217. Katha Sarit Sagar : Chapter 7
The Curse of the Flowery Arrow: A Tale of Two Brothers
I. The Audience of Silence and Prowess
The royal court of King Sātavāhana shimmered with gold and anxiety. Every eye was fixed on the man who dared to stand before the throne: Guṇāḍhya. A man bound by a fearsome oath, his presence was a paradox—a renowned scholar who now communicated only through the eloquent language of silence.
A profound stillness settled as a revered Brāhman stepped forward, his voice like the chime of temple bells, to recite a newly composed shloka. It was a complex, beautiful tapestry of Sanskrit verse, a true test of linguistic mastery.
The King listened, his gaze steady, his royal demeanor calm. When the Brāhman concluded, the King did not hesitate. He addressed the poet directly, not in the vernacular, but in flawless, impeccable Sanskrit.
“Your poetry,” the King pronounced, his voice authoritative yet musical, “is a river of thought that flows from the mountain of wisdom. However, the eighth pada requires a slight modification to adhere to the strict meter of the Vedas. The word 'anubhava' should yield to 'anubhooti' for perfect chhandas.”
A collective sigh of astonishment rippled through the assembled ministers and courtiers. The King’s wisdom was not merely inherited; it was learned. The Brāhman bowed low, his face alight with reverence. “O King,” he exclaimed, “your mastery is a grace upon this land!”
The King’s smile was one of gentle pride. He then turned his attention to a minister standing near Guṇāḍhya: Śarvavarman.
“Śarvavarman,” the King said, his tone softening to a respectful plea, “the assembly has witnessed my small effort in letters. Now, tell us of a miracle far greater. Narrate, yourself, the manner in which the divine grace of Kārtikeya—Lord Skanda—descended upon you.”
Śarvavarman, his eyes filled with the memory of light, began his tale.
II. The Journey to the God
“O King,” Śarvavarman began, his voice a low, steady current, “you commanded me to acquire the science of grammar in six months, a seemingly impossible feat. Driven by the fear of failure and the weight of my vow, I resolved upon the most desperate path: the direct intervention of the divine.
“I left this palace, fasting and silent. The journey was long, punishing, and silent. Days merged into weeks. My body, denied all sustenance and rest, became a mere shadow of flesh. I felt the light of my resolve flicker and dim with every grueling step. When the journey ended, near the great temple of Lord Kārtikeya, I was utterly spent. Despair was a leaden cloak upon my soul. I crumpled, not walking, but simply collapsing into the dust, and fell senseless on the ground.”
Śarvavarman paused, his expression shifting from pain to wonder.
“Then, in that black moment of oblivion, I felt a tremor, a presence of incredible power. I sensed a voice, clear and distinct, that seemed to cleave the despair. I remember a vision: a tall, brilliant man, standing over me, a glittering spear in his hand.
“‘Rise up, my son,’ the vision commanded, his voice firm yet infinitely compassionate. ‘Everything shall turn out favourably for thee.’
“O King, that single sentence was more than words. It was like a shower of nectar upon my withered body. Immediately, the crushing weight was gone. I woke up, fully alert, and miraculously, my hunger and thirst had vanished. My body felt light, invigorated, in perfect ease. The world was new.
“A wave of pure, overwhelming devotion carried me. I approached the temple’s precincts, performed a purifying bath, and with my heart hammering in agitated suspense, I entered the inner shrine.
“And there, King, I beheld Him. Lord Skanda, the divine General, stood manifested within the sanctum. His form radiated the light of a thousand suns, adorned with peacock feathers, beautiful beyond mortal description. And as I stared, trembling, a second miracle occurred. The goddess Sarasvatī, the visible form of pure knowledge, flowed from the Lord’s effulgence and entered my mouth.
“Lord Skanda then began to speak, revealing a new, perfect system of letters, a complete grammatical treatise, reciting the sūtra beginning: ‘the traditional doctrine of letters.’ The knowledge was intoxicating, a divine rhythm flowing through me.
“It was then that my human nature, that fatal levity natural to mankind, asserted itself. The brilliance of the new grammar was so clear, so logical, so perfect, that I impulsively guessed the next sūtra and uttered it myself, interrupting the flow of the divine revelation.
“Lord Skanda’s gaze, though loving, held a flicker of solemnity. He spoke: ‘Alas, were it not for this small interruption, this new grammatical treatise would have been so utterly concise that it would have eclipsed and supplanted that of Pāṇini. Yet, because of your human intervention, though the work remains perfect, it must yield its ultimate supremacy. Nevertheless, it is a triumph of brevity. For its conciseness, it shall be known as Kātāntra. And for the tail (kalāpa) of the peacock upon which I ride, it shall also be called Kālāpaka.’
“He then, in visible form, imparted to me the entirety of that new, short grammar. But the revelations were not yet complete. The Lord then spoke of you, O King, in words that staggered my comprehension.
“‘That king of yours,’ Skanda declared, his eyes fixed on a distant memory, ‘was in a former birth a holy sage, a pupil of the venerable hermit Bharadvāja. His name was Kṛishṇa, great in austerity. However, he beheld a hermit’s daughter, who loved him in return, and the shaft of the flowery-arrowed god—Kāma—pierced his heart. He felt that agonizing smart of desire. For this lapse, the indignant hermits cursed him, and he is now incarnate as your King Sātavāhana. That hermit’s daughter has also been incarnate as his queen.’
“The words were a hammer-blow of fate. Skanda continued, his voice ringing with prophecy: ‘This King Sātaváhana, being an incarnation of a holy sage, needs only a catalyst. When he beholds thee, his latent memories will stir. He will immediately attain a knowledge of all the sciences according to thy wish. The highest matters are easily acquired by great-souled ones, for the real truth of them being recalled by their powerful memories from a former birth.’
“With that profound message delivered, the Lord Skanda disappeared. The blinding light receded, and I stood alone, shaking with awe and realization.
“As I stumbled out of the shrine, the god’s servants approached me. They gave me a handful of common grains of rice. ‘The Lord’s blessing,’ one whispered.
“I began my return journey to the capital. And O King, listen to this marvel: Though I consumed those grains day after day for sustenance, they did not diminish. They remained as numerous as ever, a constant, visible sign of the Lord’s eternal favor.”
Śarvavarman’s voice dropped into silence. The court was breathless. King Sātavāhana, his face a mask of deep, dawning recognition, rose from his throne. “I must... I must bathe,” he murmured, the weight of his ancient sage-self settling upon him. He departed in a cheerful, thoughtful mood.
III. The Vow Broken
Guṇāḍhya, witnessing the profound effect of Śarvavarman’s narrative, felt a release. His role in this saga was over. He was excluded from any further business by his vow of silence. With a low bow—a salute to the King and to the cosmic drama that had unfolded—he took his leave of the city.
He walked out, accompanied by only two faithful disciples, his mind utterly bent on the performance of austerities. His goal was the sacred shrine of the dweller in the Vindhya hills, the Goddess Herself.
The journey was fraught with hardship. Finally, reaching the shrine, he prayed fervently. That night, the Goddess of the mountain realm appeared to him in a dream. Her eyes were deep as a cavern pool, and her voice resonated in his spirit.
“Go now,” she instructed. “Your path lies to the east. You must seek out Káṇabhúti. He awaits you. Enter for that purpose this terrible Vindhya forest.”
Obediently, Guṇāḍhya pushed on. The forest was a snarl of shadows and danger. He encountered a Pulinda, a hunter of the tribal people, whose cryptic hint enabled him to find the track of a caravan. He attached himself to the group, his safety marginally secured by their numbers.
“Somehow or other,” Guṇāḍhya would later recount, “by the special favor of destiny, I managed to arrive here, near the designated place.”
It was there that the true miracle occurred, the means by which his long, isolating vow would be broken. He heard sounds, not of the caravan, but of others. He concealed himself and listened. Before him was a throng, a host of Piśāchas, spectral beings, talking amongst themselves, their language a rough, vigorous vernacular.
Paiśācha.
Guṇāḍhya listened, day after day, week after week. The language, simple, primal, and rhythmic, began to sink into his mind. He contrived to learn this Paiśācha language simply by hearing their continuous conversation with one another.
The moment arrived. He knew the language. The spell of silence was broken.
He used his newly acquired tongue to ask after Káṇabhúti. Hearing that his friend had gone to Ujjayiní, he settled, patiently waiting for the return.
Finally, Káṇabhúti arrived. Guṇāḍhya strode out, and on beholding him, Guṇāḍhya welcomed him with a strong, unfamiliar greeting in the fourth language—the speech of the Piśāchas. It was the simple act of speaking, the sound of his own voice after so long, that instantly caused him to recall his origin and the curse that had brought him low.
“This,” Guṇāḍhya concluded, his voice ringing with new freedom, “is the full story of my adventures in this birth.”
IV. The Rākshasa's Prophecy
Káṇabhúti, deeply moved by Guṇāḍhya’s narrative and still reeling from the shock of hearing the rough Paiśācha tongue, began his own account.
“Hear, Guṇāḍhya, how your arrival was made known to me just last night,” he said, his voice hushed with awe. “I have a friend, a Rākshasa of the name Bhūtivarman, a noble being who possesses heavenly insight. I went to visit him in a secluded garden in Ujjayiní where he resides.
“My own curse, as you know, has been a heavy burden. I asked him earnestly when this suffering would finally come to an end.”
Káṇabhúti leaned forward, his eyes wide. “Bhūtivarman looked at me, his gaze distant, focusing on something only he could see. He said, ‘We, the night-walkers, have no power in the day. The solar brilliance dazes us. You must wait, and I will tell you at night.’
“I consented, though impatience clawed at me. When the darkness finally descended, and the air was filled with the low laughter and sport of the goblins—the nature of our own cursed forms—I asked him earnestly the reason why these creatures delighted in disporting themselves then.”
Bhūtivarman had settled under a great Banyan tree, his form solidifying in the deep shadow. “Listen, Káṇabhúti,” he had said, “I will relate what I heard Śiva Himself say in a conversation with Brahmā, the Creator.
“Rākshasas, Yakshas, and Piśáchas—all of our kind—have no power in the day, being dazed with the brightness of the sun. Therefore, they naturally delight in the night.
“But there is more to it than simple solar light. Our influence is powerful where the gods are not properly worshipped, and the Bráhmans are not honored in due form. We have great power where men eat contrary to the holy law, staining their purity.
“Conversely,” Bhūtivarman’s voice had gained an insistent tone, “where there is a man who abstains from flesh, or a virtuous woman, there they do not go. They will never successfully attack chaste men, heroes, and men who are awake—those whose minds are vigilant and spirits pure.”
Káṇabhúti paused, taking a deep breath. “When he said this, Bhūtivarman’s face glowed with sudden joy. He stood up and cried, ‘Go! Go now! For Guṇāḍhya has arrived! He is the destined means of thy release from the curse!’”
A genuine smile broke across Káṇabhúti’s face. “So hearing this, I have come, and I have seen thee, my lord. Now I am ready. I will relate to thee that great tale which Pushpadanta told. But first, a matter of curiosity gnaws at me. I feel the need to understand our suffering. Tell me, Guṇāḍhya, why was your brother, our fellow sufferer, called Pushpadanta? And you, my friend, why are you known as Mályaván?”
V. The Flower Sign and the Gāndharva Love
Guṇāḍhya, now Mályaván, took up the thread of the narrative, ready to speak of his brother.
“Hear then,” he said, “the story of our family’s beginning and the reason for Pushpadanta’s name.
“On the sacred bank of the River Ganges lies a district of great learning, a land of charity and Brahmacharya, called Bahusuvarṇaka. There lived a most learned and revered Brāhman named Govindadatta, a man of vast scriptural knowledge. His wife, Agnidattá, was a woman of unwavering devotion to her husband.
“In time, they were blessed with five sons. Physically, they were handsome, tall, and striking. But alas, nature is capricious; they were also stupid—lacking the quickness of mind and spiritual comprehension required for their caste. This flaw made them insolent fellows, puffed up by their looks and their father’s fame.
“One day, as Govindadatta was absent, a distinguished guest arrived, a Brāhman named Vaiśvánara, whose brilliance of spirit made him seem like a second god of fire. Our handsome, witless sons greeted the venerable guest. Vaiśvánara offered a respectful salute. In return, these dolts did not return the formal blessing. Instead, they responded to his greeting only with a laugh.”
Mályaván’s voice was colored with old shame. “The Brāhman, already weary from travel, was incandescent with righteous fury. He prepared to depart instantly, deeming the house spoiled.
“It was at this moment that our father, Govindadatta, returned. He saw the excellent Brāhman’s wrath, and asked the cause. He did his best, humbling himself, to appease him. But Vaiśvánara refused.
“‘Your sons,’ the guest declared, his voice trembling, ‘have become outcasts, as they are blockheads. And you, Govindadatta, have lost caste by associating with them. I will not eat in your house. To do so would require an expiatory ceremony I cannot undergo.’
“Our father, shattered by the shame, swore a fearful oath to his guest. ‘I will never even touch these wicked sons of mine again!’ My hospitable mother, weeping for the honor of her husband, came and swore the same oath. Only then, with great difficulty, was the esteemed Vaiśvánara induced to accept their hospitality.
“One of my brothers, Devadatta—the one who would become Pushpadanta—witnessed this terrible shame. He was profoundly grieved at his father’s sternness. He thought a life thus branded by his parents was of no value. In a state of utter despondency, he abandoned our home and went to the distant hermitage of Badariká to perform penance.
“His austerities were merciless. He first ate only leaves. Then, he subsisted only on smoke. He persevered in a long course of austerities solely to propitiate Śambhu, the Husband of Umá.
“Śambhu—Lord Śiva—was finally won over. He manifested himself to Devadatta. My brother, his body fragile but his spirit soaring, cried out for a boon: that he might forever attend upon the Lord in the assembly of the Gaṇas.
“Śambhu smiled. ‘You are not yet ready for that ultimate reward, my son. First, you must fulfill your destiny on the earth. Acquire learning, and then enjoy pleasures on the earth. After that, you shall attain all your desire.’
“Eager for the knowledge he had been denied, Devadatta went to the great city of Páṭaliputra. He enrolled under an instructor named Vedakumbha. But the path of a seeker is never smooth. The wife of his preceptor, seeing the handsome young man, was overcome by a powerful, distracting passion. She made violent love to him—a dark interference in his studies. Alas! The fancies of women are ever inconstant!
“Devadatta, his studies compromised by the god of love, immediately left that place. He travelled with unwearied zeal to Pratishṭhána. There, he sought out an old, wise preceptor named Mantrasvámin, whose wife was also old and whose house was therefore safe. Under this master, Devadatta finally acquired a perfect knowledge of the sciences.
“Having achieved his learning, the second part of Śambhu’s command—the enjoyment of pleasures—began. The daughter of King Suśarman, a maiden named Śrí, was renowned for her beauty, like the goddess Śrí herself. She looked upon the handsome Devadatta and her fate was sealed.
“He, too, beheld her. She stood at a window, looking like the presiding goddess of the moon, moving through the air in a magic chariot.
“It was one single look that passed between them—a look that was the chain of love. They were, as it were, instantly fastened together and were unable to separate.
“The maiden, bold and desperate, made a sign. With one finger, looking like Love's command in fleshly form, she signaled him to come near. When he approached, she came out of the women’s apartments, and in a gesture of breathtaking, poetic mystery, she took with her teeth a flower and threw it down to him.
“Devadatta, though learned in the sciences, was a simple soul in the arts of love. He failed to comprehend this mysterious sign. Puzzled as to what he ought to do, he returned home to his preceptor, Mantrasvámin.
“The pain of his unfulfilled desire was agonizing. He rolled on the ground, unable to utter a word, consuming himself with a silent, burning pain, like a dumb, distracted man.
“His wise preceptor, Mantrasvámin, was a master of human nature. He guessed what was the matter simply by observing these love-symptoms. He questioned Devadatta artfully, and at last, with difficulty, persuaded him to tell the whole story.
“The clever preceptor’s eyes twinkled with satisfaction. He instantly guessed the riddle. ‘My son,’ he announced, ‘by letting drop a flower with her tooth, she made a sign. You were to go to that well-known temple, the one rich in flowers, which is rightly called Pushpadanta (Flower-Tooth). You were to go and wait there! You had better go now!’
“When he heard the meaning of the sign, the youth’s despair vanished, replaced by a consuming hope. He rushed to the Pushpadanta temple and secreted himself inside, waiting.
“The princess was equally resourceful. She made the excuse that it was the eighth day of the month—a day for temple visits—and went to the shrine. She entered the inner sanctum, pretending to present herself alone before the god.
“Her heart pounding, she approached the panel of the door and touched the man hidden behind it. Devadatta, who had been waiting in agony, instantly sprang up and threw his arms round her neck.
“She gasped, pulling back slightly. ‘This is strange! How did you guess the meaning of that sign of mine? I thought no one would know but me!’
“Devadatta, in his honesty, made the fatal admission. ‘It was my preceptor that found it out, not I.’
“The Princess’s joy turned to fury. A mortal offense! Her pride in her clever riddle was instantly wounded by his dullness. She flew into a passion. ‘Let me go!’ she hissed, tearing herself away. ‘You are a dolt!’ She immediately rushed out of the temple, fearing that her secret would be discovered by the guards or the staff.
“Devadatta was left alone, reeling. He returned to solitude, thinking only of his beloved, who was no sooner seen than lost to his eyes. He fell into a state so deep that the very taper of his life was well nigh melted away in the fire of bereavement.
“The merciful Lord Śiva, whom Devadatta had propitiated, saw his devotee’s suffering. He commanded one of his trusted attendants, a mighty Gaṇa named Panchaśikha, to procure for the young man the desire of his heart.
“Panchaśikha, the excellent Gaṇa, arrived and consoled the desperate lover. His plan was ingenious. He caused Devadatta to assume the dress of a woman, making him look like a beautiful young bride. Panchaśikha himself adopted the guise of an aged Bráhman, a venerable priest.
“The worthy Gaṇa then went with the disguised Devadatta to the palace of King Suśarman. He addressed the King: ‘My son has gone on a long journey to seek knowledge somewhere. I go to find him. I cannot take my young daughter-in-law with me. I deposit her with thee, O King. Keep her safely until my return.’
“King Suśarman, a righteous man, was deathly afraid of a Bráhman’s curse. He took the young man, supposing him to be a woman, and placed him directly in his daughter’s well-guarded seraglio.
“After Panchaśikha’s departure, Devadatta, dressed as a woman, dwelt in the most forbidden sanctuary, in the very seraglio of his beloved. Due to his beauty and gentle demeanor, he quickly became her trusted confidante.
“The King’s daughter, one night, was filled with regretful longing, missing the man she had insulted. It was then that Devadatta discovered himself to her. He revealed his true self, and they secretly married one another by the highest form of romantic love, the Gándharva form of marriage.”
VI. The King’s Test and the Sage’s Name
“In due course,” Mályaván continued, “the Princess became pregnant. That excellent Gaṇa, Panchaśikha, came to Devadatta’s mind, and he immediately appeared. He spirited the young man away at night without any sentinel perceiving it.
“The next morning, Panchaśikha quickly removed the woman’s dress from Devadatta. He then resumed the semblance of the Bráhman priest. He and Devadatta went to King Suśarman.
“‘O King,’ the Bráhman-Gaṇa said, his voice grave, ‘I have this day found my son. He is here. Now, give me back my daughter-in-law, whom I entrusted to your care.’
“The King was utterly terrified. He saw no trace of the young woman. Supposing she had somehow fled somewhere at night, and thoroughly alarmed at the prospect of being cursed by the Bráhman, he turned to his ministers.
“‘This is no ordinary Bráhman,’ the King declared. ‘This is some god come to deceive me—a divine test! Such things happen often in this world, to test the resolve of Kings!’
“He then told his ministers the story of a great ancestor, King Śivi, to steel their resolve and justify his own fear.
“‘In former times,’ King Suśarman recounted, ‘there was a King named Śivi, a man of supreme virtue: self-denying, compassionate, generous, resolute, and the protector of all creatures. To beguile him—to test him—the Lord Indra assumed the shape of a mighty hawk. The God Dharma (Righteousness) by magic transformed himself into a small, trembling dove.
“‘The hawk swiftly pursued the dove. The little bird, in sheer terror, flew down and took refuge—sought sharan—in the bosom of King Śivi.
“‘The hawk then spoke, addressing the King with a human voice that was harsh and demanding. “O King,” it cried, “this is my natural food! You are denying me life itself. Surrender the dove to me, for I am hungry. Know that my death will immediately follow if you refuse my prayer! In that case, where will be your celebrated righteousness?”
“‘Śivi replied, his voice firm: “This creature has fled to me for protection, and I cannot abandon it. I am bound by the oath of a King. Therefore, I will give you an equal weight of some other kind of flesh—anything you choose.”
“‘The hawk scorned the offer. “If this be so,” he snapped, “then give me your own flesh.”
“‘King Śivi, delighted to have found a path that protected the dove while fulfilling his own vow of charity, consented instantly.
“‘He called for the scales. But the gods were testing him still. As fast as he cut off his flesh from his thigh and threw it onto the scale opposite the dove, the little bird seemed to weigh more and more in the balance! The flesh he cut was massive, agonizing, yet the dove remained heavier.
“‘Finally, the King, weak but his resolve unbreakable, stepped onto the scale. He threw his whole body onto the scale opposite the dove.
“‘Immediately, a beautiful celestial voice was heard, resonating through the heavens: “Well done! This is equal in weight to the dove!”
“‘Indra and Dharma then abandoned the forms of hawk and dove. They were highly pleased. They instantly restored the body of King Śivi whole as before, bestowed on him many other blessings, and disappeared.
“‘In the same way,’ King Suśarman concluded, ‘this Bráhman is some god that has come to prove me! I cannot risk his wrath.’
“Having thus justified himself to his ministers, King Suśarman turned to the excellent Gaṇa. He prostrated himself before the Bráhman, utterly defeated and afraid of being cursed.
“‘Spare me, venerable one,’ the King pleaded. ‘That daughter-in-law of thine was carried off last night. She has been taken somewhere or other by magic arts, though guarded night and day! I am innocent!’
“The Gaṇa, who had assumed the Bráhman’s semblance, pretended to be with difficulty won over to pity him. ‘If this be so, King,’ he said, as if making a great sacrifice, ‘then you must compensate my son. Give thy daughter in marriage to my son.’
“The King, utterly crushed by fear, had no choice. He gave his own daughter, Śrí, to Devadatta. Then, Panchaśikha the Gaṇa departed.
“Devadatta had recovered his beloved, and in an open, honorable manner. He flourished in the power and splendor of his father-in-law, who had no son but him.
“In course of time, King Suśarman anointed the son of his daughter by Devadatta, a child named Mahídhara, as successor in his room, and retired to the forest.
“Devadatta, having seen the prosperity of his son secured, considered that he had attained all his objects—the learning and the pleasures promised by Lord Śiva. He, too, with the princess, retired to the forest. There, he again propitiated Śiva, and having laid aside his mortal body, he attained the ultimate position of a Gaṇa.
“And this, Káṇabhúti, is the reason for his name. Because he did not understand the sign given by the flower dropped from the tooth of his beloved, he became known by the name of Pushpadanta in the assembly of the Gaṇas. And his wife became a door-keeper in the house of the goddess, under the name of Jayá.”
VII. The God of Garlands
Guṇāḍhya, now known to be Mályaván, turned his gaze upward, a faraway look in his eyes.
“Now, you ask of my name, the tale of Mályaván.
“Long ago, I was a son of that same Bráhman, Govindadatta, the father of Devadatta. My birth name was Somadatta. Like my brother, I was filled with righteous indignation at my father’s oath and the shame brought upon our house. I left my home for the same reason as Devadatta.
“I journeyed far, not to the south, but to the cold, pristine peaks of the Himálaya. There, I resolved to perform penance, continually striving to propitiate Śiva. But my austerity took a different form from my brother’s. I sought to please the Lord with offerings of many garlands—flowers I gathered myself from the highest, trackless forest-regions.
“The god of the moony crest, being pleased by my ceaseless devotion and effort, revealed himself to me, just as he did to my brother. And like my brother, I chose the privilege of attending upon him as a Gaṇa, not being desirous of lower, earthly pleasures.
“The husband of the daughter of the mountain, that mighty god, thus addressed me, his voice like the roar of a thousand waterfalls: ‘Because I have been worshipped by thee with garlands of flowers (mālya) growing in trackless forest-regions, brought with thy own hand, therefore thou shalt be one of my Gaṇas, and shalt bear the name of Mályaván.’
“Then I cast off my mortal frame, and immediately attained the holy state of an attendant on the god. And so my name of Mályaván was bestowed upon me by him who wears the burden of the matted locks
“And I, that very Mályaván, have once more, O Káṇabhúti, been degraded to the state of a mortal, as thou seest, owing to the curse of the Daughter of the Mountain—Parvati—for a transgression I shall yet tell.
“Therefore,” Mályaván finished, his eyes burning with focused intent, “do thou now tell me the tale which Pushpadanta told—the great, original story of our shared life on Kailash—in order that the state of curse of both of us may cease.”
No comments:
Post a Comment