Know then, O thou Snowy One, that long ago, in a former birth, this
boaster was a Brahman, and his name was Trishodadhi,[6] and he was, by
hereditary descent, the minister of a king, named Ruru. And as it
happened, King Ruru was a spoiled child. And then, being betrayed by
his queen in his youth, he fell into a violent hatred of all women,
that, strange to say! exhibited itself in the form of love. For
wishing as it were to wreak his vengeance on the whole sex for the
crime of one, he began like a mad bee to rove furiously from flower to
flower, making love to every woman in the world that took his fancy,
and then throwing her away as soon as won--taking all possible pains to
obtain the love of each, only to flout her, the moment it was his. And
like a deadly plague, he gradually corrupted the women of his kingdom,
who nearly all found him irresistible, not merely because he was a
king, but still more because of his extraordinary beauty, being as he
was a good thing changed and converted into evil by the misconduct of
his wife. And he was dreaded by the husbands and fathers of his
kingdom, and above all by his minister, Trishodadhi. For Trishodadhi
possessed a wife much younger than himself, and recently married, named
Watsatarí.[7] And she was well named, resembling, in youth and beauty,
the horns of the new moon; and she hovered between the charm of the
woman and the child, as the moon does between the two incomparable
moments of delicate epiphany and round perfection. And yet, unlike the
moon, she was always invisible to everybody, save only himself. For
his natural jealousy, which was extreme, was accentuated by her
extraordinary beauty, and his own age. And fearing all the men in the
world, above all he feared the king, and passed his life perpetually
trembling lest Ruru should set eyes on her; and he kept her very
scrupulously hidden, like a priceless pearl, from all eyes but his own.
And though he doted on her, yet against his will he was obliged to
leave her much alone, for all the burden of the state was thrown upon
his shoulders by the king, who utterly neglected all affairs, intent on
nothing but pursuing his amours. And being thus preoccupied,
Trishodadhi had only his intervals of leisure for his wife. And yet,
all the while he was not near her, he was everlastingly tormented by
his jealousy and fear, which like busy painters drew him endless rows
of pictures of his wife, surrounded in his absence by innumerable
lovers, created out of nothing by his own imagination, and all, as it
were, but so many copies of the king; as if, like the slayer of
Kamsa,[8] King Ruru possessed the power of self-multiplication,
appearing in just as many bodies as he pleased. And though Watsatarí
was in reality purer than a tear, he was haunted by a swarm of
suspicions, which like bees buzzed for ever in the ear of his uneasy
soul, and drove him almost into madness, while like a gardener he
strove to preserve his blue honey-laden lotus from the onslaughts of
their importunate and greedy troops. And in order to place her as far
as possible beyond the reach of any danger, he kept her in a residence
that resembled a fortress, and shut her in a garden, surrounded by a
lofty wall. And he never went to see her without quivering with
anxiety, lest he should discover, on arriving, that what he was always
fearing had actually come to pass. And so in fact it did. For one
day, returning from his duties long before he was accustomed, as if
destiny had determined to gratify his apprehensions, when he entered
the garden, where his wife was in the habit of wandering for her
diversion, he looked, and saw her, in the very arms of the king.
So when he saw it, Trishodadhi stood for a single instant, silent,
gazing at that pair with eyes that were suddenly filled to the very
brim, first with amazement, and then with anguish, and next with anger,
and finally with ice. And then he turned away, saying slowly to
himself: Miserable wretches, what after all is the use of astonishment,
or pity for myself, or even wrath with you? It is not you that are to
blame, obeying as ye do the incorrigible instincts of your sex and your
depravity, and rewarding one who has loaded both of you with benefits
with the blackness of ingratitude. But it is rather I myself who am to
blame, for putting any faith whatever, were it fleeting as a jot of
time, in this treacherous and unsubstantial world, filled full to the
very brim with lovers and women, snakes and tigers, and betrayers and
betrayed; on which I will this very instant turn my back for ever, as
indeed, had I not been utterly blinded by passion and delusion, I
should have done already, long ago. And even as he said, so he did.
And he went straight away, there and then, never to return. And
abandoning his wife and his office and his home, counting them all as
grass, he threw away his skin, like a snake, and becoming a pilgrim,
turned his steps, without losing a single instant, to the wilderness of
the Windhya hills.
And as he went along, that very miserable Brahman said angrily to
himself, with tears in his eyes: Ha! what was the Creator about, in
creating such a world as this, where evil-doers prosper, and virtue
comes to ruin, and fidelity and service and devotion gain nothing in
reward, but villainous ingratitude, and bitter disappointment? Surely
it was a blunder; and why, then, do the rulers of the world allow it to
continue? And all at once, rage rushed into his soul against the very
constitution of the world,[9] as if that, rather than himself, were the
author of his misery. And he exclaimed, in an ecstasy of grief: Ha!
Did not Wishwamitra, when he found this world not according to his
taste, create another of his own? And by what means did he acquire the
power that enabled him to perform his extraordinary feats of
world-creating and other such miracles, but by penance and asceticism?
Did he not prove, by his own example, that nothing is impossible to
perfect asceticism? And cannot others do what he did, by the very
selfsame means, provided only that their resolution is thorough and
complete? So then, now, I also will rival and surpass him, and by
means of the intensity of my extraordinary penance bend the very gods
to my will, and compel them to obey me, and change the established
constitution of the world, whether they will or no. Aye, my resolution
is fixed, and adamantine, and inalterable. I will begin this very
moment, and heap up for myself a very mountain of merit, till its
towering mass shall overbalance and obliterate the united forces of the
inhabitants of heaven.
So then he resolved, in the bitter agony of disappointment. And like
one looking down into a forest pool created by a shower of rain, and
mistaking its shallowness for an infinity of depth, deceived by the
imitation of the illimitable abyss of heaven in the mirror of its
glass, so he mistook his own pique at the world arising from the wound
inflicted by the conduct of his wife, and proving, by its very
violence, the strength of his attachment to the objects of sense that
he pretended to despise, for real renunciation based on perfect
knowledge, and undertook rashly, in imitation of that bull among
ascetics, Wishwamitra, a task beyond the limits of his strength; not
having understood, that those only are equal to the terrible strain of
true renunciation whose soul is pure, unstained by any tincture of
egoism, and resembling a well of the crystal liquor of perfect mastery
of self. And yet even so, he commenced his undertaking confidently,
and counting beforehand on success, and burning with the fire of
preliminary zeal, ignorant of the presence of that element in his soul,
which was destined in the future to upset his calculations, and bring
about his utter destruction, on the very brink of ultimate success.
And going to the farthest recesses of the forest, he discovered in its
heart a remote and lonely cemetery,[10] on the outskirts of a long
deserted and forgotten town. And he entered it, and having discovered
a suitable spot, he remained and dwelt there, as motionless as a tree.
And collecting from the relics of burning funeral pyres a quantity of
bare and empty skulls, divested of their flesh by fire, and time, and
the troops of night-walking, flesh-devouring wild beasts and Rákshasas
and Wetálas,[11] by which that gloomy cemetery was infested, he made of
them a rosary for himself, like mine,[12] and began to mutter spells.
And so he continued, night and day, year after year, muttering
incessantly, living all the while like a serpent on nothing but air and
his own undaunted resolution, till at last he had completed a century
of years.
And then at last, being pleased with his perseverance, such as it was,
I appeared to him one day in the guise of a _digambara_,[13] and
granted him a boon. Thereupon that indomitable Trishodadhi replied: O
Shankara, I ask for absolutely nothing, but permission to continue my
devotions. If therefore I must perforce select a boon, grant me as
much time as I require, so as to continue, muttering on, till I abandon
my assiduity of my own accord. So I left him, muttering diligently
away, just as before, though I foresaw the end, and knew that he
carried within him, unsuspected by himself, the seed of the fruit of
his own undoing, which time would ripen, dooming him to undergo the
punishment that lies in wait for all, who plunge, without due
consideration, into enterprises above their strength.[14] And so the
boon I offered him was wasted, and the chance was thrown away. For had
he only had knowledge of himself, it might have saved him after all, by
ensuring him oblivion of the past. For his memory was his ruin, as the
story will show thee, O Daughter of the Snow.
And he in the meantime muttered on unflaggingly, wholly intent on
nothing else, till at length the mound of his accumulated merit began
to rival in dimension yonder hill, whose top the evening sun is now
touching with the colour of affection, as if loth to leave it to be
swallowed by the dark.