"Is this Gaṅgu's house?"
"Who are you? From which land do you hail?"
"Ours is Sindhu-deśam. Is this indeed Gaṅgu's house?"
"It is."
"Is he within the house?"
"What business do you have with him?"
"I have come because I wish to see him."
"For what purpose?"
"I have come from Kulakanandi."
"From Kulakanandi?! I myself am Gaṅgu. Come, let us go inside."
The two of them entered Gaṅgu's house. It was a hut thatched with palmyra leaves, yet it was strikingly spacious. The interior opened up wide. The floor, meticulously smeared and neatly plastered with cow dung, appeared as smooth and finished as if it had been paved. The walls were constructed of silt-clay and were likewise neatly finished.
In a corner stood two string-cots. Gaṅgu fetched two mats woven from coconut leaves and spread them upon the floor. Both sat upon them. The entire hut consisted of a single large hall; there were no partitioned rooms. Nor was there a designated place for cooking within the house. During the rainy months, Gaṅgu's wife would cook in a small shed located in the backyard; at all other times, she cooked in the open air. Except during the rainy season, no one slept indoors; they would set out their cots and sleep either in the front yard or the backyard.
There was no grand furniture to speak of. Hanging upon the wall were three shields and four swords sheathed in their scabbards. The dwelling appeared impeccably clean, yet it seemed impossible to find a house more impoverished. There was not even a pot to store rice, nor any collection of household vessels.
After they were seated, Gaṅgu spoke:
"Did Kulakanandi send you? How many days has it been since I saw him! Is he well? And his wife, Irāvatī!She is not one who deserves to be born in those lands. Is she well?
At that time, he had two sons; have they grown? Have they become men? What is it they do?
Why did Kulakanandi send you? Does he even remember me? How many years has it been! Eighty, ninety years ago. Since he is my Guru[1], I could never forget; otherwise, it is a matter that should have faded from memory. Kulakanandi?- He must be two hundred years of age by now. Yet, he still lives. Is he truly well?"
The visitor had heard that Gaṅgu would not speak at all, that he would drive visitors away from his doorstep, and that if he answered even one word for every ten spoken to him, it was a great feat. Thus, this barrage of questions from Gaṅgu filled the man with astonishment.
"Kulakanandi is indeed well. He has become very old. Irāvatī has also reached a very great age. His two sons serve as bodyguards to the King in the Mēru-deśam."
Even as he replied, the man continued to scrutinize the features and physical form of Gaṅgu. The upper part of Gaṅgu's face was round. His cheeks and chin were lean, tapering to a point. His hair was parted in the center, drawn back in two strands, and tied into a knot. He had no mustache or beard. However, in the places where a mustache and beard should be, there were scattered hairs—perhaps twenty-five or thirty in total. These bristles stood out like the quills of a porcupine. It must be said that looking upon his face provoked a sense of revulsion.
Yet, within his eyes, there was a particular brilliance. Those eyes would draw you in; they would strike you with fear, and then, they would release you. Upon his forehead were ūrdhvapuṇḍras[2]. His neck was long and powerful, with the veins on the sides standing out like iron rods. His shoulders were bulging. While his chest could not be described as broad, it must be called immensely strong. His arms were like clubs of iron. His waist was remarkably slender. It seemed as though his entire strength resided in his arms. At that moment, he wore no garment upon his torso. Looking at his face, his age was apparent, yet within his body, no sign of senility could be seen.
Jayadratha could not understand why he was observing Gaṅgu's body with such minute scrutiny. He had no intention of engaging Gaṅgu in a sword duel. Furthermore, he had heard that Gaṅgu never crossed swords with anyone. It was said he sought no rivalry with any man; more accurately, no man dared to seek a rivalry with him. Why then was he examining his body with such critical judgment?
Gaṅgu spoke thus:
"You must dine at my home this very afternoon. The mere mention of Kulakanandi's name brings my entire youth rushing back to my memory. Kulakanandi's eldest son was Sugānōri. Yes... Sugānōri, I believe. Their names are quite peculiar. He was two months older than I. He always considered himself superior in swordplay. Even when we sparred in friendship, he looked upon me as if he intended to slay an enemy. My Guru, Kulakanandi, lived in constant fear of when his son might kill me. For that reason, he imparted more secret knowledge of the art to me than to his own son. Because of the superior skill I possessed, Sugānōri was never able to overcome me.
The people of that land are long-armed and exceedingly tall. They are naturally of a sturdy build—it is the nature of their race and their soil. In the streams amidst those palmyra groves, the water itself seemed to grind the stones. Their diet was rich in tubers and sweet, succulent fruits. Due to such sustenance, their bodies were hardened to an extreme degree. In this physical advantage, Sugānōri surpassed me. For that reason, he would spring upon me with ease. Yet, through the techniques Kulakanandi taught me, no matter how suddenly Sugānōri lunged, I could withstand it.
No matter how powerful the bodies of those people were, they lacked the mental agility found in the people of my land. The folk here are of a very sharp intellect. We are Cowherds (Gollavāṇḍru). In our country, our community is known for its simplicity and innocence. Yet, even the sharpness of a mind like mine was something Sugānōri did not possess. He would never speak with me as an equal. I stayed with Kulakanandi for four years. That I remained there so long must be attributed to the exceptional grace of Irāvatī.
She never once served a meal to Sugānōri and me at the same time. In those early days, a fresh sword-wound from Sugānōri would appear on my body every two or three days. A year and a half passed in this manner. Eventually, Irāvatī took pity on me. She thought, 'This boy is from a foreign land; he will surely perish at Sugānōri's hands.' In those regions, the death of a human being is of no consequence. If a man dies, they drag him away as if they were discarding a dead dog.
Furthermore, the social order of those villages was quite peculiar. If a foreigner was killed by anyone in a village, there was no inquiry. Such were those hamlets.
They were not like the villages of Bhārata-deśam[3]. Here, in every village, the elders act as rulers. No injustice is permitted to occur. Inquiry and punishment follow immediately! It was not so in those settlements. Anything could happen in a village, and no one would speak of it; no one cared.
Eventually, having heard some rumor, a royal soldier might arrive to investigate. The villagers would collect a sum of money from the whole community and give it to him. He would then go his way—truthfully, he would be in fear for his own life, wondering if he would make it out alive. The proceedings went like this: 'Some foreigner came here and they did something to him in that street, didn't they?' the soldier would ask. The villager would not utter a word. The soldier would then say, 'It seems he wasn't seen the next day, was he?' and laugh. The villager would also laugh. With that, the investigation was complete. Such was the character of those lands."
Gaṅgu continued:
"Under such circumstances, that I remained there for four years and returned alive—how sturdy must you imagine my life-force to be! It was not just Sugānōri in that village; all the youths there were of the same breed. What of the youths? Even the elders were the same. The only difference between the young and the old was this: the youths would provoke and lunged at you without cause, while the elders did not. In hardness, in cruelty, and in coarseness, they were both one and same.
A small incident remains in my memory. The moment I look at you, all those memories come rushing back. The name of Kulakanandi acts upon me like a magic incantation. I have never been known to speak more than ten words at a time. I spoke with someone yesterday morning, and today, I am speaking with you. What was the name of Kulakanandi's village? It is dancing on the tip of my tongue! Ah... yes! 'Vilāghara!' Even the names of those towns are like that.
When I had newly arrived in that village, my Guru used to send me on various errands. There was a particular street through which I had to walk whenever I went out or returned. The village itself was situated upon a hillock. One house would be in a depression, while another would sit atop a massive boulder. It was impossible even to call it a street. It was as if huts had been constructed here and there, yet it could hardly be termed a village.
In a low-lying spot on that street, there was a house. It was a stone-roofed structure—though instead of calling it a roof, one might say stones had merely been piled up. The house sat in a hollow at the back, while a great boulder stood before it. To keep the sun off that boulder, palm leaves were spread across two wooden poles. Upon that shaded rock, a fellow used to sit. He was younger than I. In that land, even before they reach fourteen years of age, men grow to the height of a palmyra tree. They grow exceptionally tall. Cruelty is an art they learn with their mother's milk.
That fellow would always cast a particular gaze at me. For as long as his eyes were fixed upon me, it felt as though scorpions were crawling over my skin. I never understood the reason for that unprovoked anger toward me. If I were to look at him as piercingly as he looked at me, who knows what rage would have seized him? And if I were to ask why he looked at me so, what could I say? If I asked, 'Why do you stare at me thus?', he would grab his sword and spring upon me. I knew that. I had gone there to master the art of the sword, not to perish at someone's hand. Those are truly strange lands."
Then Jayadratha asked, "One must cross two or three countries beyond Bhārata-deśam to reach atleast the Khāsa country. How did it happen that you went there?"
Gaṅgu replied, "Before I went to foreign lands, I had already mastered the art of the sword in my own country. I went there to learn their specialized techniques, not to learn the primary knowledge," and then he fell silent.
Jayadratha understood at once: Gaṅgu would speak endlessly about Kulakanandi, the village, and related matters, but he would not reveal anything else.
Jayadratha said, "You went there to learn their special techniques, did you not? Why then did it take four years?"
Gaṅgu: "During the first year, I learned nothing at all. I simply lived in their house. I had told them I came to learn the art from Kulakanandi. I stayed with them; for the first ten or twelve days, I ate elsewhere. Then, one day, Kulakanandi told his wife to provide food for me as well. A year passed. About once a month, a light skirmish would break out with Sugānōri. For many days, he would remain silent, but suddenly, one day, some inner heat would seize him, and he would lunge at me. I lived in a state of perpetual vigilance, my sword always ready. I would only parry his blows; I never allowed my blade to strike his.
"He actually did me a great service. Through him, I came to understand how the people of that land leap upon an opponent and the nature of the sword-strikes they have mastered through constant use. During my first two years in that village, I had at least ten such encounters with others as well. Once they realize you are an adept of the sword, they leave you be. After a year, everyone in the village knew I was a disciple of Kulakanandi, and subsequently, no one bothered me.
"Yet, this Sugānōri harbored a deep grudge against me. As I continued to parry every attack he made, his malice grew stronger. He eventually realized something: he sensed that I might come to know the unique, secret maneuvers of their land's sword-craft. Thinking on this, he would occasionally try one of those secret strikes on me. I would be wounded. His mother, Irāvatī, would see it and tell Kulakanandi. Then, he would explain the nature of that specific maneuver to me and teach me the method to counter it. My training for the remaining three years was essentially this. Finally, as I was departing, he taught me one specific maneuver. That was the only thing he taught me exceptionally; all the others were taught merely so I could survive his son's torment!"
Jayadratha smiled and asked, "That maneuver's name is 'Bagala[4],' is it not?"
Gaṅgu, who had been seated, stood up abruptly and shouted, "Who are you, sir? How do you know this? This is not a name known in Sindhu-deśam! How do you know that Kulakanandi taught me this? Who are you? How did you come here? By your age, you are but a youth! It seems impossible that you could have served under Kulakanandi. I do not even know if he is alive, and even if he is, he must be extremely aged. You have no business knowing this secret. This mystery is known to no one but me and Kulakanandi!"
Jayadratha replied with a calm smile, "Peace, there is no need for haste. I am not your enemy. Though there is a vast age difference between us, I, too, am a disciple of Kulakanandi. I served him for ten years. By then, he was already old. You served him when he was in his middle age. The Kulakanandi of that time was different from the one of ten years ago. Every evening, he would sit with me and recount all the old stories. Irāvatī would sit nearby and listen.
"His two sons—as I mentioned—were serving as officers in the army of King Mēru. Who was there to support them in their old age? For two years, I cared for them. I was the one who made their bread. They had two goats and three sheep; I was the one who milked them. They relied almost entirely on me. They would joke and jest with me. Kulakanandi would tell me all those stories of the old days. He would repeat the same story again and again, yet I never grew weary, no matter how many times I heard them. Occasionally, Irāvatī would say, 'How many times will you tell this same story!' But no matter the repetition, I always wished to listen. I would ask him to tell it again. Because of this, Kulakanandi held a great affection for me.
"Now and then, your name would come up. Everything you just told me, Irāvatī had already told me. But Gaṅgu! Regardless of how Kulakanandi felt about you, your words and deeds from eighty years ago were very dear to Irāvatī. Do you know why?"
Gaṅgu said he did not know. Jayadratha then spoke:
"O friend! Consider a great tiger. Its very nature is cruelty. If you were to bring it, place it in a cage, and tend to it—it knows nothing of love, of tenderness, of affection, or of a gentle nature. Yet, all these qualities become known to it anew as you care for it. Because of this, it looks upon you in a singular way. An affection for you takes root within it. The realization that there exists a quality called 'love,' that there is a sweetness in it—a trait that is not part of its inherent nature—is born within it. Its own soul begins to relish its existence more. This is why even cruel beasts do not harm their keepers. Why should it wait for the keeper to provide food when it is hungry? Its natural instinct, in a moment of ravenous hunger, is to pounce upon any visible animal and devour it. Thus, a transformation has occurred in its nature.
"This was one reason for Irāvatī's compassion toward you. To have an attachment to the children of one's own womb is an animal instinct. Her children were like tigers; once they left the breast, their wanderings in the wild were their own, and their hunt was their own. Even though they were human—and thus possessed a degree of fellowship, a bit of thought, and perhaps a touch more warmth—the cruel nature of the tiger remained rooted in the people of that land.
"But you belong to this land. You come from a civilized nation, born in a country where human nature has fully blossomed. You manifested the devotion of a son toward her, even though she was your Guru's wife. The love you showed her was something she never knew from her own children. The expression of love is like the fine, delicate threads within a lotus stalk. In one's thoughts and the subsequent deeds, it is something exquisitely tender, is it not?
"Her heart grew soft toward you because of that unique refinement of your filial devotion—revealed through small daily acts, flowing continuously, an affection as soft as a dirisena flower. That tenderness took root in her bosom. Even now, when she recalls that gentleness, she no longer appears as a woman of that land. Moreover, due to old age, that tenderness has ripened like a fruit, becoming even softer. Ten years ago, the mere mention of your name was enough; a wondrously serene expression would appear on her face. Kulakanandi would recount your stories, and she would remain silent—but one had to see her face then! Generally, in the faces of those people, gentle emotions do not manifest as clearly as anger does. When they age, their faces and bodies wither into wrinkles that are not pleasing to behold. Yet, Irāvatī's face would glow with a strange, divine tranquility whenever Kulakanandi told your tales."
These words made Gaṅgu feel as though he had been lifted up and seated in heaven. He was overwhelmed. For the first time, a warmth for Jayadratha—which had been absent—began to sprout within him. Previously, Gaṅgu's talkativeness about Kulakanandi was merely a habit, not a sign of kindness toward Jayadratha. Now, that kindness emerged.
Naturally, Gaṅgu harbored no love for foreigners or their ways. It was only by suppressing this aversion for the sake of mastering the sword that he had spent years in those foreign lands. Ever since, whenever the subject arose, he expressed his distaste for their customs and traditions. Even with Jayadratha, he had not hidden his dislike. Yet, in the depths of his heart, the warmth he felt for Kulakanandi had never dried up, and the early tenderness he held for Irāvatī had never faded. Though nearly ninety years had passed and his life had seen many upheavals, Kulakanandi and Irāvatī preserved the raw freshness of his youth. It is impossible to erase the impressions of beauty stamped upon the heart during childhood.
The changes in Gaṅgu's life were not small. That not one of his four sons remained with him was an unbearable sorrow. He knew not when death would arrive—death does not announce itself. Though he was physically robust, bodily strength has no relation to death. A persistent shadow of grief remained in his mind—that if death were to strike suddenly, there would be no one to offer him a few drops of sacred Tulasī water.[5]
He was not a man of royal courts or military ranks, yet he had heard of their turmoils and treacheries from many. When one is a master of an art, that profound gravity (prauḍhi) naturally spreads to other aspects of life. The maturity of Gaṅgu's mind was of such a kind.
It was because of the rigidity of that maturity that Gaṅgu remained silent and kept to himself. But now, through his words, Jayadratha had caused the dormant tenderness of his youth to bloom. Even in lives hardened by age, where warmth has evaporated and the purpose of life is shrouded in doubt, memories of childhood can still cause a unique, delicate vein of emotion to surface. This feeling manifested in Gaṅgu's stern features. A trace of his childhood self began to shine through his face, lending it a rare beauty. His countenance blossomed with a newfound softness.
Jayadratha was a formidable strategist—a man who could "count the entrails as one yawns." Having thus dampened and softened Gaṅgu's heart, he waited for it to soak. Before planting the seed he intended to sow, he sought to ensure that the very soil of the man's soul was tilled and made tender by the waters he had poured.
He spoke again: "O Gaṅgu! I know you possess such love for Irāvatī and Kulakanandi. How do I know? Irāvatī herself told me. She used to say, 'He is my eldest child.' Once or twice, Kulakanandi and Sugānōri even said—'How many years has it been! This is the nature of women. Could he possibly still remember her?'—but she, because of the excess of her love for you, never gave any value to those words. I developed a great affection for you. Just as you were her beloved child in the early days, I was the beloved one in the later days. Because of that, I often felt I should see you. But where is the Khāsa-deśam and where is the Āndhra-deśam? I did not think I would come here. But Kulakanandi created a necessity that compelled me to come. As people grow old, certain stubbornness increases. They develop a greater conviction in certain rituals, traditions, and rules.
"In youth, the world of experience within life evolves gradually; the mind is engaged in those specific experiences and is occupied by the desire for enjoyment. When that experience becomes excessive and the ups and downs of life reach the stage of deep feeling—when the outward orientation is withdrawn and the freshness of the physical experience of life fades—the soul's mind becomes fixed upon tradition. Without the being even knowing it, the signs of approaching death appear to the intellect. That intellect gets firmly caught in certain customs and beliefs and finds delight there. This delight occurs only in matters familiar to it.
"Suppose a man is a scholar in Grammar (Vyākaraṇa). A great scholar. It is a mere branch of knowledge. By learning that science, one knows the correctness of words and the beauty of their usage. By itself, it is not a knowledge that leads one to God. Yet, the fact that he is a master of that craft in his old age makes him stubborn about certain characteristics of that knowledge. He settles himself firmly within that breath; it becomes the mainstay of his life. In that manner, in his final days, Kulakanandi sat with a stubbornness regarding one or two matters. A great obsession arose in Kulakanandi for one or two of the arts he possessed. Kulakanandi taught those arts to only three people (originally). Those arts have a tradition, a custom, a method of worship, and a specific way of practice. Kulakanandi's mind was absorbed in them. After reaching old age, he taught those arts to three more people. I am one of them. He taught them to us only after taking certain promises and making us swear oaths.
"While teaching us, he remembered the three who had learned from him previously. Whenever he remembered, he would become deeply anxious that he had not taken promises or oaths from the (original) three of you. He discussed this with me many times. One day, I said, 'I shall go to them, convey your wish, and make them honor your desire.'
"At first, he did not give much importance to my words, but because I kept saying this many times, he eventually said: 'O friend! How is that possible for you? One of those three is in the Ćēdi-deśam. If one goes there, perhaps he can be found. But the other two are not in these regions. One is in the Vaṅga-deśam and the other is in the Āndhra-deśam. Merely searching for them is difficult. Even if you go searching, they might not be there but somewhere else. You would have to just keep wandering in search of them. It is not an easy task. Moreover, after so many years, will they give such importance to my word? Theirs is not our country; theirs are not our customs. I taught them those arts only because of the greatness of the service (śuśrūṣā) they performed for me; otherwise, I would not have taught them.
"'Furthermore, the one in the Āndhra-deśam is a quintessential Bhāratīya[6]. He is an authority on the Vedic religion. Even when I was initiating him into that art, he hesitated to accept it. He had no faith in it. To go to such a man after all this time and make him take such an oath is no simple matter.' He said this two or three times.
I told him there was no fear. 'The respect due to a branch of knowledge belongs to that knowledge itself. Whether the art is good or bad, traditional or not—art is art. Moreover, Indians[7] are slaves to tradition. You say he is a cowherd. Among the Indian communities, as far as I know, the devotion to tradition is greater among the lower varnas[8] than among the higher varnas. The higher varnas read the scriptures, become accustomed to logic, and form their own independent thoughts. The lower varnas, not being experts in scriptural debate, understand things in their broad essence and remain bound by deep devotion to them.
"'That he is a cowherd is even better. One who raises cows, drinks cow's milk, and allows the air from the cows to flow over him daily will not have a wavering mind. That is a quality found in cows. He would kiss the cows, call them "Mother," and give them names. In India, they do not consider a difference between a cow and a human. They think of the calves as children of their own home. The softness of their hearts is of a different kind. They stroke the dewlaps of the cows, kiss them, and embrace their necks. They constantly attend to their backs, tails, feet, and hooves. Their sense of tradition is profound. If they hold an intense conviction, that intensity naturally manifests in other matters as well. I will go and meet them. I will tell them your wish. I will ensure they take the oaths without fail.'
"When I said this, Kulakanandi was pleased but said, 'But this task will take many years. For you to go to these three countries, find them, convince them, and return home—your job, your life, your country, your wife and children—none of these will fit together.'"
Jayadratha continued: "I laughed and said: 'O Kulakanandi! I possess an intense stubbornness within me. I will do whatever work you ask, for your sake and for Irāvatī's. It may take ten years to meet those three and secure these oaths, but I shall do it. Until then, I shall not marry. I shall travel through many countries. Learning the customs of various peoples and understanding the conditions of those countries is a branch of knowledge in itself. I was born somewhere in the Sindhu country; did I not travel this far for the science of the sword? Why look only at me? That Gaṅgu came to you from somewhere in the southern country, did he not?
'Most men born into this world learn only the arts of the place where they were born and spend their entire lives there. But some are not like that. Though their number may be small, they are not satisfied with learning only the local arts, nor are they content with the wealth Providence has bestowed upon them. They travel to all countries. They master all sciences. They strive to acquire immense wealth. They go to foreign lands, enter the service of foreign kings, and earn fame there. They settle there. After four or five generations, their descendants might say, "Our ancestors were not from here; we belong to that other country." Yet, all their loyalties and affections belong to this new country. They merge into this foreign race. Such is their nature.'
"Having made this promise to Kulakanandi, I traveled to Ćēdi-deśam and Vaṅga-deśam, secured the oaths from those two, and have come here. Only you remain.
"The disciple in Ćēdi-deśam is named Śatāri; I met him quite easily. The one in Vaṅga-deśam is named Nirañjana; finding him wore my very bones to exhaustion. Finding you was not that difficult. It is nothing more than this: Kulakanandi taught you the art of Kālañjari, did he not? That art must not die with you. You must teach it to someone else before you pass away. You must protect that tradition so it does not perish. It was Kulakanandi's vision that this science should continue as an uninterrupted tradition until the end of time. With its ritual process, its strict adherence to customs, its secrets of application, and its intended results—it must be taught to someone. It should not be lost for lack of teaching. This is Kulakanandi's stubborn wish. This is his faith. That is all."
Gaṅgu immediately remembered Niraṅkuśa. This art could be taught to him; the boy seemed determined to master it. By doing so, he would fulfill his childhood teacher's wish. Moreover, no danger would come of it. He wondered if Jayadratha had taken all this trouble just for such a small matter. Though there was a difference in their ages, Jayadratha was his fellow-disciple (satīrthyuḍu). When a way to repay the debt to one's Guru appeared so easily, why refuse it?
He said to Jayadratha: "A certain member of a royal family is an officer at Toṟṟupaṭṭu[9] in a nearby country. He has been pestering me to teach him something. I shall teach it to him. You need not have come such a great distance for this. Had you sent word even through a crow, I would have done this task."
Jayadratha laughed and said, "I am that very crow."
[1] Teacher, but more accurately used for spiritual teacher or teacher who you are devoted
[2] A marking (Tilak/Bottu) of Vaishnava Sect (related to Vishnu) - Three vertical Marks ( somewhere similar to - \|/ )
[3] Countries in Indian Subcontinent.
[4] no, it does seem to refer not Goddess Bagalamukhi, here it's a secret maneuver
[5] A practise done at the ending moments of ones life, believing that pouring tulasi neeru(water) into dying man will help them pass through hells and ascend heaven without much difficulty. ~vihu
[6] Indian
[7] I'm hesistating to use this word, because this is around 5000+ years ago and the countries mentioned - some are within today what we call india and some are outside that, *sigh
[8] varnais not equal to caste, their meanings differ greatly even though they are used same these days, but no, there are only 4 varnas not like some 1000's today. so using caste won't be appropriate
[9] Pastoral Estate