Rupa's Tale (Animation)

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For fun, I decided to turn a story I wrote years ago for an Indian literature class into an animated film.  I will post it (in parts) below.

 

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I was referencing the Ashokavadana in a conversation on Integral Life recently, and recalled this story.  I never finished doing the little animation, so here's the full story (with the end tweaked a bit to be a little less metaphysical than it originally was).

 

Rupa's Tale

 

I.
 

              In the western quarter of the palace of King Ashoka lived Rupa, his sister, fair to look upon, enamored of beauty in all its forms.  Since the death of her husband at the Battle of Kalinga she had taken up residence in the King's palace, as he had grieved at her loss and wished to comfort her; and with the license granted her, she had established over the years a great court that rivaled even her brother's own since his awakening to the Dharma.

            From the four corners of Jambudvipa she imported the choicest goods: gold and silver bangles, ivory bowls rimmed with emerald, saris fringed with pearls and precious jewels.  She invited dancers and courtesans from far kingdoms, and provided for the livelihood of some of the finest musicians of Varanasi, so that at any hour of the day bells and flutes and shimmering strings rang over the high white walls of her court; and those passing under might pause, and rejoice, hearing in this desire-world the music of the devas...

            But it came to pass that one day Ashoka heard that Rupa had begun to turn ascetics and all but the best dressed monks forcefully from her doors, and that one monk known to him had been badly abused.  Ashoka was dismayed and asked his minister, Yashas, to verify the story.

            In the evening, Yashas returned.    "It is true, Beloved of the Gods," he said.  "Men bearing arms are posted at her doors, barring entrance to her court and heaping abuse on all ascetics that approach."

            "Did you gain entrance, Yashas?"

            "Of course, Sire."

            "And did you question her?"

            "I did.  She mocked the dirty ascetics who strive for heaven in the next world, even while avoiding it in this one."

            Ashoka nodded.  "And what of the bhikkus?"

            "She said they are constipated, Sire, and she will have nothing to do with them.  They are but dung that obstructs the joy of her court."

            Wailing, Ashoka fell over in a faint.  When he roused himself, he vowed with firm resolve to see her false views overthrown.
 

 
II.

            A few days later, during her sandalwood bath, as the sun tinged the walls and the hoopoe birds called out in the pink morning light, Rupa was disturbed by a commotion in the courtyard outside.

            "Those shameless snakes have not yet learned they have no place here," she said, rolling over.  Warm hands massaged her calves and feet.

            She expected the disturbance to cease - the ascetics and monks usually retreated without complaint when her guards dismissed them - but when unearthly growls and yelps cut through the early morning sounds of her court, she grabbed her silk wrap and rushed to the door, shouting, "Why so much trouble from naked, dirty men?   Have you no swords?"

            In the front courtyard she found the guards in a perplexed circle around a wild-looking, long-haired ascetic, who hung five feet above the polished floor in smoke and flashes of light.  "So he floats!" she said.  "Take him!"  But the guards did not move.

            Appalled by the dirty feet hanging before her, she grabbed the ascetic's long hair and pulled him back to the ground.

            "Rajkumari," he growled.  "In this hair I keep my siddhis.  If you harm even one strand, a plague will fall on your court for seven years, and every string will snap on these veenas, and every fruit that comes through these doors will rot, and every flower will die upon the vine..."

            "It's not your hair I want!" she shouted, afraid.  "It's your head!  Take him to the jail!"

            The guards seized him and took him outside.  When they were out of sight, they released the ascetic, and then reported to Yashas to receive their pay.

 

III.

 
             That evening, satiated on mango and ras malai, Rupa reclined on a bed of frangipani blossoms, lulled by song, and drifted into sleep.  And when the moon had risen high over the walls and the deep of the night was on the court, she was suddenly roused by a terrible pressure on her wrist, by something coiling round her...

            She sat up with a start, but the dream did not pass.  Her arm felt as though it had been bound in rough rope.  She jerked her hand and raised it to her face.  There hung the ascetic's wild-eyed head, his long hair coiled around her wrist.  She screamed and shook her arm, but the coarse locks held fast, firm as the murderous grip of a python.

            Those who had been sleeping near her were roused, and some came to her aid, but none could free her arm of the deadly coils.

            "Someone bring a knife!" Rupa yelled.

            But her maid grabbed her arm.  "No, Rajkumari!" she cried.  "Do not cut the hair!  Did he not say that would bring ruin on us all?"

            Rupa dropped her head and sobbed.

            And so Rupa lived encumbered by the ghastly fruit of her deed.  She held court as usual, welcoming visitors and enjoying entertainments, and at first she strove to make light of her fate.  She feigned indifference, and attempted to frighten monks from her door, threatening a similar fate if they trespassed there; but they only laughed at her, for they could see the meaning of what bound her, even when she could not.  And so she retired to her palace and sought to enjoy its pleasures as before.

            For several days little changed, but then the head began to show signs of decay, and to issue a stink that the incense could not fully hide.  And her courtesans began to murmur amongst themselves - quietly at first, and then more boldly - that she had fallen out of favor with the gods.  The head hung from her right hand, and so impeded her from feeding herself without the constant odor of death in her nostrils; and as the days passed, her servants grew less willing to draw close enough to feed her.

            First to leave were the well-dressed monks, and then the musicians of Varanasi, and the dancers from Ceylon, and within two weeks her palace was nearly empty, but for a few of her cooks and attendants and her faithful handmaid, Sathya.

            "I did not harm a single hair, Sathya," Rupa said, "and still his curse is upon us!  My life is in ruins..."

            "It happened, Rajkumari, as it was bound to happen."

            Rupa designed ways to ease her burden - a wheeled cart to support the head, a flowered silken bag around it; and pots of scented water boiling in every corner of her home.  But a silence was on the palace, and the veenas lay unused, and dust settled on the cushions and the inlaid floors.  And it got so that not a single morsel passed her lips that did not remind her of the rotting flesh at the end of her arm.  At night she slept fitfully, and she would wake with the impression that the ascetic's head had been speaking to her, softly, like the slow, inexorable voice of a river, but she could never recall the words.

            One morning she woke and called Sathya to her side.  "Go to my brother," she said.  "Tell him I am coming to see him."

            And in the afternoon, when all was prepared, she and Sathya, the only servant to remain, crossed over to the residence of Ashoka.  She had removed the bag from the head, which was shriveled now like a dried myrobalan, and she walked with it freely.  She saw the people at their daily chores, making ghee and yoghurt, drawing water, and she smelled death in every vat, and saw decay in every hopeful glance.

            And at last she came upon the room where Ashoka reclined with his ministers.  And when he saw her approach, her clothes a little stained, her hair not so neatly combed, and the death's head on her wrist, he rose to meet her, tears in his eyes.

            "What is it, my sister?"

            "My king, grant me permission to enter the forest life.  I thank you for your hospitality, but it is all for naught."  She held up her arm.  "Death advises me so."

            "Oh, Rupa!" he cried.  "I did not mean that you should renounce your life with me here!"

            "I do now what we all must do later," she said.  "Your palace, brother, has rotten foundations."

            Ashoka waved at a door.  "Vajrakaya!" he called.  "Please see my sister."

            The long-haired ascetic whom she had ordered beheaded stepped into the room.  Turning to Rupa, he bowed and said, "Namaste, Rajkumari."  At that moment, the long hair uncoiled from around her wrist and the head fell to the floor, a heap of bone and dust.  Rupa could not speak.

            "Vajrakaya is your real advisor, sister," King Ashoka said.  "It was not right, that you turned the noble ones from your door.  They showed me the way through the tragedy of Kalinga, as they could have shown you."

            Rupa looked at the dust on the floor.  It had almost entirely vanished.  "This clinging is no more," she said, and at that moment she entered the stream that had been murmuring nightly in her ears.  She raised her hands together and made an anjali.  "I am free from the fearful grip of death, my brother.  Honorable Vajrakaya.  But I stand by my decision.  I wish to renounce."

            "The forest life is not for you, Rupa," Ashoka said.  "You have no more death's head to hide in the wilderness.  Pray you join the sangha, sister; join the Order of the Nuns."

            "So be it, brother."

            And it is said that Rupa ever after was mindful of her hand, freed of its weight, and that her insight grew with its every movement, so that with the momentary vanishing of each kalapa, she tasted the bliss of the vajra body.
 

THE END