novelraw Arc 6 - Markandeya-Samasya Parva Chapter 6 - Kuvalāśva’s Story
Arc 6 - Markandeya-Samasya Parva Chapter 6 - Kuvalāśva’s Story
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing from the illustrious Mārkaṇḍeya the tale of Indradyumna’s ascent once more to heaven, Yudhiṣṭhira, that bull among the Bharatas, again addressed the sage of boundless penances and long life:
“O holy one, thou knowest the hosts of Devas, Dānavas, and Rākṣasas, the lines of kings and the eternal genealogies of Ṛṣis. Thou art conversant with tales of men, serpents, Gandharvas, Yakṣas, and Apsaras. Tell me then, how Kuvalāśva, son of Vṛihadaśva of Ikṣvāku’s race, came to bear the dread name Dhundhumāra. I desire to know, O Brāhmaṇa, why the name of that intelligent monarch was changed!”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus questioned by Yudhiṣṭhira, Mārkaṇḍeya, best of the Bhṛgu line, began the tale of Kuvalāśva.
Mārkaṇḍeya said:
“O king, listen with care, for this tale carries a moral deep as the sea. It tells how Kuvalāśva of Ikṣvāku’s race came to be known as Dhundhumāra.
In ages past there dwelt a holy Ṛṣi named Utanka, who had his hermitage in a wilderness of surpassing beauty. There he performed austerities of fearful severity for countless years, desiring the grace of Viṣṇu. Pleased with his penances, the Lord of the universe, Hari, appeared before him.
The sage, beholding the Eternal One, bent low in devotion and praised Him with hymns:
“O Lord of effulgence, cause of gods and men,
All moving and unmoving, Thou art their ken.
The heavens Thy head, the sun and moon Thy eyes,
The winds Thy breath, the fire Thy might that flies.
The quarters are Thy arms, the ocean Thy girth,
The hills are Thy thighs, the sky Thy hips, the earth Thy feet.
Plants are Thy bristles, O slayer of Madhu,
And all gods, asuras, serpents, bow unto You.
When Thou art pleased, the worlds are at peace;
When angered, all beings tremble and cease.
Three strides Thou didst take, the worlds to reclaim,
By Thee were daityas shattered, their pride aflame.”
Thus did Utanka praise the Lord of beings. And Viṣṇu, gratified, said unto him:
“O Brāhmaṇa, I am pleased with thee. Ask now the boon that thy heart desires.”
Utanka replied with folded hands:
“O lotus-eyed One, the vision of Thee is itself the highest boon. Yet if Thou art pleased to grant me more, let my heart rest ever on virtue, on truth, and on contentment. Let my soul turn always to Thee in devotion.”
The Blessed Lord said:
“So shall it be, O regenerate one. By My grace thy heart shall never waver from dharma. Moreover, a yoga-śakti shall arise in thee, by which thou shalt accomplish a great deed for the celestials and for all three worlds.
Know, O sage, that even now there dwells a mighty asura named Dhundhu, who by fierce austerities seeks the ruin of the three worlds. He shall be slain not by gods but by a king of Ikṣvāku’s race, born of Vṛihadaśva. His son Kuvalāśva, endowed with holiness and strength, shall be urged by thee, and invested with My power, he shall be the slayer of Dhundhu. Thus shall Kuvalāśva win the dread name Dhundhumāra—the destroyer of Dhundhu.”
Having spoken thus, the Supreme Lord vanished from Utanka’s sight, leaving the promise of destiny resounding in the sage’s heart.
Mārkaṇḍeya said:
“O king, after the passing of Ikṣvāku, there reigned in Ayodhyā a righteous monarch named Śaśāda. From him descended the high-souled Kakutstha; from Kakutstha was born Anenas; Anenas begot Pṛthu, and Pṛthu begot Viśvagasva. From Viśvagasva was born Adri, and from Adri, Yuvaṇāśva. His son was Śrāvastā, who founded the famed city of Śrāvastī. From Śrāvastā was descended Vṛhādaśva, and Vṛhādaśva begot Kuvalāśva.
Kuvalāśva was blessed with twenty-one thousand sons, fierce, mighty, and versed in learning. In valour, wisdom, and virtue he excelled even his father. When the time came, the aged Vṛhādaśva, slayer of foes, installed Kuvalāśva upon the throne and himself withdrew to the forest for a life of asceticism.”
Mārkaṇḍeya continued:
“When tidings spread that Vṛhādaśva would renounce his royal duties, the great Ṛṣi Utanka, of immeasurable soul and fiery penance, hastened to him. With earnest words he sought to dissuade the king from retreating into the woods.
Utanka said:
‘O king, thy duty is to protect thy subjects. By thy protection the earth is freed from fear; by thy abandonment she falls into peril. To rule is the dharma of the kṣatriya; the merit of guarding subjects is greater than any tapas in the wilds. It was thus that the royal sages of old won undying fame and heaven itself.
But hear, O lord of men, of the danger that afflicts me. Near my hermitage lies the sea of sands, a desert known as Ujjalaka, vast and waterless. There lurks beneath its surface a mighty dānava named Dhundhu, son of Madhu and Kaiṭabha. Fierce is he, and terrible, and endowed with immeasurable energy.
He lies hidden, performing dread austerities, desiring sovereignty over the three worlds. Armed with a boon from Brahmā, he cannot be slain by Devas, Dānavas, Rākṣasas, or Gandharvas. Only a mortal king may bring about his end.
Each year, when his breath awakens from slumber, the earth with her mountains and forests quakes in terror. Sand rises like storm-clouds, veiling the sun, while fire and smoke burst forth for seven days without cease. By this my hermitage is shaken, and I cannot rest in peace.
Therefore, O king, slay him! By thy hand shall the triple world find safety. This deed will win for thee undying fame. For Viṣṇu Himself has granted that whosoever slays Dhundhu shall be pervaded with His own invincible energy. Bearing that Vaishṇava power within thee, thou alone art capable of destroying this foe.
Know, O Kuvalāśva, that without the might of Viṣṇu in one’s frame, even a hundred years of striving could not consume Dhundhu. But in thee that power shall dwell. Therefore, arm thyself with resolution, for thou hast been chosen to end the terror of this Asura.’”
Mārkaṇḍeya said:
“O king, hear now of the mighty conflict between Kuvalāśva of Ikṣvāku’s race and the dread Dānava Dhundhu, son of Madhu and Kaiṭabha.
That Daitya, blazing with ascetic energy, had performed austerities so fierce that his flesh wasted away till only veins and sinews remained. Standing erect upon one leg, he shook the worlds with his tapas. Gratified, the Grandsire Brahmā appeared before him. Dhundhu, with joined palms, sought this boon:
‘Let none among the Devas, Dānavas, Rākṣasas, Gandharvas, Nāgas, or Yakṣas ever be able to slay me.’
And Prajāpati, smiling, said: ‘Be it so. Go thy way.’
Blessed thus, the Asura bowed and departed. But his heart burned with hatred for Nārāyaṇa, the slayer of his sires Madhu and Kaiṭabha. Empowered by the boon, he overthrew the hosts of heaven and harassed even Viṣṇu and the guardians of the worlds.
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At last he chose his dwelling in the desert sea of sands called Ujjalaka. Beneath that waste he burrowed deep, and there, like a smouldering fire, he lay in penance, breathing dread breaths that made the earth quake yearly, darkened the sun with sand-clouds, and sent forth fire and smoke for seven days at a time. Utanka, whose hermitage lay near, could endure no peace.
Then Kuvalāśva, urged by Utanka and filled with Nārāyaṇa’s own energy, set forth with his host. His twenty-one thousand sons, fierce as lions, accompanied him. As he marched, a voice from the sky proclaimed:
“This fortunate one, unslayable, shall today be the destroyer of Dhundhu!”
Showers of celestial flowers rained from heaven. The unseen drums of the gods thundered of their own accord. Gentle winds cooled the army, and the Immortals, the Gandharvas, and the Ṛṣis gathered in their chariots above to behold the encounter.
For seven days the princes dug into the sea of sands. At last they uncovered the vast body of the Asura, lying like the blazing sun hidden in dust. Dhundhu, roused from slumber, arose in wrath.
The princes rained upon him maces, darts, axes, and keen-edged arrows. But the Dānava, laughing, swallowed them like morsels of food. From his mouth he vomited flames terrible as the fire of dissolution, Samvarta. The inferno leapt forth, consuming Kuvalāśva’s sons as once Kapila’s glance had consumed the sons of Sagara. In an instant the earth shook beneath the holocaust.
Alone among the ruins of his lineage, Kuvalāśva strode forward, undaunted. Filled with yoga-force, his body streamed forth torrents of water that quenched the Asura’s flames. Then, invoking the Brahma-weapon, that foremost of kings hurled it upon the foe. Pierced by its power, Dhundhu was consumed utterly, his roars silenced for all time.
Thus Kuvalāśva became Dhundhumāra, the slayer of Dhundhu, invincible thereafter in battle.
The celestials and Ṛṣis, Utanka at their head, descended in delight and said: “Ask a boon of us!”
The king bowed low and spoke with folded hands:
“Let me ever be able to give wealth unto worthy Brahmanas. Let me be unconquerable by foes. Let friendship bind me to Viṣṇu eternal. Let no ill-will dwell in my heart towards any creature. Let my mind ever incline to virtue. And at last, may I dwell forever in heaven.”
The gods and Ṛṣis answered: “So be it.” They blessed him with many praises and departed to their celestial abodes.
Though twenty-one thousand sons had perished, three survived—Dridaśva, Kapilaśva, and Candraśva. From them sprang the continuing line of Ikṣvāku kings, mighty and renowned.
Thus, O son of Dharma, was Dhundhu, the terror of the worlds, slain by Kuvalāśva, and thus did the king earn the undying name Dhundhumāra.
Whoever listens with devotion to this holy history, radiant with the glory of Viṣṇu, becomes virtuous and is blessed with children. Heard on sacred lunar days, it bestows long life, prosperity, freedom from disease, and the joy of heaven.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“O son of Dharma, king Yudhiṣṭhira, eager to know the deeper truths of conduct, asked the illustrious sage Mārkaṇḍeya a difficult question of morality. With folded hands he said:
‘O holy one, discourse to me on the virtue of women who worship but a single lord.
To me, their path seems stern and hard, their vow more severe than fire or fast.
Like the Sun and Moon, the Wind and the Earth, like Fire, father, mother, or Guru revered,
So too is the chaste wife who serves her husband as her very god.
I see, O sage, that the worship which a faithful wife offers to her lord is of the highest order.
Restraining senses, guarding heart, enduring hardship, bearing children in peril and pain,
Rearing them with boundless love—what could be more difficult than this?
Indeed, the duties of good sons towards parents, and of virtuous wives towards their lords,
Seem to me the most arduous of all. Speak therefore, O Brāhmaṇa,
Of the truths of their conduct, of the subtle law of Dharma.’
So spoke the son of Pṛthā, his voice touched with reverence.
Mārkaṇḍeya replied:
“O foremost of the Bharatas, thou askest of matters subtle and deep, hard to answer, yet I shall declare them truly.
Some hold the father as superior, some the mother. Yet verily the mother, who bears the child for ten long months and nurtures it with her life’s blood, accomplishes the more arduous task.
Fathers too, by penance and worship, by vows and invocations, desire to beget sons. And having obtained them with difficulty, both father and mother are filled with anxious care for their children—seeking in them prosperity, virtue, offspring, and enduring fame.
That son is truly righteous who fulfils these hopes of his parents. Such a one wins imperishable glory, both in this world and beyond.
As for women, O king, hear the eternal truth:
No sacrifice, no śrāddha, no fast or offering equals their sacred duty.
By serving the husband alone with faith,
A wife attains heaven and all blessedness.
Therefore, O Yudhiṣṭhira, listen well. The highest Dharma of women lies not in ritual, nor in austere vows, but in steadfast devotion to their lords, in service free of guile, with heart restrained and mind fixed in virtue.”
Mārkaṇḍeya said:
“There was once, O Bhārata, a virtuous ascetic named Kauśika, a Brāhmaṇa of great austerity, deeply devoted to the study of the Vedas, together with the Aṅgas and Upaniṣads. One day, seated beneath a tree, he was reciting the sacred hymns.
Upon that tree rested a crane, and by chance the she-crane befouled the Brāhmaṇa’s body. Wrath flared in his heart, and fixing upon her his fiery gaze, he thought of her destruction. In that instant the poor bird, scorched by his anger, fell dead to the ground.
Seeing her lifeless form, Kauśika’s heart was pierced with remorse.
“Alas! What have I done, urged by malice and blind wrath?
What sin have I wrought upon this harmless creature,
whose only fault was ignorance of my presence?
Surely this is no virtue, but the ruin of it!”
Thus lamenting again and again, he continued his day’s course and entered a nearby village to beg alms.
As he made his round, he came to the house of a lady of good lineage. Calling at the door he said, “Give.” From within, the woman answered only, “Stay.”
At that very moment her husband, weary and faint with hunger, entered the house. Seeing her lord, she at once set aside all else. With devotion she washed his feet, gave him water to drink, a seat to rest upon, and placed before him savoury food. With modest eyes cast down, she stood near, eager to serve his every need.
This chaste wife each day partook only of her husband’s leftovers. Her heart was bound in affection to him, her highest deity. Skilled in all domestic duties, obedient to elders, devoted to guests, gods, and servants alike, she lived wholly in the service of her husband.
Only after attending to him did she recall the Brāhmaṇa at the door. Ashamed that she had kept him waiting, she went forth with alms.
But the ascetic’s face still blazed with the heat of anger. “O woman of crooked ways,” he said, “why hast thou treated me so? Thou didst command me to wait, yet didst not dismiss me. Dost thou exalt thy husband above Brāhmaṇas? Knowest thou not that the Brāhmaṇas are like blazing fire, who may consume the earth itself? Indra bows before them, and thou wouldst disregard them?”
The woman, unshaken, bowed her head with humility and spoke:
“I am no foolish crane, O holy one, to be consumed by thy anger.
My husband is my supreme god. To him I gave first my service.
Forgive me, O Brāhmaṇa, if I have erred in thy eyes.
For the Brāhmaṇas are indeed like fire—terrible in wrath,
but also boundless in forgiveness.
The true wealth of a Brāhmaṇa is self-restraint, not anger;
truth, not harsh words; compassion, not destruction.”
She continued, her voice steady and filled with dharma:
“The gods know him for a Brāhmaṇa who casts off wrath and passion.
He who speaks truth, honours his teacher, and returns not injury for injury—
that man the gods proclaim a Brāhmaṇa.
He who restrains his senses, who is tranquil, who walks in purity and knowledge—
he alone bears the name of Brāhmaṇa.
He who teaches and learns the Vedas, who sacrifices and aids sacrifice,
who gives with a generous soul—he is the true twice-born.
But above all, the heart that is pure, simple, and free from malice,
that is the eternal mark of a Brāhmaṇa.”
Then, with gentle firmness, she added:
“Thy anger is thy foe, O ascetic, greater than any enemy without.
I know thou didst burn a crane with wrathful glance—
yet anger itself consumes the merit of penances as fire devours dry wood.
Go, therefore, to Mithilā. There dwells a fowler, humble yet virtuous,
devoted to his parents, truthful and self-restrained.
Even he will teach thee what is virtue in truth,
for Dharma is subtle, and thy knowledge incomplete.”
Hearing her words, the Brāhmaṇa’s heart softened. His pride melted away.
“Blessed art thou, noble lady,” he said. “Thy words pierce me like arrows of truth. My wrath has vanished. I see now my folly, and by thy rebuke I am uplifted.”
So saying, Kauśika departed, chastened, and turned towards his own dwelling, carrying with him the lesson of the virtuous wife.
Mārkaṇḍeya said:
“Continually reflecting upon the words of the chaste wife, Kauśika’s heart was restless. His own anger seemed to him a great blemish, and he moved like one burdened with guilt.
‘Truly,’ he thought, ‘her speech was filled with wisdom deeper than the Vedas themselves. Who am I, puffed up with pride, to doubt such a truth? I must go to Mithilā, for surely there dwells that fowler of self-restraint, of whom she spoke. From him shall I learn the true essence of Dharma.’
Thus resolved, the Brāhmaṇa set out, and his faith was strengthened when he recalled how she had known of the death of the crane—an event hidden to all others.
Journeying through forests and towns, he came at last to Mithilā, the radiant city of King Janaka. He beheld her adorned with banners of many creeds, her streets resounding with sacrifice and festivity. Splendid gateways rose on every side, mansions and palaces gleamed, while markets overflowed with wares. The air was filled with the sound of elephants, horses, and chariots, and the citizens moved in joy and health.
Enquiring there about the fowler of virtue, Kauśika was guided to a butcher’s yard. He saw the man seated amidst venison and buffalo meat, surrounded by eager buyers. Surprised, the ascetic stood at a distance, reluctant to approach.
But the fowler, perceiving by insight the Brāhmaṇa’s arrival, rose swiftly, approached him with folded hands, and spoke:
“Salutations, O holy one, and welcome! I am the fowler. The words spoken to thee by the virtuous wife are known to me, as is the purpose for which thou hast come. Blessed art thou—command me!”