The Ramayana (106 page)

THE STORY OF VISWAMITRA

This is the story Sadananda told in Mithila.

Vijaya was the youngest son of Pururavas, who was the ancestor of the race of Soma on earth. The Moon was Pururavas's father. Vijaya's son was Bheema; Bheema's son was Kanchana and Kanchana's son was Jahnu, who once swallowed the Ganga as she rushed after Bhagiratha's chariot. And she was called Jahnavi. Jahnu's son was Pooru, and Pooru's son was Ajaka, whose son was Kusa.

Kusa had four sons, and the youngest was Kusanabha. Gadhi, the great, was Kushanaba's son, and Kaushika was Gadhi's son.

King Kaushika was an able ruler of his father's kingdom. Once he went on a yatra through his country, to all its towns and villages, meeting the common people and sharing their joys and sorrows. Through cities and jungles he went, fording rivers, crossing wooded hills and remote valleys, blessing Nature's bounty and grateful that he was born such a fortunate king.

In the forests he passed through, he visited every asrama he came upon. He was a devout man, and believed that his kingdom thrived because of the holy rishis who lived in tapasya within its frontiers. One day, Kaushika came to a forest and saw a beautiful hermitage set in an orchard overgrown with fruit and flowering trees and a profusion of wild plants. A lively stream flowed past, and all the place had an air of deep sanctity: there was more than just nature at work here.

As Kaushika entered the tapovana, he was astonished to see little golden deer, no higher than his knee and obviously quite tame. Then from the jungle's silence, he heard soft music being played on reeds and fine lutes, which were so sweet he knew they were not of the world of men. Behind the trees the king caught fleeting glimpses of exotic folk he had only heard of in stories before: beings clad in leaves and flowers, shining ones who sang and danced. They sang in tongues that had passed out of the use of men long ago, for they were not made to describe human affairs.

Reining in his horse, warning his army to stay back, Kaushika saw the elusive gandharvas, as they chose to reveal themselves to him, in a shifting dream of sight and sound, teasing and joyful. His gaze was pulled this way and that, as the elfin folk appeared and vanished in different places.

Kaushika saw that many rishis sat in dhyana in that asrama, rapt, seemingly unaware of the bit of heaven on earth they sat amidst. Kshatriya custom demanded the king pay homage to the guru who was master here. He went into the hermitage and prostrated himself at the feet of the great seer within, who was called Vasishta. Excitedly, the rishi rose to welcome Kaushika. He embraced him and sent for a darbhasana for him to sit on.

Vasishta offered the king fruit from his trees and sweet water from the jungle stream. Graciously, Kaushika accepted whatever he was offered, and the two of them sat talking. Little did the kshatriya know his destiny stood nearer him than he would have cared to have her. Vasishta, who was Brahma's own son, was delighted that Kaushika had come to visit him.

“Is your kingdom at peace? Are your enemies subdued? Is your treasury full, and your granary? Is your army powerful, are your people happy?”

And so on, as is proper to ask a king when he visits. Kaushika answered directly and elegantly, and Vasishta quickly grew fond of him, even as he might a gifted disciple! The conversation wandered into more private matters, and Vasishta confirmed his intuition that this king was a remarkable man, a very unusual kshatriya.

Suddenly, the sage leaned forward and, taking Kaushika's hand, cried, “I am so happy you have come here with your army. I want to entertain you all in my asrama.”

Certain that he would inconvenience the muni, Kaushika said, “Muni, I am already overwhelmed by your kindness. But it is time I left you to your more sacred pursuits.”

Lest he bring shame to the rishi's hospitality—for his army was large—he rose to leave. But Vasishta restrained him, laying a hand on his arm, insisting, “You must eat with us, my son.”

He would not hear of Kaushika leaving without first having eaten in the asrama, and all his men with him. Kaushika sighed inwardly and said, “You leave me no choice! Very well, we will share anything you are pleased to offer us. Though nothing can be as satisfying as your kindness.”

Laughing, they rose together, their arms linked. Vasishta called softly, “Surabhi, come here, my child.”

A supernaturally lovely cow came at his call. Her eyes were like long lotuses. Her skin shimmered, dappled white and black. To the king's amazement, the rishi spoke to her as if she were really a human child. “Shabale, this is the king of this country, the noble Kaushika, who has come to visit us with his army. They must eat with us, my daughter. Let nothing be lacking in the feast, for they are used to royal fare.”

The king did not know Surabhi was Kamadhenu herself, the cow of wishes. She had once been churned up from the Kshirasagara with the amrita, and given to the rishis as the Gods' gift to them. Kaushika stared at her; in all his life he had never seen such an exquisite creature. And when the king saw the feast she created in a moment for himself and his army, he was astounded.

Surabhi created every kind of delicacy for Kaushika's men, and there was an endless amount of it all. Those soldiers ate and ate, because they could scarcely have enough of the unearthly food. They marveled and they ate, and their king with them. Not he, nor any of them, had ever tasted anything to remotely rival the feast Surabhi laid on for them.

At last, when he tore himself away from the table, Kaushika went to Vasishta and bowed to the muni. The king said humbly, “Never in my life have I tasted food like what we had today.”

But then he was a king, and used to possessing whatever took his fancy. Looking away from the rishi, Kaushika went on, “But Vasishta, this cow of yours should not be kept hidden away in an asrama. She belongs with me, so her bounty can be shared by everyone in the kingdom. Let me take her, Muni, and I will give you a thousand cows for her. What are your needs that a thousand ordinary cows cannot meet? After all, you are sworn to austerity. This cow is a treasure, and any treasure in the kingdom belongs with me.”

Vasishta was startled. He did not realize how earnest Kaushika was, and said quietly, “Shabale is not just a cow; she is my daughter. Not for a thousand cows, not for a hundred thousand, why, not for all the gold in your coffers, would I part with her.” Vasishta laid an affectionate hand on Kaushika's arm. He added with a smile, “Taking her from me would be like parting a famous man from his fame: it cannot be done.”

All this was still said in the friendliest tone. And smiling, Kaushika replied, “I will give you a thousand elephants, all caparisoned in silk and gold. I will give you eight hundred chariots with horse. I will give you a crore of kapila cows. If you want, I will give you jewels such as kings of the earth are envious of: heirlooms handed down in our line from Soma Deva himself. But let me have your Surabhi.”

Vasishta saw Kaushika would go to any length to get what he wanted. The son of Brahma said firmly, “Much as it saddens me to refuse you, Surabhi is the jewel of my tapasya and nothing will induce me to part with her.”

Kaushika stared hard at the muni who thwarted his will. He thought Vasishta was being unreasonable, and the king's face grew dark. He turned abruptly and stalked out from the asrama. But he said to his men, “This old man will not give the cow reasonably. Take her by force.”

Kaushika's soldiers dragged Surabhi from her shelter. Tears streamed from her eyes because she thought Vasishta had given her away. They dragged her to the edge of the asrama, where she tossed her horns at them and bolted back to the muni. She cried in a human voice, “Father, why have you abandoned me? What have I done?”

Vasishta saw through time as clearly as other men see what is before their eyes. He said gently, ‘This sorrow of yours isn't meaningless, child. That kshatriya—”

But he had no time to finish. With ringing cries, Kaushika's sons were upon him, weapons flashing under the serene trees. Great Vasishta, feared in the three worlds, drew a deep breath. With a single
“HUMmmmm!,”
terrible humkara, he made ashes of those princes and their army.

It was as if Kaushika had been struck by lightning. He bent his head and walked away in rout from that asrama. The shock of his sons' death all but deranged that king: his fate called him, inexorably, with formidable grief. From then on, he sat absently on his throne, brooding on the rishi and his cow, and the syllable that had made ashes of his legion. He brooded that his own kingship was as dust under the feet of the brahmarishi.

*   *   *

Kaushika left his kingdom to a young son, who had not been out with him during the debacle in the forest. He went to the Himalaya, where kimpurusha fauns dwell, and began a fervent tapasya to Siva.

In some years Siva appeared, crystal-bodied, before Kaushika, and said, “Why such a tapasya, O King? Ask for what you want and I will give it to you.”

Kaushika lay at the feet of the vision. “Lord, make me a master of the devastras.”

Smiling, because he saw the deep future clearly, while Kaushika knew just his immediate ambition, Sankara said, “They are yours, Kaushika. Return to your kingdom with the astras, O master of archery.”

Kaushika returned to his capital, his pride healed by the boon of astras. He told himself, “I have the weapons of the Gods. Vasishta is as good as dead.”

When he was armed with the devastras Siva had given him, Kaushika's fury was rekindled. The memory of the death of his sons and the obliteration of his army burned again in his heart. Kaushika went straight to the forest where Vasishta's asrama was. With no warning, he loosed his weapons at the hermitage.

In gale and fire, the astras spumed forth. Even Kaushika stood stunned by their raw power. But he could not call them back even if he wanted: such is the nature of the devastras. Screaming, the birds and beasts of the forest fled from the apocalypse. The secret gandharvas vanished from there. The trees in Vasishta's orchard shriveled and perished in the flames.

All the asrama blazed for a moment, like a dying sun. When the flash subsided, Kaushika saw the hermitage was razed. No fruit or flowering tree, no shrub, no blade of grass grew any more on the charred ground. Just dark smoke rose from the earth, as if to mock the beauty that had been there only moments ago. But revenge has no eyes for beauty, and Kaushika exulted at what he had done. Even the little jungle stream was dry beside the asrama: the astras had turned the chatty waters into steam.

An awful silence had fallen. Then, his robes burned, his hair disheveled, and shock upon his face, Vasishta came out of the smoking ruin of his hermitage. He went quietly to Kaushika, who was surprised that anyone could have survived the inferno he had loosed. Vasishta's was a frightening quietness as he stood there with his staff in his hand. At last he said, “Kshatriya, you have destroyed my peace. You are a fool and I am going to kill you.”

Vasishta raised his danda and it blazed like the fires that end time. It shone with scarlet, blue, green, and then white, smokeless flames. Kaushika stood unflinching before the ancient brahmana, his bowstring drawn to his ear, his arrow livid with an agneyastra. He laughed aloud, mocking the muni. With a howl, he shot that missile at Vasishta. The arrow flared at the hermit, burning up earth and sky, and time of which both are made.

Vasishta planted his staff in front of him like a pillar of light. All this was done in a moment. In a moment, long as a life, Kaushika saw his storm of fire, which could have consumed a city, turn to soft rain when it encountered Vasishta's bright danda and fall like a blessing around the rishi.

Roaring, Kaushika fitted his bow with five astras, one after the other. Each of them could consume the four dimensions. But he saw vaaruna, raudra, aindra, paasupata, and aishika all extinguished by the plain brahmadanda Vasishta had planted in the earth. His staff stood before the rishi like a cosmic sentinel.

Kaushika shot a manavastra at the seer, a gaandharva, a deep jrumbhana, and a swaapana of sleep and dreams that last an age. But those weapons, which could contend with the hosts of heaven and hell, were put out like children's fireworks. Not even Indra's vajra could overcome Vasishta's staff. In tears, in disbelief, Kaushika turned to the paasas, the serpentine nooses that bind body and soul in umbilical sorceries. The kaala of time and death he invoked, vaaruna of the primal waters on which all the worlds rest, and braahma of the light which shines on those waters: weapons that could undo stars. They fell by the way, to the power of the brahmadanda, burning like an eye of the universe. In despair, Kaushika summoned the whirling chakras; but Vasishta's staff was proof against these also.

The Devas gathered in the sky in their vimanas, fleet as thoughts. Armadas of crystal ships hovered above to witness the duel in the forest. Kaushika invoked the greatest weapon of all, the one that could uncurl a galaxy with its wrath. The Devas cleared the sky in panic, crying to the kshatriya to desist from such madness. But his eyes crimson, the veins standing out like serpents on his arms, Kaushika invoked the brahmastra, which could devour all of creation. He loosed the dreadful ayudha at Brahma's son, who stood mocking him with a smile.

The brahmastra rose with a million fires of spirit and flames, and briefly two suns lit the sky, the astra brighter than the other. Then it fell screaming at Vasishta's staff to put out the splendor of that danda, to consume the earth if need be. Now the muni's staff was just a blinding light; as if from its depths it salvaged a sliver of the first flare that lit the darkness of the void. Though the staff from which it shone was not even as tall as Vasishta, that light was larger than the world. It was greater than all the light and darkness in all the mandalas.

Vasishta's danda stood quivering with vast ire, as the brahmastra plunged down on it like a comet. Beside his staff Vasishta stood, blazing like Agni Deva: his body was golden, his skin seemed molten. He raised his hands skyward, with a ringing mantra to his Father. The danda yawned open like the void, and the brahmastra fell into that chasm like a water drop into a sea, a spark into a star. And it vanished as if it had never been.