“In the land,” he said, “where blooms the lotus and the sacred stream
flows upon its course,—there were no Brahmins more wise than Darnu and
Purana. No one had learned the Shastras better and no one had dipped more
deeply into the ancient wisdom of the Vedas. But when both approached the
end of the mortal span of life and the storms of approaching winter had
touched their hair with snow, both were still dissatisfied. The years
were passing, the grave was coming nearer and nearer, and truth seemed
to recede further and further....”
Both then, well aware that it was impossible to escape the grave, decided
to draw truth nearer to themselves. Darnu was the first to put on a
wanderer’s robe, to hang a gourd of water on his belt, to take a staff in
his hand and to set out. After two years of difficult traveling, he came
to the foot of a lofty mountain and on one of its peaks, at an altitude
where the clouds love to pass the night, he saw the ruins of a temple. In
a meadow near the road shepherds were watching their flocks, and Darnu
asked them what sort of a temple it was, what people had built it, and to
what god they had offered sacrifices.
The shepherds merely looked at the mountain and then at Darnu, their
questioner, for they did not know what answer to make. Finally they said:
“We inhabitants of the valleys, do not know how to answer you. There is
among our number an old shepherd Anuruja, who ages ago used to pasture
his flocks on these heights. He may know.”
They called this old man.
“I cannot tell you,” he said, “what people built it, when they did it,
and to what god they here sacrificed. But my father heard from his father
and told me that my great grandfather had said that there once lived a
tribe of sages on the slopes of these mountains and that they have all
perished, since they have erected this temple. The name of the deity was
‘Necessity.’”
“Necessity?” exclaimed Darnu, greatly interested. “Don’t you know, good
father, what form this deity had and whether or not it still resides in
this temple?”
“We are simple people,” answered the old man, “and it is hard for us to
answer your wise questions. When I was young,—and that was years and
years ago,—I used to pasture my flock on these mountain sides. At that
time there stood in the temple an idol wrought out of a gleaming black
stone. At rare intervals, when a storm overtook me in the vicinity,—and
storms are very terrible among these crags,—I used to drive my flock into
the old temple for shelter. Rarely, too, Angapali, a shepherdess from a
neighboring hillside, would run in, trembling and frightened. I warmed
her in my arms and the old god looked down at us with a strange smile.
But he never did us any evil, perchance because Angapali always adorned
him with flowers. But they say....”
The shepherd stopped with a doubtful look at Darnu and was apparently
ashamed to tell him more.
“Say what? My good man, tell me the whole story,” requested the sage.
“They say, all the worshippers of the old god have not perished.... Some
are wandering around the world.... And, sometimes, of course rarely, they
come here and ask like you the road to the temple and they go there to
question the old god. These he turns to stone. Old men have often seen in
the temple columns or statues in the form of seated men, richly covered
with morning-glories and other vines. Birds have built their nests on
some. Later on they gradually turn to dust.”
Darnu pondered deeply over the story. “Am I now near the goal?” he
thought. For it is well known that “he, who like a blind man sees naught,
like a deaf man, hears naught, like a tree is immovable and insensible,
has attained unto rest and knowledge.”
He turned to the shepherd.
“My friend, where is the road to the temple?”
The shepherd pointed it out, and when Darnu commenced to ascend the
overgrown path, he watched the sage a long time and then said to his
young companions:
“Call me not the oldest of shepherds, but the youngest of suckling lambs
if the old god is not soon going to have a new sacrifice. Yoke me like
an ox or burden me like an ass with various loads, if another stone
column is not to take its place in the old temple!...”
The shepherds respectfully hearkened to the old man and scattered over
the pasture. And once more the herds grazed peacefully in the valley, the
ploughman followed his plough, the sun shone, night fell, and men were
occupied with their own cares and thought no more of wise Darnu. Soon,—in
a few days or so,—another wanderer came to the foot of the mountain and
he, too, asked about the temple. When he followed the directions of the
shepherd and began to ascend the mountain cheerfully, the old man shook
his head and said:
“There goes another.”
This was Purana, following in the steps of wise Darnu and thinking:
“It will never be said that Darnu found truth which Purana could not
seek.”