novelraw Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 8 - Rishi Agastya drink’s the ocean
Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 8 - Rishi Agastya drink’s the ocean
Yudhiṣṭhira, eager to learn more, turned to the sage and said:
“O holy one, tell me in detail why Vindhya, seized by wrath, began to grow in stature, as if to swallow the heavens.”
Lomaśa replied:
“In days of old, the Sun, between rising and setting, ever circled Mount Meru, the golden monarch of mountains. Seeing this, Vindhya, proud and jealous, spake unto the radiant Surya:
‘As thou dost honour Meru with thy daily circumambulation,
Do likewise unto me, O maker of light!
For I too am lord among mountains,
Worthy of thy homage and thy path.’
Then Surya answered calmly:
‘Not by my will do I circle Meru.
The path is ordained by the Makers of the universe,
Who set the courses of heaven and earth.
Bound am I to their decree, not to my desire.’
But Vindhya, enraged, heeded not these words. In swelling wrath he began to rise, seeking to bar the path of Sun and Moon, and to choke the stars from their celestial courses.
The gods, beholding this madness, gathered before the mountain king and entreated him to desist. Yet Vindhya would not yield. Helpless, the gods hastened to Agastya, son of Varuṇa, mighty in tapas and famed for virtue.
With folded palms they spoke:
“O sage of marvellous power, hear us!
Vindhya, seized with anger,
Rises against heaven itself.
He blocks the path of Sun and Moon,
And halts the stars in their course.
None among gods or men can subdue him—
Save thee, O great ascetic!
Restrain him, or the worlds shall fall into ruin.”
Thus implored, Agastya, together with his wife, came to Vindhya. Approaching the vast mountain, the sage said with gentle command:
“O best of mountains, grant me a path!
For I must journey southward upon sacred errand.
Until I return, stand thou still—
Grow not in height, increase not in bulk.
When I come again,
Then mayst thou rise as thou pleasest.”
Vindhya, overawed by his words, bowed to the request. And from that day to this, for the sake of his promise, Vindhya has never increased, for Agastya has not returned from the southern lands.
Lomaśa paused, and then continued:
“Thus by Agastya’s power was Vindhya restrained. Now, O king, hear how the Kalakeyas too were brought low by the same mighty sage.
When the gods came to Agastya, they said:
‘Great one, a peril devours us.
The Kalakeyas, sheltering in the sea,
Emerge by night and slay the saints.
None can reach them, for the ocean guards them.
We beg of thee a boon:
Drink up the sea, O sage!
Dry its waters, and deliver the Daityas into our hands.’
Agastya, noble and magnanimous, replied:
‘So be it. I shall do what ye ask,
For it shall bring peace to gods and men.’
Thus resolved, the sage set forth with the gods and with hosts of ṛṣis, serpents, Yakṣas, Kinnaras, and celestial musicians, eager to behold the wonder. They came together to the shore of the mighty ocean—terrible in roar, tossing its waves like dancers, frothing with white laughter, pounding upon caves, teeming with sharks and monsters, and filled with the cries of countless birds.
There, on that awe-filled strand, the hosts of heaven and earth awaited Agastya’s deed.”
Lomaśa said:
“When the saintly Agastya, son of Varuṇa, reached the shore of the roaring sea, he turned to the gods and ṛṣis gathered around him and spoke with calm resolve:
‘Behold! I shall drink up this ocean, the dwelling of the lord of waters.
Make ready, O gods, your weapons and preparations—
For soon the Daityas will stand revealed,
Their refuge gone, their strength laid bare.’
Having spoken thus, the unwavering son of Mitra and Varuṇa, filled with wrath and radiant with tapas, bent down to the waters. Then, while all the worlds looked on in awe, he began to drink the ocean.
The gods, together with Śakra, were struck with amazement as they beheld the sea sinking away, its billows stilled, its depths consumed by the saint. With hearts uplifted they sang his praise:
‘Thou art our refuge, O sage of sages!
Thou art Providence itself, guardian of worlds.
By thy grace the three regions are saved from ruin;
By thy might the path of dharma stands secure.’
Celestial blossoms rained upon him; drums and flutes of the Gandharvas resounded in the sky. Surrounded by song and light, Agastya rendered the ocean waterless.
Then the gods, seizing their heavenly weapons forged in fire, rushed with lion-hearts against the Kalakeyas. The Asuras roared, swift as storms, armed with iron and flame. A furious conflict broke forth, resounding across heaven and earth.
But those Daityas, long scorched by the tapas of sages, found their strength diminished. Though they fought with desperate rage, the hosts of the celestials cut them down. Their bodies, decked with golden ornaments, shone as they fell—like flaming palāśa trees in full blossom torn down by a tempest.
Soon, O Bhārata, the Kalakeyas were slain. Only a few, the remnant of that mighty race, tore open the bosom of the Earth and fled into the nether regions, beyond the reach of gods.
Then the devas, beholding their victory, raised hymns to Agastya:
‘O mighty-armed one, thou hast saved the worlds!
By thy power the ruthless Kalakeyas are slain.
By thy compassion men and gods rejoice.
Now, O great ṛṣi, restore the waters—
Fill again the sea thou hast drained!’
But Agastya, smiling gently, replied:
‘That water, indeed, is digested within me.
It cannot return by my will.
Seek another way, O gods of heaven,
If you would see the ocean filled again.’
At these words, the hosts of devas fell silent, struck by wonder and sadness. They bowed to the sage, then departed each to their paths.
Together with Viṣṇu, the gods went unto Brahmā, the grandsire. And there, in solemn counsel, they pondered deeply, seeking a new means to replenish the emptied sea.”
Lomaśa said:
“Then Brahmā, grandsire of the worlds, addressed the gods who stood awaiting counsel:
‘Go ye where your will may lead,
Or as desire may carry you.
The ocean shall not soon return;
Its time shall come with Bhagiratha’s line.’
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Hearing these words of the Universal Grandfather, the gods bowed and dispersed, waiting for the destined hour.
Yudhiṣṭhira then spoke:
‘O holy sage, tell me in detail of this matter.
What was the occasion? How did the kin of Bhagiratha restore the sea?
By what act was the ocean filled again?
I would hear of the deeds of that high-souled king.’
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus questioned by Dharmarāja, Lomaśa, foremost of ascetics, narrated the ancient tale of Sagara, sovereign of men.
Lomaśa continued:
“There was once a king of Ikṣvāku’s line named Sagara, strong-armed and resplendent, terrible in fame. Yet he was sonless, and in wrath subdued the Haihayas, the Tāla-janghas, and the scattered kṣatriyas, bringing all under his dominion.
That ruler of men had two queens, proud in beauty and youth—one a princess of Vidarbha, the other of the noble Sivi line. Desiring offspring, he journeyed with them to Mount Kailāsa, where, amidst snow and silence, he undertook severe austerities.
With mind restrained in yoga and body consumed by penance, he beheld at last the Three-eyed Lord—Mahādeva, bearer of the trident, destroyer of Tripura, eternal refuge of beings, companion of Umā.
At the sight of that great god, the king, attended by his queens, fell at his feet and prayed for a son. Śiva, well-pleased, spoke in voice both terrible and tender:
‘O king, thou hast chosen well thy moment.
Know, therefore, the fruit of thy prayer:
From one queen shall spring sixty thousand sons,
Proud, valorous, but destined to perish together.
From the other shall be born a single child,
Valiant, enduring, who shall continue thy race.’
Having uttered this boon, Rudra vanished into the ether, leaving the king gladdened though pondering deeply.
Sagara returned to his capital with his queens, his heart swelling with hope. In time, both conceived. The princess of Sivi bore a son radiant as a god; the princess of Vidarbha, however, gave birth not to a child but to a gourd-like mass.
Struck with dismay, the king thought to cast it away. But suddenly a voice resounded from the heavens, solemn and commanding:
‘O king, be not hasty!
These are thy sons; abandon them not.
Take forth the seeds from the gourd,
Place them in vessels filled with ghee.
From these shall arise thy sixty thousand sons,
Even as Śiva, lord of beings, foretold.’
Hearing this celestial command, the king obeyed with care, and thus began the strange and fated birth of Sagara’s line.”
Lomaśa said:
“O righteous king, Sagara, hearing the voice from the heavens, believed with steadfast faith and did as commanded. He divided the gourd, placing each seed in vessels of clarified butter, and for each vessel he appointed a nurse. In time, from these vessels arose sixty thousand sons—terrible in strength, fierce in pride, and ruthless in their deeds. By Rudra’s boon they were born, but their arrogance was boundless.
They soared through the skies, despising gods and Gandharvas alike, harassing Rākṣasas and mortals, addicted to battle and swollen with might. The people, tormented, fled with the gods to Brahmā for refuge.
The Grandfather of beings spoke in solemn prophecy:
‘Be patient, O gods and men!
These sons of Sagara, proud and violent,
Shall meet their end in fiery wrath,
Destroyed by their own destiny.’
Thus consoled, the gods withdrew, awaiting fate.
In time, Sagara consecrated himself for the aśvamedha sacrifice. His sons guarded the roaming horse as it traversed the earth. But when it reached the sea—now dry and fearsome—the horse vanished. The princes, believing it stolen, rushed to their father.
‘O King! Protector of men,’ they cried,
‘We have searched the world entire—
Mountains, forests, rivers, caves,
Yet neither horse nor thief is found.’
Hearing this, the king, blinded by fury, spoke harshly:
‘Go forth again, my sons!
Return not without the horse.
Search the earth till its roots are bare,
Or return not to me at all.’
Obeying this fatal command, the sixty thousand princes dug into the earth with spades and axes. They rent asunder Varuṇa’s ocean, killing snakes, Rākṣasas, and beings of every kind. The cries of slaughter rose as heads were severed and bodies broken. For long they labored, yet no horse appeared.
At last, in the north-east, they pierced to the nether regions. There they beheld the sacrificial steed—and near it, the radiant sage Kapila, shining like a sun of concentrated fire. Overjoyed at finding the horse, they rushed forward heedless of the saint’s presence, driven by their fate.
But Kapila, Vasudeva incarnate, wrathful and righteous, flamed forth in brilliance:
‘O blind with pride, ye sons of Sagara!
Know ye not before whom ye stand?
In your folly ye rush to ruin—
Behold now the fire of destiny!’
And from his gaze leapt forth consuming fire; in an instant the princes were reduced to ashes.
Then Nārada, ascetic of immeasurable tapas, came to Sagara and spoke:
‘O King, thy sons—sixty thousand strong—
Have met their doom by Kapila’s wrath.
Burnt to ashes, they lie below,
Their arrogance repaid in fire.’
At this grievous news, Sagara was stunned, his heart crushed by grief. Long he sat in silence, recalling the words once spoken by Śiva: that all his sons, save one, would perish. Then he summoned his grandson, Aṁśumān, son of Asamanjas, and said:
‘O child of stainless character,
My sons are lost, consumed by fate.
Even thy father I cast aside,
Bound by the duties of a king.
Now it is thou who must uphold our race,
And bring peace to the souls of the fallen.’
Yudhiṣṭhira, ever intent on dharma, asked:
“O holy sage, tell me this mystery:
Why did King Sagara, foremost of men,
Abandon his own son Asamañjas,
Though valiant and born of royal blood?
Surely such a deed is rare and grievous.”
Lomaśa replied:
“O son of Dharma, listen. To Sagara was born a son, Asamañjas, by his queen of the Śivī race. Yet, unlike his noble line, this prince became cruel and wayward. He seized the children of the townsfolk and cast them into the river, laughing as they screamed.
Fearful and grieving, the people gathered, palms joined, and said to the king:
‘O mighty ruler, guardian of men,
From foes thou protectest, from famine too.
But from thine own son we suffer peril—
Deliver us now from this terror within!’
Hearing their plea, Sagara, though torn with sorrow, resolved with firmness:
‘Let Asamañjas be banished today,
For the good of the realm and the peace of my people.
Better to lose one son unrighteous
Than doom my kingdom to fear and grief.’
Thus, the prince was cast away, for the welfare of the kingdom. Such was the burden borne by Sagara.”
Then Lomaśa continued:
“After the death of his sons, Sagara summoned his grandson Aṁśumān, son of the banished prince. With grief upon his brow he spoke:
‘O child of stainless ways,
My heart is torn in sorrow.
Sixty thousand sons have perished,
And thy father I cast away.
Now, for the sake of my sacrifice,
Bring back the horse, O boy,
And free thy forefathers’ souls,
Else I fall into darkness.’
Obedient, Aṁśumān descended through the very rift his uncles had dug, down into the regions beneath the earth. There he beheld the sacrificial steed, and near it, the sage Kapila, resplendent like a mass of blazing fire. Bowing low, the prince spoke with humility, explaining his quest.
Kapila, pleased by his righteousness, said:
‘O Aṁśumān, son of virtue,
Thy heart is filled with truth.
Take now the horse for the sacrifice,
And know that thy line shall prosper.
As for thy forefathers—be at peace:
By thy son’s son shall Gaṅgā descend,
Threefold in her streams divine,
And by her touch the ashes of the fallen
Shall be borne to heaven’s gate.’
Blessed by these words, Aṁśumān returned with the horse. He fell at his grandfather’s feet, recounting all that he had seen: the fate of Sagara’s sons, and Kapila’s prophecy. Sagara, hearing, grieved no more. He completed his sacrifice, honored by the gods, and in time ascended to heaven, leaving the throne to Aṁśumān.
The virtuous Aṁśumān ruled well and long, until he entrusted his kingdom to his son Dilīpa and departed for the forest path.
Dilīpa, hearing of his ancestors’ terrible fate, longed to bring Gaṅgā down to earth to cleanse their ashes. He performed many austerities, but could not win that boon. Yet to him was born Bhagiratha, radiant, truthful, free of malice, and steadfast in dharma.
Dilīpa, entrusting the throne to his noble son, renounced worldly life and departed to the forest, there to complete his tapas until he too ascended to heaven.”
Lomaśa said:
“Bhagiratha, lord of a mighty bow, sat upon the throne like Indra among men. Yet even amidst splendor, sorrow clung to his heart, for he had learned from the seer Kapila the fate of his forefathers: sixty thousand princes, ashes upon the earth, unsanctified, barred from heaven.
Resolved to redeem them, the king laid aside his sceptre and entrusted his ministers with the affairs of state. He turned his steps toward the Himalayas, the snowy mountain of a hundred peaks. There he beheld the lord of ranges, adorned with shining gems and golden ridges, its slopes veiled in clouds and glittering with silver streams. Lions prowled its caves, peacocks and swans filled the groves with cries, and nymphs and Kinnaras sang upon its rocky ledges. Elephants rubbed its trees, serpents glowed in its valleys, and the mountain shone now like gold, now like silver, now like black collyrium.
In such a place the king, burning with resolve, undertook fearful tapas. For a thousand years of the gods, he lived on water, roots, and fruits alone. His body grew lean, his mind unshaken.
At last, Gaṅgā herself, the radiant daughter of Himālaya, appeared before him, a goddess in liquid form, and said:
“O Bhagiratha, steadfast king,
Tell me what boon thou seekest.
Shall I flow at thy command?
Shall I grant the wish of thy soul?”
Bhagiratha bowed and replied:
“O goddess of the celestial streams,
Grantress of merit, sanctifier of worlds,
My forefathers, the sons of Sagara,
Were scorched by Kapila’s flame.
Now they lie in ashes, earth-bound,
Denied their place among the gods.
Only by thy holy waters
Can they ascend to heaven’s gate.
Therefore I pray, descend to earth,
Cleanse them, and bear them upward.”
Lomaśa said:
Gaṅgā, saluted by all the worlds, smiled gently and spoke:
“O king, thy wish is righteous,
And thy heart is stainless.
Gladly would I flow upon earth,
But who shall bear my fall?
For if I descend unrestrained,
The earth shall split beneath me.
None in the three worlds can sustain my torrent,
Save only Rudra, Śiva the Great,
Lord of the blue throat, wielder of the trident.
Win his favour by tapas, O king,
For upon his matted locks shall I alight,
And from him flow gently to earth.
Thus shall thy forefathers be delivered.”
Hearing these words, Bhagiratha turned his mind toward Kailāsa, the crystal mountain, abode of Śiva. There he performed austerities fiercer still, until the great god, destroyer of Tripura, was moved by his devotion.
Śiva, lord of lords, appeared before the king and spoke with gracious voice:
“O Bhagiratha, thou art steadfast,
Thy purpose pure, thy penance deep.
For thy ancestors’ sake I shall sustain Gaṅgā.
Upon my head she shall descend,
And from my locks flow forth to earth.
Thus shall thy fathers rise to heaven,
And thy name be blessed forever.”
Thus did Bhagiratha win the favour of Śiva, and the way was prepared for Gaṅgā’s descent.”
Lomaśa said:
When the blessed God, Śiva, heard the words of Bhagiratha and beheld his steadfast austerity, he replied with a smile of grace:
“O king, righteous protector of men,
For thy sake I shall bear her fall.
Gaṅgā, pure and divine, shall descend,
And I shall hold her upon my head.”
Thus declaring, the Great Lord, dreadful in form, with trident raised and surrounded by hosts of gaṇas, came to the snowy mountain. Standing firm as a mountain himself, he turned to Bhagiratha and said:
“Now call upon Gaṅgā, daughter of Himālaya.
I shall sustain her torrent from the heavens,
That she may flow upon earth
And fulfil thy holy desire.”
Hearing these words, Bhagiratha bowed low, and fixing his mind upon Gaṅgā, prayed with all his heart. At that very moment, the daughter of the snowy peak, the river of the gods, radiant and foaming, leapt down from the sky.
The heavens were stirred by her descent. Devas, ṛṣis, Gandharvas, serpents, and Yakṣas assembled to behold the miracle. Roaring like a thousand drums, swirling with fishes and sharks, glittering with white froth like flights of swans, Gaṅgā tumbled forth. Sometimes she wound like a serpent, sometimes reeled like a drunken woman, and at times she thundered like a storm of heaven. Her foam became her robe, her spray her ornaments, her voice a hymn of waters.
Caught in the matted locks of Rudra, she was checked in her fall, and from his hair she flowed forth in three mighty streams. The gods marveled, the earth trembled, and the seas rejoiced as her waters coursed toward the ocean.
Then Gaṅgā herself spoke to Bhagiratha:
“O king of steadfast vow,
Show me the path I must tread.
For thy sake have I descended—
Lead me now to thy ancestors’ ashes.”
Guided by Bhagiratha, the holy river flowed across mountains and plains, until she reached the place where lay the sixty thousand sons of Sagara, reduced to dust by Kapila’s flame. There Bhagiratha offered libations of water in their name, and Gaṅgā, daughter of Himālaya, sanctified them with her touch. At once their spirits, cleansed of sin, ascended to the world of the gods.
Having fulfilled the vow of Bhagiratha, Śiva returned to Kailāsa, saluted by the celestials. And Bhagiratha, his heart’s wish accomplished, adopted Gaṅgā as his daughter and filled the sea, abode of Varuṇa, with her holy flood.
Thus, O king, have I told thee how Gaṅgā, running in three streams, was brought to earth by Bhagiratha, how she filled the sea, and how by her waters the sons of Sagara were delivered.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
O chief of the Bharata race, the son of Kuntī then journeyed slowly to the confluence of the two rivers Nandā and Aparanandā, whose waters were famed for destroying the dread of sin. From there, the protector of men reached the hill of Hemakūṭa, a place filled with wonders strange and inconceivable.
There, the utterance of words alone brought clouds thundering in the sky, with volleys of stones showering from above. At that sight, men grew sorrowful and dared not attempt the ascent. Eternal winds blew there, rains poured unceasingly, and though the sounds of Vedic recitation were heard, not a single person could be seen. At morning and evening the sacred fire shone forth, yet gnats and flies swarmed, disturbing those who sought austerity. A sadness seized the soul, illness overtook the body, and strange portents haunted the heart.