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Title: The Great Indian Epics
The Stories of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata
Author: John Campbell Oman
Release date: April 17, 2024 [eBook #73417]
Language: English
Original publication: London: George Routledge and Sons, 1900
Credits: Jwala Kumar Sista, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
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2. Certain hyphenation and spelling variations are retained as in
original which is sourced by bibliographic references.
3. Footnotes were moved to the end of the book.
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5. The text version is coded for italics and the like mark-ups i.e.,
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SIR JOHN LUBBOCK’S
HUNDRED BOOKS
THE
RAMAYANA
AND THE
MAHABHARATA
_Reprinted by permission of George Bell and Sons from “Bohn’s Standard
Library” for “Sir John Lubbock’s Hundred Books.”_
=Sir John Lubbock’s Hundred Books=
THE GREAT INDIAN EPICS
THE STORIES OF THE
RAMAYANA
AND THE
MAHABHARATA
BY
JOHN CAMPBELL OMAN
PROFESSOR OF NATURAL SCIENCE IN THE GOVERNMENT COLLEGE LAHORE
AUTHOR OF “INDIAN LIFE RELIGIOUS AND SOCIAL” ETC.
WITH NOTES APPENDICES AND ILLUSTRATIONS
_NEW EDITION REVISED_
=London and New York=
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
LIMITED
CHISWICK PRESS:--CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
PREFACE
The Indian Epics are precious relics of the spring-time of Eastern
thought, revealing a new and singularly fascinating world, which
differs very remarkably from that depicted in the epic poetry of
Western lands. But although these epics are extremely interesting, and
although they are accessible in English translations, more or less
complete, they are such voluminous works that their mere bulk is enough
to repel the ordinary English reader, and even the student, in these
days of feverish occupation.
I may, no doubt, be justly reminded that every Indian History, written
within recent years, contains abstracts of the two epics; but these
abstracts, I would observe, are skeletons rather than miniatures of
the poems; they are the dry bones, on which the historians try to
support a fabric of historical inferences or conjectures, and they
are necessarily deficient in the mythological, romantic and social
elements so important to a proper comprehension of the “Ramayana”
and “Mahabharata.” Besides, when the structures are so colossal, so
composite and in many respects so beautiful, there can be no harm in
having yet another view of them, taken probably from a new standpoint.
In Europe the Homeric poems are very extensively studied in the
original Greek; they are productions of very moderate size in
comparison with the Indian Epics; many and excellent translations of
them, in both prose and verse, are always issuing from the press;
and yet condensed epitomes of the “Iliad” and “Odyssey” are welcomed
by the reading public, by whom also prose versions of the poetical
narratives of even English poets--as Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare and
Browning--are favourably received.
Such being the case, I make no apology for the appearance of this
little volume, in which I have not only tried to reproduce faithfully,
_in a strictly limited space_, the main incidents and more striking
features of those gigantic and wonderful creations of the ancient
bards of India--the “Ramayana” and “Mahabharata”--but also to direct
attention to the abiding influence of those works upon the habits and
conceptions of the modern Hindu.
As they are often very incorrectly cited in support of views for
which there is no authority whatever in their multitudinous verses,
it has been my especial aim to give as accurate a presentment as
possible of the Indian Epics, taken as a whole; so that a fair and
just idea--_neither too high nor too low_--of their varied contents
and their intellectual level might be formed by the readers of this
volume, be they Europeans or Indians. And from what I have recently
learned, I have good ground for believing that both classes of readers
will, after perusal of this little book, be in a position to see the
erroneous character of many ideas in regard to life in ancient India
which are current in their respective circles.
Where, for any reason, I have especially desired that an event
recorded, or an opinion expressed, in the epics should be reproduced
without the possibility of misrepresentation on my part, I have thought
it best to quote _verbatim_ the translations of them made by Hindu
scholars; although, unfortunately, their versions are by no means
elegant, and, indeed, often quite the reverse. But as they, no doubt,
reflect the structure and texture of the poems in a way that no more
free or polished English rendering could possibly do, I fancy the
citations I have made will not be unwelcome to most readers.
My book is divided into two distinct parts dealing separately with the
“Ramayana” and the “Mahabharata,” and at the end of each part I have
given, in the form of an Appendix, one or two of the more striking
legendary episodes lavishly scattered through these famous epics, and
which, though not essential for the comprehension of the main story,
are too beautiful or important to be omitted. Of these episodes I
should say that they are the best-known portions of the “Ramayana” and
“Mahabharata,” having been told and retold in all the leading Indian
vernaculars, and having, most of them, been brought before the European
world in both prose and verse.
A General Introduction to the two poems, and a concluding chapter,
containing remarks and inferences based on the materials supplied to
the reader in Parts I. and II., complete the scheme of this little
volume, which, I trust, will be found to be something more than a mere
epitome of the great Sanskrit epics; for, in its preparation, I have
had the advantage of considerable local knowledge and an intimate
acquaintance with the people of _Aryavarta_.
J. C. O.
CONTENTS
PAGE
+GENERAL INTRODUCTION+ 1
PART I.--THE RAMAYANA
CHAPTER I
+INTRODUCTORY REMARKS+ 15
CHAPTER II
+THE STORY OF RAMA’S ADVENTURES+ 19
CHAPTER III
+THE RAM LILA OR PLAY OF RAMA+ 75
APPENDIX
+THE STORY OF THE DESCENT OF GANGA+ 87
+NOTES+ 91
PART II.--THE MAHABHARATA
CHAPTER I
+INTRODUCTORY REMARKS+ 95
CHAPTER II
+THE STORY OF THE GREAT WAR+ 101
CHAPTER III
+THE SACRED LAND+ 197
APPENDIX
(1) +THE BHAGAVATGITA OR DIVINE SONG+ 207
(2) +THE CHURNING OF THE OCEAN+ 219
(3) +NALA AND DAMAYANTI+ 225
+NOTES+ 237
+CONCLUDING REMARKS+ 241
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
+THE ABDUCTION OF SITA.+ (From an illustrated Urdu Version) 50
+HANUMAN AND THE VANARS REJOICING AT THE RESTORATION OF SITA.+
(Reduced from Moor’s “Hindu Pantheon”) _face_ 70
+MEN WITH KNIVES AND SKEWERS PASSED THROUGH THEIR FLESH.+
(From a Photograph) _face_ 76
“+THE TERRIBLE DEMON KING OF LANKA AND HIS NO LESS
FORMIDABLE BROTHER.+” (From a Photograph) _face_ 80
+THE TEMPLE AND BATHING GHÂTS ON THE SACRED LAKE
AT KURUKSHETRA.+ (From a Photograph) _face_ 200
+THE CHURNING OF THE OCEAN.+ (Reduced from Moor’s
“Hindu Pantheon”) 220
GREAT INDIAN EPICS
GENERAL INTRODUCTION
Foremost amongst the many valuable relics of the old-world literature
of India stand the two famous epics, the “Ramayana” and the
“Mahabharata,” which are loved with an untiring love by the Hindus,
for they have kept alive, through many a dreary century, the memory
of the ancient heroes of the land, whose names are still borne by the
patient husbandman and the proud chief.[1] These great poems have a
special claim to the attention even of foreigners, if considered simply
as representative illustrations of the genius of a most interesting
people, their importance being enhanced by the fact that they are, to
this day, accepted as entirely and literally true by some two hundred
millions of the inhabitants of India. And they have the further
recommendation of being rich in varied attractions, even when regarded
merely as the ideal and unsubstantial creations of Oriental imagination.
Both the “Ramayana” and “Mahabharata” are very lengthy works which,
taken together, would make up not less than about five and twenty
printed volumes of ordinary size. They embrace detailed histories
of wars and adventures and many a story that the Western World would
now call a mere fairy tale, to be listened to by children with
wide-eyed attention. But interwoven with the narrative of events and
legendary romances is a great bulk of philosophical, theological,
and ethical materials, covering probably the whole field of later
Indian speculation. Indeed, the epics are a storehouse of Brahmanical
instruction in the arts of politics and government; in cosmogony and
religion; in mythology and mysticism; in ritualism and the conduct
of daily life. They abound in dialogues wherein the subtle wisdom of
the East is well displayed, and brim-over with stories and anecdotes
intended to point some moral, to afford consolation in trouble, or
to inculcate a useful lesson. To epitomize all this satisfactorily
would be quite impossible; but what I have given in this little volume
will, I hope, be sufficient to show the nature and structure of the
epics, the characteristics that distinguish them as essentially Indian
productions, and the light they throw upon the condition of India
and the state of Hindu society at the time the several portions were
written, or, at any rate, collected together. The narrative, brief
though it be, will reflect the more abiding features of Indian national
life, revealing some unfamiliar ideas and strange customs. Even within
the narrow limits of the reduced picture here presented, the reader
will get something more than a glimpse of those famous Eastern sages,
whose half-comprehended story has furnished the Theosophists of our
own day with the queer notion of their extraordinary _Mahatmas_; he
will learn somewhat of the wisdom and pretensions of those sages, and
will not fail to note that the belief in divine incarnations was firmly
rooted in India in very early times. He will incidentally acquire a
knowledge of all the fundamental religious ideas of the Hindus and
of the highest developments of their philosophy; he will also become
familiar with some primitive customs which have left unmistakable
traces in the institutions of modern social life in the East as well
as in the West; and will, perhaps, be able to track to their origin
some strange conceptions which are floating about the intellectual
atmosphere of our time.
Woven out of the old-time _sagas_ of a remarkable people, “the ancient
Aryans of India, in many respects the most wonderful race that ever
lived on Earth,”[2] the Sanskrit epics must have a permanent interest
for educated people in every land; while all Indian studies must
have an attraction for those who desire to watch, with intelligent
appreciation, the wonderfully interesting transformations in religion
and manners, which contact with Western civilization is producing in
the ancient and populous land of the Hindus. Not less interesting will
such studies be to those who are able to note the curious, though as
yet slight, reaction of Hindu thought upon modern European ideas in
certain directions; as, for example, in the rise of Theosophy, in the
sentimental tendency manifested in some quarters towards asceticism,
Buddhism and Pantheism; in the approval by a small class in Europe
of the cremation of the dead, and in the growing fascination of such
doctrines as those of metempsychosis and _Karma_.
Although it is difficult for the Englishman of the nineteenth century
to understand the intellectual attitude of modern India in respect to
the wild legends of its youth, it may help towards a comprehension of
this point if one reflects that had not Christianity superseded the
original religions of Northern Europe, had the Eddas and Sagas, with
their weird tales of wonder and mystery, continued to be authoritative
scripture in Britain, the religious faith of England might now have
been somewhat on a par with that of India to-day--an extraordinary
medley of the wildest legends and deepest philosophy. It is a subject
for wonder how the gods of the ancestors of the English people have
entirely faded from popular recollection in Britain, how Sagas and
Eddas have been completely forgotten, leaving only a substratum of old
superstitions about witchcraft, omens, etc. (once religious beliefs),
amongst the more backward of the populace. How many Englishmen ever
think, how many of them even know, anything about Thor or Odin and the
bloody sacrifices (often human sacrifices)[3] with which those deities
were honoured? How many realize that the worship of these gods and the
rites referred to had a footing in some parts of Europe as recently as
eight hundred years ago?[4]
The almost complete extinction of the ancestral beliefs of the
European nations is a striking fact to which the religious history
of India presents no parallel. In Europe the great wall of Judaic
Christianity--too often cemented with blood--has been reared, in
colossal dimensions, between the past and the present, cutting off all
communication between the indigenous faiths and modern speculative
philosophy of the Western nations; while diverting the affectionate
interest of the devout from local to foreign shrines.
No barrier of nearly similar proportions has ever been raised in
India. Islam, it is true, has planted its towers in many parts of the
country and has, to some restricted extent, blocked the old highways
of thought, causing a certain estrangement between the old and new
world of ideas; but the severance between the past and the present
has nowhere been as complete as in Europe, for many an Indian Muslim,
though professing monotheism, still lingers upon the threshold of the
old Hindu temples, and still, in times of trouble, will stealthily
invoke the aid of the national deities, who are not yet dead and
buried like those of the Vikings. Hence it may be asserted of the vast
majority of the Indian people that their vision extends reverentially
backward, through an uninterrupted vista, to the gods and heroes of
their remote ancestors.
And who were those remote ancestors, those Aryan invaders of India
in the gray dawn of human history? We have had two answers to
that question. A few years ago the philologists assured us, very
positively, that the Aryans were a vigorous primitive race whose home
was in central Asia and who had sent successive waves of emigration
and conquest westwards, right across the continent of Europe, to be
arrested in their onward march only by the wide waters of the Atlantic.
We were also assured, by these learned investigators into the mysteries
of words and languages, that one horde of Asiatic Aryans, instead
of following the usual westward course adopted by their brethren,
had turned their thoughts towards the sunnier climes of the South,
and, scaling the northwestern barrier of India, had conquered the
aborigines and settled in the great Indo-Gangetic plain at the foot of
the Himalayas. These conclusions find a place in all our text-books of
Indian or European history. The schoolboy, who has read his Hunter’s
brief history[5] of India, knows well that “the forefathers of the
Greek and the Roman, of the English and the Hindu, dwelt together
in Central Asia, spoke the same tongue, worshipped the same gods,”
and that “the history of ancient Europe is the story of the Aryan
settlements around the shores of the Mediterranean.” However, these
conclusions have recently undergone revision and radical modification.
Within the last decade a theory, which originated in England with Dr.
Latham and which met with contemptuous disregard when first propounded,
has been revived by certain German _savants_ and scientists.[6]
Supported by the latest results of craniological and anthropological
investigation, Latham’s theory, in a modified form, has, under the
erudite advocacy of Dr. Schrader and Karl Penka, gained all but
universal acceptance. The theory now in favour, which is founded more
on inferences from racial than linguistic peculiarities, differs from
the one referred to above in a very important respect. The home of the
Aryans, instead of being found in Central Asia, is traced to Europe, so
that the Aryan invaders of India, many centuries before Christ, were
men of _European_ descent who pushed their way _eastward_ and gradually
extended their dominion first over Iran and subsequently over Northern
India, having scaled the snowclad Himalayas, literally in search of
“fresh fields and pastures new.” When they reached India, after a long
sojourn in Eastern countries, they were a mixed European and Asiatic
race, with probably a large share of Turanian blood,[7] speaking a
language of Aryan origin.[8] A strong, warlike, aggressive race, these
Aryans won for themselves a dominant position in ancient India, and
have left to this day the unmistakable traces of their language in many
of the vernaculars of the land.
The decision of the question of the origin of the Aryans and the
locality of their primitive home is not one of purely antiquarian
interest, it is one of national importance, as anyone will be prepared
to admit who knows, and can recall to mind, the effect upon the
educated Hindus of the announcement that their own ancestors had been
the irresistible subjugators of Europe. Whether the Norman conquerors
of England were of Celtic or, as the late Professor Freeman insisted,
of Teutonic stock, is not unimportant to the Englishman for the true
comprehension of his national history and not without some influence
even in practical politics; but of far greater moment will it be for
the Hindu whether he learn to regard the Aryans of old as an Asiatic or
a European race, cradled on the “Roof of the World” or in the flats of
the Don.
Although all Hindus look upon the Aryan heroes of the Indian epics as
the _ancestors_ of their race, and fondly pride themselves in their
mighty deeds, the claim, in the case of the vast majority, is, of
course, untenable; since the great bulk of the Indian population has
no real title to Aryan descent. Yet Rama and Arjuna are truly Indian
creations, enshrined in the sacred literature of the land. And the
pride and faith of the Hindus in these demigods has, perhaps, sustained
their spirits and elevated their characters, through the vicissitudes
of many a century since the heroic age of India.
What genuine facts, or real events, may underlie the poetical
narratives of the authors of the “Ramayana” and “Mahabharata” will
never be known. The details naïvely introduced are often such as
to leave an irresistible impression that there is a substratum of
substantial truth serving as a foundation for the fantastic and airy
structure reared by the poets, and we now and then recognize, for
instance in their despairing fatefulness, a distant echo of ideas which
have travelled with the Aryan race to the Northern Seas. But the too
fertile imagination of the Indian poets, their supreme contempt for
details and utter disregard of topographical accuracy, leave little
hope of our ever getting any satisfactory history out of the Sanskrit
epics, or even of our establishing an identity in regard to localities
and details of construction such as has been traced, in our own day, by
Schliemann, between the buried citadel of Hissarlik on the Hellespont
and vanished Ilion. For those who do not share these opinions there
is a wide and deep field for industrious research; but I confess that
I am somewhat indifferent regarding the extremely doubtful history or
the very fanciful allegory that may be laboriously extracted from the
Indian epics by ingenious historians and mythologists. Indeed I would
protest against these grand epics being treated as history, for then
they must be judged by the canons of historical composition and would
be shorn of their highest merits. They are _poems_ not _history_, they
are the romantic legends and living aspirations of a people, not the
sober annals of their social and political life.
Like the other great poems created by the genius of the past, the
Indian epics have a value quite independent of either the history or
the allegory which they enshrine. They appeal to our predilection
for the marvellous and our love of the beautiful, while affording us
striking pictures of the manners of a bygone age, which, for many
reasons, we would not willingly lose.
Being religious books, the “Ramayana” and “Mahabharata” are, more or
less, known to the Hindus; but it is a noteworthy fact that even
educated Indians are but little acquainted with the _details_ of these
poems, although both epics have been translated into the leading
vernaculars of the country and also into English. I have known educated
young men, with more faith in their ancient books than knowledge of
their contents, warmly deny the possibility of certain narratives
having a place in these books, because, to their somewhat Europeanized
ideas, they seemed too far-fetched to be probable. The more striking
incidents are, however, familiar to every Hindu, for Brahmans wander
all over the country, reciting the sacred poems to the people. They
gather an audience of both sexes and all ages and read to them from
the venerable Sanskrit, rendering the verses of the dead language of
the Aryan invaders of India into the living speech of their hearers.
Sometimes the Brahmans read and expound vernacular translations of
these poems of Valmiki and Vyasa. Often-times these recitations
are accompanied with much ceremony and dignified with a display of
religious formalities.[9] Day after day the people congregate to
listen, with rapt attention, to the old national stories, and the moral
lessons drawn from them, for their instruction, by the Pandits. To this
day a considerable proportion of the people of India order much of
their lives upon the models supplied by their venerable epics, which
have, moreover, mainly inspired such plastic and pictorial work as
the Indian people have produced; being for the Hindu artist what the
beautiful creations of Greek fancy, or the weird myths of the Middle
Ages, have been for his European brother.
Impressed with the importance of some knowledge of the Indian epics
on the part of everyone directly or indirectly interested in the
life and opinions of the strange and highly intellectual Hindu race,
which has preserved its marked individuality of character through so
many centuries of foreign domination, I have written, for the benefit
of those, whether Europeans or Indians, who may be acquainted with
the English language, the brief epitomes of them contained in the
following pages; deriving my materials not from the original Sanskrit
poems, which are sealed books to me, but from the translations, more
or less complete and literal, of these voluminous works, which have
been given to the world by both European and Indian scholars. On
all occasions where religious opinions or theological doctrines are
concerned I have given the preference to the translations of native
scholars, as I know that Indian Sanskritists have a happy contempt
for Western interpretations of their sacred books, and it seemed very
desirable, in such a case, to let the Hindus speak for themselves.
Besides, I am of opinion that the English versions of the “Ramayana”
and “Mahabharata,” now being given to the world by Indian scholars,
have a unique value, which later translations will, in all probability,
not possess. The present translators are orthodox Hindus possessing
a competent knowledge of English, and their aim has been to produce
English versions of their sacred poems, as understood and accepted by
themselves and by the orthodox Indian world to-day, their renderings,
no doubt, reflecting the traditional interpretation handed down from
past times. Hereafter we shall have more _learned_ translations, in
which European ideas will do duty for Indian ones, and the old poems
will be interpreted _up to_ our own standard of science and philosophy.
In wild legends we shall discover subtle allegories veiling sober
history, in license and poetry we shall find deep religious mysteries,
and in archaic notions shall recognize, with admiration, the structure
of modern philosophy. Something of this has already come about, and
that the rest is not far-off is evident; for we have only recently
been told, that “in the _shlokas_ of the ‘Ramayana’ and ‘Mahabharata’
we have many important historical truths relating to the ancient
colonization of the Indian continent by conquering invaders ... all
designedly concealed in the priestly phraseology of the Brahman, but
with such exactitude of method, nicety of expression and particularity
of detail, as to render the whole capable of being transformed into a
sober, intelligible and probable history of the political revolutions
that took place over the extent of India during ages antecedent to the
records of authentic history, by anyone who will take the trouble to
read the Sanskrit aright through the veil of allegory covering it.”[10]
While regretting my shortcomings in respect to the language of the
bards who composed the Sanskrit epics, since I am thereby cut off from
appreciating the beauty of their versification and the felicities
of expression which no translation can possibly preserve, I derive
consolation from the reflection, that with sufficiently accurate
translations at hand--similar to our English versions of the Hebrew and
Greek Scriptures--a knowledge of Sanskrit is certainly not essential
for the production of a work with the moderate pretensions of this
little volume.
PART I
THE RAMAYANA
THE RAMAYANA
OR ADVENTURES OF RAMA
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY REMARKS
Once every year, at the great festival known as the _Dasahra_, the
story of the famous Hindu epic, the “Ramayana,” is, throughout Northern
India, recalled to popular memory, by a great out-door dramatic
representation of the principal and crowning events in the life of the
hero, Rama. The “Ramayana” is not merely a popular story, it is an
inspired poem, every detail of which is, in the belief of the great
majority of the Indian people, strictly true. Although composed at
least nineteen centuries ago, it still lives enshrined in the hearts
of the children of Aryavarta and is as familiar to them to-day as it
has been to their ancestors for fifty generations. Pious pilgrims even
now retrace, step by step, the wanderings, as well as the triumphal
progress, of Rama, from his birth-place in Oudh to the distant island
of Ceylon. Millions believe in the efficacy of his name alone to insure
them safety and salvation. For these reasons the poem is of especial
value and interest to anyone desirous of understanding the people of
India; affording, as it does, an insight into the thoughts and feelings
of the bard or bards who composed it and of a race of men who, through
two thousand eventful years, have not grown weary of it.
In the following chapters I shall first give a brief summary of the
leading events narrated in the “Ramayana” and then proceed to link, as
it were, the past with the present, by describing the annual play as I
have often witnessed it in Northern India.
The “Ramayana,” written in the Sanskrit language, embraces an account
of the birth and adventures of Rama. The whole poem, which is divided
into seven books or sections, contains about fifty thousand lines
and occupies five goodly volumes in Mr. Ralph Griffith’s metrical
translation,[11] which is, to a certain extent, an abridged version.
To Valmiki is attributed the authorship of this famous epic, and a
pretty story is told of the manner in which he came to write it. A
renowned ascetic, a sort of celestial being, named Narada, had related
to Valmiki the main incidents of the adventurous life of Rama, and
had deeply interested that sage in the history of the hero and his
companions. Pondering the events described by Narada, Valmiki went
to the river to bathe. Close at hand two beautiful herons, in happy
unconsciousness of danger, were disporting themselves on the wooded
bank of the stream, when suddenly one of the innocent pair was laid
prostrate by the arrow of an unseen fowler. The other bird, afflicted
with grief, fluttered timidly about her dead mate, uttering sore cries
of distress. Touched to the heart by her plaintive sorrow, Valmiki gave
expression to his feelings of irritation and sympathy in words which,
to his own surprise, had assumed a rhythmic measure and were capable
of being chanted with an instrumental accompaniment. Presently, Brahma
himself, the Creator of all, visited the sage in his hermitage, but
Valmiki’s mind was so much occupied with the little tragedy at the
river-side, that he unconsciously gave utterance to the verses he had
extemporized on the occasion. Brahma, smiling, informed the hermit that
the verses had come to his lips in order that he might compose the
delightful and instructive story of Rama in that particular measure
or _shloka_. Assuring Valmiki that all the details of the stirring
tale would be revealed to him, the Supreme Being directed the sage to
compose the great epic, which should endure as long as the mountains
and seas exist upon this earth. How Valmiki acquired a knowledge of
all the details of the story is worth remembering, as being peculiarly
Indian in its conception.
“Sitting himself facing the east on a cushion of _Kusa_ grass, and
sipping water according to the ordinance, he addressed himself to the
contemplation of the subject through _Yoga_.[12] And, by virtue of his
_Yoga_ powers, he clearly observed before him Rama and Lakshmana, and
Sita, and Dasahratha, together with his wives, in his kingdom, laughing
and talking and acting and bearing themselves as in real life.”[13]
CHAPTER II
THE STORY
The story of the “Ramayana,” in brief outline, is as follows:
In the ancient land of Kosala, watered by the River Surayu, stood the
famous Ayodhya,[14] a fortified and impregnable city of matchless
beauty, and resplendent with burnished gold, where everyone was
virtuous, beautiful, rich and happy. Wide streets traversed this city
in every direction, lined with elegant shops and stately palaces
glittering all over with gems. There was no lack of food in Ayodhya,
for “it abounded in paddy and rice, and its water was as sweet as
the juice of the sugar-cane.” Gardens, mango-groves and “theatres
for females” were to be found everywhere. Dulcet music from _Venas_
and _Panavas_ resounding on all sides, bore evidence to the taste of
the people. Learned and virtuous Brahmans, skilled in sacrificial
rites, formed a considerable proportion of the population; which also
included a crowd of eulogists and “troops of courtesans.” The pride
of ancient families supported a large number of genealogists. Hosts
of skilled artisans of every kind contributed to the conveniences and
elegancies of life, while an army of doughty warriors protected this
magnificent and opulent city from its envious foes. Over this wonderful
and prosperous capital of a flourishing kingdom, ruled King Dasahratha,
a man some sixty thousand years of age, gifted with every virtue and
blessed beyond most mortals. But, as if to prove that human happiness
can never exist unalloyed with sorrow, even he had one serious cause
for grief; he was childless, although he had three wives and seven
hundred and fifty concubines.[15] Acting upon the advice of the
priests, the Maharajah determined to offer, with all the complicated
but necessary rites, the sacrifice of a horse, as a means of prevailing
upon the gods to bless his house with offspring. The accomplishment
of such a sacrifice was no easy matter, or to be lightly undertaken,
even by a mighty monarch like Dasahratha, since it was an essential
condition of success that the sacrifice should be conducted without
error or omission in the minutest details of the ritual of an intricate
ceremony, extending over three days. Not only would any flaw in the
proceedings render the sacrifice nugatory, but it was to be feared that
learned demons (Brahma-Rakshasas), ever maliciously on the look-out
for shortcomings in the sacrifices attempted by men, might cause the
destruction of the unfortunate performer of an imperfect sacrifice
of such momentous importance. However, the sacrifice was actually
performed on a magnificent scale and most satisfactorily, with the
assistance of an army of artisans, astrologers, dancers, conductors of
theatres, and persons learned in the ceremonial law. Birds, beasts,
reptiles, and aquatic animals were sacrificed by the priests on this
auspicious occasion, but the sacred horse itself was despatched,
with three strokes, by the hand of Kauçalya, Dasahratha’s queen. When
the ceremonies had been conducted to a successful close, Dasahratha
showed his piety and generosity by making a free gift of the whole
earth to the officiating priests; but they were content to restore
the magnificent present, modestly accepting in its stead fabulous
quantities of gold and silver and innumerable cows.
The gods, Gandharvas and Siddhas, propitiated by the offerings
profusely made to them, assembled, each one for his share,[16] and
Dasahratha was promised four sons.[17] While these events were
transpiring, a ten-headed Rakshasa named Ravana was making himself the
terror of gods and men, under the protection of a boon bestowed upon
him by the Creator (Brahma), that neither god nor demon should be able
to deprive him of his life. This boon had been obtained by the Rakshasa
as the reward of long and painful austerities.[18]
The hierarchy of minor gods, in their own interest and for the sake of
the saints who were constantly being disturbed in their devotions by
this Ravana and his fellows, appealed to the Supreme Deity to find some
remedy for the evil. Brahma, after reflecting on the matter, replied--
“One only way I find
To stay this fiend of evil mind.
He prayed me once his life to guard
From demon, God and heavenly bard,
And spirits of the earth and air,
And I consenting heard his prayer.
But the proud giant in his scorn,
Recked not of man of woman born,
None else may take his life away
But only man the fiend may slay.”
--+GRIFFITH.+
On receiving this reply the gods petitioned Vishnu to divide himself
into four parts and to appear on earth, incarnate as the promised sons
of Dasahratha, and thus, in human form, to rid the world of Ravana.
Vishnu consented. He proceeded to the earth and appeared amidst the
sacrificial flames of Dasahratha’s offering, in an assumed form “of
matchless splendour, strength and size”--black, with a red face, and
shaggy hair--apparelled in crimson robes, and adorned with celestial
ornaments, holding in his hands a vase of gold, containing heavenly
nectar, which he handed to the king, with instructions to make his
three queens partake of the sacred draught, in order that they might
be blessed with sons.
Dasahratha distributed the nectar amongst his wives, though not in
equal proportions. In due time the promised sons were born, viz., Rama,
Lakshmana, Bharata and Satrughna. Rama possessed the larger share of
the divine nature and decidedly excelled his brothers in prowess.
To him, especially, was allotted the task of destroying Ravana. And
countless hosts of monkeys and bears were begotten by the gods, at
Brahma’s[19] suggestion, to aid him in his work.
Whilst yet a mere stripling, Rama was appealed to by the sage
Vishwamitra to destroy certain demons who interrupted the religious
rites of the hermits.
The boy was only sixteen years of age, and Dasahratha, naturally
solicitous for his safety, declined to let him go to fight the dreadful
brood of demons, who had an evil reputation for cruelty and ferocity;
but the mighty ascetic waxed so wrath at this refusal of his request,
that “the entire earth began to tremble and the gods even were inspired
with awe.” Vasishta, the king’s spiritual adviser, who had unbounded
confidence in Vishwamitra’s power to protect the prince from all harm,
strongly advised compliance with the ascetic’s request, and Dasahratha
was prevailed upon to allow Rama and Lakshmana to leave Ayodhya with
Vishwamitra.
The incidents of the journey reveal a very primitive state of society.
The princes and their guide were all of them on foot, apparently
quite unattended by servants and unprovided with even the most
ordinary necessaries of life. When they reached the River Surayu,[20]
Vishwamitra communicated certain _mantras_ or spells to Rama, by the
knowledge of which he would be protected from fatigue and fever[21] and
from the possibility of being surprised by the Rakshasas against whom
he was going to wage war.
The land through which our travellers journeyed was sparsely inhabited.
A goodly portion of it seems to have been covered with woods, more or
less pleasant, abounding in the hermitages of ascetics, some of whom
had been carrying on their austerities for _thousands of years_. Beside
these pleasant woods there were vast, trackless forests, infested
by ferocious beasts and grim Rakshasas, and it was not long before
the might of the semi-divine stripling, Rama, was tried against one
of these terrible creatures, Tarika by name, an ogress of dreadful
power, whom Rama undertook to destroy “in the interests of Brahmans,
kine and celestials.” When the ascetic and the two princes arrived in
the dark forest where the dreaded Tarika ruled supreme, Rama twanged
his bowstring loudly, as a haughty challenge to this redoubtable
giantess. Incensed at the audacious sound of the bowstring, Tarika
uttered terrible roars and rushed out to attack the presumptuous
prince. The ascetic raised a defiant roar in response. That was his
entire contribution to the combat in which Rama and his adversary were
immediately involved, Lakshmana taking part in it also. This, the
first conflict in which Rama was engaged, may be taken as a type of
all his subsequent battles. Raising clouds of dust, Tarika, “by help
of illusion,” poured a shower of huge stones upon the brothers, but
these ponderous missiles were met and arrested in mid-air by a volley
of arrows. The battle raged fiercely, but the brothers succeeded with
their shafts in depriving Tarika of her hands, her nose and her ears.
Thus disabled and disfigured, Tarika changed her shape[22] and even
concealed herself from view, while still continuing the fight with
unabated fury; but Rama, guided by sound alone, assailed his invisible
foe with such effect that he eventually laid her dead at his feet, to
the joy of Vishwamitra and the relief of the denizens of the great
forest over which she had terrorized.
After this successful combat, the ascetic, Vishwamitra, conferred
on Rama a gift of strange weapons, which even the celestials were
incapable of wielding. How very different the magic weapons received by
Rama were from those familiar to the sons of men, will be apparent from
the poet’s statement that the weapons themselves made their appearance
spontaneously before Rama, “and with clasped hands, they, well-pleased,
addressed Rama thus: These, O highly generous one, are thy servants, O
Raghava. Whatever thou wishest, good betide thee, shall by all means be
accomplished by us.”
Such wonderful and efficient weapons, endowed with a consciousness and
individuality of their own, needed, however, to be kept under strict
control, lest in their over-zeal or excitement they might effect
undesigned and irreparable mischief. The sage accordingly communicated
to Rama the various _mantras_ or spells by which they might, on
critical occasions, be restrained and regulated in their operations.
In their woodland wanderings amongst the hermitages the brothers and
their guide came across many sages whose laborious austerities were
constantly being hindered by wicked, flesh-eating Rakshasas. Indeed
the world, outside the cities and villages,--which it would seem were
very few and far between,--as pictured by Valmiki, is a very strange
one, mostly peopled by two sets of beings, _hermits_ striving after
supernatural power through the practice of austerities, and _demons_
bent on frustrating their endeavours by unseasonable interruptions of
their rites, or impious pollution of their sacrifices. Sometimes, as in
the case of Ravana, the demons themselves would practise austerities
for the attainment of power.
Very prominent figures in the poem are the great ascetics, like
Vishwamitra himself, who, a Kshatriya by caste and a king by lineage,
had obtained, through dire austerities prolonged over thousands of
years, the exalted rank and power of _Brahmanhood_. A single example of
his self-inflicted hardships and the consequences resulting therefrom
may not be out of place. He once restrained his breath for a thousand
years, when vapours began to issue from his head, “and at this the
three worlds became afflicted with fear.” Like most of his order,
he was a very proud and irate personage, ready, upon very slight
provocation, to utter a terrible and not-to-be-escaped-from curse.[23]
Once, in a fit of rage against the celestials, Vishwamitra created
entire systems of stars and even threatened, in his fury, to create
another India by “the process of his self-earned asceticism.”
The life led by the princely brothers in their pedestrian wanderings
with this mighty sage was simplicity itself. They performed their
religious rites regularly, adoring the rising sun, the blazing fire or
the flowing river, as the case might be. Their sojourn in the forests
was enlivened by pleasant communion with the hermits to whose kind
hospitality they were usually indebted for a night’s lodging, if such
it can be called, and a simple fare of milk and fruits. Vishwamitra
added interest to their journeyings by satisfying the curiosity of
the brothers in regard to the history of the several places they
visited. Here, as he informed them, the god Rudra had performed his
austerities--for even the gods were not above the necessity and
ambition of ascetic practices--and blasted the impious Kama into
nothingness with a breath. There, the great god Vishnu of mighty
asceticism, worshipped of all the deities, dwelt during hundreds of
_Yugas_, for the purpose of carrying on his austerities and practising
_yoga_.[24] At one time Vishwamitra would relate the history of the
origin of Ganga and of her descent upon the earth, as the mighty and
purifying Ganges, chief of rivers. At another time he would himself
listen complacently, along with his princely companions, to the history
of his own wonderful asceticism and marvellous performances, as the
wise Satananda related it for the special edification of Rama.
So passed away the time in the forests, not altogether peacefully,
however, for the object of the journey would not have been fulfilled
without sundry fierce and entirely successful encounters with the
Rakshasas, those fiendish interrupters of sacrifice and persistent
enemies of the anchorites. Eventually the wanderers came to the kingdom
of Mithila, whose king, Janaka,[25] had a lovely daughter to bestow
upon the worthy and fortunate man who should bend a certain formidable
bow which had belonged to Siva and which he had once threatened to use
in the destruction of the gods.
Janaka’s daughter, the famous Sita, whose matrimonial future was thus
connected with Siva’s bow, was of superhuman origin, having sprung from
the earth in a mysterious manner; for, while Janaka was ploughing the
ground in the course of a child-conferring sacrifice, the lovely maiden
had, by the favour of the gods, come to him out of the furrow.
Allured by the fame of Sita’s beauty, suitor after suitor had come to
Mithila and tried that tough bow of Siva’s, but without success; and
Rama’s curiosity was awakened about both the mighty weapon and the
maiden fair.
Having been introduced by Vishwamitra to the King of Mithila, Rama
was allowed to essay his strength against the huge bow, and huge it
was indeed, for it had to be carried on an eight-wheeled cart which
“was with difficulty drawn along by five thousand stalwart persons of
well-developed frames.” To Rama, however, the bending of this gigantic
bow was an easy matter, and he not only bent but broke it too, at which
event all present, overwhelmed by the noise, rolled head over heels,
with the exception of Vishwamitra, the “king and the two Raghavas.”
The lovely and much-coveted prize was Rama’s of course. Arrangements
for the wedding were carried out in grand style. Dasahratha and his
two other sons were invited to Mithila and brides were found, in the
family of Janaka, for all the _four_ brothers. Upon a daïs covered with
a canopy, and decked with flowers, the happy brides and bridegrooms
were placed, attended by the king and the priests of the two families.
Water-pots, golden ladles, censers, and conches, together with
platters containing rice, butter, curds and other things for the _Hom_
sacrifice, were also arranged for use on the platform. The sacrificial
fire was lighted, the appropriate _mantras_ repeated, and the four
bridegrooms led their brides first round the fire, and then round the
king and the priests. At this stage of the proceedings showers of
celestial flowers rained down upon the happy couples, now united in the
bonds of matrimony.[26] After these marriages the return to Ayodhya was
accomplished with rejoicings and in great state; but Vishwamitra took
his solitary way to the Northern Mountains.
As the years went by and Rama was grown to man’s estate he was endowed
with every princely virtue; the people idolized him, and his father,
desirous of retiring from the cares of government, determined to place
him upon the throne. But, although apparently simple of execution,
this arrangement was beset with difficulties. Rama was the son of the
Rajah’s eldest and principal wife; but Bharata was the son of his
favourite wife, the slender-waisted Kaikeyi. The suffrages of the
people and Dasahratha’s own wishes were entirely in favour of Rama,
but, apparently unwilling to face the grief or opposition of his
darling Kaikeyi, the king took advantage of Bharata’s absence on a
visit to a distant court to carry out the rather sudden preparations
for Rama’s installation as Yuva-Rajah, hoping, it would seem, to keep
Kaikeyi in complete ignorance of what was being done. The whole city,
however, was in a state of bustle and excitement at the approaching
event. The streets were being washed and watered, flag-staffs were
being erected on every side, gay bunting was floating about and
garlands of flowers adorned the houses. Musicians played in the
highways and in the temples, and, notwithstanding the seclusion
of the women’s apartments, it was impossible to conceal from the
inmates of the _zenana_ what was going on in the great world outside.
A deformed and cunning slave-girl, named Manthara, found out and
revealed the whole plot to Bharata’s mother. At first Kaikeyi received
the intelligence with pleasure, for Rama was dear to everybody; but
the slave-girl so worked upon her feelings of envy and jealousy, by
artfully picturing to her the very inferior position she would hold in
the world’s estimation, the painful slights she would have to endure
and the humiliation she would have to suffer, once Kauçalya’s son was
raised to the throne, that in a passion of rage and grief, she threw
away her ornaments and, with dishevelled hair, flew to the “_chamber
of sorrow_” and flung herself down upon the floor, weeping bitterly.
Here the old king found her “like a sky enveloped in darkness with the
stars hid” and had to endure the angry reproaches of his disconsolate
favourite. Acting upon a suggestion of the deformed slave-girl, the
queen reminded her husband of a promise made by him long previously,
that he would grant her any two requests she might make. She now
demanded the fulfilment of the royal promise, her two requests being
that Rama should be sent away into banishment in the forests for
a period of fourteen years and that her own son Bharata should be
elevated to the dignity of Yuva-Rajah. On these terms, and on these
only, would the offended and ambitious Kaikeyi be reconciled to her
uxorious lord. If these conditions were refused she was resolved to
rid the king of her hated presence. Dasahratha, poor old man, was
overwhelmed by this unexpected crisis. He fell at his wife’s feet,
he explained that preparations for Rama’s installation had already
commenced, he besought her not to expose him to ridicule and contempt,
he coaxed and flattered her, alluding to her lovely eyes and shapely
hips, he extolled Rama’s affectionate devotion to herself. He next
heaped bitter reproaches upon Kaikeyi’s unreasonable pride and finally
swooned away in despair. But she was firm in her purpose and would not
be shaken by anything, kind or unkind, that this “lord of earth” could
say to her. The royal word she knew was sacred, and had to be kept at
any cost.
As soon as it came to be known what a strange and unforeseen turn
events had taken, the female apartments were the scene of loud
lamentations, and the entire city was plunged in mourning. Rama, of
expansive and coppery eyes,[27] long-armed, dark blue like a lotus, a
mighty bowman of matchless strength, with the gait of a mad elephant,
brave, truthful, humble-minded, respectful and generous to Brahmans,
and having his passions under complete control, was the idol of the
zenana, the court, and the populace. The thought of his unmerited
banishment to the forests was intolerable to everyone. But he himself,
with exemplary filial devotion, prepared to go into exile at once,
without a murmur. The poet devotes considerable space to a minute
description of the sorrow experienced by the prominent characters in
the story on account of Rama’s banishment. Each one indulges in a
lengthy lamentation, picturing the privations and sufferings of the
ill-fated trio, and nearly everyone protests that it will be impossible
to live without Rama. With affectionate regard for Sita’s comfort, and
loving apprehension for her safety, Rama resolved to leave her behind
with his mother; but no argument, no inducement, could prevail upon
the devoted wife to be parted from her beloved husband. What were the
terrors of the forest to her, what the discomfort of the wilderness,
when shared with Rama? Racked with sorrow at the proposed separation,
Sita burst into a flood of tears and became almost insensible with
grief. At the sight of her tribulation Rama, overcome with emotion,
threw his arms about his dear wife and agreed to take her with him,
come what may.
Lakshmana, with devoted loyalty, would also accompany his brother into
exile.
Kaikeyi, apprehensive of delays, hurried on their preparations, and
herself, unblushingly, provided them with the bark dresses worn by
ascetics. The two brothers donned their new vestments in the king’s
presence.
“But Sita, in her silks arrayed,
Threw glances, trembling and afraid,
On the bark coat she had to wear
Like a shy doe that eyes the snare.
Ashamed and weeping for distress
From the queen’s hand she took the dress.
The fair one, by her husband’s side,
Who matched heaven’s minstrel monarch, cried:
‘How bind they on their woodland dress,
Those hermits of the wilderness?’
There stood the pride of Janak’s race
Perplexed, with sad appealing face,
One coat the lady’s fingers grasped,
One round her neck she feebly clasped,
But failed again, again, confused
By the wild garb she ne’er had used.
Then quickly hastening Rama, pride
Of all who cherish virtue, tied
The rough bark mantle on her, o’er
The silken raiment that she wore.
Then the sad women when they saw
Rama the choice bark round her draw,
Rained water from each tender eye
And cried aloud with bitter cry.”[28]
--+GRIFFITH.+
After giving away vast treasures to the Brahmans the ill-fated trio
took a pathetic leave of the now miserable old king, of Kauçalya
who mourned like a cow deprived of her calf, of Sumitra the mother
of Lakshmana, and of their “other three hundred and fifty mothers.”
With an exalted sense of filial duty the exiles also bid a respectful
and affectionate farewell to Kaikeyi, the cruel author of their
unmerited banishment, Rama remarking that it was not her own heart,
but “_Destiny_ alone that had made her press for the prevention of his
installation.”
When Rama and his companions appeared in the streets of the capital,
in the dress of ascetics, the populace loudly deplored their fate,
extolling the virtues of Rama while giving vent to their feelings of
disapproval at the king’s weak compliance with his favourite’s whim.
Sita came in for her share of popular pity and admiration, since she
“whom formerly the very rangers of the sky could not see, was to-day
beheld by every passer-by.”
A royal chariot conveyed away to the inhospitable wilderness the two
brothers and faithful Sita, torn from stately Ayodhya, their luxurious
palaces and the arms of their fond parents. All they carried with them,
in the chariot, was their armour and weapons, “a basket bound in hide
and a hoe.” Crowds of people, abandoning their homes, followed in the
track of the chariot, resolved to share the fate of the exiles. And
such was the grief of the people that the dust raised by the wheels
of the car occupied by Rama and his companions was laid by the tears
of the citizens. They drove at once to the jungles and rested there
for the night. During the hours of slumber the exiles considerately
gave their followers the slip and hurried off, in the chariot, towards
the great forest of Dandhaka. When they arrived at the banks of the
sacred and delightful Ganges the charioteer was dismissed with
tender messages to the old king from his exiled children. After the
departure of the charioteer Rama and his companions began their forest
wanderings on foot. Their hermit-life was now to commence in earnest.
Before entering the dark forests that lay before them, the brothers
resolved to wear “that ornament of ascetics, a head of matted hair,”
and, accordingly, produced the desired _coiffure_ with the aid of the
glutinous sap of the banyan tree. Thus prepared and clothed in bark
like the saints, the brothers, with faithful Sita, entered a boat
which chanced to be at the river-side and began the passage of the
Ganges. As they crossed the river the pious Sita, with joined hands,
addressed the goddess of the sacred stream, praying for a happy return
to Ayodhya, when their days of exile should be over. Having arrived
on the other bank, the exiles entered the forest in Indian file,
Lakshmana leading and Rama bringing up the rear. Passing by Sringavara
on the Ganges, they proceeded to Prayaga at the junction of the Ganges
and the Jumna. Here they were hospitably entertained by the sage
Bharadvaja, who recommended them to seek an asylum on the pleasant
slopes of wooded Chitrakuta. On the way thither Sita, ever mindful of
her religious duties, adored the Kalindi river--which they crossed on
a raft constructed by themselves--and paid her respects to a gigantic
banyan tree, near which many ascetics had taken up their abode. On the
romantic and picturesque side of Chitrakuta the exiles built themselves
a cottage, thatched with leaves, “walled with wood, and furnished with
doors.” Game, fruits, and roots abounded in the neighbourhood, so
that they need have no anxiety about their supplies. So much did they
appreciate the quiet beauties of their sylvan retreat, the cool shade,
the perfumed flowers, the sparkling rivulets and the noble river, that
they became almost reconciled to their separation from their friends
and the lordly palaces of Ayodhya, in which city important things were
happening.
The exile of Rama had been too much for the doting old Maharajah.[29]
Weighed down by sorrow, he soon succumbed to his troubles, and Bharata,
who was still absent at Giri-braja, was hastily summoned to take up the
regal office. He, accompanied by his brother Satrughna, hurried to the
capital, and finding, on his arrival, how matters really stood, heaped
reproaches upon his wicked, ambitious mother, indignantly refusing to
benefit by her artful machinations. In a transport of grief Bharata
“fell to the earth sighing like an enraged snake,” while Satrughna,
on his part, seized the deformed slave-girl Manthara, and literally
shook the senses out of her. In Rama’s absence, Bharata performed his
father’s obsequies with great pomp. The dead body of the late king,
which had been preserved in oil, was carried in procession to the river
side and there burnt, together with heaps of boiled rice and sacrificed
animals. A few days later the _sraddha_ ceremonies for the welfare of
the spirit of the departed king were performed, and, as usual, costly
presents,--money, lands, houses, goats and kine, also servant-men and
servant-maids were bestowed upon the fortunate Brahmans.
When this pious duty, which occupied thirteen days, had been fulfilled,
affairs of State demanded attention. Bharata, although pressed to do
so, resolutely declined to accept the sceptre, and resolved to set out,
with a vast following, on a visit to Rama in his retreat, hoping to
persuade him to abandon his hermit-life and undertake the government
of the realm. Great preparations had to be made for this visit to
Rama, which was a sort of wholesale exodus of the people of Ayodhya
of all ranks and occupations. A grand army was to accompany Bharata,
and the court, with all the ladies of the royal family, including
the no-doubt-reluctant Kaikeyi, were to swell the procession. A road
had to be made for the projected march of this host; streams had to
be bridged, ferries provided at the larger rivers, and able guides
secured. When the road was ready and the preparations for the journey
completed, chariots and horsemen in thousands crowded the way, mingled
with a vast multitude of citizens riding in carts. Artificers of every
kind attended the royal camp. Armourers, weavers, tailors, potters,
glass-makers, goldsmiths and gem-cutters, were there; so also were
physicians, actors and shampooers, peacock-dancers and men whose
profession it was to provide warm baths for their customers. Of course
the Brahman element was strongly represented in this great procession
from the flourishing city to the solitudes of the forest. Bharata’s
march is described at great length by the poet; but only one incident
need be mentioned here. On the way the hermit Bharadvaja, desirous of
doing Bharata honour, and probably not unwilling to display his power,
invited him and his followers, of whom, as we have seen, there were
many thousands, to a feast at his hermitage. At the command of the
saint the forest became transformed into lovely gardens, abounding in
flowers and fruit. Palaces of matchless beauty sprang into existence.
Music filled the cool and perfumed air. Food and drink, including meat
and wine, appeared in profusion:--soups and curries are especially
mentioned, and the flesh of goats and bears, deer, peacocks and cocks;
also rice, milk and sugar. In addition to all this, a host of heavenly
nymphs from Swarga descended to indulge in soft dalliance with the
ravished warriors of Bharata’s army.
“Then beauteous women, seven or eight,
Stood ready by each man to wait.
Beside the stream his limbs they stripped,
And in the cooling water dipped,
And then the fair ones, sparkling-eyed,
With soft hands rubbed his limbs and dried,
And sitting on the lovely bank
Held up the wine-cup as he drank.”
--+GRIFFITH.+
For one day and one night the intoxicating enjoyment continued; and
then, at the word of command, all the creations of the sage’s power
vanished, leaving the forest in its wonted gloom.
Having taken a respectful leave of the mighty ascetic, Bharata and his
followers threaded their way through the dense forests towards the
Mountain Chitrakuta and the River Mandakini. After a long march they at
last found the object of their desire, the high-souled Rama, “seated in
a cottage, bearing a head of matted locks, clad in black deerskin and
having tattered cloth and bark for his garment.” When Rama heard of his
father’s death he was deeply moved and fell insensible upon the ground,
“like a blooming tree that hath been hewn by an axe.” The loving
Vaidehi (Sita) and the brothers Lakshmana and Bharata sprinkled water
on the face of the prostrate man and restored him to animation, when
he at once burst into loud and prolonged lamentations. Presently Rama
pulled himself together and duly performed the funeral rites, pouring
out libations of water and making an offering of _ingudi_ fruits to
the spirit of his departed father. These offerings were not worthy of
being presented to the manes of so great a man as Dasahratha; but were
justifiable, under the circumstances of the case, on the accepted
principle that “that which is the fare of an individual is also the
fare of his divinities.”[30] Bharata and the rest, respectfully sitting
before Rama with joined hands, entreated him, with the greatest
humility, to undertake the reins of government; but he was not to be
persuaded to do so. He would not break the resolution he had made, nor
would he be disloyal to his dead father’s commands. Then Javali, a
Brahman atheist, insisting that there was and could be no hereafter,
that Dasahratha, once his sire, was now mere nothing, advised the
prince to yield to the reasonable wishes of the living and return
with them to rule over the kingdom of his ancestors. Rama, however,
warmly rebuked the atheist for his impiety, and all that Bharata could
accomplish was merely to induce him to put off from his feet a pair of
sandals adorned with gold, which he (Bharata) carried back with him
in great state to the deserted Ayodhya--now inhabited only by cats
and owls--as a visible symbol of his brother Rama, in whose name he
undertook to carry on the affairs of the State until the appointed
fourteen years of exile should have run their course.
The incidents connected with Rama’s exile to the forests, his life
and rambles at Chitrakuta, Bharata’s imposing march through the same
wooded country which the exiles had traversed, affords the poet of
the “Ramayana” rare opportunities of displaying his love for the
picturesque and his strong natural leaning towards the serene, if
uneventful, life of the hermit. Often in these early forest rovings,
and indeed throughout the fourteen years of exile, does Rama, or
some other one, linger to note and admire the beauties of woodland
and landscape, and to hold loving communion with the fair things of
field and forest. Though he praises the cities, and pictures their
grandeur of gold and gems, it is plain throughout that the poet’s
heart is in the woods, displaying on his part an appreciation of
the charms of nature and scenery, very remarkable, indeed, when we
consider how slowly the taste for the beauties of inanimate nature was
developed in Europe. After Bharata’s return to Ayodhya, Rama and his
companions moved further southwards, in the direction of the great
forest of Dandhaka, which extended indeed as far as the Godavari. In
their wanderings they came to the abode of a certain ascetic whose
wife, having performed severe austerities for ten thousand years,
was privileged, during ten years of drought, to create fruits and
roots for the sustenance of the people and to divert the course of
the river Jumna, so that its waters should flow by the thirsty asylum
of the hermits. This ancient dame took a great fancy to Vaidehi,
and, woman-like, gave her fair disciple a worthy gift, consisting of
fine apparel, of beautiful ornaments, a precious cosmetic for the
beautification of her person, and a rare garland of flowers. Nor was
the old lady contented until she had seen the effect of her present on
Janaka’s charming daughter, who had pleased her much by her good sense
in affirming that “the asceticism of woman is ministering unto her
husband.”
Wheresoever the exiles turned their steps, in these almost trackless
forests, they were told of the evil doings of the Rakshasas, who not
only interrupted the sacrifices, but actually carried off and devoured
the anchorites. Very curious, too, were the ways in which some of these
Rakshasas compassed the destruction of the saints. One of them, the
wily Ilwala, well acquainted with Sanskrit, would assume the form of
a Brahman and invite the hermits to a _sraddha_ feast. His brother,
in the assumed form of a sheep, would be slaughtered and cooked for
his guests. When they had enjoyed their repast the cruel Ilwala
would command his brother Vatapi to “come forth,” which he would do
unreluctantly, and with a vengeance, bleating loudly and rending the
bodies of the unhappy guests, of whom thousands were disposed of in
this truly Rakshasa fashion. It is noteworthy that those ascetics who
had, by long and severe austerities, acquired a goodly store of merit,
might easily have made short work of the Rakshasas; but, on the other
hand, if they allowed their angry passions to rise, even against such
impious beings, they would, while punishing their tormentors, have
inevitably lost the entire advantage of their long and painful labours.
Hence many of the hermits made a direct appeal to Rama for protection.
Entering the forest of Dandhaka the exiles encountered a huge, terrible
and misshapen monster, besmeared with fat and covered with blood,
who was roaring horribly with his widely distended mouth, while with
his single spear he held transfixed before him quite a menagerie of
lions, tigers, leopards and other wild animals. This awful being
rushed towards the trio, and, quick as thought, snatched up the gentle
Vaidehi in his arms, bellowing out “I am a Rakshasa, Viradha by name.
This forest is my fortress. Accoutred in arms I range (here), feeding
on the flesh of ascetics. This transcendantly beauteous one shall be
my wife. And in battle I shall drink your blood, wretches that ye
are.” At this juncture, Rama, as on some other trying occasions, gave
way to unseasonable lamentations and tears; but Lakshmana, always
practical, bravely recalled him to the necessity of immediate action.
The Rakshasa, having ascertained who his opponents were, vauntingly
assured them that, having gratified Brahma by his asceticism, he had
obtained this boon from him, that no one in the world could slay him
with weapons; and he mockingly advised the princes to renounce Sita
and go their way. But Rama’s wrath was now kindled, and he began a
vigorous attack upon the monster, piercing him with many arrows. A
short, though fierce, combat ensued, the result being that the Rakshasa
seized and carried off both Rama and Lakshmana on his ample shoulders.
His victory now seemed complete, and Sita,--who had apparently been
dropped during the combat,--dreading to be left alone in the terrible
wilderness, piteously implored the monster (whom she insinuatingly
addressed as the “best of Rakshasas”) to take her and to release the
noble princes. The sound of her dear voice acted like a charm upon the
brothers, and, with a vigorous and simultaneous effort, they broke both
the monster’s arms at once, and then attacked him with their _fists_.
They brought him to the ground exhausted, and Rama, planting his foot
upon the throat of his prostrate foe, directed Lakshmana to dig a deep
pit for his reception, and when it was ready, they flung him into it.
The dying monster, thus overcome, _though not with weapons_, explained
that he had been imprisoned in that dreadful form of his by the curse
of a famous ascetic, and was destined to be freed from it only by the
hand of Rama. With this explanation the spirit of the departed Viradha
passed into the celestial regions.
Rama, with his wife and brother, now sought the hermitage of the sage
Sarabhanga, and on approaching it, a strange, unexpected and imposing
sight presented itself to Rama’s view:--Indra, attended by his court,
in conversation with the forest sage! The god of heaven, in clean
apparel and adorned with celestial jewels, was seated in a wondrous
car drawn by green horses up in the sky. Over him was expanded a
spotless umbrella, and two lovely damsels waved gold-handled _chowrees_
above his head. About him were bands of resplendent celestials hymning
his praises.
At Rama’s approach the god withdrew and the sage advised the prince to
seek the guidance of another ascetic named Sutikshna, adding, “This
is thy course, thou best of men. Do thou now, my child, for a space
look at me while I leave off my limbs, even as a serpent renounces
its slough.” Then kindling a sacrificial fire, and making oblations
to it with the appropriate _mantras_, Sarabhanga entered the flames
himself. The fire consumed his old decrepit body, and he was gradually
transformed, in the midst of the flames, into a splendid youth of
dazzling brightness, and, mounting upwards, ascended to the heaven of
Brahma. After Sarabhanga had left the earth in this striking manner,
bands of ascetics waited on Rama, reminded him of his duty as a king,
and solicited his protection against the Rakshasas. As Rama and his
companions wandered on through the forests another wonder soon engaged
their attention. Sweet music reached them from beneath the waters of a
charming lake covered with lotuses, and on inquiring about the strange
phenomenon, a hermit told them that a great ascetic had formed that
lake. By his fierce austerities, extending over ten thousand years,
he had acquired such a store of merit that the gods, with Agni at
their head, began to fear that he desired a position of equality with
themselves. To lure him away from such ideas they sent him five lovely
Apsaras to try the power of their charms upon him. Sage though he
was, he succumbed to their allurements, and now, weaned from his old
ambitions, he passed his time in youth and happiness--the reward of
his austerities and _yoga_ practices--in the company of the seductive
sirens whose sweet voices, blending with the tinklings of their
instruments, came softly to the ears of the wandering princes.
Sita, who had confidently followed her husband, like his very shadow,
through all these adventurous years in the forest, seems at length to
have been somewhat shaken by the very risky encounter with Viradha,
of which she had been an unwilling and terrified eye-witness, in
which her own person had been the object of contention, and which
had threatened, at one critical moment, to end very tragically for
her and her loved ones. Under the influence of these recent and
impressive experiences, Sita ventured, in her gentle, womanly way, to
suggest to her husband the advisability of avoiding all semblance of
hostility towards the Rakshasas. There were, she timidly assured her
husband, three sins to which desire gave rise: untruthfulness, the
coveting of other men’s wives, and the wish to indulge in unnecessary
hostilities. Of untruthfulness, and of allowing his thoughts to stray
towards other women, Sita unhesitatingly exonerated her lord; but
she artfully insinuated that, in his dealings with the Rakshasas, he
was giving way to the sin of provoking hostilities without adequate
cause, and she advised his laying aside his arms during his wanderings
in the forest; since the mere carrying of bows and arrows was enough
to kindle the wish to use them. To give point to this contention,
Vaidehi related how, in the olden time, there lived in the woods a
truthful ascetic whose incessant austerities Indra desired, for some
reason or other, to frustrate. For the attainment of his end the king
of heaven visited the hermit in the guise of a warrior, and left his
sword with him as a trust. Scrupulously regardful of his obligation
to his visitor, the ascetic carried the sword with him wherever duty
or necessity directed his footsteps, till constant association with
the weapon began to engender fierce sentiments, leading eventually to
the spiritual downfall of the poor ascetic, whose ultimate portion was
hell. Rama received Sita’s advice in the loving spirit in which it was
offered, and thanking her for it, explained that it was his _duty_ to
protect the saints from the oppression of the evil Rakshasas, and that
Kshatriyas carried bows in order that the word “distressed” might not
be known on this earth.
Several years of exile slipped away, not unpleasantly, in the shady
forests through which the royal brothers roamed from hermitage to
hermitage, always accompanied by the lovely and faithful Sita, whose
part throughout is one of affectionate, unfaltering and unselfish
devotion to her husband. On the banks of the Godavari, Lakshmana, who
has to do all the hard work for the party, built them a spacious hut
of clay, leaves and bamboos, propped with pillars and furnished with a
fine level floor, and there they lived happily near the rushing river.
At length the brothers got involved in a contest with a brood of giants
who roved about the woods of Dandhaka, delighting, as usual, in the
flesh of hermits and the interruption of sacred rites. This time it
was a woman who was at the bottom of their troubles. Surpanakha, an
ugly giantess and sister of Ravana, charmed with the beauty and grace
of Rama, came to him, and, madly in love, offered to be his wife. But
Rama in flattering terms put her off, saying he was already married.
In sport, apparently, he bid her try her luck with Lakshmana. She took
his advice, but Lakshmana does not seem to have been tempted by the
offer, and, while artfully addressing her as “supremely charming and
superbly beautiful lady,” advised her to become the younger wife of
Rama, to whom he referred her again. Enraged by this double rejection,
the giantess attempted to kill Sita, as the hated obstacle to the
fulfilment of her desires. The brothers, of course, interposed, and
Lakshmana, always impetuous, punished the monster by cutting off her
nose. Surpanakha fled away to her brother Khara, and roused the giant
Rakshasas to avenge her wounds. These terrible giants possessed the
power of changing their forms at will; but their numbers and their
prowess were alike of little avail against the valour and skill of
Rama, who, alone and unaided,--for he sent Lakshmana away with Sita
into an inaccessible cave,--destroyed fourteen thousand of them in a
single day. The combat, which was witnessed by the gods and Gandharvas,
Siddhas and Charanas, is described at great length, and the narrative
is copiously interspersed with the boastful speeches of the rival
chiefs. In the bewildering conflict of that day his fourteen thousand
assailants poured upon Rama showers of arrows, rocks, and trees.
Coming to close quarters they attacked him vigorously with clubs,
darts, and nooses. Although hard pressed and sorely wounded, the hero
maintained the conflict with undaunted courage, sending such thousands
of wonderful arrows from his bow that the sun was darkened and the
missiles of his enemies warded off by them. Finally Rama succeeded
in laying dead upon that awful field of carnage nearly the entire
number of his fierce assailants. Khara, the leader of the opposing
host, a worthy adversary and possessed of wondrous weapons, still
lived. Enraged at, but undaunted by, the wholesale destruction of
his followers, Khara boldly continued the fight. In his war-chariot,
bright as the sun, he seemed to be the Destroyer himself, as he
fiercely assailed the victorious Rama. With one arrow he severed the
hero’s bow in his hand; with seven other shafts like thunder-bolts
he severed his armour joints, so that the glittering mail fell from
his body. He next wounded the prince with a thousand darts. Not yet
overcome, however, Rama strung another bow, the mighty bow of Vishnu,
and discharging shafts with golden feathers, brought Khara’s standard
to the ground. Transported with wrath at this ill-omened event, Khara
poured five arrows into Rama’s bosom. The prince responded with six
terrible bolts, some of them crescent-headed. One struck the chief
in the head, two of the others entered his arms, and the remaining
three his chest. Following these up with thirteen of the same kind,
Rama destroyed his enemy’s chariot, killed his horses, decapitated his
charioteer, and shattered his bow in his grasp. Khara jumped to the
ground armed with a mace, ready to renew the conflict. At this juncture
Rama paused a moment to read the Rakshasa a homily on his evil doings;
the latter replied with fierce boasts, and hurled his mace at Rama,
who cut it into two fragments with his arrows as it sped through the
air. Khara now uprooted a lofty tree and hurled it at his foe; but, as
before, Rama cut it into pieces with his arrow ere it reached him, and
with a shaft resembling fire put a period to the life of the gallant
Rakshasa. At this conclusion of the conflict the celestials sounded
their kettle-drums, and showered down flowers upon the victorious son
of Dasahratha. Thus perished the Rakshasa army and its mighty leader:
“But of the host of giants one,
Akampan, from the field had run,
And sped to Lanka to relate
In Ravana’s ear the demon’s fate.”
--+GRIFFITH.+
This fugitive made his way to the court of Ravana, the king of the
giants, and related to him the sad fate of his followers. Close on the
heels of Akampan came Surpanakha herself, with her cruelly mutilated
face. Transported with rage at the destruction of his armies and
at sight of the disfigured countenance of his sister, the terrible
Rakshasa chief vowed vengeance on Rama and Lakshmana. But the necessity
for great caution in dealing with such valorous foes was apparent, and
Ravana did not seem over-anxious to leave his comfortable capital,
Lanka, in order to seek out the formidable brothers in the woods of
Dandhaka. But Surpanakha, scorned and mutilated, was thirsting for an
early and bitter revenge. Reproaching her brother for his unkingly
supineness, she artfully gave him a description of Sita’s beauty,
far superior to that of any goddess, which served to kindle unlawful
desires in his heart. She referred to Vaidehi’s golden complexion, her
moon-like face, her lotus eyes, her slender waist, her taper fingers,
her swelling bosom, her ample hips and lovely thighs, till the giant
was only too willing to assent to her suggestion, that the most
effectual and agreeable revenge he could take for the destruction of
his hosts, and the cruel insults to his sister, would be to carry off
the fair Sita, by stratagem, from the arms of her devoted husband, and
thus add the lovely daughter of Janaka to the number, not very small,
of the beauties who adorned his palace at Lanka. We shall presently see
that the plot was ingeniously contrived and too successfully carried
out.
How conveniently the race of Rakshasas could assume at will the forms
in which they chose to appear, we know already. Taking advantage of
this faculty of metamorphosis, a Rakshasa named Maricha, in obedience
to Ravana’s orders, showed himself near Rama’s hermitage, in the
shape of a wonderful golden deer, spotted with silver, having horns
resembling jewels, a belly like a sapphire, and sides like _madbuka_
flowers. The strange creature captivated the fancy of Sita, and she
was so eager to possess it, alive or dead, that Rama was induced to go
in pursuit of it. Suspecting mischief from this unusual appearance,
Rama left his brother with Sita, commanding him on no account to quit
her side until he returned from his pursuit of the jewelled deer. The
chase led him to a considerable distance from the hermitage. Weary of
his endeavours to secure the deer, Rama grew angry, and, with one of
his flaming arrows, pierced it in the breast. It bounded off the ground
to the height of a palm tree and, in the act of dying, began to cry,
exactly in the voice of Rama, “Ah! Sita; Ah! Lakshmana.” The words
reached the hermitage, as they were intended to do, and Sita, in an
agony of terror, implored Lakshmana to go to the aid of his brother,
who seemed to be in some dire trouble. Lakshmana, however, protested
that it was all illusion, and refused to believe that Rama could be
in any real danger; for, as he assured the trembling wife, “even the
Almighty Himself with the celestials and the three worlds cannot defeat
him” (Dutt, 609). But Vaidehi took another view of the matter, and
turning sharply upon her brother-in-law accused him roundly of desiring
the destruction of Rama in order that he might gratify an improper wish
to possess her himself. This, indeed, she said, must have been the
reason that brought him all the way from Ayodhya. What, if any, grounds
the charming lady may have had for this accusation does not appear.
They could have been known only to herself and to Lakshmana, who, with
joined hands, humbly reproached her for her cruel words, and bending
low before her went off, with a heavy heart, in search of his brother.
In a garment (probably a _saree_) of yellow silk, Sita sat alone at the
door of her thatched cottage, weeping bitterly, when Ravana presented
himself before her, in the guise of a pious medicant. Ravished by her
beauty, this pious medicant began, without ceremony, to praise the
various charms of Sita’s person with the most reprehensible license
of detail. Nor did he stop there, but telling her that she had carried
away his heart, as a stream carries away its banks, invited her to
accompany him out of the gloomy forest, tenanted by Rakshasas and wild
beasts, and quite unfit for the abode of a goddess like herself.
As her visitor was in appearance a Brahman, she dutifully attended
to him, bringing him water to wash his feet with, and food to eat,
while her eyes were straining through the forest for her absent lord.
Dreading that her Brahman guest might curse her if she did not speak
to him, Vaidehi began to relate the history of her exile, addressing
the seeming medicant in such flattering terms as “thou best of twice
born ones.” After listening to her story, Ravana revealed himself to
her, and again declaring his love, invited her to become his wife in
the great city of Lanka, where she should live in luxury, attended
by five thousand maid-servants. Sita indignantly spurned the offer,
threatening the Rakshasa with the consequences of her husband’s anger.
While indulging in boastful speeches regarding his own prowess, Ravana
assumed his natural form, with ten heads and twenty arms. As he stood
there before Vaidehi, “his eyes were bloody,” and he appeared beautiful
like unto blue clouds, being dressed in gold-hued apparel (Dutt).
Approaching the adorable Sita, the enamoured giant caught her hair with
one hand and her legs with another and carried her off, through the
air, in his golden car drawn by asses. As she was being borne away, the
fair lady cried aloud for help, invoking the sylvan deities to tell
her husband whither, and by whom, she had been carried off. Her voice
reached the virtuous Jatayus, the king of birds, who, though sixty
thousand years old, immediately interposed to rescue her. A furious
and picturesque battle ensued, in which the huge vulture-king, with
his formidable beak, talons, and wings, made a gallant stand against
Ravana, in the cause of virtue and his friend Rama, but eventually lost
his noble life in the struggle, and left his huge bones to mark, to
this day, the scene of his terrible aërial conflict with the demon.[31]
The victorious Ravana carried Sita away through the air in his arms.
Some of her ornaments fell to the ground as the two sped along in their
journey towards Lanka, and showers of blossoms, falling from her head,
were scattered around. At this sorrowful event the sun hid his face and
all nature was oppressed with grief. Not yet despairing of succour,
the brave-hearted Sita observed, as she passed along in mid-air, five
monkey-chiefs seated on the summit of a hill, and, unnoticed by Ravana,
dropped amongst them her gold-coloured sheet and some glittering
ornaments, in the hope that they might convey to Rama the intelligence
of her abduction by the giant. But Fate had more sorrow in store for
her. Over mountain peaks, over rivers, over the sea, Ravana conveyed
his prize without meeting with further opposition, and lodged her
safely in his magnificent palace in Lanka, where he treated her with
the greatest consideration, and wooed her like a youthful lover,
placing her tender feet upon his _heads_ and professing himself her
obedient slave.
[Illustration:
+THE ABDUCTION OF SITA.+
(From an illustrated Urdu version of the “Ramayana.”)]
Rama, on discovering the loss he had suffered, was in despair.
Sometimes he would indulge in excessive lamentations, wildly calling
upon the trees and streams, the deer of the forest and the birds of
the air, to tell him where his love had gone. At other times, assuming
a different tone, he would petulantly threaten to destroy “the three
worlds,” if the celestials did not restore Vaidehi to his arms. At such
moments Lakshmana would address his brother in the most abject terms of
flattery, and gently remind him of the necessity of doing his duty and
preserving his dignity.
Roaming about in search of the lost Sita, the brothers came across
Jatayus lying, in mortal agony, amidst the fragments of Ravana’s
wonderful car and his shattered umbrella. All that Rama could learn
from the dying king of the vultures was the name and rank of the
Rakshasa who had carried off his wife, and in a frenzy of grief he
rolled upon the ground, uttering vain lamentations. Presently the
brothers piously erected a funeral pile for the dead bird, and having
cremated the body, proceeded in their search for Sita, when they
encountered a horrid deformed monster, named Kabandha; thus described
by the poet:
“There stood before their wondering eyes
A fiend, broad-chested, huge of size;
A vast misshapen trunk they saw
In height surpassing nature’s law.
It stood before them dire and dread,
Without a neck, without a head,
Tall as some hill aloft in air,
Its limbs were clothed with bristling hair,
And deep below the monster’s waist
His vast misshapen mouth was placed.
His form was huge, his voice was loud
As some dark-tinted thunder-cloud.
A brilliance as of gushing flame
Beneath long lashes dark and keen
The monster’s single eye was seen.”[32]
In the battle which ensued the terrible monster had his two arms cut
off by Rama and Lakshmana respectively, and in this helpless condition
he explained that, though naturally endowed with a surpassingly
beautiful form, he used to assume this monstrous one in order to
frighten the ascetics in the forests; but one of these saints, in a
moment of anger, invoked this curse upon him, that he should retain
the disgusting form he had adopted, at least till, in course of time,
Rama should in person deliver him from its repulsive deformity. The
brothers placed the giant’s bulky body on a funeral pyre, and from
the ashes arose a beautiful being, clad in celestial raiment, at
whose suggestion Rama sought the friendship and aid of Sugriva, King
of the Vanaras, by whose assistance he hoped to find out to what
particular spot his beloved wife had been conveyed by Ravana. Rama,
in due course, found Sugriva and made the acquaintance of his chief
councillor the famous Hanuman, a son of the god of the winds. When Rama
met Sugriva, the latter was, like himself, an exile from his native
land, having been expelled from it by his elder brother, King Bali,
who had also taken unto himself Ruma, Sugriva’s wife. The deposed
monarch was wandering, with a few faithful monkey companions, in the
forest, and it was amongst them, resting together on a mountain peak,
that Sita had dropped her yellow robe and golden ornaments. A sort of
offensive and defensive alliance was formed between the two banished
princes, who were, moreover, drawn towards one another by the fact
that each had been forcibly deprived of his consort. Rama was to help
Sugriva to overthrow Bali, secure the Vanar sceptre and recover his
wife Ruma; while Sugriva, on his part, was to assist Rama to discover
Sita’s whereabouts and to destroy her abductor. So great was the dread
Sugriva entertained of the prowess of his warlike brother Bali, that,
before committing himself to this alliance with Rama, he desired that
prince to give him some practical illustration of what he could do as
a wielder of warlike weapons; whereupon Rama shot from his mighty bow
a wondrous arrow, which, after passing through the stems of seven palm
trees, traversed a hill which stood behind them, then flew through six
subterranean realms and finally returned to the hands of the bowman.
Before this feat all Sugriva’s doubts vanished and he was ready for
action.
At Rama’s suggestion he proceeded to the great Vanar city Kishkindha,
and, in a voice of thunder, dared Bali to single combat. The impetuous
and passionate King of the Vanars accepted the challenge at once,
and an exceedingly fierce encounter took place between the brothers
outside the walls of the city. At length Sugriva seemed to be failing,
when Rama, who was standing by in ambush, pierced Bali in the breast
with one of those fatal arrows of his. As might have been expected,
Bali, with the life-blood welling from his wounds, reproached Rama
bitterly for his base, unfair, and cowardly interposition in the battle
between himself and Sugriva; but Rama justified his action by saying
that he was lord paramount of the whole country, that Kishkindha came
within the realm of Dasahratha, and that Bali had justly forfeited
his life by his misconduct in appropriating his brother’s wife. Rama
further remarked, contemptuously, that the lives of mere Vanars or
monkeys, as of other animals, were of little account in the eyes of
men; a remark which seems strange, indeed, when we reflect that Bali
was the king of a magnificent city decorated with gold, silver and
ivory, and that Bali’s brother was Rama’s much desired ally.[33]
As Bali lay prostrate on the ground his disconsolate queen, Tara,
hastened to the fatal spot, with her little son Angad, and, in a
passion of grief, threw herself upon the body of her husband. She gave
way to the most touching sorrow and lamentation over the dying warrior
and seemed inconsolable, both then and later on when performing the
last rites for the deceased king. Had we seen no more of Tara she
would have lived as a tender and pleasant memory in our minds; but,
unfortunately, she reappears a very short time after as Sugriva’s much
loved and ardent consort, and actually appears grateful to Rama for the
benefit his deed had conferred upon the new king and herself.
By the time Sugriva was formerly installed in the government of
Kishkindha, the rainy season came round,--a time of the year when, in
a roadless country, all military or other movements were impossible.
Rama, faithful to the conditions of his exile, would not enter the
city, and easily contented himself with a life in the woodland, which,
with its glittering fountains and laughing streams, its stately trees,
sweet-throated birds and odorous flowers, he was never tired of
admiring.
In return for the service rendered him by Rama, his ally Sugriva, now
King of the Vanars, assembled countless numbers (hundreds of hundreds
of millions!) of Vanars (monkeys and bears of different colours--white,
yellow and green) and sent them forth to search for Sita. North, south,
east and west, these Vanars traversed every land and searched every
possible retreat. From north, east and west, were received reports
of want of success; but from the south came welcome tidings of the
discovery of Sita by Hanuman, one of the chief captains of the Vanar
host, a son of the wind-god by a nymph of paradise. The discovery of
Sita’s place of captivity was made in this way. In their active search
for traces of her whereabouts, some captains of the Vanar army of the
south came across Sampati, the huge brother of Jatayus, the king of the
vultures, lying upon the top of a high mountain. Bulky and powerful,
the bird was yet quite disabled and helpless, having had his wings
scorched and destroyed in a too adventurous flight towards the sun,
which he had once undertaken in a spirit of vanity and boastfulness.
But even in this unhappy state, dependent for his daily food upon the
filial devotion of his son, the old bird could, with his penetrating
eye, see clearly to enormous distances. He had witnessed Ravana’s
hurried flight through the air, with his beautiful prize, and had noted
also that she had been conveyed by the Rakshasa to Lanka beyond the
sea. This information he now communicated to the inquiring Vanars, and
having thereby performed a signal service to the son of Dasahratha,
his feathers sprouted again and he joyfully mounted once more into his
native element on new and lusty pinions.
Sita’s place of captivity was thus known to the Vanar; but how to
reach Lanka--separated as it was from the mainland by an arm of the
sea--became the urgent problem of the hour to the Vanar commanders
of the army of the south. If Sita was to be restored to the arms of
Rama, it was absolutely necessary that some one should get to Lanka as
a spy, in order to ascertain the facts in regard to Sita’s captivity
there, and to discover the strength of Ravana’s army and his means of
resisting an attack from without. Ships or even boats were, in those
primitive times, not to be thought of; but the monkey could _leap_,
and so it was proposed that some leader of the race should essay the
rather long jump across the strait which separated Lanka from the
continent. Who was so fitted for this undertaking as the son of the
wind-god, the redoubtable Hanuman? Accordingly, after a great deal of
boasting, Hanuman, assuming a gigantic size, took the flying leap. The
gods were well disposed towards his brave venture, but there were also
enemies on the path, who endeavoured to stop him on his way. One of
these was Surasa, the mother of the Nagas, who, rushing upon him with
wide-extended jaws, mockingly told him that he must pass through her
mouth before proceeding any further on his journey. Hanuman dilated
his person till his stature attained many leagues, but the monster’s
mouth grew larger still. The cunning monkey now suddenly contracted
his dimensions to the size of a man’s thumb and jumped airily into and
out of Surasa’s gaping mouth. He had fulfilled his enemy’s conditions
and she good-naturedly acknowledged her defeat. His next opponent, a
terrific she-dragon, the fierce Sinhika, marvellously caught his shadow
as it glided over the sea, and in some mysterious way retarded his
progress thereby. With open mouth she made a furious onslaught upon the
wind-god’s son. Hanuman, equal to the occasion, craftily contracted his
dimensions, and jumping into Sinhika’s cavern-like mouth, inflicted
so much injury upon her that she died. After this interruption he
continued his aërial journey to Lanka, probably making Sinhika’s
carcass the base of a fresh leap towards the island, though this is not
expressly mentioned by the poet.
When he had reached the island-kingdom of Ravana, the Vanar spy,
contracting his dimensions to those of an ordinary cat, found his
way by moonlight within the golden walls of the city, and, lost in
admiration, wandered about the wonderful streets of Ravana’s capital,
where tonsured priests and mail-clad warriors mingled freely with bands
of ascetics in deerskins, and fiends both foul and fair. Eluding the
guards, Hanuman crept into the palace. Here everything was on a scale
to astonish even the wind-god’s son, familiar with the glories of
Kishkindha; but most of all did he find food for admiration in Ravana’s
enchanted car, avowedly the most perfect work that had been produced by
Visvakarma, the architect of the gods.
“There shone with gems that flashed afar,
The marvel of the Flower-named car,
’Mid wondrous dwellings still confessed
Supreme and nobler than the rest.
Thereon with wondrous art designed
Were _turkis_ birds of varied kind,
And many a sculptured serpent rolled
His twisted coil in burnished gold.
And steeds were there of noblest form,
With flying feet as fleet as storm;
And elephants with deftest skill
Stood sculptured by a silver rill,
Each bearing on his trunk a wreath
Of lilies from the flood beneath.
There Lakshmi, beauty’s heavenly queen,
Wrought by the artist’s skill was seen
Beside a flower-clad pool to stand,
Holding a lotus in her hand.”[34]
--+GRIFFITH+ (bk. v., canto vii.).
The zenana or women’s apartment, guarded by she-demons,[35] which
Hanuman next entered in the still hours of the night, when the feast
was over, the music had ceased and all the inmates were hushed in
slumber, affords the poet the opportunity of painting a charming
picture, which the reader will, I am sure, thank me for reproducing
here in Mr. Griffith’s agreeable version:
“He stood within a spacious hall
With fretted roof and painted wall,
The giant Ravan’s boast and pride,
Loved even as a lovely bride.
’Twere long to tell each marvel there,
The crystal floor, the jewelled stair,
The gold, the silver, and the shine
Of crysolite and almandine.
There breathed the fairest blooms of spring;
There flashed the proud swan’s silver wing,
The splendour of whose feathers broke
Through fragrant wreaths of aloe smoke.
‘’Tis Indra’s heaven,’ the Vanar cried,
Gazing in joy from side to side;
‘The home of all the gods is this,
The mansion of eternal bliss!’
There were the softest carpets spread,
Delightful to the sight and tread,
Where many a lovely woman lay
O’ercome by sleep, fatigued with play.
The wine no longer cheered the feast,
The sound of revelry had ceased.
The tinkling feet no longer stirred,
No chiming of a zone was heard.
So, when each bird has sought her nest,
And swans are mute and wild bees rest,
Sleep the fair lilies on the lake
Till the sun’s kiss shall bid them wake.
Like the calm field of winter’s sky
Which stars unnumbered glorify,
So shone and glowed the sumptuous room
With living stars that chased the gloom.
‘These are the stars,’ the chieftain cried,
‘In autumn nights that earthward glide,
In brighter forms to reappear
And shine in matchless lustre here.’
With wondering eyes awhile he viewed
Each graceful form and attitude.
One lady’s head was backward thrown,
Bare was her arm and loose her zone.
The garland that her brow had graced
Hung closely round another’s waist.
Here gleamed two little feet all bare
Of anklets that had sparkled there.
Here lay a queenly dame at rest
In all her glorious garments dressed.
There slept another whose small hand
Had loosened every tie and band.
In careless grace another lay,
With gems and jewels cast away,
Like a young creeper when the tread
Of the wild elephant had spread
Confusion and destruction round,
And cast it flowerless to the ground.
Here lay a slumberer still as death,
Save only that her balmy breath
Raised ever and anon the lace
That floated o’er her sleeping face.
There, sunk in sleep, an amorous maid
Her sweet head on a mirror laid,
Like a fair lily bending till
Her petals rest upon the rill.
Another black-eyed damsel pressed
Her lute upon her heaving breast,
As though her loving arms were twined
Round him for whom her bosom pined.
Another pretty sleeper round
A silver vase her arms had wound,
That seemed, so fresh and fair and young,
A wreath of flowers that o’er it hung.
In sweet disorder lay a throng
Weary of dance and play and song,
Where heedless girls had sunk to rest,
One pillowed on another’s breast,
Her tender cheek half seen beneath
Red roses of the falling wreath,
The while her long soft hair concealed
The beauties that her friend revealed.
With limbs at random interlaced
Round arm and leg and throat and waist,
That wreath of women lay asleep
Like blossoms in a careless heap.”[36]
--+GRIFFITH+ (bk. v., canto ix.).
Still in eager quest of Sita the Vanar roamed stealthily from place to
place within the spacious bounds of the royal palace, and, as day was
breaking, entered the enchanting ashoka grove, a sort of ideal retreat
in fairyland. Here Rama’s messenger discovered the weeping, but still
peerless, captive, guarded by fierce she-demons of monstrous shapes--a
weird, frightful troupe--some earless, some with ears hanging down to
their feet, some one-eyed, some long-necked and covered with hair, some
huge, some dwarfish, some with faces of buffaloes, others with the
heads of dogs and swine. Perched upon a bough, and concealed by its
foliage, Hanuman watched his opportunity to open communication with
the object of his search. Presently Ravana, in great state, heralded
by music and attended by a crowd of ravishing beauties, with tinkling
zones, entered the grove. Sita, in utter despair, fell upon the ground
“Like Hope when all her dreams are o’er.”
Approaching her kindly, the King of Lanka, who was passionately
enamoured of her beauty, endeavoured to reassure her, and wooed her
softly with all the arts of flattery, with offers of boundless wealth,
and with protestations of deep affection.
“Methinks when thy sweet form was made
His hand the wise Creator stayed;
For never more could he design
A beauty meet to rival thine.
Come let us love while yet we may,
For youth will fly and charms decay.”
--+GRIFFITH.+
Sita, ever faithful to her lord, treated his suit with scorn; whereupon
the demon king, waxing wrath, threatened to have her killed and served
up at his table if she persisted in rejecting his advances. Turning
to leave the palace in high dudgeon, he directed the demon guards to
bend the fair captive to his will by threats and blandishments of every
kind. Their persuasions being unsuccessful, these horrid monsters
assailed the unfortunate princess with threatening weapons; but even in
this critical moment the pure, chaste wife of Rama preferred death to
dishonour.[37]
Amidst the persecutions of the luckless Sita an old Rakshasa matron,
named Trajata, raised a warning voice; for she had dreamed a dream
which foreboded the destruction of Lanka by Rama, and she counselled
the demons to deal kindly by Sita, if they hoped for mercy from the
conquerors.
It seems necessary to explain now that it was not a sense of honour
or a feeling of chivalry that had restrained the unscrupulous King of
Lanka from the gratification of his passion. It was fear only that kept
him back; for, as he confidentially explained to his assembled lords,
having once, under the influence of ungovernable desire, dishonoured
one of the nymphs of Indra’s heaven, fair Punjikashthala, Brahma had
decreed that if Ravana committed the same offence again his head should
be rent in pieces. Of course this fact and the protection thus enjoyed
by Sita, through dread of Brahma’s decree, were quite unknown to Rama,
whose knowledge was merely human.
At length the Vanar found the long wished-for opportunity of
communicating with Sita and of consoling her with the hope of an
early rescue. He even offered to carry her off, there and then,
on his shoulders, but her modesty shrank from the mere thought of
voluntarily touching the body of any male person beside Rama. The
monkey-god then set about committing as much destruction as he could
in the city of Lanka, which, built by Visvakarma, the architect of the
gods, is described as surpassingly beautiful and encircled by a golden
wall. After a succession of fierce and successful battles with the
giants--thousands at the time with their most famous captains--Hanuman,
covered from head to foot with wounds, was _noosed_ by means of a magic
shaft from the bow of Ravana’s son, Indrajit, overpowered and taken
prisoner. Exceedingly incensed, Ravana ordered the destructive and
formidable Vanar to be put to death at once. One of his counsellors,
however, suggesting that Hanuman might be regarded in the light of an
envoy from Rama, it was decided to spare his life, but, at the same
time, to treat him with the greatest indignity before releasing him. In
pursuance of this determination his tail was wrapped round with cloth
dipped in oil, which was then set on fire; but at the prayer of Sita,
who came to know what was going on in the city, the flames abstained
from harming her friend. By contracting his dimensions, Hanuman easily
freed himself from his bonds, and now, by means of his blazing tail,
carried fire and destruction through the beautiful city; after which he
once more performed his perilous journey through the air, back to the
mainland of India, bearing tidings of his doings to his master and Rama.
When the place of Sita’s captivity became known, the Vanar armies were
rapidly advanced southward, and encamped on the border of the strait
which separates Lanka from the mainland of India. Here they were
joined by Vibhishana, Ravana’s brother, who, with four attendants, had
fled through the air from Lanka, in dread of the consequences of the
offence he had given his king, by counselling conciliatory proceedings
towards Rama, of whose formidable prowess he seems to have formed a
just estimate.
Vibhishana, on account of his local knowledge and great wisdom, was of
much service to the Vanar host.
The sea, although it could be crossed by the Rakshasas and by the
wind-god’s son, Hanuman, was a serious impediment to Rama and his Vanar
allies. Standing on the margin of the trackless ocean which barred his
march, the chief vented his impatience in a shower of his wonderful
arrows, which he angrily shot into the wide bosom of the deep. His
attack stirred the waters to their very depths and terrified its
strange denizens out of their wits. As the hero laid against his bow
a more formidable arrow than the rest (a fiery dart of mystic power),
by means of which he threatened to dry up the waters of the sea and
pass his legions over on dry land, all Nature was horrified, darkness
fell upon land and sea, bright meteors flashed across the murky sky,
red lightning struck the trembling earth, and the firm mountains
began to break and crumble away. At this critical moment of universal
terror the grand form of the king of the ocean, attended by glittering
sea-serpents, rose majestically above the seething billows of his
watery realm.[38] Addressing Rama with great reverence, the ocean-king
protested that it was impossible to make a dry pathway through the sea.
“Air, ether, fire, earth, water, true
To Nature’s will, their course pursue;
And I, as ancient laws ordain,
Unfordable must still remain.”
--+GRIFFITH.+
But he advised that Nala, a Vanar chief, who was the son of the
architect of the gods (Visvakarma) should be requested to bridge the
strait that intervened between Rama and the object of his expedition.
Nala undertook the work, and, under his direction, the bridge was
successfully completed. The construction of the bridge was not opposed,
nor the passage disputed, so the countless hosts[39] of Vanars passed
over to the island, with Rama mounted on Hanuman’s back, Lakshmana on
Angad’s back, and camped[40] near Ravana’s capital. Even at this stage
of events Ravana, still under the spell of his passion for the lovely
Sita, resorted to a stratagem to obtain her consent to his wishes.
He got a magician of his court to prepare a head exactly resembling
Rama’s, and also a bow and arrows such as the hero usually carried, and
had them brought into Sita’s presence, with the tale that her lord had
been killed while asleep in his camp. Sita, completely deceived by the
wizard’s art, was lamenting her bitter loss, when a messenger hurriedly
summoned Ravana away to see to the defence of his capital, and a female
attendant took advantage of the moment to relieve the fair captive’s
mind, by explaining the deception that had been practised upon her.
The attack that shortly followed and the defence made by the giants
are described by Valmiki in considerable detail, and with much
monotonous repetition. The Vanars had, for arms, uprooted trees,
rocks, and mountain peaks; while the Rakshasas fought with bows and
arrows, swords and spears. Many single combats are described. Indrajit,
the redoubtable son of Ravana, in a desperate encounter, concealed
himself in a magic mist. Under this protection he fired some wondrous
serpent-arrows at Rama and Lakshmana, which bound the royal brothers
in a noose. He then, with a storm of missiles, laid them prostrate and
apparently dying. But it was not thus that the contest was to end. From
their helpless condition Rama and Lakshmana were freed by Garuda, who,
as the king of birds, possessed a special power over the serpent-arrows.
On another occasion Rama with his brother Lakshmana, both sorely
wounded, and ever so many of their Vanar allies, were restored to
life and vigour, by the scent of some healing herbs brought by the
swift-footed Hanuman from the distant Himalayas. In the combats around
the walls of Lanka, as in other contests narrated in the “Ramayana,”
the poet describes the power of the various archers to interrupt
_with their arrows_ the shafts of their adversaries, or even the most
ponderous missiles hurled at them, such as trees and rocks.
With varying success the fierce contest raged round the walls of Lanka,
when at length the giants, sorely pressed, called upon Kumbhakarna to
assist them. This dreadful monster was Ravana’s brother and a terror to
men and gods. At his birth, or shortly after it, he devoured a thousand
men. Indra interposed to save the human race from his ravages, but
only to be himself discomfited and driven to seek the protection of
Brahma, who decreed that Kumbhakarna should sleep for six months at a
time, and then only wake for a single day. The mere appearance of the
monstrous giant caused a panic in the Vanar army. Multitudes perished
under Kumbhakarna’s arm and were devoured by him; but such was his
voracity that he captured and flung thousands of living Vanars into his
mouth, out of which some fortunate ones managed to escape, through his
nostrils and ears. But formidable as he was, Kumbhakarna at length fell
by a crescent-headed arrow from Rama’s bow.
“Through skin and flesh and bone it smote,
And rent asunder head and throat.
Down, with the sound of thunder, rolled
The head adorned with rings of gold,
And crushed to pieces in its fall
A gate, a tower, a massive wall.
Hurled to the sea the body fell,
Terrific was the ocean’s swell,
Nor could swift fin and nimble leap
Save the crushed creatures of the deep.”
--+GRIFFITH+ (bk. vi., canto lxvii.).
One memorable episode in this siege of Lanka was a night attack,
planned and successfully carried out by Sugriva. Overpowering the
guards, the Vanars entered the city, and, amidst the most terrible
carnage, gave beautiful and stately Lanka over to the flames:
“As earth with fervent head will glow
When comes her final overthrow;
From gate to gate, from court to spire,
Proud Lanka was one blaze of fire,
And every headland, rock and bay
Shone bright a hundred leagues away!”
--+GRIFFITH.+
Succeeding this night attack came the final struggle. Ravana sallied
forth from Lanka with a marvellous array of chariots,[41] elephants,
horses, and men. He himself was the most formidable adversary yet
encountered by Rama, having in his time subjugated the Nagas, defeated
the gods of heaven, and even successfully invaded the land of departed
spirits, ruled over by the dreaded Yama. During the battle that ensued,
Indra, anxious, no doubt, to pay off old scores, sent his own chariot
to Rama, who, mounted on it, encountered Ravana in single combat, and
after a long contest killed his adversary with an arrow which had been
made by Brahma himself. As the giant fell, celestial music filled the
air, perfumed breezes wandered pleasantly over the field, and heavenly
blossoms were rained down upon the conquering hero, the champion of the
gods.
With the death of Ravana the war was at an end, and Vibhishana was
installed king in his place. Sita, so long and so ardently sought,
was now brought forth in state from Lanka, borne in a screened litter
on the shoulders of sturdy Rakshasas, to meet her victorious lord.
The inquisitive Vanars pressed round to see Vaidehi, on whose account
they had so often risked their lives; but the attendants rudely drove
them back. Rama, however, interposing, commanded that the lady should
descend from the litter and proceed on foot, unveiled, so that his
Vanar friends might have a good look at her; for, as he said:
“At holy rites, in war and woe
Her face unveiled a dame may show;
When at the maiden’s choice they meet,
When marriage troops parade the street.
And she, my queen, who long has lain
In prison, racked with care and pain,
May cease awhile her face to hide,
For is not Rama by her side?”
The meeting between Rama and his long-lost queen is a highly dramatic
and unexpected scene. Instead of Rama folding his darling in his arms,
as one might have expected he would have done, after all his piteous
laments about her loss and his often expressed desire to possess
his peerless wife once more, we find him coldly repulsing her, on
the ground of her long captivity in Ravana’s power. More than that,
he cruelly tells her that it was not love for her, but a desire to
vindicate his outraged honour, that had brought him to Lanka. Quite
unprepared for this undeserved and heartless reception, poor Vaidehi
asks her husband most touchingly if the past is all forgotten, if her
love and unfaltering devotion have quite faded from his memory? And,
waxing sadly indignant, she requests Lakshmana, in a voice broken with
sobs, to prepare a funeral pile for her, the only refuge she had left
to her in her dark despair. With Rama’s tacit consent the pyre was
erected and ignited. Boldly did the virtuous queen enter the flames,
and as she fell overpowered by them a cry of grief rose from the
bystanders. At this important moment a band of celestial beings, headed
by Brahma himself, appeared before the assembled multitude and revealed
to Rama his true nature, that he was Vishnu and no mortal man, while
the god of fire raised Sita out of the flames, and, publicly attesting
her purity, restored her to Rama, who now joyfully received her back
to his heart and home. Before the gods departed to their celestial
abodes, Indra, at Rama’s considerate request, restored to life all the
Vanars who had fallen in his cause. Thus was the great war brought to a
conclusion.
Rama now proceeded to Ayodhya, carried aloft through the clouds, over
sea and land, in the famous magic car _Pushpak_, already referred to.
With the returning hero went Sita and Lakshmana, the Vanar chiefs and
Vibhishana too. After a meeting with his brother Bharata, who came
forth with joy to welcome him back, Rama assumed the government of
Dasahratha’s kingdom, and reigned over it for ten thousand years.[42]
But his life and Sita’s had still more trouble in them. The people of
Ayodhya mocked at Rama for taking back his wife, after she had been
so long in the giant’s power. They even attributed a famine which
desolated the land to the anger of the gods on account of Rama’s
conduct. About to become a mother, Sita expressed a great desire to
visit the forest hermitages of the saints. Her husband accorded his
consent to her wishes, and directed Lakshmana to conduct her thither.
Unable to endure the jibes of his people, Rama resolved to abandon his
innocent, unsuspecting wife, alone and unprotected, in the immense
forests of Dandhaka, near the sources of the Godavari. The bitter duty
was intrusted to Lakshmana, who, ever obedient, carried it out to the
letter. Alas! poor Vaidehi, such was the reward of her pure, unselfish
love and devotion through many trying years of hardship and sorrow!
Cast adrift, alone in the pathless wilderness, Sita was found by the
saint Valmiki himself, and tenderly entertained by the holy women of
the hermitage. Shortly after this she gave birth to twin sons, who
were named Kusa and Lava. In his forest-home, Valmiki, under divine
inspiration, composed the “Ramayana,” and taught the sons of Sita
to recite the immortal epic. On the occasion of a grand ceremony at
Ayodhya, Kusa and Lava had the honour of reciting the great poem in
the presence of their father, who, after inquiry, acknowledged them as
his sons, and invited Sita to come forward and assert her innocence
publicly.
[Illustration:
[_To face p. 70._]
HANUMAN AND THE VANARS REJOICING AT THE RESTORATION OF SITA.
(Reduced from Moor’s “Hindu Pantheon.”)]
“But Sita’s heart was too full, this second ordeal was beyond even her
power to submit to, and the poet rose above the ordinary Hindu level
of women when he ventured to paint her conscious purity as rebelling.
Beholding all the spectators, and clothed in red garments, Sita,
clasping her hands, and bending low her face, spoke thus in a voice
choked with tears: ‘As I, even in mind, have never thought of any
other person than Rama, so may Madhavi, the goddess of earth, grant
me a hiding-place.’ As Sita made the oath, lo! a marvel appeared.
Suddenly cleaving the earth, a divine throne of marvellous beauty rose
up, borne by resplendent dragons on their heads, and seated on it the
goddess of earth, raising Sita with her arm, said to her, ‘Welcome to
thee,’ and placed her by her side. And as the queen, seated on the
throne, slowly descended to Hades, a continuous shower of flowers fell
down from Heaven on her head.”[43]
Thus in sadness, and with the sting of injustice rankling in her heart,
does the gentle Sita disappear for ever.
In bidding farewell to Vaidehi we would notice that throughout this
epic all the female characters are much more human than those of the
opposite sex, and, in their genuine womanhood, they naturally interest
us in a far greater degree than the heroes of the story, be they lofty
demigods, cruel Rakshasas, volatile Vanars, or Rishis endowed with
superhuman powers.
We have yet to trace the further fortunes of the sons of Dasahratha.
When Rama had reigned for a long period at Ayodhya, Time, as an
ascetic, sought an interview with him, at which no one might intrude on
pain of certain death. As messenger from Brahma, Time explained to Rama
his real nature and position, leaving it to him to continue longer on
earth or to return to heaven. During the interview an impatient Rishi
desired immediate audience of Rama. Lakshmana, who knew the penalty
of intruding upon him at this moment, raised some difficulties; but
the irate saint threatened to launch a curse against Rama and all his
kinsfolk if he were not admitted to his presence forthwith. Lakshmana,
dreading, for Rama’s sake, the Rishi’s curse, interrupted his interview
with Time and thereby incurred the penalty of death. Lakshmana
accordingly went to the river Surayu and was thence conveyed bodily to
heaven. Rama, accompanied by his brothers Bharata and Satrughna, and
attended by the goddess of earth, also by _all his weapons in human
shapes, the Vedas in the form of Brahmans_, and his women and servants,
proceeded to the Surayu and entered its waters. As he did so the voice
of Brahma was heard from the sky, saying: “Approach, Vishnu, Raghav,
thou hast happily arrived with thy godlike brothers. Enter thine own
body as Vishnu or the eternal ether.” He and his followers were then
all of them translated to heaven.[44]
Such is the famous story of Rama and Sita. Ordinary men and women
are of little account and scarcely figure at all amongst the poet’s
creations. Nearly everything in the “Ramayana” is superhuman. The dire
conflicts which occupy so large a part of the epic are waged between
demigods and fiends, or giants. The weapons employed are celestial, or
perhaps only charmed. Mystic spells are of the greatest efficacy, and
the results are proportionally great.
In the war that raged around the walls of Ilium the gods did,
certainly, interfere in the combats, and sometimes unfairly too;
they even attacked each other occasionally; but, notwithstanding the
supernatural element, the Trojan war was still a war of men and heroes.
Not so that which ensanguined the hills and plains of Lanka.
The India of the “Ramayana” was covered with forests, and it is
noteworthy that Rama’s progress is traced rather from forest to forest
than from city to city, which last were very few and far between.
The hero of the tale is a very different one from those who figure
in the Homeric poems. As a son he is most dutiful, pushing the idea
of filial respect and obedience to the extreme, bearing no enmity
even towards his designing stepmother. As a layman he is religious
and unfeignedly respectful to Brahmans and saints. As a prince he
is patriotic and benign; as a warrior, skilful and fearless in the
fight. As an elder brother, however, he is often somewhat exacting and
inconsiderate, and as a husband his behaviour is, to say the least,
disappointing. On the whole the prominent characteristic of this hero,
limned by Brahman artists, is a spirit of mild self-sacrifice, as
distinguished from bold self-assertion.
The reader who has glanced through even the brief epitome of Valmiki’s
poem now presented will not have omitted to note the wealth of
imagination displayed by the author or authors, nor will he have failed
to be charmed by many a beautiful picture and many an interesting
situation.
CHAPTER III
THE RAM LILA OR PLAY OF RAMA
Let us now see how the stirring events of this Indian epic are brought
dramatically before nineteenth century spectators.
Days before the time fixed for the Dasahra festival, men, done up like
monkeys and attended by drummers, may be seen in the bazaars collecting
money for the fair, at which the more striking leading incidents of
the epic are annually performed, part by part, in a rude pantomimic
fashion. Sometimes the opening scene is a great marriage procession.
One such, on an unusually large scale, was got up in Lahore in 1884,
at the expense of certain rich bankers. This motley and gigantic
procession was made up of very heterogeneous elements. Several camels
led the way; some bulky elephants put in an appearance, and a great
number of mounted men, on good cavalry horses, gave dignity to the
procession. Three or four well-filled carriages, gaily decorated with
tinsel, flowers and coloured cloths, had the honour of accommodating
the friends of Rama. A few huge litters, each borne aloft on the
shoulders of sixteen or twenty bearers, were conspicuous objects in the
throng. On some of these sat men personating the gods and goddesses of
India in all their grotesqueness; on others squatted favourite female
singers with their attendant minstrels, who delighted the audience with
their grace and vocal performances. Imitation artillery armed with
explosive bombs, dancers, mountebanks, musicians, and an innumerable
crowd of ordinary citizens on foot, raised noise and dust enough to
gratify the most pleasure-seeking Indian mob. The hero, Rama, and his
inseparable brother, were dragged along on wooden horses, placed on
a wheeled platform. There they sat, side by side, holding tiny bows
and arrows in their hands, in a most ridiculous way, while the less
important mythological personages, divine or other, came along in
carriages or litters. There was a painful want of organization about
the procession, and the usual mixture of the sumptuous and tawdry, the
rich and squalid, to which one is accustomed in India.
A feature of the Dasahra festival is the number of men, disfigured
with paint and ashes, who go about with iron skewers or pieces of cane
passed through the skin of their arms, legs, sides, and throat, or even
through the tongue. I once called up a party of these men and examined
them. In answer to my remark, thrown out as a feeler, that the skewers
had been passed through old perforations, the leader of the party
indignantly pulled a young man before me, pinched up a good bit of the
skin of his forearm, and there and then passed a blunt iron needle
through it, which could not have been much thinner than an ordinary
lead pencil. No blood flowed, and certainly the man operated upon did
not wince in the slightest degree. After this the leader of the party,
having satisfied me that the skin of his own neck below the chin was
perfectly sound, passed a skewer through it with his own hand. In
both cases a tolerable amount of force was necessary to pass the iron
through the skin, but no blood flowed. These men, who are looked upon
with a sort of awe by the vulgar, assured me that they were protected
from pain or injury by a secret _mantra_ of Guru Gorucknath’s known
only to themselves. They have probably learned, by the experience of
many generations, safe places for the insertion of their skewers; but
I was told by a native medical man that serious consequences sometimes
follow their senseless ill-treatment of their own persons. The present
of a rupee sent these absurd fellows away apparently well satisfied.
[Illustration:
[_To face p. 76._]
MEN WITH KNIVES AND SKEWERS PASSED THROUGH THEIR FLESH.
(From a photograph by W. C. Oman.)]
Near the temple of Vishnu, by Rattan Singh’s Serai, arrangements had
been made for a dramatic representation of Rama’s famous history.
When I first came upon the spot there were five or six hundred
people assembled. The women and children, arrayed in their holiday
best, crowded the roofs of the surrounding buildings to witness the
performance and, with the gay red and yellow of their dresses and their
tinkling anklets, gave colour and animation to the scene. Men and boys
were below. Three merry-go-rounds of the kind patronized by the people,
were in full operation, creaking hideously.
Of the Ram Lila itself the only signs were two wooden horses, like
those to be seen in European nurseries, only nearly life-size,
standing, side by side, on a single wooden platform placed on wheels:
They were painted white, with gaudy patches of red all over them. A few
boys with monkey-masks on, capered about with switches in their hands.
The crowd gradually increased, and the arrival of the performers was
eagerly expected. But even yet some money-making bunniahs, surrounded
by their pots and pans, their jars and other vessels, were busily
plying their trade in oil, right in the midst of the assembling crowd;
while on one side several women kept diligently separating the chaff
from the wheat and sending clouds of dust amongst the spectators. At
length a great shout announced the arrival of Rama and Lakshmana,
who were carried in a gaudy litter on the shoulders of a number
of men. This was the signal for the commencement of business. The
crowd began to settle down. The central space was cleared. Rama and
Lakshmana walked bare-footed round the arena, showing themselves to the
spectators. They were attired in yellow garments adorned with tinsel,
and had on their heads high and much decorated hats, which, I happened
to learn subsequently, cost just _three rupees_ each. Garlands of
flowers encircled their necks, and their hats were literally covered
with floral wreaths. Their faces were thickly painted with what looked
like yellow tumeric, daubed over with some red powder, these pigments
being, no doubt, considered most suitable for imparting beauty to
an Indian complexion. The brothers carried small bows, like those
usually placed in the hands of Cupids, and were attended by a man who
vigorously waved a _chowree_ over their heads. After this preliminary
exhibition, during which several masked figures began to appear on the
scene, a white-headed Brahman, book in hand (it was the Hindi version
of Tulsi Das[45]) began to instruct the performers in their several
parts. Seated all together--demigods, monkeys, and Brahman--in the open
space, before all the spectators, they learned the first act of the
day’s performance. In deference to their position, and probably also
out of consideration for their fine clothes, Rama and his brother were
made to sit on a white sheet, whilst the others squatted comfortably
in the dust. When the actors had received their instructions, they
proceeded to carry them out in a style which rendered it very
difficult to comprehend what they actually meant to represent; but the
Hindu spectators, familiar with the old tale and its usual dramatic
rendering, seemed to recognize at least the leading events which it
was intended to bring before them. At the conclusion of the act, or
scene, Rama and his brother, with the rest, came together again to
receive their instructions from the old Brahman stage-manager, and,
when duly instructed, again dispersed to perform their several parts
in a more or less imperfect manner. One portion of the performance
consisted in dragging the brothers round the arena on their wooden
horses. The acting or pantomime was very rude, and the whole seemed
childish in the extreme. But the old story, thus brought before them,
was evidently as much appreciated by the spectators as it had been by
their ancestors for fifty generations. And rude and childish though
the performance might be, it was probably not more so than the Miracle
Plays which delighted our forefathers in the Middle Ages.
The dramatic representation extended over several days, the most
popular scenes being the amputation of Surpanakha’s nose and the
abduction of Sita. The former, a mere rough and tumble performance,
without anything striking or dramatic about it, was greeted with
uproarious mirth by the spectators, and may, possibly, be the original
suggestion and sanction of much of the female nose-cutting so commonly
practised in India by jealous husbands. In the other scene Ravana
appeared as a hermit. The supernatural doe was dragged about the
arena. Rama and his brother were, of course, lured into pursuit of the
deceiver and Sita, left alone, was carried off by Ravana. Jatayus, the
vulture king,--represented by a huge paper bird carried about by a man
hither and thither in a wild sort of way,--rushed to the rescue of
the fair dame; but after a brief, though fierce, struggle was hacked
to pieces by the demon. After this lamentable encounter, Sita, to the
great grief of the onlookers, was carried away to Lanka.
The downfall of Lanka and final triumph of Rama are scenes of too
great importance to be dealt with like the rest. For these, special
preparations and as large a theatre as possible--some wide open plain
for example--are requisite, as thousands gather to see Lanka and the
demons given over to the flames.
I select for description a favourable instance of the siege and
destruction of Lanka which I witnessed at the military station of Meean
Meer a few years ago. It was got up by the sepoys of some of the native
regiments stationed there.
Upon an open _maidan_ or plain was assembled an eager crowd of
spectators. A large space for the performance of the Ram Lila was kept
clear by sepoys, placed as sentries at short intervals. About the
centre of this space towered two huge effigies, without legs, probably
forty feet high, representing Ravana and Kumbhakarna. Each figure stood
with its arms extended right and left, level with the shoulders, in the
most absurd of attitudes, resembling the pictures of men which young
children are so fond of drawing. Ravana had ten faces,[46] and two arms
with twenty hands,[47] while Kumbhakarna had two hands only. There they
stood, the terrible demon king of Lanka, and his no less formidable
brother, grotesqueness itself. At one side, opposite to and facing the
figures, was a painted wooden car--lent by the king of the celestials
to Rama on this memorable occasion--standing on small wheels, like a
child’s toy, with two wooden horses attached to it. On the car were
seated two handsome, bare-legged and bare-footed boys, dressed in
yellow satin robes, with bows in their hands. Their hats somewhat
resembled a bishop’s mitre in shape, and were made of red and silver
materials. These boys, the reader does not need to be told, represented
Rama and his brother Lakshmana. In attendance upon them were about
thirty men, dressed in dusky red clothes, and with marks on their
faces, who personated the army of monkeys that assisted the heroes. To
the right of the two huge figures was an inclosed space which stood for
the city or citadel of Lanka. Various mythological figures were also to
be seen moving about the plain, in a more or less objectless manner.
Two tall men, got up as women, went springing about, brandishing naked
swords. They represented female Rakshasas. A man dressed up to look
very corpulent, clothed in yellow, with long flowing hair and having
serpents coiled round his throat, was dragged about upon a wooden bull
over the field. This corpulent personage was no other than Mahadeva
(_Siva_) on his bull (_Nandi_). Thus far the show was, at least,
mythological and _Hindu_. But, by a curious anachronism, the features
of a modern fair mixed themselves up with the old-world representation.
Perhaps Indian taste in this nineteenth century demanded something
more than the undiluted ancient epic. Whatever may have been the
cause, I observed, with surprise, that within the inclosure several
natives with painted faces personated Europeans of both sexes, to the
great amusement of the onlookers. A man in shaggy furs, holding a
torn umbrella over his head, and attended by a fellow disguised as a
European policeman, was announced to the spectators as the “Nawab of
Cabul.” There were also imitation bears with their leaders and such
like grotesque shows for the amusement of the populace. Although the
vast majority of the spectators were natives, many Europeans were
present, some in their carriages, some on elephants, and one or two
on camels. The scene, which was certainly strange and picturesque,
became especially lively when, towards the close of the proceedings,
the explosion of bombs and the discharge of rockets alarmed the horses
and elephants. One huge beast, carrying a European gentleman and three
ladies in a big _howdah_, was an object of interest and a cause of some
anxiety to me, for his restive and erratic movements seemed to threaten
destruction to me or to my carriage, at the least.
[Illustration:
[_To face p. 80._]
“THE TERRIBLE DEMON KING OF LANKA AND HIS NO LESS FORMIDABLE BROTHER.”
(From a photograph by W. C. Oman.)]
The proceedings commenced by Ravana’s car, wooden horses and all,
being dragged by men round the inclosure attended by the monkeys.
This was apparently a challenge to the enemy; for during the second
circumambulation a party of men, dressed in dark blue or black, who
had hitherto been kept out of sight, sprang forward to oppose Rama’s
progress. These sable warriors were terrible Rakshasas, before whom
Rama and his allies had to beat a retreat, pursued by the victors.
Before long, however, the tide of battle seemed to turn. Victory
changed sides! The Rakshasas retreated, followed by Rama and his
people. This alternate success of one party or the other was repeated
several times, apparently to prolong the proceedings, and was a most
uninteresting and childish exhibition. Whenever Rama was advancing he
was carried along discharging feeble arrows that rarely fell beyond the
line of men yoked to his car. But when the hero was retreating before
the enemy he was generally on foot, probably to obviate the necessity
of his turning his back to his foes. At length the demigods made a
furious and altogether successful onslaught. The black warriors were
supposed to have been completely exterminated. They lay stretched on
the field dead and dying for a minute or two, and then, in the most
inconsistent manner, got up and squatted on the grass to watch the
further proceedings. When Ravana’s forces were thus destroyed, a number
of fireworks were lighted all over the field. Then the fort of Lanka
was given over to the flames, and as it was well-filled with fireworks
it made a brilliant display. Next perished Kumbhakarna, similarly in
a blaze of rockets, and amidst the thunder of exploding bombs. And
last of all, the gigantic Ravana disappeared, by what to any bystander
would seem a process of spontaneous combustion. All the time the drama
lasted a regimental brass band played European music; so that Rama’s
forces may be said to have been animated to the assault of Lanka by the
soul-stirring music of European composers.
This was all! Sita the patient, faithful, loving wife was never brought
forward. The woman’s part was a quite subordinate one and was left to
the imagination of the spectators. The conquering Rama was everything;
the long-suffering Sita was forgotten on this occasion. However, the
gentle wife of Rama has a place of her own in the affectionate regard
of the people of her native land and her history is well remembered. I
have seen a picture of the car in which Sita was abducted tattooed on
the arm of an ignorant woman of the lower classes, and found on inquiry
that she knew the old old story well.
The Ram Lila I have just described was a particularly good example of
the annual celebration. Ordinarily, huge figures, stuffed with straw,
represent the demons. Rama and Lakshmana, seated on a stage, are
carried about on the shoulders of men and, after traversing the ground,
hither and thither, without any apparent object, at length set fire
to the effigies, whose combustion concludes the play, if such it can
be called; whereupon the crowds assembled to see the sport depart in
clouds of dust and smoke. Often several sets of demons and Ramas may be
seen on the same field, got up by rival parties, by different sections
of a city, or by separate villages.
It appears that there is some difficulty in getting boys to personate
Rama and his brother on the occasion of the Ram Lila festival, as it
is the popular belief that they never live to attain manhood.[48]
There is also another, if less superstitious reason for the
difficulty in question, and it is this: At the close of the festival
Rama and Lakshmana have to feast the Brahmans, and that involves
no inconsiderable outlay of money. Hence, in the somewhat lawless
border districts on the Indus, it is the usual thing for the sons of
well-to-do persons to be actually kidnapped and carried off to play
Rama and Lakshmana at the annual festival.
For ten days during the feast they are believed to be literally
possessed by the god and are worshipped as Vishnu. But the worship of
these boys creates, I was told, a curious and interesting difficulty
about the selection of Rama and Lakshmana. The two heroes were men of
the warrior caste, and so should their modern representatives be, but,
as they have divine honours paid to them during the festival, it would
not suit the Brahmans to bow down to and touch the feet of youths of
inferior caste, while even personating demigods, and so, in defiance
of history, _Brahman_ youths are generally selected to represent the
_Kshatriya_ heroes in the Ram Lila.
What the Indian artist’s conception of the form and appearance of Rama
is, may be partially understood from the statuettes in stone made at
the present day and frequently to be met with, at least in Northern
India. They are usually sculptured in white marble, but painted (I
may say enamelled) jet black, the only unblackened portion being the
whites of the eyes. The eyebrows are gilded and so is the loin-cloth
or _dhoty_, which is the only piece of clothing on the person of the
god-man. Two big ornaments, shaped like stumpy reels, fill big holes
in the lobes of the ears, and make them stick out on either side. On
the forehead is the Vishnu caste-mark, the central line in red, and
the two side lines, diverging from the top of the nose, in gold. These
figures chiselled by the Indian sculptor are always stiff and somewhat
conventional.
The Dasahra festival of Northern India is replaced in Bengal by the
Durga Puja, and consequently the Bengalees do not perform the Ram Lila;
but I remember to have seen, years ago, in Bengal, a large collection
of colossal groups of figures representing favourite incidents in
the “Mahabharata” and “Ramayana,” prepared at the expense of the
Maharajah of Burdwan, to which show, an annual one, I believe, the
public were freely admitted. The grotesque forms of the monsters of
the Indian epics were reproduced in huge clay statues, variously
coloured and clothed. Some, armed with the strange weapons which the
poets had imagined, were engaged in deadly combat. Gigantic arrows
were conspicuous, and some of them, with the aid of thread supports,
were shown in the air on their way to some ill-fated warrior or other.
More peaceful scenes were also represented, as where Ravana, in the
disguise of a Brahman, visits Sita in the forest. Various holy hermits
were also there in all the repulsiveness of dirt and emaciation. The
figures were coloured yellow, blue, green, brown, or black, according
to the text of the poet, the conventional notions of the people, or
the taste and fancy of the artists. Some of these clay statues were
decidedly well modelled. They had real hair on their heads, faces and
breasts; they were clothed in cotton fabrics, according to the not
very elaborate fashions of the country, and, in some cases, were by no
means unartistic representations of the men, demons and demigods of the
sacred epics of India.
APPENDIX
+THE STORY OF THE DESCENT OF GANGA (THE GANGES),
AS RELATED IN THE “RAMAYANA”+
In ancient times lived Sangara, a virtuous king of Ayodhya. He had two
wives but no children. As he and his consorts longed for offspring, the
three of them went to the Himalayas and practised austerities there.
When they had been thus engaged for a hundred years, a Brahman ascetic
of great power granted this boon to Sangara; that one of his wives
should give birth to a son who should perpetuate his race and the other
should be the mother of sixty thousand manly and high-spirited sons. In
due time the elder wife bore the promised son, who was named Asamanja,
and the younger wife a _gourd_. From this _gourd_, when it burst
open, came forth sixty thousand tiny sons, who were fostered, during
their helpless infancy, by keeping them in jars filled with clarified
butter. When his numerous sons had grown to man’s estate the king,
their father, determined to offer a _horse-sacrifice_. In accordance
with this resolution a horse was, in the usual way, set free to wander
where it listed, attended, for its protection, by mighty warriors of
Sangara’s army.
Now it came to pass that one day Vasava, assuming the form of a
Rakshasa, stole the horse away. The sixty thousand sons of the King of
Ayodhya thereupon commenced, at their father’s command, a diligent
search for the missing animal. They scoured the world in vain for
the stolen horse and then set about making a rigorous search in the
bowels of the earth, digging downwards some sixty thousand _yojanas_.
In these subterranean explorations they committed great havoc amongst
the dwellers in the under-world; but they persevered in their quest
and presently, in the Southern Quarter, came upon a huge elephant
resembling a hill. This colossal elephant, named Verupaksha, supported
the entire earth upon his head and caused earthquakes whenever he
happened to move his head from fatigue. Going round this mighty beast,
the sons of Sangara continued their search in the interior of the
earth. They at last found the stolen horse and observed, quite close
to it, “the eternal Vasudeva in the guise of Kapila,” upon whom they
rushed with blind but impotent fury; for he, uttering a tremendous
roar, instantly reduced them all to ashes.
As the princes did not return home Sangara became alarmed for their
safety and sent his grandson--Asamanja’s son--to look for tidings of
them. This heroic prince, following the traces they had left of their
eventful journey, at length reached the spot where the missing horse
was detained and there discovered also the ashes of his sixty thousand
uncles. Being piously desirous of making the usual oblations of water
to the ashes of his deceased relatives, Asamanja’s son looked about for
water but could find none. However, he met, in these nether regions,
Suparna, a maternal uncle of his, “resembling the wind,” and from him
he learned that the sixty thousand dead princes would be translated
to heaven if only the waters of Ganga could be brought down from the
celestial regions to lave their dust.
Seeing there was nothing that he could do for the manes of his dead
relatives, the young prince took the horse, and returning with it to
Ayodhya helped to complete Sangara’s sacrifice.
Sangara himself died after a reign of thirty thousand years. Ançumat,
who succeeded him, practised rigid austerities, “on the romantic summit
of Himavat,” for thirty-two thousand years, and left the kingdom to
Dilipa, whose constant thought was how he should bring Ganga down from
heaven for the benefit of his dead ancestors; but though he performed
numerous sacrifices during his long reign of thirty thousand years, he
made no progress in this matter. Dilipa’s son, Bhagiratha, earnestly
devoted himself to the same object, and practised severe austerities
with the view of obtaining the wished-for boon. “Restraining his senses
and eating once a month and surrounding himself with five fires and
with arms uplifted, he for a long lapse of time performed austerities
at Gokara.” Brahma, pleased with the king’s asceticism, appeared before
him and granted his wish, advising him, at the same time, to invoke the
aid of Siva to accomplish it, as the earth would not be able to sustain
the direct shock of the descent of Ganga from the celestial regions.
To obtain the assistance of Siva, Bhagiratha spent a whole year in
adoring that god, who at the end of that period was graciously pleased
to say to the king: “O foremost of men, I am well-pleased with thee.
I will do what will be for thy welfare--I will hold the Mountain’s
daughter on my head.” Upon this Ganga precipitated herself from the
heavens upon Siva’s head, arrogantly thinking to reach the earth
without delay, but Siva, vexed by her proud thought, caused her to
wander for many a year amongst the tangles of his long hair. It was
only when Bhagiratha had recourse to fresh austerities that Siva “cast
Ganga off in the direction of the Vindu lake,” and she flowed in many
channels over the joyful earth, to the delight and admiration of the
celestials who witnessed her wonderful descent from the sky.
Ganga, following the royal ascetic Bhagiratha, flooded with her waters
the “sacrificial ground of the high-souled Jahna of wonderful deeds,
as he was performing a sacrifice.” The saint drank up her waters in a
rage. When this occurred the deities and _Gandharvas_ began to worship
the angry Jahna, who, being propitiated by their attentions, allowed
the river to flow off through his ears. Proceeding again in the wake
of Bhagiratha’s chariot, Ganga, having reached the ocean, entered the
under-world where the ashes of the sixty thousand sons of Sangara still
lay. Her sanctifying waters flowed over their earthly remains and their
spirits ascended to heaven.
Such is the history of the most sacred river of the Hindus, into whose
heaven-descended waters millions upon millions of men and women crowd
annually to have their sins washed away.
NOTES
I. _Antiquity of the “Ramayana.”_--Older than the “Ramayana” ascribed
to Valmiki is the “Ramasaga” itself, which exists as a Buddhist story,
known as the “Dasahrathajataka.” This is substantially the history
of Rama and Sita, with the important omission of the rape of Sita
and the expedition against Lanka, which incidents the poet of the
“Ramayana” is believed by Dr. Albrecht Weber to have borrowed from
the Homeric legends.[49] If this conjecture be correct, the treatment
of the incidents in question by Valmiki is no slavish imitation of
that of Homer. In the “Mahabharata” the story of Rama and Sita is
narrated to Yudhisthira as an example, taken from the olden time, by
way of consolation on a certain occasion, and agrees so closely with
the work of Valmiki that it certainly looks very much like an epitome
of that work. In regard to the age of this epic, Sir Monier Williams
says: “We cannot be far wrong in asserting that a great portion of the
‘Ramayana,’ if not the entire ‘Ramayana,’ before us, must have been
current in India as early as the fifth century +B.C.+”[50]
II. _English versions of the “Ramayana.”_--The English reader desirous
of learning more of the details of the “Ramayana” than is contained
in this epitome, may consult the following works: (1) The excellent
metrical version of Mr. Ralph Griffith, in five volumes; (2) the prose
translation now in course of publication by Babu Manmatha Nath Dutt,
M.A.; (3) Mr. Taiboys Wheeler’s “History of India,” vol. iii.; and (4)
The “Ramayana” of Tulsi Das, translated by Mr. F. T. Growse.
III. _The “Ramayana” only a nature myth._--While one scholar
finds _history_ in the pages of the “Ramayana,” and discovers in
its interesting details a poetical version of the conquest of
Southern India by the Aryans, another, with a turn for mythological
interpretation, assures us that it is only a nature myth. “The whole
story,” he writes, “is clearly an account of how the full moon wanes
and finally disappears from sight during the last fourteen days of the
lunar month, which are the fourteen years of Rama and Sita’s exile.
Her final disappearance is represented by her rape by Ravana, and her
rescue means the return of the new moon. In the course of the story the
triumph of the dark night, lightened by the moon and stars, is further
represented by the conquest of Vali, the god of tempests of the monkey
race, who had obscured the stars.”[51]
PART II
THE MAHABHARATA
THE MAHABHARATA
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY REMARKS
Standing on the beautiful fluted column of red sandstone, known as
the Kutub Minar, which towers loftily above the lifeless quietude of
ancient Delhi, the eye surveys a landscape which embraces one of the
most classic regions in Hindustan.
Across the ruin-strewn plain, towards the lordly minarets and cupolas
of modern Delhi, the spectator may note, just a little towards the
east, the massive remains of the _Poorana killa_, or old fort,
which still preserves, in its traditionary name of _Indrapat_ or
_Indraprasta_, a suggestion of the glory it enjoyed some fifteen
centuries before Christ.
Not only in India and to the Hindus is the _Indraprasta_ a name of
reverence; for, away in distant Cambodia, the people believe that they
are descended from colonists who immigrated into the southern peninsula
from the far-off banks of the Jumna, and the stupendous remains
of Angkor and Battambang, near the great lake of Toulé-sap, point
unmistakably to Hindu and Buddhist origin, and bear silent witness
to the existence, in the remote past, of a powerful and flourishing
kingdom of Indian origin.[52]
Delhi, and the great plain north of it, are associated with the most
stirring events in both the ancient and modern history of India, and
have witnessed the most decisive struggles for empire which have
occurred south of the Himalayas.
Perhaps the “Mahabharata” was based on simple Aryan sagas like
those of the Norsemen--historical traditions of deeds performed by
gallant warriors to whose nervous hands the spear and axe were more
familiar than the plough and the pen,[53] but, if so, the poets who
have used the materials of the sagas of their ancestors to build up
the great national epic, have been not too careful to preserve the
strict accuracy of the traditions, and when the narrative of events
is interrupted by long disquisitions and endless palavers, we discern
unmistakably the hand of the Brahman compiler and _his_ contribution
to the record. We may, then, as well admit at once that little real
history can be gleaned out of the one hundred thousand verses of the
“Mahabharata.” Yet a very great deal of valuable matter, that does not
fall under the usual denomination of history, may be readily found in
this voluminous epic, giving it a high value for all time.
The authorship of the “Mahabharata” is ascribed to the sage Vyasa,
or the _compiler_, and its production is, at least, as remarkable
as that of the “Ramayana” already referred to. We are told in the
introduction to the poem itself that, “The son of Satyavati (Vyasa)
having by penance and meditation analyzed the eternal Veda afterwards
compiled this holy history.” When he had completed the vast epic,
without, however, committing any portion of it to writing, he began
to consider how he could teach it to his disciples. Sympathizing with
his desire to extend to others the benefits of this most sacred and
interesting poem, Brahma, the Supreme Being, appeared before the saint.
“And when Vyasa, surrounded by all the tribes of Munis, saw him, he
was surprised; and standing with joined palms, he bowed and he ordered
a seat to be brought. And Vyasa having gone round him, who is called
Hiranyagarbha, seated on that distinguished seat, stood near it, and,
being commanded by Brahma Parameshti, he sat down near the seat full
of affection and smiling in joy” (P. C. Roy).[54] After expressing
his entire approval of the poem Vyasa had composed, the Supreme Being
said: “Let Ganesa be thought of, O Muni, for the purpose of writing
the poem,” and then “retired to his own abode.” Ganesa, the god of
wisdom, being invoked by Vyasa, repaired at once to his hermitage and
consented to commit the wondrous tale to writing, provided his pen were
not allowed to cease its work for a single moment. This condition was
agreed to and observed. Thus was the “Mahabharata” recorded, as undying
and infallible scripture, from the lips of its inspired bard.
In respect of its importance and sanctity we need only cite the
following passages from the poem itself. “There is not a story current
in this world, but doth depend upon this history, even as the body upon
the food that it taketh.”
“The study of the ‘Bharata’ is an act of piety. He that readeth even
one foot believing hath his sins entirely purged away.”
“The man who with reverence daily listeneth to this sacred work
acquireth long life and renown and ascendeth to heaven.”
“A Brahmana whatever sins he may commit during the day through his
senses, is freed from them all by reading the ‘Bharata’ in the evening.
Whatever sins he may commit also in the night by deed, words, or
mind, he is freed from them all by reading the ‘Bharata’ in the first
twilight (morning).”
What effects such beliefs were likely to have upon the morals of a
people we do not stop to inquire.
“Chaque peuple,” says Prévost-Paradol, “a dans son histoire un grand
fait, auquel il rattache tout son passé et tout son avenir, et dont
la mémoire est un mot de ralliement, une promesse de salut. La fuite
d’Egypte, disaient les Juifs; le renversement des Mèdes, disaient les
Perses; les guerres Médiques, disent à leur tour les Grecs. On les
rappellera à tout propos pour en tirer des arguments, des prétentions
politiques, des mouvements oratoires, des encouragements patriotiques
dans les grandes crises, et plus tard, les regrets éternels.”[55]
For the Indian people it is the great war ending with Kurukshetra,
which is the central event of their history. It closes for them their
golden age. Before that was a world of transcendent knowledge and
heroic deeds; since then intellectual decay and physical degeneracy.
Nor is this merely a sentiment, it is a deeply-rooted belief,
which the highly-educated Indian holds in common with his ignorant
countryman. I have known an educated Hindu to maintain with much warmth
that in the golden age the Rishis and others were well acquainted with
the art of aërial navigation, and probably with other rapid modes
of locomotion unknown to us moderns. I have heard him assert boldly
that even the telephone, microphone, and phonograph had been known
to the Hindu sages up to the time when the sciences and arts of the
ancient world perished, wholesale and _for ever_, with the heroes of
the “Mahabharata” on the fatal field of Kurukshetra. However little
one might be disposed to import such romantic statements into a
sober history of science, they are, at any rate, true as regards the
non-existence of anything like even the germs of progressive science
among the people of India from a very remote date up to the present
time.
Of the one hundred thousand verses of the “Mahabharata” not more than
a fourth part is concerned with the main story of the epic--the rest
consists of more or less irrelevant, though often beautiful episodes,
and of disquisitions on government, morals and theology. It is the main
story that I have endeavoured to reproduce in brief outline in this
volume, and I have also attempted to preserve, as far as possible, the
important doctrinal features of the great epic.
CHAPTER II
THE STORY OF THE GREAT WAR
Amongst the long line of kings descended from Chandra, the Moon, who
reigned in Northern India, was Shantanu, with whom our narrative may
conveniently commence. This king was, like most of the sovereigns of
his house, a pious man and an able administrator, whose sway, we are
told, was owned _by the whole world_. He had two wives in succession,
first the goddess Ganga, afterwards Satyavati, and the story of his
loves is worth recording.
Strange as it may seem, his marriage with the lovely Ganga, the
divinity of the sacred river Ganges, resulted from a curse uttered
by one of those terrible saints, so common in Indian poetry, whose
irritability of temper seems to have been in direct proportion to
the importance of their austerities. The saint in question, Vasishta
by name, was once engaged in his devotions when a party of celestial
beings, known as Vasus, unwittingly passed between him and the rising
or setting sun. “Be born among men!” exclaimed the irate Rishi to the
unwelcome intruders, and his malediction, once uttered was, of course,
irrevocable.[56] Expelled from Heaven, these unfortunate Vasus were
met by the goddess Ganga to whom they explained their sad destiny,
imploring of her to become a woman, so that they might be born of her
and not of a mere mortal. The goddess who, on account of a slight
indiscretion on her part, was herself under the obligation of assuming
the human form, agreed to their proposal, and made choice of Shantanu
to be their father. The goddess promised the Vasus that as each one of
them was born of her, he should be thrown, as a mere infant, into the
water and destroyed, so that all might regain their celestial home as
speedily as possible. But Ganga stipulated that each one of the Vasus
should contribute an eighth part of his energy for the production of
a son who should be allowed to live his life on earth, but should
himself die childless. These preliminaries being settled amongst the
gods, behind the scenes as it were, the play had to be played out on
the terrestrial stage with men as the puppets. To this end Ganga took
an opportunity of presenting herself before Shantanu for the purpose
of captivating his heart,--no difficult task for the goddess. So,
one day as he was wandering along the banks of the Ganges, “he saw a
lovely maiden of blazing beauty and like unto another _Sree_ herself.
Of faultless and pearly teeth and decked with celestial ornaments, she
was attired in garments of fine texture, and resembled in splendour
the filaments of the lotus. And the monarch beholding that damsel
became surprised. With steadfast gaze he seemed to be drinking her
charms, but repeated draughts failed to quench his thirst. The damsel
also beholding the monarch of blazing splendour moving about in great
agitation, was moved herself, and experienced an affection for him. She
gazed and gazed and longed to gaze at him evermore. The monarch then in
soft words addressed her and said: ‘O thou slender-waisted one, beest
thou a goddess or the daughter of a Danava, beest thou of the race of
the Gandharvas, or Apsaras, beest thou of the Yakshas or of the Nagas
or beest thou of human origin, O thou of celestial beauty, I solicit
thee to be my wife.’”
This wooing, simple enough in form and very much to the point, was, we
need not say, entirely successful; the goddess without revealing her
identity, consenting at once to become the king’s wife, on condition
that she should be free to leave him the moment he interfered with
her actions or addressed an unkind word to her. The enamoured prince
readily agreed to these terms, and Ganga became his wife. Seven
beautiful children born of this union were, to the king’s intense
horror, thrown by their mother, each in its turn, into the waters of
the Ganges with the words “This is for thy good.” Shantanu’s dread of
losing the companionship of his lovely wife, of whom he was dotingly
fond, kept him tongue-tied even in presence of such enormities; but
when the eighth child was about to be destroyed like the others,
his paternal feelings could not be controlled, and he broke out in
remonstrance and upbraidings which saved his son’s life, but lost him
his wife’s society for ever. Ganga, with much dignity, revealed herself
to the king, explained to him the real circumstances of the case, and
the motives which had influenced her actions and, reminding him of
the stipulations of the contract between them, took a kind but final
farewell of the husband of so many years. She thereupon disappeared,
carrying the child away with her.
Later on, the river-goddess appeared once more to King Shantanu, and
made over to him his half-celestial son, a youth of the most wonderful
intellect, learning, strength and daring. This son, indifferently named
Ganga-datta and Deva-bratta, was eventually best-known as _Bhisma_, or
the _terrible_, for a reason to be explained immediately.
In the foregoing legend about the incarnations of the Vasus, we have
an instructive and interesting illustration of the ideas of the Hindus
with respect to the soul in man, which, as in this case, might be a
spirit from the celestial regions. We also learn how the poor mortal’s
destiny on earth is but the fulfilment of predestined events.
Shantanu, deserted by the goddess-queen, seems to have had a heart
ready for the reception of another love, and, as his romantic fortune
would have it, he was one day rambling on the banks of the Jumna when
his attention was attracted by a delicious perfume. To trace this
fragrance to its source the king roamed hither and thither through
the woods, “and, in the course of his rambles, he beheld a black-eyed
maiden of celestial beauty, the daughter of a fisherman.” In those
primitive times, when men carried their hearts on their sleeves and the
forms of social life were simple and natural, no tedious courtship was
necessary; so, “the king addressing her said: ‘Who art thou, and whose
daughter? What dost thou do here, O timid one?’ She answered, ‘Blest be
thou, I am the daughter of the chief of the fishermen. At his command
for religious merit I am engaged in rowing the passengers across this
river in my boat.’ And Shantanu beholding that maiden of celestial form
endued with beauty, amiableness and such fragrance, desired her for
wife. And repairing unto her father the king solicited his consent to
the proposed match.”
The fisherman was willing to bestow his daughter on the king, but only
on condition that the son born to her should occupy the throne to the
exclusion of all others. This was a difficulty that staggered the
king, for he could not find it in his heart to set aside Deva-bratta,
the glorious son of Ganga. The matter accordingly dropped, but his
disappointment was very great, and he could not conceal from the world
that there was something preying upon his mind. Deva-bratta, being
much concerned about Shantanu’s unhappiness, found out the cause of
it, and going to the father of the sweet-scented maiden, Satyavati, he
formally renounced his own right to the succession, and recorded a vow
of perpetual celibacy.
Upon this “the Apsaras and the gods with the tribes of the Rishis began
to rain down flowers from the firmament upon the head of Deva-bratta,
and exclaimed ‘This one is Bhisma’ (the terrible).”
Everything was now arranged to the satisfaction of the contracting
parties, and Satyavati, the ferry-girl, became the proud queen of
Bharatvarsha. But this beauteous and odoriferous damsel had already a
history, which, though unknown to the king her husband, may be unfolded
here.
In the discharge of her pious office of ferrying across the Jumna
those who desired it, the maiden on one occasion had as her companion
in the boat “the great and wise Rishi Parashara, foremost of all
virtuous men.” This illustrious saint, who seems to have had an eye for
a pretty wench, immediately made advances to the boat-girl. Dread of
her father, and a natural disinclination of being seen from the shore,
made Satyavati coy; but, on the other hand, she was also in terror of
the Rishi’s curse, in case she disobliged him. The sage Parashara was
not to be denied. He enveloped the boat in a mist, and, promising the
boat-girl that her virginity should be restored, and that a certain
fishy smell which emanated from her person should be changed into a
sweet perfume, had his way with her. The offspring of this union was
no other than the renowned Vyasa, who arranged the Vedas and wrote the
“Mahabharata,” and of whom we shall hear more very soon.
Satyavati by her union with King Shantanu became the mother of
two sons, Chitrangada and Vichitra-virya. The former was after a
short reign killed, _in a three years’ combat_, by the King of the
Gandharvas, and Vichitra-virya was placed on the throne; but being
a minor the kingdom was ruled by Bhisma, in subordination to Queen
Satyavati. When the king was old enough to be married Bhisma set about
finding a wife for him. Learning that the three lovely daughters of the
King of Kasi would elect husbands in a public _swayamvara_, or maiden’s
choice, he repaired thither and, acting in accordance with the lawless
customs of the times, carried the fair princesses off in his chariot,
challenging anyone and everyone to fight him for the coveted prize.
A desperate battle ensued, of the kind familiar to the reader of the
previous portion of this volume. Bhisma, alone and unaided, assailed by
ten thousand arrows at the same time, was able to check these missiles
in mid-air by showers of innumerable darts from his own bow, and after
prodigious slaughter effected the object he had in view.[57] Of the
three captured princesses one, named Amba, was allowed to go back to
her people, as she explained that she had fully made up her mind to
elect the King of Sanva for her husband, that he had given her his
heart, and that her father was willing. The Rajah, however, coldly
rejected Amba, on the ground that she had been in another man’s house;
so, after undergoing painful austerities, with the object of being
avenged for the humiliations she had suffered, the unhappy princess
immolated herself on the funeral pile. In her case the swayamvara was,
_it would appear, only intended to be a formal ceremony_. The other
two princesses became the wives of Vichitra-virya; but, after a short
reign, he died, leaving behind him no heirs of his body.
This failure of issue threatened the extinction of the Lunar dynasty.
But, according to the ideas of those primitive times, the deficiency
of heirs might still be supplied, for Vichitra-virya’s two widows,
Amvika and Amvalika, still survived, and some kinsman might raise up
seed to the dead man. Queen Satyavati pressed Bhisma to undertake the
duty, but he, unwittingly fulfilling his destiny, held his vow of
celibacy too sacred to be broken even in such a dynastic emergency. On
his refusal Satyavati thought of her son Vyasa as perpetuator of the
Lunar race, and the sage, nothing loth, undertook the family duty and
visited the widows in turn. Now this celebrated sage had, by reason
of his austerities, a terrible and repulsive appearance. The elder
widow, Amvika, shut her eyes when she saw him, as he approached in the
lamplight, and the son born of her was, in consequence, blind. The
other widow was so blanched with fear at the sight of the sage, that
the son she gave birth to was of quite a pale complexion. The blind
son was named Dhritarashtra, and the white one Pandu.[58]
Neither of these sons being perfect, Satyavati desired Vyasa to beget
yet another son. For this purpose he was to visit Amvika again;
but she, poor soul, had had enough of the wild-looking anchorite,
whose grim visage and strong odour had made a deep and disagreeable
impression upon her, so she sent a beautiful slave-girl to him in her
stead. The Sudra maiden made herself agreeable to the sage who was, of
course, too wise to be taken in by the attempted deception. “And when
he rose up to go away he addressed her and said ‘Amiable one, thou
shalt no longer be a slave. Thy child also shall be greatly fortunate
and virtuous and the foremost of all intelligent men on earth.’” This
third son of Vyasa was named Vidura, and, although the offspring of a
Sudra wench was, it seems, no other than the god of justice himself,
incarnate in human form, owing, as we might well guess, to the _potent
curse of a holy ascetic_. This is how it came about. The ascetic was
performing his penances under a vow of silence, when there came to
his asylum a band of robbers fleeing from the officers of justice.
They hid their booty and themselves in the asylum. The police officers
who were on their track came to the asylum and requested the hermit
to point out where the thieves had hidden themselves. The ascetic
vouchsafed no answer, but the officers themselves soon found both the
thieves and the stolen property. As an accomplice in the crime that had
been committed, the ascetic was apprehended and sentenced to death.
He was in due course impaled, but, even on the cruel stake which was
rending his body, he serenely devoted himself to contemplation. For
days he lived quietly upon the stake, a fact which was brought to the
king’s knowledge, and greatly alarmed him. He came in person to the
ascetic, addressed him with great humility, begged his forgiveness, and
ordered his immediate removal from the stake. All attempts to extract
the stake having failed, it was cut off at the surface of the body,
and the ascetic, apparently none the worse for this addition to his
internal economy, went about as usual, but he was by no means content.
Of the god of justice he demanded what crime he had committed which
entailed so heavy a punishment. The god explained that the ascetic had
once in his childhood pierced a little insect with a blade of grass,
hence his impalement. In the Rishi’s opinion the punishment was out of
all proportion to the offence, particularly as the Shastras exempted
children from responsibility for their actions, and, waxing wroth, he
uttered the following imprecation: “Thou shalt, therefore, O god of
justice, have to be born among men even in the Sudra order.”[59]
Dhritarashtra was set aside on account of his blindness, and Vidura on
account of his servile birth, so the _raj_ fell to Pandu, during whose
minority the country was governed by his uncle, Bhisma.[60]
Pandu became a great and celebrated rajah. He had two wives, Kunti
and Madri. The former, although very beautiful, had no suitors in her
maidenhood; so the king, her father, invited to his court the princes
and monarchs of the neighbouring countries, and desired Kunti to
choose her husband from amongst his guests. The princess attracted by
the appearance of Pandu who was there, approached him modestly, and
“quivering with emotion,” as the poet tells us, placed the nuptial
garland round his neck. In this romantic fashion Pandu got his first
wife. For the second, Madri, who was selected for him by Bhisma, he
had to pay a very considerable price in gold and precious stones,
elephants, horses and other things; for, it seems, it was the custom in
her family for the daughters to be disposed of for such price as could
be got for them.
After he had reigned a while, Pandu retired with his two wives into the
forests on the slopes of the Himalaya Mountains to indulge his love of
freedom and the chase.
One day while out hunting he discharged his arrows at two deer sporting
together. Now these, as ill luck would have it, were, in reality, a
Brahman sage and his wife. In the agonies of death the Brahman assumed
his proper form and, as we might expect, _cursed_ the unfortunate
Pandu, saying that he would assuredly die in the embrace of one of his
wives.
Up to this time Pandu had had no children, and owing to his dread of
the Brahman’s curse was cut off from any further hope of offspring.
Deeming it a most indispensable religious duty to have heirs, he
consulted the ascetics in the woods on the subject, saying: “Ye
ascetics I am not yet freed from the debt I owe to my (deceased)
ancestors! The best of men are born in this world to beget children
for discharging that debt. I would ask ye, should children be begotten
in my soil (upon my wives) as I myself was begotten in the soil of my
father by the eminent Rishi?”
The ascetics having given the king an answer in the affirmative, he
desired his wife, Kunti, “to raise up offspring from the seed of some
Brahman of high ascetic merit.” But Kunti had another resource to fall
back upon. It seems that in her maiden days she had pleased a Rishi
by her attentions, and he had taught her, as a reward, a _mantra_, or
spell, by the repetition of which she could cause any celestial being
she thought of to present himself to her and be obedient to her will,
whether he liked it or not. Of the efficacy of this spell Kunti had
already had practical experience, for in her early days she had, just
to test the value of the spell, compelled the attendance of Surya,
the sun-god, and had a son by him, named Karna, of whom we shall hear
again. Prudently omitting any mention of Surya and Karna, Kunti told
her husband of the _mantra_ she possessed, and, with his consent, had
three sons _for him_ by three different gods, viz., Yudhisthira by
Dharma,[61] Bhisma by Vayu, and Arjuna by Indra.
But Pandu wanted more sons, and persuaded Kunti to communicate the
spell to Madri who, greedy of offspring, summoned the twins Açwins to
her bed, and gave birth in due course to two sons, Nakula and Sahadeva.
These five sons, known as the five Pandavas, are the real heroes of the
great war which forms the main incident of the “Mahabharata.”
Pandu himself met with a tragic end. One day in lovely spring weather,
when wandering with his younger wife, Madri, through the pleasant
woodlands he, in a weak moment, yielded to his passions and, in
fulfilment of the Brahman’s curse, died in the arms of his wife, who,
in testimony of her affection for her husband, and on the ground that
she was his favourite wife, had herself burnt with his remains.[62]
The party opposed to the Pandavas, known as the Kauravas, consisted
primarily of the one hundred sons of Dhritarashtra, by his wife
Gandhari. Of course it was necessary that persons who had to play a
leading part in the poet’s story should come into the world in some
extraordinary manner, and equally necessary that a Rishi should have
a prominent share in the event. Gandhari appears to have been lucky
enough to please by her hospitalities the great ascetic Dwaipayana, and
he granted her the boon she asked, viz., one hundred sons, each equal
to her lord in strength and accomplishments. Instead of sons, however,
the queen gave birth to a shapeless mass of flesh and, in despair,
was about to throw it away, when the sage who, in his hermitage, knew
exactly what was transpiring at the palace, appeared unexpectedly on
the scene and, cutting the piece of flesh into one hundred and one
pieces, placed each separately in a pot full of clarified butter;
whence, in due time, one hundred sons and one daughter were taken out.
Of these hundred sons, four--Duryodhana, Dhusashana, Vikarna, and
Chittrasena--afterwards became prominent characters in the story of
this epic.
During the practical abdication of the throne by Pandu, Dhritarashtra
seems to have ruled the country; but Pandu’s _sons_, as the Pandavas
were considered to be, had a claim to the throne, and the surviving
widow of the ill-fated king proceeded at once to Hastinapur with
the five boys. A great number of ascetics accompanied them and,
having testified before Dhritarashtra and his court to the celestial
parentage of these sons of Kunti and Madri, vanished into thin air
before the eyes of all present. The young sons of Pandu were, after
this, well received by the blind old king, and took up their abode
with his wife, Gandhari, and his sons. But the cousins, if such they
can be called, could not live amicably together, and many feuds arose
between them. To such a pass did the bitterness of feeling between the
kinsmen come, that the eldest son of the blind king, jealous of the
strength of Bhima, cunningly drugged him, bound him hand and foot, and
then flung him into the Ganges. But Bhima did not perish. As he sank
through the water snakes attacked him, and the venom of their bites,
counteracting the effects of the drug he had swallowed, restored him to
consciousness. He immediately burst his bonds, and found that he had
descended to the city of the Serpent-king in the interior of the earth,
where he was hospitably entertained, and given a draught of nectar
which endowed him with the strength of _ten thousand elephants_. After
that he was carried by the Nagas from under the waters and restored
to the place whence he had been thrown into the river. On his return
to Hastinapur, Bhima related his adventures to his brothers, but was
cautioned to say nothing about the matter in the presence of his
cousins, so as not to awaken their suspicions.
In accordance with the warlike tastes of the times, all the young
princes, Dhritarashtra’s sons and nephews alike, were trained to arms
and instructed in the science of warfare by a famous Brahman preceptor,
named Drona, on condition that they would fight for him against
Draupada, Rajah of Panchala, with whom he had a feud of long standing.
This Drona, it is needless to say, was of extraordinary origin,
otherwise he would not have been preceptor to the princes. He was
the son of a Rishi, named Bharadvaja, but was not born of woman. The
Pandavas and their cousins had also another famous tutor, named Kripa,
who had sprung into existence from a clump of heather.
When the scions of the royal house of Pandu had been sufficiently
trained in the use of arms, their preceptor, Drona, arranged for an
exhibition of their skill before the chiefs and people of the Raj. An
auspicious day was fixed upon, and the people informed by proclamation
of the important function. It was a day of excitement and bustle in the
land of the Kurus; spectators flocked from far and near to witness the
royal assault-at-arms. The wealthier part of the visitors pitched their
tents near the arena, and others put up convenient stages from which to
view the events of the day. For the king and his courtiers a theatre
was erected “according to the rules laid down in the scriptures.” It
was constructed of gold, and adorned with strings of pearls and lapiz
lazuli. The ladies had a separate gallery to themselves, and came to
the fête gorgeously attired.
Amidst the blare of trumpets and the sound of drums, Drona, all in
white, his Brahmanical cord conspicuously displayed, entered the
arena attended by his son. The young princes followed in the order
of their ages. After some preliminary displays of dexterity in
archery and fencing, and of skill in horsemanship and the management
of war-chariots, a contest with maces came off between Duryodhana
and Bhima. They _roared_ at each other “like two mad elephants
contending for a female one,” and what was meant to be a sham fight
soon changed into a real combat. The princely competitors, actuated
by mutual animosity, charged each other “like infuriated elephants,”
and battered each other most vindictively with their ponderous maces.
This single combat caused great excitement amongst the spectators, who
took sides, and applauded their favourites. Drona had to interpose
between the heated combatants. He commanded the music to cease and,
to make a diversion, quickly brought forward Arjuna, clad in golden
mail, to display his inimitable skill in bowmanship. In this art,
the most important of the warlike arts in the India of those times,
Arjuna hopelessly surpassed all his rivals and, indeed, besides the
extraordinary skill he displayed, there was much to wonder at in his
performances, for “by the _Agneya_ weapon he created fire, and by
the _Varuna_ weapon he created water, and by the _Vayavya_ weapon he
created air, and by the _Paryanya_ weapon he created clouds, and by the
_Bhanma_ weapon he created land, and by the _Parvatya_ weapon mountains
came into being. And by the _Antardhyana_ weapon these were all made to
disappear.”
When the exhibition was nearly over a formidable champion thundered
at the gates of the arena. It was Karna, son of Kunti, already
mentioned, and, as became the offspring of the sun-god, an archer of
most wonderful skill. On being admitted, the tall and handsome Karna,
proudly arrayed in the glittering coat of mail in which he was born,
and the ear-rings which had similarly come into the world with him,
presented a dazzling and most striking appearance. He haughtily assured
Arjuna that he would perform before the multitude there assembled
feats that would excel all that had been exhibited that day. He even
expressed his eagerness for a single combat with the hero. The two
glorious sons of Kunti, unconscious of their relationship, appeared in
the lists; their respective fathers, Indra and Surya, anxiously watched
events from their positions in the welkin, and Kunti, as became a fond
mother, fainted away. At this juncture Kripa interposed, inquiring the
race and lineage of the newcomer. This action on Kripa’s part was,
apparently, only a device to avert the threatened fight. Duryodhana
was furious at this interruption, and, to remove any objection on the
score of difference of rank between the contending parties, raised
Karna on the spot to the Rajahship of Anga not, however, without the
indispensable aid of the Brahmans, their _mantras_ and ceremonies. All
this took time; and more time was wasted in altercations in which Bhima
took a prominent part, insulting Karna in an outrageous fashion, to
the great indignation of Duryodhana. Presently the sun went down over
the scene, and the royal tournament with its exciting incidents was
necessarily brought to an end.
The princes having thus publicly proved that they were capable of
bearing arms, Drona called upon them to fulfil their part of the terms
upon which he had educated them. Joint or common action amongst the
cousins being out of the question, the Kauravas and their friends went
forth alone and attacked the Rajah of Panchala. They were defeated
and compelled to retreat. Then the Pandavas marched out against their
tutor’s enemy, and after a bloody conflict of the usual kind,--in
which arrows fly from each single bow like flights of locusts; in
which thousands of elephants, horses and men are slain; in which the
principal combatants, although pierced with scores of shafts, seem none
the worse for them--the Pandavas met with complete success, bringing
the defeated Rajah along with them as a prisoner. He was afterwards
liberated at the expense of half his kingdom, which was appropriated by
the successful Drona.
Fresh causes of jealousy arose between the cousins. Yudhisthira’s claim
to the succession could not be set aside, as the people were all in
favour of him; so he was appointed by the blind king, very reluctantly,
we may presume, to the office of Yuva-Rajah, or heir-apparent. The
Pandavas, elated by their success against the King of Panchala, and
confident in themselves, commenced a series of unprovoked attacks upon
the neighbouring princes. Of course the Pandavas performed prodigies
of valour in these invasions. For example, two of them with a single
chariot, “subjugated all the kings of the East backed by ten thousand
chariots.”
These great achievements inflamed the jealousy of even the blind king
to such a pitch that he disclosed his feelings to Kanika, his Brahman
counsellor, “well skilled in the science of politics.” As became a sage
politician, Kanika advised his master to put the obnoxious Pandavas
out of the way as soon as possible. He explained to Dhritarashtra his
obvious duty in such a case, and impressed upon his sovereign such
important maxims of state policy as the following: “When thy foe is in
thy power destroy him by every means, open or secret: Do not show him
any mercy although he seeketh thy protection.... If thy son, friend,
brother, father or even spiritual preceptor, becometh thy foe, thou
shouldst, if desirous of prosperity, slay him without scruples. By
curses and incantations, by gift of wealth, by poison, or by deception
the foe should be slain. He should never be neglected from disdain.”
His counsels fell on only too willing ears. Dhritarashtra was ready
to do his _duty_ as thus explained to him, but thought it best to act
warily. Duryodhana suggested that the Pandavas should be induced to go
to Varanavartha,[63] and there be disposed of.
Praises of this place were cunningly circulated in Dhritarashtra’s
court, and the king suggested to the Pandavas that they might go there
for a holiday. Suspicions naturally arose in the minds of the sons of
Pandu; but there seemed to be no way of eluding the king’s proposal.
Their departure was a day of public mourning in Hastinapur, and, before
they went, Vidura found an opportunity to warn them of a plot which
had been formed to burn them to death in a house made of combustible
materials, which would be erected for their reception at Varanavartha.
To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and the Pandavas determined
to be even with their enemies. Purochana, a confidential agent of
Duryodhana’s, preceded them on their journey, and began in all haste
to construct for their reception at Varanavartha and for their ultimate
destruction by fire, the famous _house of lac_. What sort of mansion
this was we may judge from Yudhisthira’s opinion of it, expressed
confidentially to Bhima, after a critical inspection of the edifice,
on their arrival at their destination. “The enemy, it is evident, by
the aid of trusted artists, well skilled in the construction of houses,
have finely built this mansion, after procuring hemp, resin, heath,
straw and bamboos, all soaked in clarified butter.”
To escape destruction should their house be set on fire, the Pandavas
secretly caused a subterranean passage to be made leading out of the
dwelling. The work was executed by a trusty messenger, well skilled in
mining, who had been sent to their assistance by Vidura. One evening
Kunti fed a large number of Brahmans at this combustible house of
hers. After the guests were gone, the Pandavas, assuring themselves
that their enemy, Purochana, was fast asleep, quietly fastened the
doors of the house, and themselves set fire to it in several places.
As if impelled by _Fate_, a Nishada woman with her five sons had
come, uninvited guests, to Kunti’s feast, and, becoming intoxicated
with the wine of which they had partaken too freely, lay drunk
upon the premises. These six drunk and incapable persons perished
with Purochana, and their remains, found by the citizens after the
conflagration had been extinguished, left no doubt in men’s minds that
Kunti and her sons had all been miserably burnt to death.[64]
The five Pandava brothers _disguised as Brahmans_, accompanied by their
mother, Kunti, made their escape into the forests and commenced a long
course of wanderings, in which they experienced much hardship and many
adventures. Often were they wearied out by their long marches, all
except the giant Bhima who, on such occasions, would carry the whole
family on his back and shoulders or under his arms. Of this episode
Bhima is indisputably the hero. It is he who forces his way by giant
strength through the almost impenetrable forests, treading down trees
and creepers to make a passage for himself and his burden. It is he
who kills the terrible Rakshasa bent upon devouring Kunti and her
sons. It is Bhima with whom the cannibal’s sister falls ardently in
love and whom, after strange adventurous journeys through the air, she
eventually makes the happy father of a son, Ghatotkacha, afterwards a
famous champion in the final struggles between the rival parties. It is
Bhima again who, when they sojourned in Ekachakra (the inhabitants of
which town had to pay a daily toll of a live human being for the table
of a fierce Rakshasa), killed the monster single-handed, and delivered
the trembling citizens from the gloomy horror under which they had been
living.[65]
During their residence at Ekachakra, where they lived disguised as
Brahmans, the Pandavas were visited by the famous Rishi Vyasa, who,
it will be remembered, was really their grandfather, and also the
compiler of the “Mahabharata” itself. By him they were informed that
the lovely princess, Krishná, or Draupadi, the daughter of the King of
the Panchalas, was about to hold a swayamvara, or “self choice,” at
which she would select a husband. Vyasa also told them the wonderful
history of this Draupadi, and thereby greatly excited their interest
and curiosity in the handsome maiden, who was no ordinary girl, but had
sprung into existence, mature and beautiful, in the midst of a great
sacrifice for offspring, offered by Draupada, King of the Panchalas.
When, as has already been narrated, Draupada was defeated by Drona,
and deprived by him of half his kingdom, a spirit of revenge took
complete possession of the discomfited monarch, and his one thought
was to find a means of compassing the overthrow of his successful foe,
the redoubtable son of Bharadvaja. How could this object be attained
when there was not a single one amongst the heroes of Panchala to cope
with Drona, that mightiest of bowmen and possessor of the terrible
_Brahma-weapon_? In such a difficulty the Indian chieftain naturally
built his hopes upon those great national resources--the assistance of
potent Brahmans, and the efficacy of properly conducted sacrifices. For
the handsome fee of ten thousand kine the king succeeded in inducing a
couple of learned Brahmans, who had long been engaged in austerities,
to undertake a sacrifice for the express purpose of obtaining a son
who should be invincible in war and capable of slaying Drona. The
result of the ceremonies and sacrifices conducted by the learned and
not too scrupulous Brahmans was completely successful, for out of the
sacrificial flames which they had kindled emerged a stately youth,
encased in full armour, with a crown on his head, and bearing a bow and
arrows in his hands. He was wonderful to behold, and appeared upon the
scene uttering loud roars. This was Dhrista-dyumna. After him appeared
a beautiful maiden. “Her eyes were black, and large as lotus leaves,
her complexion was dark, and her locks were blue and curly. Her nails
were beautifully convex and bright as burnished copper, her eyebrows
were fair, and her bosom was deep.... Her body emitted a fragrance as
that of a blue lotus, perceivable from a distance of full two miles.”
This damsel, because she was so dark complexioned, received the name
of Krishná (the dark), but is more commonly known as Draupadi. Being
the most lovely woman in the world at that time, her swayamvara would
naturally attract the chiefs and princes of all nations, and not chiefs
and princes only, but also Brahmans in crowds, ready to graciously
accept the presents which the liberality or ostentation of the
high-born suitors might prompt them to distribute on the occasion.
The young Pandavas were much excited about the coming event, and set
off without delay to witness and, if possible, to take part in the
proceedings of lovely Draupadi’s swayamvara. When they arrived at
Panchala they took up their abode in the house of a humble potter, and,
still disguised as Brahmans, supported themselves by begging alms of
the people.
A great amphitheatre covered with a canopy was prepared for the
important occasion. It was erected on a level plain, surrounded by
lofty seven-storeyed palaces covered with gold, set with diamonds
and adorned with garlands of fragrant flowers. In these costly
mansions, “perfectly white and resembling the cloud-kissing peaks
of Kailasa,” were lodged the kings and princes who had been invited
to the swayamvara by the father of Draupadi. Commodious platforms
were constructed all round the amphitheatre for the convenience of
less august visitors, and on one of these platforms the Pandavas
found places for themselves in the company of a number of Brahmans.
Public rejoicings, music, dancing, and performances of various kinds,
extending over sixteen days, served as a prelude to the business of the
great assembly. At one end of the plain a tall pole was erected, and
on the top of this pole was fixed a golden fish, and below the golden
fish a _chakra_, or wheel, kept whirling round and round. The condition
of the swayamvara was that each competitor should be provided with a
particular bow and five selected arrows. If he succeeded with these in
discharging an arrow through the _chakra_, and in striking the eye of
the golden fish behind it, he should be the husband of the dark beauty
of Panchala.
On the sixteenth day, when the meeting-place was quite full, Draupadi
entered the amphitheatre richly attired and adorned with ornaments.
In her hands she carried a golden dish with the usual offerings to
Agni, the god of fire, and a garland of flowers for the neck of the
happy man who should win her in the competition. After the offerings
had been cast into the sacrificial fire and the appropriate _mantras_
recited by the Brahmans appointed to perform the duty, Dhrista-dyumna
led his sister before the assembly and, in a loud voice, proclaimed the
conditions of the competition.
Amongst the innumerable suitors present there, we need only mention
Duryodhana and Karna, who are already known to the reader.
The sight of the beautiful Draupadi fired the ardour of the assembled
princes. One after the other they came forward to essay the feat but,
though they tugged and strained and sweated till their faces were
distorted and their clothes disordered, they were not even able to
string the mighty bow. Karna at length stepped up and stringing the bow
with ease placed an arrow for the trial. But seeing Karna, Draupadi
loudly exclaimed: “I will not elect a Suta for my lord.”[66] “Then
Karna, laughing in vexation and casting a glance on the sun, threw
aside the bow already drawn to a circle.” Other competitors, princes of
great renown, still pressed forward to try what they could do, but met
with no success. When all the Kshatriya lords had retired discomfited,
Arjuna advanced from his place amongst the Brahmans and, amidst a great
deal of clamour, strung the bow and, with unerring skill, shot the
mark. A tumultuous shout arose from the assembled multitude; there was
a great uproar in the firmament, and the gods showered down flowers
upon the happy hero. “And Krishná beholding the mark shot and beholding
Partha (Arjuna) also like unto Indra himself, who had shot the mark,
was filled with joy, and approached the son of Kunti with a white robe
and a garland of flowers.” The Kshatriya Rajahs and chiefs were wild
at their defeat by a Brahman, and although they were prepared to admit
that their kingdoms, and they themselves also, existed solely for the
benefit of the Brahmans, they demurred to such a conclusion of the
swayamvara of a Kshatriya princess, and made a fierce attack upon King
Draupada, who was willing to hand Draupadi over to the victor. Arjuna
rushed at once to the king’s rescue, accompanied by the redoubtable
Bhima, armed with nothing less than an uprooted tree and, though a
desperate fight ensued, the Pandava brothers succeeded, partly through
the mediation of Krishna--whom we here meet for the first time--in
leaving the amphitheatre, closely followed by beautiful Draupadi.
Then those illustrious “sons of Pretha returning to the potter’s abode,
approached their mother. And those first of men represented Yájnaseni
(Draupadi) unto their mother as the _alms_ they had obtained that
day. And Kunti who was there within the room and saw not her sons
replied, saying, ‘Enjoy ye all (what ye have obtained).’” The moment
after she beheld Krishná, and then she said, “O, what have I said?”
However, Draupadi was fated to have five husbands for, in a previous
existence on the earth, she had, on five different occasions, asked
the gods for a good husband as the reward of the austerities she
practised. Yudhisthira knew this. It had been revealed to him by Vyasa.
So when the matter was referred to him, as head of the family, he said
simply: “The auspicious Draupadi shall be the common wife of us all;”
a decision which pleased his brothers considerably for, as the poet
tells us, “The sons of Pandu then hearing those words of their eldest
brother, began to revolve them in their minds in great cheerfulness.”
Their life in the potter’s house was simplicity itself. Krishná
prepared the food for the family and served it out to the several
members, taking only a little for herself and eating it last of all. At
night all seven slept on a bed of _kusa_ grass covered with deerskins.
The brothers lay side by side, their mother along the line of their
heads, and Krishná “along the line of their feet as their nether
pillow.”
When Draupadi, nothing loth, had gone away with the handsome victor,
the King of Panchala was naturally very anxious to find out who the
successful suitor really was. By a little artful eavesdropping on
the part of Dhrista-dyumna, the secret became known to him, and he
rejoiced to find what a good match Krishná had made. Arjuna caused
great preparations to be undertaken for the wedding. He did not quite
like the proposed fivefold arrangement; but was induced to consent to
it, after Vyasa himself had explained to him how polyandry was not in
itself sinful, and how this particular marriage had been pre-arranged
by _Destiny_. It only remained for Draupadi to be led round the sacred
fire on five successive days by the five brothers in turn. After the
five weddings the King of the Panchalas made valuable presents to
Draupadi’s husbands, including gold, chariots, horses and elephants,
“and he also gave them a hundred female servants, all in the prime of
youth and decked in costly robes and ornaments and floral wreaths.”
Krishna also bestowed upon the happy Pandavas presents of various
sorts,--costly robes, soft blankets, golden ornaments, and superb
vessels set with gems and diamonds. And, in addition to these, “many
elephants and horses, crores of gold coins, and thousands of young and
beautiful female servants brought from various countries.”[67]
The alliance thus formed with the Rajah of Penchala made a great
change in the fortunes of the Pandavas, and induced their cousins at
Hastinapur to make overtures of friendship to them. The negotiations
led, at length, to an amicable arrangement, by which the Kauravas
continued to remain and rule at Hastinapur, while the Pandavas were
assisted to settle themselves in Khandava-prasta on the banks of the
Jumna. The portion of the country assigned to the sons of Pandu “was an
unreclaimed desert,” but they soon built a gorgeous and wonderful city
there, Indraprasta,[68] “surrounded by a trench as wide as the sea,
and by walls reaching high into the heavens ... and the gateways that
protected the town were high as the Mandara Mountain and massy as the
clouds.”
At Indraprasta the brothers lived happily with their wife, having,
upon the advice of a Rishi, arranged “that when one of them would be
sitting with Draupadi, if any other of the four would see that one
thus, he (the intruder) must retire into the forest for twelve years,
passing his days as a Brahmachárin.” One day a Brahman, who had been
robbed of his cattle, came in great haste to the king’s palace and,
lamenting bitterly, accused the Pandavas of allowing him to be deprived
of his property by contemptible thieves. Arjuna, recognizing his duty
to afford the Brahman redress and protection, resolved to pursue the
robbers; but his arms were in the room where Draupadi was sitting with
Yudhisthira. Balancing against each other the sin of allowing the
Brahman’s wrongs to go unavenged, and the breach of decorum involved
in entering the chamber when his brother was engaged with Draupadi,
he deliberately chose the latter, notwithstanding the consequences of
their mutual agreement on that point. Once in possession of his arms he
pursued the thieves, recovered the stolen property, and restored it to
the Brahman; but on returning to the palace he voluntarily determined
to go into exile in fulfilment of the terms of the compact about
Draupadi.
Arjuna’s twelve years of exile were full of adventure. At the spot
where the Ganges enters the plains (Hurdwar) he stepped into the
sacred stream for a bath, was drawn down into the water by Ulupi, the
daughter of the King of the Nagas, and taken by her to the beautiful
mansion of her father. The love-sick Ulupi courted Arjuna so warmly
that he could not find it in his heart to resist her solicitations. In
return, Ulupi bestowed upon Arjuna the gift of invisibility in water.
From one sacred stream to another, from one holy place to another,
wandered the willing exile, giving away much wealth to the Brahmans.
At length he travelled as far as Munipur. Now the King of Munipur
had a beautiful daughter named Chitrángadá. Arjuna saw, and fell
desperately in love with the fair maiden. He asked her hand in marriage
and obtained it, on condition that the first son born of the union
should be considered to belong to the King of Munipur, in order to
succeed him on the throne of that country. Three years did Arjuna
live at Munipur, but when a son was born to Chitrángadá he took an
affectionate farewell of her, and set out again upon his wanderings.
Visiting many lands and experiencing strange adventures, he at length
arrived at Dwarka, on the shore of the Southern Sea, the capital of his
kinsman, Krishna, King of the Yadhavas. A casual sight of Subhadrá,
the handsome sister of Krishna, made a strong and visible impression
upon the susceptible heart of Arjuna. Krishna perceived the effect
produced by his sister’s charms, and was not indisposed to an alliance
with the Pandava hero. Should Subhadrá, now of age, hold a swayamvara
or maiden’s choice? Krishna thought the result of such a plan might be
disappointing; for who could say what choice a capricious girl might
make! So, he artfully suggested to Arjuna to carry off the maiden by
force, since “in the case of Kshatriyas that are brave, a forcible
abduction for purposes of marriage is applauded, as the learned have
said.” Arjuna, who was ready to achieve anything achievable by man
to obtain “that girl of sweet smiles,” soon put the suggestion into
practice, to the great indignation of the Yadhava chiefs; but Krishna
threw oil upon the troubled waters, and everything was amicably settled
in the end, the wedding being celebrated on a magnificent scale. After
the prescribed twelve years of exile were completed, Arjuna returned
to Khandava-prasta with Subhadrá, and was loyally welcomed by all. But
when he visited Draupadi she evinced very natural signs of jealousy,
and recommended Arjuna to go to the daughter of the Satwata race.
However he coaxed her over, and when Subhadrá, dressed in red silk,
but in the simple fashion of a cow-keeper, approached and bowed down
to Draupadi, saying, “I am thy maid,” her resentful feelings were
disarmed; she rose hastily and embraced her young rival with the
significant greeting: “Let thy husband be without a foe.”
Krishna, the Prince of Dwarka, now visited his brother-in-law in great
state, and brought with him a vast store of valuable gifts, amongst
which we need only notice “a thousand damsels well skilled in assisting
at the operations of bathing and at drinking.” No light recommendations
apparently, for it would seem that in those good old times the practice
of drinking wine was quite common; as we are told by the poet, in
connection with a great picnic, given by Arjuna and Krishna, that
“the women of the party, all of full rotund hips and fine deep bosoms
and handsome eyes, and gait unsteady with wine, began to sport there
at the command of Krishna and Partha (Arjuna). And some amongst the
women sported as they liked in the woods, and some in the waters, and
some within the mansions as directed by Partha and Govinda (Krishna).
And Draupadi and Subhadrá, exhilarated with wine, began to give away
unto the women so sporting their costly robes and ornaments. And some
amongst those women began to dance in joy, and some began to sing, and
some amongst them began to laugh and jest, and some to drink excellent
wines.”
The picnic referred to was succeeded by a terrible conflict, in which
Krishna and Arjuna, in the interests of Agni, opposed Indra and his
celestial hosts. Agni, the god of fire, having drunk a continuous
stream of clarified butter for twelve years, during the sacrifice of
King Swetaki, was satiated with his greasy fare, had become pale and
could not shine as before. To recover his health a change of diet was
necessary for the god, and he, therefore, wished to devour, with his
flaming tongues, the forest of Khandava in that land; but whenever he
attempted to do this, Indra opposed him, quenching the flames raised by
the fire-god with torrents of rain from above. However, Arjuna, in his
wonderful way, “covered the forest of Khandava with innumerable arrows,
like the moon covering the atmosphere with a thick fog,” and in this
manner protected the burning forest from Indra’s drenching showers. A
fierce battle with Indra, backed by Asuras, Gandharvas, Yakshas, and
a host of others, resulted in the complete victory of Arjuna and his
kinsman, in the total consumption of the forest by fire, and the almost
wholesale destruction of all its inhabitants of every kind.
Only six of the dwellers in the forest of Khandava were allowed to
escape with their lives. Aswa-Sena, Maya, and four birds called
_Sharugakos_. Now Maya was the chief architect of the Danavas and, in
gratitude for his preservation, built a wonderful _Sabha_, or hall, for
the Pandavas, the most beautiful structure of its kind in the whole
world.
One day, while the Pandavas were holding their court in this hall, the
celestial Rishi Narada visited them, and the subject of conversation
having turned upon the splendours of Maya’s handiwork, the Rishi
described the courts of Indra, Yama, Varuna, and Kuvera, as also “the
assembly-house of the grandsire, that house which none can describe,
saying, it is such, for within a moment it assumes a different form
that language fails to paint.”
Within the narrow limits I have allowed myself, these highly
interesting pictures of the different heavens of the Hindus cannot be
reproduced; but their more salient features must not be passed over,
since they are highly characteristic of the ideas of the people who
conceived them. The hall of Brahma, the Supreme Being, the Creator of
everything, is an indescribable mansion, peopled by a most august, if
somewhat shadowy, assembly. Here, in the presence of the grandsire
of all, attend, in their personified forms, the various forces and
phenomena of nature, such as time and space, heat and air, day and
night, the months and seasons, the years and _Yugas_. Here also are
ever to be found religion, joy, tranquillity, aversion and asceticism;
here wisdom, intelligence and fame; here the four Vedas, sacrifices
and _mantras_. Here also perpetually attend hymns, dramas, songs and
stories, together with all the sciences, in the company of countless
celestial Rishis and all the deities.
The courts of the other gods, which are less solemn and sedate, always
resound with strains of delightful vocal and instrumental music, and
are enlivened with the graceful dancing of the charming Apsaras and
Gandharvas. But it is Yama’s _Sabha_ that most concerns the human race,
for it is there that, for the most part, the disembodied spirits of
men are to be found. “Bright as burnished gold, that assembly-house
covers an area of much more than a hundred _Yojanas_. Possessed of
the splendour of the sun it yieldeth everything that one may desire.
Neither very cool nor very hot, it delighteth the heart. In that
assembly-house there is neither grief nor weakness of age, neither
hunger nor thirst. Nothing disagreeable findeth a place there, nor
wretchedness or distress. There can be no fatigue or any kind of evil
feelings there. Every object of desire, celestial or human, is to be
found in that mansion. And all kinds of enjoyable articles, as also
of sweet juicy, agreeable, and delicious edibles in profusion, that
are licked, sucked and drunk, are there. And the floral wreaths in
that mansion are of the most delicious fragrance, and the trees that
stand around it yield fruits that are desired of them. And there are
both cold and hot waters, and these are sweet and agreeable. And in
that mansion many royal sages of great sanctity and Brahmana sages
also of great purity wait upon and worship Yama, the son Vivaswat....
And Agastya and Mataiya and Kála and Mrityu (Death), performers of
sacrifices, and Siddhas and many Yogins; the _Pitris_ ... the wheel of
time and the illustrious conveyer himself of the sacrificial butter;
all sinners among human beings, as also that have died during the
winter solstice; those officers of Yama who have been appointed to
count the allotted days of everybody and everything, the _Shingshapa_,
_Palasha_, _Kasha_, and _Kusha_, trees and plants, in their embodied
forms:--these all wait upon and worship the god of justice in that
assembly-house of his.... And many illustrious Gandharvas and many
Apsaras fill every part of that mansion with music, both instrumental
and vocal, and with the sounds of laughter and dance. And excellent
perfumes, and sweet sounds, and garlands of celestial flowers always
contribute to make that mansion supremely blest. And hundreds of
thousands of virtuous persons of celestial beauty and great wisdom
always wait upon and worship the illustrious lord of created beings in
that assembly-house.”[69]
During the period in the history of the Pandavas which we have now
reached, Draupadi bore five sons[70] to her five husbands, and Subhadrá
also became the mother of the afterwards famous Abhimanyu.
In their new home the Pandavas had flourished greatly, and having
established an undisputed supremacy over all the chieftains in their
immediate neighbourhood, they thought of performing a _rajasuya_ or
sacrifice of triumph, a sort of formal declaration of imperial claims.
But there was a serious difficulty in the way of the accomplishment
of this proud function; for there reigned at Mathura, the capital of
Magadha, a powerful king, named Jarásandha who, having himself already
brought no less than _eighty-six_ kings under his dominion, was not, by
any means, likely to acknowledge the superiority of Yudhisthira. Hence
it followed that, until Jarásandha were overcome, the _rajasuya_ could
not be undertaken.
To conquer or otherwise dispose of Jarásandha was, therefore, the
problem before the sons of Pandu. Their kinsman, Krishna, “foremost
of personages whose strength consists in wisdom and policy,” was on a
visit to Indraprasta, and willingly accompanied Arjuna and Bhima (all
three disguised as Brahmans) to Mathura. Once in the presence of their
formidable rival they threw off the mask and made themselves known to
him. Krishna upbraided Jarásandha with his cruel purpose of offering
up the vanquished kings, whom he held in captivity, as sacrifices to
the god Rudra and, without hesitation, intimated that he and his
companions had come to Mathura expressly to slay him. In addressing
the King of Magadha Krishna gave expression to sentiments which remind
one forcibly of the warlike ideas of the Norsemen. “Know,” said he
“O bull among men, that Kshatriyas engage in battle with heaven in
view.... Study of Vedas, great fame, ascetic penances, and death in
battle are all acts that lead to heaven. The attainment of heaven by
the other three acts may be uncertain. But death in battle hath that
for its certain consequence.” The challenge thus given was accepted
in the chivalrous spirit of the times. A single and public combat
was arranged between Bhima and Jarásandha. Crowds of all classes of
citizens, including women, were present to see the event. Both heroes
fought without weapons. The encounter, which was carried on with great
ferocity, lasted thirteen days without intermission for rest or food,
and finally resulted in Jarásandha’s backbone being broken against
Bhima’s knee. “And the roar of the Pandava, mingling with that of
Jarásandha while he was being broken on Bhima’s knee, caused a loud
uproar that struck fear into the heart of every creature.” After
Jarásandha had been slain, Krishna released his royal prisoners, and
engaged them to assist Yudhisthira in the celebration of the proposed
_rajasuya_ sacrifice.
As soon as the occurrences at Mathura had been made known to
Yudhisthira, he despatched his four brothers to the four points of
the compass to collect tribute from all the Rajahs of the world.[71]
These expeditions were fruitful of wonderful adventures, but we have
not space to recount them here, though we must not omit to note, in
passing, that when those unprovoked aggressors, the sons of Pandu,
vanquished any prince who offered resistance, he at once and, as a
matter of course, joined the victors with his forces, and helped to
subjugate the unfortunate king upon whose territories the advancing
tide of invasion next broke.[72]
As a sequel to the conquests of the Pandavas, a crowd of Brahmans,
with scores of Rajahs, flocked to Indraprasta from all parts of the
country, and were right royally lodged and entertained by Yudhisthira’s
commands. The various duties demanded by the occasion were intrusted
to the different members of the family and to intimate friends of the
Pandavas. Dhusashana was appointed to cater for the visitors; Kripa
to look after the gold and gems; Duryodhana to receive the tributes;
and Krishna, at his own desire, was engaged in washing the feet of the
Brahmans.
Arrangements for the _rajasuya_ were pushed forward, and all was
hubbub and excitement in Indraprasta. The Brahman sages found the
occasion a grand one for disputations with one another, and they
took full advantage of it; but a suppressed fire of discontent and
jealousy was smouldering in the hearts of the assembled Rajahs,
which was set ablaze by a proposal to regard Krishna as the foremost
chieftain present. Angry and contemptuous objections were made to his
being given precedence in the assembly. The wise Bhisma, however,
fully aware who and what his kinsman really was, solemnly assured the
malcontents that “Krishna is the origin of the universe, and that in
which the universe is to dissolve. Indeed this universe of mobile and
immobile creatures has sprung into existence for Krishna only. He is
the unmanifest primal matter, the Creator, the eternal and beyond (the
ken of) all creatures.” Notwithstanding this testimony the opposition
did not cease. Indeed Shishupala, the mighty King of Chedi, ridiculed
the old man’s words, heaped contempt upon Krishna, and eventually, with
many taunts and jeers, challenged him to fight. “And while Shishupala
was speaking thus, the exalted slayer of Madhu thought in his mind
of the discus that humbleth the pride of the Asuras. And as soon as
the discus came into his hands the illustrious one skilled in speech
loudly uttered these words! ‘Listen, ye lords of earth, why this one
had hitherto been pardoned by me. Asked by his mother, a hundred
offences (of his) were to be pardoned by me. Even this was the boon
she had asked and even this I granted her. That number, ye kings, hath
become full. I shall now slay him in your presence, ye monarchs.’
Having said this, the chief of the Yadus, that slayer of all foes, in
anger instantly cut off the head of the ruler of Chedi by means of his
discus. And the mighty-armed one fell down like a cliff struck with
thunder. And the assembled kings then beheld a fierce energy, like
unto the sun in the sky, issue out of the body of the King of Chedi.
And that energy then adored Krishna, possessed of eyes like lotus
leaves and worshipped of all the worlds, and entered his body. And the
kings beholding the energy which entered that mighty-armed chief of
men regarded it as wonderful.” And indeed they might well do so, yet
the poet tells us that many of the chiefs were excited to fierce if
suppressed anger by what they had witnessed.[73]
At length the great sacrifice for imperial sway was successfully
accomplished, and with the greatest imaginable splendour. After which
the subject Rajahs were courteously dismissed to their respective
principalities.
But the grandeur and wealth displayed on this occasion served to
re-awaken or inflame the old jealousy of the Kauravas, particularly of
Duryodhana, who had been the unwilling collector of the vast tribute
poured into Yudhisthira’s treasury at Indraprasta. Despairing of
injuring their rivals by open and fair means, the Kauravas determined
to resort once more to artifice, having, as usual, discussed the
pros and cons of the question from all points of view; for these
old-time heroes of India were nothing if not argumentative.[74] They
built a sumptuous reception-hall, “a crystal-arched palace,” full two
miles square, decorated with gold and lapis lazuli, with a thousand
columns and one hundred gates. Hither they invited a large number of
royal friends, but the principal guests were the Pandavas, whom they
challenged to a friendly gambling match. Yudhisthira well understood
and clearly stated the objectionable features of gambling, and was
fully aware that the game of chance he was challenged to take part
in would not be fairly conducted. However, as a Kshatriya, he could
not decline the match, and so sat down to play against Shakuni, Queen
Gandhari’s brother, a skilful and unscrupulous dice-player, who was
backed by Duryodhana.
In a succession of games Yudhisthira lost all his money and jewels, all
his cattle, jewelled chariots, war-elephants, slaves and slave-girls,
and then the whole of the kingdom of the Pandavas. Driven to despair,
the luckless gambler would persist in continuing to play while there
remained anything at all to stake. But his success was no better than
before, and he staked and lost his brothers, one by one, then himself
and, lastly, the joint-wife of the Pandavas, the famous Draupadi.
An exciting and most sensational scene followed. To complete the
humiliation of their rivals, the successful gamesters ordered Draupadi
to be conducted into the gaming hall. She astutely objected that,
as Yudhisthira had first staked and lost himself, and thus entered
a servile condition before he played for her, he was not legally
competent to dispose of her person; but her protest was unheeded.
Being dressed at the time in a single robe of cloth, a simple _saree_
apparently, she refused to appear in that attire before the assembled
chiefs. But Dhusashana, with brutal unceremoniousness, dragged her into
the great hall by the hair of her head, treating her, in the presence
of her husbands, with the familiar license which they were accustomed
to indulge in when dealing with their female slaves. Dhusashana even
went so far as to attempt to strip beautiful Draupadi in the presence
of the assembly. In her trouble she prayed aloud to Krishna for help,
invoking him as the lover of the _gopis_ (milkmaids), the dweller
in Dwarka, the soul of the universe, the Creator of all things. And
Krishna, hearing her prayer, miraculously multiplied her garments as
fast as they were removed. Yet notwithstanding these manifestations
of divine protection, Duryodhana, not to be behind in affronting
his rivals, indecently bared his left thigh and showed it to the
modest Draupadi, who, as she said, had never since the occasion of
her swayamvara been beheld by an assembly like this. These gross
indignities, it may be well imagined, must have driven the Pandavas
frantic. Why then did they not dare to interpose? Because they were
bound by the acts of their elder brother; and submission to authority
seems ever to have been the highest virtue of these Hindu heroes! Only
Bhima, with an impetuosity which was not to be restrained even by
respect for his elder brother, took a solemn oath before the assembly
that, for the deeds that they had done that day, he would break the
thigh of Duryodhana and drink the blood of Dhusashana, or forfeit his
hopes of heaven. Both these vows he accomplished in the great war to be
subsequently referred to.
While this sensational scene was being enacted, a jackal howled in the
_homa_-chamber of King Dhritarashtra. Terrified by this omen of dire
evil, the old king began to reprove Duryodhana for his conduct; and,
addressing Draupadi, in respectful and affectionate terms, desired her
to ask of him any boon she pleased. Without hesitation she demanded at
once that Yudhisthira should be freed from slavery. A second boon being
offered her, she solicited the freedom of her other husbands; but when
she was given the option of a third boon she declined to accept the
favour, saying: “O king, these my husbands, freed from the wretched
state of bondage, will be able to achieve prosperity by their own
virtuous acts.” However, Dhritarashtra dismissed the Pandavas in honour
to their own city, desiring them to think no more of the unpleasant
episode of the gambling match.
The crestfallen visitors hastened to take advantage of the blind king’s
permission to depart, and they set out at once on their homeward
journey, revolving in their minds many a scheme of future vengeance.
The Kauravas, however, felt, and justly too, that after what had passed
that day the matter could not be thus easily settled. They knew their
outraged cousins would burn to wipe out the insults they had received,
and so they entreated the blind old king, their father, to recall the
Pandavas and induce them to play a final game, upon the issue of which
one party or the other should go into voluntary exile. The Pandavas
were brought back to try the fortune of the dice once more, and it was
arranged that the losing side should go into exile, spending twelve
years in the forests and one additional year in any city they might
find convenient; and that if the exiles were discovered, during the
time of their concealment in the city, they would have to go through
another exile of thirteen years. The game upon which so much hung was
duly played, with the result that the Pandavas had to exchange the
splendour and luxury of the palace for the simple life and scanty fare
of the forest, with which they had already become acquainted in their
earlier wanderings.
When Dhusashana saw that Sakuni had won the game, he danced about for
joy, and cried out: “Now is established the Raj of Duryodhana!” But
Bhima said: “Be not elated with joy, but remember my words. The day
will come when I shall drink your blood, or never attain to regions
of blessedness!” The Pandavas seeing that they had lost their wager,
threw off their garments, put on deerskins, and prepared to depart into
the forest with their joint-wife, their mother Kunti, and their priest
Dhaumya; but Vidura representing to Yudhisthira that Kunti was, by
reason of her years, unfitted to bear the hardships of exile, proposed
that she should be left to his care, and this kindly offer was readily
accepted. From the assembly the sons of Pandu went out, hanging down
their heads with shame, and covering their faces with their garments.
Only Bhima, always more impulsive than his brothers, threw out his
long, mighty arms, and glared at the Kauravas furiously, while Draupadi
spread her long black hair over her face and wept bitterly. The blind
old king regarded the departure of his nephews with grave misgivings,
for he felt that inevitable destruction awaited him and his at the
hands of the Pandavas. All this, he well knew, was the work of his son
Duryodhana, constrained by destiny, since “the whole universe moveth at
the will of the Creator under the controlling influence of fate:” and,
as Sanjaya said, in allusion to Duryodhana, “the gods first deprive
that man of his reason unto whom they send defeat and disgrace.”
Surely it is only a Hindu bard who could imagine such sudden and
complete reverses of fortune and such tame, almost abject, acquiescence
in the circumstances of the hour, on the part of such redoubtable
heroes as the sons of Pandu! Nor is it comprehensible why exile to the
forest should always entail the hermit garb and utter destitution.
That King Yudhisthira felt his altered position bitterly is evident
from the words he addressed to the Brahmans who accompanied him and his
brothers out of the city. “Robbed,” he says, “of our prosperity and
kingdom, robbed of everything, we are about to enter the deep woods in
sorrow: depending for our food on fruits and roots and the produce of
the chase. The forest too is full of dangers and abounds with reptiles
and beasts of prey.” However his anticipations were worse than the
reality. By the advice of a Brahman the exiled monarch made an appeal
to the sun for help, addressing him in such terms as these. “Thou art,
O sun, the eye of the universe! Thou art the soul of all corporeal
existences! Thou art the origin of all things.... Thou art called
Indra, thou art Vishnu, thou art Brahma, thou art Prajapati! Thou
art fire and thou art the subtle mind! and thou art the lord and the
eternal Brahma.”[75] In response to this appeal the sun-god appeared to
the king, and presented him with a copper cooking-vessel, which proved
to be an inexhaustible source of fruits and roots, meat and vegetables
to the exiles during their twelve years of enforced sojourn in the
woods.[76]
Their forest wanderings were productive of many stirring adventures,
the narrative of which occupies a large portion of the original poem,
but we can find space to notice only a few of these.
Following the advice of the sage Vyasa, Arjuna visited the Himalayas
in order to gain the favour of Siva, and to obtain from him certain
most potent celestial weapons for the destruction of the Kauravas,
of whom the Pandava heroes seem, notwithstanding their own wonderful
fighting qualities, to have had a wholesome dread. Having arrived upon
the sacred mountains, Arjuna went through a course of austerities “with
arms upraised, leaning upon nothing and standing on the tips of his
toes.” For food he at first had withered leaves, but eventually he
fed on air alone. Such was the fervour of his penances that the earth
around him began to smoke, and the alarmed Rishis came in a body to
Siva, and asked him to interfere. The chief of all the gods sent them
away with comforting assurances and, having assumed the appearance of a
_Kiráta_, or low-class hunter, came upon Arjuna and provoked him to an
encounter. The battle was fierce, culminating in a desperate personal
struggle; but where one of the combatants was the Supreme Being the
issue could not be doubtful, and Arjuna fell smitten senseless by the
god. He soon recovered consciousness, and “mentally prostrating himself
before the gracious god of gods, and making a clay image of that
deity, he worshipped it with offerings of floral garlands.”[77] To his
surprise he found the garland he had offered to the clay image adorning
the head of his victorious enemy, the _Kiráta_, who thus revealed
himself to the much-relieved son of Pandu. Arjuna prostrated himself
before the deity, who expressed his approval of his worshipper, and
presently bestowed upon him the gift of a terrible celestial weapon,
called the Pácupata, with instructions in regard to the appropriate
_mantras_ or spells to be used with it. At that moment the whole earth,
with its mountains, plains, and rivers, trembled with excitement, a
terrible hurricane expressed the concern of nature in the important
event, and the “terrible weapon in its embodied form” stood by the
side of Arjuna ready to obey his behests. When Siva had vanished from
sight, the guardians of the four regions (_lokapalah_) Kuvera, Varuna,
Yama, and Indra appeared in great splendour upon the mountain top, and
presented Arjuna with other celestial weapons; after which he was
carried in a wondrous car to the heaven of his real father, the god
Indra. It was a glorious and delightful region, lighted with its own
inherent brilliancy, adorned with flowers of every season, fanned by
fragrant breezes and resounding with celestial music. Here there were
bands of lovely Apsaras and Gandharvas, who gladdened all hearts with
their ravishing songs and dances. It was a region for the virtuous
alone, and not for those “who had turned their back on the field of
battle.”
In this delightful place Arjuna passed five years of his life, treated
with the highest honour and consideration, learning the use of the
various celestial weapons with which he was eventually to overthrow
those redoubtable champions, Kripa and Drona, Bhisma and Karna. Nor
were lighter studies neglected. Arjuna, under a competent instructor,
became proficient in the arts of music and dancing.
That he might be made “to taste the joys of heaven,” properly, the
lovely Apsara,[78] Urvasi, of wide hips, crisp soft hair, beautiful
eyes and full bosom, was specially commanded to make herself agreeable
to Arjuna. Her sensual beauty, described in some detail by the poet,
failed, however, to subdue the hero, who met her amatory advances with
a somewhat exaggerated respect, which so enraged the fair temptress
that she cursed him, saying: “Since thou disregardest a woman come
to thy mansion at the command of thy father and of her own motion--a
woman, besides, who is pierced by the shafts of Kama,--therefore, O
Partha, thou shalt have to pass thy time among females, unregarded, and
as a dancer and destitute of manhood.”
While Arjuna was in the heaven of Indra, King Yudhisthira passed some
time in the forest of Kamyaka, in company with his three younger
brothers and Draupadi, attended by his family priest, Dhaumya, and
a number of faithful Brahmans. Here he learned, from an illustrious
Rishi, Vrihadaçwa, “the science of dice in its entirety,” ignorance
of which _science_ had cost him so dear. After a while the party set
out on a pilgrimage to visit and bathe in those _tirthas_, or sacred
waters, which abound all over India to this day. Each _tirtha_ is
famous for some event in the history of the gods or the saints of the
lands, and the water of each one has a virtue of its own. A dip in one
cleanses the bather from all his sins, a dip in another confers upon
him the merit of having bestowed a thousand kine upon the Brahmans, or,
perhaps, that of having performed a horse-sacrifice. By a plunge in a
third _tirtha_ the pilgrim acquires the power of disappearance at will,
or some other coveted power; while ablution in the water of a fourth
places the heaven of Indra, or of some other god, within his reach.
It is evident that by making a round of these _tirthas_ a man might
acquire superhuman power and the highest felicity in this and a future
life.
Journeying leisurely from _tirtha_ to _tirtha_, from the Punjab to the
Southern Sea, under the guidance of the sage Lomaça, King Yudhisthira,
with the others, pleasantly acquired an enormous store of merits of
various kinds. But, anxious for reunion with Arjuna, they wended
their way back to the North, visiting the _tirthas_ on their route,
till they found themselves in the Himalayas. Pushing into the sacred
solitude of these giant mountains they met with many adventures, in
which Bhima’s son, Ghatotkacha, was very helpful to them. At last,
from a lofty summit, these fortunate travellers got a glimpse of the
abode of Kuvera, the god of wealth, “adorned with golden and crystal
palaces, surrounded on all sides by golden walls having the splendour
of all gems, furnished with gardens all around, higher than a mountain
peak, beautiful with ramparts and towers, and adorned with doorways
and gates and rows of pennons. And the abode was graced with dallying
damsels dancing around, and also with pennons wafted by the breeze....
And gladdening all creatures, there was blowing a breeze, carrying
all perfumes, and of balmy feel. And there were various beautiful and
wonderful trees of diverse hues, resounding with diverse dulcet notes.”
Kuvera came out to meet the Pandavas, and after some excellent advice
to Yudhisthira, in which he pointed out to the king that success in
human affairs depended upon “patience, ability (appropriate), time
and place and prowess,” requested them to retire to a somewhat less
elevated position on the mountains, and there await the return of their
brother. And it came to pass that one day, while they were thinking of
Arjuna, a blazing chariot driven by Indra’s charioteer, Matali, filled
the sky with its brilliancy and, stopping near them, their long-absent
brother descended from it, in a resplendent form, adorned with a diadem
and celestial garlands. He paid his respects, in due form, first to the
family priest and then to Bhima; after that he received the salutations
of his younger brothers; he next cheered his beloved Krishná by his
presence, and finally stood, in an attitude of humility, before the
king. The Pandavas worshipped Matali as if he were Indra himself, and
then “duly inquired of him after the health of all the gods.” At dawn
next day Indra himself, attended by hosts of Gandharvas and Apsaras,
visited the Pandavas and, having received their adoration, and having
assured Yudhisthira that he would yet rule the earth, desired him to
go back to Kamyaka, whereupon the Pandavas, of course, commenced their
return journey.
Arjuna, restored to the companionship of his brothers, related to them
some of his adventures during the five years of his absence, and dwelt
in some detail upon the successful destruction of certain Danavas,
named Nivata-Kavachas, which he had carried out single-handed. These
were ancient and powerful enemies of Indra, dwellers in the womb of
the ocean, and numbering thirty millions.[79] Against these puissant
demons Arjuna was sent in Indra’s chariot, driven by Matali; and, after
prodigies of valour and the most marvellous performances with the
celestial weapons which he had received from the gods, he completely
overthrew them and destroyed their wonderful aërial city, Hiranyapura.
Shortly after these events Krishna came on a visit to his friends,
and they were also joined by the sage Markandeya, who lightened the
tedium of their wanderings with interesting narratives of past events,
and profitable discourses on important religious and philosophical
subjects. How competent he was for such a task will be readily
admitted, when we learn from himself that he, and he alone, of the race
of men or created beings, was privileged to see the entire universe run
its cycle of changes through the four appointed _Yugas_ or ages; to
watch it undergo gradual degeneracy and decay; and, finally, to witness
its total destruction by fire,--with all animated beings, even gods
and demons,--only to be recreated again in order to run its appointed
course through the ages once more.[80]
Markandeya relates to the Pandavas the whole story of the “Ramayana”
and many another legend of the olden time. Let me here reproduce his
story of the _flood_, as it has an interest not confined to India or
Hindus, and also his explanation of the doctrine of _Karma_, of which
we are beginning to hear so much in these days.
_Markandeya’s Account of the Universal Deluge._--There was once a
powerful and great Rishi, named Manu, who “was equal unto Brahma in
glory.” For ten thousand years he practised the severest austerities
in the forest, standing on one leg with uplifted hand and bowed head.
One day as he was undergoing his self-inflicted penance, with matted
locks and dripping garments, a little fish, approaching the bank
of the stream near which the Rishi stood, entreated his protection
against the cruel voracity of the bigger fishes; “for,” said the little
suppliant, “this fixed custom is well established among us, that the
strong fish always prey upon the weak ones.” The sage, touched with
compassion, took the little fish out of the river, and put it for
safety into an earthen vessel of water, and tended it carefully. In
its new home it grew apace and, at its own request, was removed to a
tank. Here its dimensions increased so wonderfully that “although the
tank was two _yojanas_ in length and one _yojana_ in width,” there was
not sufficient room in it for the fish, who again appealed to Manu,
asking him to place it in the Ganges, “the favourite spouse of the
ocean.” Gigantic as the fish was, the wonderful Rishi put it into the
river with his own hands; but the Ganges itself was too small for this
monster of the waters, and the Muni carried it to the sea-shore and
consigned it to the bosom of the mighty ocean.
“And when it was thrown into the sea by Manu, it said these words to
him with a smile:[81] ‘O adorable being thou hast protected me with
special care; do thou now listen to me as to what thou shouldst do in
the fulness of time! O fortunate and worshipful sir, the dissolution
of this mobile and immobile world is nigh at hand. The time for the
purging of this world is now ripe. Therefore do I now explain what is
well for thee. The mobile and the immobile divisions of the creation,
those that have the power of locomotion and those that have it not,
of all these the terrible doom hath now approached. Thou shalt build
a strong and massive ark, and have it furnished with a long rope. On
that must thou ascend, O great Muni, with the seven Rishis, and take
with thee all the different seeds which were enumerated by regenerate
Brahmans in days of yore, and separately and carefully must thou
preserve them therein. And whilst there, O beloved of the Munis, thou
shalt wait for me, and I shall appear to thee like a horned animal, and
thus, O ascetic, shalt thou recognize me.’”
Manu, having carried out the instructions of the fish in all its
details, entered his ark and embarked upon the surging ocean. He
thought of the fish, and it appeared with horns on its head, to which
Manu fastened his vessel. A terrific tempest arose, in which the ark
“reeled about like a drunken harlot.” Water covered everything, even
the heavens and the firmament. For many years the fish towed the vessel
through the flood, and at length conveyed it towards the highest peak
of the Himavat (Himalayas) and instructed the occupants to moor their
vessel to it. “Then the fish, addressing the associated Rishis, told
them these words: ‘I am Brahma, the lord of all creatures; there is
none greater than myself’. Assuming the shape of a fish I have saved ye
from this cataclysm. Manu will create (again) all beings--gods, Asuras
and men, and all those divisions of creation which have the power of
locomotion and which have it not. By practising severe austerities he
will acquire this power, and, with my blessing, illusion will have no
power over him.” Manu, of course, underwent the necessary austerities,
and recreated “all beings in proper and exact order.”
Such is the “Legend of the Fish,” and whosoever listens to it every day
is assured of heaven.[82]
From this easy mode of reaching heaven,[83] as taught by the sage
Markandeya, we turn to his exposition of the _doctrine of Karma_,
which, if less comforting in respect to the means of attaining heavenly
joys has, at least, something of philosophical plausibility to
recommend it to our attention.
The divine sage, addressing Yudhisthira, explained to him that
happiness is to be attained neither by learning, nor good morals, nor
personal exertion. There is yet another and more important factor than
all these to be reckoned with, and that is _Karma_. “If the fruits of
our exertion,” says Markandeya, “were not dependent on anything else,
people would attain the object of their desire by simply striving to
attain it. It is sure that able, intelligent, and diligent persons
are baffled in their efforts and do not attain the fruits of their
actions. On the other hand, persons who are always active in injuring
others, and in practising deception on the world, lead a happy life.
There are some who attain prosperity without any exertion; and there
are others who with the utmost exertion are unable to achieve their
dues. Miserly persons with the object of having sons born to them
worship the gods and practise severe austerities, and these sons ... at
length turn out to be very infamous scions of their race; and others
begotten under the same auspices, decently pass their lives in luxury,
with hoards of riches and grain accumulated by their ancestors. The
diseases from which men suffer are undoubtedly the result of their
own _Karma_,” that is of their actions in previous and unremembered
existences. “It is,” pursues Markandeya, “the immemorial tradition[84]
that the soul is eternal and everlasting, but the corporeal frame of
all creatures is subject to destruction here (below). When, therefore,
life is extinguished the body only is destroyed, but the spirit, wedded
to its actions, travels elsewhere.” It inhabits innumerable bodies in
succession, it lives countless lives, it passes through the infernal
regions, it attains to the heaven of the gods; and, after untold woes
and infinite struggles, is eventually re-absorbed in the divine
essence from which it sprang.[85]
Turning from these episodes and mystic speculations to the Pandavas
themselves, we find that the ever-fair Draupadi having, by her
perennial and faultless beauty, aroused the passions of Jayadratha,
Rajah of Sindhu, was artfully carried off by him during the temporary
absence of her husbands; but the ravisher was overtaken and suffered
punishment at the hands of the ardent Bhima, who, after inflicting
severe bodily chastisement upon the defeated Rajah, cut off his hair,
all except five locks, and made him confess himself the slave of the
Pandavas. At the request of Yudhisthira, backed by generous Draupadi,
Jayadratha was released.
This abduction and rescue recalled to the mind of Markandeya the story
of Rama and Sita, which he proceeded to relate, at considerable length,
for the edification of the Pandavas. The sage also recounted the story
of Savitri, more charming than that of Orpheus and Eurydice. How the
lovely Savitri set her affections upon young Satyaván, the only son of
the blind Dyumatsena, ex-king of the Salwas; how she learned from the
lips of the celestial sage Narada, that the beautiful youth was fated
to die within a year; how notwithstanding this secret knowledge she
willingly linked her lot with his; and how, when the inevitable hour
arrived, and the doom of fate was accomplished in the lonely forest,
her austere piety and devoted love enabled her to follow Yama, on and
on with fearless footsteps and touching entreaties, as he conveyed away
her dear husband’s spirit to the Land of Shades, and at last to prevail
upon the dread deity to restore to her the soul of her Satyaván.
“Adieu, great God!” She took the soul,
No bigger than the human thumb,
And running swift, soon reached her goal,
Where lay the body stark and dumb.
She lifted it with eager hands
And as before, when he expired,
She placed the head upon the bands
That bound her breast, which hope new fired,
And which alternate rose and fell;
Then placed his soul upon his heart,
Whence like a bee it found its cell,
And lo, he woke with sudden start!
His breath came low at first, then deep,
With an unquiet look he gazed,
As one awaking from a sleep,
Wholly “bewildered and amazed.”[86]
Of the doings of the Kauravas, during the twelve years that we have
been following the fortunes of their cousins, little is recorded,
and that little is not to their credit. Knowing full well where the
Pandavas were passing their term of exile in the forests, Duryodhana,
upon the advice of Karna, went thither in great state with a view of
meanly feasting his eyes upon the wretchedness of his hated kinsmen,
and of intensifying their misery by the cruel contrast between his
own grandeur and their destitution. This was the real, if unworthy,
motive of the journey to the forest of Kamyaka; the alleged reason
was to inspect the royal cattle-stations in order to count the stock
and mark the calves.[87] Attended by his courtiers, by thousands
of ladies belonging to the royal household, and by a great army of
followers and soldiers, Duryodhana proceeded towards the sylvan abode
of the Pandavas; but his advance guard was refused admission into the
forests by the Gandharvas, whose king had come with his celestial hosts
and several tribes of Apsaras to have a merry time in those woods.
As neither party would abate a jot of its pretensions, a terrible
battle ensued, resulting in the complete defeat of the Kauravas, the
ignominious flight of the redoubtable Karna, and the capture, by the
victorious enemy, of Duryodhana himself, his court, and all his harem.
In this extremity the beaten followers of the captive king fled for
help to the Pandavas. For the sake of the honour of the family,
and particularly for the protection of the ladies of their house,
Arjuna and Bhima, with the twins came, by the magnanimous command of
Yudhisthira, to the rescue of their kinsmen; and, after performing
feats of war which none but an Indian poet could imagine, obtained
the release of the crestfallen Duryodhana, whose bitterness
against his cousins was only increased by this humiliating and
never-to-be-forgotten incident.
Stung to the quick by the intolerable mortification of his position,
Duryodhana, in despair, resolved to give up his kingdom and his life.
To the remonstrances of his friends, he answered: “I have nothing more
to do with virtue, wealth, friendship, affluence, sovereignty and
enjoyment. Do not obstruct my purpose, but leave me, all of you. I am
firmly resolved to cast away my life by foregoing food. Return to the
city and treat my superiors there respectfully.” He might have fallen
upon his own sword; but the Hindu hero elects to die otherwise. “And
the son of Dhritarashtra, in accordance with his purpose, spread kuça
grass on the earth, and purifying himself by touching water sat down
upon that spot. And, clad in rags and kuça grass, he set himself to
observe the highest vow. And stopping all speech, that tiger among
kings, moved by the desire of going to heaven, began to pray and
worship internally, suspending all external intercourse.”
However, this meditated suicide was not fated to be accomplished. The
Daityas and Danavas interfered, “knowing that if the king died, their
party would be weakened.” By means of certain rites and sacrifices
they called into being “a strange goddess with mouth wide open,” who
carried Duryodhana into their presence at night. The Daityas and
Danavas explained to the dejected king that he was of more than human
origin, and their especial ally. They undertook to help him in his
struggles with the Pandavas, and promised him a complete triumph over
his rivals. Cheered by these assurances, the would be suicide abandoned
his purpose, resumed his royal position and, emulating the Pandavas,
performed a great and costly sacrifice, known as the _Vaishnava_. To
this important rite Duryodhana insultingly invited his cousins, who
prudently declined the invitation on the plea that the period of their
exile was not yet completed.
Notwithstanding the recent defeat of Karna by the Gandharvas, and his
precipitate flight from the field of battle, there seems to have been
a lurking dread of his prowess amongst the friends of the Pandavas.
Indra, the god of heaven, determined therefore to render him less
formidable, by depriving him of his native coat of golden mail and
the celestial ear-rings with which he was born. For this purpose he
presented himself before Karna in the guise of a Brahman, and asked
him for his armour and ear-rings. Now Karna had made a vow never to
refuse anything to a Brahman, and was thus placed on the horns of a
cruel dilemma. However, he had been forewarned by his own father,
the sun-god, of Indra’s intentions, and had been advised to ask
for an infallible weapon in exchange for his armour and ear-rings.
Recognizing the god of heaven under his Brahmanical disguise, Karna
preferred his request, which was granted with conditions which made
it almost nugatory. Karna peeled off his natural armour, which act,
by Indra’s favour, left no scar upon his person. “And Sakra (Indra),”
says the poet, “having thus beguiled Karna, but made him famous in the
world thought, with a smile, that the business of the sons of Pandu
had already been completed.” The Pandavas were naturally elated, and
the Kauravas depressed, when the news of these events reached them.
Though the sons of Pandu had received repeated assurances that they
would ultimately triumph over their enemies, they were, it seems,
subject to frequent fits of somewhat unreasonable depression; so Vyasa,
ever devoted to the interests of the heroes, visited them in their
forest-home, and consoled Yudhisthira once more by the prediction that,
after the thirteenth year of exile had expired, he would regain his
kingdom and his influence in the world.
The twelfth year of exile was now drawing to a close; the thirteenth
year, it will be remembered, was to be passed by the Pandavas in
disguise in some city or other. Their last experience in the woods
was as wonderful as any they had previously gone through. A wild stag
carried away on its branching antlers the sticks with which a Brahman
ascetic was wont to kindle his fire. The five brothers were appealed to
by the hermit in his trouble, and pursued the animal, but could neither
kill it nor run it down. Overcome with fatigue and thirst they sat down
to take rest. One climbed a tree to look-out for signs of water, and
having discovered them, Nakula was sent to fetch water for the party.
Not far away he found a pleasant pond, but was warned by the commanding
voice of some unseen being not to touch the water. He was too thirsty
to give heed to the injunction and, proceeding to drink of the crystal
spring, fell down dead. Wondering at Nakula’s prolonged absence,
Sahadeva set out to look for him and, coming upon the pond, heard the
warning voice. He, too, disregarded it, and suffered the same penalty
as his brother had done. Arjuna and Bhima in turn went through the same
experiences with the same sad result. At last the wise Yudhisthira came
upon the scene; he prudently refrained from touching the water when
warned against doing so, and entered into conversation with the aërial
voice, which now took an embodied form,--that of a mighty _Yaksha_.
This being of terrible aspect, interrogated the king upon a number of
important points, and receiving satisfactory answers,[88] revealed
himself to Yudhisthira as his father, Dharma, god of justice. He then
restored the dead Pandavas to life, and bestowed this boon upon them
that, during the thirteenth year of their exile, if they even travelled
over the entire earth in their proper forms, no one _in the three
worlds_ would be able to recognize them.
The twelfth year was now nearly completed, and the brothers left the
woods resolved to spend the next twelve months in the city of Virata,
which seems to have been close at hand. Before entering the city they
had to conceal their weapons in order to avoid detection (for they
do not seem to have placed implicit confidence in the boon granted
by Dharma). Just outside the city they came upon a cemetery with a
gigantic _Sami_ tree. To the topmost boughs of this tree they fastened
their weapons. They also hung a corpse on the tree that people might
avoid it. This action of theirs was evidently noticed, for the poet
tells us that, on being asked by the shepherds and “cowherds regarding
the corpse, those repressors of foes said unto them, ‘This is our
mother, aged one hundred and eighty years. We have hung up her dead
body, in accordance with the custom observed by our forefathers.’”
On the way Yudhisthira, ever anxious for divine help, invoked the
goddess Durga in terms which reveal at once the attributes of the
goddess and the Hindu poet’s idea of the most suitable expressions to
be employed in addressing a female divinity. “Salutations to thee, O
giver of boons.... Salutations to thee, O thou of four hands and four
faces, O thou of fair round hips and deep bosom, O thou that wearest
bangles made of emeralds and sapphires, O thou that bearest excellent
braces on thy upper arm.... Thou art the only female in the universe
that possessest the attribute of purity. Thou art decked with a pair of
well-made ears graced with excellent rings. O goddess thou shinest with
a face that challengeth the moon in beauty! With an excellent diadem
and beautiful braid, with robes made of the bodies of snakes, and with
also the brilliant girdle round thy hips thou shinest like the Mandara
Mountain encircled with snakes! Thou shinest also with peacock-plumes
standing erect on thy head, and thou hast sanctified the celestial
regions by adopting the vow of perpetual maidenhood. It is for this,
O thou that hast slain the _Buffalo-Asura_, that thou art praised and
worshipped by the gods for the protection of the three worlds! O thou
foremost of all deities, extend to me thy grace, show me thy mercy and
be thou the source of blessings to me! Thou art Jaya and Vijaya, and it
is thou that givest victory in battle! Grant me victory, O goddess,
and give me boons also at this hour of distress. Thy eternal abode is
on Vindhya, that foremost of mountains, O Kali! O Kali thou art the
great Kali, ever fond of wine and meat and animal sacrifice. Capable of
going everywhere at will and bestowing boons on thy devotees, thou art
ever followed in thy journeys by Brahma and the other gods,”[89] etc.,
etc.
“Thus praised by the son of Pandu, the goddess showed herself unto
him,” and promised the exiles that, through her grace, they would
remain unrecognized, either by the Kurava spies or the inhabitants of
the city, as long as they resided in Virata.
Under such favourable auspices and protection, the Pandavas and
their joint-wife entered Virata. Yudhisthira presented himself
before the Rajah, and was engaged as a companion and teacher of
dice-playing, in which art, as the reader will remember, he received
special instruction from a Rishi in the woods of Kamyaka. Bhima was
taken on as superintendent of the cooks, being it seems especially
clever in preparing _curries_. Arjuna, who personated a eunuch, was
appointed music and dancing-master to the ladies, having learned those
accomplishments in Indra’s heaven. Nakula was taken on as master of the
horse, and Sahadeva, who was skilled in milking and managing kine, as
superintendent of the cattle. Draupadi professed to be a _Sairindhri_,
or maid-servant, ready to serve anybody who would maintain her. The
queen chanced to see Draupadi and took her into her service, although
she felt and expressed some reluctance to have about her person a
woman of such an attractive appearance. The Rani apparently had her
suspicions about Draupadi, to whom she candidly expressed her opinion
that she was too beautiful to be a servant, “for,” said she, “your
heels are not prominent and your thighs touch one another. And your
intelligence is great, and your navel deep, and your words solemn.
And your great toes, and bust, and hips, and toe-nails, and palms,
are all well-developed.” The Rani also naïvely added: “What man will
be able to resist thy attractions? Surely, O thou of well-rounded
hips, O damsel of exquisite charms, beholding thy form of superhuman
beauty, King Virata is sure to forsake me and will turn to thee with
his whole heart.” But the fair wife of the five Pandavas seems to have
allayed the Rani’s natural jealousy and fear, by assuring her that
she was watched over by Gandharvas, and that if anyone attempted to
make improper advances to her the Gandharvas would put an end to him.
However, the Rani’s anxiety was fully justified by after events. Her
brother, Kechaka, smitten with the charms of the new maid-servant,
prevailed upon his sister, by his importunities, to send Draupadi
to his house on the pretext of fetching some wine from his stock.
Draupadi went as directed to the house of the Rani’s brother; but, on
his making insulting proposals to her, she made her escape from him,
and fled direct to the king’s council chamber, followed by the baffled
and enraged Kechaka, who seized her by the hair of her head before the
assembled courtiers and shamefully kicked the beautiful lady in the
presence of the king and his attendants. The Rajah would not interfere,
and Bhima, who was present[90] and boiling with suppressed indignation,
was restrained by the command of his elder brother from taking notice
of the affair. But Draupadi was not to be pacified. Bent on having
revenge, she went at dead of night to Bhima, and heaped reproaches upon
him and his brothers; and well she might, for all the degrading insults
she had had to endure while they looked tamely on. Between them they
planned that Draupadi should pretend to yield to Kechaka’s desires,
and should appoint a secret meeting with him, when Bhima should be her
substitute, and kill the man who had insulted and ill-used her. The
plan was successfully carried out. A terrible fight took place between
Kechaka and Bhima. The latter at length slew his antagonist by whirling
him swiftly round his head and dashing him against the ground. He then
broke all his bones into small pieces, formed his body into a great
ball of flesh, and brought Draupadi to behold the complete _vengeance_
he had taken upon her hated persecutor. To wreak their malice on the
person they believed to be the cause of Kechaka’s death, his kinsmen
seized Draupadi, “of faultless limbs,” who was found leaning against
a pillar hard by the scene of the grim revenge, and carried her off
outside the city walls with the intention of burning her with the
dead man’s body. In her distress she cried aloud for help, and Bhima,
in disguise, came to her rescue. Panic-stricken at the sight of this
supposed Gandharva, the men who had assembled at the cremation ground
fled for their lives, but were pursued by Bhima, who killed a great
number of them.
Of course this event created an immense sensation, and even the king
feared to speak to Draupadi, while the Rani only ventured to ask her
to leave Virata. But Draupadi begged permission to stay just a few
days longer, assuring the Rani that her Gandharva husbands would yet
be of great service to the king. Shortly after the occurrences just
related, and as a consequence of the death of Kechaka, who was a man
of great note and generalissimo of Rajah Virata’s forces, Suçarman,
King of the Tregartas, an old enemy of Virata’s, thinking it a
favourable opportunity, proposed a raid into his territory for the
purpose of plunder. The Kauravas willingly agreed to make a separate
but simultaneous attack upon their neighbour. When intelligence of the
inroad into his territory reached Virata, he hastened to repel the
invasion, taking in his train his servants Yudhisthira, Bhima, Nakula,
and Sahadeva, who volunteered to fight for him. The Tregartas and
Matsyas soon came into conflict, and Virata was, after a bloody fight,
taken captive by Suçarman, but was rescued by the Pandavas who, as
usual, performed prodigies of valour.
Meanwhile the Kauravas made an unexpected attack in another direction
and began carrying off the royal herds. There was no one at the
capital who could go out to oppose them--the troops being all away
with the king--but the king’s son, Uttara, ventured out against the
invaders with only Arjuna as his charioteer. At sight of the forces
arrayed against him and the mighty heroes who led them, Uttara’s
courage failed him, and leaping off his chariot he fled from the
field, but was brought back by Arjuna who, directing him to take the
reins, boldly resolved to give battle to the enemy. After providing
himself with the famous and deadly weapons he had concealed a year
previously in the _Sami_ tree near the cemetery, he went out alone,
with Uttara as his charioteer, to attack the Kaurava host. All the
redoubtable heroes of the party were present that day. Old Bhisma the
terrible, and well skilled Drona with his mighty son Açwatháman, and
Kripa and Karna the famous offspring of Kunti and the day-god. There
too, arrayed in all the glittering panoply of war, were the formidable
Duryodhana and his brother Dusçasana, with the other proud princes of
Dhritarashtra’s race. But Arjuna alone, armed with his wonderful bow,
Gándiva, completely defeated them all in one of those incomprehensible
battles which delight the Hindu bard but bewilder the European reader.
In the unfortunate rank and file of the Kaurava host the slaughter
caused by Arjuna was prodigious; but not a single one of the leading
heroes engaged in conflict that day was killed, or even seriously
incommoded--although each of them, including Arjuna himself, was
pierced by scores of deadly arrows.
The defeated Kauravas, of course, recognized their conqueror; but the
stipulated period of exile was now fully completed, and the enforced
truce was at an end.
Rajah Virata, now enlightened as to the names and proper rank of the
Pandavas, engaged to assist them in regaining their Raj; though, after
recent events, it is hard to comprehend what assistance such heroes
could want from Virata, or anyone else. To cement the alliance between
his royal house and that of the Pandavas, Virata offered his lovely
daughter, Uttará, in marriage to Arjuna. That hero, however, had been
the fair damsel’s dancing-master and on intimate terms with her in the
harem. He, therefore, with fine delicacy of sentiment, declined the
offer, lest suspicions injurious to the lady’s reputation might be
whispered about; but, to attest her fair fame in the most conclusive
and impressive way, he accepted her hand for his son, Abhimanyu, to
whom she was duly married in the presence of an assembly of kings
invited for the occasion, including Krishna, who came attended by a
“hundred millions of horse and a hundred billions of foot-soldiers.”
A resort to the final arbitrament of battle seemed inevitable, and
warlike preparations were vigorously pushed on by both parties, who
despatched their envoys in all directions, requesting the assistance
of their friends and allies. Krishna had returned to Dwarka after
the marriage festivities at Panchala. Both sides anxiously sought
his alliance. Duryodhana and Arjuna posted in hot haste to Dwarka to
secure the aid of the mighty Prince of the Vreshnis, and both of them
arrived simultaneously at Krishna’s abode while he was asleep. As
privileged kinsmen they entered his bed-chamber and placed themselves
near his bed, Duryodhana at the head and Arjuna at the foot, but did
not dare to disturb him. As soon as Krishna awoke from his slumber the
two chieftains eagerly claimed his help. As he was equally related to
both he desired to divide his favours between them. He placed himself,
but strictly as a non-combatant, on one side, and, on the other, his
army of a hundred million soldiers, and offered Arjuna, as he had seen
him first upon awakening, the choice between the two. Without any
hesitation Arjuna chose Krishna himself, leaving the mighty army of one
hundred millions to swell the ranks of Duryodhana’s host.
But before having recourse to arms one party at least deemed it
expedient to endeavour to effect a reconciliation by negotiations; and
it takes one’s breath away with astonishment to find the mighty Pandava
heroes--after all the gross indignities they had suffered, after
the outrageous insults to which their joint-wife had been exposed,
and after their terrible vows of vengeance publicly uttered--tamely
proposing to make peace with their arrogant cousins on condition of
having nothing more than _five villages_ assigned to them. All this,
too, in the face of Draupadi’s bitter and indignant taunts. However,
even this humble offer of theirs was scornfully rejected by Duryodhana.
But the Pandavas, even Bhima and Arjuna, being still anxious to avoid
shedding the blood of their kinsfolk, Krishna undertook to act as their
ambassador, and in this capacity presented himself at the capital of
Dhritarashtra. His reception was of the most magnificent kind, and his
mission was attended by many supernatural events. When the princes
and great officers of State were assembled in solemn conclave to
consider Krishna’s proposals, a number of Brahman sages appeared in the
sky, and were respectfully invited to come down and take part in the
deliberations of the assembly, an invitation they readily accepted.
A prolonged sitting of the council took place, during which many
speeches, embellished with instructive stories of olden times, were
made in order to induce Duryodhana to come to terms with the Pandavas.
Advice was, however, thrown away upon the haughty and obstinate prince,
who left the chamber in great indignation.
Krishna, seeing that Duryodhana was bent on pushing matters to
extremities, expressed an opinion that the best course for the old
Maharajah to pursue would be to seize the young prince and his abettors
and make them over to the Pandavas. He argued that “For the sake of a
family an individual may be sacrificed; for the sake of a village a
family may be sacrificed; for the sake of a province a village may be
sacrificed; and, lastly, for the sake of one’s self the whole earth
may be sacrificed;” and concluded with this exhortation: “O monarch,
binding Duryodhana fast, make peace with the Pandavas. O bull among
Kshatriyas let not the whole Kshatriya race be slaughtered on thy
account.” This proposal being secretly communicated to Duryodhana,
he in turn plotted to seize and confine Krishna, but his plan was
discovered by that monarch. Now, as the reader is aware, Krishna was no
mere mortal, but an incarnation of the Supreme Being. Addressing the
prince the next time they met, he said:
“From delusion, O Duryodhana, thou regardest me to be alone, and it
is for this, O thou of little understanding, that thou seekest to
make me a captive after vanquishing me with violence. Here, however,
are all Pandavas and all the Vrishnis and Andhakas. Here are all the
Adityas, the Rudras, and the Vasus with all the great Rishis. Saying
this, Keçava (Krishna), that slayer of hostile heroes, burst out
into loud laughter. And as the high-souled Cawri laughed, from his
body, that resembled a blazing fire, issued myriads of gods, each of
lightning effulgence and not bigger than the thumb! And on his forehead
appeared Brahma, and on his breast Rudra. And on his arms appeared the
regents of the world, and from his mouth issued Agni, the Adityas,
the Sáddhyas, the Vasus, the Açwins, the Maruts, with Indra and the
Viçwedevas. And myriads of Yakshas and Gandharvas, and Rakshasas also,
of the same measure and form, issued thence. And from his two arms
issued Sankarshana and Dhananjaya. And Arjuna stood on his right,
bow in hand, and Rama stood on his left, armed with the plough. And
behind him stood Bhima and Yudhisthira, and the two sons of Madri, and
before him were all the Andhakas and the Vrishnis, with Praddyumna and
other chiefs bearing mighty weapons upraised. And on his diverse arms
were seen the conch, the discus, the mace, the bow called Cáruga, the
plough, the javelin, the Nandaka, and every other weapon, all shining
with effulgence and upraised for striking. And from his eyes and nose
and ears, and every part of his body, issued fierce sparks of fire
mixed with smoke.” All, except a few privileged ones, closed their
eyes, unable to bear the splendour of this divine manifestation, which
was attended with an earthquake, celestial music, and a shower of
heavenly flowers.
After this amazing display of his personality as the very embodiment of
all the gods, Krishna, resuming his human form, left the hall leaning
on the arms of two of his kinsmen. The perverse Duryodhana, however,
regarded this exhibition of Krishna’s godhood as a mere illusion--a
clever conjuror’s trick[91]--and, doomed to destruction as he was,
treated it with contemptuous disregard.
The envoy’s mission having thus failed, he prepared for an immediate
return to his friends. Before setting out he paid a friendly visit
to his aunt Kunti, the mother of the Pandavas; and, as a last piece
of diplomacy, artfully endeavoured to detach Karna from Duryodhana’s
party. He disclosed to the famous bowman that he was Kunti’s son
and, _therefore_, morally, a son of Pandu; since, according to the
scriptures, sons “born of a maiden have him for their father who
weddeth the maiden.” According to this system of paternity, Karna
was not only Pandu’s son, but the elder brother of Yudhisthira; and,
as such, entitled to the headship of the Pandava family, to the
sovereignty of Hastinapur, and to supremacy over the kings of the
whole earth. Krishna represented this aspect of the matter to Karna
in the most tempting manner possible, not failing to mention that, if
he joined his brothers, the fair Draupadi would be _his_ wife too.
But he, who had thus far gone through life known as the humble Suta’s
son, had the manliness to treat these offers and suggestions of the
divine Prince of Dwarka with proud indifference, adhering with unshaken
loyalty to his friend Duryodhana, and the party with which he had
been so long associated. The crafty Krishna then urged the absolute
certainty of the complete success of the Pandavas in the contest
which was approaching; but no cowardly fears disturbed the settled
resolution of the hero, who, as he said, was pledged to meet Arjuna in
the field of battle and would not, even if sure destruction awaited
himself, withdraw from his obligations or shirk his obvious duty to the
Kauravas.
Kunti herself next made an effort to win over Karna to the side of the
Pandavas. For this purpose she stealthily followed him to the banks of
the Ganges and stood silently behind him while he piously performed
his devotions. When he discovered her, and respectfully inquired the
object of her presence there, she disclosed to him the secret of
his parentage, and with well-chosen arguments urged him to join his
brothers. An affectionate voice issuing from the sun, the voice of
Surya himself, confirmed the statements and supported the advice of
Kunti. But Karna, “firmly devoted to truth,” even though thus solicited
by both his parents, protested his determination to remain firmly
faithful to the cause of his friends. He gently reproached his mother
for her abandonment of him in his infancy and her subsequent neglect of
her maternal duties, but, with noble generosity, he made an important
concession in favour of the Pandavas. “I will not speak deceitfully
unto thee;” said the hero, “For the sake of Dhritarashtra’s son I shall
fight with thy sons to the best of my strength and might! I must not,
however, abandon kindness and the conduct that becometh the good. Thy
words, therefore, however beneficial, cannot be obeyed by me now. This
thy solicitation to me will not yet be fruitless. Except Arjuna, thy
other sons--Yudhisthira, Bhima, and the twins, though capable of being
withstood by me in fight, and capable also of being slain--shall not
yet be slain by me.” Thus did the magnanimous Karna worthily close one
of the most interesting incidents in the great epic.
War was now inevitable. Krishna returned to Yudhisthira, and both
parties prepared to join issue on the famous field of Kurukshetra.[92]
The Pandavas gave the supreme command of their forces to Dhrista-dyumna
who, as the reader will remember, was the destined slayer of Drona.
The Kauravas marshalled their cohorts under the leadership of the
terrible Bhisma. This ancient chief had performed mighty deeds in his
day; and proudly recounted, in the camp at Kurukshetra, his terrible
and successful duel with Rama, the son of Jamadagni, a hero who had,
single-handed, vanquished all the Kshatriyas of the earth.
The old man’s end was, however, approaching, and he himself was
well aware that he must fall by the hand of one Cikhandin, an ally
of the Pandavas, since that prince in a previous existence (being
then a woman, the Princess Amba (page 107), and subjected to great
humiliations through Bhisma’s conduct) had undergone the most dreadful
austerities for the express purpose of compassing his destruction, and,
by the favour of Siva, would succeed in so doing.
Both parties with their armies and their allies marched to and
encamped upon the famous battle-field. The Pandavas had seven and the
Kauravas eleven _akshauhinis_ of soldiers on the ground, making a
total of eighteen akshauhinis in all. Now an akshauhini consisted of
21,870 chariots, 21,870 elephants, 109,350 foot-soldiers, and 65,610
cavalry; so that there were at Kurukshetra altogether 393,660 chariots
with their fighting men, drivers, and horses; 393,660 elephants with
their drivers and riders; 1,968,300 foot-soldiers, and 1,180,980
cavalry.[93] All this, of course, exclusive of camp followers--a mighty
host in themselves; for we learn that there were crowds of artisans
of all sorts, also bards, singers, panegyrists, venders, traders, and
prostitutes; besides surgeons, physicians, spies, and spectators--all
housed and provided for by the chiefs.
The commissariat arrangements were necessarily on a gigantic scale, and
the arsenals in proportion to the mighty hosts assembled for mutual
destruction on that famous battle-field. The leading heroes had their
own peculiar weapons, often of celestial origin or possessed of magic
properties, and their own inexhaustible quivers of wondrous arrows.
For the rank and file there were heaps, as high as little hills, of
bows and bow-strings, coats of mail and weapons of every kind; such as
battle-axes, lances, poisoned darts, scimitars, nooses, and lassoes.
There was also an ample supply of hot oil, treacle and sand to be
thrown upon the enemy, and a store of inflammable materials, such as
pulverized lac. And, lastly, there was a collection of earthen pots
filled with deadly serpents, designed to cause confusion in the ranks
amidst which they might be cast.
Before hostilities actually commenced Duryodhana sent a message to the
camp of the Pandavas, challenging them to the fight, and scornfully
reminded them of the many gross insults and humiliating indignities
they had had to endure at his hands. He sent an especially insulting
message and challenge to Krishna, making light of his prowess and
former achievements. Vaunting and blood-thirsty rejoinders of a
suitable kind were, of course, carried back from the insulted Pandavas
to Duryodhana and the leaders of his armies.
Before joining issue it was arranged between the hostile parties that
only “persons equally circumstanced should encounter each other,
fighting fairly;” that car-warriors should engage car-warriors; those
on elephants should fight those similarly mounted; that horsemen should
encounter horsemen, and foot-soldiers foot-soldiers. It was agreed
that no one should strike a disarmed, a panic-stricken, or retreating
foeman; that no blow should be given without due notice, and that
stragglers, charioteers, and chariot-horses, and drummers, with a
host of others, were not to be assailed on any account. It is almost
needless to say that in the succession of battles which took place at
Kurukshetra these generous covenants were never observed. They seem,
indeed, to have been only a formal and somewhat farcical preliminary,
drawn up in accordance, possibly, with some ideal but inoperative code
of Kshatriya honour.
While the hosts were assembling Vyasa presented himself before King
Dhritarashtra and offered to restore the blind old king’s eyesight,
but Dhritarashtra, unwilling to behold the bloodshed of his kinsfolk,
declined the proffered boon, preferring that his charioteer, Sanjaya,
should be enabled by the Rishi’s favour to survey any portion, however
remote, of the field of battle, and relate all the events to him in the
minutest and most circumstantial detail.
As preparations for the approaching contest were pushed on many strange
portents occurred. A shower of flesh and blood fell from the skies.
Unusual solar and lunar eclipses took place. Earthquakes shook both
land and ocean, and rivers were turned into blood. Revolting acts of
immorality were being commonly committed. Some women were giving birth
to five daughters at a time, who, as soon as they were born, began to
dance and sing. Other women, as well as lower animals, were bringing
forth strange monsters; and, as Vyasa assured the blind king, “The
images of gods and goddesses sometimes laughed and sometimes trembled,
sometimes vomited blood and sometimes fell down.”[94]
After Vyasa had gone away the blind king remarked to Sanjaya that,
since “many hundreds of millions of heroic men” had assembled at
Kurukshetra, he desired to know all about the countries from which they
had come, for there were many nationalities represented in the two
armies. Sanjaya, having been endowed with superhuman perception by the
Rishi Vyasa, gave his master, the king, a long lesson in geography,
which it is rather disappointing to find so largely mythical as to be
of little value, except perhaps as an indication of the very imperfect
geographical knowledge possessed by the authors of the “Mahabharata.”
Sanjaya’s inspired description of the countries of the world abounds in
mountains of gold and gems; it embraces oceans of butter, milk, curds
and wine; and dwells upon such objects in nature as trees yielding
fruits which measure 2,500 cubits in circumference. While revelling in
these glories of sea and land, Sanjaya’s descriptive narrative does
not quite overlook the causes of natural phenomena; for he, no less
than the modern scientist, has his own theory of the winds. It is, we
learn from him, all due to “four princely elephants adored by all.”
These magnificent beasts, whose enormous proportions Sanjaya does not
venture to calculate, seize with their lithe trunks the wandering winds
and then breathe them over the earth. “The winds thus let out by those
respiring elephants, come over the earth and, in consequence thereof,
creatures draw breath and live.”
In the wonderful lands pictured by the inspired geographer, the men
were necessarily long-lived. Some races, indeed, were exempt from
death, and there were others whose lives extended to many thousands of
years. In respect to their own land of _Bharatavarsha_, where the great
battle was about to be fought, Sanjaya makes some statements which seem
worthy of note. He says, for example, after naming certain mountain
ranges, that there are many “smaller mountains inhabited by barbarous
tribes;” and he adds that “Aryas and Mlecchas, and many races mixed
of the two elements, drink the waters of the following rivers, viz.,
magnificent Ganga, Sindhu, and Saraswati; of Godavari and Narmuda ...
and that large river called Yamuna,” etc.
At length the day of real battle arrived. The chiefs on both sides
made their final preparations. With tall and handsome standards, borne
conspicuously aloft,[95] drums beating and conchs sounding, they took
up their positions on the great plain. Karna alone held aloof from the
contest, resolved to take no part in it while Bhisma lived, for he was
smarting under some unbearable insults received from the aged leader of
the Kauravas.
As both armies drawn up for battle awaited the dawn, a dust storm arose
which wrapped everything in darkness. When the air cleared and each
party could see the other, as well as hear the blare of its trumpets, a
sort of mutual dread seems to have afflicted them, for the warriors on
either side trembled at the sight of the mighty heroes of the opposing
hosts.
At this critical juncture in the fate of the world, Arjuna, by the
advice of Krishna, offered a special prayer for victory to Durga. The
goddess in answer to this invocation appeared in the sky and assured
her votary of complete success.
As the virtuous Yudhisthira, his white umbrella borne above his head,
moved about marshalling his forces, he was attended by a crowd of
Brahmans and Rishis hymning his praises and praying for the destruction
of his enemies. Of course the pious king could do no less, even at such
a busy and anxious moment, than bestow upon these saintly allies of his
what, indeed, they, with their habitual proud condescension, were there
to receive,--rich presents of kine, ornaments, clothes and gold.
When the armed millions were finally ranged for immediate hostilities,
in all the pomp and glitter of approaching battle, Arjuna desired
Krishna to place his chariot in the open space between the two armies.
Surveying the embattled hosts from this position, Arjuna appears to
have been dismayed at the thought of the unparalleled slaughter of
kinsmen, which a struggle between such colossal armies would inevitably
lead to; and, in view of this deplorable issue, hesitated to join
battle with his foes, doubtful whether any personal consideration
whatever could justify an appeal to arms under such circumstances.
Krishna undertook to remove his doubts, and succeeded in doing so, the
dialogue between them, known as the “Bhagavatgita,” or divine song,
which is introduced into the great epic at this stage of the narrative,
forming, from a religious point of view, one of its most important
parts.[96]
When Arjuna, convinced of the lawfulness of entering into the contest,
had taken up his bow, _Gandiva_, in readiness for the fray, his
followers raised a joyful shout, and the gods with the Gandharvas, the
Rishis and the rest, crowded to the spot eager to witness the impending
battle.
But there was still another interruption. Yudhisthira, suddenly laying
down his arms and divesting himself of his armour, advanced eastward
towards the opposing forces. Although filled with astonishment at
this proceeding, his dutiful brothers immediately followed him,
themselves unarmed and unprotected by armour. What was the mission the
king had undertaken? Was he bent on making a final effort to effect
a reconciliation, or was he, terror-stricken by the superior numbers
of his adversaries, going to offer an unconditional surrender? No, it
was neither the one object nor the other which stirred the heart of
the virtuous king to this strange performance in presence of the two
armies drawn up for deadly strife. He, pious soul, was only going to
crave the permission of his elders and preceptors in Dhritarashtra’s
army to engage in battle with them; to solicit, with childlike
trustfulness, their _blessing_ in the coming contest with themselves;
and, if possible, to induce them to tell him how their own destruction
might be compassed by him! The leaders he went to propitiate, though
resolved to fight to their utmost for the king whose cause they had
espoused, were very affable to the pious son of Dharma; they received
him with affection and dismissed him with honour. The conduct of the
Pandavas on this occasion excited universal admiration, and met with
the hearty approval of all, and we learn that, “in consequence of this,
the minds and hearts of everyone there were attracted towards them, and
the Mlecchas and the Aryas[97] there, who witnessed or heard of that
behaviour of the sons of Pandu, all wept with choked voices.”
The battle of Kurukshetra, which closed the golden age of India, lasted
for eighteen consecutive days.
During the first ten days Bhisma commanded Dhritarashtra’s forces,
while Karna held aloof in sullen indignation. A goodly volume is
devoted to the incidents of these ten days, each of which seems
to have had its own special heroes, who, under the influence of a
sort of divine fury, like that attributed by the Norsemen to their
_Berserkers_, carried everything before them. In picturing the events
of these battles the Hindu bards have allowed their imaginations to
run riot in a most incomprehensible way. Not only the demigods, but
the merely human leaders (very little inferior to the demigods in
martial qualities) in both armies, perform the most astonishing feats
of arms, and display the most wonderful indifference to wounds.
Sometimes a hero will shoot at his adversary arrows enough to envelop
him completely and shroud him from view, or to darken the whole sky;
but his antagonist, well skilled in the art of self-defence, will, with
the greatest composure, stop those myriads of arrows[98] in mid-air
with an equal or superior number of shafts from his own bow;[99] or,
as Cikhandin did, cut in pieces with his dexterous sword the shower of
arrows poured upon him. Sometimes a heavy mace, hurled by a powerful
arm with well-directed aim, will whiz through the air towards some
leader of men; but as it is hurtling along it will be cut into many
fragments by crescent-headed arrows discharged at it with unerring
skill, by the hero for whose destruction it was intended. Sometimes
standards are brought down by sharp arrows, sometimes the bow is
severed in a warrior’s hand by the shaft of an opponent, while horses
and elephants, though cased in mail, fall easy victims to the archer’s
skill. Occasionally, in pressing emergencies, superhuman weapons are
called into requisition, and _mantras_ or spells are employed to give
them more destructive force. Nor are the powers of producing strange
illusions to terrify or baffle the foe neglected by those who possess
them, namely, the Rakshasas in either army.[100] These terrible beings,
capable of assuming any shape at will, and able to deceive their
foes by strange illusions, would at one time raise up a spectral host
of demons to terrify their opponents, and at another time, perhaps,
paralyze them by producing before their startled eyes a false picture
of their friends and allies lying cruelly slaughtered around them, or
in headlong flight before the enemy.
Notwithstanding their inimitable skill in the arts of attack and
defence the heroes do not get off unscathed. In a single fight one of
them might be pierced with any number of arrows, from one or two to
five hundred or a thousand[101] as the case might be, yet, usually,
the chiefs seem hardly the worse for the punishment. Indeed the poets
love to depict their dauntless favourites bristling with arrows
and streaming with blood, when they resemble in beauty blossoming
_kincukas_ in spring-time, or “clouds tinged with the rays of the
sun.” One warrior with three arrows fixed in his forehead is likened
to Mount Meru with its triple summits of gold; another, with a circle
of sharp arrows lodged in his ample breast, resembles “the sun with
his rays at mid-day.” Odds are of no account when the heroes are once
carried away with ungovernable fury, roaring tremendously, and “licking
the corners of their mouths like lions in the forest.” Bhima on foot
with his club in his hand, is, under such conditions, a match for
whole armies, through which he rages, with leonine roars, crushing
chariots and horses under his blows and smashing luckless elephants
and their riders by thousands, himself bespattered with the blood, fat
and marrow of his slaughtered foes; resembling, as the poet tells us,
the Destroyer himself, with wide open mouth, as he appears at the end
of the _yuga_. Similarly Arjuna, when attacked simultaneously by forty
thousand charioteers and hemmed in by them, kills the entire number
of his rash assailants with arrows from Gandiva. When Yudhisthira,
ordinarily cold-blooded, blazed up with wrath on the battle-field, “the
thought that arose in the minds of all creatures was that this king
excited with rage will to-day consume the three worlds.” Bhisma, too,
and Drona, and many another hero semi-divine or only mortal, seems, in
his turn, quite irresistible, and carries everything before him when
excited to mad (_Berserk_) fury.
The dire confusion caused by the vast multitudes of resolute
combatants, the blind rage and terror of thousands of wounded elephants
and horses trampling wildly through the midst of friends and foes, the
deafening uproar of the strife, where the tumultuous shouts and cries
of contending warriors mingled with the clash of arms, the twang of
bow-strings, the blare of trumpets, and the bellowing of elephants, are
all vividly pictured by the poet of Kurukshetra.
It would be too tedious to recount the innumerable combats which the
author describes, or to follow the varying fortunes of the field,
as victory inclines now to one side, now to the other. It would be
cruel work, to dwell upon the prodigious slaughter of the rank and
file which occurred each day, or to picture the vast plain covered
with the mangled corpses of men, horses and elephants. Nor would it
be either profitable or pleasant to wander over the ground encumbered
with shattered chariots, broken standards and abandoned weapons of
every kind, amidst which pitiful wreck flowed great sluggish streams
of crimson blood. Somehow the sickening horror of the terrible scenes
of carnage which the epic bards have conjured up does not seem to
have struck them, for when they remark upon the appearance of the
field--strewn with mangled corpses and broken armour, with banners and
weapons all reeking with blood--it is usually with admiration of its
_beauty_, unmingled with any feeling of aversion or regret. In their
eyes the scene of death and ruin, with its gory trophies, “shines as
if with floral wreaths,” or “looks beautiful like the firmament in
autumn,” or “like a damsel adorned with different kinds of ornaments.”
In the gloom of night, however, the Hindu poets realize, with
superstitious awe, the abhorrent nature of the dreadful battle-field,
“abounding as it did with spirits and with jackals howling piteously.”
How the multitudinous dead and the wreckage which littered the field
were disposed of we do not learn, but the opposing parties retired each
day at sunset to their respective camps and renewed the battle with
the dawn of next day. However, occasional allusions to hungry dogs and
vultures, howling jackals, stealthy hyenas and fierce cannibals give a
dark, if not very intelligible, hint of the fate of the unburied dead.
The death of Bhisma is the prominent and crowning event of the battles
which raged with unabated fury for the first ten days of the war.
The old hero performed prodigies of valour, and many a time proved
himself more than a match for his brave opponents, slaughtering no
less than “a hundred million of warriors in ten days.”[102] Such huge
work, it must be admitted, required great celerity of action, and we
learn, accordingly, that in one battle Bhisma “felled the heads of
car-warriors like a skilful man felling (with stones) ripe (palmyra)
fruits from trees that bear them. And the heads of warriors falling
upon the surface of the earth produced a loud noise resembling that
of a stony shower.”[103] His success against the Pandavas aroused
the anger of Krishna, who had not escaped unwounded in these hotly
contested fights, and, jumping off the car he was driving, he rushed
impetuously forward to slay the son of Ganga, “and the end of his
yellow garments waving in the air looked like a cloud charged with
lightning in the sky.”
Bhisma cheerfully awaited his doom from such hands, and Arjuna with
difficulty restrained the fury of his divine ally and kinsman by
promising to slay the chief himself. Later on, Krishna was again roused
to fury against the aged champion of the Kauravas, and this time could
only be dissuaded from taking his life by being reminded that he had
engaged _not to enter personally into the contest_. So despondent did
Bhisma’s remarkable success make King Yudhisthira that the latter,
accompanied by his brothers and Krishna, actually sought an interview
with the ancient chief for the express purpose of ascertaining from
himself in what manner his death might be compassed and victory secured
for the Pandavas. In consequence of what Bhisma said on this occasion,
Cikhandin was, on the tenth day of the war, placed prominently in the
forefront of the battle, supported by Arjuna and the best men of his
party. A well-directed and persistent attack was made upon Bhisma.
A fierce battle ensued, but the chivalrous Bhisma refused to assail
Cikhandin, _because he had once been a woman_, and he was eventually
overpowered, mostly, however, by the arrows of Arjuna. There was
nowhere about the person of the hero a space two fingers wide free from
the shafts of his enemies, and when he fell from his chariot he did
not touch the ground, being literally supported on a couch of arrows.
Although so sorely afflicted by the darts of his enemies, Bhisma did
not die immediately. The time was inauspicious and he postponed his
death, as he possessed the privilege of doing, till a more propitious
moment. “Meanwhile the valiant and intelligent Bhisma, the son of
Cantanu, having recourse to that _Yoga_ which is taught in the great
Upanishads, and engaged in mental prayers, remained quiet, expectant of
his hour.”
The fall of the aged leader was the signal for a cessation of the
battle, the chiefs of both sides pressing forward to pay their
respects to the dying general. While conversing with those around him
he complained that his head was unsupported. Luxurious pillows were
quickly brought for his use, but he rejected them all. Upon this Arjuna
made a rest for his head with three arrows, and the grim warrior was
satisfied. To allay Bhisma’s burning thirst Arjuna shot an arrow into
the ground, whence a fountain of pure water came springing up to the
great comfort of the wounded veteran. Guards were placed round the old
man as he lay on his arrowy couch, and both sides retired to rest.
In the dead of night Karna came to pay his homage to the dying general,
and to ask forgiveness for any faults he may have committed. Bhisma
freely forgave him, and advised him to transfer his allegiance to the
Pandavas, but Karna, nobly faithful to the path of honour, rejected the
suggestion as on so many previous occasions.
After the fall of Bhisma the command of the army was given to Drona,
and the contest was carried on with unabated vigour, resulting more
than once in the defeat of the Pandavas. The record of Drona’s command
abounds in numerous descriptions of single combats, in which, besides
the more prominent leaders, many another chief fought with marvellous
skill and daring. As was inevitable, many heroic warriors were
killed--such as Abhimanyu, the son of Arjuna, and the mighty Rakshasa
Ghatotkacha, Bhima’s son, who in his fall crushed to death a whole
akshauhini of Dhritarashtra’s troops.
In one of the battles Jayadartha, King of the Sindhus performed,
single-handed, deeds of matchless daring; for he alone held in check
all the sons of Pandu. Arjuna, enraged at Jayadartha’s success, and
attributing Abhimanyu’s death to him, vowed, in the presence of all
men, either to slay the victorious chief before the day was done or to
lay down his own life on the funeral pyre. But the Rajah of Sindhu was
so well supported by his friends that there appeared every likelihood
that he would survive the day. Rather than this should occur and Arjuna
fall by his own hand, Krishna obscured the sun by his _Yoga_ power. The
unsuspecting Jayadartha and his friends, believing that the sun had set
and night come on, were filled with joy at the prospect of Arjuna’s
doom, and were carelessly looking up towards the darkened sky, when
Arjuna, at Krishna’s suggestion, taking advantage of their being off
their guard, renewed the battle with redoubled vigour. He eventually
struck off Jayadartha’s head with one of his wonderful weapons and sped
it along through the air with his arrows till it fell into the lap of
Vriddhakshatra, the father of Jayadartha, whence it rolled on to the
ground. It appears that when Jayadartha was born, a voice, proceeding
from some unseen being, predicted that he would meet his death by
having his head cut off. His pious father thereupon prophesied that
the man who should cause his son’s head to fall to the _earth_, would
have his own cracked into a hundred pieces. For his own protection,
therefore, Arjuna, at Krishna’s suggestion, had hurled the dead man’s
head into Vriddhakshatra’s lap and, as it fell to the earth, lo! the
old man’s head cracked into a hundred fragments in grim fulfilment of
his own prophecy.
Other marvellous events are not wanting in the narrative; as when,
in the thick of battle, Arjuna, piercing the earth with one of his
arrows, creates in a moment a lake of water for his thirsty horses to
drink from--a lake inhabited by swarms of aquatic birds and covered
with lotuses--or when Açwathaman employs the irresistible _Narayana_
weapon, and the Pandavas, on their part, _pacify_ and _propitiate_ this
destructive missile by laying down their arms before it.
Drona himself, although advanced in years, defeated the Pandavas many
times, and it was only by a cruel stratagem that his destruction was
ultimately effected. When he was carrying everything before him in
the battle the Pandavas informed him, falsely, that his son had been
killed. He did not credit the report at first, but when assured of
its truth by the virtuous Yudhisthira himself, who stooped to this
mean falsehood upon the advice of Krishna, the old hero threw away
his arms and, devoting _himself_ to _Yoga contemplation_, passed
away immediately. After his spirit had ascended to heaven in great
glory, Dhrista-dyumna beheaded his lifeless corpse,[104] upon which
Dhritarashtra’s troops fled precipitately from the field.
Karna succeeded Drona as generalissimo of the forces, but his
command was of short duration: for although he performed wonders of
gallantry against his adversaries _fate_ was too strong for him, and
on the second day he was overthrown by Arjuna. There was something
unfortunate, if not unfair, in the circumstances attending his death;
for just when he had obtained an advantage over Arjuna, who seemed
likely to get the worst of the contest, a wheel of Karna’s chariot came
off. He was obliged to leap to the ground and, in this unfavourable
position, was despatched by Arjuna.
In the battles which took place under Karna’s direction an eventful
combat occurred between Bhima and Dhusashana, ending in the defeat and
death of the latter, whose warm blood Bhima drank in fulfilment of
his vow on the occasion of Draupadi’s humiliation in the gaming hall.
Another incident of some interest is the vigorous but unsuccessful
attack made by an army of Mlecchas on Arjuna, as the narrative shows
the poet’s high opinion of the martial qualities of the non-Aryan races
in the Kaurava army.
For the fourth time Dhritarashtra’s forces were without a commander.
This time the choice fell upon Salya, King of Madra, who gallantly
emulated the deeds of his heroic predecessors. But though he fought
with vigour and determination, though he was ably supported by chiefs
like Sakuni, who still survived, though his Mleccha allies, under
their leader Salva, did great execution amongst the enemy, victory
eventually declared for his opponents. A terrific battle was followed
by a complete rout and the utter annihilation of the Kaurava forces, of
whose eleven akshauhinis there remained, at the end of the eighteenth
day of the war, but _four_ men,--_four men only_ out of all the
countless hosts who had joined the blind king’s party!
These four were Duryodhana himself, Kripa, Açwathaman and Kritavarman.
Now Duryodhana possessed a charm by which he could remain under water
as long as he pleased; and, taking advantage of this, he hid himself
in the lake, carrying his mace in his hand. But he was traced to his
hiding-place. Yudhisthira approaching the lake taunted Duryodhana with
cowardice, and challenged him to come out and fight as a Kshatriya
should. Stung by his taunts Duryodhana emerged from his hiding-place,
dripping with blood and water, having agreed to engage in a single
combat with the giant Bhima, both being armed with clubs only. So equal
were the combatants that a prolonged fight ensued. Tremendous blows
were freely given and received. The very earth trembled under the
dreadful contest, and the Pandavas began to entertain grave fears that
if Bhima were vanquished the rest of them would be easily defeated and
slain in detail by Duryodhana, who was a proficient in the use of the
mace. At this critical moment Krishna artfully suggested by a gesture
to Bhima that he should strike Duryodhana on the thigh, and thus fulfil
his vow and vanquish his enemy at the same time. A successful blow
delivered upon this suggestion, which was contrary to the recognized
rules of club fighting, laid Duryodhana low, and left the Pandavas
undisputed masters of the day. But, even though countless millions of
human beings had already perished on the fatal field of Kurukshetra,
and Duryodhana, the cause of all this havoc, lay there mortally
wounded, more blood was yet to flow. Of the Kaurava hosts there still
remained three men, and of these, one, Açwathaman, lived only in the
hope of avenging to some extent the blood of his father Drona. Brooding
schemes of vengeance through the dark hours of the night, the young
man observed in a forest where he had taken refuge an owl approach
noiselessly some sleeping crows and destroy them one after another.
Accepting this event as a suggestion for his guidance, he persuaded his
two companions to join him in an attempt to steal into the camp of the
Pandavas--whose followers were sleeping in fancied security--with the
object of wreaking their vengeance on their unarmed and unsuspecting
enemies. They justified this nocturnal attack by calling to mind the
many unfair advantages which the Pandavas had taken of their more
honourable foes during the course of this fratricidal war--as in the
cases of Bhisma, Drona and Karna.
At the entrance to the camp the three desperate warriors were met
by an awful figure who barred their progress. With him Açwathaman
fought a fierce battle, during the course of which he recognized in
his redoubtable adversary the great god Siva, before whom he humbly
prostrated himself. Presently there appeared a golden altar attended by
hideous monsters, and Açwathaman, to obtain the favour of Siva, offered
himself as a sacrifice in the fire which blazed upon the altar. Siva
was propitiated by this pious act, and himself graciously entered the
body of Açwathaman, after explaining to him that he had up to that time
protected the family of Draupadi in order to please Krishna, but that
he would do so no longer as their hour was at hand.
Açwathaman thus inspired by Siva, and now glorious to behold, boldly
penetrated the hostile camp, while Kripa and Kritavarman stood at
the gate to intercept and destroy all fugitives. The five Pandavas
themselves were away in the now vacant camp of the Kauravas, whither
they had gone to take possession of the spoils of the vanquished.
The revenge taken by Açwathaman and his associates was complete
and bloody. The first to perish in the nocturnal attack was the
generalissimo of the Pandava army, Dhrista-dyumna himself, whom
Açwathaman found sleeping in his tent and whom he literally trampled
to death under his feet. An indescribable panic was caused by the
massacre which followed the murder of the commander-in-chief; and, in
the dire confusion of darkness, friends fell upon each other, fathers
killed their own sons and sons their fathers. In this terrible “night
of slaughter” Açwathaman killed the five sons of Draupadi, one after
the other, and carried away their bleeding heads with him to gratify
the heart of the chieftain, his master, who lay in the agony of death
upon that field of carnage.
Açwathaman approaching the prince told him that he had slain the
Pandavas and had their heads in his possession. Even with his life
ebbing fast away the feelings of gratified revenge put a transient
vigour into Duryodhana, and he leaped from the ground in a transport
of fierce joy. The morning was not far distant, and in the uncertain
twilight preceding the dawn he examined the heads and was deceived
by the resemblance the sons of Draupadi bore to their respective
fathers. Gloating over the complete vengeance which had been wreaked by
Açwathaman he took into his hands what he believed to be the head of
Bhima and squeezed it with all his might. The skull burst in his hands
under the violent pressure, and Duryodhana at once perceived that some
deception had been practised on him; for he felt that Bhima’s skull
would not have thus yielded in his grasp. He desired to see the other
heads and, on close inspection, understood what had really occurred.
With reproaches on his lips and bitterness in his heart the dying man
expired, while his three followers made haste to quit the spot and flee
from the pursuit of their enemies.[105]
The war was over. The five Pandavas, now undisputed masters of the
situation, sought a reconciliation with the blind king. Helpless though
he was, Dhritarashtra’s feelings of bitterness against Bhima, for the
unfair defeat of his son Duryodhana, were so intense that he meditated
crushing the hero to death in his mighty arms, under the pretence of a
friendly welcome; but Krishna, divining his intention, placed an iron
image in his embrace, which the blind king, who possessed gigantic
strength, crushed to pieces against his breast. Eventually, however, a
reconciliation was effected between the Pandavas and the heart-broken
old monarch.
The scene of the terrible carnage during eighteen consecutive days
was now covered with mourners seeking, with breaking hearts, to
recognize their beloved dead amongst the reeking corpses. At length
arrangements were made for the cremation of the bodies that lay upon
the battle-field, and they were duly disposed of, according to their
rank.
A triumphal procession was next arranged from the plain of Kurukshetra
to the city of Hastinapur, where Yudhisthira was installed with great
pomp and ceremony as Rajah, under the nominal sovereignty of his blind
uncle. At the inauguration a friend of Duryodhana’s began to revile the
new king for the slaughter of his kinsfolk; but the Brahmans looked
upon the reviler with angry eyes, and he fell upon the ground like a
tree struck by lightning and was burnt to ashes upon the spot.
Yudhisthira, though now enthroned at Hastinapur, seems to have found
his new office so beset with anxieties that he desired to have the
advice of Bhisma for his guidance. He accordingly proceeded to the
battle-field at Kurukshetra, where the old hero was still alive upon
his couch of arrows. The dying sage gave the king excellent advice on
many important subjects relating to the duties of kings and the conduct
of life, which we cannot, unfortunately, find space for. When he had
passed fifty-eight days on his uncomfortable bed Bhisma resolved to
die. At once the cruel arrows left his body, his head split open, and
his released spirit ascended to heaven like a bright star.
As soon as Yudhisthira was firmly established on the throne of Bharata
he determined to perform an _Aswamedha_, or horse-sacrifice. The
performance of this sacrifice was an assertion of sovereignty over
the whole earth, and had such peculiar virtue that the successful
performance of one hundred Aswamedhas gave the sacrificer power even
over Indra, the god of heaven. In Yudhisthira’s case, it is true, the
Aswamedha was suggested by the sage Vyasa, as atonement for all the
monarch’s sins. A horse of a particular colour had to be obtained and,
as a preliminary to the sacrifice, the animal was set free to wander
at its pleasure for one year. The Rajah who proposed performing the
Aswamedha, or the deputy of such Rajah, followed with an army in the
track of the horse. If the animal found its way into the territories
of any foreign state, the ruler of that state was bound either to
seize the horse and fight the invader, or else to acknowledge his own
inferiority; and, in proof of submission, to swell with his own forces
those of his superior lord.
In order to be present at the ceremony of loosing the horse, Krishna
journeyed to Hastinapur. A detailed account of his march is given in
the “Mahabharata,” and is of special interest when it is remembered
that this Rajah is regarded as an incarnation of the Supreme Being.
Krishna’s trip to Yudhisthira’s capital was a joyous progress. He was
accompanied by Rukmini and Satyabháma, and his other favourite wives,
as well as various members of the family. The crowd that attended him
was a motley one, and included no small number of loose characters,
dancing-girls and performers of all sorts, with whom Krishna seems to
have been on the most familiar footing. And they are represented as
having been aware of his divine nature, for a harlot having met with an
accident which excited the mirth of the bystanders, remarked: “There is
no occasion for laughing, for every day I behold the divine Krishna and
therefore all my sins are forgiven me.”[106]
The horse destined for the sacrifice was at length set free, and was
followed by Arjuna at the head of a mighty army. It led him and his
followers into many strange adventures, but we shall here only allude
to a few of them. The horse, in his wanderings, entered the country of
the Amazons, young and lovely warriors--“perfect in the arts of love,
and in the various ways of fascinating men”[107]--whose charms were as
dangerous as their weapons; but who were prevailed upon to allow the
horse free passage through their country. Then the host was conducted
into a region where the trees bore men and women, and where the men
had ears with one of which they covered their heads and with the other
their bodies. In this land of marvels the terrible prime minister wore,
as ear-rings, a dead elephant and a dead camel.
The horse next passed into the country of Manipura, which Arjuna had
visited in one of his earlier wanderings, and over which a son of his
was now ruling. This king’s magnificence was such that his palace was
surrounded by a golden wall and his capital by a silver one. His
reception-hall was supported on golden pillars, and illuminated at
night by torches made of sandal wood, wound round with cloth steeped
in perfumed oils. The greatness and power of the ruler of this country
was commensurate with his wealth and splendour; but his filial respect
was so great that he tendered his submission to the invader, his father
Arjuna, in the most abject manner. Arjuna disdainfully repudiated a
son who exhibited, as he thought, so much cowardice. The result was a
terrible battle, in which Arjuna’s head was severed from his body by
a crescent-shaped arrow from his son’s bow. However, Arjuna was not
to perish thus; and his son procured, from the King of the Serpents,
who lived in the bowels of the earth, a certain jewel which possessed
the power of restoring life. This, when applied to the body of the
dead Pandava, caused the head and trunk to reunite. Arjuna, restored
to life, was easily reconciled to his brave son, the mighty Rajah of
Manipur.
The year appointed for the wandering expedition at length came to
an end, and the horse with its escort returned to Hastinapur. The
sacrifice was then performed with the usual magnificence. Gold, jewels,
elephants, horses, and cows were, as on all such occasions, freely
given away, particularly to the Brahmans. With great ceremony the head
of the horse was struck off by Bhima and, immediately mounting towards
the sky, soared out of sight. The body was cast into the sacrificial
fire. To crown the great ceremony, Indra, with attendant gods,
presented himself to partake of the sacrifice, and, amidst general
rejoicings, feastings and further extravagant largesses, the Aswamedha
was brought to a successful conclusion.
Years passed; the blind old Maharajah, weighed down with sorrowful
recollections of his sons and followers who had fallen in the great
war, retired, with his wife Gandhari, into a jungle on the banks of the
Ganges. Kunti also accompanied them. To this hermitage the Pandavas
paid a visit. The conversation, as was natural, turned upon the friends
and kinsfolk who had perished on the plain of Kurukshetra. While this
sad subject was being discussed the sage Vyasa made his appearance,
and promised the mourners that he would, that very night, show them
the relatives for whom they had been sorrowing. After bathing in the
Ganges the company stood together on the bank of the sacred river.
Vyasa, standing by the king, summoned the dead to appear. A scene of
inexpressible grandeur followed immediately. The river began to foam
and boil. A great noise was heard, and out of the troubled water arose
the men who had died at Kurukshetra. They came as when alive, but more
beautiful and in all the pomp of martial glory, in full armour, upon
their chariots and with music. The foes who had cruelly slaughtered
each other now appeared as friends, and were attended by troops of
singers and of dancing-girls. Dead and living communed freely with each
other and, in the joy of reunion, the sorrows of so many years were
forgotten. But, with the morning, the ghostly visitants disappeared.
And now Vyasa gave the widows who wished to rejoin their dead husbands
permission to do so; upon which all the widows drowned themselves in
the Ganges and were reunited to their lords.
The Pandavas with their followers returned to Hastinapur and, about
two years afterwards, the old king, his wife and Kunti, with their
attendants, perished in a jungle fire.
Krishna, the friend of the Pandavas, also met with an untimely end
after another fratricidal civil war in his own country, and his capital
city of Dwarka--from which the remaining inhabitants had been removed
by Arjuna to Hastinapur--was overwhelmed by a wave of the sea.
After the many trials and sorrows they had gone through, a weariness
of life, such as would seem only too natural under the circumstances,
took possession of the Pandavas, and they were minded to be done with
earthly things.
“Let us go forth to die! Time slayeth all.
We will find Death who seeketh other men.”
--+SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.+
With this resolve the five brothers adopted the hermit’s garb, and
accompanied by the still peerless Draupadi, and attended by one
faithful dog, they turned their steps towards Mount Meru--the abode of
the gods. A long, circuitous and weary journey was theirs, performed
on foot, and in decorous Indian file. The brothers walked one behind
the other according to their respective ages. Draupadi, “with soft
dark face and lustrous eyes,” dutifully followed her husbands with
unwavering devotion. The dog brought up the rear. Through hoary
forests, by running streams, along the shores of the sounding ocean,
over parched and burning plains lay their toilsome way to the sacred
mountain. But alas! the king alone was destined to reach it alive. One
by one the tired pilgrims succumbed to inevitable death. First Draupadi
fainted and perished on the way, because--her only fault--her woman’s
heart had loved Arjuna too much. After her Sahadeva paid the penalty of
pride, and Nakula of self-love. The three who still survived hastened
on without looking back, for they knew that their loved companions were
beyond the reach of any help. The king with Bhima and Arjuna pressed
on for Meru. But the great archer’s turn to die soon arrived, and the
giant Bhima perished also. Of all the pilgrims who, weary of the
world, had set out from Hastinapur, King Yudhisthira alone, with the
hound closely following him, reached the Celestial Mountain and was
warmly welcomed by the gods.
With the gates of Swarga wide open for his reception the magnanimous
king paused upon the very threshold of Paradise and, more mindful of
others than of himself, asked that his brothers and Draupadi should
accompany him into heaven. Being assured that he would meet them there,
his next solicitude was for his canine companion. At the gate he was
informed that the hound must be left outside to the fate that might
await him, for such could certainly not enter the abode of the gods.
The large-hearted king, however, would not consent to abandon even this
humble comrade of his weary pilgrimage, and lo!
“Straight as he spake, brightly great Indra smiled,
Vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there,
The lord of death and justice, Dharma’s self.”
--+ARNOLD.+
In Swarga Yudhisthira did not find his noble brothers, nor the tender
Draupadi, and learned that they were still in Purgatory expiating the
sins of their earthly lives. Without them heaven had no charms for
the king. He preferred to share the unhappy fate of his kinsfolk,
and was conducted to the nether regions by a celestial messenger,
along a dismal road reeking with loathsome corruption, and through
hideous scenes of terrible suffering, such as have filled the morbid
imaginations of men in every nation.
Yudhisthira’s presence in those abodes of anguish brought some
mitigation to the punishments of the many who were there undergoing a
fierce purgation from the dross of their mundane existence. Wailing
voices entreated the great king to stay awhile for their comfort
amongst them, and he magnanimously consented to do so. But the gods,
at length interposing, conducted him back to Swarga. With him were his
brothers and Draupadi--all purified by punishment from such sins or
frailties as had marred their perfection during their terrestrial life.
Thus grandly closes the wonderful story of the great war!
CHAPTER III
THE SACRED LAND
Round about the town of _Thanesar_ lies _Brahmavarta_ the sacred land
of the Hindus, and within a short walk of the town is Kurukshetra.
Thanesar itself is in ruins, and the lake near which the Pandavas and
Kauravas fought their great battle is now a dismal swamp, yet adorned
on one side by a beautiful fringe of really magnificent banyan trees,
under whose leafy covering are sheltered a few of those unimposing
brick and plaster temples so common in Upper India.
Unsparing time has strewn the whole world with the ruins of man’s
handiwork. The crumbling remains of cities, temples and palaces may be
found in every country under the sun; and, according to circumstances,
appeal to widely different feelings and evoke widely different
sentiments in the heart of the spectator. Thus, it is with a profound
sense of the reality and greatness of Roman power that we muse amidst
the columns of the Forum, or recall to mind in the mighty Colosseum
the tragic pastimes of the imperial people. It is with a respectful
admiration, not unmingled with pity, that we see in old Delhi the
considerable ruins of the lordly mosque constructed out of the spoils
of more ancient Hindu temples. But it is only with a feeling of simple
depression, unrelieved by any other sentiment, that we wander amongst
the extensive brick ruins of Thanesar, unredeemed by a trace of either
beauty or grandeur, and largely tenanted by monkeys, in whom a pious
Punjabi graduate recognizes “defunct Brahmans ... watching as it were
over their old habitations.”[108]
I visited the town in December, 1892, and never have I seen a place
which looked more utterly forlorn. Whole streets of brick-built houses
quite modern in appearance falling into ruins, which are too mean
to be interesting, too recent to be picturesque and, for the most
part, entirely uninhabited, except by the “defunct Brahmans” already
referred to. Where shops and dwellings still exist they partake of the
general tumble-down character of the town; but the wares for sale are
by no means ancient, and show that the remnant who burrow in Thanesar
still indulge in the rich confectionery of the country and still take
pleasure in the gay-coloured _saree_ and the glittering _chowree_ of
glass.
Amidst the general decay a few Hindu temples with tall, tapering spires
still show a brave front, and the tomb of the Mussulman saint, Shaikh
Chilli, built on a slight elevation, rears its marble dome into the air
with something of pride; but the rest, as I have said, is meanness and
squalor itself.
Within the precincts of Shaikh Chilli’s tomb is a school where I saw
the boys at their tasks as I passed in to see the place. “What unlucky
boys,” thought I, “to be brought up amidst the unwholesome moral
atmosphere of a decaying city!”
Although there is no present glory or grandeur about Kurukshetra, a
visit to it will repay the thoughtful student of Indian history and
religion.
In an expanse of flat country, from which, however, the blue outlines
of the Himalayas may be traced in the distance, the traveller finds,
a short way outside Thanesar, a shallow swamp about three miles in
circumference and overgrown with weeds. This is the historic lake
which, according to General Cunningham, was a sacred place long
anterior to the great war; indeed, as far back as the time of the Rig
Veda itself. “Can it be possible,” I mused, as I stood beside this
weed-covered pool, “that for a hundred generations the affectionate
devotion of the Hindu race has consistently and persistently clung to
this unattractive bit of water in an open plain?” “And how is it,” I
asked myself, “that their piety never adorned its banks with temples
(for there are here no ruins worth speaking of), and why is it now so
neglected?”
Will the reader accompany me round the lake and survey it from all
points of view?[109] On the east side are the only important buildings,
the largest being a temple of very modern date and no architectural
pretensions. It is an ordinary _Mandir_; but has just a slight local
character in the fact that it contains five coloured clay statues of
the Pandavas, railed off from the too curious or too pious spectator
by a strong, rudely constructed railing of bamboos. It rejoices in
the possession of a huge iron frying-pan--not less than eight feet
in diameter and about nine inches deep--to which my attention was
specially directed. This gigantic frying-pan is much in demand on
festival days, when the multitude pays to be fed by the Brahmans.
A flight of steps leads from the temple into the water, and runs
nearly along one-half of the eastern and northern sides of the lake.
A causeway on arches extends into the lake and ends in a small temple
picturesquely shadowed with trees. Another bridge, now but little above
the level of the water, parallel to the causeway just mentioned, leads
right across the lake, joining to both east and west banks a small
island in the middle, on which that famous bigot, the Mughal Emperor
Aurangzeb, erected a diminutive fort to accommodate a small garrison,
intrusted with the duty of preventing the Hindus from bathing in their
sacred pool.
Proceeding along the east bank we pass a number of small tumble-down
shrines, overshadowed by majestic banyans, extending their mighty arms
in graceful curves over the tranquil green water. We still follow the
steps and arrive at the north end which has quite a recent look about
it. Our guide tells us that this modern addition was the work of one
“Larkeen Sahib,” an official in these parts, who was very fond of the
Hindu, and had built this _ghat_ for them out of a feeling of gratitude
because his wife had owed her recovery from a mysterious illness to
the intercession of the Brahmans. Oh! “Larkeen Sahib,” I wonder if the
pious local legend which is told about you has ever reached your ears!
On the western side we find a little brick cenotaph which commemorates
the _suttee_ of the five wives of a Brahman whose name is now forgotten.
Somewhat in advance of this cenotaph, and a little away from the
lake-side, we are conducted to a “_bythuck_” of Guru Nanak, the
original founder of the Sikh sect, and we take shelter within its walls
from a pelting shower of rain which makes the landscape more cheerless
than ever. Here our guide informs us Guru Nanak used to sit beside the
sacred pool to practise contemplation. But the admiring crowds who
came to visit him would give him no peace; so one day, to avoid their
unwelcome attentions, he just sank into the ground and, following a
subterranean tunnel, emerged at Hurdwar on the Ganges. There could
be no doubt about this miraculous underground journey, for there was
the very tunnel itself to support the truth of the story, with a
substantial flight of steps leading down into it. Yes, true enough,
there were three or four steps leading down into a small hole within
the walls of the shrine. But how about the tunnel? My son descended
into the hole to explore it. A look of chagrin passed over the face of
our Brahman guide. Why this unnecessary and irreverent curiosity? The
story _must_ be true, for _every one_ believed it; and, certainly, the
position of this _bythuck_ of Guru Nanak is interesting, for it shows
how persistently the Sikhs attach themselves to the old Hindu faith to
which the vast majority of professing Sikhs now practically belong.
[Illustration:
[_To face p. 200._]
THE TEMPLE AND BATHING GHÂTS ON THE SACRED LAKE AT KURUKSHETRA.]
If there is anything that strikes one at Kurukshetra--and similar
places in India--it is that the Brahmans have clung with wonderful
tenacity through the vicissitudes of ages to their sacred _spots_;
and that though they have, according to universal belief, enjoyed
considerable revenues, they have, through all these ages, done nothing
to adorn their sacred places, which owe what temporary embellishment
they have to the not too magnificent and not too frequent liberality
of individuals. It strikes one also that, with each changing fashion
of belief, each rise of a new sect, the Brahmans having willingly
accommodated it with a convenient local habitation and have hastened to
associate its glories with those of its predecessors. Hence the shrine
of Guru Nanak at Kurukshetra, alongside which we shall, no doubt,
some day have one in honour of Swami Dayanand, when the Aryan sect is
sufficiently grown to impress the Brahmans with its importance; the
mere matter of orthodoxy or unorthodoxy being somewhat unimportant.
The reason for the wonderful persistence with which the affectionate
regard of the Hindus has hovered round their old shrines and holy
places for thousands of years, though at first sight rather strange,
is not difficult of explanation. _They have a hereditary priesthood_, a
priesthood that lives by the proceeds of the shrines, and to whom the
shrines are what land is to the cultivator. In this simple fact lies
the explanation of the matter, and of other points in Hindu religious
history, and probably in the history of other nations with hereditary
priesthoods. Successive generations of priests have, for their own
subsistence, to attract to the shrine they have inherited successive
generations of pilgrims, by keeping alive the old traditions, or
inventing new legends to suit the altered tastes of the times. As the
weeds that flourish in the lake are lineal descendants of the weeds
that grew in the same place time out of mind, so are the Brahmans
on the banks of the lake the lineal descendants of the Brahmans who
flourished there in times immemorial. As the weeds live on the rank
soil and stagnant water of the pond, so live the Brahmans on their wild
legends and stale pretensions.
Guru Nanak’s _bythuck_--the presence of which on the lake-side led to
the above digression--is but a few hundred yards from the west end of
Aurangzeb’s bridge and, as there appeared to be nothing of interest on
the south side, we crossed over to the island, inspected the Mughal
fort and, following the bridge, returned to the principal temple; but
before doing so we managed to secure a few photographs of the pretty
scene on the east bank as viewed from the bridge.
In the region round Kurukshetra, within a “circuit of one hundred and
sixty miles,” says General Cunningham, “there are popularly said to
be three hundred and sixty holy sites,” most of which are connected
with the names of the heroes of the ‘Mahabharata.’ Many of these are
no doubt genuine ancient places, as attested by their high mounds and
brick ruins. But the greater number appear to me to be the inventions
of modern days. According to the Mahatmyas, of which only one is said
to be old, the holy places had lain desolate for several centuries
after the Muhammadan conquest, when a _Dandi_ or mendicant, named Ram
Chandra Swâmi, came from Kâsi to Kurukshetra. He was grieved to see the
desolation and determined to stop there and try to restore the holy
places. But, as even the sites of many were unknown, he professed to
have obtained a knowledge of them in his dreams; and, accordingly, he
wrote a book describing them, which is called the “Mahatmya of 6000
slokas,” and also the “Dandi Mahatmya.” Long afterwards a Pandit of
Thanesar, named Banmáli, traced all the holy sites from the positions
given by the Dandi, whose account is now accepted as genuine by all
Brahmans, although “his only authority for the identification was a
dream.”[110]
With the foregoing in mind I was not very eager to visit the sacred
places, which have neither scenic nor architectural attractions.
However, I could not leave Brahmavarta without seeing the holy
Saraswati. The only form of conveyance available at Thanesar was the
_Ekka_ and, though I knew from sad experience what ekkas could do in
the way of producing discomfort to every limb, I was fain to call them
into requisition as the time at my disposal was short. Two ekkas were
engaged, one for my son and myself, the other for the indispensable
_Babu_ and the Brahman guide. What a sight we two _unhindu_ pilgrims
did present as we contorted ourselves into the springless vehicle
and set off for the Saraswati! In a drenching downpour of rain our
_Ekka-wallah_ drove us, almost jolted to bits, over the worst roads
ever made, to a spot where the _Samadh_ of a deceased Rajah of
Faridekote now stands. Here we had to dismount and proceed on foot to
the river, famous since the time when the Aryans settled in India.
Dripping wet, and aching all over, I proceeded with the rest through
the grass and slush a hundred yards or so, to find myself on the banks
of a tiny stream not twenty yards wide, which was sluggishly flowing
at my feet. I had now seen the historic Saraswati and my visit to the
sacred land was practically over.
It is at the time of a lunar eclipse, when the waters of all other
sacred tanks mingle mysteriously with those of the ponds near Thanesar,
that the Brahmans of Kurukshetra reap their harvest of gains; for then
tens of thousands of pilgrims crowd to bathe in the sacred pool, and,
of course, fee the priests according to the measure of their means and
their piety.[111] The Punjab University graduate, already quoted, gives
us some curious particulars in regard to the largesses distributed on
such occasions by the wealthy. He tells us, with reference to solar
eclipses, that “The Rajahs and Maharajahs of the land, too, are not
absent on such occasions. They untie their purse-strings, and hundreds
and thousands of rupees are considered as nothing when compared with
the importance of the moment. The Brahmans, with loads of sweetmeats
on their backs and with money in their unknown (_sic_) pockets, go
home cheerfully and thankfully. They do not fail to get many cows in
addition, and some fortunate few even receive at the hands of the
Rajahs, and other big men, presents of villages or of elephants, which
are returned for a paltry sum on the following day. Maharajah Narendra
Singh of Patiala is said to have gone the length of parting with one of
his wives on a similar occasion and, when on being asked to name her
price, the _parohit_ seemed willing to accept a lakh of rupees, the
Rani was very angry with him for demanding such a low sum in return for
the wife of such a wealthy Rajah.”[112]
The writer of the above curious passage seems strangely unconscious of
the real significance of the facts he records, and apparently finds
nothing to condemn in the vain display of ostentatious liberality,
masking actual meanness, to which he refers, and which is especially
noteworthy as supplying a probable standard by which to measure the
overpowering munificence of many personages who figure in the Indian
epics. This, too, is not mere conjecture. We have a similar instance in
the case of King Dasahratha, referred to at p. 20.
Although the attractions of Kurukshetra are greatest on the occasion
of eclipses, a tiny stream of visitors to the shrines trickles through
Thanesar all the year round. Of their visits particular note is taken
by the Brahmans, who keep a record of the names and family connections
of the several visitors. On the arrival of a pilgrim the Brahmans
inquire his name, caste and _gotra_, his native place, his place of
residence, and the objects of his visit. With these facts in their
possession some one amongst them is almost sure to be able to produce
the record of the visit to Thanesar, at some previous time, of some
relative of the pilgrim. When the Brahman has established this, from
one of his books, he thereby becomes the family priest, _pro tempore_,
and the privileged guide of the new arrival, out of whom he makes as
much money as he can. I shall not readily forget how the Babu, who
kindly accompanied me, was pounced upon by the priests; how by the
light of a flickering lamp he had read out to him all about the visits
which had been paid to Thanesar by his relatives; and how, having come
to the sacred land, he could not well leave it until, even in the
pitiless December rain, he had to enter a sacred tank and take sundry
dips under the water, while the Brahman, standing on the bank in the
shelter of some trees, repeated the _mantras_ which gave, as it were,
the approval of the church to this pilgrimage of his to Brahmavarta.
APPENDIX I
+THE “BHAGAVATGITA” OR DIVINE SONG+
“How much more admirable the Bhagvat-Gita than all the ruins of the
East!”--+H. D. THOREAU.+
It is undoubtedly in religious speculation that the genius of the
Indian people has risen to the highest level of its possibilities. And
one of the noblest products and best specimens of this theological
spirit is the “Bhagavatgita,” or Divine Song. The date of this grand
philosophical poem is very doubtful. European scholars generally
consider that it has no claim to great antiquity, and that it was
composed _after_ the commencement of the Christian era; some of them
even hold that it bears unmistakable traces of the influence of
Christian doctrine, and evidence of the acquaintance of its author
with the Christian scriptures. On the other hand, some Indian scholars
endeavour to assign a high antiquity to the poem, and suggest that what
resemblance there may be between the ideas in the “Gita” and in the
sacred books of the Christians, must have been borrowed by the latter
from Hindu sources.[113]
The “Bhagavatgita” early attracted the attention of Europeans, and was
translated into English by Sir Charles Wilkins in the time of Warren
Hastings, who himself wrote an introduction to it. Wilkins’ translation
has been followed by those of Thompson and Davis, and by Sir Edwin
Arnold’s metrical version entitled “The Song Celestial.” The poem has
been rendered into both Latin and Greek, and into most of the leading
languages of Europe, and has secured the highest encomiums possible
from literary and philosophical men in all countries, on account of its
lofty tone and striking conceptions.
The reader will remember that the “Bhagavatgita” is a dialogue
between Krishna and Arjuna, on the eve of the tremendous struggle at
Kurukshetra, and that the dialogue arose out of the refusal of the
latter to take part in a contest destined to lead to such unprecedented
slaughter of kinsfolk.
It appears from the “Gita” that Arjuna was not only moved by feelings
of tenderness towards his kinsmen, but was appalled at the thought of
the far-reaching consequences of the impending slaughter of so many
men. His prescient mind foresaw that the wholesale destruction of the
Kshatriyas would tend to serious immorality amongst their women, and
thus lead to that most dreadful of all calamities--_the mingling of
different castes!_ Such an evil was not to be contemplated, except with
the extremest religious horror, since so great a sin as a _confusion
of castes_ would inevitably lead men to the hell prepared for the
wicked, and even entail the fall of ancestral spirits from the religion
of the blessed, “their rites of Pinda and water ceasing” through the
defilement of their descendants. This was a terrible prospect to face,
but a more immediate if less weighty objection presented itself to
Arjuna in a doubt as to whether it was lawful for him to contend with
his ancient relative Bhisma and his Brahman preceptor Drona, both of
whom were eminently worthy of his highest respect.[114]
Krishna proceeds to overcome Arjuna’s scruples, first by dwelling upon
the indestructibility of the soul, and then by insisting that the duty
of a Kshatriya being to fight, it was right and proper for Arjuna to
take part in the battle, regardless of consequences. He further assumes
the responsibility for the deeds that may be done by Arjuna at his
suggestion. On these points Krishna says: “Those that are really wise
grieve neither for the dead nor the living. It is not that I or you or
those rulers of men never were, or that all of us shall not hereafter
be.... As a man casting off robes that are worn out putteth on others
that are new, so the embodied (soul) casting off bodies that are worn
out entereth other bodies that are new. Weapons cleave it not, fire
consumeth it not, the waters do not drench it nor doth the wind waste
it.... There is no (objective) existence of anything that is distinct
from the soul, nor non-existence of anything possessing the virtues of
the soul.”
Plainly the life of the individual was, according to Krishna’s
teaching, of little account, and this is strictly in harmony with
Brahmanical ideas. To comprehend such an attitude of mind it is
absolutely necessary to guard carefully against the mistake of
supposing that the Hindu conception of the indestructibility of the
soul is the same as the Christian idea of the immortality of the
individual spirit. In the opinion of the Hindu the individual soul is
part of the world-soul, a sort of animating force which may be joined,
on an unlimited number of successive occasions, to any corporeal frame,
high or low, adapting itself to the conditions of its dwelling-house.
Except when joined to matter of some sort, gross or subtle, it is void
of self-consciousness.[115] Conscious existence in the estimation of
the Hindu being a distinct and positive evil, the object and desire of
every sentient being should be to obtain final and complete extinction
of separate individual consciousness by emancipation from the trammels
of matter through suppression of all the senses. Thus far in regard
to Arjuna’s objection to the impending wholesale slaughter of his
Kshatriya kinsmen. But other subtle questions of theology arise in the
course of the colloquy which Krishna proceeds to elucidate and settle
for his dear friend and disciple.
We do not propose to follow, step by step, the intricacies of the
dialogue, but merely to set forth, as far as we can disentangle
them from the theological mysticism in which they are involved, the
fundamental doctrines and precepts inculcated by Krishna on this
occasion.
Work or labour, in any form, has always in Brahmanical theology been
regarded as an evil. Krishna, too, recognizes it as such, though
he holds it to be tolerable and even unobjectionable in certain
cases. Work for its own sake or for the attainment of any object
is undesirable, though it is lawful to do such work as may be
necessary for the performance of sacrifices[116] or the support of
one’s body; but even this work should be done without thought of
reward. As to Vedic rites, _i.e._, the old ceremonial observances,
these duly carried out lead, no doubt, to the attainment of pleasure
and power, and even heaven itself for a time.[117] But the highest
attainable good--_absorption in the Supreme Being, and consequent
emancipation from re-births_--cannot be obtained by even Vedic rites.
It is only to be reached by _knowledge_ or by _faith_. Now both the
terms _knowledge_ and _faith_ require special elucidation. What
then is the nature of this _knowledge_ which is so efficacious for
emancipation? Not assuredly what the Western world understands by
that term, but something very different, viz., subjugation of the
senses and a complete suppression of all affections and dislikes, all
hopes and fears, all desires and aversions, all pride and humility.
This condition of utter indifference to every thing, sensual or
intellectual, is the state of _knowledge_ leading to absorption in the
Supreme Being or world-soul.[118]
One method of arriving at this blissful condition, though not the
shortest or most certain, is through the _Yoga system_, which meets
with the approval of Krishna, who gives general directions as to
how the devotee, eating little, should sit in some lonely place;
how he should concentrate his gaze on the tip of his nose; how he
should mingle the “upward and the downward life breath; and how,
finally renouncing all desires without exception that are born of
resolves, restraining the entire group of the senses on all sides by
mind alone, he should by slow degrees become quiescent, (aided) by
(his) understanding, controlled by patience, and then, directing his
mind to self, should _think of nothing_.” When the devotee arrives
at _this_ stage he is emancipated, for surely he has found _true
knowledge_! While thus indicating the inefficiency of the Vedas for
_final emancipation_, and while bestowing only a qualified commendation
upon the Yoga system, Krishna inculcates very forcibly the doctrine
of the efficacy of _faith_ and, above all, faith in himself which, it
would seem, it is the special object of the dialogue to bring into
prominence. For himself Krishna claimed that he was “the productive
cause of the entire universe and also its destroyer.” He asserted that
he was “the beginning, the middle, and the end of beings,” and that
there was “nothing higher than himself.” To give weight to his claims
the god vouchsafed to show himself to Arjuna in “his supreme sovereign
form,” with many mouths and eyes, many wondrous aspects, many celestial
ornaments, many celestial weapons uplifted, wearing celestial garlands
and robes (and) with unguents of celestial fragrance, full of every
wonder, resplendent, infinite, with faces turned on all sides. If
the splendour of a thousand suns were to burst forth at once in the
sky (then) that would be like the splendour of that mighty one. The
son of Panda then beheld there in the body of that god of gods the
entire universe divided and subdivided into many parts, all collected
together. Then Dhananjaya (Arjuna), filled with amazement, and with
hair standing on end, bowing with (his) head, with joined hands,
addressed the god.
“Arjuna said: I behold all the gods, O God, as also all the varied
hosts of creatures (and) Brahma seated on (his) lotus seat, and all
the Rishis and the celestial snakes. I behold thee with innumerable
arms, stomachs, mouths (and) eyes, on every side, O thou of infinite
forms. Neither end, nor middle, nor also beginning of them do I
behold, O lord of the universe, O thou of universal form. Bearing
(thy) diadem, mace, and discus, a mass of energy glowing on all sides,
do I behold thee that art hard to look at, endued on all sides with
the effulgence of the blazing fire or the sun, and immeasurable. Thou
art indestructible (and) the supreme object of this universe. Thou
art without decay, the guardian of eternal virtue, I regard thee to
be the eternal (male) being. I behold thee to be without beginning,
mean, end, to be of infinite prowess, of innumerable arms, having
the sun and the moon for thy eyes, the blazing fire for thy mouth,
and heating this universe with energy thy own. For the space betwixt
heaven and earth is pervaded by thee alone, as also all the points of
the horizon! At sight of this marvellous and fierce form of thine,
O supreme soul, the triple world trembleth. For these hosts of gods
are entering thee! Some afraid are praying with joined hands. Saying,
_Hail to thee_--the hosts of great Rishis and Siddhas praise thee
with copious hymns of praise. The Rudras, the Adityas, the Vasus, they
that are (called) the Sáddhyas, the Viçwas, the Açwins, the Maruts,
also the Ushmapas, the Gandharvas, the Yakshas, the Asuras, the hosts
of Siddhyas, behold thee and are all amazed. Beholding thy mighty form
with many mouths and eyes, O mighty-armed one, with innumerable arms,
thighs and feet, many stomachs (and) terrible in consequence of many
tusks, all creatures are affrighted, and I also. Indeed, touching the
very skies, of blazing radiance, many-hued, mouth wide open, with eyes
that are blazing and large, beholding thee, O Vishnu with (my) inner
soul trembling (in fright) I can no longer command courage and peace of
mind. Beholding thy mouths that are terrible in consequence of (their)
tusks, and that are fierce as the (all-destroying) fire at the end
of the Yuga, I cannot recognize the points of the horizon nor can I
command peace of mind. Be gracious, O god of gods, O thou that art the
refuge of the universe. And all these sons of Dhritarashtra, together
with the hosts of kings, and Bhisma and Drona and also Suta’s this son
(Karna) accompanied by even the principal warriors of our side, are
quickly entering thy terrible mouths rendered fierce by thy tusks!
Some, with their heads crushed, are seen striking at the interstices
of (thy) teeth. As many currents of water flowing through different
channels roll rapidly towards the ocean, so these heroes of the world
of men enter thy mouths that flame all around. As moths with increasing
speed rush for (their own) destruction to the blazing fire, so also
do (these) people, with unceasing speed, enter thy mouths for their
destruction. Swallowing all these men from every side thou lickest them
with thy flaming mouths. Filling the whole universe with (thy) energy,
thy fierce splendours, O Vishnu, are heating (everything). Tell me who
thou art of (such) fierce form. I bow to thee, O chief of the gods, be
gracious to me! I desire to know thee that art the primeval one, for I
do not understand thy actions.”
After such an overwhelming argument addressed to the senses of his
disciple, after such an astounding proof that he alone is not only the
universal soul of nature but the universe itself, Krishna discloses to
Arjuna the efficacy of _faith_ above both _works_ and _contemplation_.
Thus says the god: “Fix thy heart on me alone, place thy understanding
on me. Hereafter then shalt thou dwell in me. There is no doubt (in
this);” and again: “Exceedingly dear art thou to me, therefore I will
declare what is for thy benefit.... Forsaking all (religious) duties
come to me as thy sole refuge, I will deliver thee from all sins.”
To assert the doctrine of the efficacy of _faith_ is obviously the
special object of the _Gita_; but, with the conciliatory spirit of
Hinduism, it is inculcated without too great a rupture with the
orthodox notions in respect to those time-honoured props and refuges of
the pious Hindu,--the Vedas and Yogaism. Both these are, however, shorn
of a good deal of their importance by comparison with the _new_ mode of
attaining heaven and final emancipation--_through faith in Krishna_.
Though the caste-system is strongly upheld in the “Bhagavatgita,” and
the practices of the Yogis sanctioned, many of the most liberal and
lofty sentiments find expression in this highly remarkable poem; as
when Krishna says: “Whatever form (of godhead or myself) any worshipper
desireth to worship with faith, that faith of his unto that form I
render steady. Endued with that faith he payeth his adoration to
that (form) and obtaineth from that all his desires, since all those
are ordained by me. The fruits, however, of those persons endued
with little intelligence are perishable. They that worship the
divinities go to the divinities, while they that worship me come even
to me.” Again: “Even those devotees who, endued with faith, worship
other godheads, even they, O son of Kunti, worship me alone, though
irregularly.” And in another place: “In whatever manner men come to me
in the self-same manner do I accept them.” Krishna also says: “I am
alike to all creatures, there is none hateful to me, none dear. They,
however, that worship me with reverence are in me and I also am in
them.”
In this serene and lofty impartiality of sentiment the unknown author
of the “Gita” has reached a level of generous and noble theology not
to be surpassed and probably never before expressed. But, alas! it
was impossible for him to stand alone upon this giddy height of calm
philosophy, and he descends to a lower plain of sympathetic insight
when his Krishna declares, that “there are two kinds of created beings
in this world, viz., the godlike and the demoniac. These latter are
impure, given over to their desires, and unholy, asserting that the
universe is void of truth and guiding principle, and even without a
ruler. Wedded to vanity, power, pride, lust and wrath, these revilers
hate me in their own bodies and those of others. Those haters (of me),
cruel, the vilest among men and unholy, I hurl continually down into
demoniac wombs. Coming into demoniac wombs, deluded birth after birth,
they, O son of Kunti, without attaining to me, go down to the vilest
state.”
In regard to divine incarnation, which is an old accepted idea in
Hinduism, Krishna says: “Many births of mine have passed away, O
Arjuna, as also of thine; those all I know, but thou dost not, O
chastiser of foes! Though I am unborn and of essence that knoweth no
deterioration, though (I am) the lord of creatures; still, relying on
my own (material) nature, I take birth by my own (powers) of illusion.
Whensoever, O Bharata, loss of piety occurreth and the rise of impiety,
on those occasions do I create myself. For the protection of the
righteous, for also the destruction of evil-doers, for the sake of
establishing piety, I am born age after age.”
Whether the author of the “Bhagavatgita” borrowed ideas from
Christianity or not, this, at least, is certain, that Krishna-worship
is a comparatively new phase of Hinduism; that its doctrine of
salvation or final emancipation by _faith_ is also comparatively new;
and that the tendency of this doctrine of _faith_, as taught in the
“Gita,” is to wean men from rites and ceremonies, and to discourage
them from the practice of _Yoga_.
But since it seems to be a characteristic of each successive stage
of Hinduism to keep on amicable terms with those that have preceded
it, the “Gita” endeavours to lead men to more doctrine of _faith_ in
Krishna, without more disparagement of orthodox ideas and practices
than appeared absolutely necessary for the object in view--hence the
qualified approval of Vedic rites and of Yogaism which we find in this
treatise.
Of the “Bhagavatgita,” which has been extolled as a complete system of
Indian _religious philosophy_, this brief note will, I believe, give a
sufficient idea.[119] It is, as regards Hinduism, an eclectic system
upon which has been grafted a new principle, the doctrine of salvation
by faith, which may or may not be of foreign origin. Its lofty ideas
and transcendental philosophy appeal with subtle force to the higher
feelings of the thoughtful Hindu. I have known a clever young student
of the “Gita” so powerfully affected by its teaching as to lose mental
balance to the extent of believing himself to be Arjuna. When this
hallucination passed away his one burning desire was to retire from the
world in order to live the life of the Rishis of old.
For my own part I leave this highest attainment of Indian religious
philosophy with mingled feelings of admiration and sadness.
In every nation men have allowed their speculative imaginations to play
around the great mystery of the Universe. The author of the “Gita” has
dreamed his dream as well as the others; and, like Plato[120] and the
rest, has presented as a solution of the grand problem of existence
his own fancies and his own guess-work. And these dreams, fancies and
guesses--labelled _theology_ or _philosophy_ as the case may be--have
been accepted as eternal verities and passed down from generation to
generation, only to be superseded, in their turn, by other equally
substantial fancies, equally irrefragable verities.
In leaving the “Gita,” however, let us at least admit that the Indian
poet’s dream was not deficient in nobility of sentiment and grandeur of
conception.
APPENDIX II
+THE CHURNING OF THE OCEAN+
Once upon a time the gods, having practised penances according to the
prescribed ordinances, assembled in solemn conclave on the golden
summit of Mount Meru, to consider how they might obtain _Amrita_--the
water of life. “Seeing the celestial assembly in anxious consultation,
Narayana[121] said to Brahma”: “Do thou churn the ocean with the
Suras (gods) and the Asuras. By doing so, _Amrita_ shall be obtained,
together with all drugs and all gems.”
In order to carry out these instructions the gods uprooted from its
base the towering mountain named Mandara,[122] and placed it in the
sea on the back of the tortoise king. This was their churning pole,
and for a cord they used the mighty hooded serpent, Vasuki. The Asuras
taking hold of him by the head and the gods by the tail commenced the
churning of the ocean. As they laboured in their gigantic task of
whirling Mandara round and round in the seething ocean, the serpent’s
body became heated by the friction to which it was subjected, and
volumes of black vapour, mingled with red flames, issued from his awful
mouth. These vapours were condensed in the upper regions and fell in
refreshing showers upon the tired gods. With the rain came abundance of
flowers shaken from the trees of rapidly revolving Mandara.
As the work proceeded with more and more vigour, the inhabitants of the
troubled ocean were destroyed in great numbers, and the forests on the
sides of rotating Mandara took fire from the friction of the branches
of the trees which were driven into conflict with one another. However,
this conflagration was extinguished by Indra, and the churning was
continued. Then the gums of various trees and many gems began to mingle
with the water, but the sought for nectar itself did not appear. Almost
spent with their exertions, the gods appealed to Narayana for help, and
he, renewing their vigour, directed them again to “insert the mountain
and churn the waters.”
Their fresh and vigorous efforts were crowned with success. First of
all the moon emerged from the waters, then “Lakshmi”[123] dressed in
white, and wine, and the white steed, and then the celestial gem,
Kaustuva, which graces the breast of Narayana. Lakshmi, wine, and the
steed fleet as the mind, all came before the gods on high. Then arose
the divine Dhanvantari himself with the white vessel of nectar in his
hand. And, seeing him, the “Asuras set up a loud cry, saying: ‘Ye have
taken all, _he_ must be ours.’”
Although the object of their quest, the nectar of immortality, had
been produced, the churning was continued apparently in the hope of
further treasures. Airavata, a huge elephant, now emerged from the
troubled waters, and was at once appropriated by Indra. But after his
appearance a baleful poison, the terrible Kalakuta, “blazing like a
flame mixed with fumes,” began to overspread the earth and to threaten
the destruction of the universe. At this perilous juncture, Mahadeva,
at Brahma’s solicitation, “swallowed the poison and held it in his
throat,” which acquired and ever after retained a blue colour. Hence
Mahadeva is often known by the name Nilakantha, the blue-throated.
[Illustration:
+THE CHURNING OF THE OCEAN.+
(Reduced from Moor’s “Hindu Pantheon.”)]
The Asuras having got possession of Dhanvantari with the vessel of
nectar, were preparing to defend their acquisition by force of arms,
but Narayana, assuming the bewitching form of lovely _Maya_, easily
induced the Daityas, ravished with her charms, to part with their
treasure.
As soon as the deception practised upon them became apparent, the
Daityas and Danavas pursued the gods, who, in the meantime, had been
hurriedly taking draughts of this wonderful elixir of immortality.
Along with them a Danava, named Rahu, in the disguise of a god, was
also slyly partaking of the _Amrita_, but, before the nectar had gone
beyond his throat, he was detected by the sun and moon and had his head
severed from his body by the discus of Narayana.
The severed head of Rahu was, of course, immortal, and ascended into
the sky with loud cries. And ever since that eventful day it has
pursued the sun and moon with revengeful feelings, swallowing them up
periodically, as is evident in the solar and lunar eclipses which have
attracted the awed attention of mankind through the ages.
To these events succeeded the commencement of a terrible battle between
the gods on one side, and the Asuras, Daityas and the Danavas on the
other. The gods, being victorious, carried the _Amrita_ to heaven, and,
“offering due respect to Mandara, placed him on his own base.”
Such, in brief, is the wonderfully grand old myth which could have
been conceived by no common mind, which is still believed in, and
gives rise to practices and ceremonies still observed by two hundred
millions of the Indian people, for whom even now it is the malignant
Rahu that periodically threatens the destruction of the greater and
lesser lights of the firmament. On these dire occasions the Hindus beat
their drums and blow their conchs to terrify away the demon. They throw
away their earthen cooking-pots, observe a rigid fast during the period
of obstruction, and crowd the bathing-places for a purifying plunge as
soon as the light of sun or moon is once again fully restored to the
delighted eyes of mankind.
APPENDIX III
+THE STORY OF NALA AND DAMAYANTI+
There was once a powerful King of the Nishadhas, named Nala, who was as
beautiful as the god of love himself. He was, moreover, an honourable
man, highly accomplished, and especially well-versed in the management
of horses, but he had a weakness for dice.
Contemporary with Nala was Bhima, King of the Vidharbas, a formidable
monarch, and father of Damayanti, the most lovely maiden in the world.
Fame had carried to Nala the report of Damayanti’s unrivalled charms
and had made him quite love-sick. The fair lady, too, had often been
told of the manly beauty and grace of the King of the Nishadhas, and
had had a tender chord in her heart touched by what she had heard. Thus
were these two young people actually in love with each other, although
they had never met or even exchanged glances.
The enamoured king naturally sought solitude; and one day, while
moodily lounging in the inner gardens of his palace, he saw some
strange-looking swans with golden wings. He caught one of them with his
hands. The bird immediately addressed his captor, asking to be spared,
and promising to speak to Damayanti about him “in such a way that she
will not ever desire to have any other person for her lord.” Of course
the swan was liberated there and then and, proceeding at once along
with his fellows to the land of the Vidharbas, alighted in the gardens
where Damayanti was sporting with her maids. The fair princess was
eager to catch the strange birds as soon as she observed them; so she
and her attendants began to run after the golden-winged swans, who fled
in all directions without taking wing. One of these birds led the eager
Damayanti away from her companions, and then, seizing the opportunity,
told the charming girl about Nala and his beauty, winding up with
these words: “Thou also art a jewel among thy sex as Nala is the prime
among men. The union of the best with the best is happy.” To which the
gratified princess replied: “Do thou speak thus unto Nala also.”
The adventure with the swan had such an effect upon the princess that
she became melancholy, pale-faced, and lean. Her thoughts were of Nala
only, and she could find no pleasure in her surroundings. Her father
noticed the change with much anxiety and, after weighing the matter,
concluded that the best thing he could do would be to find a husband
for his daughter.
He accordingly gave notice, far and wide, to the kings and princes of
the land that Damayanti would hold her swayamvara on a certain date.
From every direction suitors thronged to Bhima’s capital in the hope
of winning the much-coveted beauty whose fame filled the whole earth.
The celestial Rishi, Narada, on a casual visit to Indra’s Heaven,
made passing reference to Damayanti’s transcendent beauty and to her
approaching swayamvara. The gods, excited by his words, exclaimed in
rapture: “We also will go there,” and four of them, the Lokapalas or
guardians of the world--Indra, Yama, Varuna and Kuvera--set out without
delay for the country of the Vidharbas, accompanied by their attendants.
On the way they met the handsome and virtuous Nala bent on the same
errand. Leaving their celestial cars in the sky, they descended to
the earth and entered into converse with the king. Without revealing
themselves to him they cunningly got him to promise to help them,
and when he had done so requested him to go to Damayanti and inform
her that the Lokapalas were amongst the suitors for her hand, and to
request her to choose one of them for her lord.
Poor Nala explained his own feelings with respect to the fair princess,
and the hopes with which he was hastening to the swayamvara. He also
protested that it would be impossible for him to have an interview
with Damayanti in her well-guarded palace. But the gods removed this
last difficulty, Indra simply saying: “Thou shalt be able to enter.”
And so it proved; for it was not long before Nala found himself in the
inner apartments of the palace. His wonderful beauty created a great
sensation amongst the astonished women of the zenana. Damayanti was the
first to recover from the surprise of his unexpected presence in the
inner apartments, and smilingly addressed the intruder in these by no
means harsh words: “What art thou, O thou of faultless features, that
hast come here, awakening my love. O sinless one, O hero of celestial
form, I am anxious to know who thou art that hast come hither, and why
thou hast come hither. And how it is that thou hast not been discovered
by anyone, considering that my apartments are well-guarded[124] and the
king’s mandates are stern.”
Nala with a sad heart told her who he was, and honourably discharged
the distasteful duty imposed upon him by the celestials. Undazzled by
the prospect of having a god for her husband, Damayanti, with charming
simplicity, said to Nala with a smile: “O king, love me and command me
what I shall do for thee. Myself and what else of wealth is mine are
thine.... If thou forsake me who adore thee, for thy sake will I resort
to poison or fire, or water, or the rope.” Nala dwelt upon the danger
of offending the gods, and advised the princess to choose one of her
celestial suitors for her lord and no blame would attach to him; but
she told him to come himself to the swayamvara and she would there give
him her hand in the presence of the celestials.
Nala returned to the Lokapalas, who were eager in their inquiries about
the details of his mission. He faithfully related what had passed
between himself and Damayanti, even so far as to tell them that the
maiden had expressed her determination to choose him for her husband.
Having discharged his obligations with strict fidelity, Nala left the
issue in the hands of the gods.
On the day of the swayamvara the astonished princess saw, on entering
the hall, not one but five Nalas before her, all seated together.
Unable to discriminate from amongst them the King of the Nishadhas,
the fond maiden tremblingly prostrated herself before the five and,
in an appeal full of sweet confidence, begged the gods to reveal
themselves to her, as she had in her heart chosen Nala for her lord.
Touched by her simple prayer, the Lokapalas resumed their celestial
attributes, and the fair maiden thereupon bashfully caught the hem of
Nala’s garment and placed the garland round his neck. The gods were
pleased with the issue, and generously bestowed many boons upon their
successful rival, who, appreciating the great honour that had been
shown him, addressed Damayanti in these words: “Since thou, O blessed
one, hast chosen a mortal in the presence of the celestials, know
me for a husband ever obedient to thy command. And, O thou of sweet
smiles, truly do I tell thee this that as long as life continueth in
this body of mine I will remain thine and thine alone.” The charming
damsel, of course, made a suitable response. Everything was arranged
satisfactorily, the wedding was duly celebrated, and the King of the
Nishadhas returned home with his lovely bride.
But, as the course of true love never does run smooth, there was sorrow
awaiting the young couple. It happened that, as the gods were returning
from Damayanti’s swayamvara, they met Kali with Dwapara on the way to
the capital of the Vidharbas. It was to seek Damayanti’s hand that
Kali[125] was journeying thither, and it was with great displeasure
that he learned that the swayamvara was over and that Nala had obtained
the prize.
In his wicked heart he planned to ruin the happiness of Nala,
and with that object in view proceeded to his city. Watching his
opportunity--which presented itself in the neglect by the king of
some trifling ceremonial observance--Kali entered his person and took
complete possession of him. The fiend also stirred up Pushkara to
challenge Nala to play with him with dice. Nala could not refuse, and,
being under the influence of Kali, gambled recklessly and, needless to
say, unsuccessfully; for the dice were not ordinary dice, but _Dwapara
himself_ transformed. The gambling match lasted for months, and Nala
lost everything he possessed, including his kingdom. During the
continuance of the match Nala was like one deprived of reason, so his
wife sent her two children away to her parents in charge of a faithful
charioteer. His successful opponent suggested that he might now stake
Damayanti as he had lost everything else; but Nala, his heart full
of rage, rose with silent dignity and, stripping himself of all his
ornaments, left the city. Damayanti, clad in a single piece of cloth--a
_sari_, no doubt--followed him into exile.
Pushkara issued an order that no one should assist Nala under pain
of death, so the ex-king and his consort were left to shift for
themselves. In the hope of capturing some wild birds in the wood
Nala threw his cloth over them, but they rose and flew away with it,
leaving him naked. He now shared Damayanti’s single garment, and the
pair were soon in the greatest extremities of distress. He could not
humble himself to seek the assistance of his wife’s people, but,
thinking that if she were alone, Damayanti might find an asylum with
them, Nala, instigated still by vindictive Kali, abandoned his lovely
wife one night in the lonesome forest. Her grief and despair upon
finding herself deserted were most pathetic. With loud lamentations she
wandered hither and thither like a maniac, and came unexpectedly upon
a huge serpent, who quietly coiled himself about her gentle form and
would have killed her very soon, had not a hunter come to her rescue
and, with his sharp sword, cut off the serpent’s head. Inquiries and
explanations followed, with the result that, “beholding that beautiful
woman clad in half a garment, with deep bosom and round hips and limbs
delicate and faultless, and face resembling the full moon, and eyes
graced with curved eyelashes, and speech sweet as honey, the hunter
became inflamed with desire.” But virtuous Damayanti in great anger
repulsed the wretch and cursed him so that he fell down dead at her
feet.
Alone in the vast forests, peopled by wild beasts and infested by
thieves and Mleccha-tribes, poor bewildered Damayanti wandered about
in quest of Nala; asking, in her trouble, the fierce tiger and the
silent mountain to tell her where her lord had gone. After wandering
about for three days and three nights the unfortunate queen came to
the delightful asylum of some ascetics, and, entering it fearlessly
but with great humility, she was welcomed by the holy men, who, struck
by her beauty, inquired whether she was the presiding deity of the
forest, the mountain, or the river. Damayanti explained her situation
and received from the ascetics most comforting assurances of early
reunion with Nala and great future happiness. After which “the ascetics
with their sacred fires and asylum vanished from sight,” to the great
amazement of the queen.
Further wanderings in the denser parts of the forest brought Damayanti
into a somewhat open space, where she found a party of merchants
encamped beside a stream with their horses, elephants, and other
beasts of burden. The merchants could give her no information about
Nala, for, as the leader of the party assured her, she was the only
human being they had met in those vast forests. However, as they
were bound for the city of Suvahu, Damayanti attached herself to the
caravan. The distance to be traversed was evidently a very long one
and the forest very extensive; for, after they had proceeded many
days, they were still in the woods, and one evening encamped on the
border of a lovely lotus-covered lake. In the dead of night a herd of
wild elephants coming down to the lake discovered the tame elephants
belonging to the merchants and instantly made a furious onslaught upon
them. Indescribable confusion followed. Some members of the party were
trampled to death under the feet of the mighty beasts, some perished
by their huge tusks, others fled for safety in all directions. The
fugitives concealed themselves in the thickets or took refuge in
the branches of trees. Horses, camels and elephants, fighting with
each other and rushing about in frantic terror, added to the wild
confusion of the dreadful scene of disorder and uproar, which was
intensified by the outbreak of a terrible fire. Amidst the general
panic, the shouts and cries of men and the noise of wounded and furious
animals, Damayanti naturally awoke in the greatest alarm; but she soon
had occasion for special fear for her own personal safety from an
unexpected quarter.
“And those of the caravan that had escaped unhurt, met together, and
asked one another, ‘Of what deed of ours is this the consequence?
Surely we have failed to worship the illustrious Manibhadra, and
likewise the exalted and graceful Vaisravana, the King of the Yakshas.
Perhaps we have not worshipped the deities that cause calamities,
or perhaps we have not paid them the first homage. Or perhaps this
evil is the certain consequence of the birds (we saw)! Our stars are
not unpropitious. From what other cause, then, hath this disaster
come?’ Others, distressed and bereft of wealth and relatives, said,
‘That maniac-like woman who came amongst this mighty caravan in guise
that was strange and scarcely human, also, it is by her that this
dreadful illusion has been pre-arranged. Of a certainty, she is a
terrible Rakshasa or a Yaksha or a Picácha woman. All this evil is
her work, what need of doubts. If we again see that wicked destroyer
of merchants, that giver of innumerable woes, we shall certainly slay
that injurer of ours, with stones, and dust, and grass, and wood,
and cuffs.’[126] And hearing these dreadful words of the merchants,
Damayanti, in terror and shame and anxiety, fled into the woods
apprehensive of evil.”
Damayanti, however, managed to secure the protection of some Brahmans
who had been travelling with the merchants, and in their company
succeeded in reaching the city of Suvahu. Her strange, unkempt and
almost maniac-like appearance, coupled with her scanty clothing,
excited the curiosity of the citizens, who rudely followed her about.
Her painful situation in the street of the town, and her beauty, which
nothing could destroy, attracted the attention of the queen-mother, who
was looking out of one of the windows of the palace. As a consequence
Damayanti was sent for and installed in the household as a sort of
humble companion to the princess.
We have now to trace the fortunes of Nala. After he had deserted
Damayanti he came upon a mighty conflagration in the forests. From
the midst of the fire a voice addressed him thus: “O righteous Nala,
come hither.” Nala obeyed without fear or hesitation, and found in
the midst of the fire a mighty Naga or serpent, lying in great coils.
The snake explained that he was suffering from the curse of a great
Rishi “of high ascetic merit,” whom he had deceived, and that he was
doomed, under the conditions of the curse, to lie where he was until
Nala should remove him to another place, when he would be free again.
The snake contracted his dimensions till he was no bigger than a man’s
thumb. Nala took him up and carried him to a place free from fire. Here
the snake bit Nala and resumed his natural form. The effect on Nala
of the snake’s bite was startling indeed, for he underwent a strange
transformation of person and assumed an unprepossessing appearance.
The snake explained that what had occurred was for Nala’s good, and
advised him to go to Ayodhya and offer his services to the king of that
city as a charioteer and trainer of horses, on condition of receiving
instruction in the art of gambling. The snake also presented Nala with
a garment, the wearing of which would immediately restore him to his
proper form. Nala did as directed, and was duly installed as king’s
charioteer and superintendent of the royal stables, under the name of
Váhuka.
In the meanwhile Brahmans sent out by King Bhima, Damayanti’s father,
were searching the country far and wide for the lost couple. One of
them met Damayanti and recognized her by a remarkable lotus-shaped
mole which she had between her eyebrows. This discovery led to her
return to her father’s house, where her children were being reared in
comfort, but nothing could console her for the absence of Nala. Through
her mother she caused Brahmans to go forth into all countries, to cry
in every assembly, “O beloved gambler, where hast thou gone, cutting
off half of my garment, and deserting thy dear and devoted wife asleep
in the forest,” etc. Of course this appeal touched Nala--transformed
into Váhuka--to the heart, and certain remarks which he let fall, to
the effect that a virtuous woman should not be angry with one who had
been deprived by birds of his garments, and so on, having been reported
to Damayanti, she suspected who that Váhuka really was, although so
changed in person.
To bring him to her she had it proclaimed in the city of Ayodhya that
Damayanti, unaware whether Nala was alive or not, had decided to hold
the very next day another swayamvara, at which she would choose a
second husband[127] for herself.
King Ritupama of Ayodhya desired to be present on this occasion, but
the distance to Kundina was over one hundred _yojanas_. However, Nala
in a most wonderful manner managed to do the distance within the
appointed time, not without adventures on the way and the acquirement
from his royal master of the whole science of dice-playing.
When they arrived at Kundina they found to their astonishment that no
preparations were being made for Damayanti’s swayamvara, and discovered
that they had been deceived by a false report.
From the remarkable way in which Ritupama’s chariot came rattling into
Ayodhya, Damayanti suspected that it was driven by Nala and Nala only,
but she was sore distressed when she saw Váhuka--so unlike her dear
lord in appearance. Yet, as wonders were common in those days and the
charioteer might, after all, be her dear husband in a natural disguise,
she opened communication with him through her maid-servant, and by
various indications satisfied herself that Váhuka was no other than her
lost Nala.
With the consent of her father and mother she caused Váhuka to be
brought to her apartments. She received him clad in a piece of
red cloth, wearing matted locks and covered with dirt and dust.
Explanations followed. The wind-god, invoked by Damayanti, testified
that it was only to bring Nala to herself that the lovely queen had
proclaimed her swayamvara in Ayodhya, and that she was faultless in the
matter. Flowers descended from the air and celestial kettle-drums began
to play.
Casting away all doubts about Damayanti, Nala put on the pure garment
which had been given to him by the serpent, and thus regained his
own beautiful form. “And, beholding her righteous lord in his own
form, Bhima’s daughter of faultless limbs embraced him, and began to
weep aloud. And King Nala also embraced Bhima’s daughter, devoted to
him as before, and also his children, and experienced great delight.
And, burying her face in his bosom, the beauteous Damayanti, of large
eyes, began to sigh heavily, remembering her griefs. And, overwhelmed
with sorrow, that tiger among men stood for some time clasping the
dust-covered Damayanti of sweet smiles.”
After these events Nala proceeded to his own country of the Nishadhas
and challenged his brother to a game of dice, offering to stake all
the wealth he had acquired, and lovely Damayanti as well, against
the kingdom of which he had been dispossessed. He gave his brother
the choice of an alternative--the dice or battle. Pushkara willingly
accepted the offer, remarking insultingly: “It is evident that
Damayanti, adorned with this wealth of thine that I will win, will
wait upon me like an Apsara in heaven upon Indra.” However, fortune
had changed sides. Nala recovered his kingdom, but generously shared
it with his unworthy brother, and everyone, of course, lived happily
thereafter.
NOTES
I. _Date of the compilation of the “Mahabharata.”_--Like the
“Ramayana,” the “Mahabharata” is based on popular legends of
considerable antiquity which, according to European scholars, appear to
have been _collected together_ into a more or less connected whole at a
comparatively recent date.
“The earliest direct evidence of the existence of an epic, with the
contents of the ‘Mahabharata,’ comes to us from the rhetor Dion
Chrysostom, who flourished in the second half of the first century
A.D.; and it appears fairly probable that the information in question
was then quite new, and was derived from mariners who had penetrated as
far as the extreme south of India.... Since Megasthenes says nothing
of this epic, it is not an improbable hypothesis that its origin is
to be placed in the interval between his time and that of Chrysostom;
for what ignorant sailors took note of would hardly have escaped his
observation, more especially if what he narrates of Herakles and his
daughter Pandai has reference really to Krishna and his sister, the
wife of Arjuna; if, that is to say, the Pandu legend was actually
current in his time.... As to the period when the final redaction of
the work in its present shape took place, no approach even to direct
conjecture is in the meantime possible, but, at any rate, it must have
been some centuries after the commencement of our era.”[128]
II. _Translation of the “Mahabharata” into Persian._--The following
account of the translation of the “Mahabharata” into Persian, in the
reign of the Mogul Emperor Akbar, is worth reading, as it exhibits an
estimate of the great epic from the standpoint of a bigoted Muslim:
“In the year 990” His Majesty assembled some learned Hindus and gave
them directions to write an explanation of the ‘Mahabharata,’ and
for several nights he himself devoted his attention to explain the
meaning to Nakib Khan, so that the Khan might sketch out the gist of
it in Persian. On the third night the king sent for me, and desired me
to translate the ‘Mahabharata,’ in conjunction with Nakib Khan. The
consequence was that in three or four months I translated two out of
the eighteen sections, at the puerile absurdities of which the eighteen
thousand creations may well be amazed. Such injunctions as one never
heard of--what not to eat, and a prohibition against turnips! But such
is my fate, to be employed on such works. Nevertheless I console myself
with the reflection that what is predestined must come to pass.
“After this, Mulla Shi and Nakib Khan together accomplished a portion,”
and another was completed by Sultan Haji Thanesari by himself. Shaikh
Faizi was then directed to convert the rough translation into elegant
prose and verse, but he did not complete more than two sections.
The Haji aforesaid again wrote it, correcting the errors which had
appeared in his first translation and settling the conjectures which
he had hazarded. He had revised a hundred sheets, and, nothing being
omitted, he was about to give the finishing touch when the order was
received for his dismissal, and he was sent to Bakar. He now resides in
his own city (Thanesar). Most of the scholars who were employed upon
this translation are now with the Kauravas and Pandavas. May those
who survive be saved by the mercy of God, and may their repentance be
accepted.
“The translation was called ‘Razm-nama,’ and, when fairly engrossed
and embellished with pictures, the nobles had orders to take copies,
with the blessing and favour of God. Shaikh Abul Faizi, who had already
written against our religion, wrote the Preface, extending to two
sheets. God defend us from his infidelities and absurdities.”[129]
III. _English Versions of the “Mahabharata.”_--For full details of
this epic the reader may be referred to “The ‘Mahabharata’ of Krishna
Dwaipayana Vyasa,” translated into English prose by Pratab Chandra Roy
(Calcutta), of which several volumes have been published.
A tolerably detailed account of the poem, with a running commentary,
occupies about 500 pages of vol. i. of the “History of India,” by J.
Talboys Wheeler.
A summary of all the eighteen sections of the epic is to be found in
Sir Monier Williams’s “Indian Epic Poetry” (Williams and Norgate,
1863).
CONCLUDING REMARKS
Having presented to the reader the foregoing condensed epitomes of
the great Hindu Epics, it only remains for me to offer a few brief
observations upon some of the more abiding features of the national
life and the religious and moral sentiments of the Hindus, as
illustrated by these gigantic poems, in which we see, as in a mirror,
an unconscious reflection of the ideas and tendencies, the intellectual
cravings and the moral instincts, of the age to which they belong.
It may seem superfluous to remind the reader that the “Ramayana”
describes the adventures of Rama, including amongst them a war which he
undertook in order to avenge an insult and to recover the person of his
wife, who had been carried off by an unscrupulous enemy. The campaign
against Ravana had not for its object extension of territory, but the
punishment of an evil-doer and the righting of a personal wrong; while
the protracted struggle, which is the basis of the “Mahabharata,” is
purely a contest for supremacy between kindred families, each side
being backed by friends and allies from amongst their own race, as well
as from amongst alien tribes (the Mlecchas). In neither poem, be it
noted, does any question of patriotism arise; for the contest in which
the heroes are involved are not against foreign invaders or national
enemies.
The India known to the compilers of the “Ramayana” and
“Mahabharata,”--the extensive theatre upon which their heroes played
the stirring drama of their lives--was evidently a land covered with
vast tracts of dense forest, whose mysterious gloom, pervaded with
the aroma of incense and burnt-offerings, has cast a vague and mighty
shadow over the hearts of the Hindu bards, as surely as the breezy
atmosphere and the restless waves of the Ægean have imparted a healthy
buoyancy to the Homeric rhapsodists.
The dreamy solitudes in which Valmiki and Vyasa love to linger have a
restfulness about them which the European, unused to Eastern lands,
can hardly comprehend. They have also a mystery only to be found in
primæval forests, and they possess a dark background of horror, in the
roar of the ferocious tiger, the hiss of the deadly serpent, and the
grip of the invisible fever-fiend, enough to awaken strange and gloomy
imaginings.
The few who have lived, as I have done, through changing seasons in the
dense forests of Eastern India, can hover in spirit through Valmiki and
Vyasa’s woodlands of the past.
First it is summer, and the hot sunbeams come filtering through the
leafy covering, under the shadow of which man and beast listlessly
repose through uneventful hours, while the shrill cricket chirps
its monotonous song and the _cokil’s_ sweet note fills the hot and
trembling air. Then the black clouds gather overhead. God Indra parts
them with his flashing bolts. Loud thunder peals in the sky, the
roaring hurricane enters into fearful conflict with the warring trees,
and the rain descends, not in tiny drizzles, but in torrents; and its
voice, as it buries itself in square miles of standing forest, is like
the roar of many waters. Cascades, starting into life, leap gladly from
the hill-side. The swollen streams, muddy and impassable, swirl and
rush along, carrying with them a burden of forest trees. A mantle of
vivid green covers, as if by magic, the whole earth, and climbs up till
it almost hides the little cottage in which the proprietor takes refuge
from the incessant drip, which descends from the leafy covering above.
To this succeeds a period when the steamy miasma rises in the green
light from the rotten ground, and man and beast sicken in the malarious
atmosphere, wherein the odour of decaying vegetation mingles with the
exquisite perfume of orchids and strange flowers of the wilderness. In
the glorious sky--in mystic cloudland--appear displays of light and
colour, of subtle tints and gorgeous hues, utterly beyond description
or the artist’s cunningest skill. Watch, with fevered vision, from
the neighbourhood of one of these dark forests the rapidly shifting
cloud-phantasms, arrayed in red and gold, upon the evening sky, then
cease from marvelling at the exuberant and unbridled imaginings of the
Indian bard! Fix your attention at night upon the monstrous shapes
which hover, skulking in the background, in the flickering firelight,
listen to the unearthly wailing and stifled cries which steal through
the hideous darkness, and doubt no more the existence and doings of
gruesome Rakshasas who change their shapes at will! Learn also, at the
same time, how indispensable a god is _Agni_, who protects you through
the horrors of darkest night in the forests.
Later in the year winter smiles mildly over the enervated land and
chills the tepid air. For hours after sunrise a dense fog wraps the
primæval forest in its embrace, but when it, ghost-like, steals
silently away, it reveals the white smoke of the cottages curling
upwards into a blue unclouded sky. The sun hardly affords sufficient
warmth to the labourer in the little patch of cultivation near the hut,
and the moon looks cold and pallid: the streams begin to dwindle away;
the cascades are silent.
Such is the succession of seasons in a tropical forest-land like the
India of the Epics. And, throughout all the seasons, the forest is
enveloped in a dreamy air of depression and despondency, which peoples
the solitudes with hideous Rakshasas, but leaves no place for sporting
nymphs or dancing fairies. Life in such woodlands is real forest-life,
not like Thoreau’s delightful playing at hermit in Walden, within a
couple of miles of Concord, and in sight of a railway.
Thus far the forests; but the sublime Alps of the Indian world, tallest
and most majestic of mountains, have not been without influence upon
the feelings of the Indian poets, elevating them to lofty heights
of contemplation. And when we read what the few travellers who have
penetrated those regions have to tell us of the ineffable grandeur and
sublimity of the lone mountains, the glittering ice-fields, and the
untrodden snows of the interior, when we consider the solemn silence of
those uninhabited solitudes, we cannot wonder that the Indian poets who
had heard of them, and perhaps visited their rocky fastnesses, made of
them a land of mystery and the sporting place of their gods and Apsaras.
Not only from the woods of _Dandhaka_ and the vales and crests of
mighty _Himavat_ did the epic poets of India gather inspiration; but
also from the noble and lovely rivers of their fair land, winding
beneficently through many hundreds of miles of fertile country, from
their birth-places above the clouds to the bosom of the all-embracing
ocean, while determining in their course the march of migration and
conquest.
Mountains, forests and rivers, all of colossal proportions, have served
to impress a grandiose if bewildering character upon the great Epics
of India, which the reader, even of this volume, can hardly fail to
observe.
Religion, being the dominant note of these voluminous poems, claims
our first consideration. In this connection I would draw attention
to the fact that India is very far from that stage of intellectual
development in which literature, science, art and politics become
secularized. In Europe secularization has taken place gradually
under the influence of the spirit of rationalism, as Mr. Lecky has
so admirably explained. In India a beginning has been made in the
secularization of knowledge. It is yet only a _mere beginning_,
which owes its origin to the influence of English education; but the
effects being confined to a _very small class indeed_, it may still
be said with truth that all departments of knowledge which form the
intellectual heritage of the Indian people--even law, poetry and the
drama--fall within the domain of theology. And, certainly, there is no
indigenous science amongst the Hindus which is not subject to priestly
influence and interpretation.
Throughout the Epics we find the supernatural beings, who influence
the destinies of mankind, arrayed in two distinctly hostile camps. On
one side are the gods with the Gandharvas and Apsaras. On the other
side the Asuras, including Daityas and Danavas, Rakshasas and Picáchas.
The contest lies, be it noted, between the lesser gods and the Asuras
with their allies. The superior gods interpose from time to time in
the interests of the celestials; but behind and above the turmoil
of existence the shadowy form of inexorable _destiny_ reveals its
overwhelming presence.
The part of man in the perpetual strife carried on between the two
orders of superhuman beings is neither an ignoble nor a passive one.
Man is not, as in most other religions, either the abject and unworthy
recipient of gracious favours from the gods, or the unhappy victim
of the malice of devils and demons. His position in the universe, as
conceived by the authors of the Indian Epics, reflecting, no doubt,
the prevailing ideas of their time, was a far higher one. Man is no
nonentity in the struggle between the good and the evil forces of
nature, but is rather a very important factor; for it is his especial
duty to piously assist and _nourish_ the celestials by perpetual
sacrifices, so that they on their part might have the strength to
perform their respective duties in the government of the universe,
and insure the repression of the forces of evil. Neither is man a
merely useful but servile auxiliary of the celestials; since he may by
austerities, sacrifices, and ceremonies, earn and acquire rights and
power for himself, and use his accumulated store of energy at his own
will and for his own purposes.
Now it is a noteworthy fact that this high ideal of man’s dignity in
the scale of beings has led in India to a degradation of the gods.
It would seem as if you could not raise man without pulling down the
deity; as if you could not exalt the human race without abasing the
celestials. Hence we see the irreverent familiarity with which the
highest gods, even Mahadeva, is personated by the Hindus in religious
processions, or even on the occasion of the wild saturnalia of the
_Holi_ festival, when a man painted white with a wig of long yellow
hair on his head, a string of huge beads about his neck, and a trident
in his hand--_the Supreme Deity personified_--is borne aloft amidst
a crowd of excited men who are indulging in the grossest license of
obscene speech and gesture.
In regard to a life beyond the grave the writers of the Epics hold
very decided opinions, a fact of great interest, if we remember that
the Jews acquired their ideas about existence after death and of good
and evil spirits for the first time in their Babylonian captivity, and
passed them on as a heritage to Christianity; the conceptions of our
great Christian poet, Milton, being strongly coloured by ideas which,
undoubtedly, had their roots in Persian _Mazdeism_.
The heavens of the Hindu gods are essentially material and sensuous,
with their palaces and gardens, music and dancing, their lively
Gandharvas and frail Apsaras. Yet the goddesses play a very subordinate
part, indeed, in India’s heroic age. We find in the Epics no powerful
Hera, no wise Pallas Athene, no lovely Venus, no silver-footed
Thetis--bright creations which lend such a charm to the myths of
Hellas. Ganga, it is true, acts a minor and appointed part in the great
drama, and Parbati is mentioned, while Durga and Kali only flit across
the stage. But it is quite evident that in the Olympus of the Aryan
Indians the goddesses had not attained the power and dignity they enjoy
to-day. The frequent boasts in the Epics against the celestials with
Indra at their head, the way in which every chief or leader, even of
the Venars, is said to be a match for Indra’s self, seem to indicate
an unmistakable, if covert, hostility to the old gods of the Aryan
invaders, which is well worthy of notice, as indicating a transition
period in the religious development of the Hindus, a period of doubt
and confusion, which is emphasized by the fulsome flattery addressed to
anyone of whom a favour is desired, be he man or god. He is the _best_
of men, the greatest of kings; equal to gods, he is a god; he is Indra;
he is Yama; he is Prajapati; he is superior to all the gods; he is the
ruler of the three worlds; he is, in fact, anything and all things to
the uncertain suppliant who craves his help. And in these perplexities
we seem to have a share too; for under the influence of the pantheistic
notions of the writers, combined with their conceptions of endless
transmigrations and utter indifference to permanent shapes of any
kind, individuality seems lost (as when we find Krishna addressed
as the younger brother of Indra[130]), and a world of confused
phantasmagorial forms seems to dance before us, till we feel dizzy
contemplating this distracting and impermanent universe.
But amidst the ever-shifting pageant of existence the Hindu seems to
have arrived at and firmly grasped the idea of a periodic law which has
given a certain grandeur to his speculations about both the past and
the hereafter.
From the orderly sequence of natural phenomena, as in the succession of
day and night; in the measured march of the seasons of the revolving
year; in the periodic movements of the heavenly bodies; the Hindu
recognized an appointed, unvarying and endless cycle of changes.
Generalizing from these facts he concluded that this law must hold
for the entire Cosmos as well, which would pass through its grand
but destined cycle of changes, over and over again, in the æons of
eternity. He held these ideas in common with the Greek of old, and,
like the Greek of old, he never rose to the conception of progress,
development, evolution.[131]
How the Hindu thinker accounted, by his doctrine of _Karma_, for
the striking inequalities and apparent injustice inseparable from
mundane existence, the reader has learned in sufficient detail
already. As to the _moral_ responsibility of man for his actions,
the poets of the Epics had thought out the problem in its various
aspects and despairingly left it unsolved. For as Sanjaya, the envoy
of the Pandavas to their cousins, sadly says, in the true spirit of
agnosticism: “In this respect three opinions are entertained; some say
that everything is ordained by God;[132] some say that our acts are the
results of free will; and others say that our acts are the results of
those of our past lives.”[133]
The attribution of righteousness to the gods does not seem to be
insisted upon; for Krishna, as we have seen, is particularly prone to
guileful arts in order to compass his objects, like the Pallas Athene
of Homer, at whose suggestion Pandaros treacherously and unjustifiably
wounded Menelaus with an arrow.
In regard to the political condition of India in those earlier times we
may, I think, gather from the Epics that the petty rulers who shared
the land amongst themselves were very numerous--thousands,[134] indeed,
if the poet’s statements could be relied upon,--and we need not doubt
that it was the perpetual endeavour of the more able and ambitious
of these kings to get as many as possible of their fellow chiefs to
acknowledge their supremacy.
No one who studies the narratives attributed to Valmiki and Vyasa
will fail to catch glimpses of the simple sagas which formed the
ground-work of the great edifices raised by the Indian poets; but,
as I have observed in the Introductory Chapter, the value and extent
of what is usually considered historical matter to be traced in the
“Ramayana” and “Mahabharata” is so small and so doubtful that it fails
to command either my interest or my confidence. It may be due to
perversity of character, or to want of historical acumen on my part;
but when I am expected to believe that the progress of the _Bhojas_
and their allies eastward may be traced in the legend of Karna, given
in the “Mahabharata,” with which the reader of the foregoing pages is
familiar, I do not feel inclined to acquiesce. And when I am gravely
assured that the romantic story of Satyavati, the fisherman’s daughter,
her marriage with Santanu and her previous amour with the father of
Vyasa, _although absurd in Vyasa’s own poem_, becomes intelligible,--if
we will only put the individual fisherman out of court altogether,
_forget_ what the poet tells us about Satyavati, and _imagine_ that the
young lady in question was a personage of some importance in the family
of the _king of the fishing people_,--I feel such efforts towards
constructive history are somewhat beyond my abilities.[135]
While writers of one class strain after the hidden historical
elements in the “Ramayana” and “Mahabharata,” those of another class
(represented by both Europeans and Indians), ingeniously discover
in these narratives merely solar myths or moral allegories. It
were needless to enlarge upon this topic here, and I have already
given instances of such interpretations in the Note appended to the
“Ramayana” (p. 91) and in the summary of the “Bhagavatgita” (p. 217). I
would merely add that if it be the true function of history to reveal
to us living pictures of bygone times, to disclose to us the social
life of earlier days, and to make us acquainted with the thoughts,
ideals and aspirations of former generations, then the Indian Epics
are a solid contribution to historical literature even if they do not
happen to chronicle actual events.
The heroes of the Epics, being mostly demigods with a long previous
history, an appointed destiny, and subject, like mortal men, to pass
through many future existences in other forms, do not, I confess,
engage my sympathies very much. Even human beings upon this epic stage
lose their distinctive character and cease to interest us if we regard
them merely as souls masquerading, as it were, for a certain time in
particular forms assumed for the occasion, different from the many they
have worn in former states, and unlike those which they will wear in
future lives. Indeed the doctrine of metempsychosis, with its fluxional
succession of beings, human and divine, undermines the conceptions of
definite and permanent individuality so thoroughly that I do not wonder
that sober human history, with its limited stage and narrow chronology,
has had but little charm for the Hindus.
More remarkable than the heroes of Kurukshetra, however, are the Rishis
and Hermits, who stand out upon the canvas of the Epic poets with
startling distinctness. These sages, with their austerities, their
superhuman powers, their irascibility and their terrible curses, are
the Hindu representatives of the magicians and sorcerers of other
countries, and form a remarkable feature in the life of even modern
India. As a rule the saints of Christendom are of another type, yet,
strange to say, there are a few of them, St. Renan for example, to whom
have been attributed characteristics not unlike those of the Indian
Rishis.[136] Elsewhere a large share, perhaps the greater share, of
magical power has been credited to the fair sex; but the Hindu has,
characteristically, made no such concession to women, who never at any
time in India were granted the free and honoured position accorded them
amongst the Germans of Tacitus or the Norsemen of the Eddas, and never
enjoyed even the restricted liberty which Greek women were privileged
to exercise. Nevertheless, there is, undoubtedly, a substratum of
chivalrous feeling towards the weaker sex manifested throughout the
Epics, often in a distinct and pronounced manner.
As to the social life of the early heroic age, of which we get so many
interesting glimpses in the Epics, it is certain that it was extremely
simple and rude; as, for instance, to cite a single example, the
life of the Pandavas in their primitive “house of lac,” where their
mother ministered to them without the assistance of any servants at
all, although, be it remembered, the young princes were supposed to
be enjoying themselves away from home on a sort of holiday excursion.
There is, however, ample evidence to show that by the time the poems
were actually compiled or, at any rate, cast into their present forms,
a complicated society had been evolved, and a life of luxurious ease
and refinement was not unknown. Throughout the period embraced in the
Epics the caste-system was well established, animal food commonly
used,[137] and spirituous drinks not prohibited. Polygamy was common,
and polyandry a recognized institution, while the practice known as
_Niyoga_--of raising up offspring to deceased relatives or childless
men--was, undoubtedly, fully established.
Now _caste_, with its baleful influences, still dominates Hindu life;
polygamy continues to be common in some parts of India; polyandry is
still practised, here and there, in backward places; and _Niyoga_,
which has never ceased to be orthodox doctrine, has, in these days, had
special prominence given to it by Swami Dayanand, and the sect recently
founded by him. The practice in question--which is known in a modified
form as _levirate_[138] amongst the Jews--has been established in
India since time immemorial, and we have had important instances of it
in the foregoing pages.
What Manu, the great Indian _lawgiver_, says on the subject of _Niyoga_
is as follows: “On failure of issue by the husband, if he be of the
servile class, the desired offspring may be procreated, either by
his brother or some other _sapinda_, on the wife, who has been duly
authorized. Sprinkled with clarified butter, silent, in the night, let
the kinsman thus appointed beget one son, but a second by no means, on
the widow or _childless wife_. By men of twice-born classes no widow or
childless wife must be authorized to conceive by any other man than her
lord.”[139]
Swami Dayanand, however, does not limit the practice of _Niyoga_ to
the inferior castes, nor to the cases referred to by Manu. The modern
_reformer_ goes much further, teaching a doctrine, _said to be founded
on the Vedas_, which allows a latitude in respect to the relations
between the sexes that, to say the least, is extremely startling in
this nineteenth century.[140] I am bound to add that I have been
very positively assured that Swami Dayanand’s precepts in respect
to _Niyoga_ are not actually practised by his followers, but their
dangerous tendency is, I presume, undeniable.
From the earliest ages known to the writers of the “Ramayana” and
“Mahabharata” cremation of the dead has been the practice in India.
Hence in Indian archæology we are deprived of those sources of
information--graves, tumuli, cromlechs and sepulchres--which elsewhere,
as in Egypt, have furnished such a wealth of facts regarding the
earlier races of mankind.
The sacred character of the Brahmans receives abundant recognition
in the Epics; and it is noteworthy that, except in the relinquishment
of animal food and vinous drinks by a great majority of the Hindus,
little change has taken place in the social habits of the people since
the heroic age depicted in the Epics. We need not doubt, however, that
the abstention from animal food and, with it, from wine and spirits of
all kinds has, in the course of many generations, profoundly modified
the national character; and has, perhaps, more than anything else,
gradually converted the turbulent, aggressive Aryan into the mild and
contemplative Hindu.[141]
A high degree of culture had doubtless been attained by the Indians
before the Epics were cast into their present forms. The industrial
arts would seem to have flourished, and we have seen how highly the
poets appreciated and enjoyed the beauty of the woodlands, and how much
they were impressed with the scenery of their grand mountains. This in
itself is a remarkable fact, as the charms of landscape beauty do not
seem to have been realized in the West until a somewhat later time.
The ideal of human (particularly female) beauty which possessed the
minds of the Hindu bards has been indicated by several allusions and
quotations in the preceding chapters. It is certainly not that embodied
in the Venus of Melos or the Apollo Belvedere; but every age and
country has its own ideals.
Throughout the foregoing brief narrative there has been ample evidence
of the height to which the speculative imagination of the Hindus had
carried them in endeavouring to read the riddle of human destiny, and
notably so in the subtle pantheism of the “Bhagavatgita,” a work which,
even if the date assigned to it by European scholars be accepted, and
with that its authors’ supposed acquaintance with Christian ideas,
must still excite our admiration by its largeness of conception and
liberality of sentiments--expressed many centuries before Luther nailed
his famous ninety-five theses upon the door of the church at Wittenberg.
The imaginative faculty never fails the bards of the Indian
Epics, who too often indulge in a very delirium of exaggeration.
Yet, notwithstanding their supreme contempt for probabilities or
consistency, and their lofty scorn of numerical limitations, it cannot
be denied that these Hindu poets, with their lawless imaginations,
take us completely captive and carry us along with them, surprised and
delighted, through the wonderful scenes of their creation; while one
cannot but feel in their company that the intellectual atmosphere which
surrounds them is a stronger one and more spiritual than that which was
breathed by the Greeks of Homer or the Teutons of the Eddas.
On the whole, it may be said that the Indian Epics as they have
reached us, reveal to the careful student an ancient free and vigorous
primitive social life and turbulent times, overlaid by a later and
less healthy, if more refined civilization, which was permeated with
ecclesiasticism; and that they exhibit a strange mixture of what Mr.
Herbert Spencer would call the “ethics of enmity” and the “ethics
of amity.” The later stage of Indian history--the age of Brahmanism
succeeding the heroic age and continuing to the present day--may, I
think, be well compared with the Middle Ages in Europe, when priestly
influence was predominant and national life at a low ebb. Europe,
under the influence of the spirit of industrialism and modern science,
has emancipated itself from the numbing influences of the Dark Ages.
When will India do the same? For how many more centuries is she
destined to wrangle over unprofitable theological questions, as did the
Byzantine Greeks while the conqueror was thundering at their gates?
My pleasant undertaking has occupied more time than I had anticipated
when I took it in hand; but I leave it now with a profound appreciation
of the capabilities of a people who have produced such works as the
“Ramayana” and “Mahabharata.”
In every age--even in an industrial age of busy scientific progress
and mechanical triumphs like our own--the human mind turns with fond
interest to any picture which shows how men in the fore-time lived
and thought, and it listens eagerly to any song which echoes through
the vanished years the fervent hopes and lofty aspirations of buried
generations. Therefore, I trust that my little work, though it be but
a sketch of a great picture and the echo of a grand old song, may
find favour with the public, and help to open up to English readers
a strange but interesting world of Eastern ideas and conceptions.
Above all, however, I hope that my pages represent--as I believe they
do--both fairly and adequately the great Epics of India.
CHISWICK PRESS:--CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] “No other work in India at the present day possesses the attraction
which these epics have for the majority of the people.”--_Life in an
Indian Village_, by T. Rama Krishna, B.A. (T. Fisher Unwin, 1891).
[2] Professor Max Müller’s Hibbert Lectures, 1878, p. 50.
[3] Prisoners of war of all ranks were sacrificed in numbers.
[4] Du Chaillu’s “The Viking Age,” vol i., chapter xx., _et seq._
[5] “A Brief History of the Indian People,” by Sir William Wilson
Hunter, K.C.S.I. (Trübner and Co.).
[6] The world has recently been informed by Dr. Brinton that the theory
attributed to Dr. Latham was really first advanced by Omalius D’Halloy
in the “Bulletins de l’Academie Royale de Belgique” in May, 1848
(“Nature,” July 21st, 1892).
[7] As is maintained by Dr. Hermann Braunehoffer, “Journal of Royal
Asiatic Society,” 1890, pp. 687-689.
[8] “The Origin of the Aryans,” by Isaac Taylor, M.A., LL.D. (Walter
Scott); “Prehistoric Antiquities of the Aryan Peoples,” by Dr. O.
Schrader, translated by F. B. Jevons, M.A. (Charles Griffin and Co.).
[9] The preparations for a recital of this kind in a village in the
Madras Presidency are thus described. “People came pouring in from
Kelambakam and from neighbouring villages to the house of the village
headman. On the _pial_ of his house was seated the preacher. Before him
was placed the picture of Krishna playing the flute and leaning on a
cow. The picture was profusely decorated with flowers. There were also
two small vessels. In one there were camphor and some burning incense,
in the other were flowers and fruits. The people swarmed about like
bees.”--_Life in an Indian Village_, by T. Rama Krishna, B.A., p. 144.
[10] “The Ethnography of Afghanistan,” by Dr. H. W. Bellew, C.S.I., in
the “Asiatic Quarterly Review,” October, 1891.
[11] “The Rámáyan of Válmikí,” translated into English verse by Ralph
T. H. Griffith, M.A., Principal of the Benares College (London, Trübner
and Co.).
[12] Of Yoga and Yogaism I have given a brief account in a previous
work, “Indian Life, Religious and Social,” pp. 11-47 (London, Fisher
Unwin).
[13] “The Ramayana,” translated into English prose from the original
Sanskrit of Valmiki by Manmatha Nath Dutt, M.A. (Deva Press, Calcutta).
If not otherwise stated, all prose quotations from the “Ramayana”
included in the following pages are derived from this work.
[14] “The ruins of the ancient capital of Kama and the children of the
Sun may still be traced in the present Ajudhya near Fyzabad. Ajudhya is
the Jerusalem or Mecca of the Hindus.”--Note, vol. i., p. 35, of Mr.
Griffith’s translation of the “Ramayana” (Trübner and Co., London).
[15] What a terrible thing it is for a Hindu to be childless can be
understood, and then only partially, by bearing in mind that, without a
son to perform the complex funeral rights and ceremonies for a deceased
father, the dead man’s soul must undergo ages of trouble in the next
world.
[16] According to Hindu belief the gods and the spirits of departed
ancestors are actually nourished and sustained by the aroma of the
burnt-offerings made by pious persons. Hence the vital importance of
these sacrifices, upon which the very safety and continuance of the
Universe depend.
[17] This incident introduces us to an important Hindu idea, that the
_exact_ performance of certain prescribed rites and sacrifices leads to
the attainment of definite objects, as, for example, purification from
a particular sin, the destruction of a hated enemy or the discovery
of a friend. The gods themselves performed sacrifices, and Indra is
commonly addressed as “the performer of a hundred sacrifices.”
[18] The Indian ideas respecting austerities are very peculiar, and as
they pervade their religion and literature are specially noteworthy.
“According to the Hindu theory the performance of penances was like
making deposits in the bank of heaven. By degrees an enormous credit
was accumulated, which enabled the depositor to draw to the amount of
his savings, without fear of his draughts being refused payment. The
power gained in this manner by weak mortals was so enormous, that gods
as well as men were equally at the mercy of these all but omnipotent
ascetics; and it is remarkable, that even the gods are described as
engaging in penance and austerities, in order, it may be presumed, not
to be outdone by human beings. Siva was so engaged when the god of
love shot an arrow at him.”--Note to page 4 of Professor Sir Monier
Williams’s “Indian Epic Poetry.” In the course of the following pages
of this book we shall meet with ascetics very often and become familiar
with their doings.
[19] The belief in divine incarnations, for the benefit or salvation of
the world, is a common and familiar one in the Hindu religion.
[20] The modern Gogra.
[21] Protection against _fever_ would be specially desirable in a
country covered with forest and jungle, as the India of the “Ramayana”
evidently was.
[22] The power of assuming a multiplicity of forms at will, and of
passing from a huge to a minute size, or the reverse, to suit the
exigencies of the moment is enjoyed by a great number of personages in
the Hindu epics.
[23] We shall in the course of the development of this story have
frequent opportunities of learning the awful and irrevocable character
of curses uttered by Brahmans and others, rejoicing in the possession
of stores of power acquired by the practice of austerities.
[24] _Vide_ M. N. Dutt’s “Ramayana,” p. 75.
[25] “The remains of the capital founded by Janaka and thence termed
Janakapur are still to be seen, according to Buchanan, on the northern
frontier at the Janeckpoor of the maps.”--Note to Professor H. H.
Wilson’s translation of the “Uttara Rama Charitra.”
[26] I have had the good fortune to be present at a marriage ceremony,
carried out professedly in accordance with Vedic rites, which closely
resembled the wedding of Rama and his brothers, as described by Valmiki.
[27] In this description of Rama and in other places I have borrowed
the epithets I find in Dutt’s translation of the “Ramayana,” in order
to preserve something of the peculiar character of the original.
[28] Here is a pretty picture for an artist, Hindu or other.
[29] Dasahratha himself attributed these misfortunes to his having when
a youth unwittingly killed, with a chance arrow, a young hermit in the
forest. The boy’s father, himself a hermit, cursed Dasahratha, and the
effects of the malediction were apparent in the troubles attending the
king’s declining years.
[30] This significant passage from the “Ramayana” ought to clear
away the doubts that may linger in anyone’s mind regarding the fact
that animal food was commonly eaten in ancient India, since animal
sacrifices are constantly referred to. Of course there is abundant
positive evidence on the subject as in the preceding page.
[31] Near Salem in Southern India are “some chalk hills supposed by the
natives to be formed of the bones of the mythical bird Jatayus, killed
by Ravana when carrying off Sita.”--+PROFESSOR SIR MONIER WILLIAMS’S+
“Modern India,” p. 165.
[32] Mr. Griffith’s “Ramayana,” vol. iii., p. 324.
[33] As respects the Vanars it has to be noted that while implying that
they were _monkeys_ and nothing more, the poet has, for the most part,
represented them--if we may judge by their sentiments and actions--as
beings of a very superior order.
[34] This car from the hand of Visvakarma recalls the famous embossed
shield of Achilles, the masterpiece of Vulcan’s art, made of brass,
tin, gold and silver, and divided into twelve compartments, each
representing a distinct and complicated scene (for example, a wedding
procession or a battle) wrought with marvellous skill.
[35] There can be no doubt whatever that the seclusion of women was
the common practice in ancient India. Wherever polygamy exists the
seclusion of women is a necessity, and that polygamy did exist in the
India of the “Ramayana” is abundantly evident from what we are told
concerning the courts of Dasahratha, Sugriva and Ravana. The Greeks
kept their women a good deal in the background; but Helen’s position in
the court of her husband Menelaus, or Penelope’s in that of Ulysses,
was far more free than the position of any queen mentioned in the
“Ramayana.”
[36] The lover of English poetry will recall to mind the similar
description of sleeping beauties in the sixth canto of “Don Juan,”
stanzas lxiv.-lxix.
[37] The contrast between the fair Vaidehi and her ruthless persecutors
in the enchanting ashoka grove might make a striking subject for the
canvas of an able artist. Indeed, there is in the “Ramayana” no lack of
suggestive and satisfactory _motifs_ for the chisel and the brush. It
is, indeed, a mine not yet wrought.
[38] Whoever has not forgotten his Virgil will probably be reminded of
the famous storm in the “Æneid” and of Neptune’s serene and majestic
appearance above the troubled waters of the sea.
[39] Some hundred thousand billions (see note to Griffith’s “Ramayana,”
vol. v., p. 88).
[40] _Camped_; but not like a modern army under canvas. The Vanars, I
trow, needed no commissariat department, living as they did on fruits
and roots. And the sons of Raghu were nearly as well used to woodland
fare and lodging as their simian allies.
[41] “The chariots of Ravana’s present army are said to have been
one hundred and fifty million in number, with three hundred million
elephants and twelve hundred million horses and asses. The footmen are
merely said to have been unnumbered.”--Note to Griffith’s “Ramayana,”
book vi., canto xcvi.
[42] At this point the great epic of Valmiki properly ends; but a
supplementary work, also popularly attributed to Valmiki, exists which
affords further details of the lives of the principal personages of
the poem. Upon the particulars supplied in this work the succeeding
paragraphs are based.
[43] Professor E. B. Cowell (“Academy,” No. 43). In Bhavabhuti’s drama,
entitled “Uttara Rama Charitra,” the _dénouement_ is different. Sita’s
purity is attested by the goddess Ganga (the Ganges) and by Prithivi
(the earth). The people bow in respectful homage to her. Rama welcomes
her back, and with her two sons, Kusa and Lava, they pass many happy
years together.
[44] Muir, “Sanskrit Texts,” part iv., appendix.
[45] The “Ramayana” of Tulsi Das, which differs in some respects from
the original poem of Valmiki, has been translated into English by Mr.
F. J. Growse of the Bengal Civil Service.
[46] Ravana is described as having ten heads; but the effigy I saw had
several faces, I do not think so many as ten, with the head of an ass
surmounting all.
[47] Properly the figure should have had twenty _arms_.
[48] Bishop Heber was told that, in the _good old times_, the poor
children were always “poisoned in the sweetmeats given to them the last
day of the show, that it might be said their spirits were absorbed into
the deities whom they had represented.”--+HEBER’S+ “Narrative of a
Journey through the Upper Provinces of India” (1824-25), p. 191.
[49] _Vide_ “On the Ramayana,” by Dr. Albrecht Weber (Trübner and Co.,
1863).
[50] “Indian Epic Poetry,” p. 3 (Williams and Norgate, London, 1863).
[51] “Early History of Northern India,” by J. F. Hewitt, “Journal of
the Royal Asiatic Society,” 1890, p. 744.
[52] “Nouvelle Géographie Universelle,” par Elisée Reclus, tome viii.,
p. 873, _et seq._ Keane’s “Asia,” pp. 678-680.
[53] It is, I think, impossible, after reading the tedious genealogies
of the kings in the “Mahabharata,” to avoid the conclusion that there
is a substratum of history beneath it all, notwithstanding the clouds
of mythological dust which obscure the view.
[54] The “Mahabharata” of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, translated into
English prose, by Pratap Chundur Roy (Calcutta, Bharata Press). If not
otherwise stated, all prose quotations from the “Mahabharata” included
in the following pages are derived from this work.
[55] “Every race has in its history one grand achievement on which
it hangs all its past and all its future: and the memory of which
is a rallying cry and a pledge of prosperity. The Exodus, the Jews
would say; the overthrow of the Medes, would the Persians; the Median
wars, the Greeks in their turn say. These will be recalled on all
occasions to furnish arguments, political claims, rhetorical effects,
patriotic encouragement in great crises, and in the end imperishable
regrets.”--_Essai sur l’histoire universelle_, par M. Prévost-Paradol,
tome premier, p. 166.
[56] “Adi Parva,” of the “Mahabharata,” section xcvi. A somewhat
different story is told in section xcix.
[57] The battle, as described by the poet, is of little interest; but
Bhisma’s challenge to the assembled kings is worthy of reproduction,
as throwing light upon the marriage customs of the olden time in
India. “In a voice like the roar of the clouds he exclaimed: ‘The
wise have directed that after inviting an accomplished person a
maiden may be bestowed on him, decked in ornaments and along with
many valuable presents. Others again may bestow their daughters by
accepting of a couple of kine, some again bestow their daughters by
taking a fixed sum, and some take away maidens by force. Some wed with
the consent of the maidens, some by drugging them into consent, and
some by going unto the maidens’ parents and obtaining their sanction.
Some again obtain wives as presents for assisting at sacrifices. Of
these the learned always applaud the eighth form of marriage. Kings,
however, speak highly of the swayamvara (the fifth form as above) and
themselves wed according to it. But the sages have said that that wife
is dearly to be prized who is taken away by force, after slaughter of
opponents, from amid the concourse of princes and kings invited to a
swayamvara. Therefore, ye monarchs, I bear away these maidens from
hence by force. Strive ye to the best of your might to vanquish me or
be vanquished.’”--P. C. Roy’s translation of the “Adi Parva” of the
“Mahabharata,” p. 307.
[58] The custom referred to in this paragraph and known as _niyoga_, is
considered briefly in the concluding chapter.
[59] P. C. Roy’s “Adi Parva,” p. 325. This story throws considerable
light on the ideas of the Hindus with respect to their gods.
[60] Vyasa, as we have seen, was no blood relation of the house of
Bharata. Similarly, the widows of King Vichitra-virya and the Sudra
slave-girl were not connected to the family by ties of consanguinity;
and _yet the children of Vyasa by these women_ are, from the Hindu
point of view, lineal descendants of King Shantanu.
[61] This parentage is rather bewildering after what we have learned
already about Vidura being no other than Dharma in human form.
[62] This is an instance of _suttee_ in ancient India worth noting.
[63] The modern Allahabad and, at that time, probably a frontier town
of the Aryan invaders.
[64] “The traditional site of this event is in the Allahabad district,
on the left bank of the Ganges, three miles south of Handia Taksil. The
village of Lachagarh (Laksha = lac) is said to take its name from this
event. It stands on the bank of the river, which is never cut away by
the stream. This is said to be due to the melted lac which keeps the
earth together. People come to bathe on the Somwati Amawas when the
new moon falls on a Monday. Jhusi or Pratishtapur, the capital of the
Chandraransi Rajah is twenty-four miles from there.”--_North Indian
Notes and Queries_, August, 1894, p. 89.
[65] I don’t think it is at all unlikely that cannibalism prevailed
in India at this early period, as it does in Africa to-day, and these
stories are only the Hindu bard’s exaggerated way of recording the fact.
[66] Karna had been brought up in the family of a Suta or charioteer
and was reckoned as belonging to that caste.
[67] From this story of Draupadi it seems evident that polyandry was
practised at least in parts of ancient India; as, indeed, it is to this
day, in portions of the Himalayan region. That it was not very uncommon
in the old-time we may gather from a remark, attributed to Karna,
in reference to Draupadi herself--“women always like to have many
husbands” (“Adi Parva” of the “Mahabharata,” section cciv.).
[68] “Again the site of Indraprasta is far more distinctly indicated
than the site of Hastinapur. The pilgrim who wends his way from the
modern city to Delhi to pay a visit to the strange relics of the
ancient world, which surround the mysterious Kutub, will find on
either side of his road a number of desolate heaps of the débris of
thousands of years, the remains of successive capitals which date back
to the very dawn of history, and local tradition still points to these
sepulchres of departed ages as the sole remains of the Raj of the sons
of Pandu and their once famous city of Indraprasta.”--+WHEELER’S+
“History of India,” vol. i., p. 142.
[69] Such is the Hindu poet’s conception of the court of Yama, the
god of departed spirits, a delightful place where there is no lack of
sensuous pleasures. He places amongst the attendants in this court
“all sinners amongst human beings;” but as, according to Brahmanical
theology, there is punishment for the wicked, we may presume that the
sinners referred to are only temporary sojourners in this pleasant
abode, awaiting their trial and the judgment of Yama upon their deeds.
[70] Pratibhindhya, Sutasoma, Sutakarna, Shotanika, and Srutasena.
[71] It would appear that only one of the armies--that which proceeded
northward--went outside the limits of India, to the countries
immediately beyond the Himalayas. India, with the region just referred
to, was, for the poets of the “Mahabharata,” the _whole world_. On this
point see Dr. Rajendra Lalla Mitra’s “Indo-Aryans,” vol. ii., pp. 9-12.
[72] This statement, which is so consistent with what is known in
respect to genuine historical events in India, throws a strong
side-light upon the utter inability of the Indian kings from times
immemorial to unite for purposes of defence, their ready acceptance of
defeat, and their willing allegiance to the conqueror.
[73] The whole story, though so bewilderingly strange, is yet so
characteristically Hindu in its conception and motive, that I could not
exclude it even from this brief sketch. Nor could I venture to present
it in words other than those of an orthodox Hindu translator.
[74] Throughout these epics, questions of right and wrong, policy and
impolicy are discussed with rare acumen.
[75] A little later Arjuna, addressing Krishna, says: “O slayer of
all foes, having floated on the primordial waters, thou subsequently
becamest Hari, and Brahma, and Surya, and Dharma, and Dhatri, and Yama,
and Anala, and Vayu, and Vaisravana, and Rudra, and Kala, and the
firmament, the earth, and the ten directions! Thyself incarnate, thou
art the lord of the mobile and immobile universe, the creator of all, O
thou foremost of all existences.” It would appear that each deity who
is invoked is credited by his adorer with being the origin and support
of the entire universe, the beginning and the end of all things.
[76] In a subsequent page, however, we find the following. “Tell us
now, O Brahman, what was the food of the sons of Pandu while they
lived in the woods? Was it of the wilderness or was it the produce of
cultivation?” Vaisampayana said “Those bulls among men collecting the
produce of the wilderness, and killing the deer with pure arrows, first
dedicated a portion of the food to the Brahmans and themselves ate the
rest.” (Section L.)
[77] This is an interesting and noteworthy instance of idolatry
attributed to one of the ancient Aryan heroes by the Brahman authors of
the “Mahabharata.”
[78] “_Apsaras_--The Apsaras are the celebrated nymphs of Indra’s
heaven.... It is said that when they came forth from the waters (at
the churning of the ocean) neither the gods nor the Asuras would have
them for wives, so they become common to all.... The Apsaras, then, are
fairy-like beings, beautiful and voluptuous. Their amours on earth have
been numerous, and they are the rewards in Indra’s paradise held out to
heroes who fall in battle.”--+PROF. DAWSON’S+ “Classical Dictionary of
Hindu Mythology,” etc.
[79] This is only a single instance of the perpetual and undying
hostility between the celestials on the one hand and the demons on the
other.
[80] Markandeya’s description of the dissolution and recreation of
the world has undoubtedly a certain grandiose character about it,
but betrays the extremely limited geographical knowledge of these
omniscient sages, whose acquaintance with the earth’s surface is
strictly bounded by the Himalayas and the Southern Sea.
[81] _A smiling fish_ is, at least, an original idea. In another
place we find the following in regard to a very ancient tortoise.
“And as he came there we asked him, saying: ‘Dost thou know this King
Indra-dyumna?’ And the tortoise reflected for a moment. And his eyes
filled with tears, and his heart was much moved, and he trembled all
over and was nearly deprived of his senses. And he said with joined
hands, ‘Alas, do I not know that one?’”--_Vana Parva_, p. 604.--P. C.
Roy.
[82] This Hindu legend of the destruction of the world by water affords
materials for a comparison with the Mosaic account of the same event,
and the Chaldean story of the deluge, as recorded on the tablets which
have been deciphered by the late George Smith.
[83] There are, according to the “Mahabharata,” so many easy modes
of obtaining a complete release from the penalties of sin, and of
attaining heaven, that it would seem that only the most culpable
negligence and obstinacy could lead the Hindu to lose his chance of
being purged from sin and of enjoying beatitude hereafter. It must
be remembered, however, that there are also passages, in which it is
emphatically laid down, that _purity of heart_ is an essential and
indispensable condition of salvation.--_Vana Parva_, section cc.
[84] This appeal to _tradition_ from a sage who had actually witnessed
the destruction and recreation of the entire universe is rather strange.
[85] With important differences and limitations the modern doctrine
of _heredity_ may be regarded as the scientific analogue of the Hindu
doctrine of _Karma_. One, however, is based on indisputable facts,
the other on pure fancy. But whatever their merits or shortcomings,
whatever the bases of truth or reasonableness on which they rest,
neither the one doctrine nor the other can, unfortunately, afford a
rational mind any _consolation_ for the ills and apparent injustice of
the present life; and, assuredly, neither the one nor the other can
supply any stimulus towards the performance of good actions. A small
class of persons in Europe seem to have become profoundly enamoured of
the subtle ideas which underlie the doctrine of _Karma_; but he must
be strangely constituted whose sense of justice can be satisfied, or
who can derive any _comfort_ in his present struggle against the evils
of life, from the thought that he is suffering the consequences of
deeds done by his soul in previous and _unremembered_ existences, or
can be induced to make for righteousness by the reflection that, after
his physical death, the happiness of some other being, possibly a cat,
into which his soul transmigrates, will be influenced by his deeds in
the present life. But, at the same time, it may be admitted that the
doctrine of _Karma_ may certainly, in the case of some races, conduce
towards a helpless and hopeless resignation, counterfeiting contentment.
[86] From “Ballads and Legends of Hindustan,” by Miss Toru Dutt, the
gifted Bengali girl, whose premature death in 1877, at the early age of
twenty-one years, caused a sad loss to India.
[87] Here we have a glimpse of the simple life of those primitive times.
[88] A few of the questions put and answers given on this occasion may
afford some insight into Indian modes of thought.
Q. What is it that maketh the sun rise? Who keep him company? Who
causeth him to set? In whom is he established?
A. Brahma maketh the sun rise: the gods keep him company: Dharma
causeth him to set: and he is established in truth.
Q. What is that which doth not close its eyes while asleep? What is
that which doth not move after birth? What is that without a heart? And
what is that which swells with its own impetus?
A. A fish doth not close its eyes while asleep: an egg doth not move
after birth: a stone is without a heart: a river swelleth with its own
impetus.
Q. What constitutes _the_ way? What hath been spoken of as water? What
as food? And what as poison?
A. They that are good constitute _the_ way: space has been spoken of as
water: the cow is food: a request is poison.
[To this answer the translator, Babu P. C. Roy, appends the following
notes among others. “The crutis speak of the cow as the only food, in
the following sense. The cow gives milk. The milk gives butter. The
butter is used in _Homa_. The Homa is the cause of the clouds. The
clouds give rain. The rain makes the seeds to sprout forth and produce
food. Nilakantha endeavours to explain this in a spiritual sense. There
is, however, no need of such explanation here.”]
[89] This sudden and rather unartistic introduction of the goddess
Kali, unmentioned before, looks very much like a clumsy addition to the
epic made at a comparatively modern date in the interests of the later
developments of Hinduism.
[90] The cook in the council chamber! This is a sample of the primitive
ideas which underlie the epic.
[91] “Mahabharata Udyoga Parva,” section clx.
[92] “The plain of Kurukshetra,” says Mr. Talboys Wheeler, “is
generally identified with the field of Panipat, which lies to the
northwest of the modern city of Delhi. This plain is famous in modern
history as being the site of two of the greatest and most decisive
battles that have been fought in modern times. It was here that Baber,
in +A.D.+ 1525, overthrew the Afghan rulers at Delhi and established
the dynasty of the Moguls, and it was here in 1761 that Ahmad Shah
Abdali, the Sovereign of Cabul, inflicted such a crushing blow upon
the Mahrattas as indirectly cleared the way for the establishment
of British supremacy.”--Note to Wheeler’s “History of India,” vol.
i., p. 272. The identification of Panipat with Kurukshetra in the
above passage is incorrect, and probably led to the disappointment
experienced by Sir Edwin Arnold when he visited Panipat and found
that the inhabitants of the place were ignorant of the history of
Kurukshetra and its precise position (see his “India Revisited,”
p. 193). It is near _Thanesar_ and not Panipat that the Brahmans
find _Kurukshetra_, and the various incidents of the old story are
associated with many spots in that locality. In Chapter III., entitled
“The Sacred Land,” I have given some account of the modern aspects of
Kurukshetra.
[93] These are large numbers indeed, but the poet does not limit
himself to them, and in one of his flights of imagination speaks of a
hundred millions of warriors having been slain in ten days by a single
hero (“Bhisma Parva,” section xiv.). In another moment of inspiration
he places “a hundred millions and twenty thousand” cars in a certain
strategical position on the field (“Bhisma Parva,” section l.). There
is, in the “Mahabharata” generally, an affectation of precision in
regard to numbers, as when the narrator informs us that such a one was
hit with _three_ arrows, another with _four_, and a third with _seven_;
but there is no attempt to preserve consistency, and, whenever the
bard is so disposed, he revels without scruple in the biggest figures
imaginable.
[94] Here is a reference to the images of gods and goddesses existing
at the period of the great war, which is both important and suggestive.
They are also referred to again in section cxiii. of the “Bhisma Parva.”
[95] Bhisma’s standard was a gold palmyra palm; Drona’s a golden altar;
Duryodhana’s an elephant wrought in gems; Arjuna carried on his car a
banner whereon was seated a gigantic ape. Each chief of note had his
own distinguishing standard or banner.
[96] This famous dialogue is too long to be dealt with in this place
and too important to be passed over altogether; so I have appended a
note on the subject, to which the reader’s attention is invited.
[97] This allusion to the Mlecchas and Aryas fighting side by side is
interesting and noteworthy. Later on, we shall have occasion to note
the presence of Rakshasas also in either army.
[98] Millions upon millions. _Vide_ section cxv. of the “Bhisma Parva.”
[99] “Then with a thousand arrows well shot, Pandu’s son Arjuna, famed
for his skill in battle, shrouded Bhisma on all sides. That arrowy net,
however, of Partha, Bhisma the son of Cantanu, baffled with an arrowy
net (of his own).... And the successive flights of arrows shot from
Bhisma’s bow were seen to be dispersed by the shafts of Arjuna. And so
the flights of arrows shot by Arjuna, cut off by the arrows of Ganga’s
son, all fell down on the ground.”--_Bhisma Parva_, section lii.
[100] It is worthy of note that Rakshasas are present in both the
Kaurava and Pandava armies.
[101] “Mahabharata, Bhisma Parva,” section lxix. That the numbers are
intended to be precise will be apparent from the following passage
which is quoted merely as a sample:--“Then Bhisma, the grandsire of the
Kauravas, struck Arjuna with seventy-seven arrows, and Drona (struck
him) with five-and-twenty, and Kripa with fifty, and Duryodhana with
four-and-sixty, and Cala with nine arrows, and Drona’s son, that tiger
among men, with sixty, and Vikarna with three arrows, and Saindhana
with nine, and Cakuni with five. And Artayani pierced Pandu’s son with
three broad-headed arrows. And though pierced on all sides by them with
sharp arrows, that great bowman, that mighty-armed (warrior) wavered
not, like a mountain that is pierced with arrows.”--_Ibid._, section
lii.
[102] “Mahabharata, Bhisma Parva,” section xiv.
[103] “Mahabharata, Bhisma Parva,” section lxxxvii.
[104] Drona, being a Brahman, it would never have done for him to have
actually died by the sword of Dhrista-dyumna. Yet this prince was born
expressly to destroy Drona--hence this attempt to reconcile Brahman
sensitiveness and pretensions with the details of the old legend.
[105] This description of Duryodhana’s death scene is based upon the
version in Mr. Talboys Wheeler’s “History of India,” vol. i. pp.
351-352, which is derived from a translation of the epic in the library
of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, supposed to have been prepared by
Prof. H. H. Wilson.
[106] The “Mahabharata” quoted in “History of India,” by J. Talboys
Wheeler, vol. i., pp. 386-390.
[107] _Ibid._, p. 401.
[108] “A Pilgrimage to the Field of the Mahabharata,” by Madho Ram,
B.A., “Punjab Magazine,” June, 1890.
[109] It is worth noting that it was on the western side of the lake
that the Pandavas encamped, and Kauravas on the eastern side.
[110] “Archæological Survey of India Reports,” vol. xiv. (Punjab), by
General Cunningham, p. 90.
[111] With the decay of Thanesar there has been a marked falling off in
the number of pilgrims to the sacred places. “The sanitary arrangements
introduced by the British authorities to prevent the spread of disease
are said to be most unpopular and to deter large numbers of pilgrims
from attending.... It is said that, whereas in former days great men
used to march to Thanesar with small armies of followers and attendants
they now come by rail with a few servants to the nearest station and
return in the same way.”--_Gazetteer of the Ambala District_, pp.
73-74. On the other hand, the railways must bring to the shrines many
who could not have spared the time or the money to visit them under the
old conditions of travel.
[112] “A Pilgrimage to the Field of the Mahabharata,” by Madho Ram,
B.A., “Punjab Magazine,” June, 1890.
[113] _Vide_ Dr. Lorinser’s Essay on the subject in the “Indian
Antiquary,” vol. ii. and the reply thereto prefixed to the translation
of the “Bhagavatgita,” by Kashi Nath Trimbak Telang, M.A., LL.B.
[114] Arjuna had apparently forgotten that he had already encountered
and defeated these venerable elders of his in the interests of the King
of Panchala (p. 162).
[115] As in sacrifices the gods derived sustenance from the ethereal
portion of the burnt-offering, so, no doubt, the corporeal frame
(especially when cremated) supplied an ethereal one for the disembodied
soul, which was not yet entirely freed from the trammels of _matter_
though released from the bonds of its grosser forms.
[116] There is a most important reason in favour of the special
exception in regard to the performance of work in the case of
sacrifices, for, as Krishna explains: “From food are all creatures;
from rain is the production of food; rain is produced from sacrifice;
and sacrifice is the outcome of work.”
[117] Neither the joys of heaven nor the pains of hell could, in the
view of Hindu theologians, be _eternal_. When an embodied soul has,
by good actions, austerities, etc., acquired sufficient merit, it is
permitted to taste the joys of heaven for a length of time proportional
to its deserts. When these are exhausted it returns to be born again
on this earth. Similarly the embodied soul whose evil deeds deserve
punishment serves its time in hell and then returns to be re-born on
the earth. In either case there is _after re-birth_ no recollection of
previous existences or of former joys and sorrows. But, in heaven or in
hell, a recollection would be retained of the last state on earth, of
which, indeed, the celestial or infernal condition would be only a sort
of continuation.
[118] “Absence of vanity, absence of ostentation, abstention from
injury, forgiveness, uprightness, devotion to preceptor, purity,
constancy, self-restraint, indifference to objects of sense, absence
of egoism, perception of the misery and evil of birth, death,
decrepitude and disease, freedom from attachment, absence of sympathy
for son, wife, home, and the rest, and constant equanimity of heart
on attainment of good and evil, unswerving devotion to me without
meditation on anything else, frequenting of lonely places, distaste
for concourse of men, constancy in the knowledge of the relation
of the individual self to the supreme, perception of the object
of the knowledge of truth--all this is called knowledge, all that
which is contrary to this is ignorance. That which is the object of
knowledge I will (now) declare (to thee) knowing which, one obtaineth
immortality. (It is) the supreme Brahma, having no beginning, who is
said to be neither existent nor non-existent, etc., etc.”--Krishna, in
“Bhagavatgita.”
[119] Those who have a leaning towards esoterics and mysticism may
read “Discourse on the Bhagavatgita,” by T. Subba Row, B.A., B.L.,
F.T.S. (Bombay, 1888), from which they will learn, pp. 56-58, that
the Pandavas represent in reality the five elements which constitute
man or rather Humanity; that “the Kauravas are no other than the
evil propensities of man, his vices and their allies,” and that “the
philosophy of Krishna teaches Arjuna that he must conquer these,
however closely related to him they may be, before he can secure the
kingdom or the mastery over self.”
[120] “Republic,” book x., chapters 614-621.
[121] “The name as commonly used applies to Vishnu, and is that under
which he was first worshipped.”--+DOWSON’S+ “Classical Dictionary of
Hindu Mythology.”
[122] Of Mandara the poet says: “Upwards it riseth eleven thousand
_Yojanas_ and descendeth downwards as much.”
[123] The goddess of fortune.
[124] If these poems are really ancient, I think we need not have any
hesitation in concluding that the Zenana system was in force in India
in early times, and was not introduced, as many Hindus declare, after
the conquest of India by the Muhammadans. Possibly the _purdah_ was
made more strict after the Muslims established themselves south of the
Himalayas.
[125] This Kali is the Kali-yuga personified as the spirit of evil
(Dowson’s “Classical Dictionary of Hindu Mythology”).
[126] I desire to draw special attention to this interesting passage,
which, in its native simplicity, throws considerable light upon the
ideas and sentiments which lie at the root of the practice of the
worship of the unseen powers who are believed to govern the lives of
men.
[127] This shows clearly that widow re-marriage was allowed.
[128] “The History of Indian Literature,” by Dr. Albrecht Weber, pp.
185-188.
[129] “Tarikh-i-Badauni” of Abdul Kadir Badauni, Elliot’s “Muhammadan
Historians of India,” vol. v., pp. 537-538.
[130] “Mahabharata, Bhisma Parva,” section lix., p. 224.
[131] “The favourite idea of classical antiquity was not the idea
of progress, but the idea of a cycle of changes in which departure
_from_ the original unity and return _to_ it, or, as we should say,
differentiation and integration, are not united, but follow each other.
This idea seems to be adopted even by Aristotle.”--+CAIRD’S+ “Evolution
of Religion,” vol. i., p. 21.
[132] What god can Sanjaya refer to? Surely it must be fate, inexorable
destiny, of which he is thinking.
[133] “Mahabharata, Udyoga Parva,” section clix.
[134] “Mahabharata, Bhisma Parva,” section lix., p. 217, and section
lxxxii., p. 295.
[135] However, the reader who considers such historical inferences
sufficiently interesting and important, may consult the articles
entitled “Early History of Northern India,” by F. W. Hewitt, in the
“Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society,” 1888-89-90.
[136] Renan’s “Recollections of my Youth,” pp. 72-75.
[137] “All creatures support life by living upon one
another.”--“Mahabharata, Bhisma Parva,” p. 16.
[138] Deut. xxv. 5 10, and Gen. xxxviii.
[139] Manu, ix. 59, 60 and 64.
[140] On the subject of Niyoga the reader may consult Sir Henry Maine’s
“Dissertation on Early Law and Custom,” pp. 100 and 107, and “A
Treatise on Hindu Law and Usage,” by John D. Mayne, chapter iv.
[141] The abandonment of animal food and ardent spirits was probably
due to Buddhistic influence, though Buddha himself, as is well known,
ate pork. I have been assured by well-informed Indian gentlemen that
within the last few years there has been a marked tendency amongst
many sections of the people to take to a flesh diet and alcoholic
stimulants--in fact to revert to the old Aryan habits in these respects.
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