Then, when the towers of the palace rose over the trees, and gleamed
like gold on their eyes in the beams of the morning sun, King
Süryakánta suddenly exclaimed: Ha! I am undone. And Rasakósha said:
How is that? Then the King said: Alas! I have been absolutely
possessed by the image of my beloved, night and day, waking and
sleeping, so that I have thought of nothing in the world beside. And
now here we are at the end of our journey, but at the beginning of
difficulties. For as to what I shall ask the Princess, I have not the
shadow of an idea. And if the thought of her has such power to
bewilder me at a distance, the sight of her will utterly deprive me of
my reason, so that I am lost already. Then Rasakósha said: O King,
this is exactly why the Princess has hitherto baffled all her lovers.
The spell of her beauty robs them of their intellect, and chains up
their invention, and thus they fall an easy prey. But fortunate are
you, that while your best half has been absent from its body, your
other half[1] has been watching over the empty case. Be under no
concern: but when we are introduced into the presence of the Princess,
tell her that you speak by my mouth, and leave all to me. So the King
was relieved, and dismissing all other subjects from his mind, he again
became wholly immersed in meditating on his mistress.
Then drawing nearer by degrees, at length they entered the precincts of
the palace. And there they were met by warders, who enquired who they
were. And they went and announced to the Princess that King Súryakánta
had arrived as a suitor for her hand. So she sent chamberlains and
others, who conducted the King to a pleasure-house of white marble in a
garden beautiful with a lake and crystal baths, shady with trees,
perfumed with breezes loaded with the fragrance of flowers, and musical
with the songs of innumerable birds. There they passed the day. But
the King, consumed with the fever of his burning desire to see the
Princess, had neither eyes nor ears for anything but the portrait.
And when the sun set, King Süryakánta and Rasakósha went to the palace
of the Princess, and entered the hall of audience, whose floor, inlaid
with slabs of dark-blue crystal, reflected their feet, and whose walls
flashed back from the facets of their jewels the light of innumerable
lamps. And there they saw Anangarágá, sitting on a golden throne, clad
in a robe of sea-green, and a bodice studded with coral, looking like
Lakshmi[2] fresh from ocean. And her eyes were as long as a row of
bees, and their lashes jet black with collyrium, and her lips were like
freshly painted vermilion, and from her high bosom came the fragrance
of sandal. And round her slender waist was a girdle of gold, and on
her wrists and ankles gold bangles and anklets, and the soles of her
little feet were red with lac, and in her black hair was a gold tiara
in the form of a snake, with eyes of rubies, and a tongue of emerald.
And in the radiance of her beauty she looked scornfully at the King,
and, turning away her head, said, without waiting to be addressed:
Propose your question. But the King, struck by the thunderbolt of her
stupefying loveliness, sank mute and trembling upon a couch opposite to
her, and gazed at her like a bird fascinated by a serpent. Then
Rasakósha came forward, and prostrated himself at her feet, and said:
Lady, this unworthy mortal is the King's mouth. Is it permitted him to
speak? So the Princess said: Proceed. Then Rasakósha rose up, and
stood before her, and began:
Lady, there lived formerly, in a certain country, a Chárwáka[3], who
was about to be married. And while he was making preparations for the
ceremony, one of his friends came to him, and gave him advice, saying:
Propitiate Genésha, in order that nothing untoward may occur to
interfere with your marriage. Then that Chárwáka laughed in derision,
and replied: My good Sir, you are a fool. Do I not know that knaves
and fools invented the _Wédas_, and instituted the sacrificial rites
for their own advantage? All these foolish tales about the gods are
merely the dreams of madmen, or the livelihood of rogues. As for this
Ganésha that you speak of, what is the use of him? Or how can there be
a man with the head of an elephant? And what has he to do with
success? He, who forms his plans with prudence, and executes them with
wisdom, may count on success. Out on your Ganésha! I will ensure my
own success.
So he spoke, but that lord of the Elephant Face heard him, and laughed
to himself, gently waving his trunk. And the Chárwáka went on with his
preparations. But when all was ready, and the lucky day fixed, then on
the morning of that day Ganapati spoke to a certain cow that used to
wander at will about the streets, saying: Cow, go and drop your sacred
excrement on that Chárwáka's doorstep. And the cow went and did so.
And when the Chárwáka came forth from his house, he put his foot on the
cow-dung, and slipped and fell, and broke his leg. So they took him up
and carried him in again. And before his leg was cured, his bride died.
Then his friend came to him again, and said: See what comes of
neglecting to worship Ganapati. But the Chárwáka answered: Go to; you
are an idiot. Who could possibly foresee that a miserable cow would
cast its dung on my doorstep? What has Ganapati to do with it? Does
he, forsooth! look after and direct the excretions of all the cows in
the world? A pleasant idea, to be sure! So saying, he drove his
friend away, refusing to listen to him. And when his leg was well, he
found another bride, and made preparations for another marriage. And
he hired a band of sweepers to go before him and sweep all clean before
his feet. But when the day came, Ganapati sent for a crow that eat the
daily offerings, and said to him: Crow, there is a Chárwáka going to be
married to-day. Now, there is an arch over a certain street, beneath
which he will pass: and on it there is an image of myself, of stone,
which is very old, and the rain and heat have loosened and cracked it,
so that it is on the point of falling. Do you watch, therefore, and
when you see the Chárwáka passing under, then seat yourself upon me,
and I will fall. So the crow flew off, and watching his opportunity,
seated himself upon the stone image of Ganapati; and it fell on the
Chárwáka as he passed below, and broke his arm. So they took him up
and carried him back to his house. And before his arm was well, his
bride died.
Then his friend came once more to him and said: Is this your wisdom?
What did I tell you? Is it not plain now, who it is that is thwarting
your efforts? Then the Chárwáka flew into a rage, and said: Enough of
your babbling! I will get married in spite of Ganapati. But what can
be anticipated in this miserable city, whose cows befoul the streets,
and whose buildings are tumble-down. I will provide against any
similar accident happening again. So when he was well, he discovered
another bride, and again made preparations for his wedding. And he
arranged to go to the bride's house by a circuitous route outside the
walls of the city, avoiding the streets altogether. But on the morning
of the day, Ganapati went to Indra, and said: Wajradhara[4], there is a
Chárwáka going to get married to-day. But he must pass over a certain
water-course, which is now dry. Lend me your rain-clouds, for I must
teach this infidel a lesson. So Indra sent his clouds, and rained
furiously on the hills. And as the Chárwáka was passing over the
water-course, the river rose suddenly, and swept down in torrents from
the hills and carried him away and drowned him.
And Ganapati saw it and smiled. But on a sudden he wept violently.
Now tell me, Princess, why did the lord of obstacles laugh and weep?
And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess answered: He laughed when he
thought of the folly, blindness, and insolence of that miserable
infidel. But suddenly great pity came over him, when he remembered the
terrible punishment that awaited that foolish fellow in the future, and
all those who like him prepare by their own actions a fearful
retribution in other lives and another world: and so he wept[5].
And when the Princess had said this, she rose up and went out,
dismissing the King without looking at him, with a wave of her hand:
and the King's heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha
returned to their own apartments.
[1] _i.e._ Rasakósha himself. The allusion is to a power, possessed by
adepts in Yoga, of detaching the soul from the body. See Day 11.
[2] The goddess of fortune and wealth, who was churned up out of the
ocean, and according to some, appeared reclining on an open lotus.
Coral is one of the nine gems.
[3] _i.e._ an atheist. The opinions of this philosophical school may
be found sketched in the Sarwa-Darshana-Sangraha, § 1.
[4] 'Wielder of the thunderbolt,' an epithet of Indra, the god of rain.
[5] Perhaps only a Hindoo could appreciate the dexterity with which
this story is placed first, and thus the favour of Ganapati, as it
were, secured for the rest.