Volume 2 / Book 17 — Chapter CXVII.

In the meanwhile, that king of the Gandharvas, Padmaśekhara, re-entered his city, celebrating a splendid triumph; and hearing from his wife that his daughter Padmávatí had performed asceticism in the temple of Gaurí, to procure for him victory, he summoned her. And when his daughter came, emaciated with asceticism and separation from her lover, and fell at his feet, he gave her his blessing, and said to her, “Dear girl, for my sake you have endured great hardship in the form of penance, so obtain quickly for a husband the noble Muktáphalaketu, the son of the king of the Vidyádharas, the slayer of Vidyuddhvaja, the victorious protector of the world, who has been appointed to marry you by Śiva himself.”

When her father said this to her, she remained with face fixed on the ground, and then her mother Kuvalayávali said to him, “How, my husband, was so terrible an Asura, that filled the three worlds with consternation, slain by that prince in fight?” When the king heard that, he described to her the valour of that prince, and the battle between the gods and Asuras. Then Padmávatí’s companion, whose name was Manoháriká, described the easy manner in which he slew the two Rákshasís. Then the king and queen, finding out that he and their daughter had met and fallen in love, were pleased, and said, “What could those Rákshasís do against one, who swallowed the whole army of the Asuras, as Agastya swallowed the sea?” Then the fire of Padmávatí’s love blazed up more violently, being fanned by this description of her lover’s surpassing courage, as by a breeze.

Then the princess left her parents’ presence, and immediately ascended in eager longing a jewelled terrace in the women’s apartments, which had pillars of precious stone standing in it, and lattices of pearl fastened to them, and had placed on its pavement, of costly mosaic, luxurious couches and splendid thrones, and was rendered still more delightful by means of the various enjoyments which there presented themselves as soon as thought of. Even when there, she was exceedingly tortured with the fire of separation. And she saw from the top of this terrace a magnificent heavenly garden, planted with trees and creepers of gold, and full of hundreds of tanks adorned with costly stone. And when she saw it, she said to herself, “Wonderful! This splendid city of ours is more beautiful even than the world of the moon in which I was born. And yet I have not explored this city which is the very crest-jewel of the Himálayas, in which there is such a splendid suburban garden excelling Nandana. So I will go into this lovely shrubbery, cool with the shade of trees, and alleviate a little the scorching of the fires of separation.”

After the young maiden had gone through these reflections, she dexterously managed to descend slowly from the terrace alone, and prepared to go to that city garden. And as she could not go on foot, she was carried there by some birds that were brought to her by her power, and served as her conveyance. When she reached the garden, she sat in an arbour formed of plantains growing together, on a carpet of flowers, with heavenly singing and music sounding in her ears. And even there she did not obtain relief, and her passion did not abate; on the contrary, the fire of her love increased still more, as she was separated from her beloved.

And then Padmávatí, with her lotus-like eyes gushing with tears, began to address in the following words her beloved in the painting. “When thou didst slay the formidable Asuras and deliver Indra, how comes it that thou dost not deliver me from my woe, though near me, by speaking to me at any rate? To one whose merits in a former life are small, even a wishing-tree is ungenerous, even Buddha is wanting in compassion, and even gold becomes a stone. Thou knowest not the fever of love, and canst not comprehend my pain; what could the poor archer Love, whose arrows are but flowers, do against one whom the Daityas found invincible? But what am I saying? Truly Fate is adverse to me, for Fate stops my eyes with tears, and will not allow me to behold thee for long together, even in a picture.” When the princess had said this, she began to weep with teardrops that were so large that it appeared as if her necklace were broken, and great pearls were falling from it.

Even as the princess was saying this, she, being soft as a flower, fell fainting with distraction into the arms of that friend of hers. Then her weeping friend gradually brought her round by sprinkling her with water and fanning her with plantain-leaves. Her friend employed with her the usual remedies of a necklace and bracelet of lotus-fibres, a moist anointing with sandal-wood unguent, and a bed of lotus-leaves; but these contracted heat by coming in contact with her body, and seemed by their heating and withering to feel the same pain as she felt.

Then Padmávatí, in her agitation, said to that friend, “Why do you weary yourself in vain? My suffering cannot be alleviated in this way. It would be a happy thing, if you would take the only step likely to alleviate it.” When she said this in her pain, her friend answered her, “What would not I do for your sake? Tell me, my friend, what that step is.”

When the princess heard this, she said with difficulty, as if ashamed, “Go, my dear friend, and bring my beloved here quickly; for in no other way can my suffering be allayed, and my father will not be angry; on the contrary, as soon as he comes here, he will give me to him.” When her friend heard that, she said to her in a tone of decision, “If it be so, recover your self-command. This is but a little matter. Here am I, my friend, setting out for Chandrapura the famous and splendid city of Chandraketu the king of the Vidyádharas, the father of your beloved, to bring your beloved to you. Be comforted! What is the use of grief?”

And then Padmávatí, having to a certain extent recovered her spirits by hope, took the painting-tablet, and entered the palace of her father. There she went into her own apartment surrounded by her servants, and bathed and worshipped Śiva with intense devotion, and thus prayed to him, “Holy one, without thy favouring consent no wish, great or small, is fulfilled for any one in these three worlds. So if thou wilt not give me for a husband that noble son of the emperor of the Vidyádharas, on whom I have set my heart, I will abandon my body in front of thy image.”

When she addressed this prayer to Śiva, her attendants were filled with grief and astonishment, and said to her, “Why do you speak thus, princess, regardless of your body’s weal? Is there anything in these three worlds difficult for you to obtain? Even Buddha would forget his self-restraint, if loved by you. So he must be a man of exceptional merit, whom you thus love.” When the princess heard this, carried away by the thought of his virtues, she said, “How can I help loving him, who is the only refuge of Indra and the rest of the gods, who alone destroyed the army of the Asuras, as the sun destroys the darkness, and who saved my life?” Saying such things, she remained there full of longing, engaged in conversation about her beloved with her confidential attendants.

In the meanwhile her friend Manoháriká, travelling at full speed, reached Chandrapura, that city of the king of the Vidyádharas; which Viśvakarman made wonderful, and of unparalleled magnificence, as if dissatisfied with the city of the gods, though of that also he was the architect. There she searched for Muktáphalaketu, but could not find him, and then, riding on her bird, she went to the garden belonging to that city. She derived much pleasure from looking at that garden, the magic splendour of which was inconceivable; the trees of which were of glittering jewels, and had this peculiarity that one tree produced a great many flowers of different kinds; which was rendered charming by the blending of the notes of various birds with the sound of heavenly songs; and which was full of many slabs of precious stone.

In the meanwhile Muktáphalaketu began to say to his friend Saṃyataka, who was attempting to restore him with ice, and sandal-wood, and fanning, “Surely this god of love has placed hot coals in the ice for me, and in the sandal-wood juice a flame of chaff, and in the air of the fan a fire as of a burning forest, since he produces a scorching glow on every side of me, who am tortured with separation. So why, my friend, do you weary yourself in vain? In this garden, which surpasses Nandana, even the delightful songs and dances and other sports of heavenly nymphs afflict my soul. And without Padmávatí, the lotus-faced, the daughter of Padmaśekhara, this fever produced by the arrows of love cannot be alleviated. But I do not dare to say this, and I do not find a refuge in any one; indeed I know only of one expedient for obtaining her. I will go to the temple of Gaurí, where I saw my beloved, and where she tore out my heart with the arrows of her sidelong glances, and carried it away. There Śiva, who is united with the daughter of the king of mountains, will, when propitiated with penance, shew me how to become united with my beloved.”

When the prince had said this, he was preparing to rise up, and then Manoháriká, being much pleased, shewed herself; and Saṃyataka, delighted, said to that prince, “My friend, you are in luck; your desire is accomplished. Look! here is that beloved’s female attendant come to you. I beheld her at the side of the princess in the hermitage of the goddess Ambiká.” Then the prince, beholding the friend of his beloved, was in a strange state, a state full of the bursting forth of joy, astonishment, and longing. And when she came near him, a rain of nectar to his eyes, he made her sit by his side, and asked her about the health of his beloved.

When Muktáphalaketu heard all that, his pain departed, and he joyfully welcomed Manoháriká, and said to her, “This my mind has been irrigated by your speech, as by nectar, and is refreshed; and I have recovered my spirits, and got rid of my languor: my good deeds in a former life have to-day borne fruit, in that that daughter of the Gandharva king is so well-disposed towards me. But, though I might possibly be able to endure the agony of separation, how could that lady, whose body is as delicate as a śirísha-flower, endure it? So I will go to that very hermitage of Gaurí; and do you bring your friend there, in order that we may meet at once. And go quickly, auspicious one, and comfort your friend, and give her this crest-jewel, which puts a stop to all grief, which the Self-existent gave me, when pleased with me. And this necklace, which Indra gave me, is a present for yourself.” When the prince had said this, he gave her the crest-jewel from his head, and he took the necklace from his neck, and put it on hers.

Then Manoháriká was delighted, and she bowed before him, and set out, mounted on her bird, to find her friend Padmávatí. And Muktáphalaketu, his languor having been removed by delight, quickly entered his own city with Saṃyataka.

And Manoháriká, when she came into the presence of Padmávatí, told her of the love-pain of her beloved, as she had witnessed it, and repeated to her his speech, sweet and tender with affection, as she had heard it; and told her of the arrangement to meet her in the hermitage of Gaurí, which he had made, and then gave her the crest-jewel which he had sent, and shewed her the chain which he had given herself as a present. Then Padmávatí embraced and honoured that friend of hers who had been so successful; and forgot that pain of the fire of love which had tortured her before, and she fastened that crest-jewel on her head, as if it were joy, and began to prepare to go to the wood of Gaurí.

In the meanwhile it happened that a hermit, of the name of Tapodhana, came to that grove of Gaurí, with his pupil, named Dṛiḍhavrata. And while there, the hermit said to his pupil Dṛiḍhavrata, “I will engage in contemplation for a time in this heavenly garden. You must remain at the gate, and not let any one in, and after I have finished my contemplation, I will worship Párvatí.” When the hermit had said this, he placed that pupil at the gate of the garden, and began to engage in contemplation under a párijáta-tree. After he rose up from his contemplation, he went into the temple to worship Ambiká, but he did not tell his pupil, who was at the gate of the garden.

And in the meanwhile Muktáphalaketu came there adorned, with Saṃyataka, mounted on a heavenly camel. And as he was about to enter that garden, that pupil of the hermit forbade him, saying, “Do not do so! My spiritual superior is engaged in contemplation within.” But the prince, longing to see his beloved, said to himself, “The area of this garden is extensive, and it is possible that she may have arrived and may be somewhere within it, whereas the hermit is only in one corner of it.” So he got out of sight of that hermit’s pupil, and with his friend entered the garden by flying through the air.

And while he was looking about, the hermit’s pupil came in to see if his spiritual superior had completed his meditation. He could not see his superior there, but he did see the noble Muktáphalaketu with his friend, who had entered the garden by a way by which it was not meant to be entered. Then that pupil of the hermit cursed the prince in his anger, saying to him, “As you have interrupted the meditation of my spiritual guide, and driven him away, go with your friend to the world of men on account of this disrespect.” After he had pronounced this curse, he went in search of his superior. But Muktáphalaketu was thrown into great despondency by this curse having fallen on him like a thunderbolt, when his desire was on the point of being fulfilled. And in the meanwhile, Padmávatí, eager to meet her beloved, came mounted on a bird, with Manoháriká and her other attendants. And when the prince saw that lady, who had come to meet him of her own accord, but was now separated from him by a curse, he was reduced to a painful frame of mind in which sorrow and joy were blended. And at that very moment Padmávatí’s right eye throbbed, boding evil fortune, and her heart fluttered. Then the princess, seeing that her lover was despondent, thought that he might be annoyed because she had not come before he did, and approached him with an affectionate manner. Then the prince said to her, “My beloved, our desire, though on the point of fulfilment, has been again baffled by Fate.” She said excitedly, “Alas! how baffled?” And then the prince told her how the curse was pronounced on him.

When Padmávatí heard this, she said, with tears in her eyes, to that sage, “Holy Sir, let me now have the same lot as my future husband! I shall not be able to live for a moment without him.” When Padmávatí made this request, the hermit said to her, “This cannot be: do you remain here for the present engaged in asceticism, in order that he may be quickly delivered from his curse, and may marry you. And then, as the consort of that Muktáphalaketu, you shall rule the Vidyádharas and Asuras for ten kalpas. And while you are performing asceticism, this crest-jewel, which be gave you, shall protect you; for it is of great efficacy, having sprung from the water-pot of the Disposer.”

When the hermit, possessing divine insight, had said this to Padmávatí, Muktáphalaketu, bending low, addressed this prayer to him, “Holy Sir, may my faith in Śiva be unwavering during my life as a man, and may my mind never be inclined to any lady but Padmávatí.” The hermit replied, “So let it be!” and then Padmávatí, sorely grieved, pronounced on that pupil, whose fault had entailed these misfortunes, the following curse, “Since you cursed in your folly my destined husband, you shall be a vehicle for him to ride on in his human condition, possessing the property of going with a wish and changing your shape at will.” When the pupil had been thus cursed, he was despondent, and then the hermit Tapodhana disappeared with him.

Then Muktáphalaketu said to Padmávatí, “I will now go to my city, and see what will happen to me there.” When Padmávatí heard this, being terrified at separation, she at once fell on the earth with all her ornaments, as a creeper, broken by the wind, falls with all its flowers. And Muktáphalaketu comforted, as well as he could, his crying love, and departed with his friend, frequently turning round his eyes to look at her. And after he was gone, Padmávatí was much grieved, and weeping, said to her friend Manoháriká, who tried to comfort her, “My friend, I am certain that I saw the goddess Párvatí to-day in a dream, and she was about to throw a garland of lotuses round my neck, when she said, ‘Never mind! I will give it you on some future occasion,’ and desisted from her intention. So I understand that she wished in this way to let me know that my union with my beloved would be hindered.” When she was mourning in this way over what had occurred, her friend said to her, “This dream was no doubt sent to you when you say, by the goddess, in order to comfort you. And the hermit said the very same to you, and the gods have clearly thus ordained: so, be of good cheer, you will soon be reunited with your beloved.”