Volume 2 / Book 16 — Chapter CXI.
C. H. (Charles Henry) Tawney translation
May Gaṇeśa protect you, the ornamental streaks of vermilion on whose cheeks fly up in the dance, and look like the fiery might of obstacles swallowed and disgorged by him.
When the king had said this, his minister Gomukha said to him, “It is true, all creatures find separation hard to bear at this time; and now listen, king; I will tell you in illustration of this something that happened in Śrávastí.”
In that town there dwelt a Rájpút, who was in the service of the monarch, and lived on the proceeds of a village. His name was Śúrasena, and he had a wife named Susheṇá, who was a native of Málava. She was in every respect well suited to him, and he loved her more than life. One day the king summoned him, and he was about to set out for his camp, when his loving wife said to him, “My husband, you ought not to go off and leave me alone; for I shall not be able to exist here for a moment without you.” When Śúrasena’s wife said this to him, he replied, “How can I help going, when the king summons me? Do you not understand my position, fair one? You see, I am a Rájpút, and a servant, dependent on another for my subsistence.” When his wife heard this, she said to him with tears in her eyes, “If you must of necessity go, I shall manage to endure it somehow, if you return not one day later than the commencement of spring.” Having heard this, he at last said to her, “Agreed, my dear! I will return on the first day of the month Chaitra, even if I have to leave my duty.”
When he said this, his wife was at last induced to let him go; and so Śúrasena went to attend on the king in his camp. And his wife remained at home, counting the days in eager expectation, looking for the joyful day on which spring begins, on which her husband was to return. At last, in the course of time, that day of the spring-festival arrived, resonant with the songs of cuckoos, that seemed like spells to summon the god of love. The humming of bees drunk with the fragrance of flowers, fell on the ear, like the twanging of Cupid’s bow as he strung it.
On that day Śúrasena’s wife Susheṇá said to herself, “Here is that spring-festival arrived; my beloved will, without fail, return to-day. So she bathed, and adorned herself, and worshipped the god of Love, and remained eagerly awaiting his arrival. But the day came to an end and her husband did not return, and during the course of that night she was grievously afflicted by despondency, and said to herself, “The hour of my death has come, but my husband has not returned; for those whose souls are exclusively devoted to the service of another do not care for their own families.” While she was making these reflections, with her heart fixed upon her husband, her breath left her body, as if consumed by the forest-fire of love.
In the meanwhile Śúrasena, eager to behold his wife, and true to the appointed day, got himself, though with great difficulty, relieved from attendance on the king, and mounting a swift camel, accomplished a long journey, and arriving in the last watch of the night, reached his own house. There he beheld that wife of his lying dead, with all her ornaments on her, looking like a creeper, with its flowers full blown, rooted up by the wind. When he saw her, he was beside himself, and he took her up in his arms, and the bereaved husband’s life immediately left his body in an outburst of lamentation.
But when their family goddess Chaṇḍí, the bestower of boons, saw that that couple had met their death in this way, she restored them to life out of compassion. And after breath had returned to them, having each had a proof of the other’s affection, they continued inseparable for the rest of their lives.
“When he was in Kauśámbí, he suddenly heard from a messenger, who had come from Ujjayiní, that king Chaṇḍamahásena was dead, and the same person told him that his wife the queen Angáravatí had burnt herself with his corpse. This so shocked him, that he fell senseless upon the ground: and when he recovered consciousness, he wept for a long time, with queen Vásavadattá and his courtiers, for his father-in-law and mother-in-law who had gone to heaven. But his ministers roused him by saying to him, ‘In this transient world what is there that hath permanence? Moreover you ought not to weep for that king, who has you for a son-in-law, and Gopálaka for a son, and whose daughter’s son is Naraváhanadatta.’ When he had been thus admonished and roused from his prostration, he gave the offering of water to his father-in-law and mother-in-law.
“Then the king mounted an elephant, and accompanied by the queens Vásavadattá and Padmávatí, set out with his ministers. And when he left Kauśámbí, the citizens followed him, with their wives, children, and aged sires, crying aloud and raining a tempest of tears. The king comforted them by saying to them, ‘Gopálaka will take care of you,’ and so at last he induced them to return, and passed on to mount Kálinjara. And he reached it, and went up it, and worshipped Śiva, and holding in his hand his lyre Ghoshavatí, that he had loved all his life, and accompanied by his queens that were ever at his side, and Yangandharáyaṇa and his other ministers, he hurled himself from the cliff. And even as they fell, a fiery chariot came and caught up the king and his companions, and they went in a blaze of glory to heaven.”
When Naraváhanadatta heard this from the science, he exclaimed, “Alas! my father!” and fell senseless on the ground. And when he recovered consciousness, he bewailed his father and mother and his father’s ministers, in company with his own ministers, who had lost their fathers.
But the chiefs of the Vidyádharas and Dhanavatí admonished him, saying, “How is it, king, that you are beside yourself, though you know the nature of this versatile world that perishes in a moment, and is like the show of a juggler? And how can you lament for your parents that are not to be lamented for, as they have done all they had to do on earth; who have seen you their son sole emperor over all the Vidyádharas?” When he had been thus admonished, he offered water to his parents, and put another question to that science, “Where is my uncle Gopálaka now? What did he do?” Then that science went on to say to the king,
In the midst of that grove of ascetics, he beheld his uncle surrounded by hermits, with long matted locks, clothed in the bark of a tree, looking like an incarnation of patience. And Gopálaka, when he saw his sister’s son approach, rose up and embraced him, and pressed him to his bosom with tearful eyes. Then they, both of them, lamented their lost dear ones with renewed grief; whom will not the fire of grief torture, when fanned by the blast of a meeting with relations? When even the animals there were pained to see their grief, Kaśyapa and the other hermits came up and consoled those two. Then that day came to an end, and next morning the emperor entreated Gopálaka to come and dwell in his kingdom. But Gopálaka said to him, “What, my child, do you not suppose that I have all the happiness I desire by thus seeing you? If you love me, remain here in this hermitage, during this rainy season, which has arrived.”
When Naraváhanadatta had been thus entreated by his uncle, he remained in the hermitage of Kaśyapa on the Black Mountain, with his attendants, for the term mentioned.