novelraw Arc 2 - Abhimanyu-Vadha Parva - Chapter 7 - Narada’s Tale of Fallen Kings I
Arc 2 - Abhimanyu-Vadha Parva - Chapter 7 - Narada’s Tale of Fallen Kings I
Sañjaya said
Then Nārada, the sage whose words shine with the light of truth, continued to speak unto the grieving Śṛñjaya, teaching him by the deeds of the mighty who had gone before.
“O King,” said he, “even Dilīpa, son of Haviḷa, fell a prey to Death. He was righteous, wise, and unassailable in virtue—a monarch whose fame reached the very heavens.
Brāhmaṇas, countless as the waves of the sea, versed in the Vedas and rich in progeny, flocked to his sacrifices—each radiant as fire and established in Truth. A hundred great yajñas did he perform; and in each, the earth herself, laden with gems and gold, was given away to the priests as alms.
So vast was his piety that the roads to his sacrifices were paved with gold, and the very gods with Indra at their head came to behold his rites, esteeming him to be Dharma incarnate.
The sacrificial stakes were bound with golden rings—above and below—and shone like twin suns upon the altar. The air was filled with fragrance, the sound of chants and drums resounded like thunder over the plains.
The hymns of fire, the conch’s tone,
The archer’s twang, the feast’s glad moan—
Five notes of joy in Khattanga rang,
Where Dilīpa’s praise by angels sang.
At his festivals, men feasted without want or measure; gold and grain overflowed the fields. Even the streets of his city, Khattanga, gleamed with splendour. The very sound of his realm was fivefold—the murmur of Vedic recitations, the twang of bows, and the joyful cries of “Eat! Drink! Enjoy!” For in his kingdom, plenty and righteousness dwelt together as one.
And when he went to war, O King, his chariot wheels rolled over water without sinking, upheld, as it were, by the merit of his deeds. That marvel had never been seen in any other age.
Even those who merely looked upon him—truthful, steadfast, master of his passions, generous without measure—rose to heaven by the sight of his face alone. Such was the sanctity of King Dilīpa.
When that mighty monarch ascended to heaven, the world grew dim, as though bereft of its sun.
His gifts like rivers flowed to sea,
His vows as firm as ancient tree;
He rose where righteous spirits roam—
And left the earth without a home.
“Therefore,” said Nārada, “when even such a sovereign, who surpassed thee in the four cardinal virtues—truth, charity, compassion, and austerity—and who far excelled thy son in merit and in fame, was at last seized by Death, why lament thou for Swaitya, who neither performed sacrifice nor offered sacred gifts?
The path of kings and sages alike ends in the same unseen gate. The wise mourn not for the fallen, but follow them through righteousness.”
The lord of Khattanga sleeps in peace,
His golden rites and glories cease;
If he, the pure, hath passed away—
Why shouldst thou weep, O King, today?
Sañjaya said
Then the divine sage Nārada, radiant as the sun, continued to speak unto the mourning Śṛñjaya, softening his heart with tales of kings long gone, whose splendour equalled that of the gods yet who too bowed before Death.
“O King,” said Nārada, “even Mandhātṛ, the mighty son of Yuvanāśva, fell a prey to Death. He was the conqueror of gods, Asuras, and men alike—matchless among monarchs, radiant as Indra himself in glory.
Once, Yuvanāśva, while hunting in the forest, parched by thirst, came upon a sacrificial ground where oblations were being prepared. Seeing a vessel of consecrated ghee set apart for the rite, the weary king, unaware of its sanctity, drank of it. By divine mystery, he conceived within himself a child.
When his time was fulfilled, the twin physicians of heaven—the Aśvinī Kumāras—performed a wondrous operation and drew forth the babe from his sire’s womb. As the gods gathered, they beheld the infant of radiant limbs and asked one another, ‘Who shall sustain this child?’
Then Indra, the wielder of the thunderbolt, moved with compassion, said—‘Let him draw his life from me.’ Milk sweeter than amṛta streamed from the god’s fingers, and the child, nourished by that celestial food, grew in splendour and strength. From this act of divine nurture, the gods named him Mandhātṛ—He Who Sucks from the Hand.”
From Indra’s palm he drank the dew,
Of heaven’s might his spirit drew;
Twelve days—twelve cubits tall became,
And lit the worlds with warrior flame.
“In twelve days he attained twelve cubits in height, broad as a lion, strong as the storm. With bow in hand, he conquered the earth from sunrise to sunset in a single day. Righteous in soul, steadfast in truth, and master of his passions, he subdued mighty kings—Janamejaya, Sudhanvan, Jaya, Śuna, Vṛhadratha, and Nṛga. From the eastern hill where the sun rises to the western where it sets, all lands were known as the dominion of Mandhātṛ.
He performed a hundred Aśvamedhas and as many Rājasūya sacrifices. At those rites, he gave to the Brāhmaṇas Rohita fish of gold, each ten yojanas long and one yojana broad. Mountains of rice and rivers of milk adorned his altars; lakes of ghee and streams of honey circled the sacred ground. The scent of curds and sweet soup perfumed the air.
The gods, Asuras, men, Yakṣas, Gandharvas, Nāgas, birds, and sages thronged his sacrifices. None there was unlearned, none without grace or knowledge of the Vedas.
When all were fed and gladdened, the earth, bounded by the seas, filled with treasure, was bestowed by him upon the Brāhmaṇas. Having given away his vast realm, Mandhātṛ vanished like the setting sun, his fame illuminating all quarters.”
Gold flowed like rivers to the sea,
The gods rejoiced his charity;
Then, bright as dawn, he passed from sight—
The king became eternal light.
“Thus perished Mandhātṛ,” said Nārada, “greater than thee in might, richer in sacrifice, firmer in the four cardinal virtues—truth, compassion, liberality, and austerity—and far surpassing thy son in fame.
When even he, nourished by Indra, master of earth and heaven alike, was consumed by Time, why lament thou, saying, ‘O Swaitya, O Swaitya!’ for a son who neither sacrificed nor gave?
All glory fades, O King. The mightiest too return to dust. Only Dharma endures.”
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Though kings may drink of heaven’s hand,
Their thrones are built on shifting sand;
If Mandhātṛ’s light must yield to night—
Why weep for one of mortal might?
Sañjaya said
Then the divine Nārada, ever serene and radiant with wisdom, continued to speak to the sorrowing Śṛñjaya, recounting the fall of kings who had once seemed immortal.
“O King,” said Nārada, “even Yayāti, the son of Nahuṣa, fell a prey to Death. He was mighty among monarchs, equal in splendour to the gods themselves. His sacrifices were countless—he performed a hundred Rājasūyas, a hundred Aśvamedhas, a thousand Puṇḍarikas, a hundred Vājapeyas, a thousand Atirātras, and innumerable Cāturmāsyas and Agnīṣṭomas, pouring boundless wealth upon the Brāhmaṇas.
Having measured the riches of the earth, he gave it all away—its gold, its herds, its grain, and even the treasures of the Mlecchas and the proud foes of the twice-born—until no wealth remained unoffered in sacrifice. The very heavens rejoiced at his gifts.
When war arose between gods and Asuras, Yayāti stood by the celestials and broke the hosts of the Daityas. When the earth lay peaceful again, he divided it into four parts and bestowed them upon four righteous kings.
In his youth he had taken as wives Devayānī, daughter of the sage Uśanas, and Śarmiṣṭhā, daughter of the Dānava Vṛṣaparvan, and by them begot noble sons who ruled the world. His glory spread through the three worlds like the fragrance of blooming sandalwood.”
The gods he served, their foes he quelled,
The earth by four just hands he held;
His gifts like rivers sought the sea—
Yet Death o’ertook proud Yayatī.
“Though he had gained heaven’s pleasures and wandered through the celestial gardens at will, like another Indra, the king found no end to desire. For passion, O King, is a flame that feeds upon itself.
At last, weary of indulgence, Yayāti said to his queens ‘The wealth of all worlds—grain, gold, cattle, and women—cannot content even one man. Knowing this, one must seek peace within and cultivate contentment.’
Renouncing the splendour of his throne, he installed his son upon the seat of sovereignty and, with his wives, withdrew into the forest. There, having subdued his senses, he attained tranquillity and wisdom, and cast away all worldly longing.”
He spurned the gold, he spurned the throne,
And sought the self to call his own;
Content, he met his destined day—
And soared to light that fades not away.
“When such a monarch as Yayāti—peerless in sacrifice, lord of the four virtues of truth, charity, compassion, and austerity, master of the earth and ally of the gods—was seized at last by Death, why lament thou, O Śṛñjaya, for Swaitya, thy son, who neither offered oblations nor gave gifts?
Time devours the mighty and the meek alike. The givers and the beggars, the kings and the ascetics—all are but offerings in the fire of Time. Therefore, grieve not.”
Heaven’s gates to Yayāti yield,
Yet even he the Fates have sealed;
If such as he to dust return—
What profit is in tears that burn?
Sañjaya said
Then the celestial sage Nārada, bright as the midday sun, continued his discourse unto the grief-stricken Śṛñjaya, his voice deep and measured like the tolling of a cosmic bell.
“O King,” said Nārada, “know that even Śaśabindu, the mighty monarch of ancient days, fell at last into the grasp of Death.
He was a ruler of unearthly beauty and unconquerable prowess, a lord of countless sacrifices and inexhaustible wealth. That high-souled king had one hundred thousand wives, radiant as Apsarās, and from each of them was born a thousand sons, heroes all, blazing with splendour and endowed with might equal to the gods.
Those princes, versed in the Vedas and the duties of kings, performed millions of sacrifices, and on the field of battle shone in golden coats of mail, each bearing a bow that thundered like Indra’s.
Their father, the illustrious Śaśabindu, at the great Aśvamedha sacrifice, gave away those sons themselves as offerings to the Brāhmaṇas, together with mountains of wealth that defied all reckoning.”
A thousand sons from each fair queen,
A host of kings in golden sheen;
He gave them all with steeds and gold,
And left no gift by measure told.
“Behind every one of those princes,” continued Nārada, “were hundreds upon hundreds of chariots, elephants, and maidens adorned in gold.
With each maiden were a hundred elephants; with each elephant, a hundred cars; with each car, a hundred steeds; with each steed, a thousand cows; and with every cow, fifty goats. All this boundless treasure, Śaśabindu bestowed upon the Brāhmaṇas in his Horse-sacrifice, and his gifts were beyond all human comprehension.
For every stake of wood used in other sacrifices, he caused two stakes of gold to be set up, shining like twin suns upon the altar. Mountains of food and drink, each two miles high, were prepared for the multitudes that came to his rite, and when all had eaten their fill, thirteen such mountains still remained untouched.
His kingdom was filled with contented and prosperous people. No thief, no famine, no sickness was known. All lived in peace beneath his rule, and joy flowed like a river across his land. Having governed thus for long ages, Śaśabindu ascended at last to heaven, bearing with him the glory of countless sacrifices.”
His altars blazed with golden flame,
His gifts outshone a monarch’s name;
Peace ruled his world, his people fed—
Then Śaśabindu heavenward sped.
“When such a king, O Śṛñjaya,” said Nārada, “who surpassed thee in the four cardinal virtues—truth, compassion, charity, and austerity—and far excelled thy son in merit, splendour, and piety, was yet claimed by Death, why dost thou lament, crying ‘O Swaitya, O Swaitya!’
He who performed no sacrifice and made no gift cannot be grieved for more than those who filled heaven itself with their offerings. For Time is impartial—he gathers gods and men alike, the giver and the miser, the ruler and the beggar.
Therefore, cast away thy sorrow, O King, and learn this truth even the most glorious must fade, but virtue alone endures.”
He gave the world, yet Time’s decree
Brought Śaśabindu to the sea;
If such as he must yield their breath—
Why weep, O King, at mortal death?
Sañjaya said
Then the divine sage Nārada, ever radiant with serene wisdom, spoke again unto the mourning Śṛñjaya, his words flowing like a sacred river of remembrance.
“O King,” said Nārada, “even the illustrious Gaya, son of Amṛtarayas, fell at last a prey to Death.
That sovereign of steadfast soul lived for a hundred years sustaining himself only upon the remnants of clarified butter from sacrificial libations. His body grew lean, yet his spirit blazed with the fire of tapas. Beholding his devotion, Agni, the purifier of all, appeared before him in visible form and spoke ‘O Gaya, choose a boon.’
Then the righteous king, joining his hands in reverence, thus addressed the Fire-God ‘Grant me the full knowledge of the Vedas through penance and restraint, through the service of the good and the grace of my elders. Let me obtain inexhaustible wealth through the righteous duties of my own order and without injury to any creature. May I ever delight in feeding the Brāhmaṇas, procreate sons lawfully, and give food with devotion. Let my heart dwell ever in dharma, O Lord of Flame, and let no impediment bar my path of merit.’
Hearing these words of pure intent, Agni replied, ‘Be it so,’ and vanished. Then Gaya, endowed with all that he had sought, ruled the earth and conquered his foes in battle.”
Fire-blest he rose with heart made pure,
In penance vast and vows secure;
No joy he sought but gift and right—
A king in peace, a sage in light.
“For a hundred years, O King,” continued Nārada, “that lord among men performed innumerable sacrifices, offering gifts without measure to the Brāhmaṇas. Each year he bestowed one hundred and sixty thousand cows, ten thousand steeds, and a crore of gold nishkas, rising each time with renewed devotion at the completion of his rites. Under every constellation, he gave the gifts ordained for that hour, and thus all time itself became hallowed by his charity.
In his great Aśvamedha, he made the earth of gold and gave her away to the Brāhmaṇas. The sacrificial stakes he used were themselves of gold, decked with pearls and gems. When the rite was ended, he gifted those golden pillars, radiant as the sun, to the priests and to the poor.
At his sacrifice, every being of the ocean and the forests, the rivers and the mountains, the lands and the heavens, was gladdened by wealth and food beyond reckoning. And all cried with one voice ‘No sacrifice has ever equalled this of King Gaya!’”
His altar blazed with gems of gold,
Three leagues it spanned, a sight to behold;
The gods looked down and softly said—
“No king like Gaya ever fed.”
“The altar he built was thirty yojanas long, twenty-six broad, and twenty high, made entirely of gold and overlaid with diamonds and pearls. Upon its completion, he bestowed it entire upon the Brāhmaṇas, along with robes, ornaments, and other prescribed gifts.
When the sacrifice was done, five and twenty hills of food still remained untouched, and around them flowed rivulets of sweet drinks—honey, milk, and clarified butter—sparkling in the sun like rivers of light. Lakes brimmed with nectar, and heaps of jewels and garments lay untouched. The merit of that great yajña made Gaya famed in all the three worlds, and from that sacrifice sprang the eternal Banyan Tree and the sacred Brahmasara.
Thus his fame filled heaven and earth, and his name became a holy word upon the lips of gods and men.”
He gave till heaven itself grew bright,
His name became the lamps of night;
From Gaya’s gift the earth was blessed—
And souls of men found peace and rest.
“But when even such a one as King Gaya, O Śṛñjaya—greater than thee in wealth, in penance, and in the fourfold virtues of truth, compassion, charity, and austerity—was claimed by Death, why dost thou lament, saying ‘O Swaitya, O Swaitya!’ for a son who neither sacrificed nor gave?
Know, O King, that even the most virtuous and mighty must yield when Time, the Eternal, calls. Only the fragrance of dharma abides forever.”
The flame of kings, to heaven he soared,
By Death’s calm hand his life restored;
If Gaya sleeps beneath Time’s breath—
Why weep, O King, for mortal death?