novelraw Arc 10 - Part 1 - Rajya Labha - Chapter 1 - Arrival of Narada
Arc 10 - Part 1 - Rajya Labha - Chapter 1 - Arrival of Narada
Janamejaya, the son of Parikṣit, seated in the great sacrificial hall, turned to the venerable sage Vaiśampāyana and spoke with earnest curiosity, his voice eager to grasp the inner harmony of his noble forefathers.
“O thou rich in tapas, revered master of sacred lore,” said he,
“What deeds did my grandsires perform
When they attained the realm of Indraprastha?
How did Krishnaa, their shared queen, dwell among them—
Bound by love, yet claimed by five?
How did no strife divide their noble hearts,
Though desire and pride may trouble kings?
Tell me, O Brāhmaṇa, every detail of their life and ways,
Their harmony, their rule, their dharma.”
Then Vaiśampāyana, ever poised in remembrance, replied:
“O King, hear now of those mighty ones—the sons of Pāṇḍu, those lions among men. Having received from Dhṛtarāṣṭra the jewel-like city of Khāṇḍavaprastha, they dwelt there in joy and righteousness, like celestials upon earth. With Kṛṣṇā beside them, they lived as one soul in five bodies, their hearts untroubled by rivalry.”
Yudhiṣṭhira, eldest among them, radiant with dharma and deep-rooted in compassion, governed the kingdom with gentleness and justice. Ever adhering to truth, he was assisted by his powerful brothers—Bhīma of the mighty arms, Arjuna of celestial aim, and the twin sons of Mādrī, swift and wise. Together, they ruled like guardians of the world.
In golden halls they sat, upon thrones carved with the emblems of Dharma and prosperity. Ministers, soldiers, merchants, and sages all moved in order beneath their gaze. Their fame spread like wind across the land, and their days flowed like the sacred Gaṅgā—calm, strong, and pure.
Then, as fate would guide the footsteps of the wise, there came to that royal court the divine Ṛṣi Nārada, eternal wanderer among the worlds, crowned with matted locks and clothed in light. He descended like a flaming star upon the palace of Indraprastha.
Seeing that effulgent sage arrive, Yudhiṣṭhira rose at once and offered him his own seat—crafted of sandalwood and adorned with ivory. With bowed head and folded palms, he gave the arghya with his own hands, the water of reverence mixed with fragrant herbs, and said:
“O Lord among sages, welcome!”
The sage, pleased by such respect, accepted the seat and the offering, and showered the king with blessings.
“Rule in peace, O righteous one,” said Nārada,
“May dharma never leave thy side.
Like the sun, shine upon thy land,
And may thy brothers ever abide in harmony.”
Then, by the sage’s command, Yudhiṣṭhira resumed his seat. With care and courtesy, he informed Kṛṣṇā of the arrival of the great sage.
Draupadī, the dark-eyed queen, radiant as the dawn, rose from her chamber. She performed her purifications, adorned herself modestly, and came before the gathering with grace in her steps and devotion in her gaze. Before the Ṛṣi, she bowed low, veiling her face, a symbol of both reverence and strength.
Thus, O King, did the sons of Pāṇḍu, united in spirit, receive the divine guest. And from this moment, new teachings and fateful vows would arise, spun by the sage whose words bound gods and men alike.
The dark-eyed princess of Pāñcāla, born of fire and virtue, approached the celestial sage Nārada with hands folded in reverence. Draped in veils as modest as the moonlight, she bowed and touched his feet, her forehead low in devotion. Her presence was calm, radiant with inner strength, and worthy of her five heroic lords.
The ṛṣi, glancing upon her with gentle eyes, spoke benedictions that echoed like mantras in the hearts of all who heard:
“Be thou ever protected, O noble one,
By dharma, fire, and truth.
May sorrow never darken thy brow,
And may thy love never waver nor divide.”
Having thus blessed her, the sage beckoned her to withdraw. With a graceful bow, Draupadī—Kr̥ṣṇā—retired to the inner chambers, her anklets chiming like the voice of peace.
Then Nārada, seer of the three worlds, turned toward the sons of Pāṇḍu. With Yudhiṣṭhira at their head, they gathered before him, solemn and attentive. Lowering his voice to a private counsel, the sage spoke:
“O scions of Dharma, hear me well:
One wife you share, of noble race,
Let not desire divide your bond,
Nor shadow fall on fraternal grace.
There once were mighty daityas—two brothers of great fame—Sunda and Upasunda by name. Equal in power, ambition, and love, they ruled one kingdom, shared one palace, and sat, slept, ate, and roamed as if joined in soul. None in the three worlds could slay them—save themselves.
But such is the snare of passion: when Tilottamā appeared, crafted for beauty beyond imagining, a rift was born. For her sake, they cast aside blood and kinship and struck each other down.”
He paused, letting the silence settle, as if the ghost of that tale still drifted in the air.
“Therefore, O Yudhiṣṭhira,” said the ṛṣi, “let harmony be your fortress. Establish a rule among yourselves so that disunion never grows. For even the mighty fall when their hearts are split.”
Moved by the sage’s grave warning, Yudhiṣṭhira, ever curious in dharma, folded his hands and asked:
“O great Ṛṣi, knower of ancient times,
Who were the sires of Sunda and Upasunda?
What madness stole their reason so,
That brother slew brother, born of the same womb?
And Tilottamā—who was she?
Daughter of gods or born of thought?
Apsarā of the flowing waters?
Tell us all, for our hearts are stirred.”
Thus, with reverence and yearning, the sons of Pāṇḍu begged to know the tale of ancient downfall, that they might learn and never fall alike.
Vaiśampāyana paused, his gaze distant, as if recalling the echoes of another age. Then he began the tale of the daitya brothers and the perilous gift of beauty.
Vaiśampāyana said:
O King, hearing the earnest inquiry of Yudhiṣṭhira, the celestial sage Nārada, knower of time and destiny, smiled gently and replied:
“O son of Pṛthā, hear with your noble brothers the ancient tale I now unfold—just as it occurred in the days of yore. It is a story of power and pride, of brothers united in ambition and undone by passion. Listen closely, O bull of the Kuru race.”
In former times, when the yugas were yet young, there was born in the fierce line of Hiraṇyakaśipu a mighty Dānava named Nikumbha—brilliant in strength and boundless in energy. Unto him were born two sons: Sunda and Upasunda. These two were alike in body and spirit—mighty Asuras, terrible in their resolve, equal in prowess, and dark of heart.
They were two bodies, but one will.
They thought as one, spoke as one,
Acted, dreamed, and raged as one—
As though a single fire had split its flame.
Whatever one desired, the other welcomed. Wherever one went, the other followed. Never were they apart, either in joy or sorrow. Their habits were the same, their words the same, their laughter and their rage indistinguishable. It was as though one soul had mirrored itself in flesh twice over.
As time ripened them, so did their ambition. Desiring to conquer the three worlds—Bhūḥ, Bhuvaḥ, and Svaḥ—they turned their eyes toward the heavens. But first, they sought to earn the strength of tapas, the invincible power that is born not of arms, but of self-conquest.
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Thus did they journey to the sacred Vindhya mountains,
Clad in bark, matted in hair,
Consuming wind, refusing rest,
They began their fearsome austerities there.
Their penance was dreadful. Standing upon their toes for years unbroken, arms uplifted toward the skies, they endured hunger and thirst until their skin clung to bone. They smeared their limbs with ash and dirt. They breathed nothing but air. Their minds were fixed, their senses restrained, their vows terrible.
Even flesh they offered to the sacrificial fire—
Cut from their own limbs, cast into flame,
A vow of agony, a cry to the gods:
"Let power descend where pain ascends."
So intense was their tapas that the Vindhya mountains themselves trembled. For years, heat from their bodies and mantras suffused the stones, till the rocks steamed and cracked, exhaling clouds of vapour. The mountain groaned under their austerity.
The heavens shook.
The celestials grew afraid.
Indra and the gods, guardians of the three worlds, beheld their rise with growing dread. Their councils gathered in the golden halls of Svarga.
“If these Dānavas complete their penance,” said they, “they shall become unstoppable. The balance will be broken.”
And so the gods began their distractions.
They sent down temptations—jewels that sparkled like stars, food that exhaled divine aroma, fragrances from the gardens of Nandana, and damsels from among the Apsaras, graceful as moonlight.
But Sunda and Upasunda broke not their vow. They turned not their gaze. Their eyes remained fixed, their minds unmoved.
Then the gods invoked their māyā—divine illusion. Images more seductive than reality, visions that beguiled even sages, they unleashed their full art upon the brothers, weaving snares of desire and distraction.
Yet the brothers stood, silent as stone, arms raised to the burning sky.
Thus, O King, did the sons of Nikumbha perform penance that scorched the heavens and frightened the immortals. And the tale, though ancient, now begins its turn toward fate—for when gods fear Asuras, destiny begins to stir.
But the gods, still shaken by the fury of the brothers' austerities, sought ever more potent illusions to break their vow.
It seemed, O King, that mothers and sisters—wives adorned in ornaments now awry, with hair unbound and garments torn—came rushing through the mountain passes. They screamed in terror, fleeing from a dreadful Rākṣasa, who chased them with a bloodstained lance raised high. The demon snarled, his eyes red with rage, and the women wailed:
“O brothers, save us! Save us from this horror!”
The cries echoed through the Vindhya woods like thunder upon dry leaves.
But Sunda and Upasunda stirred not. Their hearts, forged in fire, were unmoved. Though it seemed their very flesh and blood were imperiled, they turned not their heads, nor lowered their raised arms.
For their minds were chained to vow,
Their hearts to their terrible goal—
No illusion, no cry, no blood or wail
Could pierce their armoured soul.
Then, as if the mountain itself exhaled relief, the images vanished. The Rākṣasa dissolved like mist, and the women, too, were gone—as though they had never been. The gods, defeated in their devices, stood still.
At last, the Grandsire himself descended.
Brahmā—Self-born, lotus-seated, the Lord of All—
Came radiant to the mountain shrine.
For the welfare of worlds, he came in grace,
To answer tapas with divine reply.
Beholding the ancient Creator, the two Daityas rose from their trance. With palms joined and heads bowed, they stood before him like blazing pillars of fire wrapped in humility.
“Speak, O sons of Nikumbha,” said Brahmā,
“Ask now the boon your hearts desire,
For by your tapas, severe and long,
You have earned the gaze of the Maker.”
Then Sunda and Upasunda, in one voice, declared their wish:
“O Lord of Lords, if our penance hath pleased thee,
Grant us strength beyond compare.
Let us know every weapon’s name,
And master all illusion's snare.
Let us take any form at will,
Roam the worlds with unbridled might.
And above all, O Grandsire—this we seek—
Grant us immortality’s light!”
But Brahmā, smiling with divine wisdom, replied:
“Immortality, I cannot grant.
That boon lies veiled from hearts like thine.
You seek not mokṣa, nor dharma’s peace—
But conquest of earth, heaven, and time.
Ask instead the manner of your death—
That form of end by which you fall.
Thus shall you match the gods in power,
Though not in life eternal.”
And thus, O Janamejaya, did the Supreme Brahmā restrain the Asuras with truth. For though their penance was great, their purpose was dominion, not release. And where desire for sovereignty burns bright, immortality cannot take root.
Nārada continued:
“Hearing the words of the Lord of Creation, Sunda and Upasunda—those twin Asuras of terrible resolve—bowed with joined palms and spoke in unison:
‘O Grandsire, then let it be so:
Let no creature in all the three worlds—
Moving or still, god or beast,
Hold power to slay us, save one another alone!’
The boon they chose was bound by hubris,
For who would dream that brother’s hand
Could turn against brother’s blood and breath,
When they had shared one will, one path, one flesh?
Brahmā, knowing the seed of their end lay buried in their very bond, replied:
‘So be it. Let none but each other threaten thy lives.’
And with that word—neither blessing nor curse,
The lotus-born vanished into the sky,
His boon granted, his silence sealed—
And fate’s hidden wheel began to turn.
Released from their ascetic labors, the brothers descended from the mountain heights. Their limbs once gaunt with penance were now strong with power. The ash of their vows was washed away. The fire in their eyes was now the fire of conquest.
They returned to their city with glory trailing behind them like smoke from a divine chariot. The people beheld them—crowned with victory, armed with illusion and weapon-lore, radiant with divine gifts—and rejoiced.
Gone were the matted locks of austerity.
In their place shone jeweled coronets.
Their bark-garments were now silk robes,
And their lean forms draped in ornaments bright as stars.
So pleased were they with their might that they called the moon to rise nightly above their city, even when it was not his time. Thus their nights were ever silver, and their days bathed in gold.
In every home resounded voices of delight:
‘Eat! Feast! Give! Rejoice!
Sing and drink with happy heart!’
Thus rang the chant of revelry.
Clappings of hands and bursts of laughter echoed through the avenues. Music filled the air, and the scent of wine and garlands wafted through moonlit terraces. Their city was a mirror of paradise, where the Daityas—masters of form and spell—changed shapes at will, reveling in pleasures without pause.
They forgot hunger, forgot sleep,
Forgot the passing of months and moon.
For them, a year became a single day—
So lost were they in endless boon.
But, O King, as the wise have said:
Where joy is unmeasured and dharma forgotten,
The shadow of ruin draws silently near.
For the tree of pride bears bitter fruit,
When its roots are fed with unchecked power.
Nārada continued:
When the great festival of indulgence had run its course, and laughter fell silent like an echo fading in the hills, the brothers Sunda and Upasunda turned again to ambition. Their minds, now inflamed with the hunger for sovereignty over all three worlds, burned with restless resolve.
They gathered their council—ministers, elders, kinsmen, and chieftains of the Dānava race. Receiving their consent, the brothers performed the rites of departure, invoking dark omens and warlike stars. On a night when the constellation Maghā rose bright in the heavens—its lords favorable to rulers and kings—they set out, like twin comets piercing the veil of peace.
A host of Daityas, vast as the sea, arrayed in gleaming armor, surged behind them. Their hands bore maces, axes, lances, and spiked clubs—arms of havoc. Their chariots roared like thunder, and from the mouths of bardic cāraṇas came songs of conquest and blood:
“Victory shall crown these lords of flame,
The skies shall bow before their name.
Let mortals tremble, gods take flight—
The sons of Nikumbha rise tonight!”
With joyous hearts and hearts unyielding, the brothers rose into the air, their forms flashing like meteors as they ascended into the realm of the celestials.
But the gods, well aware of the terrible boons granted by the lotus-born Brahmā, fled the heavens. Indra and his hosts abandoned Amarāvati and sought refuge in the higher world—the region of Brahman.
Then, unopposed, the Daityas descended upon Svarga. Fierce was their onslaught—Yakṣas, Rākṣasas, and flying beings of the mid-space were scattered like dry leaves in a storm. Without resistance, they claimed Indra’s throne and cast down the standards of the devas.
Still unsated, they turned to the nether world.
There, among the serpents of Pātāla,
They shattered the hoods of Nāgas,
And plundered the wealth of Varuṇa’s domain.
The oceans, once boundless in their might, trembled at their step. Even the distant tribes of the Mlecchas, dwelling in lands beyond the sacred rivers, bowed or perished beneath their sway.
At last, their gaze turned to Bhū-loka, the earth of men. There, their hatred grew dark and cruel. For they reasoned:
“The Brāhmaṇas and royal sages,
Pouring ghee into sacred flame,
Feed the strength of the gods above—
They are our foes in holy name.”
Thus, they summoned their armies to the shores of the eastern sea, and there proclaimed their dreadful intent.
“Let the Brāhmaṇas be slain.
Let every sacrifice be ended.
Let sages fall, and the fire be drowned.
Their strength feeds our enemies—let none remain!”
In all directions their soldiers marched, hearts steeped in violence. Those Brāhmaṇas who tended sacrificial fires, and those ṛṣis who sat in penance with souls under strict control, were mercilessly slain. The asylums of sages were turned to ash, and the sacred fires—Agni’s mouths—were flung into waters by demon hands.
But when the noble ṛṣis, roused to fury, cast curses upon the Asura brothers, the power of those maledictions failed.
For Brahmā’s boon, once spoken,
Shielded them like a golden wall.
Not gods, nor men, nor mantra’s fire
Could bring them now to fall.
Thus did the earth itself grow dark, though the sun still shone. Dharma trembled. The balance of worlds tilted. The cry of the sages rose to the heavens—pleading for deliverance.
When the Brāhmaṇas saw that their fierce curses—shaped in mantra and hurled like arrows—could no more wound the Daityas than pebbles could break stone, they were seized with dread. Powerless before the boons of Brahmā, they fled in all directions, abandoning their sacred duties, vows, and fire-offerings.
Even the great ṛṣis—those crowned with tapas, anchored in samādhi, and adorned with the fruits of inner renunciation—abandoned their hermitages like frightened serpents scattering at the approach of Vinatā’s son, the mighty Garuḍa.
The forest hermitages, once filled with sacred chants, now lay in ruin.
The kuśa grass was trampled, the altars shattered.
Earthen jars and ladles lay crushed and broken—
And the ghee, the soma, the grains—all soaked into the dust.
The whole universe seemed abandoned, as if Time himself had called for mahā-pralaya—the Great Dissolution.
And O King, once the sages had vanished from sight,
The cruel brothers cast off their last restraints.
No longer hidden in human guise,
They became what fear itself might dream.
With hideous laughter, Sunda and Upasunda began their hunt. Assuming monstrous forms—elephants in musth with temples bursting, lions with manes aflame, tigers whose eyes glowed red—they searched the caves and forests, sniffing out the hidden sages.
“Slay them all,” they cried,
“Let none remain! Let dharma die!”
And those who had fled to stone or shadow
Were sent swiftly to Yama’s gate.
Sacrifice ceased. Learning faded. The line of Brāhmaṇas was broken. The sacred śrauta and smārta rites withered. Festivals fell silent. Kings lay slain or fled, their sceptres broken and their cities lost.
The earth trembled, as if stricken with grief.
No bells, no chants, no wedding songs.
No merchants bartered, no cows were milked,
No plough cut soil, no fire received oblation.
The ashramas and cities, once alive with sound and ritual, turned to haunted silence. Bones and ash littered the roads. The land stank of death, and the trees bore no fruit. Pitṛ rites vanished, and the sacred cry of “Vauṣaṭ”, once echoing with every yajña, was gone. Even the word “svāhā” was lost in the wind.
The Sun dimmed his golden face.
The Moon wept cold and pale.
Planets wandered without rhythm or light.
Constellations turned their gaze away.
The heavens watched in anguish.
Indra wept. Soma faded.
All beings of the sky and stars
Cried out for balance to be restored.
And thus, O Janamejaya, Sunda and Upasunda, drunk with power and steeped in cruelty, held dominion over every direction—east, west, north, and south—and made Kurukṣetra their seat of sovereignty. There, in the field where later heroes would bleed for dharma, the Daityas now ruled unopposed.
But even in the silence of that devastation,
The seed of their ruin had begun to stir.