The boy had no interest in gold, but, unlike the other merry bystanders, he sensed immediately how desperate the king had to be. With little thought, he stepped forward and waved to the man in the chariot, the king’s chief minister. The official, climbing down stiffly from the chariot, approached the boy guardedly. “Yes, my child,” he said. “What is it?”
“I want to give my life for the king—I’m seven, you know,” the Brahmin boy said proudly to the stunned man. “But first, I don’t understand why a boy has to die.” The minister, deeply impressed by the boy’s dignified demeanor, agreed to tell him about the entire affair. The two found a shady spot under a tree, and the minister told the strange account of how the king came to need such desperate help.
“King Chandravaloka was the worthy ruler of the renowned city of Chitrakuta. It was he who kept the castes in peaceful harmony, he who assured the prosperity of all citizens. But unlike his subjects, the king remained unhappy because he was unable to find a woman who would move his heart to love. And so, the king took out his sorrow on the helpless animals of the forest, which he hunted with great ferocity.
“One day as he was rampaging in the woods, scattering arrows and tearing through a thicket, the king felt that none of this was filling the void in his heart. He was overcome with a sudden urge to penetrate the forest to its very core. Striking his horse with his heel, he sent it flying like a storm through the green sea and directly into another, hidden jungle. His companions could not keep up with that bolt of his horse, and the king was alone. In the dark new forest his horse slowed down, and Chandravaloka soon realized that he was lost. He wandered about, more amazed than worried, until he saw a large lake, white with lotus flowers and surrounded with reeds that bent in the gentle breeze, beckoning him to approach and bathe. The king dismounted and cooled down his horse before refreshing himself.
“He was drying off in the reeds when his eyes caught a glimpse of a moving figure. It was a young woman, a hermit’s daughter no doubt, for she was dressed in the rough bark of the ashoka tree, with a garland of marigold flowers around her neck. Even the coarse dress and modest adornment could not cover her glowing beauty, the king thought, just as he was struck with the arrows of Kama, the love god. The young woman was accompanied by an older companion—an attendant apparently—who tried to shield her from the stranger’s eyes.
“‘This must be the lustrous goddess Gauri herself, or perhaps Savitri, the Creator’s wife, who came to bathe in the lake,’ the king ruminated. ‘Perhaps I should ask her attendant.’
“The young woman was too shy to come out from behind her broad companion, but made up for this demureness with thoughts that burned through her mind. “Who is this perfect man who has appeared in this remote forest like the divine King Indra himself? Is he a holy man? He must surely be the most handsome man in the world.”
“The attendant, a gifted scholar in the ways of the heart, did not fail to perceive the mutual infatuation, and she boldly approached the king when he nodded in her direction. He introduced himself as the king of the land. The attendant in turn, acting on behalf of her mistress, responded obligingly, ‘The young lady I am shielding behind my back is Vykunta, sir. She is the daughter of the great sage Kanva, who lives nearby in a retreat. She has come to bathe in the lake with her father’s permission.’
“The king was thrilled with that information and immediately mounted his horse and rode to the retreat, a mere arrow shot away. He dismounted before entering the compound and approached the great sage with deference. Touching his head to Kanva’s knees, he introduced himself.
“‘I know who you are, King Chandravaloka,’ said the sage, who was a tiny man with an enormous white mane. ‘We all do.’ He motioned around him at the other renouncers who shared the hermitage. Then he added, ‘You are that king who has been terrorizing all the inhabitants of these forests. You are a fine and righteous king, and you have the best of everything. Why not enjoy these things and leave the forest animals in peace?’
“The king bowed low and said, ‘Sir, I don’t understand my own impulse to shoot animals. I don’t really enjoy watching them die, but the chase fills a void in my heart. I have heard your words and will abide by them. From this day on there will be no hunting in these woods.’
“Kanva spread his arms in delight and hugged the young king. ‘I did not expect you to accept this feeble request so readily,’ he beamed. Then he added, ‘Because you have shown such grace, choose a boon and I shall grant it.’ The king did not hesitate for a second and asked for Vykunta’s hand.
“That very same night, the sacred retreat saw its first marriage, a riotous celebration in which even elderly men of God danced drunk with the joy of the young couple’s love. Sadly, the very next morning the couple departed, accompanied to the edge of the hermitage by all the renouncers. From there the two proceeded alone, riding double on the king’s horse until dusk. As night drew its lovely curtain of darkness, the king and his wife found themselves on the banks of a deep lake. Nearby grew a dense ashvattha tree, its leafy branches hanging over the soft grass. It was a perfect place to spend the night. The couple lay down on a bed of flowers and held each other as the rising moon dispelled the dark shadows lurking in the creepers of the thick tree. They fell asleep languidly, neglecting to offer the tree any of their curds, sesame, or even water.
“The sun came up fiery and angry. It burned away the last wisps of moon rays and hissed the arrival of a deadly threat. Suddenly, a huge Brahmin demon, named Jvalamukha, hulked above the couple. His hair was flaming like the sun and bright as lightning. Around his neck was a garland of intestines, and he was gnawing on a man’s head and drinking the blood from the skull. His protruding tusks were dripping with the blood, and he howled with a frightening laughter. ‘Foolish man, even the gods fear this place. Don’t you know that this ashvattha tree is my home? I shall tear out your heart and devour it in front of your new wife.’
“The king, who was a fearless warrior, knew he stood no chance against this demon. He looked at his terror-stricken wife and addressed the monster with humility. ‘Sir, I beg your forgiveness for this horrible indiscretion. How can I make it up to you? Tell me what you need and I shall provide it, even if it be a human sacrifice.’
“The demon laughed viciously with pleasure and answered, ‘Yes, I will forgive you. But only if you obey my instructions in every detail. You must find a seven-year-old Brahmin boy who is of such noble character that he will volunteer to give up his life for you. His parents must hold him down by the arms and feet, and you must slaughter him with your own sword. All of this is to be done in exactly one week. If you fail, I shall devour your entire court. Now go!’
“The king returned to the palace with his young wife feeling worse than he did the day he had left. Everywhere he looked he saw nothing but bloody, demonic death. It was my idea, then, to go around the city in a chariot and make the proclamation you heard and to offer the gold and wealth to the family of the boy who volunteered.”
The minister looked at the little boy sitting before him. “I am deeply ashamed for making this request. I never expected a boy to come forward. But now that you have, you must know that the future of our entire kingdom is in your hands.” Looking at his hands, the minister fell silent.
The little Brahmin boy was moved by the minister’s account. He felt sad for the king, but gave no thought to the gold. With his high and little voice he instructed the minister to reassure the king that everything would turn out well. Then he gathered up the kindling and went to see his parents, who lived in a modest house shaded by gular trees. He told the elderly couple about the king’s tragedy and his own intention to sacrifice himself. His parents, of course, refused to hear of it. So he told them about the great wealth they stood to gain from his death, but this only enraged them, and he had to endure a lecture on family values.
When that ended, the seven-year-old spoke the following words: “This body we live in is useless. It is a source of pain
and suffering, and it is vile and despicable. In no time it perishes and we die. The only thing that truly matters is the merit that follows us after death, and what better way is there to gain merit than by sacrificing one’s life for the sake of others?”
His parents were amazed. “You sound like Lord Krishna, son,” said the father. “Where did you get such wisdom?”
“Father, I may be seven now, but my current life is only one in a long chain. My soul is ancient; it has accumulated the lessons of many previous births.” The fact that the boy finally talked his parents into consenting was not a testament to their uncaring attitude or their greed. It was a reflection of the little boy’s great will and sharp intellect. But finally they did, in fact, agree to let the boy sacrifice himself.
On the assigned day King Chandravaloka took the boy with his parents to the demon’s ashvattha tree, where before long the monster appeared, shouting gleefully in true amazement as he beheld the boy. The little boy showed no sign of fear, even when his parents leaned over to hold him down, and even when the king pulled out his sword. In fact, he began to laugh! At first he laughed softly; then his laughter grew uproarious. The king froze in mid-swing at the very instant that the demon reached out to stop the descent of the sword. The boy’s parents stepped back in bewilderment.
“Why are you laughing?” roared the demon. “What can be so funny at a moment like this?”
The boy stopped his laughter and explained. “I can’t help thinking how silly this situation must look. Everything is exactly the opposite of how it ought to be. Normally, when a weak person finds himself in a dangerous predicament, he first turns to his mother and father for help. They go to the king, and the king appeals to the presiding deity. Here, all of these persons are present, but they are the very cause of my troubles. The reason I find this funny is that although I’m only seven years old, I can see through the delusions of the body and its desires, while you, who should be wiser, are acting out of complete delusion. You are all slaves to your own body. I think that’s funny.” And with that the boy continued to laugh.
The old man looked at me with a mischievous grin. “So what do you think—are they going to kill the little boy?”
Frankly I had hoped for some clever twist that would get the boy out of this situation—some of these stories were starting to flatten my expectations. The old man, on the other hand, was another story—the real puzzle. So I shrugged. “Sure, why not? It’s up to the demon and he’s not going to be moved by the boy’s little sermon…By the way, can you explain this concept of a demon who is also a Brahmin? I thought Brahmins were always people, and usually virtuous or holy—isn’t that the idea?”
“No, not quite. Some Brahmins are people, but some are demons and others are gods. Some are good while others are good by other standards. There are many moralities, you know, just as there are many types of beings and classes of men.”
We were standing, and the sun was behind me and to the left. My feet began to burn on the slab step, but I did not want to shift my weight too much. The entire situation suddenly struck me as ridiculous, irritating. This little guy with a happy smile was talking about moral relativism while I was listening like a college student on a field trip, and my feet were turning into sizzling bacon on a hot stove. I tightened my jaw and told him I did not understand.
“Don’t be alarmed by that, my friend. In truth, I’m not sure I do either.” He looked at my legs and, pausing thoughtfully at my feet, asked, “Tell me, what are your thoughts about the boy?”
The boy? Who cares about the boy! I need to get off this rock! Come on, man…“I liked him well enough,” I said. “A precocious little thing. Couldn’t you make him thirteen though?”
“I suppose I could have, but then he’d be married already and unfit for ritual sacrifice…It would be redundant, don’t you think?” The guide laughed loudly, but showed no sign of moving.
I was beginning to fume and tried to take it out on the story. “I found the argument with his parents too much of a stretch, even if you suspend disbelief. That would never happen with parents who are basically decent, as those folks obviously were. It seems to me that the story is so busy getting out some message that it loses track of common sense.”
“That’s a very reasonable point, I must agree. So what is that message?”
“Fall in love and you’ll have a hungry demon on your hands…No, I don’t really mean that. Look, I need to sit down for a minute. Do you mind?” I turned around and saw a dirt path leading off the steps. A beautiful Acacia arabica, with its feathery green foliage, cast modest shade on a comfortable-looking rock. I headed directly for that spot and heard the old man shuffle behind. There was room for both of us, facing the sleepy landscape of Mysore beyond a tall agave cactus that split the panorama in two. This felt good; I picked up the thread of our conversation. “The story’s about the end of social morality, I suppose. The protectors stop protecting.”
“Yes, and why is our hero a little boy?
“Because he is the ideal scapegoat—the weakest link, the one who needs more protection that anyone else.”
“That’s very nicely said. The scapegoat. Do you remember the emperor’s new clothes, that wonderful story, and the little boy in that tale?”
“Yes, I do. Ah yes, I see what you’re saying…It takes a young child to see through the illusion that everyone else pretends to see—that the emperor is dressed, or that the system is working. That makes sense.”
“Precisely. There is a little boy in all of us, a naïve simplicity that is always truthful. It sees through the clutter of moral pretense. It sees through delusion. And, of course, you do not have to be a wise or learned man.”
I felt a slight breeze from the west. A few distant clouds framed the lush farmland. “I have to admit that stories about parents killing their children are especially disturbing. I know we have them too—in the Bible, in Grimm’s fairy tales. I didn’t think I would hear one from you.”
“Well, why not?” the old man replied. “There are several. Some are extremely famous. For instance, there’s a story about a carpenter who cut a huge green bamboo tree that refused to fall down. It demanded the sacrifice of the carpenter’s eldest son. The man agreed and sent the boy with a cart drawn by two bulls, a brown and a black one, to fetch the tree. One of the bulls gave the boy a magical egg and a magical broomstick. At some point the boy began to run away from the tree, which reached out to grab him. So he threw the egg at the tree, and a vicious wind began to blow. Then he threw the broomstick, and a forest of bamboos grew instantaneously. When the green tree crashed through the bamboo forest, it burst into flames, saving the boy. We have stories like that from all over India, but the most important one you will hear only later, when we move farther up the mountain.”
“You know, all the stories you’ve told me up to now are kind of preachy, moralizing…but at the same time, there’s something passive about them too. I mean, the hero always seems stuck, even when he sees the truth.” Just then I noticed that someone had carved two initials on one of the cactus leaves. A ripple quietly tickled my intestines, where I had been so ill, as I continued. “Your heroes have vision but they seem to be moving in molasses…”
“I see you need to rest a bit longer. You shouldn’t feel ashamed about that. How would you like to hear something altogether different while we sit? Perhaps still a bit preachy, I confess, but certainly not passive.”
That was fine with me. I listened as the old man told me the following story.
TOO MANY LOVERS
My grandmother grew up in Varanasi on a rich estate at the point of the river’s bend. Her mother was the daughter of aristocratic parents, raised among the wealthiest families—those that socialized with the royal crowd. Her mother’s name was Upakosha. From a young age she had been remarkable. She possessed the face of a full moon with lotus-blue eyes, her mouth was framed by coral lips, and her neck displayed the three shell lines of classical beauty. She was a second La
kshmi—the torture of all the young men who ever laid eyes on her. Due to her parents’ exalted station, she spent much of her time playing at the royal palace, and in later years studying and performing on musical instruments with the young members of the royal house.
As she approached her twentieth year, her parents felt that it would only be natural if a match were found at the palace, where refined and confident young men of good breeding showed keen interest. However, Upakosha remained extremely modest, keeping strict company with the young ladies. Her studies, which she valued deeply, required that she work with a young man, a tutor who could have bested the great grammarian Panini himself in knowledge of grammar. The tutor, Vararuchi, was ordinary to look at; he could hardly match the court aristocrats in breeding or bearing. Many thought him a fool, however learned he may have been. This was probably due to his awkwardness and lack of worldly experience. It was a great surprise to all, and a savage disappointment to the men of the palace, when Upakosha’s parents announced that their daughter would marry the tutor.
The couple lived happily for some time. Vararuchi was the son of merchants, who supplied him with an income sufficient to keep the couple living in comfort. One day he told his wife that, due to the dismal prospects of Sanskrit studies in the region, it became incumbent that he go to the Himalayas in order to propitiate Shiva. He deposited his money with the merchant Hiranyadatta, whom he instructed to honor any withdrawal Upakosha felt necessary to maintain the household.
With her beloved husband gone, Upakosha spent entire days at home. But every morning, as a vow to aid in the scholar’s efforts, she went bathing in the Ganges. Although she became pale and thin with her longings, the young woman unknowingly thrilled intrusive eyes as she emerged from her cold bath. Her old suitors had decided to take advantage of Vararuchi’s absence and prey on the object of their lust. One day, the prince’s minister, a stocky and brutish man, timed his visit to the river perfectly. As soon as Upakosha changed her clothes, he grabbed her arm and forced her toward the reeds by the riverbank. At that moment of crisis, Upakosha proved what an unusual woman she was by staying calm.
Climbing Chamundi Hill Page 6