novelraw Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 7 - The violence of the Kalakeyas
Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 7 - The violence of the Kalakeyas
Lomaśa said:
When Ilvala, prince of the Asuras, heard that the kings had arrived with the great Ṛṣi Agastya, he came forth with his ministers and received them with honours. He offered them hospitality, and in secret malice served them meat that had once been his brother Vātāpi, transformed into a ram.
The kings, beholding the dish, grew pale with dread, for they knew the tale of how Vātāpi, recalled by his brother’s summons, would tear open the bodies of unsuspecting guests. Their hearts quailed, and grief stole their strength.
But Agastya, the sage of firm vows, spoke calmly to the trembling monarchs:
“Yield not to fear, O kings.
This day the ruse of the Asuras ends.
I shall consume Vātāpi entire,
and he shall rise no more.”
Then the sage sat upon a seat of honour. Smiling, Ilvala began to distribute the meat. Agastya ate it all, every morsel of the ram’s flesh. When the meal was over, the Asura raised his voice, calling:
“Come forth, O Vātāpi! Come forth!”
At that moment a thunderous sound issued from the sage’s belly, loud as storm-clouds in the rainy season. Ilvala called again and again, but only wind replied. Then Agastya laughed, a sound that shook the hall:
“How can he come out?
The great Asura is already digested!”
Ilvala stood stunned, grief-stricken, for his brother was gone forever. Bowing low with his ministers, he addressed Agastya and the kings:
“Tell me then, O holy one, why have you come? What service may I render?”
Agastya smiled gently:
“We know thee, O Asura, as possessor of vast wealth.
These kings lack treasure, and I too am in need.
Give what thou canst, without harming others,
for such is the way of dharma.”
Ilvala saluted the sage and answered:
“If thou wilt name what I must give, I shall give it.”
The sage declared:
“To each king thou hast resolved to grant ten thousand kine and as many coins of gold. To me thou hast destined double that gift, together with a car of gold and two horses swift as thought. Enquire, and thou shalt see that thy own heart has already formed this intent.”
Ilvala sent his servants to verify, and indeed the golden car stood ready, yoked with the steeds Vīrava and Sūrava. With sorrowful heart he bestowed all upon Agastya and the assembled monarchs.
In a moment, those steeds bore the kings, the wealth, and the sage to his hermitage. There the royal guests, having received Agastya’s blessing, returned to their own realms.
With this wealth, the sage fulfilled the wishes of his wife, Lopāmudrā. She then approached him with gentle words:
“O revered one, thy task is done;
all my desires are satisfied.
Now, beget upon me a child
endowed with the fire of tapas.”
Agastya, pleased, replied:
“O blessed lady, I shall grant thee this boon. Yet tell me thy desire:
Wouldst thou have a thousand sons,
or a hundred each worth ten,
or ten sons each worth a hundred,
or one alone, mighty as a thousand?”
Lopāmudrā answered with steadfast heart:
“One son equal to a thousand I choose.
For a single noble and learned child
is better than many without virtue.”
“So be it,” said Agastya, and he knew his wife.
After seven years the child was born—Dṛḍhāsyu, radiant with his own splendour, uttering the accents of the Vedas as if by memory of a previous birth. Strong and devoted, he carried fuel for his father’s sacrifices and was called Idhmavāha, the bearer of sacred wood.
Thus was the line of Agastya secured,
his ancestors delivered from their bondage,
and this place hallowed as the hermitage
where the great sage digested Vātāpi.
Lomaśa then pointed to the river Bhāgīrathī flowing nearby:
“Behold, O Yudhiṣṭhira, the sacred stream, born of Maheśvara’s matted locks, descending the slopes like a serpent in fear, yet blessing the southern lands as a mother her children. Here also lies the tīrtha of Bhṛgu, sanctified across the three worlds. Bathing here, Rāma of the Bhṛgus regained his strength once lost to Daśaratha’s son.
So too, O son of Kuntī, bathing with thy brothers and with Kṛṣṇā at thy side, thou shalt recover the energy stolen by the dice of Duryodhana, even as Bhṛgu’s scion regained his might.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
At the words of Lomaśa, the son of Dharma, Yudhiṣṭhira, bathed in that sacred tīrtha with his brothers and with Kṛṣṇā. He offered libations to the gods and to the Pitṛs, his hands filled with pure water, and his heart intent on dharma. When the bathing was complete, his form shone with a new brilliance, brighter than before, as though fire had been kindled within him. To the eyes of enemies, he became as one unseen, guarded by the merit of the holy waters.
Then, turning to the sage, the king asked with reverence:
“O holy one, tell me now—
why did Rāma of the Bhṛgu line lose his energy?
And how did he regain it once more?
Relate this tale in full.”
Lomaśa replied:
“Listen, O king, to an ancient story,
the meeting of two Rāmas—
Rāma of Daśaratha’s line,
and Rāma of Bhṛgu’s race, son of Jamadagni.
For the destruction of Rāvaṇa,
Vishnu Himself descended,
born as the son of Daśaratha,
pure of deeds and stainless in might.
But when this tidings reached Rāma of Bhṛgu’s line,
that ascetic, armed with a bow terrible to Kṣatriyas,
journeyed to Ayodhyā, eager to test
the prowess of the prince of Ikṣvāku.”
Daśaratha, hearing of his approach, sent his own son, Rāma, to meet him. The two met face to face: the Bhārgava ascetic radiant with tapas, the Raghava prince bearing his bow with calm majesty.
Smiling, Jamadagni’s son said:
“O scion of Ikṣvāku, take this bow!
String it, if thy arms are truly strong.
This weapon in my hands
laid waste the proud race of Kṣatriyas.”
Rāma of Ayodhyā replied with dignity:
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“It behoveth thee not to mock me so.
I am no stranger to the dharma of warriors.
In Ikṣvāku’s line we boast not idly,
for our deeds themselves proclaim our strength.”
Thus speaking, he seized the weapon from the Bhārgava’s hands. With effortless grace he bent the bow, and the thunderous twang resounded like storm in heaven. Creatures trembled, the quarters shook, and even the ascetic’s eyes widened.
Then Rāma, son of Daśaratha, said:
“Behold, I have strung thy bow.
What further task wouldst thou command?”
The Bhārgava, struck, placed in his hand a celestial arrow, saying:
“Place this upon the string, O prince,
and draw it to thine ear.
Then shalt thou know the measure of thy power.”
But the son of Daśaratha flared with wrath:
“Son of Bhṛgu, thy pride blinds thee!
Through the boon of the Grandsire
thou hast gained power beyond mortals,
and now thou mockest me.
But see now my true form—
within me dwell the Adityas and Vasus,
the Rudras and Sādhyas,
the Maruts, the Pitṛs, and Agni himself.
Within me shine the stars and planets,
the Gandharvas and Yakṣas,
the seas, the mountains, the Vedas, the Upaniṣads,
the hymns, the sacrifices, the weapons of heaven.
I am He who upholds all worlds—
Vishnu, the eternal.”
At these words the earth shook. Meteors blazed across the sky. Clouds rumbled, winds howled, dust and rain poured down together. The arrow blazed with divine fire, confounding the Bhārgava and returning, brilliant, to the hand of the Raghava.
Struck senseless by the vision, Jamadagni’s son awoke at last, his pride shattered. Bowing low before Rāma of Ayodhyā, he said:
“Thou art indeed the Highest Being.
I, blinded by vanity, knew thee not.
Command me, O Lord, and I shall obey.”
Vishnu, in the form of Rāma, bade him depart to Mount Mahendra. And there, humbled, he dwelt in shame and silence.
After a year the Pitṛs came to him and spoke with gentle voices:
“O child, thy conduct was not fitting
towards Vishnu, Lord of all.
He is ever worthy of worship.
Go now to the sacred river Vadhūsarā.
There lies the tīrtha called Dīptodā,
where thy grandsire Bhṛgu once performed penances.
Bathe there, and thy lost energy shall return.”
Thus instructed, the Bhārgava obeyed. In the waters of Vadhūsarā he immersed himself, and bathing at Dīptodā regained the strength he had lost.
Such, O son of Kuntī, was the fate of Rāma of spotless deeds,
when he met Vishnu incarnate as Daśaratha’s son.
Stripped of his pride, restored by penance,
he became a sage whose tale sanctifies the tīrthas.
Yudhiṣṭhira then spoke with reverence:
“O best of the twice-born, tell me once again in detail the mighty deeds of Agastya,
that illustrious Ṛṣi, rich in wisdom, immeasurable in energy.”
Lomaśa replied:
“Listen, O king, to a tale extraordinary and wondrous—
the glory of Agastya,
and the story of Dadhīca, the selfless sage,
by whose gift the gods overcame the invincible.”
In the Kṛta age there arose fierce tribes of Dānavas,
terrible in strength, invincible in battle.
They were the Kalakeyas,
dark as storm-clouds,
whose fury none could withstand.
Placing themselves under Vṛtra,
armed with dreadful weapons,
they swept against the celestials in all directions,
and Indra himself fled before them.
The gods, stricken and dismayed,
went together to Brahmā,
and with joined hands besought his counsel.
The Self-born said to them:
“I know, O gods, the cause of your fear.
There is but one means by which Vṛtra may be slain.
A high-souled Ṛṣi, Dadhīca by name,
resides upon the banks of the Sarasvatī.
Go to him and seek a boon.
Say to him: ‘For the welfare of the three worlds,
grant us thy bones.’
That righteous sage, intent upon the good of all beings,
will renounce his body for your sake.
From his bones fashion ye a weapon—
the Vajra, six-edged, roaring in thunder,
a terror even to the strongest foe.
With that will Vāsava, slayer of foes,
strike down Vṛtra and restore order to the worlds.
Delay not—this is the path ordained.”
Thus instructed, the gods, led by Nārāyaṇa and Indra,departed swiftly for the hermitage of Dadhīca.
That āśrama, O king, lay upon the sacred Sarasvatī’s bank,
adorned with trees heavy with blossoms and creepers in bloom.
There bees droned as if chanting Sāmans;
kokilas sang with sweet voices,
chakoras called by moonlight,
while herds of deer and buffalo wandered free of fear.
Elephants sported in the stream with their mates,
their temples flowing with ichor,
making the banks resound with thunderous cries.
Lions and tigers roared in their caves,
beautifying the woods with their majesty.
Such was the hermitage of Dadhīca,
shining like heaven upon earth.
There the gods beheld the sage,
resplendent like the sun,
his brilliance equal to Brahmā himself.
They bowed to him, touched his feet,
and with folded hands made their plea.
Hearing the words that the Grandfather had enjoined,
Dadhīca smiled and said:
“For the good of the worlds, I shall do what ye ask.
Gladly will I renounce this mortal frame.
Better to give one body,
than see the three worlds perish.”
So saying, that foremost of sages,
master of his senses,
suddenly abandoned his life.
The gods, awed and grateful,
took his bones, pure as crystal,
and bore them reverently to Tvaṣṭṛ, the celestial artificer.
With joy in his heart, Tvaṣṭṛ shaped them,
with care and concentration,
into the thunderbolt weapon, the Vajra,
six-sided, blazing, terrible to behold.
Placing it in Indra’s hand, he said:
“With this weapon, O Lord of the Heavens,
reduce Vṛtra the mighty to ashes.
Rule thereafter the domain of Svarga in joy,
with the hosts of gods at thy side.”
Thus spoke the celestial smith,
and Indra, slayer of foes,
received the weapon with delight,
lifting it high with reverence and resolve.
Lomaśa said:
Then Indra, armed with the thunderbolt wrought from the bones of Dadhīca, and strengthened by the might of the celestials, advanced to meet Vṛtra. The Asura had spread himself across earth and heaven, his colossal form guarded on every side by the fierce Kalakeyas, whose weapons gleamed like peaks of adamantine mountains.
The clash was sudden and terrible. Blades struck against blades, scimitars flashed in arcs of fire, and iron bludgeons fell with thunderous sound. Severed heads rolled to the earth like ripened palmyra fruits loosed from their stalks. The Kalakeyas, vast as moving hills, clad in golden mail, pressed forward in wrath; the gods, overwhelmed, broke their ranks and fled in fear.
Indra, seeing the hosts of heaven in flight, was struck with despair. Vṛtra’s roar shook the firmament, and the thousand-eyed king of the gods trembled. In his weakness he turned to Nārāyaṇa for refuge.
O Bharata,
When Indra’s heart was shaken with dread,
The eternal Viṣṇu drew near.
From his own boundless being
He poured a flame of strength into the king of the gods.
And seeing this gift, the other celestials too imparted their power to their lord; even the Brahmarṣis of spotless vows poured their tapas into him. Thus fortified by the deities, the seers, and by Nārāyaṇa himself, Indra shone more radiant than before, his might surpassing measure.
But Vṛtra, learning that the wielder of the Vajra had been infused with such power, raised a cry so fierce that the worlds trembled, mountains quaked, and the quarters darkened with terror.
Then, O king,
Indra hurled the thunderbolt,
Bright as a hundred suns,
Roaring with the voice of storm.
It struck Vṛtra full upon his breast,
And the Asura, decked in gold and garlands,
Fell like Mandara mountain of old
When hurled from Viṣṇu’s hands.
The prince of the Daityas slain, the gods raised their voices in joy. Yet Indra, bewildered, doubted his victory; in his fear he thought the Asura still alive and fled to hide within a lake, imagining the Vajra had not left his grasp. But the truth was plain: Vṛtra had fallen. The celestials and ṛṣis, gladdened, praised Indra and gathered together to rout the disheartened Danavas.
Scattered and broken, the Asuras fled from the field and sought refuge in the fathomless ocean, abode of Varuṇa, teeming with whales, crocodiles, and serpents. There, in the depths, they held counsel.
“The worlds are upheld by tapas,” they said,
“By men of wisdom, by those who walk in dharma,
By those who know Brahman and guard the truth.
If asceticism be destroyed,
Then shall the universe itself collapse.”
So resolved, the Danavas took delight in their dark design, and the surging ocean, crowned with billows high as mountains, became their fortress and their base for future war.
Lomaśa said:
The Kalakeyas, having made the fathomless sea their fortress, began their dreadful work for the ruin of the worlds. At night they stole forth, prowling like shadows of death, and fell upon the sacred retreats of ṛṣis. In Vasishṭha’s hermitage they devoured one hundred and eighty Brahmanas and nine other holy ascetics. At Chyavana’s āśrama, where young Brahmachārins lived upon fruits and roots alone, they consumed a hundred more.
By day the Asuras vanished into the ocean’s depths, unseen by men, but at night they came forth to slaughter. At the retreat of Bharadvāja, twenty more—men of great restraint, who lived on air and water—were slain. Thus, intoxicated by their own might, the Kalakeyas swept through forests and hermitages, feasting on the flesh of holy men.
Morning after morning the earth revealed the horror:
Emaciated bodies of ascetics,
Some without flesh, without blood,
Bones heaped like pale conch shells upon the ground,
Sacrificial vessels shattered,
Sacred ladles splintered,
And fires, once tended with devotion, left cold and dark.
The world grew desolate. Vedic chants fell silent, sacrifices ceased, no svāhā or vaṣaṭ resounded in the altars. The gods, unseen by their worshippers, felt the weight of neglect, and humankind fled in terror. Some hid in caverns, some behind rivers and mountain springs. Some perished swiftly, unable to bear the fear. Brave bowmen ventured to track the Danavas, but failing to find them—for the Asuras had vanished into the sea—they returned empty-handed.
So, O king, when sacrifice and dharma declined, when terror spread across the three worlds, the gods themselves trembled. They gathered in council, Indra at their head, and resolved to seek refuge in the supreme.
Together they went before Nārāyaṇa, the eternal, the uncreate, the unvanquished Lord of Vaikuṇṭha. Bowing at the feet of the slayer of Madhu, they spoke in voices mingled with fear and reverence:
“O Lord, thou art our source and our shelter.
Thou art creator, protector, and destroyer
Of all beings, mobile and immobile.
It was thou who, as the boar,
Raised up the sunken earth from the sea.
As man-lion, thou didst tear apart Hiraṇyakaśipu.
As dwarf, thou didst humble mighty Bali
And cast him from the three worlds.
Thou didst slay Jambha, the bowman who defiled sacrifice.
Countless are thy victories, O Govinda!
Today we are afflicted and undone.
The Kalakeyas feast on ascetics,
Sacrifices cease, dharma declines,
The worlds tremble in fear.
Thou alone canst save.
Protect us, O Keshava,
Guard Indra, guard the gods,
Preserve the universe from ruin!”
The celestials, bowing with joined palms, spoke unto Nārāyaṇa, the refuge of all worlds:
“O Lord, through thy favour do beings of every kind increase.
By thy ordinance they sustain each other,
Offering worship to gods above,
And honouring the Pitṛs who dwell beyond.
Thus protected by thee, the worlds flourish,
Bound together in mutual duty.
But now peril hath fallen upon us.
Brahmanas are slain by night in their hermitages,
And none among us knoweth the hand that strikes.
If the Brāhmaṇas perish, the earth itself shall fail;
And if the earth be ruined,
Then heaven too shall crumble.
O mighty-armed Lord of the universe,
We beseech thee—
Protect all beings,
That creation may not sink into dissolution.”
Then Viṣṇu, the eternal, replied in calm majesty:
“Ye gods, I know the cause of this destruction.
Hear me with minds free of fear.
The Kalakeyas, fierce beyond measure,
Followers once of mighty Vṛtra,
When he was slain by Indra’s hand,
Plunged for refuge into the depths of the sea.
There, amidst sharks and crocodiles,
They have found a fortress unassailable.
By night they emerge to slay holy men,
Seeking to end the very root of dharma.
Know this truth:
So long as they dwell in the waters,
No weapon may touch them,
No hand may prevail.
Only if the ocean is emptied,
Can those Daityas be destroyed.
And who, save Agastya the sage,
Is capable of drinking up the sea?
Without him, no deliverance is possible.”
Having thus spoken, the Lord of Vaikuṇṭha turned their minds toward hope. And the celestials, hearing Viṣṇu’s words, sought Brahmā’s leave, and journeyed to the hermitage of the great Ṛṣi Agastya, son of Mitra and Varuṇa.
They found him radiant as fire, steadfast in tapas, surrounded by holy men, like Brahmā himself attended by the gods. Approaching him with reverence, they praised him with hymns recalling his mighty deeds:
“O Agastya, thou hast ever been the refuge of the celestials.
When Nahusha, swollen with pride,
Oppressed the worlds,
It was thou who hurled him down from heaven’s throne.
When Vindhya, lord of mountains,
Sought in wrath to rival the Sun,
It was at thy word he bowed low
And ceased his ascent to the sky.
When darkness once covered creation,
And beings were struck down by death,
By thy protection life was restored
And security returned to the worlds.
Whenever peril strikes, we flee to thee.
For thou art steadfast, unswerving, magnanimous.
Grant us now thy boon, O sage,
As thou hast ever granted before.”