novelraw Arc 2 - Hrada-Praveśa Parva - Chapter 3 - Baladeva’s Pilgrimage I
Arc 2 - Hrada-Praveśa Parva - Chapter 3 - Baladeva’s Pilgrimage I
Vaiśampāyana said: From there Baladeva went to Vināśana, where the Sarasvatī slips from mortal sight. Ancient seers speak of a wrong done upon her banks—an affront in ages past by Śūdras and Ābhīras—and say the river, recoiling from that offence, withdrew beneath the earth. For this vanishing the place is named, and there the white-plough bearer bathed, bestowed gifts, and moved on with a heart made clear.
He came next to Subhūmikā, a bright reach of the same river. There fair-faced Apsarases, ever pure in their play, gather with Gandharvas and the gods; each month that ford becomes a garden of song. Petals fall like rain, creepers stoop under garlands, and the Pitṛs also sport in gentle joy.
Where fragrance falls like silver rain
And ankle-bells keep time with breeze,
The river learns a lighter strain,
And sorrow’s knots grow loose with ease.
Hearing celestial instruments and unseen choirs, Rāma of Rohiṇī bathed, gave richly to Brāhmaṇas, and beheld passing shadows—gods, Gandharvas, Rākṣasas—moving like reflections across bright water. Thence he came to the Gandharva-tīrtha, where Viśvāvasu leads choirs of wind-born singers. There, too, he poured out kine and coin, goats and sheep, mules and camels, and the gold and silver that sustain right-living; he fed the learned with the viands they desired and moved on, praised by many.
He reached Gargasrota, sacred to venerable Garga, who washed his soul in austerity until Time itself stood plain before him—courses of wandering lights, their deviations and returns, the signs that bode fair or fell. For this, the ford keeps his name, and seekers of auspicious hours waited on that elder there. Baladeva, anointed with white sandal, honoured those purified by penance, distributed rich foods and blue-dyed cloth, and pressed onward to Śaṅkha.
On the Sarasvatī’s bank he beheld the lord of that wood—a single, staggering tree called Mohāśaṅkha, tall as Meru and pale as the northern mountain. Around it dwell Yakṣas and Vidyādharas, mighty Rākṣasas and Piśācas, and thousands of Siddhas. Keeping unseen by men, they live by the fruits of that monarch tree, observing strict vows and times.
One towering trunk, a moon-bleached bell,
Its fruits the vow-bound peoples’ bread;
In root and ring their secrets dwell,
And silence crowns its leaning head.
There the scion of Madhu’s race gave vessels of copper and iron, many milch-cows, and other worthy gifts; he worshipped and was worshipped in turn by the twice-born, and went on to the Dvaita lake. Arriving, he saw ascetics in varied garb—bark-clad, sky-clad, water-fed, leaf-fed—each keeping his own hard rule. He bathed, honoured them, and poured out comforts without stint.
Following the southern bank, the strong-armed, unfading Rāma reached Nāgadhanvanā, a place woven with serpents where Vāsuki, king of nāgas, holds sway. Fourteen thousand seers dwell untroubled there; the gods once came and installed Vāsuki by rite, and so fear of snakes melts like frost in sunlight upon that ground. Baladeva gave again in due form, bowed to the Brāhmaṇas, and set his face eastward.
At every step famous fords awaited him. He bathed, fasted, gave in abundance, and saluted the dwellers in vow who dwelt by the river’s hidden braids. Guided by those elders, he came to the place where the Sarasvatī bends and runs to the dawn, like rain-cataracts turned by wind. She took that course, the elders say, to behold the high-souled ṛṣis in the Naimiṣa wood.
Always cool with sandal’s white, the bearer of the plough stood in wonder to see the river veer.
Why does a river turn her face?
To widen room for sacred fire;
She braids her hair with many a place,
And answers thirst with vast desire.
Janamejaya said: “Tell me why, O Brāhmaṇa, she turned eastward there. What stirred the daughter of sages to wonder?”
Vaiśampāyana said: In the Kṛta age, the ascetics of Naimiṣa undertook a long sacrifice of twelve years. When their labour ended, hosts of seers went forth to visit holy waters. So many came that the southern banks of the Sarasvatī seemed like busy cities built of hymns. From Samantapañcaka down, fires burned like stars fallen to earth; clarified butter hissed upon the altars; and the air thrummed with Veda’s measured thunder.
They came in multitudes—Vālakhilyas fine as sparks, Āśmakūṭas, Dantolakhalinas, Saṃprakṣaṇas; breath-eaters and water-dwellers; leaf-livers and those who slept on earth without a bed; others bound to other vows. Desiring merit from the fords, they measured tiny plots with their sacred thread and made their homa on slivers of ground. The Sarasvatī, seeing noble ones pressed into narrow places, grew tender. For their sakes she made many resting-bowls along her course, spreading herself like a mother who clears the room and parts the curtains for her children’s rite. Then, her kindness done, she turned again to the west, as if to say, “I go, having saved these ṛṣis from fruitless coming.”
So those clear basins were born, O king, and wonder filled Rāma’s heart when he beheld them and the river’s turning. He bathed at each, gave wealth and desired food, and received the blessings of the regenerate. Birds made endless villages in that reach; vadarī and iṅgudā grew there, kṣāmarya and plakṣa, aśvattha and vibhitaka, kakkola and palāśa, karīra and pīlu; groves of karuṣaka, bilva, and āmrataka; atimukta and kāśanda and pārijāta; and pleasant plantations of plantains. The banks teemed with creatures and the chanting of sacred verse; gentle folk without malice loved to dwell there.
A last garland for that seven-fold stretch:
Seven braids of holy blue,
Seven mirrors catching sky;
She fed the few, she fed the true,
And let the crowded altars lie.
Thus the plough-armed Vala came to Sapta-Sarasvat, where the great ascetic Mankanaka performed penance and found success. There, too, he stood, as ever, in sandaled calm; and the river, bending toward the east and back again, kept time with the vows of men.
Vaiśampāyana said: The ford is called Sapta-Sarasvat because the river, one yet seven, answers the summons of the mighty in seven luminous forms. Wherever ascetics of great energy called her for sacrifice or study, the Sarasvatī appeared, dividing her single current into names and presences: Suprava, Kāñchanākṣī, Viśālā, Manoramā, Oghavatī, Sūreṇu, and Vimalodakā. In Pushkara, when the Grandsire performed a sacrifice whose provision astonished even the gods, the sages said, “How can this be high without Sarasvatī?” Brahmā thought of her, and she came as Suprava, and the rite shone complete. In Naimiṣa, councils of scripture rose like flame; the seers remembered her, and she arrived as Kāñchanākṣī, golden-eyed among bark-clad saints. When King Gaya offered at Gayā, she came as Viśālā, broad and swift from Himavat. For the sacrifice of high-souled Auddālaka in northern Kośala, she was Manoramā, pleasing to mind and ear. When Kuru poured offerings at Kurukṣetra with Vasiṣṭha assisting, she flowed as Oghavatī, full and celestial. At Dakṣa’s rite by Gaṅgā’s source, she sped as Sūreṇu, rapid and bright. When Brahmā again sacrificed in the Himavat’s sacred wood, she answered as Vimalodakā, water stainless and clear. Coming together for Baladeva’s sight, these seven currents mingled; and because seven Sarasvatīs were seen as one, that ford is named Sapta-Sarasvat.
Seven names for a single song,
Seven lamps in a single hand;
Where sages call, she runs along,
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And makes a desert altar land.
Hear now of Maṅkanaka, the ascetic who attained success in that same precinct. From youth he kept the brahmacārin’s rule, straight as a vana-dhvaja, his speech pure, his diet spare, his mind lodged in the Veda. While bathing one day in the river, he beheld a woman of faultless limbs sporting at will; at that sight the sage’s seed fell into the current. Gathering it in an earthen pot, he kept it as a trust of tapas. The fluid divided into seven, and from those seven portions seven ṛṣis were born—Vāyuvega, Vāyuhan, Vāyumandala, Vāyujāta, Vāyuretas, Vāyuchakra—wind-borne and radiant. From them sprang the nine-and-forty Maruts, storm-hosts who ring the horizon with drum and conch of cloud.
From clay-kept seed a wind-born line,
From seven sparks a storming choir;
They gird the world with thundering spine,
And crown the peaks with flashing fire.
Thereafter, when Maṅkanaka’s vow had ripened and his austerity bore fruit, he happened once to be pricked by a blade of kuśa. From the wound there flowed no red blood, but plant-sap, green and clear. The sage, seeing the effusion, rejoiced as one who beholds proof of transmutation—“Even the body has turned to sattva!”—and he danced in exultation. His joy shook the quarters: trees seemed to sway to his rhythm; birds beat their pinions; even mountains felt the tremor. The gods with Brahmā at their head, and seers rich in tapas, went to Maheśvara and said, “Lord, the sage’s ardor moves the world to frenzy; restrain him gently.”
Śiva, desiring good to gods and ṛṣis, came where Maṅkanaka danced. “O Brāhmaṇa,” he said with a smile, “for what grave cause does an ascetic dance?” The sage replied, “See, O Lord—the juice of a plant flows from my wound; therefore I rejoice.” The Three-eyed One, laughing softly, touched his own thumb with a fingertip; from that slight wound poured ash white as snow. The sage understood. Shame and wonder mingled in him; he bowed to the Trident-bearer and praised him as source and sink of worlds, the refuge of gods and asuras, the One by whom beings rise and into whom they fall at time’s ending. “Forgive,” he said, “this unseemly rapture; let not lightness ruin my merit.”
The Lord, well-pleased, spoke blessing: “Let thy ascetic power increase a thousandfold. I shall dwell with thee in this hermitage. Here at Sapta-Sarasvat, whoever worships Me shall find nothing unattainable in this world or the next, and after death shall reach the region called Sarasvat.” So, by the boon of Śiva, Maṅkanaka’s tapas glowed brighter, and Sapta-Sarasvat was graced with the Lord’s abiding.
Ash from the thumb of One who knows
Turns pride to dust and dust to grace;
Where Sarasvatī gathers flows,
Śiva keeps watch, and grants a place.
Thus is the tale of the seven Sarasvatīs and of Maṅkanaka the wind-begotten son of Sukanyā: born of vow, crowned by discernment, humbled by the Lord, and made resplendent by mercy.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Having passed another night beside the sevenfold Sarasvatī, Rāma of the plough rose at dawn, worshipped the dwellers of that tīrtha, and bowed before Maṅkanaka’s spirit. Gifts he made to Brāhmaṇas—gold, kine, and cloth—and the ascetics, pleased, blessed him with hymns. In the pale light of morning, he took his leave, touched the sanctified water, and set forth once more along the sacred river’s path.
He came then to the tīrtha of Uśanasa, also called Kapālamocana—the place where an old curse was unbound. Long ago, when Rāma, son of Daśaratha, wandered through Daṇḍaka forest to cleanse the earth of Rākṣasas, he slew a wicked demon with a razor-headed shaft. The creature’s severed head flew through the air and fell upon the thigh of a sage named Mahodara. It struck deep, clinging fast like a curse in flesh, and the saint, though rich in wisdom, was wracked with pain.
Seeking release, he bathed in every holy stream, from Himavat’s snows to the ocean’s brim. He visited every tīrtha, uttering the names of the gods, yet the burden remained—a dead weight and a living torment. At last, he heard from other seers of a ford upon the Sarasvatī, famed for cleansing every sin and granting siddhi: the sacred Uśanasa, where the sage Śukra had once performed his austerities.
Mahodara went there, bowed to the river, and bathed. The moment his body touched the current, the Rākṣasa’s head loosened, slipped away, and sank into the stream. Freed of it, the sage felt the weight of ages fall away. He returned to his āśrama radiant and pure, and told his peers what had occurred. The seers, marvelling, named the place Kapālamocana—the “Release of the Skull.”
Peace to the scarred and pain to none,
The cursed shall bathe and be made whole;
Where evil’s seed and sin are gone,
Flows Uśanasa, cleansing soul.
Baladeva, hearing of this wonder, honoured the tīrtha with rich gifts, bowed to the Brāhmaṇas, and moved onward to the hermitage of Ṛṣaṅga. There, in olden days, the sage Arṣṭiśeṇa had performed fierce penance; there too, Viśvāmitra, once a Kṣatriya, had become a Brāhmaṇa through tapas like fire compressed. The air of that place trembled with mantra; it was a haven of seers, a cradle of transformation, where devotion re-fashioned men into gods.
Following the river’s glinting edge, Rāma of the plough reached the spot where the ancient sage Ṛṣaṅga had cast off his mortal frame. The tale of that holy man was whispered still along the banks. Ṛṣaṅga had grown old and weary of embodiment. Summoning his sons, he said, “Take me to a place where waters are pure and plentiful.” They carried him to the Sarasvatī, bright with hundreds of tīrthas, where unworldly seers dwelt in silence. There, bathing in the river, he spoke with a serene smile:
“He who surrenders the body on the northern bank of Sarasvatī, immersed in mantra and pure of mind, shall never again be seized by death.”
Thus saying, he released his breath into the current and rose, freed forever from the wheel of rebirth. Baladeva touched that same water, bathed, and bestowed treasure upon the Brāhmaṇas, his heart shining with reverence.
Then the plough-armed hero journeyed further to the tīrtha where the Self-born Lord had created the mountains named Lokaloka—the rim between light and shadow, marking the world’s boundary. There, in that still and holy realm, Arṣṭiśeṇa, Sindhudvīpa, Devāpi, and the mighty Viśvāmitra had all, through austere penance and sacrifice, attained the state of Brahmanhood.
And Rāma of Rohiṇī, radiant as a white moon in a sky of sanctity, continued his pilgrimage, the Sarasvatī murmuring beside him—her voice an eternal hymn to the saints who had walked her banks and crossed, by tapas and truth, to the other shore.
Vaiśampāyana said:
In the ancient Kṛta age, O king, there lived a Brāhmaṇa named Arṣṭiśeṇa—learned, earnest, yet burdened by the weight of failure. Though he dwelt long in his preceptor’s house, humbly serving and studying the Veda day after day, wisdom would not bloom for him. The hymns eluded his tongue, the meanings slipped from his grasp, and his heart grew heavy with despair.
Shamed by his own barrenness, he turned from study to penance. On the bank of the Sarasvatī, he fasted and stood unmoving in heat and rain, his body wasted but his will sharpened like flame. Long he practised austerities until the fire of tapas burned away all dross. Then, as the sun dawns through mists, the light of the Veda entered his mind. Its rhythm filled him, and the knowledge beyond words became his. Having mastered the Vedas—than which there is nothing higher—Arṣṭiśeṇa shone like a new sun born from the river’s mist.
In his joy and gratitude, he bestowed three boons upon that tīrtha:
“Let this ford,” he said, “grant to every bather the merit of a horse-sacrifice. Let no creature here, man or beast, fear snake or fang. And let little effort bring great reward to all who come in faith.”
Thus blessing the place, the sage ascended to heaven, crowned with success. The tīrtha bears his sanctity still, a quiet light on the river’s breast.
In that very spot, O king, in later days, other great souls rose to the same glory. Sindhudvīpa the wise, and Devāpi of steady heart, through penance attained Brahmanhood. So too did Viśvāmitra, the son of Kuśika, who was born a Kṣatriya but by tapas remade himself as a seer among seers.
Hear now his story.
There was once a righteous king named Gādhi, famed in all lands for his rule and wisdom. When age came upon him, he sought to relinquish his body and install his son Viśvāmitra on the throne. But the people wept and said, “Do not abandon us, O lord, for great peril haunts our land.” Gādhi answered, “My son shall be your protector and the world’s,” and thus crowned him king before ascending to the higher worlds.
But Viśvāmitra’s reign was troubled. The kingdom was stricken by Rākṣasas who haunted the wild places, and the young king went forth with his army to quell them. On his march, he came to the hermitage of the sage Vasiṣṭha. His soldiers, unheeding, trampled the forest and disturbed the holy quiet of that place. When Vasiṣṭha returned and saw his ashram ruined, wrath flared within the tranquil sage.
He called upon his divine cow, the wish-yielding Surabhī, and said, “Create warriors to defend my hermitage!” At his word, fierce beings arose—Savaras with wild hair and dreadful cries—who fell upon the king’s troops. The army broke and fled, scattered by the unseen might of ascetic power.
Viśvāmitra, shaken by the sight, perceived that no earthly weapon could match the strength born of tapas. Casting aside his pride as a warrior, he resolved to become an ascetic himself. Leaving behind his throne and arms, he came to the Sarasvatī’s banks, the same hallowed river that carries the voices of seers. There he lived on fallen leaves, water, and air; he slept upon bare earth and bound his senses in silence.
Many times the gods, fearing his rising power, tried to tempt or distract him; yet his resolve stood firm. The fire of his penance burned brighter than the midday sun. At last Brahmā, the Grandsire of all, appeared before him, radiant with compassion, and said, “Ask thy boon.”
Viśvāmitra bowed low and replied, “Let me become a Brāhmaṇa, O Lord, that I may hold knowledge as my weapon and peace as my crown.”
Brahmā smiled and spoke, “So be it.” And from that moment the Kṣatriya became a Brāhmaṇa by merit, his spirit made pure by the furnace of austerity.
Thus, O Janamejaya, did Arṣṭiśeṇa gain wisdom, Sindhudvīpa and Devāpi attain the highest state, and Viśvāmitra bridge the gulf between might and mind. In that same tīrtha of the Sarasvatī, Rāma of the plough bathed, bestowed vast gifts—kine and gold, chariots and ornaments—and fed countless Brāhmaṇas, his heart shining with reverence for those ancient paths of power.
Then the white-robed wanderer, strong-armed and serene, turned his steps toward the hermitage of sage Vaka—not far away—where Dalvya Vaka, too, had once performed penance fierce enough to shake the stars.