The Ramayana Page 6

  When they had washed, Rama pointed upstream and said, “There are islands of sand in the water. Where shall we cross the river?”

  But Viswamitra was already striding off in another direction. “Since the beginning, rishis have walked this way. We will follow their path.”

  So they marched north after the tall sage. The princes kept up with him easily, but some of the other hermits struggled. They lagged with rueful smiles and Viswamitra never turned to look back, as if he was content to have only those who could keep his pace arrive in Mithila. Rama and Lakshmana helped the others on the long way, carrying their spare-enough bundles for them, lending them an arm of support.

  * * *

  It was midday when they arrived on the banks of the Ganga. She lay before them like an inland sea; shading their eyes, they could barely discern her far shore. Swans and lotuses floated upon her in equal profusion, and so deep was her attraction they decided to spend the rest of the day beside her murmuring currents.

  They bathed in her water and sat beside her, some dozing, others staring out across the enchanted flow; and they saw luminous daydreams, as they had not even during their dhyana in the mountains. Surely, she was awesome, she was magical, and her nearness made the body feel so light it seemed the soul could soar out and be free. In the late afternoon, the desire took the princes and the rishis alike and they waded once more into the calm, warm water. When they had bathed they felt cleansed: not just bodily but in spirit.

  As the day was dying, they sat around Viswamitra. While a small fire they lit blazed up full of sparks, Rama said, “I want to hear the legend of Ganga from you. I can feel her enchantment upon me; tell us how she is tripathaga, the river of three paths.”

  Viswamitra’s eyes were full of times that were no longer in the world, except as shadows upon the earth and the wide water. He gazed across the great river, and began quietly, “There is a mountain called Himavan, the Emperor of all mountains. That ancient spirit, who is not younger than the earth herself, had two daughters by his wife Mena. They were called Ganga and Uma, and their beauty was legend.

  “Ganga was the older one, and Indra’s Devas approached Himavan: they wanted his daughter for themselves, to make Devaloka more perfect than it already was. Himavan gave Ganga to the Devas; she flowed in heaven as a river of light and purified anything she touched. She flowed through the galaxies as Akasa Ganga, Mandakini, river of the firmament, with suns in her hair.

  “Himavan’s second child was called Parvati, mountain daughter. She sat in tapasya and won Siva for her husband. Their son was Karttikeya and he killed Tarakasura, the invincible demon of old.

  “Later, there was an ancestor of yours, Rama, in the line of Ikshvaku, named Sagara. For many years Sagara had no children from his two wives: Vidarbha’s daughter Kesini, and Kashyapa’s daughter, the ravishing Sumati. Sagara went to the Himalaya with his queens and sat in penance for a hundred years. Men in those times were greater in every way than the men of today, and longer-lived as well. And men in the ages to follow this one shall live short and wretched lives. That is the nature of the yugas.

  “When Sagara and his wives had sat in dhyana for a hundred years, the Maharishi Bhrigu came to them like a fire on the mountain, and said, ‘Let your tapasya be fruitful, Sagara. One of your wives will bear you a son to continue the Ikshvaku line. The other will bear you sixty thousand princes of matchless strength and courage; but they shall not be kings’

  “Sagara’s queens were radiant.

  “‘Who will have sixty thousand sons?’ cried Sumati, the younger.

  “‘Who will have the one son?’ cried Kesini.

  “Bhrigu smiled, ‘The choice is yours, and you seem to have made it already.’

  “That rishi blessed them and Sagara and his wives returned to their kingdom. In those days, when the world was young, heaven and earth were hardly apart from each other as they are now. The earth was peopled, equally, with the children of the Gods and men. Sumati bore her husband Sagara sixty thousand sons. She did not bear them as children are born today, but by the miraculous motherhood of light and by the grace of the Devas, most of all, the grace of Brahma. Sumati’s boys were handsome and brave, virile and arrogant.

  “In time, Kesini also bore Sagara a son, the one who would become his heir. But to Sagara’s despair, this boy, Asamanja, was an evil prince. In his childhood he would dismember insects, tearing off their delicate arms and legs when he found the little creatures wandering on the palace floor. Sagara thought it was just an infantile affliction and had elaborate pujas performed for the boy. But some years later, as he grew, Asamanja entertained himself by secretly slaughtering calves and ponies in the royal dairies and stables.

  “Still, the king hoped his prince would mend. But when he reached his youth, Asamanja was caught drowning small children of the city in the Sarayu. He stood fondling himself as he watched their desperate struggles. Sagara saw his son was evil. Yet he waited, hoping against hope the boy would mend. Finally, his people came to petition Sagara against the prince. The king banished Asamanja from the kingdom, though it broke his heart.

  “But there was some consolation for Sagara. Asamanja’s son Anshuman was a noble, gentle child, and devoted to his grandfather. When Anshuman was a young man, Sagara undertook an aswamedha yagna. For his yagnashala, he chose the plains between the Himalaya and the Vindhya mountains, which glower at each other across the sacred land like mortal enemies. He sent a white horse across the country, with his grandson Anshuman riding with it: daring any king to arrest its careen, and claiming fealty from those whose kingdoms the horse crossed unchallenged.

  “But there is always one king who obstructs the aswamedha yagnas of the rulers of the earth. Indra spirited away that horse. The brahmanas who had charge of the yagna said to Sagara, ‘If the horse is not found and the yagna not completed, calamity will visit the House of Ikshvaku.’

  “Sagara called his sixty thousand sons by Sumati, of whom their mother was so proud, and said to them, ‘Go and find the horse, wherever it may be.’

  “Like the wind, like fire, air, and tameless water, they swept away in quest of the horse, those ferocious, elemental Sagaraputras. They excavated the earth, they razed whole forests, to discover where the animal was hidden. They brought terror wherever they went, among men and beasts, great old plants, and even the rakshasas of the jungles. They came with such violence.

  “They could not find the horse by land or by sea, though they searched for it with the powers of sorcery they inherited from their celestial ancestors. They burrowed into the nether worlds, the deep Patalas, where pale and grave Asuras and emerald nagas with resplendent jewels in their heads dwell in darkness and peace. They saw the elephants of legend, the Diggajas that bear the earth upon their heads. But they saw no horse of their father’s aswamedha.

  “They went deeper, down the spiraling paths of the twilight realms. They came to a dark cavern and, from within it, heard the whinny of a horse in tether. In they plunged and saw, seated in padmasana, the posture of the lotus, the Maharishi Kapila Vasudeva, his eyes shut, absorbed in the Brahman. Beyond the rishi in dhyana was their father’s white horse, tied to a tree.

  “‘Thief!’ they roared, and rushed at Kapila with their weapons raised. The muni’s eyes flew open to see who dared disturb his samadhi, and instantly those sixty thousand sons of Sagara were made ashes; for they all plunged into that unequal encounter in brash, foolhardy waves. When all of them were ashed, Kapila shut his eyes again with a sigh, as if nothing of any moment had happened. He went back to his meditation.

  “Sagara waited a long time for his host of sons to return to him with the sacrificial horse. But when no sign or word of them came, he sent Anshuman after them into the Patalas. Anshuman followed the trail of mayhem his uncles had left and arrived at the mouth of Kapila’s cave. He saw the glow from the rishi’s body, and went in very quietly. The horse was tethered beside the muni, who sat lost to the world, his aura illumining the darkness
. Anshuman waited patiently for Kapila to emerge from his trance.

  “For a long time Anshuman stood motionless; at last, Kapila opened his eyes and looked gently at the prince. Anshuman prostrated himself at the rishi’s feet. He said, ‘Holy one, I am King Sagara’s grandson Anshuman. I have come in search of my grandfather’s sacrificial horse.’

  “Kapila smiled at the noble youth. ‘Your horse is with me, child. Indra left him here.’ He pointed at the ashes strewn across the cave’s floor. ‘Your uncles came here in violence,’ he said, ‘and I was forced to burn them.’

  “Anshuman grieved for his uncles. He wanted to offer tarpana for them, so their souls could rise into heaven. But he could find no water in Patala. As he ranged those dark labyrinths in quest of water, he heard a sound of vast wings. Garuda, who was Sumati’s brother, flew down to him.

  “Garuda said to the distraught Anshuman, ‘No common water will wash the sins of your uncles. They violated Bhumidevi and outraged the spirits who are her guardians. Only the waters of Himalaya’s daughter who flows through the stars can purify their souls. You must bring the Ganga down to wash their ashes; only then will they find deliverance.’

  “Anshuman stood in awe of Garuda, and terrified by the task he himself had inherited. The eagle-winged one said to him, ‘But it is not yet time for the sacred river to flow on earth. Take your horse home to your grandfather. He waits anxiously for you, and the aswamedha must be completed.’

  “Anshuman did as Garuda asked, and Sagara was able to finish his yagna. But the king was a broken man after he learned of the death of his sons. He left his kingdom to Anshuman, as soon as the prince was old enough, and went away to the mountains with his wives. He went to perform tapasya, to purify himself before he left his body and was gathered to his fathers.

  “Anshuman was a just king. But ruling his kingdom absorbed him entirely, and he found no time to undertake a penance that would bring the Ganga down to the earth, and to Patala below, where his uncles’ ashes lay whispering in grief that their souls languished in a limbo.

  “Anshuman’s son Dilipa was a great kshatriya, as well. But not even he could bring the Ganga down to redeem his ancestors. The destiny of the Ikshvaku line was impeded by the unresolved sins of the sons of Sumati, and the ruling kings were hard-pressed to keep evil from the kingdom. For by now, the curse was into their very blood.”

  Viswamitra’s story held princes and rishis in thrall. He bore them back to primeval times, dim and magnificent, when sovereigns of unearthly lineage ruled the kingdoms of the earth. Whenever he paused, the others sat with bated breath, lest they disturb his flow of inspiration beside the holy river.

  “Dilipa had a son called Bhagiratha,” resumed the brahmarishi, master of the ancient lore. “Like his father Anshuman, Dilipa ruled Sagara’s kingdom until age and debility overtook him. He ruled for thirty thousand years, and that was how long men lived in those times if they were not killed in battle. But he did not rule as long as his fathers before him, for the curse grew stronger every day. Dilipa left his kingdom to his son Bhagiratha, and passed on from the world.

  “By now, the curse on the Ikshvaku line told not just on the royal family but on the common people. Bhagiratha was the first of his line to realize that there was no hope in ruling, as best he could, and keeping darkness at bay, as well as he might. The curse already afflicted him grievously: he could not father a son. It was as if the sons of Sumati cried out in his blood for the expiation of their sin. Bhagiratha knew he had to exorcise the curse at its root. He knew he must spend his life in tapasya, if need be, to bring the Ganga down into the world to wash his ancestors’ ashes.

  “Bhagiratha left his kingdom in the hands of some trusted ministers. He went to the mountains and sat in an excruciating penance. At last, one day, at the end of a thousand years spent on the icy Himalaya, Brahma appeared before the king. The Grandsire of the worlds said, ‘Ask for anything you want.’

  “Bhagiratha’s eyes swam with tears. His voice was long unused, since he had taken a vow of silence; besides, to whom would he speak in that blizzard-swept fastness, where not even mountain rakshasas ventured? Choking, Bhagiratha said, ‘Father of worlds, grant that I may perform the niravapanjali for my ancestors with the waters of the Ganga; and that they attain Swarga. Brahma, grant also that I have a son to continue the line of Ikshvaku.’

  “Unable to refuse this king of tapasya anything, Brahma said, ‘You will have a noble son, to be king after you. But just think, if the Ganga comes down into the world, who will break her fall? The very earth will be shattered. If you want her to flow here, you must petition Siva to bear her fall.’

  “Bhagiratha turned in bhakti to the Lord Siva, who is easily moved. When he had fasted in Siva’s name, living on just air for a year, the God of Gods appeared before the Ikshvaku king.

  “Siva said, ‘You should not have to sit in tapasya for a cause as just as yours. I am pleased with your devotion to your ancestors. I will break Ganga’s fall, and her pride as well.’

  “After ages of flattery, verging on worship, by the Devas of the sky who adored her, Ganga had grown vain. When Brahma told her to flow down in the world, she scoffed at him. ‘The earth will perish from this madness. For there is no one who can bear my descent!’

  “But she could not refuse to do as Brahma asked. On the appointed night, the Devas gathered in the sky in their ethereal chariots, like a flotilla of full moons; while below, on a plateau of the Himalaya in the icebound north, Bhagiratha stood with his gaze trained on the heavens. There was no sign of Siva.

  “Suddenly a deafening roar shook the firmament. High above him, beyond the chariots of the Devas which they flew out of harm’s way, Bhagiratha saw her coming: she was a sheet of silver, filling the night sky. He shut his eyes with a prayer. He was sure this was the end of the world; for who indeed could support the fall of that ocean? Like a cosmic flash flood she came, hurtling down the Milky Way, and laughing as she did: she was amused that Brahma had not cared to heed her warning.

  “But then, another figure loomed beside Bhagiratha. He appeared out of the very air. He was the Lord of night, Sarvaripati Siva, and his face was loftier than the moon and the Devas’ vimanas. The Devas began to sing his praises when they saw him like that. But Ganga swept on, and only Siva knew what was in her arrogant heart. Exhilarated by her plunge down the constellations, she thought to herself, ‘I will show Siva who I am. I will thrust him down into Patala!’

  “Siva, who knows all things, stood smiling, his head exposed to her mad descent. With a crash like thunder in the galaxy, Ganga fell straight down upon Siva’s hallowed head. Bhagiratha shut his eyes, certain this was the end. Even the Devas above fell silent; they, too, did not believe anyone could survive that crystal cataract.

  “A hush fell on earth and sky. But not a drop of water, let alone a deluge, fell on the terrified Bhagiratha. Siva was not crushed under Ganga’s tidal fall. He still stood smiling, lustrous in the moonlight. But she, endless river, had vanished: she was lost in Siva’s jata. And struggle as she would, she could find no way out from where she was absorbed like a water drop. One drop in the ocean that was He.

  “She roared and she screamed. She rose in dreadful floods and spun in whirlpools deep as the orbits of the planets. But there was no escape for her. At his inexorable will, she was a lake at the root of one strand of his hair; she trembled when he laughed. His time for prayer not yet over, Bhagiratha lay on his face before the Lord. For fear that Siva might never set Ganga free he worshipped Mahadeva, for the sake of his ancestors.

  “At last Siva released Ganga along the hair of his head at the root of which he had held her. Drop by drop, he wrung her down onto the earth. High on the Himalayan tableland a pool formed, gleaming in the rising sun: the Bindusaras, made of droplets of the chastened river of heaven. Ganga, humbled, was called Alakananda.

  “As Bhagiratha and the Devas watched, entranced, the pool grew into a lake, and the lake flowed into seven streams.
Three of these flowed west and three east, down the Himalaya. The seventh stream followed Bhagiratha’s chariot south, onto the plains of the sacred continent. She followed him playfully and in wonder at being in this new world which was once, in dim memory, her home.

  “Her foam was white as milk as she flowed after the Ikshvaku king’s chariot, which he rode like the free wind in his fervor to fulfill his task of such long standing. Ganga followed that chariot. At times she would flow straight and quick as an arrow, keeping easy pace with the horses; but at others, she meandered, coy and difficult, or undulated sinuous as a serpent. She who had washed the starry feet of Mahavishnu and had plunged through the zone of the moon, she who was purified for the third time when she fell on Siva’s head, had come down the mandalas to liberate some ashes that lay on a subterranean cave floor.

  “Tapasvin king and shining river finally arrived at the place where Bhagiratha’s haughty ancestors, Sumati’s sons, had entered the underworlds. The earth yawned open. Ganga swirled down into Patala and fell in a cascade into the cave where Kapila once sat in dhyana. Bhagiratha saw the baptismal waters flow into the cave mouth. He stood there, hardly daring to breathe. Then he saw his ancestors rise from the ashes in sudden spirit fire, their astral bodies purified, their long ordeal ended. Blessing him in sixty thousand ringing voices, they rose into heaven. The curse on the Ikshvaku line had ended.

  “Brahma appeared, coruscant as suns, and said to Bhagiratha, ‘Noble child, you have done the impossible! From this day, whenever any man prevails against the most difficult odds of fate, his effort shall be called a Bhagiratha prayatna. As long as the ocean has water in it, your ancestors will live in heaven. And the Ganga will be your daughter in the eyes of the Gods. I name her Bhagirathi.’”

  Such mysteries filled Viswamitra’s eyes as he ended his legend of times when the seas were still nameless, when kings of the earth were hardly mortal, but like Gods. When he had finished, his audience of kshatriyas and munis sat on in silence, claimed by the past. They sat unmoving by the mystic river that once fell from the sky, and the whispering of her currents bore them far from themselves.