‘So you still claim that you are my big brother! But how can we be sure that you were born before me?’ laughed Muruga. ‘Anyway, you snatched Brahma’s daughters away from me. They were supposed to marry one of us—the one who went around the world the fastest. While I went round the world as stipulated, you went around our parents, claiming that they were the world! Our father accepted your claim and got you married to the girls. The least you can do now is to help me marry my Valli!’
‘I will, I will,’ nodded Ganesha. ‘But remember that while you have speed on your side, I have wisdom!’
Soon Muruga was seated regally before the sacred fire, dressed as a magnificent bridegroom, all disguises forgotten, his purpose achieved.
Valli was ecstatic and scarcely able to believe that this happy moment had finally arrived. Her friends anointed her with sandal paste and the fragrant essences of the champaka. ‘O Valli, butterflies and hummingbirds are buzzing around you, mistaking your face for a blue lotus!’ teased one of her bridesmaids. ‘Soon the parrot who wears a garland of glory lilies will peck at these cherry lips!’
They coloured her lips a dark red with the juice of ripe berries. They lined her eyes with kajal and placed a beauty spot on her cheek to ward off evil eyes. They draped her in silk garments that appeared to be spun from molten gold. They sighed in envy over the jewels that Ganesha had brought for her from heaven. Her earrings were huge rubies; her nose ring glinted with peerless diamonds. On her head she wore ornaments shaped like the sun and the moon; her forehead was adorned by a jewel that glittered like Agni’s fire. Her waist belt, studded with gems, drew attention to her tiny waist. Her graceful hands were adorned with coral bangles. The tinkling anklets on her feet looked like hamsa birds encircling a lotus.
When the bridesmaids brought Valli before Muruga, he stared at her besotted until he heard the girls giggling at him. Valli looked at him spellbound as she was granted a glimpse of his entrancing form in Skandagiri. The Devi’s son was clad in red silk and surrounded by sages and a bevy of beauties who embodied the scriptures. His forehead was adorned with a vermilion tilak; his earrings were shaped like the makara. On his chest gleamed huge pearls the size of pigeon’s eggs. She felt her bridesmaid prodding her and returned to this world again. She saw how humbly the great son of Shiva bowed to her father, who set a coronet of glowing purple orchids on his head. The hunters then garlanded him with strings of hibiscus—pink, yellow, orange and red.
But suddenly, the mood changed with the arrival of some fearsome visitors. And the wedding scene threatened to become a battleground.
They heard the war conches first, followed by the sound of fierce drums. Trumpets blared and a herd of wild horses stormed into the clearing. On their backs sat hunters armed with bows and arrows, swords and nooses, roaring in challenge. Lightning flashed out of a clear sky and Valli’s people drew back in fear, looking up at the man who led the attack. He was huge, his shoulders like hillocks, and wore garlands of flowers and bamboo earrings. His hair was drawn up into a knot above his head and colourful beads hung from his neck. Following him was a retinue of foot soldiers, carrying banners emblazoned with a crescent moon. Behind them, came a group of women, led by two who appeared to be their queens. They wore bright robes and strings of jasmine in their hair. Their lips were stained red with the juice of the betel nut and their bodies with sandal paste.
Nambiraja joined his hands in respect to the massive chieftain, hoping to fob off a conflict. ‘We are happy to welcome you to our daughter Valli’s marriage,’ he said. ‘Who may you be, great one, and how may we serve you?’
‘I am Kirata Raja, king of the hunter clan reigning over the seven mountains beyond your village,’ said the chieftain, his voice loud like thunder. ‘I have come to claim the hand of my promised bride, Valli.’
‘Your bride? But who . . . who promised you her hand?’ Valli’s father stuttered.
‘Who should marry her but her king?’ roared Kirata, his eyes flaming red in his bearded face. The peacock feather atop his crown shook violently as he vaulted to the ground. ‘Hand her over to me now or watch as my men set fire to your houses. Hear the agonized screams as your village begins to look like a mass of flame trees.’
Muruga and Ganesha stepped forward but Valli gestured to them to stay calm. ‘Kirata Raja!’ she said loudly. ‘You may be the king of all earth’s kingdoms, but that does not mean that I will submit to marrying you. My heart was given long back to my Muruga, the radiant son of the crescent-wearing god. Honour my decision and show your respect to him and to Ganesha who has come to preside over our wedding. Do not threaten the people who have gathered here to celebrate our marriage.’
‘It is you who dishonour the tradition that princesses of the hunter tribes marry Kirata Raja!’ the intruder shot back.
‘No tradition can bar the union of two hearts brought together by love,’ Valli retorted. ‘I invite you, Kirata Raja, to bless our marriage and partake of our humble repast.’
The two combatants stood frozen, neither ready to give in. The gathering gazed upon them in silent terror, waiting to see if Valli’s firm opposition would provoke an all-out war. Nambi looked at the distant hut where their weapons were stored, wondering if they would even make it that far before being mowed down by Kirata’s warriors.
‘Hahaha!’ roared the hunter king, startling the throng. Was he demented? Was it the prelude to an attack? His two queens came to stand beside him, their faces wreathed in smiles. ‘Truly a wife deserving of my brother!’ exclaimed Kirata Raja, to the surprise of Valli and her father. ‘I have come to attend your wedding, Kartikeya, though it seems as if you forgot to invite me!’ The next instant, Kirata Raja transformed himself into a smiling Lord Shasta, clad in silk, radiant with gold ornaments. His retinue disappeared and the only ones remaining were his wives, Purna and Pushkala, dressed in finery and holding trays bearing rich gifts.
‘This is my other brother, Harihara Putra, who has come to bless us in his own way!’ laughed Muruga, introducing him to Valli. She fell at the god’s feet as did her people, overjoyed that they had been blessed with this rare vision. The three brothers embraced, glad that they could be together on this auspicious occasion.
Shasta offered Valli a divine red lotus as his gift. ‘Forgive my little jest, mountain princess,’ he said. ‘I had no intention of hindering your marriage or marrying you myself!’
‘Nor would we have let him marry another!’ exclaimed Purna. ‘Two wives are enough even for a god, unless he is Ganesha!’
There was much laughter and merriment. Muruga’s lips curved in a blissful smile as Ganesha conducted the rituals sanctifying his union with Valli.
Narada, who had been instrumental in bringing the couple together, witnessed the marriage from the skies. He rejoiced that Kartikeya’s wisdom had been united with the shaktis of resolve and action. The rishi hastened to Vaikunta to describe the wonderful spectacle he had witnessed. Vishnu shed tears of joy when he heard what the sage had to say. ‘It is time I revealed a potent secret to you, Narada,’ he said. ‘Noble Kartikeya is the embodiment of the Pranava mantra, which manifests the powers of the Trimurti. Shiva’s five faces together with my face have become his six faces. Mahadeva’s eight arms and my four are his twelve arms. Kartikeya has come to earth to bring light and love that will dispel the darkness and hate imposed by Surapadma. He will fight the war to save humanity at a time when the other gods no longer walk the earth.’
The Trimurti blessed the couple and their home on Kamagiri, the hill of love, overlooking Kataragama or Kartikeya Grama, the village of Kartikeya. Here his devotees built him a shrine surrounded by seven hills and blessed with the river of gems, Manika Ganga.
The devas who had gathered around Vishnu hailed Kartikeya as the bridge between heaven and earth. ‘He is the guardian of the cosmic axis extending from Kailasa to Kataragama around which the universe revolves,’ said the deva guru. ‘If this axis is disturbed in any way, chaos and destruction will inevi
tably follow.’
The sages who had divined this connection called his abode Katir-Kama. After all, Kailasa symbolized Katir or divine light and Kama signified Muruga’s love for Valli and his devotees. ‘May Shiva’s son, who is the light of our inner self, guide us to his heavenly plane,’ they prayed.
Numberless bhaktas gathered at Kataragama to worship at the hallowed temple set like a jewel by the side of the winding river. Many of them had travelled from distant lands, crossing high mountains and fierce forests—a pilgrimage symbolic of their inner journey to discover the divine within themselves. They witnessed many miracles on the way and sensed the presence of spirits guiding them. ‘There must be secret passages from higher realms that have brought these lofty souls to earth,’ they whispered. Their hearts were transformed by the rare spiritual energy that emanated from the place, enabling them to perceive the world in new and magical ways. ‘Kanda, Sharavana, Shiva Kumara! Lord of the hill with crystal waterfalls!’ they chanted. They sang, they danced, they grew delirious with devotion, paying no heed to the world that mocked them. Their hearts were the sandalwood they offered as perfume to their Red God. Their souls were the oblations in the yagna to Valli’s beloved. And the gods above bowed their heads in reverence to their piety.
But beyond the boundaries of this sacred land, the eerie plant flourished. Its dark branches sucked out the healthy air, replacing it with the putrid smell of decay and degeneration. Men everywhere tried to destroy it, pulling it out by the roots. But the more they pruned, the more it proliferated, with its roots spreading swiftly underground. They built pyres to burn the plant but it was they who felt dead, fatigued by their labour. Wise farmers swore that it could understand what they were saying. It listened to them, then plotted and schemed to destroy them. What was behind this pestilence? No one knew, but all of them were afraid.
Surapadma’s spies returned to Mahendrapuri and told him that they had travelled to far-off lands where the people praised the young god Kartikeya. They worshipped the warrior with the golden lance who had sundered Krauncha and killed the dauntless Taraka. ‘But we could not find the lad himself, O king, however long we looked. He was not to be found on the mountain of his birth or on the snowy peaks of the Himalayas. He was no longer in Skandagiri with his beauteous wife, Devasena.’
Angered that he could not learn more about his foe, Surapadma sent his sorcerous weapons to seize the devas and deliver them to his dungeons. He tortured them in a bid to find out the powers of the newly-risen god. He slashed off their arms, gouged out their eyes and tore their flesh with thousand-tailed whips. The devas bore the torture in silence, refusing to help Sura in any way. The asura grew angrier still as he could not kill them and their severed limbs grew back again as they were protected by the nectar they had consumed.
‘Chain them to the walls. Leave them to suffer—breathing the fetid air and eaten up by despair. Give them no food or water until they see reason,’ he screamed to his guards. He summoned his soldiers then. ‘No man or god who supports the upstart must be spared!’ he proclaimed. ‘Advance like the waves of the sea and turn the earth into an ocean of blood.’
The newly-married couple was ensconced in their home in the hills, oblivious to everything but the magic of discovering each other. But in the heavens, Skanda’s wife Devasena grew anxious and distraught, torn by the separation that had extended too long. She pined for her beloved senapati. She drew his face on the sands and washed it away with her tears. ‘You said you would be back soon,’ she murmured to her absent lover. ‘But what does this “soon” mean? You said you intended to pray to Shiva, shunning all pleasures. But my heart tells me that this is not what you are engaged in. I fear that you are not frolicking with your old jungle friends but with a new mistress. Alas, I have seen this happen before. After all, your father bears Ganga on his head, not his wife. And Krishna dances with the gopis, not with his goddess. Men often lose interest in what has grown familiar and yearn for something new. Perhaps my love has grown distasteful to you in just a short while, my Kartikeya!’
Everything that had brought her pleasure before now brought pain. The full moon burned her soft skin; the koel’s song filled her with sorrow. Springtime had arrived and bees buzzed around bright new flowers. But Devasena withered without her lover’s tender glance, like a lotus deprived of water. ‘Even when it was bright daylight, you swore to me that it was night and plundered my sweetness, my love. You promised that you would be my shelter in the storm, my ferry on the river. But where are you now?’ she lamented. ‘My love is steadfast, like that of Arundhati for Sage Vasishta. Yet you have forsaken me.’ She stroked the feathers of the parrot that came to perch on her shoulder. ‘Pretty bird!’ she said. ‘Did I not cosset you with my love? Go then to my Kumara and ask him why he has shunned me.’ The bird looked at her with bright eyes and flew away to peck at a fruit.
That night, as Devasena tossed restlessly in her bed, she had a frightful vision. She saw Kartikeya standing alone on a battlefield, his soldiers dead or dying around him. His face was bloody, his armour mangled. His hands held no weapons, his face was devoid of hope. She heard his enemy’s roar and saw her beloved fall to the ground, struck down by terrible weapons.
‘Alas, is he dead?’ she screamed and woke up from her sleep. ‘Oh, where is he? What ill fate has brought him down? Is this an omen of things to come?’ She sat lamenting, waiting anxiously for daylight. And then she dispatched her messengers to earth, both soldiers and sages, to look for her Kartikeya.
Her men looked for their leader in the temples he had built to Shiva and in all the holy places on earth. But they could not find him. They searched the slopes of Svetagiri, but his friends there were still pining for him. Where could he be? Could their Vira Senapati have fallen in battle? No, not he. He was imbued with Shiva’s power; he was the son of Durga. Bright Vishnu protected him. He could not have been vanquished. Onward they sped, hope still flickering in their breasts.
Then they heard of a new god on earth, though he was a god of love, not war. ‘He is love, he is revelry,’ the people said. ‘We call him Kanda, Vela and Muruga. He lives on Kamagiri with his Valli. And his temple is in Katir-Kama, as holy a spot as Kailasa in the north.’
They hurried to the south, fearing that this new god had overthrown their Kartikeya. ‘Look! These men are walking on fire!’ exclaimed Ugraa, the grey-haired leader of Devasena’s retinue, looking at the devotees who walked boldly on beds of red-hot cinders. They saw pilgrims blowing on conches and trumpets while others chanted ‘Haro Hara!’, praying to Muruga to remove their sufferings and grant salvation. The air was thick with the fumes of camphor burning in the vessels they carried on their heads and with the dust raised by many feet. Ox-carts overflowed with worshippers bearing baskets of flowers, fruits and coconuts. A caparisoned elephant bore a divine casket on his back and musicians followed in his train, playing flutes and drums.
‘Such abundant love!’ exclaimed Ugraa. ‘This Muruga must be mighty for he can move so many souls to ecstasy.’
‘Indeed, the devotion we see here is vastly different from the sombre worship offered in heaven!’ laughed his assistant, Vijayan. ‘Here prayers are simply an exuberant celebration of love and life! Look at the shops selling beads and bangles, and the stalls brimming with sweetmeats. Men, women and children dance to the beat of the drums, oblivious of watching eyes. Look at the colourful arches of wood and paper they carry on their heads.’
‘Those are called kavadis and there is a big story behind the practice,’ said a sage who lived in Kataragama. ‘Sit with me in the shade of these trees and I will tell you everything.’ Devasena’s men sat cross-legged before the sage who began his tale. ‘Once, when Sage Agastya was offering worship at Kailasa, Shiva asked him to transport two hills, Shivagiri and Shaktigiri, to the south, for the benefit of bhaktas. The sage happily consented. He then ordered Idumban, an asura in Surapadma’s army, to carry out the task. The asura carried the hills easily, tying them to the tw
o ends of a shoulder pole. You could say that this was the first kavadi that a devotee carried to Muruga’s temple! Idumban set down the hills in a place called Palani in order to rest awhile. When he had eaten and taken a nap, he tried to lift up his pole again, but could not do so, however hard he tried. He climbed up one of the hills and saw a young boy on its peak. The boy was clad in just a loin cloth and his face shone like a thousand suns. “The hills you carried are now mine,” the boy proclaimed. “You may not take them from here.” Idumban bullied and threatened the child, but he remained obstinate. “A fledgling to hinder my path?” stormed the asura and attacked the boy, assuming that he could easily kill him. The fight raged for many days at the end of which it was Idumban who was killed, not the boy. The asura’s wife came running when she heard of the battle and pleaded for mercy. She was a devotee of Shiva and could discern that the boy was none other than Shiva’s son, who had made the hills everywhere his home. Muruga was compassionate and restored Idumban to life. The asura worshipped the god and sought a boon. “Dwell here on this peak, Kartikeya,” he begged. “Bless the devotees who carry a kavadi up this hill while I stand sentinel, guarding your shrine.” Muruga granted him this blessing. And when Agastya heard about this temple, he too hurried to worship Kartikeya at Palani.’
Ugraa joined his hands in gratitude to the sage. ‘You too must worship our god,’ the sage told them. ‘His devotees make him rich offerings in the belief that they are essential to win his favour. But all that he desires is our sincere prayer that he should annihilate our pride. Our ego stands in the way of our enlightenment and is the hardest enemy to subdue. Therefore, we require Muruga’s grace to kill this asura within us!’
Kartikeya and His Battle with the Soul Stealer Page 16