YAVAKRI: AN OLD-TIME TALE

By ‘KRISHNA BHIKSHU’

(Rendered from the Mahabharata)

(1)

They were good friends, the scholar, Raibhya and the ascetic, Bharadwaja. The scholar was far famed for his mastery over Veda and ritual and men whispered in awe that he could raise and subdue even malevolent spirits, being an adept in that black Atharva Veda; and people were really afraid of him, for he was rather furious when roused and difficult to deal with. The ascetic was a very humble man and very lovable, minding nothing but his austerities; he loved all mankind in his own humble way and none else with more admiration than this terrible Raibhya.

And each had sons. Raibhya had two, Arvavasu and Paravasu, and had the satisfaction of even his own fame for scholarship being eclipsed by that of his sons. Consequently not a few were the invitations to that family to attend and officiate at Yagnyas of rich people; even Maharajahs were among their clientele; and so they were rolling in wealth and were first among the honoured in the land. Not so was the other family of Bharadwaja; he had an only son; Yavakri was his name. He was just like his father, humble and very very rigorous in his ascetic ways. He too loved all people. He had only one fault. He was sometimes rash and then he could be very self-willed.

Now they grew, and growing years brought out the contrast between the two families too prominently for Yavakri’s liking. None would invite him or honour him and none would give him money, and quite properly, for, of what use was he to them? He was just a Brahmin in name, with no knowledge of the Vedas. They used to call him, in derision, a ‘Brahma Bandhu’ i.e., one whose sole title for recognition was that he was related to Brahmins, himself being an ignoramus. The pain of it therefore sank deeply into his heart and he began to muse. He had been so intently doing Tapas and pouring out himself in adoration to the gods, and if the gods could not give him knowledge of Veda straightway, without the arduous course of discipleship at the feet of a Guru, what good was his Tapas and what its efficacy? He would perform his Tapas with more rigorous austerities and compel the gods to give him scholarship and then he would be as good as Raibhya and his sons. So resolved Yavakri, and who could say that his aim was not laudable! Knowledge of Veda was knowledge of God and a life after the Divine was worth all the three worlds. But, there was a fly in this ointment. Yavakri’s effort was born in envy and his Tapas was for power and not for wisdom. It was for wealth and fame. The wise Bharadwaja saw the seed whence this resolve of Yavakri sprouted. He was a man of peace and wisdom and he tried to dissuade his son. Why should his son entertain feelings of rivalry with the family of his dear friend and what good could come out of this endeavour? Who had heard of any becoming learned in the Veda without going the hard course with a Guru? As we said Yavakri was a self-willed lad and his father could not dissuade him. We may take it that the story of Yavakri’s venture reached the ears of Raibhya and his sons, and very likely raised little but half-concealed smiles on their faces; and report would have certainly taken the information back to Yavakri that his rivals only smiled with derision at his great resolve and it made him keener and all the more eagerly bent on his effort to attain knowledge by Tapas.

(2)

So began Yavakri’s great Tapas. Long and hot days in summer he would sit between the five fires and continue his hard penance. In chilly blood-congealing blasts of mid-winter he would be neck-deep in the river doing his Tapas. Neither rain nor wind, nor the sun nor the storm could deter him from his purpose. The shivering snowfall had no terrors for him. It was a terrible effort. In the intensity of his effort Yavakri forgot everything else; and his one-pointed meditation caused concern even to the king of the Devas. The great Indra had to come down to the ascetic and he came, not to grant his dearest wish but to dissuade him from his enterprise. Indra was the wise one and he asked: “Oh Yavakri, what may be thy wish that thou art inflicting such torture on these tender young limbs of yours?” Yavakri looked at the intruder before he replied and recognised in him Indra; who does not know that this ruler of the celestials would not stick at anything to thwart the penances of ascetics! He had diverse weapons to achieve his purpose; and they included the Apsarasas, those lovely damsels, to see whom meant, even for the most virtuous and disciplined, to succumb to their charms and waste all the efficacy of hard-earned Tapas. So he should also appear reasonable and not anger the lord, who it was that should ultimately grant his greatest desire. Yavakri was, we said, a generous heart also; he would ask the boon not only for himself but also for all dwijas. He said: “Oh Indra, I would that every one of the twice-born should become immediately learned in all the Vedas without having to undergo the rigors of discipleship (gurukula-vasa). I would obtain from you this great boon so that I may be blessed by all the twice-born to be born hereafter.”

The Lord of Heaven remonstrated: “Oh, you high-souled one, can there be any effort more futile than this! It is an impossible you ask. The wise have said that a man is to reap the reward of his own toil. When one labours for a purpose the result will be wholesome and sweet to him. Otherwise the tinge of the salt will be there, for the fruit is not really his own. The law of Karma decrees that one shall enjoy the fruits, good or evil, of his own deeds and there shall be no vicarious heaven or hell. The force of your Tapas will not make the boon endure, even if I were to grant you the boon you ask for. So, please desist.”

But Yavakri would not take a denial. He kept silent and continued his own predestined way. Years passed and the glory of his Tapas began to worry the dwellers of heaven. They asked their king to see that somehow Yavakri gave up his obstinate Tapas. So the great God had to come down once more. Now he changed his tactics. There was a particular spot in the river where the stream was easy to ford and bathe, and where Yavakri used to have his prayers (anushtana). Indra assumed the disguise of an old man and began to pour into the stream handfuls of sand without end. Soon the ascetic Yavakri made his appearance and saw the withering old man at his never-ending task. A smile rose to his lips. “You old one, what may your purpose be? You throw handfuls of sand so unceasingly into the stream.” “Wise sir, You know streams of people cross over at this spot to the other side of the river, and great indeed is their toil and my heart has taken pity. I shall build a bridge of sand and then people can easily walk over, and countless generations to come will bless the name of the old one who toiled so hard for their comfort,” said the God in disguise. Yavakri laughed outright. “Has any one heard of such a preposterous venture. Why, the handful you throw in is being washed off the very minute you put it in, don’t you see?” said he. The old one replied: “Sir, do not make fun of my venture. Ages may pass but the effort of this old man shall bear fruit.” “You are crazy, sir,” exclaimed the young one. “Oh! no, I have heard of one Yavakri, who is said to be performing terrible austerities to make all the twice-born learned in the Vedas without gurukula-vasa. If his effort should succeed, why should not mine?” Yavakri fixed a steady gaze at the old one and so great had been his Tapas that it revealed the Indra in the old man. “Oh, Heavenly Lord, is it you? But, I say unto you, neither taunts nor laughter shall move me from my resolve. There is some point in what you say, I admit. You say that one may not reap what others sow. But I believe it was you that gave Trisanku heaven, for the great Viswamitra would give his Tapas for it,” said Yavakri. Indra replied, “Sir, but reflect, was the heaven lasting for Trisanku? Do you not see him, head down and heels up, in the southern skies even now? Therefore, young man, desist. But you shall have your reward; you have indeed performed great and rigorous Tapas. You and your father shall be as learned in the Vedas as Raibhya and his sons. “Nay;” he added “even more. And that will be as per the law of seers, for they have said the father is the lord of the son and shall enjoy what his son earns in this world and that. May your father enjoy the fruits of your Karma.” With great reluctance, at last, Yavakri had to consent. He ran to his father to break the news.

But the old man did not jump at the news. He was rather in a gloomy mood. “It forebodes no good, my son,” he said, “this sudden learning. Your Tapas was conceived in envy. The fruit will be of the same nature as the seed. Now you will have pride, that you have caught up with Raibhya and his sons in learning. You will like to prove it by parading it before all; and that is sure, to be a sore point with them. And bad blood may arise thereby. They say pride goeth before a fall. I do not like to have all the learning in the world in preference to friendship with Raibhya. Mind, do not anger him; he is noted by all as an angry man. Should he get angry with you, who will save you? People do not like one who would push himself to the front, elbowing others out in the process. The future alone will reveal whether this Indra’s gift is really for your good.” Yavakri hastened to protest: “Why, father, Raibhya is as much to be worshipped by me as you, being your close friend. Why on earth should I anger him? And if he should get angry without cause; who can help it? The Veda which we have obtained with so much effort will save us. But, father, why should you expect adverse winds? Please do not be sad and damp my spirits.” And the father was meekly acquiescent.

Yavakri kept scrupulously the word he gave to his father. He would in no way come into the picture where the Raibhya family was concerned. But he kept his word in letter only and not in Spirit. Where others were concerned he was not the old retiring Yavakri; he would show his new learning and bring down any one who would dispute with him authority in Veda. There was much heart-burning consequently in the neighbourhood. But none would convey to the meek father the haughtiness of too son, lest they should give him pain. So the days went by and Yavakri was acquiring fame and wealth.

(3)

The world was in great glee. The biting cold and clouds of snow had their day and passed. The earth wore a new garb of flowers. The cuckoo sang his joyful song. The moon shone in all her sweet white glory in clearest skies. Vasant had come, and bird and beast, tree and twiner sought the bosom of the dearest one. For it was the joy of new creation, and nature and soul sported in festive company to prepare for the descent of a new soul into this arena of mirth and death. Mankind would, in those days, pour oblation (havis) into the raging fire worshipped in hundreds of Yagnyas. Priests who could officiate at such gatherings were everywhere in demand. The demand also came from a neighbouring king for Raibhya. But he was getting old and the least strain now might upset him. So he remained in the hermitage and sent his two sons in his stead. All he could do was tending the household Agnis, with all his heart, in the morning; and morning and evening he would wander about in the forest to fetch firewood and the Kusa grass needed for his worship.

Yavakri’s mind was not calm; he had no mate to give him company, which alone would have given him the proper joy of the season. Old Bharadwaja would attend on the sacred fires (Agnis), and when he was away at the river, a hired blind Sudra would watch the doors of the room where the Agnis were kept. Now, Yavakri could hire the services of servants. He had therefore nothing to do in particular So he used to wander all alone in the forest shadows morning and evening, rapt in thought, very disturbing indeed to a youthful person in the strength of natural urges. His father had evidently forgotten that his son had come of that age when manhood required the companionship of woman. The old man had lost his mate in life very early when Yavakri was a tiny child, and thereafter, what with having to attend on the motherless babe and on the Agnis and carrying on his several disciplines, he had no time for thoughts of woman. But how could it be similar with the youth?

One evening it was fairly dark when Yavakri went out. The slanting rays of the Sun had cast on the sky the rich hues of evening clouds and a softness was descending on the forest hermitage. The ascetics were having their dips in the river before performing their ablutions. There was none in the cottages, either in Yavakri’s area or in Raibhya’s. All was still.

All on a sudden Yavakri saw the bewitching vision of a sweet damsel whose presence evoked in him thoughts of lust. She was the wife of Paravasu, the younger son of Raibhya, and was of Tare beauty. Singing to herself in her soft musical voice, and in happy abandon in dress and deportment, in utter ignorance of the presence of any prying soul, she cast an immediate spell on Yavakri. Loneliness is dangerous to youth even in a forest hermitage. Yavakri had propitiated the gods by the rigours of his austerities in solitude and acquired knowledge of the Vedas, but he had not enjoyed the benefit of a disciplined life and Brahmacharya in the household of a Guru. As he slowly approached her, his mien and manner told her that something was amiss. She was not kept long in suspense. Yavakri approached and, in humble tones of maddened love, told her of his consuming passion and prayed for a few moments of bliss with her. She was frightened and did not know what to do. She dared not refuse, for who had not heard of Yavakri’s Tapas and a curse would certainly be her reward if she refused him flatly. But if she erred with him, and this came to the knowledge of o Raibhya, worse woe to her! Yet nature has a soft way of letting us slide on the wrong path. She was young and her lord had long been away and it was the maddening spring time, and who could deny the comeliness and youth of this importunate. Her helplessness would be her defence, should she be found out, and she would always be the unfortunate innocent woman wronged by the brute strength of primal man. She yielded and in their loneliness was committed an act of sin for which, in those days of unrelenting justice, the penalty was only death. Satisfying the satan in himself and in her, Yavakri departed. Now really a strange fear seized her.

(4)

A little while thereafter and Raibhya stepped in. Instinctivel he felt something had gone wrong. His daughter-in-law did not greet him at the doorstep as usual. He found her in a corner, absorbed as it were in a dream. With a start, she realised that he was before her, and down ran bitter tears from her eyes, the weapon of women, stronger than Indra’s bolt. Raibhya was worried and it took him sometime before he could sufficiently soothe her; then she told him what had happened. How the hated Yavakri desired her, and how, afraid of his great Tapas and possible curse, she had to reluctantly yield to his masculine compulsion; it was all narrated amidst sobs of injured innocence, and great was Raibhya’s anger. “Did the wretch dare so much? I shall teach him what it is to molest women, and of Raibhya’s household at that,” he cried out in anger. He might have used his occult sight to find out the truth, that all the guilt was not Yavakri’s alone, but when anger surges in unchecked flow, insight and wisdom have to hide away in the darker corners of the heart.

Raibhya was now more terrible than the raging fire before him. He pulled away a bit of his matted locks and put it in the fire, muttering uuknown terrible Mantras, and there arose from the fire a lovely maiden, just of the features of his daughter-in-law, only more lovely and more bewitching. The process was repeated with different Mantras and a huge monster of terrible and menacing mien stood before him. “What commands, my master,” roared the Rakshasa. “Go, both of you and manage, between you, to rid the world of that accursed wretch, Yavakri,” was the stern command.

(5)

His father had gone out to the river. It was noon. The Sun was scorching the wood with his hot rays, and Yavakri in listlessness wandered away from his hermitage into the woods to cool himself under the spreading shades of the towering trees. There came to him the sound of a familiar and sweet voice, now sounding even sweeter; was it not the silver tone of Raibhya’s daughter-in-law? How lovely she looked, and what happiness she had showered on him! Yavakri hastened in the direction of the voice and there stood she, more fascinating than ever, and when she looked at him, enchanting love drew him to her bosom.” Yavakri once had pierced through the guise of an Indra, but now guilt and doom hurried him on and he ran to meet her, and into a bower they stepped. A few minutes later Yavakri arose from. his short-lived heaven into the stern reality, and he spied far away a demon coming straight towards him with uplifted trident. Yavakri searched for his Kamandalu¹ to do ‘achamana’ (purifying sip) and purify himself so that he could curse the menacing demon to ashes. But where was the Kamandalu? The artful maiden had disappeared with it. Yavakri ran to the river for water, for a few sips of water alone stood between him and swift death. Lo, the river was dry. “Sure, it was the work of the vengeful Raibhya.” Water, water, and where was it to be had? He ran everywhere pursued by the monster. He ran to the lake. It was dry. Suddenly, in despair, Yavakri remembered that in the fire-cottage of his father, water would always be kept in pots for the needed purificatory rites. So he ran there for very life but even there the fates stood against him. The blind Sudra servant, who was the watch, mistook that somebody was intruding to defile his master’s Agnis, and caught him in the grip of his long arms, and, struggle as he would, Yavakri could not wrench himself off from that vice-like grip, and terror suppressed any possible word of mouth. Before he could recover his voice, thud, thud, thud, the sounds of heavy footfalls behind him, the whirl and the swing of a trident, and the thing had pierced through the heart, and out ran his blood in torrents and Yavakri was no more.

All his Tapas could not save him. He tried to save the world; he could not save himself. The cosmic moral law he had outraged had pursued him. Nay, his own unconquered animal urges had run him down. What good to have conquered all the Veda,

when he could not conquer his own senses!

The raging fires within the cottage sank down and faded. All around there was the silence of death, save for the mournful moan of a lone bird, which would convey the misery to the distant ears of his hapless father.

¹ receptacle for water

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