जन्मप्रभृति दारिद्र्यं दशवर्षाणि बन्धनम् ।
समुद्रतीरे मरेणं किञ्चित् भोगं भविष्यति ॥
Thus a
Soothsayer when on his death-bed wrote the horoscope of his second son, and
bequeathed it to him as his only property, leaving the whole of his estate to
his eldest son. The second son pondered over the horoscope, and fell into the
following reflections:—
“Alas, am I born to this
only in the world? The sayings of my father never failed. I have seen them
prove true to the last word while he was living; and how has he fixed my
horoscope! Janma parabhṛiti dâridryam! From my birth poverty!
Nor is that my only fate. Daśa varshâṇi bandhanam: for ten years,
imprisonment—a fate harder than poverty; and what comes next? Samudratîrê
maraṇam: death on the sea-shore; which means that I must die away from
home, far from friends and relatives on a sea-coast. The misery has reached its
extreme height here. Now comes the funniest part of the [12]horoscope, Kiñchit bhôgam bhavishyati—that I
am to have some happiness afterwards! What this happiness is, is an enigma to
me: To die first, to be happy for some time after! What happiness? Is it the
happiness of this world? So it must be. For however clever one may be, he
cannot foretell what may take place in the other world. Therefore it must be
the happiness of this world; and how can that be possible after my death? It is
impossible. I think my father has only meant this as a consoling conclusion to
the series of calamities that he has prophesied. Three portions of his prophecy
must prove true; the fourth and last is a mere comforting statement to bear
patiently the calamities enumerated, and never to prove true. Therefore let me
go to Bânâras, bathe in the holy Gaṅgâ, wash away my sins, and prepare myself
for my end. Let me avoid sea-coasts, lest death meet me there in accordance
with my father’s words. Come imprisonment: I am prepared for it for ten years.”
Thus thought he, and
after all the funeral obsequies of his father were over, took leave of his
elder brother, and started for Bânâras.1 He
went by the middle of the Dakhaṇ,2 avoiding
both the coasts, and went on journeying and journeying [13]for weeks and months, till at last he reached the Vindhya
mountains. While passing that desert he had to journey for a couple of days
through a sandy plain, with no signs of life or vegetation. The little store of
provision with which he was provided for a couple of days, at last was
exhausted. The chombu,3 which
he carried always full, replenishing it with the sweet water from the flowing
rivulet or plenteous tank, he had exhausted in the heat of the desert. There
was not a morsel in his hand to eat; nor a drop of water to drink. Turn his
eyes wherever he might he found a vast desert, out of which he saw no means of
escape. Still he thought within himself, “Surely my father’s prophecy never
proved untrue. I must survive this calamity to find my death on some
sea-coast.” So thought he, and this thought gave him strength of mind to walk
fast and try to find a drop of water somewhere to slake his dry throat. At last
he succeeded, or rather thought that he succeeded. Heaven threw in his way a
ruined well. He thought that he could collect some water if he let down his chombu with
the string that he always carried noosed to the neck of it. Accordingly he let
it down; it went some way and stopped, and the following words came from the
well, “Oh, relieve me! I am the king of tigers, [14]dying here of hunger. For the last three days I have had
nothing. Fortune has sent you here. If you assist me now you will find a sure
help in me throughout your life. Do not think that I am a beast of prey. When
you have become my deliverer I can never touch you. Pray, kindly lift me up.”
Gaṅgâdhara, for that was the name of the Soothsayer’s second son, found himself
in a very perplexing position. “Shall I take him out or not? If I take him out
he may make me the first morsel of his hungry mouth. No; that he will not do.
For my father’s prophecy never came untrue. I must die on a sea-coast and not
by a tiger.” Thus thinking, he asked the tiger king to hold tight to the
vessel, which he accordingly did, and he lifted him up slowly. The tiger
reached the top of the well and felt himself on safe ground. True to his word
he did no harm to Gaṅgâdhara. On the other hand, he walked round his patron
three times, and standing before him, humbly spoke the following words:—“My
life-giver, my benefactor! I shall never forget this day, when I regained my
life through your kind hands. In return for this kind assistance I pledge my
oath to stand by you in all calamities. Whenever you are in any difficulty just
think of me. I am there with you ready to oblige you by all the means that I
can. To tell you briefly how I came in here:—Three days ago I was roaming [15]in yonder forest, when I saw a goldsmith passing through
it. I chased him. He, finding it impossible to escape my claws, jumped into
this well, and is living to this moment in the very bottom of it. I also jumped
in, but found myself in the first storey;4 he
is on the last and fourth storey. In the second storey lives a serpent
half-famished with hunger. In the third storey lies a rat, similarly
half-famished, and when you again begin to draw water these may request you
first to release them. In the same way the goldsmith also may request. I tell
you, as your bosom friend, never assist that wretched man, though he is your
relation as a human being. Goldsmiths are never to be trusted. You can place more
faith in me, a tiger, though I feast sometimes upon men, in a serpent whose
sting makes your blood cold the very next moment, or in a rat, which does a
thousand pieces of mischief in your house. But never trust a goldsmith. Do not
release him; and if you do, you shall surely repent of it one day or other.”
Thus advising, the hungry tiger went away without waiting for an answer.
Gaṅgâdhara thought
several times of the eloquent [16]way in which the tiger addressed him, and admired his
fluency of speech. His thirst was not quenched. So he let down his vessel
again, which was now caught hold of by the serpent, who addressed him thus:—“Oh
my protector! Lift me up. I am the king of serpents, and the son of Âdiśêsha,5 who
is now pining away in agony for my disappearance. Release me now. I shall ever
remain your servant, remember your assistance, and help you throughout life in
all possible ways. Oblige me: I am dying.” Gaṅgâdhara, calling again to mind
the Samudratîrê maraṇam—death on the sea-shore—lifted him up. He,
like the tiger-king, walked round him thrice, and prostrating himself before him
spoke thus:—“Oh, my life-giver, my father, for so I must call you, as you have
given me another birth. I have already told you that I am Âdiśêsha’s son, and
that I am the king of serpents. I was three days ago basking myself in the
morning sun, when I saw a rat running before me. I chased him. He fell into
this well. I followed him, but instead of falling on the third storey where he
is now lying, I fell into the second. It was on the same evening that the
goldsmith also fell down into the fourth storey, and the tiger whom you
released just before me fell down into the first. What I have to [17]tell you now is—do not relieve the goldsmith, though you
may release the rat. As a rule, goldsmiths are never to be trusted. I am going
away now to see my father. Whenever you are in any difficulty just think of me.
I will be there by your side to assist you by all possible means. If,
notwithstanding my repeated advice, you happen to release the goldsmith, you
shall suffer for it severely.” So saying, the Nâgarâja (serpent-king) glided
away in zigzag movements, and was out of sight in a moment.
The poor son of the
Soothsayer who was now almost dying of thirst, and was even led to think that
the messengers of death were near him, notwithstanding his firm belief in the
words of his father let down his vessel for a third time. The rat caught hold
of it, and without discussing, he lifted up the poor animal at once. But it
would not go away without showing its gratitude—“Oh life of my life! My
benefactor! I am the king of rats. Whenever you are in any calamity just think
of me. I will come to you, and assist you. My keen ears overheard all that the
tiger-king and serpent-king told you about the Svarṇataskara6 (gold-smith),
who is in [18]the fourth storey. It is nothing but a sad truth that
goldsmiths ought never to be trusted. Therefore never assist him as you have
done to us all. And if you do, you shall feel it. I am hungry; let me go for
the present.” Thus taking leave of his benefactor, the rat, too, ran away.
Gaṅgâdhara for a while
thought upon the repeated advice given by the three animals about releasing the
goldsmith, “What wrong would there be in my assisting him? Why should I not
release him also?” So thinking to himself, Gaṅgâdhara let down the vessel
again. The goldsmith caught hold of it, and demanded help. The Soothsayer’s son
had no time to lose; he was himself dying of thirst. Therefore he lifted the
goldsmith up, who now began his story:—“Stop for a while,” said Gaṅgâdhara, and
after quenching his thirst by letting down his vessel for the fifth time, still
fearing that some one might remain in the well and demand his assistance, he
listened to the goldsmith, who began as follows:—“My dear friend, my protector,
what a deal of nonsense these brutes have been talking to you about me; I am
glad you have not followed their advice. I am just now dying of hunger. Permit
me to go away. My name is Mâṇikkâśâri. I live in the East main street of
Ujjaini which is twenty kâs7 to
the [19]south of this place, and so lies on your way when you
return from Bânâras. Do not forget to come to me and receive my kind
remembrances of your assistance, on your way back to your country.” So saying
the goldsmith took his leave, and Gaṅgâdhara also pursued his way north after
the above adventures.
He reached Bânâras, and
lived there for more than ten years, spending his time in bathing, prayers, and
other religious ceremonies. He quite forgot the tiger, serpent, rat, and
goldsmith. After ten years of religious life, thoughts of home and of his
brother rushed into his mind. “I have secured enough merit now by my religious
observances. Let me return home.” Thus thought Gaṅgâdhara within himself, and
immediately he was on his way back to his country. Remembering the prophecy of
his father he returned by the same way by which he went to Bânâras ten years
before. While thus retracing his steps he reached the ruined well where he had
released the three brute kings and the goldsmith. At once the old recollections
rushed into his mind, and he thought of the tiger to test his fidelity. Only a
moment passed, and the tiger-king came running before him carrying a large
crown in his mouth, the glitter of the diamonds of which for a time outshone
even the bright rays of the sun. He dropped the crown at his life-giver’s [20]feet, and putting aside all his pride, humbled himself like
a pet cat to the strokes of his protector, and began in the following
words:—“My life-giver! How is it that you have forgotten me, your poor servant,
for such a long time? I am glad to find that I still occupy a corner in your
mind. I can never forget the day when I owed my life to your lotus hands. I
have several jewels with me of little value. This crown, being the best of all,
I have brought here as a single ornament of great value, and hence easily
portable and useful to you in your own country.” Gaṅgâdhara looked at the
crown, examined it over and over, counted and recounted the gems, and thought
within himself that he would become the richest of men by separating the
diamonds and gold, and selling them in his own country. He took leave of the
tiger-king, and after his disappearance thought of the kings of serpents and
rats, who came in their turns with their presents, and after the usual
formalities and exchange of words took their leave. Gaṅgâdhara was extremely
delighted at the faithfulness with which the brute beasts behaved themselves,
and went on his way to the south. While going along he spoke to himself
thus:—“These beasts have been so very faithful in their assistance. Much more,
therefore, must Mâṇikkâśâri be faithful. I do not want anything from him now.
If I take this crown with me as it is, it occupies [21]much space in my bundle. It may also excite the curiosity
of some robbers on the way. I will go now to Ujjaini on my way, Mâṇikkâśâri
requested me to see him without failure on my return journey. I shall do so,
and request him to have the crown melted, the diamonds and gold separated. He
must do that kindness at least for me. I shall then roll up these diamonds and
gold ball in my rags, and bend my way homewards.” Thus thinking and thinking he
reached Ujjaini. At once he enquired for the house of his goldsmith friend, and
found him without difficulty. Mâṇikkâśâri was extremely delighted to find on
his threshold him who ten years before, notwithstanding the advice repeatedly
given him by the sage-looking tiger, serpent, and rat, had relieved him from
the pit of death. Gaṅgâdhara at once showed him the crown that he received from
the tiger-king, told him how he got it, and requested his kind assistance to
separate the gold and diamonds. Mâṇikkâśâri agreed to do so, and meanwhile
asked his friend to rest himself for a while to have his bath and meals; and
Gaṅgâdhara, who was very observant of his religious ceremonies, went direct to
the river to bathe.
How came a crown in the
jaws of a tiger? It is not a difficult question to solve. A king must have
furnished the table of the tiger for a day or two. Had it not been for that,
the tiger could not have [22]had a crown with him. Even so it was. The king of Ujjaini
had a week before gone with all his hunters on a hunting expedition. All of a
sudden a tiger—as we know now, the very tiger-king himself—started from the
wood, seized the king, and vanished. The hunters returned and informed the
prince about the sad calamity that had befallen his father. They all saw the
tiger carrying away the king. Yet such was their courage that they could not
lift their weapons to bring to the prince the corpse at least of his father.
When they informed the
prince about the death of his father he wept and wailed, and gave notice that
he would give half of his kingdom to any one who should bring him news about
the murderer of his father. The prince did not at all believe that his father
was devoured by the tiger. His belief was that some hunters, coveting the
ornaments on the king’s person, had murdered him. Hence he had issued the
notice. The goldsmith knew full well that it was a tiger that killed the king,
and not any hunter’s hands, since he had heard from Gaṅgâdhara about how he
obtained the crown. Still, ambition to get half the kingdom prevailed, and he
resolved with himself to make over Gaṅgâdhara as the king’s murderer. The crown
was lying on the floor where Gaṅgâdhara left it with his full confidence in
Mâṇikkâśâri. Before his protector’s [23]return the goldsmith, hiding the crown under his garments,
flew to the palace. He went before the prince and informed him that the
assassin was caught, and placed the crown before him. The prince took it into
his hands, examined it, and at once gave half the kingdom to Mâṇikkâśâri, and
then enquired about the murderer. “He is bathing in the river, and is of such
and such appearance,” was the reply. At once four armed soldiers fly to the
river, and bound the poor Brâhmaṇ hand and foot, he sitting in meditation the
while, without any knowledge of the fate that hung over him. They brought
Gaṅgâdhara to the presence of the prince, who turned his face away from the
murderer or supposed murderer, and asked his soldiers to throw him into
the kârâgṛiham.8 In
a minute, without knowing the cause, the poor Brâhmaṇ found himself in the dark
caves of the kârâgṛiham.
In old times the kârâgṛiham answered
the purposes of the modern jail. It was a dark cellar underground, built with
strong stone walls, into which any criminal guilty of a capital offence was
ushered to breathe his last there without food and drink. Such was the cellar
into which Gaṅgâdhara was thrust. In a few hours after he left the goldsmith he
found himself inside a dark cell stinking with [24]human bodies, dying and dead. What were his thoughts when
he reached that place? “It is the goldsmith that has brought me to this
wretched state; and, as for the prince: Why should he not enquire as to how I
obtained the crown? It is of no use to accuse either the goldsmith or the
prince now. We are all the children of fate. We must obey her commands. Daśavarshâṇi
Bandhanam. This is but the first day of my father’s prophecy. So far
his statement is true. But how am I going to pass ten years here? Perhaps
without anything to sustain life I may drag on my existence for a day or two.
But how pass ten years? That cannot be, and I must die. Before death comes let
me think of my faithful brute friends.”
So pondered Gaṅgâdhara in
the dark cell underground, and at that moment thought of his three friends. The
tiger-king, serpent-king, and rat-king assembled at once with their armies at a
garden near the kârâgṛiham, and for a while did not know what to
do. A common cause—how to reach their protector, who was now in the dark cell
underneath—united them all. They held their council, and decided to make an
underground passage from the inside of a ruined well to the kârâgṛiham.
The rat râjâ issued an order at once to that effect to his
army. They, with their nimble teeth, bored the ground a long way to the walls
of the prison. After [25]reaching it they found that their teeth could not work on
the hard stones. The bandicoots were then specially ordered for the business;
they, with their hard teeth, made a small slit in the wall for a rat to pass
and repass without difficulty. Thus a passage was effected.
The rat râjâ entered
first to condole with his protector on his misfortune. The king of the tigers
sent word through the snake-king that he sympathised most sincerely with his
sorrow, and that he was ready to render all help for his deliverance. He
suggested a means for his escape also. The serpent râjâ went
in, and gave Gaṅgâdhara hopes of delivery. The rat-king undertook to supply his
protector with provisions. “Whatever sweetmeats or bread are prepared in any
house, one and all of you must try to bring whatever you can to our benefactor.
Whatever clothes you find hanging in a house, cut down, dip the pieces in
water, and bring the wet bits to our benefactor. He will squeeze them and
gather water for drink! and the bread and sweetmeats shall form his food.”
Having issued these orders the king of the rats, took leave of Gaṅgâdhara.
They, in obedience to their king’s order, continued to supply provisions and
water.
The Nâgarâja said:—“I
sincerely condole with you in your calamity; the tiger-king also fully
sympathises with you, and wants me to tell you so, as [26]he cannot drag his huge body here as we have done with our
small ones. The king of the rats has promised to do his best to provide you
with food. We would now do what we can for your release. From this day we shall
issue orders to our armies to oppress all the subjects of this kingdom. The
percentage of death by snake-bite and tigers shall increase from this day. And
day by day it shall continue to increase till your release. After eating what
the rats bring you, you had better take your seat near the entrance of
the kârâgṛiham. Owing to the many sudden deaths that will occur
some people that walk over the prison may say, ‘How wicked the king has become.
Were it not for his wickedness so many dreadful deaths by snake-bites could
never occur.’ Whenever you hear people speaking so, you had better bawl out so
as to be heard by them, ‘The wretched prince imprisoned me on the false charge
of having killed his father, while it was a tiger that killed him. From that
day these calamities have broken out in his dominions. If I were released I
would save all by my powers of healing poisonous wounds and by incantations.’
Some one may report this to the king, and if he knows it, you will obtain your
liberty.” Thus comforting his protector in trouble, he advised him to pluck up
courage, and took leave of him. From that day tigers and serpents, acting under
the special [27]orders of their kings, united in killing as many persons
and cattle as possible. Every day people were carried away by tigers or bitten
by serpents. This havoc continued. Gaṅgâdhara went on roaring as loud he could
that he would save those lives, had he only his liberty. Few heard him. The few
that did took his words for the voice of a ghost. “How could he manage to live
without food and drink for so long a time?” said the persons walking over his
head to each other. Thus passed months and years. Gaṅgâdhara sat in the dark
cellar, without the sun’s light falling upon him, and feasted upon the bread-crumbs
and sweetmeats that the rats so kindly supplied him with. These circumstances
had completely changed his body. He had become a red, stout, huge, unwieldy
lump of flesh. Thus passed full ten years, as prophesied in the horoscope—Daśavarshâṇi
Bandhanam.
Ten complete years rolled
away in close imprisonment. On the last evening of the tenth year one of the
serpents got into the bed-chamber of the princess and sucked her life. She
breathed her last. She was the only daughter of the king. He had no other
issue—son or daughter. His only hope was in her; and she was snatched away by a
cruel and untimely death. The king at once sent for all the snake-bite curers.
He promised half his kingdom and his daughter’s hand to him who would [28]restore her to life. Now it was that a servant of the king,
who had several times overheard Gaṅgâdhara’s cries, reported the matter to him.
The king at once ordered the cell to be examined. There was the man sitting in
it. How has he managed to live so long in the cell? Some whispered that he must
be a divine being. Some concluded that he must surely win the hand of the
princess by restoring her to life. Thus they discussed, and the discussions brought
Gaṅgâdhara to the king.
The king no sooner saw
Gaṅgâdhara than he fell on the ground. He was struck by the majesty and
grandeur of his person. His ten years’ imprisonment in the deep cell
underground had given a sort of lustre to his body, which was not to be met
with in ordinary persons. His hair had first to be cut before his face could be
seen. The king begged forgiveness for his former fault, and requested him to
revive his daughter.
“Bring me in a muhûrta9 all
the corpses of men and cattle, dying and dead, that remain unburnt or unburied
within the range of your dominions; I shall revive them all,” were the only
words that Gaṅgâdhara spoke. After it he closed his lips as if in deep
meditation, which commanded more respect than ever.[29]
Cart-loads of corpses of
men and cattle began to come in every minute. Even graves, it is said, were
broken open, and corpses buried a day or two before were taken out and sent for
the revival. As soon as all were ready, Gaṅgâdhara took a vessel full of water
and sprinkled it over them all, thinking only of his Nâgarâja and Vyâghrarâja.10 All
rose up as if from deep slumber, and went to their respective homes. The
princess, too, was restored to life. The joy of the king knew no bounds. He
cursed the day on which he imprisoned him, blamed himself for having believed
the word of a goldsmith, and offered him the hand of his daughter and the whole
kingdom, instead of half as he promised. Gaṅgâdhara would not accept anything.
The king requested him to put a stop for ever to these calamities. He agreed to
do so, and asked the king to assemble all his subjects in a wood near the town.
“I shall there call in all the tigers and serpents and give them a general
order.” So said Gaṅgâdhara, and the king accordingly gave the order. In a
couple of ghaṭikâs11 the
wood near Ujjaini was full of people, who assembled to witness the authority of
man over such enemies of human beings as tigers and serpents. “He is no man; be
sure of that. [30]How could he have managed to live for ten years without
food and drink? He is surely a god.” Thus speculated the mob.
When the whole town was
assembled, just at the dusk of evening, Gaṅgâdhara sat dumb for a moment, and
thought upon the Vyâghrarâja and Nâgarâja, who came running with all their
armies. People began to take to their heels at the sight of tigers. Gaṅgâdhara
assured them of safety, and stopped them.
The grey light of the
evening, the pumpkin colour of Gaṅgâdhara, the holy ashes scattered lavishly
over his body, the tigers and snakes humbling themselves at his feet, gave him
the true majesty of the god Gaṅgâdhara.12 For
who else by a single word could thus command vast armies of tigers and
serpents, said some among the people. “Care not for it; it may be by magic.
That is not a great thing. That he revived cart-loads of corpses makes him
surely Gaṅgâdhara,” said others. The scene produced a very great effect upon
the minds of the mob.
“Why should you, my
children, thus trouble these poor subjects of Ujjaini? Reply to me, and
henceforth desist from your ravages.” Thus said the Soothsayer’s son, and the
following reply came from the king of the tigers; “Why should this base [31]king imprison your honour, believing the mere word of a
goldsmith that your honour killed his father? All the hunters told him that his
father was carried away by a tiger. I was the messenger of death sent to deal
the blow on his neck. I did it, and gave the crown to your honour. The prince
makes no enquiry, and at once imprisons your honour. How can we expect justice
from such a stupid king as that? Unless he adopts a better standard of justice
we will go on with our destruction.”
The king heard, cursed
the day on which he believed in the word of a goldsmith, beat his head, tore
his hair, wept and wailed for his crime, asked a thousand pardons, and swore to
rule in a just way from that day. The serpent-king and tiger-king also promised
to observe their oath as long as justice prevailed, and took their leave. The
goldsmith fled for his life. He was caught by the soldiers of the king, and was
pardoned by the generous Gaṅgâdhara, whose voice now reigned supreme. All
returned to their homes.
The king again pressed
Gaṅgâdhara to accept the hand of his daughter. He agreed to do so, not then,
but some time afterwards. He wished to go and see his elder brother first, and
then to return and marry the princess. The king agreed; and Gaṅgâdhara left the
city that very day on his way home.[32]
It so happened that
unwittingly he took a wrong road, and had to pass near a sea coast. His elder
brother was also on his way up to Bânâras by that very same route. They met and
recognised each other, even at a distance. They flew into each other’s arms. Both remained
still for a time almost unconscious with joy. The emotion of pleasure (ânanda)
was so great, especially in Gaṅgâdhara, that it proved dangerous to his life.
In a word, he died of joy.
The sorrow of the elder
brother could better be imagined than described. He saw again his lost brother,
after having given up, as it were, all hopes of meeting him. He had not even
asked him his adventures. That he should be snatched away by the cruel hand of
death seemed unbearable to him. He wept and wailed, took the corpse on his lap,
sat under a tree, and wetted it with tears. But there was no hope of his dead
brother coming to life again.
The elder brother was a
devout worshipper of Gaṇapati.13 That
was a Friday, a day very sacred to that god. The elder brother took the corpse
to the nearest Gaṇêśa14 temple
and called upon him. The god came, and asked him what he wanted. “My poor
brother is dead and gone; and this is [33]his corpse. Kindly keep it in your charge till I finish
worshipping you. If I leave it anywhere else the devils may snatch it away when
I am absent worshipping you; after finishing your pûjâ15 I
shall burn him.” Thus said the elder brother, and, giving the corpse to the god
Gaṇêśa, he went to prepare himself for that deity’s ceremonials. Gaṇêśa made
over the corpse to his Gaṇas,16 asking
them to watch over it carefully.
So a spoiled child
receives a fruit from its father, who, when he gives it the fruit asks the
child to keep it safe. The child thinks within itself, “My father will forgive
me if I eat a portion of it.” So saying it eats a portion, and when it finds it
so sweet, it eats the whole, saying, “Come what will, what can father do, after
all, if I eat it? Perhaps give me a stroke or two on the back. Perhaps he may
forgive me.” In the same way these Gaṇas of Gaṇapati first ate
a portion of the corpse, and when they found it sweet, for we know it was
crammed up with the sweetmeats of the kind rats, devoured the whole, and began
consulting about the best excuse possible to offer to their master.
The elder brother, after
finishing the pûjâ, demanded his brother’s corpse of the god. The [34]god called his Gaṇas who came to the front
blinking, and fearing the anger of their master. The god was greatly enraged.
The elder brother was very angry. When the corpse was not forthcoming he
cuttingly remarked, “Is this, after all, the return for my deep belief in you?
You are unable even to return my brother’s corpse.” Gaṇêśa was much ashamed at
the remark, and at the uneasiness that he had caused to his worshipper. So he,
by his divine power, gave him a living Gaṅgâdhara instead of the dead corpse.
Thus was the second son of the Soothsayer restored to life.
The brothers had a long
talk about each other’s adventures. They both went to Ujjaini, where Gaṅgâdhara
married the princess, and succeeded to the throne of that kingdom. He reigned
for a long time, conferring several benefits upon his brother. How is the
horoscope to be interpreted? A special synod of Soothsayers was held. A
thousand emendations were suggested. Gaṅgâdhara would not accept them. At last
one Soothsayer cut the knot by stopping at a different place in reading, “Samudra
tîrê maraṇam kiñchit.” “On the sea-shore death for some time.
Then “Bhôgam bhavishyati.” “There shall be happiness for the person
concerned.” Thus the passage was interpreted. “Yes; my father’s words never
went wrong,” said Gaṅgâdhara. The three [35]brute kings continued their visits often to the
Soothsayer’s son, the then king of Ujjaini. Even the faithless goldsmith became
a frequent visitor at the palace, and a receiver of several benefits from royal
hands.[36]
