Verse 4

In plain words

24. Parīkṣit, Struck by a Curse As Parīkṣit listened, through Vyāsa, to the Bhakti and śraddhā of the Pāṇḍavas, and to the powers of Śrī Kṛṣṇa's grace, he lost all sense of the difference between night and day, sinking and rising in bliss; and just then the twittering song of birds and the cocks' crowing — 'kokkoroko!' — were heard. The Suprabhātam was heard, and the bells in the temples began to ring. Parīkṣit Goes Hunting in Dejection Thinking, 'Well! It has dawned,' the revered Vyāsa blessed Parīkṣit, saying, 'My child! I will take my leave now,' took his kamaṇḍalu in hand and departed. Watching the revered Vyāsa depart, an anguish he could not understand arose in Parīkṣit. 'Alas! Has it dawned already? The mighty Bhakti and powers of my grandfathers — I could not hear of them to the full!' So he thought in dejection. Turning over in his mind the things he had heard, and not knowing what to do, he finished his morning routine; and since his mind would not turn in the least to the business of governing the kingdom, and thinking that if he stayed at home some administrative matters or other would keep creeping into his head, he wished to be alone, resolved to go to the forest to hunt, and sent word to his retinue. Presently, when the doorkeeper reported that everything had been made ready, with a heavy heart and thoughts without zest, he dragged his body along and at last reached the chariot.

Very well! The retinue, in the customary way, set out on the march in front of and behind [the king], bearing weapons fit for the hunt. Then — who knows what came over the king! — saying, 'There is no need for so large a retinue to come,' he ordered some of them to go back. Taking along only a handful, he entered the forest. Presently some wild beasts came toward them, herd upon herd. The moment he saw them, a certain eagerness surged up in the king; he got down from the chariot, took up his arrows, and set about hunting them on foot. Meanwhile those wild beasts scattered in all directions. The few soldiers who were there chased after them, each taking a different path. The Mahārāja, having hunted some of the beasts, himself took a path of his own. The Mahārāja, pursuing some of the beasts, went off along a path of his own. Separated from one another in the forest and with no contact [with the others], he began to search for water. At last, somehow, a leaf-hut came into view, and he ran to it with hope as high as a mountain. When they went there and looked, no people at all were to be seen. The king called out from outside, shouting in many ways. No one answered. In Indignation, Parīkṣit Throws a Dead Snake upon the Ṛṣi At last, going slowly inside, he asked, 'Thirst! Thirst!' Inside, there was no one to speak to him. In a corner a muni appeared to be engaged in tapas. Going up to him, he called, 'Svāmī! Svāmī!' — but the muni, being deep in intense dhyāna, remained without moving or stirring in the least. Seeing this, a kind of anguish and agitation arose in the king. 'Here I am, lamenting in the pain of hunger, and though I have reached a muni's āśrama there is no one to speak to me! These ṛṣis, forgetting even that I am the emperor, have not so much as addressed me!' So thinking, as ajñāna took hold of him, out of anger

he was turning back to leave, when something like a rope brushed against his foot. Lifting it up and looking, he realised it was a dead snake; and, a perverse turn of Buddhi arising in him, he flung it around the neck of the muni, who was immersed in tapas, and set off back along the way he had come. As soon as he came outside, some sons of ṛṣis saw him, and, wondering what had happened inside, went in and looked: a snake was visible on the neck of Śamīka Maharṣi, who was practising tapas. 'How strange!' they thought; looking closely and calmly, they found it was a dead snake. Pondering by whom this had been done, and thinking that it was perhaps the doing of the man who had just left, the boys ran off to Śṛṅgi, the son of Śamīka Maharṣi, who was at play, and told him this news. The Ṛṣi's Son Curses Parīkṣit Poor boy! That Śṛṅgi, [thinking] that this was a sheer lie, that such an insult could never befall his father, and that this was merely talk made up for a game, paid no heed and remained absorbed in his play. His companions kept telling him, again and again, that it was no lie, that they were speaking nothing but the truth, that if he came and looked just once he would see for himself; and those words, spoken so very urgently, caused Śṛṅgi some disquiet. He came running and looked, and found that what the ṛṣis' sons had said was true. When he inquired in many ways who it was that had shown his father such disrespect, some of the ṛṣis' sons told him that someone dressed as a king had come to the āśrama and was leaving, and that perhaps he was the one who had done this deed. Running, he searched every path, and, seeing some distance off a man in a king's form walking with faltering steps, he could not bear, in his surge of anger, that this man had done his father such an insult; he took water and, sprinkling it toward the departing figure, [said:] "The one who on my father's neck

threw a dead snake — may that person, within seven days, give up his life by a snake's bite!" — so he cursed. However much the children around him tried to stop him, he would not listen. Having given so harsh a curse, he sat down in a corner of the āśrama, and, dwelling on the humiliation done to his father, he went on reproaching himself and lamenting: 'That while I, his son, am still alive, so great an insult should befall my father — fie! What is the use of my birth? A son who cannot protect his father's honour is as good as no son at all, though he lives!' Neither to Sink nor to Swell — That Is the Ātma-tattva Even as his fellow ṛṣi-boys were counselling him in every way and calming him, and they too were reviling the man who had thrown [the snake], and offering explanations to one another, Śamīka Maharṣi came out of his dīkṣā into the waking world; he stirred, and opened his eyes. He took the dead snake that lay on his neck and put it aside. Seeing the children grieving in a corner close by, he called them near and asked the reason for their grief; and when they told him the whole story of what had happened, Śamīka Maharṣi smiled gently and said, 'Poor children! That you should grieve so much over this small act, which someone did unknowingly, is ajñāna. I have nothing to do with honour and prestige. Neither to sink nor to swell over such honour and dishonour — that is the truth of the Ātma-tattva. Some innocent folk must have done this deed. Because you are boys, you have made this small thing into a big one and are suffering a mountain of distress. Up with you! Go and play!' So saying, he called his son Śṛṅgi near, seated him on his lap and stroked his head; and Śṛṅgi, weeping, kept uttering harsh words: 'Father! This was not the doing of innocent folk. It is the gravest sin, committed by a man dressed as a king, blind with arrogance.'

The muni Śamīka [exclaimed], 'What? What! A man dressed as a king? Did you see him? Would kings stoop to such petty deeds?" Even as he was saying this, the other boys said, 'Revered Guru! We saw him. He truly looked like a king. When we saw him we ran off and brought Śṛṅgi. Śṛṅgi saw the dead snake on your neck and was stunned; however much we tried to stop him he would not listen. He charged Gaṅgā water with a mantra and, sprinkling it toward the departing figure, cursed: "On the seventh day from today, may the person who threw the snake die of snakebite!"' — so the boys reported. Śamīka Maharṣi's Rebuke of His Son — Śānti Is the Svabhāva of a Ṛṣi Śamīka Maharṣi, struck with astonishment, pushed aside his son, who was on his lap, and said, 'What! You cursed him? Alas! To give a mountain-sized curse for a nail-sized fault — is that not an irreparable failing in a ṛṣi's son? That a weakling who cannot bear even so small a fault should be called a ṛṣi's son — is that not an insult to the whole world of fellow ṛṣi-sons! To say that such a one is my son would be a disgrace to me myself! Alas! Your boyish Buddhi has gone and eaten grass, and brought irreparable ill-fame upon the whole race of munis! Fie! Fie! Your face is not fit to be looked upon. The authority to punish the people belongs to the king, not to munis. A muni who curses people is no muni. For munis — who, longing to reach and to attain the presence of Sarveśvara, the Protector of all the worlds, have renounced all attachment, taken to the forest, live on tubers, roots and the like, and have cast off bodily comforts as they pass their days — for such munis to have such harsh feelings arise must be the Kali age making its entry! Alas! What a great sin you have taken upon yourself!' So, in sorrow, he rebuked his son.

In plain words

25. The Compassionate Śamīka Muni The father's words, spoken without mercy, struck the heart of his son Śṛṅgi like a knife-thrust, like a hammer-blow; and, unable to bear his grief, he fell at his father's feet: 'Father, forgive me. That the king himself should act with such faithlessness and discourtesy caused me such great sorrow, and I became enraged. I could not endure the humiliation done to you. To come to a ṛṣi's hermitage and commit such improper conduct — that is not fitting for a lord, is it!' So saying, he kept weeping. Śamīka Mahāmuni drew his son to himself and said: "Child! Time is exceedingly mighty. Now and then, a situation arises for man in which his Viveka is destroyed. The time of destruction assumes a perverse form and, through Time, makes one act in this way. The king is a great devotee, radiant, a dharmātma, the emperor of the entire earth. His fame has spread through the three worlds; he was always served by thousands of male and female servants. Whenever he left the palace and went out, many guards all around him, awaiting his every command, hands folded and never turning their gaze away, would move about on foot behind him. Whatever kingdom he entered, the kings of those lands would welcome him, honour him in many ways, and wait upon him as his servants.

Anger Does Not Befit Ascetics For a Mahārāja accustomed to such luxuries, not only did no welcome or honour whatever take place here, but a situation arose in which no one could even give him a palmful of water to quench his burning thirst. And so, with the torment of hunger on one side, and on the other — calling out and no one answering, failing to receive the honour he expected, disappointment and distress — all enveloping him, he could not bear it, and may have erred somewhat in doing this kind of improper act. For just that much, you became angry and undertook such an act, contrary to [what befits] the sons of ṛṣis; you have brought an irremediable sin upon the very world of ascetics. Chī, chī! What treachery have you committed?" Rebuking him thus, he closed his eyes and pondered whether there was any means at all of averting this offence; realising there was none, and thinking that for everything, that Parameśvara alone is all-capable, he prayed to God in this way: 'O Refuge of all the worlds! A boy of immature Buddhi, lacking the Jñāna of what ought and ought not to be done, has, under the urging of ajñāna, committed such an offence against the king. Therefore, whether by forgiving the boy or by punishing him, bring about welfare for the king.' So he prayed. Then, opening his eyes and seeing the gathered ṛṣis and ṛṣi-sons, he said with sorrow: 'Do you see the offence my son has committed? For ṛṣis to humiliate in this way the king who protects the world is not proper, is it! Therefore all of you, pray to God and see to it that no harm befalls that king, and that he receives only auspicious things.' So said Śamīka Mahāmuni. Among them an aged ṛṣi, an embodiment of calm, rose and said: "Mahātmā! When you yourself have such grace toward the king — the one who gave the curse is your own son, is he not! Your power is greater than your son's, is it not! You are all-capable, are you not! Such as you are — this

boy's curse you could keep from coming to pass, could you not? Why should you grieve so much?" As soon as he had pleaded thus, the remaining few ṛṣis and ṛṣi-sons all asked with one voice: "True, true! Heed our prayer, forgive your son, and bring about welfare for the emperor." The Ordinance of Destiny Is Not to Be Escaped Then Śamīka Mahāmuni smiled, closed his eyes, and examined the Mahārāja's past and future with yogic vision, inquiring whether there were any grounds for this in the present, or whether it was some intervening fruit. As he inquired, he came to know: that the king must meet the poison-fire of Takṣaka, and that this could not be escaped; that to try to avert such an ordinance of destiny is nothing but conduct contrary to God's command; that karma from other births had produced in this boy such a saṅkalpa, and in the king such a failing; that only Sarveśvara, whose every saṅkalpa is fulfilled, could accomplish this, and that for others it is not possible; and that to attempt it would be nothing but the sway of Ahaṅkāra. Since Ahaṅkāra is the great enemy of ṛṣis, so as not to let it enter, Śamīka Maharṣi — however much power he had — did not undertake to quell the curse; but resolving to render, at least to some extent, such help as befitted him, he opened his eyes, looked around on all four sides, called near a capable jewel among his disciples, and commanded: "You must go to Hastināpura right now and come back. Get ready!" Then that disciple said, 'For the disciples of a ṛṣi, what more is there to getting ready? Your command itself is our entire readiness. This very minute I shall set out from right here. Command me,' and bowed. Then Śamīka Maharṣi rose from his seat, took that disciple inside, and all that the king needed to be told,

he told him properly, in due order. Then the disciple bowed to Śamīka Mahāmuni and set out. Śamīka Sends His Disciple to Parīkṣit Meanwhile Mahārāja Parīkṣit reached Hastināpura and rested a little from his fatigue. The very instant he rose, he was grieving over the great offence he had committed in the hermitage and come away from: 'Alas! How corrupted my Buddhi has become! That I, an emperor, should insult in this way a great ascetic steadfast in his discipline — it is the gravest of sins.' Grieving thus, he tormented himself: 'What is the fitting expiation for it? Or should I go once more to the hermitage myself and beg forgiveness? Or submit, head bowed, to their punishment? What is my duty?' At that moment a servant came and stood at the door with hands folded. Seeing that servant, the Mahārāja asked the reason. 'A certain ṛṣi's son has come for your darśan, sent by Śamīka Maharṣi, and he is very anxious to deliver to you, as quickly as possible, the tidings the Maharṣi has sent. On this, [we await] Your Majesty's command,' he said. The moment he heard that word, the bed of jasmine on which he lay seemed to him to be burning like a serpent, like live coals, and hissing. At once he rose, called the gatekeeper near, and began to put question upon question: "What did the ṛṣi's son say? Is the lustre of his face sorrowful? Is it angry? Or does it overflow with joy and peace?" Then the gatekeeper humbly bowed his head and answered: 'Mahārāja! That muni's son is supremely calm. He keeps uttering cries of "Victory, victory!" to the Mahārāja. Not the least agitation appears on his face.' Then the Mahārāja, composing himself somewhat, asked the gatekeeper, 'What answer did you give to the question that great ṛṣi's son asked, before you came here?' — and when he asked,

the gatekeeper answered: '"O best of Brahmins! The Mahārāja went to the forest and has come back tired. As soon as he rises from his rest, I shall deliver your tidings to him" — so I told him.' Thereupon the Mahārāja eagerly put another question: 'And to this answer of yours, what did that muni's son say?' 'Lord! The muni's son who has come is anxious to see you. He says it is a very urgent message, that their guru will be counting the minutes until he returns, and that the sooner he sees you the better; and every minute he keeps repeating, "May auspiciousness befall the king! May auspiciousness befall the king!" Though we offered him a high seat and asked him to sit, he would not agree, but stands at the door counting the minutes,' he said. Then the king, wiping away tears of joy, without even putting on his crown, without even putting on his sandals, without donning his upper cloth, walked very swiftly to the door. Seeing the muni's son, he made full prostration, took both his hands, led him inside, seated the ṛṣi's son on a high seat, sat below himself, and entreated him to say the reason for his coming. Looking at the Mahārāja, the muni's son said, 'O King! Our guru, Śamīka Mahāmuni, sends you his special blessings and has bidden me tell you some important matters,' and as he said this he kept wiping away the tears that streamed from his eyes. A Great Offence Committed Through Ajñāna The Mahārāja said eagerly: "Son of the muni! Tell me quickly what that matter is. If there is any task needed from me, I am ready to stake even my life. Or is it that some harm is to befall my kingdom

in the days to come? Tell me whatever remedies are fitting for it, and I shall without fail carry them out with bowed head." So he entreated. 'Mahārāja! Neither to the kingdom nor to the Maharṣis is there any danger — none is there, and none will come. But upon you yourself some inauspicious things are drawing near, to close around you,' the muni's son delicately intimated. The Mahārāja said, 'I am blessed! If the Maharṣis and the people of the kingdom are well, it does not matter however many misfortunes befall me. Their happiness and peace are my very in-breath and out-breath.' So saying, somewhat calmed, he entreated the muni's son to tell him what his guru had bidden him say. "Mahārāja! The Mahāmuni is deeply grieving over a great offence committed unknowingly, through ajñāna. To tell you of that matter is the root reason for sending me here." While the muni's disciple was still saying this, the Mahārāja asked eagerly, "Please tell me in full what kind of offence it is, and who committed it."