Jataka 527

Ummadantī Jātaka

The Story of Ummadantī

as told by Eric Van Horn

originally translated by H.T. Francis and R.A. Neil, Cambridge University

originally edited by Professor Edward Byles Cowell, Cambridge University

In reading story you may have to look past the fact that the beautiful Ummadantī is treated like a head of cattle!

“Whose house is this?” The Master told this story while he was living at Jetavana. It is about a back-sliding monk. The story runs that one day, as he was going on his alms rounds in Sāvatthi, he saw a woman of unsurpassed beauty. She was magnificently dressed, and he fell in love with her. When he returned to his monastery, he was unable to stop thinking about her.

From that time on, he was pierced with love’s shafts and sick with desire. He became as lean as a wild deer. His veins stood out on his body. He was as pale and sallow as he could be. He no longer took delight in any one of the Four Postures (standing, sitting, lying down, and walking) or found pleasure in his own thoughts. He stopped paying the homage due to a teacher. He abandoned any devotion to instruction, inquiry, and meditation.

His fellow monks said, “Sir, once you were calm and serene, but now it is not so. What can be the cause?” “Sirs,” he answered, “I take no pleasure in anything.” Then they wished him to be happy, saying, “To be born a Buddha is a hard matter. So is hearing the true Dharma and attaining birth as a human being. But you have attained to this. And yearning to put an end to sorrow, you left your weeping family and became a believer adopted the ascetic life. Why now do you fall under the sway of passion? These evil passions are common to all ignorant creatures, from live worms upwards. Such passions are material in their origin. They, too, are insipid. Desires are full of sorrow and despair. Misery increases. Desire is like a skeleton or a piece of meat. Desire is like a torch made of a wisp of hay or a light from embers. Desire vanishes like a dream or a loan or the fruit of a tree. Desire is as biting as a sharp spear or a serpent’s head. But you, verily, after embracing so glorious a faith as this and becoming an ascetic, have now fallen under the sway of such harmful passions.”

When their admonitions failed to make him grasp their teaching, they brought him before the Master in the Dharma Hall. The Master said, “Why, brothers, have you brought this monk here against his will?” They answered, “He is a backslider.” The Master asked if it were true, and when he confessed that it was so, the Master said, “Brother, sages of old, though ruling a kingdom, whenever lust sprang up in their hearts, passed under its sway for a time. But they checked their roving thoughts and were guilty of no improper conduct.” And with these words he told them this story from the past.

Once upon a time, in the city of Ariṭṭhapura in the kingdom of the Sivis, there reigned a king named Sivi. The Bodhisatta was reborn as the son of his chief queen. They called him prince Sivi. His commander-in-chief also had a son born to him, and they named him Ahipāraka. The two boys grew up as friends, and at the age of sixteen they went to Takkasilā University. And after completing their education, they returned home. The king turned over his kingdom to his son. He appointed Ahipāraka to the post of commander-in-chief and ruled his kingdom righteously.

In that same city there lived a rich merchant named Tirīṭavaccha. He was worth eighty crores (one crore is 10 million rupees). He had a daughter. She was a fair and gracious lady, bearing every mark of auspicious fortune. Her name was Ummadantī. When she turned sixteen years old, she was as beautiful as a heavenly nymph, more than mortal beauty. All those who saw her could not contain themselves. They were intoxicated with passion. They were quite unable to recover their self-control. So her father, Tirīṭavaccha, drew near to the king and said, “Sire, at home I have a treasure of a daughter, a fit mate even for a king. Send for your fortune-tellers who can read the features of the body and have her tested by them, and then deal with her according to your good pleasure.” The king agreed.

He sent his brahmins. They went to the merchant’s house where they were received with great honor and hospitality. They ate some rice milk. At this moment Ummadantī came into their presence. She was magnificently attired. On catching sight of her, they completely lost their self-control just as if they were intoxicated with passion. They forgot that they had left their meal unfinished. Some of them took a morsel, and thinking they would eat it, they put it on their heads. Some let it fall onto their hips. Others threw it against the wall. Everyone was beside himself. When she saw them, she said, “They tell me these fellows are to test the character of my features,” and she ordered them to be taken by the scruff of their neck and thrown out.

They were quite annoyed and returned to the palace in a great rage with Ummadantī. They said, “Sire, this woman is no mate for you. She is a witch!” The king thought, “They tell me that she is a witch,” and he did not send for her. On hearing what had happened she said, “I am not taken to be the wife of the king because they say I am a witch. Very well, should I ever see the king, I will know what to do.” And so she held a grudge against him. So her father gave her in marriage to Ahipāraka. She was her husband’s darling and delight.

Now why had she become so beautiful? It was because of the gift of a scarlet robe. Once upon a time, she was born into a poor family in Benares. And on a festal day, she saw some holy women. They were magnificently dressed in robes that were dyed scarlet with safflower. She told her parents that she, too, would like to wear a similar robe. They said, “My dear, we are poor people. How are we to get you such a robe?” “Well then,” she said, “allow me to earn wages in a wealthy household, and as soon as they recognize my merit, they will make me the present of a robe.” And having gained their consent, she approached a certain family and proposed to let her work for them for a scarlet robe. They said, “After you have worked three years for us, we will recognize your merits by giving you one.” She readily agreed and set about her work.

Before three years had expired, they recognized her merit. They gave her a thick safflower-dyed robe along with another garment. They sent her off, saying, “Go with your companions, and, after bathing, dress yourself in these robes.” So she went with her companions and bathed, leaving the scarlet robe on the bank.

At that moment a disciple of the Kassapa Buddha, who had been robbed of his garments and had put on pieces of a broken bough to serve as outer and inner robes, arrived at this spot. On seeing him she thought, “This holy man must have been robbed of his garment. In former times I, too, found it difficult to have a robe offered to me.” She determined to divide the garment in two and give him half of it. So she went up out of the water and put on her old dress saying, “Stay, holy sir.” She tore her robe in two and gave half of it to him. Then he stood on one side in a sheltered spot and, throwing away his branch-garment, he made an inner garment with one side of the robe and an outer garment with the other side. Then he stepped out into the open, and his whole person was ablaze with the splendor of the robe. He was like the newly risen sun. On seeing this she thought, “This holy man was not radiant at first, but now he shines like a newly risen sun. I will give him this, too.” So she gave him the other half of the robe and prayed, “Holy sir, I would gladly be of such unsurpassed beauty in some future existence that no one who sees me will have the power to control himself, and that no other woman will be more beautiful.” The elder gave her his thanks and went his way.

After a period of rebirth in the world of gods, she was now reborn in Ariṭṭhapura. She was as beautiful as she had described. Now in this city they had proclaimed the Kattika festival, and on the day of the full moon, they decorated the city. Ahipāraka set out for the post he had to guard. He addressed her, saying “Lady Ummadantī, today is the Kattika festival. The king will march in solemn procession around the city. He will come to the door of this house. Be sure you do not show yourself to him, because when he sees you, he will not be able to control his thoughts.” As he was leaving her, she said to him, “I will see to it.”

As soon as he was off, she gave an order to her handmaid to let her know when the king came to the door. So at sunset, the full moon had risen and torches were blazing in every quarter of the city. It was decorated as if it were a city of the gods. The king was arrayed in all his splendor. He was mounted on a magnificent cart drawn by thoroughbreds and escorted by a crowd of courtiers. He made a circuit of the city with great pomp. Then he came to the door of Ahipāraka’s house.

Now this house was enclosed by a wall the color of vermilion. It was furnished with gates and a tower. It was a beautiful and charming place. At that moment the maid brought her mistress word of the king’s arrival. Ummadantī told her to get a basket of flowers. Then she stood near the window and threw the flowers over the king with all the charm of a heavenly spirit. The king looked up at her and was maddened with passion and quite unable to control his thoughts. Because of this, he failed to recognize the house as that of Ahipāraka. So addressing his charioteer, he repeated two stanzas in the form of a question:

Whose house is this, Sunanda, tell me true,

All dressed about with wall of golden hue?

What vision fair is this, like meteor bright,

Or sunbeam striking on some mountain height?

A daughter of the house perchance is she,

Herself its mistress, or son’s wife maybe?

Your answer quickly in a single word—

Is she unwed, or owns she still a lord?

Then, in answering the king, he repeated two stanzas:

All that your Highness asks I know full well,

And of her parents on both sides can tell.

As to her husband, night and day, O king,

He serves your cause with zeal in everything.

A powerful minister of yours is he,

Vast wealth he owns and great prosperity.

She’s wife of Ahipāraka the famed,

And at her birth was Ummadantī named.

On hearing this the king, in praising her name, repeated yet another stanza:

Alas! How ominous a name is here

Given to this maiden by her parents dear.

Since Ummadantī fixed her gaze on me,

Lo! A mad haunted man I grew to be.

On seeing how agitated he was, she closed the window and went straight to her fair chamber. And from the moment when the king set eyes on her, he stopped thinking about making his solemn procession round the city. Addressing his charioteer he said, “Friend Sunanda, stop the chariot. This is not a festival suitable for us. It is fit only for Ahipāraka, my commander-in-chief, and the throne is also better suited for him.” He stopped the chariot and climbed up to his palace. And, as he lay chattering upon the royal couch, he said,

A lily maid, with eyes soft as a doe’s,

In the full moon’s clear light before me rose,

Beholding her in robe of dove-like hue,

I thought two moons at once came into view.

Darting one glance from her bright, lovely eyes,

The temptress took me captive by surprise,

Like woodland elf upon some mountain height,

Her graceful motion won my heart at sight.

So dark and tall and fair the maid, with jewels in her ears,

Clad in a single garment, like a timid doe, appears.

With long-tressed hair and nails all stained red,

O’er her soft arms rich sandal essence shed,

With tapering fingers and a gracious air,

When will she smile on me, my charmer fair?

When will Tirīṭi’s slender-waisted maid,

A gold adornment on her breast displayed,

With her soft arms embracing cling to me,

E’en as a creeper to some forest tree?

When will she stained with dye of lac so bright,

With swelling bosom, maiden lily-white,

Exchange a kiss with me, as oft a glass

Will from one drinker to another pass?

Soon as I saw her standing thus, so fair to outward view,

No longer master of myself, reason away I threw.

When Ummadantī I beheld, with jeweled earrings bright,

Like one punished right heavily, I slept not day or night.

Should Sakka grant a boon to me, my choice were quickly ta’en,

I would be Ahipāraka one night and happily lain,

And Ummadantī thus enjoyed, he might o’er Sivi reign.

Then those councilors told Ahipāraka, saying, “Master, the king made a solemn procession around the city. He went to the door of your house. Then turning back, he climbed up to his palace.” So Ahipāraka went home and addressed Ummadantī. He asked her if she had shown herself to the king. “My lord,” she said, “a certain pot-bellied fellow with huge teeth, standing up in his chariot, came here. I do not know whether he was a king or a prince, but I was told he was a lord of some kind. I stood at the open window and threw flowers over him. Meanwhile he turned back and went off.” On hearing this he said, “You have ruined me.”

Early the next morning he went to the king’s house. He stood at the door of the royal chamber and, hearing the king rambling on about Ummadantī, he thought, “He has fallen in love with Ummadantī. If he does not get her, he will die. It is my duty to restore him to life if it can be done without wickedness on the part of the king or myself.” So he went home and summoned a stout-hearted servant and said, “Friend, in such and such a place there is a hollow tree that is a sacred shrine. Without saying a word to anyone, go there at sunset and sit inside the tree. Then I shall come there and make an offering. Then I will say this prayer: “O king of heaven, our king, while a festival was going on, without taking any part in it, has gone into his royal closet and lies there chattering idly. We do not know why he does this. The king has been a great benefactor of the gods. Year by year he has spent a thousand gold coins in sacrifices. Tell us why the king talks so foolishly and grant us the boon of the king’s life.” In this way I will pray. And at that moment you are to say these words: “O commander-in-chief, your king is not sick, but he is infatuated with your wife Ummadantī. If he gets her, he will live. Otherwise, he will die. If you wish him to live, give Ummadantī to him.” This is what you are to say.” And having thus instructed, him he sent him away.

So on the next day, the servant went and seated himself inside the tree. When the general came and said his prayer, he repeated his lesson. The general said, “It is well,” and with a bow to the deity, he went to tell the king’s ministers. He entered the city, climbed up to the palace, and knocked at the door of the royal closet. The king—having recovered his senses—asked who it was. “It is I, Ahipāraka, my lord.” Then he opened the king’s door, and going in, he saluted the king and repeated a stanza:

While kneeling at a sacred shrine, O king,

A yakkha came and told me a strange thing,

How Ummadantī had enslaved your will,

Take her and so your heart’s desire fulfill.

Then the king asked, “Friend Ahipāraka, do the yakkhas know that I have been talking foolishly about my infatuation for Ummadantī?” “Yes, my lord,” he said. The king thought, “My misdeed is known throughout the world,” and he felt ashamed. And taking his stand in righteousness, he uttered another stanza:

Fallen from grace no virtue shall succeed,

And all the world will hear of my misdeed,

Think too how great your grief of mind would be,

Should you no more your Ummadantī see.

The remaining stanzas are repeated by the two alternately.

Except yourself and me, O king, no one

In the whole world will know the deed that’s done.

Lo! Ummadantī is my gift to thee,

Your passion sated, send her back to me.

The wicked thinks, “No mortal man has been

A witness of my guilty deed, I glean,”

Yet all he does will fall within the glen

Of ghostly beings and of holy men.

Who in this world, supposing you should say,

“I loved her not,” would any credence pay?

Think too how great your grief of mind would be,

Should you no more your Ummadantī see.

She was, great king, as dear to me as life,

In very sooth a well-beloved wife.

Yet, sire, to Ummadantī straight repair,

E’en as a lion to his rocky lair.

The sage howe’er oppressed by his own woe,

Will scarce an act that wins him bliss forego,

E’en the dull fool all drunken with bliss

Would ne’er be guilty of misdeeds like this.

A fostering parent, king, I own in thee,

Husband and lord, a god are you to me,

Your slaves my wife and child, and I you thrall,

O Sivi, do your pleasure with us all.

Whoe’er shall wrong his neighbor nor repent,

Saying, “See here a lord omnipotent,”

Will ne’er be found to live out half his days,

And gods will view his conduct with dispraise.

Should righteous men accept as gift a thing

Freely bestowed by others, then, O king,

They who receive and they who grant have done

A deed whereby the fruit of bliss is won.

Who in this world, supposing you should say,

“I love her not,” would any credence pay?

Think too how great your grief of mind would be,

Should you no more your Ummadantī see.

She was, great king, as dear to me as life,

In very sooth a well-beloved wife.

Lo! Ummadantī is my gift to thee,

Your passion sated, send her back to me.

Who rids himself of pain at others’ cost,

Rejoicing still though others’ joy be lost,

Not he, but one that feels another’s woe

As ‘twere his own, true righteousness can know.

She was, great king, as dear to me as life,

In very sooth a well-beloved wife,

I give what most I prize, nor give in vain,

They that thus give receive as much again.

I might destroy myself for fleshly appetite,

Yet would I never dare by wrong destroy the right.

Figure: “I never dare by wrong destroy the right.”

Should you, O noble prince, your love foreswear

Because she is my wife, lo! I declare

Henceforth she is divorced and free to all,

Your slave to summon at your beck and call.

If you, my dear friend, to your detriment,

Should put away your wife, though innocent,

You would, I think, have heavy blame to bear

And ne’er a single soul to speak you fair.

With all such blame, my king, I could away,

With censure, praise, or be it what it may,

Let it fall on me, Sivi, as it will,

Only do you your pleasure first fulfill.

He who esteem or blame does regard not,

For praise or censure who cares not a jot—

From him will glory and good fortune fly,

As floods subside, leaving land high and dry.

Whate’er of bliss or pain from hence may spring,

O’erstepping right, or fit one’s heart to wring,

I’ll welcome, if it joyous be or sad,

As Earth puts up with all, both good and bad.

I would not have another suffering

From wrongful act that may his bosom wring,

I’ll bear the burden of my griefs alone,

Steadfast in right, vexing the peace of none.

A meritorious act to heaven will lead,

Be you no obstacle to such a deed.

I Ummadantī a free offering send,

As kings on brahmin priests much treasure spend.

Truly to me great kindness have you shown,

Your wife and you are both my friends, I own,

Brahmins and gods alike would blame me sore,

And curses rest on me for evermore.

Townsmen and countryfolk in this, I trust,

Will ne’er, O Sivi king, call you unjust,

Since Ummadantī is my gift to thee,

Your passion sated, send her back to me.

Truly to me great kindness have you shown,

You and your wife are both my friends, I own,

Good men’s right acts are famed both far and wide,

Hard to o’erstep is Right, like Ocean’s tide.

Worshipful master, waiting to bestow

Whate’er I crave, kind benefactor, so

Repay it sevenfold all I offer thee,

Take Ummadantī, my free gift is she.

Mine dear friend, Ahipāraka, in truth,

Right have you followed, even from your youth.

Who else of living men, I pray you, would

Early and late have striven to do me good?

O noble prince, you are of peerless fame,

Wise, knowing right and walking in the same,

Shielded by right, may you, O king, live long,

And, lord of right, teach me to not do wrong.

Come, listen, Ahipāraka, to these my words and then

I’ll teach you ways of righteousness as practiced by good men.

A king delighting in the law is blessed,

And of all men a learned one is best,

Ne’er to betray a friend is great goodness,

And to avoid evil is happiness.

Under the sway of righteous king,

Like shade from sunstroke sheltering,

His subjects all may live in peace,

Rejoicing in their wealth’s increase.

No evil will ever here belong

However heedless it is still a wrong

But such misdeed ‘gainst knowledge I detest.

Here this my parable, mark it and digest.

The bull through floods a devious course will take,

The herd of cattle straggling in his wake.

So if a leader tortuous paths pursue,

To base ends will he guide the vulgar crew,

And the whole realm an age of license rue.

But if the bull a course direct shall steer,

The herd of cows straight follow in his rear.

So should their chief to righteous ways be true,

The common folk injustice will eschew,

And through the realm shall holy peace ensue.

I would not by an unjust act e’en heaven itself attain,

No, not if, Ahipāraka, the whole world I should gain.

Whatever things of price ‘mongst men esteemed good,

Oxen and slaves and gold, garments and sandal wood,

Brood mares, rich treasure, jewels bright

And all that sun and moon watch over day and night,

Not for all this would I injustice do,

I among Sivis born, a leader true.

Father and chief and guardian of our land,

As champion of its rights I take my stand,

So I will reign on righteousness intent,

To mine own will no more subservient.

Auspicious is your rule, great king, may you continue long

To guide the state with happy fate and in your wisdom strong.

Great joy is ours, O king, that you such zeal for right have shown,

Princes of might, neglecting right, here now have lost a crown.

To parents dear, O warrior king, do righteously, and so