novelraw Arc 9 - Pativratā Mahātmyam and Āraṇya Parva Chapter 2 - Karṇa’s Birth
Arc 9 - Pativratā Mahātmyam and Āraṇya Parva Chapter 2 - Karṇa’s Birth
Janamejaya said:
“O Brāhmaṇa, tell me truly—what was that great fear which Yudhiṣṭhira bore in silence, never speaking it aloud, but which Lomāśa once alluded to in Indra’s message, promising its removal after Arjuna’s return? Why, O sage, did the righteous son of Dharma never utter it to any soul?”
Vaiśampāyana said:
“Since you ask, O tiger among kings, listen now to this secret. After twelve years of exile had rolled away and the thirteenth approached, Śakra, ever intent on aiding the sons of Pāṇḍu, resolved to strip Karṇa of his divine armour and ear-rings.
But the Sun, foreknowing the purpose of Indra, came by night to his son. While Karṇa, radiant like a lion at rest, lay upon a costly couch, the effulgent lord of rays appeared in his dream, veiled in the form of a Brāhmaṇa of serene aspect, versed in the Vedas.
In gentle tones he spoke:
‘O son, O mighty-armed one,
Listen to my words of affection.
Indra, desiring to aid the sons of Pāṇḍu,
Will come to thee in Brāhmaṇa’s guise,
Seeking thy ear-rings and thy mail.
The worlds know thy vow—
Never to refuse a Brāhmaṇa’s request.
Therefore will Purandara himself beg of thee,
Knowing thy nature of truth and gift.
But hear me, my child!
Resist him with sweet words,
Offer kine, gold, gems, even maidens,
But never thy birth-gifted armour.
These ear-rings and mail are born of Amṛta,
Forged of immortality,
And so long as they cling to thee,
No foe shall slay thee in battle.
But if thou yield them,
Thy span of life will be shortened,
And doom shall overtake thee
On the field of war.’
Thus warned the Sun.
Karṇa replied with folded hands:
‘Blessed am I, that thou, the thousand-rayed,
Speakest to me for my welfare.
Yet hear my vow, O blazing lord:
I have resolved never to deny
A gift to a Brāhmaṇa true.
If even Śakra comes to me,
Begging these ear-rings for the sons of Pāṇḍu,
I shall not refuse him.
For life saved by dishonour
Is life already lost.
But death embraced with fame
Is immortality among the worlds.
Fame is the mother that sustains,
Fame is the lamp in this dark earth.
Infamy slays the man who lives,
But renown upholds the dead in heaven.
Therefore let Indra come!
I shall give, and by that giving
Win eternal glory,
Though it cost me breath itself.’
Surya said:
“O Karṇa, my son, never do that which destroys thyself and those bound to thee—thy sons, thy wives, thy father and mother, and the friends who depend on thy strength. Men seek renown on earth and lasting fame in heaven, but they do not purchase it with the sacrifice of their very breath.
Fame is the ornament of the living,
But what is fame to the dead?
A garland placed on a lifeless corpse
Brings no fragrance to its bearer.
Only when alive can kings wield prowess, fathers give protection, sons bring joy, and friends share strength. Once reduced to ashes, the body cannot taste renown. Therefore, I speak to thee, for thou hast worshipped me faithfully, offering oblations with devotion. The Sun never abandons his votary, and love for thee stirs me to speak again and again what is best for thy welfare.
Yet, O mighty-armed one, know also this—there lies within these events a mystery decreed by Fate, hidden even from the gods themselves. That secret I cannot reveal; it shall unveil itself in its appointed time. But my heart urges me still: preserve thy armour and thy earrings, for in them lies thy life.
Radiant art thou, O son of Rādhā,
Shining with thy jewelled rings,
Like the moon set in a stainless sky,
Between the stars of Viśākhā.
Keep them, and none shall fell thee;
Part with them, and doom draws near.
For armed with this divine protection,
Not even Arjuna, aided by Indra,
Can ever overcome thee in battle.
Therefore, when Purandara comes in Brāhmaṇa’s guise, asking of thee this birth-gift of Amṛta’s essence, do not yield. Turn aside his request with reason, with suavity, with words full of wisdom and courtesy. Speak again and again, offering him gold, kine, gems, or maidens, but not these ornaments that guard thy life.
For if thou guardest them, thou shalt vanquish Partha even in the presence of the gods. But if thou givest them away, thou surrenderest thine own breath into the hands of destiny.”
Karna said:
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“O lord of blazing light, thou knowest me for thy worshipper, faithful and devoted. Yet thou also knowest that there is nothing which I cannot yield in charity, O thou of radiant splendour! Neither my wives, nor my sons, nor my very self, nor my friends are so dear to me as thou, for in thee do I behold my supreme deity.
Thou hast spoken from affection, counselling me as a father for the sake of my life. Yet hear me again, and forgive me if I refuse thy bidding.
Death hath no terror equal to falsehood;
Better to perish than break a vow.
To the Brāhmaṇa who seeks a gift,
My life itself I shall not withhold.
Thou sayest that Arjuna, son of Pāṇḍu, will be aided by Indra. Yet, O lord of rays, let not thy heart be anxious. With the weapons I have gained from Rāma Jāmadagnya and from Droṇa, I shall surely conquer Pārtha in battle. Permit me then to keep my vow, that when even the wielder of the thunderbolt comes disguised as a Brāhmaṇa, I may not send him away empty-handed. To give—even life itself—is my chosen dharma.”
Surya said:
“If it must be so, O mighty-armed one, then act with wisdom. When Śakra, lord of a hundred sacrifices, comes to thee for thy earrings, give them not without condition. Say unto him:
‘O thousand-eyed one, I shall part with my birth-gifts,
But grant me in return a single boon—
Give me a dart, unfailing, irresistible,
That returns not till it has slain its mark.’
With such a weapon in thy hand, not even Arjuna, not even the hosts of gods and Dānavas together, could stand before thee. For that dart of Indra never returns without quenching its thirst in the lives of hundreds and thousands.”
Vaisampāyana continued:
Having spoken thus, the thousand-rayed deity vanished like the golden sun sinking into the western hills. And Karṇa, rising with the dawn, performed his prayers and sacrifices, recalling the vision of the night. He told all unto his father, the resplendent Sūrya. And the lord of light, enemy of Rāhu, hearing his son, only smiled and said: ‘It is even so.’
Thus prepared, Karṇa of the golden armour, Vr̥ṣa, slayer of hostile hosts, awaited the coming of Vāsava with expectant heart, resolved to give away his very life for the sake of truth and fame.
Vaisampāyana said:
When Janamejaya asked of Karṇa’s secret, the sage revealed the hidden tale of Kuntī’s boon.
Once, O king, a Brāhmaṇa of fierce ascetic energy, tall of stature, with matted locks and a staff, came to the court of Kuntibhoja. His form was radiant, his complexion like honey tinged with blue, his words soft as nectar, his presence blazing like a sacrificial fire. This sage was Durvāsā, the irascible seer, sanctified by his vast tapas and his mastery of the Vedas.
He said unto Kuntibhoja:
“O king without pride, I wish to dwell in thy house. I shall live as thy guest, taking alms from thee, departing when I wish and returning as I please. But thou and thine must never displease me in food or bed, for I desire peace while I abide here.”
The king, bowing, replied with joy:
“Be it so, O Brāhmaṇa. More than this too shall I provide.”
Then, with devotion, he offered his own daughter by adoption, Prithā—gentle, virtuous, and of noble birth—to serve the sage:
“This maiden, my daughter, shall minister to thee. She is pure in conduct, skilled in service, humble, and endowed with all virtues. She shall guard thy comfort with devotion, so that no displeasure touches thee.”
Turning to Prithā, the king said:
“O daughter, thou wert born of the Vrishni race,
A child of Sūra, sister of Vasudeva,
But given to me as mine own by thy sire,
Promised in adoption with sacred words.
From childhood thou hast honoured Brāhmaṇas,
Servants, elders, and kin alike,
Gentle of speech, modest in bearing—
None in my palace speaks ill of thee.
Therefore upon thee I bestow this task:
Serve this ascetic of fiery wrath.
Please him with thy humility and care,
For in his blessing lies our welfare,
But in his anger lies our destruction.”
Thus instructed, Prithā, the lotus-eyed, accepted the charge, bowing her head. And so she attended on the sage, guarding him as a blazing fire is guarded with reverence.
Vaisampāyana said:
Then the maiden Prithā, known thereafter as Kuntī, spoke with folded palms unto her father, the righteous Kuntibhoja:
“According to thy command, O king,
With mind restrained and single-pointed,
I shall serve that Brāhmaṇa, as if he were Agni himself.
Never shall he find fault with me—
Whether he comes at dawn, at dusk, or in the midnight hour.
It is my nature to worship the twice-born;
This service is not a burden but my joy.
To honour the Brāhmaṇas is to guard dharma,
To offend them is ruin itself.
I shall with diligence attend on him,
So that thy word is kept,
So that my house is pure,
So that our race is free of blame.”
When she had thus spoken, the king embraced his daughter with affection, and his heart swelled with gladness. He said:
“O gentle child of faultless limbs, do as thou hast vowed. Serve the holy one with reverence and vigilance. Thus wilt thou secure my welfare, thine own, and the honour of our line.”
Then turning to the sage, Kuntibhoja said humbly:
“This daughter of mine, O Brāhmaṇa, is young and tender, raised in comfort. If ever, through childishness or inexperience, she transgresses, do not take offence. For the wise forgive children, the aged, and the ascetic even in error. The worship that is offered with all one’s power should be accepted as full.”
The ascetic, radiant as fire, inclined his head and said simply: “So be it.”
Thereupon, Kuntibhoja, pleased beyond measure, assigned the sage a dwelling: chambers white as swan’s plumage and as cool as moonbeams, with a sanctified room for his sacrificial fire and a brilliant seat for his meditations. Every dish set before him was pure, abundant, and worthy of his tapas.
And Prithā, casting aside all sense of self-importance, clad in humility, began her service.
She moved about him as if tending a god,
Her conduct shining with chastity and discipline.
Day by day she waited on him,
With reverence, with steadiness, with love—
And thus, O king, she gladdened the heart of Durvāsā.
Vaisampāyana said:
That maiden of steadfast vows, O monarch, by her purity and devotion, pleased that fiery Brāhmaṇa of terrible penance. At times he said, “I will return at dawn,” but came at night. At times he said, “I will return in the evening,” but arrived long past midnight. Yet whether day or night, hunger or fatigue, Prithā, gentle and firm of will, greeted him always with ready food, a prepared seat, and a bed fit for repose.
When he rebuked her harshly, she bowed in silence, without anger, as one who takes censure as a lesson. When he tested her, saying, “Give me food!” though all supplies were exhausted, she placed before him a meal, conjured with diligence and unwavering will.
Like a devoted disciple to her master, like a daughter to her sire, like a sister to a revered elder, so did she serve Durvāsā, the sage of terrible wrath. And he, scorched with the fire of his own tapas, felt cooled by the gentleness of the maiden.
Each morn and eve, her father Kuntibhoja asked her softly:
“O child, is the Brāhmaṇa content with thee?”
And with downcast eyes and modest smile she answered,
“Exceedingly well.”
Thus passed a full year, O King, and the sage, unable to find the slightest fault, was filled with delight. And at last he said unto her:
“O gentle maid of stainless conduct,
Well hast thou served me, with patience and devotion.
Ask now a boon from me—
Any boon, rare and hard to win,
That may raise thee above all women in the world.”
But Prithā, humble as ever, replied:
“All boons are already mine, O Brāhmaṇa,
Since my father rejoices in me,
And thou, revered one, art pleased with me.
What greater reward can there be?”
The sage, however, pressed her once more and said:
“If thou desirest not wealth or dominion,
Then accept this mantra I give.
A mystery guarded in the Atharvan hymns,
It summoneth the gods themselves.
Whichever celestial thou dost invoke,
Whether he wills it or not,
He shall appear before thee in gentle guise,
Bound to thy command as a servant to his mistress.
Bear it well, O maiden,
For by this power thou shalt change the course of destiny.”
Thus did Durvāsā, terrible yet generous, impart to Kuntī the divine formula, secret and blazing with the fire of the Veda. Then, his purpose accomplished, he turned to Kuntibhoja and said:
“O king, thy daughter hath tended me with perfect care.
I have dwelt here happily, honoured and satisfied.
Now I shall depart.”
Even as he spoke, he vanished like lightning swallowed by the sky. Seeing the Brāhmaṇa disappear before their eyes, the king and his court stood amazed. And Kuntibhoja, filled with wonder and awe, honoured his daughter Prithā with reverence, knowing that some great destiny was bound to her.
Vaisampāyana continued, “Thus urged by the Sun, and pressed by the awe of the gods whose eyes were upon her, the maiden’s heart was rent. Modesty and fear strove with the weight of the mantra she had loosed. And Kuntī, trembling yet resolved, bowed her head and yielded, saying but a single word of consent.
Then Surya, the Lord of Day, embraced the boon he had been invoked to bestow. In kindness and in splendour he spake unto her: ‘Fear not, O stainless one. A son like unto myself shall be thine. He shall be mighty in prowess, resplendent in form, and shall be born to thee adorned from his birth with a coat of mail and ear-rings that none but he shall wear. These shall be his safeguard and his glory. Go in peace; I depart, leaving thee with that gift of light.’
At those words, the radiance of the Sun brightened the chamber, and Kuntī conceived by the grace of that celestial. Time ran on, and in due season she brought forth a son of wondrous aspect—strong of limb, radiant as a god. And, as Surya had promised, the infant was born encased in a natural coat of mail and wearing ear-rings like twin suns.
Filled with fear for her honour and dread of the scorn of men, Kuntī’s mind was assailed by anguish. She loved the child yet dreaded the consequences of his birth. To save herself and her house from shame she resolved upon a bitter deed. Taking the new-born babe in a winnowing-basket, she set him upon the waters of the stream that flowed by the city, and sent him forth upon the river’s breast, her heart rent asunder.
The little raft drifted on the current, and its fate was watched by Providence. Adhiratha, the charioteer of King Kuntibhoja, came that way and beheld the floating basket. Moved with compassion, he drew it to shore and brought forth the infant, whole and splendid. Adhiratha and his wife Rādhā, rejoicing as if new life had entered their poor home, took the child and nourished him, naming him by the names that grew about him—Vasusena for his bright might, and to some he was called Radheya for the love of his foster-mother. Yet in secret his birth was that of the Sun.
Thus was Karṇa—sun-born, clothed in natural armour and jeweled ear-rings—given into the keeping of humble folk. The thread of destiny had been spun: this child, born of a queen and reared by a charioteer, would one day stand upon the field and shake the world with his deeds.”