The Forest of Thieves and the Magic Garden: An Anthology of Medieval Jain Stories (Penguin Classics)

by Phyllis Granoff

  When the god Jatāyu saw that the enemy kings had all become naked ascetics, free from sin, in fear he quickly withdrew his magic weapons. Agitated, he used his supernatural knowledge and came to know, ‘These men have become great sages, rich in awareness. Once, in my previous birth as King Danda, I falsely accused many pure-minded Jain ascetics and they were put to death. On account of that sin I had to suffer great torments, being born in hell and as different animals. It is true that I must still endure some residue of that bad deed, which is like a wicked enemy, but now only a trace of it remains and I shall not wander in this ocean of rebirths for much longer.’ These thoughts calmed his mind. He revealed himself to the ascetics and bowed down to them, filled with faith. He confessed his wrong doings and begged their forgiveness. After he had done that, he proceeded to Ayodhyā where Rāma, deluded by his great grief over the death of his brother, was behaving like a foolish child.

  There he saw Krtānta, trying to awaken Rāma by carefully watering a dried-up tree that had been dead for ages. Jatāyu took a plough and yoked a pair of dead oxen to it. He whipped the oxe nand began to sow seed in a rock. Krtānta then took a pot of water and began to churn it right in front of Rāma, while Jatāyu began to crush sand with a wheel, just as one might crush sesame seeds to obtain their oil. The two gods did other useless things. Eventually Rāma came and said,

  ‘Fool! Why do you water this dead tree? And why do you yoke corpses to a plough and sow seed in a rock? How will you get butter from churning water? Foolish man, how will you get oil from crushing sand? All you will get for your efforts is exhaustion; you will never get what you desire. Why are you doing these useless things?’ They in turn said to him, ‘Let us ask you, then, why do you carry around this body that is bereft of life? Surely nothing will come of that!’

  Rāma, lord of men, his mind sullied by grief, only embraced more tightly the body of Lakṣmaṇa, which was adorned with auspicious marks. He said, ‘Why do you speak ill of Lakṣmaṇa, the best of men? Are you not afraid your ill-omened words will turn into a curse?’ While Krtānta was thus arguing with Rāma, Jatāyu appeared on the scene, carrying a corpse. When Rāma saw him coming towards him he asked, ‘Why are you so deluded that you carry a corpse on your shoulder?’ Jatāyu replied, ‘If you are so clever why do you accuse only me of carrying a corpse around; do you not see that this is what you are doing yourself? For you too are carrying around a body that is without breath and motionless. You are quick to see a fault in another, no matter how slight, while you ignore your own flaws which are as enormous as the peaks of Mount Meru! We felt great affection for you as soon as we saw you; it is true what they say, that birds of a feather flock together. We are goblins, who do what we please, and you are the foremost among us. You will be a fine king for us! We wander the earth, waving the royal pennant of madness, subduing all the mad earth that rises up against us.’

  When King Rāma heard these words, his delusion weakened somewhat. He remembered what his teacher had once taught him and he felt deeply ashamed. Freed from the clouds of his delusion, King Rāma shone with the light of awakening, as the moon, freed from a host of rain clouds, shines with its radiant light. His mind was pure again, restored to its former clarity, like the autumn sky, restored to its pure state after the rain clouds have all gone. He remembered the words his teacher had told him, which were like the divine nectar of the gods, and was freed from grief; he was as resplendent as before, having regained his mental health, as the garden of the gods is restored by being watered with nectar. That best of men, having been made to take ahold of himself by those two gods, looked as magnificent as Mount Meru does when it is washed by the water used to bathe the Jina at his birth. The pure-minded Rāma, his thoughts no longer sullied, was as charming as a garden of lotuses, freed from the touch of an icy wind. Like a man tormented by hunger, who obtains the most delicious food he could want; like a man confused in the darkness at the rising of the sun; like a man afflicted by a searing thirst, who comes upon a deep lake; like a man suffering from a terrible disease, who obtains a potent drug; like a man who desires to cross the ocean and finds a sea-going vessel; like a young man about town, who had strayed from the right path and then finds his way back; like travellers who yearn to return home and find a caravan to join; like a man who longs for release from prison and suddenly finds his shackles gone, Rāma, recollecting the doctrine of the Jinas, was filled with joy. He became wonderfully handsome, his eyes like wide-open lotus blossoms. He considered that he had been lifted to safety from the bowels of a dark, dank well; he felt as though he had been reborn. This is what he thought, ‘O! Human life is as fragile as a droplet of water that clings to a blade of grass; here one moment, gone the next. I wandered from birth to birth, in this round of births which includes birth in hell, birth as animals, as men and as gods. With the greatest difficulty I obtained birth as a human, the only state in which it is possible to gain release. Why then was I so deluded; why did I waste my life? Who cares about wives? Who cares about wealth or friends or relatives? In this cycle of rebirths such things come easily; only True Knowledge is hard to find.’

  When the two gods knew that Rāma had found that True Knowledge, they withdrew their magic powers and revealed themselves to him in all their divine splendour, which was a source of astonishment to everyone in the world. A strange wind blew, gentle to the touch and fragrant, and the sky was crowded with heavenly chariots of great beauty. Rāma heard his own deeds, from the past to the present, being celebrated in song by heavenly damsels, as lutes accompanied their song.

  At this juncture the gods Krtānta and Jatāyu asked Rāma, ‘O Lord, have you been well and happy these many days?’ Rāma replied, ‘Why do you ask if I have been happy? Only those who have renounced the world to become Jain monks are truly happy. Now I must ask you, who are you, so pleasing in appearance? And why did you do all the strange things that you have done?’ The god Jatāyu then answered, ‘You know, O King, how I was once a vulture in the forest, but found peace when I saw a Jain ascetic. You and your brother Lakṣmaṇa and your wife Sītā tenderly cared for me. Then Sītā was abducted and I was killed by Rāvana as I attacked him. You were afflicted by grief and whispered in my ear the Jain sacred words, the prayer to the five beings, the Jinas, those who have attained liberation, the leaders of the monks, the teachers among the monks and all the monastic community. Through that act of kindness which you did for me I became a god in heaven, leaving behind me the sufferings I knew in my animal birth. In my ignorance I was deluded by the great pleasures that I had at my disposal, the divine pleasures of the gods, and did not know that you had come to suffer such a loss. In the end I came to remember what you had done for me and came here do something, however little, to help you.’ The god Krtānta, decked out in finery, also spoke, ‘Lord! I was your army commander named Krtānta. You once told me that I was to help you if you were in trouble and so I came to your aid.’

  The mortals who saw the marvellous splendour of those gods were all greatly astonished and their thoughts became pure. Rāma then said to the commander of his army and the lord of the gods Jatāyu, ‘You two came from heaven to awaken me. You are great in power and extremely pure in mind.’ Thus Rāma took his leave of the two gods and emerged from his prison of grief. He cremated Lakṣmaṇa’s body on the banks of the Sarayū river. Awakened to the true state of things, he was freed from despondency. In order to insure that justice and righteousness would continue in the world, he turned to his younger brother Śatrughna and spoke these words,

  ‘O Śatrughna, my brother, now you must rule over the mortal kingdom. I am going to retire to the penance grove. There, with my mind free from all trace of desire, I shall strive to attain the place of the Jinas, Final Release.’

  (from the Padmapurāna of Ravisena, Ch.118)

  12

  MAHEŚVARADATTA

  There was a famous city named Tamālinī, where the pillars of the lofty temples to the gods seemed to reach so high that they could
support the very vault of the heavens, and the many palaces of the rich were like a garland around the city. There lived the wealthy merchant Maheśvaradatta, who was the foremost citizen of the town; he was famed for being like an elephant that sported at will in the ocean of false belief. His wife was like the mistress of the school of wanton women. Her name was Nagilā, and she was famous in the city for being a water channel to make blossom the garden of erotic delights. Now one day, on the occasion of the death anniversary of his father, Maheśvaradatta killed a buffalo as an offering to the dead. And he even fed his son, whom he held on his lap, with the meat of the sacrificed buffalo. Just at that moment a sage came to his house; his face was all wrinkled and he had seen for himself the true nature of things. He recited this verse again and again:

  ‘He feeds his own enemy, whom he holds on his lap, with the flesh of his very own father. And that he considers to be a proper sacrificial offering in honour of his father. Alas, could there be any more deluded act?’

  When he heard those words Maheśvaradatta quickly rushed over to the lord of monks. He bowed to him and asked, ‘O Lord! What is this strange thing that you say?’

  And when he saw that Maheśvaradatta was determined to find out the truth, then that foremost of those who are restrained in speech, knowing through his great wisdom that he could help Maheśvaradatta, and being filled with compassion, replied:

  ‘That lover of Nagilā’s whom you once killed long ago is now playing happily in your lap. He died just as he released his semen into Nagilā, and because he was reborn in Nagilā’s womb, he became thereby your very own son. And that buffalo, with whose flesh you satisfied your deceased father, was really the soul of your father, Samudradatta. And, O wise one! There is a she-dog by the door that is eating the bones of the buffalo. Know, O wise one, that that bitch is none other than your very own mother named Bahulā. Knowing through my supernatural knowledge that all of these terribly strange and improper things were going on in your home, I hastened here to enlighten you.’

  ‘What proof is there that what you say is true, O Lord?’ When Maheśvaradatta asked the monk this question, the monk in turn replied, ‘When you take the dog inside the house, it will remember its previous births and reveal to you where some jewels were buried long ago.’

  At this the monk took his leave. And the dog that he had told Maheśvaradatta about indeed showed Maheśvaradatta the buried jewels when it was brought inside the house, just as the monk had said it would. And that merchant Maheśvaradatta, like an elephant brought under control by a good trainer by means of an elephant goad, was brought to his senses by the monk, by means of his pointed words. He gave up his wrong religious beliefs and accepted the correct religious beliefs. Knowing that the whole net of relationships, father, son and everything else, was all topsy-turvy, he realized that even he could not save himself, and that of course no son could help him.

  (from the Dharmābhyudayamahākāvya of Udayaprabhasūri p.73)

  13

  KUBERADATTA AND KUBERADATTĀ

  There was in the city of Mathurā a courtesan named Kuberasenā. She was so beautiful that it seemed that the moon was just a poor copy of her face, made by the Creator in the same way a sculptor makes a special image of a god that can be used for the bathing ceremony, so that the more valuable image in the temple is not harmed by the eager devotees as they wash it. One day with great difficulty she bore a son and a daughter, just as the sword of a great king gives rise to unprecedented glory and victory. Kuberasenā fought off the harsh words of the madam of the house, who urged her to abandon the twins, and she nursed them for a full eleven days. She made a signet ring for the boy inscribed with the name Kuberadatta, and a similar ring for the girl, marked with the name Kuberadattā. And then the cowardly mother, terrified of the madam, placed the two children in a casket studded with jewels. She set the casket afloat in the waters of the river Yamunā, as if it were the vessel containing all of her own future happiness, and she bade it farewell, washing it with the tears from her eyes, as one might send off a beloved guest with sprays of consecrated water.

  It so happened that a pair of merchants were delighted to discover the casket which had floated down the river Yamunā as far as the city of Sūryapura. They quickly opened the box and there they discovered the two children. Like heirs sharing their rightful inheritance, the two merchants divided up equally the contents of the box, each one taking home one of the two children. The brother and sister were raised with loving care by the merchants, and they grew more charming with every day, like the moon and the moonlight in the moon’s waxing phase. Those two best of merchants then married off the boy and girl, who were known by the names that had been inscribed on the signet rings found with them, even though they seemed indeed to be twin brother and sister.

  Now one day Kuberadatta placed his own ring in his wife’s hand, as if to give her a letter that would announce her renunciation of the world. Seeing that ring, so like her own, Kuberdattā was astonished, and she said to her husband, ‘How is it that these rings are so like each other, just as our names are so similar? I fear that we are in truth brother and sister, and that we are not the two children of those merchants at all. They must have found us somewhere and out of ignorance of the true state of affairs they married us to each other. We must find out the truth from our parents, no matter how much we have to ask them. We must know the circumstances of our birth.’ And after she said this, the two of them together went to the merchants. They asked them again and again about their birth and then realizing that their suspicions were true and that they were indeed brother and sister, they deeply regretted their marriage. They lost all taste for worldly life, which they regarded as without value and as their enemy; filled with the desire for renunciation, they just stood there, heads bowed low, bereft of all their natural beauty, like the moon and the moon-lotus as early dawn breaks.

  And then Kuberadattā, being very wise, bid farewell to her brother and her parents and became a Jain nun. She then hid her jewelled signet ring, on which her name was inscribed. The ring was as radiant as the knowledge that would come to Kuberadatta one day.

  Kuberadatta, for his part, made his way to the city of Mathurā as a trader, selling various toys. He became the lover of that very Kuberasenā, who had given birth to him, as the moon is said to be the lover of the night. O fie on the creator who makes us all do such things! In time Kuberasenā bore Kuberadatta a son, fashioned as it were by the very stuff of delusion that governs transmigratory existence.

  Now Kuberadattā had perfected her knowledge to the extent that she now had the ability to know some things that were beyond the range of the senses. She desired to enlighten her brother, and she knew through her supernatural knowledge the terribly improper things that he was doing. She took leave of her superior, still guarding the signet ring that she had kept concealed all that time. Like a boat to rescue her brother, who was sinking quickly in the ocean of transmigratory existence, she hastily made her way to Mathurā. She asked Kuberasenā for a place to stay and found lodgings there, in that unsuitable place; for religious people will do anything that they have to do in order to help someone else.

  Now one day the nun Kuberadattā saw the robust son of Kuberadatta, and knowing how monks and nuns enlighten others, she spoke these absolutely true words, ‘Child! You are my brother-in-law, for you are the brother of my husband. And our mother is the same woman, and so you are also my brother! My husband begot you, and so that makes you also my child. But your father is the child of my rival in love, and that would make you my grandson. You are the brother of my mother’s husband, which makes you my uncle. And you are my brother’s child, which makes you my nephew. Your mother is my mother, who bore us both in her womb. And that woman is also the mother of my mother’s lover, which makes her my grandmother. She is the wife of the young man who was born from my co-wife, which makes her also my daughter-in-law. And she is the mother of my husband, which makes her my mother-in-law as well. She is the w
ife of my brother, which makes her my sister-in-law, and she is the wife of my husband, and so is my co-wife. And as for your father, who is the lover of my mother, I guess that makes him my father, too. You are my uncle, and he is your father, and an uncle’s father is your grandfather, so he is my grandfather as well. My mother and his mother are the same woman, and so he is my brother. He is the husband of the woman who bore my husband, and so he is my father-in-law, too. He took my hand in marriage, and so he became my husband in addition to all of this. And he is the son of my co-wife, and so is my son as well.’

  Now when Kuberadatta heard these words of the nun, which seemed to contradict themselves at every step, he was amazed, and he asked her, ‘What does all of this mean?’ And the nun then told everything to that Kubera, who kept asking her what she had meant. And she gave him the jewelled signet ring, which was like a lamp to enlighten the darkness of his delusion. By that signet ring, which was bright like the sun, Kubera became enlightened, and he gave up his deluded beliefs as a bee leaves a lotus. He was ashamed of his own behaviour and he became a monk, and that wise Kuberadatta, though still a young man, renounced the householder’s life and went into the forest. The forests were made radiant by that one, who was like a lion to destroy the elephant of karma, and who was like a mountain with natural rushing springs of his own glory; he was like a tree bearing as its fruits one austerity after another. He meditated on the Jain teachings and constantly recited Jain prayers to the tīrthankaras and sages of old, and he went to heaven, a lion that had killed the elephant of sexual desire. Even Kuberasenā saw how topsy-turvy the world of sense objects is, and she became disgusted with life in this world and took on herself the vows of the Jain householder.