Kusa Jātaka

Once upon a time, in the Malla kingdom, in the royal city of Kusāvatī (Kusinara), King Okkāka ruled his kingdom righteously. Among his 16,000 wives, Sīlavatī, his queen consort, was supreme. But she was unable to give birth to either a son or a daughter. The men of the city and all the king’s subjects assembled at the door of the palace complaining that the realm would perish. The king opened his window and said, “Under my rule no man behaves badly. So why do you reproach me?” “True, Sire,” they answered, “no one behaves improperly. But no son is born to you to perpetuate the race. A stranger will seize the kingdom and destroy it. Therefore, pray for a son who can rule your kingdom righteously.” “In my desire for a son, what am I to do?” “First of all, send out a band of dancing women of low status into the streets for a whole week. Giving the act a holy sanction, and if one of them gives birth to a son, well and good. Otherwise send out a company of good standing and finally a band of the highest rank. Surely among so many, one woman will be of sufficient merit to bear a son.” The king did as they asked.

On every seventh day thereafter, he asked of all who had returned, after taking their fill of pleasure, whether any of them had conceived a child. And when they all answered, “No, Sire,” the king was in despair. He cried, “No son will be born to me.” The men of the city again reproached him as before. The king said, “Why do you reproach me? At your bidding companies of women were exposed in the streets, and not one of them has conceived a child. What am I to do now?” “Sire,” they answered, “these women must be immoral and devoid of merit. They do not have sufficient virtue to conceive a son. But because they do not conceive, you should not relax your efforts. The queen consort, Sīlavatī, is a virtuous woman. Send her out into the streets. A son will be born to her.”

The king readily assented. He proclaimed by beat of drum that on the seventh day from that time the people were to assemble, and the king would expose Sīlavatī, thus giving the act a holy character. And on the seventh day, he had the queen magnificently arrayed and carried down from the palace and exposed in the streets. By the power of her virtue, the dwelling of Sakka manifested signs of heat. Sakka, considering what this meant, found that the queen was anxious for a son. He thought, “I must grant her a son.” And, while wondering whether there was anyone in the deva realm worthy to be her son, he beheld the Bodhisatta. At this time, it is said, having passed through his existence in the heaven of the Thirty-three, he was longing to be born in a higher world. Sakka went to the door of his home. He summoned him, saying, “Sir, you are to go to the world of men and to be conceived as the child of Okkāka’s chief consort.” Then he gained the consent of another divine being and said, “And you, too, shall be her son” and that no man might make a breach in her virtue.

Sakka went disguised as an aged brahmin to the door of the palace. The people, after washing and adorning themselves, each wanted to possess the queen. They assembled at the royal entrance, but at the sight of Sakka they laughed, asking him why he had come. Sakka said, “Why disparage me? If I am old in person, my passions are unabated, and I have come with the hope of carrying off Sīlavatī with me, should I get her.” And with these words, by his divine power he got in front of them all. And by reason of his virtue, no man could stand before him.

As the queen stepped forth from the palace, arrayed in all her glory, he took her by the hand and made off with her. Then those that stood there abused him, saying, “Curse him. The old brahmin has gone off with a queen of peerless beauty. He does not know what awaits him.” The queen, too, thought, “An old man is carrying me off.” She was annoyed and angry, even disgusted. The king stood at the open window looking to see who might carry off the queen. When he saw who it was, he was highly displeased. Sakka escaped with her by the city gate. Miraculously he caused a house to appear close at hand. Its door was open, and a bundle of sticks was laid out ready. “Is this your home?” she asked. “Yes, lady, until now I have been alone. Now there are two of us. I will go on my rounds and bring home some husked rice. Meanwhile, you lie down on this heap of sticks.” He gently stroked her with his hand. This causing her to be thrilled with his divine touch. Then he laid her down, and at his touch, she lost consciousness.

Then using his supernatural power, he transported her to the heaven of the Thirty-three. He set her down on a heavenly couch in a magnificent palace. On the seventh day she woke up. She beheld this splendor and knew that this was no brahmin, but it must be Sakka himself. Sakka was seated at the foot of a coral tree surrounded by heavenly dancers. Rising from her couch, she approached and saluted the god and stood respectfully on one side. Then Sakka said, “I will grant you a boon. Choose what it will be.” “Grant me, sire, a son.” “Not merely one, lady. I will grant you two. One of them will be wise but ugly. The other one will be handsome but a fool. Which of them will you have first?” “The wise one,” she answered. “Good,” he said, and he presented her with a piece of kusa grass, a heavenly robe, sandalwood, the flower of the coral-tree, and a Kokanada lute. (Perhaps it was the color of the red lotus, kokanada.)

Then he transported her into the king’s bedchamber and laid her down on the same couch with the king. He touched her with his thumb, and at that moment the Bodhisatta was conceived in her womb. Sakka immediately returned to his own realm. The wise queen knew that she had conceived. Then the king, on waking and seeing her, asked by whom she had been brought there. “By Sakka, sire.” “Why! With my own eyes I saw an aged brahmin carry you off. Why do you try to deceive me?” “Believe me, sire, Sakka took me with him to the deva world.” “Lady, I do not believe you.” Then she showed him the kusa grass that Sakka had given her, saying, “Now believe me.” The king thought, “Kusa grass can be gotten anywhere,” and he still did not believe her. Then she showed him her heavenly robes. On seeing these the king believed her and said, “Dear lady, I admit that Sakka carried you off, but are you with child?” “Yes, sire. I have conceived.” The king was delighted and performed the ceremony due to a pregnant woman.

In ten months’ time she gave birth to a son. They named him after the grass, Kusa. At about the time that Prince Kusa could run alone, the queen conceived a second heavenly being. They gave him the name Jayampati. The boys were brought up in great splendor. The Bodhisatta was so wise that, without learning anything from his teacher, he attained proficiency in all the arts. And when he was sixteen years old, the king was anxious to turn the kingdom over to him. He addressed the queen, saying, “Lady, in turning over the kingdom to your son, we will celebrate dramatic festivities. And in our lifetime, we will see him established on the throne. If there is any king’s daughter in all India you would like, bring her here and we will make her his queen consort. Ask him what king’s daughter he favors.”

She readily agreed and sent a handmaid to report the matter to the prince and to determine his views. She told the prince the state of affairs. On hearing her the Great Being thought, “I am not handsome. A lovely princess, even if she is brought here as my bride, when she sees me will say, ‘What do I want to do with this ugly fellow?’ She will run away, and we will be put to shame. Why do I care about ordinary life? I will care for my parents as long as they live, and when they die, I will renounce the world and become an ascetic.” So he said to the handmaid, “I have no need of a kingdom or fanfare. When my parents die, I will adopt the ascetic life.” The maid returned and told the queen what he had said.

The king was greatly distressed, and after a few days, he again sent a message. But still the Bodhisatta refused to listen to it. After rejecting the proposal for a third time, on the fourth occasion he thought, “It is not fitting to be in complete opposition to one’s parents. I must come up with something.” So he summoned the chief smith, and, giving him a quantity of gold, he told him to make a female image. Then the Bodhisatta took more gold and fashioned it into the figure of a woman. And truly the purposes of Buddhas succeed. This figure was beautiful beyond the power of tongue to tell. The Great Being had it robed in linen and placed in the royal chamber. When he saw the image brought by the chief goldsmith, he found fault with it and said, “Go and fetch the figure placed in our royal chamber.” The man went into the room. When he saw it he thought, “This surely must be some heavenly nymph who has come to take her pleasure with the prince.” He left the room without having the courage to stretch out his hand towards it. He said, “Sire, standing in your royal chamber is a noble daughter of the gods. I dare not approach her.” “Friend,” he said, “go and fetch the golden image.” And after being charged for a second time, he brought it. The prince ordered the image that the smith had made to be thrown into the golden chamber, and the one that he had made he had adorned and placed in a car and sent to his mother. The Bodhisatta said, “When I find a woman like this, I will take her to be my wife.”

His mother summoned her councilors and addressed them, saying, “Friends, our son has great merit. He is the gift of Sakka. He must find a princess worthy of him. Have this figure placed in a covered carriage and travel the length and breadth of India. And whenever you see a king’s daughter like this image, present it to that king and say, “King Okkāka will contract a marriage with your daughter.” Then arrange a day for your return and come home.” They said, “It is well.”

They took the image and set out with a vast retinue. And on their journey, to whatever royal city they went, in the evening when the people gathered, they decked out this image with robes, flowers and other adornments. They mounted it in a golden car and left it on the road leading to the ghát. (A “ghát” is a staircase that leads down to the river.) Then they stepped back and stood on one side listening to what all who passed had to say. When the people saw it, they could not imagine that it was a golden image. They said, “Though only a woman, she is very beautiful like some divine nymph. Why in the world is she here, and from where did she come? We have no one to compare with her in our city.” And after praising her beauty in this way, they went on their way.

The councilors said, “If there were any girl like this here, they would have said, ‘This is like so and so, the king’s daughter, or like so and so, the minister’s daughter.’ But truly, there is no such maiden here.” And then they went off with it to some other city.

In their wanderings, they reached the city of Sāgala in the kingdom of Madda. Now the king of Madda had seven daughters of extraordinary beauty. They were like nymphs of heaven. The eldest of them was named Pabhāvatī. Rays of light streamed forth from her like they were from the newly risen sun. When it was dark in her closet, there was no need of a lamp. The whole chamber was one blaze of light. Now she had a humpbacked nurse, who, when she had supplied Pabhāvatī with food, intended to wash her head. In the evening, she went to the ghát to fetch water with eight slave girls. Each one carried a waterpot. She saw this image and, thinking it to be Pabhāvatī, exclaimed, “The ill-behaved girl, pretending she would have her head washed, sent us to fetch water. But she ran ahead of us and is standing there in the road.” She was angry and cried, “Curses, you are a disgrace to the family. There you stand, getting here before us. Should the king hear of it, he will be the death of us.” And with these words she struck the image on the cheek. A piece of the image as big as the palm of her hand broke off. Realizing it was a golden image, she burst out laughing. She went to the slave girls said, “See what I have done. I thought it was my foster daughter and struck it. What is this image worth in comparison with my child? I have only hurt my hand for my pains.”

Then King Okkāka’s emissaries grabbed her and said, “What is this story you tell us, saying that your daughter is fairer than this image?” “I mean Pabhāvatī, the Madda king’s daughter. This image is not worth a sixteenth fraction of her.” Glad at heart, they sought the entrance to the palace. They announced themselves to the king, sending in word that King Okkāka’s emissaries were standing at his door. The king arose from his seat and, standing up, he ordered that they be admitted. On entering they saluted the king and said, “Sire, our king inquires after your health.” And meeting with a hospitable reception, when asked why they had come, they replied, “Our king has a son, the bold Prince Kusa. The king is anxious to turn over his kingdom to him. He has sent us to ask you to give him your daughter Pabhāvatī in marriage and to accept this golden figure as a present.” And with these words, they offered him the image. He gladly agreed, thinking an alliance with so noble a king would be an auspicious one. Then the envoys said, “Sire, we cannot waste time here. We will go and tell our king that we have secured the hand of the princess. Then he will come and fetch her.” The king agreed to this, and having entertained them hospitably, he let them go.

When they returned, they reported to the king and queen. The king set out with a great retinue from Kusāvatī, and in the course of time they reached the city of Sāgala. The Madda king came out to meet him. He brought them into the city and paid him great honor. Queen Sīlavatī, being a wise woman, wondered, “What will be the outcome of all this?” At the end of one or two days she said to the king, “We are anxious to see our daughter-in-law.” He readily assented and sent for his daughter. Pabhāvatī was magnificently dressed and surrounded by a band of her attendants. She saluted her mother-in-law. On seeing her, the queen thought at once, “This maiden is very lovely and my son is not handsome. If she sees him, she will not stay a single day but will run away. I must devise some scheme.” Addressing the Madda king she said, “My daughter-in-law is quite worthy of my son. Let us have a hereditary observance in our family. If she abides by this custom, we will take her to be his bride.” “What is this observance of yours?” “In our family a wife is not allowed to see her husband by daylight until she has conceived. If she agrees to this, we will take her.” The king asked his daughter, “My dear, will you agree to this?” “Yes, dear father,” she replied. Then King Okkāka bestowed many gifts to the Madda king and left with her.

The Madda king sent his daughter off with a vast retinue. When Okkāka reached Kusāvatī, he gave orders for the city to be decorated and all prisoners to be released. And after sprinkling his son as king and making Pabhāvatī his chief consort, he proclaimed by beat of the drum that he should be King Kusa. All the kings throughout India who had daughters sent them to the court of King Kusa, and all who had sons and desired friendship with him sent their sons to be his pages. The Bodhisatta had a large company of dancers and ruled with great ceremony. But he was not allowed to see Pabhāvatī by day, and she was not allowed to see him. But at night they had free access to one another.

At that time there was an extraordinary radiance from the person of Pabhāvatī, but the Bodhisatta always left the royal chamber while it was still dark. After a few days he told his mother he wanted to see Pabhāvatī by day. She refused his request, saying, “Do not indulge yourself in this way now. Wait until she has conceived.” Again and again he begged her. Finally, she said, “Go to the elephant stall and stand there disguised as an elephant keeper. I will bring her there so that you may see her. But do not make yourself known to her.” He agreed to this and went to the elephant stall.

The queen mother proclaimed an elephant festival and said to Pabhāvatī, “Come, we will go and see your lord’s elephants.” Taking her there, she pointed out this and that elephant by name. Then, as Pabhāvatī was walking behind his mother, the king struck her in the back with a lump of elephant dung. She was enraged and said, “I will get the king to cut your hand off.” Her words angered the queen mother, who appeased her by rubbing her back. A second time the king was anxious to see her, and, disguised as a groom in the horse stable, just as before, he struck her with a piece of horse dung. Once again she was angry, but her mother-in-law appeased her.

One day Pabhāvatī told her mother-in-law she longed to see the Great Being. Her request was refused by her mother, who said, “No, do not let this be your pleasure.” But she begged her again and again. At last she said, “Well, tomorrow my son will be making a solemn procession through the city. You can open your window and see him.” And on the next day she had the city decked out. She ordered Prince Jayampati, clad in a royal robe and mounted on an elephant, to make a triumphal procession through the city. Standing at the window with Pabhāvatī, she said, “Behold the glory of your lord.” She said, “I have got a husband not unworthy of me,” and she was highly elated. But on that very day the Great Being, disguised as an elephant keeper, was seated behind Jayampati. He gazed at Pabhāvatī as much as he could. In his excitement, he conducted himself by waving his hands. When the elephant had passed, the queen mother asked if she had seen her husband. “Yes, lady, but seated behind him was an elephant keeper, a very badly behaved fellow. He waved at me with his hands. Why do they let such an ugly, ill-omened creature sit behind the king?” “It is desirable, my dear, to have a guard sit behind the king.” “This elephant keeper,” she thought, “is a bold fellow and has no proper respect for the king. Can it be that he is King Kusa? No doubt he is hideous, and that is why they do not let me see him.”

So she whispered to her humpbacked nurse, “Go, my dear, at once and determine whether it was the king who sat in front or behind.” “How am I to find this out?” “If he is the king, he will be the first one to dismount from the elephant. You are to know by this action.” She went and stood at a distance. She saw the Great Being dismount first, before Prince Jayampati. The Great Being looked around him, first on one side and then on the other. Seeing the humpbacked old woman, he knew at once why she had come. He sent for her and ordered her not to reveal his secret. Then he let her go.

She went and told her mistress, “The one that sat in front was the first to dismount,” and Pabhāvatī believed her. Once more the king longed to see her and begged his mother to arrange it. She could not refuse him and said, “Well then, disguise yourself and go to the garden.” He went and hid himself up to his neck in the lotus pool, standing in the water with his head shaded by a lotus leaf and his face covered by its flower. That evening his mother brought Pabhāvatī to the garden. She said, “Look at these trees, or look at these birds or deer.” In this way she coaxed her on until she arrived at the bank of the lotus pond. When she saw the pond covered with five kinds of lotus, she longed to bathe in it. She went down to the water’s edge with her maidens. While bathing herself she saw that lotus and stretched out her hand, eager to pluck it. Then the king, putting aside the lotus leaf, took her by the hand, saying, “I am King Kusa.” When she saw his face she cried, “A goblin has caught hold of me!” and then and there she swooned away.

The king let go of her hand. When she recovered consciousness she thought, “King Kusa, they say, caught me by the hand, and it was he that hit me in the elephant stall with a piece of elephant dung and in the horse stable with a piece of horse dung. He was the one who sat behind on the elephant and made gestures to me. Why should I have anything to do with such an ugly, hideous husband? If I live, I will have another husband.” So she summoned the councilors who had escorted her there and said, “Make my chariot ready. On this very day I will be off.” They told this to the king, and he thought. “If she cannot get away, her heart will break. Let her go. By my own power I will bring her back again.” So he allowed her to leave, and she went straight to her father’s city.

The Great Being passed from the park into the city and climbed up to his splendid palace. He thought it must be because of an aspiration in a previous existence that she disapproved of the Bodhisatta, and it was because of an act of his that he was so ugly. Of old, they say, in a suburb of Benares, in the upper and lower street, one family had two sons and another had one daughter. Of the two sons the Bodhisatta was the younger, and the maiden was wedded to the elder son. But the younger son was not married, and he continued to live with his brother. One day in this house they baked some very dainty cakes, and the Bodhisatta was away in the forest. They set aside a cake for him, then they distributed and ate the rest of them. At that moment a paccekabuddha came to the door for alms. The Bodhisatta’s sister-in-law thought she would bake another cake for the young master and gave his cake to the paccekabuddha. But at that instant he returned from the forest. So she said, “My lord, do not be angry, but I have given your portion to the paccekabuddha.” He said, “After eating your own portion you gave mine away, and you will make me another cake immediately!” He was angry and went and took the cake from the beggar’s bowl.

She went to her mother’s house where she took some freshly melted ghee the color of a champac flower. She filled the bowl with it, and it sent forth a blaze of light. When she saw this, she said a prayer: “Holy sir, wherever I am born, may my body give forth a light and may I be very lovely, and never again may I have to live in the same place with this terrible fellow.” As the result of this prayer of old, she would have nothing to do with him. And the Bodhisatta, in dropping the cake again into the bowl, put up a prayer: “Holy sir, though she should live a hundred leagues away, may I have the power to carry her off as my bride.” Because he was angry and took the cake, this is why he was born so ugly.

Kusa was so overwhelmed with sorrow when Pabhāvatī left him that the other women, though ministering to him with all kinds of service, did not have the heart to look him in the face. His entire palace, bereft of Pabhāvatī, seemed as if it were desolate. Then he thought, “By this time she must have reached the city Sāgala.” At daybreak, he sought out his mother. He said to her, “Dear mother, I will go and find Pabhāvatī. You are to rule my kingdom while I am gone.” Then he uttered the first stanza:

This realm with joy and bliss untold,

Trappings of state and wealth of gold,

This realm, I say, rule it for me,

I go to seek Pabhāvatī.

When his mother heard what he said, replied, “Well, my son, you must exercise great vigilance. Women can be unpredictable.” She filled a golden bowl with all manner of dainty foods and said, “This is for you to eat on the journey.” Then she took leave of him.

He saluted his mother three times. Then he took the bowl and cried, “If I live, I will see you again.” And so he withdrew to the royal chamber. Then he armed himself with the five sorts of weapons (sword, spear, bow, shield, and axe) and putting a thousand gold coins in a bag, he took his bowl of food and a Kokanada lute and left the city to set out on his journey.

Being very strong and vigorous, by noontime he had travelled 50 leagues. And after eating his food, in the remaining half-day he made up another 50 leagues. So in the course of a single day, he accomplished a journey of 100 leagues. In the evening he bathed, and then he entered the city of Sāgala. No sooner had he set foot in the city, than by the power of his virtue Pabhāvatī could no longer rest quietly on her couch. She got out of bed and lay on the ground.

The Bodhisatta was thoroughly exhausted with his journey, and being seen by a woman as he was wandering about the street, she invited him to rest in her house. After first bathing his feet, she offered him a bed. While he was asleep, she prepared some food and then woke him up and gave it to him. He was so pleased with her that he presented her with the thousand gold coins and the golden bowl. Then, leaving his five weapons there, he said, “There is some place I must go.” He took his lute, repaired to an elephant stall, and cried to the elephant keepers, “Let me stay here and I will make music for you.” They allowed him to do so, and he went apart and lay down. When his fatigue had passed, he rose up, unstrapped his lute, then he played and sang, thinking that all who lived in the city should hear it. As she lay on the ground, Pabhāvatī heard it and thought, “This sound can come from no lute but his.” She felt sure that King Kusa had come because of her. The king of Madda heard it, too. He thought, “He plays very sweetly. Tomorrow I will send for him and make him my minstrel.”

But the Bodhisatta thought, “It is impossible for me to see Pabhāvatī. If I stay here, this is the wrong place for me.” He left quite early, and after taking his morning meal in an eating house, he left his lute behind. Then he went to the king’s potter and became his apprentice. One day after he had filled the house with potter’s clay, he asked if he should make some vessels. And when the potter answered, “Yes, do so,” he placed a lump of clay on the wheel and turned it. When the wheel had turned once, it continued spinning on swiftly until mid-day. After molding all manner of vessels, great and small, he began to make one specially for Pabhāvatī. The pot had various figures on it. Truly the purposes of Buddhas succeed. He resolved that only Pabhāvatī was to see these figures.

When he had dried and baked his vessels, the house was full of them. The potter went to the palace with various specimens. When he saw them, the king asked who had made them. “I did, sire.” “I am sure you did not make them. Who did?” “My apprentice, sire.” “Not your apprentice, your master rather. Learn your trade from him. From now on let him make vessels for my daughters.” And he gave him a thousand gold coins, saying, “Give him this, and present all these small vessels to my daughters.” He took the vessels to them and said, “These are made for your amusement.” They were all present to receive them.

Then the potter gave Pabhāvatī the vessel that the Great Being had made for her. Taking it, she at once recognized her own likeness and that of the humpbacked nurse. She knew it could only be the handiwork of King Kusa. Angrily she said, “I do not want it. Give it to someone who wants it.” Her sisters saw that she was in a rage. They laughed and said, “You think it is the work of King Kusa. It was the potter, not he, that made it. Take it.” She did not tell them that he had come there and had made it.

The potter gave the thousand gold coins to the Bodhisatta and said, “My son, the king is pleased with you. From now on you are to make vessels for his daughters, and I will take them to them.” The Bodhisatta thought, “Although I go on living here, it is impossible for me to see Pabhāvatī.” So he gave the money back to him and went to a basket maker who served the king. He became his apprentice. He made a palm-leaf fan for Pabhāvatī, and on it he painted a white umbrella (as an emblem of royalty). He also painted a banquet hall. Among a variety of other forms, he depicted a standing figure of Pabhāvatī. The basket maker took this and other ware—all the work of Kusa—to the palace.

When he saw them, the king asked who had made them. And just as before, he presented a thousand gold coins to the man, saying, “Give these specimens of wicker work to my daughters.” He gave the fan that was specially made for her to Pabhāvatī, and in this case, also, no one recognized the figures. But when she saw it, Pabhāvatī knew it was the king’s handiwork. She said, “Let someone who wants it have it.” In a rage she threw it on the ground. So the others all laughed at her. The basket maker took the money and gave it to the Bodhisatta. But once again, thinking this was no place for him to stay, he returned the money to the basket maker and went to the king’s gardener where he became his apprentice.

He made all sorts of garlands there. He also made a special wreath for Pabhāvatī, decorating it with various figures. The gardener took the garlands to the palace. When the king saw them, he asked who had fashioned these garlands. “I did, sire.” “I am sure you did not make them. Who did?” “My apprentice, sire.” “He is not your apprentice, rather he is your master. Learn your trade from him. From now on he is to weave garlands of flowers for my daughters. Give him these thousand gold coins.” And giving him the money he said, “Take these flowers to my daughters.” The gardener offered the wreath that the Bodhisatta had made specially for her to Pabhāvatī. Here, too, when she saw a likeness of herself and the king, she recognized Kusa’s handiwork. In her rage, she threw the wreath on the ground. All of her sisters, just as before, laughed at her. The gardener, too, took the thousand gold coins and gave them to the Bodhisatta. He told him what had happened. He thought, “Neither is this the place for me.” Once again he returned the money to the gardener, then he went and engaged himself as an apprentice to the king’s cook.

Now one day the cook took various kinds of food to the king. He gave the Bodhisatta some meat to cook for himself. He prepared it in such a way that the smell of it pervaded the whole city The king smelled it and asked if the cook were preparing some more meat in the kitchen. “No, sire, but I did give my apprentice some meat to cook. It must be this that you smell.” The king had it brought to him and placed a morsel on the tip of his tongue. It woke up and thrilled the seven thousand nerves of taste. The king was so enthralled by his appetite for dainties that he gave him a thousand gold coins and said, “From now on you are to have food for me and my daughters prepared by your apprentice. Then bring my food to me yourself, but have your apprentice bring their food to my daughters.” The cook went and told him. When he heard this, he thought, “Now my desire is fulfilled. Now I will be able to see Pabhāvatī.” He was so pleased that he returned the thousand gold coins to the cook, and on the next day he prepared and sent dishes of food to the king. Then he climbed up to the palace where Pabhāvatī lived, taking the food for the king’s daughters on a carrying pole. Pabhāvatī saw him climbing up with his load and thought, “He is doing the work of slaves and hirelings. This is work unsuitable for him. But if I hold my peace, he will think I approve of him. He will go nowhere else, and he will remain here, gazing at me. I will abuse and revile him and drive him away, not allowing him to remain a moment here.” So she left the door half open, and holding one hand on the panel with the other pressed up the bolt, and she repeated the second stanza:

Kusa, for you by day and night

To is not right.

Please go back to Kusāvatī,

Your ugly form I’m loth to see.

He thought, “I have gotten Pabhāvatī to speak,” and pleased at heart he repeated three stanzas:

Bound by your beauty’s spell, Pabhāvatī,

My native land has little charm for me.

Madda’s fair realm is ever my delight,

My crown resigned, to live in your dear sight.

O soft-eyed maiden, fair Pabhāvatī,

What is this madness that overcomes me?

Knowing full well the land that gave me birth,

I wander half distraught o’er all the earth.

Clad in bright-colored bark and girt with golden zone,

Your love, fair maid, I crave, and not an earthly throne.

When he had spoken, she thought, “I revile him, hoping to rouse a feeling of resentment in him, but he tries to conciliate me by his words. Supposing he were to say, ‘I am King Kusa,’ and take me by the hand, who is there to prevent it? And somebody might hear what we had to say.” So she closed the door and bolted it inside. He took his carrying pole and brought the other princesses their food. Pabhāvatī sent her humpbacked slave to bring her the food that King Kusa had cooked. She brought it and said, “Now eat.” Pabhāvatī said, “I will not eat what he has cooked. You eat it, then go and get your own supply of food. Cook it and bring it here, but do not tell anyone that King Kusa is here.” The humpback ate the portion of the princess and gave her own food to Pabhāvatī.

From that time on, King Kusa was unable to see her. He thought, “I wonder whether Pabhāvatī has any affection for me or not. I will put her to the test.” So after he had supplied the princesses with their food, he took his load of victuals. He struck the floor with his feet by the door of Pabhāvatī’s room. Then clashing the dishes together and groaning aloud, he fell into a heap and swooned. At the sound of his groans, she opened her door. She saw him crushed beneath the load he was carrying. She thought, “Here is a king, the chief ruler in all India, and for my sake he suffers pain night and day. And now, being so delicately nurtured, he has fallen under the burden of the food he carries. I wonder if he is still alive?” She stepped from her chamber, stretched her neck and looked at his mouth to watch his breathing. He filled his mouth with spittle and let it drop onto her. She fled back into her closet, reviling him, and standing with the door half open, she repeated this stanza:

Ill luck is his that ever craves, to find his wishes spurned,

As you, O king, do fondly woo with love still unreturned.

But because he was madly in love with her, however much he was abused and reviled by her, he showed no resentment. He repeated this stanza:

Whoe’er shall gain what he holds dear, may loved or unloved be,

Success alone is what we praise, to lose is misery.

While he was still speaking, without at all relenting, she spoke in a firm voice to drive him away. She repeated this stanza:

As well to dig through bed of rock with brittle wood as spade,

Or catch the wind within a net, as woo unwilling maid.

On hearing this the king repeated three stanzas:

Hard hearted as a stone are you, so soft to outward view,

No word of welcome though I’ve come from far your love to sue.

When you do frown regarding me, proud dame, with sullen look,

Then I in royal Madda’s halls am nothing but a cook.

But if, O queen, in pity you should deign to smile on me,

No longer cook, once more am I lord of Kusāvatī.

On hearing his words she thought, “He is very persistent in all that he says. I must devise some lie to drive him away.” She spoke this stanza:

If fortune tellers spoke true words, ‘twas this in sooth they said,

“May you be cut in seven pieces, if you King Kusa wed.”

On hearing this the king contradicted her, saying, “Lady, I, too, consulted fortune tellers in my own kingdom, and they predicted that there was no other husband for you except the lion-voiced lord, King Kusa. And through omens furnished by my own knowledge, I say the same.” And he repeated another stanza:

If I and other prophets here have uttered a true word,

Save me King Kusa, you shall hail none other as your lord.

When she heard his words she said, “One cannot shame him. What is it to me whether he runs away or not?” And shutting the door, she refused to show herself. Then he took up his load and left.

From that day on he was unable to see her. He got heartily sick of his cook’s work. After breakfast he cut firewood, washed dishes, and fetched water on his carrying pole. Then he lay down, resting on a heap of grain. Rising early, he cooked rice gruel and the like, then took and served the food, suffering this humilation because of his passionate love for Pabhāvatī.

One day he saw the humpback passing by the kitchen door, and he hailed her. For fear of Pabhāvatī, she did not dare to go near him, but she passed on pretending to be in a great hurry. So he ran up to her crying, “Crook-back!” She turned and stopped, saying, “Who is here? I cannot listen to what you have to say.” Then he said, “Both you and your mistress are very stubborn. Though living near to you for so long, we cannot so much as get a report of her health.” She said, “Will you give me a present?” He replied, “Supposing I do so, will you be able to soften Pabhāvatī and bring me into her presence?” When she agreed to do so, he said, “If you can do this, I will put fix your humpback and give you an ornament for your neck.” Tempting her in this way, he spoke five stanzas:

Necklace of gold I’ll give to thee,

On coming to Kusāvatī,

If slender-limbed Pabhāvatī

Should only deign to look on me.

Necklace of gold I’ll give to thee,

On coming to Kusāvatī,

If slender-limbed Pabhāvatī

Should only deign to speak to me.

Necklace of gold I’ll give to thee,

On coming to Kusāvatī,

If slender-limbed Pabhāvatī

Should only deign to smile on me.

Necklace of gold I’ll give to thee,

On coming to Kusāvatī,

If slender-limbed Pabhāvatī

Should laugh with joy at sight of me.

Necklace of gold I’ll give to thee,

On coming to Kusāvatī,

If slender-limbed Pabhāvatī

Should lay a loving hand on me.

When she heard his words she said, “Be on your way, my lord. In a very few days I will put her in your power. You will see how energetic I can be.”

So saying she decided on her course of action. She went to Pabhāvatī. She pretended to clean her room and did not leave a speck of dust. She even removed her shoes, sweeping out the whole chamber. Then she arranged a high seat for herself in the doorway, keeping well outside the threshold. Then she spread a cloth on a low stool for Pabhāvatī, saying, “Come, my dear, and I will search your head for vermin.” And making her sit there, she placed her head on her lap. After scratching her a little, she said, “Ho! what a lot of lice we have here.” She took some from her own head and put them on the head of the princess. Then she spoke terms of endearment for the Great Being, singing his praises in this stanza:

This royal dame no pleasure feels Kusa once more to see,

Though, wanting nothing, he serves as cook for simple worker’s fee.

Pabhāvatī was enraged with the humpback. So the old woman took her by the neck and pushed her inside the room. She closed the door and stood clinging to the cord that pulled the door open. Pabhāvatī was unable to get at her. She stood by the door, abusing her and spoke another stanza:

This humpbacked slave without a doubt,

For speaking such a word,

Deserves to have her tongue cut out

With keenest sharpened sword.

So the humpback stood holding on to the rope that hung down and said, “You worthless, ill-behaved creature. What good will your fair looks do anyone? Can we live by feeding on your beauty?” She proclaimed the virtues of the Bodhisatta, shouting them aloud with the harsh voice of a humpback, in thirteen stanzas:

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

Great glory his, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

Great wealth is his, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

Great power is his, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

Wide rule is his, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

Great king is he, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

Lion-voiced is he, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

Clear-voiced is he, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

Deep voiced is he, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

Sweet-voiced is he, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

Honey-voiced is he, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

A hundred arts are his, so do what’s pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

A warrior king is he, so do what’s pleasing in his sight.

Esteem him not, Pabhāvatī, by outward form or height,

King Kusa ‘tis, so do whate’er is pleasing in his sight.

Hearing what she said, Pabhāvatī threatened the humpback, saying, “Crook-back, you roar too loud. If I catch hold of you, I will let you know you have a mistress.” She replied, “In my consideration for you, I did not let your father know of King Kusa’s arrival. Well, today I will tell the king.” And speaking in a loud voice she badgered her. And fearing anyone should hear this, Pabhāvatī pacified the hunchback.

Unable to see her, after seven months of being sick of his hard bed and sorry food the Bodhisatta thought, “What need do I have of her? After living here for seven months I cannot so much as get sight of her. She is very harsh and cruel. I will go and see my father and mother.”

At that moment Sakka found out how discontented Kusa was. He thought, “After seven months he is unable to even see Pabhāvatī. I will find some way of letting him see her.” So he sent messengers to seven kings as if they came from King Madda. They said, “Pabhāvatī has overthrown King Kusa and has returned home. You should go and make her your wife.” He sent the same message to each of the seven separately. They all arrived in the city with a great following, not knowing each other’s reasons for coming. They asked one another, “Why have you come here?” And when they discovered how matters stood, they were angry and said, “Will he give his daughter in marriage to seven of us? See how badly he behaves. He mocks us, saying, ‘Make her your wife.’ Let him either give Pabhāvatī in marriage to all seven of us or let him fight us.” They sent a message to him to this effect.

When he got the message, King Madda was alarmed. He consulted with his ministers, saying, “What are we to do?” Then his ministers answered. “Sire, these seven kings have come for Pabhāvatī. If you refuse to give her to them, they will break down the wall and enter the city, and after destroying us, they will seize your kingdom. While the wall still stands unbroken, let us send Pabhāvatī to them.” Then they repeated this stanza:

Like to proud elephants they stand in coats of mail arrayed,

Before they trample down our walls, send off in haste the maid.

When he heard this the king said, “If I send Pabhāvatī to any one of them, the rest will join battle with me. It is out of the question to give her to any one of them. After casting off the chief king in all India, let her receive the reward due to her. I will kill her and cut her body into seven pieces. Then I will send one piece to each of the seven kings.” And so saying he repeated another stanza:

In pieces seven Pabhāvatī to hack, it is my will,

One piece for each of these seven kings, who came her sire to kill.

This saying of his was broadcast throughout the palace. Her attendants came and told Pabhāvatī. “The king, they say, will cut you in seven pieces and send them to the seven kings.” She was terrified, and rising from her seat she went, accompanied by her sisters, to her mother’s state chamber.

The Master, to make the matter clear, said:

Comely though dark of hue uprose the queen and moved before

Her train of handmaids, clad in silk attire and weeping sore.

She came into her mother’s presence, and saluting her, broke into these lamentations:

This face with powder beautified, here mirrored in a glass

To ivory handle deftly fixed, so charming now alas!

With innocence and purity in every line expressed,

By warrior princes spurned in some lone forest soon will rest.

These locks of hair so black of hue, bound up in stately coil,

Soft to the touch and fragrant with the finest sandal oil,

In charnel ground though covered up the vultures soon will find

And with their talons rend and tear and scatter to the wind.

These arms whose fingertips are dyed, like copper, crimson red,

In richest sandal oil oft bathed and with soft down o’erspread,

Cut off and by proud kings in some lone forest flung aside,

A wolf will seize and carry off where’er he’s fain to hide.

My teats are like the dates that on the palms with ripeness swell,

Fragrant with scent of sandalwood that men of Kāsi fell.

Hanging thereon a jackal soon at them, I think, will tug,

Just as a little baby boy his mother’s breast may hug.

These hips of mine, well-knit and broad, cast in an ample mold,

Encircled with a sash so gay, wrought of the purest gold,

Cut off and by proud kings in some lone forest flung aside,

A wolf will seize and carry off where’er he’s fain to hide.

Dogs, wolves, jackals and whatsoe’er are known as beasts of prey,

If once they eat Pabhāvatī, can suffer no decay.

Should warrior kings that come from far your daughter’s body flay,

Begging my bones, burn them with fire in some sequestered way.

Then make a garden near and plant a kaṇikāra tree,

And when at winter’s close it blooms, mother, recalling me,

Point to the flower and say, “Just such was dear Pabhāvatī.”

In this way, alarmed with fear of death, she lamented before her mother.

The Madda king issued an order that the executioner should come with his axe and block. His coming was broadcast throughout the palace. When she heard of his arrival, the queen mother arose from her throne, and overwhelmed with sorrow, she went into the presence of the king.

The Master, to make the matter clear, said:

Seeing the sword and block set out within the fatal ring,

All goddess-like the royal dame rose up and sought the king.

Then the queen spoke this stanza:

With this sword will the Madda king his graceful daughter slay,

And piecemeal send her mangled limbs to rival chiefs a prey.

The king tried to pacify her and said, “Lady, what is this you say? Your daughter rejected the chief king in all India invoking his ugliness. Accepting death as her fate, she returned home before the prints of her feet were well wiped out on the road by which she had gone there. Now let her reap the consequences of the jealousy excited by her beauty.”

After hearing this, the queen went to her daughter. And lamenting, she spoke:

You did not listen to my voice, when counselling your good,

Today you sink to Yama’s realm, your body stained with blood.

(Yama is the Lord of Death.)

Such fate does everyone incur, or even a worse end,

Who deaf to good advice neglects the warnings of a friend.

If you today a gallant prince for your good lord should wed,

Adorned with zone of gold and gems, in land of Kusa bred,

You would not, served with hosts of friends, to Yama’s realms have sped.

When drums are beat and elephants’ loud trumpetings resound,

In royal halls, where in this world can greater bliss be found?

When horses neigh and minstrels play to kings some plaintive air,

With bliss like this in royal halls, what is there to compare?

When, too, courts with the peacock’s and the heron’s cries resound,

And cuckoo’s call, where else, I pray, can bliss like this be found?

After saying this to her in all these stanzas, the queen thought, “If only King Kusa were here today, he would put to flight these seven kings. And after freeing my daughter from her misery, he would carry her away with him.” Then she repeated this stanza:

Where’s he that crushes hostile realms and vanquishes his foes?

Kusa, the noble and the wise, would free us from our woes.

Then Pabhāvatī thought, “My mother’s tongue is not equal to proclaiming the praises of Kusa. I will let her know that he has been living here, occupied with the work of a cook,” and she repeated this stanza:

The conqueror who crushes all his foes, lo! Here is he.

Kusa, so noble and so wise, all foes will slay for me.

Then her mother thought, “She is terrified with the fear of death and rambles in her talk.” She spoke this stanza:

Have you gone mad, or like a fool does speak at random thus?

If Kusa has returned, why, pray, did you not tell it us?

Hearing this Pabhāvatī thought, “My mother does not believe me. She does not know he has returned and been living here for seven months. I will prove it to her.” She took her mother by the hand, and opening the window. She stretched out her hand, pointing to him. Then she repeated this stanza:

Good mother, look at yonder cook, with loins girt up right well,

He stoops to wash his pots and pans, where royal maidens dwell.

Then Kusa, they say, thought, “Today my heart’s desire will be fulfilled. Truly Pabhāvatī is terrified with the fear of death. She will say that I am here. I will wash my dishes and put them away.” He fetched water and began to wash his dishes. Then her mother upbraided her, speaking this stanza:

Are you base-born or would you stoop, a maid of royal race,

To take a slave for your true love, to Madda’s deep disgrace?

Then Pabhāvatī thought, “My mother does not know that it is for my sake that he has been living here in this way.” She spoke another stanza:

No low caste I, nor would I shame my royal name, I swear,

Good luck to you, no slave is he but King Okkāka’s heir.

And now in praise of his fame she said:

He twenty thousand brahmins ever feeds, no slave, I swear,

It is Okkāka’s royal son whom you do see standing there.

He twenty thousand elephants aye yokes, no slave, I swear,

It is Okkāka’s royal son whom you do see standing there.

He twenty thousand horses ever yokes, no slave, I swear,

It is Okkāka’s royal son whom you do see standing there.

He twenty thousand chariots ever yokes, no slave, I swear,

It is Okkāka’s royal son whom you do see standing there.

He twenty thousand royal bulls aye yokes, no slave, I swear,

It is Okkāka’s royal son whom you do see standing there.

He twenty thousand royal cows aye milks, no slave, I swear,

It is Okkāka’s royal son whom you do see standing there.

Thus was the glory of the Great Being praised by her in six stanzas.

Then her mother thought, “She speaks very confidently. She must be telling the truth.” And believing her, she went and told the king the whole story. He went in haste to Pabhāvatī and asked, “Is it true, what they say, that King Kusa is here?” “Yes, dear father. For seven months he has been acting as cook to your daughters.” But he did not believe her. So he questioned the hunchback. When he discovered the truth from her, he admonished his daughter, speaking this stanza:

Like elephant as frog disguised,

When this almighty prince came here,

‘Twas wrong of you and ill-advised

To hide it from your parents dear.

In this way he reproached his daughter. Then he went in haste to Kusa, and after the usual greetings and formal salutation, he acknowledged his offence, repeating this stanza:

In that we failed to recognize

Your majesty in this disguise,

If, sire, to you offence we gave,

We would forgiveness humbly crave.

On hearing this the Great Being thought, “If I should speak harshly to him, his heart will break. I will speak words of comfort to him.” He stood among his dishes and spoke this stanza:

For me to play the servant’s part was very wrong I own,

Be comforted, it was no fault of yours I was unknown.

The king, after being addressed in such kind words, climbed up to the palace. He summoned Pabhāvatī to send her to ask the king’s pardon He spoke this stanza:

Go, silly girl, your pardon from the great King Kusa crave,

His wrath appeased he may be pleased perhaps your life to save.

On hearing the words of her father, she went to him, accompanied by her sisters and her handmaids. Standing just as he was in his workman’s dress, he saw her coming towards him and thought, “Today I will break down Pabhāvatī’s pride and lay her low at my feet in the mud.” He poured on the ground all the water he had brought there. He trampled on a space as big as a threshing floor, making it one mass of mud. She drew near and fell at his feet. She groveled in the mud, asking his forgiveness.

The Master, to make the matter clear, spoke this stanza:

The goddess-like Pabhāvatī obeyed her father’s word,

With lowly head she clasped the feet of Kusa, mighty lord.

Then she spoke these stanzas:

My days and nights apart from you, O king, have passed away,

Behold I stoop to kiss your feet. From anger cease, I pray.

I promise you, if you to me a gracious ear should lend,

Never again in any way will I my lord offend.

But if you should my prayer refuse, my father then will slay

And send his daughter, limb by limb, to warrior kings a prey.

On hearing this Kusa thought, “If I were to refuse her, her heart would be broken. I will speak words of comfort to her.” And he said:

I’ll do your bidding, lady fair, as far as lies in me.

No anger feel I in my heart. Fear not, Pabhāvatī.

Hearken, O royal maid, to me, I, too, make promise true.

Never again will I offend in any way I may do.

Full many a sorrow I would bear, fair maid, for love of thee,

And slay a host of Madda chiefs to wed Pabhāvatī.

Kusa, swelled with princely pride at seeing a handmaid of Sakka, king of heaven, in attendance on him. He thought, “While I am still alive, will I allow others to come and carry off my bride?” He roused himself, lion-like, in the palace yard. He said, “Let all who live in this city hear of my presence.” He danced about, shouting, and clapping his hands. He cried, “Now I will take them alive. Go order them to hitch horses to my chariots.” And he repeated the following stanza:

Go, quickly yoke my well-trained steeds to many a painted car,

And watch me boldly venture forth, to scatter foes afar.

He now bade good-bye to Pabhāvatī, saying, “The capture of your enemies is my charge. Go bathe and adorn yourself and climb up to your palace.”

The king of Madda sent his councilors to act as an honor guard to him. They drew a screen around about him at the door of the kitchen and provided barbers for him. And when his beard had been trimmed and his head shampooed and he was arrayed in all his splendor surrounded by his escort, he said, “I will ascend to the palace.” And looking about him in every direction he clapped his hands, and wherever he looked the earth trembled. He cried out, “Now mark how great is my power.”

The Master, to make the matter clear, uttered the following stanza:

The ladies of King Madda’s court beheld him standing there,

Like rampant lion, as he smacks with both his arms the air.

Then the Madda king sent him an elephant that had been trained to stand impassively while under attack. He was richly adorned. Kusa mounted the back of the elephant with a white umbrella held over him. He ordered Pabhāvatī to be brought there. He seated her behind him, then he left the city by the east gate, escorted by a complete host of the four arms (elephants, cavalry, chariots, and infantry).

When he saw the forces of the enemy, he cried, “I am King Kusa. Let all who value their lives lie down on their bellies.” He roared three times with the roar of a lion and utterly crushed his foes.

Explaining the matter, the Master said:

Mounted on back of elephant, the queen behind her lord,

Kusa descending to the fray with voice of lion roared.

All beasts, when Kusa’s lion-voice thus roaring loud they hear,

And warrior kings flee from the field, o’ercome with panic fear.

Life-guardsmen, soldiers, horse, and foot, with many a charioteer,

At Kusa’s voice break up and flee, all paralyzed with fear.

Sakka right glad at heart looked on at conflict so enflamed,

And to Kusa gave a gem, Verocana ‘twas named.

The battle won, King Kusa took the magic gem and then

Mounted on back of elephant sought Madda’s town again.

The kings he takes alive and bound in chains with them he goes,

And to his royal father cries, “Behold, my lord, your foes.

Lo at your mercy now they lie, in battle beaten sore,

At your good pleasure slay them all or set them free once more.”

The king said:

These foes are rather yours than mine. They all belong to thee,

Only you are our sovereign lord, to slay or to set free.

The Great Being thought, “What can I do with these men if they die? Let their coming here not be without purpose. Pabhāvatī has seven younger sisters, daughters of King Madda. I will give them in marriage to these seven princes.” And he repeated this stanza:

These daughters seven, like heavenly nymphs, are very fair to see,

Give them, one each, to these seven kings, your sons-in-law to be.

Then the king said:

O’er us and them you are supreme, your purpose to fulfill,

Give them—you are our sovereign lord—according to your will.

So he had them all beautifully attired and gave them in marriage, one to each king.

The Master, to make the matter clear, spoke five stanzas:

So Kusa of the lion-voice King Madda’s daughters gave,

One maid to each of princes seven, fair maids to warriors brave.

Delighted with the boon received from lordly Kusa’s hand,

These princes seven returned again each one to his own land.

Taking his magic jewel bright, back to Kusāvatī,

King Kusa, mighty hero, brought the fair Pabhāvatī.

Riding together in one car, home came the royal pair,

Neither outshone the other, for they both alike were fair.

Mother came forth to meet her son. Husband henceforth and wife

In realms of peace and plenty lived and led a happy life.