Simhasana Dvatrimsika Read online

  On the brahmin’s pleas, the king once more returned to the field with his retinue. The brahmin too came down from the platform to chase the birds, and once again protested as before. ‘How strange!’ the king said to himself. ‘When this brahmin mounts the platform, his mind is filled with generous thoughts. When he comes down he becomes mean-minded. Let me climb up and see for myself what this is.’

  When King Bhoja ascended the platform, there arose within him an urge to free the whole world from its sufferings, to remove all people’s poverty, to punish the wicked, promote the good and protect the populace in accordance with the law. He felt at that time prepared to sacrifice even his own life if it were needed. He was filled with a deep joy. ‘What a wonderful field this is,’ he reflected. ‘It stimulates such thoughts by itself. It is said:

  Some things have an innate tendency

  to spread out by themselves:

  like oil dropped on water;

  a secret confided to a scoundrel;

  a gift, however small, given

  to the deserving; and learning

  imparted to the intelligent.

  ‘How can I ascertain the power of this field?’ thought the king. He summoned the brahmin and asked: ‘Brahmin, how much would you like for this field?’

  ‘Master!’ said the brahmin, ‘you are skilled in everything. There is nothing you do not know. Do whatever is proper. The king is a veritable incarnation of the god Vishnu. On whomsoever his gaze descends, that person’s miseries and afflictions are destroyed. The king is indeed a wish-fulfilling tree. Now that I have seen you, my misery and poverty are today at an end. As for this field, what does it matter?’

  The king satisfied the brahmin with payments in cash and kind, and took possession of the field. He then ordered an excavation to be commenced beneath the platform. After a pit had been dug to the depth of a man’s height, there came into view a beautiful single slab of stone. Under it there was a magnificent throne made of precious moonstones and studded with all kinds of gems. To it were joined thirty-two statuettes, each holding in its hands a jewelled lamp, as if for a ceremonial benediction. The extent of this great throne was thirty-two hands, and it was as high as an archer’s bow.

  Waves of bliss swept over Ring Bhoja’s heart when he saw the throne. But when he tried to have it moved in order to take it to the city, it became heavier each time the porters attempted to lift it, and could not be budged at all.

  ‘Why cannot this throne be moved?’ the king asked his minister. ‘Sire,’ the latter replied, ‘we do not know whose it is. But this throne is certainly unique and divine. It cannot be moved, nor can you gain it, without a fire sacrifice and other religious rituals.’ The king then sent for the priests and had them perform all the ceremonies. After that the throne became light and movable by itself.

  ‘At first I could not gain this throne,’ the king told the minister. ‘Thanks to your wisdom it has now come into my hands. This demonstrates how association with the wise can be a source of both pleasure and profit.’

  ‘Listen, Your Majesty,’ the minister replied, ‘one who is himself wise, but does not pay heed to the wisdom of others, will always end in disaster. But you are not like that. You are wise, but still listen to good advice. That is why nothing can come in the way of all that you do.’

  ‘The real minister is one who prevents harmful and accomplishes desirable ends,’ observed the king. ‘As it has been said,

  One whose counsel will resuscitate works

  which are stalled, consolidate those

  which are imminent, and eliminate

  those which can cause harm: such a person

  is indeed the best of ministers.’

  ‘It is the duty of the minister to act for the benefit of his master, Your Majesty,’ the minister responded. ‘As it has been said,

  The real ministers of kings are they

  whose advice accords with the work required,

  and whose work accords with the master’s benefit,

  not those who just blow their trumpets.

  ‘Moreover, one should know that a state without a minister is useless—like a fort without provisions, good fortune without youth, renunciation without wisdom, peace with the wicked, good sense with hypocrites, love with harlots, friendship with scoundrels, the slave’s independence, the poor man’s rage, the servant’s anger, the employer’s cordiality, the beggar’s home, the strumpet’s devotion, honour among thieves and progress among fools.

  ‘A king should honour the great, heed the wise, cherish gods and priests, and follow the path of justice. All these kingly virtues obtain in Your Majesty. You are best of kings. As for a minister, he too should have certain qualities, such as—a family tradition of holding office; familiarity with Kāmandaki,1 Chāṇakya, the Panchatantra and other works on policy; and industry in the pursuit of his master’s business. He should fear to sin, protect the populace and control the courtiers. Conformity with the king’s inclinations; knowledge of what is proper for each occasion; and prevention of losses to the state are other ministerial virtues. A minister endowed with such attributes is worthy of holding office, just like the minister Bahuśruta, who saved king Nanda from committing the sin of a brahmin’s murder.’

  ‘How did that happen?’ King Bhoja asked. ‘Listen to the story,’ said the minister.

  ✵

  VIII. The Minister’s Tale

  In the city of Viśālā there once reigned a king named Nanda. A mighty warrior, he had reduced all his rival kings to vassalage by the force of arms, and ruled the land as its sole sovereign lord. His son Jayapāla was versed in the thirty-six weapons of war, and Bahuśruta was the name of his minister.

  The king’s great love was his wife Bhānumati. He was in fact infatuated with her, and spent all his time in her company. Smitten by her beauty, he gave no thought to state affairs. She would sit by his side even when he came to the assembly. Once the minister said to him: ‘Sire,

  The king whose physician, preceptor, and minister

  speak only sweet words will before long

  lose his health, his morals, and his wealth.

  ‘Therefore even the unpalatable needs to be said. Your Majesty, it is not proper for the queen to come to the assembly. Jurists and lawgivers have said that the royal consort should not be exposed, even to the sun. But all kinds of people can come here and look at her.’

  ‘What you say is right, minister,’ the king replied. ‘But what can I do? I cannot stay without her, even for a moment.’

  ‘Do this, then,’ said the minister. ‘Do what?’ the king interjected. ‘Explain it.’

  ‘Call a portrait painter,’ said the minister, ‘and have him make the likeness of Bhānumati on canvas. This can be hung on the wall before you so that you may look at her all the time.’

  The king was impressed by this advice. He summoned an artist and told him to paint the portrait of Bhānumati. ‘Sire,’ said the artist, ‘I must see her beauty with my own eyes before I can depict it limb for limb.’ Bhānumati was then adorned and ornamented and displayed to the artist. He observed that she was a padmini, a lotus woman, and portrayed her with the features of this category. The attributes of the lotus woman are:1

  She is delicate like the lotus bud;

  her sexual fluid has the aroma

  of a full blown lotus;

  and a divine fragrance pervades

  her limbs. Her eyes are

  like that of a startled doe,

  and tinged with red at the corners.

  Her faultless pair of breasts

  surpass the beauty of the bilva fruit.

  Her nose is like the sesame blossom.

  Her faith and devotion in the gods,

  the elders and the brahmins

  is constant. Fair as the champa flower,

  she has the glow of a lily petal,

  and her whole form, like the sheath

  of a blooming lotus, covers

  an inner incandescence.
/>   The lotus woman is slender, and moves

  gently and gracefully like the royal swan.

  Her waist is adorned with a triple fold,

  and her voice is sweet and swan-like.

  She dresses neatly, and eats

  gracefully, cleanly and daintily.

  She is proud and very bashful,

  and looks lovely in garments bright as flowers.

  The painter depicted the queen accordingly, and submitted the portrait to the king. The latter was delighted to see his beloved thus portrayed, and rewarded the artist appropriately. Thereafter the portrait of Bhānumati was seen by Śāradā Nandana, the king’s spiritual preceptor. ‘You have delineated all the queen’s features,’ he told the painter, ‘but you have overlooked one.’

  ‘Tell me, master,’ the painter asked, ‘what have I overlooked?’ Śāradā Nandana said: ‘On her left hip there is a mole like a sesame seed, which you have not portrayed.’

  The king overheard what Śāradā Nandana had said. To ascertain the reality, when he looked at Bhanumati’s left hip while they were making love, he observed that it indeed bore a mole like a sesame seed. ‘How could Śāradā Nandana have seen this mole which is on a secret part of her body?’ he wondered. ‘He has definitely had an affair with her. Otherwise how could he know this? Besides, with women such a situation is not to be doubted. Thus,

  They jest with one, make eyes

  at another, and think of someone else.

  For women one man is never enough.

  Fire is never sated with fuelwood,

  the sea with the flow of rivers,

  and death with living creatures;

  nor are bright-eyed women ever sated with men.

  There is no privacy, no opportunity, and no

  man around as a. suitor—thus alone, Nārada,

  is the chastity of women assured.

  The fool who is deluded enough

  to think that a lovely woman is devoted

  to him, merely passes into

  her control to dance like a pet parrot.

  One who acts according to women’s words

  or fancies, frivolous or even serious,

  is bound to be looked down on in the world.

  The man in love is squeezed by women

  and trodden under foot like the seeds

  of red lac, used for tinting the skin.’

  Blinded by rage born of consternation, the king decided that the innocent Śāradā Nandana was guilty. Without further thought, he ordered Bahuśruta to put the brahmin to death. ‘Great men of course are able to know everything,’ the famous minister replied with all politeness, ‘but one should not take decisions about believing this or that without thought. It is better to use one’s discrimination and judgement.’ The king’s lip trembled at this response. ‘If you wish me well,’ he told the minister, ‘just kill this villain.’

  Commanded by the king, Bahuśruta had the brahmin Śāradā Nandana seized from his dwelling and publicly handcuffed. ‘But what is his crime?’ the minister worried. ‘It will only harm the king’s reputation if the preceptor is executed without reason. Who knows if his conduct was right or wrong, and how can anyone know? And why should the king be troubled for no cause? For the time being, therefore, I will continue to investigate this. In due course it will become clear if he is guilty or not.’

  With these considerations in mind, Bahuśruta placed Śāradā Nandana in a dungeon and kept him concealed there. ‘My lord,’ he reported to the king, ‘in accordance with your command, Your Majesty’s instructions were carried out immediately.’ As for King Nanda, he said nothing, and continued to repel his enemies and protect the kingdom.

  ✵

  IX. The Minister’s Tale continued

  After these events the king’s son went out one day to hunt in the forest. There were bad portents at the time of his departure. Thus,

  Rain out of season, then an earthquake;

  similarly, a whirlwind and a shooting star:

  such evil omens then occurred, and a friend

  spoke out to avert the outcome.

  It was the minister’s son, Buddhisāgara, who spoke out on this occasion: ‘Jayapāla, there is an extremely bad omen. Do not go out to hunt today.’ But Jayapāla replied: ‘Well, today we must test the validity of this bad omen.’ ‘Prince,’ said his friend, ‘wise people do not look for validity in omens of evil. It is said,

  The wise man does not eat poison,

  or play with snakes. Nor does he

  disparage yogis or antagonize brahmins.’1

  Though warned by his friend, the prince ignored his words and carried on. As he was leaving, Buddhisāgara once again said: ‘Jayapāla, your end is near. Otherwise you would not be so perverse. As it is said,

  No one ever made, or saw

  or heard of a doe of gold.

  Yet Rama thirsted to catch one.

  When disaster strikes, the mind turns perverse.2

  ‘But how can disaster occur except as a consequence of deeds earlier done? As it has be en said,

  There is no goodwill in harlots,

  no permanence in wealth,

  no discernment in fools,

  and no getting away from

  the consequences of one’s actions.’

  Meanwhile the prince had proceeded to the forest. After hunting down many animals, he saw a blackbuck antelope and followed it into a dense jungle. While he searched for it there, all his retinue turned back on their way home, and the antelope also disappeared.

  Alone on horseback, Prince Jayapāla then saw a fine lake ahead. There he dismounted and tethered his horse to the branch of a tree. After a drink of water, at the very instant that he sat down under the tree’s shade, there appeared a fierce tiger slowly emerging from the depths of a thicket. The prince’s horse panicked. Swishing its tail and stamping the ground with its hooves, it broke the halter rope and fled. The prince too scrambled up the tall tree to save his life as the tiger, smelling a human, came forward quickly.

  There was a bear sitting on the top branch of the tree. With a huge tiger at the bottom, the young prince was caught in the middle. Unable to climb up or to come down, or even to stay where he was, he lost his nerve in the crisis which had engulfed him. At that moment the bear spoke to him in a human voice: ‘Prince, do not be afraid. I will protect Your Highness. Though I am only an animal, you should know that I follow the path of virtue.’

  The prince was reassured. The bear asked him to come nearer, and, as he climbed up, it made room for him and seated him at its side. The tiger remained below, hoping to get at some meat. Meanwhile the sun set and it became dark.

  At night, when the prince, who was very tired, began to feel sleepy, the bear addressed him again: ‘Prince, you are about to fall asleep and will tumble down from the tree. So, come close to me and sleep in my lap.’ And this is what the prince did.

  The tiger now made friendly overtures to the bear. ‘You and I are comrades,’ said the tiger, ‘we are permanent denizens of the forest. Keep our natural friendship in mind, and throw this human down. He will provide a full meal for both of us. Moreover humans are not to be trusted, specially if they are princes.’

  ‘Whatever he may be,’ the bear replied, ‘he has taken refuge with me. I cannot throw him down. To cause the death of one who has sought sanctuary is a great sin. As it is said:

  Those who betray a trust,

  or a seeker of sanctuary

  will live in a dreadful hell

  till the final deluge.’

  After some time the king’s son woke up. ‘Prince,’ the bear said to him, ‘I will sleep for a moment now. You remain alert.’ The prince agreed, and the bear went to sleep near him. Then the tiger spoke again: ‘Prince, do not trust this bear. He is a creature with claws. It is said,

  One should not place one’s trust

  in creatures with claws or horns,

  or in those who bear a weapon;

  nor in rivers, women or ro
yalty.

  ‘Besides, he appears fickle minded. Therefore even his goodwill is to be feared.

  ‘Pleased one instant, angry the next,

  and dissatisfied

  from moment

  to moment—even the goodwill

  of the capricious mind is to be feared.

  ‘He wants to protect you from me, and to eat you himself. So, on your part you should throw this bear down. I will eat him and go away, and you too can go home.’

  Jayapāla’s suspicions were aroused by what the tiger said. Thinking that the bear was asleep, the foolish young man pushed the animal down. But the virtuous will never perish, and even as it was falling, the bear hung on to another branch. Once more the prince was terrified. ‘You sinner!’ the bear cried, ‘why are you quaking? Now you must suffer the consequences of what you have done. You will turn into a ghoul, and wander in the forest, babbling the syllables ‘sa, se, mi, ra’.

  Morning came, and the tiger went away. The bear also departed after cursing the king’s son. And the prince became a ghoul, wandering in the forest, and babbling ‘sa, se, mi, ra’.

  Frightened by the tiger, the prince’s horse had run back home. The king saw it and wondered what had happened to his son. He proceeded to the forest with his entourage to investigate and found the prince there, out of his mind and muttering the sounds ‘sa, se, mi, ra’. He brought him home, but no antidote, including all kinds of gemstones, incantations and herbs had any effect on his son. ‘If Śāradā Nandana had been here today,’ the king lamented, ‘there would have been no need to worry about my boy. But I myself had him done to death.’ The minister intervened at this point: ‘Majesty, what is to be gained by feeling sorry for what has already happened? Make a proclamation with the beating of drums in the city, that if anyone can restore the prince’s health the king will give him half his kingdom.’