WILLIAM

RADICE

MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF INDIA
VOLUME 1

PENGUIN BOOKS
 Contents

Note on this edition

Introduction

Myths

1. Before Creation
2. Prajapati’s Seed
3. The Dismemberment
4. Brahma’s Loneliness
5. The Origin of the Ganga
6. Bhagiratha’s Perseverance
7. Narada’s Curse
8. Hanuman’s Birth
9. Hanuman’s Childhood
10. Sunda and Upasunda
11. Hanuman and the Herbs
12. Agni’s Attempt to Hide
13. The Birth of Karttikeya
14. Sita’s Rejection
15. Lava and Kusa
16. The Churning of the Ocean
17. The Drinking of the Ambrosia
18. The Last Journey
19. The Greatest of the Three
20. The Lord of the Dance
21. The Mare of Fire
22. The Birth of Skanda
23. Savitri and Satyavan
24. Yama Relents
25. Satyavan’s Return
26. The Birth of the Mother-Goddess
27. The Birth of Ganesa
28. Devi’s Slaying of the Buffalo
29. The Origin of Body-Parts
30. Siva and Kama

The Mahabharata
 31. The Story of Sakuntala
32. King Yayati’s Adultery
33. The War-Skills Contest
34. Kanika’s Subtle Advice
35. The Lacquered Palace
36. The Slaying of Baka
37. Samvarana and Tapati
38. Draupadi’s Svayamvara
39. The Sarngaka Birds
40. Krishna, Naraka and the Founding of Dvaraka

Legends and Folk-Tales

41. Vararuchi’s Talent

42. The Magic Shoes
43. Angaravati’s Grief
44. The Compassion of King Sivi
45. Yogakarandika’s Wealth
46. The Laughing Fakir
47. How Not to Get to Heaven
48. Foreigner’s Privilege
49. The Impotent King
50. Matches and Mismatches
51. The Brahmin, the Tiger and the Clever Jackal
52. The Virtuous Brahmin’s Children
53. The Children Found
54. The Terrified Ghost
55. The Mouse-Maiden
56. The Buddha and the Tigress
57. The Compassionate Ape
58. Siddhartha’s Marriage and Departure
59. The Buddha’s Return to Yasodhara
60. The Vidyadharis
61. The Moon’s Lake
62. The Two Cheats
63. The Witch’s Dinner
64. The Garland of Fingers
65. The Three Questions

66. Tales of the Tom-Tom Beaters

Bibliography
Glossary
Footnote
Introduction
23. Savitri and Satyavan
Acknowledgements, Sources and Bibliography
Sources
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF INDIA
VOLUME ONE

William Radice has pursued a double career as a poet, and as a scholar and
translator of Bengali. Well known for his translations of the poems and stories of
Tagore, he has also published nine books of his own poems. He taught Bengali
language and literature at SOAS, University of London, from 1988 to 2011. His
literary work in recent years has included opera libretti, and his many books
include Complete Bengali and The Poem of the Killing of Meghnād as well as
Myths and Legends of India. His translation of Tagore’s Gitanjali was published
in 2011, the 150th anniversary of the poet’s birth. It aims to shed an entirely new
light on the book that won Tagore the Nobel Prize.
To my daughters, Helen and Katharine, and my grandchildren, Hugo, Toby,
Rosalie and Matilda
 Note on this edition

Myths and Legends of India was first published by the Folio Society in London
in 2001 in a characteristically sumptuous edition with Indian miniatures from the
British Library and Victoria & Albert Picture Library as illustrations. It appeared
in a plainer hardback edition from Viking Penguin Books India in 2002. At a
meeting at SOAS several years ago, Udayan Mitra of Penguin India—now part
of the Penguin Random House group—suggested the book might do better as
two separate volumes in paperback, and it is these, thanks mainly to kind
assistance from Mrs Monwara Seetul, which are now published.
In addition to the two-volume sharing of myths and folk tales and
Mahabharata extracts, and the revision and updating of the notes to the
Introduction, cross-references have been largely removed. They were felt to be
superfluous. In the glossary, however, cross-references to the elements in the
Introduction have been retained. The list of sources that comes with each volume
applies only to that volume.
It is something of a miracle, given the very serious accident that I met with in
May 2013, that the book has appeared, and for this I give humble thanks. Above
all, I hope readers will enjoy these tales.
 Introduction

Rushing up towards them was a sparkling and seemingly infinite expanse of water. The surface of
Kahani appeared—as far as Haroun’s eye could see—to be entirely liquid. And what water it was! It
shone with colours everywhere, colours in a brilliant riot, colours such as Haroun could never have
imagined. And it was evidently a warm ocean; Haroun could see steam rising off it, steam that
glowed in the sunlight. He caught his breath.
‘The Ocean of the Streams of Story,’ said the Water Genie, his blue whiskers bristling with pride.
‘Wasn’t it worth travelling so far and fast to see?’
Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories1

Salman Rushdie used an ancient and familiar image when he wrote his
enchanting fable about the storyteller Rashid and his son Haroun, in which
Rashid’s storytelling gift is suddenly cut off when Kattam-Shud—the evil Prince
of Silence—poisons and attempts to plug Kahani, the Sea of Stories. In about AD
1070, Somadeva, a Kashmiri Brahmin, wrote in Sanskrit his enormous and
celebrated masterpiece, the Kathasaritsagara,2 which means the ‘ocean [sagara]
of streams [sarit] of story [katha]’. Several of the stories in the present volume
have been taken from that collection, which is like Ovid, Boccaccio, Chaucer
and La Fontaine rolled into one; and versions of many stories that I have taken
from other sources can also be found in it. Somadeva understood that, in Indian
tradition, myths and legends and folk tales shade into one another, and that
together they form a unity. The metaphor of an ocean seems to be the only one
huge and capacious enough to represent something so fluid, so deep, so
changeable in mood, so beautiful yet often so frightening.
The volumes that follow here are my own, reckless attempt to explore that
Ocean. I invite you, the reader, to set sail with me, and stay aboard for as long as
your daring or your energy lasts. You may sometimes feel—as I often did when
writing the book—that you are in danger of sinking. But when you reach the
shore again, I think you will feel exhilarated, and your life will never be the
same again.
As a specialist in Bengali language and literature, I have often been aware that
the literary works I have studied or translated are like ships floating on the
Indian Ocean of Stories. By using dictionaries and reference books I have tried
Indian Ocean of Stories. By using dictionaries and reference books I have tried
to understand what they owe to the Ocean; how, without it, they wouldn’t float
at all. But one has to embark on a longer, riskier voyage—as, for the first time, I
have in this book—to appreciate its full extent and variety.
To convey that range, here are some notes on just a few of the ships in which I
have previously sailed. Some of them, through translation or through
transformation into divergent media, have travelled to other oceans, to float on
waters from the Western tradition.
The Poetry of Michael Madhusudan Dutt (1824–1873). Acknowledged as the
founder of modern Bengali poetry and drama, Madhusudan could not have
conceived his masterpiece, the epic poem Meghnad Badh Kabya, written in the
early 1860s, without India’s epic and mythological tradition. Based on the story
of the Ramayana—which tells of the abduction of Rama’s wife, Sita, by Ravana,
the demonic king of Lanka, and her rescue by Rama and his brother Lakshmana,
assisted by the monkey-god Hanuman—it concentrates on the death of Ravana’s
son Meghnad and on Ravana’s final defeat, projecting both father and son as
tragic heroes rather than as demons. Madhusudan was a Christian convert, and
was very well read in European literature. His poem was influenced in its
structure and tone by Homer, Virgil, Dante and Milton; but the depths of the
Ocean on which he sailed were Indian. He made this plain in his exuberant
English letters:

I am going on with Meghnad by fits and starts. Perhaps the poem will be finished by the end of the
year. I am glad you like the opening lines. I must tell you, my dear fellow, that though, as a jolly
Christian youth, I don’t care a pin’s head for Hinduism, I love the grand mythology of our ancestors.
It is full of poetry. A fellow with an inventive head can manufacture the most beautiful things out of
it.3

Madhusudan was the subject of my D.Phil. thesis (1987); but I haven’t really
plumbed his mythological depths until now.4
The Poetry of Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941). The great Bengali poet,
whose works I have been reading and translating for most of my adult life,
constructed numerous ships that sailed on the Ocean, and several of them can be
found in the Selected Poems of Tagore that I translated for Penguin.5 He was
particularly fascinated by the mythology of Siva, building not only on
mythological tradition but the presentation of that tradition by the greatest
classical Sanskrit poet, Kalidasa, who lived sometime between AD 350 and 600.
‘The Birth of Karttikeya’ (Volume One, pp. 28–30) and ‘The Birth of Skanda’
(Volume One, pp. 54–58) in the present work tell the stories that were the basis
of Kalidasa’s poem Kumarasambhava; and the efforts made by Kama, god of
love, to wake Siva out of his ascetic trance (see ‘Siva and Kama’, Volume One,
pp. 84–87), which were also included by Kalidasa, inspired Tagore’s
magnificent poem, ‘The Wakening of Siva’.6
Another fine poem by Tagore, not included in my Penguin book, is ‘To
Ahalya’, first published in 1890. In ‘The Seduction of Ahalya’ (Volume Two,
pp. 90–92), I have retold the various versions that exist of this myth. In his
poem, Tagore does not focus on how or why Ahalya was cursed; instead, he is
fascinated by her state of consciousness after she has been turned into a stone,
and by what goes through her mind when she is restored to life by the touch of
Rama’s foot. At the end of the poem, Tagore himself uses an ocean metaphor,
which will remind Indian readers of the emergence of Vishnu’s wife, Lakshmi,
from the churning of the primeval World-Ocean, and Westerners of Botticelli’s
Birth of Venus:

The world smiles; you recognise that smile.

You gaze; your heart swings back from the far past,
Traces its lost steps. In a sudden rush,
All round, your former knowledge of life returns;
The world crowds in upon you, presses close
In wonder, marvels before your newly revealed
Mysterious beauty, wholly grown, yet bathed
In infancy—a flower that on one stem
Combines the new with the full-formed. Like first
Created dawn, you slowly rise from the blue
Sea of forgetfulness. You stare entranced;
The world, too, is speechless; face to face
Beside a sea of mystery none can cross,
You know afresh what you have always known.7

Bisakha Sarker, a Bengali dancer based in Liverpool, has danced to the words of
this translation. When she does, she connects not just with Tagore but with a
whole civilization.
The Music of Param Vir (1952–). One thing that distinguishes the Indian
mythological tradition from European traditions is that—like Hinduism itself—it
has been unbroken for more than three thousand years. Although Western artists,
musicians and writers have continued to this day to go back to the Greek and
Latin classics, the mythology of the Greeks and Romans has not survived in the
collective memory of the peoples of Europe. This is partly because of the break
in the classical tradition that resulted from Christianity; partly because separate
traditions of mythology and folklore—such as the Nordic, Germanic or Celtic—
developed independently of classical mythology or Christianity, though they
sometimes blended with either or both. In India, by contrast, a creative artist can
use his country’s most ancient stories with the knowledge that they will still be
alive in the minds of his audience.
The Indian-born composer Param Vir, with whom I have collaborated on
several projects, composes in a Western idiom and his audiences are mainly in
the West; the Indian sources he has used in several of his works may therefore
not be known to all his listeners. They are ships with Indian cargo, sailing on to
Western seas. But for him, the sources have a deep, inherited familiarity; though,
like many modern Indians, he has sometimes had to discover them anew through
English translations.
One such discovery was Tagore’s poem, ‘Brahma, Vishnu, Siva’ (1883),
which is the first poem in my Penguin volume.8 The poem evokes, with clarity
and power, the separate identities and roles of the Hindu ‘triad’: Brahma the
Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and Siva the Destroyer. Commissioned by the
London Sinfonietta Voices in 1988, Param Vir set my translation for six
unaccompanied vocalists;9 but in conceiving the work he found that my English
text wasn’t quite enough: he needed to go further back, to sounds that were
Indian, and to poetry that belonged to the very origins of Hinduism.
He chose to use the words of the so-called ‘Creation Hymn’ in the Rig Veda,
India’s oldest and most sacred text, which was composed in Vedic, the precursor
of Sanskrit. Not only do the words of the text—with their long, sonorous vowels
—interweave wonderfully with Tagore’s words, but they also demonstrate the
capacity that Indians had right at the dawn of their civilization for reaching out
imaginatively to what might lie beyond the gods:
 [There was neither non-existence nor existence then; there was neither the realm of space nor the sky
which is beyond. What stirred? Where? In whose protection? Was there water, bottomlessly deep?]11

This is the basis of the first retelling in Volume One (pp. 3–4) of the present
work, for any selection of Hindu creation myths must include that early Vedic
speculation on what might lie behind them—behind Creation itself.
Param Vir made his name in the West with his double bill of chamber operas,
Snatched by the Gods and Broken Strings (1992).12 Both operas are profoundly
connected to the Indian Ocean of Stories by their sources: the narrative poem,
Debotar Grash (1900), by Tagore from which I made the libretto for the first;
and the Buddhist tale, Guttila Jataka from which David Rudkin made the
libretto for the second. But before that major project, Param Vir returned to the
group of young performers he had previously worked with in Delhi to compose a
children’s musical, Krishna (1988). I wrote most of the lyrics for it, and I hope
that one day it will be performed in the West too. In this work, a very different
stratum of Indian tradition is exploited, one which has wide popularity to this
day: the mythology of the young Krishna, the flute-playing herdboy, whose
exploits can be found on pp. 85–90 of Volume Two of the present work:

I know a good place,

The wooded and fertile Vrindavan,
Where flowers and fruits bloom,
Also in Vraj but near the Govardhan hill,
Govardhan hill—
A place of magic and bounty.
A breeze blows there—
The spreading Bhandira fig-tree
Gives shade like a rain-cloud;
The Yamuna river flows calmly, coolly.
It’s time to go there,
It’s time to move on to Vrindavan . . .13

Because of the threat posed by Kamsa—the demon who has usurped the throne
of Mathura—Krishna and the community of herdsmen in which he and his
brother Balaram have grown up move to the idyllic region of Vrindavan where,
brother Balaram have grown up move to the idyllic region of Vrindavan where,
as a young man, he enjoys the love of Radha and the other milkmaids (see
Volume Two, pp. 92–96).
Vrindavan as an idea is at least five hundred years old, yet it is still very much
alive in the collective consciousness of India.
The Foolish Weaver and the Jackal. For myths, legends and folk tales to
survive, they must implant themselves in the minds of successive generations of
children. My first translation from Bengali was of The Book of the Tailor-Bird
(Tun-tunir Bai, 1910), a classic volume of children’s tales by Upendrakishore
Raychaudhuri, the grandfather of film director Satyajit Ray. Though
Upendrakishore made up many of the stories himself, in his use of animal
characters he was building on a tradition of Indian fables that is immortalized in
two Sanskrit collections, the Panchatantra (AD 200–600) and Hitopadesa (AD
c.1360). Animals also play a major part in folk tales from all parts of the
subcontinent. My translation was first published as The Stupid Tiger and Other
Tales.14 Almost any page from it rests on the Ocean of Stories. The following
extract, from ‘The Story of the Foolish Weaver and the Jackal’, in which a clever
jackal tricks a king into marrying his daughter to a foolish weaver, reminds us
that the stories of India depend on the sounds of India: on the sounds of her
languages, and the sounds of birds and animals. The jackal here has recruited a
large number of birds and animals to form what sounds to the king like a very
impressive entourage for the bridegroom:

When they were a couple of miles away from the palace, the jackal called everyone and said,
‘Brothers, over there are the lights of the king’s palace. From now on you must proceed very slowly.
I shall run on ahead meanwhile to give the king news of our arrival.’
‘All right,’ said all the birds and animals.
‘Just sing together once before I go,’ said the jackal. ‘Let’s see how strong your voices are.’
Immediately, five thousand jackals began to howl, ‘Hooya, hooya, hooya!’
Twelve thousand frogs went, ‘Crawk, crawk, creeca, creeca!’
Seven thousand mynah-birds went, ‘Pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy!’
Two thousand tree-pies went, ‘Chincha-chincha, chanch, chanch, chincha!’
Four thousand doves went, ‘Cooroo, cooroo, cooroo!’
Three thousand crow-pheasants went, ‘Poot, poot, poot, poot, poot, poot!’
Nineteen hundred fishing-eagles went, ‘Hong-ah, hong-ah, hong-ah, oho, ho ho ho!’
And the cuckoos, peacocks and brain-fever birds all joined in and went on and on making their
own sounds.
You would need to have been there to know just what all this sounded like. When the courtiers
heard it approaching they began to quake with fright; and when the jackal came to announce the
bridegroom’s arrival, the king very nervously inquired, ‘Scholar jackal, what is that din?’
 ‘That is the noise of our musicians and attendants,’ said the jackal.15

These four ships—the last one carrying a cargo as raucous as the Indian dawn
chorus—are just a personal selection. There are many more ships I could have
described, in which I have not myself sailed, though I have come to know some
of them through teaching. One would be Peter Brook’s celebrated dramatization
of the Mahabharata (script by Jean-Claude Carrière),16 that caused a sensation
when it was performed worldwide in the 1980s. From that same decade, and
regarded in India as a home-grown rival to Brook’s version, was the ninety-
three-episode televization of the epic for India’s national network, Doordarshan,
directed by B.R. Chopra and Ravi Chopra (Hindi script by Rahi Masoom
Reza).17 This was also shown on Britain’s BBC Two between 1990 and 1992.
Then there is South Asia’s thriving modern literature in English. Rushdie
himself, of course, floats on the Ocean; another very fine writer who does is
Shashi Tharoor who, in The Great Indian Novel18, superimposes, with wit and
panache, the leading figures in the nationalist struggle (Gandhi, Nehru, Jinnah et
al.) on to the heroes and villains of the Mahabharata. There is Bollywood, the
Hindi movie industry, into whose own vast and colourful ocean Indian
mythology continues to flow, along with numerous other streams. There are all
the traditional, still vigorous performance traditions of India, such as the song
and dance versions of the ‘Ras-lila’, representing the love of Radha and Krishna,
or the ‘Ram-lila’, commemorating Rama’s victory over Ravana. There is Amar
Chitra Katha (‘Immortal Illustrated Stories’), the very popular series of cartoon-
strip versions of Indian myths and legends that are published by India Book
House in English and several Indian languages, which are keeping traditional
stories alive among Indian children today, and which I brought back in armfuls
for my own daughters when they were small, each time I returned from India.
That is just to represent the modern period. If we go back—to the use of
mythology by Kalidasa and other Sanskrit court poets; to the medieval
vernacular versions of the Ramayana by Tulsidas (in Hindi), Krittibas (in
Bengali) and others; to the infinite uses to which myths and legends were put in
art and sculpture and music—then the ships become far too numerous to count.
Many of them, as they sink into the Ocean and their authors are in some cases
forgotten, are themselves put to use. When Madhusudan Dutt wrote his epic
based on the Ramayana, he wasn’t just relying on the Sanskrit text by Valmiki,
but also the medieval Bengali version by Krittibas that his mother had recited to
him.
How can we describe or define the Ocean as a whole? If we add to the central,
Hindu mass of its waters, the streams of Buddhism, Jainism, Islam, tribal
cultures and even Christianity (said to have been brought to India by St Thomas
in AD 52)—all of which I have tried to represent in this book—then, it might
seem so diverse as to be beyond description. But at least three ways of looking at
it seem essential: its evolution over time; its consistent themes and traits; and its
four main genres—myth, epic, legend and folk tale.

Evolution. The casual reader of these volumes, dipping in at random, is likely to

be puzzled by quite a lot that he finds, and this is inevitable, for Indian stories
are seldom tidy or conclusive. As Shashi Tharoor puts it in The Great Indian
Novel, speaking—as Vyasa, the legendary author of the Mahabharata, is
supposed to have done—to his amanuensis Ganesa:

What happened in the end? The question drew me short. The end was not a concept that applied
particularly to that story—which, as it happens, involved one of the characters embarking upon
another story in which one of the characters tells another story and . . . you know the genre . . . But
even more important, ‘the end’ was an idea that I suddenly realized meant nothing to me. I did not
begin the story in order to end it; the essence of the tale lay in the telling. ‘What happened next?’ I
could answer, but ‘what happened in the end?’ I could not even understand.19

But one question that is likely to arise at the outset is: who is the chief or king of
the gods? Is it Indra? Is it the Creator-god Prajapati, later called Brahma? Is it
Siva or Vishnu? Is it Durga or Kali, the mother-goddesses who are embodiments
of Siva’s sakti, or consort? Is it Krishna? Or the perfect man, Rama?
The fact that it is difficult to answer this question derives partly from the
infinite variety of Hindu worship: for the devotee, the chief god is whoever he or
she is worshipping at that particular time. But confusion also arises from the
historical layers out of which Hinduism has been built up, though pinning those
layers down to a precise chronology is impossible.
The earliest mythology, preserved in Vedic texts, is the mythology of the Rig
Veda, which was shared to a large extent by the ancient inhabitants of Iran and
their texts written in Avestan, a language closely related to Vedic. Even within
the Vedic period we find an evolution: one god giving way in importance to
another. Instead of an equivalent to Zeus (cognate with Dyu, which means ‘sky’
in Vedic), it is Indra, a god of the middle air, who emerges as ‘the Thunderer’
and who continues to be described as ‘king of the gods’ well into the classical
period of Hinduism, when Brahma, Vishnu and Siva become far more important
than him. Before Indra’s emergence, Varuna—later known as the god of the
Ocean—was perhaps another contender for supremacy: a post-Vedic myth tells
of how Indra stole from him his life-giving capacity to make thunder and rain.
The second great historical phase after the Vedic period is that represented by
texts called the Brahmanas, theological manuals for Brahmin priests that were
composed from about 600 BC. In these we see the evolution of deities more
comprehensive and universal in their power than the Vedic ones, who were
mainly associated with natural phenomena (Air, Ocean, Fire, and so on).
Prajapati is initially defined as the original Creator-god, and is at the centre of
many Creation myths. He is then identified with Brahma, because of the
closeness of the name to the impersonal, absolute Spirit, Brahman. (Brahma,
with a long ‘a’ at the end, is the masculine of the neuter, impersonal Brahman.)
The storm-god Rudra coalesces with the destructive power of Siva. Vishnu
achieves eminence as a god whose benign and supportive power is a challenge to
Siva’s fluctuations between wild erotic energy and austere asceticism. As
Nataraja, Lord of the Dance, so wonderfully portrayed in south Indian bronze
sculptures, Siva becomes associated with the apocalyptic end to which each
cycle of the universe must come.
The period of the Brahmanas also sees a formal separation between gods and
demons. The Rakshasas, Danavas and Daityas acquire their distinctive demonic
features. ‘Asura’—by a false etymology—comes to mean ‘anti-god’ (sura means
‘god’, a- is a negative prefix), whereas in early Vedic texts the word meant
‘lord’ or ‘supreme god’. Many myths tell of wars between gods and demons.
With the great epic of India, the Mahabharata, the longest poem in the world,
we enter a third phase, one in which the activities of gods become much more
intertwined with the legendary history of the human race. Its language is epic
Sanskrit, transitional between Vedic and classical Sanskrit.
Finally, with the period of the Puranas, we reach the consolidation both of
orthodox Hinduism and of classical Sanskrit. The second great epic of India, the
Ramayana—written in Sanskrit in the first or second century AD, but possibly
current before that in Prakrit versions—is at the beginning of this period;20 the
Puranas themselves were still being written up to the nineteenth century. Their
language is classical Sanskrit, and each Purana is associated with a particular
deity—Vishnu, Narada, Krishna (in the Bhagavata Purana), Garuda, etc.
Because different deities attracted divergent followings, the Puranas often give
us versions of myths that are biased towards their chosen deity. In the present
work, sectarian rivalry between Siva and Vishnu can be seen in ‘The Greatest of
the Three’ (Volume One, pp. 44–47) and in the different attitudes to Siva’s
lingam in ‘Siva Discards His Lingam’ (Volume Two, pp. 24–27) and ‘Siva
Accursed’ (Volume Two, pp. 27–29).
From the Puranic period derives the Hindu iconography that is standard to this
day: Siva with his trident and his tigerskin to sit on, his third eye (with which he
blasted the god of love, Kama, to ashes), the serpent and string of skulls round
his neck, and his coiled, matted hair holding up the waters of the Ganga; Vishnu
with his four arms, his mace and conch and discus, and the Kaustubha jewel on
his breast; Lakshmi, wife of Vishnu, with a lotus in her hand; Durga, wife of
Siva who, in her most terrifying incarnation, Kali, has human blood dripping
from her eyes, a long tongue ready to lick up blood, skulls around her body,
snakes around her neck and a weapon in each of her ten hands.

Themes and Traits. Vastness, copiousness—such words come readily when

speaking of Indian literature or mythology. Although the reader of this work will
find great variety, he will also find unity; and one thing that unifies Indian
storytelling is the size of the Indian imagination. The mythology of Greece
seems small-scale in comparison, attuned perhaps to the smallness of the Greek
islands. But Indian mythology is on a scale as massive as the Himalayas, the
region where the gods dwell. Its timescales are vast, as are its distances through
space or the number of its gods (33,00,00,003 of them, it is believed).21 Yet,
given that human beings can generally relate time only to their own lifespans,
and that the age and distance that modern science has discovered in the universe
are very hard for us to comprehend, it is one of the marvels of ancient India that
an imaginative leap was made to such enormous measurements. For example:
there are traditionally four yugas, or ages, in the history of the world—we are
living in the last, which is the worst and the shortest, though it began in 3102 BC.
In the first age, the Golden Age of Truth, a human lifetime was 4000 years. The
four yugas make up one mahayuga, or ‘great yuga’, lasting 43,20,000 human
years. A thousand mahayugas make one day, or kalpa (cycle of creation), in the
life of Brahma, or 4,32,00,00,000 human years. One night, or pralaya (cycle of
destruction), in the life of Brahma is equal to another 4,32,00,00,000 human
years. Brahma lives for a hundred of his years, and is at present in his fifty-first
year . . .
In many myths, hugeness of scale is combined with another common trait: the
cult of tapas, or asceticism. By performing ascetic feats on a scale of time and
difficulty that matches the gods themselves, rishis can challenge the power of the
gods, and frequently become a threat to them.
Tapas is powerful because it can break the otherwise-relentless cycle of birth
and rebirth that is another perennial concept in the Indian tradition. Hindus are
fatalistic, but not so much because they believe they are at the mercy of
whimsical gods, but because they believe that they carry the good or bad karma
that results from their actions in previous lives. Karma is retributive: the best
way to ensure that your karma will be good in your next life is to act according
to your dharma in your current one. Dharma means doing what is right according
to your station in life; its opposite, adharma, means doing what is not right.
Dharma underpins the caste system, and also accounts for an easy-going attitude
to demons in many myths. Demons have a dharma too: in abducting Sita,
Ravana was only doing what his demonic dharma told him to do.
Tapas is but one of a multitude of spiritual disciplines that can enable human
beings to achieve moksha, or release, from the cycle of birth and rebirth. For
Buddhists too, this is a paramount goal, and they call ultimate release ‘nirvana’,
or the extinction of the light of selfhood. The Buddha was profound and original
in his teaching, and Buddhism became a great religion, distinct from Hinduism,
that spread far beyond India; but in its cultivation of features such as the guru–
disciple system, the practice of meditation, or the ideal of the ashram—
preferably in a secluded forest location—it kept India and her traditions at its
heart.22
One Hindu trait that did not, however, win lasting acceptance was the
eroticism that is found in abundance in many of the stories in this book.
Buddhism generally eschewed it; and when Islam and (colonial) Christianity
entered India, the worship of the lingam as an emblem of Siva, the exuberant
entered India, the worship of the lingam as an emblem of Siva, the exuberant
sexuality of Hindu temple sculpture, or the extravagant and joyous amours of
Krishna were roundly condemned—so much so that Hindu reform movements in
the nineteenth and twentieth centuries themselves became puritanical.
In some respects, one turns to ancient Indian mythology, or the Mahabharata,
to escape from the pieties of Hinduism of more recent times. Thus, in The Great
Indian Novel, King Pandu encourages his wife Kunti to give him sons by other
fathers, saying:

‘Our present concept of morality isn’t really Hindu at all; it is a legacy both of the Muslim invasion
and of the superimposition of Victorian prudery on a people already puritanized by purdah. One man
married to one woman, both remaining faithful to each other, is a relatively new idea, which does not
enjoy the traditional sanction of custom . . . So I really don’t mind you sleeping with another man to
give me a son. It may seem funny to you, but the deeper I steep myself in our traditions, the more
liberal I become.’23

Hinduism, like any religion, can produce fanatics, and the modern, essentially
secular state of India has to contend with them; but at their best, the traditions of
India, as reflected in her myths and stories, are all-embracing and tolerant. It has
always been recognized in India that there are many paths to Truth, and that
what is appropriate for one person may not be appropriate for another. A sadhu,
or holy man, may choose the path of yoga, or union, between Atman (soul) and
Brahman (the absolute), using whatever system of spiritual discipline he prefers;
but that is not for everyone. Moreover, life should be lived in a way that suits
one’s stage in life, as well as one’s caste, or station.24
To divide one’s life into stages is another Indian tradition, and the four main
stages are: Brahmacharya, or the period of celibate abstinence in adolescence
and devotion to study under a guru; Grihasthya, or the stage of being a married
householder; Vanaprasthya, or ‘forest-departure’—retirement from the world to
live an austere life in the forest; and Sannyasa, or the renunciation of all material
possessions in preparation for death.
Tapas, karma, dharma, moksha, yoga, the four stages of life: these key
concepts, so briefly sketched here, do not govern all aspects of the stories in this
book; but they are the skeleton, so to speak, without which their infinite variety
of passion, humour, magic, fantasy and mystery could not be fleshed out.
Genres. In Sanskrit poetics, divergent literary genres are defined; and the phases
in the evolution of Hindu mythology outlined above are also to some extent
distinctions of genre. But, in a broad compilation such as this work, aimed at the
contemporary reader, we need some equally broad distinctions; and the most
workable seem to me to be myth, epic, legend and folk tale.
Myths are about gods or demons, and are not historical. Legends are about
human beings—though gods may intervene—and they purport to be historical
and may or may not have an actual historical basis. Folk tales emerge from
smaller communities: from speakers of a common dialect, from those familiar
with a particular locality. They are usually not directly linked to the big picture
that myths give us nor to the pseudo-historicity of legends.
In each of the present two volumes, the first part consists of myths; the third
part consists of legends and folk tales mixed together. But the impossibility of
keeping myths, legends and folk tales wholly apart is demonstrated by the
central sections, with their ten extracts in each volume from P. Lal’s English
transcreation of the Mahabharata.
As well as running his Kolkata-based Writers Workshop publishing imprint
for more than fifty years, Professor Purushottama Lal (1929–2010) was a tireless
translator of Indian literary classics, and gave particular service to the
Mahabharata. In 1980, he produced a condensed prose telling of the epic—
probably the best that has been done in English;25 and in 1968, he published the
first volume, or ‘fascicle’, of a complete translation, in free-flowing, highly
readable verse. Over three hundred fascicules were to follow and, on 31 October
1999, in the Library of the Birla Hall in Kolkata, Lal began a weekly public
reading of his version that attracted a devoted audience and was also televized.26
No book on Indian myths and legends can ignore the Mahabharata; and by
placing it centrally here, between the myths and the other stories, I hope to have
brought out its status as a bridge between mythology and history, and as an
endlessly expandable vessel into which every kind of story can be poured. It is,
in truth, the ultimate literary Gesamtwerk—an epic so capacious that it absorbs
into its 1,00,000 slokas, or couplets, divided into eighteen parvas, or volumes,
almost every main Hindu myth, a summary of its sister epic the Ramayana,
besides a great deal of philosophy, theology, genealogy and folklore.27
In my central sections, therefore, I have used the words of P. Lal, though I
have selected the extracts myself and added introductions to each one.
have selected the extracts myself and added introductions to each one.
Elsewhere, the stories are in my own words, though each one derives from at
least one published source, and grateful acknowledgement is made to the authors
of those sources in Volume Two, pp. 461–462.
In my retelling, I have tried to remember that India’s storytelling traditions are
essentially oral. Even the great composed texts of Sanskrit literature were
memorized and passed on orally; hence their inevitable alterations and accretions
over time. But the texts that we have, whether in Sanskrit or in modern Indian
languages, often lack the embroidery, jokes, drama, emotion and suspense that
popular tellers or performers of the stories would always have added, and
continue to add to this day. Using fewer words than an itinerant storyteller would
use, I have nevertheless tried to feel my way into the stories: convey in English
their emotions and humour—make them come alive.
In so doing, I have, I hope, launched a new ship on to the Ocean that—like my
translations from Bengali—will sail beyond India herself. Let me give the last
word, before you climb aboard, to Michael Madhusudan Dutt, the pioneering
Bengali poet. In a sonnet published in 1866 called, ‘The Ship on the Sea’, which
I translated in 1976, he gives us an image to which I would like this book to
aspire, along with the very Indian simile with which the sonnet concludes:

I saw one night a ship on a strange sea,

Shaped like a huge nightfaring magic bird,
Her sails spread wide on air that slowly stirred
Their glimmering whiteness onward, steadily.
A string of lamps about the high cross-tree
Burned like a crown of gems of mingled hue,
Stupendous red and yellow, white and blue.
All round the frothing waves sang fulsomely,
Swelling as if to hymn her handsomeness,
Praising in joy her courage, form and might.
She swept her way, as when a path is cleared
Before a high-born maiden’s proud progress.
Nobly she moved, spreading her path with light,
Just as a snake sheds glory, crest upreared.28

William Radice
2001/2015
Myths
 1. Before Creation

There are many ancient stories in India about Creation, but the authors of her
oldest songs and poems—the hymns of the Rig Veda—also pondered on what
existed or did not exist before Creation. They looked up at the sky by day, and at
the huge expanse of space by night, and thought about how even the emptiness
of space at one time had not existed; they imagined a realm in which there was
neither existence nor non-existence—yet there must have been a stirring in it if,
out of that nothingness, Creation could emerge. In the world we know, actors
precede action; but before Creation, action must somehow have preceded the
actors. It was like a stirring in an infinitely deep, bottomless ocean—yet there
was no water and no ocean.
Death did not exist, but immortality did not exist either, as there was no
eternity. Day did not exist, and neither did night. The darkness that we know was
hidden by another sort of darkness that we cannot imagine. The life force—the
seed, the spark, the thought, the impulse that was the source of Creation—was
hidden by an emptiness, but not the emptiness seen when we look up at the space
between the stars. Yet somehow desire arose, desire that generates heat; and
from that stirring of desire, and from the heat that it generated, Creation began.
Poets have some inkling of this, for their poems—the creative action of their
poems—begin with a stirring that lies beyond thought. A seed is sown in the
mind of a poet, a seed that is the desire for a poem. The seed seems to come
from nowhere, and the depths, the watery depths of the mind of a poet, seem not
to exist anywhere either. Maybe the depths within which the desire for Creation
first stirred were like the bottomless mind of a poet.
Before Creation there were no points or places; there were no distances or
dimensions; no above or below. There were no ties or bonds; no measurements
or limits. But somehow, when Creation began, limits were introduced. Maybe at
the very beginning—as the first step towards Creation, before its energy started,
before the seed burst into fire—a cord was stretched, a cord separating yet
uniting, the first limitation in a realm that had no limits. Henceforth, above and
below, here and there, left and right were possible; and from those first limits the
below, here and there, left and right were possible; and from those first limits the
other limits of the universe sprang—dark and light, past and future, life and
death, death and immortality, earth and heaven.
From the seed came a power that engendered more powers—gods that made
the varieties of life that we know, from plants to animals, from insects and
reptiles and fish and birds and mammals to Man. Of the creation of Man, and of
the male and female that form the whole Man—like the male and female that
form the whole Fish or Bird or Mammal—there are many stories, as many as
there are poets to conceive of and give birth to those stories.
But what came before everything? What came before the gods? What came
before Creation itself? The gods have made many things, but they did not make
Creation itself, any more than the men and women who engender new life have
created the power to make life. Many stories say that the gods created the world
and the universe, but that cannot be so, for the gods themselves came after
Creation. Maybe there is One who looks down on the whole of Creation and
knows how it all began; or maybe even he doesn’t know.
 2. Prajapati’s Seed

To the god whose seed was the source of the creatures of the earth, the name
first given was Prajapati. He had a daughter who could take many forms—the
sky, the dawn, the animals of the earth. He had a daughter but he had no wife, so
when he started to long for a mate who could satisfy his relentless desires, he
thought of his daughter. He longed for her with a desire he should not have had;
so when he saw she had become a doe he turned himself into a stag. The other
gods saw him approach her, saw him preparing to mate with his daughter, and
they said, ‘This is not right—Prajapati is doing what should never be done. One
of us must punish him.’
The whole company of the gods was assembled, and they picked out the
angriest, most frightening, most violent of the gods to punish Prajapati—Rudra,
the red-faced roarer, god of thunder and tempests. They asked him to pierce
Prajapati with an arrow from his mighty bow.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Rudra, ‘but I want to have something in return.’
‘Whatever you wish,’ said the gods.
He chose to be master of the world’s herds, which is why another name for
Rudra, Pasupati, means ‘lord of herds’.
Rudra took aim with his bow, pulled back the string with maximum anger and
strength, and released the arrow. Prajapati was pierced, and rose into the sky to
become the constellation of stars that is called ‘the Deer’. His daughter—Rohini,
the Doe—became another constellation, and Rudra too can be seen in the sky as
Sirius, known as ‘the Deer-hunter’. The arrow became the Belt of Orion, close to
the Deer and the Doe.
Rudra’s arrow had pierced Prajapati just as he was about to mount his
daughter, just as his seed shot forth—so it was spilt on the ground. He was a god
—his seed was not like human seed; it ran like a river and became a great lake.
The gods said, ‘This seed, this lake of seed, should not be wasted, should not be
left to go bad.’
They called on the fire-god Agni to surround the lake, but fire alone was not
enough to ignite it. So they called on the Maruts, the fearsome storm-gods that
enough to ignite it. So they called on the Maruts, the fearsome storm-gods that
are Rudra’s retinue, and are bodyguards to Indra, king of the gods too. Every
aspect of the wind has a Marut—wind-speed, wind-force, wind-destroyer, wind-
whirligig and more; and the Maruts combining with Agni ignited and combusted
the lake. The sun was created from it, and Varuna, god of the oceans.
The lake blazed till its power died down and congealed into coals—which
Agni and the Maruts reignited, whipped up to a new inferno from which sages
were born who can turn things to fire when moved to anger. And Brihaspati too,
‘lord of sacred speech’, eloquent preceptor of the gods, was born from that great
conflagration.
The lake burned till it was nothing but chars and cinders. The black cinders
became black cattle, and the fire-reddened earth became tawny cattle, and the
ashes of the fire became buffalo, oxen, antelopes, camels and donkeys.
Rudra as lord of herds claimed all these for his own, but the gods, by singing a
hymn that praised him, persuaded him to let others too own them.
Thus—though Prajapati attempted to do to his daughter what he should not do
—were created new gods, sages and animals. Sometimes right can come from
wrong.
 3. The Dismemberment

We are used to a world with many men and women, but at the very beginning—
so says a hymn in the Rig Veda—there was only one, a stupendous giant, a Man
who was also a woman. He had not just one head, but a thousand heads; not just
two eyes or feet but a thousand eyes and feet. Instead of walking the earth as a
single man among millions, he filled the whole earth. His limbs reached out and
enveloped it on every side, and the fingers of his thousands of hands extended
beyond it, to a length of ten fingers. Heaven was contained in him, and all the
gods: earth and its mortal creatures were but a quarter of him—three-quarters
were the gods and the immortality of the gods. He consumed the food of the
earth, and in so doing grew greater than the earth.
He was a Man, a gigantic, all-consuming and all-pervading Man; yet woman
was within him, and when in time he desired her, her body became separate from
his, so that they could reunite and have children and give rise to all the earth’s
creatures.
The gods, because the Man was so great, and because they were contained in
him and felt humbled by him, wished to offer him a sacrifice. The sacrifice had
to be as great as he was, and because he filled the whole world and all that was
in the world made up the body of the Man, they had to use his body to perform
their sacrifice to him. And they needed great things too for the ritual of the
sacrifice: clarified butter was not enough, a fire of sticks was not enough, water
was not enough for the oblations they wished to make. So they used the seasons
—spring with its flowers and birdsong instead of the clarified butter, summer
with its scorching heat for the fire, autumn with its gentle showers of rain for the
anointing of the vast Man.
All the gods, and all the saints and sages who, by their virtue and austerity,
were striving to become gods, took part in the ritual. But the mantras and
oblations were not enough: the Man himself had to be sacrificed in order to
make a fit sacrifice to him. His great limbs, his thousands of heads and eyes and
hands and feet had to be dismembered; and from that dismemberment, and from
the collecting of the fat that ran when his huge body was burnt in the sacrificial
the collecting of the fat that ran when his huge body was burnt in the sacrificial
fire, all of the world’s creatures were born.
The creatures of earth, water and air were born: the birds whose song fills the
trees of villages, the succulent fish that fill rivers and lakes, the cows that yield
milk, the oxen that draw carts and ploughs. The trees of the forest were born, and
the fruits and flowers of those trees; and the crops and vegetables that had been
the food of the one Man, but were now the food of many.
The dismembered limbs and organs of the Man became sections of the people:
his mouth became the priestly Brahmins, his arms became the warfaring
Kshatriyas, his thighs became the trading and money-making Vaisyas and his
feet became the labouring Sudras.
And because earth and heaven and indeed the whole universe were contained
in the Man, out of his dismemberment came the bodies of heaven—the sun from
his eyes, the moon from his mind, the fire-god Agni from his mouth, the wind
from his breath. From his head came the sky; from his navel, the space
underneath the sky; from his feet came the earth underfoot; and from his ears
came north, south, east and west.
The Man was sacrificed in the fire, as a sacrifice to the Man himself—bound
and dismembered like a beast, to create the world and bring order to the world.
 4. Brahma’s Loneliness

In India’s oldest stories about Creation, the Creator-god Prajapati and the Man
who filled the whole world and who was dismembered to make the forms and
creatures of the world were sometimes seen as one and the same. Later, Prajapati
was called Brahma. The story that follows is told of Brahma; but it could also
have been about the Man, or about Prajapati.
At the beginning of Creation, when Brahma was alone and filled the whole
world, he began to feel afraid. One who is alone can easily feel afraid, but
Brahma asked himself, ‘Why should I be afraid? With no one in the world but
me, who is there to frighten me?’ So his fear faded away.
But he did not feel happy. How can one who is entirely alone feel happy? He
began to long for a companion, for a mate with whom he could feel one and
united, not alone. As the only one in the world, Brahma had both male and
female in him. So when he began to long for a mate, his desire separated the
male from the female. Before this happened, he was formed like a male and
female locked in deepest embrace. But when he separated the male from the
female, they fell away from each other, so that love and desire could bring them
together again.
Before, there was only Brahma, who filled the whole world and the emptiness
of the space around the world. But now there was another who filled that
emptiness, and who banished Brahma’s loneliness.
But she was worried: she knew that she had come from Brahma himself. She
asked herself, ‘How can he unite with me after begetting me himself? He is my
father. Can it be right that a father should fulfil his desire by uniting bodily with
his daughter? This is sinful and shameful—let me hide from the shame and the
sin by disguising myself.’
So she turned herself into a cow; but Brahma immediately became a bull and
mated with her—and that is how all the cattle of the world were created. Then
she turned herself into a mare; but Brahma immediately became a stallion and
mated with her—and that is how all the horses of the world were created. Then
she turned herself into a she-goat; but Brahma immediately became a billy-goat
she turned herself into a she-goat; but Brahma immediately became a billy-goat
and mated with her—and that is how all the goats of the world were created.
Then she turned herself into a ewe; but Brahma became a ram and mated with
her—and that is how all the sheep of the world were created. And so it went on:
birds, reptiles, fish, even flies and ants and worms were created in this way, by
Brahma mating with his daughter who disguised herself in one form after
another, out of shame at his insatiable desire for her.
The world is made up of those who eat and that which is eaten. The hunger for
food, the consuming of it to turn it into power and energy, is like a fire. To create
that fire, Brahma made the fire-god Agni. The fire came out of his mouth, but he
made it by rubbing his hands, by creating the heat and the spark that set the
breath from his mouth on fire.
From his seed, the torrential flow of seed that had made all the creatures of the
world, Brahma made food. For the gods, there was soma—food that made them
immortal. For mortal creatures, his seed became the endless varieties of food that
we eat.
 5. The Origin of the Ganga

The holy river Ganga is also a goddess, Ganga, and a well-known story tells of
how she was brought down to earth.
She was the daughter of Himavat, god of the Himalayas, and the nymph
Mena, and originally she flowed only through the heavenly regions to which the
Himalayas soar. She would have stayed there, had it not been for Sagara, king of
Ayodhya. Sagara had two wives who had borne him no children. So he
performed a special homage to a sage called Bhrigu, who was pleased then to
grant him a boon: one wife would give birth to a son, and the other would bear a
gourd. When the gourd fell to the ground, sixty thousand sons would burst out of
it.
And so it happened. But as this veritable army of sons grew up, Sagara
became arrogant. He decided to perform the Asvamedha sacrifice, in which a
horse is let loose and all the territory it crosses becomes the possession of its
owner. Sagara sent the horse across territory owned by Indra, king of the gods,
hoping to dethrone him.
Realizing what was afoot, Indra turned himself into a formidable demon, and
drove the horse down into the underworld, leaving it to graze near where the
great sage Kapila was meditating.
The priest who had been conducting the sacrifice was terrified when the horse
was driven down into the underworld like this, for the subversion of the
ceremony was deeply inauspicious and would bring ruin to the kingdom. He ran
in a panic to Sagara and told him what had happened.
Arrogant still with the power of his enormous family, Sagara boasted that
however deep underground the horse had been driven, they would be able to
recover him, so vast was their combined strength. He then commanded his sixty
thousand sons to dig down to the underworld and bring back the horse.
Their energetic digging and delving caused agony to the bowels of the Earth,
and she went and complained to Brahma. He told her to endure the pain a bit
longer, as the sons of Sagara were, he assured her, digging their way to their own
destruction.
destruction.
Even sixty thousand labourers, working in shifts, will eventually get tired. The
sons returned to their father and begged him to allow them to stop, but Sagara
insisted they continue. They dug so far that they emerged where the earth is
carried on the backs of gigantic elephants—and near those elephants was
Kapila’s hermitage. They searched all round it, and found the horse at last,
grazing peacefully. They assumed that Kapila had stolen it, and rushed to
apprehend him. Just as the sixty thousand sons of Sagara closed in on the
meditating sage—violently and hatefully, furious and exhausted after all their
digging—he opened his eyes. He was so incensed with anger at this insult to
him, that his eyes burst into flame, and the intense heat of the flame reduced all
sixty thousand sons to ashes.
Worried at their non-return, Sagara sent his grandson Ansuman to look for
them. (Ansuman’s father—Sagara’s son by his other wife—had taken to
asceticism, and was therefore of no practical use.) Ansuman reached the sage
easily, by following the tunnel dug by his sixty thousand uncles; and when he
approached him, his behaviour was quite different. Instead of fury and
aggression, he offered him reverent, humble greetings, and asked him as politely
as he could what had happened to the horse and the sixty thousand. Charmed by
the boy, Kapila told him what had happened, and said his uncles could be
brought back to life if the heavenly Ganga could be made to flow over their
ashes. He also allowed Ansuman to take the horse back with him, so that the
sacred ceremony could be completed.
Sagara, pining for his sons, obsessively searched for a way of bringing Ganga
down to earth for the rest of his thirty-thousand-year reign, but without success.
Ansuman succeeded him as king, and continued the effort—but failed too, as did
his son, Dilipa. It was Sagara’s great-great-grandson Bhagiratha who finally
succeeded.
How he did so, is another story!
 6. Bhagiratha’s Perseverance

Bhagiratha, Sagara’s great-great-grandson, was exceptionally persevering and

self-sacrificing by nature, and was capable of extraordinary feats of asceticism.
In order to achieve the feat that had eluded his father, grandfather and great-
grandfather, he set out to please the gods with his austerities, each of which—
whether by fasting, or by staying in one posture for years on end, or walking on
burning-hot stones—was more daring and self-punishing than the last.
Brahma was indeed impressed by his feats, and agreed to let Ganga come
down to earth. But the weight and crash of her water coming down would be
immense, and Brahma asked Bhagiratha to perform similar penances and
austerities to Siva, so as to persuade him to catch the falling river in his hair, and
break thereby her tumultuous cascade.
Bhagiratha thus embarked on another series of penances, and it was by his
extraordinary powers of courage and perseverance that he survived the extremes
of starvation and immobility that he imposed on himself.
Siva too was impressed, and agreed to catch Ganga’s waters in his dense
matted locks. With this assurance, Brahma commanded Ganga to descend to
earth.
Ganga liked the serene conditions of heaven too much to want to descend to
the earth’s much less secure and peaceful environment, and to express her
annoyance at Brahma’s command and Siva’s undertaking, she resolved to
descend with catastrophic force. She intended thereby to submerge the whole
earth, and drag Siva down to the darkest regions of the underworld.
So she let fly all the weight of her waters at once, and whipped up such
turbulence that they ripped out trees and flattened whole mountains. Mount
Kailasa, though, where Siva dwells, was too massive to be dislodged, and Siva
was too powerful to be swept off the top of it. He caught her as planned in his
hair, and the matted maze of his hair was so dense and complex that she
meandered through it helplessly, unable to find an outlet.
Her meanderings exhausted her, and her haughty spirit was broken. Indeed,
she became such a shadow of her former noble self that Bhagiratha had to
she became such a shadow of her former noble self that Bhagiratha had to
embark on yet more austerities to persuade Siva to have mercy on her.
Once again—so staggering and unprecedented were the feats he performed
this time, culminating in two hundred years of balancing upside down on the
little finger of one hand, in a barren desert where there was no protection from
heat or cold—his perseverance prevailed, and Siva agreed to release Ganga from
his locks.
She flooded down graciously this time, relieved and grateful, and divided into
several branches. Bhagiratha rode in a chariot ahead of one of the branches,
leading it down to the ashes of Sagara’s sixty thousand sons.
But that was not the end, for by mischance the river flooded the ground where
the sage Jahnu was meditating. So furious was he at this insult that Bhagiratha
had to employ his ascetic powers yet again, and to an even greater degree than
the gods Brahma and Siva had demanded. It was only after he had stood on his
head, submerged in water up to the tips of his toes and holding his breath for
three hundred years, that Jahnu was mollified. He agreed to let Ganga flow on,
but with himself as a conduit, so as to derive maximum power and sanctity from
the sacred, heavenly river.
Grateful to be allowed a final exit and escape into the sea, Ganga now flowed
forth calmly from the ear of Jahnu. Her waters sank down through the sea, and
down into the underworld, where she reached the ashes of the dead sons, and
brought them back to life.
Because he had made this possible, Bhagiratha came to be regarded as her
second father, and another name for Ganga is Bhagirathi. No one in Indian
mythology has ever been more persevering and persistent than Bhagiratha, and
his name is therefore always associated with those qualities.
 7. Narada’s Curse

Everyone knows the story of Rama and Sita, how they were separated when the
demon-king Ravana abducted Sita, and how Rama rescued her with the help of
the monkey-god Hanuman. But all lives have their roots in previous lives, and
this is the story of how Rama and Sita’s separation, and Hanuman’s heroic
assistance, came about.
There was a sage called Narada, who was very vain about his good looks, and
boasted of his ability to attract any woman. This was not very fitting in a holy
man, and Vishnu, with his wife Lakshmi, decided to teach him a lesson.
With powers that only gods have, Vishnu created a rich and magnificent
kingdom, the match of any on earth; Lakshmi turned herself into the princess of
that kingdom, the most beautiful and eligible princess in the whole world. It was
announced that the princess was to marry, and her portrait was sent out to every
corner of the kingdom, to invite suitors. One of the portraits reached Narada, and
he typically and vainly assumed that he would have no difficulty winning her
hand.
The town criers of the kingdom beat drums and called all suitors to attend the
palace in a week’s time, for the princess to choose the most handsome.
Narada spent the whole week preening and grooming himself, and admiring
his face in a mirror. He already thought he was the most handsome man in the
world, but he prayed to Vishnu to make him even more handsome, so that the
princess would have no hesitation in choosing him.
The day arrived, and the suitors lined up in the main hall of the palace. When
the princess entered the hall, to the sound of heavenly music, with a fragrant
garland in her hands, all the suitors were transfixed. They had never seen such a
woman, so poised, so gracious, so delicate in her smile, so sinuous in her body,
so gorgeously dressed in a golden sari, so laden with ravishing jewels! Whom
would she choose? Which suitor would receive the garland around his neck?
Narada smiled smugly. ‘She is far lovelier than her portrait, but I am
handsomer than any other man, and she will have to choose me.’ But to his
horror, she walked past him. He caught a whiff of her perfume as she passed,
horror, she walked past him. He caught a whiff of her perfume as she passed,
which made her rejection of him even more shocking and frustrating.
The princess walked serenely down the line, and placed the garland round the
neck of the last man standing there.
This was too much for Narada. He broke out of the line, stomped into the
middle of the hall and said, ‘How could you have done this? How could you
have rejected me—the most handsome man on earth—in favour of that
miserable monkey!’
‘Monkey?’ said the princess. ‘Have you looked at your own face in a mirror
recently?’
Narada pulled out of his robe the hand-mirror that he always carried with him,
and stared at his face. It was a monkey’s face! Hairy, bulbous and grinning, with
sticking-out ears.
Scarcely able to stay on his feet with the shock and horror of this, Narada
turned and looked at the man the princess had chosen. There was a magical
transformation there too: the man had stepped out of his human form, and taken
on the radiant blue of the god Vishnu. And the princess herself had taken her
true form: the perfect beauty of the goddess Lakshmi.
Raging and totally out of control, Narada bellowed: ‘So that’s your trick! You
designed all this to deform and humiliate me! I curse you both. You will be born
one day on earth as man and woman. You will fall in love and marry, and then
you will be parted and suffer agony as a result—the agony that you have caused
me, by separating me from my true, handsome form!’
A curse cannot shake or disturb a god. Vishnu and Lakshmi merely smiled,
and in their great wisdom and compassion, raised their hands in a blessing. The
hall, the palace, the entire magical kingdom vanished.
Narada’s anger vanished too, and he felt deeply penitent. Tears of shame
flowed from his eyes. He knelt before the god and goddess, and begged their
forgiveness.
‘O great Vishnu, O perfect Lakshmi, how could I have said such things? You
have given me so much—wealth, health, handsomeness. How could I have been
so vain and ungrateful? I shall never boast about my looks again. I shall become
the holy man I am supposed to be.’
‘You need not worry,’ said Vishnu. ‘You have learnt your lesson, and we
forgive you. Your curse will be fulfilled: Lakshmi and I will indeed be born on
forgive you. Your curse will be fulfilled: Lakshmi and I will indeed be born on
earth as Rama and Sita, to suffer the torment of separation. But you will be born
as the monkey-god Hanuman: a good, noble, heroic, kind friend to them both.’
And so it came to pass. And how grateful the world became that Narada was
taught his lesson, and Hanuman was born!
 8. Hanuman’s Birth

Hanuman’s mother was a monkey called Anjana. But gods are not born as
human beings are, and a famous story tells of Hanuman’s miraculous birth.
In fact, Anjana herself was of divine origin. She had been a goddess in
Indraloka, the kingdom of the gods, ruled by Indra. But a holy man’s curse had
turned her into a monkey and forced her to live on earth. She remained very
bitter and melancholy about this.
She was a beautiful monkey, the most beautiful in the realm of the monkeys,
as befitted her previous life; and her fellow-monkeys got tired of her being so
gloomy. One day, the queen of the monkeys said to her: ‘I know you were once
a goddess, and you miss the delights of heaven. But you’re a monkey now, and
that’s not a bad thing to be. Normally we’re cheerful, light-hearted creatures, and
you could be too, if you accepted your lot and took comfort in the fact that you
are more beautiful than any of us. Be one of us! Don’t keep pining for Indraloka.
Let us find a monkey-husband for you: I’m sure you’ll be much happier then.’
The king of the monkeys backed his wife. ‘Truly,’ he said, ‘you should be
proud of being a monkey. We are handsome and noble. That holy man who
cursed you wanted to turn you into something ugly—but he failed. You are
wonderfully beautiful, and if you let us find you a husband, you will have
children that will glorify the monkey race.’
But Anjana was still unconvinced, still sad and unsettled in her heart. ‘It is
kind of you to want to help me,’ she said, ‘but I don’t feel ready for marriage
yet. I’m still adjusting to being a monkey. It’s impossible for me to forget
Indraloka. It’s my home, and one day I hope to return there.’
So she remained lonely and miserable, and wandered off on her own through
the forest. Tired from the heat of the day, she lay down on a grassy hill under a
shady tree. The cool breeze calmed her, and she fell asleep.
Vayu, the wind-god, was wandering about, blowing through the world, as is
his wont. He came across Anjana where she lay sleeping, and was immediately
entranced by her beauty. He couldn’t restrain himself from caressing her and
kissing her with his most delicate and tender breezes, which gave Anjana
kissing her with his most delicate and tender breezes, which gave Anjana
romantic dreams, from which she gradually awoke with a deep, languorous sigh.
With his divine insight, Vayu knew the story of Anjana, knew all about her
unhappiness. He wanted to help her and make her happier, but he was also
deeply attracted to her. He went on stroking her as she woke up, which was
pleasant while she was still half-asleep, but made her sit up in alarm when she
opened her eyes. ‘Who is that?’ she said. ‘Who touched me?’
‘You cannot see me,’ said Vayu, ‘for I am Vayu, the wind. But you need not
be afraid. I have fallen in love with you, and want to give you a son. Let me
embrace you more closely!’
‘If you really are the god Vayu,’ said Anjana, ‘it’s cruel of you to tease me.
You cannot really be in love with me, for I have the ugly face of a monkey. Any
son of mine would look like me.’
‘And beautifully so!’ said Vayu. ‘You are wrong to think you are ugly. You
are ravishingly good-looking, your son too will be, and besides, I cannot stop
myself. My breath has already entered you, and given you a son. There he is!’
A god can father a child instantly. Anjana looked down, and saw a tiny baby
monkey on the ground nearby. Monkey it was, but it was her child, and her
feelings suddenly changed. Its tiny monkey-face no longer seemed ugly to her.
She picked it up, held it in her arms, and began to suckle it. ‘How wrong I was’,
she said, ‘to think that monkeys were ugly. This is the sweetest baby I have ever
seen. I love him.’
Vayu smiled with pleasure at having made love to the beautiful Anjana, and
with joy that her baby son had made her so happy.
He circled around the happy pair three times, and blessed them, saying, ‘Your
baby will be called Hanuman, son of the wind. He is my son, so he has my
strength, my speed, and my power to fly through the world. He will be a kind,
brave and mighty hero, who will do much good in the world. Be proud of him!’
Gently cradling the baby Hanuman in her arms, Anjana walked back to the
monkey-kingdom. She showed him off proudly to the king and queen and all the
other monkeys, and told them about his miraculous birth. They were all
delighted and impressed. Anjana had found a father for her child who befitted
her own divinity, and although some of the unmarried males were secretly
disappointed that she was no longer available to them, they put on a brave face,
and joined in the general celebration.
and joined in the general celebration.
 9. Hanuman’s Childhood

Monkeys have a reputation for mischief, and the young Hanuman was no
exception. What is more, his capacity for havoc and mischief was greatly
increased by the supernatural powers his divine parentage had given him. His
ability to run like the wind and to fly made him a match for the fastest birds and
animals, and he would rove far and wide chasing them. He had endless curiosity
about new places, and his mother despaired of keeping him under control. She
never knew where he would be next; and the older monkeys too—even at their
most solemn gatherings and assemblies—never knew when he might creep up
behind their backs and tie their tails together, or disrupt their discussions with
shrieks and whoops from some hiding place nearby.
But his powers also protected him, and his mother knew that whatever he got
up to, he would survive. That was made clear to her very early on, when he was
still a tiny baby. She had dropped him by accident, and he fell not just to the
ground at her feet but over a mountain precipice. He plummeted down, landed
on his head on a rock, and bounced straight up again into her arms! The rock,
however, was smashed to smithereens.
One day, Hanuman looked at the rising sun when it was large and red, and
thought it was a ball. ‘I’d like to play with that,’ he thought, and flew straight off
to catch it. Surya, the sun-god, had never been chased like that before, and
moved off in alarm. He fled far away from his usual position, dragging the earth
and all the other planets with him—but Hanuman continued to chase him. Night
and day were totally confused, the earth swung and tilted out of her usual orbit,
there were earthquakes, avalanches, floods: people thought it was the end of the
world.
Gasping in terror, appalled at what was happening to the earth, Surya appealed
to Indra, king of the gods. Indra wields a thunderbolt, and is awesome when
roused to anger. The disruptive mischief of Hanuman had gone too far, and he
decided he must teach him a lesson. He hurled his heaviest thunderbolt at the
flying young monkey, which, not surprisingly, hit him with such an impact that
he fell back to earth, unconscious as a stone.
he fell back to earth, unconscious as a stone.
He lay there, limp and lifeless, and his father Vayu was shocked to see him
like that. He howled with distress, so that hurricanes blew through the world;
then he tenderly picked his child up and wafted him to a distant mountain cave.
He sat down beside him, slumped in gloom and sorrow, convinced that
Hanuman was dead.
Hurricanes are bad, but complete lack of wind is worse. With Vayu so still
and depressed, there was not a breath of wind in the world. People and animals
began to suffocate; plants began to die from the lack of air that all living things
require.
The gods looked down at the earth and were deeply worried. ‘Look at its
creatures moaning and gasping,’ they said, ‘its plants pathetically wilting! Indra
is still in too foul a temper to notice: we must go to Brahma, the greatest god of
all.’
Brahma is the Creator: he has to intervene if his Creation is threatened. When
the gods came before him, he agreed to go to Vayu. But he said to bad-tempered
Indra: ‘You must come with me, and tell him you are sorry for striking his son.
He’s only a young monkey, after all: to hurl your heaviest thunderbolt at him
was rather out of proportion!’
Indra was chastened by Brahma’s rebuke, and meekly followed him to the
cave where Hanuman lay, with Vayu sitting beside him, hunched and motionless
with grief.
‘O Vayu,’ said Brahma, ‘the world cannot do without your mighty breath.
Indra did wrong, but you are doing wrong too, to punish the whole world for
Indra’s mistake. See how grieved and contrite Indra himself is: don’t compound
one mistake with another.’
Vayu raised his melancholy, listless eyes to Brahma. ‘If I must forgive him, I
will—but who will revive my son? Who will bring my mischievous, brilliant
Hanuman back to life? Without him, I haven’t the heart to stir up the air.’
Brahma smiled, and with the infinite compassion for his creatures that only
their Creator can have, took Hanuman into his lap. He stroked and patted him,
and slowly, sleepily, the monkey opened his eyes. ‘You were naughty,’ he said,
‘and your mischief scared the sun, disrupted the earth, angered Indra and grieved
Vayu. But your powers are special, and I shall make them even greater by giving
you nobility, restraint and kindness. You will grow to become the wisest of
you nobility, restraint and kindness. You will grow to become the wisest of
monkeys. You will help Rama and Sita in their distress. The monkey-kingdom
will become an example to all. You will live for ever.’
What tears of relief and gratitude now filled the eyes of Vayu, Indra, Surya,
Hanuman’s mother Anjana, and everyone else who had been so alarmed by this
chain of events! Hanuman, too, had learnt his lesson. He remained full of charm
and merriment, but was thoughtful of others, modest and studious. He was loved
by all.
 10. Sunda and Upasunda

Gods have, on occasion, been challenged and even temporarily overthrown by

demons. Two such demons were the brothers Sunda and Upasunda. They were
of massive size and strength, and they amassed a demon-army so powerful that it
chased the gods out of Amarpuri, their immortal, heavenly city.
Indra, king of the gods, took refuge on a barren mountain, and sat there
slumped in depression. The goddesses of night and dreams and sleep all tried but
failed to shake him out of it; but eventually he was stirred into action again by
the coaxing of his wife, Sachi. He called an assembly of the gods, and they
decided that he and some of the other male gods should go as a delegation to
Brahma, Creator of all. For Sunda and Upasunda were wreaking so much havoc
that the whole universe was in danger of being destroyed by them.
Brahma listened to the alarmed report that the gods gave him, and pondered.
At length he said: ‘Together, the demons are invincible. You must find some
way of separating them, or creating enmity between them. With all your skill
and power and ingenuity, you should be able to do that.’
Disappointed that Brahma had offered no immediate solution, but sobered into
deep thought, the delegation returned to the divine assembly. The enormous
gathering sat for many days, in the hard discomfort of the barren mountains
where they had taken refuge, discussing earnestly what they should do, and
listening with dread to the crashing, thundering uproar of Sunda and Upasunda
and their army pounding and looting the world.
Suddenly, Indra had an idea. Let Visvakarman, lord of artists, supreme
architect and designer of the universe, be asked to create a perfectly beautiful
woman, who would attract both the demons and therefore be their downfall.
Visvakarman was called, and the idea was put to him. He thought for a while,
then smiled and said, ‘I can do it, but I must be free to use whatever I want from
the universe as my materials. Sunda and Upasunda are attacking the whole
universe; only a woman as awesomely beautiful as the universe itself will be
enough to distract them.’
Visvakarman sat down in meditation, and the gods formed a silent circle
 Visvakarman sat down in meditation, and the gods formed a silent circle
around him. By the force of his creative thought, and the power of his mantras,
everything he needed—animate, inanimate and spiritual—he obtained at once.
From a pair of lotuses, he formed two pink feet, which he painted with lac that
was made from streaks of lightning. Thighs were formed from the trunks of two
great banana-trees, and a slender waist from the belly of a deer. The ravishing
curve of each buttock was made from the arching sky, and strings of bright stars
—the Milky Way itself—formed the girdle that hung round the buttocks. For the
breasts, both the mango and the pomegranate were contenders, and the fruits
began to quarrel; so Visvakarman made them instead from the twin peaks of
Mount Meru. The moon became the face of the woman, pure and shining in its
purity; huge rolling clouds became her luxuriant hair, and a rainbow was the
parting in her hair. To create her eyes, the eyes of the deer were at hand, but
Visvakarman decided to do better than that: he took the star of dawn, and split its
intense light into two, to make the eyes. Lips were made from bimba-fruit; the
pearls that heavenly elephants shed from their heads became her teeth; from the
many lovely flowers of the earth were made her clothes and her gems; the koel-
bird gave her her voice. Finally, to give eloquence to that voice, the goddess
Sarasvati sat on her tongue; and to give irresistible attractiveness to her glance,
Kama, god of love, placed his keenest arrows in her eyes.
Tillottoma—whose name means ‘bit by bit’—was thus created by the divine
artist Visvakarman, and when she was complete, the gods gazed at her in wonder
and broke into ecstatic applause. Who could resist such beauty? Sunda and
Upasunda would surely be smitten by her! Even the great god Siva, renowned
for his asceticism, became four-faced at the sight of her, so that he could always
see her, whether she was in front of, to the side of or behind him.
Tillottoma was sent by the gods to Mount Kailasa—their home, but usurped at
present by Sunda and Upasunda, who were lolling there, resting from their
destructive aggression, enjoying its luxuries, but destroying and spoiling them
with demonic coarseness and drunkenness. Gold plates were scattered
unwashed; silk sheets and cushions were soiled and tattered; flutes and tablas
and veenas had been smashed and hurled about.
But the rest of the story is quickly told. As soon as the drunken demon-
brothers saw the divine Tillottoma, they lurched towards her in a frenzy of lust.
Each seized one of her arms, and they would have torn her apart had they not
Each seized one of her arms, and they would have torn her apart had they not
realized, for all their loutish drunkenness, that she would then no longer be theirs
to enjoy. Instead, they attacked one another, each determined to have sole
possession of her.
As Sunda and Upasunda fought, tearing each other’s limbs, hurling the rocks
of Mount Kailasa, smashing everything around them; as they pranced and
grappled and rolled, the whole universe trembled. But Tillottoma’s purpose was
served: soon, they both lay dead, and their demon-army fled in a rout back to the
underworld.
The gods returned to Mount Kailasa; the damage was repaired; peace and
order were restored. Tillottoma’s lovely features and garments returned to where
they came from, so that now we can see her everywhere—in the stars of the sky,
in the flowers of the earth, and the grace of the animals of the earth. And when a
koel-bird sings, we hear her magical voice.
 11. Hanuman and the Herbs

In the epic story of the Ramayana (which tells how the Rakshasa king Ravana
abducted Rama’s wife Sita, and how Rama and his brother Lakshmana, assisted
by the noble monkey-god Hanuman and the army of the king of monkeys
Sugriva, launched an attack on Ravana’s kingdom of Lanka, and rescued Sita), a
low point in Rama’s fortunes is reached when Lakshmana is felled in battle by
Ravana’s son Indrajit. The revival of Lakshmana from apparent death was
achieved through the divine speed, strength and courage of Hanuman. It
happened like this . . .
With the fighting over for the day, Rama and King Sugriva went to where
Lakshmana lay lifeless on the battlefield. Overwhelmed with grief and despair,
Rama was on the point of calling off the whole attempt to rescue Sita; but
Sugriva’s learned monkey-doctor Sushena examined Lakshmana carefully and
said to Rama: ‘Lord, your brother is not dead. His pulse is still there, though it is
very weak. The problem is, he was struck by a magic weapon, and only a magic
cure will save him. I know of three herbs that might do the trick, but we do not
have them here—they grow only on the slopes of the Donagiri mountain in the
Himalayas. I see no way of getting the herbs in time.’
This plunged Rama into even greater despair. But Hanuman was standing
nearby, and he said: ‘If my king Sugriva permits me, I can go to the mountain
and bring back the herbs before sunrise.’
‘How can even you do that?’ said Rama. ‘I know you can fly as fast as the
wind, and we saw you leap over the ocean from India to Lanka. But in one night
—can even you get to the Himalayas and back, tired after a whole day’s
fighting?’
‘I believe I can do it,’ said Hanuman, ‘and I wish to try, even if I die in the
attempt.’
With tears of gratitude in his eyes, Rama blessed Hanuman by touching his
forehead; and immediately Hanuman was filled with new, supernatural strength.
Praying to his father Vayu, the wind-god, he shot up into the air and flew over
the whole dark length of India, right to where the snowy peaks of the Himalayas
the whole dark length of India, right to where the snowy peaks of the Himalayas
gleamed in the starlight. The Donagiri mountain shone brightest of all, so
Hanuman had no difficulty in finding it. But finding the herbs in the dark was
not so easy, and for all his wind-like speed, he had very little time.
Sushena had described the herbs carefully to him, and he found the first two.
But the third herb, called Sanjivani, he could not find, however frenziedly he
searched under the trees, along the streams and amongst the rocks on the
mountainside. There was only an hour or so before dawn. What should he do?
Over in the east, Hanuman saw the first rays of sunrise beginning to show. He
desperately prayed to Surya, the sun-god, to delay his rising, for the sake of
Rama’s brave brother Lakshmana; but the rays continued to strengthen, for the
times of sunrise and sunset are fixed not by Surya himself, but by natural law.
As a child, Hanuman had tried to catch the sun. Now, desperate for time, also
raging with anger at being thwarted in his efforts to save Lakshmana, there was
only one thing for it: Surya would have to be physically restrained! Massively
increasing his size to cosmic proportions, Hanuman reached out for Surya in his
chariot, and stuffed the god, chariot and horses under his right arm, so that no
sunlight at all could escape. And then, having still not found the Sanjivani herb,
he tore up the whole Donagiri mountain with his other arm, and slung it on to his
shoulder.
Back to Lanka he flew, carrying both sun and mountain, the enormous weight
of both giving him increased speed, once his own great power had accelerated
him to full velocity. Meanwhile, Rama, Sugriva and the whole monkey-army
were waiting and praying through the longest night they had ever known. Surely
dawn must be near? If Hanuman failed to return before sunrise, Sushena would
not have the herbs, and Lakshmana would die.
But suddenly Rama and the monkeys saw a huge shining object rushing
through the sky towards them. They thought for a minute it was the sun, but no,
its brilliance came from the luminous Donagiri mountain, which—to their
amazement and relief—was now set down before them by Hanuman. ‘I found
two of the herbs,’ said Hanuman, ‘but not the third. So I brought the whole
mountain. And I’m holding back the sunrise for Sushena to find the herb; but
please hurry, for Surya’s horses are desperate to escape, and with their kicking
and snorting they’re tickling my armpit unbearably!’
Sushena had no difficulty in finding the missing herb, and he poured a mixture
 Sushena had no difficulty in finding the missing herb, and he poured a mixture
of the juice of all three herbs into Lakshmana’s mouth. The effect was
immediate: Lakshmana opened his eyes, stretched as if waking from a long
sleep, and looked about him. Rama threw his arms around the neck of his
brother, and the assembled monkeys broke into whoops and leaps and
somersaults of joy. Then, Rama embraced Hanuman, saying, ‘You are nobler,
faster, braver and stronger than anyone on earth. How can I ever thank you
enough for saving the life of my brother?’
Hanuman smiled. With his task accomplished, he could permit the sun to rise
now. So he lifted his arm, and Surya’s chariot shot out, reaching full, midday
height within seconds, banishing the long night.
 12. Agni’s Attempt to Hide

At the beginning of time, Agni, the god of fire, kept hiding, and the gods were in
perpetual search of him, so that he could be distributed through the world and be
of use to men.
At first he hid within himself, within the elemental fire that lurks beneath the
world’s deepest subterranean waters. But a frog who lived in those waters grew
tired of the heat that Agni’s fire spread up through the waters: it scalded his skin
and lowered his energy, and in the end he came up to the surface of the earth and
complained to the gods. ‘I need cool waters for my health and happiness,’ he
said. ‘I cannot endure this bubbling and boiling and steaming from the depths of
the earth. The heat of it pains and exhausts me. Please find Agni there, and take
him to some place more suitable. Meanwhile, I shall hide myself, for I don’t
want to be utterly consumed when Agni rises up through the waters.’
The frog dived down again, and swam to the coolest, most secret corner he
could find, to be as far as possible from Agni. But Agni—who is cunning and
elusive and has ears for everything that is said—had heard the frog’s treachery,
and he found the frog, small though he was and hidden under a huge dark
submarine rock, and he angrily cursed him, saying, ‘For telling the gods where I
am, you will have no tongue and no sense of taste. Meanwhile, they will have to
look for me somewhere else.’
The crestfallen frog swam back up to the gods, but this time he couldn’t speak
to tell them what had happened or where Agni had gone. He jumped about
pathetically, and opened and shut his jaws, and the gods, realizing that Agni had
punished him, said compassionately, ‘Tongueless you may be now, and unable
to speak, but we give you the power to croak most beautifully, instead, rousing
lovers at night or soothing them to sleep; and you will also be able to find your
way anywhere in the dark, and to live underground in barren places where there
is no food to support any other form of life.’
The frog hopped away, content, and the gods continued their search for Agni,
who was now no longer underground, but hidden in a sacred fig-tree. An
elephant who liked to graze on the leaves of the tree was disturbed by the heat
elephant who liked to graze on the leaves of the tree was disturbed by the heat
that he emitted, and he went to the gods and told them that Agni was hiding
there. Agni, betrayed again, became even angrier than he had been with the frog.
Bursting into flames, he cursed the elephant with the words, ‘For telling the gods
where I am, your tongue will be forever bent backwards, depriving you of
speech. Meanwhile, they will have to look for me somewhere else.’
Agni then entered a clump of bamboo, but the stems were too slender to
contain him, smoke and steam revealed he was there, and he fled instead to the
hollow trunk of the sami-tree from which fire-sticks are made.
The elephant he had cursed was stamping and charging about in fury and
frustration, unable to tell the gods what had happened or where Agni had gone.
But again the gods took pity, knowing that Agni was to blame, and they said to
the elephant, ‘Bent though your tongue is now and unable to form words, you
will nevertheless be able to trumpet magnificently, giving majesty to kings and
splendour to armies. And there are no plants on earth that you will not be able to
eat, to satisfy your cavernous stomach.’
The next animal to betray Agni was the parrot, who had noticed how warm
the trunk of the sami-tree had become, and he went to the gods to tell them that
Agni was hiding there. Again, Agni overheard, and his raging, blazing anger
would have burnt the tree to ashes had he not been still so determined to hide.
But the roar and crackle of his curse condemned the parrot, like the frog and the
elephant, to wordlessness.
Fluttering and flapping in anguish, the parrot sought the pity of the gods,
though he had no words to describe his plight. Knowing as before that Agni had
cursed him, the gods said, ‘True, you will not be able speak as men and gods can
speak. But your tongue will still be able to make cheerful and humorous noises
—noises that will sound like words, though you will not know their meaning.
You will be like a child or an old man who babbles without understanding, and
men and women will feel as tender towards you as they feel towards the very
young and the very old. They will adopt you as a pet, feed you well, and teach
you more sounds. Meanwhile, thanks for telling us where Agni is hiding.’
Agni was there in the hollow trunk of the sami-tree, and the gods knew he was
there, and he knew they knew and was ashamed to come out. But they made
from the twigs of the tree the sticks by which men can create fire by rubbing
them together, so that Agni would no longer be confined to one place, but could
them together, so that Agni would no longer be confined to one place, but could
be distributed throughout the world, wherever he was needed.
Then Agni accepted that the other gods had greater powers than his, and that
even his curses could be modified by them. But he remains, if given the chance,
quick to take offence; his anger at failing to hide from gods or men can burst into
furious, destructive conflagrations; and his fury that his deepest, most secret
hiding place of all—under the earth and sea—was revealed to the gods by the
frog pours out sometimes from volcanoes.
 13. The Birth of Karttikeya

Anyone hoping for good fortune should worship the elephant-god Ganesa. This
story tells how even the gods themselves must do him honour, to attain their
desires.
Indra, king of the gods, desperately needed a new divine general, to lead the
armies of heaven against the formidable forces of the demon Taraka. Only Siva
had the power to beget a general who could be Taraka’s match; but at present,
having blasted Kama, the god of love, to ashes with the fire of his third eye, he
was engaged in profound austerities. What could Gauri, his wife, do? She longed
for a son anyway, but her husband was adamant. Kama had attempted to distract
him once before: no way would he let him disturb him again! Kama was ashes
now, and ashes he would remain.
But the threat posed by Taraka was terrible. Something had to be done. So
Indra asked Brahma himself to appeal to Siva; and in the end the great god
relented. He agreed to let Kama be restored, but not to his former, ravishing
body. Instead, he would be reborn without body in the minds of all living beings.
Whether deliberately or not, Siva thus ensured that his own mind was
inflamed with love, along with all other beings, and Gauri enjoyed his full,
amorous vigour once more. Indeed, so intense and athletic and protracted was
their lovemaking, that it shook the three worlds, and went on not just for hours
or days but for centuries. When was it going to stop, so that Gauri could
conceive, and the general could be born?
Now what was needed was for Siva and Gauri to stop their lovemaking! Once
again Indra asked Brahma for help. Not only was the general still not born; the
juddering and shaking of their love play was threatening the fabric of the
universe.
Brahma called on Agni, the fire-god, to stop them. But the prospect of
confronting the great god Siva so alarmed Agni, that he fled into hiding. How he
was found and was eventually subdued is another story; but in the end, reassured
by the praise he received from the gods, and swayed by the desperate pleas of
Indra and the other gods, he agreed to go to Siva.
Indra and the other gods, he agreed to go to Siva.
Nothing, till then, had distracted Siva and Gauri from their passion; but Agni’s
intense heat, as he drew near to them, at last disentangled their bodies. Fearing
the same anger that had blasted the love-god Kama, Agni prostrated himself
before Siva. ‘I am only here’, he said, ‘because Brahma has commanded me; and
he called upon me, only because Indra and the other gods are desperate for your
son to be conceived and born, so that Taraka can at last be defeated. The
universe will be destroyed by him otherwise, and it has also been much disturbed
by your ceaseless marital ardour!’
‘Very well,’ said Siva, ‘I shall beget a son. But I do not have to do that in the
usual way. Passionate lover though I am, I hereby beget my son by placing my
seed within you. Only with you as a surrogate will a hero be born fiery enough
to defeat the demon Taraka.’
Gauri was appalled and distressed by this. After centuries of exquisite
foreplay, whipped up now to the height of desire, was she nevertheless to be
denied the conception of a son? She berated her husband bitterly, but he said,
‘Your fault was not to have worshipped Ganesa before we started to make love.
To beget a son, that must always be done. Worship him now, so that the seed
that is within Agni may become an embryo that is yours as well as mine.’
Tearfully and obediently, Gauri began a lengthy puja to Ganesa, and sure
enough the seed swelled into an embryo, and Agni’s fire shone as brightly as if
the sun itself had entered him. The heat of it became too great even for Agni to
bear, so he dropped the embryo into the cooling Ganga, from which Siva’s
attendants, the Ganas, retrieved it and took it to a cave on Mount Meru.
It took a thousand years for the embryo to grow into an infant with six heads
and mouths—the young Karttikeya. His six mouths needed to be suckled, and it
was Gauri who organized this, for she was no longer bitter that her son had not
been conceived in the usual way. She engaged the Krittikas—the celestial
Pleiades—as wet nurses, and with their divine milk, he grew very rapidly, and
within days he was the full-grown, mighty general and hero whom not even
Taraka could defeat.
More stories are told of what happened before that victory: of how Indra had
to flee from the demon; how the other gods ran to Karttikeya for protection; how
Indra feared that Karttikeya might usurp his place; how, when Indra hurled a
thunderbolt at Karttikeya, two sons sprang forth, as strong as their father; how
thunderbolt at Karttikeya, two sons sprang forth, as strong as their father; how
Siva had to go to Karttikeya and his sons, and remind them that they were born
to slay Taraka, not to fight with Indra; how, when Indra was reassured, and
raised his arm to anoint Karttikeya as general of the heavenly armies, his arm
became stiff and useless.
‘This too’, said Siva, ‘is because you forgot to worship Ganesa. Whether
hoping for a son, or for success in battle, Ganesa should always be worshipped.’
So Indra, like Gauri before him, had to learn this lesson. He did honour to
Ganesa, and his arm was freed again so that he could anoint Karttikeya.
Taraka was destroyed, and the gods all rejoiced: especially Gauri, proud that
her son—through Agni’s fiery surrogacy—had saved the universe.
 14. Sita’s Rejection

The famous story of Rama and Sita did not end with the rescue of Sita from the
demon-king Ravana and their triumphant return to Rama’s kingdom of
Ayodhya. Sita was soon pregnant there, and they should have lived in happiness
and contentment for the rest of their days, had not Rama been suddenly stricken
with doubts about his perfectly chaste and loyal wife.
One day, Rama was walking through the streets of Ayodhya with a small
retinue, observing the lives of his subjects. He suddenly saw a woman being
turned out of her house by her husband. The man had grabbed her arms and was
pushing her roughly, saying: ‘What were you up to, visiting that house alone? If
you want to bring scandal on yourself, make your way in the world alone.
There’ll be no place for you in my house, as my wife!’
The woman was weeping and saying, ‘Even King Rama didn’t abandon his
wife, though she dwelt for many months in the palace of a Rakshasa, whose sole
purpose is rape! All I did was visit the house of a relative. What on earth is
scandalous and suspicious about that?’
Then she added, with bitter irony, ‘I suppose you think you are better than
King Rama, with even stricter moral standards!’
For some reason—perhaps because of a streak of naivety in his goodness—
Rama didn’t understand her irony, and instead was overcome with shame at the
thought of being morally inferior to the townsman he was observing, and with
dread that a scandalous construction might be put on Sita’s pregnancy. It was
true—Sita had been at Ravana’s mercy for many months. How could he be
certain she had managed to preserve her chastity? And now that he was a king
again—no longer living in the forest—he couldn’t run the risk of gossip and
scandal.
So, with a cruelty that was quite uncharacteristic of him, he cast her out, as
ruthlessly as the townsman had thrown out his wife. And Sita found herself
wandering through the forest again, but this time without Rama or Lakshmana to
protect her.
Heavily pregnant, she reached the hermitage of the sage Valmiki, the
 Heavily pregnant, she reached the hermitage of the sage Valmiki, the
celebrated author of the Ramayana. The other sages who lived there were highly
suspicious of her: they assumed she must indeed have been defiled by Ravana,
for how else could the noble Rama have abandoned her, after all the travails of
her loss and her rescue from the Rakshasas? They feared that even to look at her
would pollute them for ever. It was all right for Valmiki himself: he was a great
sage, and had such powers of asceticism and compassion that no pollution could
attach itself to him. But they were in no way near his equal, and they decided
they had best get out of the hermitage as fast as possible.
Just as they were leaving, Valmiki said, ‘Brahmins, you need not worry. I
know by the power of my meditation that Sita is chaste, and Rama has
misjudged her cruelly.’ When they still looked doubtful, Sita herself said, ‘Your
great guru is right: I am chaste, and have never swerved from my husband. Set
any test you like to prove my purity. If I fail it, let me be punished by having my
head cut off.’
Then the Brahmins said, ‘Well, there is a lake near here called Tithibhasaras,
named after a chaste lady called Tithibi, whose husband had wrongly accused
her of infidelity. When she was abandoned by him, she prayed to the earth-
goddess, and the lake rose up as a sign of Earth’s vindication of her. Perhaps you
should go there, and pray to Earth for a similar sign.’
Sita agreed to this, and she went to the lake, knelt by its shore and prayed to
Earth with the words: ‘O sovereign mother, let me walk into this water,
drowning in the middle if I was ever unfaithful to my husband, and crossing it
safely if I was true to him.’
Then she stepped into the water, and as she walked out into it, Earth
miraculously raised her from below, so that she walked on its surface, and
reached the other side with scarcely a drop of moisture on her sari.
The sages now had no more doubts about her. Indeed, they were so moved
both by reverence for her and outrage at how Rama had treated her, that they
wanted to curse him. But Sita said, ‘My husband is good and noble, and did not
cast me out maliciously, but only because he feared that if scandal attached itself
to me and him, his whole kingdom would suffer. I beg you not to curse him.
Rather, you should curse me, whose misfortunes have brought him so much
suffering—first when Ravana abducted me, and then again when my lord Rama
rejected me himself, through mistaken doubt and fear. I know how grievously he
rejected me himself, through mistaken doubt and fear. I know how grievously he
misses me: his separation from me is punishment enough, without being cursed
by you in addition.’
The sages were so impressed by the self-sacrifice and devotion of Sita’s
sentiments that—far from cursing her—they blessed her fulsomely: with the
result that, soon afterwards, she gave birth to a healthy son. The great sage
Valmiki called him Lava, and Sita lived with her baby in the safety of the
hermitage—deprived of her husband, but no longer forced to wander in the wild.
 15. Lava and Kusa

Sita doted on Lava, her baby son, but such was the safety of the hermitage that
she usually left him unattended while she went to bathe. So when Valmiki one
day looked into her room and saw that Lava was not there, he was immediately
worried that the baby had been carried off somehow: maybe a wild beast had got
into the hermitage after all. Sita would be out of her mind with worry if she
returned and found Lava missing. What should he do?
Using his unique powers and skill, Valmiki made an exact replica of Lava out
of kusa grass, and placed him where Lava normally lay. He hoped that Sita
would think the replica was her own baby, and would therefore miss nothing.
But soon afterwards Sita returned from her bath, carrying Lava with her. He
had been wide awake, and was beginning to get old enough to enjoy splashing in
the water—so she had taken him with her.
She looked with amazement at the copy of her child, lying in a corner of her
room, and said, ‘I had Lava with me all the time, and now it seems I have a
second baby who looks just like him. How can this be?’
Valmiki explained why he had made the child, and that he had done so to stop
her worrying. ‘And because I made him out of kusa grass,’ he said, ‘let him be
called Kusa, and be brought up as Lava’s brother.’
So the two boys grew up together, and were trained by Valmiki in the use of
all the weapons and sciences appropriate to their Kshatriya lineage, while
learning from their mother many of her virtues.
They were, however, boys, and no boy can be virtuous all the time. One day,
they killed a deer that belonged to the hermitage and should have been allowed
to graze in peace; and they also misbehaved with Valmiki’s sacred Sivalingam.
Not understanding its significance, they thought it was a toy, and started to fool
about with it.
Valmiki was angered by these two misdemeanours, and was about to punish
them severely. But Sita—ever gentle and understanding—begged him to be
merciful, and he agreed to forgive them if they performed the following penance.
‘Let Lava go to the lake of the god Kubera, and bring back some of the golden
lotuses and mandara-flowers that grow there. Then, with Kusa, he should
worship the lingam with those sacred flowers. That way, their sins of disrespect
will be atoned for.’
As the son of Lord Rama, Lava already had courage and abilities way beyond
his years. He managed to make the journey to Kubera’s lake, high on Mount
Kailasa, all by himself; battle with the Yakshas who guarded it; and pick the
golden lotuses and the mandara-flowers, just as Valmiki had commanded.
The rigours of the expedition made him suddenly full-grown, and it was no
longer as a boy that Lava journeyed home, but as a handsome young man. On
the way, he stopped under a tree to rest. Lakshmana, Rama’s younger brother,
happened to pass by. He had been sent out by Rama to look for a victim for a
religious ceremony at which not only an animal but a human being too would be
sacrificed. Seeing from Lava’s caste marks that he was a Kshatriya—and thus
particularly valuable as a human sacrificial victim—he challenged him to fight.
Lava fought bravely, but he lacked both the experience that Lakshmana had and
the weapons, and Lakshmana quickly overcame him and took him prisoner.
He took him back to Ayodhya, where his father Rama reigned; and meanwhile
Sita grew sick with worry. Valmiki too grew anxious, both for her sake and for
Lava’s, and regretted the severity of the atonement he had demanded. But
through the power of his meditation, he was able to discern what had happened
to Lava, and to reassure Sita that her son was alive, though held at present as a
prisoner.
Then to Kusa he said, ‘Now it is your turn to be brave. Take these weapons,
and go to Ayodhya. Besiege and attack the town, and by using this weapon,
rescue your brother from imprisonment. You must lose no time, for the day of
the ceremony is approaching when a human being will be sacrificed, and Lava is
being kept for that very purpose. Before you go, let your mother Sita tell you of
your and Lava’s origins: for Ayodhya is none other than the kingdom of Lava’s
father Rama, and the warrior who took Lava prisoner was Lakshmana, Rama’s
brother and Lava’s uncle.’
Sita now told Kusa her own story, and how Lava had been born after she had
been cruelly and mistakenly abandoned by her husband Rama. Then, with tearful
blessings, she saw Kusa on his way.
How Kusa journeyed to Ayodhya; how he mounted a siege and an onslaught
 How Kusa journeyed to Ayodhya; how he mounted a siege and an onslaught
on the city; how he prevailed even over Rama himself with the weapons Valmiki
had given him (for they were magic weapons, and not even gods could withstand
them); all this is another story.
But eventually, when Rama had been forced to surrender to Kusa, the boy—
who had also, like Lava, suddenly grown up, and was a young man now—said:
‘I have come to rescue my brother Lava, who was taken prisoner by Lakshmana,
and whom you were preparing to put to death as a human sacrifice, but who is
actually your own son, whom you never saw, for he was born after Sita, his
mother and your devoted wife, was cruelly cast out by you to wander through
the perilous forest.’
At this, Rama was overcome with shame and grief and remorse. He called
Lava to him, and embraced him. ‘You are my long-lost son,’ he said. ‘How
could I ever have so misjudged your mother as to reject her, when she had
always been unflinching in her fidelity and devotion to me? And how appalling
to think that you, of all people, were in danger of dying in a sacrificial
ceremony! The cruelty and injustice and horror of such things must end. And I
must make full amends for my cruelty to Sita, my own loyal, chaste and
beautiful wife. She must be called to rejoin you and me, to dwell in comfort and
happiness once again, if she can find it in her heart to forgive me.’
A retinue was sent to the hermitage of Valmiki, and Sita agreed to return in
triumph to Ayodhya. Did she forgive her husband for his suspicion of her?
Outwardly they were reconciled, and she did not reproach him. But inwardly the
pain of her rejection stayed with her, so much so that she prayed to Earth to take
her back into her protection.
Earth responded to her prayer: the ground opened up at Sita’s feet, and she
was swallowed up. Thus, for the last part of his life, Rama was not freed from
loneliness and remorse. Eventually, Brahma took pity on him, and called him up
to heaven to be reabsorbed into Vishnu, the god whose incarnation on earth he
was. Reunited with Sita as Vishnu’s wife, Lakshmi, Rama found happiness at
last.
 16. The Churning of the Ocean

No sage’s curse has ever been more powerful than that of the irascible sage
Durvasas, whose ire once nearly brought the entire race of gods to permanent
grief.
The kings of the earth had assembled for a great meeting, and Durvasas was
invited to be honoured by them with a garland of flowers. Suitably impressed,
and for once in a good mood, Durvasas carried the garland to heaven, reflecting
during the journey on which god should receive it from him.
He decided to give it to Indra, king of the gods. Indra received it with an
elaborate display of gratitude and humility; but actually, he had no more liking
for Durvasas than any of the other gods had, and as soon as the sage had left he
gave it to one of his elephants to play with.
Unfortunately, Durvasas remembered something else he had forgotten to say,
and returned to heaven to find the garland still recognizable but much damaged
and dishonoured by the elephant’s playful tusks. Outraged and incensed by this,
Durvasas cursed not only Indra but all the other gods too, condemning them to
lose their tireless, divine vigour and become as puny as mortals.
This gave an opportunity to the Asuras, a race even more terrifying than the
Rakshasas; their name means ‘anti-god’ and they are therefore a negation of
everything the gods stand for. Their king Bali prepared a massive armed assault
on heaven, and the gods—in their enfeebled state—were so alarmed at the
prospect of this that they went to the supreme deity Siva to appeal to him for aid.
But even Siva declared that he had no antidote to Durvasas’s curse, and sent
them on to Brahma, the Creator himself—who in turn passed on to Vishnu the
task of meeting with the Asura challenge.
When Indra and the other gods marched up to Vishnu, he was asleep—
comfortably ensconced on the massive serpent Ananta whose coils form his bed.
The gods broke into a loud chorus to wake him, singing his thousand names, and
in due course he graciously opened his eyes. ‘What has brought you all here?’ he
asked; and the gods told him of the disaster of Durvasas’s curse, their loss of
energy and immortality, and the threat now posed to them by the Asuras.
energy and immortality, and the threat now posed to them by the Asuras.
To arrive at a solution, Vishnu plunged his mind into meditation, and then
pronounced: ‘Only if you drink from the sea of milk that surrounds me—from
the ambrosia that secures immortality—will your energy be restored. But at
present it is too placid to be effective: it must be churned and energized, and how
can you do that in your present pathetic state? No ordinary churning-stick will
do: the whole Mandara mountain must be lifted and twirled. And the only beings
who can do that are the Asuras themselves, your bitter enemies!’
This seemed an impossible idea, and it threw the gods into profound dejection.
But Vishnu suggested a compromise. Could the Asuras be persuaded to help
with the churning in return for letting them too have a drink of ambrosia?
‘But if we let them do that,’ said Indra, ‘they will become immortal like us!
They will have the power and energy that we formerly had, and immortality, and
evil and malevolence! That will be a threat not only to us and to mankind but to
the entire universe! Surely you can’t suggest that?’
‘Leave that to me,’ said Vishnu. ‘If I can solve one problem for you, I can
solve another.’
Doubtfully, but seeing no other way, Indra and the gods reached a truce with
the Asuras, and engaged their assistance in what Vishnu had advised. The
Asuras were only too pleased to oblige, seeing vast new possibilities for
themselves if they too could achieve immortality. They uprooted Mount
Mandara in a trice, and also gathered enormous quantities of spices and herbs to
flavour the sea of milk. (Their taste in food was as fiery as their temperament,
and they did not relish the prospect of pure ambrosia without any spices to liven
it up.)
Weak though the gods still were, they combined forces to catch Vasuki, a
serpent who lived in the underworld, and was almost as big as Ananta himself.
Stretching out in a long line along the whole length of the snake, they
laboriously coiled him around the mountain, to use as a churning-rope.
When everything was ready, Vishnu asked the gods to position themselves at
the head of the snake, with the Asuras at the tail. This was exceedingly cunning,
for the Asuras suspected a trick where there was none, and themselves
demanded that they should pull from the head-end and the gods should pull from
the tail-end.
‘Very well,’ said Vishnu, ‘if that’s what you would prefer. Swap round at
 ‘Very well,’ said Vishnu, ‘if that’s what you would prefer. Swap round at
once, and begin the churning!’
‘We give to the gods the first pull,’ said Bali sneeringly, ‘for if we start off,
our strength will probably pull you over!’ So the gods summoned all their might
to pull the tail-end of Vasuki, and slowly the mountain started to turn. Then the
Asuras pulled sharply at their end, and the mountain turned much faster in the
opposite direction.
Such inequality of strength would have had perilous consequences had not the
gods been invigorated by the fresh, ambrosial breezes that blew from the ocean
of milk. With each pull, they grew stronger. But the Asuras, at Vasuki’s head-
end, found they were breathing hot, poisonous breath from his huge, hissing
mouth—and this had the effect of weakening them. So, as the gods grew
stronger, the Asuras grew weaker, and with the balancing of their power, the
churning proceeded evenly and effectively.
The mountain, however, was rather too big and heavy to be used as a
churning-stick for long, and fast though it twirled it also steadily sank down, till
there was a real danger that it would slip out of the snake-rope, plunge to the
bottom, and allow the ocean to return to its former, placid state. But Vishnu
solved this problem too—not with arguments or ingenuity (the gods and Asuras
were working too hard to listen to him) but with his own strength and magic.
Assuming the shape of a giant tortoise, he swam down underneath the mountain,
and supported it on his back. The twirling and churning could now continue
without further risk, and soon the ambrosial ocean was seething and foaming
deliriously, spattering both gods and Asuras with its milky, spicy froth.
 17. The Drinking of the Ambrosia

As the great ambrosial ocean churned, the so-called chaturdasa ratnam (fourteen
jewels) were thrown up by it—namely, the moon, which Siva took as an
ornament for his brow; the immortal Parijata tree and the divine elephant
Airavata—both claimed by Indra; the divine cow Surabhi, also known as
Kamadhenu, who grants every wish and who was taken by the seven rishis who
form one of the sky’s constellations; Varuni, the goddess of wine, with her
inexhaustible bowl from which the gods drink; the Kalpavriksha, or wish-
fulfilling tree; the Apsaras, or dancing nymphs of heaven; the white horse
Uchchaisravas, who was given to Bali, king of the Asuras, until Indra claimed
him as a victory-trophy after the battle between the gods and the Asuras that was
to ensue; the wondrous goddess Lakshmi; a conch-shell; a mace; a magic bow;
many precious gems and ornaments, including the jewel known as Kaustubha
which Vishnu took to adorn his chest; and Dhanvantari, the divine doctor who
created the Ayurvedic system of medicine, and who emerged from the ocean
carrying a bowl of the precious ambrosia.
No sooner had Dhanvantari appeared, than the greedy and indisciplined
Asuras dropped the head-end of Vasuki—the churning-rope—and rushed at him
to grab the bowl. They ran off with it victoriously, but then immediately broke
out into a dispute over which of them should be the first to drink from it. A full-
scale brawl would have followed, in which the bowl would probably have been
turned over (and the ambrosia lost to Asuras and gods alike) had not Vishnu
once again intervened.
He turned himself into a beautiful and seductive damsel called Mohini, whose
name conveys her power to enchant and delude, and who was adorned with all
kinds of beguiling ornaments. With her lotus-shaped face, alluring smile,
curvaceous breasts and slender waist, she so distracted the Asuras when she
stepped into their midst—bracelets and anklets jingling—that they immediately
forgot about running off with the bowl of ambrosia, and stood there, transfixed.
Her beauty softened their rough manners, and one of them stepped forward
courteously to ask if she would like to decide how to share the ambrosia.
courteously to ask if she would like to decide how to share the ambrosia.
‘Are you sure you want to trust me with that?’ said Mohini flirtatiously.
‘Women—especially women as beautiful as I am—are notoriously unreliable!’
This produced even greater gallantry and docility from the Asuras, who
assured her that one as lovely as she could do no wrong, and that they trusted her
absolutely. Whatever she decided, they would stick to it unconditionally.
‘Well then,’ said Mohini, ‘I think you will agree that the gods worked just as
hard as you to churn the ocean and bring up Dhanvantari with the bowl of
ambrosia, so I suggest you sit down quietly in a line, and I will serve each of you
fairly.’
Still enraptured by her, the Asuras sat down in one line, while the gods sat
down in another facing them. Mohini started with the gods. (After all, it was the
Asuras who had behaved badly by grabbing the bowl, and the gods deserved
some reward for being better-mannered.) When she had served every one of
them, she suddenly vanished with the bowl—without, apparently, serving a
single Asura. This was not very fair: but had she not warned them beforehand
that it would be risky to trust her?
The Asuras were, naturally enough, enraged by this betrayal; and immediately
launched a furious assault on the gods. But the gods had recovered their full
strength now, after quaffing the ambrosia, and easily vanquished the Asuras—
who fled in disorderly terror, a threat to the gods no longer.
Mohini had apparently served not even one of the Asuras; but in fact there
was one who did receive his share. This was because he had disguised himself as
a god, and had sat down in the line of the gods between Surya (the sun) and
Chandra (the moon). Fortunately, Surya and Chandra detected this deception,
for, though his disguise was perfect he was not recognizable as any god whom
they knew. They indicated their suspicions to Vishnu who, in the battle that
followed, seized his moment to slice the Asura in two with his chakra—a razor-
sharp, discus-like weapon.
However, the ambrosia that the Asura had drunk, ensured that even the two
severed halves of him remained alive. This might have posed a threat, had not
Brahma turned them into two planets called Rahu and Ketu. Rahu retained his
hatred of the sun and moon for catching him out, and it is because of his
repeated attempts to devour them that they are periodically eclipsed.
The Asuras had been defeated, thanks to Vishnu’s intervention in the guise of
 The Asuras had been defeated, thanks to Vishnu’s intervention in the guise of
Mohini, but that was not quite the end of Mohini. Her beauty so entranced Siva
that, later, he asked Vishnu to assume her shape again. Siva then chased her with
such lascivious intent that, although Vishnu turned himself back into his normal
male shape just before Siva caught up with her, the great god’s lust was
unstoppable and he copulated with her anyway!
 18. The Last Journey

Much of the Mahabharata—the great epic of India—is taken up by the war

between the Pandavas and the Kauravas, and the great climactic battle of
Kurukshetra, from which the five Pandava brothers emerged as rulers of the
kingdom and ruled for thirty-six years. But after that, in the final book of the
epic, there is a story that no one forgets, once they have heard it.
The five brothers had become old. They passed their kingdom over to a
successor and, together with Queen Draupadi—whom they shared polyandrously
—they set off towards the mountains of the north, determined to end their lives
by climbing up to the realm of the gods.
The journey took them through many wild forests and over many rugged
peaks; and as they climbed higher and the air got thinner, age got too much for
them. One by one, Draupadi, Nakula, Sahadeva, Arjuna and Bhima collapsed by
the wayside and died, leaving only the hero Yudhishthira who, of all of them,
was the least tainted by sin, and a dog who had faithfully followed them all the
way.
With no means to cremate or carry out funeral rites for his dead brothers and
their queen, Yudhishthira left each body where it lay and carried on without
looking back. On and on he went, over mountains, forests and rivers, reaching
places where no man had ever trod before him. And the dog—though thin, weak
and aged itself—plodded on behind him.
Suddenly, Indra, king of the gods, appeared before him in his splendid chariot,
and said, ‘Noble Yudhishthira, no man has ever been braver or more virtuous
than you. You have walked far enough, and I should like to take you the rest of
the way to heaven in my chariot.’
Yudhishthira looked at the god with respect and humility, but also with the
frank, unpompous honesty that characterized his heroic nature, and which was
undimmed even though he was physically weakened by age. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it
would not be right for me to enter heaven without my brothers and our queen.
They have endured even greater hardships than I have, and have also partaken of
this final journey, and it is only old age that prevented them from walking as far
this final journey, and it is only old age that prevented them from walking as far
as I have. No doubt my own days are numbered too, and I shall not manage
many more steps. But I would rather continue until my end comes in the same
way as it came to them.’
‘Brave hero,’ said Indra, ‘if you are worried that, by riding to heaven in my
chariot, you will somehow arrive there before them, you should have no such
fear. Although their bodies remain by the wayside where you left them, their
souls are already in heaven, and if you come with me now you will meet them
there.’
‘Very well,’ said Yudhishthira, ‘but what of our dog? See how he has
followed us faithfully all this distance. He is thin, exhausted and old, but he is
still alive, and if I step into your chariot, he too must come with me. I cannot
leave him alone and abandoned on these freezing mountain slopes.’
He then beckoned kindly to the dog, and the loyal creature wagged its tail.
Yudhishthira stepped up into the chariot, and the dog was about to follow—but
Indra sprang forward to stop him. Reacting with apparently uncompromising
horror of the unclean, he said, ‘I cannot let an animal as filthy as this pollute me,
you, my chariot and the whole of heaven when we get there. Whatever your
feelings about the dog, it will have to stay behind. It doesn’t look as if it can live
much longer anyway, even if we took it into my chariot.’
‘In that case,’ said Yudhishthira, ‘you can leave me too. I’m not going to
abandon so good and loyal a creature. Far better that we should perish together
on the mountainside. Far better that I should never get to heaven and meet my
brothers and Draupadi there, than that I should desert a creature who has been so
faithful.’
At this, Indra smiled with a radiance that lit up the whole mountain where
they were standing, and made it seem light and warm, though it had, the minute
before, been swathed in mist and cold. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You have passed a
great test, putting trust and loyalty above even your desire to get to heaven. And
look at how pleased your dog is!’
Yudhishthira turned to look at the dog again. To his amazement, he found not
the thin, lean dog that he loved so well but his own father, Dharma, god of order
and justice, who was smiling as proudly and warmly as Indra himself. ‘It was I
who was your dog,’ said Dharma, ‘and because of your loyalty to me, I am now
permitted to reveal my true shape. Noble son, I bless you now for your courage
permitted to reveal my true shape. Noble son, I bless you now for your courage
and kindness and virtue. Let us together now follow Indra’s request, sit in his
chariot, and ride with him up to heaven, away from these perilous mountains,
away from all the trials and sufferings of the world.’
Embracing his divine father, overwhelmed by the miracle of what had
happened, Yudhishthira joined him in Indra’s chariot, and they rode with him up
to heaven.
But the story didn’t quite end there. For, when Yudhishthira arrived at the
gates of heaven, he looked in and saw, not the souls of Draupadi, his brothers
and his allies, but those of his enemies. When he asked where the others were, he
was told they were in hell. Once again, he refused to enter heaven without an
assurance that he would be reunited with his brothers and their queen, and asked
instead to be taken to hell—to join them there, if need be.
So, the chariot took him down to hell, and he saw to his intense grief and
distress his brothers and Draupadi in torment there, and heard their howls of
pain. But he still insisted he would rather stay with them there, than be taken to
heaven without them. ‘I do not understand how this can be,’ he said, ‘that
heaven is full of our enemies, and we have been consigned to hell, but if this is
the will of the gods, so be it.’
‘O noblest of all kings and heroes,’ said Indra, ‘you have passed the final test,
even greater than that with which I tested you on the mountainside. The heaven
and hell that you have seen so far were illusions. Even you are not completely
without sin, and that is why you needed to look into the nature of hell, and
witness the sins of your brothers and your queen as well. But, all of you have
paid fully for your weaknesses, and the heaven that will be revealed to you now
is the real one. Enter it freely, be reunited with your brothers and queen, and
receive the honour that is due to you.’
And Yudhishthira found himself at the gates of the true heaven this time—not
an illusion. Indra’s chariot shot through the gates, and the hero became pure
soul, no longer his aged body, and dwelt in splendour and honour there with the
souls of his brothers and their queen, and with his father Dharma too, to whose
principles of justice, order and honesty he had always adhered.
 19. The Greatest of the Three

Ancient stories tell of the origins of the great triad of Hindu deities—Brahma,
Vishnu and Siva; and according to whether the story is told by devotees of one
or the other, one of the three is shown to be supreme.
The devotees of Siva tell this story, as related by Brahma to the assembled
gods and rishis.
‘It was long, long ago, at the dawn of time, when the whole universe and all
the worlds within the universe were enveloped in primal night. Nothing was
differentiated then: everything was equal and still and inseparable. I was there,
for I am the Creator, and out of my thought and the fire of my thought, all things
come.
‘But suddenly I opened my eyes and saw Narayana, whom many now call
Vishnu. I saw his thousand eyes, and the all-seeing omniscience of those eyes; I
saw him resting on the formless, dark waters of the yet-to-be-created universe,
supported by the thousand heads of the serpent whose name, Ananta, means
unending and infinite. The wondrous, luminous magnificence of the god
transfixed me: I felt, as I gazed at him, that I was witnessing the soul of the
universe, its being but also its non-being. In helpless awe and amazement, I
reached out and touched him. I asked, though I had no need to ask, “What Being
are you? Tell me. Explain how you come to be where you are, how you fill the
void as you do!”
‘He did not answer properly. He simply gazed drowsily back at me with his
thousand, lotus-shaped eyes, smiled a smile that was like a burst of sunlight, rose
to his vast height and said, “Show obeisance, my child, to your shining
grandfather! Welcome me.”
‘At those unexpected words, my wonder turned to anger. I said, “Perfect and
sinless and handsome though you are, how dare you call me child? How dare
you call yourself my grandfather? I am not your grandson; I am not your pupil or
servant. I am Brahma, Creator of worlds to come, and Destroyer of those worlds
when they have run their course. I am the source of all human and non-human
creatures, father of all the other gods.”
creatures, father of all the other gods.”
‘But my anger had no effect. Narayana smiled again and said, “You are wrong
to call yourself Creator of all. I am not only the Creator and Destroyer, but the
Preserver of the universe. Without me, nothing could last, even for a thousandth
of a second. I am the eternal male, the seed that is the source and centre of all
beings. I am the imperishable soul of all existence. You yourself have come
from me.”
‘I disputed this with him, great and magnificent though he was and is. He
repeated his claim. Our argument grew heated. Maybe it would have become
destructive if we had gone on much longer, and the whole unfolding of the
universe would have been thwarted by our conflict.
‘But suddenly, there in the formless darkness in which we stood, a gigantic
pillar of fire appeared, a fiery lingam so bright that it seemed a hundred times
greater even than the fires that destroy the universe; so vast that we could see no
beginning, middle or end. No words can describe it, and we gazed at it, lost for
words. Vishnu—so confident and all-powerful before—was bewildered now;
and I too suddenly had a vision of the heights and depths of Creation both before
and after me: of the origin even of the Origin!
‘Vishnu then said, “This pillar of fire is bigger than anything you or I have
seen, bigger than anything you or I can be. Let us try to find the source of it. I
will descend, and you can ascend. And when we have found the ends of the
lingam, let us meet again here.”
‘Then Vishnu became a boar, as huge as a mountain, deep blue in colour and
thousands of miles in width. His long white pointed tusks gleamed and sparkled
in the light of the pillar of fire. His snorts and grunts were louder than any sound
that had ever been made or heard, and his legs had the strength and energy of
Creation itself. He plunged down, scrabbling through the watery darkness, down
and down through every substance and obstacle, down for a thousand years.
‘And meanwhile, I, Brahma, became a swan, with feathers more brilliantly
white than Vishnu-the-boar’s tusks, with wings more powerful than his legs, and
eyes as fiery as my own creative fire. I flew up and up, as swift as thought, faster
than the fastest wind, up and up for a thousand years. I flew on up beside the
pillar of fire, but I could not reach the end of it, and in the end I returned to the
spot where I had argued with Vishnu.
‘I found him there, changed back to his own form, but limp and weary and
 ‘I found him there, changed back to his own form, but limp and weary and
subdued. I, too, was exhausted, and we lay there, slumped and speechless for
some time before we could find the strength to speak. “Did you find the bottom
end of the lingam?” I asked. “No,” said Vishnu. “Did you find the top end?”
“No,” I said. “The pillar of fire is bigger and greater than either you or me. It
must be the work of a god greater than you or me.”
‘Then Siva appeared, whom men and gods worship in the form of a lingam,
and we realized that the pillar of fire was his work. It has the power to destroy all
things that are made; but also from its energy comes all Creation. There is no
name or word for that supreme power, only a sound—the eternal, infinite OM.
And it was the sound of OM—clear and perfect and inclusive of all possible
sounds—that now filled the void, and which left both me and Vishnu awestruck
and humbled, knowing that there was a god even greater than him or me.’
Thus is explained the greatness and supremacy of Siva! But worshippers of
Vishnu tell a different version. According to them, Brahma told a lie: he returned
from his search for the top of the lingam falsely claiming that he had found it.
Vishnu had told the truth: he had admitted he could not find the bottom end. Siva
then cut off one of Brahma’s heads, and acknowledged Vishnu as the greatest of
the three, because he had had the humility to admit to failure, and to speak the
truth.
 20. The Lord of the Dance

There is a temple at Chidambaram in South India dedicated to Siva. Its many

sculptures show the great god as Lord of the Dance, in thousands of different
postures. The priests of the temple tell a story of how, in that very temple, Siva
established himself as the supreme dancer.
One day, after a long period of trance-like meditation, Siva awoke, and,
instead of the usual sound of prayers and devotions coming up to him from
earth, heard nothing but an eerie silence. Not a single conch or bell could be
heard. Had human beings ceased to worship him? If so, thought Siva, that is a
blessed relief: I can now continue with my life of meditation in peace.
But when he expressed this feeling to his wife Parvati, she was not at all
pleased. ‘You are the greatest god of all,’ she said, ‘with the power to destroy the
universe so that it can be created afresh. But there are other powerful gods—
Vishnu, for example. If devotions to you have ceased, that only means they have
been transferred to him, or to some other deity. Do you really want to be passed
over like that? And do you want the wife of Vishnu to be honoured above me?
You must do something—and do it quickly—to restore the true balance between
the gods, and re-establish you and me as supreme.’
It is hard for any husband to withstand the anger of his wife, but Siva did not
give in to her straight away. He tried to argue that Lakshmi, wife of Vishnu,
could never be as great as Parvati, whatever devotions her husband might be
receiving. ‘Remember’, he said, ‘that she is only the goddess of material wealth.
Kings and merchants may worship her, but never priests and poets. She cannot
match you for chastity, intelligence and creative energy. You have no cause to
be jealous of her.’
But Parvati was not reassured, and went on nagging her husband to do
something about the apparent neglect of them by worshippers on earth.
‘All right,’ said Siva wearily, ‘I’ll go round and see Vishnu.’
So he left Parvati in their home on the snowy heights of Mount Kailasa, and
travelled by his airborne chariot to Vaikuntha, the heavenly abode of Vishnu and
his wife Lakshmi.
his wife Lakshmi.
He found them both as detached and oblivious of the world as he had been
during his meditations; but their occupation was more sociable. They were
throwing dice, and Vishnu was laughing heartily as his wife (as befitted a
goddess of wealth) defeated him again and again, winning ever higher stakes.
They stopped, however, when they saw Siva approach, and welcomed him
courteously.
‘How has the world been for you recently?’ asked Siva. ‘Have you been
bothered by more prayers and devotions than usual?’
‘No,’ said Vishnu, ‘it’s been remarkably quiet. Indeed I’ve hardly heard a
single temple-bell, and that’s why my wife and I have been able to enjoy our
dice-game for so long without disturbance.’
Siva was somewhat alarmed to hear this, for it implied that neither he nor
Vishnu was receiving his proper devotion. Could it be that human beings were
worshipping some entirely new god, who might displace them both?
‘We’d better go and look,’ he said to Vishnu. ‘You and I aren’t bothered: I
prefer my meditation, and you like dice-games and dalliance. But our
womenfolk won’t like it if we are neglected on earth. So let’s disguise ourselves
as yogis, and go to that temple in South India where formerly they were so crazy
about worshipping me that I used to feel quite deafened by their bells and
cymbals and conches.’
So he and Vishnu descended to the temple, in the guise of yogis smeared with
ash, and positioned themselves in the middle of the temple courtyard. They
found, as Siva had feared, that the priests had become prophets of a new cult of
devotion not to gods but to demons, and frenzied rites and pujas were going on
to propitiate their malevolent power.
The worshippers who were there took Siva and Vishnu to be human yogis; but
the priests could guiltily tell who they really were, and launched into the most
evil and powerful incantations that they knew, to call on the aid of demons
against the divine visitors.
The first fruit of their magic was a huge and aggressive tiger, that charged at
the gods with gaping jaws. But the great god Siva caught it, killed it, and draped
it round his shoulders—where it still hangs.
Then the priests called even more frantically on their demons, and this time, a
monstrous snake appeared; but this too Siva caught and killed, and hung it round
monstrous snake appeared; but this too Siva caught and killed, and hung it round
his neck, where its limp and powerless coils can still be seen.
The priests tried one more time, and this time their mantras produced a vile
and lustful goblin that threw itself at the gods, and would have devoured them,
had not Siva jumped on it and pinned it beneath his feet.
And then, to complete his triumph over the goblin, the great god began to
dance. And his dance was so wild and triumphant and beautiful that the
worshippers at the temple, who had all been led astray into the worship of devils,
watched with rapture, and soon realized that the dancer was not a human yogi
but Siva himself. Cries of victory to Siva began to ring out from the crowd, and
they grew louder and more exultant the more he danced, and soon they were
audible on Mount Kailasa. Parvati was asleep there, but the cries and praises
woke her up, and she smiled with joy and relief when she realized that the
shouting was in honour of her husband, and that worship of him had therefore
been restored.
The goblin on whose back Siva triumphantly danced can still be seen under
his feet, and that dance alone is enough to give Siva the title Nataraja, Lord of
the Dance.
But another story, also told by the priests at Chidambaram, confirms that title
even more strongly. It tells of how the king of the serpents, Sesha, heard about
Siva’s dancing prowess, and went to Mount Kailasa to beg Siva to let him see it
for himself. ‘I gather’, said Sesha, ‘that it was because of your dance that the
worshippers at Chidambaram drove out the false priests who had taught them to
worship demons, and reinstated proper worship of you. Please let me see it!’
‘Very well,’ said Siva, ‘I’ll take you there and show you.’
So Siva travelled again to Chidambaram accompanied by the serpent-king.
But when they got there they found that the goddess Kali had installed herself in
the courtyard where Siva had danced, and was refusing to let anyone else dance
there.
‘Everything in Siva’s dance’, she said, ‘I can do just as well. Try, if you like,
and I’ll show you.’
Siva accepted her challenge, and he and Kali began to dance in competition
with each other, with Sesha as their judge.
The priests and worshippers at the temple stood in awe as they watched the
greatest display of dancing that the world had ever seen, gasping and clapping
and cheering as Siva and Kali performed ever more daring and extravagant feats,
and cheering as Siva and Kali performed ever more daring and extravagant feats,
spurring each other on to create entirely new steps and postures. The movements
of all the animals of the world were copied in their dance— swan, elephant, a
scorpion, fleeing deer, peacock; and many other movements too that no dance
had ever previously imitated—the swinging of a cradle, the threading of a
needle, the swirling of a whirlpool.
Everything that Siva did, Kali was able to equal, until Siva tried a dance on
one leg with the other leg flung high above his head. This stumped her—not
because she couldn’t do it, but because it was unseemly for her to adopt such a
posture in front of so many onlookers.
So Kali conceded victory to Siva in the dance competition. Sesha declared
him the winner, the shouts and praises of the crowd rose even more tumultuously
to heaven, and Parvati was even more pleased.
Sesha returned to his abode, well satisfied by what he had seen; and Siva
returned to Kailasa, to be received rapturously and lovingly by Parvati. She
rewarded his victory—the restoration of the worship of him and her—with
maximum amorousness, and this kept him virile and creative for many thousands
of years before his yearning for meditation took hold of him again, and he
returned to his trance.
 21. The Mare of Fire

According to most storytellers, after Siva had burnt Kama to ashes with a blast
of fire from his third eye, he soon revived him again, persuaded by his wife
Parvati. But in another story, the destruction wasn’t limited to Kama only. The
fire spread through the whole world and universe, and tormented with its smoke
and heat not only men and all earthly creatures but also the inhabitants of
heaven: gods, Gandharvas and celestial sages. Cries of fear and pain rang out
through the earth and sky; all creatures clung to their mates and offspring, trying
to protect them from the flames, though they themselves were scorched and
choking.
Appalled by what was happening to good and evil creatures alike, the sages of
heaven went in a body to Brahma. They joined their palms together and did deep
obeisance before him and praised his divinity with songs and prayers; then one
of them stepped forward and said: ‘Kama is a force for life and fertility in the
world. Without his arrows, creatures would not procreate and Creation could not
unfold. Gods too—even the great god Siva—must succumb to his power at
times. For Siva to remain locked in meditation and asceticism is not good for the
world. Kama was only trying to revive his proper energy, and to remind him not
to neglect his wife. But see what damage Siva’s anger has done! Hear the cries
of woe from all three worlds, as the fire from his third eye continues to rage and
flame! It threatens the future of all, and we beg you to do something about it.
Please go to Siva, and persuade him to withdraw his fire—or find some way
yourself of calming and containing it.’
Brahma was concerned by what the sages told him, and the fear and distress
throughout his Creation could certainly not be ignored. So he agreed to go to
Siva.
When Brahma approached the great god, he saw that the fire from his third
eye had become a force in itself: it was spreading across the universe through its
own energy, consuming everything that lay in its path. It no longer emanated
from Siva’s eye, and Siva himself was alarmed by it. It was impossible for
Brahma to get close to the god, so thick were the fire and smoke, but Siva’s great
Brahma to get close to the god, so thick were the fire and smoke, but Siva’s great
voice boomed, ‘If you have come to ask me to stop this blaze, I shall need your
help—for it is now beyond my control. It is true I was angry with Kama, and
used the fire in my eye to destroy him—at least for a while; but I never intended
to set fire to the whole universe. Use your own great power to control the blaze!
You are surely more powerful, for it was your own creative fire that brought the
universe into existence in the first place.’
There was indeed no other option, and Brahma probed deep into himself and
brought up a power so strong that it paralysed the fire. The yellow-red colour
and the jagged edges of its flames were still there, but it was fixed and still, and
Brahma could pick it up in his arms. He lifted it, held it, squeezed and
compressed it until it was a small compact ball; then he pushed the ball into the
mouth of a heavenly mare who, herself, was a breather of fire, and would
therefore not be burnt by it.
Brahma then led the mare to the Ocean—not a particular ocean, but the Ocean
that lies behind all oceans—who when he saw Brahma approaching, leading a
mare with flames coming out of her mouth, assumed the form of a man, and
received the god reverently. He joined his palms, and bowed his head, and said,
‘Grandfather of all, I am honoured by your presence, and am at your command.
Please tell me what you want.’
Brahma said, ‘This mare has in her mouth not only the fire of her own
outbreathing, but an intense ball of fire into which I have compressed a
conflagration that threatened the entire universe. That conflagration was started
by Siva, when he burned Kama to ashes with a blast of fire from his third eye;
but the fire got out of hand. It took on an anger and energy of its own, and
started to spread through all three worlds. Siva had withdrawn his own fire, but
he could not control this general fire, and I had to use my own power to paralyse
it. Now I ask you, O Ocean, to take this mare, and keep her tethered in your
depths. You must keep her there until the final flood with which the world will
end; for, if you let her free and she leaps out of the waters and gallops through
heaven and earth again, and the ball of fire within her is pushed out of her mouth
by the force of her own fiery outbreathing, then, the raging anger of Siva will be
let loose again, to destroy the universe with its flames and smoke. Keep her
there, and let your waters enter the throat of the mare as food for the ball of fire
—for so intense is its heat that even water can be burnt by it. Let your waters
—for so intense is its heat that even water can be burnt by it. Let your waters
enter the throat of the mare little by little; do not on any account let the ball of
fire escape from her mouth; for, if it does, all your waters will be consumed by
it, and the world will be parched and destroyed by drought.’
The Ocean bowed even more reverently when he received this command, and
promised to do what Brahma commanded. ‘I shall hold the mare in my depths
till the end of time,’ he said, ‘and I shall never cease to watch her carefully, to
make sure that my waters only enter her mouth little by little, so that the ball of
fire within her can be fed—can remain contained and content from its daily
intake of food. I shall never let the ball of fire grow hungry for, then, it may try
to escape, to consume all my waters. Siva’s anger will be kept inside the mare in
my depths, for, when the universe ends it will be needed again; but I promise I
shall not let it out prematurely. You can have perfect trust in me.’
Brahma was pleased by the Ocean’s reverence and by his promise, and gave
him the mare, who was led down to the depths, to be tethered till the end of time.
And the creatures of the three worlds who had been so afflicted and threatened
were restored to safety again; could breathe pure air again, free of smoke; could
bare their skin, without its being burnt; could release their offspring again from
their desperate, scorched embrace.
 22. The Birth of Skanda

After Siva revived Kama, thereby restoring himself to full virility and energy, he
and his wife Parvati engaged in such vigorous and protracted lovemaking that
the whole universe was agitated. For thousands of years, they hid themselves
away in Parvati’s private chamber, and although no one knew exactly what they
were getting up to, the heaving and shaking and cyclones and earthquakes that
their ardour caused spread panic throughout the three worlds. A turbulent
universe is a burdensome one and, despite the agitation, the surrounding air
became sluggish and compressed, which greatly added to the weight on the back
of the tortoise that supports the earth.
Moreover, the demon Taraka seized his opportunity to add to the mayhem,
and his violence and cruelty so distressed and alarmed the gods that they went to
Lord Vishnu, and begged him to intercede with Siva.
Vishnu took all the gods to Mount Kailasa, but when they got there Siva was
nowhere to be seen. They found only his army, keeping guard over his palace
and refusing to allow anyone to enter it. When Vishnu asked for access to the
god, even he was told that Siva was immured with Parvati; that so expert was he
in the science of lovemaking that thousands of years had not exhausted his
amorous repertoire, and there was no knowing when he would emerge.
Vishnu grew angry at this. He broke through the army and marched right up to
Siva’s door, where he called out: ‘Supreme you may be, and unparalleled in your
love for your wife, but your unceasing pleasures have caused great perturbation
in the universe, and have given the demon Taraka the chance to run riot. The
distress of men, gods and all creatures is intense, and I implore you to come out
and restore the universe to order.’
When Siva heard this, along with the moans and wails of the gods
accompanying Vishnu, he was at last distracted from his lovemaking. Indeed, he
quickly lost all further desire, but felt compelled to go through the motions for a
while longer, so as not to leave his wife annoyed and unsatisfied. At last she too
was content to pause. Leaving her to rest, he appeared at the gate of his palace.
Vishnu and the assembled gods looked so dejected that Siva was forced to
 Vishnu and the assembled gods looked so dejected that Siva was forced to
take note of what they told him. With compassion and concern in his voice, he
said, ‘I hear what you say, and I feel for those who have suffered, though
nothing can be done now about past sufferings that—carried away by my rapture
—I knew not of. As for the shaking of the universe, I’m happy to let that cease.
The air too will move freely again, now that the worst burden has been lifted.
But as regards the malevolence of Taraka, a hero is needed to fight him— a new
son of mine. Take, then, my seed, and let it beget that hero in whoever is willing
to be fertilized by it.’
Even thousands of years of lovemaking cannot exhaust the seed of Siva. He
spilt some of it on the ground; and at the request of the other gods, Agni, the god
of fire, turned himself into a dove and perkily picked up the seed.
But by this time, Parvati had had her rest, and was ready to start making love
again. Watching from afar, she was furious to see that her husband had been
distracted by the gods’ appeals, and that dejection and anxiety had dampened his
desire. She was even more furious to see how he had wasted his seed, spilling it
on the ground for Agni to eat up. Storming out of the palace, blazing with all the
anger of her thwarted passion, she shouted at Vishnu, ‘How dare you all come
and invade our joy and our privacy, dragging my husband away from our bed,
and unmanning him with worries! You have destroyed my own pleasure, and
have cast doubt on whether I shall now conceive; and for this I curse you all, and
condemn by my curse all your wives to barrenness and sterility!’
Then she turned to Agni and said, ‘You were a fool to eat up the fallen seed.
That is not a proper thing to do; it was theft of what should be given only to me.
I curse you to be afflicted by feverish, torturous burning from the seed within
you; and any others who receive that seed will be similarly afflicted.’
And with that, she stomped back into the palace, dragging her sheepish
husband behind her.
It is part of the ceaseless ritual of the gods to eat the food that is offered to
Agni’s sacred fire. It therefore happened that the seed that was within him
passed to them too. Brahma, Vishnu and all the gods all found themselves
pregnant with Siva’s burning seed and, in accordance with Parvati’s curse, the
feverish burning that the seed caused them was agonizing and drove them nearly
mad.
So they went back to Siva, and once again Vishnu called out to him from
 So they went back to Siva, and once again Vishnu called out to him from
outside his door. ‘Please, great Siva,’ he cried, ‘remove the terrible pain of the
seed that you spilt, and which Agni consumed, and which now has entered us all
and made us pregnant with a feverish burning. We were not made to bear
children—that is for our wives; they have become barren through Parvati’s
curse, and we see no future for the universe unless you have mercy on us.’
This time Siva was so cheerfully and confidently busy with his lovemaking
that their plight merely amused him. However, he had no desire to cause lasting
damage to the universe, and he shouted back, ‘You will be instantly relieved of
your torment if you simply vomit up the seed. Do that now, and I think you will
find that things go better for you.’
The gods accepted his command, and abased themselves before him not only
by vomiting up his seed, but by praising him and worshipping him. The seed that
they vomited turned into a wonderful golden mountain, whose peak touched the
sky.
But Agni, god of fire, could not vomit up the seed in the way that the other
gods could, and was still tormented by the feverish burning. He cried out in
agony to Siva, ‘If I committed an offence by eating up your seed, please forgive
me! It was only at the request of the other gods that I did so. I beg you to release
me too from suffering.’
Still unwilling to interrupt his lovemaking, Siva shouted out merrily, ‘All
right. It was indeed sinful and perverted of you to eat up my seed—there were
better ways of taking it and making use of it. But it was partly the gods’ fault for
requesting you to do so, and I forgive you now. Just make sure it gets into the
womb of a good woman, and you will be relieved of it and the agony it is
causing you.’
Agni was reassured by this, and he called back, ‘But where is such a woman
to be found? Your seed is hard to bear, and only your own wife, Parvati—whose
name is also Sakti, the supreme energy of the universe—is fit to bear it!’
But Siva was again too carried away with passion to take any notice of this,
and it fell to Narada, chief sage of heaven, to encourage Agni by saying, ‘I know
a way. Find some women when they are bathing at dawn in summer, and place
Siva’s seed in them. That will bring you relief at last, and create the offspring of
the seed that our tormented universe so badly needs.’
It so happened that the wives of the Seven Celestial Sages—who form the
constellation of Ursa Major—were bathing one summer dawn. The sun was
constellation of Ursa Major—were bathing one summer dawn. The sun was
scarcely up, and the water made them cold, so they looked to Agni for warmth.
One of their number, Arundhati, knew that to go too close to Agni could be
dangerous, and tried to prevent the other six; but they insisted on edging up to
him, and the moment that sparks from his flames fell on their hair, the seed of
Siva that he bore entered the women through their hair-follicles. Instantly, Agni
was relieved of his suffering, and he skipped away happily, back to the
netherworld where he lives.
But the feverish burning that afflicted both him and the gods who had
absorbed the seed earlier now entered the six wives, and their sudden
pregnancies caused them horrible pain and sickness. Moreover, their husbands
suspected adultery, rebuked them angrily, and threw them out for their supposed
transgression.
Nearly mad with the pain, and desperate to be restored to their husbands’
favour, the six wives took advice from a midwife, who induced miscarriages in
them all. The product of their wombs coalesced into a single embryo, and they
took it to a high peak in the Himalayas, and left it there.
But Himavat, god of the Himalayas, was now tormented by the same feverish
burning that had afflicted Agni, the other gods and the wives of the Seven Sages.
He took the embryo and hurled it down into the Ganga. The Ganga couldn’t bear
it either, and spewed it out into a clump of reeds. And there, at last, the seed
matured into a boy—handsome, cheerful and energetic.
Thus was Skanda born, offspring of Siva, also known as Karttikeya: the hero
who destroyed the demon Taraka, and restored the universe to peace and
harmony. When he came into being, Parvati—daughter of Himavat and wife of
Siva—turned up to bless him; and though he had not been born of her, milk
started to flow from her breasts. She suckled him as her own, and her joy and
love spread through the universe, reviving the spirits of Vishnu and the other
gods. There was general jubilation, with praise for Siva and Parvati, and
blessings on the new-born hero.
 23. Savitri and Satyavan

A king called Asvapati had reigned for many years, and was famed for his
virtuous dedication to the needs of his subjects. But there was one heavy shadow
over his life: he had no children. Fearing that his family line and the security of
the kingdom would end with him, he embarked on a final round of devotions and
austerities, directing his prayers at the goddess Savitri. He kept this up for
eighteen years, denying himself all luxuries and pleasures, and eating only the
simplest food; and at last—in the eighteenth year—the goddess appeared before
him. She rose from the sacred fire into which oblations had been poured for so
long, and was so overpowering in her beauty that Asvapati fell speechless on the
ground before her.
‘Do not abase yourself before me, O noble king,’ said the goddess with a
tender smile. ‘It is I who do honour you, so untiring have you been in your
worship of me these long years. Choose a boon: I will grant you whatever you
desire.’
Rising to his knees, and lifting his head to face the goddess, but still finding it
difficult to speak and to look directly at her radiance, Asvapati stammered:
‘Only one desire, O Savitri, impelled me during these arduous years: my longing
for a son—for issue that will perpetuate my line and secure my kingdom for
posterity.’
‘I know this already,’ said the goddess, ‘and if this is your sole desire, it is
joyously granted. But you will have a daughter, not a son who, in her beauty and
goodness, will be worth a hundred sons.’
She faded back into the fire, and the king stumbled back to the private
quarters of his palace.
Sure enough, nine months later, his chief queen gave birth to a daughter; and
because she had arrived through the intervention of the goddess Savitri, that was
the name that the king and his queen and the Brahmin priests of the kingdom
agreed to give her.
As she grew, all who saw her were so impressed by her grace and goodness
that they said, ‘She is indeed a daughter of the gods.’ But as she approached
that they said, ‘She is indeed a daughter of the gods.’ But as she approached
marriageable age, her divine qualities proved to be an obstacle, for men were
daunted by them. They could not imagine her as a wife, and no offers for her
hand came from even the noblest young men, or their fathers.
Her father therefore said to her: ‘If none will make an offer, I give you
permission to choose a husband yourself. This has long been the custom among
the highest-born and most virtuous of women. You are such a one, and I know
you will choose well, for a maiden as peerless as you would never be drawn to
an unworthy husband.’
So her father sent her forth, riding in a golden chariot, and accompanied by his
wisest counsellors, so that she could search through the kingdom for a worthy
match.
Some months later, Narada—celebrated sage and adviser to the gods—was
visiting the kingdom, and was being entertained royally by the aged Asvapati. It
so happened that Savitri returned while he was there: as she approached the
palace in her golden chariot, she saw him and her father conversing on a shady
veranda; and when she had got out of the chariot and walked towards them, it
was to them both that she bowed reverently, taking the dust of their feet.
‘If this is your daughter,’ said Narada, ‘and so famous is she for her beauty,
and so beautiful is this maiden, that it must be she, where has she been? And
why is she not yet married?’
‘It was to find a husband’, said Asvapati, ‘that I sent her out into the kingdom,
to roam its great forests and to visit the houses of its greatest nobles. As she has
now returned, I presume that her search has been successful. Tell us, Savitri,
whom you have found.’
‘In a remote part of the forest,’ said Savitri, ‘I found an aged couple living
alone with their grown-up son. The husband, Dyumatsena, was blind, but his
blindness had given him special insight and wisdom. They received me warmly,
and told me that they had been king and queen of a kingdom like yours, but that
enemies had overthrown them when Dyumatsena went blind, and had driven
them to take refuge in the forest with their young son. Their son is called
Satyavan, and I believe him to be as good and truthful as his name implies.29 I
wish to choose him for my husband.’
When Narada heard this, he felt a sudden, stabbing sickness at heart, for he
knew—from his power to see the future—that Satyavan was doomed to die
knew—from his power to see the future—that Satyavan was doomed to die
young: indeed he had only one more year to live. What a cruel quirk of fate that
Savitri, daughter of the gods, should have chosen him, condemning herself to
widowhood and sorrow!
Asvapati questioned Savitri about Satyavan, and from everything that she said
he was convinced that he would be a worthy husband, even though his parents
had suffered such misfortune, and had brought him up in such straitened,
isolated circumstances.
Then he turned to Narada and said, ‘You have heard my daughter speak about
Satyavan. You have seen the sincerity with which she has described his virtues;
you have seen how the radiance of love already shines in her eyes—that same
radiance that I saw in her divine mother Savitri, when she appeared before me
after my eighteen years of penance. What is your view? Will Satyavan be a
faithful husband to her? Has he any faults?’
‘He has no faults,’ said Narada, with heaviness of heart, ‘but he is ill-fated. He
has only one year left of life. Your daughter must marry him knowing that,
however perfect their love, it will be allowed only one year to flourish, and that
thereafter she faces many long years of grief and widowhood.’
Asvapati started with alarm when he heard this. He rose to his feet, stooped
and tottering, and said with passionate fervour in his trembling voice, ‘O Savitri,
you have heard what Narada has said. Do not marry this young man, however
handsome and noble! Do not condemn yourself and your parents to sadness!
Choose someone else for your husband—anyone but Satyavan.’
But Savitri looked him calmly in the eye, and said with gracious sweetness as
was her wont, and which disarmed all anger, ‘Do not be dismayed, dear father,
for I am not. Satyavan is my chosen husband: we are destined to be man and
wife, for good or ill, for whatever span of life is in store for him or for me. I am
resolved; nothing that Narada has said has shaken me from my resolve.’
Asvapati knew, when he heard this, that there was nothing he could do to
make her change her mind. He had given her permission to choose her own
husband; she had found one who seemed in every way—other than his short
span of life—to be truly worthy of her; and she had spoken with the same
authority and graciousness that he had heard in her divine mother, the goddess
Savitri. Grief-stricken though he was, he therefore gave her his blessing.
Dyumatsena and his wife were sent for. They were brought in a royal chariot
to the king’s palace, and he received them with all the dignity and courtesy that
to the king’s palace, and he received them with all the dignity and courtesy that
the prospective parents-in-law of his daughter deserved. ‘Your son Satyavan’,
said the king, ‘has been chosen by my daughter to be her husband. Will you
receive her as your daughter-in-law, cherish her as I and my wife have cherished
her?’
‘Cherish her we will, with our deepest devotion and love,’ said old, blind
Dyumatsena. ‘But alas, we are fallen from our once-high estate: we cannot offer
her the comforts of a royal household—just the rough shelter and the simple
food of the forest.’
‘She has seen how you live,’ said Asvapati, ‘and such is her virtue that
simplicity of shelter and food will not discomfort her. If you are happy to receive
her, I am happy to bless this marriage, and to solemnize it with all due honour.’
So Savitri and Satyavan were married, in the forest where Dyumatsena and his
family lived, with all the chief Brahmins of the kingdom officiating, and
Asvapati providing for his daughter the garments and jewellery that her royal
status deserved, but with no excess or ostentation, for he did not wish
Dyumatsena and his wife to feel embarrassed by their lowly circumstances, or to
feel that he regarded their son as in any way unworthy of Savitri.
As soon as the ceremonies were over, Savitri cast off her ornaments, and
adopted the same clothes of bark that her husband and his parents wore. She
settled down to a life of complete simplicity with them; and harsh though the
forest was, and arduous though it was to cook and care for her husband in such
austere surroundings, their happiness knew no bounds. For her parents-in-law
too, a new phase of fulfilment and contentment seemed to have begun.
 24. Yama Relents

In her husband, her parents-in-law and their simple home in the forest, Savitri
was blissfully happy. But as the months passed, the shadow of Narada’s
prophecy hung more and more darkly over her. The pain of it was all the greater
because neither Satyavan himself, nor his parents, knew about it; so there was no
one with whom Savitri could share her sorrow.
Not that she wavered for a second from her loyalty to her husband, her
conviction that he and she were made for each other, even if their happiness on
earth was to be short-lived. But could some way be found of averting Satyavan’s
doom? Of making Yama, the god of death, relent—and postpone the claim he
was about to make on her beloved husband?
With only four days left before the day of Satyavan’s predicted death, Savitri
decided to perform a penance. She vowed to stand unmoving for three whole
days and nights. Her father-in-law, Dyumatsena, was concerned when he heard
about her vow—and puzzled too, for he did not know what had impelled her to
it. ‘Such trials’, he said, ‘may be right for saints and sages, but not for a young
wife like you. Even if you are undertaking it to prove your intense devotion to
your husband, I beg you not to persist. It will weaken your health.’
‘Do not worry, dear father,’ said Savitri. ‘My love for Satyavan will sustain
me, and I shall emerge from the penance unscathed, and with the favour of the
gods strengthened towards you and my mother-in-law, as well as towards me
and my husband.’
Then, with no further word, she stood where she was, and remained unmoving
for the whole period of her vow. She did not stir until sunrise of the day that
Satyavan was fated to die; and she started that fateful day with her usual
morning prayers, as if nothing untoward was to happen.
Relieved to see that her penance had ended, Dyumatsena and his wife called
her to come and eat; but she said, ‘My three days of stillness have ended, but not
my fast: that will end this evening, after the sun has gone down.’
Then she saw her husband preparing to go into the forest with his axe, to cut
wood, and she suddenly could not bear to let him out of sight. ‘Do not go alone
wood, and she suddenly could not bear to let him out of sight. ‘Do not go alone
into the wood today,’ she cried. ‘Let me come with you.’
Satyavan gazed at her tenderly and said, ‘The rough parts of the forest are not
for you: there are dangerous wild beasts, and no trodden paths. You legs will be
scratched by thorns, and your clothes will be torn. Besides, you have been
fasting for three days, and you are too weak for so long a walk.’
‘I am strengthened by my fast,’ said Savitri, ‘not weakened. Please let me
come.’
Satyavan smiled at her even more lovingly and said, ‘Only if my parents
agree. I do not want them to lay the blame on me for letting you tax yourself so
sorely.’
So Savitri asked her parents-in-law whether they would mind if she
accompanied her husband into the forest; and they—still worried about her
health, but assuring themselves that her husband would protect her and would
bring her back if she got too tired—said that they had no objection. So, the two
set out.
They walked to where the forest was thickest, and Satyavan cut branches off
trees and axed them into logs, which he arranged in piles to bring back to the
hermitage later. The forest was shady and cool, and it was not Savitri who grew
tired, but her husband. When he paused, so that she could prepare a meal for him
of fruits and berries she had picked along the way, he slumped down to the
ground and said: ‘I don’t know why, but today the walk and the wood-cutting
have wearied me greatly. I am aching all over my body, and I think I must sleep
for a while, before we start the walk back.’
He lay stretched out, and Savitri took his head in her lap. She cradled him
with infinite tenderness, but with sinking terror in her heart at her husband’s
unwonted weakness, and the imminent death that it implied.
Suddenly, she felt the presence of someone to the side of her, and she turned
and saw a tall, regal figure in a red robe, carrying a noose. He was staring at her
husband fixedly, and she noticed that the whites of his eyes were fiery red, not
white.
Savitri joined her hands reverently and said with her calm composure
undisturbed, ‘I believe you are a god, not a man, for your height is above any
man’s, and you appeared beside me as if born from the shadows of the forest.
Who are you, and what have you come here to do?’
Who are you, and what have you come here to do?’
‘I am Yama,’ he replied, and Savitri knew then what her heart had already told
her, that this was the god of death, come to take her beloved husband away.
‘Why have you come alone?’ she asked. ‘I have heard that normally your
messengers come, to carry away the souls of men and women to your kingdom.’
‘I have come myself,’ said Yama, ‘because of your husband’s special virtues.
He is indeed a prince, though his father has been unjustly deposed; and one so
royal deserves royal treatment from me.’
Then he bent down over the sleeping Satyavan and, with his thumb and index
finger, pulled out his soul, as if pulling a long thread from a garment. With his
other hand, he wound the thread into a ball no bigger than his thumb; and
Satyavan’s head fell back into Savitri’s lap with stone-dead heaviness. His soul
was gone, and nothing now moved in his body—neither blood nor breath.
With no further word, Yama turned his back on Savitri, and set off walking
towards the south, with the soul of Satyavan concealed beneath his robe.
Savitri followed him, saying calmly but insistently: ‘I am bound to my
husband for eternity. Where he goes, I follow. You have left his body to the
worms and the vultures, but his soul is with you, and therefore I must stay with
you too. My three days of penance and my devotion to my husband this last
year, entitle me to this favour. Can you deny it to me?’
Yama kept walking, but he did not try to stop Savitri from following him, and
said, with his red eyes fixed on the ground and his great red robe billowing like a
sail: ‘Your devotion has indeed been peerless. I cannot let you follow me all the
way to the underworld, but I am willing to grant you a boon—any boon, except
the life of your husband.’
‘Then I ask you this,’ said Savitri. ‘My father-in-law lost his kingdom when
he was struck blind and could no longer foil his enemies. Please restore his
sight.’
‘Done,’ said Yama. ‘You will find, when you return, that his vision is as sharp
and clear as a boy’s. Make your way back to him now, for my stride is too long
for you to keep up with, and you will soon collapse with exhaustion if you try.
Besides, you cannot follow me all the way.’
‘When I stay with my husband,’ said Savitri, ‘I feel no weariness; and my
husband is with you, under the folds of your cloak. Should I not stay in the
company of the good? You, like him, are good: you bring human lives to an end
when their time comes—a task that is good because it is necessary.’
when their time comes—a task that is good because it is necessary.’
Yama was surprised and pleased to hear such calm, intelligent praise from a
human being, when normally he heard nothing but howls of rage and grief. With
no let-up in his pace, and his eyes still fixed on the ground, he nevertheless said
with approval in his voice: ‘Your words are perceptive and wise. I have never
before heard a human being speak like that. So I am willing to grant you a
second boon—anything you wish, except the life of your husband.’
This time, Savitri asked for her father-in-law to be restored to his kingdom.
‘Done,’ said Yama. ‘When you return to him, you will find that news has
come of the downfall of his enemies. Hurry on back, so that you can share in his
joy.’
But Savitri again refused to be separated from the soul of her husband, and
she continued to speak calmly to Yama, praising him for his mercy, restraint,
thoughtfulness, generosity—all the virtues that human beings would normally
never associate with the god of death, but which they would indeed attribute to
him, were they as wise as Savitri.
Even more pleased, Yama granted her a third boon, and she asked that her
parents, who had only her as their offspring, should be given a hundred strong
sons.
‘Done,’ said Yama, and the conversation went on, as he continued to stride
through the forest, with Savitri running along at his side, but showing not even
any breathlessness, so calm and composed did she remain. He granted her many
more boons, always insisting that the life of her husband was the one boon he
could not grant; but, finally, he was so won over by her praise and respect that he
stopped, turned towards her with a gaze that made even the fire in his eyes look
kindly, and said: ‘So good and wise you are, so perceptive of my necessary role
and duty in the world, that I grant you a boon that will have no exception:
anything you wish—anything at all that your heart desires.’
‘Then, let my husband live!’ said Savitri, with calm confidence, but with no
note of triumph in her voice, for her virtuous, self-sacrificing, humble and
devoted nature precluded any vaingloriousness. ‘Let me return to the place
where his body lies like a stone, and find that there is breath in it again, and that
his soul has been threaded back into it, and his heart beats again with life and
with love!’
‘Done!’ said Yama, with a smile on his face that no human being had ever
seen before—wry yet compassionate; stern yet humane. Then, the red of his eyes
and robe faded into the shadows like the embers of a dying fire, and he vanished
from her sight, leaving her utterly alone in the dense forest, with the sun low
above the trees, and dusk beginning to fall.
 25. Satyavan’s Return

When Yama had gone, Savitri made her way back to the part of the forest where
her husband had lain down to rest; and, who knows by what divine assistance—
or second sight, or keen observation that had never left her even during her rapid
walk and intense conversation with Yama—she was able to retrace her steps,
though the forest was dense, and the darkness was thickening. But find him she
did, stretched out exactly as she had left him, apparently as inert and lifeless as
before.
She sat down beside him and took his head into her lap. It was not quite cold,
and as she stroked his brow with her right hand, she felt a growing warmth in his
skin; and then she felt the faint brush of his breath against her face; and then
there was a slight movement in his legs; and then, there was no doubt—he was
alive again! She placed her ear against his chest, and heard his heartbeat, strong
and regular; and when she wrapped her arms right around his body, it moved and
responded as if waking from deep sleep.
In the dappled moonlight that was beginning to fill the forest, she saw his eyes
open; and then he spoke—sleepily, softly, but distinctly.
‘Have you not been here?’ he said. ‘How long have I been asleep? I had
strange dreams. There was a tall stranger with a long red robe. Who was he?’
‘You have been asleep,’ said Savitri, ‘more deeply than usual, for you were
ill. Do you remember the pain and weariness that overcame you after cutting the
wood? How you had to lie down to rest before I could give you your meal of
fruits and berries? But your illness and weariness are passing now, and soon you
will be stronger than ever.’
‘But who was that stranger?’ asked Satyavan again. ‘Was he really here, or
only in my dream? He seemed to bend down, and draw something out of me.’
‘He was here,’ said Savitri, ‘and he was Yama, here to take you away. But I
followed him, and talked to him, and praised him, and he relented, and let you
remain, so that we may have many more years together. But do not worry about
that now. I will tell you everything tomorrow. Let me look for sticks to make a
fire, so that you can rest some more, protected by its light and warmth. In the
fire, so that you can rest some more, protected by its light and warmth. In the
morning, we can return to your parents.’
‘But I’m no longer in pain,’ said Satyavan, ‘and my weariness has gone. Let
us return now. My parents will be anxious. They are old and frail and have
suffered so much in life: the worry of our absence may be too much for their
hearts to bear.’
‘How will we find our way in the darkness?’ said Savitri.
‘How did you find your way back to me,’ said Satyavan, ‘after following the
stranger? Whatever guided you, will guide us. Besides, the moon is full, and is
lighting the paths of the forest clearly.’
So Savitri helped him to his feet. He stood firmly, but his arms were still
weak, and it was Savitri who carried the axe, as they picked their way back
through the moonlit forest, holding and sustaining each other, as they had done
through the first year of their marriage, and would do for many years to come.
Meanwhile, back at Satyavan’s parents’ hermitage, a miracle had happened.
After many years of blindness, King Dyumatsena had suddenly recovered his
sight. But soon, the marvel and joy of seeing everything around him again—the
verdure of the forest, the afternoon sunshine in the glade where they lived, the
elderly beauty of his wife—were disturbed by the anxiety of not seeing Savitri
and Satyavan again. Where were they? Why were they not yet back from cutting
wood? There was not much more than an hour of daylight. How would they find
their way back once night had fallen?
‘We must go into the forest to look for them,’ he said to his wife; and they
would indeed have done so, though their aged feet were soft and unused to
thorny forest paths. But fellow sages and Brahmins living in hermitages nearby,
seeing them wandering in distress, rushed out to stop them; and when they heard
that Savitri and Satyavan had not returned, they said: ‘You need not worry.
Savitri has the auspicious marks on her brow not just of a long life but a long
married life. She will return, and her husband too.’
The old couple were calmed by these words, and returned to their house, to sit
on its humble veranda and watch the daylight fade and the moon brighten—and
to stare into the surrounding forest, waiting and hoping for their son and
daughter-in-law to return.
When the moon and the stars were at their brightest, and the forest was
absolutely still, they heard a gentle, rustling movement on the edge of the
absolutely still, they heard a gentle, rustling movement on the edge of the
clearing; and suddenly they were there, Savitri and Satyavan, arm in arm, with
the steel of Satyavan’s axe glinting in the moonlight.
‘They are back!’ cried Dyumatsena. ‘Come, one and all, to welcome my son
and daughter-in-law, whom now I can see, for, while you were away, by a
miracle my sight was restored.’
The neighbouring sages and Brahmins quickly gathered around when they
heard Dyumatsena’s joyful cry, and everyone sat down happily, basking in the
joy not only of Savitri and Satyavan’s homecoming, but also of Dyumatsena’s
restored eyesight.
There were many questions about where the young couple had been, and what
had happened to them, and Savitri told them all: told them for the first time
about Narada’s prophecy, Satyavan’s pain and weariness, Yama’s visitation, her
long conversation with Yama, his approval of her, and the boons he granted, one
of which had been the restoration of Dyumatsena’s sight.
‘And there were other boons too,’ she said, ‘that you should recover your
kingdom, and have a hundred sons, and that I should have many sons also, and
that I should live for many years in happiness—a happiness that was only made
secure when Yama granted his last unconditional boon, that my husband should
be brought back to life.’
When the assembled sages and Brahmins heard all this, and that it was
through the intelligence and persistence of Savitri that Yama had relented,
Satyavan had been saved, and the many other boons had been granted, they
broke into a chorus of praise. Truly, she was like the goddess Savitri after whom
she had been named! Truly, she was the goddess Savitri, born on earth!
And soon, Yama’s other boons were confirmed. Messengers came with the
news that the usurpers of Dyumatsena’s throne had been overthrown by the
angry populace, and had all been killed. ‘The people want you back,’ they said.
‘Blindness need not prevent a noble king from ruling.’
‘I am no longer blind,’ said Dyumatsena. ‘I shall return, and rule with greater
dedication and care than ever before, for I have learnt much during these years
of blindness and exile.’
So Dyumatsena and his queen, with Savitri and Satyavan too, returned in
triumph to their kingdom, to rule securely and fairly. In time Satyavan succeeded
his father; and Savitri’s parents too were blessed with the many heirs that Yama
had promised—as were Savitri and Satyavan themselves, during their long and
had promised—as were Savitri and Satyavan themselves, during their long and
happy marriage.
 26. The Birth of the Mother-Goddess

Devi—the mother-goddess—is not only Parvati, wife of Siva, but is Durga and
Kali and other female manifestations of cosmic energy. Myths tell of her birth,
and how she acquired her power, and how she asserted and proved it by slaying
the buffalo-demon. Here is an account of her birth.
At the dawn of time, there were fierce wars between the gods and the demons,
in which the gods emerged victorious. Diti, mother of the demons, was
distressed at their humiliating defeat, and she commanded her daughter to go to a
remote forest and practise extreme asceticism. ‘Commit yourself to such
unprecedented austerity,’ she said, ‘that the gods will be alarmed by your power,
and will propitiate you by granting you a son. That son will be a warrior who
will fight back against the gods, and restore us to our rightful status.’
Her daughter did as her mother said, and withdrew to the forest. When
demonic energy combines with asceticism, the results are truly awesome, and
soon the three worlds were trembling at the terror of it. Indra and the other gods
grew anxious not only for the future of human beings and other creatures, but
also for the security of their own realm, and they sent one of the chief sages of
heaven, Suparsva, to attempt to persuade Diti’s daughter to desist.
‘You have proved your power,’ said Suparsva to Diti’s demonic daughter,
‘and the gods would like to reward you. From your fair and capacious hips will
emerge a son. He will have the head of a buffalo and the body of a man, and he
will be called Mahisha. So strong and aggressive will he be, that he will pose a
new threat to heaven; but the gods are prepared to run the risk of that in return
for short-term relief from the disturbance that you, by your monstrous and
infernal asceticism, are causing now.’
Some storytellers say that Suparsva took Diti’s daughter away with him, and
dwelt with her in a place that was distant from heaven; and that he was therefore
the begetter of Mahisha! Be that as it may, the monstrous son was born, and his
growth to maturity was as massive and rapid as the swelling of a high tide.
The demons were greatly cheered by his arrival, and called an assembly to
praise and appeal to him. ‘We were formerly equal to the gods,’ they said. ‘We
praise and appeal to him. ‘We were formerly equal to the gods,’ they said. ‘We
reigned as kings in heaven. So frightened were the gods by Diti’s daughter’s
asceticism, that they bought her off with your birth. Now is the time for you, by
your strength and violence, to punish them for their short-sighted foolishness,
and restore us to our former glory. Attack the gods! Take command of the
demon army, and launch an invincible assault.’
So lustful for battle was Mahisha, that he needed little persuasion. He
assembled an army, and marched to Amarvati, the city of the gods.
At first the battle went wholly his way, and the gods fled in terror, scattering
in all directions. Keeping a humiliating distance from him, they managed to
reassemble, and went in a battle-scarred, shame-faced bevy to Brahma, to beg
him to take special measures against Mahisha.
Brahma could see, from the seniority of the gods who had come to him, how
desperate the situation was. ‘Your defeat has been too complete, and the power
of Mahisha is too great, for me alone to restore order,’ he said. ‘I must go to
Vishnu and Siva.’
So he sent word to Vishnu and Siva that he wished to consult them, and
travelled in his chariot to a place where they could all meet together. ‘Look at
what has happened to the gods,’ he said, pointing to the dishevelled crowd
behind him. ‘Mahisha and his demon hordes have overthrown Indra, Agni,
Yama, the sun and the moon, Kubera and Varuna—not to mention all the lesser
gods! How can the three worlds function if the sun and the moon are not in their
proper places? How can men live without fire? How can its population be
controlled and renewed without Yama and the certainty of Death? Together, we
must do something—you and I and all the gods, demoralized though they are.’
When Vishnu and Siva heard what Brahma was telling them, they grew angry.
But this was no ordinary anger: their faces grew so huge and fiery with anger
that it became impossible even for Brahma to look at them—it was like trying to
look into the sun. And Brahma himself grew furious as he thought of the plight
of the gods, and the insult that Mahisha had done to them; and when the other
gods saw the anger of Vishnu, Siva and Brahma, they too grew angry, and their
anger overcame their despondency. Together, the anger of the assembled gods
began to glow and spout and erupt like a volcano as vast as the universe itself;
and from that vast, cataclysmic combination of furious energy, a woman began
to form. Each of her parts came from a different god. Her head came from Siva’s
to form. Each of her parts came from a different god. Her head came from Siva’s
energy, and her arms from Vishnu’s; her feet came from Brahma, and her waist
from Indra. Her long flowing hair came hot and glowing from the anger of
Yama, and her breasts were made by the moon; her thighs came from Varuna
who, in his anger, was like a seething ocean of fire; and her hips came from the
earth. Her fingers—stabbing into the air like swords of fire—came from the
radiant flames of the sun; her nose came from Kubera; and every other part of
her—her teeth, her eyes, her brows, her ears and all her internal organs—each
came from the powerful anger of a god.
Thus was the mother-goddess born, whose power as Durga or Kali can be
angrier than any other deity’s. All the fury of the gods went into her making, and
she was greater even than the sum total of their rage. But nothing less than that
would do, if the buffalo-headed demon Mahisha was to be defeated and slain.
 27. The Birth of Ganesa

Many different stories are told of the birth of Ganesa, the popular, elephant-
headed god of good fortune, son of Siva and Parvati. But in most of them, Siva
is not directly his father. Indeed, Siva, though his emblem is the phallus, and his
lovemaking with Parvati can go on for thousands of years, is usually a reluctant
father—and his ascetic tendency can even make him a reluctant lover.
The following story begins with the childless Parvati pining for a son.
As the mother-goddess, and divine embodiment of female creative energy,
Parvati lived in all progeny throughout Creation; but she nonetheless longed for
a son of her own. ‘What will you do without descendants?’ she asked Siva one
day. ‘If a man dies without a son, he has no one to perform the funeral rites. You
may be a god, but why should you consider yourself free of that same need? Let
us make love today, so that you can beget a son.’
‘Daughter of the mountain,’ said Siva with a laugh, ‘why should you think
that I have the same needs as men? I am a god, not a householder. I am
immortal; I don’t need descendants to carry out funeral rites, for I shall not die.
By all means let us make love, and enjoy ourselves fully; but do not ask me to
release my seed in the place that would give you a son.’
‘All right,’ said Parvati, ‘I accept that you do not need a son in the way that
men do. But I have the instincts of a mother as well as a lover, and I cannot bear
the prospect of unending life without a son to hold in my arms and kiss and
cuddle and feed at my breast. You say we can enjoy ourselves as lovers, but I
shall cease to find much pleasure in lovemaking, if it never gives me a son.’
Siva grew angry as she continued to plead with him, and he said sardonically,
‘If you so badly need a son to kiss and cuddle, then have one now, made from
your gown!’ Then he pulled at her red gown, and with the magic power of his
hands fashioned a baby son from the fabric.
‘How dare you tease me in this way!’ said Parvati tearfully and bitterly. ‘How
can cloth become a child? How can I find any joy in a baby made in so unnatural
a way?’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Siva, and left her to her tears.
 ‘Suit yourself,’ said Siva, and left her to her tears.
Although the baby had not been properly conceived or born, he was a very
attractive baby, and Parvati—miserable though she was—could not resist
reaching out to him, touching and lifting him into her arms. She held the child
close to her breast, and suddenly milk started to flow, and he began to suck.
When he had sucked his fill, and his mouth fell away from her nipple, he looked
up into her eyes. He started to gurgle, and say—indistinctly but recognizably—
the words ‘Mama, Mama’. His eyes lit up, and he broke into a ravishing smile.
She kissed his face all over, with the maternal love and longing that she had felt
for so long.
Forgetting her anger in the joy of holding her baby, Parvati called to her
husband to come back. ‘Look at my son,’ she cried. ‘I thought you were just
teasing me when you made him out of the cloth of my garment; but my love has
turned him into a real son. He is alive; he has sucked at my breast; he smiles and
gurgles and calls me “Mama”!’
‘Well, I never!’ said Siva. ‘It was indeed to tease you that I made the baby
from your gown, but he certainly looks real and live enough.’ He bent down, and
began to examine the limbs of the child, as is always done when a baby is born.
He seemed to be perfect, but Siva’s brow furrowed as he thought of the
unnatural way in which he had been born. A child made from cloth could not
live long—his birth was too flawed.
Siva turned to Parvati and said solemnly: ‘This child has been born under the
inauspicious sign of Saturn, planet of suicides. He will not live long. But do not
grieve: his death will be auspicious.’
The head of the child was in Siva’s hand as he spoke, and was pointing
towards the north—an impure and unlucky direction. It then suddenly broke off,
like a large fruit falling from a tree, and fell down to the ground at their feet.
Parvati went wild with grief when this happened. She screamed and wept and
tore her hair—hugged the headless body of her son to her bosom, cursed her
husband for his callous cruelty, for teasing her with a baby made of cloth, and
then letting him die in so horrible a fashion when the baby had become so real.
‘My baby, my baby!’ she cried. ‘Give me back my baby!’
Even Siva was chastened when he saw Parvati’s grief. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I
can see how much the child meant to you, and how deeply you longed for a
baby. Let me restore the head to the body.’
baby. Let me restore the head to the body.’
He then picked up the head, and attempted to reattach it to the body. But not
even Siva’s hands could perform so complex an operation, and the head
remained lifeless—eyes shut, skin sallow, mouth unsmiling. The body, too, was
inert, without the governing power of the head and brain to activate it.
Parvati remained inconsolable as she clasped her lifeless, mutilated son. ‘See
what you have done!’ she screamed. ‘His head has not been properly rejoined.
Blood is flowing from the wound. Nerves and veins and bones have not been
reconnected!’
Siva was nonplussed. He did not know now what he could do to console his
wife. But then a voice rang out of the sky, saying: ‘Siva, you said it was the flaw
in the child’s birth that condemned him, but in fact it was your own evil eye.
You did not want the child; you created him by magic to tease and taunt your
wife; and your lack of love caused the head to drop off after Parvati’s love had
turned him into a real, gurgling, suckling and smiling baby. There is only one
way to save him. You need to find the head of someone else to place on his
shoulders. The child was facing north when his head dropped off in your hands.
Therefore you should find the head of someone facing north, and join it to him.’
Parvati’s weeping grew quieter when she heard these words. Siva said with
some tenderness, ‘You heard that voice. Divine wisdom has come to our aid. I
will send Nandin to find the one whose head will save your baby.’
So Siva sent Nandin, the bull who is his chief attendant and who guards his
gate, to find someone with a head facing north. Nandin wandered widely, and
reached Amarvati, the city of the gods. There he saw Indra’s elephant, Airavata,
and noticed that his head was facing north. At once Nandin started to bellow and
stamp his hooves, and then he charged at Airavata, with the aim of cutting off
his head with his sword.
The elephant reared and trumpeted and was about to resist Nandin’s onslaught
savagely; but the uproar brought Indra and the other gods running. ‘What is the
meaning of this?’ demanded Indra. ‘How dare you charge at my elephant with
your sword drawn?’
Nandin paused and, with his nostrils steaming, roared back, ‘I am the servant
of Siva, and I come at his command. I have been told to cut off the head of
someone facing north, so that the headless body of Parvati’s son can be given a
new head.’
‘This is outrageous,’ roared Indra. ‘Whether you are acting on Siva’s
 ‘This is outrageous,’ roared Indra. ‘Whether you are acting on Siva’s
command or not, you are not going to attack and mutilate my elephant without a
fight.’
A mighty battle then developed, involving not only Indra with his trident and
mace and thunderbolt, but the whole army of Maruts—the storm-gods who form
Indra’s entourage. Arrows rained down on Nandin like a downpour during the
monsoon, but Nandin’s body was so tough that he deflected them all, or cut them
in mid-flight with his sword; and roaring and snorting with triumph, he cut off
the head of Airavata despite the onslaught.
The gods were appalled and sobered by such an invincible display of strength;
they looked on helplessly as Nandin carried off the head—back to Siva and
Parvati.
‘Brave and loyal Nandin!’ said Siva when his servant appeared with the head.
‘This head will be ample recompense for the head that fell off. It will make this
child unique and beautiful, and more loved by men and women than any other
god.’
He held the lifeless body in his arms, knocked off the head that had not been
properly attached, and firmly placed the head of Airavata on the baby’s
shoulders. It fitted and welded perfectly, and the child sat up, perfectly alive and
well-formed, with four arms instead of two, and three bright eyes.
Parvati was captivated: the charm of her elephant-headed son dispelled any
surprise or repulsion she might have felt at having a son with the head of an
elephant. She held him to her breast, and the other gods quickly assembled to
admire and bless the child.
He was given gifts by them. Sarasvati gave him a writing pen with coloured
inks, making him god of writers and scribes; Siva gave him a tiger skin;
Brihaspati gave him a sacred thread; and Earth gave him a rat for his vehicle.
Even Indra honoured him, by giving him an elephant goad.
Brahma gave him his names, calling him ‘pot-bellied’ and ‘elephant-headed’
but also ‘ruler-of-hosts’. And another name designated him ‘lord of obstacles’—
the god to whom anyone undertaking a difficult project, such as a journey or an
exam or a business venture, should do homage.
There was general rejoicing. Only Indra was sad, for he had lost his beloved
elephant. Plaintively, he said to Siva, ‘O Lord, it was wrong of me, I know, to
resist your servant Nandin, who only attacked Airavata at your command. It is
said, “You should give even your own head to one who begs”; but I loved my
elephant too much to give away his head. Besides, Nandin attacked him without
warning. To slice off his head with a sword was hardly the act of a beggar.’
Siva smiled when he heard this, and said, ‘Do not grieve. Your elephant is not
lost for ever. Throw his headless body into the ocean, and he will rise from it
perfectly formed again, when the ocean is churned to begin a new Creation. And
because Airavata’s head was taken by my bull, I shall give you a bull too—an
immortal bull, as strong and invincible as Nandin.’
So all ended happily. Indra got his elephant back; and Parvati had a son—the
delightful god Ganesa. Siva had occasion, sometimes, to curse the existence of
the elephant-headed deity, whom his wife adored so much; he once attacked and
even castrated him, when Parvati admired Ganesa’s handsome body. But the
devotion of Hindus through the ages has protected Ganesa from destruction, just
as Ganesa has protected them, when they pray to him.
 28. Devi’s Slaying of the Buffalo

Devi, the mother-goddess, was created in order to vanquish Mahisha, the

buffalo-demon; and the stories that describe her battle with him bring out all her
strength and passion and fury.
Mahisha’s army had been destroyed by the armies of the mother-goddess, but
Mahisha himself had remained violently at large, and had assumed his own,
enormous buffalo form in order to create maximum terror in her troops. He
rampaged among them, striking many of them senseless with his butting muzzle,
trampling others with his flailing hooves, whipping them with his lashing tail, or
spiking them with his massive horns. Some of them he pierced with his horns,
raised them aloft, whirled them round and round, and then—like a discus
thrower—threw them miles through the air till they crashed against rocks and
fell over cliffs into turbulent waters. He deafened and stunned them with his
bellowing roar; his fiery breath assailed them with such force that they were
tossed into the sky as if by a hurricane. When he snorted through his nostrils, he
was like a volcano; when he stamped on the ground, it was shaken as if by an
earthquake.
By these means, the vanguard of the goddess’s army was slaughtered or put to
flight; and then, Mahisha attacked the lion who was her vehicle—paying no heed
to its razor-sharp teeth or its fearsome claws—for the buffalo-demon was too
wild and aggressive to have any conception of fear, and his hide was too thick
for any claw or weapon to pierce.
Then, Devi grew angry: the assault on her lion made her incandescent with
rage. Her anger made her grow to awesome size and radiance, and this
formidable demonstration of her power made Mahisha angry too, so that the
aggression he had hitherto shown was nothing compared to what he now
unleashed. He started to assail the whole earth itself, lifting and tossing
mountains on his horns, pounding with his hooves, lashing the ocean so
furiously with his tail that it overflowed and engulfed human habitations with
catastrophic tidal waves. The sky was so disturbed by his fury that it darkened
with terrifying thunder-clouds, whose crashings and rumblings were as ear-
with terrifying thunder-clouds, whose crashings and rumblings were as ear-
splitting as the roars of Mahisha himself. Flashes of lightning were ignited by
snorts from his nostrils; the mountains that he hurled were shattered into
fragments by his breath, and fell back to earth as a hail of splintered rocks.
The goddess herself now set about pursuing and attacking the demon: the
battle became single combat between her and him. She ran after him with an
enormous noose, and hurled it over his shoulders so that he was bound and
restrained by the wrapping of the noose around his horns. But then he turned
himself into a lion, so that he had no horns to be held by the noose, and could
slip free of her grasp.
Then, she caught up with him again, so close that she was able to slice his
head off with one sweep of her sword; but he immediately transformed himself
into a vast warrior of human form, armed with a sword and a shield. So the
goddess unleashed arrows at him, and though his shield was huge and
impenetrable, her arrows assailed him in such numbers that he could not stop
some from reaching him. But they didn’t harm him, for he transformed himself
into an elephant whose hide was too tough for any arrow to penetrate.
The trumpeting of the elephant was louder and more arrogant than any noise
that Mahisha had so far made: it deafened Devi herself. She threw herself into
even greater efforts against him, and when the elephant tried to drag at her lion
with its trunk, she mercilessly sliced the trunk into a dozen pieces, and would
have cut off its ears and gouged out its eyes had not Mahisha once again
assumed his buffalo form.
The demon continued to rampage, challenging the goddess to ever more
furious combat; and immense though her power was, she felt the need of an
addition to her energy. She shouted to her minions to bring her the wine of
heaven—the intoxicating brew which makes the gods lustful and merry, but
which can also give them wildness and strength when roused to fury. She
quaffed great quantities of it, so that her eyes became blood-red; she laughed and
jeered with reckless, unrestrained rage. The demon laughed back, needing no
liquor to empower him. He charged right along the length of the Himalayas,
picking up mountains on his horns as if they weighed nothing, and hurling them
at the bloodshot face of the goddess; but none of them struck her, for her arrows
pulverized each one in mid-flight.
With her tongue loosened and slurred by the wine, the goddess screamed
 With her tongue loosened and slurred by the wine, the goddess screamed
imperious insults at Mahisha. Then, she leapt on to his back, kicked him
viciously in the neck, and drove her trident into his back. When the trident
penetrated him, the demon-spirit within the buffalo form came half-way out of
his buffalo-mouth. The head of the demon was visible, poking out of the jaws of
the buffalo, displaying itself in all its loathsomeness. The goddess cut off the
head, and with that final, swinging blow, the demon was slain. Its buffalo-body
collapsed, and sank to the ground like a punctured balloon.
When the gods in heaven saw that Devi had destroyed the demon, they burst
into shouts of triumph and joy; and the demon-army of Mahisha—what was left
of it—broke into wails of lamentation. The great sages of heaven joined forces
with the heavenly music of the Gandharvas to sing in praise of the goddess; and
the nymphs of heaven danced with delight at her victory.
Mahisha’s buffalo-carcass was left to putrefy and be stripped to the bone by
vultures, and his defeated army slunk back to the lowest regions of hell.
 29. The Origin of Body-Parts

The aboriginal, tribal peoples of India have numerous myths and stories of their
own, quite different from the Hindu myths, though sometimes one may suspect
the influence of tribal mythology on the myths of the Indo-Aryans.
One category of tribal myths concerns the origin of human body-parts,
particularly those parts that have sexual function or significance. Many of these
myths tell of the exchange of body-parts between men and women, or between
human beings and animals—resulting in the parts that we have now, which are
often much less impressive than they were before such exchanges or
displacements!
Here are just a few of these stories.

In ancient times, women had beards and moustaches. The tiger was king of the
jungle, and he had a son whom he wanted to marry off. But he could not find a
bride pretty enough. The other animals were all very keen to have their
daughters married to the tiger’s son, and wondered what they could do to make
them more attractive.
A woman had a nanny-goat. The goat heard about the tiger’s search for a
daughter-in-law, and had a sudden idea. She said to her mistress, ‘Can you lend
me your beautiful beard and moustache—and also some of your ornaments?
They will make me so pretty that the tiger is sure to marry his son to me.’
The kind-hearted woman gave the nanny-goat her beard and moustache, and
several of her prettiest ornaments, and the goat skipped off to find the tiger.
She must have impressed him and his son, for she never came back, and ever
since then goats have had beards and women have been beardless.

Long ago in a forest village called Kachnari, women had beards and moustaches,
and men had a little shell-like thing inside their bodies with a creature in it that
caused them, every month, to discharge blood. The blood-flow once a month
stopped them from doing their usual work in the fields or wood-cutting in the
forest, for, if tigers smelled it, they would attack them and eat them.
forest, for, if tigers smelled it, they would attack them and eat them.
One day there was a big wedding-celebration in the village, and a young wife
said to her husband, ‘Why don’t you make yourself look a bit different? You
take my beard and moustache, and I’ll take that shell you have inside you. It
must be strange to have blood flowing out every month, and I’d like to know
what it’s like.’
Her husband agreed to the exchange, and they went to the wedding and
enjoyed themselves very much.
Afterwards, they tried to give each other back the beard and the shell, but
found that they were somehow stuck. ‘That’s fine,’ said the wife. ‘You look very
handsome with a beard and a moustache, and I’ll happily put up with the blood-
flow, because you will have to give me seven layers of cloth to cover it up and
staunch it.’
When she went out and the other women in the village touched her, they too
began to have a monthly period.

Why is it that women have pubic hair? In the days when women had beards and
moustaches, men found they were tickled by them at night when they kissed
them, and their faces got sore.
One night, a man cursed his wife when she was in a particularly amorous
mood and her beard was rasping him to excess. ‘If you have to behave like this,’
he said, ‘let your beard grow inside your mouth instead of on your face. Then it
won’t scratch me so much.’
At once his wife found that she had hair inside her mouth. But when she got
up next morning and ate, the food pushed the hair down through her throat, into
her belly, and down still farther till it came out through her vulva.
And that’s why women have a thick bush of hair there, and none on their
faces.

Why do men have such a small penis? In the distant past, it was much, much
longer: indeed, one tribe believes that it was once like an elephant’s trunk and
was useful for making clearings in the jungle. But when Hindu rulers put a stop
to shifting cultivation, the penis no longer had the same usefulness, and
gradually shrank to its present size.

In the days when penises were long, women also had a long tail, growing where
In the days when penises were long, women also had a long tail, growing where
the clitoris is now. The length of the penis was so exhausting to women when
their husbands made love to them, that women didn’t live for long after reaching
maturity.
There was a man whose first wife had died in this way, and he had taken a
new one. One day, his wife was chopping up mangoes with a sharp knife, while
her baby boy played on the ground beside her. The man got drunk on rice-beer,
and wanted to make love to his wife there and then. ‘How can you come to me
like this,’ she said, ‘when I’m busy preparing a meal and our little son is beside
us?’ And such was her irritation that she cut off her husband’s penis with the
knife.
Only the bit of it that he gripped to defend himself was saved, and that is why,
ever since then, it has only been that long.
When making love to his wife with such a small penis, the man found that his
wife’s long tail got in the way. So he cut that off while she was asleep, and that
is why women have a clitoris now instead of a tail.

There was a blacksmith, called Cheram, and he was working in his forge. A
farmer came and asked for some nails so that he could make a fence round his
cattle, for a tiger would come at night and kill them.
The blacksmith started making the nails, and while he was busy with them his
wife went out behind the house to piss. The noise she made as she pissed was
cher-cher-cher, and the blacksmith thought she was calling out his name. He
went out, nail and hammer in hand, to see what his wife wanted, and merely
found her pissing.
‘Why did you call me when I was busy?’ he said.
‘I didn’t call you,’ said his wife. ‘It’s just the noise my vulva makes when I
piss—it sounds rather like your name.’
‘In that case, I’d better shut it up,’ shouted her husband, flying into a rage. He
hurled his wife down, and drove a nail into her vulva, so that its lips were
tighter.
That nail has become the clitoris, and the noise a woman makes when she
pisses is now sir-sir-sir.

In the old days, human beings didn’t piss or shit. That meant they didn’t have to
eat so much—the food stayed in their bodies and sustained them for weeks.
eat so much—the food stayed in their bodies and sustained them for weeks.
In Binajpur, there was a man called Basmasur Dana who had made a swing
for himself and attached it to the branch of a banyan tree. He used to spend many
happy hours on his swing.
One day, a man came by when Basmasur wasn’t there, and stole the swing for
firewood. A neighbour saw him do this, and told Basmasur, who furiously
tracked the thief down.
He cursed him, saying, ‘From now on, let the food that fills your body pass
out at the other end.’
The curse was so effective that it afflicted the entire human race. Ever since
then, everyone passes food and drink out, and that is why we get hungry and
thirsty again so soon after eating and drinking.

In days gone by, women had their vulva in the middle of their forehead, but it
wasn’t a very convenient place to have it when men and women made love, and
people didn’t think it looked pretty either. So the vulva—trying to please—
moved to the armpit. That made intercourse even more awkward, so it moved to
the navel. It was a bit too exposed there, so it moved to the soft hollow behind
the knee. But that was rather close to the ground, and one day a hen reached up
and pecked at it.
The vulva then fled to its present safe and secret place between the thighs.
Because it was once on the forehead, women part their hair and put a red mark
there. Because it was once in the armpit, hair still grows there. Because it was
once in the navel, there are the remains of a hole there too. And because it was
once in that soft hollow behind the knee, you can still see it if you bend your leg,
and husbands find that their wives are mightily pleased and pleasured if they
gently tickle that spot.
 30. Siva and Kama

The great god Siva is famed for his potency and for the length and intensity of
his intercourse with his wife Parvati; but he is also the greatest of ascetics.
During his ascetic phases, Kama, the god of love, is hard put to arouse him and
distract him from his meditative trance.
When the world was oppressed by the demon Taraka, and the gods were told
by Brahma that only a son born to Parvati and begotten by Siva could crush the
demon and save the world, Kama was sent by Indra to break Siva out of his
trance. The love-god approached Siva, and fired one of his arrows of desire at
him; but this first attempt failed. Siva was infuriated at being interrupted in his
meditations, and with a burst of fire from the third eye that he has in the middle
of his forehead, he blasted Kama to ashes. Later, influenced by pleas from
Parvati and by the distress of Rati—Kama’s wife—Siva relented. He restored
Kama to life, and Kama’s union with Rati was celebrated by a lavish wedding
ceremony, attended by all the gods and by the Seven Divine Sages who now
form one of the sky’s constellations.
In the story of the Ramayana, the violence and aggression of Ravana, the
Rakshasa king of Lanka, also posed a threat to the world. Indra and his wife
Sachi were specially alarmed by the strength and prowess of Ravana’s son
Meghanada who, by defeating Indra in combat on an earlier occasion, had
acquired the name ‘Indrajit’ (‘vanquisher of Indra’). They went to Siva’s abode
on Mount Kailasa, and spoke first to Durga (Parvati), because Siva was engaged
in meditation.
‘I appreciate your concern,’ said Durga, ‘but I have two problems. One is that
my husband is locked in meditation and it is impossible to distract him from it;
the other is that he is indulgent towards Ravana, because Ravana has always
been his loyal devotee.’
‘But is it right’, said Indra, ‘to indulge a monstrous Rakshasa who cruelly
abducted Rama’s lovely wife Sita?’
‘Yes,’ said Sachi, backing her husband, ‘just think of the misery of Sita,
shamed and humiliated, kept captive on the island of Lanka, pining night and
shamed and humiliated, kept captive on the island of Lanka, pining night and
day for her noble husband Rama!’
Durga took note of what Indra and Sachi said, and agreed to do what she
could to enlist Siva’s aid.
But how to break through his trance? She decided to send first of all for Rati,
Kama’s wife, and seek her advice.
‘The first thing a wife must do,’ said Rati, ‘if she wants to get her way with
her husband, is to make herself seductive and beautiful. You may be a goddess,
but even you could do something about your appearance. Let me have a look at
your wardrobe, and see if I can give you a new and irresistible look.’
With Rati’s help, Durga dressed herself anew in dazzlingly sexy garments,
and when her transformation was complete, she gazed at herself in the mirror
with considerable confidence and satisfaction.
‘Fine,’ said Durga. ‘But now we need your husband. My appearance alone
won’t do it: we need your husband’s arrows to plant some desire in my husband.
He may look austere and celibate at present, but the moment he gets interested,
it’s a very different story.’
But when Kama was called, he himself got very alarmed. ‘You forget’, he
said, falling at Durga’s feet, ‘how your husband treated me the last time he was
pierced by my arrows! Do you want me to be blasted to ashes again?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Rati, ‘my husband may look well again now, but the pain he
suffered was terrible—not to mention the distress that I felt!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Durga to Kama, ‘my power will protect you this time; and
just to make sure, do a puja to Agni before you approach Siva. If the god of fire
is brought on to your side, he won’t allow my husband to misuse the fire of his
third eye.’
Kama was somewhat reassured; but—playing for time—he said to Durga, ‘To
be sure of protecting me, you’ll need to come with me when I approach your
husband. But my wife has helped you to dress in such a ravishing way, the
whole world will swoon when you emerge from your palace! Ravana and
Meghanada will have a free run—no one will be in a fit state to resist them.
What are you going to do about that?’
‘There’s an answer to that too,’ said Durga. ‘I’ll simply cover myself with a
cloud, and I won’t remove it until you’ve fired your arrow and Siva is ready to
receive me.’
receive me.’
So Kama performed a puja to Agni as instructed, and then he and Durga went
off to the palace on Mount Kailasa where Siva was meditating, immobile and
smeared with ash. At Durga’s command, Kama shot an arrow at Siva. It pierced
him, and he began to stir menacingly.
‘You see what you’ve made me do!’ said Kama, getting into a panic. ‘His
third eye is getting red, and there’ll be a blast of fire from it in a second, and
nothing—neither you, nor Agni himself—can save me from it.’
‘There’s room for you in my bosom,’ said Durga lovingly. ‘You just nestle
there, and I’ll then remove the cloud. When Siva sees me before him, in the
clothes that your wife so cleverly chose for me, I think your arrow will begin to
have the right effect—and a few more arrows from you should finish the job.’
Kama did as she advised, huddling fearfully in her bosom, but also rather
enjoying the warmth and fragrance of it. Durga removed the cloud, Siva looked
up at her, and a smile appeared on his lips. ‘Fire again,’ hissed Durga to Kama,
and the love-god fired a shower of arrows at Siva.
They did their work. The great god was utterly overcome. The fire in his third
eye was eclipsed by Durga’s radiance, and flowers rained down from the sky.
But Durga did not lose sight of her objective. Before she let her husband gain
from her what he now so lustily wanted more than anything else, she insisted
that he do something about Ravana and his son, Meghanada.
‘If you must!’ said Siva. ‘Ravana has been my devotee for years, but I dare
say you’re right—abducting Sita like that was a criminal act, and he must pay
for it. I’ll arrange for Lakshmana to be supplied with some special weapons.
With those, he will kill Meghanada, Ravana will be defeated, and Sita will be
rescued. Is that good enough for you? If it is, then let’s not waste any more
time!’
Thus did Kama vanquish Siva again, without being blasted at all this time.
Indra was sent to Maya, goddess of magic and illusion, to collect the weapons.
They were given to Lakshmana, and even Meghanada could not withstand them.
The world was saved from Ravana, and Sita was freed from his hideous
clutches.
The Mahabharata
 31. The Story of Sakuntala

The Mahabharata, the Great Epic of India, includes nearly all the most famous Hindu myths and
legends, inserted into its main narrative of the war between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. Often,
these stories are told by one character to another, to make a moral or historical point. Here, the sage
Vaisampayana, who has learnt the whole Mahabharata from its author Vyasa, and is its main
narrator, tells the story of Sakuntala to King Janamejaya.
The story is the source of the most famous play in classical Sanskrit literature,
Abhijnansakuntalam by Kalidasa. The version in the Mahabharata lacks two elements introduced by
Kalidasa, possibly from folk tale tradition: the curse of the sage Durvasas, which causes King
Dushyanta to forget about Sakuntala, and the lost ring whose recovery makes Dushyanta remember
and recognize her again.
In this version, Dushyanta denies all knowledge of Sakuntala when she arrives at his palace with
their baby son, but this is a deliberate lie, not the result of a curse.
The Gandharva rite by which he married Sakuntala in the forest permitted marriage without
parental permission and without a priest officiating: a lover’s licence, in fact—easy to exploit, easy to
disown.
The son of Dushyanta and Sakuntala, Bharata, became the ancestor of the Pandavas and Kauravas,
and his name was used for the whole country (Bharat); hence too the name of the epic
(Mahabharata).

Janamejaya said: ‘I would like to know in detail the life story of the high-souled
Bharata and the birth of Sakuntala.
Holy one, tell me in full how this lion-among-men obtained Sakuntala.
Because you know everything, and I ask you, it is proper that you should
enlighten me.’
Vaisampayana said: Once upon a time, mighty Dushyanta, accompanied by a
retinue of hundreds of horses and elephants, decided to go on a hunt.
The retinue consisted of infantry, cavalry, elephants and chariots; and of
soldiers armed with swords, darts, maces and massive clubs.
Surrounded by hundreds of warriors with spears and lances, the king set out
on his expedition. The lion-roars of the warriors, the noise of conches and
kettledrums, The rattle of the chariot-wheels, the trumpeting of huge elephants,
and the clangour of different weapons, Together with the neighing of horses—all
these confused, tumultuous sounds blended into a cacophonous, deafening kil!
kil! when the king marched out.
Lovely ladies leant from balconies of splendid mansions to catch a glimpse of
the heroic, illustrious and handsome king.
They saw that he was like Indra, a destroyer of his foes; they felt he was Indra
himself, wielder of the thunderbolt.
They whispered: This is the hero as fierce in battle as Vasu; this is he who
smites his enemies.
And they showered flowers on his head out of love for him; and he was
greatly flattered.
Blessed by Brahmins everywhere on the route, the king came to the forest
with the intention of hunting deer.
Seated on a proud elephant, he looked like a god. Brahmins, Kshatriyas,
Vaisyas and Sudras followed him, pronouncing blessings and crying Victory! on
all sides.
The citizens and others followed the king for some distance, Till he ordered
them back. Then he mounted his golden chariot, and the whole earth, including
the sky, Reverberated with the noise of the chariot-wheels. As he entered deeper,
he thought he had come to the celestial forest Nandana— A forest of wood-
apple, acacia and kapittha trees, with undulating grass, and with large boulders
loosened from hillsides lying everywhere.
There was no water, and no sign of human habitation; it stretched to many
yojanas. Lions, tigers and other fierce beasts roamed in it.
His soldiers and servants acted as beaters, and Dushyanta, best of kings,
succeeded in killing many deer.
He shot arrows at tigers within fatal range and killed many.
Many others he wounded with arrows; those at close range he killed with his
sword.
The skilful dart-wielder killed many with darts. Dushyanta, expert club-
fighter, roamed the forest fearlessly.
Many were the beasts he killed even as he roamed—some with sword, some
with flying dart, some with heavy club.
Lions in thousands left the agitated forest, which trembled at the feats of the
miraculously powerful king and his hunt-delighting retinue.
The kings of the forest gone, the other beasts screamed in fear and anxiety,
 The kings of the forest gone, the other beasts screamed in fear and anxiety,
and scattered in all directions.
Hungry, thirsty, tired, they stumbled and fell, unable to quench Their thirst in
the dry riverbeds. Some were devoured by the hungry hunters; Others were
quartered and roasted in specially lit fires and cooked properly and eaten.
Huge elephants, maddened by the pain of their wounds, ran amok with their
trunks uplifted.
Vomiting blood, passing urine and dung in their terrible fear, they trampled
many soldiers to death.
And in no time, the animal-filled forest was rid by the king and his followers
of its lions, tigers and other beasts.

• • •

Vaisampayana continued: The king and his followers killed thousands of

animals and went to another forest to hunt there.
Tired and hungry, accompanied by one follower alone, he came to a patch of
scrubland at the far end of the forest.
He crossed this dry region, and came on a forest filled with ashrams.

Lovely to the eyes,

soothing to the heart,

Cool breezes blowing,

full of flowering trees,
soft green grass everywhere,

Echoing with birdsong,

trills of male kokilas,
and the shrill cicadas;

Canopy of big-branched trees,

bees humming around creepers,
fragrant bowers everywhere;

No trees without fruits,

no shrubs with thorns,
no plants without bees;

Filled with singing birds,

perennial-flowering,
soothing under-tree shadows—

Such a lovely forest

did King Dushyanta enter.
Waving flowering trees

Showered clusters
of fragrant blossoms
on the king’s head;

Rainbow-flowered trees,
birds on their bowed branches,
and the tempted bees humming

For honey in sweet chorus

in the creeper-covered bowers.
The king was enchanted.

Clasping one another,

the flower-filled trees
looked like rainbows entangled.

Siddhas and Charanas,

Gandharvas, Apsaras, Kinnaras,
and monkeys delighted there.

Drugged with flower-scent,

cool breezes blew,
as if flirting with the trees.

He saw the lovely forest

beside a river delta,
like a pole in Indra’s honour.
 like a pole in Indra’s honour.

He saw in the forest,

the happy-birded forest,
a heart-charming ashram,

Surrounded by trees,
and a sacred fire burning.
He honoured the ashram.

He saw Yatis and Valakhilyas;

many rooms circled the fire;
the ground was a carpet of flowers.

Tall trees with large trunks

made the spot beautiful.
The river Malini flowed nearby.

Waterfowl in the river

pleased the rishis; the king saw
deer-cubs sporting on her banks.

The king, whose chariot no power on earth could obstruct, entered the ashram. It
was lovely wherever one looked; it was like heaven.
He noticed that the ashram was situated right on the river-bank, on the bank of
the sacred river, which was like a mother flowing beside it.

Milk-white were the waves

on her breast; chakravakas played on her banks; Kinnaras
lived there, with bears and monkeys.

The ascetics, given to study

and meditation, lived there,
beside the river, along with
snakes, tigers and elephants.

On her banks too was

Kasyapa’s ashram, visited
 Kasyapa’s ashram, visited
by many great rishis.

He saw the river,

he saw the ashram,
and he had to enter.

The river was dotted with

islands with seductive shores;
it was like Nara-Narayana’s
Ganga-washed abode.

He entered the hermitage,

and he heard:
the cry of wild peacocks
in the garden of Gandharvas.

He entered:

because he wanted to meet

Kanva, great rishi of Kasyapa’s race, Kanva, all-virtue-possessor,
too dazzling to behold.

He ordered the flag-bearers, foot-soldiers, horsemen and elephant-riders to halt

on the outskirts of the forest, and said: ‘I go to meet the great rishi of Kasyapa’s
race, the without-darkness-one. Stay here till I return.’
He forgot his hunger and thirst when he entered, so lovely was the sight of
that infinite-pleasured garden, like Nandana itself.
He put aside all the trappings and signs of his kingship, and entered,
accompanied by his minister and priest, Because a great desire had risen in him
to see the rishi of indestructible ascetic virtues.
The ashram looked like the realm of Brahma.

Bees hummed, and birds sang.

In one corner, Brahmins
chanted the Rig Veda
with the proper intonation;
with the proper intonation;

In another, Vedanga-knowing
Brahmins chanted from the Yajur;
in a third, rigid-vowed rishis
sang the Sama melodiously;

In a fourth, he saw Brahmins

reciting from the Atharva
with the proper intonation;

And in various other places,

Brahmins skilled in orthoepy
recited different mantras.

The sacred ashram,

filled with holy syllables,
was like Brahma’s own abode.

Brahmins expert in yajna,

yajna-edifices, and karma,
lived there; others too, skilled
in Nyaya, mental sciences, Vedas.

And some there were, learned

in the science of semantics,
some expert in special rituals,
some in moksha-dharma.

Some knew the arts of debate,

how to draw right conclusions,
reject superfluities; some skilled in etymology, prosody, astrology.

Some knew the properties of matter, others the fruits of yajna, others the
relation of cause and effect,
others bird and monkey language;

Others the Sastras. The king

 Others the Sastras. The king
heard them chanting and reciting,
with captivating excellence.

Dushyanta, slayer-of-foes,
saw all around him Brahmins
engaged in homa and japa.

He was astonished when he saw

the exquisite carpet brought
for him to sit on.

Seeing all the rituals performed

to worship the gods, he wondered:
Am I in Brahma’s realm?

The more he saw—

of Kasyapa’s holy ashram,
its graces and virtues—
the more he wanted to see.

Impelled by curiosity
to see the entire ashram,
he went farther in; accompanied
by his minister and priest.

• • •

Vaisampayana continued: Proceeding still farther, he left his minister and priest
behind; but he was unable to find the strict-vowed rishi.
Seeing no sign of human life, he shouted, ‘Is anyone there?’ The words
echoed in the forest.

A girl in bark-dress,
lovely as Lakshmi,
emerged from the rishi’s hut.

She saw Dushyanta.

She saw Dushyanta.
The black-eyed girl honoured
and welcomed him in.

She offered him a seat,

water to wash his feet,
and the ritual of arghya; inquired after his health.

She honoured him and,

after the necessary courtesies,
asked, ‘What can I do for you?’

Honoured by her, the king

said to the soft-voiced,
faultless-featured lady,

‘My purpose, lovely lady, is

to pay homage to Rishi Kanva;
where is the noble rishi?’
Sakuntala said,
‘My father, sir, is away,
to collect fruits for the ashram.
If you would care to wait,
he will be back soon.’

The king (Vaisampayana continued) Did not see any rishi near.
He heard her talk to him.
He saw she was lovely, sweet-smiling, she had a faultless figure.

She was in the bloom of her youth.

Her simplicity, her humility, and
her features constituted her beauty.

He asked:
‘Who are you?
Whose daughter, lovely lady?
Why are you here, in this forest?
Why are you here, in this forest?
O lovely one, accomplished one,
from where have you come?

Sweet-smiling one,
you stole my heart with your first glance.
Tell me more about yourself,
lovely lady, tell me all.’

She smiled, and said sweetly,

‘I am the daughter of Kanva,
who is virtuous and wise,
a mahatma ascetic.’

Dushyanta said,
‘He is a great rishi.
The entire world honours him.
He has controlled his sexual passions.
Dharma itself may stray, but not he.

How is it, O lovely one,

that you are his daughter?
This I would like to know from you.’

Sakuntala replied:
‘Sire, all I know is what I have been told— about what happened,
how I became his daughter.

A long time ago, a rishi

came here and inquired about my birth.
This is what the maharishi told him: In the distant past Visvamitra
practised such severe self-discipline that Indra, king of gods, grew
frightened.

He feared that the penances of the rishi would dethrone him. Alarmed,
he summoned Menaka and said,
“Menaka,
loveliest of Apsaras,
gracious nymph,
help me.

The maharishi Visvamitra,

sun-refulgent ascetic,
is practising severe self-discipline.
I am afraid.

Menaka,
slim-waisted Apsara,
do this for me:
go to Visvamitra, who is
deep in meditation and penance.

He has power to dethrone me.

Go to him.
Tempt him.
Frustrate his yoga.
Save me.

Lovely Apsara,
use your beauty, youth,
your charm, your skill, smile and speech, and tempt him.”

Menaka replied:
“He is a great rishi.
He shines.
You know this, my lord.
You have heard of his wrath.

His power, penance and wrath

have made even you fearful.
What about poor me?

He was responsible for Vasishtha’s premature grief over the deaths of his
He was responsible for Vasishtha’s premature grief over the deaths of his
sons.
He was born a Kshatriya
and became a Brahmin by merit.

He created a whole river

for the sake of his ablutions;
they call it the Kausika.

There his wife was looked after

by the rishi Matanga during the famine; Matanga was then living as a
hunter.

When the famine ended,

Visvamitra returned and named the river Para.

Out of gratitude to Matanga, he

became his priest; you, my lord,
in fear went to his yajna to drink soma.

The great rishi, furious,

once created another universe of stars; he sheltered the guru-cursed
Trisanku.

I am afraid.
I am afraid to approach a man
so powerful in deeds.
Give me assurance, my lord,
that he will not burn me in anger.

His righteous anger can burn the worlds.

His kick can make the earth totter.
He can uproot Meru, and hurl it far.
He can cover the ten points of the universe in an instant.

How can a woman like me

tempt a man like him—
 tempt a man like him—
so full of yoga, burning
like a disciplined flame, always
in control of his passions?

His mouth is aflame!

The pupils of his eyes
are the sun and the moon!
His tongue
is like Yama, god of death!
My lord,
what can a woman like me do?

Yama, Soma, great rishis,

Sadhyas, Visvas, Valakhilyas,
tremble at the thought of his power.
Why should I not fear him?

Because you command me, my lord,

I will go.
But give me some means to protect myself, even as I tempt him.

Ask the wind-god Vayu to be present, to remove my dress

when I tempt him.
Ask the god of love Kama
to obey your instructions
and help me in my mission.

Ask the wind to carry fragrance from the forest to seduce the rishi.”
She finished; and, provided as desired, she came to Visvamitra’s
ashram.’

• • •

Sakuntala continued:

‘“Indra ordered the wind”,

my father told me,
 my father told me,
“to be present when Menaka
appeared before the rishi.

The shy Apsara

entered the ashram,
and stood before Visvamitra,
sin-cancelled ascetic,
strict-penanced rishi.

She greeted him, and

danced in front of him;
then, suddenly, the wind
stole her moon-white dress.

Embarrassed, she
ran after it, pretending
to be angry with
the conduct of the wind-god.

All this happened

before the sun-strong-rishi’s eyes; he saw her, naked,
the ravishing Apsara.

She was lovely, he

saw her lovely, there
was not one mark of age
on her naked skin.

He saw her beauty,

desire stirred in him,
the best of rishis
longed for her company.

He asked her to come

to him; she accepted;
many days they passed
many days they passed
alone with each other;

Many years went by

seeming but a day
to the lovers; and she
conceived Sakuntala.

Menaka went to the Malini

rippling through Himavat valley;
there her daughter was born;
there abandoned by her.

Successful in her mission,

she returned to Indra.
Meanwhile, vultures
spotted the child

In the forest of lions

and tigers, and circled her,
protecting her; that
no beasts of prey harm her,

The vultures surrounded

Menaka’s child; I went there
for my ablutions one day,
saw the child lying,

Alone in the forest,

surrounded by the vultures.
I brought her here,
and made her my daughter.

The Sastras say: There

are three fathers—maker
of body, protector of life,
and giver of food.
 and giver of food.

Because I found her alone,

protected by birds known
as sakuntas, I named her
Sakuntala.

This, O Brahmin, is how

Sakuntala became my daughter.
And Sakuntala too
Treats me as her father.” ’

Sakuntala added:

‘That, sire, is what the rishi

said to the Brahmin about me.
Now you know how I am
the daughter of Kanva.

I do not know my real father.

My father is Kanva.
I have told you all
I know about my birth.’

• • •

Dushyanta said:

‘Gracious lady, princess,

how beautifully you speak!
Lady of loveliness, be my wife.
Tell me what I may do for you.

I shall get for you, today,

golden earrings, garlands, gems,
robes, pearls, coins, carpets, my kingdom!
Lady of loveliness, be my wife.
 Marry me, beautiful one,
shy one, tapering-thighed one,
according to Gandharva rites;
that marriage, they say, is the best.’

Sakuntala replied:

‘My father is away;

he has gone to bring fruits.
Wait till he comes.
He will marry me to you.’

Dushyanta said:

‘O beautiful lady, faultless one, accept me on your own.

I give you all of myself,
I give you all my heart.

What better friend than oneself?

What better help than oneself?
According to the Sastras,
you are free to choose.

The Sastras lay down

eight kinds of marriage:
Brahmya, Daiva, Arsha,
Prajapatya, Asura,

Gandharva, Rakshasa
and Paisacha. Brahma’s
self-born son Manu describes
which suits which caste.

Faultless lady, the first four

are recommended for Brahmins;
and the first six
are for Kshatriyas;
 are for Kshatriyas;

For kings, even the Rakshasa

is permitted; the Asura
is for Vaisyas and Sudras.
The first three are sanctioned, the next two not.

The Paisacha and Asura

should never be practised.
That’s what the Sastras say,
and a man should abide by them.

Gandharva and Rakshasa are for Kshatriyas, so do not fear; single,

or as a mixture of both,
our marriage will be valid.

Lovely lady, desire overcomes me, as it does you.

Be my wife,
by Gandharva rites.’

Sakuntala said:

‘Noble Paurava,
if what the Sastras say
is that I can choose for myself,
then promise me this:

Promise you will give what I ask for here, from you, now, in secret,
in this secluded place—
The son that is born to me

Must inherit the crown.

This is my condition.
I have decided. If you agree,
let us marry.’

Vaisampayana continued:
The king, without thinking twice, agreed. ‘Sweet-smiling lady,’
he said, ‘I give you my word.
I will take you to my capital.

I promise to do as you say.

You deserve it.
I am speaking the truth.’
With these words, Dushyanta

Married graceful-gaited Sakuntala, according to the Sastras.

He returned to his capital,
repeatedly assuring her,

I will send my army,

all four kinds of soldiers,
to bring you to my capital,
O sweet-smiling lady.

With his pledge, O Janamejaya,

he went away.
On his way back, he
began to think of Kanva.

What will he say,

when he gets to know it all?
This was uppermost in his mind
all the way to his capital.

Hardly had he left the ashram

than Kanva arrived.
But Sakuntala, ashamed,
did not come out to greet him.

With his intuitive wisdom,

he guessed the truth.
His spiritual eyes showed him all, and he was pleased.
‘My child, your intercourse in secret today, without my permission,
has fortunately not
violated your virtue.

A Gandharva marriage
between willing man and woman,
though without mantras, is
considered best for a Kshatriya.

Dushyanta is best among men,

noble, high-souled.
This is the person
you have taken for husband.

Your son will be famous,

powerful; his dominion
will extend over the entire earth, over even the ocean.

When your son,

illustrious king,
will march against foes,
they will scatter in fear.’

Sakuntala came near, and

washed her tired father’s feet.
She removed the load from his shoulders, arranged the fruits properly,

And said: ‘Father,

bless my husband,
King Dushyanta,
and his council of ministers.’

‘My lovely child,’ said Kanva,

‘I will bless him for your sake.
Sweet girl,
ask any boon you like.’
 Sakuntala, moved by desire
of her husband’s welfare,
asked that the Pauravas stay noble and never be deprived of their thrones.

• • •

Vaisampayana continued:

After Dushyanta left the ashram,

making his promises to Sakuntala,
she gave birth to a boy
of extraordinary abilities.

When only three,

he shone like a blazing fire.
O Janamejaya, he had beauty,
and magnanimity, and every accomplishment.

Kanva, best of holy men,

performed all the boy’s rites
as enjoined in the Sastras.
He flourished daily.

He had pearly, strong teeth,

broad forehead, auspicious marks on his palms, could kill a lion bare-
handed;
he grew up like a god’s son.

At the age of six, he

could seize and tie tigers,
boars, buffaloes and elephants
to the trees of the ashram.

He rode some, seized others;

and played games with them.
The hermits of the ashram called
him Sarvadamana, the all-tamer.
him Sarvadamana, the all-tamer.

And that became his name—

Sarvadamana—
for he had great strength,
energy and prowess.

Rishi Kanva saw his feats,

and advised Sakuntala
that the time had come
for him to be heir-apparent.

He said to his disciples,

‘Take Sakuntala and her son
to the house of her husband,
who has all the auspicious marks.

It is not right for a woman

to stay long with paternal
or maternal relatives; it harms
her good name. Take her to her husband.’

The illustrious disciples of Kanva promised to do so,

and took Sakuntala and her son
to the city of Hastinapura.

The fair-eyebrowed beauty

and her lotus-eyed son
left the ashram where she
had first met Dushyanta.

She sent word ahead of her

before entering the royal court.
Her son shone like the morning sun.
They introduced her to the king.

The disciples of the rishi

explained everything to him,
explained everything to him,
and returned to the ashram.
She greeted him and said:

‘This is your son, your majesty,

your god-like child by me.
Make him the heir-apparent,
even as you once promised.

Sire, recall
the agreement you made with me
when we two were married
in the ashram of Kanva.’

He heard her.
He remembered all. He said,
‘I remember nothing.
Wicked woman, who are you?

I cannot recall ever

having anything to do with you
regarding dharma, artha or kama.
Go!—or stay; as you please.’

When she heard this,

shame engulfed her;
she felt faint;
she stood transfixed, like a pole.

Then her eyes flamed, like copper, her lips trembled;

she cast glances on the king
as if they would burn him.

But by a supreme effort

she checked herself,
subdued her flaming anger,
suppressed her conscience.
suppressed her conscience.

She collected herself,

looked straight at her husband,
sadly and with feeling
said to him:

‘How can your majesty,

knowing everything, say,
like a petty person,
I know nothing?

Your heart is the witness

if I lie or speak truth.
O speak the truth,
do not lower yourself.

He deceives himself
who is one thing to himself
and another to others.
No wickedness is beyond such a man.

You think only you know

what you know. But no—
One in your heart knows too.
He knows your wrongs; you have betrayed Him.

Man, when he does wrong,

thinks no one sees him.
But the gods see him.
The God in his heart sees him.

Sun, moon, air, fire,

earth, sky, water see him;
Yama, day, night, twilight
and Dharma see him.
If the God in his heart
is pleased, Yama is helpless.
Yama, son of the sun,
cannot touch such a man.

If the God in his heart

is not pleased, Yama is happy;
and Yama will punish that wrong-doer for all his evil deeds.

Nor do the gods bless a man

who has two faces
and so degrades himself.
His own Atman does not bless him.

I come as a faithful wife,

on my own. Do not spurn me.
I am your wife.
I deserve respect.

Because I have come on my own,

am I a slut to be insulted?
Is my voice a voice in the desert?
Hear me, Dushyanta!

If you refuse me,

Dushyanta,
your head will splinter today
into a thousand pieces!

Wise men say:

When a husband enters his wife’s womb, he comes out as a son.
A wife is she-from-whom-one-is-born.

Born to a wise man,

a son is responsible
for the liberation of the spirits
of the deceased ancestors, the pitris.
of the deceased ancestors, the pitris.

Therefore, he is called putra, by Brahma himself, for he frees his

ancestors
from the hell
called put.

With the birth of a son,

a man conquers the three worlds; with a grandson, enjoys eternity; with a
grandson’s son, he finds everlasting bliss.

She is a true wife

who is skilled in household duties; she is a true wife
who bears a son;
she is a true wife
whose heart is given to her husband; she is a true wife
who knows no man but her husband.

A wife
is a man’s half;
A wife
is a man’s closest friend;
A wife
is dharma, artha and kama;
A wife
is moksha too.
With a wife
one performs religious rites;
A wife
brings domestic happiness;
A wife
is a means to joy;
A wife
brings good fortune.

A sweet-speaking wife
 is a companion in happy times;
A wife
is like a father on religious occasions; A wife
is like a mother in illness and sorrow.

To a husband
wandering in a forest
a wife
is a consolation;
The man
who has a wife
is trusted
by all;

The wife
is a means
to a man’s
salvation.

And when a husband goes

to the land of Yama,
leaving this world,
it is the devoted wife
who faithfully
follows him there.

And if she dies

before her husband,
she waits for him;
if he dies first,
the chaste wife
soon follows him.

For all these reasons,

sire,
marriage exists.
The husband enjoys his wife
in this world
 in this world
and the next.

Wise men have said:

a man himself
is born as his son;
so a wife who has a son
should be treated
as one’s mother.

Looking at his son,

a man sees himself
in a mirror;
he feels happy,
like a good man
attaining heaven.

In mental distress, in disease,

to look at one’s wife
is to be relieved,
just as a perspiring man
is relieved
after a cool bath.

No man,
not even in anger,
should displease his wife;
happiness, joy, virtue,
everything
depends on her.

She is the hallowed soil

in which he is born
a second time;
even rishis
cannot create men
without women.

Is any happiness greater

than what a father feels
 than what a father feels
when his small son,
though grubby and dusty,
runs towards him
to be clasped in his arms?

Why do you treat this child,

your son,
so coldly?
Look how he looks at you,
wistfully
again and again!

Even ants
do not destroy
their eggs;
and you, so learned,
shouldn’t you
support your own child?

The touch of sandal paste,

of women,
of water,
is not half as pleasing
as the embrace
of one’s own son.

A Brahmin is best among bipeds,

a cow best among quadrupeds,
a guru best among superiors,
a son among objects pleasing to the touch.

Let this lovely boy

touch you,
embrace you.
There is nothing in the world
more pleasing
than a son’s embrace.

Great king,
Great king,
great foe-chastiser,
I gave birth to this boy,
dispeller of your sorrows,
after the completion
of three years.

O great Paurava,
as I lay
in the birth-room,
I heard a voice in the sky
say: He will perform
a hundred Asvamedhas.

Far away from home,

a man picks up
another man’s son,
smells his head
and feels his being
fill with happiness.

And at a child’s birthday,

Brahmins,
your majesty knows,
speak the following mantras
from the Vedas
as part of the ceremony:

Flesh of my flesh
Heart of my heart
My own son
May you live a hundred years.

Life of my life
Life of my race
Be happy my son
May you live a hundred years.

This boy
 This boy
is flesh of your flesh,
being of your being;
like your image in a lake
you see before you
a part of yourself.

Just as the fire of the yajna

is lit from the fire
of the hearth,
this son has come from you.
You were one,
now you are two.

You were on a deer-hunt, your majesty, when you met me, a virgin,
in the ashram of my father.

Urvasi, Purvachitti, Sahajanya, Menaka, Visvachi and Ghritachi are six

lovely Apsaras.

Menaka, born of a Brahmin,

is the loveliest. Coming from heaven, she gave me birth on earth
from her union with Visvamitra.

I was born in a Himavat valley.

She had no feelings; she left me
alone, there, as if I was someone else’s child.

What great wrong did I do in a previous life to be abandoned in this way

by my parents?
What have I done now to be abandoned by you?

If you reject me,

I will return to the ashram;
but do not reject this boy,
your own son.’

Dushyanta replied:
‘I do not know, Sakuntala,
whose child this is.
Women often tell lies.
What proof have you?

Your mother, amorous Menaka,

is devoid of affection;
she abandoned you in Himavat,
like a ritual flower cast away.

Your father, amorous Visvamitra,

is devoid of affection;
he is the man who
was tempted from his yoga.

But Menaka is best of Apsaras

to you, Visvamitra best of rishis.
You may be their daughter,
but who will believe your words?

Your words are valueless.

Go away!
Are you not ashamed to speak like this before me?—Go!

Where is that fine rishi today,

where is Menaka, fine Apsara?
What are you doing here
in the dress of a hermit?

Your son is grown up.

He looks strong.
So soon—and so strong–
like a sal-tree?

You were born low,

you speak like a low woman.
You were born from the lust
 You were born from the lust
of Menaka.

Leave me, hermit woman.

Go!
All that you say
has no connection with me.’

Sakuntala said:

‘Others’ faults, small as mustard seeds, you see, your majesty— but not
your own,
big as the fruit of the bilva.

Menaka is a goddess,
best among goddesses.
My birth, Dushyanta,
is nobler than yours.

You walk on earth,

I roam the sky.
You are a mustard seed,
I the mountain Meru.

Look!
I can go, if I please,
to the abodes of Indra,
Kubera, Yama and Varuna.

Defectless man,
let me cite a metaphor,
well-meant, not ill-meant.
(Forgive my audacity.)

The ugly man

thinks himself more handsome
than others—
than others—
till he looks in a mirror.

When he sees himself

in the undeceiving mirror,
he knows the difference
between him and others.

The good-looking man

does not need to mock others;
the man who mocks others
really mocks himself.

A pig delights in filth

even in a flower-garden;
a wicked man finds evil
even where there’s good.

But like the Himalayan swan

that sifts milk from water
a wise man takes only good
out of good-and-evil mixed.

It pains the good man

to speak ill of others;
it delights the evil man
always to speak ill.

It delights the good man

to be respectful to elders:
it delights the evil man
to do otherwise.

Good men shun fault-finding,

fools revel in it;
evil men speak ill of good men,
good men return good for evil.
 good men return good for evil.

What thing is more sad

in this world than this—
that men who are wicked
should brand good men as wicked?

Even atheists fear

liars and wrong-doers,
as men fear poisonous snakes.
—And I, a believer?

The man who neglects

his own son is doomed.
The gods take away his wealth,
his good fortune is destroyed.

The pitris say: A son

continues the family line.
A son’s birth is most pious.
A son should never be neglected.

Manu says: There are five sons—

a wife’s, a son got from another, a son bought, a son of affection,
an illegitimate son.

Sons sustain dharma;

sons increase joy;
sons rescue one’s pitris
from hell.

Noble king,
do not abandon your son.
By cherishing him,
you cherish your own self.

Be honest, my lord—a tank

is better than a hundred wells,
 is better than a hundred wells,
a yajna better than a tank, a son still better, truth better than a hundred
sons.

Weigh a hundred Asvamedhas

and Truth.
Truth will tilt heavier
than a hundred horse-sacrifices.

Listen to me, sire!

Truth equals the study
of all the Vedas,
of all pilgrimages put together.

There is no dharma like Truth,

nothing higher than Truth.
Nor is there anything worse
than falsehood.

Truth is the lord Brahma,

Truth the Great Vow.
Do not break your word, sire:
let Truth and you be one.

If you and falsehood unite,

if you disbelieve me,
I will go, now, by myself.
I do not want you.

But when you die, Dushyanta,

my son will rule the earth
surrounded by the four seas and
adorned with the king of mountains.’

Vaisampayana continued:

She said this, and turned away.

She said this, and turned away.
An unseen form in the sky
shouted to Dushyanta, seated
beside his ministers and ritviks: ‘A mother,
Dushyanta,
Is a flesh-sheath;
Just that.
The son
From her
Is the father.
Acknowledge
Your son.
Honour her.

One’s own son

is one’s own saviour
from death. She is right:
you are this boy’s father.

A husband’s body breaks

in two: one himself, one son
in wife-womb. Acknowledge him:
your son, born of Sakuntala.

To abandon one’s son

and live is a crime.
O Paurava, acknowledge him:
your son, born of Sakuntala.

Because you cherish this child

on the strength of our word,
the world will know him as Bharata, the cherished one.’

He heard these words of the gods, and he was pleased.

He turned to his ministers and priests, and said:

‘You have heard the words

‘You have heard the words
of the voice from heaven.
I know now
this boy is my son.

Had I acknowledged him

at Sakuntala’s words,
my subjects would have suspected me, my son would not have been
thought pure.’

O great Bharata, the king

was pleased that the voice from heaven had clearly established
the purity of his son.

Joyfully he performed
all the rites
that a father performs
for his son.

He smelt his son’s head,

he lovingly embraced him.
The Brahmins blessed him,
the poets glorified him.

The pleasure of a son’s touch

was now his; he acknowledged
Sakuntala with honour and affection, lovingly pacified her:

‘My wife, I married you

in secret. No one knew.
My people would have said,
They joined in lust,

Not as husband and wife.

Our son would have been rejected.
That’s what I was thinking of—
how to make him accepted.
My dearest, lovely-eyed one,
I forgive you and
all that you spoke in anger,
because I love you.’

He said this to his queen,

and presented her
with gifts of perfume,
choice food and drink,

And installed his son

as heir-apparent,
and gave him the name
Bharata.

From that day Bharata’s chariot,

like the god’s chariot,
dazzling-wheeled, filled
the earth with noise.

Bharata subdued
all the kings of the world.
He ruled nobly,
he became greatly famous.

They called him Chakravartin

and Sarvadamana.
He performed many sacrifices,
like Indra, lord of the Maruts.

Kanva presided at these yajnas.

Offerings were made to Brahmins.
The fortune-favoured king
performed the cow-and horse-sacrifices.

Bharata gave one thousand gold coins as Kanva’s dakshina.

He is the many-feated Bharata,
He is the many-feated Bharata,
from whom sprang our great race.

All kings after him

are known by his name.
Many among the Bharatas
were like gods,

Many were greatly powerful

monarchs, many
like Brahma himself.
Their names are countless.

O great Bharata,
I shall name the chief ones,
all blest with good fortune, all
truthful, honest; all like gods.
 32. King Yayati’s Adultery

Like the story of Sakuntala, the story of King Yayati is told by Vaisampayana to his grandson, King
Janamejaya, in order to explain the genealogy of the Bharata race. The Pauravas, ancestors of the
Pandavas and Kauravas, were descended from Yayati’s son Puru, who was also the father of
Janamejaya.
Devayani’s father Sukra is not a mortal. He is the son of Bhrigu, one of the ten high priests who
were allowed by the primal law-giver Manu to be sole possessors of the knowledge of how to kindle
the sacrificial fire. Sukra became guru to the Danavas (Titan-like beings) and the Asuras (anti-gods).
As such, he knows the mantra that can bring the dead back to life. This is why the curse he delivers
to Yayati is so powerful.
Although Puru is Yayati’s son by his mistress Sarmishtha and not by his wife Devayani, the boy’s
obedience and self-sacrifice win him his father’s throne, and secure the Paurava line.

A long time after this occurred, O best of kings (Vaisampayana went on), the
lovely lady Devayani went to the same forest to enjoy herself.
She came to the same spot. With her were Sarmishtha and the thousand maids.
She gave herself up to pleasure; She was very happy, having so many maids to
wait on her. They were all in a frivolous mood; they began sipping the honey of
the flowers; They nibbled at various fruits. King Yayati, son of Nahusha, in the
course of a hunting expedition, Happened to come there, tired and thirsty. His
eyes fell on Devayani and Sarmishtha and the thousand maids,

Glittering with ornaments,

tipsy with flower-honey,
sweet-smiling Devayani,
voluptuously reclining,

Paragon of beauty,
loveliest of them all,
and Sarmishtha beside her,
gently massaging her feet.

‘Gracious ladies,’ said Yayati,

‘Gracious ladies,’ said Yayati,
‘It seems these thousand maids
wait on you. Who are you?
Who are your parents?’

‘I am the daughter of Sukra,’

replied Devayani.
‘My father is the preceptor
of the Danavas and the Asuras.

This girl here is my maid,

who goes wherever I go;
she is Sarmishtha, daughter
of the Asura king, Vrishaparva.’

‘Strange—why should this lady

of lovely eyebrows, be your maid?
Why should the daughter of the Asura king
be your maidservant?’

‘Fate,’ replied Devayani,

‘Fate is behind everything.
Do not be astonished, sir—
this too is Fate’s work.

Your dress and your features, sir,

are those of a king.
Your words like the Vedas. Who are you?
From where? Whose son?’

‘When I was a Brahmachari,’

Yayati replied,
‘I learnt the Vedas. I am a king,
and the son of a king. I am Yayati.’

‘Why are you here, your majesty?’

asked Devayani.
 asked Devayani.
‘Is it to gather lotuses,
to fish, perhaps to hunt?’

I was hunting deer, gracious girl,’

he said, ‘I felt thirsty,
and came here for water. If you wish,
I will leave immediately.’

‘Far from it, your majesty!

Stay here and be my lord.
With me are a thousand maids
and my personal maid Sarmishtha.’

‘Lovely lady, I don’t deserve you.

You are far above me,
you are Sukra’s daughter. He dare not
bestow you even on a great king.’

‘Brahmins have married Kshatriyas before,’

she said, ‘and Kshatriyas Brahmins.
You are a rishi’s son, and yourself a rishi.
Son of Nahusha, marry me.’

‘Granted, lovely lady, the four castes

sprang from one body, but
their duties and natures differ.
The Brahmin is certainly superior.’

‘No one’, said Devayani,

‘has touched my hand except you.
For that reason alone,
I accept you as my husband.

Tell me, how will anyone else

touch my hand
which has once been touched
 which has once been touched
by a person no less than a rishi?’

Yayati said, ‘Wise men say

a Brahmin is more terrible
than a roused poisonous snake
or an engulfing fire.’

‘Why, sir,’ asked Devayani,

‘is a Brahmin more terrible
than a roused poisonous snake
or an engulfing fire?’

‘A snake kills one person.

The sharpest weapon kills one person.
But an angered Brahmin
destroys cities and kingdoms.

Therefore, lovely lady, I say

a Brahmin’s more terrible.
Sweet lady, I cannot marry you
unless your father approves.’

‘I chose you,’ said Devayani.

‘You did not ask for me.
It is settled then—you will marry me,
humble as I am, if my father approves.’

She quickly sent a maid to her father (continued Vaisampayana), and the maid
reported all that had happened to Sukra.
Sukra hurried to the king. Yayati saw him approaching, bowed respectfully,
and stood before him with joined palms, awaiting his advice.

‘Father,’ said Devayani,

‘this is Nahusha’s son,
who touched my hand in the well.
I will not marry any other man.’
 ‘Noble and brave king!’ said Sukra,
‘My daughter has chosen you,
and I gladly bestow her on you.
Accept her as your wife.’

Yayati said, ‘O great Brahmin,

grant me the favour
of being free of the taint
of an inter-caste marriage.’

‘I shall do so,’ replied Sukra.

‘Do not fear to marry her.
I hereby absolve you of the taint
of an inter-caste marriage.

Regard her with dharma, Devayani,

slender-waisted beauty.
May great happiness be yours
in the company of my daughter.

And as for Sarmishtha,

treat her well, O king:
she is Vrishaparva’s daughter.
But do not call her to your bed.’

Yayati respectfully half-circled the great Brahmin, and passed through the
marriage ceremony according to the rites ordained in the Sastras.
He received from Sukra the priceless treasure of Devayani, along with
Sarmishtha and a thousand maids.
Honoured by Sukra and the anti-gods, he returned to his capital, keeping in
mind the advice of the shining son of Bhrigu.

• • •

Vaisampayana continued: Yayati entered his capital (which was like the capital
of Indra himself), and took his wife Devayani to the inner apartments.
of Indra himself), and took his wife Devayani to the inner apartments.
At Devayani’s suggestion, he ordered the construction of a house for
Sarmishtha in the Asoka grove of his gardens.
He honoured Sarmishtha by ordering a thousand maids to attend on her and by
making every arrangement for her food and garments.
And many years passed with Yayati, son of Nahusha, happily enjoying the
company of Devayani.
The lovely lady Devayani conceived when her season came, and gave birth to
a son.
A thousand years passed. Sarmishtha, daughter of Vrishaparva, attained
puberty. During her period, she thought:

‘I am in my period.
But I haven’t chosen a husband.
What will happen? what should I do?
How will I get what I want?

Devayani has a son.

But my youth is wasted.
I will choose him as husband
whom Devayani chose.

I will bear his son.

My mind is made up.
He is a considerate king—
he will let me meet him in private.’

One day the king happened casually to pass by the Asoka grove. Seeing
Sarmishtha there, he stopped.
Sarmishtha, sweet-smiling lady, saw that they were alone together, joined her
palms in greeting, and said:

‘O son of Nahusha,
no one sees the ladies in the inner apartments
of Soma, Indra, Vishnu, Yama and Varuna—
you are like them in this respect.
 Your majesty, I am of noble birth,
I am considered beautiful.
I am in my period.
O let me not be wasted!’

Yayati replied:

‘I know you are nobly born,

in the race of the Danavas.
Your beauty is ravishing.
There isn’t the least fault in you.

But Devayani’s father’s words to me, when I married her, were: “Do not call
Vrishaparva’s daughter to your bed.” ’
Sarmishtha replied: ‘Five kinds of lying are excusable: when joking, when
enjoying a woman, at the time of marriage, when facing death, and when one has
lost all one’s wealth.
It isn’t true that only that person suffers who doesn’t tell the truth when asked.
It is also not wrong sometimes to tell a lie simply to get an immediate aim
accomplished.’
‘A king should always set an example to his subjects,’ Yayati said. ‘A king
who lies invites his own ruin. I dare not lie, even under fear of the direst loss!’
Sarmishtha continued, ‘When a friend marries, it’s as if oneself marries. My
friend has chosen you as her husband. You are my husband too.’
‘True, I have taken a vow to grant whatever is asked,’ said Yayati. ‘And now
you ask me this . . . You tell me, what should I do?’

‘Save me from loss of dharma,’

said Sarmishtha.
‘Be lord of my virtue,
make me a mother,
that I may practise the highest dharma.

A wife, a slave, a son,

do not earn for themselves:
whatever they earn
 whatever they earn
belongs to whoever is their lord.

I am Devayani’s slave,
you are Devayani’s lord;
you are therefore my lord.
I beg of you:
do as I ask you.’

These words of Sarmishtha persuaded the king to believe that whatever she
spoke was true. He did as asked, and saved her from loss of dharma.
They lovingly came together, and lovingly parted, each returning to where
each stayed.

Sweet-smiling Sarmishtha
of lovely eyebrows
conceived as a result
of that union with the king.

And in due time,

to the lotus-eyed lady
was born a god-like son,
radiant, with lotus-leaf eyes.

• • •

When Devayani learnt of the birth of this boy (continued Vaisampayana) she
became jealous and mean. She went to Sarmishtha and said: ‘Sarmishtha, lovely-
eyebrowed girl, what terrible wrong have you committed by indulging your
lust!’
Sarmishtha replied, ‘A dharma-souled rishi came to me, a rishi learned in the
Vedas. He had the power of granting boons, and I asked him to grant me one, a
pure one.
Sweet-smiling lady, I would not dream of fulfilling my desires by wrongful
means. My son is the child of a rishi—this is the truth.’
‘In that case, shy Sarmishtha, I will not blame you,’ said Devayani. ‘Who is
this rishi? What is his name and family? Tell me.’
this rishi? What is his name and family? Tell me.’
‘Sweet-smiling lady,’ replied Sarmishtha, ‘that rishi shone like the sun, his
asceticism had radiance. I hadn’t the courage to ask him.’
‘If what you say is true, if indeed your son has been fathered by such a
Brahmin, I have no reason to be angry with you,’ said Devayani.
They laughed and chatted for some time; and Devayani returned to her
mansion, believing all that Sarmishtha had told her.
Devayani had two more sons by Yayati—Yadu and Turvasu; they were like
Indra and Vishnu.
And Sarmishtha, daughter of Vrishaparva, by that royal rishi had three sons:
Druhyu, Anu and Puru.
One day, sweet-smiling Devayani went with Yayati for a walk in a secluded
part of the royal gardens.
There she saw three children of divine beauty, happily playing. Surprised, she
said to the king:

‘Whose children are these?

They are handsome—just like
children of the gods—like you!’

She turned to the children: ‘Who is your father, little ones? Tell me. Where do
you live?’
They pointed their fingers at the king (continued Vaisampayana) and indicated
that Sarmishtha was their mother.
And they ran towards their father and clasped his knees. But the king dared
not caress them in front of Devayani.
Sobbing, they left the place, and went to find their mother. Their behaviour
embarrassed the king greatly.
From the affection of the boys, Devayani guessed the truth. She went to
Sarmishtha and said:

‘You are dependent on me,

and yet you insult me like this!
Aren’t you ashamed at all?—
to behave in this monstrous fashion!’

Sarmishtha replied:
Sarmishtha replied:

‘Sweet-smiling lady,
all I said about the rishi is true.
What I did was perfectly
in accordance with dharma.

I am not afraid of you.

When you chose him as your husband,
I chose him too. Lovely lady,
according to dharma, a friend’s husband
is one’s own husband.

You are a Brahmin’s daughter—

so I respect you.
But don’t you know how much more
I respect the royal sage?’

Devayani listened; and said,

‘You have wronged me.
I refuse to stay here any more.’

She went with tears in her eyes

to her father. The king was alarmed
to see her so angry.

Apprehensive, he followed her,

trying to placate her.
She would not return.
Her eyes flashed with anger;

She refused to speak to him.

Weeping, she stood before her father,
Sukra, son of Bhrigu.

She bowed before him respectfully,

and stood before him. Yayati
 and stood before him. Yayati
stood behind her, and
bowed respectfully too.

Devayani said, ‘Father,

Adharma’s defeated dharma!
The low rise, the high fall.
I have been insulted
by Vrishaparva’s daughter.

This king here, Yayati,

has three sons by her;
and me—unfortunate me—
I have only two.

Son of Bhrigu, they say

this king knows dharma.
But I tell you, father,
he has violated dharma.’

Sukra said, ‘If you have willingly chosen the path of adharma, O king, no matter
how conversant you are with the precepts of dharma, great ruin will fall on you.’
Yayati replied, ‘The daughter of the king of the anti-gods came to me after her
period, and implored me. Noble rishi, I fulfilled her desire from a sense of
dharma.
Those learned in the Vedas declare that a man who does not grant the request
of a woman after her period commits foeticide.
The man who is secretly solicited by an amorous woman after her period and
refuses to fulfil her desire loses dharma. The wise say he commits foeticide.
This was why, O son of Bhrigu, I obliged Sarmishtha. I was afraid I would be
committing a great wrong otherwise.’
Sukra said, ‘You could have waited till I approved. My conditions were clear.
Because, O son of Nahusha, you have not been true to your pledge, you are
guilty of theft.’
Sukra then cursed him, stripping him of his youthfulness, and casting
decrepitude on him.
Yayati pleaded:

‘I am young, O son of Bhrigu,

I haven’t had my fill of youth
Or of Devayani. Be merciful,
O Brahmin. Take age away from me.’

Sukra said:

‘I never speak pointlessly.

Old age will overcome you.
If you wish, however, you may
exchange it with a willing man.’

‘Make this condition then, O Brahmin,’ said Yayati, ‘that whichever of my sons
accepts my old age will enjoy my kingdom and gain dharma and fame.’
‘Son of Nahusha,’ replied Sukra, ‘keep me in mind and you will be able to
effect the transfer of your old age on to a willing man.
Whichever of your sons exchanges his youth with you will be your successor.
He will have long life, universal fame, and a large progeny.’

• • •

Afflicted with decaying old age, Yayati returned to his capital (continued
Vaisampayana). He called his eldest and most gifted son Yadu to him and said:

‘My child, I am old.

Sukra, son of Bhrigu, has cursed me
with wrinkles and white hair—
and I haven’t even had my fill of youth.

Yadu,
take this old age and decay.
With your youth,
let me enjoy life.

After one thousand years,

After one thousand years,
I will return your youth
and take back my old age
and its debility.’

‘Old age’, replied Yadu,

‘makes eating and drinking inconvenient.
I am sorry, father,
I cannot accept your offer.

Old age brings

white hair, listlessness,
weak nerves, tiredness,
emaciation; friends and dependants
forsake an old man.

You have many sons, sire,

some dearer to you than I.
Ask one of them, father,
to take your old age.’

‘Child of my heart,’
said Yayati, ‘yet you
will not give me your youth.
May your children never rule!

Turvasu, take my old age

and its attendant defects.
Let me enjoy life
with your youth.

After one thousand years,

I will return your youth,
and take back my old age
and its debility.’

‘Father,’ replied Turvasu,

‘I don’t much care for old age.
 ‘I don’t much care for old age.
It blights gaiety and pleasure,
strength, beauty, mind, memory—
even life itself.’

‘Child of my heart,’
said Yayati, ‘yet you
will not give me your youth.
May your line become extinct!

And you, Turvasu,

may you be the foolish king
of ill-thinking, ill-doing subjects,

of women of noble birth

breeding children by low-class men;
of meat-eaters, malice-mongers,

Rapists of wives of superiors,

like birds and beasts in behaviour,
all miscreants, all Mlecchas.’

When he had finished cursing his son Turvasu, he turned to Sarmishtha’s son
Druhyu, and said:

‘Druhyu, take a thousand years

of my spoiler-of-loveliness,
blotcher-of-skin old age.
Give me your youth.

After one thousand years,

I will return your youth
and take back my old age
and its debility.’

‘Father,’ replied Druhyu,

‘an old man cannot ride
‘an old man cannot ride
elephants, horses, chariots, and women.
His voice squeaks. I am sorry.’

‘Child of my heart,’
said Yayati, ‘yet you
will not give me your youth.
May your wishes never be fulfilled!

Be a king only in name!

Rule a kingdom without roads,
without passages for horses,

Elephants, asses, goats, bullocks

or palanquins; only rafts and boats.
There, live with your friends!

Anu, take my old age

and its weaknesses.
With your youth
let me enjoy a thousand years.’

‘Old men’, replied Anu,

‘slobber like infants, and are filthy.
They cannot pour libations in the yajna.
You must excuse me, father.’

‘Child of my heart,’
said Yayati, ‘yet you
will not give me your youth.
Old age fault-finder, may old age overtake you!

May your sons die

as soon as they reach of age!
May you be unable
to perform any yajna!
 Puru, my youngest, my dearest,
you will excel them all.
Look, child, old age,
wrinkles, white hair—

The result of Sukra’s curse—

and I haven’t even had my fill of youth.
Puru, take my old age and its weaknesses.
Let me enjoy a thousand years with your youth.

After one thousand years,

I will return your youth
and take back my old age
and its debility.’

Puru heard carefully,

and replied humbly,
‘Noble father, I will do
what you command me.

I will take on myself

your old age and its debility.
Take my youth, and
enjoy life for a thousand years.

Afflicted with old age,

deprived of youth and beauty,
I will live at your command,
and give you my youth.’

‘Puru, my child, I am happy,’

said Yayati. ‘Take this boon:
may the subjects of your kingdom
have all their desires fulfilled.’

He called to mind the great ascetic, Sukra, son of Bhrigu, and projected his
crumbling age into the body of his mahatma son Puru.
crumbling age into the body of his mahatma son Puru.

• • •

Vaisampayana continued: Yayati, son of Nahusha, took the youth of Puru, and
rejoiced. He began to indulge himself sensually.
He enjoyed himself as much as his energy permitted, in all varieties of ways
and in all seasons. He took care, however, not to transgress the bounds of
dharma.
He pleased the gods by performing many yajnas, the pitris by sraddhas, the
poor by his charity, the Brahmins by giving them whatever they desired, The
guests by lavish hospitality, the Vaisyas by vigilant protection, the Sudras by
kindness, and the robbers by appropriate punishment.
Yayati pleased all his subjects by ruling wisely and well, even as Indra does.
He had leonine strength; he was young; he tasted all the pleasures of life. His
joys were unbounded, and he did not transgress the dictates of dharma.
The fact that he was able to enjoy all the sensual delights life had to offer
thrilled him; his only sorrow was that the thousand years would soon come to an
end.
That royal rishi, wise in the mystery of time and enormously gifted in every
way, had youth at his command for one thousand years; he kept an eye on kalas
and kashthas; He made love to the Apsara Visvachi sometimes in the garden
called
Nandana, sometimes in Alaka, and sometimes on the high slopes of the
mountain Meru.
And, in due time, he discovered that his time was over. He called Puru to his
side, and said to him:

‘Son, foe-vanquisher,
I have enjoyed all I could,
to the best of my powers,
everything, in all seasons.

Desire never ends,

desire grows with feeding,
like sacrificial flames
 like sacrificial flames
lapping up ghee.

Become the sole lord of

the world’s paddy-fields, wheat-fields,
precious stones, beasts, women—
still not enough.
Discard desire.

This disease kills. The wicked

cannot give it up, old age
cannot lessen it. True happiness
lies in controlling it.

For one thousand years,

my mind lusted for pleasures.
Now, instead of resting,
I lust for more pleasure.

I must overcome it!

Fixing my thoughts on Brahma,
cultivating detachment, I
will live with the gentle forest deer.

Puru, my son, I am pleased with you.

Take back your youth, take
my kingdom. May you prosper!
You have taught me a lesson.’

Yayati, son of Nahusha, took back his old age, and Puru, his son, recovered his
youth.
And Yayati was eager to install his youngest son Puru on the throne. But all
the four castes of his kingdom, headed by Brahmins, protested.
‘Your majesty, how can you install Puru on the throne, bypassing your eldest
son—Yadu, Devayani’s son, Sukra’s grandson?
Yadu is your eldest son; after him, Turvasu; then were born Sarmishtha’s
sons, Druhyu, Anu and Puru.
Is it proper for you to ignore the rights of the elder sons and choose the
 Is it proper for you to ignore the rights of the elder sons and choose the
youngest? Our considered opinion is—you should act according to the dictates
of dharma.’
‘Listen to me, all of you belonging to the four castes, led by Brahmins,’ said
Yayati. ‘I will explain why my kingdom should not go to my eldest son.
My eldest son disobeyed me. All wise men agree that a son who disobeys his
father is no son at all.
The best son is he who obeys his father and mother, who is dutiful, who loves
them, and is always seeking their welfare.
Yadu and Turvasu slighted me; Druhyu and Anu treated me flippantly.
Only Puru listened to me. I was respected and honoured by him. He accepted
my old age. He is the youngest, yet he deserves to be king.
Puru is my friend—he did what pleased me. Besides, I was granted this
privilege by the son of Bhrigu, Sukra himself— To make the son who obeyed
me king of my subjects. I submit to you, therefore, that Puru should receive the
crown.’
The people said, ‘It is true, your majesty, that the son who is gifted and seeks
his parents’ welfare deserves to be honoured, though he may be the youngest.
Puru has sought your welfare, and deserves the kingdom. And since Sukra
himself has instructed to this effect, we have nothing against it.’
Finding his subjects agreeable, the son of Nahusha installed his son Puru on
the throne.
He left the kingdom in Puru’s care and, resolving to live in the forest, set out
from his capital, accompanied by Brahmins and rishis.
Yadu’s sons were called the Yadavas, Turvasu’s sons the Yavanas, Druhyu’s
Bhojas, Anu’s Mlecchas; And the sons of Puru were known as the Pauravas—
the dynasty, sire, in which you are born to rule over the country for a thousand
years.
 33. The War-Skills Contest

This third extract from the Mahabharata deals with the main story of the epic. The five Pandava
brothers—Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva—acknowledged Pandu, king of
Hastinapura, as their father. (In fact, Pandu had been cursed to die if he had sexual intercourse, and
he therefore encouraged his wives to seek other fathers for their children: Yudhishthira, Bhima and
Arjuna were born of his first wife, Kunti, by the gods Dharma, Vayu and Indra respectively, and
Nakula and Sahadeva were born of his second wife, Madri, by the twin-gods, the Asvins.) Pandu’s
(elder) half-brother Dhritarashtra had a hundred sons by Gandhari, known (after Dhritarashtra’s
ancestor Prince Kuru) as the Kauravas. Dhritarashtra was blind, and therefore gave up the throne to
Pandu when their grandfather King Santanu died. Santanu had, in his old age, married Princess
Satyavati, who had at first refused to marry him because any son they would have would be second
in line for the succession. Santanu’s son by his first marriage, Bhishma, nobly gave up his claim to
the throne so that his father could marry Satyavati.
Satyavati’s two sons by Santanu died without issue, leaving two widows. She then invited her
illegitimate son Dvaipayana (also known as Vyasa, the author of the Mahabharata) to lie with her
daughters-in-law. At the sight of Dvaipayana, when he approached them, the elder one shut her eyes
and the younger one turned pale. That was why Dhritarashtra was born blind and Pandu was pale (the
name means ‘pale’).
Dvaipayana was originally a weird-looking demigod who had acquired special powers by living a
life of asceticism in the forest: that was why he was able to father the father of the hundred Kauravas.
Pandu abdicated from the throne while his five sons were still young; so Dhritarashtra succeeded
to it, after all, despite his blindness. When Pandu died, Dhritarashtra adopted the five Pandavas.
The following passage describes the martial education of the Kauravas and Pandavas by their
tutor, Drona, who is appointed to that role by Bhishma. The war-skills competition at which the fruits
of that education are displayed is full of the rivalry that will later lead to war. We are introduced too
to Karna, another major character in the epic: son of Pandu’s wife Kunti by the sun-god Surya before
she married Pandu (see Volume Two, pp. 207–227). Despite being the Pandavas’ half-brother, he
fights on the Kaurava side when war breaks out. Adhiratha, who appears at the end of the passage, is
Karna’s adoptive (human) father.
The rejection of Drona by his former friend King Drupada establishes Drona’s embittered
personality. The cruel treatment of the well-meaning challenger Ekalavya is a blot on Drona’s star
pupil, Arjuna, as well as on Drona himself.

In Hastinapura, Drona, excellent son of Bharadvaja, lived secretly in the

house of Gotama’s son Kripa.

Drona lived incognito.

One day the Kuru princes in a group left Hastinapura’s limits to play
 One day the Kuru princes in a group left Hastinapura’s limits to play
stick-ball.

They had a ball with them, and, as they were playing, it so happened that
the ball fell in a well.

They looked at each other in guilty helplessness, and began wondering

how to retrieve the ball.

They saw near them a dark, emaciated Brahmin just come after his
evening prayers and performance of agnihotra.

They had given up all hopes, but when they saw

that remarkable Brahmin, they quickly surrounded him.

Drona smiled to himself, seeing their helplessness.

Conscious of his powers, he said:

‘You call yourselves Kshatriyas!

Shame on you!
A gallery of Bharata heroes defeated by a ball?

Look, with these grass-blades I will bring up not only the ball but also
this ring which I fling in the well— and all I want in exchange is a good
dinner.’

Drona took off his ring and threw it in the waterless well.
Kunti’s son Yudhishthira said to Drona:

‘With Kripa’s permission, take from us some thing, O Brahmin, that will
last you a lifetime.’

Drona smiled, ‘My mantras will transform this fistful of long grasses into
weapons. Look— they are unlike any other weapons.

One grass will prick the ball, another pierce the first grass, the third
pierce the second, till a grass-chain is formed— and with this chain
I will recover the ball.’
 I will recover the ball.’

Drona performed the feat.

The princes were amazed, and stood there with eye-opened wonder.
They said: ‘This is the most extraordinary feat we have ever seen.
And now, best of the twice-born, retrieve the ring.’

Brilliant Drona
lifted his bow, shot an arrow which hit the ring,
and whisked it up.

Taking it between his fingers he showed it to the princes.

Awestruck, they examined it, and said:

‘O Brahmin, we bow to you, arms-expert without equal!

Who are you?
What can we do for you?’

These words pleased Drona immensely and,

turning to the princes, he said:

‘Go to mighty Bhishma, describe me to him,

tell him what I did.
He will understand.’

They agreed and reported (continued Vaisampayana) exactly what the

Brahmin had said and done.

And Bhishma guessed

it could only be Drona, and decided to engage him as the tutor of the
princes.

Bhishma, brilliant arms-expert, went to Drona, respectfully greeted him,

escorted him to the palace, and inquired what brought Drona to the city
of Hastinapura. Drona replied: ‘Eager to learn weapons-craft, I went to
the great rishi Agnivesa, hoping to get some instruction from him.

He was my guru,
He was my guru,
I served him a long time, as a humble matted-hair Brahmachari should.

The prince of Panchala, powerful Yajnasena, had come there for the
same purpose that I had.

We became friends,
he wished me well.
I loved him.
Many years passed like this.

We studied together, we were boyhood friends; whatever he spoke or did

was pleasing to me.

And he spoke, O Bhishma, pleasing words—“Drona, I am my father’s

favourite son—

When my father installs me king of the Panchalas, you, my friend, will

enjoy my kingdom. I promise this.

My kingdom, my wealth, my pleasures will be yours.”

When his discipleship was completed, he left— taking my blessings with
him.

I kept his words in my heart.

In course of time, in obedience to my father and because I wanted a
son, I married Kripi, Short-haired, luminous-minded daughter of Rishi
Gautama— rigid-vowed Kripi, always engaged in agnihotra and tapas.

I had a son by her

named Asvatthaman,
a tremendously powerful, sun-effulgent boy.

As Bharadvaja was pleased having me for son,

so I was pleased having Asvatthaman.

One day Asvatthaman, seeing a rich man’s son drink milk, began to cry.
The four points of the sky started swirling around me.
 The four points of the sky started swirling around me.
I thought: Why should I ask

The owner of a few cows?

Let me seek the owner of many.
With this in mind, O Ganga’s son, I scoured the country.

Though I traversed the length and breadth of the country, I could not find
one milch-cow! Some boys offered Asvatthaman pishtodaka, Powdered
rice mixed in water.
He drank it. “Milk! Milk!”
he shouted, and danced in joy.
Poor child—how was he to know?

They grinned at him, and he kept on dancing.

O Bhishma, that sight I remember so vividly!

“Shame on Drona!
Drona has no money!
Drona has no money!
His son drinks pishtodaka, And thinks it is milk!
The little fool dances!”
Oh, those words—
they drove me mad!

I got a grip on myself, and I began to think: The Brahmins reject me,
and make fun of me. Let them!—

I will be no one’s servant,

no, not for the world’s wealth!
So I made up my mind, and remembering my old friendship With
Drupada, thinking myself lucky, I went to him.
Accompanying me were my wife and my beloved son.

I had heard that my friend was recently installed king.

His words of love and friendship were still in my heart.
With these words of love in my heart, I went to him.
I said to him, “Drupada, I am your friend Drona.”

I went to him in friendship, and he laughed at me!

He treated me, as if—as if I were a low favour-seeker!
I went to him in high hopes, and this is what he said, Bhishma—
“Friend?—
you presume a great deal, Brahmin, to make me suddenly your friend.
You think much of yourself.

Foolish man!
Do you think great kings can be friends with ill-starred and moneyless
people like you?

If we were equally favoured, we could have been friends.

Time, which corrodes everything, corrodes friendship too.

How long can friendship stay without getting corroded?

Merciless Time brings with it all kinds of ill-feeling.

Forget this so-called friendship that never existed.

I was friends with you, Brahmin, with a special motive.

There is no friendship, Brahmin, between rich man and poor man,

between educated and unlettered, between the hero and the coward.

You friends with me!— Only equally brave

or equally skilled
intermarry and are friends; the poor and the rich neither intermarry nor
are friends.

Nor is there friendship between high-born and low-born.

King looks down on non-king, chariot-hero on non-chariot-hero.
And you have the presumption to address me as friend!

Who are you?

I don’t remember you.
 I don’t remember you.
I never promised you anything.
If you like, Brahmin, you can have food and shelter for one night.”

With my wife and son, I left.

And I made a vow—
that vow I am determined to fulfil without delay.

Bhishma, he insulted me!

I burnt with anger.
I have come to the Kurus to find brilliant pupils.

And now you have brought me here, to Hastinapura.

I will do as you advise.
Tell me what you would like done.’

These were Drona’s words (continued Vaisampayana), and Bhishma

made the following reply to Bharadvaja’s son: ‘All the comforts of the
Kuru palace are yours—enjoy them.
Only unstring your bow, and teach the princes archery.

Luxury, kingdom, power— whatever the Kurus have— is yours. You are
their guru— they are yours to command.

The deepest desire in your heart— consider that fulfilled.

O best among the twice-born, we are fortunate to have you.’

• • •

Drona, best among men (continued Vaisampayana,) stayed in the palace

of the Kurus, honoured by the princes.

After he had settled down, Bhishma brought his grandsons, the Kuru
princes, to him to be his pupils,

Gave him much wealth, a well-built, attractive house to live in, well
stocked with rice, food and other amenities.
Drona joyfully accepted the Kuru princes, sons of Dhritarashtra and
Pandu, as his pupils.

One day he called them to his side when he was alone, and said to them,
stressing his words: ‘My young pupils, one wish above all I have in
my heart— promise you will carry it out, after my teaching is done.’

All remained silent

(said Vaisampayana), except Arjuna, who promised to fulfil his tutor’s
wish.

Drona clasped Arjuna, and smelt his head;

tears came to his eyes, they were tears of joy.

Drona taught them the use of all kinds of weapons, some of them human,
others superhuman.

And many other princes also flocked to Drona, best among the twice-
born, to learn the use of weapons.

The Vrishnis and Andhakas, princes from many lands, the son of Suta
and Radha, Karna, were pupils of Drona.

Arjuna’s rival in war-skills was Karna who, encouraged to do so by

Duryodhana, often made fun of the Pandavas.

Arjuna was a brilliant pupil.

He was eager to learn, he did as Drona instructed, he was strong,
persevering, And devoted to his subject.
He excelled the others in skill.
Drona gave the same instructions to all the princes, but Arjuna
Succeeded in learning the most.
And Drona was soon convinced that in the science of warfare none
would equal Indra’s son.
Drona’s lessons continued for a long time. Sometimes, he gave his pupils
a long-necked pot called the kumandalu
to fetch water in, his aim being to gain extra time To train his son
Asvatthaman specially in the use of weapons; and to Asvatthaman he
would give a kumbha, a wide-mouthed pot.

But Arjuna came to know of this and, with the help of his varuna-
weapon, he would fill his kumandalu quickly, And hurry back to his guru
simultaneously with Asvatthaman.
In this way he learnt all that Asvatthaman was taught.

Arjuna’s guru-puja pleased Drona greatly; his devotion to the subtleties

of war-skills made him Drona’s favourite.

Drona noticed Arjuna’s devotion and said to the cook, ‘Don’t serve
Arjuna food in the dark.
Don’t tell him I told you.’

It so happened that one day, while Arjuna was eating, a gust of wind
suddenly snuffed out the lamp.

But Kunti’s shining son Arjuna was so sure of himself that he ate in the
dark with perfect hand-to-mouth co-ordination.

He was so sure of himself that he would practise shooting with his bow
in the darkness of night.

O Janamejaya, Drona heard the twang of his bowstring at night, and

came to him, embraced him, and said:

‘You, my child, will with my help be the finest archer ever.

None in the world will equal you.
I promise you this.’

And Drona instructed Arjuna on shooting from horseback, from the

backs of elephants, from chariots, and on the ground.
Drona instructed Arjuna to fight with mace, sword, lance, spear and dart;
with other weapons; against groups of enemies.

Thousands of kings and princes, hearing of Drona’s skill, came to

Hastinapura with the purpose of learning from him.

Among them was Ekalavya (continued Vaisampayana), son of

Hiranyadhanus, king of the Nishadas.

But Drona, prudent in dharma, refused to accept a Nishada as his pupil.

He was guided by the interests of the Kauravas.

But foe-smiting Ekalavya bent his head at Drona’s feet, and went to a
forest where he made a clay statue of Drona.

Worshipping the statue as his tutor, Ekalavya started practising the use of
weapons before it without fail, every day.

So deep was his yearning for his goal and his guru, that he soon became
expert in fitting, aiming and shooting arrows.

The Kuru and Pandu princes one day, with Drona’s permission, set out in
their chariots on a hunting expedition.

Behind then, carrying equipment for the hunt, came a servant,

accompanied by a dog; both taking their time.

They made their way through the forest with casual ease, and it so
happened that the dog came to where Ekalavya was.

The Nishada was black, his skin coated with dirt, his hair matted; he had
a dark deerskin on.
The dog began barking at him.

With incredible swiftness, Ekalavya aimed at the sound, and shot seven
arrows in succession into the dog’s mouth.

The dog ran howling back, arrows protruding from his mouth, to the
The dog ran howling back, arrows protruding from his mouth, to the
Pandavas; and they could hardly believe what they saw.

At first they were impressed by the swiftness and precision of the

bowman who shot seven arrows in this manner—then ashamed.

Then they began looking for him, the unknown marksman in the forest.
Soon enough they stumbled on him, practising archery— A fearful-
looking man!
They did not know who he was.
They asked:
‘Who are you? Whose son?’

‘The son of Hiranyadhanus, king of the Nishadas,’

he said, ‘a pupil of Drona, struggling in the skills of warfare.’

Armed with this information, they hurried to Hastinapura and narrated to

Drona their wonderful experience of archery.

Kunti’s son Arjuna brooded on the prowess of Ekalavya, and went

privately to Drona, knowing Drona’s love for him, And said, ‘You once
embraced me, and joyfully told me no pupil of yours would equal me in
bow-skills.

And now there is one— the son of the Nishada king— a pupil of yours.
How can this be?’

Drona thought for some time; then, taking Arjuna, the ambidextrous
vanquisher of all, with him, went to Ekalavya.

He saw Ekalavya from a distance, hair matted, his body coated with dirt,
wearing rags, incessantly twanging his bowstring, Ekalavya saw Drona,
came a few steps forward, touched both his feet and prostrated himself
on the ground.

The son of the Nishada king did obeisance before Drona as a pupil would
before a guru.
He stood there, with joined palms.
 He stood there, with joined palms.

Drona said, ‘If you are my pupil, where is my teacher-tribute?’

Ekalavya, overjoyed,
replied to Drona:

‘Command me, my lord, all I have is yours.

Greatest among Brahma-knowers, ask from me anything.’

Drona said, ‘As dakshina give me your right thumb.’

Ekalavya, faithful to his promise, heard the fearful Words, cut off his
thumb cheerfully, and unhesitatingly handed it to Drona.
When he started shooting again, Using the remaining fingers, he found
his skill gone, his aim become imprecise, his swiftness impaired.
Drona was pleased.
He showed Ekalavya the art of how to shoot arrows, using the middle
and third fingers.

And Arjuna was pleased.

His anxiety disappeared.
None will equal Arjuna—
Drona’s words now had truth.

Two pupils of Drona

excelled in mace-duel.
They were Bhima and Duryodhana, constant mutual rivals.

Asvatthaman excelled in all the forms of war-skills; Nakula and

Sahadeva excelled in wielding the sword.

Yudhishthira became the finest of chariot-warriors, Arjuna the finest of

them all in all respects— In intelligence, in use of weapons, in devotion
to his guru—he became even better than Yudhishthira.

Drona taught all equally.

 Yet it was excellent Arjuna who became the atiratha, a warrior fit to
challenge sixty thousand of the enemy simultaneously.

Dhritarashtra’s ill-intentioned sons were jealous of Bhima’s

extraordinary strength and Arjuna’s manifold accomplishments.

Drona, intending to test the skills of his pupils, had them assemble one
day with all their weapons.
He ordered a bird crafted by a wood-worker to be placed in a tall tree, as
a target.
The princes were not told of this.

Drona shouted:
‘Quick!
String your arrows!
Aim at that bird!

At my signal, shoot
at the bird’s head.
I will signal
each in turn.’

His first signal

was to Yudhishthira: ‘Invincible child,
aim!—ready!’

Yudhishthira, great
foe-subduer, stood still, aiming at the bird,
as ordered by his guru.

Suddenly Drona
turned to Yudhishthira standing with strung bow and asked:

‘You see that bird

on the tree-top?’
He replied, ‘Sir, I do.’
Drona asked:
 Drona asked:

‘What do you see?—

the tree, me,
your brothers,
and the bird?’

‘Sir,’ replied Kunti’s son, ‘I see you, the tree, my brothers and the bird.’
Reply matched question.

Drona looked away.

‘Make room,’ he said.
‘Your turn
will came later.’

One by one he asked

Duryodhana and the other sons of Dhritarashtra the same question;

Then Bhima and the other Pandava brothers,

and the visiting pupils— and got the same reply.

• • •

Smiling, Drona
said to Arjuna:
‘Your turn now.
Look at the bird.

Shoot, my son,
when I give the signal.
Stand here.
Aim.’

Ambidextrous Arjuna
pulled the string
to a half-circle, aimed, and waited.

‘What do you see, Arjuna,’

‘What do you see, Arjuna,’
asked Drona,
‘—the bird, the tree, and me?’

‘Sir,’ replied Arjuna, ‘I do not see you,

I do not see the tree, I see only the bird.’

Invincible Drona,
pleased,
said to Pandu’s son,
great chariot-warrior: ‘What bird?
Describe it to me.’
‘I cannot,’ replied Arjuna, ‘I see only its head.’

‘Shoot!’ said Drona, horripilating

with happiness.
And Arjuna fired

The shaft that sliced the vulture’s head;

the severed head
fell on the ground.

Drona embraced Arjuna, and thought to himself: Drupada and his

friends
are as good as finished.

Some time after this, Drona, son of Bharadvaja, went with his pupils
to swim in the Ganga.

While he was swimming, a crocodile (a messenger of Yama himself, it

seemed) snapped at his thigh.

Though he could easily have freed himself, Drona shouted, ‘Save me!
I’m bitten by a crocodile!’

Arjuna heard him, and shot five sharp and deadly arrows underwater
at the crocodile.
The other boys stood there, petrified. Drona
was pleased with Arjuna’s swift response, and

Judged him his best

pupil. This was how
the crocodile, wounded by Arjuna’s arrows, released Drona, and died.
Then the son of Bharadvaja turned to Arjuna,
and said:

‘Mighty-armed son,
I give you this weapon called Brahmasira;
it is fierce, irresistible; I give you also the power to hurl and recall it—
But on one condition: do not use it against a human foe. If you do so,
the three worlds may explode.

There is no weapon more powerful than this in the three worlds.

Cherish it with special care— and listen to my warning.

Use it only against

a superhuman foe—
I have blessed it
so that it kills such a foe.’

Arjuna, with folded palms, promised to honour the condition.

He accepted the weapon; and his guru said to him: ‘No bowman, Arjuna,
will ever equal you.
Be radiant, my son,
be invincible.’

• • •

When Drona was convinced Dhritarashtra’s and Pandu’s sons had

achieved excellence in war-craft, he said to Dhritarashtra, In the presence
of
Kripa, Somadatta, Vahlika, Ganga’s son Bhishma,
Vyasa and Vidura:
‘Lord of the Kurus,
I have finished instructing your sons. Let them display their skill.’ The
king was pleased.

‘Good Brahmin, I am grateful.

Tell me the place and time I should order the skill-show, and how it
should be organized.

I am blind. I am envious of those who have sight.

They will see my sons’ prowess, and I will not.

Vidura, do as he says.
Drona is our honoured guru.
What could be greater than obeying the words of a guru?’

Vidura promised, and took leave of Dhritarashtra.

And Bharadvaja’s son Drona measured an area of land That had wells
and springs, and was bushless and treeless.
There, eloquent-tongued Drona paid tribute to the gods As laid down in
the Sastras.
A vast concourse of people, summoned by proclamation, gathered on
an auspicious day.

A huge open-air theatre-hall was built by architects on orders from the

king; special seating arrangements were made For ladies. Citizens vied
with each other for the honour of erecting platforms; the rich set up their
own luxurious tents.

On the appointed day, the king arrived in procession, his ministers

following, Bhishma and Kripa leading.

In the large procession were Vahlika, Somadatta, Bhurisravas and other

Kurus, men of eminence and dignity.

The theatre-hall glittered with celestial radiance, light shone from gold-
work, strings of pearls, and vaidurya gems.
O ever-victorious Janamejaya!
Fortune-favoured Gandhari and Kunti, and other palace ladies, in
resplendent dresses, Accompanied by their maids, joyfully climbed the
platform like goddesses on Meru mountain.
Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Ran from the city hoping to reach in time the
spot where the princes would display their varied war-skills.

And the noise of the trumpets, the drums, the tumultuous shouts and cries
made the crowd look like a tempestuous ocean.

White his robes

White his sacred thread White his hair
White his beard
White the flower—
Garland on his body
White the sandal paste Smeared on his body— Drona appeared
Accompanied by his son Like the Moon
Accompanied by Mars
In a cloudless sky.

When mighty Drona entered, the mantra-chanting Brahmins started

performing the auspicious ritual of commencement.

And Dhritarashtra offered gold, gems, and precious gifts to Drona as

dakshina, the guru-offering.

Armed with bows, arrow-filled quivers, finger-shields, the mighty

chariot-heroes marched into the arena.

Yudhishthira led them.

In priority of age,
they displayed marvellous skills in the use of arms.

As the arrows whizzed above, some spectators ducked; others watched

the spectacle in fear and amazement.

Galloping by on horses with expert ease, the princes shot arrows carved
Galloping by on horses with expert ease, the princes shot arrows carved
with their names at assigned targets.

So brilliant was the display, the spectators thought they were in the city
of the Gandharvas.
They were dumbfounded.

Eyes expanding in surprise, hundreds of thousands of them shouted

Sadhu! Sadhu!
Excellent! Excellent!

First, bowmanship;
then chariot-manoeuvring; then duel on horseback and on elephant-
back; Then the impressive buckling of shields, the clash of sword on
sword
as they circled each other.

The nimbleness!
The shining bodies!
The grace and energy!
The steady grip
On sword and shield!

Then entered wolf-waisted Bhima and Duryodhana, intent on duel,

looking like two mighty hills.

They girded their loins, they invoked their strength; they roared like two
furious, rutting elephants.

They circled the arena with mighty maces,

feinting and challenging in the approved manner.

Vidura took it upon himself to describe to Dhritarashtra, Gandhari and

Kunti
the feats of the contenders.

• • •
When Duryodhana and Bhima appeared in the arena, the spectators split
into two groups, cheering both heroes.

Some shouted:
‘Victory to the Kaurava prince!’
Others countered:
‘Victory to Bhima!’

Drona saw the assembly heave like a stormy ocean.

He turned to his dear son Asvatthaman and said: ‘Stop them, my son.
They are both skilled and valiant: Don’t let this occasion rouse
passions in the people.’

Like wind-whirled waves of oceans at yuga-end, they circled with

waving clubs (continued Vaisampayana).

Drona strode in, with hand uplifted ordered the musicians to stop
playing, and roared like a cloud: ‘With me is Arjuna,
more dear to me than my son!
Look at him, lord of weapons, Indra’s son, like Indra’s younger brother!’

Ordered by his guru, Arjuna, star-blessed hero, armed with finger-

shields, arrows, bow in hand, Stepped forward in gold armour, saluted
the crowd; he shone like a cloud shot with sunset-light, he dazzled with
rainbow-iridescent lightning.

And a great shout of joy arose from the arena— a ululation of conches, a
medley of instruments.

‘Kunti’s handsome son, Pandu’s third son!’ they shouted.

‘Indra’s son, protector of the dynasty of Kuru!

Lord of the skilled in arms, lord of guardians of dharma, lord of the nobly
behaved, reservoir of good manners!’

Kunti heard these loud cheers.

Her breast-milk gushed out, mingled with her tears, and drenched her
 Her breast-milk gushed out, mingled with her tears, and drenched her
bosom.

The noise reached the ears of Dhritarashtra, lord of men, and turning to
Vidura, he asked in joy:

‘This great shout, O Vidura, like an ocean in storm, reaching up to the

sky— what is its cause?’

‘Your majesty,’ Vidura replied, ‘Kunti’s and Pandu’s son Arjuna has
entered the arena— so everyone shouts.’

‘Noble Vidura, I am blessed,’

said Dhritarashtra,
‘to have such a fine flame sprung from Kunti’s sacred fuel.’

When the excitement subsided (continued Vaisampayana), Arjuna

displayed before his guru his expertise in arms.

From his agneya-weapon issued fire; from varuna, water; from vayavya,
winds; from the parjanya, clouds.

From the bhauma, land; from the parvatya, mountains; and with the
antardhana, he made them all disappear.

He was suddenly tall, in the next instant, short; now in front of his
chariot, now on it, now on the ground.

Drona’s favourite pupil shot arrow after arrow, some soft-tipped, some
sharp, and some stubby.

He shot simultaneously five arrows into the jaws of a moving iron boar
as if they were one.

He shot twenty-one arrows straight into a cow-horn dangling from a

swinging rope (continued Vaisampayana).

He circled the arena successively showing his skill in the wielding of

sword, bow and club.
sword, bow and club.

Great Bharata,
when the show of skills ended, the music stopped, the excitement
subsided, A tremendous slapping of arms was heard at the gate, like
thunderclaps
of colossal energy.

Are the hills toppling,

or the earth tearing apart,
is the sky reverberating
with massive storm-clouds?

Such were the thoughts that entered the minds of the spectators as they
turned their eyes towards the gate.

Around Drona stood

the five Pandava brothers, Kunti’s and Madri’s sons, like the
constellations around the moon.

Foe-chastising Duryodhana, and his hundred brothers and Asvatthaman

stood up hastily as one man.

Duryodhana, club in hand, surrounded by a hundred brothers with raised

weapons, looked like Indra surrounded by gods at the time of the fierce
battle with the anti-gods.

• • •

Karna entered.
With wonder-widened eyes they made way for him, the great
subjugator of cities.

He strode in like a walking cliff: natural coat of arms, face radiant with
earrings, a bow in one hand,
a sword across his loins.

Like that of lions, or bulls, or elephants, was his strength, like the sun his
Like that of lions, or bulls, or elephants, was his strength, like the sun his
glory, the moon his beauty, fire his radiance.

Because he was sun-born, he was like a golden palm-tree.

He could kill lions,
this handsome, versatile hero.

He looked around him.

Casually he bowed
first to Drona
and then to Kripa.

The crowd of people stared in hypnotized wonder.

Curious, they asked each other, ‘Who is he?’

Best among eloquent men, Karna, son of the Sun, boomed in a cloud-
roaring voice (not knowing it was his brother): ‘Arjuna, whatever you
have shown this assembly, I will show too.
Look on then—
and be amazed!’

He had not even finished when all the crowd stood up as if stirred into
movement by a hidden machine.

Duryodhana was overjoyed.

Arjuna, your majesty, swallowed his anger
and humiliation.

With Drona’s permission, eager-for-battle Karna repeated all the feats

that Arjuna had shown earlier.

Then, O great Bharata, Duryodhana and his brothers rose; joyfully

embracing Karna, Duryodhana said:

‘Puissant hero, I welcome you!

Deserver of courtesy, I am honoured by your presence.
Command me what you will.’
 Command me what you will.’

Karna replied:

‘Your kindness is enough.

I came in friendship, I seek only friendship.
My only other aim
is to challenge Arjuna.’

Duryodhana said:

‘May you enjoy life!

May you help friends!
May your feet be placed on the heads of your foes!’

This so shamed Arjuna (continued Vaisampayana) that he said to

hill-high-among-the-Kurus Karna: ‘Karna,
unwelcome trespasser, uninvited advice-giver— isn’t that what you
are?’

Karna replied:

‘This arena is open to all, it is not your private show.

There are kings stronger than you.
Kshatriya dharma depends on strength.

Why speak words, Arjuna?

why use the weapon of cowards?
Speak in arrows!
Give me the chance
to slice your head off in the presence of your guru.’

City-subduing Arjuna, embraced by his brothers, with Drona’s

permission advanced for the combat.

Duryodhana and his brothers embraced Karna.

Karna lifted his bow and arrows in readiness.
Clouds obscured the sky.
Lightning flashed.
Indra’s bow
Scattered rainbow colours.
The clouds laughed.
Their teeth showed
Like white cranes flying.

Because Indra showed his favours to Arjuna, Surya scattered the clouds
over his son Karna.

Arjuna was hidden

behind the clouds,
Karna stood clear
in the light of the sun.

Dhritarashtra’s sons stood behind Karna;

Drona, Kripa and Bhishma stood behind Arjuna.

The assembly, including the ladies, split into two loyalties.

And Kunti, Bhoja’s daughter, fainted.

Wise-in-dharma Vidura revived her,

sprinkling water scented with sandal paste on her face.

She opened her eyes.

She saw her two armour-clad sons.
Fear possessed her.
She did nothing.

Kripa saw the two heroes with bows uplifted;

wise-in-virtue and learned in combat-rules, he said: ‘This is Pandu’s son,
Kunti’s youngest son.
He is a Kuru.
He will meet you in duel.

Puissant challenger, what is your lineage?

Puissant challenger, what is your lineage?
Who are your parents, what royal house is proud of you?

After knowing this, Arjuna will fight—or not—as he pleases.

The son of a king never duels with anyone less than a prince.’

Karna flushed with shame.

His face became a yellow lotus pelted and disfigured by a heavy
monsoon.

‘Sir,’ said Duryodhana, ‘the Sastras say three kinds can claim royalty—
nobly born, heroes, and leaders of soldiers.

If, however, Arjuna

will fight no one not a king, I here and now
install Karna king of Anga.’

When the shouting died down, great chariot-hero Karna, hooded by an

umbrella, yak-tail fans waving on both sides, Was placed on a golden
seat; and mantra-learned Brahmins, with rice-grains, flowers, pots and
gold, installed him king of Anga.

Then, your majesty, Karna said to Duryodhana,

‘You have given me a kingdom, what will I give you?

King, best among men, you have only to ask.’

Duryodhana replied,
‘Be my friend.’

Karna replied,
‘I will be your friend.’
They embraced each other.
Both were happy.

• • •

Trembling and perspiring, leaning on a stick, Adhiratha, Karna’s father,

in flapping robes, entered the arena.
in flapping robes, entered the arena.

Karna saw him,

kept his bow aside
and dutifully lowered his wet-with-anointed-water head.

The charioteer Adhiratha quickly covered his feet with one end of his
robe, addressed Karna as his son, Embraced him till his tears wet Karna’s
wet-with-anointed-water head. King-of-Anga-son honoured charioteer-
father.

The Pandavas saw Adhiratha, and realized that Karna was a charioteer’s
son.
Bhima mockingly said: ‘Charioteer’s offspring!
You are unfit even to die by Arjuna’s hands. Throw away your sword!
Try a horsewhip instead!

King of Anga indeed!

What do you know of kingship?
What does a dog know of ghee that’s meant for the ritual fire?’

Karna looked up at the sky, at the sun in the sky.

He drew his breath in deeply.
His lips quivered.

Duryodhana stood up, like an enraged elephant out of the lake of his
lotus-looking brothers.

To terrible-deeded Bhima he said:

‘You presume too much, saying what you have said.

What makes a Kshatriya?— Strength.

Even low-born people are worthy of combat.
Don’t you know
The sources of great heroes and great rivers are unknown?

Do you know
the lineage of the great god Karttikeya?
the lineage of the great god Karttikeya?
Is he Agni’s son,
or the son of Kirtika, or the son of Rudra, or Ganga’s son?

I am told
that some born Kshatriya later became Brahmin.
I am told
Visvamitra and others achieved the ultimate Brahman.

I hear
Drona, great arms-guru, was born in a water-pot.
I am told
Kripa, son of Gotama, was born in a clump of reeds.

And I know
how you were born. Tell me—could a deer produce
this tiger
Karna, sun-radiant, natural-armoured, graced with the auspicious marks?

Karna
deserves not the kingship of Anga but of the world.
He is brave,
he is strong, he is skilled in war-weapons; he is my friend.

And if I
have displeased anyone here with what I have done to Karna,
let him climb his chariot and bend his bow with his feet.’

Loud cheers and shouts from the crowd of spectators greeted

Duryodhana’s speech.
The sun set suddenly.

Taking Karna by the hand, Duryodhana guided him through the arena
now lit with many lamps.

Drona, Bhishma and Kripa returned to their homes along with the
Pandavas.
Pandavas.
The arena emptied.

Your majesty, some said it was Arjuna’s triumph, others said it was
Karna’s, others Duryodhana’s.

And Kunti was happy

because her son Karna had all the auspicious marks, and because he
was king of Anga.

And Duryodhana, your majesty, because he had Karna on his side, no

longer feared Arjuna’s excellence in war-skills.

Karna cultivated Duryodhana with sweet and friendly words.

Even Yudhishthira felt Karna had no rival in the world.
 34. Kanika’s Subtle Advice

The parva (volume or episode) of the Mahabharata from which this passage is taken shows that
Drona’s motive in training the Kauravas and Pandavas is revenge. He wants them to become great
warriors in order to overthrow Drupada, king of the Panchalas, who has spurned him. He asks them
to take King Drupada captive, as their fee to him for instructing them. The Kauravas attack the
Panchalas, and are driven back; then the Pandavas try, and are successful. Drupada agrees to give
Drona half his kingdom.
The success of the Pandavas, however, sows the seeds of conflict, for the blind King Dhritarashtra
becomes suspicious of them, fearing that they will become more powerful than his own hundred sons
(the Kauravas). He summons his minister Kanika, who gives him Machiavellian advice about how to
outwit an enemy, using an animal fable that is reminiscent of the Panchatantra and Hitopadesa (see
Introduction, pp. xix–xxi).

When he discovered Pandu’s sons displaying extraordinary prowess,

Dhritarashtra was disconsolate (continued Vaisampayana).

He summoned Kanika,
finest among ministers, expert in sagacious
political counsel, and said: ‘Noble Brahmin, I cannot bear to see the
Pandavas go lording about. Should I stop them?
I will do as you advise.’

That remarkable Brahmin (said Vaisampayana)

gladly gave straight advice full of political wisdom.

‘Your majesty, listen to me, and do not be angry

with me for saying
what I am going to say.

A king’s business is to rule, to extend his might and influence.

He should not make mistakes himself, but profit from others’ mistakes.

Who rules if not a ruler?

Who rules if not a ruler?
If he rules, he is respected.
Let a king therefore rule— and punish, when required.

Let him see through others, not let others see through him.
As a tortoise hides its limbs, he should hide his plans.

But when he is set on something, let him carry it through.

No use half-extracting a thorn— it only results in an abscess.

It is good that he liquidate a dangerous enemy. He should wait for

misfortune to strike a powerful, or an escaping antagonist— And remove
him swiftly and unscrupulously. A weak enemy should be watched. One
spark is enough to kindle a forest fire.

Let him feign deafness and blindness if he is too weak to punish.

Though his sceptre be of straw, he should be alert as a deer.

If an enemy falls into your hands, finish him off, without compunction,
even if he seeks your shelter— any means will do, open or secret.

Use wealth to win over a stubborn enemy—then kill him.

The safest foe is a dead one.
You can then sleep peacefully.

Whether he has three, five, or seven strategies, destroy him.

The only way to get rid of a tree is to uproot it.

And after he is attended to, pick on his friends and allies.

If, however, he is well dispatched, there’s not much to fear from them.

If the roots are dug up, the branches and leaves will wither.
Hiding your own weaknesses, noting your enemies’ errors, Rule your
kingdom, your majesty, with a vigilant eye.
With yajnas, saffron robes, matted locks and skin-dresses, You should
put your enemies off their guard; having done so, pounce on them like a
wolf.
The cheapest way to riches Is through trickery. A crooked stick is
 The cheapest way to riches Is through trickery. A crooked stick is
excellent to pull twigs and pluck fruit. Crooked means are excellent
enemy-catchers.

Let an enemy ride you; and, when the time comes, throw him over like a
clay pot and smash him on the stones.

If he piteously begs for mercy, ignore him. An enemy

must on no account be freed.
Kill him.

Or incapacitate him—with money, with conciliation, with discord

fomented among his friends, or any other means handy.’

Dhritarashtra said:

‘Tell me how conciliation works, how to employ money,

how to foment discord, and how to destroy by other means.’

‘Listen to a story,’ replied Kanika.

‘A long time ago, your majesty, there lived in a forest an incomparably
devious jackal.

He was a really clever one.

He knew what was good for him.
He had four friends—a tiger, a wolf, a mouse, and a mongoose.

They spotted a splendid deer, the leader of a herd,

who was much too swift for them.
So they called a meeting.

The jackal said, “Sir Tiger, you seem to be singularly unable to catch this
deer—he’s young, and swift, and too clever for you.

I have a suggestion—
send the mouse to nibble at the deer’s hooves when he’s sleeping.
Then you can pounce on him.
After which, I suggest we all have a huge deer-feast.”
The mouse and tiger’ (said Kanika) ‘followed the advice to the letter.

The mouse nibbled at the deer’s hooves, and the tiger pounced.
“Bless you!” said the jackal, “Now go have a wash before dinner.”

Off they trooped to a river, as instructed by the jackal.

He in the meantime was planning his next move.

First to return after his bath was the tiger. He saw

the jackal beside the dead deer, lost in deep thought.

“What’s the matter, wise one?”

he asked. “You are the wisest of us all, I know, but
isn’t it dinner-time yet?”

“Sir Tiger,” said the jackal, “I’m worried by what the mouse said.
He said: To hell with the tiger!
I killed the deer, didn’t I?

And he’s going to enjoy it

without so much as thanking me!
His boasting’s got me so worried that I can’t touch this food.”

“Jackal, you have a point there,”

the tiger said. “The mouse is right.
From today I will eat only what I have killed on my own.”

He said this, and went away.

Some time later the mouse returned.
The jackal was well prepared.
This time he said:

“Bless you, little mouse!

You know what the mongoose said?
The tiger’s claws have polluted
 this deer-flesh. Catch me eating it!

But give me your permission

and I’ll gobble up the mouse.”
Alarmed, the mouse about-turned and scuttled off to his hole.

A little later, your majesty, the wolf came along, fresh after his pre-
dinner bath.
The jackal said to him: “Wolf, don’t ask me why, but the lord of the
jungle’s furious with you. He’s coming here with his wife soon.
You’re warned.”

The wolf, never so frightened, tensed his muscles and fled like a flash of
wind.
Exit wolf.

Enter mongoose.
Your majesty’ (continued Kanika), ‘this is what the jackal said to him:

“Hey Mongoose, they’re fled, all of them! A good thrashing is what I

gave them.
You want one too?”

“Sir Jackal,” the mongoose replied, “if tiger, wolf and mouse got
thrashed, I’m not the hero for you. I’m not hungry today.”

And he left. Mightily pleased with the success of his plan, the jackal had
a scrumptious deer-feast,’ concluded Kanika.

‘A king can learn from him how to rule well. Exploit the fears of a timid
enemy, conciliate the brave one, Seduce the avaricious
with wealth, subdue equal and inferior with power.
Your majesty, one more thing— If it so happens that your son, brother,
father or even guru becomes your enemy (and you wish to preserve
your welfare), Don’t neglect the danger— by curses, by mantras, by
bribes, poison, or treachery, destroy him immediately.
In case both parties are equally matched, the one who acts first is the one
who wins. A pompous guru, Ill-motivated, or ignorant of what needs
doing and not-doing, should be rebuked. If angered, hide your anger
behind smiles.

Great Bharata, never show anger when rebuking a wrong-doer.

Smile before you strike an enemy, smile while you strike him.

After you have struck him, show pity, grieve, even weep.
Try to win him by gifts, conciliation and kindness; If he is still
incorrigible, crush him.
The worst evil-doer behaves like a man of high dharma.

Like black clouds obscuring mountains, he obscures his evils.

Remember also to burn down your enemy’s house after killing him.

Banish beggars, atheists, and thieves from your kingdom.

By stealth or battle, poison or bribe, destroy your enemy.

Act cruelly, if you must.

Bite with sharp teeth, fatally.
Crush your enemy totally.
Suspect harmless-looking types.

Much loss follows from excessive trust-placing.

Never trust the faithless, trust cautiously the faithful.

If a too-trusted one betrays, you will be ruined.

Before appointing them anywhere, double-test your spies.

Scoundrels and fake ascetics make fine spies in others’ kingdoms.

Locate them in public gardens, entertainment houses, temples, Streets
and drinking-halls; in palaces of yajna, near wells, on hills and in forests;
among the state officials; And wherever people gather.
Let them circulate in these places, let their words be soft, their hearts
sharp as razors.
Even the most vicious and heinous act should go with a smile.
If success is your aim— first, do namaskara, be humble, Take a vow,
conciliate, inspire people, and flatter them by bowing your head at their
feet.
A shrewd man is like a tree With much flower and no fruit.
If there’s fruit it’s high up.
Though ripe, it looks raw. Threefold dharma, artha and kama Are mixed
up with three evils.
Take the good, discard the evil.
Even those who practise dharma have to put up with

Two troubles—lack of wealth and niggardly pleasure. Kama-seekers lack

dharma and wealth. Best is to extract maximum benefit From dharma,
artha and kama.
Humbly, honestly, pleasingly, get a competent Brahmin’s advice.
If you fall, use any means, Gentle or forceful, to pull yourself up—and
try dharma again.
Without suffering reverses, you cannot taste success.

The experience of any man who has suffered tells us this.

When misfortune strikes, seek consolation in the Puranas.

The fool is consoled by visions of future success, the wise man by

congenial occupations. The king who relaxes after signing a treaty With
an enemy is like a man who opens his eyes after falling from a tree-top
where he was sleeping.
Counsel is best given in secret.

See with a spy’s eyes, but don’t let others’ spies’ eyes see you. A
fisherman catches and cuts up fish, and prospers; A king traps enemies,
disembowels them, and prospers.
Gauge your enemy’s strength then dig it up, mow it down, Pollute it,
starve it to death.
If needy, don’t beg for aid.
If aid comes, don’t give the impression you need more.
When on a project, leave absolutely nothing undone.
Keep an eye open for allies, specially militarily useful ones; That’s the
surest way to succeed.
But let neither friend nor enemy guess what your plans are until they
have been accomplished.

Give them small inklings only as the plans proceed.

Only until danger actually comes, should you be nervous and worried.

Once it has come,

face it with courage.
Like a she-mule inviting her death by conceiving, A king who trusts an
enemy who is already in his hands invites his own doom.
Consider the future as arrived, Or you may overlook
important details while planning.
Common sense and hard work go hand in hand with success; Right time
and place are important; dharma, artha and kama should conjoin. The
highest success comes when right time and place meet.

Underestimate an enemy, and he will proliferate like the roots of a palm-

tree or a spark in a forest.

A small fire, faggot-fed, is soon a conflagration; a small king with strong

allies is soon triumphant.

Give your enemy false hopes.

Keep on deferring his demands.
Pretend you have a strong reason, based on an even stronger one.

Be like a razor,
sheathed in velvet leather.
Slice off hair coolly
when the time comes.

Upholder of Kuru dignity, treat the Pandavas

as you think best. Do nothing that you will repent later.
Your majesty, you have learning and good fortune. I know this.
You will know how best
to protect yourself against Pandu’s sons.

As far as I can see, your majesty, they are stronger than your sons.
So, if you want my advice this is what you should do.

Act in such a way that you need no more fear the sons of Pandu.
Whatever measures you adopt, do not repent them later.’

Kanika said this and left (continued Vaisampayana), leaving behind him
a Dhritarashtra deeply disturbed and thoughtful.
 35. The Lacquered Palace

Duryodhana, Dhritarashtra’s eldest son by his wife Gandhari, and thus the leader of the Kauravas,
has become consumed with hatred for the Pandavas, mainly because the people of Hastinapura are
calling for Yudhishthira (eldest of the Pandavas) to be named as Dhritarashtra’s heir. Duryodhana
persuades his father to send the Pandavas and their mother, Kunti, to live in a handsome but
inflammable palace which he has had specially built for them in the forest-surrounded city of
Varanavata. He then instructs his low-caste spy Purochana to burn the Pandavas alive in the house;
but Vidura, the courtier who had helped to set up the war-skills contest, tips off Yudhishthira, who
devises a plan of escape—though the Kauravas do not know this at first and shed public crocodile
tears at the apparent death of their cousins.
Vidura was the son of Vyasa (author of the Mahabharata) by a low-caste slave girl. He is wise,
humane and impartial, and does his best to restrain the irrationality and criminality of the Kauravas.
The following extract also indicates Kunti’s unflinching character, for she is prepared to sacrifice
innocent lives in order to ensure her sons’ escape from the burning palace.

Sakuni, Duryodhana,
Duhsasana and Karna formed a wicked plot (continued
Vaisampayana).

With Dhritarashtra’s approval, they decided to burn alive Kunti and her
sons.
But it so happened

That Vidura, who could read men’s hearts in their faces, discovered the
intentions of the four conspirators.

Defectless, Atman-illuminated Vidura, devoted to the welfare of the

Pandavas, made up his mind to devise an escape for them.

He arranged for a boat; variously equipped, with strong sails, able to

withstand wave-beat and wind-havoc. He told Kunti: ‘Dhritarashtra is
bent on insulting past and future Kuru glory.
He is obsessed with mischief and he is contemptuous of dharma.
I have a boat ready, sweet lady, wind-worthy and river-worthy.
Escape in it with your sons from the noose of death.’

When Kunti heard this, she was deeply distressed.

She and her sons boarded the boat, and crossed the Ganga.

On Vidura’s advice they abandoned the boat and, taking their

possessions with them, they entered a forest (continued Vaisampayana).

Well, it so happened that a tribal woman of the Nishadas came to the

house of lac and was burnt alive with her five sons.

That outrageous Mleccha, Purochana, was also burnt alive.

And in this way the plan of Dhritarashtra’s sons was frustrated.

In this way the noble sons of Kunti, and she herself, escaped with
Vidura’s help. The citizens, however, had no knowledge of this.

In fact, when the people of Varanavata saw

the house of lac reduced to ashes they grieved inconsolably.

They sent a messenger to the king giving the details, and saying, ‘Your
purpose has been fulfilled, the Pandavas burnt to death.

Your mission accomplished, your majesty, you are now free to enjoy,
with your sons, the Kuru kingdom.’
Dhritarashtra and his sons In grief performed the sraddha of the
Pandavas. Friends and relatives were present. Vidura was there, and
great Bhishma.

‘Noble Brahmin,’ Janamejaya interrupted, ‘I would like to know the

details of the burning of the house of lac, and the escape of the Pandavas.

What a horrible and cruel plan—such colossal wickedness!

Tell me everything, as it happened.
My curiosity overpowers me.’

Vaisampayana said: Your majesty, I will explain everything— both the

Vaisampayana said: Your majesty, I will explain everything— both the
burning of the lac house and the escape of the Pandavas.

It began like this: Duryodhana seethed with envy when he saw Bhima
and Arjuna grow in glory each day.

The Sun’s son Karna, and Subala’s son Sakuni tried every means they
could to get rid of the Pandavas.

But the Pandavas foiled each attempt and,

acting on Vidura’s advice, kept silent about it.

The people talked of the achievements of the Pandavas everywhere, in

city and out (continued Vaisampayana).

In courtyards and assembly-halls, in all meeting-places, they spoke of

Pandu’s eldest son as most worthy of being king.

They said: ‘Prophetic-visioned Dhritarashtra, because blind, was

prevented from ruling once.
How is he ruling now?

Santanu’s son Bhishma, strict-vowed and truth-devoted, once renounced

the kingdom; he cannot become king now.

Let us, with due ceremony, install Yudhishthira king— he is young,

skilled in war-craft, learned in the Vedas, truthful, liberal.

He respects Santanu’s son and Dhritarashtra;

he will make a good ruler in every way.’

And when ill-minded Duryodhana heard these sentiments of the

followers of Yudhishthira, he was roused to anger.

So great was his fury he could not bear to hear them.

Boiling with jealousy, he went to Dhritarashtra.

Dhritarashtra was alone.

Dhritarashtra was alone.
He did pranam to his father and recalling the people’s words, he said:

‘Father, I hear shocking things, words of great ill-omen.

Ignoring you and Bhishma, the citizens want Yudhishthira king.

Bhishma will not object, he does not seek kingship.

I think the citizens are deliberately insulting us.

Pandu got the kingship because he was deserving.

You were equally deserving, but your blindness stood in the way.

If now Pandu’s son gets it, his son will inherit it, then his son’s son, and
so on— all of them Pandavas.

We and our sons will be forever excluded from ruling.

Lord of the world,
what will people think of us?

That we should wait on others and bemoan our lot!

Sire, help us discover a dignified way out of this.

For, no matter what you say, had you been king before Pandu, we would
be the successors and not Pandu’s sons.’

• • •

These words of Duryodhana coupled with Kanika’s advice made the

prophetic-visioned king Dhritarashtra

Profoundly uneasy; sorrow assailed his heart, and doubts filled his mind.
Duryodhana, Karna, Subala’s son Sakuni, And Duhsasana—these four
held a consultation.
Duryodhana approached Dhritarashtra, and said:

‘Father, find out some means of sending the Pandavas to Varanavata.

Then we will have some peace of mind.’

Dhritarashtra pondered these words for some time; then he replied to

Dhritarashtra pondered these words for some time; then he replied to
Duryodhana (continued Vaisampayana): ‘Pandu was a man of dharma.
He behaved perfectly with his relatives: with me he was specially
courteous.

He was indifferent to food, dress, and the world’s pleasures.

He was devoted to me; had I asked, he would have given me his
kingdom.

Yudhishthira, like him, has dharma; he is greatly accomplished; he has

dignity and character; he is loved by the citizens.

And you want him exiled from the kingdom of his ancestors?
How can I do this?
He has many friends.

Pandu took good care of his counsellors and soldiers, and their sons and
grandsons.
Since they benefited so much, Don’t you think, my son, that if I do
what you tell me, they might turn against us, even kill us, to defend
Yudhishthira?’

‘You are right, father,’

replied Duryodhana. ‘But think; some risk has to be taken.
Confer honours, titles, wealth; Win the people to your side.
At the present moment, the ministers and treasury officials are entirely
in your control.

I am sure a way can be found, a smooth way, I think, to get the Pandavas
sent away to Varanavata.

And when I am installed king, I promise you, father, I will have Kunti
and her sons brought back to the kingdom.’

Dhritarashtra said: ‘That was my plan, Duryodhana, but I thought it

against dharma, and did not dare voice it.
You see, my son, neither Bhishma, nor Drona, nor Vidura, nor Kripa will
ever approve of exiling Kunti’s sons.

To them the Kurus and the Pandavas have equal status.

They are wise and moral, and see no difference between them and us.

I think, my son, an act like that will make us guilty before illustrious
men, before the whole world. It is unthinkable.’

‘Bhishma’, Duryodhana replied, ‘never takes sides; Drona’s son is on my

side; and Drona, I know, will be on the side his son is.

Saradvat’s son Kripa will follow Drona and his son.

How can he repudiate Drona and his nephew Asvatthaman?

Though Vidura depends on us, secretly he is a Pandava-lover. Let him

join them.
He can do us no harm.

Don’t be afraid, father.

Exile Pandu’s sons
and their mother to Varanavata.
Do this today.

Do this, and remove my suffering.

There’s a fire inside me devouring my sleep and coursing in my heart
like poison.’

• • •

Duryodhana and his brothers conspired to win over the people to their
side by granting bribes and favours.

On instructions from Dhritarashtra, some shrewd ministers praised the

attractions of Varanavata one day in the court.

‘The festival of Siva-Pasupati has began in the city of Varanavata,’ they

said.
said.
‘Thousands are flocking there.

What a concourse of people!

Just the glitter of their jewels ravishes the eyes!’ All this they said on
orders from Dhritarashtra, And so cleverly did they say it that the
Pandavas decided (continued Vaisampayana) to pay a visit to
Varanavata.

And when King Dhritarashtra heard that the Pandavas were eager to go
there, he went to them and said: ‘Children, your studies under Drona are
over; you have mastered all there is to master in war-skills of all kinds.

It occurred to me that the kingdom is secure, statecraft attends to all

matters, everyone is looked after.

My men come and tell me every day, without exception, there is no city
in the world as lovely as Varanavata.

If you, my children, would like to be there and see for yourselves, go

with your friends and followers, and enjoy yourselves like gods.

Give pearls and jewels away to the Brahmins and musicians.

Enjoy yourselves there, like radiant gods;

And when you have had your fill of pleasures, and do not want any more,
return to Hastinapura.’

Yudhishthira read Dhritarashtra’s mind, but unwilling to expose the king,

weakly agreed to go to Varanavata.

To wise Vidura, to
Santanu’s son Bhishma, to Drona, Vahlika,
and the Kaurava Somadatta, To the acharya Kripa, to Asvatthaman,
Bhurisravas, to the respected Brahmins, elders, ascetics, and
counsellors, To the noble priests, to illustrious Gandhari, Yudhishthira,
speaking slowly and gently, said:
‘Because King Dhritarashtra has advised us, we go with our friends and
followers to festive Varanavata.

May your blessings

go with us!
May we prosper,
may failure not touch us!’

The Kauravas heard Yudhishthira, Pandu’s son, speak thus, and all of
them blessed him, saying:

‘Sons of Pandu,
may the blessings of the elements go with you!
May your path be clear, may nothing inauspicious obstruct you!’

The Pandavas performed the rituals for obtaining their royal right, and
with full preparations set out for Varanavata.

• • •

After this decision of the Pandavas, approved by Dhritarashtra, ill-

minded Duryodhana was delighted.

He summoned Purochana in secret and, pressing the man’s right hand, he

said, ‘Purochana,

This world is full of riches, and they are all mine.

They are yours too,
to enjoy if you will.

Whom can I trust but you?

There is no one
in this palace I have more faith in than you.

So let what follows remain a secret between you and me.

I want an enemy removed.
I want you to do it.
 I want you to do it.

Dhritarashtra has sent the Pandavas to Varanavata.

Because Dhritarashtra wants it, they will make merry in that city.

Yoke swift mules

to your chariot and rush to Varanavata
today, if you can.

Get a palace built there, on the city’s outskirts, a rectangular one; furnish
it lavishly; guard it.

And see that you use only hemp, resin, lac and other inflammable
materials when you build.

Take mud and clay,

mix it with ghee,
oil, fat, and plenty of lac, and plaster the walls.

Strategically, in different corners of the palace, apply hemp, oil, ghee,

lac, and paste; do this cleverly, So that neither the Pandavas nor anyone
else, even after the closest inspection, can discover the ruse.

Build the palace and, when Kunti and the Pandavas arrive, lavishly
honour them, and make them comfortable in it.

The seats, relaxing places, the beds must be the finest possible—divine
almost.
Say my father orders it.

See that all this is done without word reaching the ears of Varanavata’s
citizens— until my mission’s accomplished.

And when they are sleeping in full confidence, beginning with the gate
set fire to the palace.

Everyone will declare it an accident that they perished in the fire.

None will blame us.’
 None will blame us.’

Purochana promised to carry out orders; and immediately sped to

Varanavata
in a swift mule-driven chariot.

Obedient to Duryodhana, he wasted no time.

He fulfilled the instructions to the minutest detail.

• • •

Climbing into their chariots yoked to wind-swift horses, the Pandavas

left. Earlier, they sadly touched Bhishma’s feet, And in the same way
honoured Dhritarashtra, mahatma Drona, Kripa, Vidura, and other elders.

They paid their respects to the elders of the Kurus, they embraced their
equals, they were respected by the children; They respectfully half-
circled the elderly palace ladies, they bade farewell to the citizens before
leaving for Varanavata.

Learned Vidura and other noble Kurus, including the citizens,

sorrowfully followed the Pandavas some distance outside the city.

Seeing the Pandavas unhappy as they were preparing to leave, some of

Hastinapura’s citizens murmured:

‘King Dhritarashtra has not in this case been impartial.

He means ill. His eyes do not follow the path of dharma.

Noble Yudhishthira, powerful Bhima and Arjuna

are not the kind to flout the wishes of Dhritarashtra.

And if they remain silent, Madri’s sons will not protest either.
The kingdom is theirs, from Pandu; just that Dhritarashtra does not like
it.

But how could Bhishma allow this great adharma?

How could Bhishma allow the Pandavas to leave?
How could Bhishma allow the Pandavas to leave?

Santanu’s son Vichitravirya and the great Kuru, Pandu, were both to us
even like our own fathers.

Now that Pandu, finest of kings, is in heaven, Dhritarashtra cannot bear

to look on the Pandavas.

We will not allow this!

We will leave this city, we will leave our houses, and follow
Yudhishthira.’

Dharmaraja Yudhishthira overheard them, and pondered.

Then, sorrowfully, he said to the murmuring citizens: ‘Dhritarashtra is
our father, our superior, our guru; he is lord of the earth, his words must
be obeyed.

And you are our friends.

If you mean us well, stand on our left, bless us, and return to your
homes.

And when the time comes when we really need your help, then come
forward and help us to shine and prosper.’

The citizens heard Yudhishthira and, putting the Pandavas on their right,
blessed them and, slowly, returned to Hastinapura.

After they had left, Vidura, wise in dharma, spoke to Yudhishthira in

order to warn him.

He spoke in Mleccha dialect (which Yudhishthira knew); both were wise,

and familiar with the Mleccha tongue.

‘A wise man’, whispered Vidura, ‘is one who knows in advance his
enemies’ intentions, and prepares himself accordingly.

Steel is not the only means of piercing the body.

Other means need other foils.
Other means need other foils.
Who knows this, survives.

He survives who knows that straw-consumer and dew-drier cannot harm

those who burrow holes in the ground.

A blind man does not know where to go, how to go.

A man without willpower is a blind man. Keep awake.

If your enemy tricks you into a trap not made of steel, remember how the
jackal in his hole escapes a fiery death.

Travelling brings knowledge.

Keep moving. Let the stars in the sky guide you. Unite the five senses,
and live.’

Yudhishthira listened carefully.

Dharmaraja Yudhishthira, Pandu’s eldest son,
said to Vidura:

‘I understand.’
Vidura, placing Yudhishthira on his right, bade him farewell, and
returned to the city.

After Vidura, Bhishma, and the citizens had gone, Kunti approached
Yudhishthira, and said:

‘What did Vidura tell you, in the presence of the others?

I couldn’t make out a word of his speech and your reply.

Tell me, son, what he said, if it is not secret.

I am eager to know
what both of you discussed.’

Yudhishthira replied: ‘He mentioned a lacquer house.

He also said there was a way of escaping from it.

He whispered that the man who controls his senses rules the world. To
which I replied, “I understand.” ’

When the star Rohini was in the ascendant, on the eighth day of the
month of Phalguna, the Pandavas left for the city of Varanavata.

• • •

Word spread that the Pandavas were coming, and the citizens of
Varanavata flocked in thousands, joyfully, By various means of
transport, to catch a glimpse
of the princes. They brought auspicious customary gifts.

The moment they were spotted, the Pandavas were surrounded; the
citizens of Varanavata blessed them, shouting Victory!

King of dharma Yudhishthira, best among men, so surrounded, looked

like thunder-wielding Indra among the gods.

Welcomed by the citizens, and thanking them for the reception, the
Pandavas entered the populous, enchanting city.

Their first duty, your majesty, was to find out the houses of ritual-
practising Brahmins, and visit them.

Their second was to go to the homes of the officials; then they visited the
charioteers, the Vaisyas, and even the Sudras.

Honoured by the citizens, they retired, your majesty, to a mansion,

Purochana leading, they following.

Purochana supplied them (Vaisampayana continued) the choicest food

and drink, beds, carpets and seats.

They continued to live there, with the citizens serving them, and
Purochana doing everything to make them comfortable.

After ten nights had passed, Purochana recommended to them a house

called the ‘Blessed Abode’
called the ‘Blessed Abode’
(actually a cursed one).

The Pandavas, richly dressed, rose, went to the house, and entered like
Guhyakas on Mount Kailasa.

After inspecting it, Yudhishthira, finest of men, whispered to Bhima,

‘Highly inflammable.

Not a doubt of it.

I can smell fat, and lac mixed with ghee—all
inflammable materials.

Superb workmanship.
Our enemies have good craftsmen.
Hemp, and straw, mud and bamboo stalks,

Soaked in ghee,
going up in flames— First Purochana honours us, then he burns us.

No doubt his wickedness is encouraged by Duryodhana.

Vidura knew—and warned me.
He is our well-wisher, Our father’s younger brother, he loves us. He
told me all about this death-trap, Duryodhana’s supreme treachery.’

Bhima said, ‘If you are sure this house is a trap, let us return to the place
where we were staying.’

‘And rouse suspicion? No,’

said Yudhishthira. ‘Rather, let us keep our eyes and ears open, and
find a means of escape.

If Purochana ever suspects that we’ve stumbled on his plan, he may

panic and frantically burn us and the house down.

He has no scruples, no sense of adharma; he is a blind slave

to the whims of Duryodhana.
If we perish, it is unlikely Bhishma will be overly upset.
Why should he unnecessarily antagonize the Kauravas?

Of course it is possible Bhishma (and other noble Kurus) will be

righteously indignant.
(It will help us little then.) If we run away in fear, Duryodhana, greedy
for the kingdom, will set spies on us to get rid of us.

Duryodhana is evil—he has position, power; he has friends, allies,

wealth; we have nothing.

There are many ways he can get rid of us.

Let us out-trick him by living in disguise.

For some time let us become hunters and nomads.

Let us become familiar with all routes of escape.

Inside our room, tonight, let’s start digging a tunnel.

If we can keep it secret, we are safe from fire.

So let us live here, and give neither Purochana nor the citizens the least
hint that we suspect anything.’

• • •

A friend of Vidura
(continued Vaisampayana), an expert tunnel-digger, came to the
Pandavas and said: ‘I am a tunnel-digger.
Vidura has sent me.
I am at your service.
Let me know what I should do.

Vidura said to me,

Go to the Pandavas
and help them in every way.
I await your orders.

Purochana intends to set fire to your house on the fourteenth night of the
Purochana intends to set fire to your house on the fourteenth night of the
dark fortnight.

Dhritarashtra’s ill-minded son Duryodhana has plans to burn alive the

Pandavas and their mother.

Vidura used Mleccha speech, and you replied in Mleccha.

This is my credential.’
Yudhishthira said to him: ‘My friend, I know you are a close and
trusted friend of Vidura;
I know you are deeply Devoted to him.
There is no need of ours that learned and noble Vidura does not
anticipate.

You will be ours,

as you are his.
Make no difference
between him and us.

We are as much yours as we are his.

Protect us even as
Vidura would protect us.

Purochana built this house at Duryodhana’s orders in order to destroy us.

This I know.

Wicked, persistent in vicious machinations, using wealth and allies,

Duryodhana hounds us.

Save us from the fire-trap.

If we are burnt to death, the evil schemes of Duryodhana will be
fulfilled.

Next door is the vast storehouse of Duryodhana, materials from which

were used to build the house of lac.
It has high walls,
escape that way is impossible.
 escape that way is impossible.

Vidura was the first to discover the plot.

In his goodness he
revealed the secret to me.

The danger that he foresaw now threatens to destroy us.

Show us how to escape, without rousing Purochana’s suspicions.’

‘So be it,’ replied the digger.

With many precautions he began work on a tunnel (continued
Vaisampayana).

The tunnel was located in the centre of the house.

Wooden planks covered it.
It was on floor level.

This was done in order not to rouse any suspicion.

Purochana kept a constant vigil at the house.

At night the Pandavas, armed, lived in the tunnel.

During the day they hunted in the nearby forests.

Always alert, they deceived Purochana with shows of trust and

contentment; actually, they were restless and worried.

The Varanavatans knew nothing of these goings-on. Only Vidura’s

friend, the tunnel-digger, knew. No one else.

• • •

One year passed. Purochana saw the Pandavas happy and unsuspecting,
and inwardly he rejoiced.

Yudhishthira, seeing Purochana relaxed, one day

said to Bhima and
the twins Nakula and Sahadeva: ‘Purochana’s under the impression we
don’t suspect anything.
 don’t suspect anything.
We have him in our hands.
The time to escape is now.

We’ll set fire to the storehouse, let Purochana burn to death, leave six
other dead bodies here, and slip out, unseen.’

It so happened, your majesty, that, on an alms-giving, Kunti had occasion

to feed many Brahmins. Some women were fed too.

They ate and drank hugely, enjoying themselves to excess, and late in the
night, with Kunti’s permission, went home.

As fate would have it, a Nishada woman and her five sons came to the
feast, and gorged themselves to exhaustion.

She and her sons drank till drunk, and, your majesty, unable to stir, more
dead than alive, decided to spend The night in the lac house.
That night when all were sleeping, a tremendous thunderstorm rose
(continued Vaisampayana).

Purochana was sleeping when Bhima set fire to his room.

Then the other Pandavas set the torch to the doorway, And quickly, in
various places, the rest of the lac house.
Satisfied that the entire house was ablaze,

The foe-subduing Pandavas slipped into the tunnel one by one, Kunti
with them.
The heat and crackle of the flames Woke up the citizens.
They rushed out, saw the house furiously aflame, and sadly said to
each other: ‘It must have been Purochana.
He built this house to kill his master’s relatives by setting it on fire.

Shame on Dhritarashtra, so prejudiced in mind!

To burn the sons of Pandu as if they were his enemies!

Evil, wicked Purochana, in the process of burning the Pandavas, trapped

himself, and got burnt to death.’
himself, and got burnt to death.’

Moaning the tragedy, the Varanavatans encircled the smouldering house,

and passed the night there.

Meanwhile, the Pandavas and their sorrowing mother had escaped

through the tunnel, unseen by anyone.

The foe-subduing Pandavas, sleepless and fearful, were unable to flee

as swiftly as they wished.

So mighty, wind-swift Bhima picked up his mother and four brothers to

ensure haste (added Vaisampayana).

Bhima of great strength and stamina, wolf-waisted Bhima, lifted his

mother on his shoulder, the twins on both his sides, Picked up
Yudhishthira and Arjuna on both arms, smashed trees with his chest,
smote the earth with his feet, and pressed steadily on.

• • •

Meanwhile, learned Vidura sent to the forest

a man of unimpeachable character (continued Vaisampayana).

He went where instructed, and saw the Pandavas and their mother
measuring the depth of a river.

This man was the spy who had revealed to mahatma Vidura all the
machinations of ill-minded Duryodhana.

For which reason Vidura sent him to Kunti’s sons; and he showed them
a mind-swift, wind-swift boat, Fitted with various gadgets, decked
with flags, sturdily constructed by shipwrights to withstand stormy
waves.
The boat was moored
on holy Ganga’s banks.
To establish his credentials as Vidura’s messenger, he said, ‘O
Yudhishthira, this is what Vidura told you: He survives who knows
that straw-consumer and dew-drier
cannot harm those who
burrow holes in the ground.

Vidura has sent me.

You can depend on me.
Besides, dharma-learned Vidura also said to me,

O son of Kunti, that you will defeat in battle Karna, Sakuni, and
Duryodhana and his brothers.

The boat waits for you.

May its journey be pleasant.
May it take you swiftly away from this place.’

He saw the brothers and their mother anxious, so, climbing along with
them into the boat, he said: ‘Vidura has embraced you, and smelt your
heads; he asked me to make your journey auspicious, to shield you from
harm.’

With these words, your majesty, the man piloted the heroes carefully
over the Ganga’s waters to the opposite bank.

When they had reached the opposite bank safely he shouted May victory
be yours!
and returned to his home.

The Pandavas sent word of their safety to Vidura, and secretly and
hurriedly pressed on, none else knowing.

• • •

Next morning a large crowd of Varanavatans

came to the smouldering lac house to see what had happened.

They extinguished the fire, saw the house was made of lac, and
They extinguished the fire, saw the house was made of lac, and
discovered Purochana’s body charred in the ruins.

They murmured among themselves: ‘None except wicked Duryodhana

could have thought of such a plot to get rid of the Pandavas.

It seems certain that he, with Dhritarashtra’s knowledge, has killed the
Pandavas; or why wasn’t he stopped?

Santanu’s son Bhishma, Drona, Vidura, Kripa, and all the other Kurus
have strayed from dharma.

Our duty is to send this message to Dhritarashtra: At last you have

succeeded—
you have killed the Pandavas.’

They searched among the embers for the bodies of the Pandavas, and
found the charred corpses of the Nishada woman and her five sons.

The tunnel-digger had managed to re-cover the tunnel’s mouth with

charred wood pieces so cleverly that not one citizen noticed it.

The citizens sent a messenger to Dhritarashtra informing him that

Purochana and the Pandavas had perished in the fire.

When the unpleasant news was conveyed to him, Dhritarashtra moaned

the deaths of the Pandavas and their mother.

He said:
‘It is not just the Pandavas who have died today— my brother Pandu,
illustrious hero,
has perished in the fire too.

Go, men, quickly

to Varanavata, and
collect the bodies.
Let all the funeral rites be performed for the heroes and Kunti, the King's
daughter.
daughter.

Let their bones

be purified by the rites, may noble charities follow.
And let the friends and relatives of those who have perished hurry to
Varanavata.

Whatever is needed, whatever selfless deeds enjoined— may those be

done.
May nothing be stinted in the funeral ceremonies of Kunti and the
Pandavas.’

Saying this, Dhritarashtra, Ambika’s son, surrounded by his relatives,

offered water-homage to the spirits of the ancestors.

Bhishma and other Kauravas gathered near the banks of the Ganga to
offer similar water-homage.

They each had a single dress on.

Their discarded head-coverings, ornaments, and other finery
accentuated their joylessness.

He wept. The others wept.

O Yudhishthira!
O great descendant of Kuru!
Some wept: O Bhima!

Others wailed: O Arjuna!

Others: O the twins!
O Kunti! Noble mother!
They offered water-homage.

The citizens also moaned the deaths of the Pandavas.

Vidura moaned formally: he knew the truth.

Seeing Bhishma lamenting, he whispered, ‘Lord among men, do not

grieve. Strict-vowed sire, the Pandavas are not dead.
What needed to be done, I did—at the crucial time.
Great Bharata, it is not necessary for you to offer water-homage.’

Bhishma took Vidura’s hand, and pulled him to a corner where they
could not be heard.
Still weeping, he said: ‘But how can this be?
How did Pandu’s great-chariot-warrior sons escape?
Even as Garuda saved his mother, Did you succeed in saving them?
Tell me how it was done— tell me how you stopped the crime of
Pandava-murder from falling on us.’

Because Bhishma inquired, Vidura replied to the worker-of-marvellous-

deeds (said Vaisampayana): ‘Dhritarashtra, Sakuni and Duryodhana had
decided once and for all to kill the Pandavas and their mother.

When Duryodhana conceived of the plot of burning them alive in a lac

house, I arranged to have an expert tunnel-digger Devise a large tunnel
from the centre of the house; and before the fire spread, the Pandavas
slipped into the tunnel, And escaped. They and their mother are now far
away,
all with my help. I am certain that they are alive.

There is no need to mourn.

Until the propitious time when their return is warranted, they will stay
in hiding.

They will move from place to place, and no one will know.
At the right time, Yudhishthira will show himself to the earth’s kings.’

Meanwhile, the mighty Pandavas, six of them, had slipped away from
Varanavata, and come to the Ganga.

Helped by expert boatmen and a favourable current, they quickly

alighted at the opposite bank of the river.

They abandoned the boat, and moved southwards, guiding themselves at

night by the light of the stars.
night by the light of the stars.

It was a difficult journey.

Finally, your majesty, they reached a dense forest.
They were tired, thirsty, sleepy.

Yudhishthira said to Bhima, ‘Here we are, lost in a forest, with no idea

where we are; what do we do now?

We are not even sure if Purochana is dead or alive.

How long can we continue keeping our presence a secret?

Great Bharata, pick us up as you did earlier, and let us move on. You are
strongest among us, you are wind-swift.’

Bhima heard Yudhishthira, picked up his mother and brothers, and

pressed on
(said Vaisampayana).
 36. The Slaying of Baka

In this extract, Vyasa, the legendary author of the Mahabharata, himself appears as a character, and
advises the Pandavas to take refuge in a Brahmin’s house in the town of Ekachakra. The citizens of
Ekachakra are being terrorized by a man-eating Rakshasa called Baka, who demands a human victim
every day. The Brahmin’s daughter offers to sacrifice herself to Baka, but Kunti, mother of the
Pandavas, encourages Yudhishthira and Bhima to take action against him. In this, she shows her
resourcefulness and strength of character. The Pandavas may be heroes, but like many heroes they
have a powerful mother behind them.
Kunti is the mother of the three elder Pandavas—Yudhishthira, Bhima and Arjuna. The two
younger ones—Nakula and Sahadeva—were born of Madri, King Pandu’s second wife (Kunti’s co-
wife). Hence Vyasa’s reference, when he speaks to Kunti, to ‘your sons and Madri’s sons / all of
them great-chariot-heroes . . .’ (though Pandu was not actually their father).
By overcoming Baka, Bhima displays his courage and strength. Yudhishthira’s initial doubts, by
contrast, reflect both the caution and the streak of pessimism in his character.

The Pandavas, mighty chariot-heroes, roamed from forest to forest

killing many beasts. In the course of their travels they passed through
The kingdoms of the Matsyas, the Trigartas, the Panchalas, and the
Kichakas, where they saw enchanting woods and lakes.

Their hair was now matted, and they wore bark-dresses.

Anyone seeing them and their mother would think they were ascetics.

Sometimes they hurried, sometimes they slowed down; because their

mother accompanied them, they varied their pace.

They studied the Rig, the Vedas and Vedangas, and other sciences. One
day, they came across Vyasa.

The great subduers-of-enemies respectfully greeted Vyasa, and,

accompanied by their mother, stood before him with joined palms.

Vyasa said:
‘Noble Bharatas, I knew long before of your tribulations, after your
unjust treatment at the hands of Dhritarashtra’s sons.

And I have come to you in the hope of helping you.

Do not be afraid.
Everything will work out well.

I do not deny that you and they are both the same to me; but those who
are young and suffer naturally get more sympathy.

My affection for you has never been greater.

Because I love you, I seek your welfare. Listen.

Not far from here is a town where you will be safe.

Live there, disguised.
Wait for me there.’

Satyavati’s son Vyasa comforted the Pandavas, and guided them to

Ekachakra.
He said to Kunti: ‘May you live long, my daughter!
Your son Yudhishthira, finest and most famous of men, always
dedicated to dharma, will conquer the world with dharma and rule over
the earth’s kings.

With the help of the strength of Bhima and Arjuna, he will rule the entire
sea-girdled world.

Your sons and Madri’s sons, all of them great-chariot-heroes, will delight
in their kingdom, ruling with full power.

When the whole world is conquered, they will perform the yajnas of
Rajasuya and Asvamedha, offering vast sums of dakshina.

Their relatives and friends will prosper with them.

Your sons will restore the glory of their forefathers.’

With these words, he escorted them to the house of a Brahmin; there the
 great rishi Vyasa said to the eldest Pandava: ‘Wait for me here.
I shall return.
Success attends the man who adapts to time and place.’

Your majesty, the Pandavas with joined palms said, ‘So be it.’ And the
rishi Vyasa went to from where he came.

• • •

Janamejaya asked:

‘Finest of the twice-born, what did the sons of Kunti, excellent chariot-
warriors, do in Ekachakra?’

Vaisampayana replied:

In Ekachakra, the mighty sons of Pandu,

excellent chariot-warriors, stayed briefly in the Brahmin’s house.

There, your majesty, they passed their time roaming from lovely lake to
lake, from river to river, Subsisting on alms.
So wonderful were their feats, in no time they became favourites of the
people.

Whatever food they received they offered to Kunti each night, and Kunti
in turn decided each Pandava’s share.

Of these great foe-chastisers, four (and Kunti) shared half the food; the
other half was eaten by powerful Bhima.

In this way, O Janamejaya, the noble Pandavas spent a few days

in Ekachakra.

One day, when the others had gone alms-begging, Bhima and Kunti
were alone in the house.

Kunti heard loud cries of agonized lamentation coming from a corner of

the Brahmin’s house.
the Brahmin’s house.

She was touched, being loving and compassionate.

The woeful cries
stirred her deeply.

So intense was her sympathy that she turned to Bhima and said to him
these words of loving-kindness: ‘My son, safe from Duryodhana, we
found happy refuge in this Brahmin’s house.
He deeply respected us.

For which reason, my son, I always think of his welfare.

That is the least a guest can do for his host.

To return goodness for goodness— isn’t this to be a man?

Such an action prospers.
Even better to return more goodness.

I can see there is suffering in this Brahmin’s house.

This is our chance to be of some help to him.’

‘Find from him, mother, why he’s suffering,’ replied Bhima.

‘No matter how difficult, I will then give him help.’

While they were talking, (continued Vaisampayana), they heard more

piercing wails from the Brahmin and his wife.

Like Kamadhenu, the wish-fulfilling cow, running to her tethered calf,

Kunti hurried to the inner room.

She saw: the Brahmin, his wife, son and daughter, sitting disconsolate,
moaning their lot.

The Brahmin said ‘Alas!

Hollow as a reed is life!
We are slaves
of time,
victims
 victims
of suffering!

To live
is to suffer,
To live
is to spawn
diseases.
Life
is a series
of sorrows.

They say the Atman is one;

Split in three
chasing
artha, kama, dharma, it suffers.
How it suffers!

They say moksha

is man’s goal—
but who gets moksha?
Most chase wealth— and get hell instead.

To want wealth
is hell;
To get it,
greater hell.
If wealth comes,
greed grows;
If wealth goes,
sorrow comes.

I can’t think
of any way of
escaping from here with my wife and son.

Remember, Brahmini, I told you so!

I told you to leave this place, and you wouldn’t listen!
I told you to leave this place, and you wouldn’t listen!

You foolish woman!

I told you then, and all you could say was: I was born here,
I grew up here,
this is my ancestral house.

Your father is dead.

Your mother died long ago.
Your friends, your relatives are all dead.
What pleasure do you get in staying on here?

Because you had such affection for your friends and relatives, you
refused to listen to me.
Now I have to learn how to endure the loss of a friend and relative.

How? How?
It will kill me!
How can I live,
with friends and relatives gone?

In my deeds of dharma, you stood by my side; you are like a mother to

me; the gods gave you to me as a friend; in my weakness, you have given
me strength.

My parents chose you as my partner through life; you are noble-born,

sweet-tempered, you are the mother Of my children; innocent, faithful,
devoted to me; you accepted and married me with all the religious rites;
How can I sacrifice you simply to save myself?
How can I sacrifice my son simply to save myself?

He is so young—not a hair yet on his chin.

How can I sacrifice my daughter, the child of my loins, Given to me by
the Creator to bestow on a husband, through whom I will enjoy, as will
my ancestors, the heaven reserved for those whose daughters have sons?

Some men think a father loves his son more, others think his daughter.
 Some men think a father loves his son more, others think his daughter.
I love both equally.

How can I sacrifice my daughter, who continues my lineage and on

whom depends my heavenly bliss?

I cannot even sacrifice myself, for if I go to the other world, who will
look after my children, so dependent on me?

To sacrifice any of them would be cruel and wrong; to sacrifice myself is

also to ensure their doom.

Oh what torture!
What should I do?
How deal with friends and relatives?
Let me die along with them.
Life now is pointless.’

• • •

His wife the Brahmini said:

‘Is this, my lord, a time to mourn?

You are learned, you should not grieve like an ordinary man.

All men must die.

Is there any point in grieving over
the inevitable?

A man is naturally attached to wife, son and daughter.

You are wise. Do not mourn.
Let me go in your place.

This is a wife’s highest and eternal dharma— to dedicate herself to the

welfare of her husband.

To do so will give me pleasure now; it will win me renown in this world,

and divine bliss in the next.
What I have just described is the highest form of selflessness: it brings
both merit and profit.

I have already fulfilled a wife’s duty—by giving you a son and daughter.
I am free of my debt to you.

You will be able to support and protect the children.

It is not possible for me to support and protect them.

My lord, my life and wealth!

If you leave us, how will we ever be able to manage to live?

A widow, with two small children to look after, how will I be able to lead
a life of dharma?

How will I protect my girl if selfish and characterless men come with
proposals— and you not with us?

Like birds scavenging a piece of meat thrown on the ground, men seek a
woman who has lost her husband.

Who knows, O twice-born one— if wicked men seek me constantly, I

might stray from the path of dharma.

And our innocent daughter— your little girl—how will I be able to guide
her on the path of ancestral dharma?

How will I teach our son such skills and accomplishments as were yours,
so that he gives me help when I am in need?

Seeing me helpless, I know undeserving men will solicit my daughter,

like Sudras seeking the Vedas.

If I do not give her in marriage—our daughter, your girl—who knows,

they may take her by force.

If your son grows to be unlike you, if your daughter comes under the
control of an unworthy man, Do you think I could bear it?
control of an unworthy man, Do you think I could bear it?
I would rather be an outcaste.
What will be my fate?
I would much rather die.

These little children of ours, with you and me gone, will wither away and
die like fish in a dried-up tank.

Take my word for it— without you all three of us will die.
O do not leave us forlorn.

Learned persons, O Brahmin, have said it is high dharma for a wife with
children to die before her husband does.

I am prepared, my lord, to sacrifice myself, my relatives, my son and my

daughter.

To serve her husband is greater dharma to a wife than yajnas and tapas,
holy vows and alms-giving.

What I intend doing is therefore the highest dharma: it is meant for your
good and for the good of your lineage.

Men who know dharma say: Relatives, children, wives, all loved things
are loved because they save one from doom.

Money is loved because it brings security. A wife with money is a little

better loved, and better possessed.

Wise men say: A wife, a son, a house, and money, are all acquired to
provide against expected or unexpected distress.

Wise men have also said: If one’s self is weighed against all one’s
relatives, one’s self will weigh heavier.

My lord, respected husband, through me achieve your aim.

Sacrifice me, save yourself.
And look after our children.
 And look after our children.

Men who laid down dharma ruled that women should never be harmed.
The Rakshasas are not above dharma.
He won’t dare kill me.

Oh, he will surely kill a man, but I do not think he will harm a woman.
Noble husband, send me to him.

Many happy times have I spent with you, many sweet and pleasant days
have we together known.
You have given me a son.
Death holds no fear for me.

I have borne children, and now am an old woman.

All I wish is your welfare.
Therefore I have decided on this.

When I am gone, my lord, you can marry again, and re-practise dharma
as you did with me.

To marry again is not morally condemnable in a man; for a woman to

take a second husband is unforgivable.

Think on this, my lord.

Know that to sacrifice yourself is improper. Save yourself, your
children, your race, now!’

• • •

When she heard her parents lament like this, the daughter, grief-stricken,
said (continued Vaisampayana): ‘Why are you weeping, as if you have
no one in the world? Listen to me.
Then do what is proper.

One day you will give me away.

Dharma ordains it.
Give me away now, and save the family.
Give me away now, and save the family.

After all, children are sought because they are saviours.

Let me save you. Cross this stream with me as raft.

A child saves his parents in this world and the next, so a child is called
putra, one-who-saves-from-the-hell-of-put.

My pitris hope that I should bear them a son; instead, I will save them by
saving my father’s life.

My brother, as you know, is very young; if you die, I know he will die
too soon after your death.

Father, should you die, and he dies too, the pinda-homage to our
ancestors will stop.
They will be deeply displeased.

Abandoned by my parents, I would fall from one sorrow into another,

until I could no more bear earthly pain.

On the other hand, if you, mother, and my brother save yourselves, the
pinda-offering is assured.

A son is like one’s own self, a wife is like a friend, a daughter only an
irritation.
She is expendable.

Father, I am only a girl.

If you leave me alone what will I do except, helpless, wander
aimlessly?

Instead, give me this chance to save my race by doing something

difficult, and also gather dharma for myself.

Noblest of the twice-born, if you go, leaving me behind, I’ll be

distraught.
Be kind to me.
 Be kind to me.

I am the one-to-be-given-away, so give me away; for the sake of dharma,

for our sakes for the family’s sake, do this.

Don’t delay. What must be done should be quickly done.

Could there be anything more painful than your leaving us?

If you do, we’ll have to go begging for our food, like dogs.
If you live, on the other hand, I shall attain heaven and bliss.

It is said that, after a daughter is given away, oblations to the gods and
pitris will earn their favours.’

When they heard her lament like this (Vaisampayana said), father,
mother and daughter began sobbing uncontrollably together.

The little son, his young eyes suddenly expanding with joy, seeing them
sobbing, said childishly: ‘O father, O mother, O sister, don’t cry!
Don’t!’ Smiling,
he came near each, And picking up a dry grass-blade, he shouted
joyfully, ‘I’ll kill him with this!’

They heard the brave words of the lisping hero, and they laughed and
cried simultaneously.

Kunti decided to enter then. She came and her words to them were like
ambrosia to a dead man.

• • •

‘Tell me,’ Kunti said, ‘what is the cause of your grief?

Knowing the cause, I may be able to help you remove it.’

‘Ascetic lady,’ replied the Brahmin, ‘to speak as you do is kind of you.
But our grief is special— no human being can remove it.

There is a Rakshasa called Baka, who lives not far from here.
He is lord of Ekachakra, he rules this territory.
He is lord of Ekachakra, he rules this territory.

He’s an insatiable man-eater, he’s greater than an anti-god; he is

unchallenged ruler here, he grows fat on human flesh.

Ekachakra and surrounding parts are protected by him.

Because he guards us, no enemy dare attack us.

We are pledged to feed him every day—one cartload of rice, two

buffaloes, and the man who takes the supplies to him.

Each house in this town gets its turn, a terrible day, after perhaps many
years, when a family has to suffer.

If any family avoids its duty, the Rakshasa devours all in the house,
including the children.

We have a foolish king, who lives in a place called Vetrakeyagriha— he

knows nothing of how to govern, and nothing of how to protect his
subjects.

With a worthless king like that, whose weakness creates insecurity

everywhere, we deserve what we get.

Brahmins are free men— no one can hold us down.

They are self-sufficient, they roam as free as birds.

They say the order of respect, when it comes to protecting, should be

king, wife, wealth— then sons and relatives.

It’s the other way round with me. That’s the reason I grieve—that’s why
I am so sorely afflicted.

This time it’s my turn— the race-destroying day has come—I must
supply food and a human to the Rakshasa.

I have no money
to buy a substitute man.
 to buy a substitute man.
And I can’t bring myself to send someone dear to me.

I can see no way out of the Rakshasa’s clutches.

This is the ocean of grief in which I am drowning.

I have decided to go with my family to the Rakshasa; today that monster

can devour us all if he wishes.’

• • •

‘Do not be alarmed,’

said Kunti. ‘I think I see a way of rescuing you from this Rakshasa.

You have one young son, you have one virgin daughter; I do not like that
they, or you and your wife should die.

I have five sons.

I will so arrange that one of them will meet the Rakshasa with the
food-supplies.’

‘No,’ replied the Brahmin, ‘this cannot be. I will not save my life at the
expense of a Brahmin’s or a guest’s.

Even the low-born and wicked will refuse your offer.

Better to sacrifice oneself and one’s own children for a Brahmin.

I believe in this, and I will not swerve.

If it’s a Brahmin’s death or my own, I’ll choose my own.

To kill a Brahmin is crime without expiation. Better that I go, though

against my wishes, than endanger a Brahmin.

Good lady, if I go, I at best sacrifice myself, I don’t incur the guilt of
suicide— the guilt is his who kills me.

But if I knowingly send another, a Brahmin, it is like murder— from

such a cruel, criminal deed, how will I ever escape?
Haven’t the learned said: Abandoning a guest who seeks
your protection and killing one
who seeks death are criminal deeds?

The mahatmas who know all about behaviour in times of danger, have
explained that no man should ever indulge in cruel deeds.

So let me die today.

Let me and my wife perish.
I will not be responsible for the killing of a Brahmin.’

‘Good Brahmin,’ said Kunti, ‘I respect Brahmins. Listen.

If I had a hundred sons, all would be equally dear to me.

But I know this Rakshasa will never be able to harm my son, who is
strong and supple, and knows the mantras.

He’ll take the food to the Rakshasa, but I know he won’t be harmed.
I’m convinced of this.

I have seen many Rakshasas, huge, powerful creatures, fall victim to my

son.
He killed them all.

But I must ask you, O Brahmin, to keep this a secret— for if people get
to know, they’ll become curious and envious.

It’s like this—wise men have said if my son discloses his powers without
his guru’s permission, he’ll lose them.’

The Brahmin and his wife (continued Vaisampayana) heard these

ambrosia-like words of Kunti, and rejoiced.

Kunti and the Brahmin approached Bhima, the son of the wind-god, and
he agreed to do as asked.

• • •
Great Bharata (Vaisampayana continued), some time after Bhima’s
consent, all the Pandavas arrived there, bringing alms-food.

Pandu’s son Yudhishthira guessed by Bhima’s looks that something was

afoot, and said privately to his mother: ‘Mother, what is troubling
Bhima? Is he planning something on his own, or have you ordered him to
do it?’

Kunti replied: ‘I have asked my great foe-subduing son to save the

Brahmin and save the town too.’

‘But don’t you think it rash, mother?’

asked Yudhishthira.
‘I’ve never heard wise men recommend risking one’s son.

Why do you have to risk your son to save another’s? Mother, you have
done something advised neither by common sense nor the Vedas.

The man whose great strength assures us peaceful sleep, the man with
whose help we hope to recover our kingdom; The man whose very name
makes Sakuni and Duryodhana and their followers nervous, robbing
them of sleep; The man whose heroic strength brought us out of the
flaming lacquer-house; the man who killed Purochana; The man who
gives us confidence that one day we will rule the world’s wealth after
killing the sons of Dhritarashtra— Mother, what right had you to expose
him like this?
have you lost your reason?
have our sufferings unbalanced you?’

‘Yudhishthira,’ replied Kunti, ‘don’t get upset over Bhima.

No, I haven’t lost my head.
I know what I am doing.

My son, this good Brahmin gave us shelter in his house, he gave us

respect, and hid us from Dhritarashtra’s sons.

I have done what I have done in order to pay him back for his kindness.
I have done what I have done in order to pay him back for his kindness.
To return kindness with kindness is dharma.

To return kindness with even more kindness, is dharma.

I noticed Bhima’s prowess in the lacquer-house, And when he killed
Hidimba; I have full faith in him.
Why, Bhima’s arms have the strength of ten thousand elephants.

Or how could he have carried his elephant-heavy brothers from

Varanavata? Bhima is strong.
He could defeat Indra if he wished.

Immediately after birth, he fell from my lap.

The stone-slab he fell on shattered under his weight.

From that day, my son, I knew how strong he was.

It is for this reason I choose Bhima to repay the Brahmin.

I’m not foolish; don’t think me ignorant; I’m not being selfish.
I know exactly what I am doing.
This is an act of dharma.

Yudhishthira, two benefits will follow from this act— one, we’ll repay a
Brahmin, two, we’ll gain moral merit.

If you asked me, I would say that a Kshatriya who helps a Brahmin gets
the highest heaven in his afterlife.

A Kshatriya who saves the life of another Kshatriya gets great fame both
in this world and the next.

And a Kshatriya who helps a Vaisya, in my opinion, achieves great

popularity on this earth.

It’s a king’s duty to protect even the Sudra if the Sudra seeks protection.
Then, his royal karma gives him royal rebirths.

Descendant of the Kurus, my shining son, wise Vyasa told me to do this.

Descendant of the Kurus, my shining son, wise Vyasa told me to do this.
That is another reason.’

• • •

‘Mother,’ replied Yudhishthira, ‘your compassion for the Brahmin

moved you to do what you have done. It is noble.

Because your compassion for the Brahmin is so strong, I am convinced

Bhima will kill the Rakshasa and return.

But the Brahmin must promise not to say a word of all this to any of the
citizens.
Get his firm word on this.’

Night passed; and Bhima, taking the food with him, made ready to go to
the hideout of the Rakshasa.

Reaching the forest where the Rakshasa lived, Bhima began loudly
eating the food and shouting for the Rakshasa.

Unable to check his anger, the Rakshasa dashed out to the place where
Bhima sat, eating and shouting.

He was huge
strong
fierce
red-eyed
red-bearded
red-haired.
The earth shook as he walked.

His mouth
stretched
from ear to ear
His two ears
were like
two arrows
 two arrows
Three lines
furrowed
his forehead.

He saw Bhima
eating
the food.
He bit his lips
rolled his eyes
and shouted fiercely: ‘Fool!
Are you eager to go To the land of the dead— That you dare eat my
food!’

Bhima heard,
and smiled;
turned his head,
and went on eating.

Yelling horribly, with arms upraised, the Rakshasa rushed at Bhima.

Foe-conquering son of Pandu, Bhima, looked once at him, and went on

eating.

Inflamed, the Rakshasa smashed both his hands heavily down on

Bhima’s back.

Though hit fiercely, Bhima did not even look up; instead, he went on
eating.

The Rakshasa, insulted and furious, uprooted a tree, and rushed at Bhima
. . .

Bhima, best of men, valiant Bhima,

calmly finished his food, washed himself,
stood up, and
faced his assailant.

Smiling,
Smiling,
he caught
in his left hand
the tree
hurled at him
by the Rakshasa.

The Rakshasa,
in quick succession, uprooted countless trees, and hurled them
at the Pandava,
who hurled them back.

Soon, your majesty, the Rakshasa and the Pandava had stripped the area
of trees.

‘I am Baka!’
shouted the Rakshasa, and, in one mighty leap, attacked Bhima.

Bhima crushed him to his chest;

then, separating, started dragging him.

Both dragged each other, as if in turn;

the Rakshasa slowly began to tire.

The ground shook under their weight; huge trees lay

scattered and smashed.

Seeing the Rakshasa weaken, wolf-waisted Bhima threw him

on the ground, pressed his knees on his chest, and pelted him with
blows.

Digging one knee in the crook of his back, Bhima gripped his neck with
his right hand, And his loincloth with his left— and snapped him in two.
The man-eater screamed.

Mangled by Bhima, the Rakshasa, in horrific agony,

vomited blood.
 vomited blood.

• • •

Hill-huge Baka,
fearful Rakshasa, broken by Bhima,
died screaming.

And his relatives rushed out from their dwellings in fear, when they
heard his screams.

Bhima saw them

afraid and distraught; he consoled them and extracted a promise from
them.

‘Give up killing men,’

Bhima made them promise.
‘If you don’t, I’ll kill you as I killed Baka.’

Great Bharata (continued Vaisampayana), they heard Bhima’s threat, and

promised as required.

From then on, the inhabitants of that region noticed the Rakshasas
making friendly and peaceful gestures.

Secretly, Bhima placed the Rakshasa’s dead body near one of the city-
gates, and slipped away.

The Rakshasa’s relatives, amazed at Bhima’s awesome strength, fled

terror-stricken in all directions.

Returning to the Brahmin’s house, Bhima recounted before Yudhishthira

the manner of Baka’s slaying.

Next morning, the city-dwellers, going out, saw Baka’s blood-spattered

corpse near the city-gate.

Horripilating, they stood and looked at the hill-huge corpse of the

slaughtered man-eater.
slaughtered man-eater.

The news soon spread throughout Ekachakra, and the king, accompanied
by thousands of citizens, With their wives, young and old, hurried to the
spot.
Great was their amazement.
They paid homage to the gods.

On ascertaining whose turn it had been to supply the food, they rushed to
the house of the Brahmin, And pestered him with questions: he, evading
the truth about the Pandavas, said to them:

‘My family and I were weeping over our lot, when a mahatma Brahmin,
wise in mantras, saw us.

We told him everything.

That good Brahmin, smiling, consoled us, and said:

I’ll carry the food today

to the Rakshasa.
Don’t have the least worry.
With these words He set out with the food to the forest of Baka.
He must have killed Baka out of kindness for us.’

All the Brahmins and Kshatriyas were wonderstruck, all the Vaisyas and
Sudras rejoiced.

And all the people returned in peace to their city, after this wonderful
experience.
The Pandavas continued to live there.
 37. Samvarana and Tapati

An encounter between the Pandavas and Angaraparna, a Gandharva, provides a peg on which to hang
this celebrated and moving story. Angaraparna is bathing with his wives in the Ganga and is annoyed
to be disturbed in a section of the river that he considers as belonging to him. Arjuna angrily tells him
that ‘this holy river is for all’, and they fight. Arjuna uses divine weapons that have been given to
him by Drona, and Angaraparna collapses unconscious. His wife begs Arjuna not to kill her husband,
and he agrees, saying, ‘Who kills a defeated or a defenceless or a woman-protected enemy?’
Angaraparna is so humiliated at the loss of his reputation that he renounces his name. He also gives
the five Pandavas a hundred horses each, and imparts to Arjuna the ability ‘to see whatever you wish
to see in this world, and in / whatever form you wish to see it’—spiritual knowledge that
Angaraparna has acquired through arduous asceticism. Arjuna accepts these gifts and pledges
friendship with him.
Arjuna is curious to know why the Gandharva has addressed him as ‘descendant of Tapati’.
Angaraparna explains by telling the story of Tapati, daughter of Surya the sun-god, also known as
Tapana.

‘You addressed me’, said Arjuna, ‘as Tapati’s descendant, Tapatya.

What did you mean by that?
Tell me in detail.

We, sir, are Kunti’s sons, Kaunteyas. Who is Tapati?

Why do you call us Tapatyas?
I am most curious.’

Because Kunti’s son, Arjuna, asked him (said Vaisampayana), the

Gandharva narrated a story famous in all the three worlds.

‘Finest of learned men,’

said the Gandharva, ‘listen to me as I narrate this fascinating tale.

Listen carefully, and you will understand why I decided to address you as
Tapatya.

He, who floods the sky with the glory of his radiance, had a daughter
He, who floods the sky with the glory of his radiance, had a daughter
named Tapati, shining-splendid like him.

Tapati, Surya’s daughter, was Savitri’s sister.

The three worlds honoured her for her great tapas.

There was none among the gods, anti-gods, Rakshasas, Yakshas, Apsaras
and Gandharvas, to equal her in beauty: Symmetrical figure Faultless
features
Large black eyes
Elegantly dressed
Chaste and sweet-tempered.

Great Bharata, seeing her Surya thought: What man

is handsome, talented, moral, and wise
enough to be her husband?

When she crossed puberty, his worry increased; he had only one thought
— how to find her a husband.

One great Kuru scion, the mighty king Samvarana son of Riksha, was a
worshipper of the sun-god Surya, Whom he propitiated with arghya,
garlands, scents, with purity of mind and body, fasts, vows and strict
penances.

Samvarana’s intense devotion to radiant Surya

was marked by the deepest humility and self-abnegation.

So Surya, noting his handsomeness and piety, thought he would make the
best husband for Tapati.

In fact, O descendant of Kuru, Surya made up his mind to bestow his

daughter on world-celebrated Samvarana.

As Surya fills the sky with incomparable splendour, Samvarana filled the
earth with the lustre of his achievements.

As Veda-knowing men worship the splendid sun, all men (except

As Veda-knowing men worship the splendid sun, all men (except
Brahmins) honoured great Samvarana.

Like the sun Surya Samvarana scorched his enemies; like the moon
Soma
he soothed his allies.

Which is why, O great Kuru, Tapana the Sun was resolved on bestowing
his daughter Tapati on illustrious Samvarana.

It so happened once that this fortune-favoured, shining-with-prowess

king went hunting in a hill-region.

In the course of the hunt, the great Kuru’s horse, overcome with thirst
and hunger, collapsed and died.

He left his dead horse and walked up the hill.

There he saw a large-eyed girl of breathtaking beauty.

The great foe-chastising, superlative monarch, alone there, saw her alone
there, and looked straight at her.

For a moment he thought she was the goddess Lakshmi.

Her beauty radiated from her like sunrays from the sun.

Her body shone

like a straight flame, her spotless beauty was like the moon’s.

She stood, a black-eyed beauty on the hilltop, statuesque;

like a golden girl.

The hill, its creepers, its bushes, all flamed with the golden beauty of the
golden girl.

Looking at her, he felt he had never seen

such a beautiful woman before.
My eyes are blessed, he thought.
Nothing, nothing, he thought, no beauty I have ever seen
since my birth has been
as beautiful as this girl.

She had trapped his mind and his eyes. He stood transfixed, as if tied
with ropes, as if senseless.

He thought: The Creator

must have squeezed all beauty
from gods, anti-gods and mortals
to produce this paragon.

These thoughts raced in his mind.

He said to himself: It is impossible there is another
like her in the three worlds.

The nobly born king stood there looking at her noble beauty, and the
arrows of the god of love pierced his heart.

Suffering the fire of Kama, the king turned to the full-blossomed,

innocent girl, and said:

“Lady with smooth and tapering thighs like a plantain tree!

Who are you? whose daughter?
Why are you here alone, sweet-smiling one, wandering in these
desolate woods?

Faultless-featured lady!
Lovely-ornamented one: Lovelier than the ornaments you wear is the
ornament you are.

Are you a Devi or an Asuri?

a Yakshi, a Rakshasi, a Nagini, Gandharvi?
are you human?

Lovely one, Varangana!

I have not seen beauty, I have not heard of beauty to equal yours.
 I have not seen beauty, I have not heard of beauty to equal yours.

Lovely-featured one, lotus-leaf-eyed lady, radiant moon-faced one, I am

in love with you.”

The king spoke to her in the forest’

(continued the Gandharva), ‘his heart aflame with desire, but she did
not say a word.

He kept on repeating his love for her— when suddenly the large-eyed
girl vanished like a flash of lightning.

Like a man crazed

he wandered in the woods, desperately searching for the lotus-eyed
girl, But could not find her.
Maddened with grief, he moaned aloud his deep love for the lady.

• • •

When the girl vanished’

(continued the Gandharva), ‘the foe-chastising, love-smitten king fell
on the ground.

And even as he fell, the sweet-smiling, full-hipped girl reappeared, and

stood in front of him.

Continuing to smile, she, lady of radiant beauty, said to the Kuru

monarch these gracious words, These words of incomparable sweetness:
“Rise, rise, my lord. Great foe-conqueror, O best of kings,

Most famous of heroes, honoured the world over, why are you so
afflicted?”
He heard these sweet words, Opened his eyes, and saw standing in
front of him the full-hipped, black-eyed girl; and he said to her, His
voice tremulous with feeling, his heart filled with passion: “Beautiful
one, your black eyes have ravished Me; I burn with love for you. O be
mine!
Make me yours; my life is draining away . . . Lotus-eyed Lady, large-
Make me yours; my life is draining away . . . Lotus-eyed Lady, large-
eyed lovely one, I die for love of you.
Day and night I pine for you.
The god of love has pierced me with his arrows. The snake of Kama
has bitten me.

Tapering-thighed lady, spotlessly lovely one, you who speak with the
sweetness of a Kinnara, help me! have pity on me!

What will I do without you, O lovely-smiling, shy one, lotus-faced one,

moon-faced one—O, I shall die!

Kamalapatrakshi, lotus-eyed one, Visalakshi, large-eyed one, I am

hounded by the god of love—help me!

O black-eyed beauty, do not refuse me!

Free me from this pain— give me your love.

The moment I saw you, O fortune-favoured one, I loved you. My mind

reels.
I can never love another.

Consider me your slave, your devoted adorer. Love me!

O Visalakshi, large-eyed one, the moment I saw you, That instant the god
of love smote me, his arrows pierced me.
Lotus-eyed, large-eyed lady, that fire still rages in me.

Extinguish that fire with the cool water of your love!

Be one with me, and tame the furious kama inside me— For the god of
love has routed my heart— he shoots incessantly at me with his sharp
arrows.

Rambhoru, sensuous-hipped one, marry me as Gandharvas do, for of all

marriage customs the Gandharva is called the best.”

Tapati said, “I am not free to choose. I am a virgin in the care of my

father.
If you love me, ask him.
 If you love me, ask him.

Even as your heart, my lord, fell in love with me at first sight, mine too
loved you at first sight.

Noble king, I am not mistress of myself, so I cannot be one with you.

Women are never free.

What girl is there in the three worlds who would not want you for
husband—so nobly born, so considerate?

At the right time, my lord, ask my father Surya for my hand—approach

him respectfully, ascetically, formally.

If my father, your majesty, bestows me on you, I will be your devoted

wife for ever.

Noble Kshatriya, I am Tapati, Savitri’s younger sister.

I am Surya’s daughter.
He illuminates the universe.”

• • •

With these words, she ascended and disappeared’

(continued the Gandharva).
‘The king fell in a swoon.

His ministers and attendants, long searching for him, found him in that
senseless state, lying on the ground.

When the chief minister saw the illustrious monarch, greatest of

bowmen, sprawling like a dropped rainbow, Alone and forsaken, he
seemed to shrivel into ashes. Hurriedly, respectfully, he picked up The
king, as a father raises a fallen son.
The king was still unconscious, passion still overpowered him.

Old in years and ripe in wisdom, accomplished and tactful, the minister
lifted the king, and soothingly Said these gentle words to him, in a sweet
lifted the king, and soothingly Said these gentle words to him, in a sweet
voice; “My noble lord, be calm.
Defectless one, may you live long!”

The minister had the impression that the king had collapsed from
exhaustion, from hunger and thirst.

So he sprinkled the crown-less head of his monarch with cool water

scented with lotus-perfume.

The king recovered his senses.

Immediately, he dismissed all his retinue— all except that minister.

When the crowd of attendants had left, as ordered by the king, he sat
down again on the hillslope.

Purifying his thoughts, he made the required obeisances before Surya,

with his face turned upward.

Foe-conquering King Samvarana at that time mentally also visioned his

priest, the splendid rishi Vasishtha.

Many days and nights he passed in that position.

On the twelfth night the rishi Vasishtha came to him.

Self-disciplined Vasishtha knew by his divine insight that the king’s

heart had been stolen by Tapati.

As soon as he knew this, he made up his mind to help the king, and
actually assured him of such help.

In the presence of the king the shining rishi rose skyward, himself
dazzling like the sun, to see dazzling Surya.

Vasishtha did anjali to Surya god of the thousand rays, and introduced
himself saying, “I am Vasishtha.

I bow to Surya
I bow to Surya
the Unborn
the Puriffer of the Three Worlds the Indwelling Lord the Dispenser of
Light the Giver and Taker of Life the Merciful God
the Wisdom of the Wise the Light of the Universe the Benefactor of
Life the Self-Born
the Thousand-Eyed One the Ceaseless Radiance the Single Eye of the
World the Source of Life the Guardian and Sustainer the Embodiment
of the Vedas the Triple Deity
Brahma-Vishnu-Shiva.”

Refulgent Surya
said to the noble rishi, “You are welcome.
What do you wish?

Most fortunate of men, finest of eloquent speakers!

Whatever you wish is yours, no matter how hard to get.”

Rishi Vasishtha, excellent ascetic, listened to Surya, bowed his head,

and said:

“I come here, O Surya, to ask for Samvarana the hand of your daughter
Tapati, Savitri’s younger sister.

Samvarana is a king of extraordinary accomplishments, learned in

dharma, noble-minded, the best husband for your daughter.”

Pleased with these words, Surya resolved to bestow Tapati on

Samvarana.
He said to Vasishtha: “Samvarana is the best of kings.
You are the best of rishis.
Tapati is the best of daughters.
What better can I do?”

And Tapana gave his daughter to Vasishtha, that the rishi might in turn
bestow the lovely girl on Samvarana.

Vasishtha, finest of rishis, accepted Tapati,

Vasishtha, finest of rishis, accepted Tapati,
bade farewell to Surya, and returned

To where the king was waiting for him. So deep

was the king’s passion, so overcome his heart, That when he saw Tapati,
celestially beautiful sweet-smiling lady, coming towards him, he could
not contain his joy.

The lady of ravishing eyes descended from the sky like lightning
irradiating the ten points of the heavens.

This is the story of how the mahatma rishi Vasishtha came to the king
after the vow of the twelfth night.

This is the story of how Samvarana, through penance, and with the help
of Vasishtha, succeeded in marrying Tapati.

This is the story of how the great king accepted Tapati on the hillslope
frequented by gods and Gandharvas.

And Samvarana sought Vasishtha’s permission to enjoy his wife on the

enchanting hill.

He delegated his minister to rule, in his absence, his kingdom, his capital,
his woods and forests.

Vasishtha bade the king farewell, and left. And Samvarana enjoyed
himself on that hill like a god.

For twelve years he and his wife delighted in each other’s company in
the hill’s woods.

Noble Bharata! Indra, thousand-eyed god, withheld rain from his

kingdom during those twelve years.

Terrible famine followed.

People, plants,
crops, animals, everything withered and perished.
crops, animals, everything withered and perished.

For twelve years,

not a single drop of dew fell in Samvarana’s kingdom.
No crops could grow.

Starving people in thousands abandoned their wives and their children,

disregarding all dharma.

Crazed with hunger the people left their homes, and driven by despair
scattered in all directions.

They moved about like skeletons; and the city became a land of the dead
and the dying.

Noble Vasishtha saw this, and was stirred to pity.

He decided to do something to save the people.

The first thing he did was to bring back

Samvarana and Tapati to the capital.

And as soon as the king set foot in his capital, thousand-eyed Indra sent
rain pouring down.

And crops again flourished.

Revived by Samvarana, the people and the kingdom smiled as before.

And Samvarana and his wife Tapati offered yajnas for twelve years, as
Indra did with his wife Sachi.

This, Arjuna, is the story of nobly fortunate Tapati, daughter of Tapana.

You are called Tapatya because Of her, for King Samvarana had a son by
her
whose name was Kuru. You, as Kuru-descendant, are Tapatya.

Because you are descended from Kuru, you are a Kaurava, as those
descended from Puru are Pauravas.’
 38. Draupadi’s Svayamvara

This extract from the Mahabharata describes a second war-skills contest. The occasion this time is
the Svayamvara of King Drupada’s daughter Draupadi: the means by which a high-born maiden
could select her husband from competing suitors. The Pandavas—roving exiles from Hastinapura
ever since their escape from the burning ‘house of lac’—decide to turn up at the Svayamvara to
compete with their rivals, the Kauravas. Arjuna’s success in the contest leads, at the command of
their imperious mother Kunti, to their joint marriage to Draupadi. Thereafter she lives with them
polyandrously: one wife shared between five brothers.
Only Kshatriyas are allowed to take part in a Svayamvara contest. The Pandavas are Kshatriyas,
but they come disguised as Brahmins, so it is rather puzzling that Arjuna is allowed to compete—
especially as Draupadi has just banned their half-brother Karna from taking part. She has dismissed
him as a Suta—a charioteer—because he has been brought up by the charioteer Adhiratha and his
wife, Radha. (Karna is actually Kunti’s son by the sun-god Surya: see Volume Two.) If she disallows
a Suta, why does she allow a Brahmin to be her suitor? There is no explanation for this, other than
that the plot of the epic demands that Draupadi becomes the Pandavas’ wife.
Krishna—whose personality in the Mahabharata is wise, peacemaking, enigmatic and more human
than divine—is an observer of the contest, and the brawl that follows it. He recognizes Arjuna, and
has no fears for him for, with his knowledge of past, present and future, he knows how invincible
Arjuna is.

The five Pandava brothers (continued Vaisampayana) went to the land of

the Panchalas, to Draupadi’s Svayamvara.

On their way, the great heroes and their mother saw

a group of Brahmins travelling in the same direction.

Those Brahmins, who were Brahmacharis, asked them, ‘Where are you
going?
From where have you come?’

Yudhishthira replied, ‘Finest of the dvijas, we are five brothers, with our
mother, coming from Ekachakra.’

‘We suggest you hurry to the kingdom of Drupada, Panchala.

A great Svayamvara will be held there, much money spent.
A great Svayamvara will be held there, much money spent.

We are going there, so let us all go together.

Marvellous feats will take place in the great festival there.

Draupadi, Yajnasena’s daughter, lotus-leaf-eyed lady, was born, we have

heard, from the yajna-altar; And is spotlessly beautiful, young, and clear-
minded; she is sister of Dhrishtadyumna, who will kill Drona;

And Dhrishtadyumna, we’re told, rose from the yajna-fire, like a second
splendid fire, with skin-armour, sword, bow and arrows.

His sister, slim-waisted, perfect-featured Draupadi’s body breathes lotus-

fragrance for one full krosa around her.

Yajnasena’s daughter will choose a husband in that Svayamvara, and we

are going to see her and enjoy the marvellous festivities.

Many kings and many princes, great yajna-performers, great dakshina-

givers, pure-minded, vow-strict, study-devoted mahatmas, Young,
handsome, unrivalled chariot-heroes and skilled wielders of war-weapons
will come there from innumerable kingdoms.

And because each hopes to succeed, they will lavish gifts of wealth,
cattle, food, and many other luxuries, Which we will be happy to receive.
Happy with the Svayamvara, happy with the revels, we will then leave.

Actors, praise-reciters, dancers, chanters of the Puranas, messengers,

acrobats and athletes will come from many lands.

Come with us, noble sirs.

Enjoy the spectacle, take What is given, and then you can return with
us.

You are handsome, you are god-like. Who knows,

seeing you, Draupadi may prefer one of you for herself!

This brother of yours looks specially handsome and heart-pleasing; he is

This brother of yours looks specially handsome and heart-pleasing; he is
mighty-muscled, and in feats of strength will do well.’

Yudhishthira replied, ‘So be it, Brahmins!

We will accompany you to this girl’s Svayamvara-festival.’

• • •

In this way, Janamejaya (continued Vaisampayana), the Pandavas

undertook the journey to Panchala, Drupada’s capital.

On their way they met the shining, pure-souled, absolutely free-from-

imperfection rishi Vyasa.

He greeted them, and they honoured him—they exchanged a few words

—and he told them to proceed to Panchala.

The great chariot-heroes moved at a leisurely pace, stopping frequently

to admire entrancing forests and lakes.

And in course of time, the sweet-speaking, studious, pure-acting sons of

Pandu arrived in the Panchala kingdom.

They inspected the capital, and the residential quarters, and decided to
stay in a potter’s house.

They posed as Brahmins, begging for alms-food each day.

No one was able to pierce through their disguise.

Drupada’s fondest desire was to marry his daughter Draupadi to Arjuna,

but he divulged this to nobody.

With Arjuna in mind, he ordered an adamantine bow to be fashioned,

which none could bend but Arjuna.

He also ordered a contraption to be suspended high up, and in the middle

of this gadget was the target to be shot.
Drupada’s conditions were: The man who bends this bow
and hits the target with these
decorated arrows, will win Draupadi.

With these words the Svayamvara was declared open.

O great Bharata, all the royalty of the world was present there.

Also present were excellent rishis, come to watch the spectacle.

Duryodhana and other Kauravas, along with Karna, also came.

Also, Brahmins from many lands.

Drupada greeted each guest with exceeding courtesy, in the customary
manner.

And the crowds of citizens, talking among themselves like a noisy ocean,
took their seats on the Svayamvara daises.

Kings and princes were admitted by the north-east gate.

The site of the Svayamvara was an elevation in the north-east Section of
the capital. The enclosure itself was canopied, walled, and moated, and
had exquisite gates and arches.

Thousands of wind instruments blew; aloe scent filled the air; garlands
adorned the walls; sandal-paste water Was sprinkled all around.
On all sides high, white mansions rose like the sky-kissing peaks of
Kailasa.

Gold filigree work on the windows; diamond and gem-studded walls;

lush carpets and wall-hangings; smooth-climbing stairs— All fragrant
with aloe scent; all decorated with garlands; white like swans’ necks;
sweet-smelling for one yojana.

Each mansion had a hundred doors, each wide enough to admit a crowd;
lavish metal-cast beds in it—it looked like a Himalayan hill. In these
mansions were accommodated the kings, (who came resplendent with
ornaments), each hopeful of winning Draupadi.
When those puissant monarchs, pure-minded, munificent, smeared with
fragrant aloe-paste, devoted to Brahmins,

Honoured in the three worlds for their deeds of goodness, protectors of

their kingdoms, took their seats,

The citizens of Panchala and others, who had all come to see Krishna and
were already seated, stared at them.

The Pandavas sat in the pavilion along with their Brahmin companions,
and marvelled at Panchala splendour.

That crowd of visitors had swelled over many days, and now sparkled
with actors and dancers.
Lavish gifts were made.

On the sixteenth day, Draupadi, bathed and dressed in the finest robes,
wearing the most remarkable ornaments, Entered the Svayamvara
enclosure, carrying in one hand
a golden plate containing a flower garland and arghya-offerings.

The priest of the lunar dynasty, a mantra-learned Brahmin, lit the sacred
fire and poured in it ghee-libations.

He gratified Agni and invoked the blessings of assembled Brahmins;

Then he ordered all musical instruments to stop playing.

When perfect silence prevailed in the enclosure, Dhrishtadyumna, whose

voice was like that of a kettledrum or a cloud, Took hold of his sister’s
arm, and, standing in the middle of the amphitheatre, announced in
sweet-sounding, cloud-echoing words: ‘Hear me, O kings!
Here is the bow!
Here is the target!
The test: with these arrows Hit the target through The hole in the
machine.

And I give my word—

And I give my word—
The noble-born,
Handsome and valiant
King who succeeds
Today takes to wife
My sister Draupadi.’

After this (continued Vaisampayana), he turned to his sister, and

enumerated the names of the royal competitors.

• • •

They wore earrings, the young princes, and boasted loudly, brandishing
their weapons, each thinking himself the best, each confident of victory.

They were like the elephants of Himavat in the rutting season: drunk with
the glory of lineage, wealth, youth, skill and handsomeness.

They looked with envious eyes at each other; swayed by Kama, they
stood up often, shouting, ‘Draupadi is mine!’

Like the gods around Uma, daughter of the mountain-lord, were these
Kshatriyas, eager to win Drupada’s daughter.

Smitten by the arrows of the god of love, they entered the arena; friend
bore friend secret jealousy.

The gods came in chariots, with the Rudras, Vasus, Sadhyas, the twin
Asvins and the Maruts, led by Kubera and Yama; The Daityas, Suparnas,
Nagas, Devarishis, Guhyakas, Charanas, Visvavasu, Narada, Parvata, the
Gandharvas and Apsaras.

Halayudha, Krishna,
the chiefs of the Vrishnis, Andhaka and Yadava tribes— followers of
Krishna—came too.

Krishna saw the five Pandavas like five splendid rutting elephants, the
finest of the herd, beside a lotus-filled lake, or like flames suppressed in
finest of the herd, beside a lotus-filled lake, or like flames suppressed in
ashes, and he began to think deeply.

He said to Balarama:
‘That is Yudhishthira; that is Bhima, that Arjuna; and there the twin
heroes.’
Balarama looked around slowly, and smiled happily at Krishna.

Fiercely biting their lower lips, the mighty sons and grandsons of kings,
thinking only of Draupadi, kept looking at Drupada with wide eyes, and
did not notice the Pandavas.

When they saw Draupadi, the brave sons of Kunti and the twins were
pierced with the arrows of the god of love.

The place was crowded with celestial rishis, Gandharvas, Suparnas,

Nagas, Siddhas, anti-gods; heavenly flower-scents filled the air;
Booming tabors and kettledrums; murmur of many voices; soft melody
of flute and veena— these sounds filled the air.

Then the suitors one after another recounted their exploits— Karna,
Duryodhana, Salva, Salya, Asvatthaman, Kratha, Sunitha, Makra, The
kings of Kalinga, Banga and Pandya, the rulers of Paundra, Videha and
Yavana; and many others, lotus-eyed Sons and grandsons of monarchs—
wearing
crowns, garlands, armlets, brave, virile and unconquered.

Just the thought of bending that bow appalled some.

Some tried—biting lip and straining muscle—to string it, And fell back,
panting, dishevelled, their confidence sapped; in despair, they retired,
uttering cries of woe.

Their garlands, crowns and armlets were all awry, their finery disordered,
their hopes of obtaining Draupadi as wife shattered.

Karna saw them gasping, defeated; he rose, went to the bow, and swiftly
picked it up, and strung it.
Seeing the son of the Sun, Karna of the Sutas— fire-, sun-and moon-
radiant— ready to shoot at the target, the five Pandavas feared the target
as good as pierced.

Draupadi saw him too and said in a loud voice: ‘No Suta will marry me.’
Karna smiled bitterly.
He glanced up at the sun, and flung aside the bow.

When all the great Kshatriyas retired defeated one by one, the stalwart,
Yama-powerful king of the Chedis,

Mighty-minded son of
Damaghosha, Sisupala, rose, and tried lifting the bow, but collapsed on
his knees.

Brave and resplendent king Jarasamdha was next:

he stood before the bow, immobile like a mountain.

As soon as he tried to lift it, his knees gave way, and he fell. He rose,
and went back to his kingdom.

Next was Salya, mighty king of Madra, who fared no better. His knees
weakened, and he fell.

Duryodhana, great foe-subduer, rose from the midst of his brothers. He

carried extraordinary weapons.

His confidence in his powers gave him even more strength.

He looked at Draupadi, and pleasure stirred in him.

He approached the bow.

His hands gripped it firmly.
At that moment he shone like Indra himself.

He jerked the bow up.

His fingers seemed to break violently free. He fell down.
Ashamed, he retired to his seat.
 Ashamed, he retired to his seat.

The set of humiliated chiefs became subjects of general discussion. At

that moment, Arjuna rose as the next suitor.

• • •

None of the kings was willing to contend (continued Vaisampayana).

Then Arjuna rose from among the Brahmins.

Straight like Indra’s flag-staff he rose, and strode towards the bow. The
Brahmins noisily flapped their deerskins.

Some were pleased, others did not hide their displeasure.

The intelligent and prescient among them whispered: How can this boy
of
a Brahmin, untrained
in arms, lift the bow
when world-renowned Kshatriyas

Like Salya and others,

possessing superhuman strength,
and skilled in the use of
weapons, have failed?

This foolish boy will bring

ridicule and shame on
us Brahmins—what will
the kings think of us?

He’s headstrong, proud,

and impulsive. What other reason
can he have for doing what
he is doing?—Stop him!
Others whispered back: No, no, we won’t be shamed.
No one will laugh at us,
not one of these kings.
Still others whispered: He’s handsome, and strong like
an elephant’s trunk—look at
his shoulders, arms, thighs!—
so muscular!—he’s straight
like a Himalayan hill!

His gait is like a lion’s,

his energy like a rutting
elephant’s—he looks determined—
he is the kind who succeeds.

He must be sure of his

strength and ability, or
why should he even try?
Is there anything in the world

Brahmins can’t accomplish?

They give up food and drink,
live on air and wild fruits,
practise rigorous penance,

Are reduced to skin-and-bones,

and yet are strong.
Never underestimate a Brahmin—
whether right or wrong—

Whether his action be small

or great, whether bliss-
giving or woe-creating. There
is none here who knows

Bowcraft, physical skill,

and arms-prowess so well
as Brahmins do—no, none
in the whole world.
The best Brahmins, by
strength of mind and mantra,
have subdued kingdoms. Jamadagni
humbled all the Kshatriyas;

Agastya, with his Brahma-

powers, drank up the ocean.
Let us rather bless him
and hope he will bend it.

The other Brahmins agreed, saying, You are right.

But they continued to
whisper among themselves.

Arjuna approached the bow.

He stood in front of it, like a mountain. He circled it, ceremonially, as
customary, Bowed his head in homage to Siva, supreme lord; he
thought of Krishna, and lifted up the bow.

The bow which Rukma, Sunitha, Vakra, Duryodhana, Salya and others
failed to lift, was picked up in a flash By Arjuna, son of Indra, and most
powerful of mortals, like Indra’s own younger brother.
He strung five arrows, Shot them at the target which, pierced, slipped
down the hole in the contraption above which it had been suspended.

A deafening cacophony of applause burst forth in the sky, and shouts

resounded in the pavilion.

The gods showered celestial flowers on the head

of the great foe-slayer Arjuna.
Brahmins waved their upper garments.

The assembled kings burst into groans of hai-hai!

Flowers fell from the sky in clusters on the arena.

The musicians began playing hundreds of drums and trumpets in chorus.

Bards and charioteers sweetly chanted songs of praise.
Bards and charioteers sweetly chanted songs of praise.

King Drupada was so pleased with the feat of Arjuna that he decided to
give him his army’s support if needed.

At the height of the confusion, Yudhishthira, accompanied by the twin

paragons Nakula and Sahadeva, slipped out of the enclosure.

Draupadi saw the target pierced, saw that Arjuna had pierced it, saw him
like a second Indra, and was suffused with joy; smiling, she came
towards Arjuna with a garland of white flowers.

And those who had seen her repeatedly, saw her again as if never seen
before: without smiling, she seemed to smile; she radiated feeling; her
way of walking was a way of speaking.

She approached Arjuna, not once looking at the suitors, placed the
garland round his neck, and stood near him, modestly.

As Sachi before Indra, Svaha before Agni,

Lakshmi before Vishnu, Usha before Surya,
Rati before Kama,
Sita before Rama,
and Damayanti before Nala, was Draupadi before Arjuna.

Incomparably brilliant Arjuna, praised by the Brahmins, left the pavilion

soon after, taking his bride with him.

• • •

When King Drupada announced the marriage of his daughter to that

Brahmin (continued Vaisampayana), the kings protested.

‘He ignores us and the chiefs as if we were straw!

And he gives his lovely daughter to a Brahmin!

First he plants a tree— then, when it’s about to bear fruit, he cuts it
down!
down!
Insolent wretch—let’s kill him!

Why should we respect him or his age? His conduct is unbearable!—he

insults kings and princes—kill him!

First he invites kings, then he feasts them

royally, and then,
he insults them!

Can’t he find even one among this galaxy of god-like royal suitors who
equals his own greatness?

According to custom,
a Svayamvara is only
for Kshatriyas—Brahmins cannot be suitors.

If this girl does not think any of us fit for her, let’s throw her in the fire,
and return to our kingdom!

There’s no point harming the Brahmin—he is proud and selfish—let it

pass— we won’t kill him.

After all, our kingdoms, our wealth, lives, sons, grandsons, whatever we
have, are all dependent on Brahmins.

But the disgrace of it!

The disregard for all forms of accepted tradition!
We must do something!
For if we do not,
other Svayamvaras will suffer.’

Saying this, they rushed at Drupada, with the intention of killing him
with their sharp and fierce weapons.

Seeing them charging in a body towards him, Drupada, out of fear,

sought the protection of the assembled Brahmins.
Bhima and Arjuna, finest of bowmen, famed foe—
smiters, strode out to oppose the elephant-like attackers.

Lifting their weapons, the kings ran towards the two Kuru princes; their
fingers were encased in leather protectors.

Mighty, heroic-feated Bhima, with thunder-like energy, uprooted a tree

with his bare hands, and stripped its branches.

Holding the trunk, mighty Bhima, Kunti’s son, foe-chastiser, stood like
Yama with his rod, near Arjuna.

Even Arjuna was awestruck by his brother’s action.

He stood firm, like Indra, fearless, ready with bow and arrows.

Watching the strength and bravery of both brothers, divinely intelligent,

glorious-feated Krishna said to mighty Balarama: ‘That lion-gaited hero
with a palm-tree-sized bow is surely Arjuna,
the great bow-wielder.
My name is not Krishna if I am wrong in this.

And that tree-uprooting hero, ready in a flash to repulse the kings,

must be wolf-waisted Bhima.
Who else could have done what he did today?

And the third, elder brother, with eyes like lotus-leaves and the walk of a
lion, tall, fair-skinned, gentle-looking, long-nosed, who left a little while
ago, is Yudhishthira.

The two other young men, each as handsome as

Karttikeya, I am certain are the twin Asvins.
I have heard that Pandu’s sons escaped from the lacquer-fire.’

Hearing the kings express their anger at Arjuna’s prowess, Purushottama

Krishna turned to Balarama and said: ‘There is nothing to worry about.
Even if many gods and anti-gods joined hands, Arjuna could match
them single-handed.
 them single-handed.

Easy enough to vanquish these mortal kings! If Arjuna needs help, we

will help.
I think he is invincible.’

Krishna’s elder brother, dark-rain-cloud-skinned Balarama, replied

joyfully, ‘It is good to know that our father’s sister Kunti and her five
Pandavas all escaped from the lac-house.’

• • •

The excellent Brahmins (continued Vaisampayana) waved their

deerskins and hollow coconut bowls and shouted, ‘We’ll fight too!’

Arjuna smiled and said to them, ‘No, stand aside.

You will be present here only as spectators.

Leave it to me to stop these kings with sharp arrows as snakes are

neutralized by the power of mantras.’

Arjuna lifted up the

Svayamvara bow and,
with Bhima at his side, stood firm as a mountain.

When the Kshatriyas, led by Karna, attacked,

the two brothers counter-charged, like two elephants forcing their way
through a herd of hostile elephants.

The excited kings, eager for a fight, shouted, ‘Kill him! Killing a
Brahmin who wants to fight is permitted!’

Saying this, they rushed in a body, and mighty Karna chose Arjuna for
individual combat.

The king of Madra, Salya, drove against Bhima

like one elephant against another fighting over a female.

Duryodhana and others fought with the Brahmins— taking care,

Duryodhana and others fought with the Brahmins— taking care,
however, not to hurt them overmuch.

Arjuna, seeing Karna come upon him, strung his bow and quickly shot a
volley of arrows at Surya’s son.

Radha’s son Karna,

infuriated by the swift, piercing, dazzling arrows, attacked with more
precision.

Karna and Arjuna, both mighty warriors, battled on.

Their skilful arrow-showers screened them from sight.

‘Look, I block your shaft!’

‘Counter this one if you can!’— they hurled challenges at each other,
as heroes do.

Karna, enraged when he realized Arjuna’s arms-prowess as second to

none, fought with even more passion.

He evaded all the sharp, swift arrows shot by Arjuna, and shouted loudly.
The others cheered him noisily.

‘Brilliant Brahmin,’ Karna said, ‘you impress me with

your ceaseless skill in arms.
You deserve to win.

You seem to be bowcraft itself! Or are you

Parasurama, or Indra?
Or the imperishable Vishnu?

Have you come disguised as a Brahmin after

mastering the science of arms in order to defeat me?

None except Sachi’s husband Indra or Pandu’s son

Arjuna can equal me
when roused to battle.’
Vaisampayana continued: Arjuna replied,
‘I am not bowcraft itself.
I am not Parasurama.

I am just a Brahmin
who knows all about arms.
My guru taught me the
Brahma and Paurandara weapons.
I stand here to defeat you.
Wait! Don’t run away!’

But when Karna heard this, he refused to fight.

The chariot-hero knew the Brahma-weapon was invincible.

In another part of the arena, Salya and Bhima, both extraordinarily strong
and skilled in war-weapons, Hurled defiance at
each other, and battled like two ferocious elephants, using knees and
bare fists.

Pushing, dragging, throwing each other down, pressing face and thighs in
the dust, they boxed, hitting with Fists as hard as stones that sounded
chat-chat.
The enclosure reverberated with their thudding blows.

After a while, Bhima

lifted Salya with both hands, and flung him violently down on the
ground.

All laughed.
Bhima’s skill was such that, though Salya fell hard, he was not hurt.

With Salya humiliated, and Karna paralysed,

the other kings, awestruck, surrounded wolf-waisted Bhima, Saying,
‘These Brahmins are the finest of warriors.
Where do they come from?
In which family were they born?
Who can dare to fight Karna except Parasurama?
Who can dare to fight
Duryodhana except Krishna?

Who can humble Salya

in duel except Balarama?
There is no point fighting these Brahmins. Let us stop.

Brahmins, even if insulting, need to be cherished.

Let us find out who they are.
Then, if we must, let us fight.’

Krishna saw the feat, and knew they must be Kunti’s sons.
Gently he dissuaded the kings— ‘She has been fairly won . . .’

Dissuaded from fighting, all the kings, mighty heroes, bewildered by the
turn of events, returned to their kingdoms.

The assembly in the pavilion departed, thinking the day had been won by
Brahmins with the Panchala princess a Brahmin bride.

It was with great difficulty that Bhima and Arjuna pushed a passage
through the deerskin-dressed Brahmins.

When the two fight-scarred heroes emerged, followed by Draupadi, they

looked like the full moon or the sun

Breaking through cloud-masses.

Their mother Kunti at home was getting anxious about what
misfortune had befallen them, They were so late returning from their
alms-rounds;
for a moment she thought Dhritarashtra’s sons had recognized and killed
them.

Or did some vicious Rakshasas trick and devour them?

She thought: Has great Vyasa
 cunningly betrayed them?

Even as these feelings revolved in her heart, brimming with tenderness

for her children, clouds formed in the afternoon sky

Blotting the sun, and deep silence suddenly prevailed.

At that time, Arjuna
entered the potter’s house.

• • •

The two sons of Kunti, before entering, shouted, referring to Draupadi,

‘Mother, we bring alms!’

Kunti was inside; she did not see them; she replied, ‘Share and enjoy
your alms.’
She turned, saw Draupadi, and worriedly exclaimed: ‘Oh, what have I
said?’

Afraid of adharma attaching to her, and anxious to save the situation, she
took Draupadi by the hand to Yudhishthira.

‘This is King Drupada’s daughter,’ said Kunti.

‘Your younger brother described her to me as an alms-gift, and, not
knowing, I said, “Share and enjoy your alms.”

Excellent Kuru, tell me how my advice should be kept, how adharma

may not touch her, nor she suffer in any way.’

Yudhishthira, foremost Kuru, questioned by his mother, thought for some

time; then, turning to Arjuna, he said:

‘Arjuna, it was you who won Draupadi; it is right that you should marry
her by the ritual of the sacred fire.’

Arjuna replied:
‘That would be adharma.
What you advise is not dharma.
What you advise is not dharma.
You are the eldest; you should be the first to marry.
Then mighty Bhima.

Then I, Nakula and

Sahadeva. Revered one, Bhima, I, the twins and this lady await your
instructions.

Do what your wisdom tells you is right in these circumstances, and

agrees with dharma, fame, and the welfare of King Drupada.
We are here to obey
whatever you advise as right.’

The sons of Pandu heard these gentle, affectionate words of Arjuna. Then
one by one they glanced at Draupadi.

The lovely princess looked at them.

They looked at each other.
They sat down.
Each had her in his heart.

When those shining heroes looked at Draupadi,

the god of love overpowered their hearts and senses.

Only the Supreme Creator could have created such beauty as was hers—
a paragon
of exquisite, enchanting perfection.

Kunti’s son Yudhishthira guessed by their behaviour what was in their

minds, and recalled Vyasa’s words.

Afraid that dissension might arise between the brothers, Yudhishthira

said: ‘Auspicious Draupadi will marry all of us.’

The Pandavas heard their elder brother Yudhishthira say this, and were
silent.
Joy filled their hearts.
Krishna, Vrishni chief, and Rohini’s son Balarama came to the potter’s
house to verify their suspicions.

Krishna and Balarama

saw Yudhishthira, long-armed hero, sitting inside, surrounded by his
radiant brothers.

Krishna approached Yudhishthira, finest of the Ajamidhas, touched both

his feet
and said, ‘I am Krishna.’

Rohini’s son Balarama did the same. The Pandavas were delighted to
have Krishna and Balarama with them.

Then, O great Bharata, the two chiefs of the Yadavas touched the feet of
Kunti, their father’s sister.

Yudhishthira inquired after Krishna’s health, saying, ‘How were you able
to pierce through our disguise?’

Krishna smiled and replied, ‘Can fire be kept hidden?

Who but the Pandavas
could have performed today’s feats?

It is your great good luck, O Pandavas, to have survived the burning lac-
house, your luck that Dhritarashtra’s wicked son Duryodhana has not
been able to execute his sinful plans.

My blessing on you!
May you flourish, as fire in a cave leaps up and grows!
And now, give us leave to return, or we may be spotted.’
Krishna and Balarama left.
 39. The Sarngaka Birds

In an attempt to defuse the quarrel between the Kauravas and Pandavas, the aged, blind King
Dhritarashtra divides his kingdom, appointing Duryodhana ruler of Hastinapura and Yudhishthira
ruler of Indraprastha. Arjuna takes Krishna’s sister Subhadra as a second wife (Draupadi, his first
wife, being shared with his four brothers), and lives with her for a year in Krishna’s city of Dvaraka.
When he brings her back to Indraprastha, she is accepted by Draupadi and by the Pandavas’ mother,
Kunti. She gives birth to a son, Abhimanyu, on the bank of the Yamuna, after making merry there
with Draupadi and other women. The god of fire, Agni, appears in the form of an old Brahmin. He
asks for food, and says that only fire is suitable food for him. He wants to consume the Khandava
forest, which is sacred to Indra, and asks Krishna and Arjuna to use their weapons to protect the fire
from the rain that Indra will surely send to extinguish it.
Krishna and Arjuna agree to do this, and also mercilessly slay the creatures who flee from the
forest as it burns for a full fortnight. The following extract tells the strange story of four birds known
as the Sarngakas, who are spared from the blaze, along with a Naga (serpent-tailed, human-faced
being) called Asvasena, and an Asura (anti-god) called Maya.
It’s curious, morally, that the sage Mandapala should get away with his callous desertion of the
Sarngaka bird Jarita and their four children; and it’s also curious that Indra should congratulate
Krishna and Arjuna for protecting Agni, even though the Khandava forest has been destroyed as a
result. He is apparently so impressed by their feat that he promises to give his ‘fire-and-wind-
weapons’ to Arjuna when ‘the time is ripe’. As with Draupadi’s acceptance of Arjuna at her
Svayamvara (see pp. 302–335), the demands of the Mahabharata’s main plot sometimes take
precedence over morality and logic.

‘Tell me, O Brahmin,’ asked Janamejaya, ‘what made Agni spare the
lives of the Sarngakas when the whole forest burnt down?

I know why Asvasena and the anti-god Maya were spared.

But you have not explained the case of the Sarngakas.

It must have been an extraordinary event, the sparing of the Sarngakas.

Tell us, O Brahmin, why Agni left them alone.’

Let me explain, O foe-smiter, why Agni preferred to spare the Sarngakas

of the Khandava forest (continued Vaisampayana).

Once upon a time, your majesty, there lived a holy man named
Once upon a time, your majesty, there lived a holy man named
Mandapala, a learned, rich-in-dharma-and-tapas rishi.

Following the paths of those rishis who subdued their passions, he

devoted himself to learning, dharma and strict tapas.

With tapas he crossed all sensual barriers, discarded his body and entered
the pitri-world.
He did not get his rewards there.

So he inquired of the dwellers of heaven, who were sitting around

Dharmaraja, god of justice, why his tapas was fruitless.

‘Why are these regions closed to me?’ asked Mandapala.

‘What have I forgotten to do, that I should be denied this fruit?

Tell me, O gods of heaven, why are these regions denied me?
I am prepared to do anything to obtain fruits of tapas.’

‘Listen, Brahmin,’ replied the gods.

‘Men are born debtors for religious rituals, Brahmacharya, and
progeny. No doubt of this.

These debts can be repaid by yajnas, tapas and offspring.

You are an ascetic, you have performed yajnas, but are without offspring.

The celestial realm is closed to you, because you are without offspring.
Have children— and enjoy many happy regions.

The smriti-scriptures say that a son is called putra because he saves his
father from the hell known as put.
Best of Brahmins, our advice is: have children.’

Mandapala, after listening to the gods, began thinking of the best way of
getting as many children as soon as possible.

After much thought, he concluded that birds were the most procreative of
creatures; so he assumed the form of a male Sarngaka, and had
creatures; so he assumed the form of a male Sarngaka, and had
intercourse with a female of the species, Named Jarita, who gave birth to
four sons, all learned in the Vedas. Leaving them with their mother in
their egg-state, The shining rishi, great Bharata, went away to another
part of the forest to Lapita (continued Vaisampayana).

Pensive Jarita loved her babies and tended them carefully, though they
had been deserted by their father in Khandava; They were still in their
egg-state, and she gave them all the maternal affection instinctive to the
Sarngakas.

It was some time after this that the rishi Mandapala, roaming in the forest
with Lapita, saw Agni lumbering towards Khandava.

He guessed Agni’s purpose, and, fearing for his children, flattered the
lustrous lord of the worlds (to save his offspring): ‘Agni!
Mouth of the worlds!
Drinker of ghee!
Purifier!
Invisible energy
In the bodies
Of all creatures!

You are One,

Say the learned,
And you are Three.
The wise
Offer you yajna,
And say you are Eight!

You built
This universe,
Say the sages.
O drinker of ghee!
If you left the worlds For a single day,
All would totter,
All would perish!
All would perish!

Brahmins
Bow to you,
And with wives and children Obtain the realms
Of the doers of good deeds.

O Agni!
The wise say
You are a flash of lightning!
Your forked flames
Consume all on earth!

Radiant god!
The universe
Is your creation!
The Vedas
Are your words!
Moving and unmoving life Depends on you!

Water
Depends on you!
The universe
Depends on you!
Ghee offerings
In the yajna,
Food libations
To the pitris
Depend on you!

You are Creator,

You are Consumer,
You are Brihaspati, You are Surya,
You are Soma,
You are Vayu!’

Pleased with the praises sung in his honour by the great rishi Mandapala,
Pleased with the praises sung in his honour by the great rishi Mandapala,
the radiant god Agni Said to him joyfully: ‘What would you like from
me?’
Mandapala with folded palms said, ‘Spare my sons when Khandava
burns.’

The drinker of sacred libations said, ‘You have my word.’

Almost on that instant he blazed forth to destroy Khandava.

• • •

As the flames increased, the distress of the Sarngakas also grew.

However much they tried, they found no means of escape.

Their ascetic mother Jarita, afflicted with grief, knowing her sons were
young and helpless, lamented loudly.

‘Oh the fierce fire!

Creator of my sorrows!
Running towards us, burning the forest even as it runs, and illuminating
the universe!

My poor little ones!

How my heart grieves for them!
Without feathers, without feet!
The only redeemers of our ancestors!

The fire-tongue comes forward, licking at the tall trees, and my helpless
unfledged ones— how will they escape?

I cannot escape either, specially with them to protect.

I cannot leave them here.
O my poor little ones!

Which of them shall I desert?

Which shall I save?
What is the right dharma for me?
 O my children, tell me!

I have thought and thought, and I can see no way out.

Come beneath my wings— let us all die together.

Your heartless father left you, saying, “Jaritari the eldest will redeem my
race. Sarisrikka, the second, will have children To increase the family
line.
My third, Stambamitra, will be an ascetic. Drona, the youngest, will be
the wisest in the Vedas.”

And now this great calamity!

Whom should I save?
I don’t know. I can’t think clearly.
What should be my dharma?
No matter how hard I think, I can’t find any way out.’

The little Sarngakas said to their sorrowing mother, ‘Mother, do not think
of us.
Fly away to safety.

If we die, you can still have more children; but if you die, there will be
no one left to redeem our race.

Mother, think of these alternatives, both terrible, and decide to do that

which is best for the welfare of our race.

Do nothing just because you love us. If you survive, our father who
wants the realms of the gods will be happy.’

‘There’s a hole under this tree,’

said Jarita. ‘Hide in it, quickly! Once you are inside, fire won’t harm
you.

The instant you are in, my little ones, I will stop its mouth with rubbish.
It’s the only way of escape!
When the flames subside, I will come and remove the ashes and rubbish.
Listen to me, my children!’

The Sarngakas said: ‘We are just lumps of flesh, without any feathers. If
we hide in the hole, won’t the rat eat us up? We are afraid; mother, we
daren’t go in.

It’s the fire for us— or the rat. We can’t see how our father’s wish will
succeed, or how you will be saved.

Enter the hole—and the rat kills us. Stay outside, and the fire consumes
us.
Two kinds of death for us!
Mother, we prefer to burn alive than be eaten by a rat.

To be nibbled to death by a rat is a shameful end.

But even the wise praise the body’s destruction in fire.’

• • •

Jarita said: ‘The rat of this hole was pounced on and carried away by a
falcon.
You needn’t be afraid.’

The Sarngakas replied: ‘How can we be sure?

There may be more rats here.
We are afraid of those.

The flames may be diverted by the winds to some other part of the forest.
But whoever lives in the hole will kill us.

If we remain as we are, death may or may not strike us.

Mother, better so than do something which makes death certain.
You should escape, for your escape could mean more children like us.’

‘My little ones,’ said Jarita, ‘I saw with my own eyes the falcon dive
down and fly off with the rat. I followed him and blessed him for doing
what he did, saying, Fly away, O king of falcons,
with the rat our enemy!
May you be golden-fleshed in heaven!
May you have no enemy!

When he had eaten the rat, I took his leave and returned to you, my
children.
O my little ones,

Take heart and enter this hole.

I give you my word— you have nothing to be afraid of.
I saw the falcon eat the rat.’

‘Mother,’ replied the Sarngakas, ‘how can we be sure that the falcon did
so? Until then, we are afraid to enter.’

‘But you have my word,’

replied their mother.
‘Is that not enough, my children?
Do as I advise.’

The Sarngakas said, ‘It is not, mother, that we think your story is false.
An agitated person does not always act responsibly.

After all, what have we done for you?

You don’t know who we are.
Why do you take such pains to save us?
Who are we to mean so much to you?

You are young and beautiful.

You should soon find your husband.
Go, mother, search for him.
Have more splendid sons by him.

And let us go to the highest realms by perishing in the fire.

If we are lucky and survive it, you can always claim us back.’
 So Jarita left her sons (continued Vaisampayana) in the forest, and flew
in haste to a place of safety, where no fire was.

Agni, fearfully flaming, rushed to the forest where the sons of Mandapala
awaited their destruction.

They saw the flaming being approach and began whispering among
themselves. Jaritari said, so that Agni could overhear: ‘In the midst of
crisis, the wise man is serene.
Calamity approaches, but he does not fear.

The confused man suffers; he is not composed when calamity strikes.

No peace of mind for him.’

‘You are patient and wise,’

said Sarisrikka. ‘Our lives are in danger. Out of many, only one shows
wisdom and courage.’

‘The elder brother protects,’

said Stambamitra. ‘The elder brother wards off calamity. If he fails,
what can younger brothers do?’

‘The cruel god of seven mouths and tongues is on us,’

said Drona, ‘is radiating fierce energy, is licking up all life!’

Then all the brothers (continued Vaisampayana) reverently chanted songs

of praise to Agni.
Listen to their chants.

Jaritari chanted:

‘Agni!
You are the father of water!
And water is your father!
You are the essence of wind!
You are the essence of earth!
 Your flames, O Agni, Are like the rays of the sun!
They are above us,
And below us,
They are behind us, On every side of us!’

Sarisrikka chanted:

‘Smoke-bannered god!
We cannot see our mother, We do not know our father, We do not have
feathers . . .
O Agni,
Protect us, we are helpless, We have none to save us save you!

In this hour of our suffering, O Agni,

Seven-flamed god,
Protect us,
Be to us like a father and mother!

Drinker of ghee, Agni, Giver of heat, Agni, You who give heat to the
rays of the sun, We are young,
We are rishis,
O Agni, save us,
We implore you to leave this place!’

Stambamitra chanted:

‘Agni,
You are all!
The worlds depend on you, You sustain all creatures, You give life to all
that changes!

Agni,
You are the drinker of ghee, You are ghee itself.
The wise say:
You are One,
And you are Many!
 Ghee-drinking Agni!
You created the three worlds, And when dissolution comes You will
swell and destroy them.
You are the seed of the universe, You are the essence of doom!’

Drona chanted:

‘Lord of the universe!

You are the secret of growing bodies, You the heat that digests The food
people eat.
All is steadfast in you!

God from whose mouth sprang the Vedas!

You are the sun sucking The sap and liquids of the earth.
You return them as rain, And all things grow.

All plants and green-leaved creepers Are born from you.

O Agni,
The lakes and ponds, The great ocean itself, Are born from you.

Fiery-rayed god!
Our flesh depends on Varuna, god of waters.
Your heat oppresses and withers us.
Oh be kind to us!
Protect us!
Do not kill us today!

Copper-eyed, red-necked Agni!

God who leaves a black trail!
Save us!
As the ocean veers its course To save chosen houses on the shore, Save
us!’

When Agni heard these chants of Drona, learned in the Vedas, the god
who breathed forth the Vedas was pleased, and recalled his promise.

He said: ‘Drona, you are a rishi, what you say is the truth of the Vedas.
He said: ‘Drona, you are a rishi, what you say is the truth of the Vedas.
Do not fear.
I will do as you wish.

A long time ago Mandapala asked me to spare his sons when I consumed
Khandava. What he said then, what you say now, Are words of profound
meaning.
Tell me what you would like.
Your holy chanting today has given me the greatest pleasure.’

Drona said:
‘O Agni, cats in the forest make a habit of eating us.
Destroy all of them.’

So Agni did exactly as the Sarngakas asked him.

He swelled in strength, and continued to devour the forest.

• • •

Meanwhile Mandapala, though he had made the special request to Agni,

began to worry over the safety of his sons.

Anxiety troubled him so much that he said to Lapita: ‘My sons were not
able to move when I left them— I wonder how they are.
When the flames fan out with strong winds blowing, will they be able
to save themselves?

And their ascetic-minded mother— will she be able to save them?

How terribly will she suffer when she finds herself helpless!

She will run out wildly, screaming and lamenting, because my sons can
neither scurry on the ground, nor fly in the air.

My poor son Jaritari!

My poor sons Sarisrikka and Stambamitra and Drona!
My poor deserted wife!’

Lapita heard him mourning (continued Vaisampayana) and, out of

Lapita heard him mourning (continued Vaisampayana) and, out of
jealousy, she said:

‘Don’t worry about them.

They are great rishis, aren’t they?
You yourself told me so.
Why should they fear fire?

With my own ears I heard you speak to Agni

about them. Didn’t the shining god give you his word?

Agni protects life.

He won’t break his promise.
You are so full of your family you never think of others!

All you think of is her!

Now I know—
the love you have for her is different from your love for me.

Oh I know—
you have divided loyalties.
Of course one will suffer— but who’s the one you love more?

Go to Jarita!
Your heart misses her, doesn’t it?
I’ll wander alone—my punishment for loving a fickle man.’

‘It is not as you think,’

Mandapala replied.
‘I came here to have sons.
My sons are now in danger.

The man is a rascal who abandons what’s in his hands for the sake of
what might come. Well, you are free to do as you like.

When I think of the flames, my heart seems to burn.

All kinds of fearful omens dance before my eyes.’
After Agni had spared the spot where the Sarngakas were, Jarita,
concerned for her children, rushed to the forest.

She found them safe and sound, untouched by the flames.

They saw their mother, and began crying.

She wept too.

She wept repeatedly.
She hugged her crying children, one by one.

Exactly at that moment, Mandapala arrived.

None of his sons showed joy on seeing him.

He spoke to them one by one.

He spoke to Jarita.
None replied.
Not one word, good or otherwise.

‘Who is the first-born?’

asked Mandapala.
‘Who next? Who is the third?
Who is the youngest?

My sadness speaks to you.

Why don’t you reply?
Oh, I know I deserted you— but I never found peace elsewhere.’

‘What right have you to ask’, said Jarita, ‘who is the eldest, the second,
the third, and who the youngest?

Go to sweet-smiling Lapita, who is young and lovely.

What you didn’t find in me, you must have found in her.’

Mandapala said:
‘Nothing ruins a woman’s happiness more in this world or the next
than a co-wife or a secret beloved.
How the flames of worry and hostility then rise!
Even sweet-mannered, auspicious Arundhati, most famous And
honoured of women, became jealous of noble, holy-minded Vasishtha,
who was devoted to his wife’s welfare.

And she insulted him—one of the seven great rishis! Because she did so,
she was turned into a smoke-filmed star, sometimes invisible, sometimes
hidden, as if she was an evil sign.

I had intercourse with you because I wanted sons.

Like Vasishtha, I did no wrong; like Arundhati you are jealous.

I have come to see my sons.

And you revile me.
Even as you make fun of me now, Lapita did when I left her.

Men should never put faith in women, not even in wives.

When a woman becomes a mother, she cares even less for her husband.’

As soon as he finished (continued Vaisampayana) his sons came forward

to honour him, and he spoke gently to them.

• • •

‘I asked Agni to protect you,’

said Mandapala,
‘and the shining god gave me word that he would.

Because I trusted Agni, because your mother is virtuous, and because

you are shining rishis yourselves, I did not come earlier.

My sons, do not let anger overcome you. You are rishis, learned in the
wisdom of the Vedas.
Agni is aware of this.’

Mandapala assured his sons, and, taking them and his wife with him, left
Khandava and went away to another land.
Waxing in fearful strength, the shining god Agni, with the help of
Krishna and Arjuna, consumed the whole of Khandava.

He drank up whole rivers of fat, blood and marrow; and was pleased, and
relaxed; then he appeared before Arjuna.

And Indra, surrounded by all the Maruts, descended from the sky and
spoke to Arjuna and Krishna: ‘You have accomplished something even a
god might find impossible.
Ask any boon unavailable to men, for I am greatly pleased with you.’

Arjuna asked for all of Indra’s weapons, and Indra appointed the time for
their giving.
He said:

‘Son of Pandu, when the great god of gods Siva

is pleased with you, I shall give you all my weapons.

Scion of the Kurus, I will know when the time is ripe. All my fire-and-
wind-weapons will then be yours to take.’

Krishna asked that his friendship with Arjuna be eternal.

Indra, chief of the gods, granted intelligent Krishna’s request.

Having bestowed these boons, and after speaking to Agni, the lord of the
Maruts, accompanied by the gods, returned to heaven.

Agni consumed the Khandava forest, with all its birds and animals and
other creatures, for fifteen days, was gratified, and extinguished himself.

He devoured flesh copiously, and drank fat and blood.

Satisfied with himself, he said:

‘You have pleased me immensely with your heroism.

Now I give you permission— you may go where you like.’

They heard mahatma Agni.

Krishna and Arjuna, accompanied by the anti-god Maya, roamed for a
Krishna and Arjuna, accompanied by the anti-god Maya, roamed for a
while, Before coming to the banks of an entrancing river (continued
Vaisampayana).
There they all sat down.
40. Krishna, Naraka and the Founding of Dvaraka

Because Krishna is a major character in the epic, Vyasa—or those who handed down the epic orally,
with many changes and additions—felt the need to include a full account of his life. The pretext for it
is a conflict between Sisupala—son of the sister of Krishna’s father Vasudeva—and Krishna himself.
Sisupala wanted to marry Rukmini, but Rukmini was fearful of him (he was, in fact, an incarnation
of the Rakshasa king Ravana though she didn’t know that) and secretly wrote to Krishna asking for
aid. He turned up on the morning of her wedding, eloped with her and married her. They were
destined to be married, for Rukmini (like Krishna’s lover Radha) was an incarnation of Lakshmi
(wife of Vishnu), and Krishna was an incarnation of Vishnu.
The panegyric of Krishna from which this extract is taken is spoken by Bhishma (the son of
Santanu who gave up his claim to the throne of Hastinapura) in order to dazzle Sisupala into
submission—a ploy that is neither necessary nor effective! It does nothing to dissuade Sisupala,
Rukma (Rukmini’s brother), Jarasamdha (another enemy of Krishna’s) and an army of Rakshasas
from attacking Krishna and Balarama, who defeat and kill them all.
The story told in the following extract follows Krishna’s slaying of Kamsa and takes us up to the
foundation of Dvaraka, Krishna’s capital city.
Aditi, whose earrings are stolen by Naraka and recovered by Krishna, is the goddess of the
firmament, and is variously described as ‘the mother of the gods’, the mother of Vishnu, or the
mother of Indra. Indra gave her the earrings: they came to the surface of the primeval ocean when the
gods churned it.
Krishna had eight wives altogether. They are each given a separate palace in Dvaraka.

Like the wind tearing clouds into tatters, Krishna, seated in Indra’s
chariot, attacked and routed Kamsa’s army.

He slew Kamsa and his ministers in the royal court, and immediately
went and paid his respects to Devaki.

He honoured, repeatedly, Yasoda and Rohini,

and installed Ugrasena king.
All the Yadus praised Krishna.

After this, Purushottama Krishna attacked all-defying

Jarasamdha and defeated him near the lake-studded Yamuna.
Pleaser-of-the-Yadavas Krishna then left
Mathura of Surasena and went to Dvaraka.

All the gold and gems that lotus-eyed Krishna

had won from the anti-gods, he lavished on Dvaraka.

The Daityas and Danavas opposed his plans.

Incensed, Krishna slaughtered hundreds of them.

It was at this time that the anti-god Naraka,

of whom you know, whom all the gods feared, obstructed Krishna.

Naraka had succeeded in taking possession of all the earth’s recesses

where sacred images and lingams were worshipped.

Because he was Earth’s son, Naraka was called Earth-Born.

Assuming an elephant’s shape, he abducted the ravishingly lovely,
fourteen-year-old daughter, Kaseru, of Visvakarman.

Naraka was king of Pragjyotisha—a fearless, feelingless ruler. Taking

Kaseru to his palace, he said: ‘All the gems of all the world’s kings, all
the gems that are buried in the earth, all the gems of the oceans— These
will all be yours from today, brought for you by Rakshasas on my orders,
and by Daityas and Danavas.’

The earth-born anti-god made lavish presents

of wealth in this fashion to her (continued Bhishma).

He abducted the daughters of the Gandharvas as well; also the daughters

of gods and men, and lovely Apsaras.

Sixteen thousand and one virgins were brought to his palace.

According to the virtuous custom, they kept single braids of hair.

Naraka made arrangements for their stay in a place called Audaka in

Antahpura, in the anti-god Mura’s territory.

Earth-born Naraka of Pragjyotisha and the ten sons of Mura guarded

Earth-born Naraka of Pragjyotisha and the ten sons of Mura guarded
Antahpura day and night.

So great was Naraka’s self-conceit that he even dared to insult Aditi over
the matter of an earring.

Never in the past had all the Daityas together offered such gross insult as
now did Naraka.

He was born of Mother-Earth, his capital was

Pragjyotisha; four heroic Daityas protected his kingdom.

They blocked all approaches from earth and heaven.

Their looks struck terror even among the gods.

They were called Hayagriva, Nisumbha, terrible

Panchajana and hundred-sonned, boon-accomplished Mura.

It was to kill them that Krishna of the mace,

discus, and sword was born to Devaki and Vasudeva.

His glory flooded the three worlds. And of course all here know that
Krishna lived in the city of Dvaraka, A city even more entrancing than
Indra’s Amaravati, a city to shame all others, which of course you know.

In Dvaraka is a famous spot called Dasarhi where

the Vrishnis would congregate— it is one yojana square.

Balarama and Krishna and other Andhakas would

meet here and plan for the protection of the world.

It so happened that once, when they were gathered, a divine wind began
blowing, divine fragrance fell.

Suddenly a light like that of a thousand suns

approached the earth slowly and stopped near the assembly.

In the dazzling brightness could be seen Indra

In the dazzling brightness could be seen Indra
on his elephant, surrounded by his hosts of gods.

Balarama, Krishna, Ugrasena, the Andhakas and Vrishnis all rose, came
out, and honoured the god Indra.

Indra got down from his elephant, and warmly

embraced, first Krishna, then Balarama and the others, Among them
Vasudeva,
Uddhava, Vikuda,
Pradyumna, Samba, Nisatha, Aniruddha, Satyaki,

Gada, Sarana, Akrura, Kritavarma, Charudeshna, Sudeshna. All the

Yadavas received Indra’s blessings.

When the chiefs of the Andhakas and Vrishnis had been greeted in this
fashion, Indra received their worship; then, head slightly bowed, he said:
‘I come here, O Krishna, at the instance of
mother Aditi. The anti-god Naraka has snatched her earrings.

Who but you will redress her insult? O Krishna, fortune-favoured lord of
men, go and kill Naraka.’

Krishna, greatly pleased, replied, ‘I will go,

defeat Naraka, and bring back Aditi’s earrings.’

He consulted Balarama; and also gathered advice from Pradyumna,

Aniruddha, and brave Samba.

Then, picking up his

conch, chakra, mace
and sword, Krishna mounted the bird-deity Garuda and flew away,
keeping the gods’ welfare in mind.

Seeing foe-destroying Krishna go on his mission, Indra and the other

gods were delighted, and followed him.

Krishna killed the chief Rakshasas, and spotted the six thousand deadly
Krishna killed the chief Rakshasas, and spotted the six thousand deadly
knife-edged nets prepared by Mura.

His discus sliced through them, and decapitated Mura

and his followers; whizzing over stone walls, it killed Nisumbha.

Next, it slew Hayagriva, who could single-handed fight a thousand

soldiers, who single-handed defied the gods.

Delighter-of-the-hearts-of-the-Yadavas, the radiantly lustrous heroic son

of Devaki

Penetrated the steel fort of Audaka, and killed the five fierce Rakshasas
appointed by Naraka to guard it.

From a distance he saw the shining roofs of

Pragjyotisha. He fought a battle with the Danavas there, Which became
celebrated as the great gods–anti-gods’
war. It is said that no battle equalled it in ferocity.

Krishna’s chakra severed through the Danava ranks,

decimating them; his heroism with his sword did the rest.

Eight hundred thousand Danavas fell in that fight.

Lion-among-men Purushottama Krishna hurried to the lower regions Of
hell, where the challenger-of-the-gods Naraka lay hiding; the slayer of
Kamsa immediately attacked Naraka.

The carnage that resulted over the earrings of

World-Mother Aditi was impossible to describe.

For a little while, chakra-wielding Krishna egged Naraka on, then sliced
off his head with one throw.

Shredded by the chakra, Naraka’s mutilated body, like

Vritra’s killed by Indra’s thunderbolt, thudded on the ground.

Earth, seeing her son life-less, returned Aditi’s earrings, and said to
Earth, seeing her son life-less, returned Aditi’s earrings, and said to
mighty-armed Krishna: ‘You gave him to me, my lord, you now have
taken him.
Play with me as you wish.
Only spare his children.’

Krishna replied, ‘Your son had become a terror

to sages, pitris, mahatmas and all the gods.
He persecuted the gods and Brahmins.
People loathed him.

He went so far in his pride as to insult even

World-Mother Aditi by snatching her earrings. So I killed him.

Earth-Mother, do not hate me for what I have done.

Fortune-favoured one, your son is lucky to have met death at my hands.
Go now. Your burden has been lightened.’

After killing Naraka (continued Bhishma), Krishna,

accompanied by the guardians of the universe, went to his palace.

Naraka’s palace was a fabulous treasure house of all varieties of precious

stones and other wealth— Pearls, diamonds, rubies, cat’s-eyes gems
embroidered in clothes, topazes, jasper, and quartz-studded dresses;
Various other dresses made from gold thread obtained
from the Jambu river, shining like white-silk moonlight.

The inner apartments of the palace were made of

gold. The hoard of wealth that one saw there

Excelled the riches in the palace of Kubera, god of treasures, and the
riches of Indra’s palace in heaven.

Indra said, ‘Adored Krishna, all this wealth you see, the gems, gold, the
gold-woven cloths, the howdahs,

The multi-coloured dresses— all this is yours.

There are twenty thousand elephants and forty thousand she-elephants;
There are twenty thousand elephants and forty thousand she-elephants;
Eight hundred thousand of the finest horses, and many vehicles pulled by
yoked bulls. Whatever you need belongs to you.

These woollens, beds, seats, trained birds, sandalwood and aloe-wood,

perfumed chariots— If you order me, I will arrange to send them
all to Dvaraka for your and the Vrishnis’ comfort.’

All the magnificent wealth of the gods, Gandharvas, anti-gods and

Daityas was loaded on Garuda’s back,

And Indra, along with Krishna of the Dasarhas, went to the mountain
known as Maniparvata.

Soft, cool breezes blew; scenes of enchanting beauty refreshed one’s

eyes. The gods saw, and marvelled.

The shining deities of the sky, the rishis, the sun and moon came there
and all were awestruck.

Then, on a signal from Indra and Balarama,

they set foot in Antahpura, Naraka’s mountain stronghold.

Krishna saw the doors of Antahpura flashing like sapphires. Flags

fluttered on all the city-gates.

Dazzling with golden light, glowing with coloured flags, Antahpura

looked like a painting against the clouds.

The upper rooms were large-sized, the stairs were gem-encrusted. The
bewitching young daughters of

Gandharvas and anti-gods stood on the balconies of that heaven and saw
invincible Krishna.

They saw him; and next instant, surrounded him.

Each had a single braid, each wore saffron and did tapas.
Their vow of self-restraint and sorrow of separation left them; they stood
in front of Krishna with joined palms; The lovely lotus-eyed ladies said
to
Krishna, lord of all
their senses:

‘Purushottama, the royal rishi Narada said

to us, “Krishna will come here to fulfil his mission Of helping the gods.
He will kill Naraka,
Nisumbha, Mura and Hayagriva, and take their possessions.

In a few days he will be here to free you

from your suffering.” Saying this, wise Narada left us.

We have been doing tapas in expectation of

your coming. Oh, we have waited long for your appearance.

And our thoughts were always that you should

triumph over the Danavas.
Such was our tapas.

Marry us by Gandharva rites, and save us.

The wind-god Vayu knew our desire and told us, “All that Narada has
predicted, will happen.” ’

The gods and Gandharvas saw Krishna standing among the enchanting
girls, as a bull stands among cows.

They saw his moon-lovely face, and were filled with love-longing;
passionately, they said to him:

‘It seems unbelievable that what the wind-god

said and what Narada predicted should come to pass.

Narada said, “Vishnu Narayana will come with discus, mace, conch and
sword, kill Naraka, and become your lord.”
Your showing today has fulfilled Narada’s
prediction—oh how auspicious a day for us!

So we stand here and gaze on your moon-lovely

face. Your showing alone has made us happy.’

Love for Krishna blossomed in their hearts (Bhishma continued).

Krishna, finest of Yadavas, replied:

‘Lovely large-eyed ladies!

It will be as you say.
All your desires will be fulfilled today.’

Krishna ordered his followers to take the wealth

and girls to Dvaraka
(continued Bhishma).

Then Krishna instructed the giant bird-deity

Garuda to lift the glittering hill on his back,

With all its flocks of birds, herds of elephants, snakes, deer, Nagas,
monkeys, stones and rocks;

Antelopes, boars, ruru-deer, waterfalls, jutting ledges, and flocks of

brilliant-feathered, dazzling peacocks.

Even as all the creatures watched, dazed, Krishna lifted up the hill and
placed it on Garuda’s back.

And Garuda winged across the sky with his load, carrying Krishna,
Balarama, and mighty Indra.

His gigantic body was like a huge mountain peak.

His massive wings spread waves of noise as he flew.

Hills brushed by his wings toppled and fell,

trees snapped, and clouds were dispersed on impact.
Obscuring with his brightness the stars and planets, he reached the skyey
paths of the sun and moon.

Reaching the central summit of Meru mountain,

Krishna surveyed the abode of all the gods.

He saw the Visvadevas, Maruts, Sadhyas; he

visited the realms of the Asvins; then went to Indra’s palace.

Nearing Indra’s palace, he alighted from Garuda.

He paid his respects to Aditi. Brahma, Daksha, the Prajapatis and gods
welcomed him inside.

In the presence of Balarama, Krishna handed over

the two earrings and other ornaments to Aditi.

Aditi, pleased, threw off her gloom, and warmly thanked Krishna of the
Dasarhas and his brother Balarama.

Indra’s wife Sachi took Krishna’s consort Satyabhama by the hand, and
escorted her to Aditi to be blessed.

World-Mother Aditi was so pleased with Krishna

that she ordained a special boon for Satyabhama.

‘Sweet-faced wife,’ she said, ‘you will not be widowed so long as

Krishna is in human form; all the fragrances and all the virtues of the
world will make you radiant.’

Lovely Satyabhama wandered with Sachi in the divine realm and, with
her permission, retired to Krishna’s rest-room.

Foe-annihilating Krishna took leave of the gods and maharishis, and

returned to his capital Dvaraka.

Krishna covered the long distance in no time, and arrived in Dvaraka,

whose principal gate is known as Vardhamana.
Krishna, many-formed Narayana, was delighted with
the beauty of the city that he saw as he was about to enter.

On all sides, exquisite gardens, with beautiful trees growing; entrancing

flowers, and sweet fruits.

The royal buildings shone like the sun and moon; so tall they looked like
Meru’s cloud-kissing peaks.
Visvakarman himself had supervised the architecture.

Lotuses bloomed in the moats surrounding the city; swans floating on

them made them resemble the Ganga and Sindhu.

Sun-bright, sky-touching, tall-towered Dvaraka, girt with white clouds,

looked like Amaravati.

Its paradisial gardens were like those of Nandana.

Its Chaitraratha grove was like Brahma’s own pleasure-haunt.

Like the Vaibhraja garden, it flowered perennially.

So glorious was Dvaraka— like a star-spangled city.

In the east of Dvaraka was the towering Raivataka hill, whose peaks
were enchanting to behold.

In the south was the hill known as Lataveshta,

known as Rainbow hill because of its five colours.

In the south was the hill called Sukaksha, and

from a distance one could see brilliant-hued flowers on it.

And in the north, Yudhishthira, there was Venumanta hill, as glorious

and celebrated as Mandara mountain.

From Raivataka hill could be seen all the scenic loveliness of the forests
of Panchajanya and Sarvartuka.

From Lataveshta could be seen the Meruprabha

From Lataveshta could be seen the Meruprabha
forests, full of stately palms, lotuses and other flowers.

All around Sukaksha hill were the forests of

Chitrapushpa, Satapatra, Karavira, and Kusumbhi.

From Venumanta one could see the forests of

Chaitraratha, Nandana, Ramana, and Bhavana.

In the western part of Krishna’s lovely city was a lake, Pushkarini, spread
over a hundred bow-lengths.

Krishna was happy to

enter that magnificent city of fifty gates
called Dvaraka—

So large, its exact dimensions were unknown; surrounded by rivers and

lakes; with tall, shining, white buildings.

A city well-fortified with various sharp spear-like defences, and fierce,

gigantic circular war machines.

Like Indra’s city, it boasted, outside its gates, eight thousand chariots
with flags and pennants flying.

Its central area was roughly eight yojanas wide

and twelve long. Double that were its adjoining parts.

Eight main roads; magnificent porches in all houses; sixteen large

crossroads— a finely planned city.

An intricate network of by-lanes radiating

from seven main lanes—all executed by Visvakarman.

Its gold and gem-studded staircases amazed all who saw them.
Everywhere, at all times, the sounds of sweet music issued from its large-
windowed houses.
Indra, when he saw this extraordinary city with its huge gates and
porches, was struck with wonder.

Flags fluttered on the high buildings, cloud-white against the sky like the
summits of Mount Meru.

The roofs were gold-washed, the walls whitewashed; the dome, grille-
work and windows were gem-encrusted.

From the eaves of the upper rooms hung bird-cages.

Dvaraka had so much stone-and gem-work that an observer could
mistake it for a gem-glittering mountain.

Some houses were made of gold, some of marble, others of stone and
brick, the doors of Jambu-gold and blue stone.

The very feel of these houses was soothing. Their roofs, their rooms
pleased as does a beautiful mountain.

Five shades of the cassia were mixed to get the wall-colours of the
rooms, as subtle as the shades of clouds.

These tall houses stood as lovely as painted pictures against the sky’s
backdrop, rivalling the sun and moon.

Like the Ganga awesome with its hosts of Nagas, Dvaraka impressed
with its crowds of heroic citizens.

Like the sky enriched with clouds, Dvaraka was

enriched by its houses; Krishna was Dvaraka’s Indra.
Its young heroes strutted like peacocks, its women were dazzle to their
lightning.

Clouds draw their splendour from Agni and the sun; so Dvaraka basked
in the effulgence of Krishna.
The weapons of its defenders were like Indra’s rainbow.

Krishna’s palaces, Yudhishthira, which Visvakarman built with his own

Krishna’s palaces, Yudhishthira, which Visvakarman built with his own
hands, were four yojanas square.

So many houses and small apartments within this area—impossible to

count them all! It was visible from all over the world, such was its
splendour.

The palace in which Krishna lived was one yojana

square. Golden its cupolas, like Meru’s summits.
It was built specially for Rukmini by Visvakarman.

Krishna’s second queen, Satyabhama, lived in a white palace with

gemmy staircases, designed for cooling effects.

Soft pennants waved atop its turrets, like the play of lambent sunlight. A
lovely garden; multi-coloured flags.

Between these two palaces of Rukmini and Satyabhama was that of

Krishna’s wife Jambavati, also constructed By Visvakarman, but
decorated by her taste and skill.
It shone with the lustre associated with Mount Kailasa, Whose main door
glowed like gold from the Jambu;
altogether it shone with the radiance of Agni;

Whose vastness one could compare only with the ocean’s— that palace
Krishna reserved for Sukesi, Gandara’s daughter.

And the palace known as Padmakuta, soft and

delicate as a lotus, was kept for Queen Suprabha.

The palace which excelled the radiance of the sun

was intended by Krishna for Queen Lakshmana.

The palace of sapphires, seeing which people thought, ‘This is Krishna’s

own blue!’
was for Mitravinda.

It is guarded by the gods themselves. Its beauty lies in its blend of the
It is guarded by the gods themselves. Its beauty lies in its blend of the
various architectural styles.

Another magnificent palace in Dvaraka was built

by skilled artisans; it is a smiling palace, known As Ketuman, the pride
of the artisans; it is
intended for Krishna’s queen named Sudatta.

Another palace called Viraja is well known in Dvaraka; it has no

asymmetry; it is Krishna’s favourite rest-place.

Still another palace, the work of Visvakarman, is

one yojana square, built entirely of precious stones.

And the flags and pennants that flutter on these palaces have staffs hewn
from solid gold.

All houses in Dvaraka have bells. Krishna

personally planted flags on the surrounding hills.

Near Dvaraka is the

Hamsakuta hill.
sixty palm-trees tall, one yojana in width.
Also in Dvaraka is the large lake Indradyumna.

The Kinnaras sing there for everyone’s delight.

Krishna’s capital is the talk of the three worlds.

The sun-touching, tallest peak of Meru mountain seems to have been

brought with great difficulty By Krishna to Dvaraka.
All the healing herbs that grew on Meru grow in Dvaraka’s precincts.

And the paradise-tree which foe-crushing Krishna removed from the

palace of Indra is planted in Dvaraka.

Krishna brought many trees from Brahma’s world too: sal, palm, asva-
karna, hundred-leafed banyan; Marking-nut, benzoin, camphor,
champak, date-palm,
fragrant pandanus. All these he planted in Dvaraka.

Lakes filled with crystal water, brimming with pink lotuses, glittering
from a distance like pearls— on all sides the lakes are verdant with trees.

Krishna brought trees from the Himalayas and

from the Nandana groves specially for Dvaraka.

Some red, some pink, some pale yellow, some white-flowering; many
trees in Dvaraka blossomed all the year round.

Krishna brought all varieties of trees in Nandana

and the gardens of Chaitraratha, and planted them in Dvaraka.

In Krishna’s palace were many lotus-filled bathing pools, many wells,

fountains, and tanks with pink sand and clear water.

Also, flowing artificial rivulets, bubbling with fresh water, shaded on

both sides by overhanging trees.

From its gardens gem-glinting, pebbled, pink-sandy

water-channels flow, delighting the peacocks and koels.

In the hills of Dvaraka roam cattle and

elephants; swine, deer and birds haunt their jungles.

And the ranges of hills are so employed by Visvakarman that they act as
natural defences and gates,
which are a hundred arm’s-length-tall, and white like moonlight.

Outside the four natural gates are the magnificent mountains, rivers and
lakes girdling Krishna’s palace.

Entering the marvellous city created by Visvakarman’s imagination,

Krishna looked right and left.
Indra and the gods also looked admiringly on all sides.
This gives some idea of how the glory of
Dvaraka struck Krishna, Balarama and Indra.

From his seat on Garuda’s back, Krishna joyfully blew his horripilating,
white conch called Panchajanya.

The ocean-waves rose

agitatedly, the skies reverberated deafeningly. The noise was
awesome.

Hearing the sound of Panchajanya and seeing Garuda, the Kukuras and
Andhakas were stupefied.

In Krishna’s hands were the conch, mace, chakra

and other weapons. Horripilating was his sun-like radiance!

Trumpets blared, kettledrums sounded, scattering noise everywhere! And

all the people broke into shouts of praise.

All the Dasarhas, Kukuras and Andhakas, seeing

Krishna, made preparations to welcome him.

King Ugrasena led Krishna to his palace, to

the accompaniment of auspicious flutes and conches.

Devaki, Rohini and the wives of Ugrasena all

emerged from their palaces to receive Krishna.

They said, ‘All the anti-gods have been crushed, all enemies of the
Vrishnis defeated,’ and looked at Krishna.

Krishna was taken by

Garuda to his palace.
There Krishna placed the huge hill of gems.

Lotus-eyed Krishna offered wealth and precious stones to the sabha, and
in his mind he thought of his father.
Large-and-pink-eyed, mighty-armed Krishna, in his mind, took the dust
of his guru Sandipani’s feet.

With his brother Balarama he went to touch the feet of his father,
Vasudeva. Vasudeva’s eyes filled with tears.
All the Vrishnis and Andhakas embraced Krishna and Balarama.
Legends and Folk-Tales
 41. Vararuchi’s Talent

Even the most talented people require good teachers. A Brahmin scholar called
Vararuchi—famed throughout the world for his mastery of the science of
grammar—was beholden to a most unusual teacher, and in a god-given way.
At an early age he revealed an astounding memory. A friend of his father’s
who was skilled in dramatic recitation came and stayed in his parents’ house.
Musicians were invited to accompany him, and when the drummers started up,
the boy said to his mother (who was closeted in the inner parts of the house),
‘I’ll go and watch, and then repeat in performance for you, word for word.’
There were two other Brahmins staying in the house, and when they heard the
boy perform this astonishing feat, they were thrilled, for they saw in it the
solution to a problem they had heard about in another town.
What had happened was this (there are stories within the story, but that is the
way of many stories in India). The two Brahmins—who were called Indradatta
and Vyadi—were cousins, and had both been orphaned. Their parents had left
them some wealth, but they lacked education; so they performed a puja to the
war-god Karttikeya, who then appeared to them in a dream and said, ‘Go to the
city of Pataliputra: there is a Brahmin there named Varsha: from him you will
acquire all knowledge.’
But when they got to the city, they were told that Varsha was not learned at
all: he was an absolute ignoramus. He lived in poverty, and his wife was filthy
and emaciated, dressed in rags. But she was basically a gracious and decent
person, and was perfectly willing to tell the Brahmins why her and her husband’s
circumstances were so bad.
‘It was all because my husband had a brother who was clever and successful.
We lived together with him and his parents and his wife in the same house, and
he put his wife in charge of the whole household. During the rainy season here
there is a strange custom: the women teasingly make a special kind of sweetmeat
shaped like a man’s penis, and offer it to any Brahmin whom they regard as a
fool. This is supposed to bring them good luck, and make them better able to
withstand cold in winter and heat in summer. The Brahmins to whom they offer
withstand cold in winter and heat in summer. The Brahmins to whom they offer
it are naturally expected to refuse the gift, because of its indecent shape; but my
husband is so stupid that he accepted it and brought it home to me. I scolded him
severely, and he was so upset and ashamed by my harsh words that he lapsed
into hopeless grief—but that isn’t the reason for our plight.
‘The god Karttikeya took pity on him, and granted him knowledge of all the
sciences—but at the same time told him that he wouldn’t be able to reveal them
or teach them to anyone unless he could find a Brahmin who could remember, at
a first hearing, anything he was told. This cheered him up, but at the same time
he became utterly obsessed with finding such a person: he spends all his days
praying for him to appear, and that’s why he has neglected himself and his
family so badly.’
Saddened by this story, and desiring to help her and her husband if they could,
Vyadi and Indradatta first gave her some money, and then set off in search of
one who could remember everything at a first hearing.
Now, upon meeting with the young Vararuchi, they were overjoyed; for he
had precisely the talent that was needed if Varsha was to be helped. And when
they told Vararuchi’s mother about Varsha, she was delighted too, for their story
exactly fitted what a voice from the sky had told her when her son was born. The
voice had said: ‘Your son will have an extraordinary talent—an ability to
remember anything and everything at a first hearing. He will acquire his
knowledge from Varsha, and will become famous throughout the world for his
learning.’
Tearfully, but also proudly and joyously, Vararuchi’s mother let the two
Brahmins take her son to Pataliputra to meet with Varsha. As soon as the boy sat
down in front of him, the Vedas and all the sciences rushed into Varsha’s mind:
he imparted them to Vararuchi, who in turn then taught them to Vyadi and
Indradatta—though they had to listen to everything several times over before
they could remember them.
Varsha and his wife lived well thereafter, for the king of Pataliputra was so
impressed by Varsha’s teaching that he showered them with riches. And with the
fame of Vararuchi, the fame of his teacher grew too.
 42. The Magic Shoes

There is usually a reason for the name of a person or place. This story tells of
how the city of Pataliputra got its name.
A prince called Putraka had jealous relatives who wanted to do away with him
and take over his kingdom. So they inveigled him into making a pilgrimage to a
temple of Durga, and hired assassins to wait for him at the temple.
When he arrived at the temple, and was confronted by armed men preparing to
kill him, he asked them why—and they told him that they had been hired to do
so by his father and uncles. Putraka offered them a valuable piece of jewellery
instead, promising that he would go far away and would not reveal their secret.
The assassins took the jewellery and told his father and uncles that Putraka had
been killed.
Putraka wandered into a wild and remote region, sick at heart and
disillusioned with his relatives. He plodded on, until he suddenly encountered
two strong men locked in a violent wrestling match. He asked them who they
were and why they were fighting. They told him they were actually the sons of a
demon, and were fighting for the wealth of the demon: a cooking-pot, a stick and
a pair of shoes. Putraka laughed at them for fighting so furiously for so measly
an inheritance, and they said, ‘These things are not what they seem. The
cooking-pot contains an endless supply of whatever food one desires; what is
sketched with the stick immediately becomes true; and whoever puts on the
shoes will fly through the air to wherever he wants to go.’
‘Very well,’ said Putraka, ‘but why not choose a less violent way of
competing for them? Run a race instead: let the one who runs fastest claim the
inheritance.’
As sons of a demon, neither of the men was very bright; so they easily fell
into Putraka’s trap. They agreed on the race and charged off at top speed, leaving
pot, stick and shoes on the ground behind them. Putraka put on the shoes and
flew up into the sky, carrying the stick and the cooking-pot.
He flew on till he saw a beautiful city below him, and decided to land in it.
But his experience with his family had made him wary, so he wasn’t sure at first
But his experience with his family had made him wary, so he wasn’t sure at first
which house he should approach. In the end he chose an isolated, run-down
house, with a single old crone living in it. He offered her a handsome rent, and
she agreed to take him in as a lodger—indeed she quickly became devoted, and
waited on him hand and foot.
As is the way with old people, she began to worry that the prince had no wife,
and told him about the daughter of the king of the city, a beautiful maiden called
Patali, who was obliged to live alone in the top storey of a tower. So vivid was
the crone’s description, that the prince was avid to see Patali, and that very night
he put on the magic shoes and flew to the top of the tower (which was as tall as a
mountain). Entering through a window, he found the princess asleep there,
bathed in bright moonlight that brought out every facet of her beauty.
Suddenly down below he heard a watchman singing:

Embrace a maiden while still she sleeps,

And when she awakes you’ll have her for keeps.

Encouraged by this, the prince put his arms round her, throbbing with desire. She
languidly awoke, and though she looked away modestly, he could tell that
instant love for him was already in her eyes.
So intense was their mutual attraction, that there and then they entered into a
Gandharva marriage, and consummated it many times over before the night had
passed.
Putraka visited Patali night after night, by flying to her wearing the magic
shoes, and before long their love was discovered by the guards. ‘We must flee,’
said Putraka, ‘before your father kills us’—and gathering her into his arms flew
far away to a secluded place on the bank of the Ganga. There he used the magic
pot to supply them with food. Seeing the power of the shoes and the pot, Patali
asked, ‘What is that stick for?’ ‘Whatever I sketch with it’, said Putraka,
‘becomes true.’ ‘Then draw a city for us both, and an army to defeat my father.’
This is what Putraka did: with the magic stick he created a wonderful city, and
an army with which in time he subdued his vengeful father-in-law. And this is
how the wealthy and learned city of Pataliputra was founded and acquired its
name.
 43. Angaravati’s Grief

The exquisite city of Ujjayini is so famed throughout the world that she rivals
even the heavenly city of Amaravati. Indeed, Siva himself, at times, when he
tires of his abode on Mount Kailasa, enters the great lingam of Mahakala in
Ujjayini, and dwells there—entranced by the city’s palaces of gleaming white
marble.
Chandamahasena was a king of Ujjayini. As a warrior, he was strong as an
elephant, but he was discontented. He lacked two vital things: a worthy wife, and
a sword to match his strength.
So he went to the temple of the goddess Durga, and performed severe
penances. He went without food for days on end, and he cut out pieces of his
own flesh to present to the goddess as a burnt offering. Pleased with his
devotion, Durga appeared before him, and gave him a magic sword. ‘This sword
will make you invincible,’ she said, ‘and will secure you Angaravati as your
wife. She is the daughter of the demon Angarika, and no woman in all the three
worlds is more beautiful.’
Chandamahasena was thrilled at this. Riding on his elephant Nadagiri, who
equalled him in strength and aggression, he set off to the forest to hunt, with the
magic sword at his side. There he encountered a gigantic wild boar, awesome in
its violence. With no fear at all in his heart, the king showered the boar with
arrows; but its hide was so tough that none of them wounded it, and it ran away
into a cave.
Still unafraid, King Chandamahasena followed it into the cave, with only his
sword for protection. He followed the dark and winding passages of the cave for
miles and miles, till he emerged on the shore of a lake. The buildings of a great
city surrounded it, almost as sumptuous and elegant as the buildings of Ujjayini
herself. This was astonishing enough, but even more beautiful was a woman he
saw there, attended by a hundred other women. As he and the woman slowly
walked towards each other, they fell rapturously in love: their eyes were locked
on each other’s gaze, and their only thought was of the prospect of a joyous,
passionate, athletic union!
passionate, athletic union!
But when they started to speak, and the king told the woman how the boar had
brought him to her, she burst into helpless tears. ‘That boar’, she said, ‘is
actually the demon Angarika, and I am his daughter Angaravati. He is relentless
in his cruelty. These women who wait on me are all princesses whom he has
abducted. It was only because he was tired after a lengthy spree of carnage that
he left you, rather than gouging you to death on the spot with his horrible tusks.
At present he has put off his boar’s shape, and is resting; but when he awakes, he
will instantly attack you. That is why I weep. I love you, yet I know my father
will kill you.’
Fired to resourceful intelligence by his intense love, Chandamahasena said:
‘Turn your tears to your advantage! When your father awakes, go to him and let
your tears rain down as hot and thick as they are now. When he asks you the
cause of your grief—as he surely will—tell him you have suddenly thought of
how bereft and distraught you would be if he were slain. If you say this, all will
be well for us.’
Trusting him totally, Angaravati did as he advised. She went to her sleeping
father, and, when he started to wake, began weeping more copiously than ever.
When he asked her why, she told him what Chandamahasena had told her to say,
and the demon burst into raucous, vainglorious laughter. ‘Me?’ he roared.
‘Slain? Who could ever do that? In my wild boar’s shape, my hide is as tough as
adamant—no sword or arrow can pierce it.’
King Chandamahasena was hiding nearby, and heard Angarika’s boastful
words. He watched him as he rose from his bed and took his bath and started his
silent morning worship of Siva. The king then rushed in upon him, with a blood-
curdling war cry, brandishing his magic sword. He challenged him to fight there
and then, but the demon—his silent puja not yet complete—raised his left hand
to indicate that he was not yet ready for battle. But in fighting with demons,
there is no need to observe such pieties, and the king lunged at Angarika’s hand
with his sword. In fulfilment of Durga’s promise, the blow felled the demon
instantly, for his left hand was his weak spot—the only part of him which, if
wounded, would kill him. He collapsed to the ground, raging and screaming and
cursing; but his blood flowed out of him, and within minutes he was dead.
Released from the curse of her demonic parentage, Angaravati was taken by
the king back to the lakeside and along the winding passages of the cave to
the king back to the lakeside and along the winding passages of the cave to
where his elephant was waiting. They rode in triumph to Ujjayini, and their
wedding was celebrated with fit magnificence. The union of their bodies was
everything that their love desired, and in time they became parents of two
handsome sons and a daughter who was as graceful as the moon. That daughter
herself, in time, became the mother of a son, and thus a noble dynasty continued.
 44. The Compassion of King Sivi

Sometimes people have every virtue: unselfishness, kindness, compassion,

generosity, courage, determination . . . but the gods still desire to test them. Thus
it was that king Sivi, who was famed for his goodness, was cruelly tested by
Indra, king of the gods.
Noticing that the god Dharma, who is the god of justice, had magically
transformed himself into a dove, Indra decided it would be amusing to transform
himself into a hawk and chase Dharma. Alas, all too often in this world are
justice and peace assaulted and chased by tyranny and power! Where the gods
lead, so must the world follow.
Terrified, the dove—who despite being the god Dharma, was defenceless
against Indra’s superior might—fluttered to the breast of King Sivi, whose heart
always went out to those who needed protection. It huddled against him,
quivering with fright, seeking warmth and refuge in the gorgeous and generous
robes of the king, and in the kind embrace of his arms.
Indra, still in the guise of the hawk, then roared at him in a human voice. ‘I am
a bird of prey,’ he boomed. ‘Doves are soft and succulent, and they are my
natural food. I am raging with hunger, and I command you to surrender that dove
to me. If you don’t, I shall starve to death. Do you wish me to die? Would it be
good and righteous to let me die?’
King Sivi knew that it would indeed be unrighteous to let the hawk die, but he
also had a duty to protect the dove. But such was his intelligence, as well as his
goodness and compassion, that he thought of a heroic way out of this dilemma.
He said to the hawk: ‘I agree it would be wrong to let you starve, but this dove
fluttered to my breast for comfort and protection. I can feel its frightened heart
beating rapidly against my own. If I must give you flesh, it will have to be of
some other kind, equal to the dove in weight. I cannot give you this dove’s
flesh.’
With pitiless cruelty and cunning, the hawk said: ‘Very well. Cut out some of
your own flesh, to equal the weight of the dove. But make sure you choose some
juicy part of you, for I want it to match the dove in quality, as well as quantity.’
juicy part of you, for I want it to match the dove in quality, as well as quantity.’
Unflinchingly—joyously, even, at being able to help the hawk while still
saving the dove—King Sivi ordered the royal cook to bring him his sharpest
knife, and a pair of scales. Ordering the cook and all his courtiers and servants
out of his presence, he took the knife in one hand, felt with the other for the
tenderest, softest part of his own stomach, and sliced out a succulent chunk. He
placed the terrified dove on one side of the scales, and his flesh on the other.
Light and delicate though it was, the dove weighed more than the slice of
flesh. So the king unhesitatingly cut out more of his flesh, this time from his left
buttock. Surely this time the weight of the dove would be equalled? But no, the
scales were still not balanced. The king went on, cutting out more and more of
his body, from his stomach, buttocks, thighs, calves and chest. The kitchen knife
got so sticky and bloody that it became quite blunt.
But the more of himself he threw on to the scales, the heavier the dove
became. In the end, he threw down the knife, and hurled his entire body (what
was left of it) on to the scales. They balanced at last, and a voice from the sky
said: ‘Well done, O noble, brave, compassionate king! You have equalled the
weight of the dove, and Indra is satisfied.’
Indra now abandoned the form of the hawk, and Dharma, no longer
threatened, left the dove’s form too. The two gods stood before the mangled,
mutilated body of King Sivi where it lay on the scales, and restored it to its
proper health and wholeness. The knife and scales were miraculously cleaned
too, so that when the cook and courtiers were called back, they never suspected
that the knife and scales had been used for anything untoward.
Thus was the compassionate King Sivi tested; and thus did he fully and nobly
pass the test.
 45. Yogakarandika’s Wealth

An old woman called Yogakarandika lived as an ascetic, in a holy Buddhist

sanctuary. But she was known to have a huge hoard of wealth. The story of how
she acquired this wealth was very curious.
She had a pupil called Siddhikari, who was cunning and unscrupulous.
Hearing that a rich merchant from another region had settled nearby, Siddhikari
disguised her appearance and managed to get taken on in the merchant’s house
as a maidservant. Her lithe body and ogling looks attracted the merchant, and he
quickly began to place excessive trust in her. He gave her full access to all parts
of the house, so it wasn’t difficult for her to enter his strong room one night and
steal all his gold.
Creeping out of the house in the early hours of the morning, wrapped in a
bulky shawl to conceal the gold that was secreted about her person, she walked
as fast as she could back to Yogakarandika’s house. She soon had to quicken her
footsteps even more, for she noticed the ominous shape of a drum-carrying low-
caste Domba man hurrying to catch up with her. Clearly he was out to rape and
rob and kill her, the road being so deserted at that hour in the morning and she
being alone and defenceless.
The Domba caught up with her at the foot of a large nyagrodha-tree, and at
this point Siddhikari was forced to rely on her quick-witted cunning. Dombas are
executioners and, along with the drum, he had the chief tool of his trade draped
over his shoulders: a stout rope. Seeing this, Siddhikari said in a whining, tearful
voice: ‘I’m glad you’ve come. My husband and I have had an awful quarrel, and
I’ve run from the house. Your rope will be my only escape, for my husband is
sure to come after me and kill me. Please tie the rope into a noose, so that I can
hang myself.’
The Domba had no objection to this for, by this means, he could rob her
without incurring the guilt of assaulting or killing her himself. He cheerfully tied
the rope into a noose, and attached it to a branch of the tree.
Siddhikari then said, ‘This is something I have obviously never done before,
else how could I be alive now? So please show me how it is done.’
else how could I be alive now? So please show me how it is done.’
Laughing sardonically at her ignorance, the Domba placed his long narrow
drum upended on the ground, carefully climbed on to it and, deftly keeping his
balance, put the noose of the rope round his own neck. ‘This is what you must
do,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you climb on to the drum, and I’ll hold it while you steady
yourself.’
But instead of doing as he said, Siddhikari violently kicked at the drum. It
smashed into a thousand pieces, and the Domba was left hanging from the tree.
Meanwhile, the rich merchant had been roused by his other servants, who had
found the strong room empty of gold, and Siddhikari nowhere to be seen. He had
dashed out in search of her, and she now saw him galloping on horseback down
the same road. She quickly climbed up into the tree, and hid amidst its ample
foliage.
The merchant and his servants arrived, and one of them said: ‘Whoever has
hanged this man may be hiding in the tree. I’ll climb up to look.’
Using her cunning and attractiveness again, Siddhikari said to the servant,
when his head emerged through the foliage: ‘Thank God it’s you! I have always
adored you. Hidden in this leafy tree, we now have our chance. Let’s start with a
deep kiss.’
Few men can resist such an offer, and the servant clamped his mouth to hers.
When his tongue pushed into her mouth, she bit it off. The pain and shock of this
sent him crashing back down through the branches of the tree, spitting blood and
howling his head off.
With no tongue in his mouth, he could only wail, ‘LALALALA’—which
terrified the merchant, for he thought his servant had been possessed by a devil.
He fled back to his house, taking his other servants with him.
Siddhikari then calmly climbed down from the tree, and walked on back to
Yogakarandika’s house, the merchant’s gold still safely hidden under her shawl.
Cunning and unscrupulous she may have been, but Siddhikari was
nevertheless Yogakarandika’s pupil, and was devoted to her, as a sishya should
always be to a guru. So she handed the gold over to her, and that is how the old
woman acquired such wealth.
 46. The Laughing Fakir

Different kinds of wisdom can blend in a story: different religions; reincarnation

and the afterlife; knowledge of things as they cruelly are, but a kind desire to
make things better. This story is such a blend, and is told of Nanak Shah, the
first guru of the Sikhs.
A merchant was very friendly with a fakir called Nanak Shah. They met and
chatted every day.
They were sitting together one day, when a man passed by, dragging a goat
along to be slaughtered. It broke loose, and tried to hide behind the merchant;
but the merchant did nothing to save it, and it was cruelly tugged away again.
The fakir laughed at this, and the merchant’s wife was shocked to see him
laugh.
Then the king’s soldiers passed by, with an old woman who had been
condemned to death by the king for some trivial offence. She too managed to
break away and ran to the merchant for protection. He did nothing to save her,
and the soldiers callously dragged her off to the jungle, to put her to death.
The fakir watched this too, and laughed, and the merchant’s wife was shocked
to see him laugh.
The next moment, the little daughter of the merchant and his wife woke up
and howled. When her mother tried to calm her, she struggled and kicked and
messed up her mother’s clothes.
Again the fakir laughed.
The merchant’s wife had had a stressful day, and her daughter’s bad
behaviour was the last straw. She seized a sharp knife, and angrily went up to the
fakir, saying, ‘Why do you laugh at everything? Nothing that’s happened today
has been funny at all and, believe me it’s no joke caring for a child like mine.
Tell me why you laughed, or I’ll stick this knife into you!’
Smiling broadly, the fakir said, ‘It shouldn’t matter to you whether I laugh or
cry. A fakir has his own way of seeing things, and you should accept that. But if
you really insist on knowing, I’ll tell you.’
‘I do insist,’ said the wife, ‘and I mean what I say about the knife.’
 ‘I do insist,’ said the wife, ‘and I mean what I say about the knife.’
‘Well,’ said the fakir, ‘it’s all to do with who was who in a former life. The
goat was previously your father-in-law, and it was funny to see how your
husband refused to save his own father’s life, when he could easily have done so
by buying the goat for four rupees! And the old woman was formerly his
grandmother: he could have saved her too, by bribing the soldiers with twenty
rupees. And you remember your husband’s sister, who hated you and treated you
so abominably? She has been reborn as your bad-tempered daughter, so that she
can go on tormenting you! Now you know why I laughed.’
‘Is this really true?’ asked the wife.
‘Of course it is,’ said the fakir. ‘I wouldn’t be a fakir if it weren’t. And I’ll tell
you something else. God has decided that your husband’s earthly life will end
tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Four angels will come to carry him away.’
The wife was so shocked at this that the knife fell from her hand, and she sank
to the ground, weeping and moaning and imploring the fakir to tell her that this
wasn’t true, or to do something to stop it from becoming true.
The fakir’s heart now softened. ‘Life is cruel,’ he said, ‘and it is my fate as a
fakir to know how cruel it can be. But I also know of ways to make it better. Get
up at four tomorrow morning, sweep and clean the house, and make the finest
sweets that you can. Lay them out on your best china plate. Then come to me
again.’
Desperate to save her husband’s life, the woman followed the fakir’s
instructions: indeed, such was her distress, she didn’t go to bed at all, but was up
all night, cleaning everything in the house and making the sweets. Dishevelled
and bleary-eyed, she appeared before the fakir at dawn, saying, ‘The house is
clean and the sweets are ready. What should I do now?’
The fakir now told her to take a fine, clean cloth and take it with the sweets to
a place in the fields nearby where there was a tank and a tree. She should spread
out the cloth there with the plate of sweets on it, and wait for four men, who
would bathe in the tank. Then she should say, ‘If you are the angels who have
come for my husband, please eat some sweets first.’
And this is what happened. She met the four men, addressed them as angels,
and they were very happy to sit on the cloth and eat the sweets.
They then stood up and said, ‘We must now go to the village to fetch a
merchant who is about to die.’ At which she said with tears in her eyes and a
merchant who is about to die.’ At which she said with tears in her eyes and a
tremble in her lip, ‘If you must, you must—but that merchant is my husband.
What shall I do without him?’
The angels grew pensive and sad when they heard this. The woman had
served them beautiful sweets. How could they now take away her husband?
‘Wait here,’ they said. ‘We shall return this evening and see what can be
done.’
She remained under the tree all day, weeping continuously, certain that when
the angels came back they would have to take her husband away.
The four angels returned to heaven and told God all about the sweets and the
merchant’s wife. God was angry with them at first, for failing to bring back the
merchant. But He knew that Nanak Shah had tricked them in this way out of
compassion for the wife, and He took pity on her too.
He wrote a letter, promising the merchant twenty more years of life, and
commanded the angels to take it to the wife and tell her to keep the letter in a
silver locket that her husband should always wear round his neck.
So the angels returned to the tank and the tree, where the wife was still
waiting, slumped on the ground, her eyes red with crying. This time they no
longer looked like men, but had the full radiance of angelic compassion in their
faces. She was about to prostrate herself before them, to beg them to spare her
husband; but they raised their hands and said, ‘Do not despair—God has been
merciful. Take this letter, go with it to Nanak Shah and your husband, have a
silver locket made, and tell your husband always to wear the locket with the
letter inside. He will then have twenty more years of life—his full span.’
The angels disappeared, and the wife walked home. So hopeful and happy did
she feel, that she forgot how tired and hungry she was. When she reached Nanak
Shah and her husband, she burst out, ‘I met the four angels, gave them the
sweets, and look now what God in his goodness has given us!’
Nanak Shah read the letter, and this time when he smiled and laughed, the
wife laughed joyously with him. A silversmith was called, the locket was made,
and all their friends and neighbours and relatives were invited to a splendid feast.
But before they ate, Nanak Shah suddenly turned serious. Laughing no longer,
he stood before them as a truly holy and wise man of God. ‘Cover your faces,’
he said, ‘and thank and worship God before you eat.’
They did as he commanded. And mysteriously, when they uncovered their
faces, he was gone. They never saw him again.
faces, he was gone. They never saw him again.
 47. How Not to Get to Heaven

A weaver had a single field in which he grew crops and vegetables to feed his
family. He would get up at dawn every day to be out in the field, to tend it before
he started his day’s work as a weaver; and by dint of his untiring efforts,
everything he planted grew, and his wife and four children by and large had
enough to eat.
But one year, at the height of the growing season, he went to his field and
found it had been trampled on: many of the plants were damaged. Who could
have done this? The weaver was a trusting, honest sort of man, not very bright,
often teased by his fellow-villagers, but popular; and he didn’t imagine that
anyone could have spoilt his field out of malice. He asked the other weavers,
‘Who or what do you think has been trampling on my field at night? It looks as
if it were done by a heavy stone.’
‘Perhaps’, said the weavers with a chuckle, ‘it was done by the village
grindstones. They must have got up at night and danced on your field.’
Puzzled by this, but believing them nonetheless, the villager went round all
the grindstones in the village, and tied them firmly to the ground with stout
twine. The villagers were mightily amused by this, but they didn’t want to hurt
his feelings by telling him not to be so stupid.
The next morning he went to his field and found that more damage had been
done, worse than before. Scratching his head with dismay, he went to his weaver
friends again. ‘Who or what can be doing it?’ he asked. ‘It can’t be the
grindstones—I tied them all up firmly.’
‘Then perhaps it’s the rice-pounders,’ said the weavers, doing their best to
suppress their mirth. ‘They must have got up in the night, hopped along to your
field when everyone was asleep, and danced merrily there.’
Still not suspecting that they were teasing him, the weaver went round all the
houses in the village, asked for the rice-pounders, and tied them up with his
strongest weaver’s twine. The villagers were happy to help him with this, and
the weavers followed him round, giggling when he wasn’t looking, and
pedantically checking the knots.
pedantically checking the knots.
But the next morning when he went to the field, yet again it had been trampled
on, and there wasn’t much of his crops and vegetables left.
Really alarmed now at what would happen to his family without the food he
grew, the weaver went back to the field that evening, and sat down under a bush,
to see what was causing the damage.
The night was dark, the air grew chilly and the ground felt hard, but the
weaver doggedly sat there, huddled under a shawl, trying even to control the
sound of his breathing, so as not to be heard. Suddenly, when it must have been
the very middle of the night, he saw a majestic elephant descending from the
sky. It was Indra’s elephant, so it had all the ornaments and trappings of heaven:
the jewels on its bridle and the gold brocade of its howdah sparkled in the
starlight, and its pure white tusks gleamed. The weaver watched in astonishment
as the elephant performed a stately dance, to the celestial sound of the flutes and
drums of heaven! But even the most elegant of elephants has heavy, large feet;
and by the time the dance was finished, the field was a rutted, churned-up mess
—no seedlings left at all!
Horrified, but also entranced by the divine magnificence of the elephant, the
weaver ran out into the field and grabbed hold of its tail. Instantly the elephant
flew up again, up into the huge night sky, straight back to heaven, with the
weaver hanging on. It was all too quick and amazing to frighten the weaver:
within seconds he was there, up amidst the gods in heaven, watching scantily
clad dancing-nymphs, eating heavenly food from golden dishes, drinking nectar,
with waves of ravishing music washing round his ears! He reclined on the softest
cushions, and seemed fully one of the assembled company—nobody took special
notice of him.
He stayed there for a day, in the lap of delectable luxury; but by the evening
he was beginning to worry about his family. The elephant was sitting close by,
and was beginning to rise to its feet. With his wits sharpened by the air and
nourishment of heaven, the weaver caught hold of its tail again, and it
immediately flew off, whisking him back to earth, back to his small field.
This time, the weaver didn’t stay to watch the trampling dance, but ran
straight to his family and friends. ‘Come with me,’ he shouted, ‘come to my
field! It was Indra’s elephant who was trampling on my field—but if you hold on
to its tail, you’ll be whisked up to heaven, where there are sights and luxuries
to its tail, you’ll be whisked up to heaven, where there are sights and luxuries
you could never imagine! I should know, for I’ve been there for the whole of the
last day!’
Convinced that the weaver had gone mad, but humouring him still, and even
somewhat ashamed that their teasing had encouraged his fantasies, his wife and
children and brothers and sisters and cousins and their families and his fellow-
weavers and most of the other people of the village followed the weaver to the
field. By the time they got there, the elephant had finished its dance, and was just
about to leave, but the weaver grabbed its tail and yelled to the others to hang on
too.
His wife clung to her husband’s legs, their children hung on to hers, and as the
elephant took off—slightly slowed this time, by the increased weight on its tail
—everyone else hung on too, arms to legs, arms to legs, to form an immense
human chain.
Up the elephant flew, with the human chain behind it, the children shrieking
with excitement at the best fairground ride they had ever had, the adults vowing
never to make fun of the weaver again.
The weaver, however, suddenly thought, ‘How am I going to earn my living
in heaven? Weaving is the only thing I can do, but I didn’t see any looms there,
and how can I weave without a loom? Oh help, oh woe, oh disaster!’ And as he
began to wail and fret at forgetting his loom, he let go of the elephant’s tail so
that he could wring his hands, and immediately he and his wife and children and
their kinsfolk and friends and all the villagers came hurtling down to earth again.
Fortunately they landed in the field, which had been so well trampled by the
elephant that it was soft and muddy, and none of them was badly hurt.
The story doesn’t say what happened to the weaver’s field after that: maybe
Indra’s elephant moved on to a different field, with a firmer, less trampled
surface. But they do say when they tell the story, ‘Now you know why weavers
never get to heaven.’
 48. Foreigner’s Privilege

Many years ago, a man from Kabul in Afghanistan came to India for the first
time. He was from a simple background, and knew only his own language: he
had picked up just a very few words of Hindustani. But somehow he managed to
get around without mishap, until one day he got into trouble over some sweets.
Sweetsellers in India are skilled at laying out their wares in pretty piles and
patterns, and when the man saw a particularly tempting display in the street of a
small town, he stopped to admire it. There was one type of sweet—round,
golden in colour, but with a sprinkling of silver dust—that he had never seen
before, and he pointed at it to find out its name, intending to buy only one.
Thinking that he was asking for the general word for sweets, the sweetseller said
‘Khaja’. The Afghan had heard this word when sitting down to meals in eating-
places and, indeed, it also means ‘Eat!’ He thought that the sweetseller was
hospitably inviting him to eat the sweets for nothing, so he took not just one but
four of them in his hand. He stuffed them into his mouth, and smiled
appreciatively, for they were delicious—better than any sweets he had ever
tasted.
The sweetseller then asked him to pay for the sweets. Wanting to retain the
Afghan as a customer, he did this in a friendly, courteous way: besides, why
should he have imagined that the man wouldn’t pay for just four sweets?
But the Afghan didn’t understand what he was saying and thought he was just
being welcoming and polite. He bowed and thanked him graciously in his own
language, and walked away serenely.
Naturally enough, the sweetseller now started shouting and hurling abuse at
him, but the street was noisy and the Afghan (who was a bit deaf, as well as
innocent) didn’t notice anything untoward, and continued to walk off down the
street. The sweetseller didn’t dare leave his mounds of sweets unattended, but
fortunately he saw a policeman at a crossing nearby, and he hailed him and
beckoned him over.
Complaining loudly about the man who had eaten four of his sweets without
paying, he pointed him out to the policeman, just as the Afghan was turning a
paying, he pointed him out to the policeman, just as the Afghan was turning a
corner.
The policeman charged off down the street to catch the Afghan, and although
he had only caught a glimpse of him before he had gone down a left-hand street,
his distinctive clothes and turban made him easy to spot. The policeman quickly
caught up with him and arrested him.
In those days, policemen could more or less impose whatever punishment they
wanted for petty crime, and the punishments were, of course, often very cruel.
This particular policeman was not cruel, but he was strict and stern, and he
decided on a punishment that might impress the Afghan’s people when he
returned home, and make them understand that in India even the theft of four
sweets is taken seriously.
So he led the Afghan to the police station, and ordered one of the underlings
there to remove the man’s turban and shave his head. Shaving with a cut-throat
razor requires care, even when it is being done as a punishment; and the Afghan
thought that the head-shaving was some kind of honour: he had noticed monks
and holy men with shaven heads, and they seemed to receive special veneration
from the people. So he continued to smile.
The policeman then gave further orders that the Afghan’s shaved head should
be smeared with tar, that he should be mounted on a donkey, and driven out of
town in a procession with drums beating.
The tar was warm when it was applied, and did not feel unpleasant, so the
Afghan again assumed that this was some kind of ceremony; and when the
donkey was brought and he was told to mount it, he did so with dignity and
pleasure. In his own country, a man on a horse—or even a donkey—immediately
commanded respect. The procession that built up when the donkey was driven
along the streets was even more impressive, and the beating drums were
confirmation that he was being treated as an honoured guest.
So he continued to smile broadly, and waved and bowed regally at the crowd.
He even misinterpreted their laughter as applause, and their jeers as cheers.
By the time he reached the outskirts of the town, he was so happy and jolly
that the man who owned the donkey and who had been leading it along hadn’t
the heart to be unpleasant. He helped him down, and sent him on his way,
shaking his head in wonder at the puzzling ways of foreigners.
On his return to Afghanistan, the man was asked by his friends and family
 On his return to Afghanistan, the man was asked by his friends and family
how it had been in India.
‘Wonderful country,’ he said. ‘You can point to sweets in the street, and they
give you some for free. Then they take you along to one of their houses, and
shave your head—which is a special mark of respect. They anoint your head
with warm, soothing ointment (rather sticky, and hard to wash off, but I dare say
it’s good for the skin), and they honour their visitors with a ceremonial ride
through the town on a donkey, with a long procession, cheering crowds and
drums beating. I shall always remember the kindness I received there. I only
wish I had filled my bag with those delicious sweets, so you could all taste them
too!’
 49. The Impotent King

What’s the worst thing that can happen to a man, and particularly to a king, who
has totally failed in his royal duty if he fails to produce a son and heir? Why, to
be impotent, of course. The king in this story had suffered from this affliction for
many years. Every conceivable cure and remedy had been tried, by doctors from
every kind of background—Hindu, Muslim, foreign; but to no avail.
One day, news got about that a famous dervish had arrived in the kingdom,
and that he was magically capable of curing all kinds of ills. Fearful of the
humiliation of being seen to try yet another unsuccessful remedy, the king stole
out at night in disguise, and met with the dervish in the seedy lodging house
where he was staying.
To the dervish himself, however, he tearfully revealed who he was. He told
him of his many years of despair; how the queens in the harem had long since
given up trying to attract or arouse him—and indeed, the sight of them made him
feel sick. He found it distressing to see even a picture or sculpture of a woman,
and had ordered all such things to be removed from his palace. He would, he
told the dervish miserably, gladly abandon his throne and adopt the life of a
celibate ascetic, but how could he do so until he had a son and heir?
The dervish listened to the king compassionately, but also with a wry glint in
his eye. Then, without saying anything, he took out a small vial from the folds of
his robe. The liquid inside the vial glowed phosphorescently in the ill-lit room
where they were sitting, and when the dervish held it to his lips, it lit up his
stubbly face. He drank three-quarters of it, and gave the rest to the king, saying:
‘This is a precious elixir. Treat it with respect. Take only one drop each morning
for three days. I think you will find it will help you.’
Hoping against hope that this, at last, would be the answer, the king took the
elixir back to his palace and, the next morning, carefully poured a single drop of
it on to a spoon, and drank it reverently. Immediately he felt a stirring in his
loins that he had not felt for years, and for the rest of the day the same feelings
continued, quite distracting him from his royal duties.
Tempted to visit his harem that evening for the first time in years, he said to
 Tempted to visit his harem that evening for the first time in years, he said to
himself, ‘No, I had better wait till I have followed the dervish’s full instructions.
Two more drops to go!’
He went to sleep happily, with the new-found strength between his legs
exciting him to delicious fantasies and dreams.
The next morning, when he took the second drop, the effect was electrifying.
He could scarcely get through his day of official engagements, so desperate was
he to get to his harem and demonstrate his new powers to one queen after
another. But again, through a massive effort of self-control, he resolved to wait
till the dervish’s miraculous cure was complete.
The next morning, after he had taken the third drop, he could hold back no
longer. He rushed straight to the harem before breakfast, and although the
queens were initially none too pleased at being woken so early, when they
realized what he wanted and how wonderfully changed he was, they were happy
to oblige. For, if impotence is the worst thing that can happen to a king, is not
childlessness the worst thing for a queen?
For several days, the king was in a state of continuous rapture. He declared a
week of public holidays—largely to give himself maximum time in the harem;
and although he gave no public explanation for this, it soon got around what had
happened, and his courtiers and subjects were very happy to follow his amorous
example, with startling consequences, nine months later, for the kingdom’s birth
rate.
When the week was over, and the king realized that he had duties other than
procreation, he also remembered the dervish. Not only did he wish to thank him,
but he also wanted to know how the dervish—who was a celibate holy man—
could cope with drinking three-quarters of the elixir, when even three drops of it
were so powerful.
Disguising himself again, the king crept out late that evening, and found the
dervish again in the ill-lit, noxious lodging house.
Prostrating himself before the dervish with profound reverence and gratitude,
the king thanked him effusively for curing his impotence, promised him an
unlimited reward, and then asked him the question that had been puzzling him.
The dervish’s eyes glinted even more sharply and, for a while he said nothing.
Then, slowly and impressively, he said: ‘I shall answer that question tomorrow,
your majesty, if you live that long. For my knowledge of the future tells me that
your majesty, if you live that long. For my knowledge of the future tells me that
you will die tonight—unless, that is, I can do something to save you. My elixir
restored one part of your body to life; let it work now on the whole of you.’
He then brought out from his robe another vial of the elixir, and the gleam of
it made a fiery track of light as he raised it to the king’s lips this time and
emptied it down his throat—every drop.
Last time, the dervish’s cure had worked, but would it work a second time?
Would it save the king from the sudden death that the dervish said he was fated
to meet that very night?
Trembling with terror, the king returned to his palace and went not to the
harem but to the solitary bed in which he had lain so miserably night after night,
through all the years of his impotence. Worried that their newly amorous
husband had not reappeared, the queens came on tiptoe into his bedroom; but the
king waved them away, and buried his head under the bedclothes, with a muffled
wail that there was now no point, and that they should leave him in peace.
‘He must have worn himself out,’ said one queen to the others. ‘We’d better
leave him to rest, and let’s hope he’ll be in a better state again tomorrow
evening.’
‘There won’t be a tomorrow evening,’ groaned the king—overhearing what
they had said; and he curled himself up even more tightly, with nothing in his
mind but the dread and horror of his imminent death—unless, please God, the
dervish’s elixir, against all expectations, was going to save him . . .
The night wore on, with the king writhing and moaning and counting the
hours each time the clock in the palace tower struck, its sonorous bell sounding
like his death knell. Eventually, he sank into a stunned, exhausted stupor.
He was roused again by the dawn sun shining in through chinks in his
shuttered windows; and within a few minutes, his hopes and spirits had revived
—his desires too, for clearly the elixir had worked a second time! He was alive!
He was a man! ready to rush to the harem and greet his wives with the joy and
relief that only a fully potent husband can express!
At the end of the happiest day in his life, when even the signing of papers and
reception of ambassadors was an unqualified pleasure, he stole out of the palace
for a third time, disguised as before, to find and thank the dervish.
The dervish was sitting on the dark veranda outside the lodging house when
the king arrived. With a steely glint in his eye, he said, ‘Well, your majesty, did
you enjoy your begums last night?’
you enjoy your begums last night?’
‘You must be joking,’ said the king. ‘You told me I would die. How could I
even think of the begums, with the prospect of imminent death?’
‘That was but to teach you a lesson,’ said the dervish. ‘I knew you would not
die. But you asked me how I could drink so much of the elixir, and not be
maddened with lust. Now you have the answer. When the prospect of death was
in your mind, you had no thoughts of the begums, no stirrings of desire at all.
You drank a whole vial of the elixir, but it made not the slightest difference.
Thus it is with me, who must, as a dervish, be ever conscious of death. It dances
before my eyes every moment of the day, and the glint that it gives them is not
the gleam that is in your eyes when you enter your harem, which can only be
there when death is wholly forgotten. My duty is to prepare constantly for death,
so the elixir does nothing for me. Yours is to beget an heir, so, for you, it worked
very well. I ask no reward for helping you, except that you should learn and
remember this lesson: that we men are potent only when we can forget death . .
.’
And with that the dervish rose, and melted into the shadows of the dingy
lodging house. The king returned to his palace, chastened. Thereafter, on nights
when the dervish’s lesson was in his mind, he stayed away from the harem; but
on others he was vigorously there; and the queens thanked God every day for
this balance in their husband’s life.
 50. Matches and Mismatches

Why are some couples perfectly matched, and others ill-matched? It is to do with
who they were in their previous lives—as is shown by this story.
There was a courtier in Benares called Sinhaparakrama, who had won great
acclaim for his prowess in battle and also for his skill as a gambler. But he had
the misfortune to be married to a very bad-tempered and greedy woman called
Kalakari, and their three grown-up sons always sided with her.
Like many good men married to unpleasant wives, he tried to pacify her by
indulging her. Almost all the money that the king of Benares gave him for his
military feats, as well as his winnings in gambling contests, he gave to her; but
she and their sons still kept shouting and complaining: ‘You are always away
from home, always enjoying yourself gambling and eating and drinking, yet you
never give us anything!’
In the end, he got fed up with this, and left the house to go on a pilgrimage to
the shrine of the goddess Durga in the Vindhya hills. He prayed and fasted there
and, before long, the goddess appeared to him in a dream. ‘Have courage,’ she
said, ‘you are my devoted servant and I shall reward you for your piety and
goodness. Return to your city of Benares, and find an immense nyagrodha-tree
that grows there. Dig down to its roots, and you will find a hoard of treasure.
Leave the treasure, except for a large dish made of emerald. It will gleam as
brightly as a polished sword blade, and will be as beautiful as a piece of the
night sky come down to earth. Hold it up, and gaze into it like a mirror. You will
see reflected in it the previous lives of anyone you wish to think about. It will
tell you who you were in your last life, and who your wife was; and, armed with
that knowledge, you will be able to redirect your domestic life along a happier
path.’
Sinhaparakrama woke from this dream in amazement, scarcely able to believe
it. But he decided he had nothing to lose by following the goddess’s instructions;
and he returned to Benares with a spring in his step.
The tree was not hard to find, as no other of that species in Benares was taller.
Having identified it by day, he returned to it at dead of night with a spade, and
Having identified it by day, he returned to it at dead of night with a spade, and
started digging.
Sure enough, when he had dug down to the roots, he discovered a large metal
box with a hoard of treasure inside it—rings, necklaces, gold and silver goblets
and dishes. Everything the goddess had said had been wholly true so far, so he
stuck to her instructions, and had no thought of taking the treasure. (In any case,
if his wife and sons had got wind of it, he would have ended up handing it over
to them.) But he combed through the box for the emerald dish, and found it at
the bottom.
It was so large that it almost covered the bottom of the box. He picked it up in
both hands, and it gleamed in the moonlight, and reflected the stars so brightly
that it was indeed like a piece of the night sky. He focused his thoughts on
himself and his wife in turn, and saw to his amazement that he had been a lion in
his previous life, whereas his wife had been a vicious she-bear. He could see her
clearly in the dish, growling and prowling and stabbing at the air with her sharp
shiny claws. Bear she may have been, but in manner and temperament she was
the very image of his wife! Whereas he (though he was too modest to say this to
himself) was reflected most accurately in the patience and nobility of the lion.
Now he understood why he and his wife were so ill-matched! How can a lion
be married to a bear? And the children of such a union are bound to be
monstrosities.
He realized that there was no point in hoping for any change in his wife and
sons, or a reconciliation between him and them. He would find happiness only
by seeking a new, more compatible wife.
He took the dish home, and kept it in a secret place in the house. When his
wife wasn’t looking, he would take it out, stare deeply into its gleaming surface,
and focus his thoughts on all the unmarried girls of whom he knew in turn. (He
knew quite a few, for it was time to start looking for wives for his sons, so he’d
been able to seek out unmarried girls without arousing suspicion.)
He ruled out any girl who, in a previous existence, had belonged to an alien
species or caste, even if she was beautiful and her parents were well-born and
prosperous. But in the end he found a girl who the dish told him had been a
lioness, and he knew that she would be the best match for him.
With his fame and prosperity, he was a catch for any girl, and the story tells
that he married the girl who had been a lioness, and called her Sinhasri, which
that he married the girl who had been a lioness, and called her Sinhasri, which
means ‘beauty of a lioness’. He settled his ex-wife and their sons in a different
town, in the best house there, and with the most generous allowance that he
could afford. It is not said what they thought of the deal; but all they had ever
wanted from him was money, so perhaps they were satisfied.
He returned the emerald dish to the hoard of treasure, and buried it well, for
he had no more need of it, so happy and contented was he now with his new wife
Sinhasri.
 51. The Brahmin, the Tiger and the Clever Jackal

Some villagers had caught a tiger, and had put him in a large iron cage. A
Brahmin was walking by, and the tiger called out to him in a piteous voice,
saying, ‘Please, sir, it is so hot here in this cage in the heat of the sun, and I am
dying of thirst. Let me out for a minute, so that I can go to that pool nearby and
drink.’
‘You must be joking,’ said the Brahmin. ‘If I let you out, you will leap upon
me and eat me.’
‘No, no, kind sir,’ said the tiger. ‘I could never be so ungrateful. All I want is
a drink of water. As soon as I have had it, I shall return to the cage, and you can
lock me in again.’
The Brahmin had a kind, trusting nature, and the tiger indeed looked very
parched and miserable. So he gave in to his pleas, and opened the cage-door.
At once the tiger leapt out and said, in a cruel, roaring voice this time: ‘Thank
you for being such a fool! I shall tear you apart with my teeth and claws and eat
you, and then go down to the pool to rinse out my mouth.’
‘Steady on,’ said the Brahmin, inwardly terrified but outwardly keeping his
cool, ‘even you must agree that you have broken your promise and abused my
kindness. But you may think that it is your right, as a tiger, to act in this way.
Will you permit me to ask the opinion of six others, before you kill and eat me?
If they all agree that you have acted justly, then I shall calmly submit myself to
your greed.’
The tiger was happy with this suggestion, for he had no doubt that it was his
dharma to kill and eat men, and that anyone they consulted would agree to the
natural justice of his cruel behaviour.
The tiger and the Brahmin walked along the road together, and the first thing
they came to was a large banyan tree. ‘O shady banyan tree,’ said the Brahmin,
‘will you give your opinion on a point of justice? I let this tiger out of his cage
because he wanted a drink of water. But as soon as he was free he threatened to
kill and eat me. Was this a just and proper way to behave?’
‘You speak very sweetly,’ said the banyan, ‘but I do not think much of the
 ‘You speak very sweetly,’ said the banyan, ‘but I do not think much of the
race of men. They often rest under my shady branches, but then they cut them
off for firewood, and waste and scatter the leaves that gave them shade. Such
ungratefulness deserves no mercy, so, I think the tiger is fully justified in his
treatment of you. Let him eat you forthwith, and I hope he enjoys his savage
meal.’
‘You hear what he says?’ roared the tiger. ‘Why should I delay any more? I’m
hungry.’
‘Steady on,’ said the Brahmin, ‘you agreed to seek the opinion of six others,
and there are still five to go.’
‘Very well, if you must,’ snarled the tiger, ‘but it won’t do you any good in
the end.’
They walked on, and in turn they sought the opinion of a camel, a bullock, an
eagle and an alligator. They all agreed with the tiger, not the Brahmin, using as
their argument the cruelty of men towards them, and how any punishment of that
cruelty merited their full support. The camel described how his master starved
him and beat him, now that he was old and could no longer work for as long or
carry such heavy loads as in his younger days; the bullock described how he had
been left by the roadside to die, now that he was too old to work; the eagle spoke
of how men were only interested in shooting her with arrows, or climbing up to
her nest to steal her eggs or her chicks; and the alligator said that men found it
great sport to catch and kill him, as soon as he poked his nose out of the water
where he lived.
With each animal’s opinion, the tiger grew more and more vainglorious and
impatient. ‘You hear what they all say?’ he said. ‘I knew that everyone would
agree with me. I’ve waited long enough. Prepare now for my jaws and claws!’
‘By my reckoning,’ said the Brahmin, ‘there is still one opinion left to seek.
And remember, if only one of the six judges agrees with me and disagrees with
you, you must let me go free, and return to your cage.’
‘Humph!’ growled the tiger. But he kept to the bargain, certain that he could
not lose, and that the Brahmin would soon be inside his stomach.
The last judge they consulted was a jackal. The jackal listened attentively to
the source of their dispute, and then said, ‘This is a very ticklish issue, and I
cannot decide on it in a hurry. To come to a considered opinion, I need to see
exactly where the dispute began.’
exactly where the dispute began.’
There seemed no harm in this, so the tiger and the Brahmin walked back with
the jackal to the empty cage.
‘Good,’ said the jackal. ‘But I’d also like to see exactly where you each
stood.’
‘I was right here,’ said the Brahmin, ‘in front of the cage by the side of the
road.’
‘And where were you?’ asked the jackal of the tiger.
‘I was inside the cage,’ said the tiger.
‘And which way were you looking?’ asked the jackal. ‘I can’t judge the matter
correctly and know what was in your head, until I see the exact place and
position of your head.’
‘I can’t understand why you should be so fussy,’ said the tiger with some
annoyance. ‘But if you must know, I was like this.’
The tiger then stepped back into the cage, and struck up the same, piteous
pose he was in when the Brahmin first saw him.
‘And was the door of the cage open or shut?’
‘It was shut,’ said the tiger and the Brahmin together.
‘Show me how,’ said the jackal.
The Brahmin then shut and bolted the door of the cage, and the jackal said:
‘You do not need my opinion now, you cruel and ungrateful tiger! You are
safely back in your cage where you belong, and this good, kind Brahmin can
now proceed on his journey unmolested.’
The tiger roared and growled and scrabbled at the bars of his cage, but there
was nothing he could do now, as the Brahmin walked on one way, and the jackal
scampered off in another. The grateful Brahmin wished, from the bottom of his
heart, that he could have thanked and rewarded the jackal properly; but maybe to
have outwitted the tiger so cleverly was reward enough.
 52. The Virtuous Brahmin’s Children

In a town called Devakamalapura, a virtuous Brahmin called Chandrasvamin

lived with his equally dignified and dutiful wife Devamati. They had a son who
was born with auspicious marks, and at his birth they heard a voice from heaven
telling them to name him ‘Mahapala’, which means ‘earth-protector’ or king.
Mahapala was brought up carefully by them, and even before he was fully
grown he was distinguished not only for his learning but also for his skill with
weapons. He had a sister called Chandravati who was as beautiful and well
mannered as her brother was handsome and accomplished. All in all, they were a
perfect family.
The king of Devakamalapura, however, was not so fortunate or virtuous.
When a drought and famine afflicted his kingdom, he took to rapine and banditry
—stealing from his subjects instead of protecting and helping them. Devamati
grew alarmed for the welfare of her son and daughter, and said to her husband:
‘It is no longer safe here. Let us flee to my father’s house.’
‘It is sinful to flee from one’s native country during a famine,’ said
Chandrasvamin. ‘We should stay and help our neighbours. However, I agree that
we should also consider our son’s and daughter’s future. Let me take them to
your father’s house and leave them with him. I’ll then return to you here.’
Reluctantly, Devamati agreed to this (she would rather have kept the family
together), and her husband set out with Mahapala and Chandravati.
The journey was long, and the fierce hot weather that had caused the drought
oppressed them sorely. They reached a huge desert, with nothing but burning hot
sand and a few withered trees. The boy and girl were too thirsty and exhausted to
cross it, so Chandrasvamin told them to rest under one of the trees while he
searched for water.
As he trudged along the edge of the desert in search of a pool or stream, he
encountered a band of dacoits who were also adherents of a cult that went in for
human sacrifice. Not quite realizing how dangerous they were, Chandrasvamin
asked them if they could take him to some water. ‘Of course we can,’ said their
leader with sly courtesy. ‘These two men will take you.’
leader with sly courtesy. ‘These two men will take you.’
But he indicated to them with a glance and gesture that the Brahmin should
not be let free, and they took him to a village where he was tightly bound and
chained.
Chandrasvamin now understood what was in store for him, and he grieved and
lamented bitterly for his son and daughter, whom he had left defenceless on the
edge of the desert. ‘How could I have left you alone like that?’ he groaned. ‘And
what will happen to you now that I am about to be murdered?’
All he could do was resort to prayer, and he prayed fervently—as a devout
Brahmin should do every morning—to the sun, praising its power and
brightness, hailing it as both Siva and Vishnu incarnate, and the divine source of
victory over evil and darkness. ‘Have mercy on me,’ he prayed, ‘and on my
beloved son and daughter, who depend on me for their protection.’
His prayers were effective and, before long, he heard a voice from the sky
saying, ‘Chandrasvamin, your devotion has pleased me, and your grief and
remorse at having left your children unprotected have moved my heart. I shall
save you all, and you will in time be reunited with your wife too. A family as
loving, talented and virtuous as yours should neither be divided nor suffer
hardship or tragedy.’
Chandrasvamin was greatly reassured by this message, and sat—bound and
chained though he was—calmly and hopefully, waiting for whatever the sun-god
had in store for him.
Meanwhile, Mahapala and Chandravati had become so worried about their
father, so convinced that some terrible fate had befallen him, and were also so
desperate with thirst and hunger, that they had left the desolate spot where he
had parted from them, and were themselves roaming along the edge of the
desert, hoping against hope that they might find him.
No doubt because of their father’s prayers to the sun-god, their fortune was
better than his. They met a kind and wealthy merchant called Sarthadhara, who
heard their tale of woe with concern and attention, and took them to his house.
They stayed there for some months, full of anxiety for their parents, but lacking
nothing in food, clothing and hospitality.
The merchant was friendly with a minister of the kingdom where he lived,
who was called Anantasvamin. The minister called on him one day, with a
splendid retinue of horses, elephants and foot soldiers, and was much struck by
splendid retinue of horses, elephants and foot soldiers, and was much struck by
the dignity and beauty of Mahapala and his sister. Sarthadhara had been
unsuccesful in his attempts to find their father, and the land where they said their
mother still lived was distant and unknown to him. He might have been happy to
keep them as his own adopted children, but they were not of the same caste: he
was a Vaisya, and they were of Brahmin parentage. The minister, on the other
hand, was a Brahmin and had no children of his own. He begged the merchant to
let him adopt the pair.
With sadness and with some reluctance—for he and his wife had grown very
fond of them—Sarthadhara agreed to hand Mahapala and Chandravati over to
Anantasvamin. He took them to his own grand house, and cared for them as if
they were his own son and daughter. Again—though still separated from their
parents—fortune had been kind to them.
Their father’s luck too had turned, for the robber-chief who had captured him
was visited in a dream by the sun-god to whom Chandrasvamin had passionately
prayed. The vision so awed and alarmed him that he went to the Brahmin where
he lay in chains and said, ‘We need our victims, but I have been warned in a
dream that you should not be one of them. I shall therefore release you now and
command my followers to feed you well, give you fresh clothing, and set you
free to continue your journey unthreatened by us.’ And he smiled as graciously
as he could, unpleasant though he was underneath.
So, Chandrasvamin returned to the spot where he had left his children.
Finding—to his distress but not to his surprise—that there was no sign of them
there, he roamed on, with only one thought in mind: to find them, alive or dead,
even if he had to cross the seven oceans to do so.
 53. The Children Found

Wandering far and wide in search of his son and daughter, Chandrasvamin
reached a city called Jalapara on the shore of the sea. A fellow-Brahmin offered
him hospitality there, and mentioned over supper—when he had heard how
Mahapala and Chandravati had been so tragically lost—that a merchant called
Kanakavarman had been in the town recently, with a very handsome boy and
girl, whom he said he had found wandering in the wilderness. He had taken them
with him in his ship, to the island of Narikela—or at least that’s where he said he
was going.
New hope sprang in Chandrasvamin’s heart when he heard this, and he
immediately set about looking for a way of sailing to the island, for he had no
doubt that the children must be his.
He found another merchant who was going there, and paid him handsomely to
take him on his ship. But when he got to the island, he was told that
Kanakavarman had indeed been there, but had now sailed on to another island.
Chandrasvamin followed him there, but was disappointed again; and this went
on for some months. Each time he reached an island, he was told that
Kanakavarman had sailed on to another; and finally he was told that the
merchant had returned to the mainland, to his own city of Chitrakuta.
Wearily, Chandrasvamin followed him there, having spent nearly all his
money on paying for so many voyages. But he had not given up hope, and it was
in joyful anticipation of seeing his children again that he finally arrived at the
merchant’s house.
The merchant received him kindly, and listened to his story with attentive
concern. But when the two children whom he had found and looked after were
brought in, Chandrasvamin saw at once that they were not his.
To be so cruelly disappointed after so long a search was too much for his
sensitive, dutiful, loyal heart, and he broke into helpless sobs of grief. The
merchant Kanakavarman did his best to console him, but all Chandrasvamin
could say was: ‘If I do not find my son and daughter within a year, I shall devote
myself to extreme austerities on the banks of the holy Ganga—till I leave this
myself to extreme austerities on the banks of the holy Ganga—till I leave this
wretched body of mine.’
A wandering seer was passing when he made this vow, and he stopped to say,
‘Do not despair. You will—I am certain of it—find your children by the grace of
the goddess Narayani.’
This comforting promise reminded him of how the sun-god had spoken to
him, and Chandrasvamin’s hope and faith began to revive. He took leave of the
merchant Kanakavarman, and continued on his way.
One night, when he was walking through a remote forest, he climbed into a
tree to sleep, fearing attacks from wild beasts. But it proved difficult to sleep in
such an uncomfortable place, and he found himself watching with astonishment
a night-time gathering of female religious adepts who, by their magic and
incantations, succeeded in summoning a visitation by none other than Narayani
herself. And when they had finished their mysterious rites and departed, the
goddess remained behind in the glade under the tree, accompanied only by a
divine handmaiden of such voluptuous beauty that Chandrasvamin was instantly
attracted to her.
Knowing that he was watching, the goddess called him down from the tree,
and said, ‘You need not tell me who you are—I know that already. I only have
one question, and you must answer it truthfully. Are you in love with my
handmaiden, at whom you were gazing from the tree and off whom you cannot
take your eyes now?’
Virtuous and honest as always, Chandrasvamin stammered bashfully, ‘Alas,
great mother, I am, though I know I should not be.’
‘Because you have spoken the truth,’ said the goddess, ‘I present her to you.
Take her to your bed, and enjoy her fully.’
Even more embarrassed, Chandrasvamin said, ‘I cannot do that! It would be a
sinful betrayal of my beloved wife. Attracted to her I may be, but I still have the
self-control to resist that attraction! Please do not tempt me any more.’
‘I was pleased by your truthfulness,’ said the goddess, ‘but I am even more
pleased with you for passing my second test. As a reward for your virtuous self-
restraint, I give you this unfading lotus. It has the power to deflect all poison.’
And with that, she vanished.
Rubbing his eyes with amazement, Chandrasvamin would have dismissed all
this as a dream, had he not got in his hand the lotus that the goddess had given
this as a dream, had he not got in his hand the lotus that the goddess had given
him. Wandering on in a daze, he reached the city of Tarapura, which was none
other than the city where the minister Anantasvamin lived, with the lovely youth
and girl he had adopted, Mahapala and Chandravati, the son and daughter of
Chandrasvamin.
But as he entered the city, he heard cries of grief all around him and, when he
asked why, he was told by the people there, ‘Our king’s noble minister
Anantasvamin’s adopted son Mahapala—whom he loves even more than a father
can love a son of his own—has been bitten by a snake, and is dying. No doctor
has been able to find an antidote to the poison!’
‘Where is he?’ cried Chandrasvamin frantically—and rushed to the house they
pointed out to him. Without knocking or introducing himself, he ran straight to
the room where he could hear the loudest lamentations, and found his son
surrounded by all the family, with his sister kneeling beside him. He put the
unfading lotus to the nose of the boy, and immediately colour returned to his
face, his eyes opened, and he sat up—completely cured of the poison.
There is quite a bit more to this story, but all of it is happy. For, not only did
Mahapala and Chandravati recognize and acknowledge their beloved father, but
the noble minister Anantasvamin accepted and honoured him too, despite his
own great love for his adopted son and daughter. Chandrasvamin’s wife, the
faithful Devamati, was brought to Tarapura to rejoin her husband and children,
and the king of the city was so impressed with Mahapala’s looks and intelligence
that he married him to his daughter.
Finally, when the king died, Mahapala inherited the kingdom, for the king had
no son of his own. And thus was the prophecy at Mahapala’s birth fulfilled, that
he would one day be a king.
 54. The Terrified Ghost

A barber and his wife were not very happy together, as she kept on complaining
that he didn’t earn enough and she didn’t get enough to eat. ‘Before I married
you,’ she nagged, ‘I lived well in my parents’ house and never felt hungry. But
now I have to fast like a widow, I feel as if I’ve become a widow already, so
useless are you as a husband! Why did you marry me in the first place, if you
didn’t have enough to keep me?’ She got so angry with him that she beat him
with a broomstick. The barber was at his wits’ end. He was a peaceful man, and
didn’t want to return his wife’s cruel words and blows with anger of his own. So,
in the end, he walked out of the house, vowing that he would not return until he
had enough money to keep her contented.
He wandered from village to village and, when night fell, he lay down under a
tree, depressed and exhausted, wondering what on earth he was going to do.
It so happened that a ghost lived in the tree above him and, seeing a man
stretched out beneath its place of abode, it naturally enough decided to kill and
devour him. So, it came down from the tree and loomed over the barber with its
arms outstretched and its savage mouth gaping and said, ‘I am a ghost, and I
feed on human beings. You will be my next meal. Prepare to be torn apart by my
fangs, for nothing can save you.’
The barber was already so depressed and ready to die that he wasn’t as
terrified as a man would normally be on seeing a ghost. Fatalism made him quite
calm and rational and, to his own surprise, a clever idea came to him.
Sitting up with the ghost towering over him, its vicious teeth glinting in the
moonlight, its mouth emitting a blast of chilly air, the barber said, ‘You think
you can destroy me! But let me show you first how many ghosts I have captured
and put into my bag. I’m pleased that you’ve come, for now I can add to their
number.’
He then opened the bag in which he carried the tools of his barber’s trade—
comb, scissors, soap, razor, strop, whetstone, shaving brush and mirror. He took
out the mirror, and held it up in front of the devilish face of the ghost. ‘See here,’
he said. ‘I took this out of my bag, and by looking at it carefully you will know
he said. ‘I took this out of my bag, and by looking at it carefully you will know
what I keep in the bag!’
He held the mirror so that the moonlight shone into it, and the ghost peered
into it. To its horror (for ghosts can indeed feel horror as well as inspire horror in
others) it saw its own ghostly face and, not being familiar with mirrors, assumed
that it was the face of another ghost that the barber had trapped in his bag.
‘Help!’ it screeched. ‘I beg you, do not trap me in your bag like this ghost I
see. Tell me what I can do for you, in return for your mercy.’
Growing in confidence, the barber said incisively, ‘Bring me one thousand
gold mohurs, and also, by the end of tomorrow, I want you to build a granary
outside my house and fill it with paddy. If you fail to do those two things, I shall
catch you and put you into my bag.’
The terrified ghost meekly floated away to carry out what the barber had
demanded. Using the powers of invisibility that ghosts possess, it entered the
treasury of the local ruler, stole one thousand gold mohurs, and returned to the
barber before the night was over. Thrilled in his heart at seeing the money, but
maintaining his cunning and severity, the barber said, ‘Very well. One task has
been accomplished. Now go and build the granary. I shall expect to see it ready
and full of paddy by tomorrow night.’
The ghost melted away, and the barber walked back to his house, carrying the
bag of mohurs and singing happily. His wife, who had been lying awake all
night worrying about him and bitterly regretting her bad temper, heard him
approach and rushed to unbolt the door. ‘See what I’ve got for you,’ said the
barber, and tipped the bag of mohurs out on to the floor. His wife’s delight and
amazement at seeing the money knew no bounds, and for the rest of that day she
treated him with more affection and attention than he had known in all the years
of their marriage.
Meanwhile, the terrified ghost slaved away all day, first building the granary,
then carrying bale after bale of paddy to fill it up. An uncle of the ghost’s saw its
labours, which were not only unremitting but were also being carried out in
broad daylight when all decent ghosts should be soundly asleep. It asked what on
earth it was doing. The ghost explained what had happened and said in an
anxious, tearful voice (for even a ghost can shed tears) that if it didn’t complete
the task, it would be caught and trapped in the barber’s bag, like the other ghosts
he had caught.
he had caught.
‘Nonsense,’ said the uncle, ‘no human being, let alone a stupid barber, can
catch and bag a ghost. He must have tricked you.’
‘No, no,’ said the ghost, ‘I assure you. You come with me this evening when
I’ve finished the job, and you’ll see how powerful the barber is!’
So the uncle came along with the nephew when the granary was full. ‘Look in
through the window,’ said the nephew-ghost. ‘He’s there inside, feasting on the
enormous meal his wife has cooked him, now that they have all those mohurs to
spend.’
The moon was high again now, and was shining into the room where the
barber sat eating, his wife sitting on the ground beside him, fanning him
lovingly. The barber was just about to think of looking for the granary that the
ghost had promised to build and fill, when a chilly gust of wind indicated the
presence of a ghost outside the window. But when he looked out of the window,
he saw not the face he remembered but another ghostly face, even more
repulsive—the face of the ghost’s uncle. With the same presence of mind that
had saved him before, he whipped the mirror out of his barber’s bag again, and
held it up to the uncle-ghost’s face, in the full moonlight. ‘See here,’ he said.
‘I’ve warned one of your number before. I capture ghosts and keep them in my
bag. This came out of my bag, and what is it you see?’
The uncle-ghost screeched with the same terror that had struck the nephew,
convinced that what the barber said was true. Jibbering and jabbering with fright,
it begged the barber for mercy, promising to build another granary and fill it not
with paddy but with threshed, sun-dried, finest quality rice.
So the barber ended up with two full granaries, and he and his wife never
wanted for anything again. They soon had sons and daughters, and lived happily
and prosperously for the rest of their days.
 55. The Mouse-Maiden

A holy man who lived on the banks of the Ganga was not only immensely
learned, but he had also developed astonishing magical powers.
Early one morning, when he was saying his prayers after bathing in the
Ganga, a hawk flew over his head. As it passed, it dropped a mouse, and the holy
man—as agile in body as he was in mind—managed to catch it in his cupped
hands. He looked at it carefully, and saw that it was a female and was perfectly
formed in every way, with beady black eyes, a neatly curling tail, and a sleek
brown pelt. ‘I like you,’ said the holy man to the mouse, ‘and I’d like to keep
you and bring you up as my daughter. But mice don’t live very long, so I think
I’ll change you into a little girl.’
So, with a specially powerful mantra that only he knew, he turned the mouse
into a baby girl as perfect and beautiful as the mouse had been. He took the baby
home to his wife and said, ‘You have been pining for a child for a long time, but
God has not given you one of your own. Now, through the grace of God, this
little girl has fallen into my hands. She is yours to bring up as our daughter,
provided you do not ask me where she came from.’
His wife was so entranced by the beauty of the baby, and so happy to have a
child to look after at last, that she took the baby into her arms without any
questions. And thereafter she thought of the mouse-maiden entirely as she would
have if she had been her natural daughter.
They were kind and good parents, and the baby grew up into a maiden who
dazzled everyone with her beauty and intelligence. As the time to find her a
husband approached, the holy man and his wife began to think about who would
be most worthy of her.
‘Our daughter is so beautiful,’ said the holy man, ‘that I think she should
marry someone who is greater than anyone else. How about the sun? No one is
greater than the sun.’
Used to accepting her husband’s opinion without question, his wife agreed.
The holy man uttered another of his unique and powerful mantras, and the sun
came down.
came down.
‘Why have you called me?’ asked the sun.
‘I’d like you to marry my daughter. Her beauty is unparalleled, and I’m sure
you will agree that no bride would suit you better.’
But before the sun could say anything, the mouse-maiden, who was standing
nearby, said, ‘No, father. I know you mean well, but I think I can do better than
that. The sun is so fiery and hot. How could I ever get close to him?’
The holy man was saddened by this, but he loved his daughter too much to
force her to marry anyone against her will. So he said to the sun, ‘You heard
what my daughter thinks. Is there anyone greater than you?’
‘The cloud is greater than I am,’ said the sun. ‘He is so powerful, that when he
covers my face I cannot shine. Try asking him.’
So the holy man called on the cloud to come down. ‘Why have you called
me?’ asked the cloud. But before the holy man could answer this time, his
daughter said, ‘I can’t marry him! He is dull and dark and depressing. Please
find someone else.’
The holy man was beginning to get worried by his daughter’s choosiness. But
he doted on her, and wanted to please her always, so he said to the cloud, ‘I
called you down on the sun’s advice: he said you were greater than he, and
would make a worthy husband for my daughter. But you heard what she said. Is
there anyone greater than you?’
‘Try the wind,’ said the cloud. ‘He is greater than I am, because he can push
and drive me about wherever he likes.’
So the holy man called on the wind to come down. ‘Why have you called me,
holy man?’ said the wind. ‘I’m looking for a husband for my daughter,’ said the
holy man, ‘and no one is greater than you.’
But before the wind could say anything, the mouse-maiden said, ‘No no,
father! Just think what it would be like being married to him! He’s never still for
a moment, and I’d spend all my days running around after him. Please find me
someone better.’
‘You heard what she said,’ said the holy man to the wind. ‘Can you suggest
anyone greater than you?’
‘The mountain is greater than I am,’ said the wind. ‘However hard I blow, I
cannot move him. Try asking him.’
So the holy man—whose mantras were so powerful that they could even move
 So the holy man—whose mantras were so powerful that they could even move
mountains—called on the mountain to come down. And the mountain came, and
placed itself right in front of them.
‘Why have you called me, holy man?’ asked the mountain. But again the
mouse-maiden butted in straight away and said, ‘I can’t marry him. See how
hard and rough he is, and he towers so high that I can hardly see his head. Surely
you can find me someone better than that!’
‘You heard what my daughter said,’ said the holy man to the mountain. ‘I
thought you would make a fine husband for her, but she says you are not good
enough. Can you suggest someone greater than you are?’
‘The mouse is greater than I am,’ said the mountain. ‘Hard and stony though I
am, he always finds ways of gnawing holes in me. Try asking him.’
So the holy man called on the mouse to come down, and immediately it was
there, small and perky, sitting on its hind paws at the feet of the holy man, his
wife and their beautiful daughter.
As soon as the mouse-maiden saw him, her eyes lit up, and she clapped her
hands with joy. ‘He is the husband for me!’ she said. ‘See how perfect he is!
Look at his bright beady eyes! Look at the elegant curl of his tail! And his pelt is
so sleek and soft that I want to stroke and caress it already! If I could be married
to him, I would love him with all my heart, and be a good and dutiful wife to
him.’
At first the holy man felt melancholy at the prospect of losing his beautiful
daughter to a mouse. But his holiness and wisdom made him accepting too, and
he realized that there was only one thing to be done to make his daughter’s
happiness complete. Using the same miraculous mantra that had turned her from
a mouse to a baby girl all those years ago, he now changed her back into a
mouse, and gave her in marriage to the one she herself had chosen.
The story doesn’t say what his wife thought about all this. But like her
husband, she only wanted her daughter to be happy; and just as she had done all
along, she must have trusted him and asked no questions.
 56. The Buddha and the Tigress

Many stories are told of the previous incarnations of Lord Buddha, each one
showing how, as the Bodhisattva, the Buddha-to-be—he revealed immense
qualities of compassion and selflessness.
In one story, the Buddha was born into a wealthy and noble Brahmin family.
He was brought up with every care and attention, and became famous for his
learning, his intelligence and his goodness. But wealth, and the admiration of
others, gave him no pleasure, and he decided to renounce the comforts of his
home, and live as a hermit in the forest, devoting himself to spiritual discipline.
This made him even more famous, for people marvelled that he should have
given up so much to lead such a simple and austere life. He began to attract
pupils, who themselves renounced the world to live with him in the forest, and
be instructed by him.
The more famous he became, the less he cared for fame; and the more
devotion he attracted from his pupils, the more detached he became from any
personal ties.
One day, the Bodhisattva was walking in the forest with Ajita, one of his
disciples. They walked into the remotest part of the forest, to find the solitude
and natural beauty that are conducive to the profoundest meditation.
They came to a region of hills and, in a cave on the side of a hill, they saw a
tigress who had recently given birth. She was lying there, so weak from her
labour that she could scarcely move. She was gaunt with hunger: her ribs stuck
out, and her eyes were hollow and listless. Her whelps kept trying to approach
her to be suckled, but she kept roaring at them and frightening them away.
The Bodhisattva, in his wisdom, could see that she was torn between the
hunger that made her crave for her own whelps as food, and the maternal
feelings that stopped her from killing and eating them. Though he remained
outwardly calm, his inner compassion for her made him tremble; and so
powerful was his trembling that the earth around him was shaken, as by an
earthquake.
Speaking in a low, measured tone that indicated the strength of feeling he was
 Speaking in a low, measured tone that indicated the strength of feeling he was
controlling, he said to Ajita, ‘See how starvation and weakness are driving this
poor tigress close to devouring her offspring. Her roars indicate her distress: she
is preventing them from coming near, lest her hunger get the better of her. Go at
once and find some food for her. Meanwhile, I will try to keep her calm.’
(The calm that the Bodhisattva radiated had indeed been shown to pacify wild
beasts. The hermitage where he lived was never attacked by them, and they
walked round it and through it as serenely as the hermits themselves.)
Ajita set off, and the Bodhisattva sat down in front of the tigress’s cave. As he
sat, perfectly still and balanced in his posture, he reflected further on the plight
of the tigress. ‘Why should she wait’, he said to himself, ‘for food that Ajita
might not even be able to find, when my own body here could be food for her?
What is this body of mine? It is only meat, no less than the body of any living
creature. It is impermanent and, in due course, I shall cast it off. To cling to it
now, when a fellow-creature is weak with starvation, and in danger of
committing the terrible act of killing her offspring, would be the height of
selfishness. Why don’t I climb up this rocky hill, and hurl myself down from that
ledge high above the cave? I would fall down right beside the tigress. I would be
killed, and she would be able to eat my body. Her hunger would be satisfied, her
strength would be restored, she would no longer feel aggression towards her
whelps, and would suckle them and bring them up.
‘My small self-sacrifice would work towards kindness and goodness, would
dismay the world’s forces of evil, and would inspire in others the principle of
compassion. What arguments can there be against such an action?’
Having reasoned with himself thus, he felt no fear or distress, but joy, at the
prospect of his physical death. Without any further delay, he bounded up the
hillside with the grace and vigour of a gazelle, scrambled up on to the ledge, and
hurled himself off it.
Just as he had predicted, he fell right in front of the cave, and was
immediately killed by the impact. The tigress, who had been about to abandon
all maternal feelings and savagely devour her young, now saw a lifeless human
corpse, so close by that she hardly had to move to reach it. She stretched out her
claws, dragged herself on to the corpse, plunged her teeth into its flesh, and
began to eat ravenously.
By the time Ajita returned, despondent at having found no meat at all for the
 By the time Ajita returned, despondent at having found no meat at all for the
tigress, the Bodhisattva had been ripped to pieces. His garment had been torn
off, his bones had been strewn about, and the tigress was licking up his blood.
The distress and horror that Ajita felt at seeing his beloved master so devoured
were immediately counteracted by the calm he had learnt from him, and by
wonder at so noble a sacrifice. He knew that the Bodhisattva must have willingly
given his body to the tigress, for such was his power over animals that she would
never have dared to attack him.
The tigress was resting calmly when he left, with her whelps peacefully
sucking her milk; and although the bloody remains of the corpse were still there
to indicate what had happened, it was clear that the effect of the Bodhisattva’s
action was wholly good.
Sorrowful, but filled with wonder at the example his master had shown, Ajita
returned to the hermitage to tell the other disciples about it. Together, they
walked in a solemn procession to the cave. The tigress and her whelps had gone,
for she had the strength now to search for more food. But where the bones of the
Bodhisattva lay, his disciples made a shrine, decorating it with garlands, fine
garments, ornaments and sandalwood powder, to express their reverence and
love.
 57. The Compassionate Ape

In many of the Jataka stories—stories of the Buddha’s previous incarnations—

the Buddha is born as an animal of some kind. This one tells of his incarnation
as a great and compassionate ape.
The ape lived on the lower slopes of the Himalayas, enjoying the region’s
luxuriant vegetation, the many fruits and scented flowers that grew in its chasms,
the cool and refreshing waters of its streams, and its clean air and breezes. The
ape lived alone, like a hermit or ascetic, eating only leaves and fruits. Because
the compassion of the Buddha lived in him, he was kind to all his fellow-
creatures, and even the insects loved him.
One day, a man who had lost a cow wandered into the region where the ape
lived, and lost his way. He clambered around through the thick trees and rocky
chasms, growing more and more hungry and exhausted. In the end, he had to
stop and rest, and he slumped down at the foot of a tree. He noticed some russet-
coloured fruit nearby, and though he had never before eaten such fruit, he was so
famished that he ate it. He found it ripe and palatable, and looked around for
more of the same sort. He saw that the tree from which the fruit had fallen was
high up a mountainside, with branches that stretched over a cataract. One of the
branches was laden with the fruit, and he decided to try to reach it.
He climbed up to the tree, and managed to haul himself into its branches.
Then he gingerly edged along the branch that was so full of fruit, despite the
terrifying drop below. Unfortunately, his weight was too much for the branch,
and it snapped, with a loud crack that echoed off the surrounding rocks. The man
plunged down into the cataract, but the thick foliage that grew over the water
broke his fall; the water was deep there too, but there were no rocks to break his
bones. He hauled himself out of the water on to the rocky bank of the cataract;
but though he was still alive, and not even much bruised, he was filled with
despair. How would he ever climb out of so deep a gorge? What would he eat?
How would he survive the cold of the nights?
The ape happened to be climbing on that same mountainside, and also saw the
tree with its copious, ripe fruit. Climbing the tree, he looked down into the
tree with its copious, ripe fruit. Climbing the tree, he looked down into the
gorge, and saw the man below, lying helplessly beside the cataract. As the
Bodhisattva, the ape could speak like a man, and he called down, ‘Ahoy there!
How have you ended up in such a deep gorge, hard even for me to reach, let
alone a man?’
The distance between them was great, but the surrounding rocks made their
voices resonant. Weak though the man was, his words were clearly audible as he
called for help, saying that he fell when he was climbing along the branch of the
tree for its fruit, and the branch had snapped. ‘I was lost,’ said the man. ‘I was
desperate for something to eat.’
The ape was immediately filled with compassion for the man, and set about
trying to help him. He climbed down into the gorge, with some fruit from the
tree, so that the man could eat. Then he found more fruits and berries elsewhere
in the gorge, and brought them to him.
As an ape, he could climb out of the gorge, but he knew that the man could
not do that. So he decided to carry him. First he found a rock that he judged to be
as heavy as the man, and picked that up to make sure he could bear the weight.
Then he told the man to climb on to his back, and hold on tight while he
climbed.
Strong and agile though the ape was, it was exceedingly tiring and difficult for
him to climb out of the gorge with the man on his back. But somehow, because
of his goodness and kindness and determination, he managed to do so. When he
reached the spot where the man had first eaten the fruit, he collapsed. ‘Please let
me rest now,’ he said. ‘I will show you to safety, but first I must sleep for a
while. There are wild beasts round here who might attack me while I sleep, so
keep close guard.’
‘Of course,’ said the man. ‘How could I not guard carefully one who has
saved my life?’
His words were polite but, in fact, his heart was quickly corrupted with evil
thoughts as he watched the ape sleeping. ‘He says he will show me to safety,’ he
said to himself, ‘but he knows only this region. How can he know how to find a
way to human habitation? And even if he does guide me, I still feel so weak and
tired that I won’t be able to walk far. Fruits and berries may be enough for an
ape, but they are not enough for me. I need meat! If I kill this ape, I shall have
food that will give me strength. Then I can find my way out of the forest
food that will give me strength. Then I can find my way out of the forest
myself.’
Thoughtlessly, greedily and malevolently, he picked up a large stone and
hurled it at the head of the sleeping ape. But he was too weak to aim accurately
or throw the stone with enough force: all it did was wake up the ape—wounding
his head nastily, but not killing or even stunning him.
The ape looked up, and saw the man nearby, pale and shaking now with
shame at the stupid and evil deed he had done. He could bring no words to his
lips; he simply looked down at the ground, sweating profusely.
When the ape, in his wisdom, realized what the man had intended to do, he
was filled not with anger or hatred, but with pity for him, that he could have
done something so wicked, bringing certain suffering to himself in this life and
in future lives. Sorrowfully, in pain from the wound on his head, but oblivious to
it, the ape said: ‘What foolishness and ignorance you have shown, to try to kill
one who has done nothing but kindness to you, and has weakened and exhausted
himself in the process! The law of karma will ensure that your cruel act will
bring you immense suffering. My wound may be painful, but much more painful
is the thought that I have been the cause of your sinful action, yet am powerless
to expiate that sin. Let me at least guide you out of the forest, to a village where
there are men and women who can look after you and restore you to health and
sanity—for your wickedness was indeed an act of insanity. Try for the rest of
your life to do no evil, so that the effects of what you have done may gradually
be mitigated.’
The man was so ashamed, that he could say nothing. He followed the ape
meekly, with his head bent and his eyes on the ground, thinking only of his own
sinfulness and stupidity.
His inner torment began to show itself outwardly, and by the time the ape
brought him to the village he was struck with virulent leprosy. There were white
spots all over his skin, he had oozing sores on his limbs, and he emitted a foul
smell. The ape left him on the edge of the village, and returned to the forest,
grieving sorely for him, but knowing that there was nothing more he could do.
The villagers, when they saw the man with his hideous leprosy, threw sticks and
stones at him, and drove him from the village.
For the rest of his days, he wandered as a helpless beggar. One day, a king
passed by and, seeing the man by the side of the road, so filthy and wretched and
deformed, with only the scantiest of tattered garments to cover him, he said,
deformed, with only the scantiest of tattered garments to cover him, he said,
‘What are you? Are you a ghost or a demon or a vampire? I have never seen any
creature afflicted by such horrifying ills.’
The man replied—though his throat was so inflamed and distorted that he
could scarcely speak—‘I am not a ghost or a demon but a man, a man who is
paying for the terrible evil he has done.’ Then he told the king the story of his
cruelty to the kind ape—concluding with the words: ‘Take note of this, your
highness. Remember that evil actions always have dire consequences, and that
true suffering comes not to the person who is harmed, but to the one who does
harm.’
The king gave the man some money, and went away soberly, vowing to learn
from his plight, and avoid all evil in the rule of his kingdom.
 58. Siddhartha’s Marriage and Departure

Before Prince Siddhartha—the future Buddha—left his father’s house and

kingdom to seek enlightenment, he was married to Yasodhara, who bore him a
son, named Rahula. The marriage was one of several means by which his father,
King Suddhodhana, hoped to dissuade him from the ascetic, celibate path.
Brahmins had informed the king that the prince showed every sign of becoming
an ascetic; the king did not want this to happen, and built three palaces
especially for his son, closely guarded and containing every comfort and luxury.
He hoped thereby to seal him off from the sorrow and suffering in the world that
might make him turn to religion.
He felt it was essential, too, that a wife be found who was so beautiful that his
son would be smitten by her. So that the most beautiful maidens in the world
would be keen to be selected, he organized a ceremony at which Prince
Siddhartha would give a jewel to each of them. By watching closely the prince’s
reaction to each maiden in turn, he hoped to judge who appealed to him the
most.
The jewels were of great value and beauty, and had been specially crafted for
the occasion. One by one, the prince gave each maiden a jewel, courteously and
graciously, but showing no obvious partiality to any of them. But when an
additional maiden appeared—one more than was expected, after all the jewels
had been given away—Siddhartha removed his own, priceless signet ring, and
gave it to her with a different, more attentive, expression in his eyes. She looked
back at him too, with shy fascination, and the courtiers confirmed the king’s own
impression that the glances they exchanged were potentially those of husband
and wife.
Yasodhara was the daughter of the minister Mahanama. Like the king himself,
Mahanama belonged to the Sakya clan, and there was a rule among the Sakyas
that their daughters could only be given in marriage to those who were skilled in
warfare. ‘I fear’, said Mahanama, ‘that the prince is too peaceful and learned in
disposition to excel in martial arts.’
‘Let him nevertheless compete against other suitors,’ said the king. ‘He has
 ‘Let him nevertheless compete against other suitors,’ said the king. ‘He has
been educated in practical skills as well as in book-learning, and he may surprise
us.’
A day was fixed for the various suitors of Yasodhara to show their prowess in
spheres both intellectual and practical. First, there were competitions in literature
and mathematics, and in these, Siddhartha had no difficulty in outperforming the
other suitors—by a wide margin. Then came an archery contest. One by one, the
suitors shot arrows at a distant target, and all did impressively well; but when it
was Siddhartha’s turn, his marksmanship was so precise and perfect that he was
declared the clear victor.
He was no less excellent in riding, swordsmanship and wrestling; and, by the
end of the contest, he had no rival at all. Mahanama therefore happily gave his
daughter in marriage to Siddhartha; and at first it seemed that the king’s ploy had
worked, for the prince and his young wife lived blissfully in one of the palaces
that the king had had built, in the middle of a huge and exquisite garden. Round
the garden there were three walls, each with only one gate, heavily guarded.
Thus did the king hope to keep the prince and his young wife totally protected
from the world, and ignorant of its trials and ills.
The Devas who watched over Siddhartha, however, and who knew that he was
destined to become the Buddha, were not content to leave him in this state of
ignorant married bliss. They began to fill his mind with the insistent thought: ‘I
must go forth. I must leave this beautiful palace and garden. I must leave even
my darling wife Yasodhara.’
With this ever-growing restlessness in his mind, he found he could no longer
enjoy the songs and dances that the king had provided to distract and entertain
the young couple. They seemed to express not happiness and pleasure any more,
but the impermanence of happiness and pleasure. Was this because the world
outside the palace was much less happy?
So he told his father, ‘I cannot remain enclosed in this palace for ever. If I am
one day to rule the kingdom as you do, I must see it, visit it, observe it. Please let
me call Channa, my charioteer, and go out into the city.’
Reluctantly, his father agreed; but he gave orders for the city to be
immaculately swept, garnished with flowers, and cleared of all beggars and
cripples, so that the prince would see nothing that might distress him.
But the Devas—Siddhartha’s guardian deities—were determined that he
 But the Devas—Siddhartha’s guardian deities—were determined that he
should not be so deceived. One of them disguised himself as a decrepit old man,
bent almost double with backache and age, short of breath, and heavily lined and
wrinkled. When the prince saw this figure in the street, he asked Channa what
was wrong with him. ‘He is old,’ said Channa. ‘What does “old” mean?’ asked
Siddhartha. And Channa explained to him about ageing, how it was the fate of
all, even Prince Siddhartha himself.
Similarly, the Devas ensured that he saw a man who was mortally ill; and later
on, they showed him a corpse; and from Channa’s explanations, Siddhartha
learnt about the inevitability of illness and death.
Finally, the prince met a wandering yogi, who lived only on alms. The yogi
told him that he had deliberately left the world in order to seek calmness of
spirit: to be free of the chains both of hatred and love. His goal was the ultimate
and complete freedom of the self.
Deeply impressed by this man, the prince returned to the palace, resolved to
embark on a similar path. ‘Having visited the city,’ he said to his father, ‘I
understand that all worldly pleasures are changeable and impermanent. I wish
therefore to abandon them, and seek the freedom that the yogi is seeking—a
freedom that is permanent and unchanging.’
The king was horrified by this, and grief-stricken too, for he saw it as
threatening a loss not only to him but to the lovely Yasodhara, who was so
beautiful and who—it had seemed—had made Siddhartha so happy. The guard
round the gates to the palace was redoubled, and the king resolved never to let
Siddhartha outside again.
Nothing, however, could hold Siddhartha back from his spiritual destiny; and
even after Yasodhara gave birth to their son Rahula, his determination to leave
the palace was unwavering. On the night when the Devas finally called him to
leave, she was sleeping peacefully with her arm over her baby’s head, so that he
could not even lift his son—cradle him in his arms and bid him farewell—in
case she was woken. His heart was pained grievously at the prospect of leaving
them both, but he knew that he had no choice. Sakra—king of the Devas who
were guiding and protecting him—had himself come down from heaven, and a
great crowd of deities had assembled outside the palace-gates, ready to greet his
emergence with chants of praise.
Secretly, he called on Channa to bring his horse, Kantaka, who neighed with
delight when Siddhartha mounted his splendidly ornamented saddle. The Devas
delight when Siddhartha mounted his splendidly ornamented saddle. The Devas
lifted Kantaka’s feet from the ground, so that he moved absolutely soundlessly;
and each of the three gates opened by itself. The guards heard nothing, for the
Devas made sure that they all stayed fast asleep.
Thus did Siddhartha leave his home and family, with the hosts of heaven
lighting up his path and scattering flowers under the flying hooves of his silent
horse.
 59. The Buddha’s Return to Yasodhara

When Siddhartha was some distance from the palace, he dismounted from
Kantaka and commanded Channa to take the horse home. Channa was very
distressed at what Siddhartha had done, and did his utmost to persuade him to
return; but Siddhartha was unyielding, and insisted instead that Channa should
convey a message to his father and to his wife. ‘They should not grieve,’ he said
in the message, ‘but rejoice that I have set out on a great journey towards
enlightenment, towards discovery of a Law that will free men and women from
the recurrence of birth and death, from all the sorrow and pain that so afflict the
world. I love both my parents and my wife and son dearly, but my destiny
requires me to detach myself from that love, in order to find a Higher Love that
will bring comfort not only to them but to all humankind.’
Despite his distress, Channa could not disobey the prince. Tearfully, he kissed
his feet and departed; and Kantaka too licked his master’s feet, before following
Channa back to the palace.
Long and arduous was Siddhartha’s journey after this, and many stories are
told of his spiritual phases and experiments: how he exchanged his royal robes
for a hunter’s tattered garments; how he studied and was dissatisfied by the
philosophic system of the sage Alara; how he attempted asceticism so extreme
that he practically starved to death; how a village-girl called Sujata persuaded
him to take proper nourishment again, by feeding him a dish of rice cooked in
milk that fifteen cows had yielded, after being fed the milk of two hundred and
fifty others who, in turn, had been fed the milk of a thousand cows—such was
the milk’s purity! Then came his battles with Mara, the Evil One; his conquest of
Mara; and his final triumphant attainment of enlightenment under the wisdom-
tree at Gaya.
But meanwhile his family grieved for him; and above all, his young wife
Yasodhara was inconsolable, finding little comfort for his absence even in their
son Rahula, who had no memory of his father.
Eventually, when Siddhartha had become famous and revered as the Buddha,
and was winning converts and disciples wherever he went, he returned to his
and was winning converts and disciples wherever he went, he returned to his
native city of Kapilavastu. His entry into the city was triumphant: twenty
thousand priests accompanied him. His father, King Suddhodhana, had prepared
a luxuriant garden in which to receive him. He had forgiven him for his
departure, and fully accepted that he had gone away only in response to a higher
destiny; but some of the other Sakya princes remained sceptical. When the
Buddha performed miracles—rising into the air, and issuing streams of water
from his body that extended throughout all worlds, yet did not drown them, and
then fire that filled the whole universe, yet did not burn it—they too were
converted.
The miracles went on. As the Buddha walked through the city, seeking alms
for himself and his disciples, a lotus flower appeared under each step that he
took, disappearing again as soon as his foot left the ground; and from his head,
dazzling rays of light shone that made all the townspeople line the streets to
marvel at him.
Yasodhara too appeared at the palace door; and, supplanting not only the long
years of grief she had felt at his absence, but even the joy she felt at seeing him
again, was a deep reverence. She too felt the spiritual force and truth of his
enlightenment; she too wished to abase herself before him, and offer him her
worship.
Her father-in-law, King Suddhodhana, sent word to her, giving her permission
to worship the Buddha; but the Buddha himself made his way to her palace, to
the place where they had spent the blissful early months of their marriage. On
the way, he said to his disciples Seriyut and Mugalana: ‘She has accepted who I
am, but the woman in her will still grieve when she sees me. Her sorrow must be
allowed to flow out in copious tears; she will try to embrace me and cling to my
feet. But do not be alarmed, and do not try to stop her, for in the end she and her
companions will embrace the Law.’
When Yasodhara received news that her husband Siddhartha—now the
Buddha—was about to enter the palace, she cut off her hair and put on plain and
humble garments. With five hundred women in attendance, she waited for him
meekly and humbly, ready to revere and worship him as all the people of the city
were now doing. But when she saw him, she could not restrain her feelings: she
threw herself on the ground before him, clung to his feet and wept and wailed
unrestrainedly.
unrestrainedly.
With infinite love and compassion in his gaze, the Buddha let her cry until she
could cry no more. He let her touch and hold him too, though normally no one—
not even the god Brahma himself—can touch the body of a Buddha.
At last, she grew more composed, rose to her feet, and withdrew some paces
away from her husband. Then her father-in-law spoke. ‘For the seven years of
your absence,’ he said, ‘her love for you has never failed. She has kept in close
touch with every phase through which you have been, receiving regular news of
your spiritual journey, but never attempting to find you or call you back. When
you went through severe austerities, she too fasted; when you shaved your head,
she also shaved hers. She has refused every offer of remarriage. What words can
you give her now, to comfort her and reward her for her devotion to you?’
Then the Buddha spoke to Yasodhara of how, in a previous existence, she had
longed fervently to be—in a future life—the wife of a Buddha. ‘Our destinies are
intertwined,’ he said. ‘You were my companion and helper in my previous lives;
and in this life, you and I were born on the same day. In time, you too will adopt
the spiritual life, joining an order of nuns that I, in due course, will found. You
will even attain the ultimate goal, Nirvana, two years before my own decease.
But first you must care for our son.’
These words were a comfort to her, and her own spirituality now brought
under calm control her feelings as a wife and mother. But she accepted that she
must wait until she could share to the full her husband’s spiritual discipline.
Their son Rahula became a novice monk quite soon after their meeting with the
Buddha; she had to wait many more years before her husband founded an order
of nuns. But, admitted to that at last, she gained for her patience and loyalty a
reward that made those years of loneliness, grief and loss worthwhile: mere steps
on the way, as transitory as those of the Buddha himself on his spiritual journey.
 60. The Vidyadharis

The Vidyadharis are a race of heavenly beings, famed for their vidya, their
mastery of the arts and sciences. One such being fell to earth through a curse,
and was born as Hemaprabha, the beautiful daughter of Buddhiprabha, king of
Ratnakara, and his wife Ratnarekha.
Hemaprabha had no memory of her life in heaven as a Vidyadhari, but her
beauty and interests and talents were a reflection of her former existence. She
was particularly fond of swinging, for it gave her a sensation comparable to the
way she had previously been able to fly through the air. The swinging became
something of an obsession, and when she entered her teens her father decided
she was too old for such a childish activity. ‘You must stop this now,’ he said. ‘It
is undignified for a young woman, and if you fell, you would hurt yourself more
than you would have done when you were little.’
‘Why should I stop?’ said Hemaprabha. ‘It doesn’t harm anyone else, and if I
haven’t fallen all these years, why should I fall now?’
Her father lost his temper at her pert disobedience, and slapped her.
This so upset the princess, that she decided to run away from home and live as
an ascetic in the forest. She arranged for the servants to take her on an outing to
a garden outside the city, to have a picnic there; made sure the servants drank
plenty of wine at the picnic; and escaped while they were sleeping it off.
She walked far into the forest, and found an isolated glade, so fenced in by
dense jungle that there was little chance of her being found there. She built
herself a little hut out of twigs and leaves, and embarked on a life of extreme
simplicity, eating roots and fruits and berries, and devoting much of her day to
the worship of Siva.
Her parents, naturally enough, went wild with anxiety and grief at her
disappearance. The king bitterly blamed himself for losing his temper with her.
Moreover, the servants who had, through their drunken neglect, allowed her to
run away were so distressed and mortified that he hadn’t the heart to punish
them. Instead, he made them search all day and every day for the missing
princess—but without success.
princess—but without success.
One day, the king went out hunting to try to distract himself from his grief. He
penetrated deep into the forest, and it so happened that, in pursuing a deer, he got
separated from the rest of the hunting party, and stumbled into the very glade
where Hemaprabha had built her hut.
She was sitting cross-legged on the ground outside it, her thoughts focused on
Siva. At first, her father didn’t recognize her, for she had become excessively
thin, her hair was straggly and matted, and her garment was stained and tattered.
But when he realized who she was, he rushed to embrace her, bursting into
helpless tears and cries of joy at finding her again. She too was overcome at
seeing her father again: all her resentment at his anger vanished, and she too
clung to him, weeping copiously.
‘My darling daughter,’ cried the king, ‘why did you run away? Your mother
and I have grieved all day and been sleepless at night, all the time you’ve been
missing. Come back with me now! Come back so that you can eat properly and
dress as you should, and recover your health and beauty!’
‘No, father,’ said Hemaprabha. ‘Although I was upset when you slapped me
for swinging, that alone did not make me leave. Lord Siva commanded me, and
guided me to this spot, and insists that I should stay here, devoting my life to his
worship. I cannot return to the palace.’
The king implored her to change her mind, but she was adamant. In the end,
he sorrowfully accepted that he would never persuade her to leave the forest and
her life of asceticism, and he made his way back to the palace, glad that he could
tell his wife and everyone else that the princess had been found, but dismal at the
prospect of continued separation from her.
Although he could not bring her back, he realized that he could at least ensure
that her material condition was more comfortable. He sent his royal builders and
craftsmen to build an exquisite small palace for her in the forest, and he had the
finest food sent to her every day. Hemaprabha did not try to stop his kindness,
for she did not wish to add to her parents’ distress; but she continued to live a
life of simplicity amidst the comforts of her home—and the food that was sent
was eaten not by her, but by the growing number of guests and devotees who
visited her, attracted by her growing fame as an ascetic.
One day, another female mendicant, who had taken a vow of chastity when
she was a young girl, visited the glade. She was honourably received by
she was a young girl, visited the glade. She was honourably received by
Hemaprabha, who asked her why she had adopted the religious life. ‘What
sparked it off’, said the girl, ‘was an occasion when my father lost his temper
with me. He had asked me to massage his feet: I was young, it was tiring for me
to massage his feet for so long, and I nodded off to sleep. He was furious with
me for letting my hands drop, and he kicked me. I ran away from home after
that, and took a religious vow.’
Hemaprabha was thrilled at finding a friend with an experience so similar to
her own, and invited her to stay in the glade with her. Soon, they both started
taking great pleasure in their companionship, and Hemaprabha found herself
talking to her more freely and openly than to anyone else she had known.
She started to describe her dreams, and spoke of how, once in a dream, she
had crossed a broad river, mounted a white elephant, climbed up a mountain on
its back, and arrived at the hermitage of Lord Siva. She found she had a lyre in
her hands, and she played and sang to Siva; and then a handsome young man had
approached, and she had flown up into the sky with him.
Her friend, having listened intently, said: ‘This dream surely has a meaning. I
believe it says that in a former existence you were a heavenly being—a
Vidyadhari who could play the lyre and sing. You flew off with the young man,
because as a Vidyadhari you could fly through the air.’
Hemaprabha was thrilled when her friend said this to her for if, what she said
was true, it accounted for many of the feelings she had had throughout her life—
it made sense of her love of swinging!
Not long afterwards, a handsome prince passed through the glade on
horseback. He stopped at Hemaprabha’s house, and was immediately attracted to
her when he saw her. She also felt strangely drawn to him as he bowed and
saluted her reverently.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘I am the son of King Pratapsena. But it seems I am no ordinary son. My
father is a unwavering devotee of Siva’s, and before I was born he went through
a long course of asceticism, to propitiate Siva, in order to obtain a son. Siva was
pleased, and appeared before him, promising that a son would be born who
would be an incarnation of a Vidyadhari—cursed to fall from heaven and live as
a man, but destined ultimately to return to heaven. He also promised that my
father would have a second son, who could inherit the kingdom, if the first son
were no longer available. I am the first son, named Lakshmisena, and my brother
were no longer available. I am the first son, named Lakshmisena, and my brother
is called Surasena, born after me, just as Siva had promised.’
Then he asked Hemaprabha who she was, and she told him her life history,
finishing with the words: ‘As soon as you told me about your previous life as a
Vidyadhari, I knew for certain that what my friend here told me must be true:
that I was a Vidyadhari. I also know that you and I were husband and wife in our
previous heavenly existence, and that the young man who appeared in my
dream, and carried me up into the sky above Siva’s hermitage, was none other
than you. And finally, I know—by the insight that I had in my former life—that
you have a minister who was the husband of my friend, and that they were both
Vidyadharis too. The curse that sent us all down to earth has ended. We can
return to heaven now.’
Then she and her friend took on their divine forms, and flew up to heaven,
leaving Lakshmisena standing alone in the glade, marvelling at what he had
heard and seen. And at that moment, King Buddhiprabha appeared, on a visit to
his daughter. When he found not her but the handsome young prince, he asked
him if he knew where she was, and Lakshmisena told him everything that had
happened.
‘Now I understand much that I never did understand about my beautiful
daughter,’ said the king. ‘But does this mean that I have lost her for good? That
she has returned to heaven with her friend, to be joined by you and by your
minister?’
‘It is true that I now know fully who I am,’ said Lakshmisena, ‘and that I and
my minister will follow our wives back to heaven very soon. But we shall bring
them back to earth for a while, so that our marriages can be solemnized and
blessed by you, and you and my minister’s father-in-law can take leave of your
daughters as you would have had to do some day when they got married. You
will be tearful, but also joyful at seeing them happily settled.’
Then he assumed his divine form, and flew up to heaven, leaving the king
gazing into the sky in amazement. The prince found his wife there, and his
minister too soon joined them, having recovered his own divine form. The two
couples then flew back to earth again, and their marriages were joyously
solemnized.
Lakshmisena’s father wished to give his son the kingdom, but Lakshmisena
insisted that it be given to his brother Surasena. Then the four Vidyadharis
returned to heaven, and Lakshmisena and Hemaprabha were restored to their
former glory not just as Vidyadharis but as king and queen of the Vidyadharis,
with Lakshmisena’s minister on earth his chief minister in heaven, and
Hemaprabha’s friend on earth her chief friend in heaven.
 61. The Moon’s Lake

A herd of elephants lived happily in the middle of a dense forest. They had a
king who was larger and stronger than any of the rest of the herd. He ruled them
wisely and thoughtfully.
For the last few years, however, a severe drought had affected the region.
Ponds and streams had dried up, trees were wilting, and the forest was becoming
empty of birds and small animals. The elephants too were losing their health
through not having enough water, and the elephant-king realized that if they
didn’t find more water soon, many of them would die.
So he sent out some of the herd to look for a new water source. One of the
elephants found a large lake in another forest some distance away. After
drinking his fill himself, and bathing ecstatically in the cool waters, he returned
to the king to give him the good news.
The king was very pleased and relieved to hear of the discovery of the lake,
and he ordered the whole herd to make its way to it.
One elephant walking up to the lake was not a problem; but a whole herd—
excited by the prospect of abundant water after so many months of thirst—was
another matter.
Round the shores of the lake there was a large colony of rabbits. They had
lived happily and undisturbed there for a long time, and loved playing about on
the green sward that circled the lake. But when the elephants arrived, and
charged over the grass to reach the lake, there was mayhem. Thousands of
rabbits were trampled to death, and their burrows were destroyed.
The king of the rabbit colony called an urgent meeting of the survivors.
‘Shocked and grief-stricken though we are,’ he said, ‘we must try to find a way
of ensuring that we are not trampled on again. Does anyone have a suggestion?’
The rabbits sat glumly round him, twitching their whiskers and wondering
what on earth they could do against a huge herd of galumphing elephants.
Suddenly, the small, piping voice of one of the youngest rabbits was heard. ‘I
think I know a way,’ he said, standing nervously in front of the king and the
assembled adult rabbits, ‘if you will let me go as a messenger to the king of the
assembled adult rabbits, ‘if you will let me go as a messenger to the king of the
elephants.’
The rabbit-king looked kindly at the young rabbit. He did not hope for much,
but he didn’t want to disappoint him either; so he said, ‘If you think you have a
solution, then I certainly give you permission to go. It will not be difficult to find
your way to the elephant-king, for the herd has left such heavy, ugly tracks
through the forest.’
The young rabbit scuttled off, and quickly caught up with the elephants, who
were sauntering back to their normal place of abode. He recognized the king by
his enormous size, and by the courtiers and ministers who respectfully
surrounded him as he walked along.
Wary about being crushed, the rabbit climbed up on to a rock above where the
herd was proceeding, and raising his small voice to as high a volume and pitch
as he could manage, he called down to the elephant-king.
‘Your majesty,’ he piped, ‘please hear me.’
The king heard his squeaky cry, and looked up at him. ‘Who are you?’ he
boomed, trying not to frighten the rabbit by trumpeting too loudly. ‘What do you
wish to tell me?’
‘I am a messenger,’ said the rabbit.
‘From whom?’ said the elephant-king.
‘From the moon,’ said the rabbit.
‘From the moon?’ said the elephant-king with amusement. ‘What message
have you brought to us from the moon?’
‘Promise you will not be angry with me,’ said the rabbit. ‘I am only the
messenger. A messenger should not be blamed for any news he brings, however
bad.’
‘Speak freely,’ said the elephant-king. ‘No harm will befall you.’
‘The moon has asked me to say this,’ said the young rabbit. ‘She says that you
came with your herd of elephants to her lake. You charged to its shore without
care or thought, and trampled to death thousands of the rabbits who live around
it. The rabbits are specially favoured by the moon. She likes to see us playing in
her moonlight at night; and unlike you, we do not soil the lake by stirring it up
and making it muddy. She asks me to warn you that if you come again and kill
her rabbits, something terrible will happen to you all.’
The king was shocked by what he heard. He did not know anything about the
 The king was shocked by what he heard. He did not know anything about the
lake belonging to the moon, but he could appreciate that if there were rabbits
living by the lake, many of them would have been crushed and killed by the
elephant-herd.
‘It is indeed shameful what we have done,’ he said. ‘We should have
approached the lake slowly and carefully. But we were so thirsty and so excited
by the prospect of its cool water, that we stampeded towards it unthinkingly.
What can I do to make amends? Please let me come alone with you to the lake,
so that I can ask the moon to forgive our sins, and also apologize sincerely to
your fellow-rabbits.’
The elephant-king followed the young rabbit back to the lake, and by the time
they reached it darkness had fallen. There was a full moon, and it was perfectly
reflected in the lake.
Being rather less intelligent than the rabbit, the elephant-king did not realize
that he was looking at a reflection. ‘There,’ said the young rabbit, ‘look at the
moon in her lake.’
‘I must bow down before her, and worship her,’ said the elephant-king; and he
knelt down by the edge of the lake, and laid his trunk reverently in the waters.
At once there were ripples in the water, spreading out into the lake and
ruffling the reflected face of the moon.
‘Look at the moon’s face,’ said the young rabbit. ‘You can see how furrowed
and disturbed it is. She is angry with you.’
‘What have I done now?’ said the elephant-king.
‘You have touched the holy waters of her lake,’ said the rabbit. ‘You should
not have done that.’
‘Please ask the moon to forgive me,’ said the elephant-king. ‘Please tell her
how deeply remorseful and ashamed I and all the elephants are, at desecrating
the waters of her lake, and trampling on the rabbits whom she permits to live so
peaceably here.’
‘I will,’ said the rabbit, ‘provided you promise never to come back here
again.’
So the elephant-king went away, rejoined his herd, and took them back to
their own forest. Soon after their return, it rained—long and hard. The ponds and
streams filled up again, and there was no need to go back to the lake. Even so,
the elephant-king never realized that the rabbit had tricked him, and he remained
reverently respectful towards rabbits for ever after.
reverently respectful towards rabbits for ever after.
 62. The Two Cheats

Two farmers called Abdul and Mahmud were both very wily and clever, but also
very dishonest. They didn’t know each other, for they lived on opposite banks of
a river. But it was a small, shallow river, and in the dry season it was perfectly
possible to wade across.
One day Mahmud was walking along his side of the river, carrying a sack of
banana seeds on his head. Abdul was walking along the other side, carrying a
sack of grass seeds.
Abdul shouted across to Mahmud, ‘That’s a large sack you’ve got. What’s in
it?’
‘Black peppercorns,’ said Mahmud, lying. ‘I’m taking them home, but
tomorrow I’m going to sell them in the market.’
‘He’ll make a lot of money,’ thought Abdul. ‘Somehow I must try to get him
to exchange his sack of peppercorns for my sack of grass seeds.’
So he shouted back, ‘I’ve got a sack of cloves.’
‘Cloves are worth a good deal,’ thought Mahmud. ‘Somehow I must find a
way of getting him to exchange his sack of cloves for my sack of banana seeds.’
They went on chatting as they walked along, and after a while Mahmud said
to Abdul, ‘Why haven’t we spoken before? I already feel we’re like brothers.
Why don’t we exchange our sacks as a pledge of friendship? Peppercorns are
worth much the same as cloves.’
‘Fine,’ said Abdul, looking forward to getting a sack of peppercorns in
exchange for a sack of grass seeds.
Mahmud was equally pleased, for he expected to get a sack of cloves in
exchange for a sack of banana seeds.
So he waded across the river, and they cheerfully exchanged sacks. Then he
recrossed the river, and made his way home, while Abdul went on back to his
home. They were both happy, for each thought he had cheated the other.
They were not so pleased, however, when they got home and opened the
sacks; for Mahmud found he had got nothing but grass seeds, and Abdul found
the banana seeds. But they also both chuckled to themselves, for they admired
the banana seeds. But they also both chuckled to themselves, for they admired
each other’s cleverness.
A competition now developed between them, as to who could successfully
outwit the other.
Two days after their first meeting, Mahmud lit a fire in the clay stove in front
of his house, and put a pot of water on to boil. Abdul saw the smoke of the fire,
and called across to him, ‘What are you cooking?’
‘I went to the market yesterday,’ said Mahmud, ‘and sold some of the cloves
you gave me in exchange for my peppercorns. I bought some rice with the
money, and now I am cooking it.’
‘I did the same with the peppercorns I got from you,’ said Abdul. ‘I’ve got
some rice, but no fuel. Can I come over and add my rice to your pot?’
‘Ah-ha,’ thought Mahmud to himself. ‘That way I’ll get a meal for nothing.’
Then he called out loud, ‘Of course you can come, my friend. We can eat
together.’
Abdul then went into his house, and came out with a piece of cloth, bundled
so that it looked as if it contained rice. He waded across, carrying it carefully.
When he was alongside Mahmud’s cooking pot, he held the bundle of cloth
over it, and then said suddenly, ‘Look at that huge vulture over there!’
Mahmud looked away at the vulture and, while his attention was distracted,
Abdul pretended to empty his bundle of rice into the pot, and put back the lid.
After a while, Mahmud said, ‘The rice must be cooked now.’ He lifted the lid
of the pot, and found nothing but boiling water.
They both burst out laughing when they saw they had cheated each other
again! Mahmud said, ‘We’re too clever for each other. Why don’t we join
forces? That way, we could both become rich.’
Abdul was happy with this suggestion, and they set off walking, to see what
luck would bring them.
They reached a village where a rich merchant had just died, and his relatives
had assembled, hoping to divide his wealth up amongst themselves. He had only
recently moved to the village, and was not well known to the villagers.
Mahmud and Abdul worked out a plan. They went to the merchant’s grave at
dead of night, opened it up, removed the dead body, and buried it in a field. Then
Mahmud lay down in the grave, and Abdul closed it up, making sure there was
an outlet, so that Mahmud could breathe.
an outlet, so that Mahmud could breathe.
The next day, Abdul returned to the village, weeping and wailing. When the
villagers asked him what was up, he said, ‘The man who has just died was my
father. I rushed here as soon as I got the news. But I hear that other relatives—
distant relatives whom I have never seen—have got here first, and are plotting to
do me out of my inheritance.’
The villagers were concerned when they heard this, and called the relatives to
come out of the merchant’s house and meet Abdul.
‘He says he is his son,’ said the relatives, ‘but we’ve never met him before,
and we never knew or heard that our noble relative had a son. Can he prove he is
his son?’
‘Come to the grave,’ said Abdul, ‘and I’ll prove it to you; for wise men say
that if a close relative calls out to a body just after it has been buried, its spirit
answers from the grave.’
And this of course was what happened! Abdul called out, as if to his father,
and Mahmud replied with a groaning sound that scared the wits out of the
relatives who were standing there. Then, still groaning, but speaking distinctly,
Mahmud said, ‘This young man is indeed my son, and if you don’t give him
seven bags of gold at once, terrible things will happen to you.’
The terrified relatives went back to the merchant’s house with Abdul, and
gave him the gold; and he loaded it on to an ox-cart—entirely forgetting about
Mahmud.
Meanwhile, however, Mahmud climbed out of the grave, walked to the
market, and bought a fine pair of shoes. ‘I’ll trick Abdul this time,’ he said to
himself. He hid in some bushes near Abdul’s house, and waited for him to come
home.
He soon saw him approaching in the ox-cart. Taking care not to be seen, he
threw one of the shoes in the path of the cart. Then he ran on ahead, and put the
other shoe in the middle of the road too.
He hid again, and saw Abdul stop the cart, and bend down to look at the shoe.
‘A good shoe,’ said Abdul to himself, ‘but not much use without the other.’ And
he carried on.
Then he reached the other shoe. This time he said to himself, ‘I was stupid not
to pick up the first one. I’d better go back and find it.’
So he got down from the cart, and while he walked back to find the first shoe,
Mahmud ran out from the bushes, jumped into the cart, and drove it off, back to
Mahmud ran out from the bushes, jumped into the cart, and drove it off, back to
his own house.
‘He’s cheated me again!’ said Abdul to himself, as he saw the ox-cart
disappearing round the corner. ‘No one else can cheat like he can! But I’ll get
even with him in the end.’
That evening, he went round to Mahmud’s house. Mahmud had already
counted the money, and buried it under the floor of his house.
‘I know what you’ve done,’ said Abdul, ‘but we had a pact. Don’t you
remember? You must divide the gold with me.’
‘I will,’ said Mahmud, ‘but not now. It’s too late. Come back in the morning.’
Overnight, Mahmud and his wife worked out a way of keeping all the gold for
themselves.
When Abdul arrived, Mahmud’s wife appeared at the door, weeping and
dishevelled. ‘My husband died last night,’ she sobbed. ‘What shall I do now?
What shall I live on?’ Then she pointed to her husband, who was lying on the
floor, pretending to be dead.
‘I’m sorry to hear about his death,’ said Abdul, ‘but you need not worry about
money. I know for a fact that Mahmud has seven bags of gold hidden
somewhere in this house.’
‘He never said anything about that to me,’ said Mahmud’s wife, in floods of
tears.
‘All right,’ said Abdul soothingly, ‘don’t worry. I’ll look after you. But first I
must bury the body.’
Abdul tied Mahmud’s feet together, and dragged him off to the graveyard.
Despite the bruising and scratching he received as he was dragged along,
Mahmud continued to pretend to be dead, for otherwise he knew Abdul would
force him to share the gold.
Abdul dragged Mahmud not to the graveyard, but into a dense forest. It was
too dark and late to go further, so he climbed into a tree, and left Mahmud lying
at its foot.
Some robbers passed by, and noticed Mahmud’s body in the darkness.
‘He’s dead,’ said the robber-chief, prodding him. ‘That will bring us good
luck. If we manage to steal anything tonight, we must come back and bury him.’
Later on they returned with a large haul, and sat down under the tree to share
it out.
it out.
‘We must leave a share of this money with the dead man when we bury him,’
said the robber-chief, ‘for he brought us good luck.’
‘That’s a stupid idea,’ said the other robbers. ‘What use will it be to him now?
Let’s just bury him.’
So they began to dig a grave.
At this point, Mahmud decided he had had enough of pretending to be dead.
He tore off the rope, and staggered to his feet, shouting loudly. At the same time,
Abdul jumped down from the tree on top of the robbers. They all thought they
were being attacked by demons, and ran off in terror.
Abdul and Mahmud now looked at each other in the dappled moonlight of the
forest. They laughed and embraced.
‘Let’s be real friends now,’ said Abdul. ‘We really are too clever for each
other. Let’s never try to cheat one another again.’
They took the sack of treasure that the robbers had left, and took it back to
Mahmud’s house to add to the seven bags of gold he already had. They divided
everything equally, and from that day on they were the best and most loyal of
friends—never cheating each other, though they continued to cheat other people
mercilessly.
 63. The Witch’s Dinner

A herdsman, after a long day in the fields, felt a sharp craving for some rice-
cakes, so, when he got home he asked his old mother to make some. ‘But we’re
so poor,’ said the old woman. ‘Where is the rice, where is the milk, where is the
sugar that I need to make the cakes?’
‘I’ll see to that,’ said the herdsman. ‘I agree you can’t make them today, but
I’ll make sure you have what you need tomorrow.’
Early next morning, he drove his cows not to pasture land as usual, but to
some ripening paddy-fields. He let the cows loose into the fields—before any
farmer was there to see them—and then drove them home again. He beat the
cows soundly with his stick, and poked their stomachs so that they became
nauseous and vomited up all that they had eaten. Covering his nose with a
handkerchief, the herdsman carefully picked out from the vomit all the grains of
rice they had eaten, and laid them out in the sun to dry.
That was the rice taken care of. Now he needed to get milk and sugar. He
carried a bucket of water to a place on the path where he could hide behind a
bush, and poured the water over the path to make it muddy and slippery. A
milkman came along, slithered in the mud, and spilt a quantity of milk. Much of
it was caught in the ruts of the path, so that when the milkman had gone, the
herdsman was able to scoop some of it up and half-fill his bucket.
Then a grocer passed, pushing a cart laden with provisions for his shop. He
also slipped in the mud, his cart lurched, and a bag of sugar fell off. When he
had picked himself up and carried on, there was a quantity of sugar on the path.
The herdsman filled his pockets with it, and went off back to his home.
He gave his mother the rice, the milk and the sugar and, after a lot of
grumbling about how filthy they were, she made the cakes. The herdsman ate his
fill of the cakes, keeping one over, which he took to the fields next time he went
out with his cattle.
In an isolated spot near the pastures where he normally grazed the cows, he
planted the cake, and soon it grew into a tree. The tree bore piping-hot rice-cakes
instead of fruit, so the herdsman could now eat them to his stomach’s content,
instead of fruit, so the herdsman could now eat them to his stomach’s content,
each time he went to the fields.
One day, when he was resting under the tree, after stuffing himself with the
cakes, a daini—one of the man-eating witches who are acolytes of the goddess
Kali—passed by. She saw the tree with the cakes hanging from its branches, and
asked the herdsman to pick one for her. ‘I’m bent and old,’ she said, ‘and I
cannot reach up to the branches of the tree as easily as you can.’
‘What will you put the cake in, if I give you one?’ asked the herdsman.
‘I’ll hold it in my hand,’ said the witch.
‘It will burn your hand,’ said the herdsman.
‘Then put it into my mouth,’ said the witch.
‘It will burn your mouth,’ said the herdsman.
‘Then put it into my bag,’ said the witch, pointing to a tattered old bag that
was slung over her stooping shoulder.
‘All right,’ said the herdsman. He reached up for a cake—using the tongs that
he carried to the fields for this purpose—and was about to put it into the old
crone’s bag.
But before he could do so she had gripped him by the neck, and with
malevolent, superhuman strength had picked him up from the ground and shoved
him into her bag. She pulled the strings of the bag tight, and the muffled voice of
the herdsman could be heard saying: ‘What have you done? I kindly gave you a
cake, and instead of thanking me you’ve shoved me into your bag!’
‘That’s because I’m hungry,’ said the witch. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve had
human flesh to eat, and you will make a very tasty supper.’
She then walked on along the path, with her bag slung over her shoulder.
Feeling thirsty, she stopped by a stream, and laid the bag down while she went
down to the water.
Some other herdsmen came along the path, and saw the bag lying there, with
its knobbly-looking contents. They went right up to it to examine it more
carefully, and heard a groaning inside it. They immediately undid the strings of
the bag, and were amazed to find the herdsman, groaning and pleading for help.
They pulled him out, and when they heard from him that the old crone down by
the stream was a witch, they quickly filled the bag with stones, and ran off as
fast as they could.
The witch returned to her bag, and hoisted it on to her shoulders, not realizing
 The witch returned to her bag, and hoisted it on to her shoulders, not realizing
that it contained stones now, not the herdsman.
She reached her home, and greeted her children with the happy news that she
had a human victim in her bag, whom they could all enjoy for supper. But when
she opened the bag, and found nothing but stones, her children were furious—
and called their mother all sorts of names. The witch vowed vengeance on the
herdsman, and promised her children that the next day they really would get
human flesh for supper.
She went back to the cake-tree, and found the herdsman sitting there as
before. He looked at her calmly, and said, ‘Oh, it’s you again! But don’t imagine
I’m going to give you a rice-cake today!’
The witch then applied all her powers of persuasion, whining and wheedling
and promising that if he gave her just one cake, she wouldn’t harm him and
would never bother him further.
The herdsman foolishly gave in to her persuasions, and when he handed her
the cake she gripped him by the neck again and shoved him into her bag. This
time she walked straight home without stopping. She displayed her booty to her
children, and they were thrilled. Then she tied the herdsman securely to a tree
outside her house, and said to her daughter, ‘I’ve got to go out and beg now, but
you can kill this man, cut him into pieces, and cook him in time for supper when
I return.’
The witch’s daughter looked closely at the herdsman and said, ‘I’m going to
kill you in a minute with this sharp cooking-knife, but before I do, please tell me
how you manage to have such beautiful white teeth.’
‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘If you bring me a kettleful of oil and a skein of flax, I
can show you how to acquire teeth as white and regular as mine. But you’ll have
to untie me first.’
Such was the witch’s daughter’s vanity that she fell for his offer. When she
had untied him, and brought the oil and the flax, he told her to lie down. He
covered her teeth with the flax, and heated the kettleful of oil on the fire. As
soon as the oil was boiling hot, he tipped it into her mouth and, after thrashing
her limbs and screaming for a few minutes, she turned limp and died.
The herdsman checked she was absolutely dead, then stripped off her clothes
and ornaments. He dressed in them himself, cut the witch-girl up, and cooked
her in the cooking pot that she had prepared for him.
The old witch returned, and called her children to come for supper. ‘This will
 The old witch returned, and called her children to come for supper. ‘This will
be a meal such as you have never known,’ she said. ‘How delicious it smells!’
Then, turning to the herdsman, who she thought was her daughter, she said, ‘Is
everything ready?’
The herdsman merely said ‘Hum’, for he knew that if he said more in his
man’s voice the witch would realize who he was. Then he slipped out, as if to
wash his hands in the river outside the house. The witch’s other children could
not restrain their greed any longer, and they fell to, eating the succulent flesh of
their own sister with slurpings and smackings of delight. The witch too tucked
in; then—wondering what had happened to her eldest daughter—went out to
look for her. She peered into the darkness, and saw her daughter—so she thought
—wading into the river. ‘What are you doing?’ she shouted. ‘Aren’t you going
to join us for the supper you cooked beautifully? It’s getting late!’
‘Too late for you to catch me,’ shouted the herdsman, and plunged into the
water.
‘Come back, daughter,’ shrieked the witch, ‘it’s a dark stormy night, and you
will drown!’
‘I’m not your daughter,’ yelled the herdsman, ‘and I’m a good strong
swimmer. Your daughter is already in the stomachs of your other children—and
you’ve probably enjoyed a piece of her too. Goodbye!’
And with that, he swam to the other side, leaving the witch cursing and
screeching, but powerless to prevent him returning to his own mother. Maybe he
stopped on the way at the rice-cake tree, to stave off a hunger that was raging
now, and to take away the disgusting thought of the witch’s daughter’s flesh that
he had chopped and cooked!
 64. The Garland of Fingers

There was a prince of Sri Lanka called Ahimsaka, which means ‘harmless’,
‘doing no violence to others’. But he also became known, for a very grim and
tragic period in his life, as Anguli-mala, which means ‘garland of fingers’. It
happened like this.
The prince’s father was in very poor health, and scarcely able to rule. The
government of the kingdom was in the hands of his brother, who also acted as
regent to Prince Ahimsaka, whom everyone thought of as king in everything but
name—too young to take over the rule of the kingdom, but likely to be crowned
at any moment, for no one expected his father to live long. This situation meant
that the young prince was held in awe, and no one dared go against his will or
desire.
There should have been no problem in this, for the prince was gentle and
studious. He was devoted to his teachers, and in particular to the chief guru of
the academy where he was sent to be trained in all arts and sciences. But
precisely because he was so virtuous, and such a model student, and because he
commanded such widespread awe and respect, his younger brothers (who were
idle and unintelligent) grew very jealous of him. The love that they should have
had for him as their brother turned to vicious hatred and, by the time the prince
was in his teens, they had spread many malicious rumours about him.
Loyalty and faithfulness to a guru has always been an absolute principle in
India, and therefore one of the worst sins anyone can commit is to have an affair
with the wife of one’s guru. Prince Ahimsaka’s brothers began to insinuate that
the gentle, handsome prince—who was only sixteen, and looked young for his
years—had nevertheless been spending too much time alone with his guru’s
wife. She was young too, much younger than her husband—so how could they
not be attracted to each other?
One of the princes went to a junior teacher of the academy and told him that
people were gossiping about Prince Ahimsaka and his guru’s wife, and the
teacher told the guru about this. The guru was immediately consumed by rage
and jealousy, and assumed that the rumours were well-founded, and that his wife
and jealousy, and assumed that the rumours were well-founded, and that his wife
—if not already seduced by the handsome young prince—was in serious danger
of succumbing to him.
He therefore locked his wife away, with many cruel and unwarranted words,
and banned her from ever speaking to the prince again.
As the prince’s guru, he was the one person who was not in awe of him and
could, indeed, claim power over him: the prince’s absolute obedience to his guru
could be abused. This is what now occurred.
The guru called the prince to him and said coldly and brutally: ‘You are the
king’s eldest son, and could inherit the throne from him at any time. Everyone
fears you, and nobody dares deny you your will or desire. You have been seen
alone with my wife, and I have reason to think that you have been using your
authority over her to make her bend to your lascivious desires. As your guru, not
only can I command you to desist from this, but I can punish you for your sin.
The punishment is this. You must go out into the world and collect a thousand
little fingers, severed from human hands and strung into a garland. Only when
you return with such a garland will I permit you to complete your studies.’
The prince was appalled by this request, but his obedience to his guru made it
impossible for him to refuse it, or even to say anything to deny the false charges.
He stood stock-still, staring at the ground, unable to speak, with tears in his eyes.
The guru’s words cut into his ears and brain like a knife of fire. Then he bowed,
left the guru, and walked slowly to a tree under which he could sit on his own, to
think about the appalling task that he had been set.
‘I am destined to be a king,’ he said to himself, ‘and to be a king I must
acquire learning and wisdom. I have been sent to my guru to acquire that
learning and wisdom. The rumours that he charges me with are false, but there
must be a reason why such rumours have arisen. The task my guru has set me is
a test: without those rumours he would not have set me this test. They must
therefore be faced, false though they are. It is not for me to question what my
guru commands; nor should I question the reasons for his command. I must be
obedient to him: it is only through total obedience that I can acquire learning and
wisdom, and be a fit ruler of this kingdom.’
By this grim and circuitous reasoning, the prince decided that he had no
option but to carry out his guru’s horrible command. He equipped himself with
his sharpest sword and walked down to the beach, where fishermen were
his sharpest sword and walked down to the beach, where fishermen were
bringing in their boats and nets.
He approached one of the fishermen and said, ‘I am Prince Ahimsaka, and
you know that it is my destiny to be king. My father is ill, and my word is
already law. I command you to lay your right hand on the edge of your boat.’
The fisherman was puzzled by this, but saw no danger in what the prince was
commanding. He smiled, and laid his hand on the edge of his boat.
‘Spread your fingers wide,’ said the prince.
The fisherman did so.
Then Prince Ahimsaka suddenly pulled out his sword from beneath his robe,
and with the swiftness and skill that he had acquired from his teachers of
swordsmanship he swept it down and sliced off the fisherman’s little finger. The
man howled with pain, and staggered off, too amazed and horrified to protest.
He was a humble fisherman. Who was he to resist the command of the crown
prince?
With that, began Prince Ahimsaka’s reign of terror. Storytellers give many
versions of its horror. Some say that he cut off only fingers. Others say that he
chopped whole hands off. Still others say that he chopped people’s heads off,
dismembered the bodies and kept only the little fingers. With each mutilation or
killing, the task grew easier. Criminal cronies started to follow him around—
disaffected, violent young men who enjoyed the bloodletting, and who helped
him in his task by finding and attacking new victims. The prince set a target of at
least ten fingers a day. Each one, he would string on to a white cotton thread,
which he wore round his neck. The fingers would putrefy and fall off, which
meant he had to find even more.
He found his victims among the poorest, most marginal people, as he travelled
into remote regions of the kingdom. They were too poor and ignorant to protest:
they did not know where they could go to protest. They were cowed and terrified
by the prince and his gang. They picked up the bodies of victims who died, and
silently burned them—or else they would bury them in mass graves on the
beach. The waves of the sea would invade the graves and expose the corpses
again on the sand of the beach, where crows and vultures devoured them.
The prince went on and on, maiming and killing, convinced that he was doing
this to acquire wisdom and learning, for his guru had commanded him, and
would not teach him again till he returned with the garland of a thousand fingers.
Yet, because the fingers kept putrefying and falling off, he never reached that
 Yet, because the fingers kept putrefying and falling off, he never reached that
number! He maimed and killed more and more people, but the target of a
thousand little fingers still seemed unattainable.
There would have been no end to this dreadful story had not the misery and
terror of the humble people whom the prince was so brutally oppressing reached
the ears of Lord Buddha. The Buddha came and found the prince, on a remote
beach where he was encamped with his violent, foul-mouthed followers. The
prince had not fallen into their drunken ways: he sat calmly in their midst, the
incomplete garland of fingers round his neck. His thoughts were still on the task
he must carry out, as an act of obedience to his guru, so that he could return to
him and finish his studies. All feeling, all sympathy for his victims had drained
out of him.
With the infinite compassion that he felt even for the perpetrators of the most
terrible crimes—for he knew that their actions stemmed from fear and ignorance
—the Buddha spoke to Prince Ahimsaka, and gradually made him see the
cruelty and error of what he had done. He taught him the Pancha Sila, or Five
Precepts, showing him that the first two alone—to refrain from injuring living
things and to refrain from taking that which is not given—made the prince’s
actions absolutely wrong, for all his obedience to his guru. He taught him the
Four Rules—of loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity.
Instead of the monster of violence and cruelty that he had become, the prince
became not only the gentle, studious boy he had been before, but a monk—one
of the most revered monks of all time—who brought peace and comfort
wherever he went.
He never returned to his kingdom, never gave his guru the incomplete garland
of fingers. The kingdom suffered dreadfully from disputes over the succession
when the old king died—from quarrels between the prince’s malicious and
ignorant brothers. It took a long time for the seeds of evil they had sown by their
envy and scandal-mongering—and for the evil command of the chief guru—to
be paid for in suffering and conflict. Prince Ahimsaka, in his preaching, taught
that such suffering is inevitable if Buddhist principles are betrayed— as they
were by his own wicked actions, during his dark days as Anguli-mala.
 65. The Three Questions

A stranger was walking down the main street of a town in ancient Sri Lanka. He
stopped one of the townspeople and asked, ‘Tell me, what sort of ruler is your
king? Does he have any faults?’
‘No,’ said the townsman, ‘he has no faults at all. He is strong and decisive,
and everyone holds him in awe.’
‘But can he’, asked the stranger, ‘give true answers to the following three
questions: where is the centre of his country, how many stars are there in the
sky, and what exactly does Indra, king of the gods, do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the townsman, ‘but I can go and ask him.’
‘Good luck if you do,’ said the stranger, and disappeared into the crowd.
The king was due to give a public audience the very next day, so the
townsman went along to see if he did indeed know about the three curious
matters that the stranger had mentioned.
‘A stranger stopped me in the street,’ he said, ‘and asked if you could answer
three questions.’
‘What questions?’ asked the king.
‘Where is the centre of your kingdom, how many stars are there in the night
sky, and what does Indra, king of the gods, do?’
‘Hum,’ said the king, ‘I must take advice on this.’
He called an assembly of the Ratemahatmayas—the highest provincial chiefs
—and put the three questions to them. None of them could answer. ‘That’s not
good enough,’ said the king. ‘You are supposed to be able to advise me in all
matters. If you can’t do that, you’re no use to me. I sentence you to death.’
The royal executioner was summoned, and the Ratemahatmayas were
beheaded.
The king then called his Adikaramas—his government ministers—to attend
on him, and put the three questions to them. They couldn’t answer them either.
‘Not good enough,’ said the king. ‘You are my ministers, and are supposed to
help me in all matters of state. What use are you to me if you can’t answer such
simple questions? I sentence you all to death.’
simple questions? I sentence you all to death.’
The royal executioner was summoned again, and the ministers too were
swiftly and ruthlessly beheaded.
The king then called his royal preceptor—his chief spiritual adviser—and put
the same three questions to him.
The preceptor played for time. ‘I cannot answer today,’ he said, ‘but I shall
come back and tell you tomorrow.’
‘Very well,’ said the king, ‘but do not fail. You have seen what has happened
to those who have failed to answer.’
The royal preceptor returned to his house, and lay down miserably on his bed
—face down. What was to be done? He didn’t know the answers to the three
questions either! All he could do was prepare his soul for certain death.
A youth who looked after the royal preceptor’s goats saw his master lying
motionless on the bed, and came to see what the matter was.
‘Why are you looking so unhappy, sir?’ he asked.
‘The king has been given three questions’, said the preceptor, ‘by a townsman
who heard them from a stranger. He is ashamed about not being able to answer
them himself, and asked his Ratemahatmayas and his Adikaramas. None of them
knew, and they have all been executed. That fate now awaits me for, though I
have been lying here racking my brains, for the last few hours, I cannot answer
the questions either. I would weep, were it not futile to weep. All I can do is
prepare and compose my soul.’
‘Is the problem just that?’ said the youth. ‘Let me come with you to the palace
tomorrow, for I think I know a way to solve it.’
‘How can you—poor and uneducated—know answers to questions that have
baffled the greatest men in the land?’ asked the preceptor.
‘Wait and see,’ said the youth.
The next morning, the preceptor arrived at the palace, pale and drawn after a
sleepless night, and the young goatherd came with him. They joined the durbar
that the king held daily in the outer yard of the palace.
‘Well,’ said the king, ‘do you have the answers to the three questions?’
The preceptor looked at the goatherd, at his calm and confident demeanour,
and suddenly felt more confident himself. ‘Why should I not?’ he said. ‘Even
my goatherd here knows the answers to such simple questions.’
‘Really?’ said the king. ‘In that case, he is wiser than us all. Let’s hear him.’
 ‘Really?’ said the king. ‘In that case, he is wiser than us all. Let’s hear him.’
The king then asked the goatherd the first question: ‘Where is the centre of the
kingdom?’
The youth stuck a stick into the ground and said, ‘The centre is right here.
Measure the distance from the four corners of the kingdom to this point, and if
the distance is not equal you may gladly behead me.’
‘Clever,’ said the king, for he had no idea how to find the four corners of his
kingdom, or how to measure the distance accurately. ‘I don’t know if your
answer is correct, but I cannot prove it wrong. I therefore concede that you have
answered it well. How about the second one?’
The king then asked the goatherd the second question: ‘How many stars are
there in the sky?’
The goatherd smiled, and took off the goatskin coat he was wearing. He threw
it down on the ground and said, ‘Count the hairs in that goatskin, and then count
the stars in the sky. If the two numbers are not equal, you may gladly behead
me.’
‘Cleverer still,’ said the king. ‘I do not know if you are right, but I cannot
prove you wrong, so your answer is satisfactory. How about the third question?’
The king then asked the goatherd the third question: ‘What does Indra, king of
the gods, do?’
‘That is a big question,’ said the youth, ‘and I cannot answer it wearing the
humble clothes that I am wearing now.’
The king was intrigued and amused by this. ‘What clothes do you need to
wear?’ he asked.
‘Clothes like yours,’ said the youth, ‘and I need a crown and a sword and a
throne too.’
Even more amused, the king called his courtiers to take the youth out, bathe
him, and dress him in the finest royal garments. ‘And when you are ready,’ he
said, ‘you can borrow my crown and my sword, and sit on my throne. You have
already shown yourself to be cleverer than my chiefs, my ministers and my royal
preceptor, and you deserve to take precedence over them. Maybe you can
replace them as my adviser, if you answer the question well.’
The courtiers took the youth out, and brought him back in magnificent attire.
The king rose from his throne, gave the youth his crown and his sword, and
stood back, waiting for the goatherd to answer the third question.
The goatherd sat on the throne, and composed himself elegantly. Then a
 The goatherd sat on the throne, and composed himself elegantly. Then a
serious look came over his face: he frowned, and an expression of pain and
compassion came into his eyes.
‘Hear my answer,’ he said. ‘The world is full of cruelty and suffering. It
would not be so, if the gods were not cruel, and if Indra, king of the gods, were
not the cruellest of all. In this court, you have seen your king—whom you
revered for his strength and wisdom—act with ruthless cruelty. All his chiefs
and all his ministers have been beheaded. They have left wives and children
weeping and bereft and defenceless. You ask what Indra does? He does things
like that. Your actions as a king have been no better. You have answered the
third question by your own vile actions. Suffer now what you caused others to
suffer!’
Then, with a lightning movement, the goatherd sprang from the throne, leapt
over to the king, and sliced his head off with one sweep of the sword.
The courtiers, the preceptor and all the assembled citizens were aghast. But
they could not dispute the logic and justice of what the goatherd had said and
done. They hailed him king, and he ruled thereafter justly and kindly, with no
more undeserved executions, and no more unanswered questions—for there was
nothing that he could not answer, so wise and clever was he.
 66. Tales of the Tom-Tom Beaters

In many parts of India, weavers are associated with naivety and simplicity, and
there are many stories about foolish weavers. The Kadambawas—or tom-tom
beaters—of Sri Lanka were weavers once, before imported cloth destroyed their
trade. That may be why so many tales are told of their foolishness.
In one, a Kadambawa man yoked his bullock to a cart, and set off on a journey
to Puttalam. ‘My bullock knows the way,’ he said, ‘so all I need do is follow it.’
He walked merrily along behind the cart, singing and chatting to himself.
The bullock walked stolidly along the edge of the man’s rice-field, but,
instead of leaving it when it got to the corner, it simply turned and continued
along the edge of it. It went on all the way round the field till it came to the path
that led to the man’s house.
His children came running out and said, ‘What’s happened, father? You said
you were going to Puttalam! How have you got back so quickly?’
‘What are you talking about?’ said the man, so absorbed in his songs and his
thoughts that he failed to recognize his own children. Thinking he had reached
another village, he said, ‘I haven’t got to Puttalam yet. My bullock knows the
way, and will get me there all in good time.’
He prodded the bullock with his stick, and the beast kept walking on—along
the edge of his field, turning at the corner, and on right round it till it reached the
path to his house.
As the cart approached, his laughing children said once again, ‘Back again,
father? Puttalam can’t be far off at all, if you’ve been there and back twice
already!’
‘What do you mean?’ said the man. ‘And why do you keep on calling me
father? It’s a long way still to Puttalam, and my bullock will get there all in good
time.’
Having failed to recognize his house or his children a second time, he prodded
the bullock, and it set off round his rice field just as it had done twice before.
The third time that he reached his house, his wife came out, having been told
by her children how confused her husband was. ‘You may have no idea how
by her children how confused her husband was. ‘You may have no idea how
many children you have fathered,’ she chuckled, ‘but I hope at least you know
that I am their mother! If you can’t find your way to Puttalam, even with the
help of your bullock, you’d best stay here with us.’
‘Blast the beast!’ said the man, understanding at last where he was. ‘If it
doesn’t know the way, I shan’t get to Puttalam, for I haven’t any idea myself. Is
supper ready?’
And he cheerfully settled down with his family for a meal.

In a second story, twelve Kadambawa men went off into the jungle to cut fence-
sticks. They worked hard for an hour or two, and each man tied the sticks he had
cut into a bundle. They then leant the bundles against each other, and sat down
for a rest and a smoke before setting off back home.
When they were ready, one of them said, ‘Are we all here? We mustn’t go
back unless all twelve of us are together. It wouldn’t be safe to leave one man
alone in the jungle. Let me count.’
He then counted his friends, but forgot to count himself, so he had only
eleven. He then counted the bundles, and found there were twelve. ‘Twelve
bundles, but only eleven of us,’ he said. ‘One of us is not here.’
‘Are you sure?’ said another. ‘Let me count.’ He counted the bundles and
found twelve, but then he counted the men, and—just like his friend—forgot to
count himself, so he had only eleven.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Twelve bundles, but only eleven of us. What can have
happened?’
Then a third member of the group counted, and reached the same conclusion;
and one by one they counted the bundles and each other, with each one of them
forgetting to count himself.
‘We’d better go back into the jungle to look,’ said the last man to count.
They went back into the jungle and searched and shouted till dusk fell. They
got more and more hot and bothered and bad-tempered with each other, at failing
to find the one they thought was missing.
A stranger was walking along the path they had taken, and heard the noise of
thrashing and shouting in the dark jungle to one side. ‘What’s going on?’ he
called. The twelve men emerged, and told him that one of their number was
missing. ‘There should be twelve,’ they said, ‘but we’ve all counted, and there
are only eleven.’
‘Are those the sticks you have cut?’ asked the stranger, pointing to the twelve
bundles.
‘Yes,’ said the Kadambawas.
‘Then each of you pick up a bundle,’ said the man.
They did so, and there was a man for each bundle.
‘Twelve bundles and twelve men,’ said the stranger. ‘What are you worried
about?’
Puzzled, but grateful to the stranger for solving their problem, the twelve men
took their leave of him, and made their way back home.

In a third story, four Kadambawas were walking along a road, when they met a
man of an even lower caste than themselves.
Before he passed them, he bowed—as was usual in such cases in days gone by
—and said, ‘Awasara’, which means ‘permission’, and was said politely when
asking someone of a higher caste if one could pass.
When he was out of sight, the four men started to argue about which of them
he had said ‘Awasara’ to, for, whichever one he had addressed could then claim
a higher status.
Their argument became so heated, that they decided the only way to resolve it
was to find the man and ask him which one he had meant. So they ran back
along on the road, until they had caught up with the passer-by.
‘When you passed us,’ they said, ‘you said, “Awasara”. But whom did you
say it to?’
Realizing from the stupidity of this question that the four men were
nincompoops, the man said, ‘I said it to the one who was the biggest fool.’
He then continued jauntily down the road, while the four began to quarrel over
which one of them was the biggest fool, for, whichever one it was—according to
the man they had passed—could claim the highest status.
It is unlikely that their argument was resolved, for they shouted and
gesticulated all the way back to their homes. Truly, by engaging in it at all, each
showed himself to be as big a fool as the others.
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 Glossary

Acharya. A scriptural teacher; a teacher of the Vedas.

Adharma. Wrong-doing or evil.
Aditi. Hindu goddess of the firmament; known as the mother of the gods,
including Indra and even Vishnu. Her stolen earrings were recovered by
Krishna.
Aditya. A son of Aditi. There are twelve, one for each month of the year and
each sign of the zodiac. Their element is eternal light.
Agni. Hindu god of fire.
Agnihotra. ‘Fire-offering’; an important Vedic rite that, in its simplest form, has
survived as a daily (morning and evening) libation of milk by the householder
into a domestic or sacrificial fire.
Ajamidha. The son of Hastin (founder of Hastinapura in the Mahabharata) and,
therefore, a descendant of Sakuntala and Dushyanta’s son Bharata. His name
was given to a clan that the Pandavas acknowledged as among their ancestors.
Alaka. Capital city and paradise of Kubera, god of wealth and chief of the
Yakshas.
Amaravati. The capital of Indra’s heaven, and the site of his palace.
Amrita. Ambrosia; food of the gods, guaranteeing immortal life.
Ananta. See Sesha.
Andhaka. A tribe who acknowledged Krishna as a leader but who fought on the
Kaurava side in the battle of Kurukshetra.
Anjali. An offering of a gift (especially to a deity) with cupped hands; an act of
worship.
Apsaras. A race of nymphs who live in Indra’s heaven. Urvasi is the most
famously beautiful Apsara. They can change their shape at will, and are the
wives of the Gandharvas.
Arghya. A ritual bath in a river or a sacred pond or tank, accompanied by
oblations to the sun.
Arsha. One of the eight recognized types of Hindu marriage, current among
priestly families. The father of the bride receives two cows, to supply him with
milk needed for rituals.
Artha. Wealth or material possessions; the realm of politics, statecraft and
economics.
Ashram. One of the four stages of life, but usually applied to the third stage,
Vanaprasthya (forest-departure) and, by extension, to the hermitage of a rishi, or
sage.
Asoka. A tree that, in Hindu mythology, was said to give forth orange or scarlet
blossoms when touched by the foot of a maiden.
Asura/Asuri. Anti-god, or demon/demoness. Compare the derivation of
‘demon’ from the Greek daimon, which originally just meant spirit or deity.
Asva-Karna. A plant whose name means ‘horse-ear’.
Asvamedha. ‘Horse-sacrifice’; an ancient Indian rite performed by kings in
order to extend their dominions, obtain offspring or atone for a sin. Preparations
for it took over a year. Accompanied by a retinue, a sacrificial horse was allowed
to wander at will, and all the territory it crossed became the possession of the
king performing the Asvamedha, unless this sovereignty was successfully
challenged in battle. On the return of the horse, the king and his chief queen
would assist in killing it and, after it was dead, the queen would simulate
intercourse with it. A hundred Asvamedhas were supposed to give a king
mastery over the gods, though no king is recorded as having achieved that
number.
Asvins. The twin horsemen, or Gemini, who were the sons of Surya, the sun-
god. They dispense medicine and restore youth.
Atharva. The fourth Veda, following Rig, Yajur and Sama; often not regarded
as among the sruti (revealed scriptures). It is a collection of spells, incantations
and charms.
Atiratha. ‘Supreme-charioteer’; a warrior capable of fighting innumerable
others simultaneously.
Atmalingam. See Lingam.
Atman. Soul or selfhood.
Ayah. A nanny or nurse for a child.
Bahlika. A royal name associated with the Bactrian Greeks, whose capital city
was Bahlika, though in the Mahabharata they were often confused with the
Parthians.
Bali. Demonic king of the Asuras. Also the name of the usurping brother of the
monkey-king Sugriva. He was originally so virtuous that he attained sovereignty
of all three worlds, until Vishnu (as the dwarf Vamana) tricked him out of
heaven and earth, leaving him with only Patala, the underworld.
Banyan. See Nyagrodha.
Begum. Respectful appellation for a Muslim woman—usually a married
woman, though not necessarily.
Bhoja. A race of people considered to be Mlecchas (barbarians). Also the father
of Kunti in the Mahabharata.
Bilva. Wood apple or bel: it has a triple leaf and is sacred to Siva—part of him
resides in its leaves. Only Brahmins are allowed to use it for firewood.
Bimba. A kind of red fruit; lips are often compared to it.
Bo-Tree. A name given to the Asvattha, or peepul tree, because the Buddha
achieved bodhi, or enlightenment, while beneath it. Also known as ‘the wisdom-
tree’.
Brahma. The Creator-god in classical Hinduism.
Brahmachari. One who has taken a vow of celibacy.
Brahmacharya. A vow of celibacy.
Brahman. Universal spirit or life-force.
Brahmin. The highest of the four varnas—the main ‘colours’, or caste-divisions
—of Hindu society. The priestly caste. See Dvija.
Brahmini. A Brahmin woman.
Brahmya. One of the eight types of Hindu marriage: formerly restricted to
Brahmins, but now the normal Hindu marriage ceremony adopted by all.
Brihaspati. The planet Jupiter; as a god, his wife Tara (star) was once abducted
by Soma, the moon-god.
Chakra. A wheel-shaped missile or discus, or any kind of wheel.
Chakravaka. A curlew or heron.
Chakravartin. ‘A ruler, the wheels of whose chariot roll everywhere’; emperor.
Chandala. Lowest of the Panchama, the outcaste ‘fifth’ section of the Hindu
population. Chandalas were the products of the most unspeakable form of mixed
marriage: a Brahmin woman with an outcaste or a Sudra male.
Charana. A celestial singer.
Chela. See Sishya.
Crore. See Lakh.
Dacoit. A bandit or robber.
Dahi. Indian yoghurt.
Daityas. A race of Titan-like beings, sons of the formidable goddess Diti and the
divine sage Kasyapa. They often attacked the gods.
Daiva. One of the eight types of Hindu marriage; the ‘divine’ giving of a girl to
a priest as a gift or sacrificial fee. Now obsolete.
Dakshina. A fee given to a priest or guru.
Danavas. A race of Titan-like beings, very similar to the Daityas.
Dasarhas. The tribe into which Krishna was born; a sub-tribe of the Yadava
clan.
Dervish. Persian equivalent of fakir, meaning ‘poor’ in Persian; a holy man who
has taken vows of poverty and austerity.
Deva/Devi. Hindu god/goddess. ‘Devi’ is also used in the Vedic period as the
name of the supreme goddess, later identified with Siva’s consort (see Parvati).
Devarishi. ‘Divine-rishi’; a sage who has attained perfection on earth and has
been raised to a near-divine status.
Dharma. The god Dharma is associated with order, justice and duty, and is the
father of the hero Yudhishthira in the Mahabharata.
Dharmaraja. ‘King of [the principle of] dharma’.
Dharmasastra. See Sastra.
Dharmatma. ‘Soul of [the principle of] dharma’; ‘profoundly virtuous one’.
Dhava. ‘Earth’; one of the eight Vasus, or children of Ganga and Prince
Santanu, who were all personifications of natural phenomena (light, dawn, wind,
etc.).
Dhoti. A garment made from a single piece of white cloth and worn by Hindu
men to cover their legs, and by Hindu widows like a sari.
Draupadi. Wife of the Pandavas in the Mahabharata.
Drona. A measure of capacity; an ancient unit of currency.
Durbar. A public audience by a ruler at which citizens can present complaints
or petitions. Also a term for the hall where a durbar is held.
Durga. The name by which Siva’s wife, Parvati, is generally known in Bengal.
Duhsasana. Duryodhana’s brother, who drags Draupadi into the sabha
(assembly) at which the fatal dice-game in the Mahabharata is played.
Dvaipayana. See Vyasa.
Dvija. ‘Twice-born’; members of the first three varnas (Brahmin, Kshatriya and
Vaisya) are given this title because they undergo a second, spiritual birth when
they are invested with the sacred thread.
Fakir. A Muslim mendicant or holy man; sometimes applied loosely to Hindu or
Sikh ascetics too. The word means ‘poor’ in Arabic.
Ganas. A group of godlings, ruled by Ganesa, who are attendants of Siva.
Gandhari. Wife of Dhritarashtra and mother of the Kauravas. Because her
husband was blind, she spent her life blindfolded.
Gandharvas. A celestial race of 6333 minor deities. They can appear on earth as
handsome men with whom women fall in love at first sight: hence a ‘Gandharva
marriage’, one of the eight types of Hindu marriage. They are singers and
musicians in heaven; the husbands of the Apsaras. Also a race of horses whose
mother was Gandharvi.
Gandiva. Arjuna’s famous celestial bow, previously owned by the moon-god,
Soma.
Ganesa. Elephant-headed god, son of Siva and Parvati; bringer of good luck,
particularly in business or shopkeeping.
Ganga. The river Ganga; daughter of Himavat and Mena.
Garuda. A huge sacred bird; Vishnu’s vehicle.
Gauri. See Parvati.
Ghatotkacha. ‘Pot-headed’ (hairless) son of Bhima and the demoness Hidimba
in the Mahabharata. Hidimba fell in love with Bhima when she was sent by her
Rakshasa brother—also called Hidimba, see below—to fetch the Pandavas as
food. She told Bhima of her brother’s intention, and he fought the demon to
death. Bhima was then persuaded by his mother, Kunti, to marry Hidimba.
Ghee. Clarified butter; important as an oblation into the sacred fire during many
Hindu rituals.
Gopi. A cow-girl or milkmaid.
Guhyakas. A race of cavemen who guard the treasure of Kubera, god of wealth.
Guru. Master or teacher in traditional Hinduism.
Hanuman. Hindu monkey-god; commander-in-chief of Sugriva’s army in the
Ramayana; son of the wind-god, Vayu (Pavana).
Hari. Name for Vishnu.
Hidimba. A Rakshasa killed by Bhima in the Mahabharata; not to be confused
with his sister Hidimba (with a long ‘a’), mother of Ghatotkacha.
Himavat. God who personifies the Himalayas; father of Parvati and Ganga.
Homa. Originally the sacrifice of an animal before a fire-pit, it became the non-
violent pouring of oblations into a sacred fire that is central to many Hindu
rituals.
Indra. The ‘Thunderer’ in Vedic Hinduism. Equivalent to Zeus.
Ishtadevata. A patron god whom a Hindu chooses from the pantheon as the
deity to whom he offers special prayers.
Jambu. A river famous for producing gold.
Japa. The repetition or muttering of prayers and mantras.
Jatarupa. An especially beautiful kind of gold.
Jatayu. King of the vultures. In attempting to rescue Sita when she was
abducted by Ravana, he was mortally wounded by Ravana.
Kadamba. A large tree with blossoms in yellow-orange ball-shaped clusters. It
is sweet-scented, and is amorously associated with Krishna and the rainy season.
Kailasa. A great Himalayan peak, said to be the abode of Siva as well as the
Yaksha city of Alaka.
Kala. Time or season; also a small measure of time (about forty-eight seconds).
Used more generally for time and the mysteries of time.
Kali. Terrifying embodiment of Siva’s sakti, or consort, particularly worshipped
in Bengal.
Kalmasha. Spotted; of variegated colour.
Kama. Hindu god of love, analogous to Eros or Cupid in Greek and Roman
mythology; husband of Rati. Also, desire or love as an impulse.
Kamadhenu. The ‘wish-cow’ once owned by the sage Vasishtha. She was one
of the miraculous treasures that emerged from the churning of the ocean.
Kapittha. A plant whose name means ‘monkey-erection’, and whose prototype
stands in Indra’s garden. Its fruit gives potency and courage.
Karma. The fruit of actions in past lives that Hindus believe in.
Karnikara. A flower that is used in the epithet Karnikarapriya (fond of
Karnikara) as a name for Siva.
Karttikeya. Hindu god of war, also known as Skanda. Begotten by Siva to
destroy the demon Taraka. He rides on a peacock.
Kashtha. A very small measure of time. Thirty kashthas equal one kala, about
forty-eight seconds.
Kasyapa. A divine sage, father of the Adityas by the goddess Aditi. Kasyapa
begot numerous progeny, both animal and human, by his other twelve wives. As
his name means ‘tortoise’ he is sometimes identified with both Brahma and
Vishnu in their tortoise incarnations. Among his sons was Vivasvat, father of
Manu, the ‘first man’.
Kauravas. The hundred sons of King Dhritarashtra in the Mahabharata.
Kimsuka. A tree with bright orange-red flowers like a parrot’s beak, associated
with spring festivals.
Kinnaras. A race of horse-headed, bird-bodied beings who are part of the
entourage of Kubera, god of wealth. The sage Kasyapa was said to be their
father.
Kokila. The koel-bird. It has a shrill call, rising up the scale and ending with a
gentler, cooing sound.
Krakacha. A musical instrument of a forgotten type; perhaps a kind of war-
trumpet.
Krishna. Noble, sportive, loving deity in traditional Hinduism. Incarnation of
Vishnu.
Krita-Yuga. See Yuga.
Krosa. A measure of distance equivalent to about two miles.
Kshatriya. The second of the four varnas—the main ‘colours’, or caste-
divisions—of Hindu society. The kingly or warrior caste.
Kubera. Hindu god of wealth, and guardian of the north. His immense riches are
guarded by the Yakshas, a race of demigods. He is always represented as very
fat.
Kukura. A branch of the Yadava clan into which Krishna was born.
Kuru. Son of Tapati and Samvarana, from whom the protagonists of the
Mahabharata are descended, and thus the name of the clan to which they belong.
The Kauravas (Dhritarashtra’s hundred sons) are named after him.
Kusa. A type of grass with long pointed leaves that is regarded as sacred. Also
known as dharba, it was strewn round the place of sacrifice in Vedic rituals.
Lakh. A hundred thousand, or 100,000. Ten lakhs make a million, just as a
hundred crores (1,00,00,00,000) make a billion.
Lakshmi. Wife of Vishnu; goddess of good fortune and prosperity.
Lingam. Siva’s phallus, worshipped as a symbol of his power. The original
lingam of Siva is called the atmalingam.
Lokapala. ‘World-guardian’; one of eight gods who guard the eight main points
of the compass: Indra (E), Agni (SE), Yama (S), Surya (SW), Varuna (W), Vayu
(NW), Kubera (N), Soma or Siva or Prithivi (NE).
Lungi. Cotton garment worn by Muslim and Hindu men, wrapped round the
hips and hanging to the ground in a simpler style than the Hindu dhoti.
Madri. Mother of the two youngest Pandavas.
Maha. ‘Great’ (as in ‘Maharaja’—‘great king’).
Maharishi. A great rishi, or sage.
Mahatma. ‘Great soul’; an attribute famously applied in modern times to
Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.
Mahayogi. A great yogi.
Manasa. Goddess of snakes, possibly of non-Aryan origin; worshipped
especially in Bengal, where she is invoked for protection against snake bites.
Mandala. A symbolical diagram bounded by a circle, regarded as a source of
psychic energy, and significant in mystical forms of Hinduism and Buddhism.
Mandara. A mountain in heaven; a spur of Mount Meru that was used as a
churning-stick when the gods churned the ocean of milk. Kubera, god of wealth,
has a famous garden called Chaitraratha on Mount Mandara. Mandara is also a
name for the coral-tree, which has crimson blossoms.
Mantra. The metrical portion of the Vedas (especially the Rig Veda), but also a
term for any sacred verse used in Hindu ceremonies or rituals. A guru
traditionally initiates a disciple by imparting a special, secret mantra.
Manu. Title given to fourteen patriarchs, each of whom ruled the earth for a
period of history called a Manuvatara, and who were the progenitors of
mankind. Used more loosely for ‘the first man’, and also identified with Manu
the Law-giver, author of the great Hindu code of law and jurisprudence (c.600
BC–c.AD 300), in order to elevate its sanctity and authority.
Mara. The ‘Evil One’ in Buddhist tradition; the Satan whose aggression and
temptations the Buddha resists and overcomes.
Marut. The forty-nine storm-gods who are servants of Indra; sons of Rudra by
Diti, or of Siva in the shape of a bull by Prithivi (the Earth) in the shape of a
cow. Their names represent various kinds of wind.
Meru. A mountain that lies at the centre of the universe in Hindu cosmology. It
is made of gold and is 1,60,000 leagues high. The various heavens of Brahma,
Indra, Vishnu and the other gods are situated around it. The Olympus of the
Hindus.
Mleccha. A non-Aryan tribe of ancient India; by extension, any kind of
barbarian or foreigner.
Mohur. A gold coin used in Mughal times, and also struck by the East India
Company. It was phased out by the British in the 1840s, but was preserved in
treasure hoards.
Moksha. Spiritual liberation. See ‘Samadhi’.
Musth. A periodic state of frenzy in male animals, especially elephants and
camels.
Nagas. Mythical intelligent beings with a human face and a long reptilian tail.
They live in Patala, the underworld, and were the progeny of the divine sage
Kasyapa by Kadru, one of his thirteen wives.
Nagini. A female Naga. The most famous and beautiful Nagini, Ulupi, married
Arjuna.
Namaskara. Hindu greeting, accompanied by the joining of the hands in a
prayer-like position.
Nandana. A wonderful garden surrounding Indra’s palace in Svara, his heavenly
realm.
Nara. Man; the original eternal man.
[Nara-]Narayana. Possibly an aboriginal deity of waters; also the name of a
heavenly sage; but normally a name given to Vishnu and Krishna. Nara means
man; when pronounced with a long ‘a’ in the first syllable it also means waters.
Vishnu as Narayana reclines on the serpent Sesha—floating on the waters.
Narada. A divine sage who is sometimes described as having sprung from the
forehead of Brahma. He acts as an intermediary between gods and men, features
in stories about Krishna, and is sometimes a mischief-maker.
Narayani. A name for Lakshmi, wife of Vishnu (who is also known as
Narayana).
Nidhi. The nine types of treasure belonging to Kubera, god of wealth.
Nirvana. Ultimate release from the cycle of birth and rebirth: the goal of every
devout Buddhist. Nirvana means ‘extinction’; the blowing out of the flame of
selfhood.
Nishadas. A wild non-Ayran tribe, described as hunters, fishermen, robbers, etc.
Nishadhas. A people governed by Nala.
Nyagrodha. Ficus benghalensis, one of the two main varieties of Indian fig-tree
(the other being Asvattha—Ficus religiosa, or peepul), better known as the
banyan-tree whose spreading branches send roots down to the earth that are like
columns in a temple. It is sacred to Vishnu. Nyagrodha means ‘down-growing’.
Nyaya. One of the six orthodox systems of Hindu philosophy. It is concerned
primarily with logic and the laws of thought.
Om. The most sacred and comprehensive of the mystic syllables that are
regarded by Hindus as the most powerful of mantras. Its three sounds—a, u and
m—represent the three primary Vedas (Rig, Yajur and Sama); the three worlds
(heaven, earth and the underworld); and the three chief gods (Brahma, Vishnu
and Siva). It is used at the beginning and end of prayer, meditation or work. It is
Brahman, the Absolute, in a single syllable.
Orthoepy. The part of grammar that deals with pronunciation.
Padma-Year. A billion years.
Paisacha. One of the eight types of Hindu marriage, named after the demonic
Pisacha race. It amounted to rape or abduction.
Panchala. Territory round the modern Punjab: the name of the kingdom of
Draupadi’s father in the Mahabharata.
Panchali. A woman from Panchala: i.e., Draupadi.
Pandavas. The brothers Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva in
the Mahabharata.
Pannaga. ‘Flat-crawling’; a name for a snake or a Naga.
Parasurama. Incarnation of Vishnu; named after the parasu—magic battle-axe
—that Siva gave him. In the Ramayana, Parasurama is defeated by Rama, but in
the Mahabharata he trains both Karna and Arjuna in the use of arms, is evenly
matched in a duel with Bhima, and takes part in the war council of the Kauravas.
Pariyatra. Name of the Aravalli range of mountains in north-west India. They
were originally high, but were trampled down by Indra and Krishna as they
fought for supremacy.
Parvata. A sage, or rishi, associated with the divine sage Narada; messenger of
the gods.
Parvati. Wife of Siva. Her name means ‘daughter of the mountain’, because her
father was Himavat, god of the Himalayas. Also known as Uma, Gauri, Durga
and Kali.
Pasupati. ‘Animal-lord’; a name for Siva.
Patala. The region under the earth in which Daityas, Danavas, Nagas, Yakshas
and other beings dwell. The divine sage Narada described Patala as more
beautiful than heaven, so it is akin to the Greek and Roman underworld rather
than the Christian hell.
Pauravas. The descendants of King Puru, including the Kauravas and the five
Pandava brothers in the Mahabharata.
Phalguna. The first month of spring in the Indian calendar.
Pice. Small coin: now a cent of a rupee (naya paisa means ‘new pice’); formerly
one-fourth of an anna or one-sixteenth of a rupee.
Pinda. See Pitri.
Pisachas. A race of demons even lower and more repulsive than the Rakshasas.
They live in cemeteries, eat corpses and cause diseases.
Pitri. ‘Ancestor’ in Sanskrit. The patriarchal progenitors of gods, demons and
men; but, commonly, a Hindu’s human ancestors going back seven generations,
who are honoured in sraddha (post-funeral) rites in which pinda, or balls of rice
and flour, are offered to them.
Prajapati. ‘Lord of Creation’ or ‘grandfather of all’; the Creator-god in the
Vedic period; later identified with Brahma. Also, a title given to Manu and the
seven sages he created: Angiras, Bhrigu, Daksha, Kasyapa, Narada, Vasishtha
and Visvamitra.
Prajapatya. One of the eight types of Hindu marriage, in which a father gave
away his daughter on the understanding that husband and wife should perform
their civil and religious duties together. Now obsolete.
Pranam. Hindu obeisance. Before a deity, one touches the ground with one’s
forehead; with a respected person, one touches the feet and then one’s forehead
(‘taking the dust’ of his or her feet).
Puja. Hindu worship; anything from an offering of flowers to a deity or a ritual
performed to honour a particular god or goddess on a special day, to a full-scale
religious festival.
Purana. ‘Ancient’ in Sanskrit; the class of writings into which most (non-Vedic)
Hindu myths are incorporated.
Purushottama. ‘Best of men’; an epithet applied to Vishnu and especially to his
human incarnation Krishna.
Radha. The milkmaid (gopi) whom Krishna loved.
Rajas. See Tamas.
Rajasuya. ‘King’s libation’; the investiture of a ruler in ancient India and the
ceremonies associated with this.
Rakshasas. A race of monstrous Hindu demons generally regarded as lower
than (though sometimes identified with) the Asuras, or anti-gods. The most
famous Rakshasa is Ravana, king of Lanka, who abducts Rama’s wife Sita in the
epic story of the Ramayana. Also the name of one of the eight types of Hindu
marriage, in which a woman is abducted violently.
Rig Veda. The oldest and most important of the Vedas (primary scriptures) of
Hinduism. A collection of chants, hymns and fragmentary myths, written in
Vedic (the precursor of Sanskrit). The text was fixed from 300 BC, but probably
dates from at least 1200 BC or earlier.
Rishi. Hindu sage or seer.
Ritvij/Ritvik. A general word for priest, of which Brahmins are one of four
types.
Rohini. A star-goddess regarded as the wife of Soma, the moon-god. Also, the
name of the youngest wife of Krishna’s father, Vasudeva, into whose womb
Krishna’s brother Balarama was miraculously transferred from his true mother
Devaki.
Rudra. A Vedic storm-god, later identified with Siva in his angry aspect; father
of the minor storm-gods, the Rudras and the Maruts.
Ruru. A species of antelope or deer.
Sabha. Royal assembly.
Sachi. Indra’s wife.
Sadhu. An ascetic, or sannyasi.
Sadhyas. A group of godlings, sixteen in number; children of Dharma by his
wife Sadhya.
Sakti. The creative energy of the universe, identified with Siva’s consort,
Parvati. See Yoni.
Sakyas. An ancient tribe, probably of Mongolian origin. Buddha’s father was
chief of the Sakyas, who were related to neighbouring tribes in Nepal. Legend
has it that the gods were at a loss which race should have the honour of
Buddha’s birth, as all the sixteen recognized Aryan tribes were morally tainted.
They chose the non-Aryan Sakyas for their virtue and self-reliance.
Sal. A tall tree, valuable for its hardwood and resin.
Salya. A friend of the Pandavas in the Mahabharata who went over to the
Kauravas’ side and acted as Karna’s charioteer in the battle of Kurukshetra, and
succeeded him as commander-in-chief after he was killed.
Sama. Third of the primary Vedas, following Rig and Yajur.
Samadhi. Trance-like union between Atman (soul) and Brahman (the Absolute).
The goal of yoga or meditation.
Sami. A tree (of the mimosa or acacia type) whose name means ‘worked’,
because of the labour involved in bringing forth fire from the ceremonial fire-
sticks made from it.
Sannyasi. See Sadhu.
Sarvadamana. ‘All-subduing’; a name for Bharata, son of Dushyanta and
Sakuntala. Even as a child, he had the ability to calm and subdue savage beasts.
Sastra. A general word for Hindu scripture, divided into two categories: sruti
—‘heard’ or revealed scriptures, restricted to the Vedas; and smriti
—‘remembered’ texts considered to be of purely human origin. Also used more
generally for any body of knowledge. The Dharmasastras are books of rules for
rituals.
Sattva. See Tamas.
Satyabhama. One of the wives Krishna married after his move to Dvaraka.
Savitri. The second wife of the Creator-god Brahma; also known as Gayatri. Not
to be confused with Savitri, the wife of Satyavan.
Sesha. King of the Nagas, or serpent-race, and ruler of Patala (the underworld).
In the primeval World-Ocean, Vishnu rests his head on Sesha’s chest. Also
called Ananta (endless) as the world is wrapped round by his tail. He was used
as a rope when the ocean was churned. When one of Sesha’s thousand mouths
yawns, there is an earthquake.
Siddhas. A class of semi-divine beings who dwell high up, in the mountains or
in the sky between earth and sun.
Sishya. A disciple or pupil to a guru; also often called a chela.
Siva. Destroyer-god in classical Hinduism, but often an energetic life-force.
Sivalingam. See Lingam.
Skanda. See Karttikeya.
Sloka. A common Sanskrit metre, consisting of a couplet divided into four
padas, or half-lines of eight syllables. Used loosely as a term for an aphoristic
couplet or short proverbial verse.
Smriti. See Sastra.
Snataka. One who has completed a course of Vedic education under a guru by
taking a ceremonial bath (snan), symbolizing the attainment of manhood and the
washing away of the vow of celibacy adhered to while he was a student.
Sola. A tall swamp-plant from whose pith a sola topi, or pith helmet, can be
made.
Soma. An intoxicating plant said to have been first cultivated in Indra’s heaven.
Its consumption was at the heart of the rituals articulated in the hymns of the Rig
Veda, and Soma was himself addressed as a god. Exactly what plant it was is
unknown. Later, Soma became a name for Chandra, the moon-god.
Sraddha. See Pitri.
Sruti. See Sastra.
Sudra. The lowest of the four varnas—the main ‘colours’, or caste-divisions—
of Hindu society. The labouring caste.
Suparnas. A race of mythical or supernatural birds, of which Garuda is the most
famous representative.
Suta. ‘Charioteer’; the caste of that name to whom Karna’s adoptive parents
belong; also, the caste of the doorkeeper who is reluctant to bring in Draupadi to
be used as a stake in the Mahabharata’s dice-game.
Svayamvara. The ceremony at which suitors present themselves to a high-born
lady, and she chooses from among them.
Tal. Palm-tree.
Tamas. ‘Darkness’; one of the three gunas, or qualities that, in the Samkhya
system of Hindu philosophy, make up all of Prakriti (Nature). The other two are
sattva (goodness) and rajas (passion). Tamas is the basis of inertia, gloom and
sensual desire.
Tapas. Asceticism or austerity.
Tila. Sesame seed or corn.
Tilak. A mark painted on the brow to indicate caste.
Tittiras. A race of people mentioned in the Mahabharata for their fine horses.
Tittiri. Belonging to the Tittira race.
Uma. See Parvati.
Vaibhraja. A pleasure-garden on the heavenly Suparsva mountain, west of
Mount Meru.
Vaidurya. ‘From Vidura’; a distant mythical region.
Vaisya. The third of the four varnas—the main ‘colours’, or caste-divisions—of
Hindu society. The trader, moneylender and merchant caste.
Valakhilya. ‘Shining guardians of the sun’s chariot’; a race of tiny men no
bigger than a thumb joint, chaste and virtuous, able to fly faster than birds.
Varangana. An excellent lady.
Varuna. Vedic god who becomes the god of the ocean in classical Hinduism,
analogous to Poseidon in Greek mythology. Originally identified with thunder
and rain too, until Indra took those powers away from him.
Vasu. See Dhava. Also the name of a heroic brother of Parasurama.
Vayu. Hindu god of the winds. He rides through the sky in a chariot drawn by a
deer. Sometimes he is Indra’s charioteer. He is the father of the monkey-god
Hanuman, and of Bhima in the Mahabharata.
Vedanga. ‘Veda-limb’: name for certain branches of post-Vedic knowledge
regarded as auxiliary to the Vedas.
Vedas. The primary scriptures of Hinduism, revered as ‘not of human origin’.
There has been disagreement through the ages about which texts should be
regarded as the true Vedas but, in terms of form, four categories are accepted:
Mantras—metrical hymns (including the Rig Veda); Brahmanas—manuals of
ritual for priests; Aranyakas—‘forest’ treatises for hermits and saints; and
Upanishads—philosophical discourses embedded in the Brahmanas or
Aranyakas.
Vedi. A sacred platform or dais.
Veena. A lute-like stringed instrument; invented by the divine sage Narada, who
taught his followers, the Gandharvas, to play it. Saraswati, goddess of the arts,
holds a book in one hand and a veena in the other.
Virochana. A demon, son of Prahlada and father of the demon-king Bali.
Vishnu. Preserver-god in classical Hinduism.
Visva. Name for a group of thirteen gods (Visvadevas) that included Kama, god
of love; also, a widely used word for the world or universe.
Visvakarman. The Hindu divine architect; sometimes identified with the
Creator; associated with weapon-making, building and engineering. He built
Ravana’s city of Lanka in the Ramayana.
Visvavasu. A prominent Gandharva who is believed to claim every bride before
her marriage is consummated. When approaching her, her husband is supposed
to say: ‘Rise, Visvavasu. Seek another maiden with large hips. Leave this bride
to me.’ See also Gandharvas.
Vrishni. ‘Manly’; name of a sub-tribe of the Yadava clan. They fought on the
Kaurava side in the battle of Kurukshetra.
Vyasa. The legendary author of the Mahabharata. Also known as Dvaipayana.
Wazir. ‘Vizier’; a minister to a Muslim ruler; a high state official.
Yadavas/Yadus. Clan of descendants of King Yadu, into which Krishna was
born, in Vrindavana in the Vraj region of the kingdom of Mathura.
Yajna. Hindu ritual or sacrifice.
Yajur. Second of the primary Vedas, coming after Rig and before Sama.
Yaksha. See Kubera.
Yakshi. A female Yaksha.
Yama. Hindu god of death.
Yatis. An ancient race of hermits who incurred Indra’s anger and were devoured
by wolves at his command.
Yavana. Sanskrit name for the Greeks.
Yoga. Spiritual discipline by which one attains a state of union with the divine.
Yogi. A practitioner of yoga.
Yojana. Unit of distance: ‘yoke’—the distance a bullock cart can travel at one
yoking; equivalent to four krosas, or seven to nine miles.
Yoni. Vulva or vagina, but used for all the female sexual organs, including the
womb. Symbolically, it is the counterpart of Siva’s lingam, and represents the
sakti (female generative power) of his consort (Parvati, Uma, Gauri, Durga,
Kali).
Yuga. An age or era. Hindus have traditionally recognized four yugas in the
history of the world, each shorter than the previous one. The frst was the Krita-,
or Satya-yuga, the Golden Age of Truth; the age in which we are currently living
(dating from 3102 BC) is the Kali-yuga, or age of discord and immorality.
Zamindar. A landowner. In Mughal times, zamindars were landholders and
revenue collectors. Lord Cornwallis’s Permanent Settlement of 1793
controversially transformed them into landowners, and the government’s land-
revenue demand was permanently fixed.
1
Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories (Granta in association with
Penguin, 1990), p. 68. Kahani means story.
2
There is a classic English translation titled The Ocean of Story by C.H. Tawney
(see Bibliography, p. 532), and an excellent modern translation by V.
Balasubrahmanyan (M.P. Birla Foundation, Kolkata, 1994).
3
Letter to Rajnarayan Basu, 15 May 1860, from Ghulam Murshid (ed.), The
Heart of a Rebel Poet: Letters of Michael Madhusudan Dutt (New Delhi:
Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 122.
4
My work on Madhusudan has continued, and Penguin India have published my
complete, annotated translation of his epic: The Poem of the Killing of
Meghnad (2010).
5
Rabindranath Tagore, Selected Poems, trans. William Radice (London:
Penguin, 1985; Penguin India, 1995).
6
Tagore, Selected Poems, pp. 88–90.
7
My complete translation of this poem has been published in my book Beauty,
Be My Brahman: Indian Poems (Kolkata: Writers Workshop, 2004), pp. 103–
05.
8
Tagore, Selected Poems, pp. 45–47.
9
He has since then made a new version of the piece, for full choir, called He
Begins His Great Trance, and commissioned and premiered by the BBC
Singers in 2008.
10
A ‘broad’ system of transliteration for Indian words and names has been used
in this book, without the diacritical marks that indicate Indian spelling and
pronunciation. In this quotation from the Rig Veda, however, diacritical marks
have been used, to show that Indian languages have a greater range of vowels
and consonants than can be accommodated by the letters of the Roman
alphabet alone. Accents ( ), significant in Vedic though not in Sanskrit, have
also been used.
11
‘Creation Hymn’ (Nasadiya), RV 10.129, from The Rig Veda: An Anthology,
sel., trans. and annot. Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty (Harmondsworth: Penguin,
1981), p. 25.
12
See The New Kobbé’s Opera Book, ed. the Earl of Harewood and Anthony
Peattie (London: Ebury Press, 1997; 11th edn), pp. 916–17.
13
From the fourth scene of Krishna, a musical for children, lyrics by William
Radice and Salil Singh, performed by the Music Theatre Workshop in the
Kamani Auditorium in Delhi, 6–9 January 1988.
14
Upendrakishore Raychaudhuri, The Stupid Tiger and Other Tales, trans.
William Radice (London: André Deutsch, 1981; Kolkata: Rupa & Co., 1987;
New Delhi: HarperCollins, 2000).
15
Raychaudhuri, The Stupid Tiger, pp. 22–23. Using this translation, I have
collaborated with the composer Bernard Hughes on a children’s opera:
Chincha-Chancha Cooroo, or The Weaver’s Wedding. Commissioned and
premiered by W11 Opera in London in 2006, it was revived by North
Cambridge Family Opera in Massachusetts in 2009 and 2016.
16
Jean-Claude Carrière, The Mahabharata, trans. Peter Brook (London:
Methuen, 1988).
17
A complete English translation of the scripts, in ten volumes, was published in
Kolkata by P. Lal’s Writers Workshop in 1991.
18
Shashi Tharoor, The Great Indian Novel (New Delhi: Penguin/Viking, 1989).
19
Tharoor, The Great Indian Novel, Ch. 46.
20
The Prakrits were the ancient vernacular languages of India, from which the
modern languages of India ultimately developed. Sanskrit was in part put
together artificially as a vehicle for literature, its grammatical rules fixed as an
extension or elaboration of Vedic by the grammarian Panini (c. 300 BC). The
name ‘Sanskrit’ means ‘perfected’ or ‘elaborated’. Some Prakrits—e.g., Pali,
the language of the Buddhists—themselves became vehicles for literature.
21
A figure that is probably an extension of the thirty-three gods of the Rig Veda.
A lower figure of 3339 or 3303 is also sometimes given—again incorporating
the number thirty-three.
22
Some things that have become particularly associated with Hinduism, such as
the importance of the ashram, or the pursuit of ahimsa, or non-violence
(espoused by Mahatma Gandhi), are in part a product of Buddhist influence
on Hinduism.
23
Tharoor, The Great Indian Novel, Ch. 17.
24
The status of ‘untouchables’ and tribals, the treatment of women, and the
entire ideology of caste have been seriously challenged in post-Independence
India. Indian society is changing very fast.
25
See Bibliography, p. 493.
26
Audio cassettes of these readings were released by Writers Workshop. In his
last decade, P. Lal also brought out revised and consolidated volumes of his
translation, and this has continued since his death.
27
As an example of how much older myths were worked into the Mahabharata—
but also because I like the story so much—I have included ‘The Creation of
Death’ (Volume Two, pp. 5–7) in my retelling, and have also given an extract
from the Mahabharata that includes this myth (see ‘The Death of Abhimanyu’,
Volume Two, pp. 325–346). In Buddhism too, there is an overlap between
mythology and legend. I have classified ‘The Defeat of Mara’ (Volume Two,
pp. 47–50) as a myth, but consider ‘Siddhartha’s Marriage and Departure’
 (Volume One, pp. 439–443) and ‘The Buddha’s Return to Yasodhara’
(Volume One, pp. 443–446) to be legends. Jataka stories, such as ‘The
Buddha and the Tigress’ (Volume One, pp. 433–436), can almost be regarded
as folk tales.
28
Madhusudan-rachanabali, ‘Chaturdaspadi kabitabali’ (Sonnets), No. 77. The
translation was included in Beauty, Be My Brahman (p. 88). The last line says
that the snake moves ‘with crest-jewel lustre’ (siromani-teje): an image that I
haven’t captured fully in translation, especially as the word for ‘lustre’—tej—
evokes an untranslatable combination of light, heat, glory, energy, power, etc.
29
Satya means truth.
 Acknowledgements, Sources and Bibliography

Myths and Legends of India, originally published by the Folio Society in London
in 2001, depended greatly on the work of others: poets, translators, scholars,
retellers and even a couple of novelists (Romesh Gunesekera and Rohinton
Mistry). The Bibliography below lists the books that I used particularly: I am
deeply grateful to all the authors, living and dead. My retellings are in my own
words, and I have done my best to avoid other authors’ words and phrases,
though I cannot guarantee that I have succeeded entirely.
To the late Professor P. Lal, whose transcreation of the Mahabharata is the
source of the second section of the book, I owe special thanks. It was published
by his own Writers Workshop imprint in Kolkata. Some slight editorial
adjustments were made to his work, with his permission; but, in general, my
Folio Society editors and I were happy to trust his sound and creative
judgements in matters of layout, capitalization, italicization, etc. The choice of
extracts and the prose introductions to each one were my own, though I was
helped by some preliminary suggestions by P. Lal himself.

In addition to the main Bibliography, at the end of Volume 2, I have found the
following books invaluable:

Keith, A. Berriedale. Indian Mythology, Vol. 6 of The Mythology of All Races,

13 vols, edited by Louis Herbert Gray. Boston: Marshall Jones Co., 1913–64.
Knappert, Jan. Indian Mythology: an Encyclopedia of Myth and Legend. New
Delhi: Indus, 1992.
The Mahabharata of Vyasa, condensed from Sanskrit and transcreated into
English by P. Lal. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House, 1980.
Walker, Benjamin. The Hindu World: An Encyclopedic Survey of Hinduism, 2
vols. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1968.
The list of sources relates to the main Bibliography. For the extracts from P.
Lal’s Mahabharata, I have given parva (episode) and verse reference in the
Sanskrit text that he worked from (see Bibliography), followed by the Writers
Workshop volume and page numbers, and the publication date of each volume.
I would like to thank Mrs Monwara Seetul for the help she gave me in
preparing the Folio Society edition, and also the present two-volume edition;
Professor J.C. Wright for applying his Indological rigour to the sweeping
statements in the draft of my Introduction; and Sue Bradbury, Bridget Frost and
David Watkins of The Folio Society for their encouraging guidance.

1. Before Creation
2. Prajapati’s Seed
3. The Dismemberment
4. Brahma’s Loneliness
5. The Origin of the Ganga
6. Bhagiratha’s Perseverance
7. Narada’s Curse
8. Hanuman’s Birth
9. Hanuman’s Childhood
10. Sunda and Upasunda
11. Hanuman and the Herbs
12. Agni’s Attempt to Hide
13. The Birth of Karttikeya
14. Sita’s Rejection
15. Lava and Kusa
16. The Churning of the Ocean
17. The Drinking of the
Ambrosia
18. The Last Journey
19. The Greatest of the Three
20. The Lord of the Dance
21. The Mare of Fire
22. The Birth of Skanda
Sources
Myths
Rig Veda (10.129), pp. 25–26
Hindu Myths (Aitareya Brahmana), pp. 29–
31
Rig Veda (10.90), pp. 29–32
Hindu Myths (Satapatha Brahmana), pp. 32–
33
Thomas, pp. 152–53
Thomas, p. 153
Monkey God, pp. 5–8
Monkey God, pp. 9–12
Monkey God, pp. 12–16
Ocean of Story, Vol. 2, pp. 13–14; Dutt 1860
Monkey God, pp. 34–37
Hindu Myths (Mahabharata), pp. 102–04
Ocean of Story, Vol. 2, pp. 100–03
Ocean of Story, Vol. 4, pp. 126–28
Ocean of Story, Vol. 4, pp. 126–28
Thomas, pp. 89–90
Thomas, pp. 90–91
Thomas, pp. 101–02
Thomas, pp. 21–22
Sharpe, pp. 179–86
Hindu Myths (Siva Purana), pp. 160–61
Hindu Myths (Siva Purana), pp. 162–68
23. Savitri and Satyavan
24. Yama Relents
25. Satyavan’s Return
26. The Birth of the Mother-
Goddess
27. The Birth of Ganesa
28. Devi’s Slaying of the Buffalo
29. The Origin of Body-Parts
30. Siva and Kama
The Mahabharata
31. The Story of Sakuntala
32. King Yayati’s Adultery
33. The War-Skills Contest
34. Kanika’s Subtle Advice
35. The Lacquered Palace
36. The Slaying of Baka
37. Samvarana and Tapati
38. Draupadi’s Svayamvara
39. The Sarngaka Birds
40. Krishna, Naraka and the Founding of
Dvaraka
Legends and Folk Tales
Monro, pp. 145–50
Monro, pp. 150–57
Monro, pp. 157–63
Hindu Myths (Skanda Purana), pp. 239–41
Hindu Myths (Brihaddharma Purana), pp.
262–69
Hindu Myths (Markandeya Purana), pp.
248–49
Elwin 1949, pp. 235–99
Dutt 1861, Bk II; Tagore, pp 88–90
I. 68–74; Lal 12, pp. 39–78,
1969
I. 81–85; Lal 13, pp. 40–59,
1969
I. 132–37; Lal 17, pp. 27–68,
1970
I. 142; Lal 18, pp. 26–38, 1970
I. 143–52; Lal 19, pp. 13–47,
1970
I. 158–66; Lal 20, pp. 13–44,
1970
I. 173–5; Lal 21, pp. 25–41,
1970
I. 186–93; Lal 22, pp. 32–64,
1970
I. 231–36; Lal 26, pp. 37–57,
1971
II. 38; Lal 33, pp. 26–53, 1971
 Legends and Folk Tales
41. Vararuchi’s Talent
42. The Magic Shoes
43. Angaravati’s Grief
44. The Compassion of King Sivi
45. Yogakarandika’s Wealth
46. The Laughing Fakir
47. How Not to Get to Heaven
48. Foreigner’s Privilege
49. The Impotent King
50. Matches and Mismatches
51. The Brahmin, the Tiger and the
Clever Jackal
52. The Virtuous Brahmin’s Children
53. The Children Found
54. The Terrified Ghost
55. The Mouse-Maiden
56. The Buddha and the Tigress
57. The Compassionate Ape
58. Siddhartha’s Marriage and
Departure
59. The Buddha’s Return to
Yasodhara
60. The Vidyadharis
61. The Moon’s Lake
62. The Two Cheats
63. The Witch’s Dinner
64. The Garland of Fingers
65. The Three Questions
66. Tales of the Tom-Tom Beaters
Ocean of Story, Vol. 1, pp. 11–17
Ocean of Story, Vol. 1, pp. 21–24
Ocean of Story, Vol. 1, pp. 124–28
Ocean of Story, Vol. 1, p. 84
Ocean of Story, Vol. 1, pp. 157–58
Indian Fairy Tales, pp. 114–18
Folktales from India, pp. 318–19
Folktales from India, pp. 250–51
Folktales from India, pp. 191–93
Ocean of Story, Vol. 2, pp. 159–60
Frere, pp. 179–83
Ocean of Story, Vol. 4, pp. 220–23
Ocean of Story, Vol. 4, pp. 223–25,
227–29
Day, pp. 257–60
Shivkumar, pp. 87–93
Once the Buddha, pp. 5–9
Once the Buddha, pp. 166–72
Nivedita and Coomaraswamy, pp. 267–
71
Nivedita and Coomaraswamy, pp. 264–
65, 274–77
Ocean of Story, Vol. 4, pp. 188–92
Shivkumar, pp. 163–72
Jasimuddin, pp. 52–62
McCulloch, pp. 206–11
Gunesekera, pp. 175–77
Village Folk-Tales, pp. 150–52
Village Folk-Tales, pp. 253–54, 258,
66. Tales of the Tom-Tom Beaters
262
 THE BEGINNING

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