hand of the brahmin, who banished a tear of emotion by
very
us
kins
to
had lost, as you
at once. Yet that was a small hindrance in
id
I
to
the confident assurance that we should certainly meet
again on the nightly paths of Kālī. Then we left accompa‐
nied by four robbers, who had to answer with their lives
for our safe arrival in Ujjenī, for Angulimāla, who was
jealous of his robber honour, promised them, as he sent
away, that if I were not handed over safe and sound in my
native town, he would flay them alive and hang their s
up at the four corners of a cross‐roads — and the men
knew that he kept his word.
Fortunately however it did not, in this instance,
become necessary and the four rogues, who behaved
admirably on the way, may still be in the service of the
Goddess‐dancer with her swaying necklace of skulls.
We reached Ujjenī without further adventure and,
to be quite truthful, I had had enough with what I had
already gone through. The joy of my parents at seeing me
was indescribable. But all the more was it impossible
wring from them the permission to undertake another
journey to Kosambī very soon. My father
know, all the goods and all the people in my caravan in
addition to my ransom, and he was not in a position to fit
out a new one
comparison to the terror which overcame my parents at
the thought of the dangers of the road. In addition we d
not fail to hear from time to time of Angulimāla’s further
terrible deeds; and I cannot deny that I had no great desire
to fall into his hands a second time. Nor was there just
then the slightest possibility of getting a message through
to Kosambī — the roads were so dangerous that no
courier could be paid enough to make the journey — so
was obliged to content myself with memories and, confi‐
dently relying upon the fidelity of my adored Vāsitthī,
comfort myself with the hope of better times.
And at last these came. One day a rumour flew like
83
wild‐fire through the town that the frightful Angulimāla
s
no longer able to resist my
e ill, and when I rose
om
son was so near that it was
ecessary to wait until it should be past.
Then, at last, nothing further stood in my way.
With many admonitions to be prudent, my parents bade
me farewell and I was once more on the road — at the
head of a well‐stocked caravan of thirty ox‐wagons, with a
heart full of joy and courage, and urged forward by con‐
suming desire.
Everything ran as smoothly on the present journey
as on my first one, and one beautiful morning I entered
Kosambī, half‐crazed with joy. I was soon aware, however,
of a huge throng of people in the streets, and my
progress became ever slower until at length, at a spot
where we had to cross the chief thoroughfare of the town,
our train of wagons was brought to a complete standstill.
It was literally impossible to force our way through the
crowd, and I now noticed that this main street was mag‐
nificently decorated with flags, carpets draped from the
windows and balconies, and festoons hung from side to
side over the road, as if for some pageant. Cursing with
impatience, I asked those who stood in front of me what
was taking place.
“Why!” they cried out, “don’t you know? Today
Sātāgira, the son of the Minister of State, is celebrating his
marriage. Consider yourself blessèd to have arrived just at
had been utterly defeated by Sātāgira, the son of the
Minister in Kosambī, his band had been cut down or
dispersed and he himself with many of his most notoriou
followers had been taken prisoner and executed.
My parents were now
passionate entreaties. People had very good reason to
believe that, for a long time to come, the roads would be
free, and my father was not disinclined to try his luck
again. But at this juncture I becam
fr
my bed the rainy sea
n
84
this moment: the procession is now on its way from the
temple of Krishna and will
ht by here. Assuredly
you will never have beheld
magnificence before!”
Th
tāgira should be celebrating his marriage
was imp
seeking
ve
been, along with th
ts, one of the
greatest hindrances to our union. o the waiting did not
lease me, especially in the realisation that it could not
of a
e deaf‐
t these
ambī,
Almost directly behind them came the elephant
nd
a stupendous
ight — the crusted, knoll‐like forehead of the gigantic
f the
ant
e
t
s
ed my glance. I had seen
pass rig
such
at Sā
ortant and welcome news to me, because his
the hand of my Vāsitthī in marriage would ha
e ill‐favour of her paren
S
disp
last long for already we were able to see the lances
cavalry division which moved slowly past amid th
ening cheers of the crowd. The people told me tha
horsemen now enjoyed great popularity in Kos
because it was chiefly they who had destroyed Anguli‐
māla’s band.
carrying the bride — beyo
all question
s
animal (which reminded one of Meru, the mountain o
gods) was covered with a veil of many‐coloured jewels.
And just as early in the year, when a fiery bull eleph
moves along, the drops of perspiration rolling down his
temples and cheeks attract swarms of bees allured by th
sweet odour, so here his temples and cheeks shimmered
with the most wonderful pearls, above which dangled
limpid garlands of black diamonds — an effect beautiful
enough to make one cry out.
The powerful tusks were mounted with the purest
gold; and from the breastplate, which was made of the
same precious metal and set with large rubies, the airies
of Benares muslin hung down and softly wound itself
around the powerful legs of the animal, like morning mist
around the stems of regal forest trees.
But it was the trunk of the state elephant that, more
than all other sights, enchain
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