novelraw Arc 9 - Pativratā Mahātmyam and Āraṇya Parva Chapter 1 - Sāvitrī’s Story
Arc 9 - Pativratā Mahātmyam and Āraṇya Parva Chapter 1 - Sāvitrī’s Story
Yudhiṣṭhira spoke:
“O holy Ṛṣi, I do not grieve so much for my own exile, nor even for my brothers, nor for the loss of our throne. My heart aches most for this daughter of Drupada, my wife, Krishnaa, who has borne unending trials. When we were crushed in the game of dice, it was she who saved us. When Jayadratha sought to carry her away by force, she endured and was rescued. Tell me, O sage, hast thou ever seen or heard of any chaste and exalted lady that resembles this daughter of Drupada in steadfastness and virtue?”
Markandeya replied:
“Listen then, O king, to the tale of a princess whose vow of fidelity shone brighter than fire, and whose glory is sung in heaven and earth alike. Her name was Sāvitrī, and she was as virtue embodied.
Long ago there was a king among the Madras, righteous, generous, and beloved of his people. His name was Aśvapati.
Firm in vows, gentle in speech, self-restrained, and devoted to sacrifice, he honoured the Brāhmaṇas, ruled his people with justice, and sought the welfare of all beings.
But though he grew in renown, he was afflicted by one sorrow: he had no child. As age advanced, grief consumed him. He therefore took to severe austerities, living on scant food, observing brahmacarya, restraining his senses, and performing daily ten thousand oblations into the sacred fire.
For eighteen years he kept this vow, reciting mantras in honour of the goddess Sāvitrī, radiant daughter of Savitṛ, the Sun. At last, pleased with his devotion, the goddess herself arose from the sacrificial fire, resplendent like dawn.
She spoke with delight:
‘O king, thy discipline hath pleased me. Thy vows, thy purity, thy austerities have won my grace. Ask, O Aśvapati, the boon that thy heart desireth.’
The king bowed and said:
‘O goddess, I seek but one boon: may many sons be born unto me, worthy upholders of my race. For the twice-born declare, blessed indeed is he who leaves behind worthy offspring.’
But the goddess answered:
‘This intent I already knew. I spoke before the Grandsire, the Self-born Brahmā, concerning thy prayer. By his command, thou shalt have no sons, but a single daughter, radiant with energy. She shall be like Śrī herself in embodied form. Her fame shall endure in all three worlds.’
Having spoken thus, the goddess vanished.
The king returned to his city, still devoted to dharma, awaiting the fulfilment of the promise. In due time, his queen conceived, and in the fullness of months she bore a daughter of beauty unsurpassed, with eyes like lotus petals and grace like Lakṣmī incarnate.
The monarch performed all the rites with joy, and since she had been bestowed by the goddess Sāvitrī as the fruit of his penance, he named her by that very name.
Sāvitrī grew in splendour like the waxing moon, modest yet radiant, graceful yet firm. When she came of age, she seemed less a mortal maiden than a celestial goddess. Men were overawed by her brilliance, and no suitor dared seek her hand, for none thought himself her equal.
One day, during a sacred festival, she worshipped the family deity, offered flowers, and bowed at her father’s feet. Seeing her ripened in youth but still unsought, King Aśvapati’s heart grew troubled.
He said to her gently:
‘Daughter, the time hath come to bestow thee in marriage, yet no prince hath dared to seek thee. Therefore, choose for thyself a husband worthy of thee, one whose virtues match thine own. For the wise declare: the father who doth not bestow his daughter in season is blamed; the husband who knoweth not his wife in her time is censured; and the son who protecteth not his widowed mother falls into reproach. Go forth, then, with my counsellors, and by thine own discernment choose the man whom thou shalt accept as thy lord.’
Bowing low with modesty, Sāvitrī accepted her father’s command. And, mounting a golden car, she set forth, accompanied by aged counsellors, to the hermitages of royal sages. Passing through holy groves and sacred regions, honouring the Brāhmaṇas and distributing gifts, she began her search for a husband equal to her in virtue and energy.”
Markandeya continued:
Hearing Narada’s words, king Aswapati turned to his daughter and spoke with a heavy heart.
"Come, O Savitri, choose another for thy lord! This youth hath one great defect, a flaw that eclipses all his virtues. Narada, honoured by gods themselves, declares that within a year Satyavan must cast off his body, his days being numbered."
But Savitri, unmoved, replied with words firm and resolute:
Savitri said:
A mortal’s death can come but once,
A daughter’s hand is given but once,
And once alone a man may say,
"This gift I give, come what may."
With life long or life cut short,
With virtues full or fate’s consort,
The choice once made shall not be twain,
I stand by Satyavan, come joy or pain.
What first the mind resolves within,
That word the tongue makes firm and plain,
And once declared, the deed is done,
Thus have I chosen—only one.
Markandeya said:
Then Narada, smiling gently, spoke unto the king:
"O best of men, thy daughter Savitri wavers not! She cannot be turned aside from this righteous path. No other youth bears the virtues of Satyavan. Bestow her, therefore, for such is approved by me."
The king, bowing to the sage, replied:
"What thou hast said, O illustrious one, must not be disobeyed. I shall act according to thy words, for thy speech is truth itself."
Narada then blessed them both, saying, "May the bestowal of thy daughter Savitri be attended with peace!"
And having spoken thus, he ascended the sky and departed for heaven.
Meanwhile, Aswapati set about the preparations for his daughter’s wedding.
Markandeya said:
Having pondered well upon the counsel of Nārada, king Aswapati resolved that no delay should mar his daughter’s destiny. He summoned learned Brāhmaṇas, Ṛtvik priests, and purohitas versed in sacred rites, and on an auspicious day set out with Savitrī, radiant as the goddess whose name she bore.
Journeying to the forest hermitage of Dyumatsena, the exiled king of the Śālvas, Aswapati approached on foot, accompanied by the twice-born officiants. There, beneath the shade of a lofty Śāla tree, seated on a mat of kuśa grass, he beheld the blind monarch, serene in austerity, luminous with the wisdom of kings who had turned to tapas.
Aswapati bowed low, and after the rites of hospitality had been exchanged—arghya, seat, and cow offered in reverence—he spoke humbly of his errand:
“This daughter of mine, O royal sage,
Savitrī by name, of noble lineage,
I bestow upon thy son Satyavān,
If it be thy will, let this bond be sealed.”
Dyumatsena sighed and answered gently,
“O king, once crowned, now cast into the wild,
Bereft of power, dwelling as an ascetic,
What life is this for a princess delicate?
How shall thy daughter bear such hardship here?”
But Aswapati replied firmly, his heart steadfast:
“Joy and sorrow, O king, come and go;
Neither abide, both are fleeting guests.
Knowing this truth, my daughter is resolute,
Nor do I swerve in mind or purpose.
In friendship have I come, in dharma have I bowed;
Reject me not, nor dash my hope.
Equal are we, in race and honour matched—
Therefore accept her as thy daughter’s bridegroom’s due.”
Dyumatsena, recalling his own unspoken wish of former days, was moved and said:
“So let it be! What once I longed for, let it now be fulfilled.
Welcome art thou, O king—today our hearts are joined.”
Then, summoning the Brāhmaṇas dwelling in those hermitages, the two kings performed the sacred rites of marriage. Savitrī, adorned in silks and ornaments bestowed by her father, was wedded to Satyavān, the noble prince of truth, amid the chanting of mantras and the blessings of ascetics.
Aswapati, his duty accomplished and his heart gladdened, returned joyfully to his own city. But Savitrī, true to her chosen path, laid aside her ornaments once her father had departed. Clad in bark-garments and simple red-dyed cloth, she took her place in the hermitage.
With tender hands she served her mother-in-law, bringing robes, adorning her with ornaments, soothing her weariness. To her blind father-in-law she was as a daughter and as a devoted disciple, honouring him as one would a god, her speech gentle and measured. And to her lord, Satyavān, she was ever a source of joy—by honeyed words, by tireless service, by her skill in every task, by her constancy of love revealed both in the household and in solitude.
Thus she won the hearts of all, shining in virtue like the very embodiment of dharma among ascetics. Yet within her breast, night and day, the words of Nārada still echoed like a foreboding wind: “Within a year, Satyavān must die.”
Markandeya said:
At last, O king, the destined hour drew near, the fated day spoken of by Nārada, when the life-thread of Satyavān was to be cut. From the moment the sage had spoken, Savitrī had counted the days as a vigilant flame counts the beats of the wind. And when she reckoned that only four days remained, she undertook a severe trirātra-vrata—fasting by day and night, holding her body steady, her soul unmoved, her gaze fixed inward on dharma.
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The king Dyumatsena, seeing her frail form wasting like a flame-fed wick, was moved to sorrow and said:
“O child, this vow is too stern,
Three nights without food is hard indeed.
How shall thy tender frame endure?
My heart grieves to see thee thus.”
But Savitrī, unwavering, replied:
“Grieve not, O father, for my resolve is firm.
Where perseverance dwells, the vow is fulfilled.
What I have undertaken, that will I complete—
Strength lies not in the body but in steadfast will.”
Hearing her steadfast words, Dyumatsena could only bless her, saying, “Complete thy vow, O daughter of kings; may righteousness guard thee.”
So she endured, and her beauty grew lean and luminous like a flame of sacrifice. On the morning of the appointed day she rose, bathed, offered oblations to the fire, and stood with folded hands before her elders, eyes lowered, senses controlled. All the hermits of that forest blessed her, saying, “May no widowhood ever touch thee.” Savitrī received their benedictions silently, her heart murmuring, “So be it.”
When the rites were done, her mother-in-law and father-in-law urged her gently, “The vow is complete, O daughter; now take thy meal.”
But Savitrī answered softly, her voice resolute as a flame unmoved by wind:
“I will eat only when the Sun has set.
Such is the vow that I have sworn.
Until then my hunger shall be bound,
For dharma, not desire, is my food.”
Meanwhile Satyavān lifted his axe and turned to the forest to gather fruits and fuel. At once Savitrī stepped forward and said:
“Go not alone, my lord, today!
Where thou goest, I shall go too.
I cannot bear to be parted from thee,
Even for a moment, in this hour.”
Satyavān, smiling gently, replied:
“O slender-waisted one, the forest is rough,
Thy feet have never trod its thorny paths.
Thy fast has weakened thy frame,
How wilt thou endure the toil?”
But she replied with quiet fire:
“No weariness weighs on me,
No faintness troubles my limbs.
Where my husband walks, I shall walk,
No path is too hard for love.”
Conceding, he said, “If it is thy wish, take the blessing of my parents, lest I act without their leave.”
Savitrī bowed to her elders, saying:
“For nearly a year have I not gone forth,
Today let me wander with my lord.
The woods are blooming, the season is fair,
Permit me this—my first request.”
Dyumatsena, recalling her devotion, smiled through his blindness and replied, “Since the day she entered our house, Savitrī has never spoken a request. Let her go. Only see, O daughter, that Satyavān’s work be not hindered.”
Thus permitted, Savitrī departed with her husband. Though her lips bore smiles, her heart was cleft with sorrow, for the words of Nārada echoed within her: “This day his life shall end.”
Together they walked beneath blossoming boughs, peacocks crying amidst the groves. Satyavān, innocent of fate, spoke cheerfully: “Behold these rivers that gleam like silver, these trees heavy with flowers, these woods alive with song!”
But Savitrī, her gaze never leaving her lord, answered softly, her voice tender yet trembling, for in every sight she beheld not the bloom of life but the shadow of death drawing near.
Markandeya said:
Then the powerful Satyavān, accompanied by his devoted wife, wandered into the forest. He plucked fruits and filled his wallet, and began to hew branches for fuel. Soon the weight of toil fell upon him: sweat sprang to his brow, his limbs trembled, his head throbbed as if pierced by darts. Turning to Savitrī, his voice faltered:
“O Savitrī, my head aches sore,
My heart is heavy, my limbs are weak.
I can no longer stand—
Let me sleep a moment, dearest one.”
Quickly Savitrī knelt, placing his head upon her lap, though her own heart trembled remembering Nārada’s prophecy. She watched the Sun’s path, counting the moment and the hour. Then before her appeared a dread form: dark as a storm cloud, eyes red, wearing a diadem, clad in crimson, carrying a noose—Yama, lord of Justice.
Rising, Savitrī bowed and spoke with restrained but trembling voice:
“Seeing thee thus, I know thee a god.
Tell me, O mighty one, who thou art,
And what thou intendest to do
To this my lord who rests on my lap?”
Yama replied in grave tones:
“O Savitrī, wife devoted and full of merit, I am Yama. The days of thy husband are ended. I have come to take his life myself, for my emissaries are unworthy of him.”
And saying this, he drew forth from Satyavān’s body a thumb-sized, radiant form bound in his noose. The prince’s body, bereft of breath and lustre, lay motionless and pale. Yama turned southward, bearing Satyavān’s soul.
But Savitrī rose, following him without pause. Yama turned and said:
“Desist, O Savitrī. Perform thy lord’s funeral rites. Thou hast come as far as a wife may come.”
Yet Savitrī answered, her words like a steady flame in the wind:
“Where my husband goes, there go I;
This is the eternal path of wives.
By my vows, by my asceticism, by thy own grace,
My way is not hindered.”
And softly she taught him dharma:
“True merit is not in passing through the four modes,
But in the knowledge that guards all conduct.
He who masters one path with truth
Has no need to wander through another.”
Pleased, Yama said:
“Such words delight even the learned. Ask for a boon—except the life of thy husband.”
Savitri bowed and spoke:
“My blind father-in-law, deprived of his kingdom,
Dwell in the forest weak and bereft.
Grant him back his sight and his strength,
Bright as the Sun or blazing Fire.”
And Yama granted it. Yet still she followed. Yama said, “Desist, for thou art weary.” Savitrī replied:
“No weariness can touch me
While I walk with my husband.
Friendship with the pious is never fruitless,
Their company sweeter than life itself.”
Again Yama was pleased:
“Ask another boon, except thy husband’s life.”
Savitri said:
“My father-in-law lost his kingdom unjustly.
Grant him back his royal sway,
And let him never swerve from dharma.”
Yama granted it. Yet still she followed.
And she spoke again of dharma and kindness, of how the good protect even foes, of how righteousness holds Sun and Earth alike. Yama’s heart was like parched soil touched by rain. He said:
“Ask a third boon, except thy husband’s life.”
Savitri said:
“My father hath no sons; grant him a hundred,
So his line may flourish and his name endure.”
Yama granted it. Yet still she followed, saying:
“With the righteous one walks unafraid.
It is their truth that moves the Sun,
Their tapas that upholds the Earth;
Their company is never wasted.”
Moved again, Yama said:
“Ask a fourth boon, except thy husband’s life.”
Savitri said:
“From the loins of me and of Satyavān,
May a hundred sons be born,
Strong in arms, brilliant in mind,
Bearers of our line and dharma.”
Yama granted it. Yet still she followed, her words flowing like sacred river:
“The good never tire of doing good.
They gain no profit, yet protect all beings.
Their goodness alone inspires confidence;
Their boon is a shelter to the world.”
Then Yama said:
“The more thou speakest thus, O lady devoted to thy lord, the more my respect grows. Ask for an incomparable boon!”
Savitri joined her palms and spoke at last:
“O Lord of Justice, thou hast promised me sons
Born of me and Satyavān together.
How can this be if my husband remains dead?
Restore to me my lord—
For without him heaven is empty,
Without him I do not wish to live.”
Markandeya said:
Thus addressed by Savitrī, the son of Vivasvān, Yama, the lord of Justice, was moved. Smiling, he loosed his noose and said with glad heart:
“So be it, O chaste and steadfast one!
Thy husband is freed by my hand.
He shall live long, free of disease,
Renowned by sacrifice, crowned by sons.
Four hundred years shall he and thee abide,
Honoured, victorious, dwelling in dharma.”
And Yama promised further: Satyavān would beget a hundred sons upon Savitrī, kings of righteous fame; her father too would be blessed with sons, the Malavas, radiant as celestials. Having thus bestowed his boons, Yama departed for his abode.
Savitri returned to where her husband’s body lay pale upon the earth. She lifted his head once more onto her lap, and with her touch life stirred within him. Satyavān awoke as if from deep slumber, gazing at her as a traveller gazes upon home.
“Alas,” said he, bewildered,
“I have slept long! Why didst thou not wake me?
I saw a dark and radiant being—
Was it dream or waking vision?”
Savitrī soothed him, saying:
“The sable one is gone. Thou hast rested, O prince. The night deepens, let us return, thy parents await in anguish.”
But Satyavān, regaining strength, lamented:
“Never have I stayed so late from the hermitage;
My blind father and weary mother
Will search for me with troubled hearts.
I am their crutch, their only son,
Their line, their hope, their very breath.
If grief strike them through my absence,
I too will not endure to live.”
Tears fell from his eyes as he raised his arms in sorrow. But Savitrī, resolute, spoke words woven with truth and tapas:
“If ever I have kept a vow,
If ever I have spoken truth,
Let this night bring safety and life
To my husband and his parents both.”
Satyavān, moved by her firmness, urged her again:
“Lead me hence, O gentle one.
If thou lovest me, delay no more.
My heart longs for my parents’ sight—
Without them, I cannot live.”
Then the slender-waisted Savitrī, binding up her hair, lifted her lord with gentle arms. Satyavān, rubbing his limbs, found strength anew. Together they set forth. She bore his axe, while he leaned upon her shoulder.
The forest lay veiled in shadow, yet the moon between the trees revealed their path. Satyavān, steady once more, pointed the way:
“This is the path we trod this morn.
Beyond the Pālasa trees the way divides;
Northward lies our hermitage.
Come swiftly, O blessed one—
I long to behold my father and mother.”
Thus speaking, the prince of steadfast virtue hastened onward with his devoted wife, the night itself seeming to bow before the power of her chastity.
Markandeya said:
Meanwhile, in Dyumatsena’s hermitage, when their son and daughter-in-law did not return at the appointed time, the aged king and queen, stricken with grief, lamented in trembling accents:
“Alas, O son! Alas, O chaste daughter,
Where have you gone? Why delay so long?”
Their cries moved the assembled Ṛṣis, who sought to calm their hearts.
Suvarchas, the truthful Brāhmaṇa, said:
“Considering the austerity, restraint,
And spotless conduct of Savitrī,
There can be no doubt, O king—
Satyavān surely lives.”
Gautama, versed in Veda, declared:
“By my long tapas and vows kept pure,
I know the courses of men and gods.
Take it for certain—Satyavān lives.”
Varadwāja added:
“Beholding her marks of fortune bright,
And the vow she hath just fulfilled,
How can widowhood touch Savitrī?
Surely thy son yet lives.”
Others too—Dalbhya, Āpastamba, Dhaumya—each, with reasoning born of dharma and ascetic perception, confirmed the same: “Satyavān lives.”
Hearing these words, Dyumatsena’s heart found a measure of ease. And behold, soon after, in the depth of night, Savitrī entered the āśrama with Satyavān by her side. Gladness illumined their faces, grief was dispelled like darkness before the dawn.
The Brāhmaṇas cried with joy:
“Threefold prosperity is thine, O king!
Thy son restored, thy sight regained,
And thy daughter-in-law beside him—
Great fortune shines upon thy house!”
Then, kindling the sacred fire, the ascetics sat in reverence. Savitrī and Satyavān, with Saivya his mother, sat apart, hearts eased of sorrow. Yet curiosity stirred the sages, and they asked the prince:
“Why camest thou so late, O child?
What cause delayed thy return?
Tell us, for thy absence filled us
With fear for thee and thy bride.”
Satyavān answered simply:
“I went with Savitrī to gather fruits;
Struck with pain, I lay upon her lap,
And deep sleep seized me.
This is all I know.
Therefore came I late, lest you should grieve.”
But Gautama, wise among the seers, spoke:
“Thou knowest not, O prince, the cause
Of thy father’s sudden sight restored.
It is for Savitrī to declare it.
Tell us, O blessed lady, what hath passed.”
Thus urged, Savitrī bowed her head and replied without concealment:
“Hear, O revered ones, the truth entire.
The sage Nārada foretold this day
As the end of my husband’s span.
Therefore I vowed, therefore I fasted.
When he sank to the ground, Yama himself came,
Noose in hand, to bear away his soul.
I followed, praising him with dharmic words,
And by my truth I won five boons.
For Dyumatsena I won sight restored
And kingdom regained,
For my father a hundred sons,
For myself a hundred sons,
For Satyavān four hundred years of life.
Thus, what was fated as utter loss
Was turned by tapas into joy.”
The Ṛṣis, astonished and gladdened, praised her:
“O Savitrī, chaste and steadfast,
By thee this race, sinking in darkness,
Is lifted into light again.
Thou art in truth like the goddess herself,
Savitri, giver of life and radiance.”
Markandeya continued:
Having thus honoured the noble Savitrī, those ascetics of truthful speech took leave of Dyumatsena and his son, and with peaceful hearts returned each to his dwelling.
Markandeya continued:
When the night passed and the sun rose upon the forest, the ascetics of Dyumatsena’s hermitage gathered once more, performing their morning rites. Though they had praised Savitrī the whole night long, still their hearts were unsated, for her steadfastness seemed inexhaustible in glory.
At that very hour a great host came forth from the kingdom of Śālva. Messengers and citizens bowed before the blind king, bearing tidings of wonder:
“O lord, thy enemy is slain!
His own minister, rising against him,
Hath destroyed him and his allies.
The people cry in one voice—
‘Whether he see or not, he is our king!’
The city awaits thee,
The throne of thy fathers calls thee.
Come, O Dyumatsena,
Come to rule thy people once more!”
And beholding their sovereign now possessed of sight, strong of limb, radiant as in former days, the citizens marveled and bowed down their heads in reverence.
Then, worshipping the Brāhmaṇas of the hermitage and receiving their benedictions, Dyumatsena departed for his city. His queen Saivya and the noble Savitrī accompanied him, riding in a shining car borne on men’s shoulders, surrounded by rejoicing troops.
There the priests and counsellors of Śālva, with hearts uplifted, enthroned Dyumatsena as king once more, installing his son Satyavān as prince-regent beside him. And in time, Savitrī, blessed of vow and virtue, bore a hundred sons, heroes unyielding in battle, who magnified the fame of the Śālva race. At the same time, her mother Malavī bore unto king Aśvapati a hundred illustrious sons, who became renowned as the Malavas.
Thus, O son of Pṛthā, did Savitrī, by her truth and chastity, raise to high fortune all who were bound to her: herself, her parents, her husband, her parents-in-law, and the entire line of her lord.
As Savitrī rescued her house from ruin,
So too shall Kṛṣṇā Draupadī, thy queen,
By her virtue and steadfastness,
Preserve thee and thy brethren in dark times.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus, consoled by the tale of Savitrī from the mouth of the great Mārkaṇḍeya, Yudhiṣṭhira the just cast off his sorrow and lived in the forest of Kāmyaka with a heart made calm.
And he who listens with reverence to the sacred history of Savitrī—
attains prosperity in all undertakings,
is crowned with success and happiness,
and never falls into misery.