Die to Live

MAHĀBHARATA: STORY OF PARAŚURĀMA, Continued

परशुराम

Bhisma continued the story of his guru, Parashurama, beginning at the beginning.

“In those days the elephants went to the Narmada river two by two to bathe and splash water with their trunks. 

After a leisurely bath in the lush green waters, they would roll in the dust and the mud, setting flight to the cranes. 

Monsoon rains kept the rice plentiful and the Narmada flooded her banks regularly twice a year. Banana trees swayed in the early morning breeze and tigers stalked their prey in the bamboo forest on the river banks. Monkeys avoided the tigers, deftly swinging through the bamboo into the mango trees, never minding that the fruits were green.

                "Green mangos make the best chutney," thought Ram. They called him Ram or son of Jamadagni, but he liked "Ram" best. The tigers had not visited his father's ashram where he lived with his mother Renuka and four brothers. Not this year, but still the tigers roamed the bamboo forests all the same.  

On his last visit to the river little Ram saw the bones of a huge water buffalo. It was a bloody mess. The blue bottle flies buzzed in a cloud over the stinking carcass. His village mourned the loss.  With one less buffalo, the village would have trouble bringing bananas and rice to market. He loved bananas and rice. And with green mango chutney it was even better.

                Yesterday he had gone with his brothers to play by the river. Even though it had rained, the sun was hot, and the mud by the river was dry in places. He loved the feeling of mud between his toes and the cold river water on his skin. 

As he was playing in the water he saw a cobra. Just as the cobra neared, a stork swooped down on him and, picking the cobra up in his beak, wrung its neck, severed its head, and flew away. 

Ram returned home to his brothers and mother Renuka, where he lived at the ashrama of Jamadagni on the banks of the river. He listened to his father chant the mantras of the holy Vedas, and when it was time for rest, he slept peacefully under the summer moon. The frogs and crickets chirped rythmically in the jungle and all was quiet.

But as the moon climbed higher in the heavens, Ram had a dream. In his dream there was an axe, dripping blood. His brothers were lying dead, his mother beheaded. He was covered with blood, holding an axe.  Blood was everywhere. He awoke with a start. The sun was coming up over the river. It was just a dream.

Later that morning, at study time. Little Ram and his brothers listened to their father Jamadagni recite the Vedas. Ram tried to concentrate on his father’s words as he explained to his son the secrets of Vedic mantras, but he kept thinking of the terrible dream he had. As he looked at the river, he remembered the cobra and the stork. It was such a powerful snake, but the stork had snapped his body so quickly with his beak and flew into the sky with silver wings. And the vivid dream last night. What did all these signs mean?

 “Ram! Where are you?” His father said. “In the clouds again? Come back to earth!” His father was a great teacher. He had learned all the important mantras and mastered the Vedas at an early age. Ram's  father was the great Jamadagni, a powerful seer, owner of Kamadhenu the wish-fulfilling cow. Ram was sometimes called  Jamadagneya, which meant “son of Jamadagni.” but he liked Ram better.

Jamadagni Rishi

“Ram! Are you listening to me? Are you dreaming again? Sometimes I think you will never amount to anything. At least your brothers pay attention.” His brothers laughed. Ram was the youngest. He felt his face flush red.

                “Yes, father.”

“What was the lesson?”

“You were speaking of forgiveness. You said that forgiveness is illuminating like the sun. That God is pleased when we forgive.”

“Very good.” said his father.  “Now go help your mother.”

                The boys ran to their mother, who was preparing the lunch.

“Go to the river and bring water. Go now.”

 Ram and his brothers Rumanwat, Sushena, Vasu and Vishvasu ran down the path by the old Banyan tree, past the place where the deer hide at night to sleep, past the bamboo trees where tigers lurk, past the hut of the old rishi, overgrown with papayas, down to the river banks, where six water buffalo were entering the waters.

Downriver the ladies were washing their clothes. The boys played in the mud for a while and then washed in the river. When they finished, they filled the clay water pots to bring home to their mother.

                Just then an old man driving an ox-cart stopped by the river to water his bulls.

“What news, Baba?” They asked him.

                “No news, boys,” he said, pouring water over his thirsty oxen. “Watch out for cobras. Remember the Vedas. Respect your father.”

                “We always respect our father,” Ram said, “He is a great Rishi, and a pious sage. His wife is Renuka, the daughter of King Prasenajit.”

                “Well, well,” said the old man. “Royal blood. You know I met Prince Chitraratha down the road apiece. He stopped to picnic with his queens, and should pass by this way. If your mother is royalty, maybe she knows him.”

                “My mother knows all the kings and queens in India,” Ram said. “I’m sure she knows the Prince.”

                “Well, may the gods bless you,” said the old man, carefully guiding his oxen up the river bank to the main road. 

As his oxcart disappeared down the road, the boys took up their water pots and began walking through the pipul trees, past where the girls in their bright saris washed their laundry by the riverside. They returned through the papaya groves where the peacocks pecked at the orange fruits in the noon-day sun. And when they had reached the ashram of Jamadagni, the sweat gleamed on their brown foreheads.

Ancient Hindu Waterpot

The five brothers smiled at their mother. As Ram filled the house water pots with river water, the older boys told their mother Renuka all they had heard from the old man with the oxen. His brothers Rumanwat and Sushena told her how the Prince Chitraratha was passing by with his queens and royal entourage, mounted on great elephants decorated with golden ornaments. And Vasu and Vishvavasu told her how the king’s green silk turban was greener than the coconuts stolen by the monkeys who lived near the banana trees in the bamboo forest.

With this, a shy smile crept over Renuka’s face, for as it turned out, she did know the Prince Chitaratha. They had played together as children in the court of the King, her father, Prasenajit. She blushed, remembering how handsome the Prince had been. It was true that when the humble forest sage Jamadagni asked for her hand the King had accepted.

Renuka Devi

She had tried to be a good wife to Jamadagni and had given him five beautiful sons, each one more qualified and learned than the other. But, secretely her heart belonged to Chitaratha with his deep blue eyes, black hair and charming smile. And now he was coming down the river with his elephants and entourage. If she could only see him again!

So she asked the boys, “How many pots of water have you brought? Only two? Didn’t you notice the clouds? Look at the sky!” For a huge storm was indeed coming. The sky was black with dark foreboding clouds. It was the time of monsoon. At this time the clouds appeared out of nowhere and the bright noon sky became black as night. The storm could be gone in half an hour, or last for days.

“The rain could last for days,” she said, thinking again of Prince Chitaratha and his well-formed body, his charming smile, the happy days they spent together chasing frogs in the court of King Prasenajit. “I’m surprised you didn’t fetch enough water to last out the storm.”

And little Ram answered, “But there were no clouds when we were fetching water from the river. I’m sure there’s enough water.”

“Listen to your mother,” said the sage Jamadagni. “Haven’t I taught you obedience?”

“Yes, sir.” Said Ram.

“Well these boys have spent enough time playing for one day. Gather fruits for lunch.” said Renuka. “I’ll have to go to the river myself.”

“Alone?” said the sage. “There are cobras in the water by the tall bamboo. I have seen them myself. Besides, the storm is coming. I think we have sufficient water. There’s no need for you to go alone.”

His wife Renuka replied, “When’s the last time you did the cooking? I’m sure the boys haven’t brought enough. And I’m old enough to go to the river by myself, cobras or no.”

So saying, Renuka set off with two empty water jugs to the river and passing the place where the stork had eaten the cobra, she paused to fill her water jugs.

Sure enough, on the other side of the river she could see the Prince Chitraratha and his entourage. An elephant was bathing in the water and shooting a playful spray as the friends of Chitraratha splashed in the river.

The prince himself wore a garland of lotuses, his forehead decorated with sandalwood as he entered the water with the queen and her maids dressed in lovely saris. 

Seeing the prince surrounded by his queen and girlfriends, Renuka blushed again. If not for her marriage to the humble Jamadagni, a teacher of the Vedas, she might have been married to the prince. It would have been her and not this thin little girl who married the prince. She shook with envy, dropping both water pots where they smashed on a rock.

Renuka sat down by the banks of the river and wept.

And as the sun began to go down over the river, little Ram sat quietly, meditating. He had spent the afternoon gathering fruits for lunch with his brothers. But lunch was later. His mother had left to fetch water a long time ago. And as the clouds gathered for the monsoon storm, she still hadn't returned from the river. It was warm and Ram was overcome with drowsiness. He found a cool spot under the old tamarind tree to rest on his grass mat. Soon he was fast asleep. In a dream he saw his father’s rage, his eyes red. Something was wrong. Jamadagni ordered little Ram to take an axe and kill his brothers and his mother.

Vishnu Deity found in excavation of Volga River near Moscow

Then in his dream, the god Viṣṇu  appeared before him and said, “You must obey your father. After his rage passes, ask him to forgive your brothers and your mother. He has great mystic power. Whatever he asks is only to test you. He is a compassionate man. Remember the lesson on forgiveness. Ask him to restore things the way they were before. Ask him to forgive your mother and restore her life. When her life is restored, ask him to grant her forgetfulness, so that she will remember nothing of what has happened. Die to live.”

So saying, Viṣṇu disappeared. When he awoke, little Ram saw that the stork had appeared again, landing close to where he slept, with the cobra still in his beak. This time the cobra was alive. The stork left the cobra on the ground and flew away and little Ram watched as the cobra, shaking himself, slithered away into the tall grass, his head and neck intact.

 Remembering the dream and all that the god had said, little Ram heard the call for lunch. He followed his brothers into the kitchen, but his mother had not returned from the river. His father was alone, his eyes burning with rage. “Your mother has not returned from the river.” he said. “When she returns, we will teach her a lesson.”

Woman with waterpot, Rajasthan

         

The Story Continues

महाभरत

Mahābharata

As retold by

Michael Dolan, B.V. Mahāyogi

Himalayas

The little brahmana boy stood closer to the ancient warrior. “Tell me, O Grandfather, what happened next? When your mother took you up on the river, where did you go? How did you live? Who were your teachers?”

Bhishma looked around. The sun had moved. Krishna and Arjuna listened attentively. He sipped again from the clear waters of the Ganges that trickled in a tiny fountain from where Arjuna had pierced the earth with an arrow. He took up his story again.

Bhishma said, “I will begin by giving you the history of my military guru as he told it to me. My guru was the great Paraśurāma, scourge of the kshatriyas, revolutionary hero to the pious brahmaṇas. My teacher, Paraśurāma, was a brave man. Although he was born a brahmana, he became a warrior to do away with despotic princes who exploited the poor and humble peoples of the Narmada.
“I will tell you his story exactly as I heard it from him when I was a boy and became his disciple at his ashram in the foothills of the Himalaya mountains, so long ago.”

BHIṢMA LEARNS THE ART OF WAR FROM PARASHURAM

Parashurama: Avatar of Vishnu who exterminated impious warriors, totalitarian kings and despotic princes.

“Soon after I was born, my mother - Ganges, the goddess of the river, took me into the  mountains where, at her earthly source, many saints and Rishis had their ashrams. This hilly country is green and shady with many trees and streams.  There under the care of  Vasiṣṭha Muni, whose magic cow I had stolen in another life, I learned the secrets of the Vedas and Upaniṣads. While I offended that saint in my former life, he was kind enough to train me in the different kinds of yoga practice and meditation. He taught me the meaning of dharma, how to focus the mind, and the importance of eternal truth. In the ashrama of Vasistha, as a child, I learned  all the important forms of spiritual discipline.

Of course, I am the son of the great king Shantanu and belong to the kshatriya, warrior class. So, finally, when the time came for me to learn the art of war and weaponry I was sent by Vasishta to the ashrama of the great Paraśurāma, the greatest warrior who ever lived. He was the killer of tyrant kings and despotic princes.

Now, long ago, high in the foothills of the Himalayas, the Great Paraśurāma lived alone. His ashram was known to only a few great forest sages. There the holy River takes its birth, and trickles down from the fresh snow in rivulets. The melting snow gushes from the glacial ice palaces of the Rishis and joining the rivulets, turns the nascent springs into running streams. Every spring, these brooks in turn find their old tracks in the barren rocks and race forward down the rock until they become raging white waters coursing from the mountain side in misty falls.

Himalayan cascades

The hiding places of the great sages who spend their days tormenting themselves with penances were known only to the privileged few who sought boons from these wise souls.

Yogi meditating and performing austerities at Kbal Spean, Cambodia

 Their names were legend, Vasistha, Visvamitra, Vaishampayana, and Vyāsa. I was sent by Vasistha to take shelter of the great warrior Paraśurāma, who alone had been born to avenge the wrongs committed against the humble and innocent brahmaṇas.
It was said that with his fierce battle axe he had baptized twenty one lakes with the blood of the proud Haihaya Kshatriyas.

Parashurama and Kartavirya Arjuna, Indian Miniature, Punjab

At this time, when I was yet a boy, newly arrived at his ashram to learn the martial arts, my master was tired of death and violence. He softened at seeing me, a helpless child, newly arrived at his door. He was tired of blood, of killing. And so the terrible Paraśurāma, feared by kings, who had filled twenty one lakes with the blood of his adversaries, took me in and promised to teach me his military arts.

practicing martial arts

The great warrior had no interest in war. He didn't want to accept anyone born of the kshatriya caste. He asked me of my origin, and I did my best to tell him, for in truth, I knew little of the story of my birth. That would come later.  I told him how I had been raised in the ashram of  Vasiṣṭha Muni and how I had served him and how I had done my best to learn the Vedas and be a useful disciple.
As I was just a boy and yearned to understand the arts and science of military war, I asked my gurudeva, Paraśurāma, to tell me his story. I was curious to know how he had become such a great and powerful warrior. I reveal it now to you, exactly as he told it to me.

NEXT: THE STORY OF PARASHURAMA AND KARTAVIRYA. DON'T MISS IT.

Thanks for reading.

Dear Friends: I'd like to thank all  the readers of this blog. I'm currently getting over 100 Page Views a day, from the United States, Mexico, Russia, UK, Ukraine, Thailand, Ireland, France and India. Knowing that you are reading gives me the inspiration to continue. If you like what you read, please share it with a friend.

Community

Adventures in Russia and Ukraine:
VedaLife Festival

Last year my life was transformed when I re-united with my old friend Bhakti Sudhir Goswami and found a new friend in the mysterious Russian Swami, Avadhut Maharaja. It's a long story.



We had worked together long ago on publishing the teachings of our guru, B.R. Shridhar at Guardian of Devotion Press in San Jose, California. We had a good run as publishers, bringing out 5 important titles and a number of lesser ones. We published The Search for Sri Krsna, Sri Guru and His Grace, The Golden Volcano of Divine Love, The Loving Search for the Lost Servant, and Subjective Evolution of Consciousness, among others.

Our books were met with acclaim from academics and the general public. They were reprinted in Australia, India, England and Singapore and have since never been out of print. Our books were translated into Spanish, German, Hungarian, and Russian, and sparked religious movements in Russia, Ukraine, Mexico and other countries. They were translated from English into Bengali and Hindi and sold thousands of copies in India. Our book publishing venture never earned any real money, however, and Guardian of Devotion Press was forced by practical matters to close its doors in the early 90s.

We moved on. Fate would take me to Mexico, where my mother was living out her final days.

Bhakti Sudhir Goswami would eventually settle in Thailand, after traveling the world for 15 years in an tireless attempt to promote the books we had published and the  teachings of Shridhar Maharaja. In the course of his adventures, he formed an important friendship with Avadhut Maharaja, a mysterious Russian Swami. Together, they published the teachings of Shridhar Maharaja in Russia, Ukraine, Hungary and other Eastern bloc countries.


Over the past 20 years there has been a great transformation in Russia and Ukraine. The transition from the totalitarian society of the cold war, of Stalin and Brezhnev hasn't been easy.

1968 Prague Spring

But in the late 90s and the beginning of the new millenium, there was an opening, a cultural renaissance. Books that were unavailable suddenly found themselves in print. Censorship was lifted. The flood-gates were opened. The internet appeared. Suddenly people were inundated with information.

During the bad old days of the Soviet republics, the USSR was officially an atheist, communist state. Religious meetings were banned. Churches were used as museums, concert halls, or army barracks. The secret police investigated groups promoting yoga.

1970s Cold war machinery in Red Square

Back in the 1970s and 80s my friends would smuggle books like Bhagavad-gita into the Iron Curtain at the risk of their lives or prison. They would tell hair-raising stories of crashing check-points and avoiding border guards. They would circulate mimeographed copies of Vedic and Puranic texts where censorship would earn you a tour of Siberia.  That  began to change with Perestroika, Glasnost, and Gorbachov. And with the fall of the Soviet Union it began to be  possible to practice yoga openly. Suddenly our books were popular.

Back in Mexico, I had no idea that the books we had once published were now sweeping Ukraine and Russia. I took a teaching job at the local University and settled down with my Mexican wife, doing my best to take care of my mother's medical needs, writing an occasional article, learning Spanish and publishing a bit of poetry.

I'm a ukulele player and when I put a video on You-tube for laughs, I was shocked to see an e-mail from my old friend Goswami one day, inviting me to his yoga ashram in Thailand.

There I met with some of the Russian followers of Avadhuta Maharaja who assured me that he was interested in my work. He was busy in Russia, but flew to Thailand a few days later, where I met him at the Suvarnabhumi airport. We had a warm conversation and a good interchange of ideas.

I promised to help him with two projects: one, a documentary to be made about Angkor Wat. This would later build into a bigger project, a film on the life of Henri Mouhot, the 19th century explorer who discovered Angkor. Second, I would begin work on a re-telling of the Mahabharata, to be developed as a graphic novel, and possibly a film. I was eager to take on the work.

Upon my return to Mexico, I began in earnest on both projects, and soon received an invitation to attend the VedaLife Festival in Kiev and Moscow.

As fate would have it, I studied Russian in High School, and had always been interested in visiting the country of Pushkin and Dostoyevsky where dark-eyed women with dark souls suffered existentially and played dark songs on the balalaika.



And so, in late July of last year, I flew to Kiev, Ukraine to see how yoga had transformed the people behind the iron curtain. So to make a long story short, here are a few photos of the Veda Life festival in Kiev. Since then, I have been around the world twice, traveling to Russia, Ukraine, Thailand, and Cambodia, and back to Mexico. I haven't had the time to share the photos of Veda Life festival, so here goes.

Here's Swami Avadhuta, festival organizer, explaining the yoga techniques practiced at Veda Life. 

These are the high tech wizards, registering the attendance of conferees.

It was surprising to see the number of young people who were interested in yoga, meditation, and krishna-bhakti.

Unusual yoga practice was a common sight at the Veda Life festival in Kiev, Ukraine, August, 2014.

The Festival took place at an old Soviet style fairgrounds, where people picknicked on the grass in the warm summer afternoon.

There were antiquities and Krishna deities and lovely girls in summer saris...

Classes on flower decorations, and garland-making...

Twister dance yoga with a follow-the-naga hopscotch board....

As the Swami mingled with the local Kievan hoi poloi.

Bhakti Sudhir Goswami spoke on the ancient transcendental wisdom of the Vedas as seen in the teachings of Shridhar Maharaja.

As inquisitive truth-seekers listened for hours and sometimes clapped along with the music.

Madhusudana Maharaja arrived from India and Muralishwara translated his message of peace.

Young Ukrainians listened thoughtfully...

Picknicked on the lawn...

And enjoyed fine vegetarian cuisine.

They meditated and practiced yoga on the lawns...

Played with friends...

Discussed philosophy...

Dialogued about the meaning of life...

And expressed their creativity...

From educational games....

to mystical fashion statements...

Or impromptu jam sessionss....

From cooking a traditional Ukrainian vegetarian yoga-style borscht...

To just "hanging around,"

the VedaLife festival in Kiev was an astonishing, colorful reminder that the cold war days are over. In spite of all the propaganda you see on TV telling us that Russians and Ukrainians are cold people in a cold country having a cold war, what I saw was a refreshing reminder of the old Peace and Love days, I remember so well.

Tune in tomorrow for the continuation of Mahabharata: The story of Bhishma.