"On that hill, Arjuna performed tapas[1]for Śiva," some say. "He performed tapas in the Himālaya mountains, not here," claim others. In truth, the period that can be said to have witnessed such tapas was approximately one hundred and fifty years before this time. Let us assume it was after half of the Pāṇḍavas' forest exile had been completed. That was seven years. Dharma-rāja ruled for thirty-six years. Parīkṣit[2]ruled for sixty years. Now, Janamejaya Mahārāja[3] is ruling. It cannot yet be said that one hundred and fifty years have fully passed.
Already, these legends have taken root. In fact, in that very village, there are a few who were alive during the time of the Bhārata War. They were children then; now they are elderly—some living for one hundred and fifty or even one hundred and ninety years. Among them, one old man insists that the tapas was certainly performed on this very hill. He often says, "In my childhood, I climbed the hill once. There was a man sitting there performing japa. Beside him lay a bow and arrows. He scolded me, asking why I had come, and told me to leave. That man was Arjuna. I know this."
The Kṛṣṇā River flows alongside that hill. The Kṛṣṇā is perhaps two or three times larger than the Candrabhāgā. Hills flank it on both sides. One could say the Kṛṣṇā cuts through the mountains as she flows. In the rainy season, this great river appears as a vast ocean above the hills. The water reaches halfway up the height of the mountains. The volume of water flowing through the gap between the hills cannot match the volume of the standing water behind them. Therefore, from Indrakīla Parvata[4] to Vedādri, the river remains like a mighty ocean. Only in summer does the water diminish. Year after year, the current of the Kṛṣṇā appears to be carving away at the stone of the hills. Consequently, the width of the Kṛṣṇā's flow above is about a yojana[5].
Four yojanas above this Indrakīla Parvata, on the southern bank of the river's flow, lies the Āndhra capital. Upon hearing "capital," one might mistakenly imagine a sprawling city. It is not a metropolis; nor is it a mere small village. The greater part of its inhabitants consists of the King, the royal family, their dependents, and a portion of the army. Above and somewhat below this capital lie a succession of villages. That land is a bountiful one (subhikṣam). The waters of the Kṛṣṇā are abundantly accessible there in all seasons. People build check-dams against the overflowing currents to divert them to the fields. When the river recedes, they build embankments to trap and store the water. All these villages cultivate rice alone. A hundred varieties of rice are grown there. Having relished the flavor of Āndhra grain, people from as far as Setu to the Himālayas[6] purchase this rice from the vicinity of the Āndhra capital, regardless of the price.
In that era, Āndhra-deśam was famous for two things. First, rice; second, betel leaves. Between the Kṛṣṇā and Pinākinī[7]rivers, along the seashore, there are certain villages. There, the lush groves of betel vines, with the gentle swaying of their leaf-tips, seem like the startled glances of the celestial Kāmadhenu[8]cows. It is a common belief that Janamejaya Mahārāja consumes no betel leaves other than those from the Telugu land[9] every day. It is even said that Śrī Kṛṣṇa himself constantly favored the betel leaves of Āndhra-deśam.
The name of that capital is Dhānyakaṭakam. That name came naturally to the capital. Just as Āndhra-deśam earned renown for these two crops, it earned similar fame in sword-craft. In that age—approximately five thousand years ago—each region was famous for a particular discipline.
In the region of Dvārakā, the fame of mace-combat was paramount; the greatest masters of the mace were found there. Those wishing to master that art would travel to Dvārakā to learn.
In the region of Hastināpura, skill in archery was supreme.
In the Āndhra region, however, expertise in sword-craft was exceptionally profound. All experts in sword-craft would gather at the capital seeking royal patronage. The King honored them all. One could say the Āndhra capital was the very dwelling place of sword-craft masters. Wherever a master of the sword existed, whether along the banks of the Godāvarī or the Pinākinī, they eventually made their way to the capital. The Āndhra army was highly skilled in sword-craft. Indeed, the Āndhra infantry was a source of terror to neighboring kingdoms.
Generally, although various regions possessed fame for their respective martial arts, the excellence of all those disciplines was embodied in one or two individuals within the royal family. This was because the great masters of these arts would instruct the King and the Princes. Through the divine talent bestowed by the Almighty, one among them would emerge as a supreme master. Just as in ancient times Balarāma in Dvārakā became a master of the mace, and Karṇa and Arjuna in Hastināpura became masters of archery, this tradition was the cause. Similarly, all the princes of the Āndhra royal lineage were experts in sword-craft. Among them, the supreme expert was Vijayasimha.
Vijayasimha is Śrīmukha's younger brother. They are three brothers: Śrīmukha, Vijayasimha, and Nāgārjuna. This Vijayasimha is a formidable master of the sword; it is said that from the southern sea to the snowy peaks of the north, there is no one his equal. There is a reason for this renown. Sword-craft in Āndhra-deśam is of a caliber unmatched in any other land. All the greatest sword-masters of the Āndhra country are gathered in the capital, and among them, Vijayasimha is the most proficient. Thus, the claim holds true.
Each martial discipline carries a distinct trait of temperament.
In mace-combat, there is a characteristic coarseness. Those expert in that art behave like elephants in rut (mattagaja). They possess no hesitation; they believe they can pulverize even mountains. Like a mad elephant entering a lotus pond, they charge—whether they succeed in slaying the enemy or not, their very nature is that of a rampaging elephant. This is the quality inherent in the mace.
Then there is archery. It produces no haste in its practitioners. The master of the mace goes to the enemy, but the enemy must come to the master of archery. The mace-warrior leaps at his foe. If the mace-expert's nature is that of a mad elephant, the archer's nature is that of a crouching tiger (poñciyunna-peddapuli).
The method of the sword-master is different from both. He is like a cobra (trācupāmu). He strikes in an instant. In a moment, he stands poised on his tail. His nature is one of extreme speed. After the strike, he recedes. Over time, the excellence in each discipline imprints these inherent characteristics upon the expert. A cobra is prone to sudden, unnecessary anger. At the slightest touch, it rises with a hiss. It does not pause to investigate the nature of that touch, nor does it care what it is about to bite. It might be a fragment of stone, yet it strikes immediately. Against the venom of its fury, the stone might shatter, or its own fangs might break—its nature is irresistible. Through constant practice, that which was once external becomes one's very nature.
Vijayasimha became exactly such a man. He was exceptionally handsome, lustful, easily provoked to anger, and swift. When or why his sword would strike someone, no one could predict. In effect, there was no distinction between the cobra, the art of sword-craft, and Vijayasimha. It was an inseparable bond.
His nature was allowed to flourish because he was not the Crown Prince, but merely a prince. Being a prince granted him unchecked freedom; not being the Crown Prince meant he bore no weight of responsibility. Being the middle brother, he grew accustomed to acting according to his whims (yathecchāvṛtti). His father did not regard him with the same gravity as Śrīmukha, and his mother did not love him as intensely as she loved Nāgārjuna. Because his mother's love was not abundant, he was not spoiled in the manner of Nāgārjuna; because his father paid him scant attention, he was not confined within the boundaries of dharma like Śrīmukha. Everyone feared Vijayasimha. When speaking with him, one had to hold one's life in the palm of one's hand. He roamed freely, treating not just the capital but the entire realm as his playground.
Four days prior, Śrīmukha had been anointed as the Crown Prince (yuvarāja). King Romapāda had proposed to perform the full royal coronation and then retire to the Vānaprastha ashram. Śrīmukha did not agree in the least. He stated he did not even want the kingdom. He said that if his father appointed him as yuvarāja and observed him for a few more years, only then would he accept the title. Romapāda deeply desired to make Śrīmukha King. He understood Śrīmukha's nature thoroughly. Specifically, the royal servant had reported the incident at the waterfall. Romapāda believed that while Śrīmukha indulged in such daring deeds now, if crowned King, the weight of responsibility would restrain him. Thus, Romapāda resolved to entrust the kingdom to Śrīmukha and withdraw.
Romapāda was one hundred and sixty years old. He was not yet truly "old" in the sense of being infirm, but it could not be said that old age had not arrived. Śrīmukha was in his fifty-second[10] year. He had three elder sisters; after three female children, Romapāda had been blessed with three sons in succession, born four years apart. Nāgārjuna was forty-four years old.
The Yuvarāja coronation festivities had been celebrated for three days with great splendor. This was the fourth day. On this night, the youths of the royal family decided to organize a festival. All the young men of the royal line would gather to display their mastery of sword-craft for the pleasure of the Crown Prince. Youths from distant branches of the royal family arrived for the occasion.
The state of the kingdom at that time was thus: the King resided in the capital, and capable members of the royal family were appointed as administrators over key regions. They had all arrived. Among them were administrators of villages on the banks of the Pinākinī; one administrator governed a cluster of ten villages. There were ten such men. Similarly, twelve or fourteen administrators from the banks of the Godāvarī were present. Commanders of the royal army, also of royal blood, were in attendance.
In those days, the wealth of Bhārata depended upon herds of cattle. The places where these herds gathered were called Toṟṟupaṭlu. The kingdom had about ten such stations, and five or six were governed by royal kinsmen. All had come with at least ten youths each. These could be called "boys," "youths," or those in their "adolescence." In that era, one was considered a boy until thirty years of age. From thirty to eighty was the period of youth, and from eighty until one hundred and fifty was regarded as adolescence (kaumārāvastha).
Among those gathered for the sword-craft display were not only royals but others as well—martial gurus and members of the higher varṇas. The display was arranged to take place after nightfall. It was the bright fortnight (śukla-pakṣa), and that day was the daśamī (tenth lunar day).
As soon as the sun set, the moonlight arrived in rushing floods. It was the season of Śarat (autumn). The moonlit waves, which seemed to play upon the swinging ripples of the Kṛṣṇā river, caressed the eyes. The air felt as if it were coating one's limbs with the cool essence of green camphor. In the corners of the eyes, the flickering sparkles of fireflies were visible. The official festivities had concluded with the third day; this gathering was a sign of lingering enthusiasm.
This martial display was arranged within the fort, at a sprawling amphitheater specifically designated as the training ground for the princes. Ordinarily, the King did not approve of such public displays. Disputes among princes tend to arise in peculiar ways: what begins as a friendly exchange often takes a dark turn at some unpredictable corner. Tempers flare, and a momentary anger can transform into a lifelong enmity. At times, even these friendly pastimes have led to mortal duels.
Though Romapāda was well aware of the dangers of these sword-craft amusements, his mind—which had found a measure of peace believing that the responsibilities of the Yuvarāja coronation would naturally steady his eldest son's volatile nature—did not interfere. The risks inherent in such events are not regulated but accidental. Therefore, the King adopted a stance of silence. Moreover, he felt that Śrīmukha must now learn for himself. If anything untoward were to happen in this setting, Śrīmukha would witness it firsthand. "He ought to know," Romapāda thought, achieving a grim contentment.
In that vast arena, the youths of the royal family and several martial experts from the capital gathered. They were both the participants and the spectators; only four or five people present were not involved in the display. Among them were the Yuvarāja and two elders of the royal line. Though elderly, these two participated in all the festivities of the youth. They held no official office. One was named Harivarmā, and the other was Sahānubhūti.
These two were unique figures within the royal family. It was common knowledge that they were great political thinkers, masters of all weapons (śastra-vidyā), profound aesthetes, and scholars. Everyone revered them. They had never held employment, never participated in wars, and never competed with anyone. Though famous as great pundits, they never engaged in dry scriptural debates. Neither had children. Both possessed ancestral wealth and were honored in every royal affair and assembly; their wise counsel (hitopadeśam) was always accepted.
Apart from these, there was another man. To many assembled there, his identity was unknown; to others, it was only vaguely familiar. How he had come there or how his presence was even possible was a mystery. Yet, everyone thought, "Jayadratha would not be here without Śrīmukha's knowledge. If the Prince has approved him, why should we question his worthiness? To do so might only provoke the Yuvarāja's anger." Thus, they remained silent.
However, among those present, there was one who utterly disliked his presence, while another was greatly pleased by it. The rest were indifferent or lacked the strength to dispute it. These two were Vijayasimha and Nāgārjuna. It was evident to all that Nāgārjuna looked upon the newcomer with great affection and respect. Vijayasimha, on the other hand, would not even glance at him, behaving as if such a man did not even exist. The other princes assumed Nāgārjuna had brought him. Surely, Nāgārjuna would not bring him without the Yuvarāja's permission. To Vijayasimha, the man seemed unwelcome. Yet, if Nāgārjuna had brought him and the Yuvarāja also honored him, Vijayasimha remained quiet.
These thoughts rippled through the minds of the gathered youths, though no one spoke them aloud. To the non-royal martial experts, his presence mattered little. This was Jayadratha. Some knew him only as a man of unknown origin who had sought royal employment but was instead being kept as a guest in the Dharmaśālā. Was it the Yuvarāja who invited him, or Nāgārjuna? If it was the Yuvarāja, nothing could be said; if it was Nāgārjuna, it was strange that the Yuvarāja allowed it. None knew of the secret intimacy between Śrīmukha and Jayadratha.
Nāgārjuna had a specific trait: if he had not been the one to bring a person, he would immediately ask "How did you get here?" upon seeing them. Since he didn't ask Jayadratha, Vijayasimha deduced that Nāgārjuna must have brought him with the Yuvarāja's consent. Because of this, Vijayasimha harbored a certain contempt for Nāgārjuna, viewing him as a youngster who lacked judgment and followed "perverse paths"—though Vijayasimha never reflected on his own unchecked nature.
Despite his wildness, Vijayasimha held deep respect for his eldest brother. He had great reverence for Dharma and a supreme devotion to the Vedic path (Vaidika-dharmam). Since ancient times, Rāma had been the deity of this land, and his temples flourished. For a hundred years now, Śrī Kṛṣṇa had also become a deity, and the Bhagavad Gītā was accepted as an authoritative scripture. It was said that Vyāsa Maharṣi had written a monumental work called the Bhāratam, as great as the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇam. It had not yet fully reached Āndhra-deśam, though a few scholars had traveled north and heard of it. Vijayasimha believed in all these matters just as Śrīmukha did. Whether Nāgārjuna believed or not was unclear; no matter what was said, he would simply laugh and remain silent. While Vijayasimha was a man of haste, Nāgārjuna appeared deliberate and calm. Whether Nāgārjuna shared his brother's devotion to the Vedic path was impossible to know, for he never revealed his opinions to anyone.
Everyone was speaking; everyone was displaying their fervor. Jayadratha, however, spoke nothing. He displayed no enthusiasm. Was he acting thus because he was a stranger, or was this simply his inherent nature? Whenever Jayadratha's gaze met Nāgārjuna's, Nāgārjuna's eyes would smile. Yet, there was no radiance on Jayadratha's face. Any other man would have felt at least a surge of joy being acknowledged so by a prince, but his countenance remained devoid of any such glow.
The sword-craft display commenced. It began initially with the combat of men from other varṇas within the city. After some time, the martial expertise of those in the position of gurus was displayed. At times, two would duel; at other times, two or three would join as a side to fight. On occasion, four or five would rush and combat a single opponent.
Thus, an ardha-yāma (half-watch of the night) passed. Then, ten youths of the royal family suggested that Vijayasimha should display his martial proficiency. Śrīmukha agreed with a faint smile. In Vijayasimha's face, there was little sign of consent. After several requests and Vijayasimha's continued silence, Harivarmā and Sahānubhūti made the request. If Vijayasimha was to display his skill, who would be his opponent? There was only one man who was his equal: his name was Nirankuśa, a near kinsman of the King.
In royal lineages, while the King's eldest son ascends the throne, the other sons remain princes, and their descendants form the extended royal clan. Over five or six generations, these descendants become numerous. Those separated by only two or three generations are considered close kinsmen—grand-uncles, sons of the father's younger brother, and the like. Many move to foreign lands or remote parts of the kingdom, but some families remain in the capital, regarding one another as close kin. Nirankuśa was one such relative. His father and Romapāda had been fellow students, learning weapons and other arts together. During their training, it was a universally accepted fact that Nirankuśa's father possessed greater skill than Romapāda. This father had instructed his son in all the disciplines. Indeed, there was no difference in the knowledge learned by the father and Romapāda; the difference lay in the skill of display. Nirankuśa was unaware of this nuance; he simply believed his father was a greater swordsman than the King and that all that mastery had been transmitted to him. Furthermore, Nirankuśa's father was also the sword-guru to Vijayasimha, but he gave his own son additional, private instruction at special times. This was the source of Nirankuśa's confidence.
Vijayasimha and Nirankuśa had engaged in many friendly duels in the past. However, the sheer agility of Vijayasimha was not found in Nirankuśa.
At times, Vijayasimha would fight in a manner that seemed unconventional (sampradāyetaram). It was difficult to state explicitly that it was outside tradition. When a man's genius in a discipline is so profound that it appears unconventional, and yet, upon scrutiny, is proven to be rooted in the core principles of the art—that is what is called pratibha (creative genius). Vijayasimha possessed such pratibha in sword-craft.
Between these two, an inner rivalry (antar-mātsaryam) had existed since childhood. On the surface, the decorum of their kinship was never breached. Only they themselves knew of the envy within. As soon as the prospect of Vijayasimha's display arose, everyone knew Nirankuśa would be his opponent. Vijayasimha cast a single glance at Nirankuśa; Nirankuśa looked back. To the others, these looks appeared ordinary, but the weight of their inner rivalry was carried in those gazes. Jayadratha perceived it instantly. The two tightened their loincloths, adorned themselves with red sandalwood paste, took up their swords, and descended into the arena. Until then, four torches had been burning; now, four more were lit. Vijayasimha struck his sword against his shield, making it ring. In that sound, Jayadratha sensed a note of contempt. Previously, Jayadratha had not even been observing the other displays; he was hardly aware of his own presence there. Suddenly, a sharp alertness awoke in him. All the refined knowledge of sword-craft dwelling within him rushed to his eyes.
Initially, the two played as if the display of their footwork and strokes was the primary goal, and confronting the opponent was secondary. For some time, they parried easy thrusts with their shields and avoided one another with light leaps. Even in the fundamental basics of an art, the skill displayed by a master is uniquely distinctive; to the weak, those very basics seem like a great feat. For about an hour or more, they displayed their physical lightness and technical mastery. Then, a thrust from Nirankuśa appeared to transgress the bounds of a friendly duel. Vijayasimha responded to it immediately.
An immediate intuition struck Jayadratha. Nirankuśa was a man capable of overstepping boundaries; if necessary, he would not hesitate to slay Vijayasimha. Furthermore, Vijayasimha was like a cobra whose tail had been stepped upon—eternally restless and alert in the art of the sword. There was no way to catch him off guard. At that moment, the combat truly began. Their mutual envy grew visible. The desire for victory began to shine more intensely than the mere display of skill.
For half a watch-hour, amidst the blinding flashes of steel that dazed the eyes, the two fought as if they were two young cobras entwined in battle. To those ignorant of the prowess and lightness inherent in sword-craft, it would seem that by the time they parted, their bodies would be drenched in blood. But it was not so. Such is the nature of that discipline. In every fraction of a second, one man's blade seemed destined to sink into the other's throat, chest, arm, or flank. Yet, through the agility of his bodily shifts and the cleverness of his hand extensions, the second man's sword would appear as the savior of the first man's target. These were all the subtle nuances (melukuvulu) of the art. Each movement had a specific name; for every strike, there was a counter-strike.
For half an hour, they displayed their full mastery. The gurus were satisfied. Harivarmā and Sahānubhūti shouted "Bravo!" Throughout this, Jayadratha attempted to discern the difference between them. Neither's superiority was yet apparent. As long as they fought according to the traditional methods—blocking this way, parrying that way—it was impossible to declare one greater than the other. Knowledge learned from a single guru remains uniform in its traditional path. This uniformity only breaks when a competitive spirit emerges. Following that competition, an intense desire to conquer the other must be born. When that intensity arises, the climber does not ascend the steps of the edifice of knowledge one by one; he leaps ten steps at once. In that moment of leaping, the opponent can only meet him if he has the talent to leap eleven or twelve steps in response. For that, one requires pratibha (intuitive genius).
In every discipline, there is an order (krama). Even an expert, if devoid of pratibha, follows only that order. But the man of genius, though he may act outside the sequence, remains fully awake and correct in every movement, appearing suddenly and effectively wherever he is needed.
As the duel progressed, that specific alertness seen in Vijayasimha did not manifest in Nirankuśa. Nirankuśa possessed his own distinction: in the sequential evolution of the fight, he displayed great depth and profound familiarity with every technique. In Vijayasimha, however, there was a "sudden restlessness" regardless of sequence. Vijayasimha would suddenly manifest a nuance; Nirankuśa was capable of parrying it, but in those specific moments, a slight hesitation was visible. Once the moment passed, they appeared equal again. Nirankuśa did not initiate a single sudden, spontaneous attack. All of Vijayasimha's strikes were spontaneous. Nirankuśa withstood them all, but such a man can only defend himself; he cannot overwhelm the enemy.
Nirankuśa's performance was undoubtedly the result of superior training. However, he could not reveal the depths of his erudition unless it followed a specific order. Vijayasimha could grasp those depths instantaneously. Nirankuśa was unable to demonstrate a stroke accompanied by an unexpected, secret refinement of the art. The order taught by his father was deeply rooted in his intellect. He had learned the discipline as a discipline; he had not made it his own. Genius only shines when one possesses a constant, restless devotion to every aspect of the learned art, as if one has achieved it through special, individual worship.
Why did Vijayasimha possess this? Why did Nirankuśa lack it? Vijayasimha was a prince—free, independent, and able to act according to his will. Nirankuśa was a royal servant; his freedom was limited, and he bore heavy responsibilities. Vijayasimha had the benefit of constant, daily practice; Nirankuśa did not. Furthermore, upon the most subtle observation, Nirankuśa lacked the sheer physical lightness that Vijayasimha possessed. If it was missing, it was only by a hair's breadth at the highest level of execution.
Another difference emerged between the two. Vijayasimha engaged in the sword-fight as if it were mere play (hela). He showed no outward sign of intense concentration. He moved his limbs, swung his sword, parried, retreated, and leaped forward all with an air of ease, rather than grim effort. Nirankuśa's movements, however, were like a perfectly sculpted display of technical skill. Was this due to the difference in their inherent life-traits, or was it a byproduct of their respective status and positions in the kingdom? Did a certain fear dwell within Nirankuśa? How would Nirankuśa fight if his opponent were someone else?
Jayadratha realized he could not know Nirankuśa's true nature without seeing that. However, one thing was clear to him: Nirankuśa was restrained either by the fear that Vijayasimha was a prince or by a rigid adherence to the conventions of the art. Which of the two was it?
Translation by vihu_vhu
[1] Austerity ; can be equated similar to Cultivation, but not exactly that
[2] Grandso of Arjuna and son of Abhimanyu
[3] Janamejaya is the great grandson of Pandavas in the Mahabharata and he performed the famous yajna or sacrifice to destroy all the snakes on the earth. Janamejaya was the son of King Parikshit, who was killed by serpent, Takshaka.
[4] Indrakeela mountain present day Vijayawada
[5] A Yojana is an ancient Indian unit of distance that has varied in its length across different texts and regions. Commonly, it is considered to be equivalent to:7.64 miles.
[6] from the southern most tip of india to northern himalayas
[7] i think it's now called as "Penna" river
[8] Kāmadhenu, also known as Surabhi, is a divine bovine-goddess described in Hinduism as the mother of all cows. She is a miraculous cow of plenty who provides her owner whatever they desire and is often portrayed as the mother of other cattle. In iconography, she is generally depicted as a white cow with a female head and breasts, the wings of a bird, and the tail of a peafowl or as a white cow containing various deities within her body. Kamadhenu is not worshipped independently as a goddess. Rather, she is honored by the Hindu veneration of cows, who are regarded as her earthly embodiments.
[9] Andhra Desham;country, ruled by satavahanas is the land where telugu is mainly spoken
[10] Life expectencies of humans those days (5000+ years back) surely woulddiffer vastly from todays