Volume 2 / Book 12 — Chapter LXXXIX. (Vetála 15.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went back to the aśoka-tree and took the Vetála from it, and set out with him once more; and as the king was going along, the Vetála, perched on his shoulder, said to him; “Listen, king, I will tell you another story.”

Story of the magic globule.

There was in the kingdom of Nepála a city named Śivapura, and in it there lived of old time a king rightly named Yaśaḥketu. He devolved upon his minister, named Prajnáságara, the burden of his kingdom, and enjoyed himself in the society of his queen Chandraprabhá. And in course of time that king had born to him, by that queen, a daughter named Śaśiprabhá, bright as the moon, the eye of the world.

And in a few days the princess became quite fond of and intimate with her new attendant; so, one night when she was pining at being separated from the object of her affections, and tossing on her couch, Manaḥsvámin, who was on a bed near her, concealed under a female shape, said secretly to her, “My dear Śa[s’]iprabhá, why are you pale of hue, and why do you grow thinner every day, and sorrow as one separated from the side of her beloved? Tell me, for why should you distrust loving modest attendants? From this time forth I will take no food until you tell me.”

When the princess heard this, she sighed, and slowly told the following tale; “Why should I distrust you of all people? Listen, friend, I will tell you the cause. Once on a time I went to a spring garden to see a procession, and there I beheld a handsome young Bráhman, who seemed like the month of spring, having the loveliness of the moon free from dew, kindling love at sight, adorning the grove with play of light. And while my eager eyes, drinking in the nectarous rays of the moon of his countenance, began to emulate the partridge, there came there a mighty elephant broken loose from its bonds, roaring and distilling its ichor like rain, looking like a black rain-cloud appearing out of season. My attendants dispersed terrified at that elephant, but when I was bewildered with fear, that young Bráhman caught me up in his arms and carried me to a distance. Then contact with his body made me feel as if I were anointed with sandal-wood ointment, and bedewed with ambrosia, and I was in a state which I cannot describe. And in a moment my attendants re-assembled, and I was brought back reluctant to this my palace, and seemed to myself to have been cast down to earth from heaven. From that time forth I have often interviews in reveries with my beloved, that rescued me from death, and even when awake I seem to see him at my side. And when asleep I see him in dreams, coaxing me and dispelling my reserve with kisses and caresses. But, ill-fated wretch that I am, I cannot obtain him, for I am baffled by ignorance of his name and other particulars about him. So I am consumed, as you see, by the fire of separation from the lord of my life.”

When Manaḥsvámin’s ears had been filled with the nectar of this speech of the princess’s, that Bráhman, who was present there in female form, rejoiced, and considered that his object was attained, and that the time had come for revealing himself, so he took out the globule from his mouth, and displayed himself in his true form, and said; “Rolling-eyed one, I am that very Bráhman, whom you bought with a look in the garden, and made your slave in the truest sense of the word. And from the immediate interruption of our acquaintance I derived that sorrow, of which the final result was my taking, as you see, the form of a maiden. Therefore, fair one, grant that the sorrow of separation, which both of us have endured, may not have been borne in vain, for Cupid cannot endure beyond this point.” When the princess suddenly beheld her beloved in front of her, and heard him utter these words, she was at once filled with love, astonishment, and shame. So they eagerly went through the Gándharva ceremony of marriage. Then Manaḥsvámin lived happily in the palace, under two shapes; keeping the globule in his mouth during the day and so wearing a female shape, but at night taking it out, and assuming the form of a man.

Now, as days went on, the brother-in-law of king Yaśaḥketu, named Mṛigánkadatta, gave his own daughter, named Mṛigánkavatí, in marriage to a young Bráhman, the son of the minister Prajnáságara: and with her he bestowed much wealth. And the princess Śaśiprabhá was invited, on the occasion of her cousin’s marriage, to her uncle’s house, and went there accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting. And among them went the young Bráhman, Manaḥsvámin, wearing the attractive form of a young maiden of exquisite beauty.

When the ministers said this to the king, he agreed to give that man, who was palming himself off as a maiden, to the minister’s son. And after fixing an auspicious moment, he brought Manaḥsvámin, in female form, from the palace of the princess; and he said to the king; “If, king, you are determined to give me, whom another committed to your care, to a person other than him for whom I was intended, I must, I suppose, acquiesce; you are a king, and justice and injustice are matters familiar to you. But I consent to the marriage on this condition only, that I am not to be considered as a wife until my husband has spent six months in visiting holy bathing-places, and returns home; if this condition is not agreed to, know that I will bite my own tongue in two, and so commit suicide.”

When the young man, disguised in female form, had prescribed this condition, the king informed the minister’s son of it, and he was consoled, and accepted the terms; and he quickly went through the ceremony of marriage, and placed in one house Mṛigánkavatí his first wife, and his second supposed wife, carefully guarded, and, like a fool, went on a pilgrimage to holy bathing-places, to please the object of his affections.

And Manaḥsvámin, in female form, dwelt in the same house with Mṛigánkavatí, as the partner of her bed and board. And one night, while he was living there in this way, Mṛigánkavatí said to him secretly in the bed-chamber, while their attendants were sleeping outside, “My friend, I cannot sleep, tell me some tale.” When the young man, disguised in female form, heard this, he told her the story, how in old time a royal sage, named Iḍa, of the race of the sun, assumed, in consequence of the curse of Gaurí, a female form that fascinated the whole world, and how he and Budha fell in love with one another at first sight, meeting one another in a shrubbery in the grounds of a temple, and were there united, and how Purúravas was the fruit of that union. When the artful creature had told this story, he went on to say, “So by the fiat of a deity or by charms and drugs, a man may sometimes become a woman, and vice versâ, and in this way even great ones do sometimes unite impelled by love.”

When the tender fair one, who regretted her husband, who had left her as soon as the marriage had taken place, heard this, she said to her supposed rival, in whom she had come to confide by living with her, “This story makes my body tremble and my heart, as it were, sink; so tell me friend, what is the meaning of this.” When the Bráhman, disguised in female form, heard this, he went on to say, “My friend, these are violent symptoms of love; I have felt them myself, I will not conceal it from you.” When she said this, Mṛigánkavatí went on slowly to say, “Friend, I love you as my life, so why should I not say what I think it is time to reveal? Could any one by any artifice be introduced into this palace?” When the pupil of that master-rogue heard this, he took her meaning and said to her, “If this is the state of affairs, then I have something to tell you. I have a boon from Vishṇu, by which I can at pleasure become a man during the night, so I will now become one for your sake.” So he took the globule out of his mouth, and displayed himself to her as a handsome man in the prime of youth. And so the Bráhman lived with the wife of the minister’s son, becoming a woman in the day, and resuming his male form at night. But hearing in a few days that the son of the minister was on the point of returning, he took the precaution of eloping with her from that house during the night.

At this point in the story, it happened that his teacher, Múladeva, heard all the circumstances; so he again assumed the form of an old Bráhman, and accompanied by his friend Śaśin, who had assumed the form of a young Bráhman, he went and respectfully said to king Yaśaḥketu, “I have brought back my son; so give me my daughter-in-law.” Then the king, who was afraid of being cursed, deliberated and said to him; “Bráhman, I do not know where your daughter-in-law has gone, so forgive me; as I am in fault, I will give you my own daughter for your son.” When the king had said this to that prince of rogues, disguised in the form of an old Bráhman, who asserted his false claim with the sternness of assumed anger, he gave his daughter with all due ceremonies to his friend Śaśin, who pretended to be the supposed Bráhman’s son. Then Múladeva took the bride and bridegroom, who had been thus united, off to his own home, without showing any desire for the king’s wealth.

And there Manaḥsvámin met them, and a fierce dispute took place between him and Śaśin in the presence of that Múladeva. Manaḥsvámin said, “This Śaśiprabhá should be given to me, for long ago, when she was a maiden, I married her by the favour of the master.” Śaśin said, “You fool, what have you to do with her? she is my wife, for her father bestowed her on me in the presence of the fire.” So they went on wrangling about the princess, whom they had got hold of by means of magic, and their dispute was never decided. So tell me, king, to which of the two does that wife belong? Resolve my doubt; the conditions of non-compliance are those which I mentioned before.”

When king Trivikramasena was thus addressed by the Vetála on his shoulder, he gave him this answer: “I consider that the princess is the lawful wife of Śaśin, since she was openly given to him by her father in the lawful way. But Manaḥsvámin married her in an underhand way, like a thief, by the Gándharva rite; and a thief has no lawful title to the possessions of another.”

When the Vetála heard this answer of the king’s, he quickly left his shoulder, and went back to his own place, and the king hurried after him.

Note.

Oesterley tells us that in the Turkish Tútínámah (Rosen, II, p. 178,) a sorceress takes the place of Múladeva. She gives the young man a small seal in place of the pill or globule. He is then married to a son of the king’s. Then the young man escapes with the princess, who in the day keeps the seal in her mouth and so appears as a man; then the sorceress goes in the form of a Bráhman to the king, who has to give her 10,000 gold pieces as he cannot give back her daughter. The story is No. 23 in the Persian Tútínámah, Iken, p. 97. Oesterley refers also to the story in the 7th Chapter of the Kathá Sarit Ságara; (Oesterley’s Baitál Pachísí, pages 203–205). The tale in one way resembles the Greek fable of Cæneus, and also that of Tiresias. The story of Iphis and Ianthe is perhaps still more apposite. According to Sir Thomas Brown, (Vulgar Errors, Book III, ch. 17) hares are supposed by some to be both male and female. He mentions Tiresias and Empedocles as instances of “transexion.” Benfey gives a number of stories of this kind in the 1st Volume of his Panchatantra, pp. 41–52. He traces them all back to a tendency of the Indo-Germanic race to look upon their deities as belonging to both sexes at once.