In lost past times, in a palace in a land every way blest, there
reigned a king to whom his wife bore four sons, named Śākha, Gulma,
Anugulma, and Viśākha. After having all grown up, and taken to
themselves as wives kings’ daughters from other lands, they began to
behave disrespectfully to the king. The king banished them, and they
departed, along with their wives, and came to a desert place, where
their means of sustenance ran short. So they made an agreement among
themselves to put their wives to death one after another, and by
feeding on their flesh to make their own way through the desert.
Viśākha, however, was of opinion that it would be better to sacrifice
his own life than to take away another’s, and instead of waiting to see
who was to die he determined to escape along with his wife. So he fled
away with her. But after a time she said, being exhausted by the want
of food and drink, and by the fatigue of the journey, “O lord, I am
dying.” Viśākha thought that it would be sad if she were to die now,
after he had saved her from the hands of the Rākshasas (or cannibals).
So he sliced some flesh off his hams and gave it to her to eat, and
then he opened the veins of both his arms and gave her the blood to
drink. In this way they made their way to a mountain, on which they
supported themselves with roots and berries.
At the foot of this mountain ran a river, into which a man happened to
fall, whose hands and feet had been cut off. Carried away by the stream
he uttered cries of despair. Viśākha, who was gathering roots and
berries somewhere thereabouts, heard his cries for help. His mind being
stirred with compassion he climbed the mountain, and began looking
about on all sides. As soon as he saw the man being swept away by the
waters, he ran swiftly down from the mountain, sprang into the river,
seized the man, and conveyed him ashore. Affected by the sight of his
misery he said to him, “O son, whence do you come?” When the man had
told him the whole story, Viśākha spoke words of solace to him,
satisfied his hunger with roots and berries, and then handed him over
to his wife, thanks to whose care he recovered entirely. With this care
there was associated pleasure, which induced her to pay him frequent
visits, passing the time in varied talk.
It is part of the nature of things that Bodisats are not remarkably
addicted to the passion of love, and so it happened that Viśākha
indulged only from time to time in amorous pleasure. As, in consequence
of the Bodisat’s power, trees, roots, and berries possessed a special
force, living upon them excited the desires of the wife, and she began
to allure the man who had no hands or feet. The cripple was unwilling
to respond to her advances, pointing out that he, when as good as dead,
had been saved and restored to life by her husband; and that if he were
to behave in such a way he would be putting himself into a position
like unto that of a murderer. But as she repeatedly tempted him, and it
was hard for him to master passion, he finally acceded to her request.
Although in the fruition of love passion increased, yet he reflected
that, as she was now so possessed by passion, and as of all enmities
that of the woman is the worst, he was going to ruin. In accordance
with these ideas, he began to take counsel with her, saying, “If your
husband finds out that we have lived together, he will undoubtedly do
you some injury and put me to death.” She was of opinion that these
words were true, and that precautions must be taken. As women are
adroit, even without being taught, she wrapped a cloth round her head
and lay down on a rock to sleep. When Viśākha saw her sleeping there,
as he returned home with roots and berries, he asked her, “Good wife,
what is the matter with you?” She replied, “O lord, as my head aches, I
feel very unwell.” Viśākha said, “What can be done?” As she had seen
wolf’s-milk [155] growing in a ravine, she said, “O lord, when I once
before suffered from this pain in the head, the physician ordered me
wolf’s-milk, by means of which I was cured.” Viśākha replied, “I will
seek for wolf’s-milk.” She said, “As it grows in this ravine, I will
let you down with a rope and you shall fetch it up.” As august beings
are simple and upright, he suspected no guile, and said, “Let us do so;
you hold the rope and I will fetch the wolf’s-milk.” When he had let
himself down with the rope, she let go of the rope with her hand,
whereby he also lost hold of it and fell into the water at the bottom.
As the Bodisat was destined to long life and the exercise of regal
power, he did not die, but was carried along by the stream, and so he
reached a royal city. The king of that city had died without leaving
any heirs, and the ministers and the towns-people and the country-folk
were holding counsel as to whom, seeing there was no king, they should
invest with the sovereignty. They chose men well versed in omens, and
they ordered them to seek out a man provided with virtuous merit, in
order that they might invest him with the sovereignty. As the deeds
which were to secure sovereignty for Viśākha were now approaching
maturity, he emerged from the water and sat down on a spot which,
through the power of the Bodisat, appeared as though decked with
ornaments. To this spot came the diviners, and when they saw the august
being provided with the marks of sovereignty, they betook themselves to
the ministers, full of joy and bliss, and told them that they had found
in their researches a being provided with much virtuous merit, whom the
sovereignty would befit. Thereupon the ministers caused the road and
the city to be cleansed, and prosperously conducted him into the city,
and installed him as king on the fitting day, at the fitting hour,
under the fitting constellation.
As he had no wife, the ministers, the purohitas, and the kings of other
lands, as well as other people, proprietors, merchants, and caravan
leaders, all brought their daughters to that city, adorned with all
sorts of ornaments, in order that they might be received into the
palace. But the king, who had been so shamefully treated by his wife,
did not consent to that. The ministers said, “O king, it is not
customary for kings to be without wives, princes, ministers, and
inhabitants of town and country; so be pleased to nominate a spouse.
Kings and grandees living in all manner of districts, and grandees from
foreign lands, have their daughters in readiness to be exhibited to
you.” But he was not to be induced to consent thereto, and he reviled
women without ceasing.
Now as all things good for fruition derive their force and completeness
from the power of the virtuous merits of beings, it came to pass that,
after the Bodisat was thrown down from the mountain through the misdeed
of his wife, the roots and berries of that mountain shrivelled and lost
their power. Thereupon the woman, fearing to perish in the hour of
hunger, having taken the cripple on her back, betook herself to the
villages, and asked for alms in the streets, market-places,
cross-roads, and by-roads. When she was questioned she always replied,
“My husband has never found fault with me.” And as a wife, with whom
her husband has never found fault, is wont to be highly respected in
the world, she obtained alms wherever she went. When she arrived at the
capital, and the inhabitants heard of her, they were seized with
astonishment. Some of them went forth full of wonder to see her. And
the dwellers in the city took to asking if that king, who always had
something to say against all women, ought not to look upon this
excellent female wanderer, whose husband had never found fault with
her, and who carried on her back the handless and footless cripple.
When the purohita had made the king acquainted with these sayings the
king thought the matter over, and gave orders that this woman should be
summoned, as he wished to see her. When she had been sent for, and he
had seen her, he laughingly uttered this verse—
“Thou who hast eaten the flesh of my loins, who hast drunk my blood,
and hast taken the cripple on thy back, wilt thou not now be blamed by
thy husband?
“After having, for the sake of wolf’s-milk, flung me down the
precipice, after having taken the cripple on thy back, wilt thou not
now be blamed by thy husband?”
She stood still with drooping countenance and heart full of shame. When
the ministers had asked the king about this matter, and he had given
them a full account of all that had taken place, they drove the woman
out of the city with contumely.