‘When she heard those words she was seized with fear. The demi-god then revealed to her his real and marvellous form and said, “O wicked woman, you have done something very wrong. Accept the doctrine of the Jinas, which is like a flood of water to. cleanse the dirt of sin. O foolish lady! I am that elephant driver whom you delivered to death. Through the great power of the Jain doctrine I have become a god.” When the lady had made the firm resolve, “I too shall become a Jain,” he took her to some nuns and under their guidance she renounced the world.’
Padmasenā concluded, ‘You need not pay any attention to the many stories like this, which are either meant to stir a man to action or to make him want to renounce the world; in truth, none of them is meant for people like us. Ignore them and devote yourself to a life of proper pleasure.’
(from the Pariśistaparvan of Hemacandra, Ch.2)
10
SUNDARĪ
Here in this very land of Bharata is a city called Sāketa. The king there was Madana, ‘God of Love’, both in name and appearance. He had a son, Prince Anafiga. In the city also dwelt a rich merchant Vaiśramaṇa, as rich indeed as his namesake, the God of Wealth, Vaiśramaṇa. He had a son named Priyaṃkara. Priyaṃkara was handsome and virtuous; he was talented, generous and compassionate, and he was a fervent believer in the Jain doctrine. One day Vaiśramana married off his son Priyaṃkara to Sundarī, the daughter of his neighbour Priyamitra. They came to be very much in love with each other. If they had to be apart for even a few minutes, they became agitated in their longing to see each other. But fate so ordained it that one day Priyaṃkara became ill. Grief tore at Sundarī and she would not eat, nor bathe, nor talk, nor do anything at all in the house. All she could do was to be miserable; tears flowed from her eyes, for the thought that her beloved might die only caused the pain in her heart to grow and grow. When Priyaṃkara’s lifespan was exhausted, for such was his karma, he went to the other world. His family was despondent when they saw that he had died. His father began to lament.
‘O son, abode of all fine virtues! Treasure house of good qualities! Priyaṃkara, where have you gone? Answer me!’
His relatives started to take the corpse out of the house so that it could be cremated, but Sundarī, her mind confused by her love, would not allow them to burn the body. No matter how her father and mother and her friends tried to convince her, she would not relinquish the corpse. Embracing his dead body, the beautiful woman wailed and lamented, despondent over what she saw as a world in which there was no king to see that justice was done. Though her husband was lifeless, she treated him as if he were still among the living. It is clear that love can blind and delude people so that they can no longer distinguish between what is true and what is false.
Sundarī’s family was distressed and they summoned those who were skilled in magic spells and practices. But it was all to no avail. Thinking that she was beyond the reach of their ministrations, her family dismissed these people and left her alone for a day. By the next day, the corpse was swollen and beginning to stink. But that did not matter to Sundarī; under the influence of her strong love for Priyaṃkara she continued to embrace the corpse. When the family scolded her and her friends tried to make her stop, she thought to herself, ‘My family says that he is dead and I am crazy. It’s clear that I must leave this place and go somewhere where they can’t find me.’ And so Sundarī put the corpse on her head and left her home, making her way to the cemetery, as people stared at her with feelings of astonishment, pity, disgust and amusement. There, wearing an old rag, her body covered in dust and hair all dishevelled and standing on end, she looked like someone carrying out rituals in service of the terrifying god Bhairava. She begged for alms and took the choicest morsels and set them before the corpse saying, ‘Beloved, you take whatever looks most delicious and give me whatever looks rotten.’ After saying such words, she would eat. Day after day she stayed there at the cemetery, looking like either a young girl devoted to the Kāpālika sect that worships siva, or like a demoness or goblin of some kind.
Her father Priyamitra petitioned the ruler of the city saying, ‘Master! Please have this proclamation made in the city: “My daughter is like one possessed. I will give whatever he desires to the person who can make her well.’ Prince Anairga heard this proclamation and thought, ‘This foolish girl has been possessed by the demon of love, that is all. I will use my wits to cure her.’ When he told the king, the king said, ‘Son! If you can cure her, then you should do this good deed to help that merchant.’
The prince found the corpse of some woman and put it down near Sundarī in the cemetery. He did not speak to her and she did not speak to him. Whatever she did to the corpse of her husband he did to the other corpse. One day she said to him, ‘What are you doing?’ He replied, ‘This beautiful charming wife of mine isn’t feeling well. But everyone kept telling me, ‘She is dead. She should be cremated.’ I thought that they were all lying and so I took her away from there and have brought her here to this cemetery.’ Sundarī then said, ‘You did the right thing. We are both in the same situation; let’s be friends. For it is said, “People in the same state of distress become true friends” Ananga said, ‘You are my sister. He is my brother-in-law. Tell me, what is his name?’ She said, ‘My husband’s name is Priyaṃkara. What is your wife’s name?’ He told her, ‘Her name is Māyādevī’ The two of them stayed there together in the cemetery, having become good friends.
When she had to go off for a moment to do something urgent, she would say to him, ‘Take care of my beloved.’ Whenever she would go anywhere, she would leave the corpse in his care. One day he said to her, ‘Sister, your husband said something to my wife, but I didn’t quite catch what he said.’ She became angry and said, ‘O lord of my life! For your sake I abandoned everything, family, home, father and mother, as if it were all as worthless as a blade of grass. And now this is what you do?’ On another day she left the corpse with him and went off to do what she had to do. He threw the two corpses into a well. He then went after Sundarī. She asked him, ‘Whom did you ask to look after the two of them?’ He replied, ‘I told Māyādevī to look after Priyaṃkara and I told Priyaṃkara to look after Māyādevī. Let’s go back there’ But when they got back they did not see Priyaṃkara or Māyādevī. Sundarī was grief-stricken. Ananga pretended to fall in a faint. When he came to he said, ‘Sister, what can we do? Your husband has clearly run off with my wife. I guess I did the wrong thing’ The innocent Sundarī thought to herself for awhile, ‘There is no doubt that my husband has run off with his wife. What a miserable, wretched person he must be, totally devoid of compassion, ungrateful, to have done such a thingr’ Ananga asked her, ‘Good lady! What should we do now?’ She answered, ‘I have no idea. You tell me what we should do’ He said, ‘Good lady! Listen to this truth. One and the same soul wanders from birth to birth. What does it mean to call someone husband or wife? Everything in this cycle of births is as impermanent as a flash of lightning. You should meditate on such things as the impermanence of all things, the suffering that souls undergo in the cycle of rebirth, and the absolute solitary state of the soul as it goes from birth to birth. Every union ends in parting. Every rise leads to a fall. Pleasures are like diseases. The soul, like an actor, dons different costumes as it goes from birth to birth, among the eighty-four possible states of rebirth in the cycle of transmigratory existence. Knowing this, you should embrace the Right Faith in the Jain Doctrine’ In this way Sundarī was awakened to the truth. She returned home. Her father arranged a great celebration and throughout the town was heard praise for the prince, who had brought Sundarī to her senses.
(from the Kuvalayamālākathā of Ratnaprabhasūri, p. 74)
11
THE DEATH OF LAKṢMAṆA AND THE AWAKENING OF RĀMA
Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma’s beloved brother and faithful Companion in the fight against Rāvana, was dead. Their trusted allies, Sugrīva and the others, declared, ‘King Rāma, let us now make a funeral pyre. Give u
s the body of Lakṣmaṇa, lord among men, so that we may cremate it properly.’ But Rāma was not in his right mind and he retorted, ‘May you all burn on that pyre, with your fathers and mothers and even your grandfathers, too. And may all of your friends and relatives die with you, you men of evil heart. Come, get up, get up, Lakṣmaṇa. Let us go somewhere else, where we will not have to hear such cruel words from scoundrels like these.’ Rāma then went to lift the body of his brother. The kings, Sugrīva the others, in a flurry rushed to help him, grabbing the shoulders, back and other parts of the body. But Rāma did not trust them and so he carried Lakṣmaṇa’s body all by himself and stoleaway from them, as a child might steal away with a poison fruit.
Rāma’s eyes overflowed with tears as he said, ‘O brother! Why are you still asleep? Get up! It’s time. Come, come and take your bath.’ And with those words he placed the dead body on the throne that had been prepared for his own bath. Overcome by delusion, he gently poured water on the corpse from gold pitchers. Then he adorned the dead body with all kinds of ornaments, with a crown and other jewels. Rāma, whose command was always obeyed, next hastened to order the servants in charge of the kitchen with these words, ‘Lay out plates and saucers made of gold and fashioned of various jewels, and bring the finest food. Bring the best of wines and every kind of condiment to stimulate the taste buds.’ When they heard his order, the servants, obedient to the desires of their master, carefully did all that he had asked of them. Rāma tried to put a morsel of food into Lakṣmaṇa’s mouth, but nothing would go in, just as the words of the lord of the Jinas do not enter the ears of the unfortunate person who is not destined for salvation. When he saw that, Rāma said, ‘Lord, even if you are angry at me, why do you take it out on this innocent morsel of food, that tastes as exquisite as the nectar of the gods? O glorious one! This is the finest of wines, which you always loved. At least drink some of it from this lotus-shaped cup.’ With those words he tenderly placed the cup on Lakṣmaṇa’s lips. But how could that lifeless corpse sip that sweet draught?
In this way Rāma, deluded by the intensity of his love, and clinging stubbornly to the ties that bind people together in worldly life, did everything for Lakṣmaṇa that one might do for a living companion. It was all for naught. Rāma continued to entertain Lakṣmaṇa, though he was devoid of life, in sweet songs that were accompanied by the music of a flute and a lute. Filled with longing, Rāma gently lifted Lakṣmaṇa’s body that he had smeared with sandal paste and placed it on his lap. He kissed Lakṣmaṇa on the head, and then on the cheeks, and then on his hands. ‘O Lakṣmaṇa, what has happened to you, that you go on sleeping like this and will not wake up? Tell me now.’
Rāma was possessed by the demon of love; his past deeds had now come to fruition in such a way as to bring him under the spell of a great delusion. While Rāma was behaving so oddly, his enemies came to know of his condition and rose up against him, like the dark clouds that at the time of the destruction of the universe thunder and rage at the sun, the brightest of the heavenly lights. Intent on rebellion and no longer able to contain their wrath, they went to Cāruratna, the son of Sunda, who was the nephew of Rāvana. Cāruratna in turn went to Kuliśamālin, the son of Indrajit, who was the son of Rāvana. Cāruratna declared, ‘Laksiriana killed my father Sunda and my uncle and made Virādhita king of the netherworld. Rāma was suffering from the loss of his beloved wife. He struck up a friendship with Sugrīva, who is like the moon, bringing delight to the army of the Vānara group. When he learned where his wife had been taken Rāma crossed the ocean in chariots that flew up into the sky. In his desire to conquer Lankā, Rāma destroyed many an island. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa mastered two magic spells and were able to capture Rāvana’s son Indrajit and the others. Lakṣmaṇa obtained a magic wheel with which he killed Rāvana, the ten-headed one. Now this Lakṣmaṇa himself has been struck down by the wheel of time. And those Vānaras who were so bold when they had him to stand up for them are now cut down to size and will be easy for us to conquer. For six months now Rāma, stricken by grief, has been carrying around Lakṣmaṇa’s dead body. What greater foolishness can there be than this? Even if he once was an unbeatable warrior, who wielded the plough as his weapon and had magic jewels with which to fight, he is ripe for conquering now, sunk as he is in the mire of his grief. He is the only one we need fear, and no one else; for it was his younger brother who destroyed our line.’
When the son of Indrajit, Kuliśamālin, heard this account of all the troubles that had befallen his great lineage, his mind became agitated and he burned with the fiery anger of the warrior. With loud beating drums he summoned his glorious ministers to battle and together with Cāruratna, the son of Sunda, they marched on the city of Ayodhyā. Kulisamālin and Cāruratna, protected by an army that was as vast as the ocean itself, angry at Sugriva, marched against Rāma, ready to arouse his wrath.
When the friendly Vidyādhara kings, who all possessed magic powers, heard that Kuliśamālin, the son of Indrajit, and Cāruratna, the son of Sunda, were marching, ready for battle, they all beseeched Rāma to protect them. The entire city of Ayodhyā fell into despair, besieged from every side, trembling with fear as once it had trembled at the onslaught of the warriors Lava and Añkuśa, Rāma’s own two sons who, ignorant of their true parentage, had once set out to conquer Ayodhyā.
When Rāma, the sun of the Raghu clan, beheld the enemy army approaching, he clasped the body of Lakṣmaṇa tightly in his lap, and still in a state of turmoil, he glanced over at the arrows and the great bow called Vajrāvartta that had been brought to him; the bow was just lying there, curved like the furrowed brow of the enraged God of Death himself.
At that very moment in heaven the thrones of the two gods Krtāntavaktra and Jatāyu shook. Krtānta, once the leader of Rāma’s army, had been reborn as a god in that very heaven in which had been born the great god Jatāyu, who had once aided Rāma in an earlier rebirth as a bird. The god Krtānta said, ‘O lord of the gods, Jatāyu, why have you become agitated?’ Jatāyu, who had used his supernatural knowledge and knew what was happening, replied, ‘When I was a vulture Rāma cared for me as if I were his own dear son. Now a mighty enemy army is marching against Rāma, who is afflicted by grief.’ When he heard this, Krtānta used his own supernatural knowledge to look down onto earth. The radiant god, pained even more by what he saw, then said this, ‘Friend! Rāma was also a devoted master to me. Indeed it was his protection that allowed me to indulge myself in all sorts of mischief on earth. He made me promise that I would help him if he were ever in trouble; now is the time. Come, let us go to him at once.’
With those words the two glorious gods, their thick curly black hair waving, rays of light streaming from their crowns, their jewelled earrings ashimmer, went to Kosalā. They were eager to act and skilled in counter measures. Krtānta said to Jatāyu, ‘You go and confuse the enemy army. I will go to protect Rāma, the best of the Raghu clan.’ And so the wise god Jatāyu, who was capable of changing his shape at will, threw the vast army of the enemy into utter confusion. As the enemy soldiers approached and looked towards Ayodhyā, they saw before them a solid mountain; turning around, they saw behind them a solid mountain. As the enemy army retreated into the distance he filled the heaven and earth with Ayodhyās, so that no space was left empty. Ayodhyās were everwhere; here was Ayodhyā, there was Ayodhyā, everywhere was Ayodhyā. When they saw that all the earth had become Ayodhyā, and the heavens, too, the enemy army was shaken, robbed of all trace of self-confidence.
The enemy soldiers said, ‘How shall we save ourselves? This must be the power of some divine being, devoted to Rāma, for ordinary Vidyādharas, though they have magic powers, do not have this ability to create objects at will. What have we done in our rashness? What can fireflies do even if they are angry at the sun, which illuminates the world with a light that even a thousand fireflies cannot produce? Now even though we would flee, there is no way out; the entire world is now one vast army. No good can come o
f dying; only while he lives may a man find prosperity through the ripening of his own previous good deeds. If like so many bubbles we vanish in the waves of these armies, then what will we have gained?’ Thus the enemy Vidyādhara soldiers lamented, one to the other, and their army trembled mightily, thrown into great disarray.
Then Jatāyu, having had enough of playing with them by making these magic displays, out of compassion opened up a way for them to retreat towards the south. Their minds atremble and their bodies shaking, those enemy Vidyādharas took off, like so many song birds terrified by a hawk.
Kuliśamālin, the son of Indrajit, was deeply ashamed of his defeat; having seen the greatness of the gods he was now utterly revolted by his own limited power and wealth. He thought to himself, ‘What answer have I now for Vibhīsana, Rāvana’s own brother, who gave his support to Rāma? What glory remains to us, now that we are defeated? How can I show my face to my followers, robbed as I am of all splendour? What happiness lies ahead for us, what contentment in living?’ He gave up his anger and along with Cāruratna and his loyal followers he became a monk under the guidance of the Jain ascetic Rativega.
The Forest of Thieves and the Magic Garden: An Anthology of Medieval Jain Stories (Penguin Classics) Page 12
