Kathāsaritsāgare Śaśāṅkavatī-lambake Ekādaśa-taraṅgaḥ. Caturtho Vetālaḥ. Reinterpreted

Blood for the Throne: the king Śūdraka and his subject Vīravara.

King Trivikramasena went again at night to the cremation ground near the śiṃśapā tree. Finding the vetāla laughing, he lifted the corpse-spirit onto his shoulder without fear and set off in silence. As they moved, the vetāla, dwelling in the dark, spoke: “King, why this toil for that wretched mendicant? Your effort is fruitless. Listen to an entertaining tale as we go.”

“There is a city on earth called Śobhāvatī, famed for truth. There ruled a mighty king named Śūdraka, whose valor blazed night and day, fanned by the yak-tails of captive enemy maidens. The earth prospered so greatly in his reign that it seemed to forget even kings like Rāma. One day a brāhmin from Mālava, a noble hero named Vīravara, came seeking service. His household was small: his wife Dharmavatī, a brave son, and a daughter Vīravatī. His ‘equipment’ for service was a little dagger at his waist, a fair shield in one hand, and his open palm in the other. With so small a family he daily asked the king for a stipend of five hundred dīnāras, and King Śūdraka, impressed by his bearing, granted it.

“The king wondered whether such funds were wasted or well spent, and set spies to follow him. Each morning Vīravara saluted the king, then stood armed at the Lion Gate at noon. Returning home, he gave one hundred dīnāras to his wife for food, spent another hundred on clothing, unguents, and betel, another hundred after bathing for the worship of Viṣṇu and Śiva, and two hundred as alms to brāhmins and the poor. Thus he divided the five hundreds every day. After fire-rites and supper he went alone at night to stand again at the Lion Gate, hand at the ready. Hearing of this constant routine, Śūdraka was inwardly pleased, dismissed the spies, and held Vīravara in special honor.

“In the fierce heat of summer and then when the monsoon gathered, flashing lightning and roaring with torrents, Vīravara still stood unshaken at the Gate. By day the king watched from the palace roof; at night he climbed again, curious. He called out: ‘Who stands there?’ ‘I stand here,’ Vīravara replied. ‘What firm devotion,’ thought the king, ‘he must be raised to great honor,’ and he went to his chambers. Later, when darkness deepened and rain lashed down, the king again went up and called. As Vīravara answered, the king suddenly heard, at a distance, a woman weeping, babbling in grief. ‘In my realm no one is oppressed, poor, or miserable. Who then weeps alone at night?’ Moved to compassion, he ordered: ‘Vīravara, go and find out who she is and why she weeps.’ Vīravara agreed, belted on his sword, and set out, paying no heed to the storm. The king, curious and compassionate, followed unseen.

“Tracking the sound of weeping, Vīravara went outside the city to a lake and saw a woman standing in the water, crying: ‘Alas, brave one, alas, compassionate one, alas, bereft of the self-sacrificing, how shall I live!’ The king approached and asked who she was. She replied, ‘Know me, child, as this very Earth. King Śūdraka, righteous, is now my lord. On the third day he will die. Where shall I find another ruler like him? Therefore I mourn him and myself.’ Vīravara asked if there were any means to avert the king’s death. Earth answered, ‘There is one, and you alone can do it. Near the royal precinct the king has established a sacrificial post; there dwells the supreme Goddess Caṇḍikā. If an excellent-spirited son is offered to her as oblation, the king will not die but live another hundred years. If this is done today, all will be well; otherwise, when the third day arrives, his life will end.’ Vīravara said, ‘I will do it now,’ and the Earth vanished. The king, who had followed secretly, heard everything.

“Vīravara hurried home, told his wife exactly as the Earth had said, and she replied, ‘It is the god’s work; wake the boy and tell him.’ He woke their brave son and explained: ‘If you are offered to Goddess Caṇḍikā, the king will live; otherwise he will perish on the third day.’ The boy, true to his valiant name, steadied his mind and said, ‘I am fulfilled if, father, the king lives at the cost of my life. For the food I have eaten, I can repay by giving myself. Do not delay. Take me to the Goddess now and offer me; let peace for our lord be through me.’ Vīravara said, ‘Well done. Truly you are my son.’

“The king, still outside, marveled at the equal courage of them all. Vīravara put his son on his shoulder; Dharmavatī took their daughter, and the two went at night to Caṇḍikā’s shrine, the king following unseen. Before the Goddess the father set the boy down. The child bowed and prayed, ‘By the offering of my head, may King Śūdraka live and rule untroubled for another hundred years.’ ‘Well done,’ cried the Goddess, and placed her palm on him. Vīravara cut off the boy’s head and offered it, saying, ‘By my son’s oblation, may the king live.’ A voice from the sky declared, ‘Who is equal to you in loyalty, Vīravara, who expended the life of your only true son. Life and kingdom are granted to King Śūdraka!’

“As the king looked on and listened, Vīravatī, the young daughter, embraced her brother’s head, and blinded by grief, died of a broken heart. Dharmavatī then said to Vīravara, ‘The king’s good has been secured. Now hear me. Where even this girl has died from grief, with both children lost, what use is life to me? Earlier, in my folly, I did not offer my own head for the king’s good. Give me leave now. I shall enter the fire.’ Vīravara answered, ‘Do so; what joy remains for you in a life filled only with child-sorrow. Let it not trouble you that you did not give yourself; if anything else could be achieved by my life, would I not give it?’ He built a pyre from wood stored for the goddess’s precinct, lit it, and placed the two children’s bodies on it. Dharmavatī bowed to Caṇḍikā and prayed, ‘May this noble man be my husband again in another birth; and may this bring auspiciousness to the king.’ Saying this, she leapt into the tangle of flames.

“Vīravara reflected: ‘The king’s aim is accomplished, as the divine voice proclaimed. I am free of debt for the food I have eaten from my lord. What clinging to life remains? Having spent my whole family for my dear lord’s support, how can I alone keep living with honor? Then let me please Ambikā by offering myself.’ He praised the Goddess: ‘Victory, slayer of Mahiṣa, spear-wielder who felled the demon, Mother of the three worlds, refuge of devotees, dispeller of the darkness of sin, Kālī, skull-bearer, bone-garlanded Śivā, be gracious now to King Śūdraka by the offering of my head.’ He immediately cut off his own head.

“Hidden there, King Śūdraka pondered in sorrow and wonder: ‘Unheard-of deed, done for my sake with his whole family. If I do not repay this, what is my kingship worth.’ He drew his sword, approached the Goddess, and prayed: ‘I have always sought you, O Goddess. Be pleased by the offering of my head and grant your grace. Let this brāhmin Vīravara, whose deeds match his name, live again with his family, who gave up their lives for me.’ As he moved to sever his head, a heavenly voice rang out: ‘Do not act rashly. I am satisfied with your courage. Let the brāhmin Vīravara revive with his children and wife.’ The voice ceased, and Vīravara rose unharmed, alive with his son, his daughter, and his wife. The king, still concealed, gazed with tears of joy. Vīravara, as if rising from deep sleep, saw himself with his family restored and wondered: ‘We were ashes. How do we live again? Is this delusion, or the Goddess’s grace?’ His wife and children said, ‘We live by the Goddess’s favor.’ Accepting this, Vīravara bowed to Ambikā and, with his family and his task accomplished, went home. After settling them there, he returned at night to the Lion Gate as before.

“King Śūdraka, having seen all this unobserved, returned to his palace and called out from behind, ‘Who stands at the Lion Gate?’ ‘I stand here, my lord,’ Vīravara replied. ‘By divine command I went regarding that woman. She seemed like a demoness—seen and then gone.’ The king marveled all the more at these wondrous events and thought, ‘How deep and steady are the high-minded who, even after deeds beyond compare, do not boast.’ In the morning, delighted, he told his ministers, who were amazed. Out of affection he granted Vīravara, with his son, the rulership of Lāṭa together with Karnāṭa lands. Thereafter the two, Śūdraka and Vīravara, equal in prosperity and mutually helpful, lived happily.

“Having told this marvelous tale, the vetāla said to Trivikrama­sena, ‘Tell me, who among these is the greatest hero. Remember the curse if you answer knowingly.’ The king replied, ‘Among them, King Śūdraka is the foremost hero.’ The vetāla objected: ‘What of Vīravara? None is his equal on earth. Is his wife not greater, who witnessed her son made a sacrifice-beast? And the boy, whose courage was supreme even in childhood?’ The king answered, ‘Vīravara is a true scion whose vow is to protect his lord with his own life, wife, and children. His wife is noble, devoted to her husband, and her dharma is to follow his path. Their son is accordingly woven of the same threads. But we kings are bound to protect our servants with our own lives. Therefore Śūdraka is distinguished in offering himself for them.’ Hearing the king’s words, the vetāla was appeased and fled back to his tree by his magic. The king set off once more, resolved to bring him again along the same path to the cremation ground that very night.

“Thus ends the eleventh wave in the Śaśāṅkavatī section of the Ocean of Story composed by the great poet Śrī Somadeva Bhaṭṭa. The twelfth wave begins.”

 

VETALA ON MORAL QUEST

The whole story shows people sacrificing their children and themselves to save an autocrat and his power. The child cannot say “no” under pressure from the parents and the system. The wife cannot say “no” under pressure from the husband and the system, and the Brahmin Vīravara cannot say “no” under pressure from the king and the system. So they are all victims and tyrants to each other — husband to wife, and wife to children. The king is not a hero because he did not stop the sacrifice of a child from the beginning. Would it be acceptable to him if one boy dies? Two children? Two children and their mother? Why was he silently watching and not stopping them?

Read as a web of coercion, this tale yields no “greatest” hero: the children’s deaths are not acts of valor but outcomes of violence against dependents who cannot truly consent, while the adults’ self-sacrifice functions as a tragic, last-ditch gesture of agency within a system that has stripped them of real freedom. Vīravara and Dharmavatī can still choose their bodies, but that choice neither protects the vulnerable nor alters the rule that made the killing thinkable; it reaffirms the sacrificial script. The king’s later willingness to die does not absolve his prior failure to interpose himself and stop the child’s immolation; leadership begins with preventing harm, not admiring courage after the fact. In this frame, the right answer to Vetāla is “no one”: greatness would have meant refusing the ritual economy outright, safeguarding the children, and transforming the norms and laws that demanded blood for political stability. The story thus exposes how people become both victims and enforcers—husband over wife, wife over children, ruler over subjects—when sovereignty is sustained by sacrifice rather than care.

Once the king attempts suicide, the tale’s moral economy collapses: his gesture neither prevents the prior child-sacrifice nor reforms the order that demanded it, nor saves the life and power of the autocrat, so the narrative yields no practical wisdom and no utilitarian gain. The deaths (and near-death) produce no safer polity, no better rule, no protection for future children—only spectacle. If rājadharma is to safeguard subjects, this is a failure; if utility is to maximize well-being, it’s negative sum. The story’s only remaining value is diagnostic: it exposes a sacrificial politics in which people become both victims and enforcers, and shows why true greatness would be to refuse the script, protect the vulnerable, and abolish the practice.

There is one more agent here: the goddess. She speaks only when the king is about to cut off his head —after remaining silent through the child’s killing and the wife’s self-immolation—and then she restores Vīravara’s family. This staging makes clear that the entire drama was meant to instruct the king. And the lesson is stark: sovereignty must be preserved at any cost. The autocrat may accept human sacrifices—children, women, whole families—and still keep the throne; power and the ruler must remain even when they fail in their foremost royal duty, namely to protect their subjects.

Moreover, the story also normalizes an extraction ethic: by honoring a subject who channels the bulk of his means into rituals, alms, and royal service rather than household welfare, it implies that subjects should surrender more than half of their income to sustain the throne and its sanctioned institutions — virtually a tax above fifty percent. In reality, the kingdom’s prosperity rests on the labor and self-sacrifice of its subjects; the tale insists that the king should recognize and accept this fact, even as the narrative normalizes extracting more than half their means and valorizing their bodies as offerings to keep sovereignty intact.

A moment when the king could truly be a hero is the moment he shares power with his subjects — willingly, without command from anyone: no goddess (the voice of sovereignty), no rival ruler, no priest. He does it of his own free will. If we read Vīravara as the embodiment of loyal subjects, then elevating him is not a reward for sacrifice but a first step toward democracy: subjects cease to be sacrificial bodies and become participants in decision-making. In that frame, greatness isn’t proven by accepting their deaths, but by inviting their voices, rights, and responsibilities into the governance of the realm.

So there is no hero as such; the only truly heroic deed would be to renounce power — to defy the goddess’s command, stop being an autocrat, and refuse to receive any sacrifices.