Great Bharata, Volume I, page 11
“Not exactly. There will be a father who will…beget Vyāsa…in the conventional sense of begetting.”
Satya-vatī turned white. “And who is that father? I can’t just have a child with someone I don’t even know or love, and certainly not with a man who is not my husband.”
“Satya-vatī,” Parā-śara said softly, “I understand how you feel. I know how difficult this is for you, to hear so many heavy things at once. Now, it is my sacred duty to tell you something else that I know will strike you as strange, and perhaps awful. I assure you this was not my idea. But…it seems that I am to be the father. This sacred duty was given to me. Please believe that.”
Nothing had prepared Satya-vatī for this revelation and it thus fell upon her with dizzying force. So deep was her reverence for the brāhmaṇas that despite her attraction, even her attachment, to Parā-śara, she could not think of him as anything but a holy sage. The father of her child? How could she overcome a veneration she had felt for sages since early childhood?
As her mind whirled, Satya-vatī blushed deeply. Realizing this, she blushed even more. She hardly knew where she was.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered, “I didn’t expect this. Forgive me, but are we supposed to marry? I intend no offense, but you must know that normally men propose marriage before they propose procreation. I’m sorry, you are a great sage, and I’m sure you are doing your duty, but I am not ready for this. Will we marry?”
“We will not. That is not the plan. I cannot stay on Earth.”
Satya-vatī felt herself sinking into the Earth. Her mind reeled. Pale and trembling, she said, “Parā-śara, my parents! My step-parents! And the brāhmaṇas, and the world! What will they all think?”
“I understand,” Parā-śara said. “I really do. I will simply say that the world will know nothing about this, not for generations. Also, after the divine child is born, your body will regain its virginity.”
“That’s fine!” Satya-vatī cried in great distress, “but how will the world not know? Everyone will see that I am with child, before and after his birth. My life will be ruined. Parā-śara, I thought you came to save me, not to destroy me.”
“Satya-vatī, please hear the whole plan before you judge it.”
“I’m sorry, brāhmaṇa, I’m sorry,” she said, steadfastly shaking her head in refusal, as the rest of her body trembled.
“Satya-vatī, please listen. I beg you. The Avatāra will take birth in less than an hour after conception. At his birth, before your eyes, he will grow into a youth. He will bid you farewell and transfer himself to a secluded hermitage high in the great mountains. Great yogīs there will make sure the Asuras do not detect him. Vyāsa will gather his powers there and prepare his mission.”
“So I will never see my own child again?”
“Not for several years. Satya-vatī, to save this world, to save the three worlds, we are called upon to do selfless service. You will not have the joy of raising the Avatāra. That would be too dangerous for you and your son. Your parents made a similar sacrifice.”
“But my parents had other children. And they had each other. I am to do all this, to make this sacrifice, alone? Why me?”
“Because you are an extraordinary soul. You were chosen for your noble qualities, your devotion and strength. As the Avatāra’s mother, you will be called upon in the future to play an important role in the battle against the Asuras.”
“But you and I?” Satya-vatī said. “What will we do after our son is born?”
Parā-śara looked down. “Satya, I am a brāhmaṇa and you are a princess. You and I have…an affinity, but in the end, we have very different natures. One of us would be forced to adopt an unnatural existence. For the good of the world, with genuine affection for each other, our duty is just to bring an Avatāra into this world.”
“And what is my future in this world, or should I simply end it all in the Yamunā? Perhaps I should let the dear goddess take me where she will, to another world.”
“Satya, please. Viṣṇu will not forget you. He loves you as much as dear Yamunā. There is a plan. Believe me. Someday you will marry high royalty. You will live a happy life. You will know real love, I assure you. But that married life is not with me.”
Satya-vatī breathed deeply, struggling to regain her composure. When she felt she had achieved sufficient self-control, she said, “Dear sage, when will I be able to reveal my royal birth? We know that no prince or king would ever marry a fisherman’s daughter. You are a holy sage. Tell me the truth, I beg you.”
“Satya-vatī, I swear you will be rewarded. Trust me. You will find the happiness you seek.”
Satya-vatī slumped down, her mind racing, but going nowhere. Finally, she covered her face and wept. At last, she looked up and gasped, “Oh sage, I’m sorry, truly sorry. But you’ve told me more than I can bear — that all my life I lived by a false identity; that I am to beget a child out of wedlock, and with you, whom I revere as a holy sage! My mind is shattered. I cannot bear it. I cannot do what you ask. I beg you, sage, forgive me!”
Remembering, with heart in pain, the first time they met, Satya-vatī bowed to the sage and ran toward her boat. She hardly knew what she said to the elderly brāhmaṇas who greeted her as she raced to the riverbank. Confused and exhausted, she labored to row against the current toward her village. Her mind grew feverish with agitation. She had refused a divine mandate. She had rejected Parā-śara’s plea. She refused a divine entreaty to help her planet.
Satya-vatī’s long cherished hopes for a better life seemed to sink into the river. Did Yamunā herself, dear goddess of the river, now reject her?
CHAPTER 11
As she approached her village, Satya-vatī was in no condition to speak with those whom she now knew to be foster parents. With weak arms, she rowed past the village, and went to her favorite hiding place, a small, thickly wooded island in a wide stretch of the Yamunā, just beyond a sharp bend, out of view of her village. No one else ever went there, and she was not fit to answer the many questions her parents were sure to ask.
Parā-śara’s flurry of revelations had stunned, exhausted, and finally overwhelmed her. Now, in a hidden inlet of her private island, tucked out of view even of passing boats, Satya-vatī sat limp, bobbing in her boat, as gentle waves lapped the hull.
She could not have felt more separated from the loving couple that raised her than she did now. They had concealed from her the half-truth they knew, that they adopted her because her real parents could not raise her. Now Satya must hide from them the full truth of her identity.
How their roles had reversed! All her life, they knew more than she did about her origin. Now, she knew more. And she would conceal her superior knowledge from them, just as they had concealed theirs from her. The irony was striking, but held little interest for her in her present state.
Yet, there was some good in this. She would no longer be vexed by vague, hazy dissatisfactions, by inscrutable feelings of not truly belonging. But she had no time to celebrate this good, because an even more absurd irony now forced itself upon her. Having just learned that she was a princess from the most noble royal line, she had celebrated the grand revelation by refusing, and thus failing, to act with noble selflessness.
Her father and mother acted boldly for the world’s good. But they were in love. They had each other. Parā-śara was clearly not in love with her, though he treated her with genuine respect and affection.
What were her feelings for Parā-śara? He himself described it. They had “genuine affection for each other.” His words gave her comfort. He was right. They were not deeply in love. Still, genuine affection between two souls was something, something to be remembered with pleasure and gratitude. Indeed, to gain such affection from such an exalted sage could not but gratify her. However Satya might strive to free herself from pride, Parā-śara’s affection for her must swell her heart. But there was no future between them. She must keep her feelings within bounds, as he did.
She had refused to help him save the world. Now, to ward off waves of guilt, she told herself that great souls like Parā-śara and Indra, not to speak of most powerful Viṣṇu, could easily find another girl, a far better girl, to become the Avatāra’s mother.
She must think no more about it. She thought of her brothers, the Cedi princes. They were good souls, but not as powerful as their father. She thought with painful compassion of her eldest brother, Bṛhad-ratha, who must raise as his own son, and appear to love, his greatest enemy — indeed, Earth’s greatest enemy. Jarā-sandha, knowing his true identity and mission, must himself cynically feign affection for his father. And Bṛhad-ratha’s wife, Satya’s sister-in-law — she must know her son’s identity! How Satya longed to comfort her eldest brother and sister-in-law. How she yearned to help them. Yet they did not even know she existed. And she had rejected her chance to render practical aid to them, to the cause of Dharma, indeed, the cause of Viṣṇu. How these thoughts tormented her!
The sun was now sinking into the western waters. Creature cries broke the dusk stillness. She must return to her village and do her best to seem normal. Well, normal was impossible, but she would do all she could not to alarm her family.
Satya thought she was behaving almost as usual as she docked her boat at the village. But her mother took one look at her and cried out to the Devas. Satya touched her own face and realized that tears were still flowing down her cheeks.
Her father came running, looked at Satya, and shook his head, reaching his hands to the sky. He prayed to the Devas to reveal what he had done wrong. Satya-vatī had no strength to dodge their predictable questions, nor fend off their equally predictable entreaties. So she hugged them both, and insisted she was fine, but exhausted, and just needed rest. She hurried to her cottage (she had long ago insisted on having her own cottage), only to lie sleepless, imploring Viṣṇu to grant her strength and wisdom, since at the moment she felt she had neither.
The next day’s sun rose upon a still-bewildered Satya-vatī. The courageous example of her birth parents, and her own heart, troubled her. She refused Parā-śara’s proposal, which he claimed came from high authority. If she persisted in her refusal, what would she do with her life?
No one could imagine that she was a princess whose father ruled the world. Satya-vatī could not tell anyone the truth without causing havoc to those she loved most. Parā-śara had promised she would be rewarded for her sacrifice, if she would only accept it. She now assumed that her refusal would cancel the rewards that would come with her acceptance.
So, I refuse to bring the Avatāra, she thought. That means I continue to suffer, increasingly, in this village, and my life is meaningless. For the Avatāra’s sake, my parents gave up their only daughter, a daughter they truly love, and I now render their painful sacrifice, and my own, meaningless. Asuras threaten the world, and I gamble the fate of millions on my assumption that some other girl will do the job.
Deeply troubled, Satya-vatī boarded her boat and let it drift on the gentle, rocking currents of Yamunā. She implored the river goddess to give her wisdom and courage.
On gentle waves, the goddess carried her slowly toward the brāhmaṇa village. Was Heaven bringing her back to Parā-śara? She saw sages bathing in the river, tending sacred fires, reciting ageless mantras.
“Please!” Satya cried aloud to Yamunā. “Sweet goddess of the river, I can’t do it! Forgive me, I beg you. I have always loved you since earliest childhood. Now I entreat you, intercede on my behalf, convince the great ones to choose another girl.”
But the river brought her closer to the brāhmaṇa shore. All her life she had served these sages. And dear Parā-śara was revered by all the sages that she revered. She had refused him. What if the world really depended on her? What if Viṣṇu himself was testing her devotion?
As she fretted, a deafening roar shattered the still air, shaking Satya’s heart. She froze and looked. Huge tigers moved toward the sages. The beasts roared with unbearable ferocity, exceeding all that is natural to Earth. The elderly sages cried out the alarm.
“Oh God, the Asuras have come!” Satya gasped, as the beasts closed in on the sages. “Oh, Parā-śara!” she wailed silently. “O Heaven protect them! Protect the sages!”
Suddenly, a blazing light raced across the river. She looked up. Below the clouds, King Vasu in his crystal aircraft came flying at startling speed. Satya-vatī trembled with joy. Her own father, mighty Vasu, would answer her prayer.
Indeed, the king of kings lit up the sky with flashing weapons. His fiery missiles struck the Asura beasts with pitiless precision. Proud, demonic roars turned into death shrieks.
Loving, ecstatic pride in her father filled Satya’s heart. “He is truly the king of kings,” she whispered to herself.
Then all was silence. The aircraft vanished as quickly as it appeared. Satya gazed at the empty sky in wonder, but just for a moment. She saw a wounded sage on the beach. She rushed her boat to the shore, frantic to help, and to see if Parā-śara were still alive.
An elderly brāhmaṇa lay dying on the sand. Satya had always loved him as a grandfather, and he had fully returned her love. She rushed to him and did all she could to bring comfort to his last moments on Earth. As he passed on, his head cradled in her hands, she felt a righteous rage she had never felt before. With frightening resolve, she swore to Viṣṇu himself that she would do whatever was needed to stop the Asura invasion. She knew what those words meant.
But was Parā-śara alive? She had been hidden since birth, she had endured an unnatural life, just to perform the one crucial act of bringing an Avatāra to the world. After all that, had the Asuras discovered and destroyed the plan at the last moment by killing Parā-śara?
By now, boatloads of fishermen, led by her father, arrived at the scene, knowingly risking their lives to help the sages. At that moment, her heart filled with love and respect for these simple, good people. The fishermen and sages mixed like never before. Both cried out in praise of King Vasu. Their words thrilled her, but there was no time to lose. Before her father could stop or question her, she ran to the woods in search of Parā-śara. Where was he? Perhaps he lost his faith in her and left the night before, or early that morning. This thought filled her heart with pain.
She climbed to higher ground, but as far as she could see, there was no trace of Parā-śara. A young fisherman her age came running and said, “Your father wants to see you at once. Satya, you have to come.”
She complied, too shaken to argue. Her stepfather embraced her and said, “Satya, you must go home now. Please do not fight with me at a time like this. We have more than enough men here to take care of everything. If we need help, we’ll send word to the ladies, I promise you.”
She saw that it would be cruel to argue with him in these circumstances. The fishermen would take excellent care of the sages. And the horror of the attack, and Parā-śara’s departure, left Satya-vatī devastated and drained. She offered affectionate, heartfelt words to the sages, returned to her boat, and pushed off. She had no intention of returning to the village to face endless questions and admonitions from her mother and the other ladies. She could return to her secluded isle to rest and grieve alone. But even that idea was soon drowned in a sea of misery. With no strength to row or steer in any direction, she slumped down in her boat and wept uncontrollably.
CHAPTER 12
Satya-vatī had never in her young life felt so spent in mind and spirit. After a life of boredom and frustration, she met a celebrated young sage who seemed to truly like her. He gave her life-changing revelations of her royal family. He invited her to play a key role in saving the world.
And here she was, drifting aimlessly, literally and figuratively, more alone than ever. She had not only lost Parā-śara, she could never think of her fishing family in the same way. For all their limitations, she had seen them as her real family. Now, even that was lost.
She could approach her royal family in Pearl River. But, having failed in her sacred mission to bring an Avatāra to the world, how would they receive her? They had given their lives for the very mission she rejected. They might even blame her for endangering the world. Were he to accept her, King Vasu would have to explain to all the citizens why he sent her away in the first place. That would be very difficult without revealing the Asura invasion and putting all the citizens in panic. No, she would not go to her birth family in a shameful state.
Eventually, the Asuras would attack, and the whole world would blame her. Even if the Devas did choose another girl, that girl would be hailed as a heroine. Satya-vatī would live in the world’s memory as a symbol of failure of spirit.
The idea of returning to her old life as a fisherman’s daughter depressed her exceedingly. She could no longer bear it. Perhaps she would simply let her boat drift on to another country. But that too was impossible. The heartless world would think the worst of a young lady traveling alone to a strange country.
Satya-vatī knew that some hopeless souls overcame misery by tying a stone to their ankle and sinking into a sacred river. But such an act would surely displease dear Yamunā. In short, Satya-vatī could find no comfort in life or death.
She wept bitterly; her body shook. Mindless of where the waters took her, she lost all sense of time. When she finally looked around, she found herself at the shore of her secret island. Perhaps she would deploy all she learned from the dear sages and fast in meditation till Viṣṇu took her from this suffering world. After all, she had nothing to live for.
Parā-śara emphatically promised her rewards in this world, including a loving marriage, if she would only help him. But she had refused. Now, she could not rationally expect those blessings that were to reward the fulfillment of a sacred task she refused to perform.
She respected her own body as a divine gift, and she would not harm it in a suicidal act. Yet she now had no reason to do anything but sit quietly on her special island, fix her mind on Viṣṇu, and await a better future life.
