Naḷinikā Jātaka

Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta ruled in Benares, the Bodhisatta was born into a wealthy family in the brahmins of the north. And when he had come of age and had been trained in all the arts, he adopted the ascetic life. He took up residence in the Himalayas where he developed supernatural powers by the practice of deep meditation.

In exactly in the same way as related in the Alambusa Birth (Jatakā 523) a doe was conceived by him. She gave birth to a son who was called Isisiṇga. Now when he had grown up, his father admitted him to holy orders and had him instructed in the rites that induced deep meditation. In a short time, he also developed supernatural faculties And so, living in the Himalayas, he enjoying the bliss of ecstasy.

He became a sage of such austerity that the home of Sakka was shaken by the power of his virtue. By reflection, Sakka discovered the cause of this. He thought, “I will find a way to break his virtue.” For three years he stopped rain from falling in the kingdom of Kāsi. The country became scorched, and when no crops ripened, the people—suffering under the stress of famine—gathered in the palace yard and approached the King. He took his stand at an open window and asked what the matter was. “Your Majesty,” they said, “for three years no rain has fallen from heaven. The whole kingdom is burned up and the people are suffering greatly. Cause rain to fall, sire.”

The King took moral vows upon himself and he fasted, yet this failed to bring down the rain. It was then that Sakka entered his royal chamber at midnight. Illuminating it all round, he stood in midair. When he saw Sakka, the King asked, “Who are you?” “I am Sakka,” he said. “From where did you come?” “Does rain fall in your realm, sire?” “No, it does not rain.” “Do you know why it does not rain?” “I do not know.” “In the Himalaya country, sire, there lives an ascetic named Isisiṇga. From the practice of self-mortification, he is extremely austere. When it begins to rain, he looks up at the sky in a rage and causes the rain to cease.” “What then is to be done?” “Should his virtue be broken, it will rain.” “But who is able to overcome his virtue?” “Your daughter, sire, Naḷinikā can do it. Summon her here and have her go to him and break the virtue of the ascetic.” And, having thus instructed the King, Sakka returned to his own realm.

On the next day, the King consulted with his courtiers. Then he summoned his daughter and addressed her in the first stanza:

Lo! the land lies scorched and ruined and my realm sinks to decay,

Go, Naḷinikā, and please bring this brahmin beneath your sway.

On hearing this she repeated a second stanza:

How shall I endure this hardship, among elephants astray,

Through the denseness of that woods, how will I safely guide my way?

Then the King repeated two stanzas:

Seek your happy home, my daughter, and from there without delay

In a car of wood so deftly framed you’ll ride upon your way.

Horses, elephants, and footmen—go, among a brave array,

And with charm of beauty quickly you shall bring him ‘neath your sway.

So, for the protection of his realm, he talked with his daughter about things as should not be spoken of in words.

She readily consented to his proposals. Then, after giving her all that she required, he sent her away with his ministers. They went to the frontier, and after pitching their camp there, they had the princess conveyed by a road pointed out to them by some foresters. At the break of day, they entered the Himalaya country, stopping at a spot close to the ascetic’s hermitage.

At this very moment the Bodhisatta, leaving his son behind in the hermitage, went into the forest to gather wild fruits. The foresters approached the hermitage, and standing where they could see it, they pointed it out to Naḷinikā and repeated two stanzas:

With plantain marked, midst bhurja trees so green,

Lo! Isisiṇga’s pretty hut is seen.

That smoke, I think, arises from the flame

Nursed by that sage of wonder-working fame.

(The bhurja tree is the Himalayan birch.)

After the Bodhisatta had gone into the forest, the King’s ministers surrounded the hermitage and set watch over it. The Princess adopted the disguise of an ascetic. She clothed herself in an outer and inner garment of beautiful bark adorned with all manner of ornaments. They instructed her to take a painted ball tied to a string in her hand and sent her into the hermitage grounds while they stood on guard outside. So, playing with her ball, she entered the cloister.

Isisiṇga was seated on a bench at the door of his hut of leaves when he saw her coming. He was terrified. He got up and hid in the hut. And she drew near to the door and continued playing with her ball.

The Master, to make this point clear, repeated three stanzas:

Bedecked with gems as she drew near, a bright and lovely maid,

Poor Isisiṇga sought in fear his cell’s protecting shade.

And while before the hermit’s door with ball the damsel plays,

Her lovely limbs she does expose all naked to his gaze.

But when he saw her play with him, forth from his cell he broke,

And, rushing from the leafy hut, words such as these he spoke.

Fruit of what tree may this, sir, be, that howe’er far is tossed

Will still return to you again and never more is lost?

Then she—telling him of the tree—spoke this stanza:

Mount Gandhamādana, the home wherein I live, can boast

Of many a tree with fruit maybe such that though far is tossed,

Will still return to me again and never more is lost.

(Mount Gandhamādana is part of the mythical cosmology in Buddhism.)

In this way she spoke falsely, but he believed her. And thinking she was an ascetic, he greeted her kindly and uttered this stanza:

Pray, holy sir, come in and take a seat,

Accept some food and water for your feet,

And resting here awhile enjoy with me

Such roots and berries as I offer thee.

Being an ingenuous youth and never having seen a woman before, he was led to believe the extraordinary story she told him, and through her seductions, his virtue was overcome and his mystic meditation broke. After indulging himself with her until he was tired, he at length went forth. He went down to the tank where he bathed. And when his fatigue had passed, he returned and sat in his hut. And once more, still believing her to be an ascetic, he asked where she lived, and he spoke this stanza:

By what road to here have you come,

And do you love your woodland home?

Can roots and berries hunger stay,

And how escaped you beasts of prey?

Then Naḷinikā recited four stanzas:

North of this the Khemā flows

Straight from Himalayan snows,

On its bank, a charming spot,

May be seen my hermit cot.

Mango, tilak, sāl full-grown,

Cassia, trumpet-flower full-blown—

All with song of elves resound,

Here my home, sir, may be found.

Here with dates and roots, I glean,

Every kind of fruit is seen.

‘Tis a gay and fragrant spot

That has fallen to my lot.

Roots and berries here abound,

Sweet and fair and luscious found.

But I fear, should robbers come,

They’ll destroy my happy home.

When he heard this, the ascetic—to put her off until his father returned—spoke this stanza:

My father foraging for fruit is gone,

The sun is sinking, he will be here soon.

When back from his fruit-gathering he has come,

We’ll start together for your hermit-home.

Then she thought, “This boy has been brought up in a forest. He does not know that I am a woman. But his father will know it as soon as he sees me. He will ask me why I am here. He will strike me with the end of his carrying-pole. He will break my head. I must be off before he returns and the reason for my visit is determined.” So, she told him how to find his way to her house, and she repeated another stanza:

Alas! I fear I may no longer stay,

But many a royal saint lives on the way,

Ask one of them to point you out the road,

He’ll gladly act as guide to my abode.

Having devised a plan for her escape, she left the hermitage. As he was wistfully looking after her, she told the young man to stay where he was. She returned to the ministers by the same road by which she had come, and they took her with them to their encampment. By and by they reached Benares by several stages. Sakka was so delighted that he caused rain to fall throughout the whole kingdom.

But as soon as she had left the ascetic, a fever seized Isisiṇga. Trembling, he entered the hut of leaves. And putting on his upper robe of bark, he lay there groaning. In the evening his father returned. Missing his son, he said, “Where in the world has he gone?” He put down his carrying-pole and went into the hut. When he found him lying there he said, “What ails you, my dear son?” And rubbing his back, he uttered three stanzas:

No wood is cut, no water fetched, no fire is lit. I pray

Tell me, you silly lad, why did you dream the whole, long day.

Until today wood was always cut,

The fire was lit, and pot on it was put,

My seat arranged, the water fetched. In sooth

You found your pleasure in the task, good youth.

Today no wood is split, no water brought,

No fire is lit, cooked food in vain is sought.

Today no welcome have you given to me,

What have you lost? What sorrow troubles thee?

On hearing his father’s words, he explained the matter, saying:

Here, sire, today a holy youth has been,

A handsome, dapper boy, beauty to be seen.

Not over tall nor yet too short was he,

Dark was his hair, as black as black could be.

Smooth-cheeked and beardless was and looking right,

And on his neck was hung a jewel bright,

Two lovely swellings on his fair breast lay,

Like balls of burnished gold, of purest ray.

His face was wondrous fair, and from each ear

A curved earring hanging did appear.

These and the fillet on his head gave out

Flashes of light, whene’er he moved about.

Yet other ornaments the youth did wear,

Or blue or red, upon his dress and hair.

Jingling, whene’er he moved, they rang again

Like little birds that chirp in time of rain.

No robe of bark, sign of ascetic grim,

No girdle made of muñja grass for him.

His garments shimmer, clinging to the thigh,

Bright as a flash of lightning in the sky.

Fruits of what tree beneath his waist are bound,

—Smooth and without or stalk or prickle found—?

Stitched in his robe, in order loose but thick,

They strike each other with a sounding “click.”

The tresses on his head were wondrous fair,

Hundreds of curls perfuming all the air.

These locks just parted in the midst had he—

Dressed e’en as his would that my hair might be.

But when his locks he did by chance unbind

And loose in all their beauty to the wind,

Their fragrance filled our home like forest trees,

Like scent of lotus borne along the breeze.

His very dust was fair to look upon,

His person quite unlike that of your son,

It breathed forth odors wafted everywhere,

Like shrubs in blossom in the summer air.

His fruit so bright and fair, of varied hue,

Afar from him upon the ground he threw,

Yet back to him would evermore return,

What fruit it is I please from you would learn.

His teeth in even rows, so pure and white,

Vie with the choicest pearls, a lovely sight.

Whene’er he opens his lips, charming it is!

No food like ours, roots and tasteless herbs, his!

His voice so soft and smooth, yet firm and clear

In gentle accents fell upon the ear.

It pierced me to the heart, so sweet a note

Ne’er issued from melodious cuckoo’s throat.

Its tone I thought subdued, pitched far too low

For one rehearsing holy lore, I know,

It was—so great his kindness—I’d not disdain

Renew my friendship with this youth again.

His warm arms flashing in their gold array,

Like gleams of lightning all around me play.

With down, as eye-salve soft, were they o’erspread,

Round were his fingers, blushing coral-red.

Smooth were his limbs, his tresses long untied,

Long too his nails with tips all crimson dyed.

With his soft arms around me clinging tight

The fair boy ministered to my delight.

His hands were white as cotton, gleaming bright

Like golden mirror that reflects the light.

At their soft touch I felt a burning thrill,

And though he’s gone, the memory fires me still.

No load of grain he brought, nor ever could

Be won with his own hands to chop our wood,

Nor would he with his axe chop down a tree

Nor carry a sharp stake, to pleasure me.

This rumpled couch with leaves of creepers made

Bears witness to the merry pranks we played.

Then in that lake our weary limbs we bathe

And once more seek indoors the rest we crave.

Today no holy texts can I recite,

No fire for sacrifice is found alight.

Yea, from all roots and berries I’ll abstain

Till I behold this pious youth again.

Tell me, dear father, for you know it well,

Where in the world this holy youth may dwell.

And to there with all speed, pray, let us fly,

Or at your door my death will surely lie.

I’ve heard him speak of glades, with flowers all gay,

And thronged with birds that sing the live-long day,

‘Tis to there with all speed I gladly fly

Or here at once I’ll lay me down and die.

On hearing the boy talk such nonsense, the Great Being knew at once that through sense desire he had lost his virtue, and by way of admonition he repeated six stanzas:

An ancient home for sages long has stood

Within the sunlit precincts of this wood.

In haunts of angels and of nymphs divine,

This feeling of unrest should ne’er be thine.

Friendships exist and then they cease to be,

Each one shows love to his own family.

But they poor creatures are who do not know

To whom their origin and love they owe.

Friendship is formed by constant intercourse,

When this is broken, friendship fails perforce.

Should you set eyes upon this youth once more,

Or converse hold with him, as heretofore,

Just as a flood sweeps off the ripened corn,

So will the power of virtue be o’er-borne.

Demons there be that through the wide earth run

In varied form disguised. Beware, my son!

He that is wise should not consort with such,

Virtue itself is blasted at their touch.

On hearing what his father had to say the youth thought, “She was a female yakkha, he says.” He was terrified and cast away the thought of her. Then he asked his father’s pardon, saying, “Forgive me, dear father, I will not leave this spot.” His father comforted him, saying, “Come, my boy, cultivate charity, compassion, empathy and equanimity.” He taught him the attainment of the Perfect States (the brahma viharas). And the son walked virtuously and once more developed mystic meditation.