Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 2 - Abhimanyu-Vadha Parva - Chapter 8 - Narada’s Tale of Fallen Kings II

Sañjaya said

The divine sage Nārada, ever luminous with celestial radiance, looked upon the grieving Śṛñjaya, and in a voice calm and deep as the ocean, he spoke again of kings long gone, whose splendour could not outshine Death.

“O King,” said Nārada, “even Rantideva, the son of Śṛñjaya, that lord of boundless charity and fame, fell at last a prey to Death.

That high-souled monarch employed two hundred thousand cooks, who, day and night, distributed food both raw and cooked—sweet as amṛta itself—to all Brāhmaṇas and guests who came unbidden to his gates. Whatever wealth he had gained through righteousness, he gave away freely to the holy ones.

Well-versed in the Vedas, steadfast in sacrifice, and invincible in battle, he ruled the earth with truth and compassion. Animals in countless numbers, yearning for merit, would come of their own accord to his sacrificial fires, as if seeking liberation through death in his yajñas.”

His halls with sacred fire were crowned,

Where beasts for heaven came thronging round;

The smoke rose high, the earth grew bright—

His gifts outshone the stars of night.

“So vast were the heaps of skins from the sacrifices of Rantideva, O King, that from their moist remains a river itself arose—called Charmavatī, the River of Hides—flowing with the secretions of his sacrificial abundance.

The king’s voice was ever heard uttering only these words ‘I give thee nishkas! I give thee nishkas!’—thousands of golden coins passed from his hand each day. Once, in a single day, he gave away one crore of golden nishkas, and still he said within himself ‘This is little; I must give more.’

Who else among men, or even among gods, could rival such largesse? For a full century, every fortnight, he gave to thousands of Brāhmaṇas a golden bull each, followed by a hundred cows and eight hundred gold pieces.

Every implement used in his sacrifices—pots, ladles, plates, and even chariots and mansions—was made of pure gold. He gave them all away, saying, ‘If I hoard, sorrow will consume me; but if I give, heaven will open before me.’”

His heart knew naught but charity,

His hands were doors to sanctity;

“Give more!” he cried—his soul’s refrain,

Till none but heaven held his gain.

“In his time,” continued Nārada, “men said in wonder ‘Not even in the abode of Kubera have we seen such wealth; surely the kingdom of Rantideva is made of gold!’

On nights when guests thronged his palace, one and twenty thousand cows were slain for food—and yet the royal cook, adorned with gemmed earrings, would proclaim ‘Eat your fill of soup, for tonight there is less meat than before!’

When all his gold was nearly spent, Rantideva gave away even that last remnant to the Brāhmaṇas. The gods themselves descended visibly to partake of the ghee poured for them into the sacred fire, and the Pitṛs came to receive the offerings made in their honour.

Every wish of every Brāhmaṇa was fulfilled through his gifts; the heavens rejoiced at his piety, and his fame illumined the worlds like the light of the dawn.”

The gods drew near his flaming rite,

And fed upon the altar’s light;

So pure his heart, so vast his store—

They blessed his name forevermore.

“But when even such a one as King Rantideva, O Śṛñjaya—thy own ancestor—who excelled all men in the fourfold virtues of truth, charity, compassion, and austerity, and whose wealth and righteousness turned the earth itself to gold—was claimed by Death, why dost thou lament, crying ‘O Swaitya, O Swaitya!’ for a son who performed no sacrifice, who made no gift, who left behind no altar nor offering?

Know this, O King—riches, sacrifices, and sons are but dust before the wind of Time. Only the fragrance of dharma endures when all else is gone.”

Rantideva gave till none was left,

Of gold, of self, of breath bereft;

If such as he by Death were slain—

Why weep, O King, thy tears are vain.

Sañjaya said

The divine sage Nārada, still seated before the mourning Śṛñjaya, spoke again in a voice soft as the flow of the Sarasvatī yet edged with the firmness of eternal truth.

“O King,” said Nārada, “even Duṣmanta’s son—Bharata, the founder of this glorious race—was not spared by Death. Though the earth bears his name, and though his fame is sung in heaven, he too passed into the shadow from which none return.

When yet a child dwelling in the forest, he performed deeds that surpassed imagination. Endowed with strength unequalled, he subjugated lions white as snow, whose claws flashed like thunderbolts. Tigers, fierce and untamable, he dragged by the tail and cast upon the ground.

Even elephants dyed with red arsenic, their tusks stained with minerals, he seized and forced into submission. Buffaloes, rhinoceroses, and Srimaras—each mightier than a storm—he wrestled with and crushed, then released when victory was won. For these mighty feats, the sages dwelling in the hermitage, beholding his power, called him Sarvadamana—the Subduer of All.

At last, his mother Śakuntalā, gentle and wise, forbade him to harm living creatures. Then that prince, radiant as Indra, turned his strength toward sacrifice and dharma.”

The beasts he bound in boyhood’s play,

He spared at dawn of wisdom’s day;

His might he yoked to sacred flame,

And earned immortal, spotless fame.

“Having attained the throne, Bharata performed a hundred Horse-sacrifices upon the banks of the Yamunā, three hundred upon the Sarasvatī, and four hundred upon the Ganges, where the waters murmured the hymns of his glory.

Then he performed a thousand Aśvamedhas and a hundred Rājasūyas, each greater than the last, giving in charity to the Brāhmaṇas such wealth that the earth itself seemed exhausted. He performed the Agnishtoma, Atirātra, Uktha, and Viśvajit, and thousands upon thousands of Vājapeya rites, all completed without impediment or flaw.

After these grand sacrifices, the son of Śakuntalā and Duṣmanta gladdened the Brāhmaṇas with unbounded gifts. To Kaṇva, the sage who had reared his mother as his own daughter, he presented ten thousand billion coins of purest gold.”

Gold like the dawn from altars streamed,

And rivers of bounty endless gleamed;

For Kaṇva’s love his heart outpoured,

A sea of gifts, a living lord.

“At his great sacrifice, the gods themselves came—Indra at their head, surrounded by Brāhmaṇas radiant as suns. They set up his sacrificial stake of gold, a hundred vyāmas broad, glowing like the morning sky.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

Then the imperial Bharata, unconquered by any foe, ruler of kings and delight of the Brāhmaṇas, gave away to the holy ones horses adorned with gold, elephants, chariots, and countless gems. He distributed camels, sheep, and goats; male and female slaves; milch cows with calves; villages and fertile fields; and garments fine as mist—all by millions upon millions.

So vast was his generosity that even the heavens bowed to him in reverence. The wind carried his name across the worlds, and the sacred fires themselves blazed brighter when his offerings touched them. Yet when his hour came, even Bharata, the might of Duṣmanta’s line, bowed before Death.”

He ruled the earth, the gods he fed,

His altar blazed, his name was spread;

Yet Time, whose touch all kings must know,

Laid Bharata’s golden body low.

“Therefore, O Śṛñjaya,” said Nārada, “when even Bharata the Great, thy far-famed ancestor—who surpassed thee in might, in righteousness, and in the four cardinal virtues of truth, charity, compassion, and self-restraint—was taken by Death, why lament, crying ‘O Swaitya, O Swaitya!’ for thy son, who neither sacrificed nor gave?

Know this, O King Time is the supreme monarch, before whom even emperors must bow. The only empire that endures is the one founded upon dharma.”

Bharata’s crown, now dust beneath,

Was Time’s own prize, the lord of death;

Why mourn the child who gave no name—

When even kings must fade to flame?

Sañjaya said

When the sage Nārada, wise among the gods and seers, beheld Śṛñjaya still sunk in sorrow, he spoke again in tones solemn and radiant like the hymns of the dawn.

“O King,” said Nārada, “even Vena’s son, the great Prithu, who was born of divine purpose and established the law of kingship upon the earth, at last was claimed by Death.

At his Rājasūya sacrifice, the assembled Ṛṣis, beholding his glory and might, anointed him as Emperor of the world. He subdued all nations, and his name became known to gods, men, and celestials alike. Because he protected all beings from harm, he was called Kṣatriya, and because he was beloved by the people, he was known as Rāja. Thus was he the first among monarchs, and from him, O King, the very word ‘Rājā’ took its meaning.”

He ruled by love, not lash or rod,

A guardian bright, ordained by God;

From wound and woe he sheltered all—

Hence men proclaimed him lord of all.

“In the reign of Prithu, the earth herself was transformed. Without tilling or plough, she yielded grain in plenty. Cows gave milk at a touch of the hand; lotuses brimmed with honey; and the very blades of kuśa grass turned to gold, shining soft beneath the feet of men.

Fruits ripened without season, sweet as nectar, and none in his kingdom knew hunger or fear. Men dwelt where they pleased—in caves, on trees, or on the earth—free from disease and want. The world, in those days, seemed the paradise of the gods.

When the king journeyed, the seas turned solid beneath his feet, and mountains parted to let his chariot pass. His banner never tore; his path never failed. Thus did he move through the worlds like a second Indra upon earth.”

The seas grew firm beneath his tread,

The mountains bowed their hoary head;

The winds grew sweet, the stars stood still—

So moved the king by Dharma’s will.

“One day, the tall trees of the forest, the mountains, gods, Asuras, men, serpents, the seven Ṛṣis, Apsarās, and Pitṛs all came before Prithu, seated at ease upon his throne. They bowed and said ‘Thou art our lord, protector, and father. Grant us boons, O King, by which we may ever prosper.’

The son of Vena, taking up his Ajagava bow, spoke to the Earth herself ‘Come, O Mother, yield thy milk to these who seek sustenance. Through thy bounty shall all beings find joy.’

Then the Earth, assuming the form of a gentle cow, said unto him, ‘Regard me as thy daughter, O hero, and I shall yield my milk.’

And the King replied, ‘So be it.’ Thereupon he ordained the milking of the Earth, and every race of beings came forward, each with its chosen calf, vessel, and milker.”

The Earth became a docile cow,

Her milk was life for all below;

Each being came with heart’s desire,

And drew from her celestial fire.

“The trees were first the Śāla became their calf, the Banyan their milker, torn buds their milk, and the Auspicious Fig their vessel.

The mountains then drew forth their bounty—the Eastern hill their calf, Meru their milker, herbs and gems their milk, and stones their jars.

The gods took from her milk the essence of strength and energy.

The Asuras drew wine as their portion, Virocana serving as calf and Dvimukha as milker.

Men milked her for grain and tillage, with Manu as calf and Prithu himself as milker.

The serpents drew forth poison, using a gourd as vessel, with Takṣaka as calf and Dhṛtarāṣṭra as milker.

The Seven Ṛṣis milked from her the Vedas—Vrihaspati as milker, Soma the calf, and the Chandas as vessel.

The Yakṣas obtained the power of invisibility, with Vaiśravaṇa their milker.

The Gandharvas and Apsarās drew fragrant perfumes from her lotus-bloom vessel.

The Pitṛs milked the sacred oblation, Svāhā, into silver vessels, Yama their calf and Antaka their milker.

Thus did every order of beings draw from the Earth that which suited their nature, and the vessels and calves they chose endure in the world to this day.”

The gods drew might, the seers the lore,

The men the grain from Earth’s fair store;

Thus Prithu made all life complete—

The world lay blooming at his feet.

“Having fulfilled the desires of all creatures, Prithu, the son of Vena, performed countless sacrifices, giving away treasures beyond number. In his Aśvamedha, he caused golden images to be made of every object upon earth and gifted them all to the Brāhmaṇas.

He made sixty-six thousand elephants of gold, each radiant as the rising sun, and bestowed them upon the holy. He adorned the entire earth with gems and gold and then gave her away to the Brāhmaṇas as dakṣiṇā. His fame reached even to the vault of heaven, where the gods themselves praised him as the upholder of dharma.

Yet, O Śṛñjaya, even that mighty monarch, who surpassed thee in might, in virtue, and in sacrifice, who turned the barren earth to paradise and the nations into one family, was at last conquered by Time.”

The earth he fed, the gods he pleased,

By him the world from want was eased;

Yet Prithu’s crown to dust was pressed—

By Time, the lord of all, addressed.

“Therefore, O King,” concluded Nārada, his voice soft yet thunderous with truth, “why lament for thy son, who neither performed sacrifice nor bestowed gift? When even Prithu, the first-born emperor, whose virtue nourished gods and men alike, yielded to Death, grief is folly.

Remember, O Śṛñjaya—only dharma endures when gold and flesh have turned to dust.”

Time’s river drowns the proud and small,

From beast to god it conquers all;

But virtue’s flame, through darkness shed,

Lives on when kings and sons are dead.

Sañjaya said

When Śṛñjaya’s sorrow still lingered like a fading echo, Nārada, the sage of celestial insight, again lifted his voice, clear and resonant as a conch in the heavens.

“O King,” said Nārada, “even Rāma, the mighty son of Jamadagni, worshipped by all heroes and revered by gods and men alike, fell a prey to Death. Though he restored righteousness upon the earth and caused the golden age to return, even he, unsurpassed in ascetic might and warrior’s glory, could not escape the law of Time.

Having uprooted all evil, he made the world pure again; yet his life, long and illustrious, ended unsatisfied, for even greatness bows before mortality.

When his father was slain and his calf seized by the Kṣatriyas, the avenger of the Bhṛgus rose in silence. Without boast or fury, he struck down Kārtavīrya Arjuna, the thousand-armed ruler whom no foe had ever conquered. With his bow and his axe, he exterminated four and sixty times ten thousand Kṣatriyas, fierce oppressors already ripe for death.”

The axe of Bhṛgu’s son flashed red,

Through fields of wrath and warriors dead;

He cleansed the earth with streaming gore,

Till sin could stain her face no more.

“In the Dantakura country, he slew fourteen thousand Kṣatriyas who hated the Brāhmaṇas. Of the Haihaya race, he crushed a thousand with his club, a thousand with his sword, and a thousand by the gallows’ noose.

The plains were strewn with broken chariots, slain elephants, and shattered steeds. Rivers ran crimson; the air trembled with the cries of dying kings. Enraged by his father’s murder, Rāma the Bhārgava swept from land to land—Kashmira, Darada, Kunti, Kṣudraka, Mālava, Aṅga, Vaṅga, Kaliṅga, Videha, and Tamralipta—leaving behind him only silence and the scent of blood.

In his wrath he destroyed the proud and the impious, filling lakes and rivers with blood bright as the Indrajopa berry, till the eighteen great divisions of the earth lay beneath his sway.”

The hills were red, the rivers cried,

The nations fell, the proud ones died;

Yet from his axe, when wrath was spent,

The earth to holy stillness bent.

“Then Rāma, his wrath appeased, performed a hundred sacrifices, vast and pure, where every rite was flawless and every Brāhmaṇa satisfied. At those rites, his altars—eighteen nalas high, fashioned wholly of gold and decked with jewels and banners—shone brighter than the rising sun.

At his great Aśvamedha, he gave away to Kaśyapa the entire earth with her seven islands, abundant in beasts and treasures. Thousands of elephants adorned with gold, thousands of steeds and jewels, and countless measures of grain were offered as gifts.

Thus, having rid the earth of violence and robbers, he filled her again with peaceful dwellers devoted to truth and law. And at last, at Kaśyapa’s command, he relinquished even the earth he had purified.”

He slew, he gave, he cleansed, he blessed,

He offered all, and sought no rest;

Then bowed to Kaśyapa’s decree—

“Depart, O Rāma, and be free.”

“Obedient to that word, the Bhārgava hero took his mighty bow and, with a shaft, bade the ocean stand aside. Then he withdrew to the slopes of Mount Mahendra, where he dwelt in silence, shining like a sacrificial fire banked in ashes. There he lived in meditation till his mortal body, though filled with divine radiance, was claimed by Time.

O Śṛñjaya, even such a one—Rāma of the axe, conqueror of kings, giver of earth, son of Jamadagni—died in the end. When he, who was greater than gods in virtue, yielded to Death, why mourn thou for thy son, who performed no sacrifice and gave no gifts?

All these mighty ones, superior to thee in power, in wisdom, and in the fourfold virtues, have perished. So too shall those like them pass away. None, O King, may stand against Kāla, the eternal devourer.”

Rāma’s axe is still, his fires are cold,

His altars dark, his glory old;

Time claims the pure, the strong, the wise—

Why weep when even gods demise?