novelraw Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 9 - Vaitaraṇī and Ṛṣyaśṛṅga
Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 9 - Vaitaraṇī and Ṛṣyaśṛṅga
Bhīmasena’s elder, beholding such marvels, turned again to Lomaśa and questioned him of these mysteries.
Lomaśa replied:
“O slayer of foes, attend with steady mind. Long ago, on this peak of Ṛṣabha, there dwelt a saint of the same name. For centuries he lived in fierce penance, wrathful and unapproachable. Once disturbed by others, in anger he spoke to the mountain:
‘If any man utters words upon this height,
Let clouds gather, let stones fall,
Let roaring winds forbid him speech,
That silence alone may guard austerity.’
Thus he commanded, and thus it came to pass. From his wrath also were other acts forbidden.
Know further, O king, that in ages past the gods themselves, with Indra at their head, came to the banks of Nandā. But when men crowded there to behold them, the celestials wished not to be seen, and by their power raised these hills as barriers. Henceforth the place became inaccessible to mortals. Only those who have lived in austerity may see it, still less ascend.
Here the gods performed their highest sacrifice. Even now the marks remain—see, the ground is covered with blades like kuśa grass, the trees stand as if they were posts for sacrificial beasts, and the fires of gods and saints still gleam at dawn and dusk. Whoever bathes here, his sins are washed away. Therefore, son of Kuntī, bathe here with thy brothers.”
The Pāṇḍavas, following the sage, bathed in the Nandā. Then Lomaśa led them onward to the Kausikī, where Viśvāmitra, lord of austerity, had performed his most terrible penance.
He said:
“This, O son of Bharata, is the pure river Kausikī, and here stands the hermitage of mighty Kaśyapa, father of Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, master of penances, lord of self-restraint. By his tapas he compelled even Indra, slayer of Vṛtra, to rain when drought prevailed. Indra, fearing his power, loosed the clouds in plenty. That wondrous Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, O king, was born of a hind. By his might he wrought marvels in the land of Lomapāda, who, when rain returned and crops revived, gave his daughter Śāntā in marriage to the sage, as once the Sun gave Sāvitrī to her lord.”
Hearing this, Yudhiṣṭhira, lord of dharma, asked:
“O holy sage, how was Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, son of Kaśyapa, born of a hind?
How did holiness spring from such a union,
And why did Indra, slayer of Vala and Vṛtra,
Fear the tapas of a boy, and send down rain?
What was the beauty of Princess Śāntā,
Pure in life and steadfast in virtue,
That she won the heart of the sage
Even when he had donned the form of a stag?
And tell me, O Brāhmaṇa, why in the realm of Lomapāda,
Though he was virtuous and faithful to dharma,
Did mighty Indra withhold the rains,
Chastiser of Pāka, lord of the thunderbolt?
All this in truth, exactly as it was,
I desire to hear from thy lips,
The wondrous life of Ṛṣyaśṛṅga,
Whose penance shook the heavens.”
Lomaśa spoke:
“Hear, O king, how Ṛṣyaśṛṅga of dreaded name was born, son of Vibhaṇḍaka of the Brahmana race, a saint who had mastered his senses through fierce austerity. His seed never failed in causing generation, his wisdom shone like the Lord of Beings himself, and though his boy was young, even aged men revered him.
Vibhaṇḍaka once withdrew to a great lake to continue his penances. There, while rinsing his mouth, he beheld the celestial nymph Ūrvaśī. Overcome in that instant, his vital seed fell into the waters.
A hind, parched with thirst, drank from that lake. She swallowed the seed together with the water and thereby conceived. Yet that hind was no ordinary creature. In a former age she had been a maiden of the gods, cursed by Brahmā to take the form of a deer, with the promise:
“When thou bearest a saint in thine womb,
Then shall thy curse be ended;
Freed from thine animal guise,
Thou shalt return to the heavens.”
Thus, by destiny’s hand and by the creator’s word, the child Ṛṣyaśṛṅga was born within her womb.
The boy grew in the forest, devoted to penance and simplicity, knowing no man save his father. Upon his brow there sprouted a single horn, for which reason men called him Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, the Antelope-Horned Sage. His mind was wholly chaste, untouched by knowledge of women, absorbed only in the duties of ascetic life.
At that time there reigned in Aṅga a king named Lomapāda, friend of Daśaratha of Ayodhyā. Though virtuous by repute, he once committed a falsehood against a Brahmana out of love of pleasure. For that sin, all Brahmanas shunned him, and he stood bereft of a priest.
Then the lord of a thousand eyes withheld the rain. Drought fell upon Aṅga; the earth cracked, crops withered, and the people despaired. The king summoned Brahmanas of learning and austerity, asking them: “By what means may Indra grant us rain?”
Each gave his counsel, but one among them, a great seer, declared:
“The Brahmanas are angered, O king,
Appease them by penance and gifts.
Yet know this too:
If Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, son of Vibhaṇḍaka,
Unknowing of women, pure in tapas,
Should set foot in thy realm,
Then rain will fall unbidden from heaven.”
Hearing these words, Lomapāda made atonement, appeased the Brahmanas, and returned to his people with hope. Then he convened his ministers, wise in counsel and versed in worldly ways, to devise a plan to draw Ṛṣyaśṛṅga into his land.
At last a course was chosen. The king summoned courtesans, women of beauty and skill, and addressed them:
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“O maidens, find a way to win the trust
Of Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, the forest-dweller.
Bring him to Aṅga’s soil,
And the heavens will bless us with rain.”
The women, torn between fear of the king’s wrath and dread of the saint’s curse, shrank from the task. But among them, one aged woman, clever and fearless, rose and said:
“Give me what I ask, O king—
Silks, jewels, and fair companions—
And I shall try to bring
The horned sage into thy realm.”
The king agreed at once, bestowing wealth and ornaments in plenty. Then that wise woman, taking with her maidens young and radiant, departed swiftly into the forest to weave her plan.”
Lomaśa spoke:
The courtesan, instructed by the cunning of her mother and the will of King Lomapāda, devised a wondrous ruse. She prepared a floating hermitage upon the waters, decked with artificial trees heavy with blossoms and fruit, surrounded by shrubs and creepers. It seemed no work of mortal hands but the play of magic. This vessel, moored close to the dwelling of Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, was so contrived as to entice the innocent sage.
She sent scouts to learn his haunts, and when the moment was ripe, dispatched her daughter—clever, youthful, and radiant as spring itself. That woman, skilled in charms, came to the quiet grove where the boy-saint dwelt.
She approached and spoke with sweet words:
“I trust, O saint, all is well in thy hermitage.
Hast thou fruits and roots in plenty?
Do thy studies prosper,
And thy father look kindly upon thee?
I come, a pilgrim,
To greet thee in devotion.”
Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, unknowing of guile, welcomed her with reverence:
“Thou shinest with a light as of heaven.
Take water for thy feet,
And fruits from this forest as thou desirest.
Sit here upon this sacred mat,
Clad with kusa grass and deer-skin.
Tell me, O Brahmana bright,
Where lies thy hermitage,
And what vow is this thou observest?”
The courtesan smiled and answered with cunning speech:
“Beyond the hill that spans three yojanas
Lies my hermitage.
There, our vow is strange:
We clasp the holy ones in our arms.
No rites of washing, no need of obeisance—
But only this embrace is sacred.”
The boy, still innocent, offered her fruits of the wild: gall-nuts, figs, karushas, and other forest produce. But she spurned them gently, and instead bestowed upon him fragrant garlands, shining garments, and sweet drinks. She laughed, she played with a ball, she touched him lightly as a creeper bends upon a tree, and she clasped him with feigned modesty.
Her glance was shy, yet burning,
Her laughter like tinkling bells.
Each touch was a spark upon dry wood,
Each smile a snare for his heart.
Overpowered by feelings new and strange, Ṛṣyaśṛṅga’s heart trembled. When at last she slipped away, murmuring of her need to tend the sacrificial fire, he sat as one bereft—his senses confused, his mind lost in longing.
Love seized him like a fever,
His heart was restless,
His eyes turned upward in sighs,
His spirit emptied of peace.
At that moment Vibhaṇḍaka returned. His tawny eyes gleamed like those of a lion, his body rough with hair, his soul pure with meditation. Seeing his son pale and distracted, he questioned him sternly:
“My son, why art thou not at thy tasks?
Hast thou hewn the fuel for the fire,
Polished the ladles and spoons,
Or led the calf to its mother?
Why do thine eyes wander,
Why dost thou sigh as one wounded?
Tell me—who hath come here today?”
Vaisampāyana continued:
When Vibhaṇḍaka beheld his son’s distraction, he spoke with stern wisdom:
“O child, beware! Such beings are no mortals.
They are Rākṣasas, robed in beauty,
Masters of guile, bent on ruin,
Seekers of souls that strive for heaven.
Their food is sin, their joy obstruction,
Their touch brings fall from blessed paths.
Spurn their gifts, their flowers, their draughts of wine—
For saints who yearn for dharma must turn away.”
Having thus warned his son, the seer went forth in search of the courtesan, but though he roamed for three days, he found no trace of her. Returning to his hermitage, he knew not that fate had already been set in motion.
For while Vibhaṇḍaka wandered, the courtesan returned. Again she tempted Ṛṣyaśṛṅga with laughter, garlands, and gentle touch. This time the youth, overcome by longing, whispered eagerly:
“Let us hasten to thy hermitage
Before my father returns,
That I may dwell where thou dwellest,
And never part from thy side.”
Thus entrapped, he followed her into the floating hermitage. With cunning art they bore him away, their vessel gliding upon the waters until it reached the land of Aṅga. There, within the women’s palace, the young saint was housed.
At that very moment, the heavens broke forth with rain. The drought that had tormented Aṅga was ended, and the earth drank deep. Joy filled the hearts of the people, and King Lomapāda, his vow fulfilled, bestowed his daughter Śāntā upon Ṛṣyaśṛṅga in marriage.
Yet the king feared the wrath of Vibhaṇḍaka. To soften his fury, he lined the sage’s path with ploughed fields, herds of cattle, and humble cowherds who were instructed to say: “All this wealth belongs to thy son; we are but his servants.”
In time the forest-rishi, finding his hermitage empty, was seized by wrath. His heart blazed with fire, and he set forth towards Champā, vowing to consume the king and all his land. But as he journeyed, wearied and hungry, he came upon those cowherds. With reverence they received him, offering food and shelter, and when he asked, “Whose wealth is this?” they answered with folded palms:
“All this, O holy one,
Belongs to thy son.
These cattle, these fields,
Are his to command,
And we are but his slaves.”
Step by step, as he advanced, the sage saw more signs of honour. At last he beheld his son, shining like Indra, and beside him stood Śāntā, radiant as lightning from the cloud. The fury of Vibhaṇḍaka was appeased.
Seeing the devotion of Śāntā to her husband, the sage blessed their union.
“When a son is born to thee,
And all duties to the king are done,
Return, O child, to the forest path,
And dwell with me once more.”
Ṛṣyaśṛṅga obeyed, and Śāntā followed him with tender devotion, as Rohiṇī follows the Moon, as Arundhatī attends on Vasiṣṭha, as Lopāmudrā cherishes Agastya.
Thus, the hermitage of Ṛṣyaśṛṅga became sanctified by their presence, a holy place beside the great lake, blessed and renowned.
Lomaśa then said to Yudhiṣṭhira:
“O son of Dharma, here perform thy ablutions, for here lies merit in abundance. Purify thyself, and then journey on towards other sacred spots.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then, O Janamejaya, the sons of Pāṇḍu left the river Kauśikī and journeyed in order through many holy shrines. At length they came to the great ocean, where the sacred Gaṅgā pours herself into the sea. There, in the meeting place of five hundred rivers, they bathed with due rites, performing the holy plunge. And from that shore they turned their steps eastward, moving towards the land where the tribes of Kaliṅga dwell.
Lomaśa, guiding them, said:
“Behold, O son of Kuntī, this is the land of Kaliṅga.
Through it flows the river Vaitaraṇī,
Sanctified by Dharma himself,
Who once performed austerities here,
Sheltered beneath the gaze of the celestials.
This northern bank, O king of men,
Is holy and adorned by hills,
A place where seers of old,
Clad in bark and kuśa-grass,
Worshipped the gods with sacrifice.
Here once the great Rudra came,
And seizing the sacrificial beast, cried,
‘This is my share!’
The gods, trembling, spoke with gentle words,
Praising him with hymns, appeasing his wrath.
And Rudra, soothed, released the victim,
And returned by the path of the immortals.”
Thus, O Bhārata, the gods, fearing the might of Rudra, ordained for him forever the choicest share of sacrifice—fresh and pure, unstained by staleness. Therefore, whoever bathes in the Vaitaraṇī while reciting this ancient tale beholds with mortal eyes the radiant path that leads to the world of the gods.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Then the sons of Pāṇḍu, and with them Draupadī, descended into the river Vaitaraṇī. With folded palms and reverent hearts, they made libations of water to their forefathers, honouring the line of their sires in that sacred place.
Yudhiṣṭhira said:
“O holy Lomaśa, how wondrous is the power of pious deeds!
Having bathed here according to rule,
I feel no longer bound to the realm of men.
It seems as though I behold the regions beyond,
And hear the hymns of the forest-dwellers,
Resonant with prayer and praise.”
Lomaśa replied:
“O son of Kuntī, what thou hearest lies far away,
Three hundred thousand yojanas hence.
Restrain thy words and remain still,
For before us now appears the divine forest of the Self-existent One.
Here did Viśvakarman, dread architect of the worlds,
Perform his sacrifice of splendour.
And on that great occasion the Self-existent bestowed this earth entire—
Mountains, forests, and plains—
As priest’s gift unto Kaśyapa.
But when Earth, the goddess herself, was thus given away,
She grieved within and spake with wrath:
‘O Lord of Beings, unworthy is this act!
How mayst Thou give me to a mortal?
Nay—I shall descend to the nether waters,
And thy gift shall bear no fruit!’
Then Kaśyapa, beholding her despondent,
Performed rites of propitiation with steadfast heart.
Pleased at last, the goddess rose again,
And revealed herself in the form of a sacred altar.
This, O king, is that holy altar,
Stretching even unto the sea,
Its foundation resting in the bosom of the waters.
Ascend it now, O Bhārata,
And thou shalt gain strength and courage.
But know, as soon as touched by mortal feet,
It vanishes into the ocean’s depths.
Therefore must I perform for thee
The rite that wards off evil,
And thou must utter words of truth
As thou mountest this altar, saying:
‘Fire is the generative organ,
Earth thy body, O Ocean vast.
Vishnu placed his seed within thee,
And thou art the navel of nectar.
Salutation to Agni, salutation to Sūrya,
Salutation to waters, salutation to Vishnu!’
Thus reciting, plunge into the lord of rivers,
For none may touch his sacred tide,
Save with truth upon their lips.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then, when the rite for averting evil had been duly performed, Yudhiṣṭhira the just, magnanimous son of Pāṇḍu, entered the sea. Having fulfilled every instruction of the sage, he emerged purified and radiant, and thence repaired to the skirts of Mount Mahendra. There, with his brothers and Draupadī, he rested for the night beneath the shadow of that holy hill.