‘Save us’

‘You know what to do’

‘Release us’

‘Show mercy’

Bhagirath got up with a start, his body glistening with fear induced sweat. The voices. They were growing stronger day by day. Murmurs, whispers of agonized souls, wailing for salvation. They started the day he had assumed the throne. At first, they were feeble, and he dismissed them as figments of his imagination – but they kept growing stronger and stronger, until it became impossible to sleep at night. The guards and maids were instructed to keep their mouths shut and the entire corridor was kept empty when Bhagirath slept, but rumours spread anyway, questioning the new king’s sanity; a king born of two mothers was already an oddity, but a king who had visions of tortured souls was a recipe for disaster.

Unable to bear the whispers, he clutched his head and got out of the room, wandering the palace like a ghost. Moonlight spilt into the palace, mingling with the braziers to create an unearthly glow, bathing the king of the solar dynasty in its splendour. The rhythmic tapping of his cane helped Bhagirath to calm down; it was a gift from Sage Ashtavakra, a man himself once twisted at eight joints, who had cured his extreme physical deformities at birth. It was in this random wandering, when his mind was blank, that Bhagirath found a solution to his problem: Brahmarishi Vashishtha. He was a Saptarishi, one of the seven greatest sages, and served as guide and advisor to his dynasty. He would definitely know the answer. Cane in hand, Bhagirath rushed towards his guru’s residence in the palace grounds.

Despite an illustrious lineage, and an even more illustrious career, Vashishtha insisted on living in simplicity and obscurity. His small hut, nestled in his ashram on the palace grounds, was modest and humble, lit inside with several diyas. The sage was at his desk, poring over his latest treatise, barely registering his king’s cry of despair. “Help me gurudev, save me! I am going insane!” his voice rang outside the sage’s door. Without waiting for an answer, Bhagirath barged inside the cottage. Vashishth kept down his book and spectacles, and gazed at him with his calm, compassionate eyes. “Sit down Bhagirath, calm down my son! Here drink this.” He said, handing him a cup of cool soma. He took it gingerly, looking at his supposedly avarice-bereft mentor. “What? Isn’t it a divine drink? Besides an occasional sip is good for your health.” He said, shrugging.

Denying the drink of the devas, Bhagirath reiterated his problem. “Gurudev, I am tormented by visions. I see my ancestors; I hear the voices of their tormented souls. I fear I am going mad sire. Each night I feel as if I’m being strangled by their voices. Help me gurudev, help me…” he said, before collapsing into sobs. Vashishtha took in his student; indeed the nightmares had taken a toll on his health and appearance. His face was gaunt and dark circles gathered beneath his puffed-up eyes, overshadowed by his messy shoulder length hair. His warrior’s body looked weak, his bronze skin losing its lustre, his ribs were visible and he registered the tremble in his hands as he kept down the cup.

“I have feared this for a while now Bhagirath. Sit, and listen, as I now recite to you the tragic tale of your ancestors.” Vashishtha replied, breaking the silence which was punctuated by Bhagirath’s sobs. Listening to him, with his deep baritone voice, and his face which shone with the ecstasy of a skilled orator and a scholar of yore, Bhagirath was transfixed by the tale he told.

‘It all began when the devas and asuras waged a fierce war against each other, the likes of which will never be seen again. The issue was that Lord Indra, king of the gods, had murdered Lord Trishiras, an asura priest who was serving as the deva preceptor temporarily when he found out that he gave some of the yajna offerings to his asura brethren. In retaliation, his father Tvashtra summoned a dragon called Vritra, who spread terror everywhere, with the intention to kill Indra. Vritra, who could not be killed by any solid weapon made of any ore, was invincible. Through Lord Vishnu’s guidance, Indra crafted the Vajra – made of sea foam and Sage Dhadhichi’s bones, strengthened through centuries of tapas and imbued with Lord Surya’s energy, thus slaying Vritra. With their leader dead, the asuras fled, some seeking refuge with Saptarishi Bhrigu’s wife Kavya. When Lord Vishnu confronted her, she replied that he would only be able to get to the asuras over her dead body. Thus, Vishnu promptly beheaded her and then finished off the remaining asuras. This was the reason he was cursed by a bereaved Bhrigu to forever bear the pangs of separation from his wife Goddess Lakshmi, over and over again. Their son Ushanas Shukra also saw his mother’s murder, and has ever since sought the downfall of the gods.

The remaining asuras hid inside the ocean. The devas then approached Saptarishi Agastya for help, who drank all the oceans and exposed the asuras, who were then all killed. However, when he was asked to release the oceans, it was found out that his body had digested it all. This is where your ancestor, Emperor Sagar, stepped in, eons ago and eons later.

He conducted a huge yajna, donating millions of cows and wealth. The furrows created by their hooves created large basins, and a happy Lord Indra released the rains, which filled these to the brim, recreating the oceans. However, Indra soon grew jealous of Sagar’s prowess through the yajna, and stole the Vatapi horses, which were integral to it – you see these horses were even faster than the wind, and were a part of the donations. When Sagar got to know, he sent his ten thousand sons in their search. A scared Indra in turn tied the horses near Sage Kapila’s ashram in the netherworld. When Sagar’s sons found the horses with an oblivious Kapila, lost in meditation, they abused him and broke his tapasya, and Kapila promptly reduced them to ashes. The voices you hear my dear Bhagirath, are those of these ten thousand princes. Their death rites could never be performed, and so they are stuck here on earth and unable to ascend to heaven. Many kings before you have tried to alleviate their suffering, but in vain.’

Bhagirath was enchanted by this tale spanning eons. So this was the mythic tale of his ancestors, known in part to many but in full only to Vashishtha. The pain of his ancestors’ agony resonated within him, and the voices in his head quieted down, content that at least their tale had been told to their descendant. He sat there quietly for a while, his legs hugged to his chest, head bowed down. At last, his trance broke, and he looked up at him.

“How do I free them gurudev?” he asked, his eyes lit and his jaw set in determination. Gone was the defeated man that sat before, replaced now by the king he was. Vashishtha, however, chided his mentee’s newfound energy. “It is not so easy Bhagirath. Only the devas can alleviate your ancestors’ suffering, and only one has the power to do so – Ganga.”

“Who, or what is Ganga?” Bhagirath asked, perplexed.

Smiling, Vashishtha led Bhagirath outside, and gestured towards the sky. Constellations abounded in the heavenly realm, playing out a story of their own, and encompassing them all, moving along with its mesmerizing flow, was an expanse of cosmic dust and stars. Pointing towards it, Vashishtha said, “That there is Ganga. Devsarini, the river of the devas. Vishnupadini, she who arises from Vishnu’s feet. Nobody knows how she emerged. Lord Himavan, King of the Mountains, claims her body as his daughter, even though her essence arose from the body of a melting Lord Vishnu and a tear in the fabric of the universe. She is the only one who can release your ancestors’ and take them to heaven – not just them, but the souls of all the dead here on earth.” He explained, his eyes mirroring the cosmos.

“Fine. Then I will meditate on her and ask her to come here on earth.”

Vashishtha chuckled again on hearing Bhagirath’s resolve. “Ganga is only her own Bhagirath. She can’t be persuaded by mere mortals. Meditating on her would only result in frustration.”

“Then who can I turn to?”

“Allfather Lord Brahma, who created this world. Only he can convince her to come down on earth.”

That night, probably after years, Bhagirath slept. There weren’t any tormented souls, no vague sense of horror, and it was neither too hot nor too cold in the room. Upon waking up, for the first time in his life, he knew exactly what to do. He had never had more clarity before. After consulting Vashishtha, he handed over the duties of the state to his mothers, bidding them a tearful goodbye. Bhagirath, descendant of Ikshavaku, mighty king of the Suryavanshis, had decided to bring Ganga down on earth, and liberate the souls of the undead.

A thousand years he meditated on Lord Brahma, practising the most severe of austerities, suspended in a different plane of consciousness altogether. Even as the world forgot him, the tapas generate by Bhagirath started setting his surroundings on fire, prompting Brahma to come down on earth to please his devotee.

“Bhagirath, your penance pleases me child. Ask, and you shall receive any boon you ask for son!” cried Brahma. His voice boomed in all the directions, as his four heads spoke simultaneously. He floated there sitting on a swan, clad in jewels and a gold dhoti, holding a lotus and a book. Bhagirath, slowly opening his eyes, stood in awe of the creator’s splendour. His first instinct was to jump and shout with joy – invoking the god of all creation was no mean feat indeed. Composing himself, Bhagirath opened his mouth to speak but barely recognised his hoarse, quiet voice, transformed from years of being unused.

“Allfather, my ancestors suffer in agony here on Earth. Their souls are unable to ascend, and only the river Ganga, flowing through the celestial planes, can ease their suffering. Allfather, I request you to summon Goddess Ganga here on Earth.” replied Bhagirath. Brahma stood there, pondering for a while and quite perplexed by Bhagirath’s wish. Most people who invoked him asked for immortality or power or something of the sort. That, he could begrudgingly bestow, for the gods would eventually see to the concerned person’s demise by exploiting a random loophole. But this might prove difficult for him even. Ganga was a fickle minded goddess, and she reigned supreme, unfettered in heaven. She even enjoyed considerable status as the sister-in-law of Mahadev, who was married to her sister Parvati. Someone of her nature wouldn’t be convinced easily to direct her flow to the mortal plane. Brahma’s silence meanwhile worried Bhagirath. Would centuries of penance be wasted? Would he and his ancestors never find peace?

“So be it.” Brahma said, finally breaking the infinite silence. Bhagirath heaved a sigh of relief, and shouted with joy, leaping around like a madman. Brahma was amused by this display. He would rather prefer tapasvis like this, rather than serious, stoic, arrogant ones he met on a regular basis. And so it gave him immense pain to puncture this human’s happiness. “However I suggest you start propitiating Lord Shiva as soon as possible. Ganga has immense power, and only Shiva himself can control her.”

Bhagirath’s happiness deflated. Great. 1000 years spent praying to Brahma to summon Ganga, and now another millennium might be spent praying to Shiva to control her flow. She really did test her patience, this divine, elusive, mystical, celestial river that flowed through the heavens and promised salvation to his people. With some initial grumbling, toned by the understanding he gleaned through years of penance, Bhagirath constructed a crude shivalinga then and there out of mud and sand, and started his penance to Shambhu.

Even as he prayed to Shiva, Brahma went to Ganga. He had granted a boon to his devotee, and he wanted to make sure it was fulfilled. It wasn’t hard to find her. He found her frolicking in a fountain with apsaras and gandharvas. Seeing him, her companions fled quickly, covering themselves with the clothes they had discarded. Ganga however twisted and transformed the water around her into a thin, diaphanous, shimmering sari. “Pranam Brahmadev” she said, joining her hands and bowing in front of him. As she stepped out of the pool, her pet makar scampered forward towards her, awaiting precious treats of pearls and gemstones and cuddles. Patting it on the head, she sent him on his way.

“I see you’re enjoying yourself here.” Brahma remarked drily. His views on women and pleasure were known, rigid and often condescending, quite ironic for someone who himself had been a servant of lust in the early days of creation, resulting in his famous beheading by Rudra. “Well this is paradise sire. Aren’t we supposed to enjoy yourself?” Ganga replied, nodding her head to the side.

“Wit and mirth. A rare gift. Something I’ve known you to possess in infinite amounts.” Brahma said, a smile on his lips. “Well Ganga I have come over here with an offer for you.”

“What kind of offer Allfather?”

“You must direct your flow towards the earth and the nether planes now. Devsarini can no longer flow through the heavens alone.”

“And what do I gain out of this?”

Brahma was perplexed. He hadn’t gone as far as to think what he would offer her.

“Respect. Adoration. The worship of humans, and control over their lives. Your touch is sanctifying Ganga. You would cleanse anyone of all sins, and make sure their souls transport to the Land of the Dead.”

“Hmmm. No.” Ganga replied, and walked off nonchalantly. Brahma was now vexed. Nobody denied him, the Allfather anything. He thus stopped Ganga, his voice stern. “Ganga, you are being arrogant now.”

“I would rather characterise that as your trait Allfather. After all, that is one of the key reasons you aren’t worshipped at all.” she replied smugly. “And why should I descend to earth anyways? I enjoy all that, and more of what you enlisted here in the heavens. So why should I sully myself with mere mortals and a whole other host of creatures? Moreover, my existence on Earth might be dwarfed by the mighty seas, which would take my waters and give nothing in return. Just as Saraswati is wasting away, I might suffer the same fate as well!” she continued, defending her stand.

Brahma, stunned by her words, tried a softer approach. “Ganga, my child, you were always meant for something greater. Us celestials, we only gain our immense powers and status through worship by the humans. The reason I am still here is the penances and sacrifices offered to me by those who invoke me time and again for boons. Right now, you are no different from an apsara. Your only status is achieved through your younger sister. You can only attain goddess-hood, and the respect you deserve, by winning the adoration of the humans.”

That struck a chord within Ganga. Her whole life she had been belittled or underestimated. Pretty. Fickle. Mischievous. Impulsive. She had been called all that and more, but nobody had seen her wisdom or her strength. Those praises were always heaped upon Parvati, who had undergone the most fearsome of penances to obtain Shiva himself as her husband. Considering the proposition for a minute, Ganga finally accepted it. However, she would always hold out her own, and even attaining goddess-hood would be on her own terms.

“Fine Brahmadev. For the benefit of humankind, I will descend on Earth. However, I must warn you, my power is immense and my veg, my flow, faster than light. It is entirely possible that I just might split your dearest creation into half!”

Saying so, Ganga jumped from the heavens and hurtled towards Earth, a mighty cannonball of divinity and power, intent on destroying the mortal and nether planes.

A worried Brahma thus hurried as fast as he could to Shiva. He had intended to goad her and hurt her pride, so she would agree to the proposal. He didn’t intend for her to go as far as destroying the Earth! Hurrying past his vahana and doorkeeper Nandi, Brahma entered his abode, Mount Kailasha.

“Shambhu! Shambhu help us! Ganga’s descent is going to destroy the Earth!” he cried. Shiva sat there, deep in meditation, oblivious to his presence. Then arrived his wife, Parvati, and her mere shadow was enough to awaken him from his trance. She walked forward, dressed as the eternal bride, in a red sari and jewels, and sat beside the eternal vairagi, dressed in a simple tiger skin covering his groin, his only ornaments being a rudraksha bead armband and the snake king Vasuki coiled around his neck. “Worry not Brahma. Your devotee has already summoned me on Earth for this purpose. Dear, would you like to join us?” he said, extending his hands towards Parvati. “Of course Shiva. It would be fun for once to see my sister’s face when she encounters you. Mother and Father often let her off the hook easily.” She replied. Hand in hand, the divine couple mounted Nandi, and left for earth.

“Open your eyes Bhagirath.”

Now he was confused. That was fast. Pleasing Shiva was extremely easy. Maybe he should have just gone to him straightaway, since Ganga was family to him after all. Opening his eyes, fairly certain that it could also be a prank by a random teenager, Bhagirath witnessed the Lord of Destruction in all his glory. He sat upon Nandi, a trident in his hand, his dreadlocks tied in a bun. He was bare chested, and only wore a tiger skin on his waist. His snow-white skin shone like the moon, complimentary to Goddess Parvati’s deep, dusky one, covered by a red sari and jewels significant of a bride. The divine couple, sitting on Nandi the bull, were so mesmerizing that Bhagirath in fact forgot his entire purpose of summoning them. All he wanted was to keep looking at them forever.

Clearing her throat and breaking his trance, Parvati asked him what he wanted. “Goddess, Lord Brahma warned me of something, that Ganga’s power might prove dangerous. Mahadev, I implore you to defend us from whatever that is going to happen.” said Bhagirath.

All Shiva did was smile.

The first indicator of Ganga’s presence was the trembling of the Earth beneath their feet, possibly out of fear. And then her high, lilting laugh. Her voice was thin, tinkling like anklets. And soon arrived the lady of the hour herself. White skin, white as the moonlight reflecting from snow. Raven black hair, adorned with dewdrops and lotuses. Gold bangles and earrings decorating her along with a garland of blue lotuses. Her veg was indeed frightening, and Bhagirath shuddered beneath the goddess’s merriment. However Shiva remained unfazed.

He went there and stood directly beneath Ganga, and simply untied his dreadlocks. Ganga’s eyes widened in fear as she realized what was happening, but it was too late. She was trapped in Shiva’s locks.

Her force could have broken the skull of even a god. But not Shiva, who was the God of gods. She spent what felt like an eternity there in those locks, entangled and frustrated, trying to find her way out. And by the time she did, her force and her power had reduced to a fraction of what she had carried here. Tiny rivulets and streams flowed from Shiva’s hair, and the Ganga finally broke out of Gangadhar, he who carried the Ganga. Releasing a small scream of frustration, she faced Shiva and her sister. “What are you doing!? Who gave you the right? Who are you to…”

“Pranam Ganga.” She stopped mid-sentence as she was greeted by a serene, smiling Shiva. An understanding gaze passed between the two. In those soft, beautiful, bottomless eyes, Ganga saw the universe. She found wisdom and meaning. She found the reason for her restlessness, her dissatisfaction, her anger and her pride. She saw the secrets of the dead, known only to Shiva, Yama, who was the god of death, and herself. She saw the suffering on earth, the heads of humans burdened with their guilts and sins. She saw their souls wandering around aimlessly, the 10,000 sons of Sagar. She saw the land of the dead, separated from the living world by the river Vaitarni.

Most of all, she found compassion. Compassion for the dead, and for the living who grieved them. Her heart cried out at seeing them, their loss, and the permanence of death. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to comfort them and assure them that they are not alone in their suffering, and those who have left them will be at peace. That instant in time, when she found her compassion, was when Ganga turned into Bhagirathi – from the river of the gods, to the one brought on earth through Bhagirath’s stubbornness and determination; the river of humanity, come just in time as a divine saviour as the Saraswati was dying, she who cleansed and comforted with a single touch and promised salvation.

Renewed, reformed, and just as mighty in flow, the Ganga tumbled on forwards, paying obeisance to the little party that made her arrival on earth possible. She flowed onwards with a force unseen and to be reckoned with, cleansing humanity of its sins and finally giving peace to Bhagirath’s ancestors. Here she flows on earth, with her sisters, her numerous tributaries and the other rivers – fast and treacherous and mighty, yet slow and serene and meandering.