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Sunday, March 8, 2015

The Story of Ganges

Bhishma’s Story

 “I was born the son of the river-goddess, Ganga Devi. Rivers run deep. As all rivers, Ganga Devi had more than one dark secret. She had come to the earth to wash us free of sin, but she dwelled in the heavenly planets as the daughter of the creator, Brahma himself.

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Indian Traditional Miniature Painting, Brahma the 4-headed Creator rides a swan.
“One day one a heavenly courtier and friend of Indra came to visit. His name was Mahabhishana. He was a guest in the court of King Indra, god of rain. Now, Indra had arranged for a night of entertainment from the heavenly nymphs, called Apsaras. They danced for the pleasure of all. Lord Brahma was also seated there with his daughter Ganga Devi. But during the dance a light breeze lifted the silken sari of Ganga Devi, revealing her supple limbs. All averted their eyes in decency. All but Mahabhishana, who could not help staring.
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Apsara dance at Angkor
“Ganga Devi gave Mahabhishana a sidelong glance and smiled slightly. Mahabhishana was enchanted with her beauty and smiled back.  When Lord Brahma noticed the looks exchanged between his daughter and Mahabhishana, he cursed both of them to take birth as mortals. And so my mother came to earth to live as a mortal and walk among us.
Gupta Era Terracotta of Ganga Devi, National Museum, New Delhi
“Not only had she been cursed, but her children had also been cursed. They were the heavenly stars of the Vedic constellation of the seven Vasus, doomed for a time to walk the earth for a crime they committed against a great holy man. They were my brothers. 

We Vasus, being mischievous brothers in our former lives played a trick on the great Vasistha Muni and stole his magic wish-fulfilling cow, I was told. So we were to pay for our karma: my brothers were born to the goddess for a short time, then to return to the heavens to shine immortally.  I learned I was a greater criminal in my former life. It was I who had planned and carried out the theft of Vasistha cow. It was I who insulted the great saint. So my punishment was greater.

Indian Miniature of Kama Dhenu

            “As you see now, I was cursed to live a long life, to die only after the destruction of a dynasty which was never mine. I was cursed never to marry, never to have children, never to see the joy of having my children play in the courtyard of my castle. But I lament nothing. It was my destiny, my karma, as you shall see.
“My mother was a beauty and a goddess.
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“And my father, the great Shantanu, king of all the Indias and greater Bharata, seeing the Ganges in the form of a nubile maiden, was struck by love. He was enchanted by the river queen and ready to sacrifice his kingdom and his life for her. He knew nothing of her past, or the curse that she bore, or the dark secret of my brother’s misfortune. He asked for her hand. And so, my mother the river Ganges married the great King Shantanu. Before she gave herself to him in carnal love, she made him swear to honor a terrible promise.
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            “My mother made Shantanu promise never to challenge any of her actions, word or deed. Of course, my great father, a proud warrior, was deeply in love with my mother and her fair skin, her round breasts and curved hips, her enchanting lotus eyes, deep blue as the ice of the Himalayas. He had never seen a woman so fair. So, he promised never to challenge her word or deed. So it was they were married and lived with the joys of sweet romantic bliss in a great castle by the side of the river. My father was exceedingly happy when he saw she was with child, and noticed how her waist grew and she became pregnant with my first brother.
             “My father doted on her, expecting that the fair Gangadevi would produce many heirs for him. He looked forward to the day when his heirs would become proficient in the art of war, learn the Vedas, and rule the kingdom as generously as he had, expanding her lands, chastising miscreants, and creating an even greater dynasty. But one day, when her time was near, she went to the banks of the river. Unbeknownst to her, my father followed her to the river to observe her without being seen. He saw her lie down in the tall grass where the tigers hide in the summer heat and wait for elephants. How curious that she had chosen such an unusual manner of childbirth.
             “But he remembered his vow. Hadn’t he sworn never to question her in word or deed?
“So the great king Shantanu, from his hiding place, heard the sobs of joy and pain of that great river goddess in child-birth. He could hear the cry of a newborn child and was ready to rush from his hiding place, when he saw Gangadevi, cradling a small boy, emerge from the tall grass. Just when he was about to rush from his hiding place and congratulate the new mother, he saw her take the child into the waters of the river. 
“He struggled with his emotions.  Again remembering his vow, his realized that he would lose his wife if he offended her. He forced himself to continue observing from behind the tamarind tree where he was hidden. All at once, after dipping my little brother three times in the stream, and repeating a strange mantra in Sanskrit,  my fair mother drowned my little brother in the cold waters of the River Ganges.
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            “She laid his fresh body in the water, and the river claimed him returning him to the sky in heaven where he shines as the brightest star in the constellation of Krittika.
            “My poor father was shocked and filled with misery - he couldn't sleep remembering the face of the drowned infant. Silently, he cursed my mother, and then blamed himself for having cursed her. Perhaps she had some higher purpose in her actions that he could not see? Even so, the sight of the tiny infant screaming as he entered the river haunted him. The sound of the innocent child’s cries burned his very heart. But he said nothing, always remembering his promise.
“When again my mother was with child, again she drowned the poor infant in the cold waters of the river Ganges, just as she had done before. One after the next, the fourth and the fifth, the sixth and the seventh infant son perished by drowning at my mother’s hand.
“One day, when the fair Gangadevi, my mother, was ready to give birth, she left my father’s bed in the castle on the hill, and went early in the morning to the riverside. Suspecting something, Shantanu followed her.
            “He took up his position beside the old tamarind tree and watched as my mother repeated her ritual. She entered the muddy waters waist deep. She smiled and held me close to her breast. She held me above her head and then dipped me three times in the river.  As soon as she began saying the holy mantra which would seal my fate before plunging me into the dark waters, my father, the great King Shantanu, Lord of all the Indias and greater Bharata, emerged from his hiding place behind the old tamarind tree. Seeing my golden hair and my innocent laughing eyes, my father had compassion for  me.
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Not this one.
            “Horrified by the sinister deeds of his fair wife, he approached her, his sword drawn. His eyes were cold with the grim cast of war. "Not this one!" He said, his jaw fixed, his voice firm. “I have seen enough, O foulest of beasts, O ghoul among women. Leave me at least this one fair child, accursed, tiger-hearted fiend! His eyes are blue and his hair as golden as the sun. He is as fair as his mother, lovely as a goddess. Leave me this one boy to carry on the line of Kings, you wretched, stone-hearted murderess!"
            “At this, Gangadevi my mother was furious. "You have broken your sacred word as King, my Lord Shantanu. When we married, I thought I had married a prince. A man who knows how to keep his word. A sacred oath was sworn and a man’s word must be kept. So say the immortal Vedas. You call yourself a King, but yet your word is meaningless. Your son shall be cursed.  He shall be cursed never to carry on your line, never to have his own children, and to live long enough to see his dynasty destroyed."
            “She explained to Shantanu that in his former life he had been Mahabhishana, and that they had both been cursed by Lord Brahma to take birth as mortals. Since their love was deep, they had found happiness as husband and wife for a time. But now the curse had been fulfilled and it was time for her to move on.
            “And so, my mother the river goddess, gathering me up to her breast, took me away down the river. In the distance I could see my father crest-fallen and heart-broken. One should never see a warrior’s tears. The great King Shantanu, childless, having lost his lady and his newborn son sat down by the river Ganges desolate.  He wept for his fate and the fate of his dynasty, the sons of Bharata.”
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Ganga Devi



To be continued…

Saturday, March 7, 2015

Don't Worry, Be Happy.



Happy

This is one of my groups of English students at the Universidad de Guanajuato, here in Mexico. They wanted me to teach them the hit song, "Happy." Clap along if you feel that happiness is the truth.


Reflections

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Die to Live

Bhishma’s Vow

Bhishma instructs us from a bed of arrows after a life-long vow of celibacy, or brahmacharya. While he rests on a bed of arrows he is preparing to exit the world. While Bhishma was a member of the warrior caste and never contemplated a formal vow of sannyasa, his situation is similar to one who has taken such a vow.

Bed of Arrows

Taking to the renounced order of life is much like lying on a bed of arrows. One is dead to the world, socially speaking, focused on the next life. 

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The vow of renunciation involves mortifying the flesh and has much in common with a bed of arrows.

Die to Live

Giving up family life, one is freed of social responsibilities.  She can concentrate on spiritual concerns, liberated from material life and open to lead a spiritual life  of dedication to a higher ideal. 

Social death leads to transcendental life.  This is the idea of “Die to live.” 

Dead to the attachments of this world, but alive to the higher self, one who accepts this path is prepared, like Bhishma, for the next life.

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Nothing liberates the mind like a death sentence. But the self-sacrifice behind renunciation is not based on cowardice. It reveals a higher ideal: “Die to live.”  Since the soul is eternal, death reveals the true self. Like Bhishma, the liberated soul is fearless, for death is merely a form of resurrection.

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Teaching

And since Bhishma has given up all attachment to this world and is prepared to depart, he is in a perfect position to instruct the next generation on the meaning of life.  One who follows the path of renunciation must temper the pain of detachment by showing compassion to others and adopting the role of teacher. He may enjoy the prestige of guru, but only for a short while as his life slips away. A true teacher shows compassion by revealing his understanding before departing.

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Example


Bhishma’s example is difficult to follow. One who is determined to renounce this world and give instruction to others should be prepared to lie on a bed of arrows.
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Friday, March 6, 2015

Listen


भिष्म
BHIṢMA’S STORY:
THE MAHĀBHARATA


Bhishma said. “Listen. Allow to me speak, O revered ones. I am a man of peace. It was  my duty to do battle with the greatest warriors of all time, in the bloodiest of wars. But I am a man of peace.

“I never wanted war but as a warrior it is my dharma to fight when called.

For those of you who may not know me, I am Bhiṣma, sometimes called Deva-vrata, for I took a terrible vow. This vow was to be my undoing and the undoing of my dynasty. “Listen. Give me a few minutes of your time and I shall tell you the great story of this war and how it came to be.”
“Listen child,” said the old man. “I knew your father and your father’s father. You are all my children. O, what terrible sufferings and injustices you suffered, my sons, yet you were protected by divine intervention.”

“Your karma has brought you here as it brought me. Listen. The sun will continues its path to the north for some time. When it reaches its course, I shall die and leave you all.”


Listen to me who have fought battles and protected kings, and I shall speak on all manner of strange events and reveal their meanings. Listen and I shall tell you the story of the Mahābharata.”

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Die to Live

महाभरत
Mahābharata
As retold by
Michael Dolan, B.V. Mahāyogi

 Die to Live

The Ten of Swords: Absolute Destruction. Die to Live.
We continue with our adaptation of Mahabharata. The scene changes. Before retiring from the field, Krishna and the Pandavas come upon the great hero Bhishma, impaled on thousands of arrows.

BHIṢMA IMPALED

And Kṛṣṇa, hearing these sweet words from the lady Kuntī, smiled. He led his chariot from the field of war to the place where the great grand-sire of the Kurus and Paṇḍavas, Bhiṣma lay impaled on the bed of arrows.
            The mighty Arjuna holds his Gandiva bow, his face grim and downcast. The sober Yudhiṣthira, his older brother, the King, says a solemn prayer in a dark whisper over the fallen soldier. Bhīma leans against his mace as it touches the ground. Nakula bows his mighty sword.  They stand with bloody hands over a ghastly figure. Pinned to the ground before them is an ancient warrior. The grass is red with blood about him. He is robust and strong.


He wears the chain mail and armor of a King. He is armed with dirk and sword, knife and dagger.  His bow lies on the ground next to him. His long white beard and leathery brow betrays his age. He looks hundreds of years old, but remains physically powerful. Most curious of all, he is suspended between earth and sky on a bed of thousands of arrows. Arrows pierce him completely from head to toe. Paralyzed, he cannot move. Yet still, he does not die.

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This is the great general Bhiṣma, son of Shantanu, born of the Ganges , he of terrible vows, grandfather of the Kurus and the Paṇḍavas, leader of legions of warriors such as Droṇa, Kripa, Karna, and the legendary hundred sons of the blind king Dhṛtaraṣṭra. Cursed to live until he wishes his own death, he knows it is now his time. His will to live is broken. He waits for the sun to enter the northern portion of the sky as that is an auspicious time to die. His astonished eyes behold the abject destruction wrought by the Great War. A host of bodies mar the land.

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             Bhiṣma beholds the slaughter, his deep blue eyes take in the wasteland of violence and crushed horses, broken bones, and craters where explosives have torn elephant’s limb from limb. Miles and miles and miles of battlefield. The green of the earth is stained red with blood. Black holes and craters. Trees broken like match-sticks. 
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And so the Paṇḍavas and Kṛṣṇa gathered near the great hero, breathing his last as the sun moved into the northern portion of the sky, and drawing closer asked him to tell his tale. Seeing this God lying on the ground like a fallen angel, the noble King Yudhiṣthira bowed before him. Some forest sages, rishis and saints had also gathered there to offer water to the dying warrior.



The ancient warrior’s tongue is as black as the war plains that surround him. He is parched with thirst. “Water,” he whispers. The mighty Arjuna, taking compassion on this great soul, takes up his magic bow, and firing darts faster than the eye can see, constructs a pillow of arrows where the great hero can lay his head. With another arrow, he pierces the earth.





The sacred river Ganges, Bhiṣma’s mother appears in the form of a spring, and trickles forth a tiny fountain of precious water, wetting his mouth. Bhiṣma drinks.  Bhīma stares at his mace, and shakes his head. Unable to speak. The twin sons of Madri, Nakula and Sahadeva stand in silence with their brothers, their head bowed. At this time great sages like Parvata Muni, Narada, Dhaumya, Vyāsa, and other great saints and sages gathered there.
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            And as the men stand silent, amazed at the destruction their rivalry has caused, a child appears amid the devastation of the battlefield. He can’t be any older than five or six years old. How did he survive the devastation?  Where is his mother? The child is dressed as the son of a brahmaṇa. He wears a clean white dhoti, a cloth wrapped around his waist, and a simple cloth embroidered with flowers adorns his shoulders. He walks toward the group.

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            Is he a mystic yogi? Is this another one of Kṛṣṇa’s divine interventions? They let the boy come closer. Smiling, he approaches the old man lying on the bed of arrows and offers him a garland of jasmine flowers. He places the fragrant jasmine flowers on the old man’s aching brow smiles at the great grandfather of warriors and asks, “Please, O grandfather. Tell me. How did our family, the sons of Kuru and the sons of Paṇḍu come to this devastation? What were the true causes of this Great War?  I will tell your story that these things shall never again come to pass.”    
                  

             Bhiṣma, impaled on the bed of arrows, looks at the boy. He knows this brahmaṇa boy must be an agent, sent from above.  In his grief and sorrow, he grits his teeth, and smiles at the boy. It will be his last chance to tell his story before the sun moves to the north and he must die. And so, the grave warrior who had destroyed thousands of chariots speaks the story of his birth, how he was born as the son of Gangadevi, goddess of the Ganges, so long ago.