novelraw Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 12 - Aṣṭāvakra of the Eight Bends
Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 12 - Aṣṭāvakra of the Eight Bends
Then Vaiśaṃpāyana continued:
“Thus addressed by the sage Lomaśa, son of Kuntī, Yudhiṣṭhira put forth fresh questions regarding the lineage of Somaka.”
Yudhiṣṭhira spoke with reverence:
“O best of speakers, thou who knowest the lore of men and gods, tell me of King Somaka. What was his might, his power, his story? I desire to hear an exact account of his deeds.”
Lomaśa answered:
“O son of Kuntī, listen well. Somaka was a righteous ruler, virtuous and devoted to dharma. He had one hundred wives, each carefully chosen, each matched to him in birth and character. Yet though the king longed for offspring, though he performed every rite and prayer, no son was born.
Time passed, years fell away, and the king grew old. At last, by the grace of fate, a single son was born from that company of queens. His name was Jantu, bright as a flame in the darkness of the king’s heart.
All the mothers claimed him as their own. They surrounded him in turns, giving him toys, ornaments, and food, striving to bring him joy. But one day, as the boy played, an ant stung his tender flesh. Pierced by that tiny creature, Jantu cried out in pain.
The queens rushed to him, their cries filling the palace. Their shrill lament reached the king himself, who sat in court among priests and ministers. Astonished, Somaka sent his ushers to know the cause. When he heard it was but the sting of an ant, the king himself hastened to the women’s chambers, soothed his son, and came forth in thought.
Seated again with his ministers and priest, the king sighed heavily and said:
“Fie upon the fortune of a single son!
I had rather be sonless altogether.
A child so rare becomes a breath of life—
yet ever threatened by sickness, sorrow, death.
I took a hundred wives, O learned Brāhmaṇa,
choosing each with care, hoping for many heirs.
Yet all my striving has yielded but one—
and that one fragile, the jewel of a hundred hearts.
What grief is greater than this?
I am grown old, and so are my wives.
This boy is their soul, their breath, their all.
Tell me, O priest, is there a rite, a sacrifice,
by which a hundred sons might be won?
Is it easy or hard, noble or dreadful? Speak!”
The family priest, versed in sacred lore, replied gravely:
“O king, there is indeed such a rite. But it is stern and terrible. If thou hast the will to perform it, I shall reveal it.”
Somaka declared at once:
“Be it good or evil, noble or cruel, let the rite be performed. I have resolved. Speak, O holy one, and I shall do it.”
The priest spoke words that chilled the hearts of all:
“Then hear, O king.
Thou must offer thy son Jantu in sacrifice.
When his fat is poured into the fire,
the gods will be pleased, the rite complete.
Thy queens, inhaling the smoke of the oblation,
shall conceive sons, brave and strong,
a hundred in number, protectors of thy line.
And Jantu too shall be reborn—
thy son again, marked with gold upon his back,
self-begotten, shining with destiny.”
Thus did the priest lay before the king the dread condition of the sacrifice.
Somaka, torn between love and desperation, bowed before his priest and said:
“O Brāhmaṇa, whatever must be done, do precisely as the rite requires.
I long for sons, a hundred heirs—
no command of thine will I refuse.”
Then, O king, the fearful rite began. The priest, steadfast in his vow, prepared the altar. Jantu, the single jewel of a hundred mothers, was seized for sacrifice. The queens, stricken with terror, rushed forward weeping, their cries piercing the sky.
They clutched the child by his hand and cried aloud:
“We are undone! Spare our son!”
Like osprey-birds shrieking above their young, they struggled with the priest. Yet the Brāhmaṇa, bound by duty, pulled the boy away. Amid sobs and screams, he slew Jantu and poured the child’s fat into the sacred fire as offering to the gods.
O scion of Bharata, hear the wonder of fate!
As the smoke rose, thick and terrible, the mothers inhaled it. Their bodies swayed, they fell swooning upon the ground. Yet in that moment, by the strange law of sacrifice, they conceived. In due time, when ten months had passed, a full hundred sons were born to Somaka.
And Jantu too returned—reborn from his former mother, marked with a golden sign upon his back. He was again the eldest, again beloved, and greater in merit than all the others.
After years of rule, both Somaka and his priest left their mortal frames. When the king’s spirit journeyed to the other world, he beheld his priest writhing in a blazing hell, scorched by flames unending.
Somaka cried:
“O Brāhmaṇa! why art thou, holy one, consumed in this torment?”
The priest, his form blackened by fire, replied in anguish:
“This is the fruit of my act—officiating in that sacrifice where Jantu was slain. For this I burn.”
The king’s heart split with grief, and turning to Dharmarāja, the divine judge, he said:
“If this priest of mine suffers thus for me,
I too shall enter this fire.
Without him I desire no heaven.
Let me share his fate in hell or paradise,
for his deed and mine were one.”
Dharmarāja, stern and just, replied:
“O king, no man bears another’s deeds;
each soul reaps what he has sown.
Yet if such is thy will,
then share his portion—
taste the fruits of sin beside him,
until the measure is complete.
Afterward thou shalt ascend to heaven.”
And so, O monarch, Somaka entered hell with his priest. Side by side they bore the fire, until the weight of their sin was lifted. Then both were freed, rising together to the blessed realms. All the merit Somaka had gained through gifts and sacrifice he shared with the Brāhmaṇa he loved.
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Lomaśa then pointed before Yudhiṣṭhira:
“O son of Kuntī, behold! This is the hermitage of Somaka, shining in beauty. Whoever spends six nights here, self-controlled, freed from passion, attains blessed regions. Therefore, O king of kings, we too must dwell here six nights in holy restraint.”
Lomaśa pointed with his hand, guiding Yudhiṣṭhira through the sacred landscape.
“O king, behold this holy ground! Here, in ancient times, Prajāpati, the Lord of all beings, performed the Iṣṭikṛta sacrifice—a rite so vast it endured for a thousand years.
Here too did Amvarīṣa, son of Nabhāga, worship with fire and Soma by the banks of the Yamunā. When the rite was done, he poured out ten padmas of gold to the priests, and through sacrifice and austerity, he ascended to the highest bliss.
Here, Yayāti, son of King Nahuṣa, shone in might and penance. He contended with Indra himself, performing a sacrifice so great that the earth still bears its imprint. Look well, O son of Dharma—see how the soil is furrowed with the vestiges of countless altars, how the ground seems pressed down beneath the weight of Yayāti’s piety.
Behold the Sami tree of one leaf, standing as witness to those holy acts, and the shining lakes of Paraśurāma. Here lies the hermitage of Nārāyaṇa himself, hallowed by his tapas. Here too Richīka’s son, blazing with ascetic fire, walked the banks of the silver river Raupya, lost in the Yoga of the seers.”
Lomaśa’s voice softened as he recalled a darker tale:
“In this very region, O king, a Piśāchī—her ornaments made of pestles—once spoke to a Brāhmaṇa woman while I recited the lineages of kings. She said:
‘Eat curds in Yugandhara,
dwell in Achutasthala,
bathe in Bhūtilaya—
then shalt thou live long with thy sons.
Spend a night here,
and the day’s fortune shall be reversed by night.’
Therefore, O Yudhiṣṭhira, we too shall remain here tonight, for this is the very threshold of the Kurukṣetra field, the land of ancient sacrifices.”
He gestured again:
“Here did Yayāti, son of Nahuṣa, perform his holy rites, and gave away gems without number. Indra himself was delighted. Here is the sacred bathing place on the Yamunā known as Plakṣāvataraṇa, the descent of the banyan tree. Men of wisdom call this the very gate of heaven.
Here the Sarasvata king once performed sacrifice; here too saints of the highest order, using the sacrificial stake as their pestle, completed their sacred bath. Bharata, son of Duṣyanta, freed his horse for the Aśvamedha here, after winning sovereignty of earth by dharma. Those steeds, released again and again, bore coats checkered in black and white.
Here Marutta, protected by the sage Samvarta, performed mighty sacrifices, and the smoke of his offerings rose to heaven. Whoever bathes at this spot beholds all the worlds and is freed of sin.”
So spoke Lomaśa. And at his urging, Yudhiṣṭhira, with his brothers, entered the waters of the Yamunā. As they bathed, the seers raised hymns of praise, their voices mingling with the sound of flowing streams.
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, gazing afar with purified sight, exclaimed:
“O Brāhmaṇa of truth, by virtue of this sacred act I behold all the worlds!
Even from here I see my brother Arjuna,
the white-horsed rider, shining like a god.”
Lomaśa replied:
“It is even so, O son of Dharma. Those who bathe in these holy streams, purified and steadfast, behold the regions of the gods with their own eyes. Behold also the Sarasvatī, the refuge of sages. Here Brāhmaṇas and kings performed sacrifice, sanctifying this land.
And here lies the altar of Prajāpati, stretching five yojanas around, within the very field of the Kurus, consecrated by the offerings of ancient monarchs.”
Lomaśa spoke again, pointing out the holy landscape as if unfurling a map of heaven itself.
“O son of Bharata’s race, behold! Whoever breathes their last at this sacred spot ascends to heaven. Thousands upon thousands of men have come here to die, seeking the blessing uttered long ago.
When Prajāpati Dakṣa performed sacrifice on this ground, he pronounced a boon:
‘Whosoever shall die in this place,
shall win unfailing heaven;
by the merit of this tīrtha,
their soul shall not fall again.’
Therefore, O king, this place is thronged by pilgrims seeking release.
Here flows the Sarasvatī, beautiful and sacred, until she disappears beneath the earth at Vināśana, hiding from the eyes of the Niṣādas, for hatred of them. Yet, at Cāmaśodbheda, she rises again, and there she joins other holy rivers rushing seaward, sanctifying their union.
Behold Sindhu-tīrtha, where Lopāmudrā chose the great sage Agastya as her lord. Yonder lies Prabhāsa, dear to Indra, where sins are washed away like dust in the rain. And there is the hallowed region of Viṣṇupāda, and the sacred river Vipāśā, where Vasiṣṭha, grief-stricken by the death of his sons, bound his own limbs and cast himself into the stream. But when he rose, the bonds had vanished, broken by the river’s holiness.”
Lomaśa’s eyes shone as he swept his hand northward.
“O king, behold Kāśmīra, frequented by sages, where once Agni held counsel with Kaśyapa, and where Nahuṣa’s son debated with the Ṛṣis of the north. Yonder is the gate of Mānasasarovara, where Rāma, son of Daśaratha, opened a mountain path with his mighty arms.
Here too lies Vātikhanda, by the frontier of Videha. Know this marvel: at the waning of every age, Maheśvara himself, with Umā and his hosts, is seen here in whatever form he chooses to assume. In that nearby lake, during the month of Caitra, men desirous of family welfare offer sacrifice to the wielder of Pināka. Those who bathe here with hearts controlled are cleansed of sin and ascend to heaven.”
The sage continued:
“Here stands Ujjanaka-tīrtha, where Vasiṣṭha with Arundhatī, and the seer Yavakrī, found tranquillity. There is Kausava Lake, its waters blooming with the Kausesaya lotus, and nearby is the hermitage of Rukmiṇī, where she conquered anger and attained peace.
Look, O king, to Bhṛgutunga, that lofty peak sanctified by meditation. And here flows the sacred Vitastā, absolver of sin, cool and limpid, cherished by sages. On either side of the Yamunā run the streams Jalā and Upajalā, sparkling like strands of silver.
It was here, O son of Dharma, that King Uśīnara performed sacrifice so great that he surpassed even Indra. Desiring to test his virtue, and to grant him boons, Indra came as a hawk and Agni as a pigeon.
The hawk wheeled in hunger,
the pigeon trembled in fear,
and seeking refuge,
fell upon the king’s thigh.
Thus the trial began, O ruler of men, with the bird of fire cradled in the lap of dharma.”
The hawk, circling in hunger, spoke with a voice sharp as the wind:
“O king, men call thee righteous, guardian of the earth.
Why then dost thou hinder me from food ordained by the gods?
Hunger consumes me, life itself slips away—
yet thou thinkest to serve virtue by denying me my prey.
Know this: by such an act thou forsakest dharma, not uphold it.”
But King Uśīnara, with the pigeon trembling in his lap, replied with steady resolve:
“This bird, frightened, weary, came to me seeking refuge.
He who abandons one that asks protection
is as sinful as a cow-slayer or the slayer of a Brāhmaṇa.
Shall I, for thy hunger, forsake the cry of the helpless?
Nay, O hawk, the highest dharma is to shield the terrified.”
The hawk’s eyes gleamed, his tone fierce yet wise:
“From food all beings draw breath; from food life is sustained.
Forsake thy wealth, forsake thy kin, and yet live—
but no man lives deprived of food.
If I perish, my mate and children perish too.
Thus, by saving one, thou destroyest many.
True virtue does not strangle virtue;
choose the greater path when dharmas clash.”
Hearing words so grave, the king bowed his head in thought.
“O best of birds,” said he, “thy speech is steeped in wisdom. Surely thou art no common hawk but Suparṇa himself, monarch among the winged. Yet how can abandoning one that cries for aid be dharma? If food thou seekest, I shall bring thee ox, boar, deer, or buffalo. Any creature thou namest shall I procure—save only this pigeon who has sought my protection.”
The hawk answered:
“Not ox, not boar, nor forest deer shall I eat.
The law eternal is this: hawks feed on pigeons.
This one has been allotted to me by fate—
release him, O king, lest thy promise prove hollow.
Lean not on the plantain’s stem for support,
for its seeming strength shatters in the storm.”
Then Uśīnara, steadfast in heart, declared:
“O ranger of the skies, I will grant thee kingdom, riches, or province vast. But this bird I shall never surrender. Speak, then—what must I do to redeem its life?”
The hawk gave his dreadful condition:
“If thou so lovest this pigeon, then weigh thy own flesh against it.
Cut from thy body, limb by limb, until the scales are even.
Thus only shall my hunger be appeased,
and thy vow of protection stand unbroken.”
The king smiled, as if granted a boon rather than a demand.
“O noble bird,” he said, “this request is grace itself. Gladly shall I offer my own flesh, weighed for this creature’s life.”
Lomaśa continued the tale:
At once the righteous monarch cut a portion of flesh from his side and laid it in the balance. But the pigeon outweighed it. Again he sliced his flesh, placing piece after piece upon the scale. Still the bird was heavier. At last, bereft of flesh, the king himself stepped into the balance, bleeding, wasted, yet resolute.
Then the hawk cast aside its guise and shone forth in radiance:
“I am Indra, lord of the celestials. This pigeon is Agni, eater of oblations. We came to test thy vow. O king, thou hast given thine own flesh, and offered thy very life for the sake of dharma. Thy fame shall outshine all rulers of earth, enduring as long as men speak of virtue. Take thy place in heaven, resplendent among the righteous.”
Thus, in glory, Uśīnara ascended to heaven, his sacrifice bright as fire. Even now, O king, this land bears witness to his vow. Here sages dwell, gods descend, and Brāhmaṇas speak of his greatness.
Lomaśa pointed ahead, his voice solemn with reverence.
“O king, behold this hermitage! It is the seat of Śvetaketu, son of Uddālaka, famed across the earth as master of the sacred mantras. These groves, graced with coconut palms, once resounded with the hymns of Sarasvatī herself, when she appeared in human form before him. Here Śvetaketu prayed, ‘O goddess, grant me the gift of speech,’ and his words were blessed.”
The sage continued:
“In that age, two radiant Brahmanas shone like twin flames of wisdom—Śvetaketu and his nephew Aṣṭāvakra, each matchless in sacred lore. Together they came to the great sacrifice of Janaka, king of Videha, where many learned men gathered. There, in the presence of gods and men, these two defeated Vandin, master of debate, and cast him into the river by the force of their knowledge.
Therefore, O Yudhiṣṭhira, honour this place—where once dwelt he whose grandson, though but a boy, shamed the haughty Vandin and upheld the majesty of truth.”
Yudhiṣṭhira bowed low and asked with wonder,
“O holy sage, tell me in full: how came this Aṣṭāvakra, conqueror of debates, to be crooked in eight places of his body? What power, what destiny, wrought such a form for one so wise?”
Then Lomaśa narrated the ancient tale:
“There was once Uddālaka, sage of stern vows, who had a disciple named Kahoda—faithful, restrained, devoted wholly to his master. Long he served, and at last Uddālaka, pleased with his obedience, bestowed on him both his daughter Sūjātā in marriage and mastery of the Vedas.
In time she conceived, and the child within her womb blazed with brilliance like fire. While Kahoda recited the sacred texts, the unborn babe spoke from within, saying:
‘O father, thy recitation falters;
these verses thou readest are flawed.
By thy favour I already know the śāstras and the Vedas entire.
Correct thy chant, lest it fall into error.’
Before his gathered disciples, Kahoda, shamed and angered, cursed the child:
‘Because thou mockest thy sire from the womb,
crooked shalt thou be in eight limbs when born.’
Thus the infant was born twisted of frame, and so named Aṣṭāvakra—‘eight bends.’
He grew up thinking Uddālaka his father and Śvetaketu his brother, for his mother, heavy with grief, concealed the truth. One day, as Aṣṭāvakra sat on Uddālaka’s lap, Śvetaketu, in careless cruelty, pulled him away, saying, ‘That is not thy father’s lap.’
Struck by this bitter word, the boy ran to his mother. ‘Tell me, where is my father?’ he demanded. Overcome, Sūjātā confessed: how Kahoda had sought wealth, challenged Vandin at Janaka’s court, been defeated in debate, and drowned as forfeit in the river.
Hearing this, the youth’s heart burned with resolve. At night he said to Śvetaketu:
‘Let us go to Janaka’s sacrifice.
There Brahmanas contend in wisdom,
there knowledge flows like sacred rivers.
We shall hear the Vedas resound,
see wonders, and feast upon learning.
Come, uncle, let us go.’
So the crooked sage-child, blazing with the fire of destiny, set forth with his uncle to Janaka’s court. Barred at the entrance by the guards, the boy stood unshaken. His eyes gleamed, and turning to the king himself, he spoke words bold and sharp, befitting one who bore the fire of Bhrigu’s line within his twisted frame.”