novelraw Arc 3 - Astika - Chapter 14 - Jaratkāru's Vow
Arc 3 - Astika - Chapter 14 - Jaratkāru's Vow
Sauti continued:
Meanwhile, the great ascetic Jaratkāru, of rigid vows and blazing tapas, wandered across the earth. He made no fixed dwelling—wherever the sun dipped low into the horizon, there he would rest for the night. Sustained by air alone, he shunned all worldly pleasure. In sacred rivers and holy lakes, he bathed; in disciplines arduous even for seasoned sages, he persevered.
One day, as he moved through a desolate forest, his eyes fell upon a startling sight—a deep hole in the earth, at the edge of which hung the spirits of his ancestors, the Pitṛs, heads downward, bound by a frail cord of virāṇa roots.
Emaciated and sorrowful, they swayed precariously,
A single strand their only hope,
Yet even that, a rat gnawed slowly away—
A rat of Time, dwelling unseen within the shadows.
They were without sustenance,
Their voices silent,
But their yearning burned in the space between breath and earth.
And the sage stood still, as if the winds had ceased,
His heart gripped by duty, his purpose on the cusp of awakening.
Jaratkāru, beholding them—those pale, piteous shades suspended over the void—approached slowly, his own body lean with tapas, his voice tremulous yet filled with compassion:
"O ye spirits who sway above the darkness,
Bound by this frail cord of virāṇa,
Behold, the last root that holds you aloft
Is being gnawed—
Bit by bit—
By the sharp-toothed rat that dwells in this hole of doom.
Soon shall ye fall, headlong, face-first,
Into the chasm of dissolution.
I, who gaze upon you,
My heart is pierced with sorrow.
Tell me—O venerable ones—
What can I do to avert this fate?
Shall a fourth of my penance suffice?
Or a third, or even a half?
Or if need be, take it all—
My tapas, my life, my strength.
I am yours.
Command me."
The spirits, suspended on the thread of destiny, spoke in unison, weak but resolute:
"O noble Brahmacharin, thy heart is vast,
Thy compassion a stream divine.
Yet, your penance—mighty though it be—
Cannot lift this burden from our souls.
Know, O gentle one,
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
That not from lack of austerity do we suffer,
Nor from sin, nor from error in rites.
But from the root of all legacy—
The loss of children.
O learned one, the Grandsire Brahmā has declared:
‘He that leaves no child behind,
Even his virtues are but smoke in the wind.’
We hang here, not for want of merit,
But because our line ends with us.
Our fate is sealed not by curse,
But by absence—
By silence in our homes where sons should sing.
Our penance endures,
One fragile root remains—
But it frays, it falters.
And you, stranger in the flesh but kin in soul,
Who are you, whose pity stirs the dead?"
"Listen—
We are Rishis, Yayavaras by name,
Of rigid vows, of sacred lore,
Fallen from our realm for lack of sons.
O child, your coming is a spark in the dark.
Mayhap you are the one..."
"It matters little, child—
Whether you are he or not.
We speak now not in certainty,
But in the last breath of hope.
One remains—his name is Jaratkāru,
He, the unfortunate,
Learned in all the Vedas,
A wanderer in the woods of restraint,
Soul bound by vows,
Heart emptied of worldly want.
He has no wife, no child, no kin,
His glory grows—but our lineage wanes.
No greed moves him, no pleasure distracts him,
He drinks only of ascetic fire.
And for that, we—
His sires and grandsires—hang
In this dark void, face down,
Forgotten, forsaken,
As men who built a home, but left no lamp behind.
If by chance you meet him—
Tell him, O kind one, for the sake of our bones and spirit:
'Your Pitṛs in sorrow dangle in darkness.
Take a wife. Beget a child.
Let dharma flow through blood once more.'
“O amiable one,
This thread—this lone root of Viraṇa
Is not mere plant nor string—
It is our line, once vast, now frayed to one.
These threads you see, chewed thin—
Are us, the Yayavaras,
Gnawed by Kāla—Time—
That rat of endless appetite.
And the one thread yet whole,
By which we dangle breathless in fate—
Is he, who walks alone: Jaratkāru,
Cloaked in bark, bound in vows.
That root, noble yet naive,
Holds our last hope—
But his penance is blind,
Tempted by merit, not moved by mercy.
If he falls—
If he dies childless—
We fall with him,
And he with us—
Into Andhatamas, the hell of forsaken ancestors.
O child, what is austerity
Without the light of lineage?
What are mantras, fires, and sacrifices,
If no son speaks the śrāddha in our name?
Go now. Find him.
Tell him what you have seen.
Tell him that we hang not by chance—
But by his choice.”
“And O noble one,” the Pitṛs cried,
“If pity stirs thy heart,
Then speak to him—
To Jaratkāru, our last strand of salvation.
Entreat him:
Take a wife—
Beget children—
Renew the race that Time devours.
Among kin or kind,
Let him find her,
And anchor our line
To the earth once more.
But now, O friend unseen,
A question burns within us—
Who art thou?
What name bears the one who weeps for us?
Who grieves like a son,
Yet is stranger in word—
Who walks the woods alone,
Yet sorrows as blood?
Speak, O radiant one,
That we may know
The shape of our hope—
The name of our redeemer.”
Jaratakaru, struck to the heart by the cries of his forefathers, bowed low, his voice choked with tears:
“O my sires, my grandsires—
Yours is the face I bear, the name I wear.
I am that wretch, Jaratakaru—
The cause of your suffering,
The reason you hang like fruit not ripened.
I chose penance, not progeny—
And thus your hopes withered.
Strike me, curse me, command me—
I stand before you, a son in debt.”
And the Pitṛs, their voices trembling with both relief and reproach, answered:
“O son, you have come by fortune's grace.
Our curse did not destroy your path.
But answer, O Jaratakaru—
Why have you forsaken marriage,
The duty that binds past and future?
The Vedas extol tapas, yes,
But higher still is the line preserved.
Our line, O child, your line—
It falters at your silence.”
And Jaratakaru bowed his head and said:
“O my sires, hear now my word—
This path of penance was my chosen world.
I swore to rise, seed withdrawn, alone to heaven.
But your anguish has unmade my vow.
Birds you hang, roots severed—
My heart can bear it not.
Thus, I shall wed—but know this well:
Only if fate presents a bride,
Who bears my name, and asks no dowry—
Whose upkeep is not mine, but hers.
A gift, not sought, I will accept.
And the child born of us shall lift you to light.”
And the Pitṛs, hearing this solemn resolve, were comforted and gave their blessings.
Sauti said:
Thus, having spoken unto the Pitṛs, the Muni again wandered the wide earth.
But being aged and worn, he found no bride.
Grief clung to him like shadow to flame—
The weight of his vow pressing his heart.
Still bound by duty, and driven by the cries of his ancestors,
He went into the lonely forest,
And there, in great lament, he wept aloud.
Standing amidst trees, wind, and unseen spirits,
He raised his voice and cried out thrice:
“O creatures moving and still—
O invisible beings that hear my plea—
Listen!
My sires hang low in sorrow and flame,
Their hope rests on me, their solitary son.
I roam this earth, poor and burdened,
Seeking a maiden of my name.
If any soul, touched by fate,
Would grant me a daughter, freely,
Whom I shall not feed nor clothe—
A bride offered as alms, not wage—
Let her come forth.
This is my cry,
O world—hear it!”