In olden times Janaka ruled as king in the land of Videhā. He took unto
himself a beautiful spouse, who bore him a son, to whom, as food and
drink were abundant in the land, the name of Annapāna [Food-Drink] was
given. When he had grown up, he proved strong, resolute, and irascible.
The queen became arrogant on account of her son, and no longer complied
with the king’s wishes. This greatly troubled the king, and he, by the
advice of his ministers, determined to choose another wife. The
ministers called his attention to the daughter of the king of
Aparāntaka. Although he was not on friendly terms with that king, his
ministers gave him encouragement, and undertook to arrange the matter.
The king of Aparāntaka granted his daughter, on the condition that if
she gave birth to a son, that son was to be recognised as the heir to
the throne. Her loveliness made her very agreeable to the king, and he
promised her the fulfilment of her wishes. So she likewise demanded
that the son whom she expected should enjoy the succession to the
throne. To the king this was as it were a stab in the heart, and he
suffered great disquiet at the thought of how he should pass over
Annapāna, his bold and comely son, the fruit of a marriage with one of
equal birth. The ministers remarked his anxiety, and he informed them
of its cause. They stated that as the king of Aparāntaka had granted
his daughter only on this condition, and as it was as yet uncertain
whether she would give birth to a son or a daughter, King Janaka ought
to grant her the desired promise.
A son was born, to whom the name of Rājyābhinanda was given, on account
of the longing for royal power which had been entertained even before
his birth. He grew up, but still his father did not proclaim him his
successor. At length the youth’s grandfather sent a message to King
Janaka, and threatened to make his appearance with a mighty army. The
ministers recommended that Rājyābhinanda should be proclaimed
successor, and that Annapāna should be put to death. Janaka refused to
comply with such a demand. Murderers of fathers, it was true, had been
met with, but it was an unheard of thing that a father should kill his
son. Nor would he consent to his being mutilated, that being equivalent
to death. As little would he agree to his being banished; but he
invested the younger prince with the right of succession.
When Annapāna heard of this, he went to his mother, informed her of the
evil tidings, and told her that he was about to go to Panchāla. And
thither he went. With wearied limbs he lay down to rest in the shade of
a tree. There the king’s people found him. Astonished by his beauty,
they brought him to the king, to whom he told the story of his
fortunes. The king gave him the hand of his daughter, and bestowed
lands upon him. The son who was born of this marriage was named
Bahvannapāna.
Annapāna fell ill and died, and the king gave his daughter, along with
her son, to the Purohita, with whom she lived happily. One day a cock
crowed near the house. A Brahman who happened to be there, and who was
skilled in omens, heard it crow and said, “He who eats the flesh of
this cock will become king.” [102] The Purohita heard these words, and,
after asking the Brahman some questions, took the cock and killed it.
Then he said to his wife, “Have this cock cooked immediately. I will
eat it when I come back from the king’s palace.” Then he betook himself
to the palace.
While he was there, the boy Bahvannapāna came back from school hungry,
and could not find his mother. He said to himself, “What has been
cooked for us? what sort of food?” In his mother’s absence he looked
about, and saw the cock in a saucepan with its head uppermost. So he
cut off the head and ate it. His mother came in presently and said,
“Who has eaten the head?” The boy replied that he had eaten it. His
mother gave him some food and sent him to school.
After a time the Purohita also came and asked for food. When he saw
that the cock’s head had disappeared, he asked where it was. His wife
said, “The boy has eaten it.” He ate up the rest of the cock, but
remained in doubt as to which of the two would become king, he who had
eaten the bird’s whole body, or he who had eaten only a bird incomplete
as to the parts of its body. In order to remove this doubt, he called
in for the second time the Brahman who was skilled in omens. The
Brahman asserted that he who had eaten the head would become king, but
that he also would become king who should kill him who had eaten the
head, and should eat his head.
Therefore the Purohita determined to put the boy to death. But as he
saw that he could not do this without the boy’s mother remarking it, he
resolved to take her opinion about the matter. With many friendly words
he addressed her in a cajoling manner: “O good one, is it better that
your husband or your son should become king?” Quickly recognising the
complicated nature of the situation, she reflected that if she said it
would be better for her son to become king, she would be at variance
with her husband. So she said, in accordance with his view of the
matter, that it would be better for her husband to become king. But as
she was very shrewd and intelligent, she perceived that he wished to
kill her son on account of the cock’s head, and she determined to save
her son at any rate. So she told her son that, as he had acted wrongly
in eating the cock’s head, he must leave the country with all speed,
and betake himself to his grandfather’s land, where he had relatives.
The son fled to Videha, and there, tormented with hunger and thirst, he
lay down one day in order to sleep under a tree in a park.
A little before that time Rājyābhinanda had been attacked by a malady
of which, in spite of the efforts of the physicians, he could not be
cured. He succumbed to it, and thereby was the reigning family brought
to an end.
Now it was part of the royal statutes that until a new king had been
chosen the corpse of the late king could not be honoured with funeral
ceremonies. Accordingly the ministers, the other officials of the
court, the Brahmans, and the interpreters of signs, set out to look for
a person distinguished by the force of his virtuous merits. Under a
tree outside the city, a tree the shadow of which never moved from his
body, they found an extremely handsome youth with a lion-like breast.
When the six ministers had looked at him, they exclaimed in
astonishment, “Never have we seen any one who equalled this man in
force of virtuous merit. As he is extremely handsome, and is well
provided with signs, we will invest him with the sovereignty.” Having
thus spoken, and having agreed thereupon, they aroused him from his
sleep. He awoke and asked, “Why must I get up?” They replied, “In order
to be proclaimed king.” He said, “Ought a slumbering king to be
awakened in this manner?” The ministers said, “How then ought he to be
awakened?” The youth replied, “He ought to be awakened with song and
cymbals and beat of drum.” On hearing this, they came to the conclusion
that he truly sprang, not from an inferior, but from a noble family,
and they asked him, “Who are you? whose noble son are you?” Then the
youth rose up lion-like and said, “Annapāna was the son of Janaka, king
of Videha, and I am Annapāna’s son, Bahvannapāna.” Thereupon the six
ministers smiled and said, “We have actually lighted upon our own
prince.”
In the midst of a great multitude, with conjurations, and with song and
cymbals and beat of drum, they conducted him into the city, and there
they consecrated him as king. As the extinct royal family was renewed
in him, he also received the name of Janaka, and his former name of
Bahvannapāna fell into disuse. After they had thus invested him with
the sovereignty, they came to the conclusion that he was of a simple
nature, and they despised him to such a degree that he had no power at
all.
King Bahvannapāna once went forth in order to inspect his realm.
Whenever he asked to whom villages, towns, and hill-places belonged, he
was always told that they belonged to the six ministers. Thereupon he
perceived that he could command only food and clothing, but that beyond
that he had no power. When he had plunged into a sea of thought, trying
to think out what he should do, a deity consoled him, saying that he
ought not to be sorrowful. In his own country, in the hill-village
Pūrṇakatshtshha, a son named Mahaushadha was about to be born to the
head-man, Pūrṇa. This son he ought to make his minister, who would gain
possession of the realm and restore it to him, and turn out fortunate
and advantageous to him. The king sent forth men to seek out this
Pūrṇa, and to learn whether his wife had a son or not. The men returned
with the information that the village head-man really existed, and that
his wife was with child. Then the king wrote to him and made him come
to him, conferred upon him the village, and bade him henceforth
carefully watch over the child, which was as yet in its mother’s womb,
so that none of its limbs might suffer any injury. When the boy came
into the world and his birth-feast was celebrated, the name of
Mahaushadha (Great Remedy) was given to him at the request of his
mother, inasmuch as she, who had long suffered from illness, and had
been unable to obtain any relief from the time of the boy’s conception,
had been cured by him.
As the boy was sitting on his father’s shoulder one day, and was being
carried for a bath from the middle of the street to a tank, the father
saw a piece of fish lying before him. Taking it for a precious stone,
he tried to lift it up with his toes. Then said Mahaushadha, “Dear
father Pūrṇa, you think that a precious stone has been dropped here.
Gazing with open eyes at the piece of fish, you fancy that it is a
precious stone. Test it, dear father Pūrṇa. It is no precious stone;
only a piece of red fish crushed underfoot. Vaiśravaṇa [103] is not
accustomed to be so careless.”
When they had come to the tank, and Pūrṇa and Mahaushadha had laid
their clothes on the bank and had gone into the water to bathe, the
father wanted to lay hold of a crane which was resting on a lotus, but
when he drew near the bird flew away. Then Mahaushadha said, “From the
lotus flew the crane away. The crane flew away, the lotus remained.
Only see, father dear, how the crane flies away from the lotus.”
On another occasion the father went to the river Ganges to bathe,
carrying his son as before on his shoulder. When they had left their
clothes on the shore and had gone into the water, they saw a metal
basin floating on the water with a goose sitting upon it. Then said
Mahaushadha, “The river Ganges supports the metal basin, on the metal
basin rests a goose. Look, O father dear, at the metal basin with the
goose carried along by the river Ganges.”
Another time, when Mahaushadha had gone to the shore to bathe, he saw
how a pot, on which was a water-hen, was borne along by the current of
the river Ganges. Then he said, “The river Ganges bears along the pot,
on the pot sits a water-hen. Only look, father dear, at the pot with
the water-hen and the Ganges.”
Again, on another occasion, he saw a ram carried along by the current
of the river Ganges with a heron standing upon it, and he said, “The
river Ganges bears along a ram, and likewise the heron which stands
upon it. Look, father dear, at the ram and the heron borne along by the
river Ganges.”
After this it happened one day that Mahaushadha was at play with the
children, and they chose him as their king. [104] He named some of the
boys as his ministers, and they went on playing together. There came
along the road an old Brahman with his young wife, on their way to
another country. The Brahman stepped aside for a time, and during his
absence a rogue, full of desire for the wife, came up to her and said,
“Good woman, whither has your father gone?”
“Who?” said the wife.
“He is apparently your grandfather,” replied the rogue.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“He is apparently your great-grandfather,” said the rogue.
“He is not my father, nor my grandfather, nor yet my great-grandfather,
but my husband,” said the wife.
Thereupon the rogue said with a smile, “O foolish woman, are you not
ashamed to say in the presence of your friends or any other decorous
person that this man is your husband? Have you not on this stately
earth seen men of divine beauty?”
“Such men are no more to be found.”
“Take me as your husband, and we will live together. Should the old
Brahman put in a claim for you, then say to the great assembly, ‘This
man is my husband.’”
After the rogue had said this she went off with him. When the Brahman
came back, he could not see his wife. He climbed a height, and saw her
walking off with another man. He ran after her, and seized one of her
hands, the rogue holding on to the other. The Brahman said, “Why are
you taking away my wife?”
“She is my wife; do not trouble yourself about her,” replied the rogue.
As the Brahman persisted in saying that she was his wife, a quarrel
arose between the two men on the highway, and they pulled the woman
this way and that way. But as the rogue was younger and stronger than
the Brahman, he dragged her away from him. Being overcome, the Brahman
called out in that lonely place for help. At that time Mahaushadha and
the other children were at play in the forest, and they heard his cries
for help. The children said to Mahaushadha, “As you wish to be called
the king, and that Brahman is shouting for help, why do not you save
him from danger?” So he bade the children bring the parties before him,
and he asked them what had occurred. The Brahman said that the other
man had forcibly torn away his wife from him, the weaker of the two. On
the other hand, the rogue declared that the Brahman lied, and that the
woman was his own wife. The woman herself affirmed that the rogue was
her husband. Mahaushadha, who perceived that the Brahman had not become
excited without due cause, determined to apply a test. [105]
“Say, O man, where do you come from along with your wife?”
“From my father-in-law’s,” replied the rogue.
“What did you eat and drink there?”
“We had meat, cakes, sorrel, and wine,” replied the rogue.
“Vomit then, if that be so,” said Mahaushadha; “we shall see then if
that be true or not.”
The rogue put his finger down his throat and vomited, but no such food
came to light. Then Mahaushadha asked the Brahman whence he had come.
“From my father-in-law’s,” replied the Brahman.
“What did you eat there?”
“Curdled milk, porridge, and radishes.”
Him likewise Mahaushadha ordered to bring up what he had eaten, and the
result was that he produced the food in question. As Mahaushadha now
perceived that the rogue had deluded and carried off the Brahman’s
wife, he gave orders that he should be chastised by blows from sticks
and fists, and that he should then be set fast up to the neck in a hole
a man’s stature in depth, and that there should be written on his
forehead with peacock’s gall these words—
“He who thus steals a wife, him does Mahaushadha punish in this wise.
He who, like unto the wife-stealer, has stolen a child, an ox, a
coverlet, yarn, or the like, such thieves as this shall be arrested up
to the number of five hundred, and shall be chastised by blows from
sticks and fists, and shall be set up to their necks in a pit, and
their names shall be written on their foreheads with peacock’s gall,
indicating that Mahaushadha will thus punish others also who shall
commit thefts.”
Now, when the six ministers had exhausted the land, and the king became
aware of the fact, the idea came into his mind of finding out of what
nature Mahaushadha really was. He told the ministers that he was going
to the chase, and he went with a great following to the hill-villages.
When the five hundred rogues who had been set in the pit saw the king,
most of them cried out, “O king!” The king heard the cry, and looked
around on all sides, but he saw no man, though the cry again resounded.
One of the rogues perceived this, and repeated it. The king caught
sight of him, and read on his forehead the words written with peacock’s
gall: “Whoever has stolen a wife, a child, an ox, a coverlet, and so
forth, him does Mahaushadha punish in this wise.” When Mahaushadha and
the other children heard that the king had seen these things, his heart
rejoiced within him, and he thought that although Mahaushadha was a
child, yet in regard to such deeds he had done no wrong. However, he
ordered the rogues to be drawn out of the pit, and set them at liberty.
When Pūrṇa heard that the king had come to Pūrṇakatshtshha, he went to
meet him, bearing a jar full of water, a canopy, banners, and
standards. The king said to him, “Pūrṇa, be not afraid. Bring hither
your son that I may see him.” Pūrṇa replied, “O king, as the boy is
still very young, I will not bring him before the face of the king.”
However the king ordered the father to fetch his boy. Then the king
gazed upon the exceedingly handsome and spirited boy; but as he was
still a child, and had not come to man’s estate, the king let him go
back to his father’s house.
Some time later King Janaka wished to test the nature of Mahaushadha’s
intelligence. So he sent a messenger to Pūrṇa, the head-man of the
hill-village Pūrṇakatshtshha, with an order to send a rope made of sand
one hundred ells long. When the messenger had arrived and communicated
the order, Pūrṇa was greatly alarmed. From his birth upwards he had
never seen or heard of such a thing, and he would therefore have to
expect a reprimand. He became so depressed that Mahaushadha asked him
why he was so ill at ease. The father replied that he was not sure that
the king did not mean to punish him, the demand being of such an
unheard of kind. Mahaushadha asked him to send for the messenger,
saying that he would reply to the king. Thereupon he said to the
messenger, “Make known to the king this my request, without forgetting
it. As the people of our country are slow-witted, unintelligent, and
stupid, may it please the king to send an ell of that kind of rope as a
pattern, like unto which we will twine a hundred, nay, a thousand ells,
and will send them to him.” When the messenger had reported this to the
king, the king asked whether it was Pūrṇa or his son who had given this
answer. The messenger said that it was Mahaushadha. The king was
astonished, and perceived that the commands of the deity were being
executed, and that Mahaushadha would re-establish his power.
As the king wished to put Mahaushadha a second time to the test, he
sent to Pūrṇa, and ordered him to supply some rice which had not been
crushed with a pestle, and yet was not uncrushed, and which had been
cooked neither in the house nor out of the house, neither with fire nor
yet without fire; sending it neither along the road nor yet away from
the road, without its being shone upon by the daylight, but yet not in
the shade, not together with a woman, but also not with a man, by one
not riding, but also not on foot. The messenger came to
Pūrṇakatshtshha, sent for Pūrṇa, and, after holding merry converse with
him on various subjects, informed him of the king’s orders. Pūrṇa was
greatly discomfited. But Mahaushadha, having found out the cause of his
dejection, comforted him, declaring that he would manage the whole
affair himself.
Having dried some rice in the sun, he sent for a number of women, and
made a man give each of them a handful of grains. These they shelled
with their nails, picking out the kernel of each grain without breaking
it. When the women had done this, he threw the rice into a pot, and
cooked it on the threshold of the house. As he was to cook it without
fire and yet not without fire, he cooked it in the sun. In order that
it might be conveyed neither along the road nor yet away from the road,
he ordered the man who carried it to walk with one foot on the road and
the other foot by the side of the road. As it was to be brought neither
in the sunlight nor in the shade, he bade the man fasten the pot which
held it to the end of a stick, and cover it over with a thin cloth. As
the bearer was neither to ride nor to go afoot, he told him to put a
shoe on one of his feet and leave the other unshod. And as the bearer
was to be neither a man nor a woman, he sent a hermaphrodite.
When the messenger presented himself before the king, and, on being
questioned by King Janaka, gave him a full account of the whole matter,
the king was greatly pleased, and asked if he had been sent by Pūrṇa or
by Mahaushadha. The messenger replied that he had been sent by the
latter, whereupon the king said, “Mahaushadha is clever, resolute,
sharp-witted, and ingenious.”
Some time afterwards the king sent to Pūrṇa, and ordered him to supply
a park with kitchen-gardens, fruit-trees, and tanks. When the messenger
came to Pūrṇa and told him what were the king’s orders, Pūrṇa again
fell into very low spirits. Mahaushadha begged his father not to
distress himself, promising to arrange everything to the king’s
satisfaction. Then he sent for the messenger, and told him to give the
following reply to the king:—
“As no one among the mountains knows anything about a park of that
kind, and therefore no one can construct one, may it please the king to
send hither one of the parks belonging to his palace. When my father
has seen it, and learnt of what nature it is, he will send one like
unto it.”
When the messenger returned with this reply, the king was highly
pleased, and when he learnt that it was again Mahaushadha who had sent
it, he perceived that he was very intelligent.
Some time later the king again sent a messenger to Pūrṇa, ordering him
to plant a tree, and to send it to him at the end of a year, bearing
blossoms and fruits. When the messenger had executed his commission,
Pūrṇa again became dejected, but Mahaushadha comforted him, saying that
the matter would not be a difficult one to manage. And he sent a
Ricinus shrub, which at the end of a year bore blossoms and fruits.
When the king saw it, he asked whether the idea was Pūrṇa’s or
Mahaushadha’s. The messenger named the latter, and the king found
nothing more to say in the matter.
Some time later the king sent five hundred oxen to Pūrṇa. These he was
to feed and to milk, and he was to send to the king milk, curdled milk,
butter, cream, and cheese. When the messenger came to Pūrṇa with these
orders, Pūrṇa was greatly troubled, and said to the villagers, “Surely
in this matter the king wishes to punish me, seeing that he requires me
to milk oxen.” When Mahaushadha perceived his distress, he comforted
him, saying that he would contrive a reply with which the king would be
pleased without this thing being accomplished. Then Mahaushadha gave
full directions to a father and son, ordering them to betake themselves
to the capital, near the king’s palace. He told the father to wrap up a
wooden bowl in a cloth and fasten it over his belly, and then to roll
to and fro on the ground and pretend to be crying. And he told the son
to utter fervent prayers, to scatter flowers, food, and incense towards
the ten parts of the world, and to cry aloud, “May this, my father,
propitiously bring forth his child!”
When the father and son, in accordance with these instructions, had
drawn nigh unto King Janaka, they did all that they had been told to
do. When the king heard the words, “May he who in the world protects
the world preserve my father, and let him propitiously give birth to
his child!” he sent some of his men to find out what that meant. They
came, and saw a big-bellied man rolling to and fro on the ground and
crying, and his son invoking Yama, Vaiśravaṇa, Vasu, and the other
kings of the gods. The men reported this to the king, and he sent for
the father and son. The son begged that his father might be allowed to
bring forth his child. Thereat the king laughed, and said that he had
never seen or heard of a man who gave birth to a child.
Then said the youth, “Are things as you say they are?”
“Yes!”
“In that case, I ask you wherefore you sent five hundred oxen to
Pūrṇakatshtshha, with orders that milk, sour milk, curdled milk, and
fresh butter should be obtained from them. Have you ever seen or heard
of oxen big with young and producing calves?”
Then the king laughed, and asked who was the originator of this idea,
Pūrṇa or Mahaushadha, or someone else. When the messenger stated that
it was Mahaushadha, the king and his ministers were greatly astonished.
Some time later, the king, in order to apply another test, sent a
messenger to Pūrṇakatshtshha with a mule, and ordered Pūrṇa to keep
watch over it without tying it up, and to feed it without placing it
under a roof. The messenger brought the mule to Pūrṇa, and warned him
that he would forfeit his life and limbs in case the mule escaped. When
Pūrṇa heard that, he was terrified and fell into very low spirits, as
he did not think he was equal to the task. But Mahaushadha bade him be
of good cheer. By day the mule was to be allowed to graze at its will,
but at night it was to be guarded by twenty men, five of whom were to
look after it during each of the night-watches, one of them sitting on
its back, the others holding a leg apiece. After this fashion the
twenty men watched it without taking it under a roof.
After a time King Janaka sent a messenger to see how Pūrṇa was treating
the mule. He reported to the king the precautions which had been taken.
The king perceived that the mule could not escape while it was guarded
in that way, so he said that he wished one of the men to be sent for.
The minister asked which man was to be summoned. The king said that
they were to send for the man who was sitting on the mule’s back. For
while the others were asleep he could ride off with the mule. So the
king had the watcher sent for who sat on the mule, and the man came
away together with the beast.
When Pūrṇa was told next morning that the mule had gone off, he saw
that his life was forfeited, and he took to wailing from fear. When
Mahaushadha saw how miserable Pūrṇa was, he began to reflect that
hitherto he had found a means of escape on each occasion, but that this
time there was none. Of this, however, he said nothing. Although he was
much alarmed, yet he devised a plan, and said to his father, “There is
still one expedient left for settling this business.” His father asked
what it was, and Mahaushadha replied that he could manage the affair
provided Pūrṇa could endure being jeered at. Pūrṇa declared that he was
ready to do anything which would prevent his life being taken.
Thereupon Mahaushadha cut the hair of his father’s head so as to form
seven strips, and he daubed the head itself with red, black, brown,
white, and other paints. Then he and his father mounted an ass and
betook themselves to the capital.
When they arrived there, the news spread abroad that Mahaushadha had
come riding upon an ass, and that he had cut his father’s hair into
seven strips. When the king and the ministers heard this, they asked,
“Why has he, who has the reputation of being so discreet and
intelligent, performed so unbecoming an action?” The king and the
ministers went out to see if Mahaushadha had really come in the manner
alleged, or if the report was false. When the king and his followers
saw that it was really so with him, the ministers said, “Wherefore is
Mahaushadha praised for his judgment, intelligence, and wisdom? In
spite of all that, how unbecomingly he has acted!”
The king asked Mahaushadha why he had thus dishonoured his father. He
replied, “I have not dishonoured him, but have honoured him. As I stand
much higher than my father on account of my great knowledge, I have
shown him honour.”
The king asked, “Are you the better of the two, or is your father the
better?”
He replied, “I am the better, my father is the worse.”
The king said, “Never have I seen or heard that the son is better than
the father. As it is the father through whom the son becomes known,
while the mother feeds him, takes care of him, and brings him up,
therefore we hold that the father is altogether the better of the two.”
Then said Mahaushadha to the king, “Test the matter thoroughly to see
if the father is really so or not.”
As the king and the ministers affirmed that it was so, and not
otherwise, Mahaushadha fell at the king’s feet and said, “O king, this
being the case, as the mule which you sent us to watch over has run
away, but as according to the testimony of the king and the ministers
the father is considered better than the offspring, and the father of
the mule is the ass, accept this ass as a set-off.”
When the king and the ministers had heard his speech, and perceived the
cunning contrivance which it carried out, they were astonished. Whether
he had acted becomingly or unbecomingly, it was clear that he was
clever. Having thought the matter over, the king was much pleased, and
he arrayed Mahaushadha in fine robes of various kinds, and bestowed
upon him the power of a minister, and on the father he conferred that
village.
After Mahaushadha had been appointed a minister, his fame spread abroad
throughout the whole city as that of a wise and intelligent man.
Now a very learned Brahman had gone abroad in order to increase his
property, after he and his wife had spent all that she had brought
along with her; and he returned home with five hundred gold pieces of
ancient date. Before entering his house he was desirous of disposing of
his money, for none could tell whether his wife might not have taken up
with another man during his absence. His wife was of remarkable beauty,
and therefore he considered that she might have found favour in the
eyes of other men during his absence. So in the evening twilight he
went to the cemetery, dug a hole under a Nyagrodha tree, put the money
into it, and then went to his home.
Now the wife had a lover, the Brahman Mahākarṇa (Great Ear). The pair
had about that time partaken of delicate food, and she had anointed
herself with fragrant ointment, and was reposing upon the couch of
enjoyment. Just then came the Brahman and called to her to open the
door. The woman asked who was there. When he had pronounced his name,
she uttered a joyful cry, aroused Mahākarṇa, and hid him under the bed,
and then went to open the door. With thorough dissimulation she wept
and flung her arms round her husband’s neck, showed him honour and
respect, and placed savoury food before him. After partaking of it, he
came to the conclusion that the reason of her having provided such a
supper must certainly be that she had given herself up to another man.
As he was of an ingenuous nature, he asked her, “O good wife, how comes
it that you have such food, seeing that this is not a holiday, a
festival, or day of public rejoicing?” She replied, “A deity made me
aware that you were coming to-day, so I provided this meal on your
account.” The Brahman said, “Then it is not I alone who am fortunate.
My wife also, it seems, receives tidings from the deity in dreams.”
After he had eaten and washed, he lay down upon the bed to rest, and
conversed with his wife about her welfare. Presently she asked him if
he had brought anything with him. He said that he had. Thereupon the
wife intimated by signs, “Mahākarṇa, let thine ear listen to what is
being said.” Then she said, “Where have you put the five hundred gold
pieces, as you have not shown them to me?” He replied, “I will show
them to you to-morrow.” Then said the wife, “Why have you kept the
matter from me, though I am the half of your body?” The honest Brahman
said, “I have hidden the money outside the city.” The wife said, “Hear,
O Great Ear, where the money has been put.” The Brahman said that he
had hidden the money under a Nyagrodha tree in the cemetery. Then said
the Brahman’s wife, “As you, my lord, are fatigued and exhausted by the
journey and on my account, now go to sleep.”
When she saw that he had gone to sleep, she bade Mahākarṇa act in
accordance with what he had heard. Mahākarṇa slipped quietly out of the
house, went to the cemetery, dug up the money, and then betook himself
to his own house.
When the Brahman went to the cemetery the next day, and found that his
money was no longer there, he beat himself on the head and breast, and
returned home. His wife, his friends, his brothers, and his relatives
asked him what had happened, and he told them everything. They advised
him to have recourse to Mahaushadha. Then the Brahman went wailing to
Mahaushadha, his face streaming with tears, and told him his
misfortune. Mahaushadha remained silent for a moment. Then he asked,
“Brahman, at what spot and at what time did you hide the money? Did any
one see it? or have you talked about it to any one?” The Brahman gave a
full account of the whole affair. Mahaushadha came to the conclusion
that the Brahman’s wife had some other man as a lover, and that what
had taken place was due to that man’s contrivance. But he spoke words
of comfort to the Brahman, saying that if the money was not found he
would pay it to him out of his own purse. Then he asked him if there
was a dog in his house. The Brahman replied that there was. Then said
Mahaushadha, “Go and invite eight Brahmans to your house. Invite four
of them yourself, and let your wife invite the other four. Tell her
that you have made a vow to the god Śiva that if you should accomplish
your return prosperously you would entertain eight Brahmans.”
The Brahman followed these instructions, and when the Brahmans had been
invited, he went to Mahaushadha in order to acquaint him with the fact.
Then said Mahaushadha, “When you are about to receive the Brahmans into
your house, call this man of mine, and station him at the door when
they enter. And during the meal let him stand inside without being
occupied in any way.” And to his man he said, “Take note of everything
significant. When the Brahmans come in, see which of them the dog barks
at, and before whom it wags its tail; for such is the nature of dogs.”
Moreover, he ordered the Brahman not to set the food before his guests
with his own hands, but to leave that to his wife. He told his man also
to pay heed to the Brahman’s wife while she was serving the food, and
see to whom she made a sign, at whom she gazed without changing
countenance, whom she addressed with a smile, and to whom she served
the best fare, and to make him acquainted with all this.
These instructions having been given, the Brahman took the servant home
with him and stationed him at the door. Then he told his wife to summon
the guests whom she had invited, while he summoned those whom he had
invited. As the other guests entered the house one after another, the
dog barked. But when Mahākarṇa came in, the dog looked at him, drooped
its ears, wagged its tail, and followed after him. When he had entered
in and called the dog, the servant learnt that he was Mahākarṇa.
Afterwards the servant saw the food distributed, and remarked that the
Brahman’s wife, while taking part in the distribution, made a sign with
her eyebrows to Mahākarṇa, smiled slightly, fixed her eyes upon him,
and supplied him with the best of the food. All that he saw he
afterwards reported to Mahaushadha.
As soon as Mahaushadha heard these things, he sent for Mahākarṇa, asked
him if it was a Brahman’s business to lay hands on the property of
others, and ordered him to restore what he had stolen. Mahākarṇa said
he thought that Mahaushadha ought to make himself easy, as he,
Mahākarṇa, knew nothing at all about the matter. Thereupon Mahaushadha
gave orders that the evil-doer should be thrown into prison, and left
there until his bones became visible. At this threat Mahākarṇa was so
terrified that he begged for mercy with a contrite heart, promising to
repay all. Going home, he fetched the money, tied up just as it had
been, and handed it over to Mahaushadha, who gave it to the Brahman.
The Brahman rejoiced greatly, and seeing that his having recovered what
he had lost was entirely due to Mahaushadha’s powerful assistance, he
wished to make manifest his gratitude to him, so he brought him half of
the money as a present. Mahaushadha accepted the present and then
returned it to him. When the news of all this became spread throughout
the city, the king, the ministers, and the citizens praised Mahaushadha
highly on account of his wisdom, and esteemed themselves fortunate in
having such a minister.
After a time it happened that a certain man who had gone on business
into another land came back to his own country. Having come to the edge
of a tank, he opened his meal-pouch, took out some of the meal, and
mixed it with water and partook thereof. After feeding he tied up his
pouch and went his way. Now while he was sitting there a snake had
crept into the pouch, one of those snakes which emit poison when
disturbed. But when the man turned to his pouch after his repast, he
tied it up without examining it. Then he flung it across his shoulder
and went on to the capital. There a soothsayer informed him that he was
in imminent danger of losing his life.
Some time after he had received this information, he regretted that he
had not asked the soothsayer on what ground it was based. Having thus
reflected, he determined not to go home till he had consulted the
minister Mahaushadha. When he had gone to him and had told him the
whole story, Mahaushadha came to the conclusion that the soothsayer
must certainly have given him this piece of information because his
pouch contained one of the snakes which emit poison when disturbed.
Therefore he bade him open his pouch with a piece of wood, in the
presence of witnesses, but in some retired place. In that case he would
soon learn the ground in question. The man did so, and when the
poisonous snake lifted up its head, breathed furiously, and made its
outstretched tongue vibrate, Mahaushadha said, “That is the danger by
which you were threatened.”
After a time Mahaushadha equipped a complete army and went out to take
a survey of the land. Whenever he asked to whom the different villages,
towns, and cities belonged, the inhabitants replied that they belonged
to this or that minister. Then Mahaushadha perceived that the six
ministers had in this manner taken possession of the whole country, and
that King Janaka’s rule was restricted to his own food and drink. He
asked the king who really was the master of the villages, hill-towns,
and cities. The king related to him how the merciful gods had informed
him that in the village Pūrṇakatshtshha a son named Mahaushadha was
about to be born to Pūrṇa, and that he, the king, would make
Mahaushadha his first minister, who would recover for him all his
power, by which means he would become possessed of complete regal
authority.
“Therefore [continued the king] have I provided you with all things
necessary while you were still in your mother’s womb, and from that
time forth, and have raised you to the rank of first minister. Now by
the force of your intelligence shall you fulfil the words of the deity
and help me to gain my supremacy.”
Thereupon Mahaushadha paid honour to the king, and bade him take
courage, saying that he would act in such a way that the king would be
well pleased. Accordingly he sent for the head-men of the villages,
towns, and cities one after another, and assured them that he would
arrange matters in such a way that they would be satisfied with him.
Much harm had been done to them by those ministers, who had levied out
of covetousness immoderate rates and taxes. If they would act in
accordance with his instructions, he would be mindful thereof, and
would fix moderate taxes, set all other things in order, and help them
to secure their welfare. In any case, they ought to revolt, and when
the king came with the other ministers, they ought to say that they
would not submit until the minister Mahaushadha should come, but that
when he came, they would obey him but no one else.
When he had given them these instructions, and had stirred up the
people in all those parts and instigated them to rebellion, so that
they recalled their allegiance, the other ministers petitioned the
king, and King Janaka sent forth those six ministers together with a
great army; but they did not succeed in getting possession of a single
village or hill-town. So they sent a messenger to the king with the
statement that they could not enforce submission unless the king came
himself; but the king also could not obtain the submission of a single
hill-town. So, as many men had fallen in battle, the king and the
ministers became dejected. Then said the inhabitants of the
hill-villages, “If the first minister Mahaushadha were to come, we
would obey him and submit ourselves to him. We have not rebelled
against King Janaka, but we have behaved as we have done because the
ministers have wrought us injury.”
Thereupon the king sent a messenger to Mahaushadha, saying, “As we
cannot reduce the land to submission, do you come hither.” When
Mahaushadha had looked at the king’s letter, he went at once to the
king. When the people of that land saw him, they all paid reverence to
him, and he spoke words of encouragement to them, and fixed their taxes
according to law, and succoured the poor and lowly and helpless. To the
townspeople and the country-folk he gave presents, greeting and
embracing them as if they were his parents, brothers, and kinsmen. The
old men of the land, and the young people and the women, looked upon
him as a son or a brother. To all of them he gave great satisfaction;
and then, after he had finally united all the lands together, he went
back to the seat of royalty, together with King Janaka. By means of
these deeds he gained an honoured reputation among other kings also.
King Janaka was so highly pleased that he gave his daughter in marriage
to Mahaushadha, who lived with her happily.
After a time there came unto King Janaka a king [106] who had lost his
possessions. As King Janaka did not care for him, he betook himself to
Mahaushadha, who received him with compassion and supplied him with
means of subsistence.
Some time afterwards a Brahman came to Mahaushadha and asked him for a
measure of barley. Mahaushadha promised it to him, but intrusted the
delivery of it to the overseer of the granary, who kept putting the
matter off from day to day and gave nothing.
Now it came to pass one day that the king was sitting surrounded by the
ministers and the town and country folk at a certain spot where many
people paid reverence to him. He asked the ministers to what person a
secret might be intrusted, on whom it might be safe to rely. The
ministers began to consider. One of them said that a man might intrust
a secret to his friend; another, to his wife; a third, to his mother; a
fourth, to his sister; a fifth, to his brother. When Mahaushadha was
asked by the king why he did not in his turn express an opinion, he
replied, “O king, my opinion is that a man ought not to intrust a
secret to any one, but least of all to his wife. This will I prove unto
you, O king.”
Some time after this the king’s peacock was missing. Mahaushadha found
it but hid it away. Then he took another which resembled it and said to
his wife, “Have you heard that the king’s peacock up at the palace is
missing?” She replied that she had heard about it. Then Mahaushadha
said to her, “Say nothing about it to any one, but cook it quickly, and
I will eat it.” [107] She said to herself, “See now, this man from the
hill-village wants to eat the king’s peacock. My father places the
utmost confidence in him, and he acts to the king’s hurt.”
Some time afterwards, Mahaushadha dressed in full array a courtesan who
bore a likeness to one of the king’s wives, and brought her to his
wife. And he said to his wife, “This is such and such a wife of the
king’s. As I am very intimate with her, and you are dear to me, do not
mention it to any one.” Thinking that she and Mahaushadha were living
together, the king’s daughter became very angry. And she considered
that as he was dishonouring her father, who was quite unaware thereof,
it was not right to appoint as first minister a man sprung from a lowly
family in a hill-village, and to intrust the whole of the king’s
affairs to him, the shameful one. So with a view to seeing that he was
put back again into his former place, she went to her father and said,
“O father, you have unadvisedly appointed this miscreant first
minister, and you placed reliance upon him in an unbecoming manner. He
has sinned against the king’s wife, having had to do with such and such
a wife of yours. And besides, it is he who has eaten the king’s
peacock. Moreover, he has received in a friendly manner and has
supplied with all necessaries men coming from a foreign land. But you,
O father, have always held him dearer than all others, and no one save
him has pleased you.”
In order to sift this matter thoroughly, the king ordered his
executioners to put Mahaushadha to death. Accordingly these men of low
caste fastened a karavīra wreath around his neck, beat a drum, the
sound of which resembles the voice of an ass, abused him with coarse
language and threatened him. Like unto the servants of the god of
death, with sharpened weapons in their hands, they led him away to the
cemetery. But no man believed that he would be put to death. The
townspeople and villagers had their eyes full of tears, and they
uttered cries of sorrow and despair, and prayed to the gods, just as if
a child of their own were going to be killed; and the poor Kshatriyas
whom Mahaushadha had received kindly and provided with means of
subsistence said to the king’s men, “As we will put this man to death,
do ye turn back.”
As he passed out of the city, the Brahman’s wife Ātmavīrā laid hold of
the skirt of his robe and said, “You who were to have given me the
measure of barley, give it and go,” But Mahaushadha uttered this śloka:
“A king does not become a friend, a hangman has no acquaintances; to
women ought no secret to be intrusted; peacock’s flesh ought no one to
eat; to the Brahman’s wife Ātmavīrā a man ought not to admit that he
possesses a measure of barley.”
As he walked along uttering these words, the executioners said, “Have
you, who are endowed with knowledge and excellent wisdom, anything to
set forth?”
Mahaushadha replied, “O king, I have nothing to set forth; but in the
despair of anguish I said what was needful.”
“What is that?”
He replied, “A king does not become a friend,” and so forth. And he
continued, “O king, I beseech you to listen to me a little. When I
said, ‘A king does not become a friend,’ could you not perceive that I
said so with reference to earlier times, when you had absolutely no
influence over villages, towns, and cities?”
When they had gone somewhat farther, it was suggested to King Janaka
that he should again ask Mahaushadha what he had to set forth. Then the
king called to him and questioned him. He replied, “O king, from being
one who had merely food, drink, and service, you have by my means
become a king ruling the earth, with a realm, an army, and treasures.
But you, without recognising what I did for you in early days, are
sending me to death, on which account I uttered the words, ‘A king does
not become a friend.’ I said also, ‘A hangman has no acquaintances.’
This hangman, if he were to go without bed and clothing to the king in
order to obtain the means of living from the king, when he had drawn
nigh unto the king, would not be received by him; but I have bestowed
land on the hungry fugitive, by means of which he has by this time
become prosperous. Now he conducts me to my death, on which account I
said, ‘A hangman has no acquaintances.’ As regards the words, ‘To women
ought no secret to be intrusted,’ I uttered them for the following
reason. When you, O king, sitting one day in the midst of your court,
asked whom one might venture to trust, and the ministers replied one’s
father, or mother, or sister, or comrades, but you, O king, said that a
man should intrust a secret to his wife, because a man’s wife is the
half of his body, then did I entertain the idea of bringing the whole
matter before the eyes of the king. In order to provide a test, I hid
away the king’s peacock, and took another peacock, which I ate. Then I
took from the chamber of the women the ornaments belonging to a certain
woman, and hung them around the neck of a certain courtesan, and led
her into my house. Be pleased, O king, to look upon that courtesan.”
When the king had placed side by side the courtesan and the designated
inmate of his women’s chamber, and had looked upon them both, and had
found that there was a remarkable similarity in their appearance,
figure, behaviour, and characteristics, so that it was impossible to
distinguish one from the other, then the king, after some
consideration, perceived that Mahaushadha was innocent.
“As to the words [continued Mahaushadha], ‘To the Brahman’s wife
Ātmavīrā a man ought not to admit that he possesses a measure of
barley,’ I uttered them for this reason. When you had sentenced me to
death, and the executioners were leading me away, she called out, ‘Give
me the measure of barley,’ and on its account seized me by the skirt of
my robe.”
When all this was made clear to the eyes of the king, he rejoiced, and
gave orders that Mahaushadha should be released, and he heaped upon him
tokens of honour. Mahaushadha made obeisance to the king, and then
said, “O king, have you learnt what the secrecy of wives is? I have no
longer any need of your daughter. I will seek me a wife like unto
myself in race, beauty, character, and wisdom.”
When the king had granted him permission, he went to the mountain
forest Kaksha, [108] in order to find for himself a maiden. He had put
on the dress of a Brahman, and carried a water-jug in his right hand,
his body being adorned with the string of sacrifice and covered with
the skin of a gazelle, and his face marked with three lines of
ointment. When he had gone half-way, darkness came on. A Brahman asked
him whence he came.
“From the Videha land,” he replied.
“Whither do you intend to go?”
“To the Kaksha forest.”
“Do you know any one in whose house you can find shelter?”
Mahaushadha said that he did not. Then the Brahman took him into his
own house and entertained him in a becoming manner. But Mahaushadha
suspected that his host’s wife, who loved another man, was a worthless
woman. When he took his departure next day the Brahman said to him,
“Consider this house as your own when you come here on your journeyings
to and fro.”
“That will I do,” replied Mahaushadha, and went his way.
About half-way there was a barley-field, and in it he saw a very
beautiful maiden, of high race and of great modesty.
As soon as he saw her a longing after her entered into his mind.
“Good maiden,” he asked, “who are you? Whose daughter are you? What is
your name?”
“I am Viśākhā,” she replied.
“Whose daughter are you?”
“His who works in wood for all the village.”
Then thought Mahaushadha, “Her form is fair, but I will now test her
intelligence a little.”
He went into a wheat-field, lifted up his hands, and while he
flourished his hands on high, he trampled on the wheat with his feet.
Then said Viśākhā, “O Pundit, as you have flourished your hands on
high, so also ought you to flourish on high your feet.”
“This maiden is clever,” he thought. Then he said with a smile, “You
are very brilliant, O maiden, seeing that you have earrings and
armlets.”
“The reason is, O Pundit, that both have little oxen,” said Viśākhā.
[109]
Then said Mahaushadha, “The maiden is of fair form and charming
appearance.”
“That is through the favour of the village elder,” replied Viśākhā.
“Where has your father gone?” he asked after a time.
“He has gone to make two roads out of one. After collecting the twigs
of the thorn-bushes, he uses them for making the road. In this manner
he gives men two roads.”
“Where has your mother gone?”
“To fetch seeds from the fruits of the field.”
“Maiden, shall I take you to be my wife?”
“If the head of the village gives permission,” said the maiden.
“Show me the way,” he said, “by which one can go straight and safely to
the Kaksha forest.”
She pointed out to him a crooked road, and then set out herself along
another road. There she took off her clothes beside a tank, shut one
eye, and while waiting to see if he would recognise her or not, bowed
down upon one side and said, “In the direction of the hand which is
used in eating should one go. From the direction of the hand which is
not used in eating should one deviate, and so go to the Rice-Soup
forest.”
When Mahaushadha had gone some way along the road indicated to him, he
perceived her from afar off, and said, “Fair one with the roguish eyes,
having on no garment woven of cotton, but being clothed with the unspun
and unweaved, show me how it is possible to go to Kusumagrāma.”
Thereupon said the maiden, slightly smiling, “Here leave on one side
the left-hand road, where there is corn and the palāsa blossoms display
themselves; there, O Brahman, must you take your way.” [110]
He set forth. Coming to the house of Viśākhā’s father, he found that
her parents were not at home. So he said to the village head-men, “If
you allow it, I will take this woman to be my wife.”
When the head-men of the village heard these words, they immediately
with one accord began to upbraid him, saying, “You wretched mendicant
Brahman, are not you ashamed to want such a maiden as our Viśākhā? Get
away with you at once from this spot. Or must we hand you over to be
devoured by fierce dogs?”
Driven away by them, he returned to Viśākhā. While he was still at a
distance, she bade him welcome. When he told her of his interview with
the village head-men, who had been on the point of beating him, she
said, “How and in what manner did you speak?”
When he had told her everything, Viśākhā said to him, “O Brahman, you
are not expert in such matters. Have you behaved in the way in which a
man ought to propose for a maiden?”
“How else, then, ought one to act?” asked the Brahman.
“First of all,” replied the maiden, “the man must draw near. Then he
must gain favour. And if that is granted, he must offer hospitality and
organise an entertainment, after which he may bring forward his
desire.”
He went away and acted in accordance with this advice, entertaining the
village head-men at an excellent banquet. Then he arose and asked for
Viśākhā. This time they gave their assent. Just as this point was
reached her parents arrived. Then Mahaushadha and the village head-men
asked her parents for her. The parents were of opinion that the matter
required consideration.
Then said the village head-men, “What is there to consider about? He is
a young, shapely, handsome, learned Brahman, perfectly versed in the
Vedas and Vedāngas. So give him your daughter without further
consideration.”
Thereupon Mahaushadha offered hospitality to the Brahmans, and he
received the maiden as his wife. The next day he invited his wife’s
parents, paid them honour, bestowed upon them raiment and gifts in
return for the bride, and then went his way to King Janaka in Videha.
On the way a Brahman entertained him at the festival of the fourteenth
day of the half-moon, and gave him as a present a measure of barley,
which he poured into a corner of his robe. When he came to the house of
his friend he knocked at the door. The Brahman’s wife said, “Who is
there?” He replied, “It is I, your husband’s friend.” She replied, “My
husband is not at home, and as there is no one else here, I cannot
admit any man during his absence. Seek for shelter elsewhere.”
Soon afterwards, while Mahaushadha was considering how it was that she
did not admit him, he saw another man admitted. Then said Mahaushadha,
“There was a reason for my not being admitted.”
While he was still thinking the matter over, the Brahman himself came
up from a village and called aloud at the door. When his wife heard her
husband’s voice, she considered what she should do, and with some
misgivings hid her visitor away in a basket.
After this the two men who were outside entered in and sat down. Then
said Mahaushadha to the Brahman’s wife, “Where shall I put this
barley?”
“On the floor,” she replied.
The Brahman said, “Mice might come and eat it.”
He looked under the bed and searched all the ends and corners of the
house, but nothing came to light. All at once he saw a basket laid
aside, into which he thought the corn might be put.
“Into this basket will I pour the barley,” said Mahaushadha.
“That basket contains a treasure of mine,” said the Brahman’s wife.
“How can barley be put into it?”
“Set aside the treasure in some pot,” said the husband, “then we can
pour the barley in here.”
Mahaushadha also said, “In order that the mice may not render the
barley useless, it must be poured in here.”
Then said the Brahman’s wife, who became terrified at the thought of
the consequences, “The basket is damp; the barley will get spoilt
inside it.”
“You need not be uneasy,” replied Mahaushadha to the Brahman’s wife. “I
will take care that no dampness remains in it, and that the barley is
not spoilt.”
Then he stood up, reversed his gazelle skin, and tied the string of
sacrifice twice round his neck. Then he went out to fetch wood and
water, with the intention of cleansing the basket.
The Brahman’s wife, experiencing the pain of parting from her lover,
and fearing that he would be killed, sent a messenger with all speed to
his house, in order that, things being so, some one might come from
thence immediately. As soon as his father heard the news, he came to
Mahaushadha and said, “I want to purchase this basket.”
“Be of good cheer and take it,” was the reply.
“On what terms?”
“On payment of five hundred gold pieces, not otherwise.”
While thus speaking, Mahaushadha lighted a lamp close by the basket.
But the father, thinking that it would not be well to let the matter
become known, opened the door of the house, and had the basket taken up
by a strong man and conveyed to his own house.
On the following day Mahaushadha gave a hundred gold pieces to the man
to whom the house belonged, told him what his wife’s character was
like, and advised him, after such an occurrence as this, to be on his
guard. The remaining four hundred pieces he made over to that Brahman,
in order that he might go with them to the Kaksha forest, and present
them to Viśākhā, the maiden whom he had asked in marriage.
“Tell them [he said] that I am no Brahman, but Mahaushadha, the chief
minister of the king of Videha, and that I came in that guise only to
carry out my quest. Therefore must they watch carefully over the
maiden.”
Having in this way sent the gold pieces and a missive along with them,
he himself went to King Janaka.
The Brahman went to the Kaksha forest, and delivered to Viśākhā the
missive and three hundred of the pieces of gold. When Viśākhā perceived
that she had not received the fourth hundred, she at once began looking
under the bed.
“What are you looking for there?” he asked.
“Men have come from the court of the king,” she replied, “with orders
to seize the malefactor, and have gone away. Therefore do I look for
him who has not gone.”
Then she took some clay and said to that Brahman, “As I do not know who
it is who has thus come here, I should like to try if a foot can go in
here or not. So put your foot in here for a while.”
When the Brahman, to avoid being suspected, had inserted his foot into
the clay, she suddenly drove a peg [111] into it.
“Why do you arrest me?” asked the Brahman.
“Because that man sent me four hundred pieces, but you have abstracted
a hundred of them,” she replied.
The Brahman was astounded, and thought: “This woman and Mahaushadha are
two demons. Two great demons have combined together.” And he paid her
the residue. Then her parents came in, and he said, showing them the
gold, “The man is no Brahman. He is the king of Videha’s principal
minister, Mahaushadha.”
When the maiden’s parents and kinsmen heard that, they said that they
were allied with a man of power, that they were in that respect very
fortunate, and that their family would be made famous by means of
Mahaushadha.
When Mahaushadha arrived in the city, and the king heard of that, he
and the old ministers were greatly pleased.
“How have you fared?” asked the king.
“I have chosen me a wife,” he replied.
“What kind of wife?”
“A very beautiful one,” replied Mahaushadha, “of perfect intelligence,
suitable for me.”
And he asked the king if, as she was of such a nature, he might now
marry her.
“Except me,” said the king, “is there any man equal to you? And why?
Because you are my chief minister. Therefore marry her to my great
pleasure.”
“O king, I will do so.”
Surrounded by the band of ministers, Mahaushadha invited the Brahmans,
householders, and populace to be his guests. Collecting together the
rest in great numbers, the elephant-drivers, the horse-drivers, the
chariot-drivers, and the goers on foot, he went to the house of his
father-in-law in the mountain forest Kaksha. Having arrived there, he
celebrated a great wedding-feast, and after a time he returned to the
city with his wife, and lived with her there in love’s delights.
After this there came from the north to King Janaka in Videha five
hundred merchants with goods and horses. In that city lived many
courtesans, who were wont, by means of their wiles, to despoil of their
goods the merchants who came thither. As soon as they heard that
merchants had come from the north, they fastened upon them. But the
chief of the merchants was very cautious. The most attractive of the
women took him in hand, but with no success. Then she called the
merchants together, and requested them to render their chief well
disposed towards her. But although the merchants and the women took
great pains day after day, yet he did not yield to enticement. Then
that courtesan went to the chief and joked and laughed.
“Why do you trouble yourself?” said the chief. “You will not entice
me.”
“What will you give me,” she asked, “if I do entice you?”
“I will give you five of our best horses. But if you fail to entice me,
and you have no money, then you must follow after me.”
Thus ran their talk. But in spite of all her efforts she could not
attain her end.
One day the merchants said to their chief, “Do as other people do?”
“I have enjoyed the woman by night in a dream,” replied the chief.
[112]
The merchants repeated this to the woman, who called upon the king’s
men to arrest the merchant, saying, “As you have enjoyed my love, pay
me five first-rate horses.”
“You lie, disreputable female,” replied the merchant.
So they two carried up their dispute to the palace.
The king and his court attempted to settle the question. Evening came,
but still they did not succeed. Worn and fretted by hunger, they
resolved to postpone the decision of the question, and went to their
homes.
When Mahaushadha came home that evening, Viśākhā said, “My lord, why
have you tarried so long to-day?”
He gave her a full account of the whole question which they had not
been able to settle.
“If a question remains unsettled by all of you,” she said, “after being
thus considered and discussed, how comes it that you hold such a
position?”
“Such being the state of affairs,” said Mahaushadha, “can you,
perchance, decide the question?”
“I can,” she replied. “See how great is my judgment! Go and order the
five good horses to be placed at the edge of a piece of water. Then let
the king and the ministers meet together at that place and give their
opinions on the matter. If it turns out that, as the woman says, the
merchant has really enjoyed her, then let the five good horses be given
to her. But if it be proved that he did so only in a dream, then let
her be shown the image of the horses in the water. If she says that she
can neither grasp nor use them, then let her be told that, just as it
is impossible to grasp that image, so is it also with the fruition of
love in a dream.”
All this was carried out. All were astonished at this decision, and the
king asked who had been the discoverer of this way of escape. Whereupon
Mahaushadha replied that Viśākhā had discovered it. Then all perceived
that the carpenter’s daughter was exceedingly clever, and her fame
spread abroad throughout all lands.
After that a merchant from the north made a present of two mares [113]
to the king, and said, “These two mares, O king, are dam and foal, but
which the dam is and which the foal, nobody knows.” When in this case
also the king and his court were in difficulties, the carpenter’s
daughter Viśākhā settled the question as before, saying that the
thick-haired mare was the dam and the soft-haired the foal.
Another time a snake-catcher brought two serpents, one of which was
male and the other female, but nobody knew which was which. When
Mahaushadha consulted Viśākhā, she laughed, and wondered how it was
that the king’s ministers were unable to solve such a problem. What was
needed was to fasten the leaf of a cotton plant to the end of a reed,
and to stroke the backs of the serpents with the cotton. The serpent
which was unable to endure that stroking would be the male.
On another occasion, a merchant from the south brought a stem of
sandal-wood, [114] of which no one knew the upper end from the lower.
Mahaushadha again consulted his wife, who told him to throw the stem
into a pool. The root end would then sink downwards.
Once King Janaka was pleased to try which of his ministers was capable
of recognising precious stones. With this intent he caused a gem to be
fastened to the top of a standard upon the belvedere, underneath which
was a tank. The king promised to give the gem to him who should
recognise it; but no one who went into the water, intending to grasp at
the light he saw there, was considered entitled to obtain it. When
Viśākhā was consulted by her husband, she said that he must look
upwards, for that light was only the reflection of the gem attached to
the standard, and that it was necessary to go in the direction of the
standard in order to obtain the gem.
As Viśākhā was very handsome, the six ministers tried, by means of all
sorts of presents of gold, silver, and precious stones, to entice her
into making an assignation, but they could not succeed in doing so. As
they did not desist, she asked her husband if it was really the custom
of the country that every young and handsome woman should be cajoled by
other men. He replied that this took place everywhere, for men were
greedy after all women, and they were instructed by the women
themselves; but that if a woman was prudent, she did not give her
consent. Then said Viśākhā, “If I were to bring a man of that kind to
harm or disgrace, would any danger arise out of it?” Mahaushadha said,
“Do so, and fear not.” So she told him that he was to feign an illness,
and she would turn it to good account. He did so. Then she sent
messengers to inform the ministers, who had become acquainted with his
indisposition, that she would grant them the fulfilment of their
desires. Having caused an image of Mahaushadha to be made of wood, she
dressed it and laid it in his bed. To each of the ministers she sent
word to come to her at a certain hour, without letting the others know
anything about it. She had also caused six chests to be made, and had
distributed them in six of her rooms. Each of the ministers, on his
arrival, she hid away in one of the chests. Next day she let the report
spread abroad that Mahaushadha was dead. Thereupon the king and his
court, as well as the rest of the people, broke forth into lamentation.
But Viśākhā locked the chests and took them to the king, and said, “Now
that Mahaushadha is dead, here are his treasures of gold, silver, and
precious stones, sealed with his own signet.” While the king was
grieving that these presents should have been made to him on the very
day of their owner’s death, Mahaushadha came into the palace by another
way, laughing and adorned with flowers. Having made obeisance to the
king, he said, “Do you mean now to take possession of my property, O
king, although you have never shadowed me with the canopy of your
grace?”
“I have not taken it,” said the king. “It was brought here from your
own house.”
“Great king and Mahaushadha,” said Viśākhā, “there is another world
besides this. These are precious stones from it. Take them as a pledge.
Great king, these are the men who have dishonoured me, the widow
separated from her husband, and have stolen from me my treasure.”
Thereupon Mahaushadha pointed out the excellent intentions in the minds
of the first ministers. When the king had looked in, and had seen the
six ministers with their hair and beards shorn, and their hands and
feet drawn together, he laughed and said to Mahaushadha, “Tell me,
whose contrivance is this?”
“It is Viśākhā’s contrivance,” he replied, and then he proceeded to
tell the whole story. The king marvelled at the acuteness and
resolution shown by Viśākhā, and the cleverness of the carpenter’s
daughter Viśākhā obtained praise in all lands.
The king resolved that Mahaushadha should try to find him a wife of
similar discretion, in which case everything would be placed on a good
footing both at home and as regards affairs exterior to the palace.
“Where shall I look for her?” asked Mahaushadha.
“The king of Panchāla has an exceedingly beautiful daughter called
Aushadhī,” replied King Janaka. “She is endowed with knowledge and
memory, and I have heard that in acuteness she resembles Viśākhā.
Obtain her for me as my wife.”
“O king,” said Mahaushadha, “in this matter must some stratagem be
employed, for there is enmity between you and him.”
Then King Janaka sent his ministers and his Purohita in order to make
proposals of marriage. The king of Panchāla called his ministers
together and asked them what he should do. They said, “As King Janaka
formerly refused to listen to your orders, we must manage so that they
may fall into our power. Tell them that you will give your daughter,
and that an appointment must be made for the purpose of receiving her,
at a certain hour, on such and such a day of the half-moon, at such and
such a place.”
Having thus spoken, they went forth and announced that King Janaka was
to receive the Princess Aushadhī.
“When and where?” asked the envoys.
“On such and such a day, at an appointed hour,” was the reply.
Thereupon the king of Panchāla sent forth invitations to the wedding.
And he prepared food and drink, and infused into it divers kinds of
poisons. When all was ready, he sent out messengers to the people to
come forthwith.
When Mahaushadha heard that, he said to King Janaka, “It is not fitting
that we should act hastily.”
“For what reason?”
“This king is a neighbour who has always been opposed to us, at
variance with us. We must send a spy in advance.”
“Whom shall we send?” said the king.
“O king,” said Mahaushadha, “be at ease. I have a parrot called
Charaka, [115] who is clever and honest. Him will I send. He will
return after he has held converse with all.”
“Do so,” said the king.
The parrot flew off, and considered to whom he should draw nigh, with
whom he should make friends and hold converse. In spite of looking
around on all sides, he could detect nothing, and he had to consider
how he should begin the usual style of business. Entering the palace,
and there looking about him, he saw a maina [116] sitting on some
timber-work, and flew up to her, and the two birds took pleasure in
each other’s company.
She asked him where he came from. He replied, “I come from King Śibi in
the north. I was the guardian of a park, and I had as wife an
excellent, beautiful, clever, devoted, and sweet-spoken maina. Having
flown to a distance one day, she was carried off by a falcon. Full of
grief and trouble on this account, I have gone wandering hither and
thither, and so have come to where you are. Will not you, O good one,
be my wife?”
“Never has it been heard or seen,” she replied, “that a maina became
the wife of a parrot. I have heard that really the wife of a parrot is
a parrot too.”
Thereupon the parrot tried by other flights in this and that direction
to draw nigh unto her, and to render her well disposed towards him,
whereby he entered into loving relations with her.
When the parrot saw in the king’s palace many kinds of food, such as
honey-puffs and other dainties, being cooked in pans, and many cates
made of sugar, he said to the maina, “Wherefore are these things being
cooked? Is it likely that we shall get any?” Then he said to the maina
in verse, “Of this plentiful fresh oil which is being cooked in the
pan, shall we partake? Answer softly, O maina.”
“That which is being cooked in the pan,” replied the maina, “shall not
be your food, O clever parrot Charaka. With this food is poison mixed
for the benefit of Janaka.”
Then the parrot, employing wisdom, artfully said to the maina, “As it
is said that the king of Panchāla is about to give his daughter to
Janaka, and the news of this has been spread abroad in all the land, I
ask whose words are truthful? on whose words can reliance be placed?”
“Clever parrot Charaka,” said the maina, “this evil one is not going to
give him his daughter. The men of evil purpose seek only to slay him.”
When the parrot Charaka had heard this, having seen and heard, sought
and learnt, he returned home, like a merchant who has succeeded in
obtaining gains. But to the maina he said, referring to King Śibi, “Now
must I go, O good one, in order to let King Śibi know that I have found
a soft-spoken maina like unto my wife.”
“O lord,” said the maina, “when you have gone away, and have informed
King Śibi, let it be made known after a space of seven days, after no
longer lapse of time. Let King Śibi know what are my descent, my
family, and my means. For my sake be not lost.”
The parrot flew away, and gave a full account of all these things to
Mahaushadha, who made King Janaka acquainted therewith.
When the king of Panchāla saw that Janaka was not coming, he equipped a
complete army, and went forth against King Janaka, and besieged his
capital. The first minister, Mahaushadha, perceived that there was no
withstanding him in fight, so he considered how he could excite
discord. By means of sending divers presents to King Śibi’s five
hundred ministers he produced dissension. When this had been brought
about, Janaka sent envoys to the king of Panchāla with a message to the
effect that, although he was in a position to fight the king of
Panchāla, yet he wished to be reconciled with him, and not to fight
with him who was his father-in-law. The king of Panchāla should know
that in King Janaka’s hands lay life and death. But though he could
fight with him, yet he would rather not do so. If the king of Panchāla
was in doubt, let him consider that Janaka had sent such and such
presents to such and such ministers.
The king of Panchāla laid hands on those ministers with the presents,
and that same evening he returned home. On his arrival there, he
ordered the five hundred ministers to be executed, and made their sons
ministers in their stead, and he became reconciled with King Janaka.
When Mahaushadha learnt that the ministers had been put to death, he
rejoiced at having brought this about. They being dead, he said to the
king, “Now will I go myself to see if I can obtain the princess or
not.”
When he had arrived in the land of Panchāla, the king invited him to
enter the city. But he replied that he would stay where he was in the
park, or in case he entered the city, he would go to the house of a
certain minister. The king of Panchāla was alarmed at these words,
thinking that Mahaushadha might be wishing again to sow discord between
him and his ministers, so he sent to tell him that he might stay where
he was if he wished it.
Now the ministers reflected that Mahaushadha had deprived their fathers
of life, and they thought, remembering the old grudge, that if they
brought the matter energetically before the king, Mahaushadha would
never return home. So, after they had met together, they said to the
king, “It is Mahaushadha in whom King Janaka has such a source of
mental power. When he is at home by the king’s side, no one can injure
the king, but while he is here, we might well go forth again to attack
King Janaka.”
The king consented thereto, and they set out for King Janaka’s capital
with a fully equipped army. King Janaka also made himself ready. Now
Mahaushadha learnt that the king of Panchāla had invaded King Janaka’s
country by such and such a road. After remaining a little longer where
he was, he learnt that the treasures of the king of Panchāla were kept
in a certain place, and that the king’s daughter, Aushadhī by name,
lived there also. So he went thither with a small troop of trusty
adherents and surrounded the treasury. Entering therein, he emptied it
of its contents and carried off the princess along with the gold and
precious things. Then he got his army ready, and entered King Janaka’s
country from a different side. Thereat King Janaka rejoiced, and so did
the ministers, the villagers, and the rest of the people, saying that
he had accomplished a great work, and they made him many demonstrations
of honour.
When the king of Panchāla’s ministers heard that Mahaushadha had
arrived with the maiden and the treasure, they abandoned the siege of
the capital and returned to their own country; and King Janaka, having
obtained the maiden as his wife, lived with her in happiness and love.
After a while, the king of Panchāla sent a messenger to his daughter,
and asked for information as to who it was by whose coming the matter
had been found out, and who it was who had brought about the
dissensions. She sent word back that it was Mahaushadha’s parrot named
Charaka, which, being endowed with human speech, had spied the matter
out. Then the king of Panchāla desired that it should at any rate be
delivered up to him. So with great difficulty she contrived to catch it
in a net, and she sent it to her father. The king flew into a passion,
upbraided the bird in divers ways, and then ordered it to be killed.
The parrot Charaka fell at the king’s feet, and besought him to allow
it to die as its father and grandfather had died. The king gave his
consent, and asked in what manner its father and grandfather had been
put to death. When its tail had been wrapped in cotton and drenched
with mustard-oil, and when all this had been set on fire, and the bird
was let go to fly up into the air, it set the whole of the royal palace
in a blaze, [117] and then dived under water. When it had returned
home, and King Janaka and Mahaushadha asked it whence it came, it gave
them a full account of everything which had taken place, whereat they
rejoiced. But the king of Panchāla, being full of wrath, sent a letter
to say that as the parrot had after such a fashion brought about
injury, it must be again sent to him without fail. His daughter laid
hands on the bird and sent it. The king of Panchāla in his rage plucked
it quite bare, made a mere lump of flesh of it, and with the words, “Go
and get eaten,” flung it out of the window. Thereupon a falcon snapped
it up. But it besought the falcon, saying, “If you eat me, you will
have food for one day only; but if you will let me go, I will take care
that you shall receive every day much food and whatever else you need.”
The falcon gave heed to its words, and after the parrot had confirmed
them by an oath, it was released. Charaka said, “At such and such a
spot is the king’s temple, convey me thither.” The falcon did so. The
parrot went inside and crept into a hole.
Next day the Brahmans came to offer sacrifices to the deity. As they
were preparing to offer perfumes, incense, food, gifts, and oblations,
Charaka cried out, “O Brahmans, to the sinful king of Panchāla shall ye
convey these words of mine: ‘As you have committed such and such a sin,
I have inflicted injury upon you. If you do not act in obedience to my
words, I will do the same again. You must bring day by day as an
offering of food a whole measure full of red raw meat, sesamum, and
rice porridge. After that I will consider what is to be done.’”
The Brahman went to the king and told him this. Thereupon the king
ordered food-offerings and oblations to be prepared, and came every day
with the ministers and the Purohita in order to beseech the deity to
say if he were forgiven or not, and to promise that he would act in
accordance with the divine commands.
When, after some time, the wings of the parrot Charaka had grown again,
it became capable of flying, and felt a desire to take to flight. Then
it said, “You, O king, together with the commander of the army, the
queen, the prince, and the ministers, must appear before me with heads
shorn as smooth as pestles. If ye do so, then will I vouchsafe
forgiveness.”
The king took this to heart and behaved accordingly, and the whole
party, with heads shorn like pestles, proceeded to the abode of the
deity, fell at its feet and begged for pardon. Then the parrot flew
aloft, uttering this verse:—
“The doer of the deed is requited. See how the plucker in his turn is
plucked! Now he who by himself was plucked has thoroughly well plucked
the enemy and all the rest.”
Having thus spoken, Charaka flew away to Mahaushadha, who asked it
whence it came, as he had not seen it for so long a time. It gave a
full account of what kind of trick it had played. Mahaushadha was
delighted therewith, and he reported it to King Janaka, who likewise
rejoiced greatly, and considered himself fortunate in having so
intelligent a minister.
At another time the king, in order to see which of his ministers was
the cleverest, took it into his head to summon them, and to give to
each of them a dog, with directions to train it to speak with a human
voice within a given time. The ministers took the dogs home with them,
and managed to rear them properly, but not to teach them to speak.
Mahaushadha took his dog home, and gave it a place at a little distance
from the table, fastening it to a peg. The dog was accustomed to see
various kinds of meats, drinks, and soups prepared for Mahaushadha, but
could not get at them. By means of giving it little food and that bad,
Mahaushadha brought it about that the dog was neither dead nor alive,
and was lean and gaunt with exhaustion.
After a time the king ordered the dogs to be brought, whether
instructed or not instructed. The other ministers, who were not versed
in the sciences, had not been able to teach their dogs to speak. Then
the king ordered Mahaushadha to bring the dog which had been handed
over to him. When the gaunt, famished dog appeared before the king, he
asked why it was so thin. Mahaushadha replied, “O king, I have given it
the same kind of food that I ate myself.” But the dog exclaimed, “O
king, that is not true. I am all but dead with hunger.” Thereupon
Mahaushadha said, “After this fashion have I taught the dog to speak.”
Whereat the king was highly pleased.
Another time, when the king wished to make a similar trial, he ordered
each of the ministers to feed and water a sheep in such a manner that
the sheep should become strong without waxing fat. [118] Five hundred
of the ministers were unaware how to set about this matter. They reared
their sheep, but the sheep became fat. But Mahaushadha, while he placed
delicate food before his sheep, set up in front of it a wooden wolf
which he had provided for the purpose. The sight of the wolf frightened
the sheep so much that it grew up strong without becoming fat. When the
king saw that the sheep of the other ministers were flourishing and
very fat, but that Mahaushadha’s sheep had become strong without
growing fat, he highly commended his wisdom.
On another occasion the king was again desirous of finding out who was
possessed of wisdom. The five hundred sons of the ministers were
holding a feast in the park. As they sat there eating and drinking,
they took to describing marvellous things, each one being called upon
to state whatever wondrous thing he had either himself experienced or
had heard described while tarrying at home. Then out of friendship they
told one another the marvels they had witnessed at home and elsewhere.
Along with the rest Mahaushadha’s son was called upon by the young men
to relate something. He said that there was a stone in his father’s
house which, although it formed the base of a column, would yet, if
thrown into water, swim to and fro, and lend itself to rubbing and
kneading, and so forth. The youths expressed their opinion that no such
marvel existed in any of their houses. As he would not give way, and
they doubted his word, he said that he would stake upon it five hundred
pieces of gold. He told this to his father, who said, “Son, do not show
them the stone.” So when the youths came, he did not show them the
stone, and his five hundred gold pieces were forfeited.
After a time Mahaushadha took some monkeys and gave them a musical
training. Then he said to his son, “Go to your comrades and tell them,
in reference to your former undertaking about marvels seen at home,
that you are willing to stake twice as much money as before on the fact
that you can show in your house musical monkeys, capable of dancing and
singing and playing on the drum.” In accordance with these instructions
the young man, after speaking of other things, passed on to that
subject, and said that he had seen such creatures. They declared that
they had never either seen or heard of monkeys which performed
musically. “What will you give me if I show you some?” he said. They
replied, “You have already lost five hundred pieces of gold, and now
you will lose a thousand if you cannot show us these monkeys, but have
been talking nonsense as before. But if you do show them to us, then we
will pay you that sum.” When they had settled this wager, the monkeys
were brought into the royal palace, where they played and sang and
danced before the king. So the young men were obliged to pay the
thousand pieces of gold. The king was greatly astonished; he had never
seen or heard of anything like it before. Thereupon the king, the
ministers, and the inhabitants of the city all paid great honour to
Mahaushadha, in that he was wise and clever above all other men.
It happened that there was born unto a very learned Brahman in the land
of Videha a very beautiful daughter, whom he determined he would give
in marriage to him only who equalled himself in acuteness and
knowledge. She received the name of Udumbarikā.
Unto another Brahman there was born a bad-looking son, unlike his
father, and marked with eighteen signs of ugliness. On account of his
ugliness his parents, at the time of his birth, gave him the name of
Virūpa. As he was so hideous, and his parents were ashamed of his
ugliness, they thought it would be of no use to have so bad-looking a
creature educated. But when he had grown up, being desirous of
instruction, he determined to go to another country in order to study.
There he was accepted as a pupil by a Brahman, and he soon made himself
master of all the knowledge his teacher possessed.
In consequence of this, Udumbarikā’s father determined, in spite of
Virūpa’s ugliness, to give him his daughter to wife. However Virūpa did
not dare to draw nigh unto her, but resolved to go back to his own
home, in order to live with her there.
When Udumbarikā set eyes upon this paragon of ugliness, she being
herself beautiful, she felt ashamed of him. Virūpa set out with her for
his own country. On the way their stock of travelling provisions came
to an end. Arriving at the edge of a piece of water, they threw
themselves down upon the ground, feeling very hungry. A
fellow-traveller, having stirred up some meal and water with a bit of
wood, began to partake of it, and the woman, tormented by hunger,
begged to have some too. Then Virūpa took a handful of meal and partook
of it by himself.
“As I also am sorely tormented by hunger,” said Udumbarikā, “I would
fain partake of that water.”
“As the early Rishis and law-teachers have forbidden women to partake
of such water, I will not give you any,” replied Virūpa.
While they were suffering from hunger in a desert during a time of
drought, Virūpa found some dog’s flesh, which he roasted and ate. When
Udumbarikā wanted some too, he would not give her any, because the
Rishis had forbidden women to partake of such food. Thereupon she gave
way to all kinds of wailing, lamenting that she, unhappy one that she
was, should be tormented by the pangs of hunger, and asking wherefore,
on account of what fault of hers, had her parents wedded her to such a
man.
They proceeded farther, and saw a ripe Udumbara tree. Virūpa climbed it
and feasted on its fruit. Udumbarikā said he ought not to eat it all
himself, but ought to give some to her also. He ate the ripe fruit and
threw down to her only what was unripe. She told him he ought not to
fling her the unripe fruit only, but ought to give her the ripe fruit
also. He replied, “If you want ripe fruit, climb the tree yourself and
pluck and eat.”
Tormented by hunger, she climbed up into the tree with difficulty, and
there ate some fruit. But Virūpa thought, “What can such a wretched man
as I am do with such a wife—I, who can scarcely support myself? She
will not so much as look at me.”
Coming down from the tree, he surrounded it with thorns and then went
his way.
Now it happened that just at that time King Janaka went out hunting,
and he heard in the forest the wailing of Udumbarikā deserted by her
husband. Following the sound, he caught sight of the bright-eyed one,
who seemed to him like a goddess of the forest. When she had come down
from the tree he reposed by her side, and then set her in his chariot,
conveyed her to the city, and gave himself up to pleasure with her.
Meanwhile Virūpa, as he walked along by himself, repented of having
deserted his wife. So he returned to the Udumbara tree, but found that
his wife was not there, and learnt that King Janaka had taken her away
with him, and had made her one of his wives. Thereat he was sorely
grieved.
He went to the gate of the palace, but he was not admitted within. Then
he saw that there were men at work in the courtyard of the palace, and
he resolved to carry stone along with them. By this means he gained
access to the palace, where he saw his wife and the king in loving
converse. He hit upon a plan of speaking with his wife, and he and she
discoursed in verse as follows:—
He. “Golden is the corner-stone. Dost thou rejoice in blaming?
Fair one, lovest thou me not? Take, O carpenter,
the stone!”
She. “At that spot did I beseech thee. In my memory dwell the words,
‘To women meat is forbidden.’ Me didst thou forsake.”
He. “Beside the Udumbara tree, O fair one, hast thou asked me, born
beside the river Ganges. Take, O carpenter, the stone.”
She. “When I asked for meal and water, thus was I answered: ‘It is not
right that a woman should partake thereof.’ Therefore have I hither
come.”
He. “Much has the learned mouth spoken. Speak of the countless golden
glitter. Fair one, lovest thou me not? Take, O master, the stone!”
She. “Unripe was what thou didst give me. The ripe didst thou eat
thyself. Mindful of harsh speech do I now sit dallying here.”
He. “Down from the mountain will I dash, poison also will I drink, O
Brahman woman. Wailing for thee am I here. Take, O carpenter, the
stone!”
She. “Dash thyself down from the mountain, drink thy poison, O Brahman!
In love’s time thou didst not love. At home must dalliance take place.”
While they two thus held converse, the king became suspicious, and
said, “O queen, as I do not understand what ye are saying to each
other, speak to me without fear, that I may hearken to your words.” As
the king was completely under her influence, she gave him a full
account of everything. The king asked her if she wished to go away with
her husband. She did not like to say openly that her husband was
repulsive to her, for she was afraid that he, as he was a Brahman,
might bring a curse upon her by means of evil spells. Then the king
asked Mahaushadha what was to be done. Mahaushadha promised to arrange
so that the king would not have to part with her.
“How so?” asked the king.
“As this Brahman,” replied Mahaushadha, “is a man of very small means,
but these women are exceedingly grand, I will speak to him after such
and such a fashion. If I suggest it to him, he will look for his wife
among your women, without identifying her.”
The Brahman was summoned, and was asked what he was looking for, and
why he had entered the palace. He replied that he was looking for his
wife, whom the king had brought there.
“Shall you be able to identify your wife?” asked Mahaushadha.
“Yes,” replied Virūpa.
“I will bring the five hundred women before you,” said Mahaushadha. “If
you pick out from among them one who does not belong to you, your body
shall be cut to pieces with weapons.”
Then the king ordered all his wives to appear arrayed in all their
bravery, and to make the greatest possible display of ornaments. And
the king caused Udumbarikā to be placed at the head of all the women,
looking like the spouse of Indra, and surrounded as it were by
Apsarases, and situated on a highroad, where sacrifices were brought.
Mahaushadha called the Brahman to the front, and told him to take away
his wife if he recognised her. But when Virūpa saw Udumbarikā and the
other women adorned with all their bravery, he stood still like a snake
charmed by a spell. Like one unable to gaze at the light of day looked
the Brahman at the women. Then he saw a female slave, a carrier of
water, like unto a Piśāchī [or female demon] in appearance, standing at
the back behind one of the king’s wives, and he seized her by the hand
and said, “This is my wife.”
“If that be so, then take her away with you,” said Mahaushadha.
The Brahman took her and said, “The excellent loves the excellent, and
the mediocre the mediocre; to the crooked one is my heart attached. O
fair one, I am like unto a Piśācha, and you too are a Piśāchī. Come
unto me, O Piśāchī. As I am like unto a Piśācha, we will take pleasure
together.”
Therefore King Janaka forgave Mahaushadha all the faults which he had
ever committed.
One day the king went into the park with his wives, and enjoyed himself
there together with them. One of them took off a string of pearls worth
a hundred thousand pieces of money and hung it on a spray of an aśoka
tree. While sporting with the king she forgot about it and left it
there. At midnight, after she had gone back to the palace with the
king, she remembered that she had left her necklace in the forest.
Meanwhile it had been carried off to the top of a tree by a female
monkey.
The king ordered his men to hasten to the forest and bring back the
necklace. They went there, but they did not find it. Now a beggar had
gone there in search of the remnants of the food of which other men had
made a meal. As he came forth from the forest after partaking of such
food, the king’s men arrested him. As no one else was to be seen there,
they called on him to render up the necklace. Although he protested
that he had not taken it, had not even seen it, yet he was beaten with
fists and stakes, and then thrown into prison.
Tormented by hunger, he reflected that, unless he contrived some
cunning way of escape, he would die there of starvation. So he said to
the jailer that he had, it was true, taken the pearl necklace, but that
he had given it to such and such a young merchant. Him also the king’s
men summoned, and the two men were set fast connected by wooden
fetters.
The merchant used to receive from home dainty food. While he was
partaking of it the beggar asked him for some. But the merchant reviled
him, saying, “It is all very well for you to accuse me of theft in
order that I may nourish you with my food. I will give you none of it.”
And having thus spoken, he ate it all up.
After this, when the merchant wished to change his place, and said,
“Let us stand up and move,” the beggar replied, “I will not listen to
your words; I shall not get up.” Then said the merchant, “Henceforward
will I behave so that you will be contented.” Thus with friendly words
and with an oath he won over the beggar, and was able to do as he
wished.
The next day the merchant sent home orders to provide in future food
enough for two persons. Thereat the beggar was highly pleased, and he
reflected that in former times he used to wander about the whole city
without being able to find the means of filling his belly, but now food
and drink in plenty were at hand, and it would be well to call in a
courtesan. Accordingly, he accused one of a share in the theft, and the
king’s men set her also in the prison. When the beggar was sitting in
company with these two prisoners and enjoying food and drink, he said,
“Good is it if we get free from here after the space of a dozen years.”
While they so enjoyed themselves a further desire arose within them.
They thought that in order to have still more pleasure they must call
in a lute-player. So the beggar accused a lute-player also of having
taken the string of pearls. Then the king’s men cast him also into the
prison.
After some time the others besought the beggar to find some means
whereby they might become free, saying that in that case he should want
for nothing. He promised to do so, and bethought himself that no one
could be of use except Mahaushadha. So he told the king’s men that
Mahaushadha’s son had likewise taken part in the affair, and they sent
for him also.
When Mahaushadha heard that his son had been imprisoned, he felt that
he must certainly go to the palace, for if he did not do so his son
would fret himself. On arriving there, he asked the king what offence
his son had committed. The king replied that he had been imprisoned on
the testimony of the beggar with respect to the stolen pearl necklace.
When Mahaushadha had become fully acquainted with the contrivance of
the captives, he said to the king, “The theft has not been committed by
any of these people. Let them all go free on my word.” So they were
released.
After this he went out to the park, and came to the spot, to the very
tree, where they had been before. When he looked closely at the tree,
he perceived a female monkey sitting at the top of it. Then he felt
sure that this animal had taken the string of pearls, and that it must
be enticed to come down by some artifice. So he asked the king to go
there with his wife, and when there, to hang a necklace round her neck.
When that was done, the monkey, as it sat on the tree-top, hung the
pearl necklace round its neck. Then Mahaushadha told the king’s wife to
dance. When she did so, the monkey on the tree-top also began to dance;
but still the string of pearls did not fall from off its neck. In order
to bring that about, Mahaushadha asked the king to make his wife, as
she danced, hang down her head. Then the monkey also began to dance
about with its head hanging down, whereupon the string of pearls fell
down from off its neck. Full of joy, the king embraced Mahaushadha and
bestowed much property upon him.
After a time the six ministers assembled together and held counsel as
to what was to be done, seeing that whereas they had formerly been
esteemed, honoured, and exalted by the king, they had now lost their
credit on account of a half-starved, gross-witted upstart. Then some of
them said, “Inasmuch as we have hitherto been at variance one with
another, therefore have we become destitute of power. Now let us go
into the park, and when we have gone there, let us take an oath and
bind ourselves by a vow. By that means shall we once more recover our
power.”
Mahaushadha saw them going thither, and reflected that, as they had
gone somewhere as if by common consent, they probably had in hand
something never seen before. Having suspected this, he sent the parrot
Māṭhara [119] after them, in order that it might find out what they
were about, what they said and did.
When they had reached the park and there met together, they began to
communicate to each other their faults and secrets, saying, “Now will
we lend each other support.”
“I ate the king’s peacock,” said one.
“I sinned with the king’s wife,” said another.
“I will do likewise,” said a third.
After all six of them had revealed their secrets to each other, they
partook of food out of the same vessel.
But the parrot Māṭhara reported all it had heard to Mahaushadha, and he
reported it to the king, who banished those ministers from the country.