Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 12 - Khandava-Dahan - Chapter 1 - Agni’s Affliction and Śvetaki's Vow

Vaiśampāyana said:

When the sons of Pāṇḍu, having fulfilled the command of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and the grandsire Bhīṣma, took up their abode in Indraprastha, they began to expand their realm with dharma as their banner and strength as their arm. The Pāṇḍavas, led by Yudhiṣṭhira the Just, drew kings under their protection, not by cruelty but through righteous conquest and the radiance of noble character.

The people of that land rejoiced, living in peace and prosperity beneath Yudhiṣṭhira’s gaze, just as the jīvātman delights within a body adorned with auspicious omens and meritorious karma.

He was the very embodiment of balance—

He cherished dharma, pursued artha,

And did not shun life’s gentle kāma.

In all three paths he walked with care—

As if each were a brother there.

To the world, it seemed that Dharma, Artha, and Kāma had taken visible form upon the earth, and in their midst, Yudhiṣṭhira stood as the fourth—a living harmony, a beacon of righteous rule.

The kingdom under his care flourished. His devotion to the Vedas, his performance of great yajñas, and his unstinting protection of the virtuous made him beloved of men and celestial beings alike. Such was the might of his influence that even distant monarchs, touched by his fame, felt their fortune become steady, their minds drawn to the contemplation of the Paramātman. Dharma swelled in all directions, nourished by his deeds.

Supported by his four brothers—Bhīma of the iron arms, Arjuna the wielder of celestial weapons, and the twins Nakula and Sahadeva, radiant as the Aśvin gods—Yudhiṣṭhira shone all the brighter.

As a sacred fire needs its fourfold chant,

As the yajña lives by priest and hymn,

So did the king, though grand alone,

Glow brighter in fraternal flame.

Dhananjaya, that best among archers, stood foremost among the learned Brāhmaṇas who served the king, each resembling Bṛhaspati in wisdom. They gathered round him like the gods around Brahmā in the days of creation.

Such was Yudhiṣṭhira’s nature that from sheer affection alone the people loved him—as the heart loves the moon for its soothing light. His eyes held no anger; his speech, no harshness. He never uttered a word that was false, unpleasant, or ill-timed.

His tongue was honey, yet firm with truth,

His hands gave gifts, his eyes saw all.

The people called him king in name—

But loved him as their eldest soul.

Thus did the son of Dharma rule—blessed with wisdom, beloved of the people, a monarch for whom power was but a means to serve.

And as for his brothers—mighty and unassailable—they continued to extend their sway with prowess unmatched, subduing kings but sparing cruelty. With no enemy remaining, the Pāṇḍavas lived in peace, each day radiant with joy and harmony, like seasons untouched by calamity.

Vaiśampāyana said:

In the days that followed, as the golden sun blazed high and summer laid its warm hand upon the earth, Arjuna, the mighty Vibhatsu, turned to Kṛṣṇa and said with a smile:

“O Mādhava, the heat now ripens the air,

The time for sport and rest is fair.

Come, let us go where Yamunā flows,

And spend the day till twilight glows.”

At these words, Vāsudeva, slayer of Madhu and beloved friend of the son of Kuntī, replied:

“That too is my desire, O Pārtha.

Let us go and revel as we please—

By forest shade or river breeze—

Surrounded by our kin and friends.”

Thus resolved, and having sought Yudhiṣṭhira’s consent, the two noble heroes—Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna—departed, adorned in ornaments of leisure, radiant as twin suns, accompanied by friends, attendants, and beloved companions.

They came upon a splendid grove on the banks of the Yamunā, where tall trees arched like dancers, their leaves glimmering in the sun, and lofty mansions stood with jewel-studded walls, as though a portion of Amarāvatī had descended upon earth.

There, perfumes of sandal and flowers rare,

Floated gently upon the air.

Rich foods and fragrant wines were stored,

For heroes and queens, in peace restored.

The inner pavilions, adorned with gems that shone with rays of purity, opened their arms to the guests. Within them, laughter rose and joy unfurled like banners in a festive wind.

O King, there sported the women of the house—graceful in form, heavy-hipped and full-bosomed, their eyes wide and luminous, their movements swaying like vines in breeze, sweetened further by the gentle intoxication of wine.

Some wandered in the emerald woods,

Some danced by lotus-laden floods,

Some played in chambers carved of light,

While all basked in pleasure’s height.

At the command of Govinda and Arjuna, the pleasures of the season were released like a monsoon of delight. Draupadī and Subhadrā, adorned with garlands and loosened braids, moved among the women, gifting robes of silk and ornaments of gold with laughter on their lips and wine in their hands.

Their bracelets clinked like temple bells,

Their anklets sang with silver swells.

They laughed and danced and sang in mirth—

As though the gods had come to earth.

Some women embraced one another in jest, some quarreled in mock battle, while others slipped into whispered conversation. The woods and pavilions alike resounded with music—the flute’s longing, the veena’s grace, and the joyous roll of kettledrums. The air itself seemed drenched in rasa.

So did the banks of Yamunā, that sacred river, become a field of celestial joy, as if Śrī herself, goddess of abundance, had taken abode among the friends of Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna.

Vaiśampāyana said:

As joy flowed unbroken through the groves of Yamunā, with music and revelry echoing like chants in a heavenly court, Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa slipped away to a secluded glade—charming and shaded, not far from where their companions lingered. It was a place of stillness amidst celebration, where the breeze whispered through tall trees and the sun fell gently in golden shafts.

There, upon thrones adorned with ivory and precious gems, the two friends—subduers of hostile kings—took their ease. They reclined like the twin Aśvin gods, shining with youth, strength, and grace. Their speech turned to past exploits and heroic memories, the tales of battles won and dharmic tests endured.

They spoke of war, they spoke of peace,

Of vows upheld and fate’s release.

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Like Indra and Vāyu in tranquil delight,

They rested in shade, in friendship’s light.

But just then, O King, a wondrous figure approached. A Brāhmaṇa—resplendent, commanding, otherworldly—emerged from the woods like a flame born of the morning sun. He was tall like a śāla tree, his frame majestic and his presence filled with the gravity of hidden power. His skin glowed like molten gold, tinged with the green of fresh foliage. His matted locks fell over shoulders broad and firm, and he wore garments of bark and sacred rags, yet each fold seemed illumined by its own inner light.

His beard was tawny, streaked with flame,

His eyes two lotus-petals wide.

His gaze held wisdom’s ageless name,

As if the Vedas walked beside.

The brilliance that shone from him was not of mere mortal fire—it was the aura of tapas, of long penance, of a being who had touched the divine. Like a rishi from the ancient yugas, he blazed with quiet power.

Seeing him, both Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna—slayers of demons, friends of dharma—rose at once from their jeweled seats. Without hesitation, they stood with joined palms and bowed heads, waiting to receive his words.

For though they were kings, unmatched in might,

They knew when true power came to sight.

And thus they honored the Brāhmaṇa sage—

A hidden god in a holy guise.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then that radiant Brāhmaṇa, blazing with a strange light, addressed Kṛṣṇa of the Vṛṣṇi race and Arjuna, subduer of foes, seated in that secluded grove by the Yamunā’s edge.

“O heroes,” he said, his voice calm yet crackling with latent fire, “ye who now dwell so near the forest of Khaṇḍava, know this: among mortals, none surpass you in prowess. I am a Brāhmaṇa afflicted with a terrible hunger—ever devouring, ever unsated. Therefore I have come to you. O mighty ones, feed me, if it lies within your power.”

At these unusual words, Arjuna and Vāsudeva—ever protectors of dharma and guests—bowed slightly and replied:

“O revered Brāhmaṇa,

What food shall satisfy your flame?

Name what pleases your divine frame—

And we shall strive to grant your aim.”

Then the Brāhmaṇa's eyes gleamed like burning suns, and his form shimmered with truth unmasked. In that moment, he shed the veil of disguise and revealed himself as Agni—the blazing eater of oblations, the purifier of all things.

He spoke with the voice of sacrificial fire:

“Know me as Agni, eater of worlds,

Of sacred ghee and fallen wood.

My hunger burns beyond control—

But Indra bars what I would hold.

I crave the forest of Khaṇḍava for my sustenance. But whenever I approach to devour it, the wielder of the thunderbolt—Indra, guardian of realms—unleashes his clouds and douses me with torrents. I rise with flames, and he answers with storm. Thus my hunger remains unsatisfied.”

He paused, then continued with grave purpose:

“In that forest dwells Takṣaka, king of serpents,

A friend to Indra, protected by his might.

With his kin and hidden treasure,

He thrives beneath that forest's cover.

Other beings too—rakṣasas, yakṣas, birds, and beasts—are safeguarded there for Takṣaka’s sake. I have long sought to consume them, but am denied. So I have come to you—

You, Kṛṣṇa, eternal and wise;

You, Arjuna, wielder of celestial arms.”

His voice flared like embers in wind:

“If you aid me now, O lion-hearted pair,

Then shall I feed upon that sacred lair.

Guard the skies and block the beasts—

Let none escape as I begin my feast!”

Then Vaiśampāyana paused, and Janamejaya, the listener, raised a thoughtful hand.

“O Brāhmaṇa,” said the son of Parīkṣit, “why did Agni, the purifier of yajñas, desire to burn that sacred forest, teeming with life and guarded by the chief of gods? Surely, such wrath does not rise without a cause. Tell me in full, O sage—what grievous reason lay behind the burning of Khaṇḍava in days of old?”

And Vaiśampāyana, reverent and all-knowing, prepared to answer the king’s question with the sacred tale that followed.

Vaiśampāyana said:

O great King, listen now as I recount the ancient tale of Khaṇḍava’s burning, as told by the ṛṣis of old and preserved within the Purāṇas—a tale of fire, devotion, and divine trial.

In days long past, there lived a king named Śvetaki—renowned across the earth for his strength, intelligence, and the brilliance of his dharmic deeds. In sacrifices, in charity, and in the study of sacred truths, none could rival him. Equal to Indra in prowess and greater than many in piety, he was a monarch with his heart set eternally upon yajña and the worship of the divine.

He performed the five mahāyajñas and countless others besides, feeding thousands of Brāhmaṇas with generosity vast as the sea. His every breath moved toward the sacred flame.

The smoke of offerings crowned his halls,

His days were hymns, his nights were vows.

He fed the gods through sacred calls—

A sovereign robed in fire-cloud brows.

But over time, even his most loyal ṛtviks—those expert priests who had aided him for years—grew weary. Their eyes burned with the unceasing smoke, their bodies frail from constant strain. One by one, they left the king’s side, desiring no more of the endless offerings. Still, Śvetaki pleaded with them, his voice adorned with respect. But they would not return.

At last, by their own direction, he summoned other learned priests—skilled and pure—and completed the ritual then underway. Yet the fire within him did not rest. After some time, he resolved to perform a mahāyajña that would span a hundred years—a vast and unequalled act of devotion.

But now, no priest would agree to aid him. The monarch, resolute and unwavering, sought their help with persistence. Surrounded by his kin, he humbled himself before them—bowing, offering wealth, and speaking with soft words.

Yet all refused.

Then Śvetaki, the royal sage, his patience worn thin, stood before the Brāhmaṇas gathered in their hermitages and spoke:

“If I had sinned or cast aside

The homage due to Brāhmaṇa pride,

Then let your scorn be just and true—

But what, I ask, have I done to you?

If I had fallen from dharma, or shown you disrespect, then indeed I should deserve your rejection. But I am not one who withholds service or fails in reverence. Why, then, do you deny me now? Why do you obstruct my sacrifice?

If you will not aid me out of jealousy or hidden grievance, then so be it. I shall seek out other Brāhmaṇas—those who understand the path of truth and yajña. I shall entreat them with kindness and gifts, and they shall perform what you refuse.”

Saying this, the king fell silent. The fire of his devotion had not dimmed, but now it turned inward—awaiting a divine answer.

Vaiśampāyana said:

O chastiser of foes, when those priests, wearied and weakened, saw that they could no longer endure the intensity of King Śvetaki’s relentless sacrifices, they concealed their limitation behind anger. Pretending to be aggrieved, they turned to the steadfast monarch and said:

“O lord of kings, thy rites know no end,

And we, thy priests, though loyal and wise,

Have become frail from smoke and fire—

Our strength consumed in thy sacrifice.

O sinless one, your judgment fails! You press us without rest or patience. We are not your slaves. Go now—seek Rudra, the Three-eyed Lord! If any shall endure your burning zeal, it is he.”

These words, spoken in pride and sarcasm, pierced the heart of Śvetaki like arrows of scorn. Anger flared in him—not born of ego, but of devotion unreturned. Silently, with unshaken resolve, he turned from their company and made his way to the sacred slopes of Mount Kailāsa, the divine abode of Śiva.

There, far from court and kingdom, he gave himself wholly to tapas.

He stood beneath the mountain sky,

Arms raised like trees, unbent, unshy.

With roots and fruits he fed his flame,

And let the winds forget his name.

Sometimes he ate once every twelve hours, sometimes only after sixteen. He renounced comfort, sleep, and speech. For six months, Śvetaki remained rooted to the spot, his limbs stiff like stone, his eyes fixed, his soul aflame. He stood, unmoved and upright, like a pillar of dharma carved by time.

And at last—O Janamejaya, hear this with awe—Maheśvara, the Lord of Beings, was pleased.

Śaṅkara, clothed in ashes and crowned with the crescent moon, revealed himself before that king, who had burned brighter than any flame of ritual fire. His voice, deep as thunderclouds, carried the grace of eternity:

“O tiger among kings, thy penance is great,

And I am pleased, O sinless one.

Ask now thy boon—no wish too high—

For thou hast won what few have done.”

Then Śvetaki, the royal sage, bowing low with folded hands, answered with reverence:

“O Mahādeva, Lord of gods, if indeed I have earned thy favor, then grant me this boon—come thyself, O Rudra, and assist me in my sacrifice. Let it be sanctified by thy presence.”

Hearing these words, the blue-throated god, smiling gently, replied:

“O king of unwavering will and vow,

Gods do not serve in yajñas now.

Yet for thy tapas, fierce and rare,

I shall descend—but with a care.

I will aid your sacrifice—but only on a condition.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Rudra, the Three-eyed God, continued his words unto Śvetaki, whose body was lean with tapas and whose spirit blazed like the midday sun:

“If thou canst, O King of kings,

For twelve unbroken years,

Pour ghee into the sacred fire

With Brahmacharya, free of fears—

If with steadfast mind, purity of conduct, and unwavering vow, you live the life of a brahmacārin, offering clarified butter without fail, day and night, then shall I grant the boon you seek.”

And Śvetaki, humbled but unshaken, bowed low and accepted the divine command. Returning to his land, he began that arduous penance, his body devoted to ritual and his soul to fire. For twelve long years, without pause or faltering, he offered ghee into the flames, his hands steady and his eyes alight with determination.

When the appointed time was complete, Śvetaki once more ascended to Kailāsa and stood before Śaṅkara. The god, lord of beings and source of dissolution, beheld him with joy and spoke in a voice that carried through worlds:

“O best of kings, thy vow is fulfilled.

Thy fire is pure, thy will distilled.

I am pleased—thy labor done—

Thy merit shines like the midday sun.

Yet hear me now, O oppressor of foes. Though my grace is upon thee, it is not customary for Rudra himself to assist at yajñas. That task, O king, belongs rightly to the Brāhmaṇas, whose birth and vocation are shaped by Vedic law.

But fear not, for there walks upon earth a sage who is a portion of my own self—a fire among men. His name is Durvāsas, born of wrath and radiant with tapas. He shall perform thy sacrifice, empowered by my will.”

Hearing these words of the god, Śvetaki bowed again and departed, filled with sacred joy. Back in his capital, he began the great work of preparation. Costly offerings, golden vessels, garlands, fine woods, and sacred altars—everything was gathered with care and devotion.

When all was ready, he returned to Kailāsa once more and said with folded hands:

“O Lord of Lords, by thy grace alone,

All is prepared—wood, priest, and throne.

May I tomorrow, in Vedic rite,

Be installed beneath thy sacred sight.”

Hearing this humble plea, Rudra smiled, and in his wisdom summoned the mighty Durvāsas—fiery sage, born of Shiva’s essence. He spoke with divine authority:

“O Brāhmaṇa, fierce and pure,

This is Śvetaki, firm and sure.

For his penance, grant thy hand—

Perform his rite as I command.”

And Durvāsas, ever obedient to Rudra’s word, replied, “So be it.”

Thus began Śvetaki’s great sacrifice, performed with divine sanction, sanctified by Vedic chant and celestial witness. The rite was conducted flawlessly, in due season, with all rituals observed. The gifts bestowed upon the Brāhmaṇas were vast, shining like the sun on a cloudless day.

When all was complete, and the sacred fire had spoken its final sigh, the priests—having offered the oblations—departed with Durvāsas’ leave. The sadasyas, those assembled sages of immeasurable energy, took their leave as well, content with the king’s piety.

And Śvetaki, that exalted monarch, returned to his palace—welcomed with garlands, eulogies, and reverent hymns. The citizens praised him, the chanters sang his glory, and the Brāhmaṇas, wise in the Vedas, offered blessings.

His city gleamed with sacrifice won,

His name rose brighter than the sun.

But in the wake of sacred flame,

Another tale was soon to claim.