novelraw Arc 2 - Hrada-Praveśa Parva - Chapter 4 - Baladeva’s Pilgrimage II
Arc 2 - Hrada-Praveśa Parva - Chapter 4 - Baladeva’s Pilgrimage II
Vaiśampāyana said:
From the sevenfold waters of the Sarasvatī, the delighter of the Yadus next came to the hermitage of sage Vaka, where the air trembled with the sound of sacred recitation. There, Dalvya Vaka, a Brāhmaṇa of fierce vows, had once poured the kingdom of Dhṛtarāṣṭra as a libation into the fire of wrath and austerity.
Long before, in the age of sacrifice, the ṛṣis of Naimiṣa had completed a twelve-year rite, ending with the mighty Viśvajit oblation. Desiring to make gifts worthy of the gods, they journeyed to the land of the Pāñcālas and asked the king for one-and-twenty strong calves as dakṣiṇā. Vaka, seeing their purpose, said to them: “Divide these animals of mine among yourselves, and I shall go to a great king for more.”
Thus resolved, he went to Dhṛtarāṣṭra, son of Vicitravīrya, and begged him for cattle. But the king, seeing that some of his kine had died without cause, spoke harshly in pride and irritation:
“Take, if thou desirest, these beasts that are dead!”
Such words, spoken to a Brāhmaṇa, cut deeper than a blade. Vaka, silent but burning within, thought, “Cruel indeed is this insult cast upon one who asks in piety.” His anger turned inward first, then upward like flame. Having reflected, the sage resolved to consume not the man but his fortune.
On the bank of the Sarasvatī he built his altar, kindled the fire with sacred wood, and cut the flesh of those very dead cattle. Into the blazing flame he cast each piece as oblation, uttering the king’s name with every offering:
“May Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s kingdom waste away, even as these pieces turn to ash!”
When the rite began, strange omens filled the realm. Crops failed, herds perished, and the life of the kingdom ebbed as a forest felled by axes. Dhṛtarāṣṭra, seeing his land decline, grew pale with dread. He called his Brāhmaṇas, made offerings, sought counsel, but none of his efforts brought relief.
At last, his wise ministers spoke the truth:
“O King, this calamity is born of thy own words. Dalvya Vaka pours thy kingdom as a libation on the fire of Sarasvatī. His penance consumes thy fortune. Go at once to him; humble thyself, and appease the sage.”
Hearing this, the monarch, stricken with remorse, left his court and travelled to the river’s bank. There he found the seer, lean with austerity, seated beside the flames. Falling at his feet, the king touched them with his head and cried:
“I am a fool, O Brāhmaṇa! My tongue was harsh, my heart clouded with greed. Forgive this sin of ignorance. Thou art my refuge—save my realm!”
The sage beheld him thus weeping, his pride broken like a reed in storm, and compassion stirred within him. His wrath cooled; he sprinkled the king with water and spoke:
“Rise, O son of Kuru. Let thy repentance bear fruit. As fire purifies, so shall mercy restore.”
Then, turning again to the altar, Vaka poured fresh libations upon the fire—this time for healing—and prayed that prosperity might return. At once, the wasting ceased; the earth grew green again, and Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s land flourished as before. Freed from wrath and enriched with kine, the sage returned to his hermitage at Naimiṣa, and the king went home blessed, his realm restored and his heart chastened.
In that same tīrtha, O monarch, long afterward, Bṛhaspati, preceptor of the gods, performed a sacrifice of his own. For the sake of celestial victory, he too offered flesh as libation, invoking the ruin of the Asuras. The flames leapt high, and from them issued the strength of the gods, who overcame their foes through that sacrifice.
When Rāma of the plough came to that hallowed ground, he too gave gifts in abundance—steeds and elephants, carts with mules, jewels beyond price, and heaps of grain. To Brāhmaṇas he gave ornaments and food, beds and garments, his charity flowing like the river herself.
From there he journeyed to the tīrtha called Yayāta, where the son of Nāhuṣa had once performed a sacrifice so vast that the Sarasvatī herself flowed with milk and clarified butter. By that rite, Yayāti won the heavens, his soul radiant as Agni’s tongue. And when he offered again, out of sheer devotion, the river—delighted—granted to each Brāhmaṇa whatever his heart desired: houses, beds, food of every taste, and treasures unasked-for.
The seers, thinking these gifts came from the king, praised him with joyous hymns. The gods and Gandharvas looked on in wonder; men beheld and marvelled, for never before had generosity and faith mingled in such abundance.
And so Baladeva, the mighty, pure in soul, bannered with the palm-tree and bright as the full moon, left that place of marvels and came to the swift waters of Vasiṣṭhapāvaha, where the sacred current bears the name of the sage, forever cleansing those who bathe in her flow.
Vaiśampāyana said:
A deep and ancient rivalry, O king, arose between the sages Viśvāmitra and Vasiṣṭha—two blazing fires vying in the same firmament of austerity. Each day their tapas grew like opposing suns, each seeking to outshine the other in the strength of penance and the mastery of divine power.
On the eastern bank of the sacred Sarasvatī stood the hermitage of Vasiṣṭha, tranquil and bright with the sound of the Vedas. Across the river, on the western shore, the mighty Viśvāmitra had founded his own hermitage, where he performed fierce vows beneath the sky. Between them flowed the river, serene and ancient, the silent witness of their unyielding contest.
That region was known as Sthānu-tīrtha, O Bharata, for there once the great god Maheśvara had performed austerities. The gods themselves had gathered there to worship him; and at that spot, by Brahmā’s command, Skanda—the war-born son of Śiva—was installed as general of the celestial hosts. The air of that place still echoed with the memory of divine sacrifice and the murmur of the river Sarasvatī, who bore within her flow the purity of the Vedas.
But when Viśvāmitra, scorched by jealousy at the brilliance of Vasiṣṭha’s ascetic fire, beheld his rival’s growing splendor, wrath took root in his heart. His mind became as a furnace, and he said within himself:
“By the power of my penance, this river shall bear that haughty sage unto me.
When he stands before me, I shall slay him and end his pride!”
Thus resolving, the son of Kuśika summoned Sarasvatī in thought. The river, obedient to all beings of great tapas, trembled when his command entered her current. Rising from her depths, she appeared before him—pale, trembling, and radiant like moonlight quivering on waves. With joined palms she spoke softly:
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“O sage of fierce austerity, what wouldst thou have of me?”
Viśvāmitra, with eyes reddened by rage, replied:
“Bring Vasiṣṭha hither at once! Let thy current bear him swiftly to me, for I shall slay him this day.”
Hearing those dreadful words, the river’s heart was torn with fear. She trembled like a lotus-stem in wind. How could she obey one sage and not wrong the other? Yet how could she refuse one whose wrath could burn worlds? She fled in thought to Vasiṣṭha, her mind dark with anxiety.
Standing before that venerable seer, Sarasvatī bowed and spoke in anguish:
“O great one, Viśvāmitra commands me to bear thee to his hermitage. His heart is kindled with wrath. I dread the curse of either of you, for both are mighty. Save me, O lord—what shall I do?”
Vasiṣṭha, compassionate and serene, smiled gently and said:
“O Sarasvatī, be not afraid. Thou art the purifier of worlds. Save thyself and obey him. Bear me away in thy flood, and let no guilt touch thee. Fear not for me.”
Hearing those words of kindness, the river’s heart grew still. “This sage shows mercy even in peril,” she thought, “it is meet that I serve him.” Watching her moment, she saw Vasiṣṭha seated in meditation upon her bank, and Viśvāmitra across the stream, feeding his sacrificial fire. Whispering her prayer to the gods, she swelled her waves, broke one bank, and swept the saint away in her current.
As she bore him, Vasiṣṭha praised her in holy song:
“O Sarasvatī, born of the Grandsire’s mind, whose waters fill the worlds!
Thou movest through heaven, feeding clouds and thought alike!
Thou art Pushti and Dyuti, thou art Kirti, Siddhi, and the goddess Uma!
Thou art the voice of sacrifice—Speech, Svāhā, and the womb of wisdom!
All that lives is sustained by thee, O fourfold Mother of the worlds!”
Thus praised, the river hastened eastward, her waves singing the mantra of his words. She brought the sage before Viśvāmitra and murmured humbly, “Behold, he whom thou didst summon stands before thee.”
But when Viśvāmitra beheld Vasiṣṭha thus brought by her flow, his fury blazed anew. He seized a weapon, determined to slay him. Seeing the fire of destruction in his eyes, Sarasvatī shuddered, unwilling to be witness to a Brāhmaṇa’s death. In a surge of divine instinct, she turned her current, seized Vasiṣṭha once more, and carried him swiftly back to her eastern bank.
Thus she obeyed both, yet deceived the son of Kuśika by her act. Enraged at being thwarted, Viśvāmitra cried out:
“O faithless river! Since thou hast mocked me and fled, may thy waters turn to blood, that Rakṣasas may drink of thee!”
Cursed by the sage, Sarasvatī’s bright current darkened; for a year she ran red as blood, her fragrance turned to iron, her waters feared by gods and men alike.
The celestials, the Gandharvas, and the Apsaras grieved at the sight. The once-pure river, lifeblood of sacrifice, had become a stream of sorrow. They prayed to Brahmā and to Śiva, and by divine grace the curse was ended. Sarasvatī regained her clarity and sweetness, resuming her place as purifier of the worlds.
From that time forth, O king, the place where her waves bore Vasiṣṭha away came to be known as Vasiṣṭha-pravāha, “the Current of Vasiṣṭha.”
And the river, remembering both the compassion of one and the wrath of the other, flows there still—swift, pure, and bright as wisdom itself, forever a witness to the strife and reconciliation of sages.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Viśvāmitra’s curse fell upon her, the Sarasvatī—purest of rivers—was transformed. In that radiant and sacred tīrtha, her waters turned crimson, and she flowed bearing blood. From all sides Rakṣasas gathered to that dread stream. They drank of her bloody current, and, glutted with its taste, danced upon her banks in ghoulish delight—laughing, howling, exulting as though they had attained the pleasures of heaven through sin.
Ages passed thus, until one day a company of great ṛṣis, radiant with penance, came upon that sorrowful sight. Having wandered among her other fords and sanctified lakes, bathing and chanting their hymns, they reached the place where the Sarasvatī ran red and foul. There they saw the Rakṣasas reveling in her misery, and their hearts were pierced with compassion.
Gathering together, the sages invoked her name:
“O divine Sarasvatī, purifier of the worlds! Tell us, why hast thou been defiled with such affliction? Speak, that we may restore thee to purity.”
The trembling river rose before them like a sorrowing goddess, her waves quivering with fear. With folded hands she told them all—the wrath of Viśvāmitra, her obedience to Vasiṣṭha, and the curse that bound her to bear blood in her stream. Hearing her lament, the seers were moved to pity.
“We have heard thy tale, O sinless one,” they said. “Now shall we strive to free thee.”
Then those Brahmanas of fierce vows gathered upon her banks. For many days they worshipped Maheśvara—the guardian of all creatures—through fasts, austerities, and sacred rites. With hymns of supplication and minds fixed upon the divine, they besought him for mercy upon the suffering river.
Their penance shook the heavens, and by the favor of Rudra, Sarasvatī’s curse was lifted. Her waters cleared and shone once more like molten silver beneath the sun. The Rakṣasas who had drunk of her now found their hunger reborn, for the flow of blood had ceased. Gaunt and trembling, they approached the sages, palms joined, and said:
“O lords among men, hunger devours us! We have sinned through our nature and through the weight of our own misdeeds.
Some of us were born from hatred toward Brahmanas—
some from greed, or violence, or lust—
and thus we fell, condemned as Brahma-Rakṣasas.
Deliver us, O holy ones, for ye are the refuge of all beings!”
The sages, full of compassion, pondered how these spirits might be redeemed without corrupting the world again. At last they decreed a law of purity:
“The food over which one has sneezed,
that which is worm-eaten or mixed with hair,
that touched by tears or trampled underfoot,
that mingled with remnants of other meals—
such shall be the portion of the Rakṣasas!
Whoso knowingly eats such defiled fare
shall be as one who partakes of their food.”
Having spoken thus, they purified the tīrtha, dedicating a share of impurity to the spirits so that mortals might be freed. Understanding their intention, Sarasvatī created a new branch of her flow, pale and luminous like dawn. That branch became known as Arunā, “the Tawny One.”
In her waters the Rakṣasas bathed, casting off their dreadful forms, and through the river’s grace ascended to radiant worlds. When this was done, the deva-rāja himself—Indra of a hundred sacrifices—came there to bathe, for even he bore a burden of sin.
Then Janamejaya said:
“O Brāhmaṇa, tell me, for what reason was Śakra tainted with the sin of Brahmanicide? And how did that very tīrtha cleanse him of it?”
Vaiśampāyana replied:
“Listen, O king, to the ancient tale of how Indra, breaking his vow, slew the Asura Namuči and fell beneath the weight of guilt.
Once, after the war of the gods and Dānavas, Namuči fled and hid himself within a sunbeam. Indra, seeking him, made a pact:
‘I shall not slay thee with what is dry or what is wet, neither by day nor by night. So swear I upon truth.’
But the lord of the celestials, still watchful, beheld one twilight a fog rising between night and day. Taking the foam of water—neither dry nor wet—as his weapon, he struck off the Asura’s head.
Then, O king, the severed head rose into the air and followed him, crying, ‘Slayer of a friend! O perjured one!’ The voice haunted him, pursuing him like conscience given sound. Indra, stricken, fled to the Grandsire and confessed his sin.
Brahmā, the Lord of beings, said unto him:
‘Perform a sacrifice, O son of Śacī, and bathe in the confluence of Sarasvatī and Arunā, where the sages have made the waters pure. There, by offering gifts and by the sanctity of that current, thou shalt wash away the stain of slaying a Brāhmaṇa.’
Obeying the Creator, Indra descended to earth. He performed great sacrifices, gave wealth in abundance, and bathed in the waters of that holy junction. The blood upon his spirit was cleansed; the haunting ceased, and his glory returned bright as before.
The head of Namuči, carried by the current, also entered the Arunā and was purified. The Asura, too, through that sanctity, attained heavenly realms that granted him every wish.
Thus, O Janamejaya, the same waters that freed Rakṣasas from darkness also absolved the lord of the gods. Having bathed there and offered vast gifts to the Brahmanas, Baladeva—the plough-bearing one—too gained boundless merit.
Thereafter he journeyed to the great tīrtha of Soma, where in ages past the Moon-god himself had performed the Rājasūya sacrifice. There, under the sacred eye of Atri, the divine priest of that rite, the heavens once shook with battle between the gods and the Daityas. Taraka the demon fell there, slain by mighty Skanda, who from that moment was made general of the celestial hosts.
And even now, beneath the vast shade of the ancient Aśvattha tree at that holy place, the god Kārttikeya—Mahāsena, the six-faced one—abides in person, radiant as fire, guarding forever the sanctity of the Sarasvatī’s course.