Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 4 - Adivansavatarana - Chapter 4 - Harmony and Disharmony

Janamejaya, moved by what he had heard, and his heart stirred with wonder and longing, spoke once more to Vaiśampāyana:

“O Brāhmaṇa, those heroes whose names you have uttered, and those whose names remain unspoken—of them all, I wish to hear in full. Let none be left untold.

And beyond these, I desire to know of the other kings—by the thousands—who gathered on that battlefield of fate, drawn by forces greater than themselves.

O blessed sage of noble birth,

Tell me why such strength walked earth.

What cause, what thread, what heavenly plan

Drew gods to take the form of man?

It behoveth you, O you of great good fortune, to recount in full the reason why these Mahārathas—each equal to the celestials themselves—were born upon this earth.

What was the object of their descent? What purpose did fate and dharma seek through their incarnation in mortal form?”

Vaiśampāyana replied:

“It is known, O King, through what has been passed down by the sages, that the truth you now seek is a mystery—veiled even from the gods themselves. Yet I shall speak of it to you, as it was heard by us, after first bowing in reverence to the Self-born, the Supreme Source of all.

Before the tale, my head I bend,

To Him from whom all fates descend.

The uncreated, ever wise—

Whose will alone makes worlds arise.

Now hear of what came to pass in ancient times.

The mighty son of Jamadagni—Rāma of the axe, known as Paraśurāma—after ridding the earth of the Kṣatriyas twenty-one times, withdrew from violence and retired to Mount Mahendra. There, amidst the slopes and silence of that sacred peak, he began his ascetic penances.

And when the earth had been emptied of its warrior class, a strange and fateful turn occurred.

The Kṣatriya women, widowed and yet desirous of continuing their lineage, sought union not with kings, for none remained, but with the Brahmanas—those of steady vows and disciplined lives.

Not lust, but law, their acts obeyed;

In seasons fit, not passion swayed.

Thus dharma wove through fate’s design,

And Kṣatriya blood revived its line.

The Brahmanas, in strict observance of dharma, united with them only during the proper season—never lustfully, never out of turn—so that the royal lines might rise again through righteous seed.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

In this manner, O monarch, thousands of Kṣatriya women conceived through their righteous unions with Brahmanas—those steadfast in austerity and dharma. And thus were born countless children, sons and daughters alike, radiant with energy and noble bearing.

From ashes rose the warrior line,

Rekindled by a spark divine.

From wombs of grief and sacred flame,

A race reborn with righteous name.

These children grew into strong and virtuous Kṣatriyas, and the warrior class was once again restored to the earth. A new generation began to thrive—one blessed with long life, resilience, and rooted in virtue.

And so it came to pass that the four varṇas—with the Brahmanas at their head—were once more firmly established upon the earth, each devoted to their rightful duties.

At that time, every man, obeying the law of restraint, went to his wife only during her proper season, never out of lust, and never out of turn.

Desire was yoked to sacred rule,

The body bowed before the school

Of dharma’s law, of cosmic care—

And life grew pure and just and fair.

And in the same way, O bull among the Bharatas, even the other creatures of the world followed this divine order. Among birds and beasts alike, union occurred only in its proper season.

Thus, in that era, hundreds of thousands of beings were born—each free from sorrow and disease. And all creatures began to multiply in virtue, filling the earth with balance and harmony once more.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

O you of the elephant’s tread, hear now of the time when the wide earth—bounded by oceans, adorned with mountains, forests, cities, and sacred groves—was once again governed by Kṣatriyas of virtue and strength.

These kings, born of noble purpose and righteous seed, ruled the world not with tyranny, but with justice. They upheld dharma, protected the weak, and punished only those who deserved it—without wrath, without desire.

The wheel of law turned true again,

Washed clean of wrath, unstained by gain.

The sword grew just, the scepter wise,

And virtue ruled beneath the skies.

And when the earth had thus been entrusted to righteous rulers, the other varṇas—with the Brahmanas at their head—rejoiced. Order returned, and with it, joy spread across all walks of life.

Indra—he of the thousand eyes and a hundred sacrifices—beheld the earth ruled in dharma and was pleased. In his joy, he released the rains—timely and life-giving—blessing the land and all its creatures.

From sky to soil, the gifts were sown,

Where virtue stood, the clouds had flown.

And in that peace the world did flower—

Blessed by the gods, upheld by power.

Thus, harmony was restored—among men, among beasts, and even among the gods. The world, once stained by war and wrath, bloomed once more under dharma’s gentle hand.

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Vaiśampāyana continued:

Then, O king, in that golden age, none died in the years of immaturity, and none approached a woman before reaching the age of understanding. Life was long, virtuous, and measured. From the mountains to the coasts of the ocean, the earth was filled with men of strength and longevity.

The Kṣatriyas performed great sacrifices, giving freely of wealth and sustenance. The Brahmanas, devoted and serene, studied the Vedas in full—with all their limbs, their Vedāṅgas, and the lofty Upaniṣads.

The warrior gave, the seer recited,

In truth alone were hearts united.

No coin defiled the sacred word,

And only asked-for chants were heard.

No Brahmana sold the Vedas—none taught for coin, nor recited aloud before the uninitiated. Knowledge was guarded, offered only in purity and request.

The Vaiśyas tilled the earth with bullocks, never yoking the cattle themselves, and the weak or lean among the beasts were fed with careful compassion. None milked cows while their calves drank only their mothers’ milk, untouched by grass or feed.

The plough was just, the scales were fair,

No merchant dared deceive the air.

And all who walked beneath the sun,

Did so with dharma's gaze as one.

No man transgressed his duty. Each of the four orders upheld their dharma, pure and unstained. None looked askance at another’s task, and virtue stood undiminished, radiant in every heart.

The kine gave birth, the trees gave bloom,

Each flower opened in its room.

The rains fell right, the winds blew kind—

As though the world were god-designed.

And so, O bull among men, under the reign of righteousness, both women and cattle bore offspring in due season, and all trees blossomed and bore fruit according to the appointed time.

Thus, O monarch, the Kṛta Yuga was born again, and the whole earth teemed with life—peaceful, plentiful, and blessed.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

When such was the blessed condition of the earth—prosperous, harmonious, and governed by dharma—the balance of the worlds once again began to tilt.

The Asuras, O King—those ancient foes of the gods—began to take birth in the lines of kings. Though cast down from heaven by the sons of Aditi, the celestials, and repeatedly defeated in celestial wars, they sought once more to rise—this time, through the bloodlines of men.

Cast from the skies, denied the throne,

They sought to rule in flesh and bone.

Not through the stars, but mortal womb,

They crept into the world’s perfume.

Stripped of their sovereignty and denied entry to the heavens, the Daityas and Dānavas began to incarnate on earth. And not only among men did they arise, but among many forms of life.

Desirous of power and domination, they were born among kine and horses, among camels, buffaloes, and asses. They took birth in the forms of Rākṣasas, in wild beasts and mighty elephants, even among deer and other forest dwellers.

In every form, in hoof and horn,

In flesh of beast, the dark was born.

Their might disguised in earthly guise,

The daityas walked ‘neath mortal skies.

Thus, the seeds of discord were sown in secret, and though the age of dharma still prevailed, shadows stirred beneath its golden light.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

O protector of the Earth, so great was the number of Asuras already born and yet to be born that the very Earth herself began to bend under their weight. She, vast though she was—with oceans for her boundaries—found herself straining to carry the burden of beings who had once been cast from heaven.

Among the sons of Diti and Danu—those who had warred with the celestials and been driven from the heavenly realms—many were now born as kings on Earth, arrogant and proud beyond measure.

In crowns they came, not claws or flame,

In royal robes they cloaked their name.

With mighty arms and poisoned grace,

They claimed the Earth as battle place.

Endowed with immense energy and dreadful ambition, they assumed many forms and roamed the Earth in power, capable of crushing their enemies. They filled the continents from shore to shore, and their strength was turned not to protection but to oppression.

They began to subdue all: the Brahmanas, the Kṣatriyas, the Vaiśyas, and the Śūdras. Nor were beasts and birds, gods and sages, or any other creatures spared their cruelty.

They hunted not for food, but pride—

Their breath grew foul, their hearts grew wide.

By thousands, armed and mad with might,

They walked the Earth and stifled light.

Terrifying all life, they moved in great numbers—bands of hundreds and thousands—slaying and terrorizing as they went. Devoid of truth, scorning virtue, drunk on their own power, they grew bolder still.

They even dared to insult the great Ṛṣis in their forest hermitages, disturbing the peace of sacred groves with laughter, mockery, and violence.

Not even sages, pure and still,

Were safe from blasphemy and will.

The world that once by dharma stood,

Was now defiled by pride and blood.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Oppressed by the weight of the Asuras and Dānavas—those born in pride and clothed in mortal form—the Earth endured with great fortitude. She bore the burden in silence, with all her strength and abundant resources, but the load grew intolerable.

Even the combined might of the elemental beings—Śeṣa, the great serpent; the tortoise that held the churning mountain; and the colossal elephants that supported the quarters—proved insufficient.

Not all the tusks that held the sky,

Nor coils of Śeṣa curled high,

Could lift the world whose soil had burned

With daitya wrath and dharma spurned.

And so, afflicted with dread and trembling under the weight of lawless might, the Earth resolved to seek out refuge and deliverance. Taking a form of her own choosing, radiant yet distressed, she set her heart on approaching the Grandsire of all—Brahmā, the divine creator.

With mountain crown and forest veil,

She rose in grief with solemn wail.

Her oceans wept, her rivers slowed—

To Brahmā’s seat the goddess strode.

There, she beheld Brahmā—eternal and undiminished—seated in divine radiance. Around him gathered the gods, resplendent Brahmanas, and Ṛṣis of great fortune, whose austerities glowed like fire. He was adored by Gandharvas and Apsarās, whose joy lay in his service.

Creator vast, with lotus seat,

Around him danced the worlds complete.

And Earth, once proud, now bowed her brow—

To seek his aid, to plead, to vow.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Then, O Bhārata, the Earth—wearied and worn beneath the weight of unrighteous kings and incarnate Asuras—approached the divine Grandsire, Brahmā, seeking protection.

In the presence of all the regions of the world, and before the gathering of gods and Ṛṣis, she laid forth her grievance—speaking of the burden she bore, of the terror loosed upon her surface, and the weight of adharma pressing down from all sides.

With folded hands and voice grown low,

She spoke of grief the world should know.

Of dharma crushed and evil crowned,

Of cries that echoed underground.

Yet even as she spoke, her purpose was already known. For Brahmā, the self-born, the supreme and omniscient Lord, had foreseen her coming. He who is creator of all beings—celestial and terrestrial—needs no messenger to understand the pain of his creation.

What heart he shaped, he also reads;

The gods, the Asuras, men and seeds—

All thoughts arise within his sight,

As day arises into light.

O King, why should the all-knowing Lord not know the silent cries of Earth, when he himself has shaped the soul of every god and Asura?

Then the Grandsire of all creatures—the Lord of Earth and heavens, the self-effulgent being known also as Īśa, Śambhu, and Prajāpati—turned toward her.

With compassion in his gaze and command in his voice, he prepared to answer her plea.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Then the Lord Brahmā, the self-born Creator, addressed the Earth—she who had come bearing the weight of sorrow and the burden of wickedness.

And he said:

“O holder of wealth, O patient Earth,

For the sake of thy troubled girth,

I shall command the heavenly host—

Each god shall descend to where you need them most.”

“O Earth, for the accomplishment of the object for which you have come to me, I shall appoint all the dwellers of the heavens. They shall descend to your realm, and by their presence, restore balance to your burdened frame.”

Having thus spoken, O King, Brahmā comforted her and bade her depart in peace. Then the Grandsire turned to the assembly of the gods, radiant and powerful, and gave forth his command:

“To ease the weight this world now bears,

Go down, O gods, to human lairs.

Take birth on earth, in part or whole,

Let mortals feel your guiding soul.

There strike the Asuras, fierce and wide,

Who walk as kings with poison’d pride.”

And he who is the source of all life then summoned also the hosts of the Gandharvas and the graceful Apsarās—the celestial musicians and dancers, born of joy and air.

To them he spoke in words of subtle destiny:

“Go ye too, in forms you choose,

In beauty’s shape, or warrior’s ruse.

Take birth among mankind below,

And let the winds of karma blow.”

Thus, with this divine decree, the heavens began to prepare. The stage of the mortal world was to be set, not for peace, but for the great reckoning of Dharma Yuddha.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

When the gods heard the command of Brahmā—their Lord, the Creator—they welcomed his words with reverence and resolve. True, timely, and filled with purpose, his decree stirred them to action.

And so, all the gods, led by mighty Indra, resolved to descend to Earth, each in part, each according to his power. But first, they went to Nārāyaṇa—slayer of foes, guardian of the worlds, dwelling in the resplendent realm of Vaikuṇṭha.

There they beheld him, the eternal Lord:

He who holds the discus and mace,

In purple robed, with radiant face;

Whose navel blooms the lotus throne,

From which all life and law are sown;

Whose chest bears Śrīvatsa's mark,

Whose eye is calm, whose gaze is dark.

He, in whose limbs all powers lie,

Whom gods adore and saints glorify.

Eyes half-lowered in yogic stillness, he radiated the peace of the infinite. Upon his breast shone the mark of Śrīvatsa, and from his being flowed the ceaseless rhythm of all creation.

Indra, most exalted of all beings, stepped forth. Bowing with folded hands, he addressed the Lord:

“O Hari, Lord of gods and men,

Be born on Earth—restore again

The balance lost, the dharma slain.

Let mortals feel your touch and reign.”

And Hari—Nārāyaṇa, the source of all—replied with a single word:

“Tathāstu.”

So be it.