The Vampire's Sixth Story

On the lovely banks of the Jumna river there was a city called Dharmasthal, which means the Place of Duty. There lived a Brahman named Keshav. He was very pious, always performing penance and worship on the river. He made his own clay images instead of buying them, and he painted holy stones red at the top, offering them flowers, fruit, water, sweets, and fried peas. He became learned rather late in life, having neglected his studies until he was twenty, preferring to worship the handsome youth Kama, the god of love, along with his wife Rati, accompanied by the cuckoo, the humming bee, and sweet breezes.

One day, his parents sharply rebuked him for his wild behavior. Keshav wandered to a nearby village and hid in a tall fig tree that shaded a famous image of the god Panchanan. An evil thought came to him, and he defiled the god and threw it into a nearby tank. The next morning, the priest who depended on the image discovered it was gone. He ran back to the village in despair, and soon there was an uproar about the missing god. In the midst of this, Keshav's parents arrived looking for him, and a man in the crowd said he had seen a young man sitting in Panchanan's tree. Keshav appeared, and the villagers suspected him of stealing the god. He confessed, pointed out where he had thrown it, and admitted he had defiled it. Everyone was shocked by this terrible crime, and they all said that Panchanan would surely punish him with immediate death.

Frightened, Keshav began to obey his parents from that very hour and studied so diligently that he soon became the most learned man in his land.

Now Keshav had a daughter named Madhumalati, which means Sweet Jasmine. She was very beautiful. Where did the gods get the materials to make such a lovely face? They took a piece of the moon to form her beautiful face. If you want proof, look at the empty places left in the moon. Her eyes were like full-blown blue water lilies; her arms were like the charming stalk of a lotus; her flowing hair was like the thick darkness of night.

When this lovely girl reached marriageable age, her mother, father, and brother all became very anxious about her. For the wise have said, "A daughter of marriageable age without a husband is a calamity hanging over a house." And, "Kings, women, and climbing plants love those who are near them." Also, "Who has not suffered from the sex? For a woman cannot be kept in due subjection, either by gifts or kindness, or correct conduct, or the greatest services, or the laws of morality, or by the terror of punishment, for she cannot discriminate between good and evil."

It so happened that one day Keshav the Brahman went to the marriage of a certain client, and his son went to the house of a spiritual teacher to study. During their absence, a young man came to the house, and the mother of Sweet Jasmine, judging his good character from his good looks, said to him, "I will give you my daughter in marriage." Meanwhile, the father had promised his daughter to a Brahman youth he had met at his employer's house, and the brother had also betrothed his sister to a fellow student at the place where he had gone to study.

After a few days, the father and son returned, bringing the two suitors with them, and a third was already seated in the house. The first was named Tribikram, the second Baman, and the third Madhusadan. They were equal in mind and body, in knowledge, and in age.

The father, seeing this, said to himself, "There is one bride and three bridegrooms. To whom shall I give her? We three have pledged our word to these three. A strange thing has happened. What must we do?" He proposed a test of wisdom, and they agreed that the one who quoted the most excellent saying of the wise should become her husband.

Quoth Tribikram: "Courage is tried in war; integrity in the payment of debt and interest; friendship in distress; and the faithfulness of a wife in the day of poverty."

Baman said: "That woman is without virtue who in her father's house is not in subjection, who wanders to feasts and amusements, who throws off her veil in the presence of men, who remains as a guest in the houses of strangers, who is devoted to sleep, who drinks inebriating beverages, and who delights in distance from her husband."

"Let none," continued Madhusadan, "confide in the sea, nor in anything that has claws or horns, nor in those who carry deadly weapons; neither in a woman, nor in a king."

While the Brahman was doubting which to prefer, and was leaning toward the latter sentiment, a serpent bit the beautiful girl, and in a few hours she died.

Stunned by this sudden death, the father and the three suitors sat for a while motionless. Then they arose, using great efforts, and brought all kinds of sorcerers, wise men and women who charm away poisons with incantations. These, having seen the girl, said, "She cannot return to life." The first declared, "A person bitten by a snake on the fifth, sixth, eighth, ninth, and fourteenth days of the lunar month always dies." The second asserted, "One bitten on a Saturday or a Tuesday does not survive." The third opined, "Poison infused during certain six lunar mansions cannot be overcome." Quoth the fourth, "One bitten in any organ of sense, the lower lip, the cheek, the neck, or the stomach, cannot escape death." The fifth said, "In this case, even Brahma, the Creator, could not restore life. Of what account are we? Perform the funeral rites; we will depart."

And so the sorcerers went away. The mourning father took up his daughter's corpse and had it burned in the usual place for cremations, and then returned home.

After that, the three young men said to one another, "We must seek happiness elsewhere. And what better can we do than obey the words of Indra, the god of air, who said: 'For a man who does not travel about there is no felicity, and a good man who stays at home is a bad man. Indra is the friend of him who travels. Travel! A traveler's legs are like blossoming branches, and he himself grows and gathers fruit. All his wrongs vanish, destroyed by his exertion on the roadside. Travel! The fortune of a man who sits also sits; it rises when he rises; it sleeps when he sleeps; it moves well when he moves. Travel! A man who sleeps is like the Iron Age. A man who awakes is like the Bronze Age. A man who rises up is like the Silver Age. A man who travels is like the Golden Age. Travel! A traveler finds honey; a traveler finds sweet figs. Look at the happiness of the sun, who travels and never tires. Travel!'"

Before separating, they divided the relics of the beloved one, and then they went their separate ways.

Tribikram, having separated and tied up the burnt bones, became one of the Vaisheshikas, a powerful sect in those days. He solemnly forswore the eight great crimes: feeding at night; slaying any animal; eating the fruit of trees that give milk, or pumpkins, or young bamboos; tasting honey or flesh; plundering the wealth of others; taking by force a married woman; eating flowers, butter, or cheese; and worshipping the gods of other religions. He learned that the highest act of virtue is to abstain from doing injury to sentient creatures; that crime does not justify the destruction of life; and that kings, as administrators of criminal justice, are the greatest of sinners. He professed the five vows: total abstinence from falsehood, eating flesh or fish, theft, drinking spirits, and marriage.

He bound himself to possess nothing beyond a white loincloth, a towel to wipe his mouth, a beggar's dish, and a brush of woolen threads to sweep the ground for fear of treading on insects. He was ordered to fear secular affairs, the miseries of a future state, receiving from others more than the food of a day at once, all accidents, provisions if connected with the destruction of animal life, death and disgrace; also to please all and to obtain compassion from all.

He attempted to banish his love. He said to himself, "Surely it was due only to my pride and selfishness that I ever looked upon a woman as capable of affording happiness. I thought, 'Ah! Ah! Your eyes roll about like the tail of a water wagtail, your lips resemble ripe fruit, your bosom is like a lotus bud, your form is as radiant as gold melted in a crucible, the moon wanes through desire to imitate the shadow of your face, you resemble the pleasure house of Cupid, the happiness of all time is concentrated in you; a touch from you would give life to a dead image; at your approach a living admirer would be changed by joy into a lifeless stone; obtaining you I could face all the horrors of war; and were I pierced by showers of arrows, one glance of you would heal all my wounds.' But now my mind is turned away from the world. Seeing her, I ask, 'Is this the form by which men are bewitched?

It is a basket covered with skin; it contains bones, flesh, blood, and impurities. The stupid creature who is captivated by this—is there a cannibal in Currim a greater cannibal than he? These people call a thing made of impure matter a face, and drink its charms as a drunkard swallows his liquor. The blind, infatuated beings! Why should I be pleased or displeased with this body, composed of flesh and blood? It is my duty to seek Him who is the Lord of this body, and to disregard everything that gives rise to either pleasure or pain.'"

Baman, the second suitor, tied up a bundle of his beloved's ashes and followed, somewhat prematurely, the precepts of the great lawgiver Manu. "When the father of a family sees his muscles becoming flaccid, his hair gray, and the child of his child, let him take refuge in a forest. Let him take up his consecrated fire and all his domestic implements for making oblations, and, departing from town to the lonely wood, let him dwell there with complete control over his senses. With many kinds of pure food, such as holy sages used to eat, with green herbs, roots, and fruit, let him perform the five great sacraments, introducing them with due ceremonies. Let him wear a black antelope hide or a garment of bark; let him bathe evening and morning; let him allow his hair, beard, and nails to grow continually.

Let him slide backward and forward on the ground; or let him stand a whole day on tiptoe; or let him continue in motion, rising and sitting alternately; but at sunrise, noon, and sunset, let him go to the waters and bathe. In the hot season, let him sit exposed to five fires, four blazing around him, with the sun above; in the rains, let him stand uncovered, without even a mantle, where the clouds pour the heaviest showers; in the cold season, let him wear damp clothes, and let him increase by degrees the austerity of his devotions. Then, having placed his holy fires in his mind, as the law directs, let him live without external fire, without a mansion, wholly silent, feeding on roots and fruit."

Meanwhile, Madhusadan, the third, having taken a wallet and neckband, became a Jogi and began to wander far and wide, living on nothing but chaff and practicing his devotions. To see Brahma, he attended to the following duties: hearing, meditation, fixing the mind, and absorbing the mind. He combated the three evils—restlessness, injuriousness, and voluptuousness—by settling the Deity in his spirit, by subjecting his senses, and by destroying desire. Thus he sought to do away with the illusion (Maya) that conceals all true knowledge. He repeated the name of the Deity until it appeared to him as a dry light or glory.

Though connected with the affairs of life—with a body containing blood, bones, and impurities; with organs that are blind, paralyzed, and full of weakness and error; with a mind filled with thirst, hunger, sorrow, and infatuation; with confirmed habits and the fruits of former births—still he tried not to view these things as realities. He made a companion of a dog, honoring it with his own food, the better to think on spirit. He practiced the five operations connected with the vital air, attended much to Pranayama (the gradual suppression of breathing), and secured fixedness of mind. By placing his sight and thoughts on the tip of his nose, he perceived smell; on the tip of his tongue, he realized taste; on the root of his tongue, he knew sound; and so forth. He practiced the eighty-four postures, raising his hand to the wonders of the heavens, until he no longer felt heat or cold, hunger or thirst.

He particularly preferred the lotus posture, which consists of bringing the feet to the sides, holding the right in the left hand and the left in the right. In suppressing his breath, he allowed it to travel at most twelve finger breadths, gradually diminishing the distance from his nostrils until he could confine it to a small space. He began by retaining inspiration for twenty-six seconds, and enlarged this period gradually until he became perfect. He sat cross-legged, closing with his fingers all the avenues of inspiration, and practiced Pratyahara, the power of restraining the members of the body and mind, with meditation and concentration. He also cultivated Yama (inoffensiveness, truth, honesty, the forsaking of all evil, the refusal of gifts except for sacrifice) and Niyama (purity, pleasure in everything, renouncing food when hungry, keeping down the body).

Thus delivered from these four enemies of the flesh, he resembled the unruffled flame of a lamp, and by meditating on the Deity, placing his mind on the sun, moon, fire, or any luminous body, or within his heart, or at the bottom of his throat, or in the center of his skull, he ascended from gross images of omnipotence to the works and divine wisdom of the glorious original.

One day, Madhusadan the Jogi went to a certain house for food, and the householder, seeing him, said, "Please take your food here today." The visitor sat down, and when the food was ready, the host caused his feet and hands to be washed, led him to the auspicious square place where meals are served, and seated him beside him. He quoted the scripture: "No guest must be dismissed in the evening by a housekeeper; he is sent by the returning sun, and whether he comes in fit season or unseasonably, he must not sojourn in the house without entertainment. Let me not eat any delicate food without asking my guest to share it. The satisfaction of a guest will assuredly bring the housekeeper wealth, reputation, long life, and a place in heaven."

The householder's wife then came to serve the food: rice, split peas, oil, and spices, all cooked in a new earthen pot with pure firewood. Part of the meal was served, and the rest remained, when the woman's little child began to cry aloud and cling to his mother's dress. She tried to free herself, but the boy would not let go, and the more she coaxed, the more he cried and became obstinate. The mother, angry, picked up the boy and threw him on the fire, which instantly burned him to ashes.

Madhusadan the Jogi saw this and rose without eating. The master of the house said, "Why don't you eat?" He replied, "I am an atithi, a guest to be entertained, but how can I eat under the roof of someone who has committed such a devilish deed? Is it not said, 'He who does not govern his passions lives in vain'? 'A foolish king, a person puffed up with riches, and a weak child desire what cannot be procured'? 'A king destroys his enemies, even when fleeing; and the touch of an elephant, as well as the breath of a serpent, are fatal; but the wicked destroy even while laughing'?"

Hearing this, the householder smiled. Presently he arose and went to another part of the house, bringing back a book on Sanjivnividya, the science of restoring the dead to life. He had hidden it between two beams that almost touched, with their ends in the opposite wall. The precious volume was in single leaves, some six inches broad by three times that length, and the paper was stained with yellow orpiment and the juice of tamarind seeds to keep away insects.

The householder opened the cloth containing the book, untied the flat boards at the top and bottom, and took out a charm. Having repeated the mantra with many ceremonies, he at once restored the child to life. "Of all precious things," he said, "knowledge is the most valuable. Other riches may be stolen or diminished by expenditure, but knowledge is immortal; the greater the expenditure, the greater the increase. It can be shared with none and defies the power of the thief."

The Jogi, seeing this marvel, thought, "If I could obtain that book, I could restore my beloved to life and give up this uncomfortable path of postures and breath control." With this resolution, he sat down to his food and remained in the house.

Night came, and after eating supper, all went to their sleeping places. The Jogi lay down but did not allow sleep to close his eyes. When he thought a fourth part of the night had passed and all were deep in slumber, he got up quietly, went into the master's room, took the book from its hiding place, and left.

Madhusadan went straight to the place where his sweet Jasmine had been cremated. There he found his two rivals sitting together, talking and comparing experiences. They recognized him and cried out, "Brother! You also have wandered. Tell us—have you learned anything that can profit us?" He replied, "I have learned the science of restoring the dead to life." They both exclaimed, "If you truly have such knowledge, restore our beloved to life."

Madhusadan proceeded with his incantations, despite terrible sights in the air, the cries of jackals, owls, crows, cats, asses, vultures, dogs, and lizards, and the wrath of countless invisible beings: messengers of Yama, ghosts, devils, demons, imps, fiends, and others. All three lovers, drawing blood from their own bodies, offered it to the goddess Chandi, repeating the incantation, "Hail! Supreme delusion! Hail! Goddess of the universe! Hail! You who fulfill all desires. May I offer you the blood of my body? Accept it and be gracious to me!"

They then made a burnt offering of their flesh, and each prayed, "Grant me, O goddess, to see the maiden alive again, as I offer you my own flesh." And they made a heap of the bones and ashes that Tribikram and Baman had kept. As the Jogi continued his incantation, a white vapor rose from the ground and gradually condensed into a shadowy form—the spirit of the soul. The three spectators felt their blood freeze as the bones and ashes were absorbed into the form, and they were restored to themselves only when Madhumalati begged to be taken home to her mother.

Then Kama, the god of love, blinded them, and they began to quarrel fiercely about who should have the beautiful maid. Each wanted to be her sole master. Tribikram declared the bones were the key to the incantation; Baman swore by the ashes; and Madhusadan laughed them both to scorn. No one could decide the dispute; the wisest doctors were baffled. And as for the king—well, we don't look to kings for wisdom. I wonder if the great King Vikram could decide to whom the woman belonged?

"To Baman, the man who kept her ashes, fellow!" exclaimed the hero, offended by the fiend's remark.

"Yet," rejoined the Baital impudently, "if Tribikram had not preserved her bones, how could she have been restored to life? And if Madhusadan had not learned the science of restoring the dead, how could she have been revived? At least, so it seems to me. But perhaps your royal wisdom may explain."

"Devil!" said the king angrily. "Tribikram, who preserved her bones, by that act placed himself in the position of her son; therefore he could not marry her. Madhusadan, who restored her to life, gave her life, so he was a father to her; he could not become her husband. Therefore she was the wife of Baman, who had collected her ashes."

"I am happy to see, O king," exclaimed the vampire, "that despite my fears, we are not to part company just yet. These little trips are like lovers' quarrels, the prelude to a closer union. With your leave, we will practice a little suspension." And so saying, the Baital again ascended the tree and hung there.

"Would it not be better," thought the king, after recapturing and shouldering the fugitive, "to sit down this time and listen to the fellow's story? Perhaps the double exercise of walking and thinking confuses me."

With this idea, Vikram placed his bundle on the ground, well tied with turban and waistband, sat down cross-legged before it, and bade his son do the same.

The vampire strongly objected, saying it was against their agreement. Vikram replied by quoting the exact words of the agreement, showing there was no mention of walking or sitting.

Then the Baital became sulky and swore he would not say another word. But he, too, was bound by the chain of destiny. Presently he opened his lips, with the usual beginning that he was about to tell a true tale.