In the Dakshinadesa there lived a Brahmin boy who from his childhood
was given a very liberal education in Sanskrit. He had read so much
in philosophy that before he reached the sixteenth year of his life
he began to despise the pleasures of the world. Everything which he
saw was an illusion (mithya) to him. So he resolved to renounce the
world and to go to a forest, there to meet with some great sage,
and pass his days with him in peace and happiness.
Having thus made up his mind, he left his home one day without the
knowledge of his parents and travelled towards the Dandakaranya. After
wandering for a long time in that impenetrable forest, and undergoing
all the miseries of a wood inhabited only by wild beasts, he reached
the banks of the Tungabhadra. His sufferings in his wanderings in a
forest untrodden by human feet, his loneliness in the midst of wild
beasts, his fears whether after all he had not failed in his search
for consolation in a preceptor to teach him the higher branches of
philosophy, came up one after another before his mind. Dejected and
weary, he cast his glance forward as far as it could reach. Was it
a reality or only imagination? He saw before him a lonely cottage
of leaves (parnasala). To a lonely traveller even the appearance of
shelter is welcome, so he followed up his vision till it became a
reality, and an aged hoary Brahmin, full fourscore and more in years,
welcomed our young philosopher.
"What has brought you here, my child, to this lonely forest thus
alone?" spoke in a sweet voice the hoary lord of the cottage of leaves.
"A thirst for knowledge, so that I may acquire the mastery over the
higher branches of philosophy," was the reply of our young adventurer,
whose name was Subrahmanya.
"Sit down my child," said the old sage, much pleased that in this
Kaliyuga, which is one long epoch of sin, there was at least one
young lad who had forsaken his home for philosophy.
Having thus seen our hero safely relieved from falling a prey to the
tigers and lions of the Dandakaranya, let us enquire into the story
of the old sage. In the good old days even of this Kaliyuga learned
people, after fully enjoying the world, retired to the forests,
with or without their wives, to pass the decline of life in solemn
solitude and contemplation. When they went with their wives they were
said to undergo the vanaprastha stage of family life.
The hoary sage of our story was undergoing vanaprastha, for he was
in the woods with his wife. His name while living was Jnananidhi. He
had built a neat parnasala, or cottage of leaves, on the banks of
the commingled waters of the Tunga and Bhadra, and here his days and
nights were spent in meditation. Though old in years he retained the
full vigour of manhood, the result of a well-spent youth. The life
of his later years was most simple and sinless.
"Remote from man, with God he passed his days;
Prayer all his business, all his pleasures praise."
The wood yielded him herbs, fruits, and roots, and the river,
proverbial [96] for its sweet waters, supplied him with drink. He
lived, in fact, as simply as the bard who sang:--
"But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;
A bag with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring."
His faithful wife brought him these, while Jnananidhi himself devoted
his whole time to the contemplation of God.
Such was Jnananidhi--the abode of all wise people--to whom the
boy-philosopher, Subrahmanya, resorted. After questioning each other
both were mightily pleased at the fortune which had brought them
together. Jnananidhi was glad to impart his hard-earned knowledge
during his leisure moments to the young student, and Subrahmanya,
with that longing which made him renounce the city and take to the
woods eagerly swallowed and assimilated whatever was administered to
him. He relieved his mother--for as such he regarded his master's
wife--of all her troubles, and used, himself, to go out to bring
the fruits, herbs, and roots necessary for the repasts of the little
family. Thus passed five years, by which time our young friend had
become learned in the many branches of Aryan philosophy.
Jnananidhi had a desire to visit the source of the Tungabhadra, but
his wife was eight months advanced in her pregnancy. So he could not
take her; and to take care of her he had to leave behind his disciple,
Subrahmanya. Thus after commending the lady to Subrahmanya's care,
and leaving for female assistance another sage's wife, whom he had
brought from a distant forest, Jnananidhi went his way.
Now, there is a strong belief among Hindus that Brahma, the great
creator, writes on everyone's head at the time of his birth his
future fortunes in life. He is supposed to do this just at the
moment of birth. Of course, the great god when he enters the room
to discharge his onerous duty, is invisible to all human eyes. But
the eyes of Subrahmanya were not exactly human. The supreme knowledge
which Jnananidhi had imparted to him made it easy for him to discern at
once a person entering most impolitely the room in which his master's
wife had been confined.
"Let your reverence stop here," said the disciple angrily though
respectfully.
The great god shuddered, for he had been in the habit of entering
hourly innumerable buildings on his eternal rounds of duty, but never
till then had a human being perceived him and asked him to stop. His
wonder knew no measure, and as he stood bewildered the following
reprimand fell on his ears:
"Hoary Brahmin sage (for so Brahma appeared), it is unbecoming your age
thus to enter the hut of my master, unallowed by me, who am watching
here. My teacher's wife is ill. Stop!"
Brahma hastily--for the time of inscribing the future fortune on the
forehead of the baby to be born was fast approaching--explained to
Subrahmanya who he was and what had brought him there. As soon as
our young hero came to know the person who stood before him he rose
up, and, tying his upper cloth round his hips as a mark of respect,
went round the creator thrice, fell down before Brahma's most holy
feet and begged his pardon. Brahma had not much time. He wanted to
go in at once, but our young friend would not leave the god until he
explained what he meant to write on the head of the child.
"My son!" said Brahma, "I myself do not know what my iron nail will
write on the head of the child. When the child is born I place the
nail on its head, and the instrument writes the fate of the baby in
proportion to its good or bad acts in its former life. To delay me
is merely wrong. Let me go in."
"Then," said Subrahmanya, "your holiness must inform me when your
holiness goes out what has been written on the child's head."
"Agreed," said Brahma and went in. After a moment he returned, and
our young hero at the door asked the god what his nail had written.
"My child!" said Brahma, "I will inform you what it wrote; but if you
disclose it to anyone your head will split into a thousand pieces. The
child is a male child. It has before it a very hard life. A buffalo and
a sack of grain will be its livelihood. What is to be done. Perhaps
it had not done any good acts in its former life, and as the result
of its sin it must undergo miseries now."
"What! Your supreme holiness, the father of this child is a great
sage! And is this the fate reserved to the son of a sage?" wept the
true disciple of the sage.
"What have I to do with the matter? The fruits of acts in a former
life must be undergone in the present life. But, remember, if you
should reveal this news to any one your head will split into a
thousand pieces."
Having said this Brahma went away, leaving Subrahmanya extremely pained
to hear that the son of a great sage was to have a hard life. He could
not even open his lips on the subject, for if he did his head would be
split. In sorrow he passed some days, when Jnananidhi returned from
his pilgrimage and was delighted to see his wife and the child doing
well, and in the learned company of the old sage our young disciple
forgot all his sorrow.
Three more years passed away in deep study, and again the old
sage wanted to go on a pilgrimage to the sacred source of the
Tungabhadra. Again was his wife expecting her confinement, and he
had to leave her and his disciple behind with the usual temporary
female assistance. Again, too, did Brahma come at the moment of birth,
but found easy admittance as Subrahmanya had now become acquainted
with him owing to the previous event. Again did Brahma take an oath
from him not to communicate the fortunes of the second child, with
the curse that if he broke his oath, his head would split into a
thousand pieces. This child was a female, and the nail had written
that her fate was to be that of a frivolous woman. Extremely vexed
was our young philosopher. The thought vexed him to such a degree,
that language has no words to express it. After worrying a great deal
he consoled himself with the soothing philosophies of the fatalists,
that fate alone governs the world.
The old sage in due course returned, and our young disciple spent
two more happy years with him. After a little more than ten years
had been thus spent the boy reached to five years and the girl to
two. The more they advanced in years the more did the recollection
of their future pain Subrahmanya. So one morning he humbly requested
the old sage to permit him to go on a long journey to the Himalayas
and other mountains, and Jnananidhi, knowing that all that he knew
had been grasped by the young disciple, permitted him with a glad
heart to satisfy his curiosity.
Our hero started, and after several years, during which he visited
several towns and learned men, reached the Himalayas. There he saw
many sages, and lived with them for some time. He did not remain in
one place, for his object was more to examine the world. So he went
from place to place, and after a long and interesting journey of
twenty years he again returned to the banks of the Tungabhadra, at
the very place where he lived for ten years and imbibed philosophical
knowledge from Jnananidhi. But he saw there neither Jnananidhi nor his
old wife. They had long since fallen a prey to the lord of death. Much
afflicted at heart at seeing his master and mistress no more, he went
to the nearest town, and there after a deal of search he found a coolie
with a single buffalo. The fate which Brahma's nail had written on
his master's son rushed into the mind of Subrahmanya. He approached
the coolie, and, on closely examining him from a distance, our hero
found distinct indications of his master's face in the labourer. His
grief knew no bounds at seeing the son of a great sage thus earning
his livelihood by minding a buffalo. He followed him to his home,
and found that he had a wife and two children. One sack of corn he had
in his house and no more, from which he took out a portion every day
and gave it to his wife to be shelled. The rice was cooked, and with
the petty earnings of a coolie, he and his family kept body and soul
together. Each time the corn in the sack became exhausted he used to
be able to save enough to replenish it again with corn. Thus did he
(according to the writing of Brahma's nail) pass his days. Kapali
was the name of this coolie, the sage's son.
"Do you know me, Kapali?" said our hero, as he remembered his name.
The coolie was astonished to hear his name so readily pronounced by
one who was apparently a stranger to him, but he said:--
"I am sorry that I do not know you, Sir."
Subrahmanya then explained to him who he was, and requested him to
follow his advice.
"My dear son," said he, "do as I bid you. Early morning to-morrow leave
your bed and take to the market your buffalo and the corn sack. Dispose
of them for whatever amount they will fetch. Do not think twice about
the matter. Buy all that is necessary for a sumptuous meal from the
sale proceeds and eat it all up at once without reserving a morsel
for the morrow. You will get a great deal more than you can eat in a
day; but do not reserve any, even the smallest portion of it. Feed
several other Brahmins with it. Do not think that I advise you for
your ruin. You will see in the end that what your father's disciple
tells you is for your own prosperity."
However, whatever the sage might say, Kapali could not bring himself
to believe him.
"What shall I do to feed my wife and children to-morrow if I sell
everything belonging to me to-day?"
Thus thought Kapali, and consulted his wife.