Mahārṣis

*This short story is accompanied by a visual album, [here](/aryavarta/maharishis)*. Having spent close to six months in Kurukshetra, Kaushika decided that it was time to leave.  King Janmejaya Kuru did not accept this without contest. He had grown fond of his guest, so refreshingly outer-worldly was Kaushika’s view to him. Not happy to let Kaushika depart easily, he tried different approaches. The newest one was the enticement of marriage to a fine Kuru maiden. “Was there no woman in your life?” Asked King Janmejaya. “I imagine it would be harder to leave home for foreign lands if there is love holding you back.” Kaushika smiled in reminiscence. The life of a crown-prince was not without several perks- not the least of which was attention of the opposite sex. And his adolescent-self had held special attention for one girl in particular. The memory of her face was hazy now, but not the way he felt about her. To Janmejaya he said, “I got out of my home before such allures could entrap me!” “And in Dvarika? Did you find no one in your three years there?”   Kaushika smiled again, enjoying King Janmejaya’s amiable curiosity. He had obliged it with vivid tales of his time in Dvarika, delivered to the King after the night’s dinner. “If you could smell me when I was in Dvarika, you would not ask me this question. No woman ventured anywhere near the fishing docks and markets, such was our collective stench!” King Janmejaya laughed heartily, again screwing his face into an expression quite opposite in effect to what his face paint would have desired. Kaushika laughed with him, realizing at this time of parting that in Janmejaya he had made a friend. “Are you sure you cannot stay with us longer?” King Janmejaya asked once their laughter died down, his expression now grim.   Kaushika’s reply was sombre and determined. “We will meet again, Kuru King. But for now I must make my way to Trigarta, and then Mulyasthana. Who knows, perhaps I will travel beyond the Sindhu into Dasa lands as well. But as all creatures do, one day I will return home. And I will pass through Kurukshetra then, with great delight and anticipation.” King Janmejaya nodded in acceptance. “I will not hold you against your wishes, trader from Kanyakubja. But before you go, will you not tell me your true identity?” Kaushika frowned. “What do you mean?” King Janmejaya gave a thin smile, but this time it perfectly complemented the lines of yellow, white and red smeared on his face. “You fight like a warrior, move like royalty, and talk like a man of refined wisdom- and you look no older than twenty five. You are no trader, dear Kaushika. If you were, I do not think you would have come to speaking to me with such familiarity. I am a King after all, I daresay the first you have actually met- assuming your claimed background to be true.” Bharata Crown-Prince and Kuru King stared at each other, a battle of steel raging between their gaze. There was no pretence in Kaushika’s poise now- Janmejaya had peeled away the false layers of a trader, fisherman and even ascetic before that. Now the exiled prince stood like the trained, skilled and regal scion that he was.   King Janmejaya’s lips curved at the perceivable change in his guest’s demeanour. “Yes!” He hissed with delight. “Now the true form emerges! Come, Kaushika, you have no reason to be tense. We do not count any tribe in Aryavarta as enemy, not yet at least. Your lineage will bring you no danger within my Kingdom- reveal it!” “I should hope not, King Janmejaya,” said Kaushika. “Through Suhotra- the elder son of First King Bharata, came Samvarna- who was ancestor to you.  Through Suhotra also came the line of Kushambha, survived now by King Vishvaratha- son of the late Gathin. Vishvaratha’s elder brother Putakritu is his advisor, and younger brother is exiled- ordained to spend twenty years outside the borders of Bharatvarsha.” Janmejaya’s wide smile showed off his black, broken teeth. But Kaushika detected no malice in those red eyes. “The exiled brother is you, my dear guest! Which makes us relatives! What a parting gift that is, prince Kaushika of Kaushambhi.” Kaushika relaxed- Janmejaya’s usual amiability was back, and the King did seem genuinely happy at the revelation. “Then you will let me depart?” Janmejaya nodded vigorously. “As I said, your lineage brings you no danger here. Especially since it is also my lineage! I fare you well, dear relative. How many years must pass before I see you again?” “Twenty years is the period of exile,” Kaushika replied. “Of which twelve are left.” “And what do you plan to do in this time?” Janmejaya asked. “To become a seer,” Kaushika said instantly. “I plan to go the way of a rshi, King Janmejaya. Prior to Dvarika, I spent close to four years in the Himalaya- meditating in remote caves like the Maharshis of legend. Now I need something to more closely replicate their experiences- something I cannot find anywhere in Bharatvarsha.” “What is that?” “Soma. We chant prayers to it, but we find crude substitutes in the actual ritual- for there is no Soma in our lands. But I have heard that there is Soma in Mulyasthana, and that is where I am headed.” *** The two seers surveyed each other, assessing and scrutinizing. Kashyapa was the taller, and he was also the elder. But both were now over a hundred years old. Atri’s bald head and faint beard stood in stark contrast to Kashyapa’s long, flowing white streaks. Whatever their bodies betrayed however, theirs were limbs trained to endure elements like no other mortal. For years they had meditated in these mountains together, friends and co-pupils under Bhrigu. Here they were again, decades later, on the banks of a glacier deep in the Himalaya. Two great rivers, the Sindhu and the Shatadru, found their sources from the water wells beneath the glacier. Come summer, there would be a gentle spring here, shaped like a lion’s mouth. But its erstwhile ice and snow would be powering the ferocious flow of rivers further downstream. Countless years ago, this was the very spot where they had found Bhrigu. The ever changing landscape of snow-fall hid the cave where Bhrigu had instructed his only two pupils. Inside the cave, and out around the glacier, they had chanted hymns with Bhrigu for months and years. Bhrigu was long gone now, and both seers knew that their time was soon coming to an end as well. The tortoise and the goat were making their last journey together. “You look old,” Atri commented with feigned disdain.   “And you could be a Suryavanshi warrior,” Kashyapa jested. Atri chuckled, and the friends met in a gentle embrace. This side of the mountain fell in its shadow, there was no sunlight to soften the piercing cold elements. Yet the two sages were not robed in the skins that most men used. They were clad in sparse fabric, dyed the soft hue of dawn. It was as if they were immune to the elements, for neither shivered in the cold nor clattered his teeth- actions that would have been considered perfectly normal. But then these were Maharshis- men who had spent decades to attain control over their bodies. A lone dog had accompanied Kashyapa on his arduous journey to the spot. Conducted entirely on foot, it took him close to two months from his usual retreats. His own descendants, the Suryavanshi, had their capital close to there. The dog joined Kashyapa a week into his journey, and the seer did not mind its silent company. Even now, it stood silently and observed the sages embrace. A fortnight ago, Kashyapa passed close to a settlement of Yakshas. Their tribes were usually inclined to leave Kashyapa alone, but this time a young Yaksha ventured close, his face snarling of malevolence.  That was the only time Kashyapa heard the dog bark, it howled and chased the Yaksha away before returning to him- silent again. When he set sight on Atri though, he settled in meekly behind Kashyapa and let the human take lead.   “I feel as if I should bore you with mundane affairs first,” Atri said. The seers used a refined dialect, their pronunciation perfect and precise.   “Bore away,” Kashyapa said. They found a patch of mountain bush, and pressed it down to make themselves a place to sit. Satisfied that the new human posed no threat to him and his human friend, the dog made a place for himself in the grass and sat down beside them.   “When was the last time you received any news?” Atri asked. “Long ago, somewhere around the time when the boy Ikshvaku was crowned King. How fares he now?” “He prepares for battle and conquest,” Atri replied. “The lands around Avisari and Kapisa have been cleared of all Yakshas, and he has done much the same with the Rakshasas in Kamyakvana. Now he sets his sight on the distant west, the lands beyond the Sindhu. I suspect that he anticipates a spurt of royal claim around his kingdom.” Kashyapa nodded, absorbing the information about his descendants. It was a strange feeling, hearing about his progeny from such a detached and distant perspective. A vague corner of his heart took comfort from the prosperity of his children. But the larger, more conscious awareness accepted Atri’s words with a general indifference. He decided to change the topic. “I have explored the theory you once suggested about my name, the title of Kashyapa,” he said. “It was more than a theory,” Atri replied. “I was and remain convinced of the primeval links to your name.” “My father loved rivers, and the beings that reside in them,” Kashyapa said, eyes glazed in thought. “To him the tortoise was a hardy creature, stubborn and resilient, so he named me after it. He believed the name would bear me well, once I inherited the Solar leadership from him.” “I always assumed that he named you after the original Kashyapa,” Atri said. “The original Kashyapa was a biologist. To him we attribute discovery of concepts such as chamasa- the cell, shukra- sperm, shonita- ovum, kalala- the zygote and many more. The ancient song writers wove legends around him, figuratively calling him the father of all that he discovered. I believe that this Kashyapa discovered the link between the first cell, aquatic life forms, amphibians, mammals, primeval man and finally modern human beings.” Atri nodded in approval and appreciation of Kashyapa’s speculations. A hymn, recently revealed to him, now appeared on his lips, *hiraṇyagarbhaḥ samavartatāgre bhūtasya jātaḥ patirekāsīta |* *sa dādhāra pṛthvīṃ dhyāmutemāṃ kasmai devāyahaviṣā vidhema ||* Kashyapa’s eyes narrowed as he worked out the syllables in his head, then he nodded in understanding. “I did hear reports that rshis across the land are discovering chains of syllables with profound meaning.” “The reports exaggerate, the rshis are not across the land as much as congregated in specific centres. And I do not think we are really discovering things, we are simply codifying ancient memes, retained in our consciousness through the generations. The memes are combinations of history, philosophy, geography and so much more. In a few generations, we will reach a stage where rshis can create entire chains themselves.” “Is that what you devote your time to, then?” Kashyapa asked. “Yes and no. Yes, because the syllables do indeed come to me during hours of deep meditation. No, because I do not consciously seek them- like the Vasishthas of the Suryavanshi do. My time is spent more on the material aspects of the culture we seem to be building. I am convinced that any effect of these syllables is not mutually exclusive of the outward actions of the person uttering them. There must be a science to creating the external environment around them.” “And has your study yielded results yet?” Kashyapa asked. It was difficult to say whether his curiosity was genuine or polite, Kashyapa was notorious for the iciness of his bearing.   “Till recently, it hadn’t,” Atri admitted. “However, a few months ago I received word from the Vasishthas. They had unlocked a set they called the Nasadiya Sukta, and they sent a group of rshis to teach the same to my students. We experimented with this sukta, as we do with all. And to our surprise, results with this sukta exceeded our expectations. We were working with the construction specifications of fire altars, trying different values and designs to see how they affected the results. The practice of submitting materials to Agni is well established, but there are no set rules on the construction of altars. In collaboration with the rshis that Vasishtha sent, we perfected certain construction designs that really opened up the Nasadiya Sukta to perception. We were able to transmit its meanings with greater ease, and rshis unravelled its layers swiftly. I invited the Vasishthas to experience it themselves, it left them overwhelmed.” Kashyapa had been listening sombrely while Atri narrated his tale. Now, he said with obvious interest, “This is something I must experience for myself. Come, share the hymn with me.” “I do not suggest hearing it here. Return with me to Plaksha, and listen to the sukta under the conducive environs of a Mahavedi, the great fire altar.” *** “Three, four and five,” Vitihotri enumerated, “Five, twelve and thirteen; eight, fifteen and seventeen and finally twelve, thirty-five and thirty-seven. There are bound to be more, but our designs have not needed any higher sets.” A few days ago, Vitihotri had explained to Kashyapa this basic rule of measurement. Kashyapa understood that it had to do with adding the squared values of certain numbers, and that value was equal to the squared value of the third side of a particular triangle. Vitihotri had excitedly narrated to him how he discovered the theorem, and then explained its applications in the construction of fire altars. Atri had forewarned Kashyapa of the animated nature of Vitihotri’s character. “Do not talk to him and expect to find a rshi,” Atri said. “He cares not for the esoteric motivations that lead us to build these altars. His is the curious mind of a mathematician, seeing beauty and symmetry in the material world.” “These sets become important when we want to build altars of different sizes,” Vitihotri explained, his tone excited as always. “Maharshi Atri has theorized that different designs are suitable for different purposes.” While he talked, his hands worked around with a cord of rope, bending it at various angles to demonstrate the designs to Kashyapa. “Prayers to the Devas are best done with the design of a falcon, soaring high towards the sky. Prayers to the world of the Mind, such as those you favour, might benefit by a tortoise design- stable and resilient in its grounding.” Kashyapa had to chuckle at that. “So a tortoise design for a tortoise seer,” he commented. Vitihotri smiled broadly, encouraged by the Maharshi’s humour. He had been wary of the seer, not sure if he would subscribe to this combination of esoteric mathematics and symbolic ritualism. “A happy coincidence,” he replied. “But the best part was finding the design suited for the Nasadiya Sukta. We experimented with the alajachita first- the falcon design. It yielded only disappointment. Then Maharshi Atri suggested that we shape the altar like a great egg- the Hiranyagarbha. The sukta is about Creation after all, and what existed in the beginning, if not the primeval egg? Even if it was nothingness, how else do we represent nothingness in a material world?” “I take it that the Hiranyagarbha design yielded success?” “Immensely,” Vitihotri replied happily. “Even I was able to perceive the profound queries the sukta raises, to appreciate the pertinence of the Nasadiya Sukta.”   “What about the rest here,” Kashyapa asked, spreading his arms out wide to indicate to the buzz of activity around them. “How has this ritualism come about?” “Most of it has always existed, has it not? We have instances of grand rituals conducted even during the First Manvantara; they were favoured by the Devas and Asuras as well. What Maharshi Atri attempts is only to find a science to it, or construct one if none exists. Come, let me guide you through this layout.” Vitihotri led Kashyapa along the vast apparatus that was constructed for the recitation of the Nasadiya Sukta. “There are five elements to this design, and four of them lie on the circumference of an imagined Hiranyagarbha. The fifth and central element, the Mahavedi, lies at the center of this circle.” He led Kashyapa to the nearest element. “This is the Drishnya, a side altar of my own design. Think of this as an outlet valve for impurities. The fire on this altar is meant to negate the effects of mispronunciations and other speech or grammatical errors.”   The Drishnya was a mound of soil and cow dung. Dry pieces of wood were plunged into the heap to stick out at the centre, where several smaller logs were placed. A fence two bricks high was placed around the heap in a square form. Vitihotri then walked towards the next altar, and a similar altar was placed at the opposite end of the circle. “This is the Somadrishnya,” Vitihotri explained, “And the opposite altar is the Agnidrishnya. They are meant for prayer to Agni and Soma, the chief deities of our design. At the centre of the arc between these two altars is the Uttaravedi. That is the altar where the primary sacred fire of the ritual will be lit.” The Uttaravedi was shaped as a falcon, and Kashyapa realized that the Hiranyagarbha contained other designs within it. In the Uttaravedi, Kashyapa saw bricks of various sizes and shapes, and it was obvious that Vitihotri’s skills had really come into play here. He saw the work of precise measurements and angles that Vitihotri had explained to him in the past few days. Triangular bricks of various sizes stuck against each other, mixed with other polygons and rectangles to form the unmistakable shape of a soaring falcon, although it could easily be seen as an eagle or kite.  Kashyapa smiled, another predecessor of his name was credited as the father of Garuda, the ancient and primeval eagle- and by extension father of all birds. Taken in totality, the Uttaravedi was more than double the size of the Somadrishnya and Agnidrishnya, but the Mahavedi was the largest, forming a spacious rectangle in the middle of the Hiranyagarbha. While the Uttaravedi was four bricks high, the Mahavedi stood at an imposing twelve bricks that formed a square fence around it. At the four corners a brick each had been removed, making the total number of bricks in the Mahavedi equal to forty four. Vitihotri explained that it represented the forty four syllables of the tristubha meter- the meter of the Nasadiya Sukta. He happily went on to speculate how numbers formed a potent link between the various elements, and Kashyapa politely humoured the young mathematician. It was bright in the day by the time Maharshi Atri and his group of rshis gathered to commence the ritual. The Drishnyas and the Vedis were lit one by one. It took little time to light them up, but the Uttaravedi was a different matter altogether. Its immense size required copious amounts of ghee to be poured over the massive logs. Even with several rshis continuously pouring ghee and adding logs, the Uttaravedi took a long time to finally light up, but once it was lit it blazed with an angry glory- dancing against the gentle wind. It was by noon that they had the Mahavedi lit, and its flaming mass combined with the scorching sun made for a hot, sweltering ritual. Kashyapa saw several of the rshis trying to make distance between them and the flames, perspiring endlessly. Vitihotri walked around animatedly, making sure that the constructions were holding. Seated at the Mahavedi, Maharshi Atri and a few chosen rshis began uttering the syllables of the Nasadiya Sukta. Their voices rang in perfect unison, easily rising over the sounds of fire fighting against the wind. Seated behind them, Kashyapa soaked the heat of the Mahavedi flames.  Accustomed as his body was to the icy cold of the north, he welcomed the soothing heat of the sacrificial flames. When Atri and his rshis began chanting, Kashyapa concentrated on the syllables, ensuring that his mind absorbed every phoneme and the sequence perfectly. It was a pioneering sukta, he could see that even as the first verses were recited. A part of his mind reached out to the past, and tried to remember Vasishtha, the young but promising friend of his son, Vivasvana. That was more than fifty years ago, and Vasishtha was only twenty-eight when Vaivasvat was born to Vivasvana. Even as he appreciated the syllables of the sukta, admiration poured out of Kashyapa for his erstwhile student. And if Vasishtha’s son was anything like his father, then many more years of spiritual pioneerism were yet to come. Before the second reading, a rshi brought forth a large pouch and cut a hole at its bottom. Silver-transparent liquid poured out into the fires of the Somadrishnya. Another group of rshis manning the Soma altar uttered their prayers to Soma, and consecrated the liquid in the pouch. The rshi brought the pouch over to the Mahavedi, and the Soma was shared among the Maharshis Atri and Kashyapa and the other rshis. By the fourth reading of the Nasadiya Sukta, Kashyapa was beginning to see visions of heat and energy, blazing bright before his mind’s eye. It was at the sixth reading that he felt himself enter the world of Creation, hovering above it as an observer would. At the seventh reading, the Hiranyagarbha was revealed to him and he felt himself dissipating. Was he going into non-existence, he wondered. By the tenth reading of the Nasadiya Sukta, Kashyapa was entranced by the Soma and the effects of the sukta itself, unable to discern the difference between himself and the altars’ flames dancing around him. Ritually, he was at the centre of the Hiranyagarbha, as existent or non-existent as the great egg was itself. Spiritually however, thesSukta and Soma had transported him to an alien world, a world where physics as he understood it was different. What were the dimensions here? What was up, and what was down? Who was he, for he was certain that he was not Kashyapa in this world.   By the time the sun began sinking below the mountains, the Nasadiya Sukta had been recited over forty times, becoming as much a part of the environment as the winds in Plaksha. Kashyapa perceived its various layers, coming to understand a concept he had not even been aware of till a few days ago. Unaware to his consciousness, he had joined in the recitation a long time ago, and even now he felt it echo inside him- the Eulogy of Non-Existence. And so he uttered the Sacred Syllable that his student had taught him, and felt himself melt into complete extinction. *This short story is accompanied by a visual album, [here](/aryavarta/maharishis)*.