Vasanta, and the Yogī Who Could Not Be Moved

Nārada asks what came next

Brahmā had finished telling Nārada how Sandhyā became Arundhatī. Nārada was delighted. You are blessed, he told his father; that was a wonderful story, and it deepens devotion to Śiva. But now tell me the story of Śiva himself, which wipes away every wrong and brings good fortune. Kāma had happily won Rati, you and your mind-born sons had gone away, and Sandhyā had gone off to her tapas. What happened after that?

Brahmā was pleased with the question. Listen then, he said, to a tale full of Śiva's play. And he began, as he so often does in this part of the Purāṇa, with a confession.

Brahmā's wounded pride

When I vanished from that gathering, Brahmā said, I was still under the spell of Śiva's māyā, and Śiva's words burned in me like poison. I brooded over them for a long time. And out of that brooding — I will tell you plainly — I began to feel a grudge against him.

So he went back to where Dakṣa and his other sons were. Kāma was there with Rati, and the sight of the two of them lifted Brahmā's spirits a little. He talked warmly with his sons and then put his trouble before them.

Dakṣa, Marīci, all of you, he said — listen, and find me a remedy. Śiva, the great yogī, saw me long for a woman, and he condemned me for it, and scolded you too. Since then I burn with grief and find no rest anywhere. So do something to make him take a wife as well. Only when he accepts a woman will this pain of ours go.

Yet even as he asked, Brahmā admitted how hard it would be. He shamed me before the sages for the mere wish for a wife, he said — how will he ever take one himself? What woman in the three worlds could settle in his heart, draw him off the path of yoga and bewilder him? Even Kāma may not be able to do it. He is the supreme yogī; he cannot bear so much as the mention of women. The greatest gods are bound by māyā in one way or another — but Sadāśiva has turned from the world and loves solitude. Who but he could do something so difficult as stay free?

The errand given to Kāma

Having said this to his sons, Brahmā turned to Kāma and Rati and spoke to them gladly. Kāma, best of my sons, he said, you bring happiness to everyone, and you are devoted to your father. Listen to me, you and your wife together.

How well the two of you look side by side, he said. As Viṣṇu and Mahālakṣmī adorn each other, as the night and the moon adorn each other, so do you two, and your marriage is a beautiful one. You will be the banner of the world, the one who conquers it.

Then came the errand. For the good of the world, child, bewilder Mahādeva, so that Śaṅkara, with a glad heart, marries soon. Wherever he goes — a lonely place, a fair country, a mountain, the bank of a lake — go there with your wife and enchant him, self-controlled and wifeless as he is. No one but you can do it.

And Brahmā added a reason that touched Kāma himself. When Śaṅkara comes to feel love, he said, the curse on you will be stilled as well. If Maheśvara, full of feeling, wishes for a wife, he will deliver you too. So do yourself this good turn: take your wife, strive to enchant him, and become the banner of the universe.

Kāma agreed. Lord, he said, I will do as you command. But a woman is my chief weapon. Create a woman fit for Śaṅkara — one who, when I have stirred him, can hold his heart. Find the right means for this, Creator.

Spring is born from a sigh

Brahmā fell to thinking: what kind of woman could ever enchant Śiva? He sank deep into the worry, and he let out a breath. From that breath Vasanta, the Spring, was born, decked in clusters of flowers.

The Purāṇa describes him with care. He glowed like a red lotus; his eyes were like lotuses in bloom, and his face was as lovely as the full moon rising at dusk. His nose was fine, his hair dark and curling. He wore two earrings like the evening sun. He walked like an elephant in rut; his arms were long and strong, his shoulders high, his neck like a conch, his chest very broad. Every limb was handsome. He bore all the auspicious marks — a sight that charmed everyone and woke desire.

The moment he was born a fragrant wind began to blow and the trees were weighed down with blossom. Cuckoos by the hundred sang their sweet fifth note, and the ponds filled with clear, open lotuses.

Brahmā looked at him and spoke gently to Kāma. Here, he said, is a friend who suits you, one who is your equal. He will help you in everything. As the wind is the friend of fire and always serves it, so he will be your friend and always be with you. Because he will dwell with you and is a cause of delight, his name will be Vasanta. His work is to gladden the world and to follow you.

The Malaya breeze of springtime, Brahmā went on, will be his ornament and his friend, and will always be at your command. And just as you have your friends, the graces of love — the playful gestures and airs — and the sixty-four arts will be Rati's companions.

Now go, Kāma, he said, with Vasanta and these companions and with Rati, and enchant Mahādeva. And I, for my part, will think carefully and find the woman who can win Śaṅkara's heart.

Kāma and his wife bowed at Brahmā's feet, bowed to Dakṣa and the mind-born sons, and set out for the place where Śaṅkara had gone.

The yogī who could not be moved

What followed, Brahmā told Nārada, was a marvel. Kāma, that great hero who bewilders everyone, reached Śiva's abode and spread his influence, and every living creature there fell under it. Vasanta showed his power too: all the trees burst into flower at once. Kāma and Rati tried one thing after another. Every being came under their sway — but Śiva and his gaṇas did not.

When all his efforts and Vasanta's had failed, Kāma's pride left him. He came back, bowed to Brahmā, and spoke in a faltering, dispirited voice. Śiva cannot be bewildered, he said. He is given wholly to yoga. I have not the power to enchant him, and neither has anyone else. Let me tell you everything we tried.

When he sat restrained in samādhi, Kāma said, I tried to unsettle the three-eyed Rudra with a wind that was swift, cool, fragrant and intoxicating. I took my bow and my five flower-arrows and loosed them all around him, to bewilder his gaṇas. The moment I entered that region every creature was enchanted. But Śiva and his gaṇas showed no change at all.

I followed him everywhere, Kāma went on. When the lord of the Pramathas went to a peak of the Himālaya, I went there with Vasanta and Rati. When he went to Mount Meru, and to the Nāgakesara mountain, I went there too. When he went to Kailāsa, so did I.

And when at some moment he came out of samādhi, I set before him every scene of married love I could devise, and raised all kinds of feeling in front of the blue-throated Mahādeva. Even the beasts and birds stood before him and showed their courtship. A pair of peacocks, eager for love, danced in front of him and behind him with every kind of movement. Yet my arrows never once found an opening. I am telling you the truth, Lord of the worlds: I do not have the power to enchant Śiva.

Then Kāma spoke for his friend. Vasanta did all that was proper, he said. Wherever Śiva sat, there he made the flowers open — campaka and nāgakesara, punnāga and kiṃśuka, ketakī, mālatī, mallikā, kurabaka and many more. He took pains to scent the blooming lotuses of the pond in Śiva's hermitage with the Malaya breeze. Every creeper flowered and put out shoots, and wound itself lovingly around the tree beside it.

Seeing those trees in bloom in the scented wind, even sages fell under the power of desire — what need to speak of others? And still, said Kāma, I saw no sign of bewilderment in Śaṅkara, not the faintest stir of desire. Nor, for all that I did, did he show me even a trace of anger.

So, seeing all this and understanding his mind, I gave up the attempt. Once he leaves his samādhi, we cannot stand in his sight even for a moment. Who can enchant that Rudra? His eyes blaze like burning fire, his matted locks make him terrible to look at — who can stand before the lord of Kailāsa?

The Māras

Four-faced Brahmā heard Kāma out and sank into worry. He wanted to speak and could not. “I am not able to enchant Śiva” — those words filled him with sorrow, and he began to breathe out hot sighs.

Those sighs turned into gaṇas — beings of many shapes, immensely strong, with lolling tongues, restless and very frightening. They began to beat kettledrums, mṛdaṅgas and countless other fearsome instruments, and there in front of Brahmā they shouted, “Strike! Cut!”

Hearing them, Kāma, with Brahmā's leave, looked at the gaṇas and checked them. Then he asked, in front of them: Lord of creatures, who are these terrible warriors who have just been born? What work will they do, where will they live, and what are they called? Give them their task, their names and their places, and then, in your kindness, give me my orders.

Brahmā answered him. As soon as they were born, he said, they cried again and again “māraya, māraya” — strike, strike. So their name shall be Māra. Unless they are given their due worship, these gaṇas will always put obstacles in the way of creatures whose minds are set on desires of many kinds.

Their chief work, Kāma, will be to stay on your side. They will always be ready to help you; whenever and wherever you go about your work, they will go there to assist you. In the minds of those who fall under your weapons they will keep raising confusion, and they will put obstacles in the path of knowledge that the wise walk.

Hearing this, Kāma, with Rati and Vasanta, brightened a little. The gaṇas, each in his own form, sat down in a ring around Brahmā and Kāma.

The second attempt

Then Brahmā spoke to Kāma with affection. Do as I say, Madana. Take these gaṇas with you and go once more to enchant Śiva. With the Māras beside you, put your whole mind to it, so that Śiva is moved to take a wife.

Kāma bowed, mindful of the respect he owed his father, and answered humbly. Father, he said, I tried carefully and well, and Śiva was not bewildered. He is not bewildered now, and he will not be hereafter. But out of regard for your word, and seeing these Māras, I will go there again with my wife at your command. Only know that I am certain in my heart that it will not happen — and I am afraid that this time he may burn my body to ashes.

So saying, Kāma set out in fear for Śiva's abode with Vasanta, Rati and the Māra-gaṇas. There he showed his power as before. Vasanta used every device he could think of. The Māras too tried many things. But Śaṅkara, the Supreme Self, was not touched by the least bewilderment.

Kāma came back. The Māra-gaṇas stood before Brahmā with their pride gone and their faces fallen. Kāma, downcast and humbled, bowed and said: I tried even harder than before, and Śiva, his mind fixed in meditation, was not moved at all. That compassionate one did not burn my body; some merit of an earlier birth must be the reason. The Lord is wholly without change.

And he gave his father a piece of advice. If you truly wish Mahādeva to take a wife, then, as I see it, you should lay aside your pride and find another way.

With that Kāma bowed and went home to his own hermitage with his household — remembering, the Purāṇa says, Śambhu, who breaks pride and is tender to the humble.

Brahmā calls on Viṣṇu

And what did you do then? Nārada asked. Brahmā answered that even hearing this part of the story frees a person from disturbance of mind.

My arrogance was shattered, he said. My wish had come to nothing, my joy was gone, and I was left wondering: how can Śiva, changeless, master of himself, devoted to yoga, ever accept a wife? I thought about it in many ways. Then, with my pride gone, I remembered Viṣṇu with devotion and praised him with humble hymns.

Viṣṇu, who loves his devotees, appeared at once — four-armed, lotus-eyed, dark of body, in yellow silk, bearing conch, lotus and mace. Brahmā praised him again, his voice choked with feeling. Pleased, Viṣṇu asked: Why have you remembered me today, maker of the worlds? What great sorrow has come to you? Tell me now, and I will remove it; do not doubt that.

Brahmā drew a long breath, joined his palms and told him. I sent Kāma, with his household, the Māra-gaṇas and Vasanta, to enchant Rudra. They tried everything, and all of it failed. That even-minded yogī was not moved.

Viṣṇu, who knows the truth about Śiva, was astonished. Grandsire, he said, how did you come to think of such a thing? Consider it honestly and tell me.

So Brahmā told him the whole of it. Your māyā bewilders, he said, and this whole world of joy and sorrow is in its power; driven by it, I did wrong. At the start of creation Dakṣa and my other sons were born, and a very beautiful daughter. When I saw her I was deluded and looked at her wrongly — and at that moment Mahādeva came and condemned me and my sons. Thinking himself the greater, he shamed me — me, a knower and a yogī — in front of everyone, though he is my own son. That is my great grief. If he would take a wife I would be happy and my heart would be at ease. That is why I have come to you for refuge.

Viṣṇu's rebuke and counsel

Viṣṇu laughed, and then spoke quickly, in a way that in the end gladdened Brahmā. Listen, he said, to words that clear away all error and that the Vedas and Āgamas approve.

He did not spare him. You speak the Veda and you made the worlds — how have you become so foolish? Give up this dullness. Recall with a clear mind what all the Vedas say in their hymns. You take Rudra, the Lord beyond all, for your son! Your knowledge has slipped away from you. Good sense has left you and bad sense has come, if you take Śaṅkara for an ordinary god and bear him ill will.

Then Viṣṇu told him the settled truth of the Vedas. Śiva alone is the maker, sustainer and withdrawer of all creation — the highest of the high, the supreme Brahman, without qualities, eternal, beyond description, changeless, without a second, unfailing, endless. It is he who, through rajas, sattva and tamas, bears the names Brahmā, Viṣṇu and Maheśvara. He is beyond māyā and without desire, yet skilled in weaving māyā; free, complete in his own joy, beyond all pairs of opposites. He is a yogī, always absorbed in yoga, and the one who shows its path. He yields to his devotees, he removes pride, and he is always kind to the humble. And this Lord you call your son!

Give up that ignorance, Viṣṇu said. Take refuge in him and worship him in every way; he will be pleased and will do you good.

And if you are set on Śiva taking a wife, he went on, then, remembering Śiva, do hard tapas directed to Śivā, the Goddess. Hold your wish in your heart and meditate on her. If that queen of the gods is pleased, she will accomplish everything. If Śivā descends in a form with qualities and becomes someone's daughter, then she can surely be his wife.

Tell Dakṣa, too, to do tapas with devotion, so that Śiva's bride may be born to him. And understand this well: Śivā and Śiva yield to their devotees. They are the supreme Brahman itself, and of their own will they take on forms.

What Śiva had once promised

Having said this, Viṣṇu called his own Lord, Śiva, to mind, and by Śiva's grace a memory came clear to him. Brahmā, he said, recall what Śiva told the two of us long ago, when we had been born by his will and prayed to him. You have forgotten all of it. Blessed is Śiva's supreme Śakti — she has bewildered this whole world, and no one but Śiva knows her.

When Śiva, who is beyond qualities, took a form by his own will, Viṣṇu said, he brought forth you and me. He set you to create and me to protect. Then we stood with joined palms and asked him: Lord of all, you too take a form with qualities and descend. He looked up at the sky, laughed, and answered us with love.

A supreme form just like mine, he said, will appear from Brahmā's body and be known in the world as Rudra. He will be my complete form, worthy of worship. He will carry through all the work of you both; he will dissolve the worlds, and he will be the supreme yogī. All three gods are forms of mine, but Hara will be the full one. And Umā too will have three forms: Lakṣmī will be Viṣṇu's wife, Sarasvatī will be Brahmā's, and Satī, her complete form, will be the wife of Rudra.

Having said that and shown us his grace, Viṣṇu went on, Maheśvara vanished, and we two went happily about our tasks. In time you and I took wives. Śaṅkara did not. He has descended as Rudra and lives on Kailāsa. And Śivā will descend under the name Satī. So we two must do what we can to bring about her birth.

With that, in great kindness, Viṣṇu vanished. And then, Brahmā told Nārada, my grudge against Śiva left me, and I was filled with joy. What he did next — his hymn to the Goddess, and how she agreed to be born as Dakṣa's daughter — is told in “The Marriage of Satī”.