he must be exiled from the kingdom.”

  ‘The king was a stickler for form. Thus commanded by him, the minister stood up and said respectfully: “O protector of the people, you are expelling your only son! Master, how can you exile the sole pivot of your kingdom? The noble brahmin was tolerant and is satisfied. You too, master, should be tolerant of this single transgression.” But the king knew his duties. “In that case, O minister,” he said, “the hand with which he struck the brahmin needs to be cut off.”

  ‘As this punishment was about to be carried out, the brahmin arrived and said: “O King, your son acted as he did out of ignorance. From now on he will not commit such an impropriety. The prince should be pardoned for my sake. I am fully satisfied.” After these words, the king released his son and the brahmin went home.

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  ‘After narrating this story, the genie asked: “O King, who was the more virtuous of the two?” “It was the king,” said King Vikrama. But the silence had been broken with his words and, after hearing them, the genie went back to the śami tree.

  ‘The king then returned to the tree and again took the genie on his shoulder. As he was coming back, the genie once more recounted a story, and in this manner he narrated twenty-five tales to the king.

  ‘Finally, the genie was pleased on perceiving the king’s virtues: his subtle intelligence and expertise in the arts, his compassion, courage and magnanimity. “O King,” he said to Vikramaditya, “this naked yogi is trying to kill you.” “How?” asked the king. The genie replied: “When you take me there, he will tell you, ‘O King, you must be very tired. Now circumambulate this sacred fire, make obeisance with a prostration, and go home.’ When you bow down to make the obeisance, the naked one will slay you with a sword. Then he will perform the fire sacrifice with your flesh and make me into a brahmin. By doing this he will gain the eight magic powers5 such as lightness and the others.”

  “‘What should I do?” asked the king. The genie said: “This is what you should do. When the naked one tells you to make obeisance and go, you should say: ‘I am the sovereign. All the kings bow to me, but I have never bowed to anyone. So I do not know how to make obeisance. You must demonstrate it to me by doing it first.’ And when he bows down to do so, you should cut off his head. I will do the fire sacrifice for you, and the eight magic powers will become yours.

  ‘The king acted as the genic; had directed. The latter turned into a brahmin and himself conducted the fire sacrifice, using the yogi’s head for the final oblation. The king then obtained the eight magic powers.

  “‘I am pleased with you, O King,” said the genie, “choose a boon.” “If you are pleased,” the king responded, “then bring this naked one back to life, And you must come to me whenever I call for you.” The genie agreed, and went away to his abode after reviving the yogi. As for King Vikrama, he gave the eight magic powers to the naked ascetic, and returned to his capital.’

  After telling this tale, the statuette said to King Bhoja: ‘If you have such magnanimity, daring and other virtues, then sit on this throne, O King!’ But the king remained silent.

  32. The Image of Poverty

  Wishing once again to ascend the great throne of Indra, King Bhoja came up to the thirty-second statuette, who surpassed all men in her extraordinary shrewdness. She clapped her hands and burst into laughter, saying: ‘Great king, you have tremendous persistence in wanting to mount the throne of such a prince.’ ‘What was he like, good lady? Tell me,’ said the monarch. ‘Listen, O King,’ she replied, her teeth sparkling like brilliant camphor, ‘to a tale of high virtue of that man of accomplishment.

  ‘When Bhartrihari became an ascetic, and retired to the forest1, renouncing his kingdom which was rich with grain and treasure, King Vikramaditya took it over with the consent of all the ministers. Adorned with rare qualities, he ruled the land well, demonstrating constant righteousness and pleasing all the people, so that his fame spread throughout the world.

  ‘The son of a merchant from a neighbouring village once came to trade in Avanti. Amazed to see the conditions there, he told his father on his return: “Father, whatever merchandise comes to Avanti is all purchased swiftly by its people; that which remains is bought in its entirety by nightfall by the king to prevent any aspersion that no one buys the things which come to the city.”

  ‘The father was a sharp operator. After listening to his son, he had an image made of iron, and named it Poverty. Then he went with it to Avanti, and stood on the highway, telling whoever asked him: “This is Poverty, which I have brought here for sale. The price is one thousand dīnāras.”

  ‘The image of Poverty had no takers whatsoever. But, in accordance with the king’s orders, his officers took it in the evening after paying the price. Poverty was then placed in the treasury.

  ‘The arrival of Poverty was noticed by the king’s sevenfold Royal Fortune. That night Fortune appeared before the king in her septuple form, adorned with tinkling jewelled girdles and garlands. He got up hastily to propitiate the deity with bows and salutations, saying:

  “Hail to Fortune! With her there,

  all virtues are as good as present also;

  and with her departure,

  they too are as good as gone.

  Hail forever to Fortune2,

  the ornament of the earth,

  for engendering whom the ocean

  is called the repository of jewels.

  “Hail to Fortune, by union with whom

  Krishna became renowned in the three worlds,

  and whose offspring is Kāma,

  the delighter of people.”

  ‘After praising her thus, the king enquired of Fortune why she had come in person. “King,” she replied, “I am going away as Poverty has come into your treasury.” “Goddess! Do not go!” the king exclaimed. “All the pleasures of this world depend upon your grace!” “In no way can I stay where Poverty exists,” said Fortune. On hearing this, the king said: “Since the image of Poverty has been accepted by me, it must remain accepted. There are no two ways about it. If you must go, then go.” And Fortune went away.’

  ‘Then, within moments, there arrived Discrimination. “O King,” said he, “we cannot stay where Poverty exists. Fortune has gone. I too am going.” And though the king pressed him to stay, he also took leave and departed.’

  ‘Again, within moments, there came Courage, and said to the king: “We cannot stay where Poverty exists. That is why Fortune and Discrimination have already gone. You and I have long been intimate. But now I have come to take leave, for I too must go.”

  ‘The king was perturbed. “Alas,” he said to himself, “If Courage leaves man, then what is left? For,

  Let Fortune go, she is fickle by nature;

  let merits leave, with Discrimination

  at their head; let Life depart too,

  it is ever set to do so; but let

  no man be forsaken by Courage.

  “‘O Courage,” he then cried, “let even all the others go away, but you must not.” “O King,” Courage replied, ‘In no way can I stay when Poverty is there.” “In that case,” said the king, “here is my head! Take it too. For, what is the use of living without you!” And, drawing his sword, as he was about to cut off his head, Courage caught hold of his hand.

  ‘Then Courage remained with Vikrama, and his companions, Fortune and Discrimination, came back. Therefore, O
King, sit on this throne if you have such courage.’

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  Epilogue

  After extolling the virtues of the noble Vikramaditya in two and thirty tales, the thirty-two moonstone statuettes appeared in the illustrious Bhoja’s assembly as heavenly nymphs. Glorious to behold with tinkling earrings and other ornaments, they said: ‘Thus was King Vikramaditya, O King Bhoja. You too are not ordinary. You both are incarnations of Nara and Nārāyaṇa, the divine sages of yore. You, King Bhoja, are pure of character, proficient in all the arts, and marked by generosity and other virtues. There is no king greater than you in this present age. By your grace our sins have been redeemed, and all thirty-two of us have been released from the curse.’

  ‘How did your curse come about?’ asked Bhoja. ‘Tell me the story from the beginning,’ ‘King,’ they replied, ‘we are thirty-two celestial nymphs. Our names are1 Jayā, Vijayā, Jayantī, Aparājita, Jayaghoshā, Manjughosā, Lilāvatī, Jayavatī, Jayasenā, Madanasenā, Madanamanjarí, Śringārakalikā, Rātipriyā, Naramohinī, Bhoganidhi, Prabhāvatī, Suprabhā, Chandramukhī, Anangadhvajā, Kuranganayanā, Lāvanyavatī, Saubhāgyamanjarī, Chandrikā, Hansagamanā, Vidyutprabhā, Ānandaprabhā, Chandrakāntā, Rūpakāntā, Surapriyā, Devānandā, Padmāvatī and Padminī.

  ‘All of us are servants of the goddess Pārvatī. We were objects of her grace, and our hearts were filled with joy. Once we saw the handsome: god, her consort, sitting upon his jewelled throne, and felt the desire to sleep with him. The goddess Pārvatī noticed this, and was infuriated. “You all will become lifeless statuettes on earth,” she cursed us, “except that you will have the human skill of speech.”

  ‘We prostrated ourselves and begged that the curse be ended. The goddess has a tender and merciful heart. She said: “When Vikramaditya will have taken this throne to earth, and when he dies after ruling from it for many years, this royal seat will be buried in a place of purity. Then it will come into the possession of King Bhoja, who will take it to his capital and install it there. Attempting to mount it, he will converse with you all, and you will recount to him the deeds of Vikramaditya. That is when this curse will terminate.”

  ‘This is why we obstructed your mounting this throne. It was for our release from the curse, securing which depended on your kindness. Now, thanks to you, it has taken place. We are pleased with you, O King; choose a boon.’

  ‘What is it that I lack?’ replied King Bhoja. ‘I have everything. Even so, I will ask for something to benefit others. May the might, majesty and fame, the generosity and the steadfastness increase of all mortals who narrate or listen to the deeds of Vikramaditya. May these deeds remain forever famous on earth. And to those who fear them, may there never be any danger from ghosts, spectres and ghouls; sirens, witches and pestilence demons; ogres and suchlike; nor from snakes and other pests.’

  ‘O King Bhoja,’ said the former statuettes, ‘it will be as you have said,’ After granting this boon they returned to their abode.

  Thereafter King Bhoja installed the throne in a marvellous shrine made of gold and the nine priceless gems, and established upon it the great god Śiva. He worshipped both with the sixteen offerings, and ruled the earth, protecting the institutions of society with his dharma.

  Pārvatī was deeply contented on hearing this tale told by Parameśvara, the Supreme Lord.

  Here end the tales of the

  thirty-two statuettes.

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  Appendix

  ✵

  The Birth of Vikramaditya

  In the land of Gurjarī there is a forest between the rivers Mahilā and Sābhravatī which was ruled by the sage Tāmralipta. His daughter Yaśovatī and her husband, King Premasena, enjoyed all the pleasures of the world, and to them was born a girl, Madanarekhā, who grew up, waxing every day like the moon.

  King Premasena had two pages named Deva Śarmā and Hari Śarmā respectively. The former would go to the river every day to wash the king’s clothes. There he came to be addressed by some divine being who remained invisible, but spoke the language of men. This mysterious voice called daily from on high: ‘What ho! Let that King Premasena marry his daughter to me. Otherwise it will not be good for him and his city.’

  Deva Śarmā was wonderstruck. ‘What could this be?’ he thought. ‘I see nothing, actually.’ He reported the matter to the king, who observed: ‘You are lying.’ ‘Sire,’ responded the page, ‘I will not go today. Send someone else to that place to wash the clothes.’ The king then sent Hari Śarmā, who also heard the same voice and was filled with wonder. On his return he told the king what had happened.

  Both boys had said: ‘There is a mysterious voice there.’ The king was amazed. The next time the page went to wash the clothes, he himself followed secretly. And, hiding behind a tree, he too heard the very same voice and words.

  ‘What is this?’ the king pondered, his mind full of doubt, ‘Is it some god or is it a spirit?’ On returning home he summoned the ministers, priests and other prominent persons, and asked: ‘What shall we do? This voice at the river says: “Let King Premasena give his own daughter to me in marriage. In this way it will be well. Otherwise there will be trouble.” Who it is, we do not know.’

  ‘Master,’ said the ministers and the priests, ‘how can your daughter be given to someone unknown? Call him suitably, and ask him who he is.’ The king then went to the river again, and the same voice uttered the same words. ‘Are you a god or a demi-god, a demon or a man?’ he asked. The being then appeared and said: ‘King, I was Indra’s chamberlain in the past. I lusted after the wives of others, and could not live without them. Many a time did Indra forbid me, but I would not stop. Eventually Indra cursed me, and I became an ass in the house of a potter in Your Majesty’s city. At present I am roaming on the river bank. As such, I ask for your daughter. If you give her to me, all will be well for you. If not, there will be trouble for you and the people of the city.’

  ‘I would give you my daughter if you were a god,’ said the king. ‘But how can I do that if you are an ass?’ But the voice simply reiterated: ‘Give her to me.’

  Premasena feared for his city and, just to prevent anything untoward from happening, he decided to give his girl to the ass. But he asked once again: ‘O chief of gods, if you have divine powers then build a wall of copper around the city, and also a palace with the thirty-two features where one may live.’ The god did all this during the fourth watch of the night. Waking up in the morning, the people were astonished to see the copper rampart. It included on the highway a barrier which no one could open, so that all were perplexed.

  The king was informed, and he too came to the barricaded highway and was amazed. He called in his mind for the god, who appeared and said: ‘O King, send for the potter in whose house I live. The mere touch of his hand will lift the barrier.’ All the potters were then summoned, but they fled in every direction, thinking: ‘Perhaps the king is going to kill us on the highway.’ Thereafter the king sent only for the potter who kept the ass, but he hid inside his house and had to be pulled out forcibly by the officers who took him to the barricaded highway. At the king’s orders he opened it, to the delight of the people as well as their ruler.

  Meanwhile the girl Madanarekhā had heard that she had been betrothed to an ass by the apprehensive king in order to protect the people, his city and family. ‘Alas!’ she said to herself, ‘even if my heart bursts, what had to be has happened. This is my karma.’ The king married her to the ass amidst great festivities, and she went to the palace built by the god, where she remained lost in a trance.

  The god now shed his asinine shape and, assuming a divine form adorned with fragrant, pollen-laden blossoms of the celestial pārijata and mandāra trees, he enjoyed all the sensual delights with Madanarekhā. He did this every day: sometimes on the Meru mountain, at others on the Mānasa lake; sometimes in the cities of the demi-gods and the demons, watching dances, and listening to music with her, and indulging in all kinds of pleasures. She too
was supremely happy, and the attendants who accompanied her kept all this secret. Several years passed thus.

  Madanarekhā’s mother used to worry about her daughter living with an ass. She came to the palace one day, and saw the god shedding his donkey hide as usual and assuming a radiant form, after which he went into the inner quarter. ‘How fortunate and meritorious is my girl, to have found such a husband!’ the queen said to herself. ‘I am blessed to have given birth to such a daughter. Through her I too will earn merit.’ Reflecting further, she decided: ‘I will throw this donkey skin into the fireplace, so that he always keeps his present form.’ Thinking thus, she threw the skin into the fire.

  This was seen by Gandharvasena1, for that was the name of the god turned into an ass. He told his wife: ‘My dear, the duration of my curse is over, and the curse itself is ended. I am now going back to heaven.’ ‘What will happen to me?’ she asked. ‘I would come with you, if I was not carrying your child in my womb. Now what should I do?’

  ‘Stay here in peace,’ said the god. ‘When the child is born, name him Vikramaditya. A child of mine is also there in the womb of your servant girl. He should be named Bhartrihari.’ Having obtained release from the curse, the god then went away to heaven.

  The queen told the king about what she had learnt. He called a soothsayer and asked what would happen to his daughter. ‘She will have a son,’ he said, ‘and he will become the king.’ This created an apprehension in Premasena’s mind. ‘So, the son of my daughter will become the king,’ he thought, and he sent men to watch over the unborn child in Madanarekhā’s womb. They mounted guard, and she wondered: ‘Why have these men been posted to watch over my unborn child?’

  Madanarekhā then told a flower girl who had come to her: ‘Do something to protect and bring up my unborn child.’ The flower seller agreed and brought a knife the following morning. With it Madanarekhā cut open her own belly and delivered her child to the flower girl. But she herself perished. The florist took the baby, along with Bhartrihari, the other child, and went with them to a village near Ujjayini. There she brought them up, and Vikrama grew day by day, together with Bhartrihari. ‘A flower girl took away your daughter’s child,’ the king was informed. He had now lost both his daughter and her son; in that condition he named his city Stambhavati—the place benumbed2—and so it came to be known.