The Sage Who Was Not Content

Vyāsa, son of the sage Parāśara, had divided the one Veda into four and made the great poem of the Bhārata, the Mahābhārata, and still his heart was not at peace. He sat alone on the bank of the Sarasvatī, grieving, feeling himself incomplete, when Nārada came to his hermitage, and Vyāsa rose and honoured him. Nārada sat at his ease, his vīṇā in his hand, and smiled a little, and said, Son of Parāśara, are you content? You have come to know all you set out to know, and the Bhārata you made is great and wonderful. Why then do you grieve as if your purpose were unfulfilled?

Vyāsa said, All you say is true, and still my heart is not content. You know every secret. Tell me the root of it, and what is lacking in me.

Nārada said, You have hardly sung the spotless fame of the Lord. You have sung dharma and the other aims of life, but not the greatness of Vāsudeva. Speech that does not sing the fame of Hari, however finely made, is a bathing place for crows, where the swans take no delight. But speech in which, verse by verse, the names of the endless one are sung, even if it is not perfectly made, washes away the sins of a people, and the good hear it and sing it and take it up. Even knowledge without stain does not shine if it is empty of love for the Lord. So now, with your mind fixed, call to mind the deeds of the Lord, who crossed the worlds in his wide strides.

And then Nārada told Vyāsa the story of his own former life, the serving woman's son who had heard the sages sing and had seen the Lord once in the forest. When he had told it all, he took his leave and went on his way, playing his vīṇā, a sage who goes where he pleases. And Vyāsa sat down by the Sarasvatī and made the Bhāgavata, the book that sings the deeds of the Lord.