Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 6 - Bakasura - Chapter 6 - The Sorrowful Brāhmaṇa

Janamejaya asked:

“O foremost of Brāhmaṇas,

What did the Pāṇḍavas, those mighty Mahārathīs, the sons of Kuntī,

Do after reaching Ekacakra?”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Upon arriving at Ekacakra,

Those illustrious Mahārathīs, sons of Kuntī,

Took up humble residence in the home of a kindly brāhmaṇa.

Leading a life of mendicant ascetics,

They wandered through many delightful forests,

Beheld sacred rivers, lakes, and charming regions of the earth,

And swiftly won the love of the townspeople by their virtues and grace.

Each evening, at nightfall,

The brothers would gather the alms they had received,

And place all they had collected before their mother Kuntī.

Kuntī would carefully divide their humble earnings,

Each taking his allotted portion.

But always, one half was taken collectively by Yudhiṣṭhira, Arjuna, Nakula, Sahadeva, and Kuntī—

While mighty Bhīma, alone, consumed the other half.

Thus, O King, the Pāṇḍavas lived peacefully for some time,

Shielded from the eyes of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s spies,

Unknown to their enemies.

One day, as fate would turn,

The brothers were all away upon their alms round,

Save for Bhīma, who remained at home with his mother.

At that hour, Kuntī suddenly heard loud wailing

And heart-piercing cries of sorrow

Rising from the inner chambers of the brāhmaṇa's household.

The anguished lamentations,

Like a storm of grief,

Stirred Kuntī’s heart with compassion.

Turning to Bhīma, she spoke with tenderness:

“O son, since our troubles eased,

We have lived peacefully in the home of this virtuous brāhmaṇa,

Honored and sheltered by him, while remaining hidden from Dhṛtarāṣṭra's spies.

I have long pondered how we might repay his kindness.

For the wise say: a true man never lets favors go unanswered;

He repays kindness with even greater kindness.

Surely, some great affliction has now befallen this noble brāhmaṇa.

If there is aught we may do,

Let us repay his shelter by relieving his suffering.”

Hearing his mother’s words, Bhīma, ever eager to serve, replied:

“O mother, learn fully the cause of the brāhmaṇa’s sorrow.

Discover its source.

Once I know his plight,

I shall relieve him of his burden—

No matter how great the task.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

As mother and son conversed,

Again they heard, O King, the heart-rending cries

Of the brāhmaṇa and his household.

Without hesitation, Kuntī swiftly entered the inner chambers,

Like a cow rushing to her crying calf.

There she beheld the brāhmaṇa sitting with his wife, son, and daughter,

Faces stricken with grief, eyes swollen with tears.

The brāhmaṇa, his voice broken by sorrow, spoke:

“Ah! Fie upon this earthly life—

Hollow as a reed, fruitless, steeped in misery.

Life is sorrow and disease.

It is but a brief record of endless suffering.

The soul is one, yet torn between conflicting duties:

Virtue, wealth, and pleasure.

But these pursuits bring constant strife,

And from that strife springs unending misery.

Some say that salvation is life’s highest goal—

But I see no path to attain it.

The quest for wealth is misery;

The protection of wealth breeds greater fear.

Loss of wealth brings torment;

Attachment binds the heart in chains.

I see no escape from this looming calamity.

Whither shall I flee, taking my wife and children

To a place free from danger?

Turning to his wife, he lamented:

“O wife, remember how often I urged we depart this place.

I warned of dangers to come.

But you, led by attachment to this ancestral home, would not leave.

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‘Here I was born, here I have grown,’ you said.

Your parents long ascended to heaven.

Your kindred have departed.

Yet you clung to this land,

And now you behold the price—

The shadow of death over one dear to you.

Perhaps it is my own death that approaches.

But how can I abandon any of you while I yet live?

Thou, my wife, are my true friend—

Gentle, virtuous, ever-devoted, like a mother to me.

Chosen with sacred rites, you have shared my every duty.

How can I surrender you to save myself?

Nor can I sacrifice my son,

Tender in years, innocent, his body yet soft,

Without the signs of manhood upon him.

Nor can I give up my daughter—

She, the pledge placed in my hands by the Creator,

Through whom I may gain the blessed regions

That come to fathers through daughters’ sons.

Some say a father loves his son more;

Others say, the daughter—

But my love is equal for both.

If I perish myself, what fate awaits you three?

Left alone, you would soon follow me into death.

To sacrifice any of you is a sin too terrible to bear.

But if I die, you too will perish.

My affliction is beyond endurance.

Alas! What path remains to me?

Surely it is better that we all perish together,

For I can no longer endure this misery.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Hearing the lament of her husband, the brāhmaṇa’s wife spoke gently, though firm in resolve. She said:

“O noble brāhmaṇa, do not grieve like ordinary men.

This is not the hour for mourning.

You are learned; you know well that death is the destiny of all creatures.

No man should lament that which is inevitable.

Wife, son, daughter — these are but companions in one’s journey through life,

Gathered for one’s own self.

Yet when fate calls, one must not be shaken.

O lord, calm thy sorrow. I shall go myself.

For a woman, there is no duty higher and no virtue greater

Than sacrificing her own life for the welfare of her husband.

If by giving up my life you may be spared,

This act shall bring me fame on earth and eternal bliss hereafter.

The purpose for which a man takes a wife has already been fulfilled by me—

I have borne you a daughter and a son, and thus repaid my debt.

You are my life, my wealth, my protector;

Without you, how shall these tender children live?

Like vultures descending upon abandoned flesh,

So do wicked men prey upon widowed women.

And if I deny them, they may seize her by force,

Like crows snatching sacred offerings from the altar.

Bereft of both father and mother,

These children will wither like fish in a drying pond.

There is no doubt, O husband, that without you,

We three shall surely perish.

Therefore, I entreat you: let me be sacrificed in your place.

For a woman to predecease her husband is the highest merit.

Ready am I to abandon my son, my daughter, my very life—for you.

To serve her husband with devotion,

Is a woman’s highest virtue—

Higher even than sacrifices, austerities, vows, or gifts to the gods.”

Thus, with unshaken resolve, the brāhmaṇa’s wife spoke these words of sacrifice and virtue, her face calm though her heart burned with sorrow.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

The brāhmaṇa’s wife, her resolve unwavering, continued speaking to her husband:

“The act I intend to perform, O lord,

Is rooted in the highest virtue,

And meant for thy welfare and the good of thy entire race.

The wise have declared:

Children, wife, and all that one holds dear—

Are cherished to guard oneself from danger and misfortune.

One guards wealth to protect his life;

With that wealth he nurtures his wife;

But foremost, one must guard his own self

Through both wealth and family.

The learned have spoken truly:

Wife, son, wealth, and house—

All these are gathered to shield one’s life from ruin,

Whether danger be foreseen or sudden.

The wise have said:

Weighing one’s relations against oneself,

Not all combined are equal to the value of one’s own self.

Therefore, O venerable one,

Preserve thyself by sacrificing me.

Grant me leave to give up my life,

And do thou protect these our children.”

“Those skilled in the law of dharma have taught:

Women must never be slaughtered.

Even the Rākṣasas are not ignorant of these moral codes.

Surely the man-eater will slay a man—

But whether he will slay a woman remains uncertain.

Therefore, knowing this,

And grounded in dharma,

Offer me to the Rākṣasa.

I have lived happily, enjoyed much,

Gained merit through my duties,

And borne children so dear to me.

The thought of dying does not grieve me now.

My duties are fulfilled; my years are ripe;

And I still yearn to serve thy good.

Remembering all this, I have made this firm resolve.”

“O my lord, after abandoning me,

You may take another wife.

Through her you may gain further merit—

In this there is no sin.

For a man, multiple wives bring merit;

But for a woman, seeking a second husband is grave sin.

Knowing this, and knowing that self-sacrifice is condemned,

O husband, deliver today thyself, thy lineage, and thy children—

By abandoning me.”

Thus addressed, O Bharata, the brāhmaṇa could not restrain his grief.

Embracing his noble wife, they both wept in silence, their hearts wrung with sorrow.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Hearing her grieving parents, the daughter, though young, spoke with firm resolve:

“Why are you so afflicted, dear father and mother?

Why do you weep as though you are without hope or help?

Listen to my words; let me do what is right.

You are destined, one day, to part from me.

If you must abandon me once, then abandon me now—

And save all others at the cost of my single life.

Men desire children thinking:

‘The child shall rescue us in this world and in the next.’

Let me now become that raft for you,

To carry you across this ocean of peril.

The learned call the son Putra—the rescuer—

But today, let the daughter too become a rescuer.

My ancestors long for daughter’s sons as their salvation.

Yet without waiting for such distant hope,

I shall rescue them now by saving my father’s life.

My brother is but a tender child.

If you perish, father, he too will surely follow.

And if you both die, mother too shall not survive.

Alone I will be left, wretched and forsaken,

Doomed to wander miserably, perishing in despair.

But if you survive this danger—

With my mother and my little brother—

Then your race shall endure,

The ancestral rites shall continue.

The son is like one’s very self;

The wife is a loyal companion;

But the daughter, they say, brings grief.

Remove now, O father, this burden of sorrow—

Let me walk the path of virtue.

A daughter, bereft of father and mother,

Is helpless, adrift, and unprotected.

She wanders like a lost creature

In a world that shows no mercy.

Therefore, O father, for thy race, for thy virtue,

For thy family’s future, save thyself by abandoning me.

That which is inevitable must not be delayed.

What can be more painful than this:

If you ascend to heaven and leave us behind,

We will be left to beg for food from strangers,

Wandering like hungry dogs.

But if you live, my sacrifice shall lift me to the celestials.

It is heard, O father, that if a daughter gives herself thus,

And thou then offer oblations unto the gods and ancestors,

They shall be pleased and grant their favor.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Thus spoke the maiden, her voice calm though her heart wept within.

Her words, though youthful, were heavy with the wisdom of sacrifice and duty.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Hearing their daughter’s sorrowful plea, the brāhmaṇa and his wife were overwhelmed with grief, and together the three wept as one.

Then, their little son, tender in years, beheld his father, mother, and sister weeping. With wide, innocent eyes shining with simple joy, he lisped sweetly:

“Weep not, O father!

Weep not, O mother!

Weep not, O sister!”

Smiling brightly, he approached each of them and, picking up a blade of grass, declared:

“With this will I slay the Rākṣasa who eats human flesh!”

Though their hearts were drowned in sorrow, the innocent words of the child brought a moment’s joy to their faces, like the first rays of dawn dispelling the darkness.

At that very moment, Kuntī, discerning the proper opportunity, stepped gently forward toward the grieving family. Her words fell upon their ears like nectar upon one who lies dying.

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Kuntī, seeing the grief upon the faces of the brāhmaṇa and his family, spoke with gentle firmness:

“O reverend brāhmaṇa,

Tell me, I pray, what causes this grief.

If it lies within my power,

I shall endeavor to remove your sorrow.”

The brāhmaṇa replied:

“O lady of ascetic virtue,

Thy words are worthy of thy noble character.

But alas, this grief cannot be dispelled by any mortal effort.

Not far from this town there dwells a fearsome Rākṣasa,

His name is Vaka—a devourer of men.

Thriving on human flesh,

This wretch rules over this land with strength and terror.

He is chief among the Asuras here,

And by his might alone is this town protected.

No enemy dares attack us—

Yet we are prisoners to his hunger.

The price of our safety is dreadful:

A cartload of rice, two buffaloes,

And one living man to deliver them—

Thus is the food due to him.

The citizens, one by one,

Must send him these offerings.

Long years may pass before a family’s turn returns,

But when it comes, none may escape.

Those who resist are slain with their wives and children,

And all are devoured.

In this country lies the city Vetrakīya,

Where dwells the king of these domains—

A fool, ignorant of dharma and lacking wisdom.

He takes no measures to end this curse.

But perhaps we deserve this fate,

For we have lived under such a weak ruler’s dominion,

Dwelling in perpetual dread.

The brāhmaṇas are like birds:

Free, unattached, they should dwell nowhere permanently,

But I, through folly, have bound my family here.

The wise say:

First, secure a king; then a wife; and then wealth.

Only thus may one protect his kin.

But my path was reversed—

And so I am now engulfed in this ocean of despair.

The fatal turn has come upon me:

I must send to the Rākṣasa this tribute—

The food, and one human being.

I have no wealth to purchase a substitute;

Nor can I surrender any member of my family.

I see no path of escape.

Therefore, I have resolved:

Today I shall go myself,

Taking my wife, my son, and my daughter,

That we may all perish together in the jaws of that wretch.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Thus did the brāhmaṇa lay bare his grief, as his family wept in silent dread, awaiting the doom that approached with every hour.

Kuntī, firm in wisdom, spoke gently to the brāhmaṇa:

“O brāhmaṇa, I too hold it as sacred duty

That the brāhmaṇas must ever be protected.

As for my own children,

Were I to have a hundred sons, none would be dearer to me than any other.

But fear not — this Rākṣasa shall not slay my son.

For my son is mighty,

Endued with great prowess, energy, and skill in mantras.

He will deliver the food to the Rākṣasa faithfully,

But he shall also rescue himself.

I have seen him before slay mighty Rākṣasas,

Creatures of enormous strength and hideous form.

Yet, O brāhmaṇa, speak not of this to anyone.

For if others hear of his power,

Curiosity and ambition will draw many

To trouble my sons for that knowledge.

The wise have taught:

If one imparts knowledge without his guru’s consent,

That knowledge will lose its power

And yield no fruit even to the knower.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Hearing Kuntī’s words, the brāhmaṇa and his wife felt great joy, as though life had been restored to them. Her words were to them like nectar to the dying.

Then Kuntī, accompanied by the grateful brāhmaṇa, went to Bhīma, son of Vāyu, and humbly asked him to undertake this task.

Bhīma, ever obedient, replied calmly:

“So be it.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Thus was the dreadful danger lifted from that household, by Kuntī’s wisdom and Bhīma’s strength.