The Birth of Pārvatī

The mountain and his bride

Nārada asked Brahmā: how did Satī, who gave up her body at her father's sacrifice, become the daughter of the Himālaya, and how did she win Śiva again? And Brahmā began with the mother before the daughter.

Long before, when Satī used to wander happily with Śiva on the Himālaya, the mountain's wife Menā had waited on her with a mother's love, feeling in her heart that this was her own daughter. When Satī, insulted by Dakṣa, gave up her body in anger, Menā longed to worship her; and Satī, for her part, made up her mind: I will be born again from Menā's womb, as the Himālaya's daughter. In time, praised by all the gods, she was born to Menā, was named Pārvatī, and — guided by Nārada — won Śiva once more by fierce tapas.

Then Brahmā told of the mountain himself. In the north stands the Himālaya, king of mountains, in two forms, the moving and the unmoving. He reaches into the eastern and western oceans like a measuring rod laid across the earth. He is a store of snow and jewels and metals, full of wonders, home to gods, sages and siddhas, a place where tapas bears fruit quickly — a portion of Viṣṇu, and very dear to Śiva.

The mountain wished to marry, to continue his line, to increase dharma and to serve the gods and the ancestors. At that moment the gods, thinking of their own purpose, went to the divine Pitṛs, the ancestors. Your eldest daughter, the auspicious Menā, they said: give her to the Himālaya. It will be a great gain for the world, and it will ease your troubles and ours at every step.

The Pitṛs talked it over. They remembered the curse that lay on their daughters, and they agreed. Menā was given to the Himālaya with full rites, and the wedding was a great festival. Viṣṇu and the gods and all the sages came, thinking of Śiva; they gave many gifts, praised the Pitṛs and the mountain, and went home remembering Śiva and Śivā. The mountain king brought his bride home, delighted.

Three sisters and a curse

What curse? asked Nārada. So Brahmā went further back. His son Dakṣa had sixty daughters, and one of them, Svadhā, he gave to the Pitṛs. From the Pitṛs three daughters were born — Menā the eldest, Dhanyā the middle one and Kalāvatī the youngest. They were born from the Pitṛs' minds, not from a womb, and are called Svadhā's daughters only by custom. They were yoginīs, treasures of wisdom, mothers of the world, free to roam all three worlds; the Purāṇa says that whoever speaks their names gains all that he wishes.

One day the three sisters went to Śvetadvīpa, the White Island, to see Viṣṇu. They bowed, praised him, and stayed on at his bidding among a great gathering. Then the sons of Brahmā — Sanaka and his brothers, the perfected sages — arrived, bowed to Hari and sat down. When the gathering saw them, everyone rose at once. Only the three sisters stayed sitting, staring in wonder.

It was not pride alone, the Purāṇa says. Śiva's māyā, which holds the whole world, which is also called fate and is nothing but Śiva's own will, had clouded their minds. But Sanaka and his brothers, wise as they were, grew hot with anger — and Sanatkumāra, moved by that same will of Śiva, cursed them. You are daughters of the Pitṛs, he said, yet you are foolish and know nothing of the Vedas' truth. You did not rise, you did not greet us. Leave heaven, then, and become the wives of men.

The sisters fell at his feet. We did not bow because we were deluded, they said; the fault is ours, not yours. Be kind to us, so that we may reach heaven again.

Sanatkumāra's anger melted, and — again by Śiva's māyā — he told them the way out. The eldest of you will be the wife of the Himālaya, a portion of Viṣṇu, and Pārvatī will be her daughter. Dhanyā will be the wife of King Janaka — Sīradhvaja, a great yogī freed while living — and her daughter will be Sītā, who is Mahālakṣmī. Kalāvatī, the youngest, will marry the vaiśya Vṛṣabhānu, and at the end of the Dvāpara age Rādhā will be born as her daughter.

And more: Menā, by Pārvatī's boon, will go with her husband to Kailāsa, the highest place, in that very body. Dhanyā will reach Vaikuṇṭha, and Kalāvatī will go with her daughter to Goloka. Who ever became great without first meeting trouble? he said. And having seen Viṣṇu, your old karma is already used up. Pārvatī will win Śiva by the hardest tapas; Sītā will be Rāma's wife; Rādhā, bound by a hidden love, will be Kṛṣṇa's. Then Sanatkumāra vanished with his brothers, and the sisters, freed of their fault, went home glad.

The gods at the mountain's door

After the wedding there was rejoicing in all three worlds. The Himālaya honoured brahmins and kinsmen, and lived happily with Menā in his palace and in the groves of Nandana. Then Viṣṇu and all the gods and great sages came to him together.

The mountain bowed, his hair standing on end and tears of love in his eyes. Today my birth has borne fruit, he said, and my tapas, my knowledge and my deeds with it. My land, my family, my wife — all of it is blessed, because you have all come here at once. Treat me as your servant and tell me what to do.

The gods, sure now that their work would succeed, told him. The mother of the world, Umā, who was born as Dakṣa's daughter Satī and lived long on earth as Rudra's wife, gave up her body when her father insulted her, and went to her own realm. If she is now born in your house, it will be a great gain for you and for all the gods. The mountain said “So be it” — not out of courtesy, the Purāṇa says, but because his own heart was glad.

The gods told him how Umā should be worshipped. Then they themselves took refuge in her. Standing in a fitting place, remembering her in their minds, they praised her again and again. You are faith, steadiness and fortune; you are the light in the sun. You are Gāyatrī, Sāvitrī and Sarasvatī, the three Vedas and dharma itself. You are sleep, hunger, contentment and thirst in every creature. To those who do good you are Lakṣmī, and to punish the wicked you are Jyeṣṭhā, misfortune. You are the boat without a helmsman that carries us across the ocean of saṃsāra, and you live on the Vindhya mountains. Then they stood waiting, longing to see her.

Umā shows herself

The Goddess came — Durgā, who had destroyed the demon Durga. She sat in a wonderful chariot set with jewels and hung with little bells, brighter than countless suns. At first the gods saw only a great mass of light, and they prayed again. Only by her grace could they see her form, and when they did they bowed again and again.

Even the Vedas cannot fully know you, they said; the scriptures can only say “not this, not this”. Once you were Dakṣa's daughter and Śiva's beloved; you gave up that body when your father dishonoured you, and Mahādeva grieved. But the gods' work was left undone. Be born on earth again, become Śiva's wife again, so that Sanatkumāra's word comes true and the gods, and Śiva on Kailāsa, and all the worlds may be happy.

Umā smiled. Do not grieve, she said. The delusion that came over Dakṣa was my own doing. I will take birth on earth, in full — and there are many reasons. When I was Satī, the Himālaya and Menā served me like a father and mother, and they serve me still; Menā most of all, as if I were her own daughter.

And there is Śiva. Ever since I left the body born of Dakṣa, she said, Rudra, who is the fire of time, has gone about naked and thinks only of me. He has left home and wanders as a yogī in strange dress. He wears a garland of my bones and finds no peace; he wanders like one with no protector, weeping aloud, speaking the words of a lover parted from his beloved. Yet he is untouched by change, lord of māyā, lord of all. He only plays, following the ways of the world. He longs to marry me.

So, to please Rudra, I will be born of Menā, the mountain's wife. By hard tapas I will become his devotee and his beloved, and do your work — this is true. Go home now and worship Rudra; by his grace your sorrow will end. With that the mother of the world vanished before their eyes. The gods bowed in her direction and went home, full of joy. Whoever hears or reads this story of Durgā with a steady mind, the Purāṇa says, gains all he desires.

Menā's twenty-seven years

After the gods had gone, the Himālaya and Menā began their own tapas, thinking of Śambhu and Śivā day and night. Menā worshipped the Goddess together with Śiva and gave gifts to brahmins daily. Longing for a child, she worshipped Śivā every day for twenty-seven years, beginning in the month of Caitra. She fasted on the eighth day of the fortnight and on the ninth offered sweets, rice pudding, sandal and flowers. At Oṣadhiprastha on the Gaṅgā she made clay images of Umā and worshipped them. Sometimes she ate nothing, sometimes she lived on water, sometimes on air alone.

At the end of the twenty-seventh year the Goddess was pleased. She appeared before Menā in a mass of light, smiling. Ask whatever is in your heart, she said; I will give you what you prayed for, and whatever you wish for later too.

Menā bowed to Kālikā and said: let me praise you, now that I see you. The Goddess, delighted, took her in both arms and embraced her — and at that touch great knowledge woke in Menā, and she sang a hymn. I bow to Mahāmāyā, to Caṇḍikā who holds up the world. You are the fierce power within fire, the light in the rays of the sun, the gladness in the moon. You are Hari's māyā, and the cause of the very bodies of Brahmā, Viṣṇu and Rudra. Be gracious to me.

Ask your boon, said the Goddess again; you are dearer to me than life, and there is nothing I will not give you. So Menā asked. First let me have a hundred sons, long-lived, mighty and prosperous. After them let me have one daughter, beautiful and good, the joy of both families, honoured in all three worlds. And, Śivā — may you yourself be that daughter, for the gods' sake. Be Rudra's wife, and play your play.

The Goddess smiled. You will have a hundred strong sons, she said, and the first-born will be the mightiest. And pleased by your devotion, I will come as your daughter myself and do the gods' work. She vanished, and Menā went home crying “Victory!” The Himālaya had already read the news in her shining face, but she told him everything anyway, and he praised his wife's devotion.

In time Menā bore a son, Maināka. He made a lasting friendship with the ocean, and Nāga women sport on his slopes. When Indra in anger cut off the wings of the mountains with his thunderbolt, Maināka alone was untouched and kept his wings. He was the greatest of the Himālaya's hundred sons, and there was a great festival in the mountain's city.

The Goddess in the womb

Some time later the couple remembered the Goddess again, asking her to be born. And Caṇḍikā, true to her word, entered the Himālaya's mind with her full portion. He shone like an unapproachable fire. Then, in samādhi, at an auspicious hour, he placed that portion of Śivā in Menā's womb by the power of meditation, and Menā conceived.

Menā glowed in a circle of light. She grew thin and laid aside her ornaments; her face turned pale as the lodhra flower, and she looked like the night at dawn, when the moon fades and only a few stars remain. The mountain could not have enough of her. Because she was too shy to tell him what she craved, he kept asking her friends — and whatever she named, she found set before her, for nothing in the three worlds was out of his reach. He looked on her as the earth that hides jewels within it, or the śamī tree that hides fire, and performed every rite of pregnancy as his wealth and learning allowed.

Then Viṣṇu and the gods and sages came and praised the Goddess in the womb. Victory to you, Durgā, mother of the world — true of vow, rooted in truth, truth itself. Come forth and finish the gods' work; through you alone the whole world has its happiness.

When the ninth month had passed and the tenth was ending, the Goddess chose to be born. The hour was lovely: planets and stars grew calm, the sky cleared, light filled every quarter, lotuses opened in lakes and rivers, soft winds blew. Good people were glad and the wicked were troubled. The gods beat drums in the sky and rained flowers, gandharvas sang, apsarases danced.

It was spring, in Caitra, on the ninth day, under the star Mṛgaśirā, at midnight. Like the Gaṅgā flowing out of the orb of the moon, like Lakṣmī rising from the ocean, Śivā came forth from Menā's womb in her own divine form. Śiva himself was glad. A fragrant breeze blew, rain fell mixed with flowers, the sacred fires that had gone cold blazed up by themselves, clouds rumbled. All wealth came of its own accord into the mountain's city, and every sorrow there was gone. The gods came to see her. You have fulfilled Menā's wish, they said; now fulfil Śiva's. And they went home praising her.

Menā looked at her — dark, glowing like the petal of a blue lotus — and knowledge woke in her. You are the first of all powers, she said, mother of the three worlds, ever dear to Śiva. Stay in my heart in this form; but now, take the form of a daughter I can see.

The Goddess answered. You served me long ago, and when I came to give you a boon you asked me to be your daughter and do the gods' work. Now the time has come, and I am your daughter. I have shown you this divine form so that you will remember who I am; otherwise, once I am born in human form, you would never know. You two will think of me always with love, as a daughter or as the Goddess, and so you will reach my highest abode. I will play my wonderful play on earth, do the gods' work, become Śambhu's wife and save the good. Then she fell silent — and there and then, before her mother's eyes, by her māyā she became a newborn girl.

Kālī, Pārvatī, Umā

The baby cried like any newborn, following the ways of the world, and her radiance spread around the bed so that the night lamps turned pale. Hearing that lovely cry, the women of the house came running. A messenger from the inner palace carried the news to the king; for such news, the Purāṇa says, even the white royal parasol was not too great a gift. The mountain came with his priest and the brahmins and saw his daughter — dark as a blue lotus, lovely beyond words — and was overjoyed.

The whole city rejoiced, with music, songs of blessing and dancing. The Himālaya performed her birth rites, gave gifts to the brahmins and poured out wealth to the poor at his gate. At an auspicious hour, with the sages, he gave her names — Kālī and others — and as he gazed at her again and again, he and Menā were happier than all their sons had ever made them.

She grew in her father's house like the Gaṅgā in the rains, like moonlight in autumn, day by day, like the growing digit of the moon. Her family, following the custom of their line, called her Pārvatī, “daughter of the mountain”. Later, when her mother tried to stop her from doing tapas with the words “U mā” — “Oh, don't!” — she came to be known in the world as Umā.

Though he had many sons, the Himālaya never tired of looking at her. In spring there is nectar in every flower, the Purāṇa says, yet the bees love the mango blossom best. She adorned him as refined speech adorns a learned man, as its flame adorns a lamp, as the Gaṅgā adorns the path of the heavens.

As a little girl she played with her friends — with a ball, with dolls, and with little altars made of sand from the Gaṅgā. When the time came she studied every branch of learning with a good teacher, with one-pointed attention. But the knowledge of her former life came back to her by itself, as swans come to the Gaṅgā in autumn, or as the moon's cool rays reach the healing herbs at night.

Nārada reads her palm

One day Nārada, sent by Śiva, came to the Himālaya's house. The mountain bowed, worshipped him, and had his daughter bow at the sage's feet. You know everything, he said; you can see good and bad alike. Tell me what my daughter's birth holds for her. Whose wife will she be?

Nārada, always fond of a little mischief, looked at Kālikā's hand and at all her features, and smiled. Your daughter is growing like the first digit of the moon, he said, and she has every good sign. She will bring her husband great happiness and her parents fame; she will be the most faithful of women and a joy to her family. There are fine marks on her hand. Only one line is strange. Hear what it means: her husband will be a yogī — naked, beyond all qualities, free of desire, without mother or father, careless of honour, and dressed in inauspicious things.

The Himālaya and Menā took his words as truth, and their hearts sank. But the Goddess heard the same words and rejoiced inside, for she knew who had those marks. Nārada's word can never be false, she thought, and she gave her whole heart to Śiva's feet.

Muni, said the mountain, I am deeply troubled. What can I do? Nārada answered gently. What I said is true, and cannot change; the lines of the hand are Brahmā's own writing. Her husband will be just such a one. But listen to the remedy. The groom I described is Śiva himself, taking forms in play, and in him all these “faults” are as good as virtues. A fault only harms the weak; it does not touch the mighty — think of the sun, of fire, of the Gaṅgā. So, with good sense, give your daughter to Śiva. He is lord of all, changeless and undying, and he is won by tapas above all. If she does tapas he will surely accept her.

She will be Śaṅkara's wife and always of one mind with him, Nārada went on, for she is truly devoted and keeps her vows. She will win his heart by her tapas, and he will marry no one else. There has never been, is not, and never will be a love like theirs. Through her the gods' ruined work will be set right. Through your daughter Hara will become Ardhanārīśvara: she will win half his body. By her tapas she will become fair as lightning and gold, and so she will be called Gaurī, and Brahmā, Viṣṇu and all the gods will worship her. Do not give her to anyone else — and never tell this secret to the gods.

The Himālaya had one more doubt. The kinnaras who come here always say that Mahādeva has given up all attachment, does tapas with his mind held still, and is not seen even by the gods. His mind rests in the highest Brahman, his own Sadāśiva form; he looks at nothing outside. How will he turn it away? And they say he once vowed to Satī: I will never choose or take any wife but you. Now that Satī is dead, how will he take another?

Do not worry, said Nārada. This daughter of yours, Kālī, was once Dakṣa's daughter Satī, Rudra's beloved. At her father's sacrifice she was dishonoured, saw Śiva insulted, and in anger gave up her body. That same Ambikā has been born in your house. She will be Śaṅkara's wife — there is no doubt. And he told the mountain the whole story of her former life. The Himālaya, his sons and his wife were freed of all doubt. Kālī listened, lowered her face in shyness, and smiled.

Her father stroked her, kissed her head again and again, and sat her on the seat beside his own. Seeing this, Nārada said: why a throne for her, mountain king? Her seat will be Śambhu's lap, where no eye and no mind can reach. With those generous words he went back to heaven, and the mountain went into his palace with a glad heart.

Two dreams

Some time later Menā came to her husband, bowed, and pleaded with him. I am a woman, she said, and I did not really understand the sage. Give our girl to a handsome groom, of good family and good signs — someone who will make her happy. She is dearer to me than life. And she fell weeping at his feet.

The Himālaya raised her up. Let go of your confusion, he said; a sage's word is never false. If you love your daughter, teach her to do tapas for Śaṅkara with a steady mind and devotion. If Śiva is pleased and takes her hand, all will be well, and the ill that Nārada spoke of will vanish. Near Śiva, everything inauspicious becomes auspicious.

Menā went gladly to her daughter to speak of tapas. But when she looked at that tender young body her eyes filled with tears, and she could not say a word. Pārvatī understood at once, comforted her mother, and said: Mother, listen. Early this morning, at the hour before dawn, I had a dream. A kind brahmin ascetic told me, happily, to do great tapas for Śiva.

Menā called her husband and told him the dream. The mountain was delighted. I too had a dream, he said, in the last watch of the night. An ascetic who bore every mark Nārada spoke of came near our city to do tapas, and I went to him with our daughter. I knew then that he was Śambhu, the groom Nārada meant. I asked him to accept her service, but he would not. A great debate broke out, in the terms of Sāṅkhya and Vedānta. Then, at his word, our daughter stayed there and served him with devotion, holding him in her heart. Let us wait a while and see what comes of these dreams.

They did not wait long. Before much time had passed, Śiva himself — still wandering, still aching from Satī's loss — came there with his gaṇas to do tapas; and Pārvatī, with two friends, served him to win his favour. The rest Brahmā gives here only in a few lines: how Kāma's arrows could not shake him and he burnt Kāma with the fire of his eye; how, after humbling Pārvatī's pride, he was won at last by her fierce tapas; and how, urged by Viṣṇu, he married her with every rite of the world. Those are stories of their own.