Sarama and Her Children

by Bibek Debroy

  As ill omens or evil creatures, the Mahabharata is considerably different in its treatment of dogs, as compared to say the puranas. There are places like Adi Parva, where Duryodhana’s birth is described. And there are ill omens like vultures, crows and jackals making a racket, without dogs being included in the same category. Or in Sabha Parva, when Draupadi has been dragged to the court, and as ill omens, jackals, donkeys and various birds make a noise. But not dogs. Towards the beginning of Bhisma Parva, it is certain that there is going to be a war. As ill omens, cats and pigs fight in the night. But again, there are no dogs. In the description of hell in Svargarohana Parva, there are bears, crows and vultures. But no dogs are to be found. There are probably only two exceptions to this rule. In Adi Parva, when Bhima tells Karna that he has no right to fight with Arjuna, there is a reference to dogs not being entitled to cakes offered at sacrifices. In Vana Parva, Sarama is referred to as an evil spirit that enters the womb of women and steals their babies. In Karna Parva, the fight between Karna and Arjuna takes place and assorted animals line up on either side as supporters. On Karna’s side, we have jackals and dogs. And in Moushala Parva, when the Yadavas are about to destroy themselves, among ill omens, donkeys are born in the wombs of cows, elephants are born in the wombs of donkeys and dogs are born in the wombs of cats. But even in the Mahabharata, there is a tendency to identify dogs with demons. For example, there is the story of the fight between the gods and the demons.8 Some brahmanas, who should have known better, sided with the demons. They became dogs and jackals and the gods killed 88,000 of their number. Or there are odd references, in a decidedly normative way, to dogs snatching at meat.9 Incidentally, the Mahabharata provides the only instance of something like a bitch-goddess in writing, although there are examples in sculpture and tantra. In Bhisma Parva, just before the Gita starts, Arjuna prays to Durga. And Durga is addressed as ‘Kokamukha’. ‘Koka’ is a wild dog. Hence, the goddess has the face of a dog. When Shiva fought Andhakasura, the Matysa Purana (179/17) does mention several goddesses or matrikas created by Shiva and one of these matrikas is named Kukkuti. But this is a rare instance.

  We have never had bitch-goddesses in India. There are possibly only two exceptions. First, there is a mythical lion-like creature encountered in Indian sculpture. In north India, this is called a vyala. In south India, this is called a yali. In sculpture, such as in the Kulikka Mandapa of the Meenkashi temple, one encounters yalis with canine heads. However, such sculpture is of much later vintage. Second, one encounters bitch-goddesses in the tantras. We will come back to the tantras later. For the moment, let us note that even in the tantras, bitch-goddesses are rare. Somewhere, between the ninth and the thirteenth centuries, tantra began to thrive and so did the cult of dakinis and yoginis. Yogini temples have been found in Orissa, Madhya Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh and Tamil Nadu. In the mandala of Vajravahi, the western direction is the direction of the dead and a red-coloured dakini presides over that direction. Her name is Svanasya and as the name implies, she is dog-headed or dog-faced. A yogini centre was the Mahamaya temple on the banks of the sacred Bhargavi river at Hirapur, near Bhubaneshwar. This temple’s gate has angry, skeletal doorkeepers and other skeletal figures with dogs or jackals. Also in the yogini/dakini tradition, sometimes a dakini has a dog as a vehicle.

  Beyond the epics, the idea of dogs barking persisted as bad omens. Kumarasambhava is an example, which is the story of the conception of Kumara, needed to defeat the demon Tarakasura. Kumarasambhava is supposed to have been written by the great poet Kalidasa, dated to some time between 56 BCE and perhaps 500 CE. The present Kumarasambhava has seventeen cantos or sargas, but all scholars agree that only the first eight were composed by Kalidasa. The remaining cantos are later interpolations. The cantos composed by Kalidasa end with Kumara’s conception. The fight between Kumara and Tarakasura is only described in interpolated cantos. As the two armies advance on each other, we are told that dogs join Tarakasura’s army, standing in front, gazing up at the sun and crying in tones that are very shrill to hear. Having done this, the dogs depart.10

  Let us get back to the Mahabharata. The taboo on dog meat belongs to a different category and we confront this in Shanti Parva in the form of the story of Vishvamitra and the chandala.11 In the process, some nasty things are said about dogs.

  This was the twilight zone between treta and dvapara yugas. For twelve years, there were no rains. It became impossible to preserve agriculture or animal husbandry and cattle. Towns and villages became desolate because of the oppression by kings and thieves. Cattle died. Hungry men resorted to cannibalism.

  At that time, the sage Vishvamitra had left his wife and children in a town and was roaming around alone. On one such occasion, he was hungry and came to a place where chandalas lived. There were broken pots, dog skins, the bones of pigs and donkeys, and clothes from dead bodies all around. Cocks and donkeys called. In some other places, chandalas were arguing and quarrelling. Vishvamitra hunted for food, but could not find anything anywhere. Not meat or grain or fruit. He was so tired and hungry that he collapsed on the ground. Suddenly, he noticed that there was some dog meat, from a dog that had just been slain, in a chandala’s hut. Vishvamitra decided that theft to save one’s life was fine. When the chandalas were sleeping during the night, Vishvamitra entered the hut and stole the dog meat.

  But the owner of the house woke up. ‘Who are you stealing the meat?’ asked the chandala. ‘You are surely going to die.’

  ‘I am Vishvamitra,’ said Vishvamitra. ‘I am half-dead from hunger. I have stolen some meat from the dog’s haunch. I have lost my knowledge of the vedas. I am no longer able to distinguish what can be eaten from what shouldn’t be eaten. I have become a thief. The god Agni eats everything. I have now become exactly like that.’

  On learning who the sage was, the chandala got up from his bed and bowed before Vishvamitra. ‘Don’t do something that is against your dharma,’ he said. ‘The learned have said that dogs are worse than jackals. And so far as dog meat itself is concerned, the meat from the haunch is worse than the meat from any other part of the body. You are a most learned and wise sage. Please find some other way of saving your life.’

  ‘There is no other way,’ replied Vishvamitra. ‘Any method is permissible, if the intention is to save one’s life. After one’s life has been saved and one has gathered strength, it is possible to revert to the path of dharma. The god Agni, the spirit of the vedas, is my strength. With his blessings, I will satisfy my hunger and save myself.’

  ‘Dog meat doesn’t help the body,’ retorted the chandala. ‘Dog meat doesn’t satisfy the mind. Among animals that have five nails, five types of animals like rabbits have been described as fit for consumption by brahmanas. Dogs are not included. Please look for some other food. Or try to control your hunger and save your dharma.’

  ‘In my present state, there is no difference between deer meat and dog meat,’ said Vishvamitra. ‘My life is at stake. Even if I perform an evil act, I will not become a chandala.’

  ‘I am requesting you because a brahmana who performs evil acts loses his brahmana powers,’ retorted the chandala. ‘I am an outcaste. If you steal dog meat from my house, your character will suffer. You will have to repent later.’

  ‘A bull that is about to drink water doesn’t stop because of a frog’s croaking,’ was Vishvamitra’s response. ‘You have no right to offer me advice.’

  Ignoring the chandala, Vishvamitra took the dog meat away. He went to the forest, having resolved to offer food to the gods and then satisfy himself and his family. He lit a fire and cooked the dog meat. Then he offered food to the gods and the ancestors. The god Indra was so pleased that he ensured that it rained. Life recovered. Vishvamitra’s sin was forgiven. The Mahabharata therefore does not actually state that Vishvamitra ate the dog meat. He stole it, cooked it and offered it to the gods. But because it rained, there was no need for Vishvamitra to actually eat the dog meat. Incidentally, Vishvamitra’s youngest son was nam
ed Sunahpuccha (dog-tail) and Sunahpuccha’s elder brother was named Sunahshefa. The meaning of this name is not clear, but certainly the dog part is beyond dispute. Sunahshefa was actually an adopted son, but that is not pertinent. For that matter, what does the word Vishvamitra mean? Vishvamitra was the son of the sage Gadhi and the grandson of Koushik. So he is also known as Koushik or Gadhiputra. The name Vishvamitra may of course have been a family or gotra name rather than an individual’s name. The tussle between Vishvamitra and Vashishtha runs through all texts, beginning with the vedas. However, in all these tales about Vishvamitra, we are never told what the name means. Interpreted in its usual fashion, Vishvamitra would mean an enemy (amitra) of the world (vishva). Despite his tussle with Vashishtha, there is nothing to suggest that he was an enemy of the world. So could it be the case that the name has a completely different meaning? Shva means dog and mitra means friend. Shvamitra is therefore someone who is a friend to dogs and Vishvamitra may simply mean someone who is a special friend to dogs. That interpretation seems to make a great deal of sense.

  The Mahabharata was certainly not composed at one point in time. In subsequent interpolations, the lowly positions of dogs and chandalas crept in. There are also places, not part of the core story, where references to chandalas and dogs together, can be found. In Ashvamedhika Parva, there is the story of Utanka, who lived in the desert. Utanka was very thirsty and Indra, disguised as a chandala, came and offered water to Utanka. Utanka refused water from a chandala. When this naked chandala is described, we find that the chandala had a sword and bows and arrows and was accompanied by several dogs.

  There is another story where drought and starvation figure.12 Before that, Bhishma has told Yudhishthira about the care one should take in donating alms to brahmanas. For example, alms should not be donated to brahmanas who hunt with dogs or those who have been bitten by dogs. The seven sages (Kashyapa, Atri, Vashishtha, Bharadvaja, Goutama, Vishvamitra, Jamadagni) and Vashishtha’s wife Arundhati had meditated and were wandering the earth. But there was a terrible drought and no food to be had. They were served by a maid named Ganda and Ganda’s husband, who was named Pashusakha. This name means a friend of an animal. Pashuhsakha was a shudra. A little later, the Mahabharata describes Pashuhsakha as Shunahsakha, which means friend of a dog. Shunahsakha is described as a mendicant, as opposed to a shudra, and is described as being accompanied by dogs. Shunahsakha is also referred to as Shunahsakhasakha. Shunahsakha would then mean Yama and Shunahsakhasakha would mean Yama’s friend, as opposed to a dog’s friend. Since Shunahsakha was hefty and the sages were lean and hungry because of the drought, Arundhati suggested that they should accept Shunahsakha’s servitude. In translations, Shunahsakha is sometimes translated as Indra. However, this does not seem to be clear in the Sanskrit.

  Dogs do not figure directly in the subsequent story. The sages refused the hospitality of King Vrishadarbhi. At this, the king performed a sacrifice and from this sacrifice, there arose a terrible ogress name Yatudhani. Her job was to find out the names of the seven sages (and Arundhati) and then destroy them. The story does not concern us. For our purposes, Shunahsakha hit the ogress on the head and destroyed her.

  The most famous dog in the Mahabharata is undoubtedly the dog that accompanied the Pandavas in Mahaprasthanik Parva. Parikshit was instated as king in Hastinapura and Vajra as king in Indraprastha. The Pandavas and Draupadi left Hastinapura. They did not head north immediately. They moved in an easterly direction and a dog began to follow them. They went all the way to the Lohit ocean, where Arjuna had to give up his bows and arrows. Then the Pandavas wanted to circumambulate the earth. They went south. Then, traversing the northern parts of the Lavana ocean, they went to the west and visited Dwarka, now swallowed up by the sea. Finally, they went north. Beyond the Himalayas. Beyond the desert sands. Beyond Mount Meru. Four Pandavas and Draupadi fell behind and died. Yudhishthira went on alone. With the dog following him.

  Indra descended in his chariot and told Yudhishthira, ‘Get into this chariot.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Yudhishthira. ‘What about my brothers and Draupadi? Please take them with us.’

  ‘You will meet them in heaven,’ replied Indra. ‘They have already reached. You will be allowed to go to heaven in your own physical body.’

  ‘This dog is devoted to me,’ said Yudhishthira. ‘I wish to take him with me. Otherwise, it will be very cruel.’

  ‘O King, you have become worthy of immortality, fame and riches that rival mine,’ retorted Indra. ‘Those are yours now. Give up this dog. That won’t be cruelty.’

  ‘O God with a thousand eyes! I am an Arya. I can’t behave like a non-Arya,’ said Yudhishthira. ‘I don’t want the riches of heaven if I have to give up this devoted dog.’

  ‘He who has a dog cannot go to heaven,’ responded Indra. ‘Dharmaraj! Give up this dog. There are gods named Krodhavasha. They destroy fruits obtained from sacrifices those who possess dogs.’

  ‘Giving up someone who has sought refuge with you, is a sin equivalent to the sin of killing a brahmana,’ said Yudhishthira. ‘I can’t give up this dog for the sake of my happiness. My principle is that I will not forsake those who are scared and feeble, those infirm followers who have sought refuge with me. I will protect them even if I have to give up my life.’

  ‘If a dog glances upon sacrifices, all the fruits of the sacrifice are wasted and lost,’ retorted Indra. ‘You have given up your brothers and Draupadi. Through your righteous action you are about to reach heaven in your own physical body. Give up this obsession for the dog.’

  ‘My brothers and Draupadi are dead,’ said Yudhishthira. ‘The dead cannot be brought back to life. Nor do the living have any connections with the dead. I don’t have the powers to revive my brothers and Draupadi. That’s the reason I have given them up. I didn’t forsake them as long as they were alive. There are four serious sins—scaring those who have sought refuge with you, killing women, killing friends and stealing the property of brahmanas. I think that forsaking one’s devotee is just as serious a sin.’

  At this, Dharma gave up his appearance of a dog. Yudhishthira went to heaven. Thanks to the dog’s transformation into a god, the moral question of whether a dog could go to heaven was avoided. Several questions remain unanswered. Buddhadeva Basu’s Mahabharater Katha is a very provocative collection of essays. Here is a free translation of what he has to say on this episode.13

  Yudhishthira was alone. But not completely alone. That dog followed him. Yudhishthira’s mahaprasthana is described in the Bhagavata Purana (1/15). But the dog finds no mention there. Markandeya Purana (13–15 adhyayas) describes a similar incident about the righteous King Vipashchit. But nothing like this animal is found there either … I can never give up the hope that some future poet will some day, amidst the commotion of a modern-day metropolis, write, in an Indian language or in a European one, a poem about this hero. A hero that is this unnamed animal, who followed the six travellers from Hastinapura, completely unnoticed and un-beckoned. That is precisely the reason this idea should inspire a poet. There are several questions that the ancient poet who composed the epics thought irrelevant. I think a modern poet will not be able to avoid them. What was that dog like? How faithful was it? Where did it get the strength for such a long journey? The Pandavas could resort to the power of yoga, they did not need to eat. Did the dog find any food on its journey? Did it steadily bring up the rear of the queue behind Draupadi? Or did it occasionally deviate, having smelt something interesting in the air? Did it sometimes rush to the front? Did it sometimes look up at its master for signs of some affection? Alternatively, did it not sometimes fall behind to urinate against the trunk of a tree? In search of meat, did it not kill a rabbit or a cat? Did it not almost lose its fellow travellers when it got distracted at the sight of a young bitch? Was not the dog upset when five of the six travellers fell down by the wayside and died? Did it not whimper or cry? A modern poet will furnish these details so that the dog comes to life. A m
odern poet will not hesitate to say that the dog sometimes felt tired. Because of the pangs of hunger, it ate the dung of animals. But even then, despite hunger and tiredness, it did not deviate from its path. The modern poet will give us some kind of an answer as to why the dog was not scared for his own life, even after five of the travellers had died. Unmindful of what was happening, was the dog so animal-like in its stupidity that it proceeded so far along the path before realizing that it was too late to turn back? Or for some mysterious reason, did Yudhishthira attract the dog like a magnet? Our minds witness a strange sight. Mountains everywhere. During the day, the sun’s rays shine like a crystal. At night, the stars shine among pale blue ice. And through that, through a narrow path, walks a man followed by a dog. Through day and night, at the same speed, for an objective that is unknown. Peaceful and calm, Yudhishthira and his fellow traveller. Not the reservoir of milk, revered by brahmanas and kshatriyas. Not a bull or swan ridden by gods. Not a beautiful eight-antlered deer that lives on sacred food. But an animal universally hated by Aryas, at whose sight sacrificial offerings became impure and whose life was spent in the company of the lowest of the low, the chandalas.