Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 4 - Kṛṣṇa-yāna Parva Chapter 11 - Galava’s Flight on Garuḍa

Then the ascetic Galava, bowing low, spoke to the king of birds:

“O Garuḍa, slayer of foremost serpents,

O son of Vinata,

O Tarkṣya of beautiful feathers—

bear me to the East,

where the eyes of Dharma open first at dawn.

Take me to the land thou hast praised,

where the gods are ever present,

where Truth and Virtue reside.

O younger brother of Aruṇa,

take me thither, that I may behold

the immortals face to face.”

Hearing these words, the radiant son of Vinatā smiled and replied:

“Mount upon my back, O sage.”

And Galava climbed upon the mighty bird, whose wings spread like twin horizons. Then Garuḍa leapt into the sky, and the Brāhmaṇa, amazed, cried out as the winds roared in his ears:

“O devourer of snakes,

thy beauty as thou soarest

is like the sun at dawn,

the thousand-rayed maker of day.

Thy speed is such

that the very trees, broken by the storm

of thy wings,

seem to pursue thee in flight.

O tenant of the welkin,

thou draggest, as it were,

the Earth herself with oceans, mountains,

and forests behind thee.

The tempest thou raisest

lifts the waters of the sea,

with fishes, snakes, and crocodiles swirling mid-air.

I see strange creatures—

fishes with human faces,

Timis and Timingilas,

and serpents crowned with jewels—

all whirled by thy storm.

The roar of the deep deafens my ears;

my senses reel;

I forget even my purpose.”

Then Galava, clutching the bird’s feathers, implored:

“O ranger of the skies, slacken thy speed!

Remember the risk to a Brāhmaṇa’s life.

I can no longer perceive sun or directions;

the welkin is only a thick gloom.

Thy eyes alone, two radiant gems,

flash before me like lightning.

Sparks of fire leap from thy frame.

O son of Vinatā,

extinguish this blaze;

slow thy wings, O blessed one!

I am unable to bear this course.”

Then, his voice breaking with despair, Galava confessed:

“I have promised my preceptor

eight hundred white steeds

of lunar radiance, each with one black ear.

I see no way to fulfil my pledge.

I have no wealth of my own,

nor any wealthy friend.

No treasure, however vast,

can accomplish this vow.

There is but one path before me now—

to lay down my life.”

Hearing this lament, Nārada said:

“Unto Galava, uttering these words of grief,

the son of Vinatā, without slackening his speed,

laughed gently and replied…”

And Garuḍa, his eyes like molten gold, spoke with calm power:

“O regenerate Rishi,

thou art lacking in wisdom

if thou thinkest to end thy life by thy own will.

Death is not wrought by man’s effort;

Death is God Himself.

Why didst thou not tell me thy purpose before?

There are excellent means

by which thy vow may yet be fulfilled.

Behold, here lies Mount Ṛṣabha,

rising by the sea.

Rest here for a while;

refresh thyself with food and water.

When thou art restored, O Galava,

I will bear thee on again.”

So saying, the mighty Garuḍa glided down toward the shining slopes of Ṛṣabha, the ocean’s guardian peak, his wings folding like twin clouds of gold, while the Brāhmaṇa clung silent upon his back, his heart stirred with awe and hope.

Then Nārada continued his narration to Janamejaya:

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“Alighting upon the sacred peak of Ṛṣabha,

Galava and Garuḍa beheld

a Brahmaṇī of blazing austerities,

known as Śāṇḍilī,

her body radiant like a flame of dharma.”

Bowing their heads in reverence, the sage and the celestial bird saluted her. She welcomed them with gentle words, offering them seats and food sanctified with mantras. Having partaken of that holy fare, both lay down upon the ground and fell into deep sleep.

But when Garuḍa awoke, his wings were gone. No longer the mighty king of birds, he had become a mass of flesh with only head and legs—his splendour vanished like the sun eclipsed.

Seeing him thus fallen, Galava’s heart trembled, and he said:

“Alas, O Tarkṣya! What change is this

that has overtaken thee?

How long must we dwell in this place?

Surely thou hast not harboured

some hidden, sinful thought.

No trivial act could bring

such loss upon one so great.”

Then Garuḍa, humbling himself, replied:

“Indeed, O regenerate one,

in my heart I cherished a thought—

to carry away this holy lady, crowned with success,

to the abode where the Creator,

Maheśvara, Viṣṇu,

and Sacrifice personified dwell together.

It was a wish born of respect,

but against her own will.

I shall now prostrate myself before her,

confessing all and seeking her grace.”

And so the son of Vinatā approached Śāṇḍilī, his head low, his voice humble:

“Forgive me, O holy one,

for the thought I harboured.

Whether right or wrong,

it sprang from a heart of reverence.

Grant me thy pardon, O ascetic of spotless conduct.”

Śāṇḍilī, radiant and serene, looked upon the bird and the Brāhmaṇa. Her voice was like the cool wind after heat:

“Fear not, O beautiful-feathered one.

Resume thy wings and cast off thy dread.

Yet know this:

contempt for the pure is never pardoned.

He who scorns me falls away

from blissful regions.

Without a blemish upon me,

blameless in conduct,

I have attained to this ascetic power

.

Purity of conduct bears virtue as its fruit;

purity brings wealth and prosperity;

purity drives away every inauspicious sign.

Go then, O prince of birds,

whithersoever thou wishest.

Never again entertain contempt for me,

nor for women—even those who may be blameworthy.

Thy strength and energy shall return,

greater than before.”

At her words, Garuḍa’s feathers burst forth again, shining with renewed power. His wings grew stronger than before, and bowing to Śāṇḍilī with gratitude, he prepared to depart.

“With her leave,” said Nārada,

“Garuḍa lifted Galava once more upon his back

and soared into the sky.

But still they found not the steeds they sought.”

And as fate would have it, Viśvāmitra met Galava on the way. The sage, of measured speech and bright austerity, addressed the Brāhmaṇa before the son of Vinatā:

“O regenerate one,

the time has come to give me

the wealth thou didst promise of thy own accord.

Long have I waited.

I will wait a little more.

But seek thou the means by which

thy vow may be fulfilled.”

Hearing these words, Garuḍa turned to the despairing Galava, whose heart sank like a boat in heavy seas, and spoke with gentle firmness:

“O best of Brāhmaṇas,

what Viśvāmitra said before

he hath now repeated in my presence.

Come, let us deliberate together.

Without giving thy preceptor

the whole of the promised wealth,

thou canst not even sit down in peace.

But there are ways, O Galava.

Take courage, and we shall find them.”

Thus ended that episode upon the sacred mountain, where the prince of birds learned humility, the ascetic lady shone with the power of purity, and Galava’s burden grew yet heavier but not hopeless.

Then Nārada said unto the listening monarch:

“After parting from the ascetic lady Śāṇḍilī,

the son of Vinatā, lord of the skies,

addressed the sorrow-stricken Galava

with words born of wisdom and deep reflection.”

And Garuḍa spoke thus:

“Know, O Brāhmaṇa, that wealth is called Hiraṇya,

for it was created by Agni in the bowels of Earth,

strengthened by Vāyu, and guarded by the golden soil (Hiraṇmayī Bhūmi).

And because it sustains the world,

feeding life and labour alike,

it is also called Dhana—the sustainer of beings.

On sacred Fridays,

when either of the two asterisms—Pūrvabhādra or Uttarabhādra—

ascends the heavens,

Agni, by his will, creates wealth anew

and bestows it upon mortals

for the increase of Kubera’s treasure.”

“The riches that lie hidden in Earth’s heart

are guarded by the Ajaikapāt and the Ahivratnas,

fierce deities who watch beneath the ground,

and by Kubera, Lord of Treasures.

That wealth is hard to win,

rare even to the gods.

Without such wealth,

thou canst not acquire the steeds thy preceptor demands.”

Then the great bird, his eyes bright as sunfire, counselled Galava further:

“Beg, then, O Brāhmaṇa,

from a king of noble birth—

one descended from royal sages—

who, without oppressing his subjects,

may crown thy quest with success.

There is a mighty monarch of the lunar race,

friend to me, lord of immeasurable wealth,

whose prowess none can thwart—

King Yayāti, son of Nahuṣa,

radiant as Indra in his prime.

Solicited by thee, and urged by me,

he will surely grant the steeds thou seekest,

for his wealth rivals that of Kubera himself.

Accepting his gift in righteousness,

pay thy debt to Viśvāmitra,

and let thy spirit be at peace again.”

Thus deliberating on what was just and wise, Garuḍa and Galava together flew to the city Pratiṣṭhāna, where Yayāti ruled in splendour.

The king, beholding them descend from the heavens, rose from his throne in wonder. He poured arghya into golden vessels and offered water for their feet, honoring them with reverence as one honors gods come in mortal guise.

Then Yayāti spoke gently:

“Be welcome, O divine bird, O holy sage.

Tell me, what brings you to my court?”

And Garuḍa, the eternal bearer of Viṣṇu, answered in measured words:

“O son of Nahuṣa, O royal sage,

this ocean of austerity, this Brāhmaṇa named Galava,

is my friend.

He was the disciple of Viśvāmitra for a thousand years.

When released from service,

he wished to make a guru-dakṣiṇā,

but the sage, knowing him poor, declined to ask.

Pressed again and again,

the ascetic, in a moment of slight wrath,

demanded eight hundred white steeds

of lunar splendour,

each with one ear black as night.

Unable to fulfil that command,

this noble one is burdened by his vow

and comes to thee for refuge.”

Then Garuḍa, turning to the king, added with persuasion soft as the wind before rain:

“O lord of men, thou art rich in both virtue and treasure.

To give unto this Brāhmaṇa

will bring thee merit that never fades.

For as many hairs as cover a horse’s body,

so many realms of bliss are gained

by him who gives one in charity.

He is worthy to receive;

thou art worthy to give.

Let this gift be like milk poured into a conch—

pure meeting pure,

virtue answering virtue.”

Thus spoke the son of Vinatā,

his words heavy with dharma,

while Galava, humbled and silent,

bowed before the monarch whose face was bright as the rising moon.

Then Nārada, the divine sage of heaven and earth, continued his tale before the king:

“Thus addressed by Suparṇa,

in words radiant with truth and wisdom,

that lord of sacrifice, Yayāti,

best among donors and ruler of Kāśī,

reflected long upon what was said.

Before him stood his friend Tārkṣya,

the mighty Garuḍa,

and beside him the noble Galava,

ocean of austerities and faith.

Seeing them thus—

the sky’s sovereign and the sage of vows—

and perceiving that this alms they sought

was born of ascetic merit and divine ordainment,

Yayāti’s heart glowed with joy.”

The king, filled with humility, addressed them:

“Blessed is my life this day, O sinless one,

and blessed the race in which I am born.

By thy presence, O Tārkṣya,

this land of mine is made holy.

Yet hear me, friend of the sky:

I am not as rich as once I was.

Time has dimmed the brightness of my treasure,

and my wealth has suffered loss.

But I shall not let thy coming be fruitless,

nor send away this Brāhmaṇa in sorrow.

For he who turns the seeker empty-handed

lays ruin upon his line.

It is said:

there is no sin more dreadful

than to utter ‘I have nothing,’

to kill the hope that is born of faith.

The disappointed man,

whose heart is slain by denial,

may, with his silent curse,

consume the sons and grandsons

of him who failed to aid.”

Then, rising from his seat, Yayāti’s face shone with resolve, and he said unto Galava:

“Take, therefore, this daughter of mine,

the radiant Mādhavī—

she who perpetuates four noble lines.

In beauty she equals the daughters of heaven;

in virtue, she is the embodiment of dharma.

Gods, men, and Asuras alike

have sought her hand in marriage,

for she is grace incarnate.

Let alone eight hundred steeds

of moonlike hue and blackened ear—

the kings of earth would yield

their kingdoms for her sake.

Take her, therefore, O Brāhmaṇa,

as the means of fulfilling thy vow.

Only grant that I may have through her

a daughter’s son,

so my lineage may continue.”

Then Galava, bowing low, received the maiden as a sacred gift. With Garuḍa beside him, he said softly:

“We shall again see thee, O king;

may righteousness guard thy house.”

Taking Mādhavī with him—the maiden whose beauty was like dawn over the Himalayas—the sage departed. And Garuḍa, smiling with divine foresight, said:

“The means, O Galava,

have at last been found.

Through her,

thy debt to thy preceptor shall be paid.”

Thus speaking, the celestial bird took his leave and soared aloft to his heavenly abode, leaving Galava to walk the earth in quiet purpose.

Then Galava, holding the hand of the blameless Mādhavī, pondered deeply where he might find a king worthy of her grace and capable of offering the dower he sought.

“First,” thought he,

“I shall approach that noble sovereign,

Haryyaśva of Ikṣvāku’s line—

ruler of Ayodhyā,

beloved of his people,

guardian of dharma and protector of the Brāhmaṇas.

His treasury overflows,

his armies are vast,

and yet his heart is tranquil,

for he seeks offspring and the blessings of virtue.”

Thus resolved, Galava journeyed to Ayodhyā. Standing before that great king, radiant with tapas and restraint, he spoke in reverent tones:

“O lord of men,

this maiden whom I bring—

fair Mādhavī, daughter of Yayāti—

is born of celestial beauty and virtue.

She shall increase the glory of her husband’s house

and bear noble offspring.

Accept her, O ruler of kings,

by giving a dower in righteousness.

I shall tell thee the dower required—

hear, and decide what thou wilt do.”

Thus began the great trial of Galava’s vow,

and the long journey of Mādhavī,

whose purity was destined to sanctify kings and sages alike.