Mahabharata · Chapter 1 · Part 3 of 4 · Astika 1: Kadru and Vinata, the churning of the ocean, Garuda and the amrita

About 90 minutes

Shaunaka asks for the story of Astika, and it begins in a pit: Jaratkaru finds his ancestors hanging head down from a single rope, and a rat is chewing through it

The twelve-year sacrifice in the Naimisha forest went on, and in the pauses between the rites the sages gathered there wanted stories. They had a storyteller. Sauti, son of the bard Lomaharshana, sat among them, and he had just finished the tale of Ruru, which had closed on a question whose answer the listeners were never given. Shaunaka, the master of that great household of ascetics, now asked it for himself. Why did King Janamejaya decide to take the lives of the snakes by means of a sacrifice? Tell us the true story, Sauti, all of it. Tell us why Astika, a Brahmin who stood first among ascetics, pulled the snakes back out of a fire that was already blazing. Whose son was the king who held that sacrifice? And whose son was the Brahmin? Sauti warned him that the story of Astika was a long one, and promised to tell it properly and in full. That was exactly what Shaunaka wanted: that famous rishi’s charming history, told at length. So Sauti began where a careful reciter begins, with the chain of mouths through which the story had reached him. It was first told by Krishna Dvaipayana, he said, the sage Vyasa, and the Brahmins call it a Purana. My father Lomaharshana was Vyasa’s disciple, and he once recited it here, in this same forest, because the people who lived in Naimisha asked him to. I sat and heard him. Since you ask me now, Shaunaka, I will give you the history of Astika exactly as it came to me. Listen closely, for the hearing of it wipes away sin.

Astika’s father, Sauti said, had a power in him like that of Prajapati, the lord of all creatures. He lived as a brahmacharin, bound to celibacy, and austerity was his whole occupation. He ate almost nothing. He had brought desire under such complete control that it no longer troubled him. His name was Jaratkaru, and among the rishis known as the Yayavaras he stood first, a man of virtue who never let a vow slip, greatly blessed, and full of the force that long penance stores up in a body. Once he set out to walk the whole earth. He went from place to place and bathed in one sacred water after another, and wherever night overtook him, there he lay down. The disciplines he kept were of a kind that people who cannot govern themselves could never attempt. He lived on air alone, and he had given up sleep forever. He moved across the land like a fire that walks. And one day, in the course of that wandering, he came to the edge of a great hole in the ground, looked down, and saw his own ancestors. They were hanging upside down in the pit, heads toward the dark and feet toward the sky. A single rope held them, twisted from the fibers of virana grass, and a rat that had its home in that hole was eating at the rope in secret, from every side at once. The weight of all those men hung on whatever strands its teeth had not yet reached.

Jaratkaru called down to them. Who are you, he asked, hanging head downward in this hole from a rope of virana fibers, with a rat that lives here gnawing through it on every side? The answer came up out of the pit. We are rishis who kept our vows without fail, the hanging men said, and we are called Yayavaras. We are sinking into the earth because we have no descendants. We do have one son. His name is Jaratkaru, and he is our misfortune, for the wretch has given himself to austerities and nothing else. The fool never thinks of marrying and raising children. That is why we hang in this hole: we are afraid our line will end with him. We have the means, and we fare like the destitute who have none. But you, good sir, you grieve for us the way a friend would. Who are you, Brahmin, standing there at the edge? Why should you sorrow over people as unlucky as we are? They had called their son a wretch and a fool to his face, without knowing whose face it was. Jaratkaru told them. You are my own fathers and grandfathers. I am that Jaratkaru. Tell me how I can serve you.

The fathers did not waste their chance. A family’s dead are held up by its living, and this family had one living man left, who had meant to leave no one after him. Do everything in your power, child, to beget a son and carry our line forward. You will have done a deed of merit for yourself and for us together. The merit a man earns by becoming a father cannot be had from the fruits of virtue, and it cannot be had from penance, however carefully the penance is hoarded. So by our command, child, set your heart on marriage and on children. That is the highest good we can ask of you. For a man who had renounced food, sleep and desire, it was a hard command, and Jaratkaru answered it one careful clause at a time. I will never marry for my own sake, he said, and I will never earn wealth in order to enjoy it. I will do this for your welfare alone. On that understanding I will take a wife, by the rule the scriptures lay down, to gain this one end, and I will do it in no other way. If a bride can be found who bears the same name as mine, and if her kinsmen will give her to me of their own free will, as a gift made in charity, I will marry her with the proper rites. Yet who would give his daughter to a man as poor as I am? Even so, any girl who is offered to me as alms I will accept. That is how I will try to find a wife, fathers. I have given my word and I will not go back on it. On her I will raise children for your deliverance, so that you may reach the worlds that do not end and take your joy there as you please.

A key to reading this (the Yayavaras, and the rope with the rat): The Yayavaras are the line of rishis to which Jaratkaru belongs, and the men in the pit are its earlier generations, his fathers and grandfathers. They tell him what the picture means: a line with no children is sinking into the earth, and its one living son has chosen austerity and thought nothing of marriage. Jaratkaru sets terms before he agrees. The bride must bear his own name, her kinsmen must give her to him freely as alms, and the marriage is to serve his fathers alone. Those terms decide who his wife can be, and the first of them makes him hesitate when Vasuki offers a sister.

The gist: Shaunaka asks Sauti why Janamejaya held the snake sacrifice and why Astika saved the snakes. Sauti, repeating what his father Lomaharshana once recited in this same forest, starts with Astika’s father Jaratkaru, a wandering ascetic of the Yayavara line who lives on air and has given up sleep. On his travels Jaratkaru finds his ancestors hanging head down in a pit from a rope of grass fibers that a rat is gnawing through. They tell him they are sinking for want of descendants and command him to marry. He gives his word, on three conditions: the bride must bear his own name, she must be given to him as alms, and the marriage is for his fathers’ deliverance alone.

Vasuki’s sister, who was also named Jaratkaru; the story of Astika in brief; and then Kadru and Vinata’s two wishes: a thousand eggs, two eggs, and the one broken too soon, from which Aruna came

Having given his word, Sauti said, the Brahmin walked the earth again, this time looking for a wife, and he found none, just as he had feared. At last, one day, he went into a forest, and with the words of his ancestors heavy in his memory he prayed for a bride. He asked three times, and his voice was faint, the voice of a man keeping a promise he had never wished to make. At that, Vasuki rose up before him, the chief of the snakes, as though he had been waiting for those very words, and offered his own sister for the rishi’s acceptance. Jaratkaru hung back. He had fixed it in his mind that he would take no wife who did not bear his own name, and he saw no reason to think this girl did. So the rishi, a man of deep learning and hard penance, put the question plainly. Tell me the truth, snake. What is your sister’s name? Vasuki answered that this younger sister of his was called Jaratkaru. She is mine to give, he said, and I give her. Take this slender-waisted girl for your wife. I have kept her for you and for no one else. Accept her. With those words he handed his beautiful sister to the man who shared her name, and Jaratkaru married her with every rite the scriptures ordain.

Why the chief of the snakes should have kept a sister waiting for one starved ascetic, Sauti explained in a few sentences, and those sentences held the whole story in small. Long before, he said, the mother of the snakes had laid a curse on her own sons. The god who has the Wind for his charioteer, she told them, meaning Agni, the Fire, will burn you all at Janamejaya’s sacrifice. Vasuki gave his sister to the rishi to draw the force out of that curse. Jaratkaru married her by the rites, and a son was born to the two of them, called Astika. He grew into an ascetic of wide renown, learned in the Vedas and all their branches, a man who looked on every creature with the same even eye, and he took away the fear that lay on both his parents. A long time afterward, a king descended from the Pandavas held the great rite that is called the snake sacrifice. When that fire had been lit for the destruction of the snakes, it was Astika who delivered the Nagas from death in the flames: his brothers, his mother’s brothers, and all the other snakes. He delivered his fathers too, by begetting children of his own. And by his austerities, his many vows and his study of the Vedas he cleared every debt a man is born owing. He paid the gods with sacrifices rich in offerings. He paid the rishis with the discipline of the brahmacharin. He paid his ancestors with offspring. So Jaratkaru, true to his vows, discharged the heavy debt he owed his fathers, and they were released from their bondage and rose to heaven. Jaratkaru himself, after a long course of years and a great gathering of merit, went to heaven in his turn, leaving Astika behind him. There, Sauti said, you have the story of Astika in its proper order. What would the heir of Bhrigu’s line have me tell next?

Shaunaka would not let him off so lightly. Tell it again, Sauti, he said, this history of the learned and virtuous Astika, and this time leave nothing out. We are hungry to hear it. You have a sweet voice, friend, and you put the accent and the stress where they belong, and listening to you pleases us. You speak exactly as your father spoke, and your father was always ready to give us pleasure. Tell the story now the way he told it. So Sauti began again, as he had heard it from his father, and this time from much farther back. In the golden age, he said, Prajapati had two daughters, sisters of astonishing beauty. Their names were Kadru and Vinata, and both became wives of the sage Kashyapa. Kashyapa, who was himself the equal of Prajapati, took great delight in his two wives, and in the warmth of that delight he offered each of them a boon. When the sisters heard that their husband would grant whatever blessing they chose, they were beside themselves with joy. Kadru asked for a thousand snakes for her sons, every one of them as splendid as every other. Vinata asked for two sons only, two who would surpass Kadru’s thousand in strength, in energy, in size of body and in prowess. One sister had asked for numbers and the other for sons who would outdo those numbers, and Kashyapa refused neither. He gave Kadru her multitude. To Vinata he said, so be it. Vinata was overjoyed that her prayer had been heard, and with the promise of two sons greater than a thousand she counted her boon as good as fulfilled. Kadru, promised her thousand of equal splendor, felt the same. Carry what you bear with care, Kashyapa told them both, and he went away into the forest, leaving two happy wives behind him.

A long time passed. Then Kadru brought forth a thousand eggs, and Vinata brought forth two. Their maidservants laid the eggs apart from one another in warm vessels, and the waiting began. Five hundred years went by, and Kadru’s thousand eggs burst, and her children came out of them. Vinata’s pair lay as they had lain. She looked at her sister’s swarming brood and at her own two silent shells, and jealousy got the better of her, and she broke one of the eggs open. Inside lay a child whose upper body was fully formed and whose lower half had not yet grown. The child was furious, and from the broken shell he cursed his mother. You have opened this egg before its time, he said, and for that you shall serve as a slave. If you wait five hundred years more, and do not ruin the other egg or leave it half formed by breaking it in your impatience, the glorious child inside it will deliver you from slavery. And if you want that child to be strong, you must tend his egg gently through all that time. Having cursed her, the half-made child rose into the sky. He is there still, Sauti told Shaunaka: he is the charioteer of Surya, the Sun, and he is seen every day in the hour of morning. Vinata waited. When the five hundred years were complete the second egg burst of itself, and out of it came Garuda, the eater of snakes. The moment he saw the light, that son of Vinata left his mother’s side. He was the lord of birds, and he was hungry, and he took wing to look for the food that the great Ordainer of all things had assigned to him.

A key to reading this (a story told twice): Sauti first gives the whole history of Astika in a few sentences, from his mother’s marriage to the rescue of the snakes, and Shaunaka then asks for it again at length. The second telling starts far back, with Kashyapa’s two wives, because three things come out of their story: the mother’s curse on the snakes, the birth of Garuda, and the horse on which a wager will be laid. The half-formed child of the broken egg is Aruna, who becomes the charioteer of the Sun on the day Brahma needs someone to stand between Surya and the worlds.

The gist: Jaratkaru prays three times in a forest for a bride, and Vasuki offers his younger sister, who bears the same name; the rishi marries her. Sauti sums up what came of it (their son Astika saves the snakes at Janamejaya’s sacrifice and frees his fathers by having children), and Shaunaka asks for the full story. It starts again with Kashyapa’s two wives: Kadru wishes for a thousand equally splendid snake sons, Vinata for two sons greater than all of them. The thousand eggs hatch after five hundred years; Vinata breaks one of hers in jealousy, and the half-formed child curses her to slavery and rises to become the Sun’s charioteer; five hundred years later the second egg yields Garuda, who flies off at once in search of food.

The horse Uchchaihshravas passes before two sisters, and Shaunaka asks why the ocean was ever churned: the gods in council on Meru, Ananta tearing up Mandara, the tortoise king’s back, and Vasuki for a rope

It was about this time, Sauti said, that the two sisters saw a horse coming toward them. His name was Uchchaihshravas. He was calm to look at, a horse the gods themselves worshiped, the jewel of his whole kind, and he had come into the world when the Ocean was churned for nectar. He was divine and graceful and would be young forever. Creation had made nothing finer. No strength could stand against his, and every mark of good fortune was on his body. Shaunaka stopped the story there, because one phrase had caught him. Why did the gods churn the Ocean for nectar, he asked. What brought them to it, and when in the course of that work, as you tell it, did this horse of such power and such radiance spring up? Sauti answered with a mountain. There is a peak called Meru, he said, that blazes to the eye like a heap of pure light. The rays of the sun strike its golden summits and are scattered. Sheathed in gold and lovely beyond telling, it is the haunt of the gods and the Gandharvas. No one can measure it, and no one who carries many sins can come near it. Fearsome beasts of prey roam across its flanks, and herbs of heaven that give life burn like lamps on its slopes. It stands so tall that it kisses the sky, the first of all mountains, and ordinary people cannot even form the thought of climbing it. Trees and streams grace it, and it rings with the song of whole choirs of birds. On its jeweled summit the gods once sat down in council. They had done penance for the amrita, the nectar that ends death, and kept hard vows for it, and they sat there now as eager seekers of it. Narayana, who is Vishnu, saw the anxious mood of the assembly and turned to Brahma. Churn the Ocean, he said, and let the gods and the Asuras do it together. Do that and the amrita will be yours, and with it every healing herb and every gem. And to the whole council he said it again: set to the churning, and the amrita will be found.

To churn, they needed a churning rod, and Sauti named it. There is a mountain called Mandara, crowned with peaks that look like banks of cloud. It is the finest of mountains, covered from foot to summit in herbs that twine through one another. Birds beyond counting pour out their songs there, and beasts of prey prowl its woods. The gods visit it, and the Apsaras, and the Kinnaras. It rises eleven thousand yojanas into the air and goes down as many again below the ground. The gods meant to tear it up and use it as their rod, and they could not move it. So they went to Vishnu and Brahma, who were sitting together, and laid the difficulty before them: find us some plan that will work, and think how Mandara may be pulled loose for our good. The two agreed, Sauti told the son of Bhrigu’s line, and lotus-eyed Vishnu gave the heavy task to Ananta, the mighty prince of snakes. At the word of Brahma and Narayana both, Ananta tore the mountain out of the earth with its forests still on it and every creature of those forests still in them. Then the gods went down with Ananta to the shore and spoke to the Ocean himself. Ocean, they said, we have come to churn your waters for the nectar. The Ocean was willing, and he named his price. So be it, he said, for I will have my share of it. I can bear the huge upheaval that mountain will raise in my waters. The rod now needed something to turn on. The gods went to the king of the tortoises and told him he would have to carry the mountain on his back, and the tortoise king agreed, and it was Indra who found the way to set Mandara on that shell.

Now the gods and the Asuras had their rod. For a cord they took the great snake Vasuki, and they began to churn the deep for the amrita. The Asuras held Vasuki at the hood and the gods held him at the tail, and Ananta, who stood with the gods, kept lifting the snake’s hood and letting it suddenly drop. Dragged back and forth between the two hosts, Vasuki was stretched until black vapor shot with flame came pouring from his mouth. The vapor gathered into clouds full of lightning, and the clouds broke in showers over the tired gods and revived them. Flowers revived them too, shaken down on every side from the trees of the spinning mountain. Then a roar came up out of the deep like the roar of the clouds on the day the universe dissolves. Creatures of the water were ground under the great mountain in every shape and number, and gave up their lives in the salt sea. Many who lived in the regions below, and in the realm of Varuna, lord of the waters, were killed. On Mandara’s whirling slopes the big trees were torn out by the roots and went down into the sea with the birds still in their branches. As they fell they scraped against one another, and the rubbing kindled fires that flared up again and again, until the mountain looked like a mass of dark cloud with lightning running through it. The fire spread. It burned the lions and the elephants and all the other creatures on the mountain, and it burned until Indra put it out with a heavy rain.

The churning went on, and after a time the trees and herbs of Mandara began to bleed. Their gums and resins, which held the virtue of amrita in them, ran down and mingled with the waters of the Ocean, and with them ran a liquid essence of gold. The gods drank that water and became immortal on the strength of it. Little by little, under the working of those gums and juices, the milky water of the tormented sea thickened and turned to clarified butter. And still the nectar itself did not come. The gods went to Brahma, the giver of boons, where he sat on his seat. Sire, they said, we are spent. We have no strength left to churn any longer. The nectar has not risen, and we have nowhere to turn now except to Narayana. Brahma heard them and spoke to Narayana on their behalf: Lord, be gracious, and grant the gods the strength to churn the deep afresh. Narayana granted what they asked. Wise ones, he said, I give you strength enough. Go, set the mountain back in its place and churn the water. So the gods, made strong again, took hold of the snake and began once more.

A key to reading this (whose churning this is): The plan is Narayana’s, put to Brahma in the council on Meru, and the labor is shared by the gods and the Asuras. Each helper has a task: Ananta tears up Mandara at the word of Brahma and Narayana, the Ocean consents on condition of a share, the king of the tortoises takes the mountain on his back, Indra sets it there, and Vasuki is the cord, with the Asuras at his hood and the gods at his tail. One detail is easy to miss. The gods become immortal from the tree gums and the liquid gold that run into the water, and that happens before any nectar has appeared.

The gist: The divine horse Uchchaihshravas comes toward the two sisters, and Shaunaka asks how it rose from the churning. Sauti begins with the gods in council on Meru, where Narayana tells Brahma to have the Ocean churned by gods and Asuras together. Ananta tears up Mandara, which stands eleven thousand yojanas high and runs as deep; the Ocean agrees in return for a share; the tortoise king lends his back; Vasuki becomes the cord. The churning brings flame from Vasuki’s mouth, rain clouds, falling trees, fire, and Indra’s downpour; the gods become immortal from the herb juices and the water turns to butter, yet no nectar comes. Exhausted, they go to Brahma, and Narayana gives them new strength to churn again.

The moon, Lakshmi, the white horse, Kaustubha and Dhanvantari rise from the sea, Shiva holds the Kalakuta poison in his throat, Rahu loses his head, and on the shore of the salt ocean Narayana’s discus enters the war of gods and Asuras

With their strength restored, Sauti said, the gods churned, and after a while the sea began to give things up. The Moon rose first out of the Ocean, mild, with a thousand rays. After the Moon came the goddess Lakshmi, robed in white, and then Soma, and then the white horse, and then the heavenly gem Kaustubha, which rests on the breast of Narayana. Lakshmi and Soma and the horse, who is as quick as thought, all went up to stand before the gods on high. Then the divine Dhanvantari himself rose from the water, and in his hand was a white vessel, and in the vessel was the nectar. This was what both hosts had been hauling at the snake to reach. The Asuras saw it and raised a great shout: it is ours. At length the great elephant Airavata came up, huge in body, with two pairs of white tusks, and Indra, who wields the thunderbolt, took him for his own. And still they churned, and the last thing the sea gave them was the poison Kalakuta. It engulfed the Earth. It blazed up all at once like a fire wrapped in its own smoke, and the mere smell of it left the three worlds stupefied. Brahma begged Shiva to act, and Shiva, to keep creation safe, drank the poison. The god Maheshvara held it in his throat, and it is said that from that hour he has been called Nilakantha, the Blue-Throated. The Asuras looked on all these wonders and were filled with despair, and they made ready to fight the gods for Lakshmi and for the amrita. Narayana had another weapon ready for them. He called up his Maya, the power that bewitches, took the form of a woman no eye could turn from, and went among the Danavas with the airs of a flirt. The Asuras of both great clans, Danavas and Daityas alike, were charmed out of their senses by her beauty and her grace, and with one mind they put the amrita into the hands of that lovely girl.

By the time the Daityas and the Danavas came against the gods, dressed in the finest armor and carrying every sort of weapon, the prize was already gone. The Lord Vishnu, still wearing the shape of the enchantress and with Nara at his side, had fooled those mighty Danavas and carried the amrita out of their hands. The gods took it from Vishnu in that hour of great fear and drank it with delight. And while they were drinking the thing they had wanted for so long, a Danava named Rahu sat drinking among them, disguised as a god. The amrita had gone no farther than his throat when Surya and Soma, the Sun and the Moon, knew him for what he was and told the others. That same instant Narayana’s discus took off the richly adorned head of the Danava who had drunk without leave. The huge head, cut clean away and big as a mountain peak, rose into the sky and began to utter dreadful cries. The headless trunk fell to the ground and rolled there, and the Earth shook under it with all her mountains, forests and islands. From that day there has been a long quarrel between Rahu’s head and the two who exposed it, and to this day it swallows Surya and Soma, at the eclipses of the sun and of the moon.

Then Narayana put off the enchantress’s form, hurled one terrible weapon after another at the Danavas, and made them tremble. So began, on the shore of the salt sea, the dreadful battle of the gods and the Asuras. Sharp-pointed javelins and lances and weapons of every other kind flew in thousands on all sides. Asuras torn by the discus, and wounded by swords and darts and maces, vomited blood in great numbers and lay stretched out on the ground. Heads bright with gold ornaments, struck from their bodies by keen two-edged swords, kept falling on the field without a pause. Everywhere the great Asuras lay dead and drenched in gore, and it looked as though the red-stained peaks of mountains had been scattered across the earth. When the Sun rose in his splendor, thousands of warriors were striking at one another, and cries of distress went up from every quarter. Those who fought at a distance brought one another down with sharp iron missiles, and those who fought at close quarters killed one another with their fists. The air was thick with screaming, and through it, from every side, came the words that frighten men in battle: cut, pierce, at them, hurl them down, advance.

When the battle was at its fiercest, Nara and Narayana came onto the field together. Narayana saw the heavenly bow in Nara’s hand, and the sight put him in mind of his own weapon, the discus that destroys Danavas. He had only to think of it. Sudarshana came down out of the sky, bright as Agni and dreadful in a fight, the ruin of every enemy. Narayana, fierce in his power, with arms like the trunks of elephants, took that weapon of unearthly luster and threw it with tremendous force, a wheel of living fire that could level the cities of a foe. It burned like the fire that consumes all things at the end of an age. Thrown again and again from Narayana’s hands, falling everywhere at once, it destroyed the Daityas and the Danavas by the thousand. Sometimes it blazed like flame and burned them where they stood. Sometimes it cut them down as it coursed through the sky. And sometimes it dropped to the ground and drank their lifeblood like a goblin. The Danavas had not yet lost heart. Strong and bold, white as clouds that have already let go their rain, they climbed into the sky and from there they harried the gods without rest, hurling mountains down on them by the thousand. Those terrible mountains fell like masses of cloud, with their trees and their flat summits, and crashed into one another on the way down with a roar that filled the world. Thousands of warriors were shouting on the field without drawing breath, mountains with whole forests on them were falling all around, and the Earth and her own forests shook. Then the divine Nara stepped into that dreadful struggle between the Asuras and the Ganas, the hosts of Rudra. With arrows headed in gold he ground the falling rocks to powder and covered the heavens with their dust. That finished it. Beaten by the gods, and seeing the furious discus sweep the fields of heaven like a blazing flame, the mighty Danavas went down into the bowels of the earth, and others plunged into the salt sea. The gods had the victory. They paid Mandara the respect that was his due and set the mountain back on its own base. Then, carrying their nectar, they made the heavens ring with their shouting and went home, each to his own abode, and there was great rejoicing in heaven when they returned. And Indra and the other gods gave the vessel of amrita into the keeping of Narayana, to be guarded with care.

A key to reading this (Nara and Narayana, and the first appearance of the discus): Nara is at Narayana’s side through the whole of this war. He is with Vishnu when the enchantress carries the amrita out of the Danavas’ hands, he enters the battle beside him holding a heavenly bow, and his gold-headed arrows turn the hurled mountains to dust. The discus is seen twice. Narayana first uses it on Rahu, in the middle of the gods’ drinking; later, on the field, the sight of Nara’s bow reminds him of it, and Sudarshana comes down from the sky the instant he thinks of it. Shiva’s blue throat and his name Nilakantha come from this same churning, from the poison Kalakuta that he held in his throat for the safety of creation.

The gist: The renewed churning yields, in order, the Moon, Lakshmi, Soma, the white horse, Kaustubha, Dhanvantari with the vessel of nectar, and Airavata; last comes the poison Kalakuta, which Shiva holds in his throat at Brahma’s plea, and he is called Nilakantha for it. The Asuras arm for war over Lakshmi and the nectar; Narayana as an enchantress takes it from their hands; the gods drink; the disguised Rahu is recognized by Surya and Soma and beheaded by the discus, which is why his head swallows them at eclipses. In the battle on the shore Nara and Narayana take the field, Sudarshana comes when it is remembered and kills Danavas by the thousand, Nara’s arrows grind the hurled mountains to dust, and the beaten Danavas flee into the earth and the sea. Mandara is set back on its base, and the amrita is entrusted to Narayana.

A wager of slavery on the color of a tail: Kadru curses her thousand sons, Brahma ratifies the curse and gives Kashyapa the science of poison, the ocean spreads beneath two flying sisters, and the Nagas give in

So now, Sauti said, you have the whole story of how the amrita was churned out of the Ocean, and you know on what occasion the horse Uchchaihshravas was won, with all his beauty and his matchless power. It was this horse that Kadru asked her sister about. Tell me, dear sister, she said, and tell me quickly: what color is Uchchaihshravas? Vinata had no doubt. The prince of horses is white, certainly. And you, sister, what do you think? Say what color you take him to be, and let us lay a wager on it. Kadru looked at her sweetly smiling sister and set the stake. I think that horse has black in his tail, she said. Bet with me, lovely one, and let the loser become the winner’s slave. On those terms the two of them went home, having staked their own freedom on a horse’s tail and agreed to settle it by looking at the animal the next day. The curse that Vinata’s half-formed son had spoken from his broken egg was coming due, and it was Vinata herself who had proposed the bet. Kadru had no intention of leaving the matter to the horse. She meant to cheat, and she ordered her thousand sons to turn themselves into black hairs and cover the tail at once, so that she would not end as her sister’s slave. Her sons, the snakes, refused to do it. And their mother cursed them. At the snake sacrifice of the wise King Janamejaya, of the line of the Pandavas, she said, Agni shall burn you all.

It was an exceedingly cruel curse, and it was fate that drove Kadru to speak it. Brahma himself, the Grandsire of all that lives, heard her. He looked at the snakes and saw how enormously they had multiplied, and out of kindness toward the rest of his creatures he gave Kadru’s curse his sanction, and all the gods gave it theirs. Their reasoning was plain. The snakes carried a virulent poison, they had great prowess and strength to excess, and they were forever bent on biting other creatures. What their mother had done to these tormentors of everything alive was therefore right, for the good of all. Fate, the gods said to one another, always brings the punishment of death on those who seek the death of others. Having agreed on that, they upheld what Kadru had done and went their ways. Then Brahma called Kashyapa to him, the father of the thousand, and spoke gently. You are pure, and no enemy stands against you. These snakes you fathered, huge of body, virulent in their poison and always ready to bite, have been cursed by their own mother. Do not grieve over it, my son, even a little. The destruction of the snakes in that sacrifice was ordained long ago. With those words the divine Creator of the universe comforted Kashyapa, and he gave the sage a gift to carry away with him: the knowledge of how poison is made harmless.

The night passed, Sauti said, and the sun came up, and the two sisters who had wagered themselves into slavery set out in haste, each impatient to see the horse from close at hand. On the way they saw the Ocean. It lay before them, the vessel of all waters, vast and deep, rolling and roaring with a tremendous voice. Fish swam in it large enough to swallow a whale. Huge makaras filled it, and creatures of every form by the thousand, and besides these there were other beasts of the water, monstrous in shape, dark and fierce and terrible, whose presence alone closed it to any traveler, and tortoises and crocodiles crowded it. The sisters were looking at the mine of every kind of gem, the home of Varuna, the fine and lovely dwelling of the Nagas, the lord of all the rivers. The fire that burns beneath the earth has its seat there. The Asuras have a friend and a refuge in it. Every creature fears it, the great reservoir of water, and it does not change. It is holy and a blessing to the gods, the great source of the nectar, without limit, past imagining, sacred and full of wonder. It is dark, and dreadful with the cries of the things that live in it, a roaring thing full of deep whirlpools, and a terror to all that breathes. The winds blow off its shores and drive it, and it heaves and tosses in its trouble until it seems to dance everywhere, flinging up its waves like hands. Its billows swell with the waxing and the waning of the moon. Panchajanya, the great conch of Vasudeva, was born in it, and so were gems without number. Its waters were thrown into turmoil once before, when the Lord Govinda, whose power has no measure, took the form of a wild boar and went down into it to lift the sunken Earth. Its floor lies lower than the nether regions, and the rishi Atri, strict in his vows, toiled a hundred years to find that floor and could not. At the end of every age, when lotus-naveled Vishnu in his boundless power sinks into yoga-nidra, the deep sleep of meditation, the Ocean is his bed. Mainaka hides in it for fear of the falling thunderbolt, and Asuras beaten in fierce battles go to ground in it. Its water is the butter it pours as an offering into the blazing fire that issues from the mouth of the ocean mare. It is fathomless and unbounded, vast beyond measure, the lord of rivers. And the sisters saw the rivers. Mighty streams ran toward it in their thousands with a proud step, like rivals in love, each one eager to reach it first and be the one it met. They saw that it was always full and always dancing in its waves. They saw how deep it was, and how it swarmed with fierce whales and makaras. They heard it ring without end with the terrible voices of its creatures. Wide as the reach of space it lay, unfathomable and without limit, the great reservoir of all the water there is.

Kadru’s sons, the Nagas, had meanwhile been taking counsel among themselves, and they had come round. They ought to do what their mother asked, they decided. If she failed to get what she wanted she might withdraw her love and burn them all, and if she were pleased with them she might free them from the curse she had spoken. We will make the horse’s tail black, they said, without fail. And the story goes that they went and became hairs in the tail of the horse. As for the two co-wives, the wager was laid and there was no unsaying it. Kadru and Vinata, sisters and daughters of Daksha, rose and traveled through the sky in high spirits to see the far shore of the Ocean. On their way they looked down on it again. There was the vessel of the waters, which is hard to disturb, and which the wind in a moment had whipped into a great commotion, so that it roared tremendously. Fish that could swallow a whale swam in it, and makaras, and creatures of different shapes numbered by the thousand. Horrible monsters made it frightful. It was unapproachable, deep and terrible. It was the mine of all gems, the home of Varuna, the wonderful habitation of the Nagas, the lord of rivers, the seat of the fire under the earth, the dwelling of the Asuras and of many dreadful beings. It was the reservoir of water that never decays, fragrant and wondrous, the great source of the amrita of the gods, immeasurable and inconceivable. Its waters were holy. Great rivers in their many thousands filled it to the brim, and it seemed to dance in its waves. Such was the Ocean the sisters crossed that morning: full of rolling billows, vast as the open sky, deep, its body lit from within by the flames of the fire beneath the earth, and roaring. They passed over it quickly.

A key to reading this (an ocean described twice, and a curse the gods approved): The sea is described two times, once as the sisters catch sight of it at sunrise and once as they fly across it to the far shore. Between the two descriptions the Nagas change their minds and become the black hairs their mother asked for, hoping she will lift her curse. That curse stops being one mother’s flash of anger the moment Brahma and all the gods sanction it, on the reasoning that the snakes have multiplied and bite everything that lives. Brahma tells Kashyapa that the destruction of the snakes in the sacrifice was ordained long ago, and he sends him away with the knowledge of neutralizing poison.

The gist: Kadru and Vinata bet their freedom on the color of Uchchaihshravas, Vinata saying he is white, Kadru saying his tail is black. Kadru orders her thousand sons to become black hairs and cover the tail; they refuse, and she curses them to burn in Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice. Brahma and the gods approve the curse because the snakes have grown too many and too venomous, and Brahma consoles Kashyapa with the knowledge of neutralizing poison. At sunrise the sisters set out to see the horse and come upon the vast Ocean. The Nagas, fearing their mother and hoping to be freed from her curse, relent and become the black hairs of the tail, and the sisters fly across the sea.

Black hairs in the tail and Vinata’s slavery; Garuda bursts from his egg and the gods mistake him for Agni, then pray his radiance down; and Aruna is set in the east on the morning Surya meant to burn the worlds

Swift Kadru, Sauti said, crossed the Ocean with Vinata beside her and soon came down near the horse. They looked at him together, that swiftest of horses. His body was as white as the rays of the moon, and there were black hairs in his tail. There were many of them. Vinata saw them and her heart sank, and Kadru, seeing the same thing, made her sister her slave on the spot. So Vinata lost the wager and passed into bondage, and she grieved bitterly over it. Her firstborn had promised her this from his broken shell, and he had promised that the child of the second egg would end it. While this was happening, that second egg reached its time. Garuda broke out of it with no help from his mother, and his splendor was so great that it set every quarter of the universe alight. He was a being of enormous strength, a bird who could take whatever form he wished, go wherever he wished, and call up as much power as he wished. He shone terribly, like a heaped-up fire. His radiance was that of the blaze at the end of an age, and his eyes flashed like lightning. No sooner was he born than he began to grow, and as his body swelled he climbed into the sky, fierce and roaring, as dreadful to look at as a second fire of the Ocean. The gods saw him and ran to Agni for protection. They found the god of fire, who has many forms, sitting on his seat, and they bowed to him and pleaded. Agni, do not let your body grow any larger. Do you mean to burn us up? Look how this great heap of your flames is spreading. Agni set them right. Tormentors of the Asuras, he said, this is no doing of mine, whatever you imagine. What you see is Garuda. He is very strong, he is my equal in splendor, he is full of power, and he was born to make Vinata glad. It is the sight of that mass of radiance that has deceived you. He is the mighty son of Kashyapa. He is the destroyer of the Nagas, he works for the good of the gods, and he is the enemy of the Daityas and the Rakshasas. You have nothing at all to fear from him. Come with me and see for yourselves. So the gods went with the rishis toward Garuda, stopped at a distance, and began to praise him.

You are a rishi, the gods said, a knower of every mantra. Yours is the largest share in the sacrifices. Your light never fails, you are the ruler of the birds, and you are the spirit that presides over everything in the universe that moves and everything that stands still. You are the destroyer of all and the creator of all. You are Hiranyagarbha himself, and in the form of Daksha and the other Prajapatis you are the father of creation. You are Indra. You are Hayagriva, the horse-necked form that Vishnu took. You are the arrow, the one that Vishnu himself became in the hand of Mahadeva when Tripura was burned. You are the lord of the universe and the mouth of Vishnu. You are four-faced Padmaja. You are the Brahmin, the one who knows. You are Agni and Pavana and every other god who presides over a thing in this world. You are knowledge, and you are the illusion that holds us all. You are the spirit that pervades everything, the lord of the gods, the great Truth. You are without fear and you never change. You are Brahman without attributes, you are the energy of the Sun, you are the workings of the mind. You are our great protector, an ocean of holiness, and purity itself, and nothing of darkness clings to you. The six high attributes are yours, and no one can stand against you in a contest. All things have come out of you. Your deeds are excellent. You are everything that has been and everything that has never been. You are pure knowledge, and as Surya shows us this moving and unmoving universe by his rays, so do you. Every moment you darken the splendor of Surya himself. You are the destroyer of all, and you are all that perishes and all that does not. You blaze like Agni, and you burn everything, as Surya in his anger burns every creature. Terrible one, you are as irresistible as the fire that destroys everything on the day the universe dissolves. Mighty Garuda, who move through the skies, we come to you for protection. Lord of birds, your power is beyond the common order, your splendor is the splendor of fire, and your brightness is that of the lightning, which no darkness can come near. You reach to the very clouds. You are the cause and you are the effect. You grant boons, and your prowess cannot be overcome. Lord, the whole universe is growing hot in your radiance, which is bright as heated gold. Protect these noble gods. You have overcome them and terrified them, and they are fleeing across the heavens in every direction in their celestial chariots. Greatest of birds and lord of all, you are the son of the merciful rishi Kashyapa, so put away your wrath and have mercy on the universe. You are supreme. Calm your anger and preserve us. Your voice is as loud as thunder, and it keeps the ten directions shaking, bird, and the skies, the heavens, the earth and our own hearts. Draw in this body of yours that looks like Agni. Your splendor is like the splendor of Yama in his rage, and at the sight of it our hearts lose their steadiness and quake. Lord of birds, be kind to us who beg your mercy. Glorious one, give us good fortune and joy. So the gods and the many orders of rishis adored him, and the bird of the fair feathers reined in his own power and dimmed his own light.

Garuda had listened to what they said about his body, Sauti went on, and now he looked at it himself, and he made it smaller. Let no creature be afraid, he said. The sight of my terrible form has frightened you, so I will lessen my power. Then the bird who could travel anywhere at will and summon any strength he chose took Aruna, his brother, onto his back, left his father’s home, and flew to his mother’s side on the far shore of the great Ocean. And he set Aruna down, in all his splendor, in the regions of the east. He did it at the very hour when Surya, the Sun, had made up his mind to burn the worlds with his fierce rays. Shaunaka caught at that. When did the revered Surya resolve to burn the worlds, he asked. What wrong had the gods done him, to rouse such anger?

It went back to the churning, Sauti answered. When Rahu sat among the gods drinking the nectar, it was Surya and Soma who pointed him out, and from that hour Rahu hated them both. And when Rahu moved to devour Surya, the one who had exposed him, Surya grew angry, and his anger turned on those he had served. This hatred of Rahu’s, he thought, was born of my wish to do the gods a kindness, and I am the only one who pays for it. In this trouble I get no help from anyone. I am about to be swallowed in front of everyone who lives in heaven, and they bear the sight quietly. Very well. I must work for the destruction of the worlds. With that resolve he went to the mountains of the west, and from there he began to pour out his heat in every direction, to bring the world to ruin. The great rishis felt it first. They went to the gods and said: look, in the middle of the night a great heat is rising. It strikes terror into every heart, and it will destroy the three worlds. The gods took the rishis with them to Brahma, the Grandsire. What is this great heat today, they asked him, that spreads such panic? Surya has not yet risen and already the end is in plain sight. Lord, what will become of us when he does rise? The Grandsire did not soften it. Surya is indeed preparing to rise today for the destruction of the world, he said. The moment he appears he will burn everything to a heap of ashes. But I saw to the remedy beforehand. Kashyapa has an intelligent son whom everyone knows by the name of Aruna. He is huge in body and very bright. He shall stand in front of Surya and do the work of his charioteer, and he shall draw off all the Sun’s fierce energy as he does it. That will keep the worlds safe, and the rishis, and all who live in heaven. Aruna did everything the Grandsire commanded, and when Surya rose that day he rose veiled behind Aruna’s body. Now you know why Surya was angry, Sauti told Shaunaka, and how Aruna, Garuda’s brother, was made his charioteer. Hear next about the other matter you asked me a little while ago.

A key to reading this (the gods’ hymn, and what Aruna’s body is for): At the sight of the newborn Garuda the gods first run to Agni, because they take the blaze in the sky for the fire god’s own body, and only when Agni has led them to the bird do they praise him. Their hymn gives him one great name after another: Hiranyagarbha, Indra, Hayagriva, the mouth of Vishnu, even Brahman without attributes. It ends as a plea that he make himself smaller, and he does. Aruna, the half-formed child of the broken egg, here receives his office. Brahma had prepared it in advance: Aruna’s huge body stands in front of Surya as his charioteer and takes away the heat that was about to burn the worlds to ash.

The gist: The sisters reach the horse and find black hairs in his tail, and Vinata becomes Kadru’s slave. Meanwhile Garuda hatches and climbs the sky like a heap of fire; the terrified gods mistake him for Agni and appeal to Agni, who tells them it is Kashyapa’s son Garuda, and the gods praise him in a long hymn until he draws in his radiance. Garuda carries Aruna on his back to his mother’s side and sets him in the east. Asked why, Sauti explains that Surya, about to be swallowed by Rahu while the gods looked on, had resolved to burn the worlds, and that Brahma had already prepared the remedy: Aruna would stand before the Sun as his charioteer and draw off his heat. Surya rises veiled by Aruna’s body.

The flight toward the sun and the scorched snakes: Kadru’s hymn to Indra, a world drowned in rain, the island of Ramaniyaka, and Garuda’s question about the price of slavery

Sauti took up the thread he had left. Garuda, the bird of great strength and power who could reach any place by wishing it, had come to his mother’s side on the far shore of the great Ocean. He found her living there in misery. Vinata had lost the wager, and the wager had made her a slave. One day Kadru sent for her, and Vinata came and bowed to the ground in front of her sister, and with Vinata’s own son standing by, Kadru gave her order. Gentle Vinata, she said, out in the middle of the Ocean, in a far corner of it, there is a fair and delightful country where the Nagas live. Carry me there. So the mother of the bird with the beautiful feathers took the mother of the snakes on her shoulders, and Garuda, because his mother told him to, took the snakes on his back. They set out as beasts of burden, a wife of Kashyapa bent under her own sister, and the bird to whom the gods had prayed for mercy loaded with that sister’s sons. Then Vinata’s son began to climb. He rose toward the Sun, and the higher he rose the fiercer its rays fell on the snakes he carried, until they were scorched and fainted where they lay. Kadru saw her sons in that state, and she prayed to Indra.

I bow to you, Lord of all the gods, she cried. I bow to you who killed Vritra. I bow to you who killed Namuchi. God of the thousand eyes, husband of Shachi, send your showers and be the protector of these snakes the Sun is burning. Among all the gods it is you who are our great protector. Purandara, you have the power to send rain in torrents. You are Vayu, the wind. You are the clouds, and fire, and the lightning in the sky. You drive the clouds before you, and you yourself are called the great cloud, the one that will darken the universe when the age ends. You are the fierce thunder that has no equal, and you are the storm clouds roaring. You make the worlds and you unmake them. No one has conquered you. You are the light of every creature. You are Aditya and Vibhavasu, and you are the wonderful elements. You are the ruler of all the gods. You are Vishnu. You have a thousand eyes. You are a god, and the last refuge. You are all the amrita there is, and you are Soma, whom the world adores above everything. You are the moment and the lunar day. You are the bala, which is a minute, and the kshana, which is four. You are the bright fortnight and you are the dark one. You are the kala, the kashtha and the truti. You are the year, the seasons, the months, the nights and the days. You are this fair Earth with her mountains and her forests. You are the sky above her, made splendid by the Sun. You are the great Ocean with its heaving swells, alive with whales and with the things that swallow whales, with makaras and with fish of every kind. Your fame is great. The wise adore you always, and so do the great rishis whose minds are sunk in contemplation. For the good of all creatures you drink the Soma juice at the sacrifices, and the clarified butter that is offered with the sacred call. Brahmins who long for the fruit of their rites worship you at every sacrifice they hold. Your strength is a mass beyond comparing, and the Vedas and the Vedangas sing of you. That is the reason learned Brahmins who mean to sacrifice study the Vedas with such care.

Indra, king of the gods, who rides the finest of horses, heard Kadru’s praise and answered it with the sky. He covered the whole vault of heaven with banks of blue cloud and gave the clouds their command: pour down your drops, the ones that give life and blessing. The clouds were lit with lightning and roared at one another without pause, and they let the water go. They were wonderful to see and terrible to hear, and they bred such vast quantities of water, so fast, that the sky looked as it will look when the age comes to its end. Wave upon wave formed in the falling torrents, the thunder rolled deep, the lightning flashed, the wind tore at everything, and in that general uproar the whole sky seemed to dance like a mad thing. It grew dark from edge to edge. The rays of the sun and of the moon vanished entirely behind that ceaseless downpour. Under the rain that Indra sent, the Nagas were happy beyond words. The Earth filled with water on every side, and the cool, clear water sank through her even to the regions below, and there were waves past counting over all the land. And the snakes, with their mother, came safe to the island called Ramaniyaka.

Drenched by that shower and glad of it, the Nagas were carried the last of the way by the bird of the fair feathers and soon reached the island. The Creator of the universe had appointed it as the home of the makaras. From its shore they looked out on the terrible Lavana Samudra, the ocean of salt. And there, where they landed with Garuda, they found a forest. The sea washed its edges, and it rang with the music of flocks of birds. Clusters of trees stood all around, heavy with fruits and flowers of many kinds. There were handsome mansions on every side, and pools crowded with lotuses, and lakes of pure water to grace it further. Clean breezes cooled it, and they carried a scent like incense. Trees grew there that grow nowhere else except on the hills of Malaya, and they were so tall that they seemed to touch the heavens. There were other trees as well, of many kinds, whose blossoms the wind kept scattering in every direction. It was a forest the Gandharvas loved, and it never failed to delight them. Bees filled it, drunk on the honey they had sucked. The very sight of it was a great pleasure. So many things in it could charm whoever came that the whole forest was lovely, delightful and holy, and it echoed with the calls of birds of every kind, and the sons of Kadru were enchanted with it.

The snakes made themselves at home in that forest and took their pleasure there. Then they gave Garuda, the mighty lord of birds, a new command. Carry us to some other fair island, they said, one with pure water. You range the skies, and you must have seen many beautiful countries on your flights. Garuda thought about it for a few moments. He had carried them this far because his mother told him to, and now he wanted the reason, and he turned to her with a question. Why, mother, do I have to do what the snakes tell me? Vinata looked at this son of hers who ranged the skies, who had every virtue and great power and great strength, and she told him. I have had the misfortune, finest of birds, to become my co-wife’s slave. The snakes cheated, and by their trick I lost my wager, and this is what they have made of me. When his mother had given him the reason, the great bird was weighed down with grief, and he spoke to the snakes directly. Tell me, snakes. What must I bring you, or what must I learn, or what feat of courage must I perform, for us to be freed from this bondage to you? The snakes heard him, Sauti said, and they named their price. Bring us the amrita, and take it by force. Then, bird, you shall be free.

A key to reading this (the wager behind the slavery): Vinata is a slave because she lost her bet on the color of the horse Uchchaihshravas, and she lost it because Kadru’s sons turned themselves into black hairs in his tail. Garuda learns this only now. The snakes have just ordered him to carry them on to another island, and when he asks his mother why he must obey them she tells him of the wager and the cheating behind it. His next question draws out the snakes’ price, the amrita, and his whole journey to heaven grows out of that one answer. Kadru’s hymn names Indra as every measure of time, from the moment and the kshana to the fortnight, the season and the year, and also as Vishnu, the earth, the sky and the sea.

The gist: Vinata carries Kadru on her shoulders and Garuda carries the snakes on his back, and he climbs toward the Sun until the snakes faint from the heat. Kadru’s long hymn moves Indra to cover the sky with cloud and flood the world with rain, and the snakes and their mother come safely to the island of Ramaniyaka. When the snakes order Garuda to carry them to yet another island, he asks his mother why he must obey; she tells him of the wager lost by trickery, and the snakes name the price of freedom: bring the amrita by force.

A mother’s blessing and a mouthful of Nishadas: how to recognize a Brahmin, the one who burned in Garuda’s throat like a coal, and Kashyapa’s tale of the elephant and the tortoise

The snakes had named their price, and Garuda went to his mother with a practical matter. I am going to fetch the amrita, he said, and I want something to eat on the way. Tell me where to find it. Vinata knew where. Far out in the middle of the Ocean, in a remote quarter of it, the Nishadas have their fine settlement. Eat the Nishadas who live there, all the thousands of them, and then go and bring the amrita. Then she gave her son a warning, and she gave it at length. Never set your heart on taking the life of a Brahmin. Of all creatures, a Brahmin is the one who must not be killed. He is like fire. A Brahmin in anger becomes like fire or like the sun, like poison or like a blade with an edge on it. It is said that a Brahmin is the master of all creatures, and for this reason and for others the virtuous revere him. You are never to kill one, child, even when you are angry. To make an enemy of Brahmins could not be right in any circumstance. Believe me, my blameless son: neither Agni nor Surya can burn the way a Brahmin strict in his vows can burn when he is roused. By all these signs you may know a good Brahmin. He is the firstborn of all creatures, the first of the four orders, the father and the master of everyone.

Garuda wanted signs he could use. Mother, what does a Brahmin look like? How does he behave, and what power does he have? Does he shine like a fire, or is his face calm? You must tell me, since I am asking, the auspicious marks by which I can pick him out. Vinata gave her son a test he could apply with his throat. Know that man for the finest of Brahmins, child, who goes down your gullet and tortures you like a fish hook, or burns you like a blazing coal. You must never kill a Brahmin, even in anger. Then, because she loved him, she said it once more in another way: know him for a good Brahmin who will not be digested in your stomach. Vinata knew that her son’s strength was beyond comparison. She blessed him with her whole heart all the same, for the snakes had deceived her and she was sunk in grief. May Marut, god of the winds, guard your wings, she said. May Surya and Soma guard your spine. May Agni guard your head, and the Vasus the whole of your body. And I, child, will sit here performing the rites that bring good fortune, for your welfare. Go now, my son, go safely, and accomplish what you have set out to do.

Garuda listened to his mother to the end, Sauti said, and then he spread his wings and rose into the sky. He was very strong and very hungry, and he fell on the Nishadas like a second Yama, the god of death. Intent on killing them, he raised a cloud of dust so great that it covered the firmament. He sucked the water up out of the middle of the Ocean, and the trees on the mountains nearby shook where they stood. Then the lord of birds opened his mouth, widened it as far as he pleased, and laid it across the main streets of the Nishada town so that every road ended in it. The Nishadas ran in wild haste, and the way they ran led straight toward the open mouth of the great eater of snakes. When a wind shakes the trees of a forest, the terrified birds go up into the sky by the thousand. In the same way the Nishadas, blinded by the dust that storm had raised, poured into the wide cleft of Garuda’s mouth as it gaped to receive them. Then the hungry lord of all who range the skies, that scourge of his enemies, mighty and quick to finish what he had begun, shut his mouth, and a multitude of Nishadas past counting, people who made their living as fishermen, were dead.

One of the men who went down his throat was a Brahmin, and the Brahmin’s wife went down with him. Garuda knew it at once, because the man began to burn his throat like a lump of flaming charcoal. Garuda spoke to him where he was. Come out quickly, good Brahmin. I am opening my mouth for you. A Brahmin must never be killed by me, even one who spends all his days in sinful practices. The voice that answered came from inside the bird. Then let this woman of the Nishada caste come out with me, the Brahmin said. She is my wife. Garuda did not argue the point. Bring the Nishada woman with you, and come out quickly. Save yourself without delay, while the heat of my stomach has still not digested you. So the Brahmin came out, and his Nishada wife came out beside him. He praised Garuda and went off in whatever direction he pleased. When the two of them were clear, the lord of birds, who is as fast as thought, spread his wings and climbed into the sky.

There he saw his father. Kashyapa hailed him, and Garuda, whose prowess had no equal, answered with the courtesies a son owes, and the great rishi asked what a father asks. Is all well with you, child? Do you get enough to eat every day? Is there plenty of food for you in the world of men? Garuda told him how things stood. My mother is well, as always, he said. My brother is well, and so am I. But father, I do not always get enough to eat, and for that reason I have no real peace. The snakes have sent me to fetch the amrita, that finest of prizes, and I mean to fetch it this very day, to release my mother from her bondage. She commanded me to eat the Nishadas. I have eaten thousands of them and my hunger is no less. So point out some other food to me, worshipful father, something that will make me strong enough to carry the amrita off by force. Show me what will put an end to my hunger and my thirst.

Kashyapa showed him a lake. This water you see is sacred, he said. They have heard of it even in the heavens. An elephant lives here who goes about with his face turned down, forever dragging at a tortoise, and the tortoise is his elder brother. I will tell you in full about the hatred those two carried over from a former life, so listen, and you will know why they are here. Long ago there was a great rishi named Vibhavasu, a man with a furious temper, and he had a younger brother named Supratika. Supratika did not like holding his wealth in common with his brother, and he was always talking of dividing it. After a time Vibhavasu answered him. Only great fools, he said, men blinded by the love of wealth, are always wanting to divide what their fathers left them. Once the property is divided they fight each other, because the wealth has clouded their minds. Then enemies come to them wearing the faces of friends. They find such men ignorant and selfish and separate in their fortunes, and they drive the brothers apart, pointing out to each the faults of the other and hardening every quarrel, until the brothers fall, one after the other. Utter ruin overtakes the divided very quickly. That is why the wise never speak well of partition between brothers. Brothers who have divided lose their regard for the most authoritative scriptures, and each lives in constant fear of the other. But you, Supratika, pay no heed to my advice. The wish to be separate drives you, and you are forever wanting to make some arrangement about your property. For that you shall become an elephant. Supratika, so cursed, cursed him back: and you shall become a tortoise, moving about in the midst of the waters. So it was over wealth, Kashyapa said, that those two fools, Supratika and Vibhavasu, each by the other’s curse, became an elephant and a tortoise. Their anger made beasts of them both. And they keep up the old enmity in this lake, two creatures of enormous size, each proud of his surpassing strength and of the sheer weight of his body.

A key to reading this (Kashyapa the father, and the test of a Brahmin): The Kashyapa whom Garuda meets in the sky is his own father, the Prajapati who married both Kadru and Vinata. The snakes that hold Vinata in bondage and the bird who serves them are therefore sons of one man. Vinata’s first account of a Brahmin, the firstborn of creatures who burns hotter than Agni or Surya, gives Garuda nothing he can use, and he asks for visible marks. Her second account defines the Brahmin by what he does to the one who swallows him: a fish hook in the throat, a live coal, a meal that will not digest. By exactly that sign Garuda finds the one Brahmin among thousands of Nishadas, and he lets the man’s Nishada wife out with him.

The gist: Vinata sends Garuda to eat the Nishadas, with a blessing and a warning never to kill a Brahmin. He swallows the people of the Nishada town in one mouthful, releases the one Brahmin who burns in his throat along with the man’s Nishada wife, and, still hungry, meets his father Kashyapa in the sky. Kashyapa points him to a sacred lake where an elephant and a tortoise carry on an old enmity, and tells him they were once the brothers Vibhavasu and Supratika, who cursed each other into those bodies in a quarrel over dividing their wealth.

An elephant and a tortoise in his claws, a banyan branch in his beak: the Valakhilyas hanging head down, Kashyapa’s warning on Gandhamadana, and the omens in heaven that Brihaspati explained

Kashyapa was still speaking when he pointed. Look, he said, here comes one of them now, the handsome elephant with his enormous body. The tortoise lives down inside the lake, and he is enormous too. When he hears the elephant roar he comes up, and the whole lake heaves as he rises. The elephant sees him, curls his trunk and charges into the water. He is immensely strong, and with his tusks and the fore part of his trunk, with his tail and his feet, he thrashes that lake full of fish into a turmoil. And the tortoise, who is very strong himself, lifts his head and comes forward to meet him. The elephant stands six yojanas high and measures twice that around. The tortoise is three yojanas high and ten around. They are mad with fighting, and each means to kill the other. Eat them both, and then go and do the thing you want to do. Eat that fierce elephant, who looks like a great mountain or a bank of dark cloud, and bring the amrita. Having told him this, Kashyapa blessed his son for what was coming. May fortune be with you when you stand in battle against the gods. May water jars filled to the brim bless you, and Brahmins, and cattle, and every other thing of good omen, you who were born from an egg. And when you are locked in combat with the gods, mighty one, let the Riks, the Yajus and the Samas be your strength, and the sacred butter of the sacrifice, and all the mysteries the Upanishads hold.

With his father’s blessing on him, Garuda went to the edge of the lake. He saw the clear water stretching away, and birds of many kinds all around it. He remembered what his father had said, and the swift bird seized the elephant in one claw and the tortoise in the other and soared high into the air. He came to a sacred place called Alamba, where he saw many trees of heaven, and when the wind of his wings struck them they began to shake with fear. Their boughs were of gold, and they were afraid of being broken. These were trees that can grant any wish, and Garuda, seeing them tremble, left them alone and went on to other trees, whose beauty had no equal. They were giants. Fruits of gold and of silver hung on them, their branches were of precious stones, and the water of the sea washed them. Among them stood a banyan that had grown to an immense size. The lord of birds was rushing toward it with the speed of thought when the banyan spoke to him. Come and sit on this great branch of mine, it said. It reaches out a hundred yojanas. Sit here and eat your elephant and your tortoise. Garuda, quick as he was and with a body like a mountain, came down on that bough. Thousands of winged creatures roosted in it, and it was thick with leaves. It shook under him, and it broke.

The branch gave way at the mere touch of Garuda’s feet, Sauti said, and he caught it as it broke. He looked around him in wonder, and then he saw them. Rishis were hanging from the bough, head downward, deep in their austerities. They were the Valakhilyas. If the branch fell they would be killed, and Garuda knew it. He tightened his claws on the elephant and the tortoise, and out of fear of killing the rishis, and wanting to save them, he took the bough in his beak and rose on his wings with all of it. The great rishis were astonished. What they had just seen was beyond the power of the gods themselves, and they gave the mighty bird a name for it. This ranger of the skies, they said, rises on his wings bearing a heavy burden. So let this greatest of birds, who has snakes for his food, be called Garuda, the bearer of the heavy weight.

His wings shook the mountains as he passed, and Garuda went slowly through the sky. He flew on with the elephant and the tortoise in his claws and the branch in his beak, the rishis still hanging from it, and he looked down on country after country below him. He wanted to save the Valakhilyas, and nowhere could he see a place where he might perch. At last he came to Gandhamadana, the first of mountains, and there he saw his father. Kashyapa was at his devotions. He looked up and saw his son coming: a ranger of the skies, godlike in form, blazing with splendor and power and strength, as fast as the wind or as thought, as huge as a mountain peak, as ready to strike as a Brahmin’s curse. No mind could take him in and no words could describe him. He was a terror to every creature, mighty, dreadful, as bright as Agni himself. Neither the gods nor the Danavas nor the unconquerable Rakshasas could have overcome him. He could have split the summits of mountains, sucked the Ocean dry and destroyed the three worlds. He was fierce, and he looked like Yama in person. Kashyapa watched him come and understood what he had in mind, and he called out a warning. Child, do nothing rash, or you will suffer for it. The Valakhilyas live by drinking the rays of the sun. If you anger them, they can blast you.

Then, Sauti said, Kashyapa turned to the Valakhilyas themselves and, for his son’s sake, asked their favor. They were rishis of the highest fortune, and their penances had burned every sin out of them. Your wealth is your asceticism, he said to them. What Garuda has undertaken is for the good of all creatures. It is a great task he is straining to accomplish, and it would be right for you to give him your leave. The ascetics heard Kashyapa out. They let go of the bough and went away to the sacred mountain Himavat, to continue their austerities there. When they were gone, Vinata’s son spoke to his father, and his voice was thick, because the branch was still in his beak. Where am I to throw this arm of the tree, father? Show me some country where no human beings live. Kashyapa told him of a mountain without people, a place whose caves and valleys lie always under snow, which ordinary creatures cannot reach even in thought. The great bird set off toward it at speed, carrying the branch and the elephant and the tortoise. That limb of the tree was so thick that a cord made from a hundred cowhides could not have gone around it. Garuda, lord of birds, covered hundreds of thousands of yojanas in the briefest time. He followed his father’s directions, reached the mountain almost in a moment, and let the gigantic bough fall. It came down with a great noise. The storm of his wings struck that prince of mountains and made it shake. Its trees let fall showers of flowers. Its peaks, studded with gems and with gold, were loosened and came down on every side. The falling bough smashed trees without number, trees with golden flowers among dark leaves, which had shone on the slopes like clouds charged with lightning. They lay on the ground bright as gold, stained with the ores of the mountain, and seemed to be bathing in the rays of the sun. Then Garuda perched on the summit and ate the elephant and the tortoise, both of them. And when he had eaten, he rose from the mountaintop on his wings at tremendous speed.

Among the gods, omens of fear began to appear. Indra’s beloved thunderbolt blazed up in fright. Meteors trailing flame and smoke tore loose from the sky and shot down in the full light of day. The weapons of the Vasus, the Rudras, the Adityas, the Sadhyas, the Maruts and the other gods began to spend their force against one another, a thing that had never happened before, even in the war between the gods and the Asuras. Winds blew with thunder in them, and meteors fell by the thousand. The sky had no cloud in it, and it roared tremendously. He who is god of the gods rained down blood. The garlands of flowers on the necks of the gods withered, and their strength ebbed. Terrible banks of cloud let fall thick showers of blood, and the dust the winds raised dimmed the very crowns on the gods’ heads. Indra, the god of many sacrifices, was as bewildered and afraid as the rest of them at these dark signs, and he turned to Brihaspati for their meaning. Worshipful one, why have these upheavals in nature come on us so suddenly? I see no enemy who could press us in war. Brihaspati told him. Chief of the gods, it comes of your own fault and your own carelessness, and it comes of the ascetic penance of those great rishis, the Valakhilyas. The son of Kashyapa and Vinata is on his way here, a ranger of the skies with enormous strength, who can take any form he pleases, and he is coming to carry off the Soma, the amrita itself. That bird is the strongest of all the strong, and he is able to rob you of it. With him everything is possible. What cannot be done, he can do.

Indra heard this, Sauti said, and went straight to those who guarded the amrita. A bird of great strength and power has set his heart on taking the amrita away, he told them. I am warning you beforehand, so that he does not succeed in carrying it off by force. Brihaspati tells me that his strength is beyond measure. The gods were amazed at the news, and they took their precautions. They formed a ring around the amrita, and mighty Indra, who wields the thunder, stood in the ring with them. They put on wonderful breastplates of gold, costly and set with gems, and bright leather armor of great toughness. They took up weapons with sharp edges and terrible shapes, weapons without number, and every one of them threw off sparks and smoke. They carried discuses, iron maces fitted with spikes, tridents and battle-axes, sharp-pointed missiles of many kinds, polished swords and maces of fearsome make, each weapon suited to the body of the god who bore it. Decked in the ornaments of heaven and shining with those bright arms, they waited there with their fears put to rest. Their strength, their power and their splendor had no equal, and they were resolved to protect the amrita. Every one of them could have split the cities of the Asuras, and every one showed himself in a form as bright as fire. With the gods standing there, the ground where the battle would be fought bristled with hundreds of thousands of iron-spiked maces, and it shone like a second sky lit by the rays of the sun.

A key to reading this (what the name Garuda means): It is the Valakhilya rishis who give Garuda his name, and they give the reason with it: he rises on his wings carrying a heavy weight. The Valakhilyas hang head down from the banyan branch in their austerities and live by drinking the rays of the sun, and Kashyapa warns his son that their anger could blast him. Brihaspati names their penance, together with a fault of Indra’s, as the cause of Garuda’s coming; Shaunaka’s next question draws that story out. The measures given are an elephant six yojanas high and twice that around, a tortoise three yojanas high and ten around, and a branch a hundred yojanas long.

The gist: Kashyapa describes the elephant and the tortoise, tells Garuda to eat them both, and blesses him for the coming fight with the gods. Garuda carries them off in his claws; the golden trees of Alamba tremble in the wind of his wings, a banyan’s hundred-yojana branch breaks under him, and to save the Valakhilya rishis hanging from it he flies on with the branch in his beak, which earns him his name. On Gandhamadana his father wins the rishis’ leave, the branch is dropped on an uninhabited mountain of snow, and Garuda eats his meal. In heaven rains of blood and falling meteors send Indra to Brihaspati, who tells him the bird is coming for the Soma. The gods arm themselves and stand in a ring around the amrita.

What Indra’s fault was: thumb-sized rishis drowning in a cow’s hoofprint, the Valakhilyas’ sacrifice for a new Indra, Kashyapa’s mediation, and the two sons of Vinata

Shaunaka would not let that pass. Sauti, he said, what was Indra’s fault? What was this carelessness of his? How did the austerities of the Valakhilyas bring Garuda into the world? Kashyapa is a Brahmin, so how did he come to have the king of the birds for a son? Why can no creature overcome Garuda, and why can none kill him? How is it that he can go wherever he wishes and gather whatever strength he wishes? If the Purana tells of these things, I should like to hear them. Sauti said that the Purana did tell of them, all of them, and that he would go through the matter briefly.

Once, he said, Kashyapa, who is a Prajapati, a lord of creation, was performing a sacrifice because he wanted children, and the rishis, the gods and the Gandharvas all came to help him with it. He set Indra to fetch the wood for the sacrificial fire, and he gave the same errand to the ascetics called the Valakhilyas and to every other god. Indra took up a load in keeping with his strength, a load the size of a mountain, and carried it along without the least fatigue. On the road he came upon some rishis whose bodies were no bigger than a thumb. All of them together were carrying one stalk of a palasha leaf. They had fasted so long that they were lean to the bone, shrunk almost into their own bodies, and so feeble that when they went down into the water lying in a cow’s hoofprint in the road, they were in real distress. Indra, proud of his strength, stared at them in surprise. He laughed at them, and he soon left them behind, and as a last insult he stepped across their heads as he went. The rishis were filled with rage and with sorrow. They began to prepare a great sacrifice, and the news of it terrified Indra. Hear, Shaunaka, what those ascetics wished for, wise and excellent men who never failed in a vow, as they poured the clarified butter on the fire and spoke their mantras aloud. Let there be another Indra over all the gods, they prayed, one who can go everywhere at will and summon any measure of power at will, one who will strike fear into the king of the gods who now reigns. By the fruit of our penance let such a one arise, as fast as thought, and fierce.

When the lord of the gods, the god of a hundred sacrifices, came to know of this, he was badly frightened, and he ran for protection to Kashyapa, that keeper of vows. The Prajapati heard the whole of it from Indra. Then he went to the Valakhilyas and asked them whether their sacrifice had succeeded. Those rishis spoke only truth, and they answered him: let it be as you say. Kashyapa set himself to calm them. This Indra, he said, was made lord of the three worlds by the word of Brahma. And now you ascetics are laboring to create a second Indra. Excellent ones, it is not for you to make Brahma’s word a lie. Yet the purpose you have been striving for should not come to nothing either. So let an Indra be born who is lord of the winged creatures, and let him have strength beyond all measure. And be gracious to Indra here, who stands before you asking for your mercy. The Valakhilyas paid their reverence to the Prajapati Kashyapa, first among the munis, and gave him their answer. Prajapati, the sacrifice all of us are performing is for an Indra. It was also meant to bring you a son. Let the task rest with you from this moment. Do in this matter whatever seems to you good and right.

Meanwhile Vinata, the good daughter of Daksha, wanted children. She was a gentle woman and a fortunate one, faithful to her vows, and she had just completed her own austerities. She purified herself with a bath in the season when the meeting of husband and wife bears fruit, and she came to her lord. Kashyapa spoke to her. Honored wife, the sacrifice I began has borne its fruit. What you have wished for will come to pass. Two heroic sons will be born to you, and they will be lords of the three worlds. Through the penance of the Valakhilyas, and through the desire with which I began my own sacrifice, those sons will have the highest good fortune and will be worshiped in all three worlds. Then Kashyapa spoke to her again. Carry these blessed seeds with great care. These two will be the lords of all winged creatures. They will be heroes who range the skies, honored in every world, and able to take any form they wish.

The Prajapati was well pleased with all that had happened, and he turned to Indra, the god of a hundred sacrifices. You will have two brothers, he said, of great power and prowess, and they will be helpers to you. No harm will come to you from them. Let your sorrow end. You will go on as lord of all. But never again slight those who speak the name of Brahman. And never again insult men of such wrath, whose words are thunderbolts. Indra heard him and went back to heaven with his fears gone. Vinata had gained what she wanted, and she was glad beyond measure. She gave birth to two sons, Aruna and Garuda. Aruna, whose body was not fully formed, became the forerunner of the Sun, and Garuda was given the lordship of the birds. And now, heir of Bhrigu’s line, said Sauti, hear about the great deed Garuda did.

A key to reading this (a story inside the story): The gods stand armed in a ring around the amrita, and at that moment the tale goes back in time, because Shaunaka asks what fault of Indra’s Brihaspati meant. The answer lies before Garuda’s birth, in a sacrifice of Kashyapa’s and a second sacrifice raised by rishis whom Indra had mocked. It accounts for Garuda’s powers. The Valakhilyas’ prayer asks for a being who can go anywhere at will, summon any measure of power, and move as fast as thought, and those are the gifts Garuda is born with. Kashyapa turns their new Indra into an Indra of the birds, so that Brahma’s word about the king of the gods still stands.

The gist: At Shaunaka’s question Sauti tells how Garuda came to be. Carrying fuel for Kashyapa’s sacrifice, Indra laughed at the thumb-sized Valakhilya rishis he found struggling in the water of a cow’s hoofprint and stepped over their heads. They sacrificed for a new Indra, fast as thought. The frightened Indra fled to Kashyapa, who persuaded the rishis to let Brahma’s word stand and to let their sacrifice bear fruit as an Indra of the birds. Vinata was promised two sons, Aruna, forerunner of the Sun, and Garuda, lord of the birds, and Indra was warned never again to slight those who speak the name of Brahman or to insult rishis so quick to anger.

The battle with the gods and the theft of the amrita: gods blinded by the dust of his wings, the host of heaven fleeing in four directions, a fire put out with ninety times ninety mouths, a spinning wheel, two unblinking snakes, two boons from Vishnu, and the single feather that gave Garuda the name Suparna

So the gods stood armed and waiting, Sauti said, and Garuda, king of birds, was soon upon them. They were wise beings, and at the sight of his overwhelming strength they began to shake with fear, and in their confusion they struck at one another with every weapon they held. Among the guardians of the Soma stood the architect of the gods, a being of measureless might, as bright as lightning fire and full of power. The lord of birds closed with him. It was a terrible fight, and it lasted only a moment. Torn by talons and beak and wings, the architect lay on the field like a dead man. Then Garuda beat his wings until they raised a hurricane, and the dust of that hurricane darkened the worlds and rolled over the gods. In this way he threw the whole region of heaven into turmoil, and with wing and beak he opened wounds in the bodies of the gods. Buried in the dust, they fainted. The immortals who guarded the amrita were blinded by it, and they could no longer see Garuda at all.

Indra, the god of a thousand eyes, called on Vayu, the Wind. Blow this shower of dust away, Maruta, and quickly. This is your task and no one else’s. Mighty Vayu drove the dust off, and as soon as the darkness lifted the gods attacked. Under their attack Garuda roared, and his roar was like that of the great cloud that appears in the sky at the end of an age, and it frightened every creature alive. Then the king of birds, a killer of enemy heroes, full of power, rose on his wings. All the gods saw him there above their heads, Indra among them, and they were armed with two-edged broadswords, with iron maces set with sharp spikes, with pointed lances and clubs, with bright arrows, and with many a discus shaped like the sun. Weapons of every kind came down in showers on all sides, and the king of birds fought on with all his might and never wavered for a moment. Blazing in the sky, Vinata’s mighty son struck at the gods from every direction with his wings and with his breast. His talons and his beak tore them, and the blood ran freely from their bodies. He overcame them. The Sadhyas and the Gandharvas fled to the east, the Vasus and the Rudras to the south, the Adityas to the west, and the twin Ashvins to the north. They were beings of great power, and they fought even as they gave ground, looking back every moment at their enemy.

Garuda fought the Yakshas too: Ashvakranda, whose courage was great, and Rainuka, and bold Krathanaka, and Tapana, Uluka, Shvasanaka, Nimesha, Praruja and Pulina. Vinata’s son tore at them with wings and talons and beak, the way Shiva himself, who holds the Pinaka and punishes his enemies, rages when an age comes to its end. Those Yakshas were strong and brave, and when the ranger of the skies had mangled them from head to foot they looked like masses of black cloud letting fall thick showers of blood. He took the life out of them and went on to the place where the amrita was kept. He found it ringed by fire on every side. The flames were terrible. They covered the whole sky, and the violent winds that drove them seemed bent on burning up the Sun himself. Garuda gave himself mouths, ninety times ninety of them. With those mouths he quickly drank up the waters of many rivers, and he came back at great speed, borne on no vehicle except his own wings, and poured that water on the fire, and the fire went out. When the fire was dead he made his body very small, for he meant to go in to where the Soma lay.

The bird took on a body of gold, Sauti said, as bright as the rays of the sun, and he went in with great force, like a torrent pouring into the Ocean. Close to the Soma he saw a wheel of steel. Its edge was keen, as sharp as a razor, and it never stopped turning. It was a fierce device, terrible in shape and as bright as the blazing sun, and the gods had built it to cut every thief of the Soma to pieces. Garuda saw that there was a way through it, and he held still for a moment. Then he shrank his body, and in an instant he had passed between the spokes of the wheel. Inside its circle two great snakes were posted to guard the Soma. They shone like blazing fire. Their tongues flickered bright as lightning, fire came out of their mouths, and their eyes blazed. They were powerful, full of poison and very terrible, always angry and never still. Their eyes burned with rage without ceasing, and those eyes never blinked. Anyone seen by even one of the two would be turned to ashes on the spot. The bird of the fair feathers suddenly flung dust in their eyes. Then, unseen, he attacked them from every side, and Vinata’s son tore their bodies to pieces. He lost no time in reaching the Soma. He lifted the amrita from the place where it was kept and rose on his wings at great speed, breaking to pieces the machine that had ringed it. Soon he was out, carrying the amrita, and he had not drunk any of it himself. The nectar that gods and Asuras had churned an ocean and fought a war to taste was in his grip, and he left it untasted. He went on his way without the least weariness, and his passing darkened the splendor of the Sun.

On his way across the sky Vinata’s son met Vishnu. Narayana had seen that act of self-denial, and it pleased him. The god who knows no decay spoke to the bird: I am inclined to grant you a boon. Garuda named it, and it was a bold thing to ask of such a god. I will stay above you, he said. And then he spoke to Narayana again: I will be immortal and free of sickness, and I will be so without drinking the amrita. Vishnu said to the son of Vinata, so be it. Having received those two boons, Garuda made an offer in return. I will grant you a boon as well. Let the possessor of the six attributes ask it of me. Vishnu asked the mighty bird to become his mount. And he seated Garuda on the flagstaff of his chariot and said: in this way you shall stay above me. So be it, Garuda told Narayana, and he went swiftly on his way, making a mock of the wind with his speed.

Garuda, the first of all who range the skies and of all that have wings, was still coursing through the air with the amrita he had wrested from the gods when Indra hurled his thunderbolt at him. It struck. The lord of birds laughed, and in the middle of the fight he spoke to Indra in a pleasant voice. I will honor the rishi Dadhichi, he said, from whose bone this thunderbolt, the Vajra, was made. I will honor the Vajra too, and I will honor you, god of many sacrifices. So I cast off this one feather of mine, and you will never find the end of it. Your thunder struck me, and I have not felt the slightest pain. With that the king of birds let a feather fall. Every creature that saw it was filled with gladness, it was so fine a feather, and seeing how beautiful it was they said: let this bird be called Suparna, the one whose feathers are fair. Indra of the thousand eyes had watched this wonder, and he understood that the bird must be some great being. Greatest of birds, he said, I wish to know the limit of your great strength. And I wish for friendship with you that will never end.

A key to reading this (what Garuda did not do): Garuda fights his way through the gods, the Yakshas, the fire, the wheel and the two snakes, lifts the amrita, and comes out without drinking it. That act of self-denial is what pleases Narayana, and Garuda’s second boon answers it: to be immortal and free of sickness without the amrita. His first boon, a place above Vishnu, is granted when Vishnu asks him to be his mount and seats him on the flagstaff of his chariot, above the god. The thunderbolt was made from the bone of the rishi Dadhichi. Garuda drops one feather out of respect for the rishi, for the weapon and for Indra, and that feather gives him the name Suparna.

The gist: Garuda falls on the gods, lays out the divine architect, and blinds them all with the dust of his wings; Vayu clears the air, and still the gods flee to the four directions and nine named Yakshas die. He puts out the fire around the amrita with river water drunk through ninety times ninety mouths, slips between the spokes of the spinning wheel, blinds and kills the two unblinking snakes, and carries the amrita out without drinking it. Vishnu, pleased by that self-denial, grants him a place above himself and immortality without the amrita, and takes him as his mount, seated on the flagstaff of his chariot. Struck by Indra’s thunderbolt, Garuda sheds one feather in honor of Dadhichi, the weapon and the god, which earns him the name Suparna, and Indra asks for his friendship.

The friendship of Indra and Garuda: the earth balanced on one feather, the boon that made snakes his food, the amrita set on kusha grass and taken away, and how the tongues of snakes came to be forked

Garuda gave Indra his answer. Purandara, he said, let there be friendship between you and me, since you wish it. As for my strength, you should know that it is hard to bear. Good people, god of many sacrifices, never approve of speaking highly of their own strength, and they do not recite their own merits. But you have made me your friend, and it is you who ask, friend, and so I will answer, even though praising oneself without cause is always unseemly. On a single feather of mine, Shakra, I can carry this Earth, with her mountains and her forests and all the waters of the Ocean, and with you standing on her as well. Know that my strength is such that I could carry all the worlds put together, with everything in them that moves and everything that does not, and feel no weariness.

When Garuda in his courage had said this, Sauti told Shaunaka, it was Indra’s turn to speak, the chief of the gods, who wears the crown of heaven and is always intent on the good of the worlds. It is as you say, Indra told him. In you everything is possible. Accept my friendship now. It is sincere, and it comes from the heart. And if you have no use for the Soma yourself, give it back to me. Those to whom you mean to give it would be our enemies forever. Garuda chose his words with care. There is a certain reason why I am carrying the Soma, he said. The reason was a mother on a far shore, still a slave, and he did not name her. I will give it to no one to drink. But, god of the thousand eyes, once I have set it down, you, the lord of heaven, may pick it up and carry it away that same instant. Indra was delighted. Child of the egg, what you have just said pleases me greatly. Greatest of all who range the skies, take from me any boon you desire.

Then, Sauti said, Garuda thought of the sons of Kadru. He remembered his mother’s bondage, too, which had been brought about by a deception, and whose cause was well known, the curse of Aruna. And he chose. I have power over every creature, he said, and still I will do what you ask of me. Shakra, let the mighty snakes become my food. So be it, said Indra, the destroyer of the Danavas. Then he went to Hari, to Vishnu, the god of gods, the great soul, the lord of the yogins, and Hari gave his sanction to everything Garuda had said. The lord of heaven repeated his own part to Garuda once more: I will carry the Soma away the moment you set it down. With that he took his leave, and the bird of the fair feathers flew at great speed to his mother’s side.

Garuda came to the snakes rejoicing. Here it is, he told them all. I have brought the amrita. Let me set it down on some kusha grass. Sit here, snakes, and drink it when you have bathed and performed your rites. And as you yourselves said, let my mother be free from this day, for I have done what you commanded. So be it, said the snakes. The nectar of the gods sat on its bed of grass within reach of them all, and the snakes, as they had been told, went off to bathe first. While they were away, Indra took up the amrita and went back to heaven. The snakes finished their bathing, their daily devotions and their other sacred rites, and they came back in high spirits, eager to drink. They found the bed of kusha grass empty. The amrita that had been placed on it was gone, carried off by a deception that answered their own. So they began to lick the grass with their tongues, since the amrita had rested there, and the licking split the tongue of every snake in two. As for the kusha grass, the touch of the amrita made it sacred from that day forward.

In this way glorious Garuda brought the amrita down from heaven for the snakes, and in this way, by what he did, their tongues came to be divided. Afterward the bird of the fair feathers was very happy, and he lived at his ease in those woods with his mother beside him. His deeds were great, every creature that ranges the skies held him in deep reverence, and he made his mother glad by devouring the snakes. Whoever listens to this story, or reads it aloud to an assembly of good Brahmins, earns great merit from the telling of Garuda’s deeds and is certain to go to heaven.

A key to reading this (a trick answered with a trick): The snakes won Vinata’s wager by a deception, turning themselves into black hairs in a horse’s tail, and they lose the amrita by another. Garuda brings it, sets it on the kusha grass, and claims his mother’s freedom, and every word he gives the snakes is kept. They never taste a drop all the same, because he has already agreed with Indra that the god may carry it off the moment it is set down. The forked tongue of the snake and the sanctity of kusha grass both date from that moment. The curse of Aruna is the curse spoken from the broken egg: Vinata opened it before its time, and the half-formed child told her she would serve as a slave until, after five hundred years of patient waiting, the child of the second egg delivered her.

The gist: Garuda accepts Indra’s friendship and tells him he could carry the Earth, the Ocean and Indra himself on one feather. Indra asks for the Soma back; Garuda will give it to no one to drink, and he agrees that Indra may take it up once it is set down. As his boon Garuda asks that the snakes become his food, and Hari approves. He lays the amrita on kusha grass, sends the snakes to bathe, and claims his mother’s freedom; Indra carries the amrita off; the snakes lick the grass, their tongues are split in two, and kusha becomes sacred.

Source: the Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, Adi Parva (Anukramanika, Parvasangraha, Paushya, Pauloma and Astika sub-books). This chapter follows K. M. Ganguli, sections 1 to 58, and this third part tells sections 13 to 34; the Gita Press Hindi edition numbers these chapters differently. Names, order, and events were checked against Ganguli’s complete translation. Dialogue and commentary are adapted. About the sources.