Itihasa, a Short Story

Year 915 of the Seventh Manvantara“A great battle is coming, young Sudas,” said Rshi Vasishtha.  “But likely that your father will not lead the Bharatas to war and victory, you will.” “We have always been at war, Rshi Vasishtha,” said Sudas, the twelve year old crown prince of Prayaga.  “Every Bharata King has given his life to the Kingdom.” “Well said,” Rshi Vasishtha said approvingly.  “But few have bothered to learn why the war exists in the first place.  Why does Bharata fight Puru, or Yadava roar against the Suryavansha?  Why does the Anu ally with the Puru but not with the Druhyu, and why do both howl for Bharata blood?  Have you thought about this, Sudas?” Sudas contemplated on Rshi Vasishtha’s query, for his father had lectured him on the tribal histories once.  But Rshi Vasishtha was the Rajpurohit- Royal Priest of Prayaga.  His knowledge and wisdom were unparalleled perhaps in all of Aryavarta.  Rshi Vasishtha had tutored Sudas’s father and grandfather, and now he would mentor the young crown prince into a man fit to lead the Grand Bharata Kingdom- Bharatvarsha to its proud citizens.  The Grand Kingdom’s western borders started from the Iravati River, encompassing the ancient towns of Sakala and Prasthala before covering the lands between Plaksha and Vinasana on the Sarasvati.  At the centre of the Kingdom, covering the fertile grounds between Ahikshetra, Bharatpura, Kampilya and Prayaga was the territory ruled by King Pijavana- father to Sudas.  There were other Bharata cities- mighty capitals to other Kings, all of whom were uncles to Sudas.  But that was where Sudas’s knowledge about Aryavarta ended.  He knew naught of the Puru Kingdom in Hastinapura and Haradvara, or of the Suryavanshi capital nestled in the forests- Ayodhya.  Nor did he know how far south the Yadavas’ Kingdom extended, or how far east the Anavas’.  Rshi Vasishtha caught the abashed look in his pupil’s eyes and said, “It is no matter, no student can be held for his ignorance of that which his guru has not taught him, yet.  In your early years with me, I concentrated on giving you the spiritual wisdom that a young, malleable mind needs to sombre itself against this world.  Then, you needed to know all the rituals and protocols that any Bharata prince must, and I told myself that one day I would come to teaching you of the history and ways of Aryavarta.  But now I am running out of time.  Soon you will be called to the barracks, and your time with me will be over.” Rshi Vasishtha’s ashrama was less than half a day’s walk away from Prayaga.  The waters of the Ganga-Yamuna confluence had been diverted away to a stream that ran around the ashram, and the meticulously planted rows of trees cast streaks of sunlight onto guru and pupil.  The ashrama was home to the most prestigious branch of the Vasishtha School in Aryavarta, rivalled only by the branch run in Ayodhya- capital city of the Suryavanshi.  Sudas was one of two hundred pupils at the ashrama, but as the crown-prince he merited special tutelage from the Rajpurohit Rshi Vasishtha.  “That will not be for another three years, guruji,” said young Sudas.  “There is enough time for me to learn of itihasa- the story of how it was.” Rshi Vasishtha smiled at his pupil.  The young crown prince had an endearing curiosity, and a balance of intellect that was never present in his father or grandfather.  “Where would I begin, young Sudas,” said the Rshi with twinkling eyes.  There were countless stories in his mind, stories of a glorious land and grand Kings- Kings who moulded it into what they now called Aryavarta.  Vasishtha had so much to share with his ward, and for once he would narrate to eager ears.   “It begins with the story of Bhrigu and Kashyapa- great men who you know as Maharshis.”  Vasishtha said.  “Theirs is a tale more than a thousand years old, for that is how far the history of Aryavarta goes.  And Maharshi Kashyapa was great-grandfather to the famed King Ikshvaku- founder of the Suryavansha and widely known as the First King of Aryavarta.” Sudas’s eyes lit up at the mention of the Suryavansha.  It was one of Aryavarta’s greatest tribes, and even though the Bharata and Suryavansha had never met in battle, his father always spoke of their martial prowess with awe.  “Is it true that the Suryavanshi wiped out the Purus completely?”  Sudas asked, recalling something his father had once told him.   “They more or less did,” replied Rshi Vasishtha, “but we are getting ahead of ourselves.  The story begins with the numerous Solar tribes that migrated into Aryavarta, united and led by their patriarch chief Marici.  By the privilege of belonging to the Vasishtha School, I know their story.  And thus also of the founding of the Suryavansha.” A gentle breeze lilted Rshi Vasishtha’s long hair and loose robes, and a lone streak of sunlight struck through the trees to the back of his head, forming an aura around Sudas’s guru and guide.  Vasishtha’s head was a silhouette and only his eyes twinkled from that shadow, his deep voice carrying over to Sudas sitting some distance away and lower from him.  “The Solar tribes comprised those semi-nomadic, pastoralist people that roamed that lands from Sringara to Kapisa, Gandhara and beyond.  These were people who worshipped Surya- the patron Deva who ruled their lives.  Much like the clan of Atri and Budha rose to prominence along the Sarasvati, the clan of Marici’s forefathers rose among the people of Surya.  But when the lands north and west grew barren and the seasons harsh, these Solar tribes realised that the time for them to settle down had finally arrived.  It was Marici that led them into Aryavarta, crossing the Sindhu and reaching all the way to the Sarasvati.  But Marici is not as important to us as was his son Kashyapa; or Kashyapa’s guru Bhrigu.” Year 6963, Sixth EraThe ascetic danced naked around the fire, impervious to the ice and cold around him.  His damp cave was peppered with snow, blown in by waves of intense winds.  Their loud, gushing sounds gave an echoing halo to the ascetic’s deep chants.  It took him three days to get the fire going, his hands bruised and bloody from the effort.  Now the flames fought against the wind, billowing back and forth with an amorphous outline.  He kept throwing logs into the fire, following a ritual chant of his own invention. Hours passed and his dance continued.  The snow lodged itself in his unkempt beard and ears, on the jagged edges of his gaunt cheekbones and around his nostrils and eyes.  The fire stood valiantly alive, but it did nothing to improve his frigid surroundings.  Not that he needed it to- the fire was of a different relevance to him.  He waved his arms around it, close to it and through it- sculpting its shape as a potter would a pot’s.  Various herbs were hidden in nooks and crannies in his cave, well shielded from the winds that would otherwise blow them away.  He plucked from them and cast them into the fire, raising his voice and chanting louder.  Chant after chant, he felt the energy rise as the sequences of syllables harmonised the elements around him.  But as always he felt that something was missing- a specific combination of syllables that would describe the magnificent force he danced around.  He played with sounds in his head, trying out different combinations of sonants.  Bhri-gu, Bhri-gu- those two syllables formed his name Va-yu, Va-yu- the gushing winds that swirled in and out of his cave.  It had to be a two-syllabled code, something that locked in itself the same potency as the flames he had to name. Taking care to keep feeding logs into the fire, Bhrigu continued his fire ritual. Dancing to an unknown tune running in his head, he played with syllables and meters as if they hung in the air around him.  As the frenzy rose in him, the flames seemed to get more hostile against the wind- their eternal enemy.  They cast wild shadows on the walls of his cave, silhouettes of figures from his myths and memories.  The very elements were dancing in battle, and Bhrigu danced with them.  Embers swirled in the air as ash and fell back into the fire, but in their shadows Bhrigu saw only the figures of Shining Men. He saw them glitter and sparkle, as if the flames were shining off the walls of his cave.  The Shining Men rose from an ocean and strode across the fields tall and proud.  They acted out their lives for Bhrigu, living and fighting on the walls of his cave.  He perceived their faces- radiant and glorious, benevolent and austere.  Then, as his entheogenic journey reached his peak, the final pieces of the puzzle fell into place.  As if they were always there, and only now could Bhrigu see them.  Deva!  He said in his head, and a flurry of ancient memes stored in his memory flooded into his consciousness.  He finally knew what the fire was, what it always had been.  It was a Deva, a Shining Man resplendent among the constellation of Shining Men.  The Soma threatened to overwhelm Bhrigu’s perception, thoughts flowed past him faster than he could process, and yet he felt that everything was making sense, even if fleetingly.  He focussed his mind on the Devas, the Shining Men.  As if to hold on to the vision of them he said their names out aloud, locking those syllables into the air around him and making them curl like the particles of ash and soot.  Some names he had always known, others now appeared to him clear as living beings. “Indra, Vayu, Agni, Surya, Mitra, Soma, Varuna,” Bhrigu chanted, and with this elemental heptagon his rituals could be complete.  A lone spot glittered amid the mountains, flickering in and out of visibility.  This singular source of light hinted at the presence of other tribes, and it worried the night scout.  He picked himself up and bounded back towards camp.  He carried no torch, but the moon was close to full and there was ample light.  He made for the chief patriarch’s tent and gently called out, “My chief.”   There was the sound of someone ruffling out of bed, and then the Chief stepped out.  “I see fire in the distance,” the scout whispered to him anxiously. There was no drowsiness in the Chief’s eyes.  “Show me,” he said. The scout led his Chief to the sentry spot and pointed across the valley into the grey-white mountains, half hidden among clouds.  The Chief squinted in the direction.  The spot was high on a mountain amid the Himalaya.  There was no way it could be a tribe up there, not when everyone was making their way to the river lands.  But the fire worried him just the same- who would be there in the harsh cold?  And what good would a fire do in that wind?  Could a single man even survive alone in the mountains?  And if not, then there had to be a tribe somewhere near the base.  The Chief sighed heavily, it was not easy to keep his tribe on the move undetected and unassailed by the other tribes.  And whatever route to the Sindhu he charted, it was ridden with wild bands of strange, exotic tribes that were never found in the lands of pasture and horses.  The Chief was desperate to get his tribe across to the land of infinite rivers and fertile soils. But east of the Sindhu was a month’s travel away, and this was still wild land that belonged to countless savage tribes.  And that was not counting other nomadic tribes, all of whom were trying to find a home for themselves either side of the Sindhu.  The days of pasture were coming to a close, and the Chief had to settle his tribe before it was wiped out by others.  He turned his attention back to the flickering spot on the mountain across and decided not to devote too much worry to it. He asked the scout to keep an eye out and went back to salvage what sleep he could before the new day began. He was up before the crack of dawn, ready to welcome Surya- his patron deity, into the morning sky.  His first thoughts went to the fire from the previous night, to that solitary individual he imagined in a cave on the mountains across.  He finished his ablutions and cleaned up after the cattle before the others awoke and joined him the morning chores of the tribe.   “Good morning, Chief,” greeted Parvata, a distant third-cousin and prominent member of the tribe.  Parvata was as good with the weapon and horse as with the cattle, and only a few years younger to him. “Good morning, Parvata,” replied Marici, chief and patriarch of the tribe.  It was a chilly morning, the sun’s rays bringing little heat so early in the day.  “We must make good ground today.” Parvata nodded in agreement and patted his horse fondly.  “I hear we spotted someone across the mountain last night.” “We spotted a lone flame flickering from a high point on the mountain, too high to be any tribe’s establishment,” Marici replied.  “It is also opposite to the direction we’re headed in, so I’m not worrying too much.” They finished patting down the horses and congregated with the rest of the tribe.  This was Marici’s time to dispense his rule and law.  “Let us begin,” he said loudly, easily sending his voice to the hundred of his clan gathered.  In turn they would take his message to their sub-clans and spread it to hundreds more, giving Marici authority over seven hundred men and women.  He inherited this authority from his grandfather, who had united more than fifteen warring tribes into one and enabled the progress from pasture to farm.   “We offer our prayers to Surya,” Marici said, “and bask our bodies beneath its morning rays.”  Together the members of the tribe conducted the varying postures of the Surya Namaskara- their tribal salutation to the sun.  They performed it in perfect unison, bodies and breathing in complete sync with each other after a lifetime of daily practice.  As they practiced the postures, Marici chanted the sacred hymn in his best, booming voice.  “We worship the Sun- He Who Sits at the Centre of Our Lotus Universe.  Wearing kohl and the crown of golden goat, he holds a conch, a yogic wheel and glitters with luminescence.” When the Namaskara was done they broke their silence and uttered the tribal incantations, praising the sun and welcoming its arrival into the day.  Then Marici took his place on the raised podium, fashioned out of bales of dry grass layered with animal hides.   “Are there any disputes for the day?”  Marici asked.  This was how he began every morning’s gathering, giving his people the space to resolve their conflicts.  On this day there were the usual cases of cattle or metal-ware theft.  Marici gave swift, decisive verdicts that were disputed by none.  When he was done, Marici put his hand inside his robes and pulled out his old metal chain.  Odd-shaped trinkets of metal were fused into each other, and at the bottom hung a flattened piece shaped into a rough circle.  The sun was engraved on the piece, with its rays drawn all the way to the edges of the circular piece.  Marici raised the pendant for all to see, establishing his authority by the ancestral inheritance- the sacred seal of Surya.  Some said that Surya himself had handed the seal down to Marici’s first ancestor, and he never dispelled such rumours.   “Today we must travel long and hard,” he began, “and journey further towards the Sindhu.  The advance scouts have reported that several tribes are on the move like us, some headed in the opposite direction.  Our direction is roughly south-east from here, cutting right into the heart of the five rivers beyond the Sindhu.  And we must complete this journey before the winter truly sets in.”   Marici commended his tribe for their perseverance, and then proceeded to the obligatory meet and greets with individual members, heads of their own sub-clans.  Their loyalty to him was what promised him his authority, and though he traced blood-ties with all of them, most of his power was referent.  Seven hundred people do not begin journeying all at once, and so Marici waited as individual sub-clans gathered their numbers and began trudging across the landscape.  Given his status as the Chief, there was an extra obligation upon his own clan.  It was his clan’s duty to protect the lives of others and their cattle stock.  After all they were the fighters and warriors among the tribe, the others being cattle-herders, wood cutters and potters.  So Marici’s clan was split in half.  One half begun the journey first, leading the way for the rest of the sub clans.  Marici led the latter half which brought up the rear, ensuring that the sick or wounded were not left behind.   It was not until they prodded their horses on did Marici get to see his son, Kashyapa.  Nineteen years old and a mirror image of his father, Kashyapa was the tribe’s future hope.  From his father he carried the solar ancestry, and Marici’s authority would pass on to him along with his ancestral pendant.  “Where have you been all morning?”  Marici asked as Kashyapa’s horse took pace right beside his. “Here and there, helping out,” Kashyapa replied.  “There are many disputes that don’t make it to your morning councils, and most of them end up coming to me.” Marici nodded knowingly, having experienced the same in his own younger days.  There were many who were afraid of taking their issues to the grim, fearsome clan-head.  Instead they would go to the clan-head’s young son, feeling greater comfort in airing their views to the son than to the father.  It was good training for Kashyapa, and Marici felt pleased that his son was fulfilling the role he was meant to play in the tribe’s social dynamics.  “I’ve sent a scout party to the mountains across, behind us,” Kashyapa said, “to investigate the fire from the night before.” Marici frowned.  “And what would you do with the information?”  He asked his son. “Not all intelligence need be actionable,” Kashyapa replied confidently.  “Simply knowing what tribes inhabit these lands is valuable information in itself.  Tomorrow when we have made our homes among the five rivers, perhaps these tribes will be the ones invading our lands looking to settle down.”  Marici nodded at his son’s sharp observations.  “And what if all you find is a wandering ascetic?” “Then I would like to know how a man can survive up there all alone, and I would like to learn from him,” Kashyapa replied.