In long past times King Sarjarasin [144] reigned in Vārāṇasī, over that
great, rich, prosperous, blissful, and populous city. He took to wife
the daughter of another king, and lived with her. She became with
child, and after the lapse of eight or nine months, when the sun was
high at midday, she gave birth to a very fine boy. When the boy’s
birth-feast was held, and it was asked what name should be given to
him, the ministers said: “O king, as the boy was born at the time when
the sun [sūrya] is highest, let him be named Sūryanemi.” When he had
received that name, he was entrusted to eight nurses, two for carrying,
two for suckling, two for cleansing, and two for playing. These eight
nurses nourished him with milk, curdled milk, butter, melted butter,
butter-foam, and other excellent kinds of food, and he grew apace like
a lotus in a pool. When he had grown up he learnt writing, reckoning,
drawing, and hand-reckoning, and the arts and accomplishments which
befitted a prince of the Kshatriya race, destined to be a king. King
Sarjarasin’s first wife was named Dharmikā, and his prime minister, in
whom the king placed the greatest confidence, Goshṭhila.
After some time Dharmikā again became with child. The diviners declared
that a son would be born, who would take the king’s life, and usurp
royal power, setting the diadem on his own head. After a time King
Sarjarasin fell ill, and when his illness could not be cured, although
remedies of all kinds were applied, he reflected, after he had learnt
the state of his body, that it would be necessary to take precautions
in order that Sūryanemi, after becoming king on his decease, should not
cause Dharmikā to be put to death. So he determined to entrust her to
his minister, Goshṭhila, whom he had supplied with valuable property.
Having sent for him, he said to him: “Dharmikā is my first wife, you
are my first minister. As I am aware of my position, and I am
undoubtedly about to lose my life, you must out of love for me take
care that Sūryanemi does not put Dharmikā to death.”
The minister gave him a consoling promise. When Sarjarasin had died and
his body had been burned with all pomp, Sūryanemi was consecrated as
king. He gave orders to his ministers to put Dharmikā to death.
Goshṭhila remonstrated against this, saying: “O king, is it just to put
her to death rashly? Who can tell whether she will bear a son or a
daughter? If a son is born, he shall be put to death.” King Sūryanemi
ordered him to act in accordance with this saying, and to keep watch
over the queen. So Goshṭhila took her to his own house, where, after
eight or nine days, she gave birth to a son. That same day a
fisherman’s wife gave birth to a girl. Immediately after the
confinement Goshṭhila, who had gained over the fisherman’s wife with
money, exchanged the children, and told the king that Dharmikā had been
delivered of a girl. The boy was suckled and brought up by the
fisherwoman. When he had grown up he learnt reading and writing, and as
he took to making verses, he was called the verse-writing fisher-lad.
Goshṭhila informed Dharmikā that she had a son who was a poet, and she
felt a desire to see him. The minister tried to dissuade her from that,
but she could not overcome her longing. Goshṭhila saw how dangerous the
matter was, and perceived that some precaution must be taken, and he
sent the lad to the queen with a fish. When the youth entered the
palace the king became aware that this poetic fisher-lad was he of whom
of the diviners had predicted that he would take the king’s life, place
the diadem on his own head, and usurp the regal power. So he ordered
the ministers to lay hands on him in order that he might not escape.
The youth heard of this as the order passed from mouth to mouth, so he
ran this way and that way until he came to the house of an old woman
who hid him away. From thence, after his body had been anointed with
oil of mustard and sesame, and laid upon a bier as if it had been a
corpse, he was carried out to the cemetery and deposited there. A man
who was looking for fruits and flowers there saw him get up and run
away. The men who were sent in pursuit of him asked this man if he had
seen a person of such and such a height, and such and such an
appearance, going that way. He told them in what direction the youth
had gone, and they followed after him.
The youth reached a hill-town, entered into the house of a dyer, and
told him his story. So when his pursuers began to search the town, the
dyer placed the youth in a clothes chest, which he set upon an ass, and
so took him out of the town to a bath-house, where he left him. The
youth stood up, looked around on all four sides and went away. But
there also he was seen by a man, who disclosed the fact to his
pursuers, and showed them the road which he had taken. The youth came
to another village, and entered the house of a shoemaker, to whom he
told his story, and whom he asked to make him a pair of shoes, the toes
of which should be where the heels generally are. The shoemaker
declared he had never made shoes of that kind. The youth replied in
verse:—
“Manifold is the mind, numerous are gifts. They cannot be weighed in
the same scale. So make me, O shoemaker, what I have ordered, with the
heels in front.”
According to these instructions, the shoemaker made him shoes of that
kind. As the town was surrounded by a wall, the youth put on the shoes,
crept out through a cistern, and got away. His pursuers, following the
traces left by his shoes, were led back by them to the village, and
they perceived that he had escaped. He took to the water, and was
conveyed by the Nāgas to their residence.
As the news of this passed from mouth to mouth, King Sūryanemi learnt
that the Nāgas had received the youth into their dwelling-place.
Thereupon he ordered his ministers to summon into his presence all the
snake-charmers who lived in his realm. When they had done this, the
king said to the snake-charmers, “Honoured sirs, go and question the
Nāgas in such and such a Nāga residence.” In compliance with the king’s
orders, the snake-charmers all betook themselves thither.
Now a Yaksha named Pingala, who lived upon flesh and blood, dwelt in a
certain wilderness. As the wild beasts, not to speak of human beings,
had deserted this wilderness from fear of him, it was called the
Pingala wilderness. When the snake-charmers made their preparations for
the purpose of endangering the Nāgas by spells, the youth became
frightened, and, knowing no other way of escape, fled into the
Pingala-wilderness. The Nāgas took counsel together, and decided that
it would not be right if they were not to save the youth from the
Pingala-wilderness, and that it would do them a hurt if he were to be
killed by Pingala; but they did not know what to do. However, the Nāga
king told them to give information to the snake-charmers. The Nāgas
said to them, “Honoured ones, he on whose account ye have troubled us
has been put to death by our contrivance, for he has fled into the
Pingala-wilderness.” The snake-charmers reported the matter to the
king, who gave orders to continue the search after the youth. Meanwhile
the youth took to wandering about in the Pingala-wilderness.
The Yaksha Pingala was sitting at a certain spot surrounded by his
dogs. When he and his dogs saw the youth from afar, he reflected that
he had heard that the youth would kill him, and he thought that he had
come for that purpose. So he set the dogs on the youth. But the youth
outstripped them and climbed up a tree. Pingala and the dogs lay in
wait for him at the foot of the tree. Pingala asked him if he had not
heard that a demon named Pingala dwelt in the Pingala wilderness, and
put to death all who came thither. And he summoned him to come down,
seeing that he must die. The youth replied, “So long as I live I shall
remain here.” As soon as the Yaksha Pingala, who had placed himself in
the shade with his ascetic’s cloth, [145] had gone to sleep, the youth
threw down on him a part of his clothes. The dogs thought that it was
the youth who had fallen down, so they ate up the Yaksha Pingala and
went away.
The youth slowly descended from the tree, and, after wandering to and
fro, remembered that he had an uncle, who had retired from the world
among the Rishis, and he determined to go to him. He lived in a hill
district, in a grove which was well provided with excellent roots,
flowers, fruit, and water, with clumps of various trees, and with the
song of different kinds of birds. By means of inquiries the youth
gradually made his way thither, and he informed his uncle of his
relationship to him, and took up his abode with him. But even there the
king’s men searched for him, and they were on the point of laying hands
on him, when he jumped down a precipice. As he sprang into the air, a
man seized hold of his head-dress, and the head-dress remained in the
man’s hands. As the pursuers supposed that he was dead, they determined
to go away. So they took the head-dress, and went to the king, and said
to him, “O king, the fisher-lad poet is dead, here is his head-dress.”
And the king provided them with good things.
After a while a deity, who dwelt in the Rishi-grove, said to that
Rishi, “Do not you take any interest, then, in your nephew, who is
reduced to despair, subjected to intolerable woes?” The Rishi replied,
“If I keep him in mind no more, may I die upon the spot!” The Rishi was
in possession of spells and magic formulas, and knew one spell by which
a man might be turned into a woman and back again into a man. This
spell he taught to his nephew, and said to him, “Now, go away, and be
fearless and free from anxiety.” The youth, by means of the spell,
assumed the form of an incomparably beautiful woman, and betook himself
to Vārāṇasī. While abiding in the king’s park he was seen by the
keeper, who was astounded, and set off instantly and informed King
Sūryanemi, saying, “O king, a woman of supreme beauty and youth is
dwelling in the park.” The king ordered him to fetch the woman. By the
powerful dispensation of fortune the woman was brought to the palace,
and King Sūryanemi became violently enamoured of her. But when an
opportunity occurred, the youth put the king to death in a solitary
spot. Then he reversed the spell and became a man again. Afterwards he
set the crown on his head, and, after making the minister Goshṭhila
acquainted with the matter, assumed the regal power. A deity said in a
śloka, “He whose head has not been cut off, he is not dead. He gets up
again and completes his work. Like unto the poet, when he found his
opportunity and slew the son of Sarjarasin.”