Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 14 - Bharadvāja’s grief and Arvavasu’s role

Lomasa continued:

When the contest of words had reached its height, Vandin faltered. His voice fell silent, the chain of his verse left unfinished. Then Aṣṭāvakra, steady as a mountain and radiant with youthful brilliance, supplied the missing half with effortless mastery:

“Thirteen sacrifices are claimed by Keśin,

thirteen devoured by the Atichhandas.

Thus the balance of sacred order stands,

beyond thy grasp, O speaker silenced.”

The hall of Janaka rang with tumult. The Brahmanas, who for long had suffered humiliation under Vandin’s sharp tongue, now clapped their hands in joy. With heads bowed and palms joined, they offered homage to the boy-sage.

Aṣṭāvakra turned to the assembly:

“This man, by trickery of words, has defeated the wise and cast them into water. Today let him taste the same fate. Seize him and drown him in the sea.”

At this, Vandin raised his voice. “Hold, O Janaka! Know me for who I am. I am no common man but the son of Varuṇa, the Lord of the Waters. While thy sacrifice was performed here, another—of twelve years’ span—was being conducted by my father. The Brahmanas I cast into the waters were not slain; they were sent to witness that sacrifice. Behold! They now return, honoured and unhurt.”

Even as he spoke, the learned ones who had vanished into the sea arose, worshipped by the magnanimous Varuṇa, shining like stars returned from eclipse.

Among them stood Kahoda, long-lost father of Aṣṭāvakra. With tears glistening, he addressed his son:

“It is for this, O Janaka, that men pray for sons through sacrifice and austerity—that where the father fails, the son may triumph. Weak men may beget the strong; fools may beget the wise; the unlettered may beget children learned in all lore. What I could not achieve, my son has accomplished.”

Vandin then bowed to Aṣṭāvakra and blessed Janaka:

“Thy fame shall endure, O king, like the sharp axe of Yama that severs the bonds of evil. In this sacrifice the Uktha hymns rise resplendent, the Soma flows, and even the gods rejoice with cheerful hearts.”

When all had spoken, Vandin sought leave of Janaka and, praised by all, descended into the sea to rejoin his father.

The Brahmanas embraced Aṣṭāvakra, honouring him as master of wisdom. In the presence of his mother, Kahoda spoke tenderly to his son:

“O child, enter now the waters of the river Samanga. She shall wash away the scars of thy curse.”

Aṣṭāvakra obeyed. He descended into the stream, and as he submerged, the eight crooked bends of his body were made straight. From that day, the river was called Samanga—the Straight-Limbed—for she bore the power to cleanse sins and restore wholeness.

Lomasa then turned to Yudhishthira and said:

“Therefore, O son of Kunti, thou and thy brothers, with Draupadī by thy side, should descend into this river and bathe. Freed from stain, rejoice with the sages, and perform holy acts hereafter with a mind intent on Dharma.”

Lomasa pointed out the river Samanga—formerly called Madhuvila—and the bathing-place Kardamila, sacred to Bharata. He told Yudhishthira that when the lord of the gods, Sachi’s husband, had slain Vritra and fallen into sin, he was cleansed by bathing in Samanga. Nearby lay the hollow where the Mainaka mountain had sunk, called Vinasana; nearby, too, was the Kanakhala range where sages retired. The mighty Ganga flowed not far off, and here the ancient sage Sanatkumara had won ascetic success. Lomasa urged the king: if you bathe in this river you will be absolved of your sins. He named other holy places—Punya lake, the peak Bhrigutunga, the twin streams Tushniganga—and pointed out the hermitage of the sage Sthulasiras, advising Yudhishthira to lay aside anger and pride there. He also showed him Raivya’s hermitage, where Bharadwaja’s son Yavakri, a profound Vedic scholar, had met his end.

Yudhishthira asked how Yavakri had acquired such Vedic mastery and how he had perished; Lomasa obliged with the story. Bharadwaja and Raivya had been close friends; Raivya’s sons, Arvavasu and Paravasu, and Bharadwaja’s only son, Yavakri, were all learned. But Yavakri was uneasy: his father Bharadwaja, absorbed in austere practice, was slighted by other Brahmanas while Raivya and his sons enjoyed their respect. Consumed by sorrow, Yavakri threw himself into severe austerities and even exposed his body to blazing fire to gain unparalleled mastery of the Vedas. His zealous penances alarmed Indra, who came and warned him to stop and learn by proper means instead. Yet Yavakri vowed to press on; if Indra would not help, he would redouble his austerities and even offer his limbs in sacrifice.

Seeing Yavakri’s unshakable resolve, Indra devised a stratagem. He took the disguise of an infirm, ancient ascetic and began heaving sand into the Bhagirathi where Yavakri washed—attempting to dam the river. Yavakri, amused at the old man’s futile labor, mocked him and called the effort pointless. Indra explained that he was making the crossing easier for travelers; Yavakri scoffed, saying a river so mighty could not be stopped by such work and urged the “ascetic” to attempt something feasible instead. Indra then proposed a bargain: if Yavakri abandoned his fruitless penances, Indra would grant him boons that would let him surpass other men.

Lomaśa continued:

Indra, seeing Yavakri’s fierce resolve, was moved to grant him boons.

“As thou desirest,” said the lord of the celestials, “the Vedas shall be manifest unto thee, and unto thy father also. All thy other wishes too are fulfilled. Return now to thy home, O Yavakri.”

Thus blessed, the ascetic came to Bharadvāja and spoke joyfully:

“O father, the gods have been propitious. The Vedas shall shine in me and in thee alike, and I have received boons that shall make us surpass all men.”

But the wise old Ṛṣi looked upon his son with sorrow, for he foresaw the shadow that pride brings.

Bharadvāja said:

“Knowledge hast thou won, my son, but beware the snare of arrogance.

The proud grow uncharitable, and in their blindness call ruin to themselves.

Hear the tale the gods themselves recount, that thou mayst guard thy path.”

And he told him the ancient story. Once there lived a sage of great tapas, Valadhi by name. In grief for a child lost, he performed the sternest austerities, desiring a son that should never die. The gods, though favourably disposed, decreed otherwise:

The gods had said:

“A mortal cannot be wholly immortal. Yet thy son’s life shall endure so long as its cause endures. Name thou the cause, O sage.”

Valadhi, trusting in the earth’s stability, chose the eternal mountains as the foundation of his child’s life. In time a son was born, Medhāvin, fierce and quick to wrath. Believing himself unassailable, he insulted sages and wandered the earth in arrogance.

One day he provoked the learned Dhannushakṣa. The sage cursed him to ashes, but the boy stood unharmed, guarded by the strength of the mountains. Then Dhannushakṣa, by power of tapas, set buffaloes to shatter the mountains themselves. With their fall, the boy too perished.

Bharadvāja then repeated what the Vedic seers had sung upon witnessing Valadhi’s grief:

“No mortal escapes what Fate ordains;

not even mountains endure when doom is decreed.

Behold how pride brings ruin swiftly,

and strength unbridled destroys its own foundation.”

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Then turning to his son, Bharadvāja said:

“So it is, my child. The proud who rise on the wings of boons fall quickly to the earth. Raivya is no common ascetic. He is stern, irritable, and armed with blazing energy; his sons are strong as he. Beware! Keep far from his wrath, lest thou be consumed.”

But Yavakri, flushed with new power, smiled and answered gently:

“O father, I shall act as thou advisest. Raivya is to me as worthy of reverence as thyself. Fear not.”

Though he spoke sweetly, his heart was fearless and unrestrained. Soon he roamed abroad, heedless of warnings, delighting in mocking and offending the other sages.

Lomaśa said:

It was in the bright month of Chaitra that Yavakri, swollen with pride and wandering without fear, came upon the hermitage of Raivya. The grove was rich with blossoming trees, their fragrance filling the air. There, as fate would have it, he beheld Paravasu’s wife, Raivya’s daughter-in-law, moving gracefully beneath the boughs, radiant like a woman of the celestial Kinnaras.

Desire, long hidden, burst upon Yavakri’s heart. His senses clouded, he spoke shameless words to the maiden:

“Be thou mine, and yield thyself to me.”

Knowing well his arrogance, fearing both his curse and her father-in-law’s blazing wrath, the lady answered with guile:

“I agree.”

But instead of submission, she led him aside and cleverly bound him, leaving him humiliated.

When Raivya returned, he found his daughter-in-law in tears. With gentle words he sought the cause, and she told him of Yavakri’s insult and of her own clever deception.

At this, the sage’s heart blazed with fury. His wrath, long restrained, flared like fire upon sacrificial ghee.

“He who offends the chastity of a daughter-in-law,

though learned in all the Vedas, is doomed.

Let ascetic pride be humbled,

let folly meet its recompense.”

Seized by anger, Raivya plucked a matted lock from his hair and cast it into the fire with mantras. From the flames arose a woman, a perfect likeness of his daughter-in-law. A second lock he cast, and from the fire leapt a dreadful rākṣasa, eyes fierce as burning coals, spear in hand.

They stood before the sage and said, “What shall we do?”

Raivya commanded: “Slay Yavakri, the arrogant.”

The woman bewitched him, stealing away his sacred water-pot—the vessel of his purity. The demon rushed upon him with the spear raised high.

Seeing the danger, Yavakri fled, terror replacing his pride. He ran to a tank—but it lay dry. He sought the rivers, but their waters had vanished. Again and again the spear-wielding demon barred his path.

“Without his water, the ascetic is unclean.

Without purity, mantras cannot save.

Even the rivers flee from the doomed,

and the earth denies refuge to the proud.”

In desperation he sought his father’s Agnihotra hall, hoping for sanctuary, but there a blind Śūdra warder thrust him back and held him fast at the threshold. The demon came swiftly, hurling the spear with a roar. Pierced through the heart, Yavakri fell lifeless at the door of his father’s fire.

The rākṣasa, task complete, returned to Raivya, and with the sage’s leave, dwelt thereafter with the woman born of flame.

Lomaśa said:

After performing his daily rites and gathering the sacred fuel, Bharadvāja returned to his hermitage. On other days the Agnihotra flames would rise to greet him, bright tongues leaning forward as if in welcome. But that day the fire lay still. Even the blind Śūdra doorkeeper sat silent. A chill went through the sage’s heart.

“Why is the sacred fire joyless?

Why do you too, O Śūdra, sit without greeting?

Is all well in my hermitage?

Has my son, heedless of warning, gone to Raivya?”

The doorkeeper bowed his head and told the truth: Yavakri had gone to Raivya’s grounds, had been robbed of his water-pot, and, unclean, had tried to force his way into the Agnihotra room. The Śūdra had barred him. The rākṣasa had struck. Yavakri lay dead.

Hearing this, Bharadvāja rushed to the body and gathered it in his arms. The sage, who had lived on wind and prayer, broke into lamentation:

“O my son, for the good of the Brahmanas

thou didst endure fire and hunger,

that the hidden Veda might shine forth.

Ever gentle to creatures, ever serving the wise—

yet at the end thou fellest into pride

and walked into Death’s own hermitage.

I forbade thee Raivya’s threshold,

but thou didst go as into Yama’s jaws.

Wicked is the man who, knowing me old

and thee my only child,

let anger carry him to this act.

Childless are blessed who never taste

the grief that burns the heart like fire.

From my own lips has come a curse

upon my dearest friend;

thus grief blinds the mind

and makes the tongue unrighteous.”

He raised his face to the sky and spoke the fateful words:

“Even though innocent, Raivya’s eldest son

shall slay him in due time.

Such is the wheel of fate.”

When his lament had run its course, Bharadvāja performed the funeral rites for Yavakri. Then, still holding the pain like a brand upon his chest, the aged sage walked into the blazing fire and surrendered his own life.

Lomaśa continued:

At that time King Vṛhadyumna, rich in fortune, began a grand sacrifice. He engaged Raivya’s two sons, Arvavasu and Paravasu, to assist as priests. With their father’s blessing, the brothers went forth, leaving Raivya in the hermitage with Paravasu’s wife.

One night, Paravasu returned alone, longing to see his wife. In the dark of the forest he met his father, cloaked in a black antelope’s skin. Drowsy and deceived by shadow, Paravasu mistook him for a wandering deer and, for fear of his own life, struck him down.

By blindness of night and folly of mind,

the son raised hand against the sire.

For safety’s sake he loosed his shaft,

and Raivya fell, unknowing, slain.

When morning came, Paravasu performed the funeral rites, then returned to the sacrifice and confessed to his brother: he had killed their father in error. He begged Arvavasu to undertake the vow of expiation, that he might remain at the king’s altar.

Arvavasu agreed:

“Perform thou the sacrifice, O brother,

while I take on the penance for thy deed.

I shall restrain my senses, endure the vow,

and by my austerity bear thy burden.”

Thus it came to pass. Arvavasu, after completing the vow, returned to the sacrifice. But Paravasu, seized with envy and malice, slandered him before King Vṛhadyumna:

“This man is a Brahmana-killer.

Let him not see thy sacrifice,

for even a glance of such a sinner

brings ruin upon the rite.”

The king believed him and ordered Arvavasu driven out. Beaten with harsh words and called slayer of a Brahmana, Arvavasu cried aloud in protest, declaring the truth—that he had only borne his brother’s vow. Yet the attendants mocked him still, and so, in silence, he turned away into the forest.

There he undertook fierce austerities and worshipped the Sun. At last the solar deity revealed himself, radiant as a thousand dawns, and taught him the hidden mantras of adoration. The celestials were moved by his purity. They made Arvavasu chief priest of the sacrifice, and Paravasu was cast out in shame.

The gods bestowed boons on Arvavasu. He asked not for himself but for all:

“Restore my father to life;

absolve my brother of his sin;

bring back Bharadvāja and Yavakri,

and let the Sun’s revelation shine forever on earth.”

The immortals assented: So be it. The dead returned to life, cleansed of sin and memory of sorrow. Yavakri then turned to the gods and asked:

“I mastered the Vedas by ascetic fire,

yet Raivya struck me down.

How could one so learned fall thus,

while another prevailed?”

The gods replied:

“Knowledge won without a teacher,

swift and unearned, holds little root.

But knowledge borne of service and trial,

nourished by obedience, endures.

Raivya gained by patient toil

what thou soughtest by haste—

and so his strength exceeded thine.”

With these words the celestials, Indra at their head, ascended heavenward. Lomaśa then pointed before them the sacred hermitage of Raivya, adorned with blossoming trees and laden with fruits.

“Here, O Yudhishthira,” he said, “is holy ground. Whoever dwells here in reverence is freed from all sin.”

Lomaśa continued his tale:

At that time, King Vṛhadyumna, radiant with fortune, began a mighty sacrifice. He appointed Raivya’s two sons, Arvavasu and Paravasu, as his priests. With their father’s leave they departed, while Raivya remained behind in his hermitage with Paravasu’s wife.

One night, Paravasu returned alone, eager to see his beloved. In the deep darkness he met his father, cloaked in the skin of a black antelope. Drowsy, fearful, and deceived by shadow, he mistook Raivya for a prowling deer.

In blindness of night he loosed the shaft,

and the father fell by the son’s own hand.

Thus fate, through error, made Paravasu

slayer of him who had given him life.

Horrified, he performed the funeral rites, then returned to the sacrifice and confessed to his brother: “I have killed our father, thinking him a deer. Bear for me the expiatory vow prescribed for the slaying of a Brahmana, while I complete the sacrifice.”

Arvavasu agreed, out of fraternal loyalty:

“Thou officiate at the altar, O brother;

I shall carry the burden of thy sin.

With senses restrained and vow observed,

I will atone for thy dark deed.”

When the vow was fulfilled, Arvavasu returned to the sacrifice. But Paravasu, driven by envy, slandered him before King Vṛhadyumna:

“This man is a Brahmana-slayer.

Do not let him gaze upon thy sacrifice;

even a glance of one stained with such sin

can undo the holy rite.”

The king, deceived, ordered Arvavasu cast out. The attendants mocked him as slayer of a Brahmana. Arvavasu cried aloud, “It is not I! I bore the vow for my brother’s deed!” But his words found no ear, and in silence he departed into the forest.

There he turned to fierce austerities, invoking the Sun with unshaken devotion. The solar deity, first to receive the ghee at sacrifice, appeared before him, radiant and embodied, and revealed the mantra of adoration. The gods themselves were pleased with his purity.

They made Arvavasu chief priest of the sacrifice and expelled Paravasu in disgrace. Then Agni and the other celestials, moved with favor, granted Arvavasu boons. The sage asked not for himself but for all:

“Restore my father to life,

free my brother from his sin.

Let Bharadvāja and Yavakri rise again,

and let the Sun’s revelation endure on earth.”

The gods replied, “So be it.” All were restored to life, cleansed of guilt and memory of sorrow.

Then Yavakri, reborn, turned to the gods and asked:

“I mastered the Vedas by penance and flame,

yet Raivya struck me down.

How could one so learned perish thus,

while another prevailed?”

The celestials answered with grave counsel:

“Knowledge won without a teacher

is rootless and cannot endure.

But knowledge earned through service and trial,

through obedience and toil, takes firm hold.

Raivya bore hardship and honored his guru;

Thus his strength was greater than thine.”

Having restored all and spoken thus, the gods, led by Indra, returned to heaven.

Lomaśa then showed Yudhiṣṭhira the sacred hermitage of Raivya, adorned with flowering trees and fruits in every season. “Here, O tiger among kings, whoever dwells with reverence is freed of all sins.”