216. Kath Sarit Sagara : Chapter 6
The Burden of the Three Tongues: A Tale of Curses, Kings, and the Power of Story
In the vast, silence-haunted forests of the ancient Deccan, walked a man whose eyes held the weary light of a star-child exiled from the heavens. This was Malyavan, known in the mortal realm by the name Gunadhya, a master storyteller rendered mute by an unbearable oath.
(1. Malyavan (in human form as Gunadhya) visits Durga in the Vindhya hills after forsaking three languages due to a vow made to King Satavahana.)
For years, Gunadhya had served the mighty King Satavahana, a monarch whose thirst for learning was as potent as his imperial might. Yet, in a rash moment of rivalry and pride, Gunadhya had sworn before his King to permanently abandon the use of Sanskrit, Prakrit, and the common vernacular dialect—the three languages that were the very lifeblood of human communication and, more tragically, of his own craft.
"My silence is a shroud," he would whisper only to the trees, the wind carrying away the unused music of his voice. "The tales, the epics, the knowledge I carry—they turn to dust behind my sealed lips."
With a heart heavy with sorrow, Gunadhya resolved to seek the ultimate solace. He turned his steps toward the rugged, rock-hewn heights of the Vindhya hills, the dwelling place of the fierce and compassionate Mother Durga. He moved like a ghost through the dappled sunlight of the woods, his human form a frail vessel for the churning, grief-stricken spirit within.
At the feet of the Mother Goddess, Gunadhya wept, not in sound, but in soul-deep despair. The scent of wild jasmine and the iron tang of ancient stone filled the air as he knelt before her colossal, eight-armed image.
"Mother, dweller of the mountains," his mind pleaded, "this vow, born of vanity, has become my prison. I am a fish without water, a storyteller without a tongue. I cannot live bound by this silence."
The atmosphere around the idol shimmered with divine energy. A voice, resonant and vast as the mountain range itself, echoed only in his heart.
(2. Gunadhya meets Kanabhuti on Durga's orders, remembers his divine origin, and breaks his vow by speaking in the Paishacha language.)
"Rise, my son, Gunadhya," the Goddess commanded, her tone both stern and nurturing. "Your silence is nearing its end. Your fate is tied to one named Kanabhuti. Go forth, and you shall find him. My decree is your guide."
Filled with a fresh, though still somber, purpose, Gunadhya descended the peak and soon found himself in a deep, sheltered valley where he encountered a figure whose eyes held an equal measure of longing and ancient pain: Kanabhuti.
As their eyes locked, a cosmic memory—the residue of a Naga curse and a forgotten celestial court—surged through Gunadhya. His mind's barrier shattered. He instantly remembered everything: his true identity, his exile, and the reason for Kanabhuti's presence. It was as if a heavy, mortal sleep had been suddenly ripped away.
"Kanabhuti!" Gunadhya’s voice erupted—not in the forbidden human tongues, but in the rough, elemental language of the mountain spirits, the Paishacha dialect, a sound that grated on the ear but was entirely outside the scope of his earthly oath. "Malyavan is my true name, and yours is known to me!"
Kanabhuti started, his eyes widening in a mixture of awe and fear. "My Lord! How do you know—"
"Silence!" Gunadhya interjected, his voice still vibrating with the shock of his awakened memory. "I have broken the oath, but only in this tongue. The reason is paramount!"
(3. Gunadhya asks Kanabhuti to quickly relate the tale he heard from Pushpadanta to end their shared curse.)
Gunadhya stepped closer, his newfound urgency palpable. "You met Pushpadanta after our twin exile. You were privy to the tale he recorded, the magnificent epic born from Shiva's laughter. Tell me that story, Kanabhuti! We share this terrible curse—the curse of the Great Separation from Kailash. We must listen to that epic, the Brihatkatha, so that you and I, together, my friend, may at last find release from this lingering shadow of divine anger!"
The relief in Kanabhuti’s eyes was like the first rain after a long drought. His body trembled as he bowed low, his forehead touching the earth.
(4. Kanabhuti requests Gunadhya to first narrate his own life story, which Gunadhya agrees to do.)
"My Lord, my heart leaps to hear your command," Kanabhuti said, still speaking the Paishacha tongue out of respect. "I will tell you the story, and may we both find salvation. But a deep, gnawing curiosity possesses me. I beg you, my master, tell me first all your adventures, from the moment of your birth into the mortal coil. Do me this honor, this favor."
Gunadhya looked at the sky, a slight, pained smile touching his lips. "It is a complex tangle of fate, birth, and celestial mandate, my friend. Very well. The epic can wait a moment longer. I shall satisfy your curiosity."
And so, Gunadhya, the former Malyavan, began the chronicle of his life in the world of mortals.
The Birth of Gunadhya
(5. Gunadhya's narration: Introduction to the city of Pratishthana and the Brahman Somasharman, his two sons Vatsa and Gulmaka, and his daughter Shrutartha.)
"My mortal life began in Pratishthana, a city renowned throughout the south, specifically in a neighborhood called Supratishthita. There lived a most virtuous and excellent Brahman named Somasharman. He was a man of integrity, known for his devotion to the Vedas and his calm demeanor. Somasharman and his wife were blessed with three children. First came two sons, Vatsa and Gulmaka, both strong, promising youths, destined to carry on their father’s sacred duties. Last, they had a daughter, named Shrutartha, a girl of extraordinary grace and beauty, whose name itself meant 'she whose purpose is revealed by the scriptures.'"
(6. The mysterious pregnancy of Shrutartha and the mutual suspicion between her brothers, Vatsa and Gulmaka.)
"But fate, as I said, is complex. In the natural course of time, both Somasharman and his devoted wife passed away, leaving Vatsa and Gulmaka as the sole protectors of their beautiful sister. The brothers were diligent in their duty, holding their sister's honor as sacred as their own lives. They watched over her with the intensity of two sentinels guarding a precious jewel. Yet, despite their vigilance, in a matter of months, Shrutartha's belly began to swell.
Vatsa looked at Gulmaka, and Gulmaka looked at Vatsa. The unspoken question hung between them, heavy and poisonous.
'Brother,' Vatsa finally whispered, his voice thick with confusion and suspicion, 'who has trespassed against our sister? I have not seen a single suitor, nor an outsider near her quarters. The gates have been sealed.'
Gulmaka’s eyes narrowed, dark thoughts clouding his face. 'And I, Vatsa, have been equally vigilant! Our sister is a saintly girl, yet she carries a child. If no outsider came… then the fault must lie within this very house, brother. Do you deny being the trespasser?'"
The tension between the brothers became a living thing, choking the harmony of the household. Their eyes, once filled with fraternal love, now held cold, hard judgment for one another, for no other man had come near Shrutartha.
(7. Shrutartha reveals her marriage to Prince Kirtisena, the Naga (serpent deity) King Vasuki's nephew, by the Gandharva form of marriage.)
Shrutartha, witnessing the poisonous atmosphere and the evil suspicion festering in their minds, finally confronted them. Her face was pale, but her voice was firm.
"Stop this madness, my brothers!" she cried out, her hands clasped over her burgeoning stomach. "Do not entertain such vile, evil suspicions! Listen, and I will tell you the truth, all of it, without reserve. There is a prince of the Naga race, nephew to Vasuki, the great King of the Nagas himself. His name is Kirtisena."
Vatsa recoiled. "A serpent-prince? What tale is this?"
"I was going to the river to bathe," Shrutartha explained, her cheeks flushing with the memory. "He saw me, and immediately, he was overcome with intense, overwhelming love. He told me his lineage and his name—a divine prince, yet of the Brahman lineage, a matter of ancient lore—and he made me his wife through the Gandharva form of marriage. It is a union blessed by mutual love, recognized by the heavens. It is by him, and him alone, that I am pregnant."
(8. The appearance of the Naga prince Kirtisena, who confirms the marriage and reveals that Shrutartha, Vatsa, and Gulmaka are all heavenly beings on earth due to a curse.)
Vatsa threw his hands up in exasperation. "A Naga prince? A celestial marriage? Sister, what confidence can we possibly repose in such an unbelievable claim? We need proof, not poetry!"
Shrutartha, unable to argue further, closed her eyes and silently called the image of her celestial husband to her mind.
Instantaneously, the chamber was filled with a soft, ethereal light, and Prince Kirtisena appeared before them, magnificent and imposing, a silent promise of divine power.
"Vatsa! Gulmaka!" Kirtisena’s voice was like deep, clear water running over smooth stones. "Your sister speaks the truth. I have indeed made her my wife. But listen closely, for there is more to your story than you know."
He looked at Shrutartha with profound tenderness. "She is a glorious heavenly nymph, fallen to earth in consequence of a curse. And you two, her brothers, have also descended to this mortal realm for the very same reason—a forgotten misstep in the divine courts, the lingering effect of a sage's wrath. This is not your home; this is your penance."
The two brothers stared, their disbelief slowly melting into stunned realization.
(9. Kirtisena's prophecy: Shrutartha will be freed from the curse after the birth of her son.)
Kirtisena then delivered the prophecy that would change their fates. "But despair not, for the time of your penance is nearly over. A son shall, without fail, be born to your sister. He is the key. Once he draws his first breath upon this earth, the conditions of your sister’s curse will be met. The chains of her exile will break."
(10. The birth of Shrutartha's son (Gunadhya) and a divine voice announcing that the child is an incarnation of virtue, to be named Gunadhya, and is of the Brahman caste.)
"Wait patiently," Kirtisena concluded, and then, as swiftly as he arrived, the Naga prince disappeared, leaving Vatsa and Gulmaka with a shattering new understanding of their reality.
In the days that followed, the brothers treated Shrutartha with renewed awe and reverence. And soon, the prophecy was fulfilled: Shrutartha gave birth to a beautiful, virtuous son.
At that very moment, as the sun rose, a powerful, disembodied divine voice boomed from the heavens, making the very walls of the house tremble.
"Hear all ye mortals! This child that is born is no ordinary boy! He is an incarnation of virtue, and he shall be called Gunadhya! He belongs to the noble Brahman caste, his lineage forever blessed!"
(11. The death of Gunadhya's mother and uncles as their curse is spent, leaving him an orphan.)
But the sound of blessing was swiftly followed by the silence of sacrifice. Just as the divine voice faded, the three mortals—my mother and my two uncles, Vatsa and Gulmaka—collapsed. Their curses, having finally spent their force with the fulfillment of the divine decree, had released their souls. They died instantly, returning to their celestial homes.
"And so, Kanabhuti," Gunadhya sighed, his voice thick with lingering grief, "I, the newly named Gunadhya, became utterly alone. An infant orphan, left inconsolable in a world I did not yet understand. The very purpose of my birth, my liberation, came at the cost of all my mortal family."
(12. Gunadhya overcomes his grief and travels to the Deccan to acquire knowledge in various sciences.)
"My Lord, that is a sorrowful beginning," Kanabhuti murmured.
"Indeed," Gunadhya continued, shaking off the weight of the memory. "But I flung aside my grief. Though but a child, a strange, profound sense of self-reliance took hold of me. I knew I had a destiny to fulfill. I traveled south to the Deccan, not for riches, but for knowledge. I resolved to master all that the world had to offer, to acquire the learning that had been denied to me in my cursed, infant state."
(13. Gunadhya returns to Supratishthita as an accomplished and famous scholar, accompanied by his disciples.)
Years blurred into decades. He studied without rest, mastered the sciences, the scriptures, and the arts of diplomacy and statecraft. He became famous, his name a byword for deep and versatile lore.
"And then," Gunadhya said, a hint of professional pride entering his voice, "having achieved all this fame and learning, I returned to my native land—to Supratishthita. I was no longer a weeping orphan. I was a celebrated scholar, surrounded by a multitude of devoted disciples, eager to herald my arrival."
(14. Gunadhya witnesses varied scenes in the city: Vedic chanting, scholarly debates, gamblers, and a knot of merchants discussing the art of making money.)
He described his triumphant return. "As I entered the city after my long absence, it was a wonderfully splendid scene! I saw the vibrant, chaotic heart of human society, a mix of the sublime and the profane. In one square, solemn Brahman chanters intoned the complex, prescribed hymns of the Sama Veda. In another corner, older, learned Brahmans engaged in fierce, intellectual disputes about the esoteric interpretations of the sacred books.
"But not all was sacred," he paused, smiling wryly. "I saw gamblers, their eyes glazed with avarice, praising their destructive addiction with deceitful words: 'Whoever knows the art of gambling,' one of them boasted loudly, 'has a treasure already in his grasp! Why work when the dice can deliver all?'
"And then, in the middle of this chaos, I encountered a knot of merchants, their faces keen and calculating, talking amongst themselves about their skill in the dark, mysterious art of making money. It was here that one particular merchant began a tale that epitomized the ingenuity of man."
The Story of the Mouse-Merchant
(15. The Story of the Mouse-merchant: A merchant begins to tell his tale of acquiring wealth from nothing.)
Gunadhya leaned in, his eyes sparking with the memory of the merchant’s conviction. "This merchant—he had the face of a man who knew the true value of a single coin. He spoke with quiet, absolute authority to his peers."
"'My friends,' the merchant began, his voice calm amidst the bazaar’s clamor, 'it is not marvelous at all that a thrifty man should acquire wealth by starting with a fortune. That is merely multiplication. But I, I assure you, long ago achieved prosperity without any wealth to start with. My path began in absolute destitution.'
(16. The merchant's impoverished childhood, his father's death, his mother's menial work, and his basic education.)
"'My father died, tragically, before I was born,' he recounted, the listeners growing silent. 'And then, my poor mother was ruthlessly stripped of all she possessed by wicked, avaricious relatives. They cast her out, penniless and pregnant. Fleeing through fear for her safety and mine, her unborn child, she sought refuge in the house of Kumaradatta, a kind friend of my father’s.'
"'There, that virtuous woman gave birth to me. But she was so poor that she was forced into menial drudgery just to feed us. She was determined, however, and pleaded with a kind teacher, who, by way of charity, gave me some basic instruction in writing and ciphering. That small spark of knowledge was the first true capital I ever held.'
(17. The merchant is advised to seek capital from a wealthy merchant named Visakhila.)
"'When I came of age, my mother looked at me, her eyes tired but filled with hope. "You are the son of a merchant," she told me firmly. "You must now engage in trade. Go and seek out Visakhila, a very rich merchant in this region. He is known to lend capital to poor men of good family. Go, entreat him to give you something—anything—to start with."'
(18. Visakhila, angered at a merchant's son, remarks that even a dead mouse can be a source of wealth for a capable man.)
"'I went to Visakhila's house, my heart pounding with fear and hope. At the very moment I entered, I heard a terrible sound of rage. Visakhila was shouting at another merchant’s son, his voice a thunderclap of fury.
"'You see this dead mouse here upon the floor?' Visakhila roared, pointing a trembling finger. 'Even that is a commodity by which a capable, resourceful man would acquire wealth! But I gave you, you utterly good-for-nothing fellow, many dinars, and you not only failed to increase them, you couldn't even preserve what you had!'
(19. The young merchant takes the dead mouse as his starting capital, writes a receipt for it, and the rich merchant laughs.)
"'When I heard that astonishing pronouncement, I had a sudden inspiration, a moment of pure, blinding insight. I stepped forward, interrupting the rich man's tirade.
"‘Sir Visakhila,’ I declared, my voice ringing with an authority I did not feel, ‘I hereby take from you that mouse as capital advanced!’
"'I snatched the dead mouse up in my hand and, with the writing skills my mother had provided, I swiftly wrote him a receipt for it, a solemn, legally binding document. He took the receipt and, after a stunned pause, placed it meticulously in his strong box. I turned and walked off, leaving the wealthy merchant to burst out, first in confusion, and then in a peal of booming, mocking laughter that followed me down the street. He was laughing at my folly; I was laughing at his lack of vision.'
(20. The merchant sells the mouse for two handfuls of gram (cat's-meat).)
"'My first business transaction was simple. I walked to the edge of the city, found a merchant who dealt in meat for various purposes, and offered my unique asset. I sold that dead mouse—yes, that seemingly worthless piece of refuse—to a merchant as cat’s-meat for the price of two handfuls of gram.'
(21. The merchant provides water and ground gram to wood-cutters on a cross-road and receives two pieces of wood from each as a token of gratitude.)
"'I immediately ground up the gram. Then, with the paltry remainder of my funds, I acquired a pitcher of clean water. I sought out the main cross-road outside the city, the point where all the weary travelers and laborers returned. I found a shady spot and there I stood, waiting.
"'Soon, a band of wood-cutters returned, exhausted, dusty, and parched after a long, hard day of labor in the sun-drenched forest. I approached them with the utmost civility, my manner respectful and humble, and offered them my simple provisions: the water and the small portions of gram.
"'They were immensely grateful, their fatigue dissolving in the cool water. Each and every wood-cutter, seeing my young, earnest face, gave me as a token of gratitude two pieces of wood from their load. It was the value of convenience and hospitality, greater than the price of the gram.'
(22. The merchant sells the wood, gradually acquires capital, and buys all the wood from the wood-cutters for three days.)
"'My next step: I took those pieces of wood and sold them briskly in the market. The price I got was small, yes, but it was enough. I used only a small fraction of the money to buy a second supply of gram and water. And so, the next day, in the same way, I again obtained wood from the grateful wood-cutters. Doing this every day, I gradually, methodically, accumulated my capital. I became an indispensable, comforting stop for those laborers. My stock of coins grew from grains to a small pile. Eventually, I used my accumulated funds and bought all their wood from those wood-cutters for three full days in advance, securing my future supply at a set, low price.'
(23. A sudden dearth of wood due to heavy rains allows the merchant to sell his stock for hundreds of panas, establishing a shop and becoming wealthy.)
"'And then, the heavens intervened! Suddenly, violently, there befell a severe dearth of wood throughout the city and surrounding villages, all on account of unseasonably heavy, relentless rains. The wood-cutters couldn't work; the supply dried up completely. I, and I alone, held the stock.
"'I sold that massive reserve of wood for many hundred panas, a windfall that dwarfed my wildest early dreams! With that wealth, I was no longer a beggar on a crossroad; I set up a proper shop in the city, engaging in the complex, exhilarating traffic of full-scale commerce. I have become a very wealthy man, all by my own sheer ability and resourcefulness.'
(24. The merchant presents Visakhila with a golden mouse, and Visakhila gives him his daughter in marriage. The merchant is henceforth known as Mouse.)
"'And the final payment of my debt?' he concluded, his voice ringing with triumph. 'I commissioned a jeweler to sculpt a magnificent, lifelike mouse of solid gold. I presented it to Visakhila, my original benefactor. He was astonished, his face a map of conflicting emotions—pride, shame, and respect. Recognizing my capability, he joyfully gave me his daughter in marriage. And in consequence of this entire history, I am now known throughout the world by the glorious, if humble, name of Mouse.'
"All the other merchants, Kanabhuti, when they heard this story, were utterly astonished," Gunadhya summarized. "They muttered: 'How can the mind help being amazed at pictures painted without walls?' It was a testament to the power of pure intellect over circumstance."
The Veda Chanter and the Half-Moon
(25. The Story of the chanter of the Sama Veda: A simple Brahman is advised by a "roué" (scoundrel) to use his eight gold mashas to learn the "way of the world" from a lady named Chaturika.)
"The chaos of the city held another sight equally strange," Gunadhya resumed. "I saw a Brahman, a chanter of the Sama Veda, clutching a recent gift of eight gold mashas. He was approached by a man of loose morals, a self-proclaimed 'roué,' who spoke with an air of knowing sophistication."
"'My good Brahman,' the roué began, leaning in conspiratorially, 'you earn enough just to live upon by your sacred position. But you lack the polish of the world, the knowledge of courts and high society. You must now employ this gold to learn the way of the world, to become a knowing fellow.'
"The fool, wide-eyed, asked, 'But who will teach me such things? I only know the hymns!'
"'Go to the house of Chaturika, a renowned and highly sophisticated lady,' the roué instructed, his lip curling into a secretive smile. 'She is the perfect instructor.'
(26. The roué advises the Brahman to give Chaturika gold and "make use of some sama" (which the roué meant as 'coaxing').)
"The Brahman was utterly bewildered. 'What am I to do there?'
"The roué replied, 'Give her the gold, of course, as a fee. And in order to please her, you must make use of some sama—some gentle persuasion, some charming words, some wooing of your own!' The roué was speaking of the art of coaxing and flattery, the subtle sama of diplomacy and charm."
(27. The Brahman goes to Chaturika's house, gives her the gold, and, mistaking the word sama to mean the Veda, begins to chant the Sama Veda with a shrill, idiotic voice.)
"The Sama Veda chanter, however, was incapable of subtlety. He heard the word sama and thought only of the hymns he knew best. He went quickly to Chaturika's house, his eight gold coins clutched tightly. Chaturika, a woman of great grace, advanced to meet him, and he took a seat, his heart fluttering.
"'Madam,' he stammered, handing over the gold, 'teach me now for this fee the way of the world.'
"Then, with a grave face, he decided to 'make use of some sama.' He reflected for a moment, then, utterly clueless, he put his hands together in the shape of a cow's ear, forming a pipe, and began, like a stupid idiot, to chant the Sama Veda in a piercing, shrill sound that was utterly inappropriate for a lady’s drawing room.
(28. The roués present in the house gather to mock the Brahman and threaten to give him the "half-moon on his throat" (a kind of push).)
"The people present, the sophisticated roués, began to titter, then to laugh uproariously. The noise attracted every pleasure-seeker in the house, and they all came running together to see the incredible spectacle.
"'Whence has this jackal blundered in here?' one of them shouted, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye.
"'Come!' another cried, 'let us quickly give him the half-moon on his throat! That will teach him the world's ways!'"
(29. The terrified Brahman, misunderstanding "half-moon" as a beheading weapon, flees, proclaiming he has "learnt the way of the world.")
"The poor, simple Brahman! He supposed the phrase 'half-moon' referred to an arrow with a crescent-shaped, razor-sharp head—a weapon of decapitation! He instantly feared his head was about to be cut off. In a frenzy of panic, he rushed out of the house, bellowing in terror, 'I have learnt the way of the world! I have learnt the way of the world!'
(30. The Brahman tells his story to the roué, who laughs and explains that sama meant coaxing' and not Vedic chanting.)
"He ran directly back to the man who had sent him and recounted the entire, humiliating, terrifying story. The roué, hearing the tale, burst out laughing, unable to control his mirth.
"'You utter fool!' the roué gasped, holding his aching sides. 'When I told you to use sama, I meant coaxing and wheedling, charm and flattery! What propriety is there in introducing the sacred Veda in a matter of this kind? The fact is, I suppose, that stupidity is simply engrained in a man who muddles his head only with the Vedas!'
(31. The roué goes to Chaturika, who, laughing, returns the Brahman's gold.)
"The roué, still laughing uncontrollably, went to Chaturika's house. 'Lady,' he managed to say, 'do the honorable thing and give back to that two-legged cow his gold-fodder. He is hopeless.' She, too, laughed and handed back the money. When the Brahman got his eight gold mashas back, he went home, as happy and relieved as if he had been born again, forever cured of the desire to learn the 'way of the world.'"
The Minister of Satavahana
(32. Gunadhya reaches the palace of King Satavahana, is welcomed, and is appointed to the office of Minister.)
"Witnessing strange scenes of this kind at every step," Gunadhya continued, "I reached the glorious palace of the king, a seat of power that truly resembled the court of Indra. I entered, my pupils going before me to herald the arrival of the great scholar. I saw the magnificent King Satavahana, seated upon a jeweled throne in his hall of audience, surrounded by his most trusted ministers, chief among them Sharvavarman."
After I had duly blessed the King and taken a seat, Sharvavarman and his colleagues began to praise me with extravagant, sincere words.
"'This man, O King, is famous upon the earth as skilled in all lore!' Sharvavarman proclaimed, his voice echoing in the grand hall. 'Therefore, his name, Gunadhya—'Endowed with Virtues'—is a true index of his nature!'
"King Satavahana, hearing me praised so highly, was instantly pleased. He honored me with exceptional gifts and, without hesitation, appointed me to the esteemed office of Minister.
(33. Gunadhya marries and lives comfortably, managing the king's affairs and teaching his pupils.)
"My life in the palace was serene and fulfilling. I married a good and wise woman. I lived there comfortably, diligently looking after the King's affairs, offering counsel and administrative guidance, and simultaneously instructing my large cohort of pupils in the vastness of the sacred texts and sciences."
(34. Gunadhya, roaming by the Godavari river, discovers the beautiful garden called Devikriti.)
"Then, one day, curiosity led me to wander at leisure along the banks of the sacred Godavari river. There, hidden from the main thoroughfare, I discovered a spectacular garden. It was called Devikriti, a name that suggested a divine origin."
"It was an exceedingly pleasant place, Kanabhuti, like an earthly Nandana grove—the very garden of the gods. The air was thick with the scent of impossible blooms, and the colors seemed brighter than any found in nature."
(35. The gardener relates the history of the garden: it was created by a poor, lazy Brahman who visited Durga in the Vindhya hills and was granted a boon of divine nature after attempting suicide.)
"Astonished, I sought out the gardener. 'Tell me,' I asked, 'how did this paradise come to be? It is not of this world!'
"The gardener, a wizened old man, bowed. 'My lord, we hear the tale from the oldest people in the land. Long ago, a certain Brahman came here. He was observing a vow of silence and abstained entirely from food. It was he who made this heavenly garden, complete with a beautiful temple. Eventually, all the other Brahmans assembled here out of curiosity, asking how he achieved such a feat. The mysterious Brahman, persistently asked, finally revealed his history.'
"'I was born in a province called Vakakachchha, on the banks of the Narmada river,' the old man recounted the Brahman’s words. 'In my youth, no one would give me alms because I was lazy as well as poor. In a fit of immense annoyance and disgust with my meager, useless life, I quit my home and wandered, visiting holy places. I came to the shrine of Durga, the dweller in the Vindhya hills.
"‘Having beheld the Goddess, I reflected: Others propitiate this giver of boons with offerings of life, but I am a stupid beast—I will slay myself here! With this desperate resolve, I took up a sword, intending to cut off my own head.'
(36. The Brahman, now a divine being, was ordered by Durga to plant the garden in Pratishthana using heavenly seed and then disappeared.)
"'Immediately,' the gardener continued, 'the Goddess, being propitious, herself spoke to me! "Son, thou art perfected. Do not slay thyself. Remain near me." Thus, I obtained a boon from the Goddess and attained a divine nature. From that day forth, my hunger and thirst vanished forever.'
"'Once, while I was remaining there,' the old man concluded, 'the Goddess herself commanded me, "Go, my son, and plant a glorious garden in Pratishthana!" With her own hands, she gave me heavenly seed. I came here and made this beauty by the power she bestowed. "And this garden you must keep in good order," he told me. Having said this, he disappeared. This is how this garden, made by the Goddess, came to be.'
"When I had heard this signal manifestation of the favor of the Goddess, Kanabhuti, I returned home, filled with awe and wonder at the power of destiny and devotion."
The Story of Satavahana’s Origin
(37. The Story of Satavahana: Kanabhuti interrupts the story to ask why the king is called Satavahana.)
Kanabhuti interrupted, his mind caught on the King’s strange name. "Forgive my interruption, my Lord, but this King Satavahana—the name is unusual. Why was he called so? The prefix seems to hide a deeper meaning. Tell me the reason."
(38. Gunadhya narrates the story of King Dveepakarni, who, after his wife's death, took a vow of chastity.)
"A very fair question," Gunadhya replied. "Listen, and I will tell you the ancient reason.
"There was a king of great power named Dveepakarni. He possessed a wife, Shaktimati, whom he loved beyond measure, valuing her more than his own life. They lived in perfect bliss. Tragically, one day, as she slept in the garden, a venomous snake bit her. She died instantly.
"King Dveepakarni was shattered. His world ended with her passing. He could not bear the thought of another consort, and though he had no son to inherit his kingdom, he took a lifelong vow of perpetual chastity. His heart belonged only to the memory of Shaktimati."
(39. The god Shiva appears to Dveepakarni in a dream and foretells that he will find a boy mounted on a lion who will be his son.)
"Years passed in mourning and dutiful rule. Then, one night, the great god Shiva, the god of the moony crest, appeared to Dveepakarni in a vivid dream.
"'While wandering in the forest,' Shiva announced, his voice like the roar of a distant waterfall, 'thou shalt behold a boy mounted on a lion. Take him, and go home. That boy, Dveepakarni, shall be your son.'
"The king awoke, filled with a long-forgotten joy, remembering every detail of the celestial vision. He knew his lineage would be continued, not by birth, but by divine mandate."
(40. While hunting, Dveepakarni sees a boy riding a lion by a lotus-lake and slays the lion with an arrow.)
"One day, in his passion for the chase, the King ventured deep into a distant wood. There, at midday, on the tranquil bank of a beautiful lotus-lake, he saw the sight foretold in his dream: a boy, splendid as the rising sun, riding upon a massive, golden-maned lion.
"The lion, desiring water, gracefully set the boy down near the edge of the lake. The king, remembering the words of Shiva, and knowing the moment was upon him, drew his bow. With a single, perfect shot, he slew the lion with one swift arrow."
(41. The slain lion turns into a man, who reveals himself to be Sata, a Yaksha cursed to be a lion for marrying a Rishi's daughter (who died after giving giving birth).)
"But the creature did not simply die. The lion's form dissolved, and it suddenly assumed the majestic shape of a man!
"Dveepakarni cried out in horror. 'Alas! What treachery is this? Tell me what means this terrible transformation!'
"The man, his face now relieved of a great burden, answered: 'O King, I am a Yaksha of the name of Sata, an attendant upon the God of Wealth. Long ago, I saw the daughter of a wise Rishi bathing in the Ganges. She, too, when she beheld me, felt love rise in her breast. We became husband and wife by the Gandharva marriage. But her relatives, finding out, cursed us both in their anger: "You two wicked ones, doing what is right in your own eyes, shall become lions!"'"
(42. Sata the Yaksha is freed from his curse by Dveepakarni's arrow and gives the boy to the king, as foretold by the hermits.)
"'The hermit-folk, being merciful, appointed that her curse should end when she gave birth to offspring, but that mine should continue longer—until I was slain by thee, O King, with an arrow. So we lived as a pair of lions. She became pregnant, bore this boy, and then died, freed from her curse. I brought him up on the milk of other lionesses. And lo! Today, I am released from my curse, having been smitten by your arrow!'
"'Therefore,' Sata said, gathering the golden-haired boy in his arms, 'receive this noble son, which I now give thee, for this was foretold long ago by the hermit-folk. He is truly yours now.'
(43. Dveepakarni names the boy Satavahana because he rode upon Sata. The boy is later established as king and becomes sovereign of the whole earth.)
"Having said this, Sata the Yaksha disappeared into the ether. The king, taking the boy, joyfully went home. And because the boy had ridden upon Sata (meaning the Yaksha), he gave the child the name Satavahana—'He whose vehicle was Sata.' In time, Dveepakarni established him firmly in his kingdom. When the old king went to the forest to live out his final days, this young Satavahana became the rightful sovereign of the whole earth."
The Humiliation in the Lake
(44. Resuming the main narrative: King Satavahana goes to the Devikriti garden for the spring festival and plays a water sport with his queens.)
"Now, Kanabhuti, back to my own story," Gunadhya said, returning to the moment of his appointment as Minister. "Once, during the joyful spring festival, King Satavahana went to visit the sacred Devikriti garden, the one created by the Goddess’s favor, of which I have already spoken. He roamed there for hours, delighting in its impossible beauty. Then, to amuse himself and his many wives, he descended into the cool, clear waters of the great lake."
(45. One queen, exhausted and tender as a sirisha flower, says to the king in Sanskrit, "Ma udaka" (Do not [sprinkle me with] water-drops).)
"He sprinkled his beloved consorts sportively with water flung from his strong hands, and they, in return, drenched him like elephant-cows showering their bull. His wives, their faces streaming with water, their eyes slightly red from the washing away of their collyrium, pelted him vigorously. In his play, he made his fair ones—who fled into the adjoining shrubbery—lose their foreheads marks and ornaments.
"One queen, in particular, was famed for her extraordinary delicacy. She was tardy with the weight of her breasts, her body tender as a sirisha flower. She became utterly exhausted by the relentless sport. She could endure no more.
"She turned to the King, who was about to sprinkle her again. 'My King,' she said, her voice clear and precise, using the purest, most elevated language, 'Ma udaka!' (Do not water!)"
(46. The king, misunderstanding the Sanskrit compound, orders sweetmeats (modaka), causing the queen and attendants to laugh at his ignorance of grammar.)
"The King, hearing only the sound, failed utterly to grasp the simple Sanskrit syntax. He heard the combined sound, which sounds nearly identical to the common word for a different item. He thought she had asked for a refreshment. He quickly called to an attendant: 'Bring the modaka!'—the rich, sweetmeats used for offerings.
"The queen burst out laughing, a sound that carried a sting of contempt. The other attendants, hearing the gaffe, suppressed giggles that betrayed the King’s mistake. 'King,' she said again, her tone now sharp, 'what do we want with sweetmeats in the water? I said to you, do not sprinkle me with water-drops!'"
(47. The queen humiliates the king, saying, "Do you not even understand the coalescence of the words ma and udaka... how can you be such a blockhead?")
"She stepped back, her expression shifting from playfulness to scathing disapproval. She was a scholar, the daughter of the revered intellectual Vishnushakti.
"'Do you not even understand the coalescence of the words ma and udaka?' she declared, letting her words hang in the air, heavy with judgment. 'The most basic rule of grammar! How can you, the sovereign of the whole earth, be such a blockhead?'
"Kanabhuti, I tell you, when the King heard this cruel assessment from his queen, a woman who knew the grammatical treatises, and saw the barely contained laughter of the attendants, he was immediately overpowered with an agonizing, burning secret shame."
(48. Overcome with shame and self-contempt, Satavahana leaves the water sport, enters his palace, and becomes depressed, averse to food, and silent.)
"The sheer force of the humiliation was too much. He stopped romping instantly. Without a word, he turned, crest-fallen, and slipped away from the lake, entering his palace unperceived, his mind numb with self-contempt. He remained lost in a daze of thought, bewildered, entirely averse to food and all other enjoyments. He sat, silent and still, like a statue, refusing to speak even when questioned. The King was suddenly gripped by a terrible agony of grief, resolving in his heart that his only path now was to either acquire learning or die."
(49. Minister Gunadhya and Minister Sharvavarman hear of the king's distress and question a servant, Rajahansa, who reveals that the queen's insult was the cause.)
"The entire palace fell into a terrified silence. All the King's attendants, seeing him suddenly reduced to such a despairing state, were utterly beside themselves. They could not comprehend the cause.
"By that time, the day was almost over. Finally, Sharvavarman and I came to hear of the King’s condition. Seeing that his state was far from satisfactory, we summoned a trusty royal servant named Rajahansa.
"'Tell us, Rajahansa,' I asked, 'what is the root of this terrible depression?'
"'My Lords,' the servant replied, his voice shaking, 'I have never before witnessed the King so broken. The other queens told me, with much indignation, that he had been humiliated only today by that superficial, arrogant blue-stocking, the daughter of Vishnushakti.'
(50. The ministers debate the cause of the king's mental disease; Sharvavarman deduces that the king is distressed by his own ignorance.)
"When Sharvavarman and I heard this, we fell into a state of deep despondency, debating the cause of this peculiar 'disease.'
"'If the King were afflicted with a bodily disease,' I argued, 'we could bring the physicians. But if his disease is mental, the cause is impossible to pinpoint. He has no enemies; his kingdom is peaceful, and his subjects adore him. How could this sudden melancholy have arisen?'
"After we had debated the possibilities for some time, the wise Sharvavarman spoke with absolute certainty.
"'Gunadhya, you are wrong. I know the cause. This King is distressed by sorrow for his own ignorance. He always expresses a desire for culture, often saying to me in private, I am a blockhead. I had long ago detected this deep-seated desire of his. We have merely heard the occasion: his public humiliation by the queen has brought this desire to a crisis point.'
(51. The next morning, Gunadhya and Sharvavarman enter the king's private apartments.)
"The night passed in this state of anxiety. In the morning, Sharvavarman and I proceeded to the private apartments of the sovereign. Though strict orders had been given that no one was to enter—a sign of the King's despair—I, being the senior minister, managed to get in with difficulty. Sharvavarman slipped in quickly right after me, a determined look on his face."
(52. Gunadhya asks the silent king the reason for his despondency.)
"I approached the King, who was still lying on his couch, staring blankly at the ceiling, the image of regal despair. I sat down near him and asked him the question again, my voice filled with sympathy: 'Why, O King, art thou without cause thus terribly despondent? Tell your minister your sorrow.'
"But though he heard me, Satavahana nevertheless remained utterly silent."
(53. Sharvavarman claims to have had a dream where a divine woman (Sarasvati, the goddess of learning) entered the king's mouth.)
"It was then that Sharvavarman, in a move of inspired diplomacy, uttered an extraordinary, high-flown speech.
"'King,' Sharvavarman said, his voice ringing with reverence, 'thou didst long ago say to me, "Make me a learned man." Thinking upon that sincere desire, I employed last night a powerful charm, a ritual to produce a truth-revealing dream. And I saw it!'
"'I saw in my dream a majestic lotus fallen from heaven. A heavenly youth opened it, and out of it came a radiant, divine woman in pristine white garments. Immediately, O King, she gracefully entered your mouth! When I had seen so much, I woke up. I believe, without any doubt, that the woman who visibly entered your mouth was Sarasvati, the Goddess of all Knowledge! Your wish is already granted in the divine realm!'"
(54. The king breaks his silence and earnestly asks how quickly he can acquire learning, declaring that he finds no charm in regal splendour without knowledge.)
"As soon as Sharvavarman described his dream—a dream I am certain he fabricated to comfort the King—Satavahana finally, thankfully, broke his silence. He spoke to me with the utmost earnestness, his eyes ablaze with a newfound, desperate resolve.
"'In how short a time can a man, who is diligently taught, acquire learning?' he demanded. 'Tell me this! For without learning, all this regal splendour has no charms for me. This throne, these jewels, this army—they are dust! What is the use of rank and power to a blockhead? They are like ornaments placed upon a mere log of wood! I must learn!'"
(55. Gunadhya states that it takes twelve years to learn grammar, but he would teach it to the king in six years.)
"I considered his desperate plight, his kingly duties, and the standard difficulties of learning. I spoke carefully.
"'King, it is invariably the case that it takes any man twelve full years to learn grammar, the essential gateway to all other knowledge. But I, my sovereign, understanding your divine impatience and your sharp mind, promise to teach it to you in six years.' My offer was extraordinary, cutting the standard time in half, a testament to my confidence in his ability."
(56. Sharvavarman, in a fit of jealousy, rashly promises to teach the king grammar in six months.)
"But as soon as I spoke the words 'six years,' Sharvavarman was gripped by a sudden, intense fit of professional jealousy. His face hardened, and he stepped forward, interrupting me with a boast that seemed utterly impossible to fulfill.
"'Six years?' Sharvavarman scoffed. 'Nonsense! How can a King, a man accustomed to the luxuries and enjoyment of life, endure such hardship for so long? The King needs speed, not patience! I will teach you grammar, my prince, in just six months!' His promise was rash, born of rivalry, and fundamentally impossible by any known method of instruction."
(57. In a rage, Gunadhya vows to permanently renounce Sanskrit, Prakrit, and the vernacular dialect if Sharvavarman succeeds.)
"When I heard this reckless, impossible promise, I was overcome with towering rage. I knew Sharvavarman was making a fool of himself and risking the King's faith in the process. I glared at him, my own pride overcoming my senses, and I made the vow that would curse me to silence.
"'If you teach the King in six months,' I roared, 'I renounce at once and forever the use of Sanskrit, Prakrit, and the common vernacular dialect—these three fundamental languages which pass current among all men!'
(58. Sharvavarman vows to carry Gunadhya's shoes on his head for twelve years.)
"Sharvavarman, his face pale but his resolve now cemented, threw back his own counter-vow. 'And if I do not do this impossible thing,' he swore, his voice quivering slightly, 'I, Sharvavarman, will carry your shoes on my head for twelve years! I accept your impossible challenge!'
"Having declared their vows, Sharvavarman immediately went out to begin his impossible task. I, too, went home, furious but bound by my oath. The King, for his part, was deeply comforted, expecting that he would, at last, attain his objective by the extraordinary efforts of one of us two ministers."
The Quest for the Divine Boon
(59. Sharvavarman, regretting his difficult promise, is advised by his wife that only the favour of Lord Kartikeya can save him.)
"Sharvavarman, however, was in a desperate dilemma," Gunadhya narrated, his tone softening to reflect the minister's human fear. "The moment he left the King's presence, the gravity of his promise—six months!—crashed down upon him. He deeply regretted what he had done. He told the entire, ridiculous story to his wife, who listened with growing anxiety.
"'My lord,' she said, her hands grasping his tightly, 'this is a task beyond any mortal teacher. You face a terrible disgrace! There is no way of escape for you now, save the intervention of the divine. You must implore the favor of Lord Kartikeya, the God of War and the master of all knowledge! He is your only salvation.'
"'It is so,' Sharvavarman whispered, his face etched with grim determination. He immediately resolved to implore the God’s grace."
(60. Gunadhya learns of Sharvavarman's intention to implore Kartikeya.)
"Accordingly, in the last watch of the night, Sharvavarman set out, fasting, for the far-off shrine of the God.
"But I was no fool, Kanabhuti. I maintained a network of secret emissaries throughout the kingdom, and by them, I came to hear of Sharvavarman's desperate pilgrimage. I learned every detail of his intention to seek divine intervention."
(61. A trusty Rajput, Sinhagupta, tells the king that he was previously forbidden by a voice from heaven from sacrificing himself, as the king's wish would be fulfilled.)
"In the morning, I told the King of Sharvavarman’s attempt to seek a boon. Satavahana wondered greatly what the outcome would be. It was then that a trusty Rajput captain named Sinhagupta spoke up.
"'O King,' Sinhagupta declared, his voice filled with sincere devotion, 'when I first heard that you were afflicted with sorrow, I was seized with deep despondency. I went out of the city to the shrine of the Goddess Durga, preparing to cut off my own head as a sacrifice to ensure your happiness and success. But a voice from heaven forbade me, saying, "Do not so, for the King's wish shall be fulfilled!" Therefore, my sovereign, I believe you are absolutely sure of success!'"
(62. Sinhagupta sends spies after Sharvavarman, who is performing severe penance at Kartikeya's shrine.)
"Having said this, the devoted Sinhagupta took leave of the King and rapidly dispatched two emissaries of his own, ordering them to follow Sharvavarman's trail.
"Sharvavarman, meanwhile, walked day and night, feeding only on air, observing a terrible vow of silence, his resolution rock-steady. He pushed his body to the breaking point until he finally reached the distant shrine of Lord Kartikeya."
(63. Kartikeya, pleased with Sharvavarman's penance, grants him his wish, and Sinhagupta's spies report the minister's success to the king.)
"There, Sharvavarman began his most austere penance, sparing not his body. The Lord Kartikeya, the six-faced God, was deeply pleased by such intense devotion. He appeared before Sharvavarman and favored him, granting him his profound desire: the instant, intuitive knowledge of the science of grammar.
"At that very moment, the two spies sent by Sinhagupta arrived. They witnessed the divine encounter and rushed back, breathless, into the King’s presence, reporting the Minister's immediate success in gaining the divine boon."
(64. Sharvavarman returns, successfully transmits all sciences to the king by Kartikeya's grace, and Satavahana instantly becomes learned.)
"Hearing that news, the King was overjoyed! I, on the other hand, was overcome with despondency, like the chataka bird that rejoices at the cloud, while the hamsa swan grieves for the loss of the sun's light.
"Then, Sharvavarman arrived, triumphant, his face radiant with Kartikeya’s favor. He now possessed a new, powerful, and instantaneous grammar called the Katantra, which he had created in that moment of divine grace. He communicated all the fundamental principles of the sciences, which presented themselves to him on his very thinking of them.
"And immediately, they were fully revealed to King Satavahana! The King, in a miraculous instant, obtained all knowledge! For what, Kanabhuti, can the grace of the Supreme Lord not accomplish?"
(65. The kingdom celebrates the king's acquisition of knowledge with a high festival and dancing banners.)
"The moment the King revealed his newfound wisdom, the entire kingdom rejoiced! They heard that their sovereign had attained all knowledge, and a high festival was immediately kept throughout the land. Banners were flaunted from every house, and being fanned by the celebratory wind, they seemed to dance in pure ecstasy."
(66. King Satavahana honours Sharvavarman as his spiritual preceptor with jewels and appoints him governor of the Vakakachchha territory.)
"The King, highly pleased with the minister who had achieved the impossible and saved his reputation, bowed humbly before Sharvavarman, calling him his spiritual preceptor. He honored him with an abundance of magnificent jewels fit for a King, and made him the powerful governor of the territory called Vakakachchha, which lay along the bank of the Narmada."
(67. The king also rewards the Rajput Sinhagupta and exalts the queen (daughter of Vishnushakti) who was the cause of his acquiring learning.)
"The King did not forget the others. That valiant Rajput, Sinhagupta, who first heard the news of the six-faced God's boon by the mouth of his spies, was made equal to the King in splendour and power and given immense rewards.
"And even that queen, the daughter of Vishnushakti, who had been the cause of his shame—and thus, the ultimate cause of his acquiring learning—he now deeply treasured. Through affection, he exalted her at one bound above all the other queens, personally anointing her with his own hand.
"And me, Kanabhuti?" Gunadhya concluded, a shadow of pain crossing his face. "I had lost the impossible wager. My tongue was now bound by an oath I could not retract, a silence that cut me off from the world of men. And so, I wandered here, forced to speak the guttural Paishacha, hoping to break the larger, older curse with the power of your tale. Now, tell me the story you heard from Pushpadanta, before the King's reward and my punishment consume me entirely."
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