Nandikeśvara: Where Gaṅgā Comes to the Narmadā

The liṅgas along the Revā

Sūta now turns to the river Revā, the Narmadā. The liṅgas on her banks, he says, cannot even be counted, and every one of them gives happiness. The Purāṇa calls the Revā a form of Rudra himself: merely seeing her destroys sin, and every stone lying in her is a form of Śiva. Still, he will name the chief ones.

He gives a long list — among them Ārteśvara, Parameśvara, Siṃheśvara, Śarmeśvara, Kumāreśvara, Puṇḍarīkeśvara, Maṇḍapeśvara, Tīkṣṇeśvara, Dhundhureśvara, Śūleśvara, Kumbheśvara, Kubereśvara, Someśvara, Nīlakaṇṭha and Maṅgaleśa, and Mahākapīśvara, which Hanumān himself set up. Then he names Nandikadeva, or Nandikeśvara, which wipes away the sin of countless killings and grants every wish and liberation. Whoever worships Nandikeśvara with joy, he says, gains every attainment, and whoever bathes in the Revā there has all his wishes fulfilled.

The sages ask why Nandikeśvara is so great. Sūta praises the question and says he will tell it just as Vyāsa once told it to Yudhiṣṭhira.

A widow's last wish

On the western bank of the Revā stood a prosperous city called Karṇikī, home to people of all four varṇas. A fine brahmin of the line of Utathya lived there. One day he left his wife in charge of their two sons and went to Kāśī, and there he died. When the sons heard, they performed his funeral rites.

Their mother raised the boys with care. When they were grown she divided the family's wealth between them, keeping back a portion for her own last rites. In time she fell gravely ill and seemed about to die. She did many acts of merit — and yet, as fate would have it, her life would not leave her body.

Seeing her suffering, the two sons asked her what was still undone that kept her in such pain; whatever it was, they would gladly do it. A great deal was undone, she said, but if they would finish it she could die in peace. The elder son promised he would.

She told him she had always meant to go to Kāśī, and it had never happened; now she was dying. “Do not be lazy about it,” she said. “Take my bones and cast them into the Gaṅgā. It will be for your good, have no doubt.”

The devoted son told her she could let go in peace: he would see to her task before any business of his own. He placed water in her hand and went into the house — and at that moment she died, with her mind on Śiva.

The night at Viṃśati

The elder son, whose name was Suvāda, completed all her funeral rites and the monthly offerings, held the śrāddha and fed the brahmins. Then he comforted his wife and sons, called a servant, remembered the auspicious names, and set out with his mother's bones, hoping to reach the holy place for her sake.

After a day's journey of one yojana he reached a pleasant village called Viṃśati at sunset and stayed in a brahmin's house. He performed his evening rites and sang Śiva's praises. Some time passed in the night — and then, Sūta says, a wonderful thing happened.

A good cow was tied in the courtyard. The master of the house came home late, found her not yet milked, and was annoyed. He called to his wife to come and milk, fetched the calf, and tried to tie it to the post himself. As he dragged it, the calf kicked him in the foot. Red with anger, he struck the calf hard with his elbow. The calf went still. He milked the cow — and in his anger did not let the calf go to her.

The cow and the calf

The cow began to weep, longing to feed her calf. The calf asked her why she was crying. “That wicked man struck you,” she said, “and it hurts me more than I can say.”

The calf, content with whatever fate had brought, tried to console her. “What can we do, and where can we go? We are all bound by karma. What we did before, we are living through now. A creature laughs as it acts and weeps as it reaps. No one else gives us joy or sorrow — to think so is a foolish idea, and to think ‘I alone am the doer’ is a false one. Joy and sorrow both come from our own deeds. You, I, and every living thing are bound by them. So do not grieve.”

The cow said she knew all this, but attachment held her fast and her grief would not settle. The calf answered that if she knew it, there was no reason to cry: whatever is done must be lived out, so let the sorrow go.

Then the cow sighed deeply and said her pain would end only when the brahmin felt the same pain. “At dawn I will strike him with both my horns, and he will die of it. That is the truth.”

The calf pleaded with her. “You are paying now for something you did in an earlier life. How will you pay for killing a brahmin? When merit and sin are equal, one is born in Bhārata, and when both are used up, one is free. Sometimes one deed cancels another, and sometimes it only adds more to be suffered. Do not set out to do such a thing again. Where did I come from to be your son, and where did you come from to be my mother? Think — who is anyone's mother or father, master or wife? No one here belongs to anyone; each lives out his own deeds. Put your grief aside with patience, and do what is right for the sake of the next world.”

“I know it, my son,” said the cow, “but this attachment will not let me go. I will give him the pain he gave you. Then I will go to the place where the sin of killing a brahmin is destroyed — I have seen that place — and my sin will be removed.” The calf fell silent and said no more.

The cow turns black, then white

The travelling brahmin had heard every word. Amazed, he decided he must stay and see what happened in the morning, and then follow to that place that destroys such sin. With that resolve he went to sleep.

At dawn the master of the house woke him and told him it was morning and time to be on his way. Suvāda made an excuse: his servant was in pain, so they would wait a little before leaving. Then he lay down again, determined to see how it would end.

When milking time came, the master had business elsewhere. He told his son to milk the cow carefully, and left. The son got up and untied the calf, and his mother came to do the milking. But when the boy led the calf — still hurting from the blow — towards the cow so he could tie it and take the milk, the cow flew into a rage and gored him with her horns.

Struck in a vital spot, the boy fell unconscious. People came running, shouting that the cow had killed the boy and calling for water, and hurried to tell his father. While they were still trying to save him, the boy died. A great wailing rose. His mother wept again and again — “What shall I do? Where shall I go? Who will take away my sorrow?” — and she beat the cow and untied her.

Then, before everyone's eyes, the white cow turned black with the sin of having killed a brahmin, and people cried out to one another at the wonder of it. Suvāda left at once and followed wherever the cow went. With her tail raised she ran straight to the Narmadā, and there, near this Nandikeśvara, she plunged into the water three times — and came out white again. Then she went back the way she had come.

Suvāda was astonished. “How blessed this tīrtha is,” he said, “that it destroys even the sin of killing a brahmin.” He and his servant bathed there too, and set off again, praising the river.

The woman on the road

On the road they met a beautiful woman adorned with jewellery. She asked where he was going in such amazement, and told him to answer truthfully and without pretence. He told her everything just as it had happened. She told him to stop; he stopped, and humbly asked what she wished to say.

“Release your mother's bones at the very place you have just seen,” she said. “Why go anywhere else? If you do this, your mother will at once take a shining, divine body and, by Śiva's grace, reach a good state. Every year, on the bright seventh day of Vaiśākha, Gaṅgā comes here. Today is that seventh day — and I am Gaṅgā, and I am going there now.” With that she vanished.

Suvāda turned back. Using his cloth, he released half of his mother's bones into that tīrtha — and at once a marvel appeared. He saw his mother standing before him in a divine body. “You are blessed,” she told him. “You have done all a son should do and made your whole family pure. May your wealth, your grain, your life and your line increase.” Blessing him again and again, she went to heaven, where, the Purāṇa says, she enjoyed the highest happiness for a long time and by Śiva's grace reached the supreme goal.

Suvāda, his heart glad and clean, went home.

Ṛṣikā and the demon Mūḍha

The sages now ask two things: how did Gaṅgā come to visit the Narmadā on the bright seventh of Vaiśākha, and how did Śiva come to be known there as Nandikeśa? Sūta says that merely hearing this story increases one's merit.

Long ago a brahmin had a daughter named Ṛṣikā, whom he married to a brahmin with the proper rites. Though she was wholly devoted to her husband, the force of her past deeds left her a widow while she was still a girl. She took a vow of chastity and began hard tapas, worshipping an earthen liṅga.

Then a strong, wicked asura named Mūḍha, a great master of illusion, came there burning with desire. He saw the beautiful young woman at her tapas and tried every kind of temptation to make her his. But she was absorbed in meditation on Śiva. She did not so much as look at him, nor did she even greet him.

Spurned, the foolish demon grew furious. He showed her his terrifying form, abused her and threatened her in every way. The frail young woman, frightened, began calling out lovingly, again and again, “Śiva, Śiva.” Distraught, repeating his name, she took refuge in Śiva to protect her dharma.

And Sadāśiva appeared right there — to protect one who had come to him for shelter, to uphold right conduct, and for her joy. Śiva, who loves his devotees, burned the lust-stricken Mūḍha to ashes on the spot. Then he looked at her with compassion and said, “Ask for a boon.”

Śiva stays, and Gaṅgā asks a favour

Ṛṣikā gazed at his lovely, joy-giving form. Then she bowed her head, joined her palms and praised him. “God of gods, Mahādeva, you who love those who come to you, friend of the helpless, lord of all, protector of your devotees — you saved my dharma from this demon, and by killing him you have saved the whole world too. Give me steady devotion to your feet; what greater boon could there be? And hear one more prayer, Lord: stay here for the good of the world.”

Śiva, the lord of the mountain, told her that because her conduct was noble and her devotion to him was so deep, he had granted every boon she asked.

Learning that Śiva had appeared, Brahmā, Viṣṇu and the other gods arrived joyfully. They bowed to Śiva, worshipped him and praised him with joined palms.

At that moment Gaṅgā, the river of heaven, came too. She praised the good fortune of the virtuous Ṛṣikā and asked her a favour: “Promise me that for one day in the month of Vaiśākha I may stay beside you, for my own good, so that I may be near you for that day.” For the good of the world, Ṛṣikā lovingly agreed: “So be it.”

Nandikeśa

For her joy, Śiva gladly entered the earthen liṅga she had made, with the fullness of his presence. Brahmā, Viṣṇu, the gods and Gaṅgā praised Śiva and the brahmin woman, and went back to their own realms.

From that day the place became a supremely holy tīrtha, and Śiva there became famous as Nandikeśa, who destroys all sins. And from that day, the Purāṇa says, Gaṅgā comes to this place every year on that day, for the good of all and to wash away the sins she has taken on from the people who bathe in her.

Whoever bathes there and worships Nandikeśvara properly, Sūta concludes, is freed from every sin, even the killing of a brahmin.