The Forest of Thieves and the Magic Garden: An Anthology of Medieval Jain Stories (Penguin Classics) Read online

  These stories make graphically real many of the basic Jain doctrines that are also expounded in prescriptive texts. While there are many texts that tell Jains that they must not take the life of any living being, in these stories we see described in vivid language what happens to someone who commits such an evil act: the man who sacrificed a goat is himself reborn as an animal to be sacrificed! Stories can also venture into areas that other genres of text, rules for monks or even philosophical treatises, did not treat as fully; thus we see that some of our stories are explorations into the very nature of human nature. Again, where a philosophical text may state that the soul is by nature pure, stories in their leisurely pace may dramatize how evil takes over an innocent person and causes him or her to do wrong. But it is time to turn to the stories themselves.

  The collection begins with a story about the monk Ārdrakumāra. This is a story about the difficulties of renunciation, for both the monk and the loved ones he abandons. It is a moving account of a young man who has renounced the world, but is eventually persuaded to break his vows and marry. He does not forget that he was once a monk, however, and sees the birth of his son as his chance to release himself from the bonds of his domestic life. Rationalizing that his wife will no longer be alone, he decides to leave his family and take to the life of the homeless wandering ascetic. The monk and his wife had been man and wife in a previous life, perhaps making their bond even harder to sunder in this life. This story explores both a husband’s pain of abandoning a wife and the poignant efforts of the wife and child to keep the family intact.

  In the story of Vajrasvāmin’s childhood we again meet a young man who desires to become a monk, but marries reluctantly, only to abandon his pregnant wife. She gives birth to an unusual child who longs to follow his father’s footsteps and renounce the world, but must somehow convince his mother to let him go. This is a sensitive portrayal of the ties of love that bind a mother and a child. Although its ultimate conclusion is that the youngster did right in rejecting his mother, despite the pain he has caused her, the story suggests that renunciation could be a complicated emotional ordeal with its own moral ambiguities that needed to be acknowledged and resolved.

  The story of Vajrasvāmin, to a certain extent, invites us to sympathize with the plight of the mother who must give up her child. In other stories we are taught that as powerful as they are, even ties like those that bind mother and child are not entirely benign. In the story of the monk Sukośala, a king renounces the world to become a monk, and his wife turns her grief into anger and hostility. She desperately attempts to keep her son from becoming a monk, but like Vajrasvāmin, this child too longs to follow in his father’s footsteps and he renounces the world. The mother dies and is reborn as a tigress; consumed by her anger, she devours the monk who had once been her son. In this story we encounter again an important theme in Jain literature: ties of affection, emotional relationships of love and hatred, extend beyond a single birth into potentially infinite rebirths. Past connections determine present relationships; there is an order to our connections with others that is determined by these past emotional ties. At the same time there is an unpredictability to our lives as social beings, for what repeats itself is the emotional bond, the bare fact of connectedness and not necessarily the exact relationship itself. The mother who gave birth to the son has become his killer in this story; in other stories a wife will become a sister or a mother; a wife’s lover may become her son, and a father may become the goat killed for his own funeral offering. These are the themes of other stories in this collection, the story of Maheśvaradatta and the story of the twins Kuberadatta and Kuberadattā. The realization that social ties are terrifyingly unpredictable as well as tenacious may, indeed, be the critical moment at which a person decides to leave them all behind and renounce the world.

  Stories are sometimes the only genre of liteature that provides answers to this fundamental and to us very natural question: why did men and women leave behind their loved ones and renounce the world to become monks and nuns? The stories are sometimes explicit in raising this question; at other times we must read between the lines. Some men are like Vajrasvāmin, simply inclined to renunciation. Others have a significant moment of conversion; for Ārdrakumāra the sight of the Jina image sparked his remembrance of his past births. In the stories of Maheśvaradatta and Kuberadatta the moment of insight is more shocking. I have also included two stories which have a lighter touch in their answer to the question of what makes a person renounce the world: these are the stories of the sweetmeat eater and Sanatkumāra.

  With the story of Celanā we continue to explore the pain and anger of abandonment. In this story we again see past ties between people continuing into another rebirth. Here, the wife left behind when her husband became a monk, dies and becomes a demi-goddess who torments the naked monk in a particularly embarrassing way. The story also celebrates the cleverness and devotion of a female lay devotee who comes to the monk’s aid. We shall see that in many of these stories the exemplary piety of some women is as prominent a theme as is their irascibility or infidelity.

  Many of these stories also emphasize a masculine community in contrast to the feminine world of the mothers, wives and children left behind; indeed, in several of the stories the abandoned male children eventually become part of that greater male community. Sons follow fathers to become monks, friends join friends to become monks. Relationships between men often continue into the monastic life. The stories of Bhadrabāhu and Jīvadeva, two stories from a medieval biography collection, are very different from the didactic stories I have just discussed. Both stories tell of two brothers who are religious rivals. They also give us further insight into some of the activities of monks who have left their families behind and yet remain active in the social affairs of the religious community. Renouncing the world in these stories does not necessarily imply a total withdrawal from society and its concerns, nor need it signal a total break from family tensions.

  In the story of Amarasīṃha (Amarasīha in Prakrit) we clearly see the power of the renunciate to work within the society from which he has technically withdrawn. Here a monk enters into a debate between two people about the efficacy and desirability of performing blood sacrifices. The Jains, who often summarized their religious teaching as the practice of total non-violence, vigorously opposed the Hindu cult of animal sacrifice. In this story the Jain monk stops the practice of blood sacrifice, puts an end to a plague and proves to everyone the greatness of the Jain religion. We also see in this story that the main character Amarasīha remains a layman, but leads an exemplary life and is rewarded with abundant wealth and power.

  The story of Abhayasiṃha (Abhayasīha) opens with a dialogue between a historical figure, king Kumārapāla of Gujarat, and the Jain monk Hemacandra. Many of the stories in this collection are inserted into a larger frame story in their original setting. The frame story in which the story of Abhayasiṃha is set describes the conversion of King Kumārapāla to Jainism by the monk Hemacandra. With this story, which celebrates non-violence, we gain further insight into how Jain stories sought to inculcate the virtue of non-violence, instilling in their listeners a horror of taking life. In a typically Jain fashion, meat eating is made synonymous with cannibalism, something that would surely have struck all listeners as repugnant. In a similar use of an extreme violation of a taboo, all sex in other stories will be equated with incest. While the first-time reader may have trouble making these leaps, as you wander deeper into the forest of thieves you will see that the animal killed for a ritual feast may indeed have been your father (Maheśvaradatta), and the woman you desire may well have been your sister or mother (Kuberdattā). In the story of Abhayasiṃha we meet with several other now familiar themes; we see ties of motherly affection extending into a next rebirth and lay piety and honesty amply rewarded.

  The stories of Amarasīha and Abhayasīha, along with those of Ārāmaśobhā, Devadhara and Devadiṇṇa included in this collection, not only
tell us about monks and how they interact with the world they have left behind; they also offer us a glimpse of the possibilities for living a rewarding life without renouncing the world, and describe that world in somewhat more positive terms. The secular world may well be a battleground between forces of good and evil, but it is possible to choose good, and thereby triumph. In these stories the renouncing of all action, such as is enjoined for a monk in the prescriptive texts, is not the only path. For example, in the story of Ārāmaśobhā a young girl is rewarded for her pious act of tending a garden attached to a Jain temple by having a magical garden that follows her around wherever she goes. At times her life seems to be lived in its idyllic shadow. Although these stories may seem at first glance to stray from the theme of monks and those they leave behind, I included them because I felt that they can deepen our understanding of the world that monks renounce. These stories depict the secular world as a place of pleasure and an arena for doing good, more like Ārāmaśobhā’s garden than a frightening and dangerous forest of thieves. Nonetheless, stories such as these will often explicitly remind the listener that a life of such worldly pleasures is not the ultimate ideal of Jainism. Thus we see that many stories of lay piety conclude with a summary statement that their heroes and heroines eventually renounced the world to become monks and nuns.

  Most of the stories in this collection paint a darker picture of human relationships and social life, and many of these negative stories are decidedly misogynistic. Durgilā is one such story, where the woman is treacherous and unfaithful. Sundarī, by contrast, is a model of wifely fidelity, although the final message of the story is still that one must renounce all ties to loved ones. Sundarī refuses to leave her husband’s side even though he is dead. This is both a story of wifely honor and a cautionary tale about the inevitability of death and the delusory power of love. The story of Lakṣmaṇa’s death from a Jain version of the Rāmāyana makes a similar point; attachment to a beloved brother here becomes a form of madness that must be cured. The cure leads to a total rejection of attachments, that is, renunciation of the world. These stories are portraits of emotions in excess, but the conclusion we are asked to draw is that the emotion itself is at fault, and not just its degree or intensity. These vivid descriptions of love’s power to delude are meant to instruct us further to view all of our ties of affection as dangerous entrapments.

  The story of Siddhi and Buddhi clearly bears the stamp of a folk tale and belongs with the less flattering portrayals of women that we see in the story of Durgilā. The Siddhi and Buddhi story was most often told as part of a cycle of stories in which a man and his wives argue over the man’s determination to renounce the world. The wives narrate this story as a warning: wanting too much, you may well come to a bad end. Several other stories I have translated belong to this cycle: the stories of Maheśvaradatta and Kuberadatta are told by the aspiring monk, while the story of Durgilā is told by one of the wives. Through these stories we are actively drawn into the debate between a man and his wives: whether he should or should not renounce the world. As the arguments sway from one side to the next, we are made to see that there could well be different perspectives on what constituted the good life, depending on the vantage point of the perceiver.

  In contrast to women like Durgilā, the heroines of several other stories translated here are exemplary women. These stories help us flesh out the hazy, often sketchy, portraits of women that emerge from the stories which centre around the men who leave women and become monks. The exemplary women in these stories are often richly drawn and complex characters. It is instructive, I think, to reread the accounts of the women left behind after reading some of these tales of exceptional women. Through these stories we see that the Jain tradition could value women and their religious accomplishments. For example, Simhikā is the faithful wife whose chastity is such that it has magic power and can save her husband, who is dying of an incurable disease. The story of Simhikā also introduces us to several themes that recur in many Jain stories of pious women. The first has already been noted, namely, the miraculous power of their piety and chastity. In this story we also see the chaste Siṃhikā wrongfully accused of infidelity by her husband, who cruelly rejects her. This may well be a Jain reworking of the famous theme of the Rāmāyaṇa, in which the king Rāma rejects his pregnant queen after he has rescued her from her abductor, because he fears that his subjects will doubt her fidelity. This sub-theme lends a particular poignancy to many of the stories of pious Jain women.

  Women may even outshine men in these stories in their devotion to the Jain cause. Thus in the story of Rudradatta’s beloved, a pious Jain wife eventually convinces her husband, a worshipper of Śiva, of the greatness of Jainism, while in the story of Padmalatā, a pious Jain woman eventually wins over her Buddhist father-in-law and husband. Jain women in these stories are beautiful, desirable, intelligent and resourceful, and they use their gifts to insure the triumph of their religion. In the story of Revatī (Revaī), the Jain lay woman is singled out for praise even at the expense of a Jain monk. This story also gives us a glimpse into Jain-Jain conflicts beyond the major sectarian divisions. Revatī knows the Jain doctrine and remains firm in her faith, while the monk succumbs to heretical doubts on certain points. Women may even become goddesses, often achieving this status through the intensity of their suffering and unnatural deaths. Two stories here, the story of Ambikā and the story of Āryanandila, introduce us to two of the more popular Jain goddesses.

  The story of Nala and Damayaṃtī is one of the most complex stories that I have translated here, and is an excellent example of a story of a pious woman. It is a Jain version of the famous story in the Hindu epic, the Mahābhārata. In this story Damayaṃtī has become the model Jain heroine. Abandoned by her husband, she manages to save herself and others through her chastity. We see in this story, too, how the power of love is such that Nala is unable to abandon Damayaṃtī in a final act of renunciation to become a monk. At many points this story invites us to view Damayaṃtī as the stronger of the two, more firmly committed to the religious life. Nala is not the only monk who succumbs to such weakness; the story of Ārdrakumāra, with which this collection begins, also tells of a monk who desires his former wife, now a nun. The account of Madanakīrti included here goes a step further and even depicts a fallen monk; it is a sectarian story, told by one group to show the alleged vices of its rivals.

  In closing this brief review of some of the themes in these stories, I would mention three other stories: accounts of Mohadeva and Lobhadeva and the long account of virtues and vices that closes this collection. The stories of Mohadeva and Lobhadeva, like the story of Durgilā, describe the perfidy of friends and lovers, and so are meant as cautionary tales warning a person against trusting human relationships and seeing any permanent value in them. Jain stories use many strategies to teach us that we must renounce attachments to friends and families; the story of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, for example, shows us that attachment itself is a form of madness; the story of Lobhadeva frightens us in another way, by showing how a good person comes to a miserable end by trusting a friend. This story seems to be saying that there is no such thing as friendship, and we would be wise to guard ourselves against those we would consider ‘friends’. The story thus raises some fundamental questions about human nature: Is human nature simply evil, so that from the start we must conclude that there is no such thing as a good person, a good friend? Must all friends be bad? If people are not by nature evil, then what makes a bad person act as he or she does? The answers, I think, are revealed by the metaphor which I chose as the title of this collection, Stories like that of Lobhadeva are studies of the thieves, the passions that lie in wait for us as we stumble through the forest. We are not intrinsically bad, but we are all subject to the control of the passions that rob us of our innate goodness. And since that is so, as Lobhadeva’s treachery shows us, friendship is a very dangerous and risky business. I included a very brief story on deceiving a deceitfu
l friend, which suggests that there are at least some temporary remedies a person has at his disposal to help deal with a deceitful friend. Nonetheless, through the humour the message is still clear: friends are not to be trusted.

  The account of virtues and vices that closes the collection comes from a text that is perhaps the most sustained Jain narrative that grapples with the profound question: what exactly is human nature? The text is written as a complicated autobiography, a journey of the soul through different rebirths, and has drawn freely on an earlier work, the Prakrit original in which the stories of Lobhadeva and Mohadeva were told. The message is clear: these thieves are not us; passions and vices are extrinsic to our basic nature, although we must guard against them. And because they are not part of our real nature, it is possible for us to leave them behind and come safely through the forest in which they hide, ready to ambush us at the slightest provocation.

  It is perhaps easier to describe the individual thieves than it is to describe the tangled forest, but I hope that the diversity of descriptions these stories together provide will be a start. I have deliberately tried to complicate the picture by translating stories of evil and exemplary women; accounts of monks who leave the world, renouncing all ties to family and friends, and other accounts in which renunciates still remain active in the world, settling disputes, overseeing the building of temples, curing diseases, and above all teaching people about the true nature of the cycle of rebirths and the need for Ultimate Release. I have further complicated things, I hope, by including stories that do not paint secular life in totally negative terms but make a place for a rich and rewarding existence as a lay devotee. Ārāmaśobhā, the girl with the magic garden, or Revatī, the woman who knows more than the Jain monk, are not simply women to be left behind. They are engaging and intelligent individuals, and the world they inhabit can seem meaningful and fulfilling. Indeed, the forest of thieves can at times seem more like a magic garden than a terrifying jungle. Of all types of religious literature, religious stories are perhaps best suited to convey such ambiguities, securing for them a place of special importance in the study of religion.