novelraw Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 15 - Viṣṇu’s Boar-Incarnation
Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 15 - Viṣṇu’s Boar-Incarnation
Lomaśa guided the Pāṇḍavas onward.
“O son of Bharata,” he said, “thou hast left behind the mountains Uśiravija, Maināka, and the shining Śveta, as well as the dark ridges of Kāla. Before thee now flow the seven streams of the Gaṅgā—this place is pure, this ground holy. Here Agni blazeth forth unceasing, a marvel no son of Manu may lightly behold. Fix thy mind, O king, and see these tīrthas with full devotion.
“Now lies before us the playground of the gods, still marked with their footprints. Beyond it rises Mandara, the white mountain, abode of Yakṣas. Here dwell Maṇibhadra and Kuvera, lord of treasures. Around them gather vast hosts: eighty thousand swift Gandharvas, and fourfold that number of Kimpuruṣas, Yakṣas, and other wondrous beings, armed and vigilant. Their might is such that even Śakra himself would find them hard to withstand.
“These mountains are guarded fiercely—by Yakṣas, by Rākṣasas, by Kuvera’s own ministers. Their passes are perilous. Therefore, O son of Kuntī, summon thy strength. Here too towers Kailāsa, six yojanas in height, crowned with a colossal jujube tree. The path is thronged with gods, Yakṣas, Kinnaras, Nāgas, Suparṇas, Gandharvas—beings that come and go towards the jeweled palace of Kuvera.
“But fear not. Protected by me, by the might of Bhīmasena, and by thine own ascetic power and self-restraint, thou shalt pass unharmed. Yet let us pray for aid.”
He lifted his hands in invocation:
“May Varuṇa guard thee with his ocean-deep strength,
and Yama the Just with his rod of restraint.
May Gaṅgā and Yamunā, swift and holy,
may the Maruts, the Aśvins, the Vasus—
may rivers, lakes, and mountains all,
encompass thee with safety.”
Turning towards the rushing Gaṅgā, Lomaśa spoke again:
“O daughter of Himālaya, resplendent Gaṅgā!
Thy roar is heard from this golden height,
sacred to Indra. Protect this king of the Ajamīḍha line,
who now enters thy mountainous realm.”
Having thus invoked her blessing, the sage warned gently, “Be thou careful, O Yudhiṣṭhira.”
The king, seeing the sage’s unusual caution, grew alert and said to his brothers:
“This confusion of Lomaśa is not without cause. Therefore, guard Draupadī well. In these perilous paths let there be no carelessness. This region is hard of access—purity of conduct and strict vigilance are required.”
Then Vaiśaṃpāyana continued: Yudhiṣṭhira turned to mighty Bhīma and spoke:
“O Bhīmasena, thou art her refuge. Whether Arjuna is near or far, in danger Kṛṣṇā ever flees to thee for shelter. Protect her with thy strength.”
And approaching the twins, Nakula and Sahadeva, he embraced them with tears, smelling their heads as a father his sons. “Fear not,” he said softly. “But walk with care.”
Yudhiṣṭhira looked upon the towering, perilous heights and spoke with concern:
“O Vṛkodara, this path is haunted by mighty, unseen beings. Yet by the merit of our austerities and the power of our Agnihotras we shall pass it. Still, O son of Kuntī, restrain thy hunger and thirst, summon thy strength and thy cunning.
“Thou hast heard from the sage Lomaśa of Kailāsa’s difficulty. Consider then: how shall Kṛṣṇā pass this place? O Bhīma of broad eyes, perhaps it is best that thou return with Sahadeva, with the cooks, charioteers, servants, and Brahmanas wearied by travel. Guard Draupadī at Gaṅgā’s source until my return. With Nakula and the sage I shall press forward, sustained by vows and the barest food.”
But Bhīma rose, eyes flashing with loyalty:
“O king, though this princess hath endured affliction,
she still walks on, her heart set on the sight of Arjuna,
he of the white steeds, our unconquered brother.
Thy sorrow at his absence is heavy already;
wouldst thou bear it if thou sawest neither me, nor Sahadeva, nor Kṛṣṇā?
“Let the Brahmanas and the weary return if thou so commandest,
but I will not leave thee in these savage mountains,
where Rākṣasas dwell and the way is hard.
Nor will Sahadeva, whose heart is ever fixed on thee.
And Kṛṣṇā, faithful and steadfast, refuseth to turn back without thee.
“If the chariots fail upon these defiles,
we shall go on foot. Trouble not thy mind, O king—
I will carry Pāñcālī where her steps falter,
and bear upon my shoulders the tender twins,
delight of their mother, where their strength shall fail.
Thus have I resolved, O Bhārata, and so shall it be.”
Hearing his brother’s vow, Yudhiṣṭhira’s heart swelled with love.
“May thy strength increase, O Bhīma,” he said, “as thy words are full of courage. No man born of woman hath such spirit. Blessed be thy fame, thy power, thy merit. May defeat and exhaustion never touch thee, who offerest to bear both wife and brothers across these heights.”
Then Kṛṣṇā, smiling gently, spoke:
“O son of Dharma, be not anxious for me. I shall walk this path also; let not thy heart be troubled.”
And Lomaśa, the ascetic guide, raised his hand and said:
“O Pāṇḍavas, know that Gandhamādana is reached
only by tapas and the fire of vows.
Therefore let us all practice austerity—
thou, Yudhiṣṭhira, with thy brothers and Draupadī,
and I with my own penance shall lead.
Then surely shall we behold him of the white steeds,
the son of Indra, who waiteth for you.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus conversing, the sons of Pāṇḍu reached the wide domains of Suvāhu, lord of the Pulindas, upon the slopes of Himālaya. The land teemed with elephants and horses, peopled by Kirātas, Tāṅgaṇas, and Pulindas, and filled with wonders, even frequented by the celestials themselves. King Suvāhu met them joyfully at his borders, honoring them with gifts and hospitality. For a time they rested in his realm, refreshed and comforted.
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When the sun rose bright, they prepared to resume their march toward the holy mountain. Entrusting to Suvāhu’s care their attendants—Indrasena and the others—the cooks, the stewards, Draupadī’s ornaments, and all their remaining burdens, the five Pāṇḍavas, clad in deer-skins, departed with Kṛṣṇā, hearts lifted in hope of beholding Arjuna once more.
But as they advanced, Yudhiṣṭhira’s spirit grew heavy, and he spoke in grief:
“O Bhīmasena, O Panchālī, O twin brothers, hear me well.
The deeds of past births never perish—
behold us now, wanderers of the wilderness.
Even to meet Dhanañjaya,
we suffer toil and hunger,
treading paths untrodden,
pierced by sorrow like cotton by flame.
“I see not that mighty Partha,
bow in hand, lion-gaited, dark as the raincloud,
elder to Nakula, steadfast as a mountain.
For this absence, O Vṛkodara, I am consumed.
“Five years have I roamed
from forest to tīrtha, from lake to holy shrine,
yet never do I behold his face.
For this absence, O Bhīma, I am consumed.
“I see not Gudākeśa, born under Phalgunī,
whose tread is Yama’s at dissolution,
whose shoulders are leonine,
whose arms pour strength like an elephant in rut,
whose steeds are white as moonlight.
For this absence, O Bhīma, I am consumed.
“He is gentle, forgiving the lowliest insult,
yet to the crooked foe he is deadly poison,
even were that foe Indra himself.
He is refuge for the fallen,
shield to the righteous,
foe-crusher, treasure-gatherer,
giver of joy to his kin.
“It was by his might that we owned
halls of crystal brilliance,
and treasures beyond measure—
all now usurped by wicked Duryodhana.
“In valor he rivals Keśava,
in strength Balarāma,
in speed the wind,
in grace the moon,
in wrath Death himself.
“O Bhīma, for the sake of that tiger among men,
let us press onward to Gandhamādana.
There shines the hermitage of Nara-Nārāyaṇa,
sheltered by the eternal jujube tree,
watched by Yakṣas, haunted by Rākṣasas,
where only the pure and disciplined may tread.
“On foot, with Brahmanas of firm vows,
with swords girt and bows in hand,
let us go, restraining our senses,
subduing desire,
to behold Dhanañjaya once again.”
Thus spoke the son of Dharma, his heart aflame with longing for his absent brother.
Lomāśa, the great sage radiant with tapas, spoke to the sons of Pāṇḍu as they journeyed amidst mountains, rivers, forests, and tīrthas sanctified by the touch of their hands.
“O sons of Kuru, you have seen many holy places, touched with reverence the pure waters, and looked upon the sacred lands where gods and sages dwell. Now this path leads toward the celestial Mandara mountain. Be calm, attentive, and of one mind, for here we approach the abodes of the celestials and the divine ṛṣis of meritorious deeds.
Here flows the mighty and beautiful Alakanandā, sacred to gods and sages alike. From the jujube tree springs her source, and she is ever frequented by the radiant Vaihāyasas, the austere Vālakhilyas, and Gandharvas of great soul. Here once Marīci, Pulaha, Bhṛgu, and Aṅgiras sang the hymns of the Sāma. Here too Indra, lord of the celestials, offers his daily prayers with the Maruts, attended by the Sādhyas and the Aśvins.
Even the Sun, the Moon, and all the planets resort to her waters, visiting by turns, day and night. And here, long ago, Mahādeva, the great Lord with the bull-banner, received upon his matted hair the first descent of Gaṅgā’s stream. Bow, O children, before this goddess of six divine attributes, with minds steady and hearts uplifted.”
Hearing these words, Yudhiṣṭhira and his brothers worshipped the holy Gaṅgā with reverence and proceeded onward.
Not far ahead, they beheld a vast white form stretching wide, dazzling as a snow-clad peak, its mass gleaming like Mount Kailāsa.
Seeing their wonder, Lomāśa explained:
“Behold, O sons of Pāṇḍu, this mountain-like heap,
A relic vast where silent memories sleep.
These are the bones of Naraka the proud,
A Daitya whose might shook gods and crowd.
Ten thousand years his penance he kept,
In fire austere his spirit slept.
He sought the throne of Indra’s domain,
Till Viṣṇu struck, and he lay slain.”
Lomāśa then told how the demon Naraka, through his asceticism and strength, became invincible and threatened even Indra’s sovereignty. Overcome with fear, the king of the gods sought refuge in the Eternal Viṣṇu.
The gods and ṛṣis praised the Lord, whose presence eclipsed even the radiance of blazing Agni. To him Indra bowed, confessing his fear. And Viṣṇu, smiling, declared:
“Know, O Śakra, thy fear is Naraka’s name,
By penance and might he aspires to thy fame.
Yet for thy sake his life I shall sever,
His soul from his body parted forever.”
So saying, Viṣṇu, the wielder of supreme power, struck the asura with but a touch of his hand. Naraka fell, his body crashing like a mountain split by thunder. Thus was he slain, and his bones remained in that holy place.
Lomāśa added: “Here too was another act of Viṣṇu revealed. When the Earth, our mother, had sunk into the depths of the nether regions, the Lord took the form of a boar with a single tusk and raised her up again.”
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, ever eager for truth, spoke in reverent tones:
“O holy one, tell us in detail, I pray,
How the Lord raised Earth from darkness that day.
A hundred yojanas sunk was she,
How did He set the Mother free?
Through what power had she fallen below?
What fate compelled her burdened woe?
Relate to us this greatest deed,
O sage, in full, our hearts to feed.”
Thus did the son of Dharma ask with longing, desiring to hear of Viṣṇu’s boar-incarnation and the rescue of the Earth, the great mother of all beings.
Lomāśa, the ascetic radiant with wisdom, spoke unto Yudhiṣṭhira with solemn voice:
“O child of Dharma, listen now as I recount in full the tale you have asked to hear. In the distant days of the Kṛta Yuga, there arose a strange and terrible time. The eternal Lord, the primeval Deity, assumed the functions of Yama himself. Yet when the Supreme began to oversee death, no living being perished, while births continued as before.
Thus birds and beasts, cattle and deer, sheep and lions, multiplied without end. Men too increased like a surging river in flood. Overwhelmed by the unbearable burden of countless beings, the Earth, her body pressed down and limbs shaken, sank a hundred yojanas below. Reeling in pain, deprived of her senses, the great goddess sought refuge in Nārāyaṇa, the foremost of the gods.”
In plaintive tones the Earth spoke unto Him:
“O Lord of six transcendent powers,
Long I have borne through endless hours.
But now my limbs are crushed, undone,
I sink beneath this burden’s sun.
Protect me, Lord of gods above,
Bearer of worlds, whose heart is love.
Relieve me now, O boundless One,
Thy mercy shines like the blazing sun.”
Hearing her words, Viṣṇu, the eternal Lord, spoke gently, His voice clear as the chant of Vedic hymns:
“Fear not, O Earth, treasure-bearer divine,
This burden of thine shall soon be mine.
I shall arise, thy weight to unbind,
Peace shall return to gods and mankind.”
Thus consoling the goddess, He assumed a wondrous form. Lomāśa told the sons of Pāṇḍu:
“In that instant the Lord transformed into a mighty boar, radiant with one shining tusk, effulgent as a thousand suns. His eyes glowed crimson, fumes poured forth from His blazing frame, and He swelled vast as the horizon.
With His single tusk, luminous and indestructible, He raised the Earth from the depths of a hundred yojanas. But as She rose, the three worlds trembled. The heavens and earth resounded with cries of ‘Alas! Alas!’ The celestials and sages grew restless, the oceans churned, and even mountains shook.”
Disturbed by this upheaval, the gods approached Brahmā, the grandsire, who blazed in his own self-effulgence. With palms joined, they said:
“O Lord, O witness of all deeds,
The worlds are shaken, none heeds their needs.
The oceans surge, the heavens quake,
The Earth herself deep wounds doth take.
Tell us, O grandsire, what is this sight?
Who stirs the worlds with boundless might?”
And Brahmā, all-knowing, spoke with calm:
“Fear not, ye gods, nor suspect the Asuras. This cosmic trembling is born of none but the Supreme Soul Himself. That eternal Being, Viṣṇu, hath raised up the Earth who had sunk below. The commotion ye behold is but the sign of His wondrous deed.”
The celestials then said with awe:
“Where is that Lord who raises the Earth with joy? Show us the place, O grandsire, that we may behold Him with our own eyes.”
Brahmā answered:
“Go to the Nandana gardens, where He rests resplendent. There you will see Garuḍa, the mighty Suparṇa, and the Lord in His boar-form flaming like fire at the world’s dissolution. Upon His chest shines the eternal Śrīvatsa mark. Behold Him, the Imperishable, who raises up the Earth.”
So directed, the celestials, with Brahmā at their head, approached that infinite Soul. They praised Him with hymns and, having offered homage, departed again to their heavenly abodes.
Vaiśampāyana said to Janamejaya:
“Hearing this sacred tale from the lips of Lomāśa, the sons of Pāṇḍu bowed with reverence. With renewed energy and steadfast hearts, they pressed on along the path pointed out by the sage.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
O king, the sons of Pāṇḍu, foremost of bowmen and mighty in strength, journeyed onward with Draupadī by their side. Their bows were strung to the full, quivers filled, and guṇa-skin finger-guards shone upon their hands. Each bore a sword at his hip, and around them walked the best of Brāhmaṇas, protectors of their sacred fire.
They passed through lakes and shining rivers, across forest glades and mountain ridges. Trees crowned with blossoms bent with fruit in every season; places of wide shade, beloved by celestials and sages, greeted their eyes. Restraining their senses and living on fruits and roots, they pressed onward through rugged paths where wild beasts roamed. Thus they entered the Gandhamādana, the mountain sacred to ṛṣis and Siddhas, bright with the music of Kinnaras and the dance of Apsarases.
But as they climbed, a tempest rose. A violent wind broke forth, laden with showers and whirling clouds of dust. Leaves fell in torrents; stones were swept along, and earth, air, and heaven were smothered in darkness. Nothing could be seen, not even the face of a brother, nor could they hear each other’s words.
The wind screamed through the trees, snapping their trunks, hurling branches to the ground.
The heroes wondered in fear—
“Are the heavens falling?
Is the earth itself split asunder?
Do mountains reel from their roots?”
Pressed by the storm, they sought shelter. Yudhiṣṭhira, with Dhaumya the priest, crept into the dark forest. Nakula with Lomāśa and the Brāhmaṇas clung each to a tree. Sahadeva guarded the sacred fire, crouching beneath a rock. Mighty Bhīmasena, holding bow in hand and supporting Kṛṣṇā, stood beneath a sheltering tree like a pillar of strength.
When at last the wind abated and the dust subsided, rain came in torrents. Thunder shook the sky, lightning leapt in golden veins across the clouds, and rivers of water poured down the slopes. Foaming, churning, heavy with mud, they carried uprooted trees in their flood and roared like lions.
When the storm at length grew still and silence returned to the mountains, the Pāṇḍavas emerged from their coverts, each cautious, each seeking the other. Reunited, O descendant of Bharata, they pressed onward once again, climbing toward the heights of Gandhamādana.