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Manohra, the bird princess

The next time you’re on the approach road to Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok, you might want to look again at the statues of golden bird people with their hands folded in wai (namaste). They are images of kinnara and kinnari, the half-human, half-avian creatures of shared Indic myth who excel in song and dance and live in the celestial forest of Himavan.

This story about a kinnari is a Thai favourite and is found in the Suthon Jataka that comes from a bigger collection called the Pannasa Jataka, which has echoes in the old Indian collection of tales Kathasaritsagara, ‘The Sea of Stories’ by Somadeva.

Its heroine, Manohra (‘manohara’ means ‘heart conqueror’ in Sanskrit) was a princess of the kinnaras. She was exquisitely human in form but owned light, airy, detachable wings with which she and her similarly equipped kinnari friends flew about the hills and dales of Himavan between music lessons, soirées and delightful feasts of rose petals and honeydew.

The Himavan or Snow Mountains had three earthly levels: the Shivalik, which were the foothills; the Himadri, which were the mid-level mountains; and the Himachal, those mighty lords whose snow peaks were the highest on earth, where the gods made their camp on earth. Above them all shimmered the celestial realm inhabited by the demigods and heavenly beings like the kinnaras and gandharvas.

Manohra, like all celestial maidens, was irresistibly drawn to the beautiful lakes and lotus ponds of the earth. Their clear, cool waters were a physical joy that no celestial being could resist because despite the many excellences of the celestial realm, it was earth that was blessed with sweet waters and sweet fruit.

One sun-dappled morning, after an extra-long music lesson, Manohra longed for a refreshing dip in a lotus pond. Since her friends were busy with tasks of their own she flew away by herself and taking off her wings, plunged happily into the waters. But when she stepped out humming and put on her wings again, an enormous rug of tiger skin was suddenly thrown over her, a rope quickly tied around it, imprisoning her limbs, and she felt herself being seized and borne off at great speed through the air.

On and on they flew, her kidnapper holding her light, bundled form with ease. After what seemed like a very long time, they descended to earth and Manohra heard a muffled exchange of talk before she was unwrapped.

She found herself standing on the terrace of a great and beautiful palace. A lithe, handsome, young man looked at her in wonder and so did an older man and woman, all three richly dressed and evidently noble, perhaps even royal. Manohra flung up her head and looked back at them levelly. She was not the kind to weep and beg for mercy. Instead, she cast one scornful look at her burly kidnapper, who wore the austere ochre robes of a hermit, and saluted her audience with a mannerly wai. ‘I’m sure you’ll tell me what this is about, good people,’ she said in her low, musical voice that breathed poise and dignity. A kinnara princess had her share of backbone.

The older man and woman exchanged a fleeting glance and the woman nodded almost imperceptibly. The older man stepped forward with a charming, rueful smile.

‘Welcome to my kingdom, Princess Manohra. I am King Adityavan and this is Queen Shanta Devi. This young man is our son, Prince Suthon. We asked our friend and adviser, the honourable hermit here, to seek and find an ideal bride for our son and he chose you, taking you away the moment he had the opportunity, which, as you know, is permitted on earth as a bride-seeking practice. He had observed you secretly for many days before that and tells us that not in all three realms of heaven, earth and the netherworld may a maiden be found as sweet-natured as you and as lovely and gifted in appearance and accomplishment. We trust his opinion. Will you not honour my son with your hand in marriage, now that you have been brought to us?’

The queen smiled welcomingly and looked faintly anxious. The young man stared dumbstruck at Manohra and had to be gently touched on the shoulder by his mother to recollect himself.

Manohra was a realist. She thought sorrowfully of her parents and their grief when they found her missing but knew that she was incapable just then of making her way home. She surveyed the prince through the veil of her eyelashes. ‘Suthon’ meant ‘good arrow’ and he looked properly princely and warrior-like. He had a broad, smooth forehead and a clear, steady, intelligent gaze, quite the dream prince, in fact. She inclined her head and smiled sweetly at them all.

Manohra and Suthon were married that very day and many months of perfect happiness followed, although not everyone was pleased by it. The old court counsellor brooded darkly on the slight to his own daughter, as pretty and well-brought-up as anyone could wish, whom he had indirectly advocated for months as the ideal bride for the prince, contriving to put her in the prince’s way through many a gala and picnic. That, in fact, was partly why he had not succeeded, had he but known it. The prince had had suitable girls thrown at his head like cabbages and cauliflowers since he was barely in his teens and it was but natural if someone ran at you to catch you, to run away. But the old court counsellor lacked a clinical eye in the matter and only saw his ambition frustrated and hated the cause of it. ‘We’ll see, my fine lady . . . We’ll see . . .’ he muttered as he threw lucky rice at the wedded pair and took good care to appear wholly delighted.

One day, news arrived of a band of marauders attacking the border and Prince Suthon had to go off with his troops to deal with it. He told his best friend, the son of another counsellor and a junior minister at court, to keep a watchful eye on Manohra and promised to make him court counsellor when he returned. But the old court counsellor, who had the knack of eavesdropping undetected, overheard him and began to plot their doom. His chance arrived very conveniently when King Adityavan, worrying about his son, had a bad dream one night and wanted it explained the next morning in court. The old counsellor pretended to hem and haw and told him loudly with feigned reluctance and regret that it portended terrible things for the country because of the stranger in their midst. However, sacrificing the bird woman would avert all that. A fearful whisper promptly rustled through the court.

The king shot the counsellor a sharp look and said that he would consider it. Back in the royal chambers, the king consulted the queen. The queen sent at once for Manohra and explained that it was best that she disappear for a while. Sending her away to safety would free the king to checkmate the counsellor, who had cunningly made her presence seem threatening to the public.

The queen tied a silk pouch with a necklace of rubies and emeralds in it on Manohra’s girdle, as a present for Manohra’s mother. Flying in the face of all known classical tenets and traditions, King Adityavan and Queen Shanta Devi drew their daughter-in-law a little map, helped her fasten her wings, hugged and cried over her and got her to fly off from the royal terrace, back to her father, promising faithfully to send the prince after her when he came home. On the way out, Manohra descended briefly at the hermitage where her old kidnapper lived to take leave, and left her ruby ring with him for when her husband would come looking for her. Sure enough, the prince came back and fortified by the ring and the magic mantras that the hermit taught him, including being able to understand bird language, he took himself off to Himavan on the wings of an eagle and sent the ring to his lost lady through a maid.

Being a princess, Manohra did not want Prince Suthon to appear before her parents travel-stained, and smuggled out nice clothes for him to meet her father in. After passing a triple test of strength and skill to make the marriage legal from Manohra’s father’s point of view, Prince Suthon took Manohra back home and lived happily ever after. King Adityavan and Queen Shanta Devi attained immortality across the East for choosing to save their daughter-in-law instead of sacrificing her as they so easily could have done, had they succumbed to superstitious instinct. No one can tell precisely what became of the conniving court counsellor, but it’s agreed that he was most probably fed to a tiger.