In the land of Gurjarī there is a forest between the rivers Mahilā and Sābhravatī which was ruled by the sage Tāmralipta. His daughter Yaśovatī and her husband, King Premasena, enjoyed all the pleasures of the world, and to them was born a girl, Madanarekhā, who grew up, waxing every day like the moon.
King Premasena had two pages named Deva Śarmā and Hari Śarmā respectively. The former would go to the river every day to wash the king’s clothes. There he came to be addressed by some divine being who remained invisible, but spoke the language of men. This mysterious voice called daily from on high: ‘What ho! Let that King Premasena marry his daughter to me. Otherwise it will not be good for him and his city.’
Deva Śarmā was wonderstruck. ‘What could this be?’ he thought. ‘I see nothing, actually.’ He reported the matter to the king, who observed: ‘You are lying.’ ‘Sire,’ responded the page, ‘I will not go today. Send someone else to that place to wash the clothes.’ The king then sent Hari Śarmā, who also heard the same voice and was filled with wonder. On his return he told the king what had happened.
Both boys had said: ‘There is a mysterious voice there.’ The king was amazed. The next time the page went to wash the clothes, he himself followed secretly. And, hiding behind a tree, he too heard the very same voice and words.
‘What is this?’ the king pondered, his mind full of doubt, ‘Is it some god or is it a spirit?’ On returning home he summoned the ministers, priests and other prominent persons, and asked: ‘What shall we do? This voice at the river says: “Let King Premasena give his own daughter to me in marriage. In this way it will be well. Otherwise there will be trouble.” Who it is, we do not know.’
‘Master,’ said the ministers and the priests, ‘how can your daughter be given to someone unknown? Call him suitably, and ask him who he is.’ The king then went to the river again, and the same voice uttered the same words. ‘Are you a god or a demi-god, a demon or a man?’ he asked. The being then appeared and said: ‘King, I was Indra’s chamberlain in the past. I lusted after the wives of others, and could not live without them. Many a time did Indra forbid me, but I would not stop. Eventually Indra cursed me, and I became an ass in the house of a potter in Your Majesty’s city. At present I am roaming on the river bank. As such, I ask for your daughter. If you give her to me, all will be well for you. If not, there will be trouble for you and the people of the city.’
‘I would give you my daughter if you were a god,’ said the king. ‘But how can I do that if you are an ass?’ But the voice simply reiterated: ‘Give her to me.’
Premasena feared for his city and, just to prevent anything untoward from happening, he decided to give his girl to the ass. But he asked once again: ‘O chief of gods, if you have divine powers then build a wall of copper around the city, and also a palace with the thirty-two features where one may live.’ The god did all this during the fourth watch of the night. Waking up in the morning, the people were astonished to see the copper rampart. It included on the highway a barrier which no one could open, so that all were perplexed.
The king was informed, and he too came to the barricaded highway and was amazed. He called in his mind for the god, who appeared and said: ‘O King, send for the potter in whose house I live. The mere touch of his hand will lift the barrier.’ All the potters were then summoned, but they fled in every direction, thinking: ‘Perhaps the king is going to kill us on the highway.’ Thereafter the king sent only for the potter who kept the ass, but he hid inside his house and had to be pulled out forcibly by the officers who took him to the barricaded highway. At the king’s orders he opened it, to the delight of the people as well as their ruler.
Meanwhile the girl Madanarekhā had heard that she had been betrothed to an ass by the apprehensive king in order to protect the people, his city and family. ‘Alas!’ she said to herself, ‘even if my heart bursts, what had to be has happened. This is my karma.’ The king married her to the ass amidst great festivities, and she went to the palace built by the god, where she remained lost in a trance.
The god now shed his asinine shape and, assuming a divine form adorned with fragrant, pollen-laden blossoms of the celestial pārijata and mandāra trees, he enjoyed all the sensual delights with Madanarekhā. He did this every day: sometimes on the Meru mountain, at others on the Mānasa lake; sometimes in the cities of the demi-gods and the demons, watching dances, and listening to music with her, and indulging in all kinds of pleasures. She too was supremely happy, and the attendants who accompanied her kept all this secret. Several years passed thus.
Madanarekhā’s mother used to worry about her daughter living with an ass. She came to the palace one day, and saw the god shedding his donkey hide as usual and assuming a radiant form, after which he went into the inner quarter. ‘How fortunate and meritorious is my girl, to have found such a husband!’ the queen said to herself. ‘I am blessed to have given birth to such a daughter. Through her I too will earn merit.’ Reflecting further, she decided: ‘I will throw this donkey skin into the fireplace, so that he always keeps his present form.’ Thinking thus, she threw the skin into the fire.
This was seen by Gandharvasena1, for that was the name of the god turned into an ass. He told his wife: ‘My dear, the duration of my curse is over, and the curse itself is ended. I am now going back to heaven.’ ‘What will happen to me?’ she asked. ‘I would come with you, if I was not carrying your child in my womb. Now what should I do?’
‘Stay here in peace,’ said the god. ‘When the child is born, name him Vikramaditya. A child of mine is also there in the womb of your servant girl. He should be named Bhartrihari.’ Having obtained release from the curse, the god then went away to heaven.
The queen told the king about what she had learnt. He called a soothsayer and asked what would happen to his daughter. ‘She will have a son,’ he said, ‘and he will become the king.’ This created an apprehension in Premasena’s mind. ‘So, the son of my daughter will become the king,’ he thought, and he sent men to watch over the unborn child in Madanarekhā’s womb. They mounted guard, and she wondered: ‘Why have these men been posted to watch over my unborn child?’
Madanarekhā then told a flower girl who had come to her: ‘Do something to protect and bring up my unborn child.’ The flower seller agreed and brought a knife the following morning. With it Madanarekhā cut open her own belly and delivered her child to the flower girl. But she herself perished. The florist took the baby, along with Bhartrihari, the other child, and went with them to a village near Ujjayini. There she brought them up, and Vikrama grew day by day, together with Bhartrihari. ‘A flower girl took away your daughter’s child,’ the king was informed. He had now lost both his daughter and her son; in that condition he named his city Stambhavati—the place benumbed2—and so it came to be known.