And then, as he listened, all at once that old Brahman Trishodadhi rose
to his feet. And as he did so, he looked towards the elephant, and lo!
like a flash of lightning, that elephant suddenly disappeared. And in
his place he saw no elephant, but King Ruru, standing still, exactly as
he lived before. And no sooner had he seen him, than King Ruru
exclaimed in delight: Ha! now my story is concluded, and now the curse
is ended, and I have escaped from that terrible body of an elephant, to
regain my own proper form of a man.
And as Trishodadhi looked towards him, almost abandoning the body, for
wonder at the thing he saw, all at once his eyes almost started from
his head, and every hair upon his body stood erect. For there, close
beside the tree stood Watsatarí herself, exactly as that elephant Ruru
had described her, with her head a little bent, like one that listens,
and her great eyes turned, exactly as of old, full upon Trishodadhi
himself. And at that very moment, King Ruru shouted in amazement and
in intoxication: Watsatarí! What! Watsatarí! What! have I regained
thee also, in addition to my life?
And as he listened, all at once the heart of that old Brahman bounded
in his body like a deer. And every vestige of his purpose and his
muttering vanished from his soul like a dream. And he ran with feet
that resembled wings straight towards them, crying aloud in agony and
despair, not knowing what he said: Ah! she is mine. Ah! robber of a
king, she is not thine. Ah! she is mine. And he reached them, and ran
between them, and threw himself upon Watsatarí, and caught her in his
arms, and kissed her, weeping in an ecstasy of grief and repentance and
delight, exclaiming as he did so: Ah! dearer than my life; ah!
Watsatarí; ah! noble wife, forgive me, for I did not know.
And then, strange! as she threw around his neck soft clinging arms,
returning his kisses with her own, there came from her lips a peal of
laughter, that rang in his very face. And as he drew back in
amazement, he looked, and lo! he was holding in his arms not Watsatarí,
but another woman, absolutely strange to him, who gazed upon him as she
laughed with derision in her eyes. And she exclaimed: Ha!
Trishodadhi, I am not blind, but I see thee very well. And now it is
not easy to decide, between thy wife and thyself, which is the better
lover. For as it seems it was not she, so much as thou, that needed a
little of that medicine of oblivion, to enable thee to play the part of
an ascetic, to whom women are as nothing in comparison with austerity
and penance. Surely thy love for Watsatarí was wonderful, for thou
hast utterly forgotten all thy muttering, and bartered all the mountain
of thy merit for a kiss. Yet this much I will tell thee, to console
thee, that it is not a nymph of heaven to whom thou hast succumbed.
And then with a laugh she disappeared. And as Trishodadhi stood,
struck with the thunderbolt of stupefaction, he looked, and lo! Ruru
also vanished, and instead of him, Indra stood before him in the guise
of a devotee. And he looked with cold eyes upon Trishodadhi, and said
very slowly: O Trishodadhi, the wise strive for wisdom, and gain at
least humility. But thine was a false devotion, and could not stand
the test. And now, as she said, the mountain of thy merit is utterly
annihilated, consumed in a single instant of impure desire like a blade
of dry grass in a forest conflagration. And as experiment has proved,
regret for the things of sense was not extinct in thee, and the sparks
of vanity and egoism and delusion in the form of women lay lurking in
the ashes of thy soul, needing only a little breeze of recollection to
fan them into flame. And now thou hast allowed the sorrow for the loss
of old mundane ties of long ago to conquer thy desire of emancipation
and break in upon thy devotion to thy vow. And thou hast been guilty
of sinister designs against heaven, springing not from the seed of true
and single-hearted resignation, but selfishness and wounded vanity and
malice. Fall therefore as a punishment instantly into the body of a
dog without a tail. And after that thou shall become an ape, and then
a worm, and afterwards a ravenous flesh-eating Rákshasa, and a jackal,
and a domba, and a leather-worker, and a chandàla, and a woman, and
many other such garments of a guilty soul, and like a drop of water
thou shalt run through an interminable series of miserable births,
never discerning any end. For this action of thine has dyed thy soul
with so indelible a stain, that the ocean could more easily divest
itself of colour and of brine, than thy soul will find it to regain its
crystal purity, by cleansing its essence of such an inky blot.
And then, like a flash of lightning, that culprit of a Brahman
disappeared.
So then, as the Moony-Crested deity made an end, instantly the Daughter
of the Snowy Mountain asked him: O Wearer of the Moon, was then the
story told by Indra as an elephant to that crafty Kalánidhi as a tree,
a true story, or a figment devised between them to delude him?
And Maheshwara answered: O Snowy One, it was absolutely true, in every
item and particular and detail. For Indra came to me, and I told him
all about it, showing it to him, exactly as it happened, in the mirror
of the past. And even its upshot might have taught thee, that the
story was true. For he who listens to a recital of a past, of which he
was himself a part, resembles a swan, swift to separate the milk of
reality from the water of invention, and the very slightest deviation
on the part of the narrator, giving rise to a suspicion, and jarring on
the ear like a false note in a harmony, would have burst the illusion
like a bubble. For there is no form of persuasion or deception so
potent as the simple truth.
Then said Párwati again: Then am I very sorry for that poor old
Brahman, who was much to be pitied.
And the Lord of the Moony Tire said: Nay, O Daughter of the Snow, thou
art in error. Waste not thy pity on one who deserves absolutely none.
For had he really loved Watsatarí his wife, who well deserved it, he
would never have gone away and left her, condemning her without appeal,
unheard, relying on nothing but the very fallacious testimony of his
eyes. For there is no degree of evidence, whether of eyes, or of ears,
or of any other sense, which true love would not utterly refuse to
credit or receive, against that conviction begotten by love, confiding
in its object, seeing that love is absolutely free from any shadow of
suspicion, and clings to its faith in spite and in the teeth of all.
But jealousy belongs only to a spurious love that is really only vanity
and egoism in disguise, and is therefore never sure, but everlastingly
uneasy, like Trishodadhi. And as his love was founded on selfishness
and vanity, so was also the ambition that replaced it, and they both
failed miserably when subjected to the test. And being thus unable
either to trust in his wife, or forget her, he deserves nothing but
contempt, and came to that miserable end which destiny prepares for all
who dishonour the sublime by fraudulent and feeble imitation or
pretence. For pure love resembles yonder rock, that refuses to be
shaken by any wind whatever, and pure renunciation resembles yonder
bird, that floats in the inaccessible serenity of heaven far above, not
for parade, but simply because it is its very nature to soar into the
blue.
And now, as I said, here is Kailàs, and this is the termination of the
tale.
_Printed by_
MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED
_Edinburgh_