novelraw Arc 2 - Hrada-Praveśa Parva - Chapter 6 - The Tale of Agni’s Plight
Arc 2 - Hrada-Praveśa Parva - Chapter 6 - The Tale of Agni’s Plight
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Janamejaya heard the full tale of Skanda’s consecration and the fall of the Daityas, his heart swelled with awe and joy. His hair stood on end like the grass that rises to the rain. “O sage,” said he, “this story of the six-faced god’s installation has washed me clean as the Sarasvatī’s tide. Yet tell me, thou ocean of austerity, another wonder—how did the gods install Varuṇa, the Lord of the Waters, in that ancient tīrtha? My mind thirsts to hear that holy account.”
Vaiśampāyana answered:
Listen, O king, to what befell in a former age, when the world was young and sinless. In the Kṛta Yuga, the gods once assembled before Varuṇa of deep mind, the dweller in the sea of makaras. They spoke with joined hands:
“As Śakra guards the heavens from fear,
so guard thou, O Lord of Waves, the waters of the worlds.
The Ocean shall be thy home and kingdom;
thou shalt wax and wane with Soma’s light.”
Varuṇa, the far-seeing, bowed his head and said, “So be it.” Then the celestials, gathering together in sacrifice, poured libations and installed him—Lord of the Rivers, Regent of the Seas, and Keeper of all aquatic beings. Thus enthroned, Varuṇa ruled the tides as Indra rules the skies, restraining the floods and sanctifying the lakes, the wells, and every source of life that flows.
Balarāma, that subduer of foes, having bathed in that tīrtha and given gifts in charity, journeyed next to the Agni-tīrtha—the spot where the fire of sacrifice once vanished into the heart of the śamī tree. For there, O Bharata, when the light of the worlds was quenched and the altars went cold, the gods in anguish sought Brahmā, the Grandsire, crying:
“The adorable Agni has disappeared!
We know not the cause.
Without him all offerings fail,
and darkness will devour creation.”
Janamejaya said: “O sage, tell me—why did Agni, the sustainer of all, thus hide himself? And how was he found again by the gods?”
Vaiśampāyana replied:
Once, O king, Agni of radiant might was cursed by Bhṛgu, the sage of pure wrath. The Fire-god, stricken with fear of that brahmarṣi’s words, sought refuge in the entrails of the śamī wood, and there lay hidden. Deprived of the world’s flame, the gods wandered desolate till at last, led by Bṛhaspati and Indra, they discovered him glowing faintly within the tree’s hollow heart.
Then joy returned to heaven. They called upon him to rise, and the Fire blazed forth anew—purified yet altered by the curse, for from that day he became an eater of all things, consuming pure and impure alike, as Bhṛgu had decreed. Thus reborn through trial, Agni resumed his place among the gods, the tongue of sacrifice and the light of worlds.
Balarāma, having bathed there in reverence, moved on to Brahmayoni, where the Self-born once conceived creation. In that ancient tīrtha, Brahmā and the gods of old had bathed, worshipping with rites beyond decay. There the son of Rohiṇī offered charity to Brāhmaṇas, and his heart grew tranquil.
From thence he came to Kauvera-tīrtha, where Ailavila—known to the world as Kubera, Lord of Wealth—had once performed dread austerities. There he had fasted and meditated till all treasures of the earth and ocean came to him unbidden: jewels, metals, and pearls, the riches of the Nāgas, and every gem that catches fire from light. There, too, he won from Rudra a friendship without equal, a place among the gods, dominion over the North, and a son named Nala-Kubera.
The Maruts themselves came to install him in sovereignty, giving him a car swifter than thought and bright as morning mist. Thus was Kubera crowned as Regent of Wealth and Guardian of Treasures.
Bathing in that sacred stream, Balarāma gave gold, garments, and ornaments in charity. He gazed upon the emerald woods that still bore the imprint of Kubera’s tapas—trees that whispered abundance and leaves that shimmered like coins.
Anointed with white unguents, Rama moved on to Vadarapacana-tīrtha, populous with all creatures, rich in fruit and bloom of every season. There, flowers and fruits grow unceasingly, unwearied by time—earth’s own offering to those who come in faith.
Thus did the son of Vasudeva journey from tīrtha to tīrtha, sanctifying each by his presence, following the path once trodden by gods and sages, and hearing from the lips of the wise the ancient births of the deities—Varuṇa of the Waters, Agni of the Flame, Brahmā of Creation, and Kubera of Wealth—each enthroned by heaven, each guarding a realm of the world divine.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Rāma of the plough came next to Vadarapācana, a hermitage thronged with siddhas and silent fires. There dwelt Śruvavatī, daughter of Bharadvāja—unequalled in beauty, steadfast in brahmacarya, a maiden girded with vows as with a girdle of light. Long years she fasted and kept her senses bridled, desiring no mortal match but Śakra, chastiser of Pāka, as her lord.
Indra, delighted yet wishing to try the gold of her resolve, took the form of the high-souled Vasiṣṭha and came to her leaf-thatched hut. She welcomed him with the rites due to a ṛṣi; then, frank and fearless, she spoke: “Command me, reverend one. All service that is mine to give, I give—save only my hand, for my heart is vowed to Śakra.”
Smiling, the thousand-eyed, who knows the weight of vows, answered gently: “Thy penance is known to me, austere one. By tapas all is gained—worlds, wisdom, blessedness. Now, for my sake, boil these five jujubes.” Saying thus, the god withdrew to a nearby ford to whisper mantras—consecrating that place thereafter as Indra-tīrtha—and by divine will held back the softening of the fruit, to weigh the mettle of the maid.
She bathed, stilled her speech, fixed her mind, and set the jujubes on the fire. Day waned. The fruit remained like stones. Her fuel was spent. Seeing the flame falter, she fed it her own flesh: first her feet, then shins, then tender limbs. Agni climbed her as a red creeper; she sat as if in cool water, remembering only the guest’s command—“Cook them well.” No tremor touched her brow.
Fire kissed her limbs; her gaze was calm—
The vow, the guest, the god her aim.
Where flesh would fail, she offered psalm,
And pain turned pale before the flame.
Content, the Lord of the Three Worlds revealed his own form. “I am pleased,” he said. “Thy wish is won. Cast off this body and dwell with me in heaven. And this hermitage shall be a foremost tīrtha, cleanser of sins, famed as Vadarapācana.” Then he told her of Arundhatī in elder days—how the Seven Seers, gone to Himavat in a twelve-year drought, left her at this very spot; how Maheśvara, masked as a begging brāhmaṇa, said, “Cook these jujubes,” and discoursed to her while famine passed like a single day; how the Seven returned to find her unfaded, and Hara praised her tapas as heavier than their own; how, at her asking, he made this place the siddhas’ haunt where a three-night fast yields the fruit of twelve years.
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“Thou hast done more,” Śakra said to Śruvavatī. “By the ancient boon and by thy fire-born merit, I add this: who bathes here with mind collected and abides but one night shall win hard-won worlds.” With that decree, he rose to heaven. Flower-rain fell; kettledrums boomed; scented winds went singing through the trees. Casting off her mortal sheath, Śruvavatī ascended, and as Indra’s queen she sports forever in the sky.
The king asked: “Whose child was she, and how was she reared?”
Vaiśampāyana replied:
Once, Bharadvāja beheld Ghṛtācī, the wide-eyed apsarā, and the sage’s seed fell. He caught it in his palm and set it in a cup of leaves. From that leaf-cradle a girl was born. The gods and seers stood witness as he named her Śruvavatī. Leaving her to the hermitage’s care, the great ascetic departed to the snows.
Leaf was her cradle, mantra her lull,
Dawn was her anklet, vow her braid;
Gold without alloy of skull,
She chose the path that gods have made.
Baladeva, having bathed there and lavished gifts on foremost brāhmaṇas, went on with mind collected toward the tīrtha of Śakta—his course a rosary of rivers, each bead bright with a god’s old promise.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then the mighty Balarāma, chief among the Yadus, came to Indra-tīrtha, whose waters are sanctified by the splendour of a hundred horse sacrifices. There, where Śakra himself had offered worship to Fire and the Brahmanas, Rāma bathed with due rites and gave to the twice-born great wealth—gold, gems, and kine, unstinted as rain from a cloud.
In that ancient age, Indra the Thunderer had performed a hundred Aśvamedhas under the guidance of priests versed in the Vedas. All things were abundant there—horses of every hue, cows beyond numbering, gifts without measure. When the final rite was completed and the mantras of fulfillment chanted, the delighted gods hailed him Śatakratu—he of a hundred sacrifices. And the river-bank where those acts were done came to bear his name, Indra-tīrtha, the ford of celestial merit.
Having purified himself there, the plough-armed hero fed and clothed the Brāhmaṇas and made them rich in joy. Then he journeyed onward to the tīrtha of Rāma Bhārgava, the mighty son of Jamadagni and scion of Bhṛgu’s race, who once had shaken the Earth with his arm and left no kṣatriya standing.
He washed the world with warrior’s blood,
Then laid aside his wrath for peace;
He gave the sea-girt earth in gift,
And found through giving, his release.
There, that fierce-souled Rāma of Bhṛgu’s line had performed the Vājapeya and a hundred horse sacrifices under the guidance of his preceptor Kaśyapa. As sacrificial fee he gave his teacher the whole Earth girdled by the Ocean—then retired to the forest, freed from every bond.
Baladeva, after bathing in that holy place where the dust itself glows with the memory of sacrifice, worshipped the sages with offerings of jewels, elephants, and kine, and proceeded further, filled with devotion, to the tīrtha of the Yamunā.
There, Varuṇa the Ocean-born, son of Aditi, radiant and deep as the western sea, had once celebrated a great Rājasūya sacrifice after subduing gods and men and gandharvas and rākṣasas alike.
When that lord of the waters began his rite, a dreadful battle flared between gods and Dānavas, making the three worlds tremble like reeds in a storm. Yet when the final libation fell, Varuṇa’s sovereignty over the seas was confirmed, and peace returned.
Balarāma, beholding that tīrtha sanctified by victory, offered gifts to ascetics who desired them, and they, praising his generosity, blessed him with joy. Wreathed in wild garlands, eyes serene as lotus petals, he shone like a cloud at sunrise moving from shrine to shrine.
Thence he came to Āditya-tīrtha, bright as dawn itself, where the radiant Sun, by a sacrifice surpassing splendour, won the kingship of all shining bodies and drew to himself their light. There dwell still the hosts of heaven: Indra and the Viśvedevas, the Maruts and Gandharvas, the Apsarases, Vyāsa and his son Śuka, Kṛṣṇa the slayer of Madhu, the Yakṣas and Piśācas, and Rākṣasas of bright austerity—innumerable, crowned with the fruits of Yoga.
For in that holy ford of the Sarasvatī, Viṣṇu himself had once bathed after slaying the Asuras Madhu and Kaiṭabha, cleansing the worlds of their taint. There the Island-born Vyāsa, after his own ablutions, attained perfect Yoga and vision beyond measure; and there Asita–Devala, soul steadfast in meditation, bathed and rose into divine illumination.
Thus, at every sacred confluence, Rāma of the plough moved like a white flame upon the river’s edge—worshipping the ancients, feeding the wise, and renewing in his pilgrimage the memory of all who had sanctified the Earth before him.
Vaiśampāyana said:
In that sacred tīrtha dwelt of old a sage of spotless virtue, Asita-Devala, steadfast in the duties of the householder’s path. He lived by purity, restraint, and compassion; his heart was even toward all beings. Gold and gravel were alike to him; praise and blame touched him no more than wind touches stone. He harmed none in thought, word, or deed, and each day he offered worship to gods, guests, and Brahmanas.
Once there came to his hermitage a wandering ascetic of great brilliance named Jaigiṣavya, lost in meditation and clothed in silence. Devala welcomed him with reverence, and the mendicant stayed—wordless as a flame enclosed in glass, feeding only on the wind of Yoga. Long did they dwell together thus, the one serving, the other unmoved.
In time, a question stirred in Devala’s tranquil breast:
“Many years I have honoured this guest,
yet never once has he spoken.
What power keeps such stillness unbroken?”
One day, taking his earthen pot, Devala rose through the air to the shore of the sea to perform his ablutions. To his wonder, Jaigiṣavya was already there, knee-deep in the surf, absorbed in silent rites. “How came he here before me?” thought Devala, astonished.
He bathed and recited his mantras, then, carrying the sea-water home, found Jaigiṣavya seated calmly in his own hermitage as if he had never stirred. The sight filled the sage with awe. He pondered the mystery of one who could be seen both at the ocean and at home within the same hour.
Desiring to know the truth, Devala ascended once more into the sky through the power of mantra. He beheld countless siddhas moving through the heavens, radiant with austerity, and among them Jaigiṣavya—adored by all.
But wonder turned to restlessness. The householder-sage watched as the silent mendicant journeyed upward—first to the world of the ancestors, then to Yama’s realm, then to Soma’s bright domain. From there he passed to the regions of the sacrificers—those of the Agnihotris, the performers of Darśa, Paurnamāsa, and Cāturmāsya rites, the Agniṣṭomas, the Vājapeyas, the Rājasūyas, and the Aśvamedhas. From each realm he rose higher, entering the abodes of the Rudras, the Vasus, and Bṛhaspati, and thence to the shining Goloka. Passing yet beyond, he was seen among the Brahmasattrins, and beyond even them, where dwell the souls of chaste women and perfected yogins—until Devala could follow him no longer.
Then, from the midst of those luminous siddhas, Devala asked with joined hands:
“Where has Jaigiṣavya gone, that master of yoga whose path I can no longer trace?”
And they answered:
“He has gone beyond all worlds, O Devala of vows—
to the eternal region of Brahman.
That path no embodied being may tread.”
Hearing this, Devala tried to soar still higher, but his power failed him. Falling like a bird whose wings are burned, he returned through the layers of heaven to earth. Entering his hermitage, he beheld Jaigiṣavya once again, seated in quiet meditation, as if all that vision had been a dream.
Then Devala bowed low and said with humility, “Teach me, O venerable one, the path to Mokṣa, for I too would seek emancipation.”
The silent yogin opened his eyes and, seeing the sincerity of Devala’s heart, instructed him in the secret of liberation—of breath and thought, of restraint and release, of the eternal duties and their opposites. When Devala was steadfast, Jaigiṣavya performed for him the rites of renunciation, and Devala turned his face from the life of fire and offering toward the stillness of Yoga.
But when the beings of earth heard that he would abandon them, a great lament arose. The Pitṛs cried, “Who will offer us oblations now?” Trees, herbs, and roots wept, saying, “He who vowed never to harm us will pluck us again!”
Hearing their sorrow, Devala was torn between pity and detachment. He pondered long within himself:
“Which path is higher—the quiet of renunciation or the mercy of the householder’s care?”
At last he chose the greater of the two—the freedom of Mokṣa joined with compassion for all. By that resolve his mind grew vast as space, and he attained perfect union, becoming one with the eternal.
The gods, beholding this, praised both sages alike. Bṛhaspati lauded Jaigiṣavya’s splendour, and Nārada said in wonder, “This ascetic has filled even Asita with amazement!” But the celestials replied: “Speak not so, O divine sage. There is none in heaven or earth to surpass Jaigiṣavya in tapas and yoga.”
Thus, O king, this was the tīrtha of Asita-Devala and Jaigiṣavya—two great seers who embodied the twin paths of dharma and renunciation. There the mighty Balarāma bathed, offering gifts to Brahmanas, and by that act gathered great merit before journeying onward to the holy tīrtha of Soma.