Foreigners would occasionally visit Gaṅgu's house and stay for two or three days before departing. However, a royal official had never stepped foot in his home. Niraṅkuśa was a well-known figure in the surrounding areas. In those times, the superintendent of a Toṟṟupaṭṭu (pastoral estate) was considered a man of great importance. It was an eminent position because such posts were granted only to those of royal lineage. One might be a general, a minister, or an accountant, but to be the head of a Toṟṟupaṭṭu required a close kinship to the King. A Toṟṟupaṭṭu, after all, was the abode of the great herds!
In those days, cows were synonymous with wealth. A King's primary prosperity was measured by the size of the herds he possessed. In matters of trade and commerce, if the price of an object was asked, the answer was often "two cows" or "three cows." Thus, the superintendent of a Toṟṟupaṭṭu was effectively the Chief Treasurer.
Gold and silver did exist, but they were not minted into coins. These metals were exchanged primarily based on weight. However, most transactions were conducted through barter—goods for goods. Beyond simple exchange, cow-wealth governed all major dealings. The observation and protection of cattle were regarded as a "Mahāvidyā[1]" in that era. Consider this: nearly a hundred or a hundred and fifty years prior, the Pāṇḍavas[2]lived. Among them, Sahadeva—a prince, a brother to the Great King, and a mighty warrior—was an expert in the science of cattle protection. This serves as a testament to the importance of the role.
Niraṅkuśa was a high-ranking official. Though he had first visited Gaṅgu's house at the break of dawn, many had witnessed his arrival. In the society of that time, all people woke before sunrise to perform their ablutions and baths—a primary reason for their long life expectancy.
Four days later, Niraṅkuśa visited Gaṅgu's house again. Many saw him. The visit of such a prominent official to a commoner's house was a matter of great local gossip. While everyone knew Gaṅgu was a man of great knowledge, Niraṅkuśa's presence seemed to add a new luster to his reputation.
That morning, ten village elders came for an audience with Niraṅkuśa. Word spread through the small village in an instant. Meeting Niraṅkuśa at Gaṅgu's house, they offered their salutations and submitted: "Because our Gaṅgu resides in this village, Lords and rulers like you have graced our hamlet with your footsteps. Our soil is sanctified; our village is blessed." Niraṅkuśa, accustomed to such strings of celebratory praise, received them with grace.
On the previous occasion, Niraṅkuśa had come to speak with Gaṅgu, and though Gaṅgu had initially refused, Niraṅkuśa had lured him away by describing the splendor of his Toṟṟupaṭṭu. Now, Niraṅkuśa had returned. No one knew what they discussed. It was not right for Gaṅgu to play hard-to-get or make the official plead in front of the village elders. Niraṅkuśa could be angry; as a royal official, he could arrest Gaṅgu without cause. When under the foot of royal authority, a person's individual virtues are often disregarded. Therefore, Gaṅgu took his sword and shield in hand and set out with Niraṅkuśa.
The village elders followed them to the edge of the village before turning back. They remarked among themselves, "Gaṅgu and the royal official must be very close friends. How else would Niraṅkuśa walk all the way to Gaṅgu's hut? He came, and Gaṅgu followed him without a second word. They must be practicing sword-craft together! We knew Gaṅgu was skilled—having traveled abroad to learn and then teaching his sons and others—but we did not realize he was this significant." From that day on, the respect Gaṅgu commanded in the village doubled and tripled.
As Gaṅgu and Niraṅkuśa walked halfway down the path, Gaṅgu began: "Since those days, I haven't practiced this sword-craft properly. Every morning, I swing the blade a bit and cut some trees. What else can I do? I am unlettered. My wife looks after our small plot of land. Out of respect for me, the neighbors help plow it and sow the seeds. We are just two souls to feed; whatever we eat or drink is enough. This practice is my only recreation; it has become a habit. It has been four years since my third son left for royal service. We two sit in the house, feeling lonely and anxious. How does the dawn break? How does the sun set? How does the day pass, or the night? My wife spends her day working in the fields. She returns at night, boils some food for me, and falls asleep snoring. But for me, if I don't move my body this way and that, I cannot sleep. My food does not digest. Thus, I must practice.
"Out of the sorrow of my sons leaving me, I remained idle for a year or two. In those two years, I had no appetite and no sleep. Realizing this was not the way, I resumed my practice. Not once have I gone into the fields or bent my back in labor there. What could I even do there? My routine is to practice the sword until I am drenched in sweat, bathe for an hour, wait for the meal she provides, sleep for a while after eating, and at night—if sleep eludes me—I lie down and recite the few ślokas I know until I drift off.
"Sir! In truth, Lord Śrī Rāma saved my son. Otherwise, what would have become of him? What would have become of my life? I would have killed my own son with my own hands. What a lapse in judgment that was! Does one test a mantra on their own son to see if it is powerful? In the end, the merit of my past lives came to my aid. I made my son chant the name of Rāma, and that protected him. These vile arts are not truly all-powerful. Moreover, they are only fit to be used against enemies. Such arts do not exist in our land. Only a few insignificant, minor arts exist among the lower varṇas, and their origins are impossible to trace. Why are they so prevalent in those Mleccha lands? And here, why do they exist only among those of the lower varṇas? This is a matter for contemplation. How do these disciplines even take birth? Where do mantras originate? Every science has a tradition, a lineage [3]of gurus, and a method of application. Even if the arts themselves are vile, they all carry this same elaborate structure."
By then, the two of them had reached Niraṅkuśa's mansion. It took some time for Niraṅkuśa to go inside and don his combat attire. News of the duel they had fought four days prior had spread by word of mouth among many cowherds. Some of them had gathered, eager to witness the match. This presented a minor problem once more. Just as Gaṅgu had been forced to leave at dawn without a word, Niraṅkuśa now found himself compelled to engage in a sword-fight with Gaṅgu under the watchful eyes of others.
The sun had risen high. Eventually, Gaṅgu departed.
For Niraṅkuśa, that day's meeting proved futile. He found it impossible to ask when Gaṅgu would return. Niraṅkuśa knew that Gaṅgu would not come back of his own accord, and there was no point in asking. He could not bring himself to say, "I will come again tomorrow or the day after." To say so would damage his dignity. If his subjects saw him visiting Gaṅgu's house repeatedly, they would look down upon him. They would think Gaṅgu was a greater master of the sword and that Niraṅkuśa was merely a student under him. In that entire region, there were only two great masters of the sword: Vijayasiṃha and himself! They were equals. The people believed—and he himself believed—that there was no swordsman in all of creation as skilled as he. Occasionally, he would even claim to be an incarnation of Nakula[4], and some echoed this sentiment. Anything that contradicted this would be a blow to his prestige.
Niraṅkuśa was at a loss as to how to meet Gaṅgu again. If he went to his house at dawn another day, people would gather there. If they met here, the cowherds would swarm. There was no possibility for secrecy in either place. And why should Gaṅgu care? Why would he feel the need to come?
Two months passed in this state of deliberation. An intensity grew within Niraṅkuśa's heart. Regardless of other skills, he felt he must learn that specific strike—the one presided over by the deity of the well. Gaṅgu had said that noble Kṣatriyas should not learn it. "What is the harm in learning it?" he thought. While one layer of his mind admitted that using it might be wrong, another layer harbored a secret desire to employ it. Faint thoughts of whom he should use it against and why flickered through his mind.
He recalled that the mantra required a puraścaraṇa[5](preparatory rite), but he did not know its rules. If he sent an official command for Gaṅgu to appear, the old man might feel insulted and refuse to reveal the secret. He would come because he had to, but he would remain silent.
He could see no solution to this dilemma.
That day was Śuklāṣṭamī (the eighth day of the bright fortnight). The moon would set during the third watch of the night, leaving about an hour and a half of darkness before dawn. He considered rising alone in that darkness and going to Gaṅgu. But the old man would be in a deep sleep. If he called out, the neighbors would hear. If he arrived in the middle of the night, what would Gaṅgu's wife think? It would only stir needless suspicions in her heart. And what would Gaṅgu think of him? He feared he would appear small-minded and lose his standing in the old man's eyes.
The Aṣṭamī (eighth day) passed, then the ninth. The eleventh day (Ekādaśī) arrived. Every Ekādaśī, a Brahmin from a village four krośas away would visit Niraṅkuśa to recite the monthly almanac (Pañcāṅgam). On that day, he arrived and shared various details, concluding with, "On the upcoming full moon day, there will be a lunar eclipse."
He continued, "Lord! During an eclipse, bathing and receiving a mantra initiation, or performing a mantra-Puraścaraṇa (preparatory rite), is immensely fruitful.
In our land, until a hundred years ago, there existed great celestial weapons (Mahāstras) like the Āgneyāstra. All Kṣatriyas used to worship them and employ them against their enemies in battle. After the Mahābhārata war, those mantras all receded. Only the skill of physical weapons (Śastravidyā) remained in the country, while the science of celestial missiles (Astravidyā) vanished. Even though a hundred or a hundred and fifty years have passed since the Mahābhārata war, the land has not yet recovered. Pauranikas say that no war of such magnitude has occurred since the battle between Rāmaand Rāvaṇa. A great war is like the arrival of a cataclysm (Pralaya)! The Bhārata war happened at the end of the Dvāpara Yuga. The four eras—Kṛta, Tretā, Dvāpara, and Kali—together make a Mahāyuga, do they not? At the end of each era, a great cataclysm occurs. The Pralaya at the end of Tretā was the Rāma-Rāvaṇa war. At the end of Dvāpara, it was the Kuru-Pāṇḍava war. At the end of Kṛta, it was the war between the Devas and Asuras."
"In that Kuru-Pāṇḍava war, eighteen Akṣauhiṇīs[6]of the army were destroyed. Imagine how many people, horses, elephants, and how much wealth was lost! How many objects, how much prosperity? Soldiers from every land went to that war! We do not know how many of our Āndhras perished. Only a few returned. There is a very old man in my village who tells stories of those days; people listen with rapt attention. You are a noble Kṣatriya. If you have a great mantra, performing its rite on that day will make it potent." After saying this, the Brahmin took the cow's milk, rice, and vegetables offered by Niraṅkuśa and departed.
That evening, the sun set and the moonlight emerged. In the twilight, the "ambā" lowing of the calves sounded incredibly sweet. It was time for Niraṅkuśa to eat, but his mind was unsettled; he felt no hunger. His cook waited, appearing once or twice at the door. He could not explicitly say, "The food is ready, come eat." He simply stood at the entrance and looked at Niraṅkuśa, his silent gesture signifying the meal was prepared. Niraṅkuśa was consumed by a single worry. The eclipse was in four days. He needed to receive the mantra initiation by then. When he had asked as the Brahmin was leaving, he was told the eclipse would occur during the third watch of the night—a total eclipse. At that time, everything would be pitch black. Either Gaṅgu had to come to his house that night, or he had to go to Gaṅgu's. How would it happen?
Niraṅkuśa realized he had to set aside his royal pride. He had to abandon his hesitation about what others might think. Then, a thought struck him. Observing the behavior, smiles, and glances of the people in the village and his own subjects, it was clear they already perceived him and Gaṅgu as friends. If he went to Gaṅgu's house, it would only confirm this existing perception of friendship in their hearts. There was no loss in it.
On the twelfth day (Dvādaśī), at twilight, he took a royal guard with him and went to Gaṅgu's hamlet. Gaṅgu was stunned to see Niraṅkuśa. This was no secret arrival; it was public. A thought occurred to Gaṅgu: "This is an auspicious time for the initiation of the Kālañjarī mantra." It felt like a divine direction from a guru.
Yet, Gaṅgu's mind was torn. "Should I initiate a pure Kṣatriya into this Mleccha mantra? Such mantras might spread among the lower varṇas, but for them to take root among the higher varṇas is a sign of the onset of the Kali Yuga. Why the necessity to tell him this mantra? For the past four years, no one has come to me to learn sword-craft. When I stopped for two years, students stopped coming. Perhaps someone will come as a disciple later; I could teach them, and they might join the army and use it on others in common battle. But this is different!"
"Why is he showing such persistence in learning this? Does he have a powerful enemy? He is a great master of the sword; I realized this after practicing with him twice. The second time, his display of skill was even more fierce than the first. I had to defend quite strenuously against his strikes. There must be another warrior like him—equally skilled—and he too must undoubtedly be of royal lineage. If Niraṅkuśa kills that royal warrior using this base technique, what sin will fall upon me? But wait—if the opponent is also of royal lineage, he need not succumb to such Mleccha mantras. He would have received the sacred thread ceremony (Upanayana) and would be a practitioner of Vedic mantras. My son is a Śūdra[7]; I only made him chant the name of Rāma, and yet this base mantra could not stand before it. This will not hold for even a moment against those who are devoted to mantra-worship in the Vedic path."
But the technique he had tested on his son was Bagalā, not Kālañjarī. It was Kulakanandi's command to initiate someone else into this Kālañjarī.
Gaṅgu had not simply listened in silence when Jayadratha spoke; he hadn't even refrained from saying "so be it" with his own lips. That Jayadratha was a fierce man. He had made Gaṅgu place his hand upon the blade of a sword and swear an oath in the name of the Guru. Was Kālañjarī a more terrifying art than Bagalā?
Gaṅgu had never truly contemplated which power resided in which of those arts. He had learned them, returned, and never bothered with them again. He had never taught these arts to any of his disciples, nor even to his sons. Why, then, had he brought up the subject of Bagalā with this Niraṅkuśa? He had seen the man's proficiency in sword-craft. How could proficiency go beyond that? That very art could appear superior through greater physical agility, sudden leaps, and skill in limb movement. Under Niraṅkuśa's persistent urging to "tell me something, tell me something," Gaṅgu had mentioned it out of his hatred for the Mleccha races and his disregard for their arts. Now, it had come back to haunt him. And why had Jayadratha arrived at this very moment? Why did this command manifest now? Was everything Jayadratha said true? He was undoubtedly a disciple of Kulakanandi. That Kulakanandi gave the command was also true. To prove it, he had brought a piece of the old cloth that Irāvati used to wear around her waist and showed it as a token. Looking at it, it felt as if he were seeing her.
How much of Irāvati's imprint remained upon him? It seemed his affection for her was even greater than for his own mother! True, during those four years in that land, he could have died any day. He was alive only because of her love for him. This matter weighed heavily upon his heart. He felt love for Irāvati, but not for Kulakanandi. Though he had learned some techniques from him due to the pressure of circumstances and Irāvati's insistence, he hadn't learned them with a willing heart. Why should he fulfill his command? Yet, Irāvati too had said this command must be fulfilled; she had even sent a piece of her garment. He was a man of the sword. To place one's hand on the blade, swear an oath, and then fail to fulfill it was a disgrace to the art of the sword.
Why should he reveal this technique to this man specifically? It seemed the fulfillment of the oath would not happen unless he explained all the circumstances to him. One thing occurred to him now—a memory that hadn't surfaced when he took the oath. Kulakanandi had told him that shortly after initiating another into the Kālañjarī art, some calamity would befall the initiator. That word resonated strangely now. It was a matter of nearly a hundred years ago. Why was it surfacing now? Everything felt bizarre. Kulakanandi had initiated him; what calamity had befallen him? Jayadratha said he had quarreled with Sugānori's father and left. Was that the calamity? His own sons had left him without a quarrel. Such a calamity could not happen to him. They said a calamity would come, but the nature of it was never defined. Who can know the form of a disaster before it arrives?
For half a gaḍiya[8], Gaṅgu stood stunned, staring blankly at Niraṅkuśa, lost in thought. Finally, Niraṅkuśa said, "O Gaṅgu! I must speak with you. We two must go somewhere in private. Do you have any work, or can you come? Is there any objection to your coming?" Emerging from his daze, Gaṅgu's mind lacked the space to think and reply properly. "I have no objection. If it is your command, I am coming," he said, and set out exactly as he stood.
By then, the moonlight had appeared. In the eastern sky, the moon, which had looked like a faint sliver through the haze, cast fine silver grains as the light clouds drifted away. The moonlight glows, the heat radiates, and the winds blow—these are common traits of creation. They continue to glow and blow perpetually. When our mind is not upon them, the sparkle in their radiance or the rhythm of their blowing does not register. But as they glow and blow, our attention occasionally focuses on a specific moment in time. Then, their beauty is different. If the moment our attention is focused coincides with the instant the clouds clear, its charm touches the depths of the heart. Niraṅkuśa experienced such a moment of liberation then.
Niraṅkuśa told the guard who had accompanied him that he would return late and not to wait for him, then sent him away. The guard offered the sword in his hand to Niraṅkuśa. Niraṅkuśa said the sword was not needed. Gaṅgu interjected, "No, no. A sword might be necessary. Who knows what might cross our path when returning home at midnight? It is better to have the sword close." Niraṅkuśa laughed, "I am taking you to a place from which you must return alone. You don't have a sword, do you?" Gaṅgu replied, "I am not a man of the court, nor of royal lineage. What does it matter what happens to my life? Regardless, I shall carry your sword in place of the guard," and taking the sword from the guard, he walked behind Niraṅkuśa. Niraṅkuśa insisted two or three times that he give him the sword, but Gaṅgu did not yield it.
Less than a krośa away, there was a large lake. It was not a dug-out tank; rather, it was formed by damming a natural flow of water to facilitate cultivation below it. Four or five hamlets existed within the reach of its irrigation. In the upper reaches of this lake, where the water entered as a stream, there were generally no villages. It was all wilderness. Streams had cut deep gullies into the earth. Niraṅkuśa led Gaṅgu there. It wasn't a deep forest, but it wasn't a clearing either. Anthills had grown here and there, alongside small thickets and patches of dried sedge. It was the summer season—since it wasn't the monsoon, although the nights cooled down, the daytime sun had dried the grass, making it prick the feet. Niraṅkuśa, wearing sandals, felt no such pain. But Gaṅgu, who had set out just as he was from his doorstep, felt that discomfort. He was not one to move much from his house. For someone who roamed the fields, these things would not matter. For a swordsman, the tight-fitting shoes worn during combat are part of the warrior's attire. That specific time and ordinary times are unrelated. However, those grass thorns were gradually softening as they cooled.
For a long distance, the two walked in total silence. Finding a level spot that seemed soft enough to sit, Niraṅkuśa asked, "Shall we sit here?" and sat down. Gaṅgu remained standing. Niraṅkuśa insisted. Fearing that the official might actually get up and force him to sit, Gaṅgu finally relented. When they were dueling or discussing sword-craft, Gaṅgu did not feel the weight of the man's royal lineage. They had met twice, fought twice; in those moments, they were simply two swordsmen. But here, the situation was different. Niraṅkuśa began to appear to him as a powerful royal authority. Gaṅgu felt he must adopt a posture of humility—though it wasn't a choice; humility naturally surged from his heart. Even sitting, he felt as if he were sitting on thorns.
Niraṅkuśa said, "You spoke of that 'deity-of-the-well' art. I wish to hear of it. That is why I brought you here." As soon as he said this, Gaṅgu's power of thought faltered. This manner of meeting—coming to a secluded spot, sitting, and conversing—was entirely outside his experience. Leisurely strolls were for the wealthy and the powerful. To Gaṅgu, the idea of two friends walking far from the village just to chat was alien. He felt that the sooner he returned home, the sooner his soul would feel at ease.
He replied, "Sir! Do you merely wish to hear of it, or do you wish to learn it? If it is to learn, there is a science even greater than the one I first mentioned. That first one was minor. I told you how it became useless just because my son chanted the name of Rāma. But if you are intent on learning, I will teach you another. I have not tested its power myself, but I have a firm conviction that it is superior to the first. My Guru commanded me: 'You must pass this on to another; the lineage must not be broken.' Because of this command, I believe it to be immensely powerful. I will teach it to you, but its initiation requires the time of an eclipse."
Niraṅkuśa replied, "Today is Dvādaśī. There is tomorrow and the day after, then the Full Moon. On that night, there is a lunar eclipse. It will begin in the third watch (jāmu). A total eclipse. Teach it to me then!"
A spark flared in Gaṅgu's mind, followed by a sharp pang of dread. Stunned, he said, "Yes, my Lord. Three nights before that eclipse, at the second watch of the night, one must bathe and take a vow of initiation (dīkṣā). For those three days, one must live by strict discipline. The mantra must be received during the eclipse."
Niraṅkuśa declared, "Very well! Let us stay here until the second watch tonight. There is water in the lake nearby; I shall bathe. Tell me the rules, and I shall observe them for these three days. On the night of the Full Moon, I shall come here at the second watch. You come as well. After we arrive, the eclipse will take hold. At that moment, you shall give me the mantra."
Gaṅgu's mind was torn in two. The words were at the tip of his tongue: "This is a vile art! It is unworthy of a noble Kṣatriya! Who knows what calamities it will bring!" But the words would not come out. Instead, his mind drifted back ninety years...
Back then, he had refused the art, but Kulakanandi had forced him. "If you do not learn this, you cannot survive in this land," the Guru had said. "No one can stand against one who knows this. Once it is known that I taught you this, no one will dare look you in the eye." His experience had confirmed it. In that mountain country, far from Kulakanandi's village, there was a well by a cliff. That night, Kulakanandi had made him bathe there. He sat him down and gave him certain words to chant for three days.
"You must not follow me," the Guru had said. "Wait for one watch after I leave, then return home. If you make it home, you are alive. Then, for the next three days, there is no fear. On that night, I will teach the mantra, and then the sword-turns, the techniques, and the footwork (pāda-caṅkramaṇa)."
Gaṅgu had bathed. The Guru gave him a four-syllable word and disappeared. Gaṅgu sat there for a watch, chanting. By the time he prepared to leave, the moon was setting. He set out in his wet clothes. In that land, the nights were as piercingly cold as the days were burning hot. Their clothes had a hundred folds—excellent for warding off the sun, but stifling and heavy at night. When wet, they felt like ice.
The memory of the agony he endured that night in those wet clothes flooded back. He had returned home, sword in hand. It was not a land of bears or lions, but snakes were everywhere. Though the path was familiar, it felt alien. On the way there, there were no anthills; on the way back, the path was covered in them. Snakes swayed their hoods from the mounds, lunging at him. He sliced them through the center of their hoods with his blade. Then came leopards and bears—or so it seemed—and he slew them too. He did not know where they came from. He intended to check for their carcasses the next day, but for the following two days, he could not move. He had to sit inside, eschewing food and sleep, chanting those syllables. On the third night, he and Kulakanandi returned to the spot. There were no carcasses of snakes, leopards, or bears. Perhaps vultures ate them? Perhaps jackals dragged them away? He never asked.
Now, looking at the man before him, Gaṅgu thought: "This man is a master of the sword. He can slice hooded cobras between their fangs. He can slay leopards and bears."
Gaṅgu told Niraṅkuśa to go and bathe. When the official returned, Gaṅgu whispered the four syllables to him and explained all the rules. "I am leaving now," Gaṅgu said. "You must return home in these wet clothes only after the moon has set. For three days, you must forgo sleep and food, constantly reciting those syllables. On the night of the Full Moon, I will meet you here at the second watch. As you walk home tonight in the darkness, you must keep all your skill in sword-craft sharp in your mind."
Translation by Vishal Royal
[1] (Great Science or knowledge)
[2] 5 brothers- one of main characters in mahabharata
[3] i.e., parampara
[4] one of 5 pandavas
[5] The purascharana i did for my mantra involved 5 steps - 1) 100 thosandtimes of chanting, 2) 10,000 times of homam (fire sacrifice) 3)1000 times marjanam 4)100 times tarpanam 5) distributing food for 10 people(annasamaaraadana)----------But for some mantras it will be different
[6] Akṣauhiṇīs - one Akṣauhiṇī consisting of 21,870 chariots (Sanskrit ratha); 21,870 elephants (Sanskrit gaja); 65,610 horses (Sanskrit turaga) and 109,350 infantry (Sanskrit pada sainyam).----------------------------------The ratio is 1 chariot: 1 elephant: 3 cavalry: 5 infantry soldiers. In each of these large number groups (65,610, etc.), the digits add up to 18. -------------------------------------------It is mentioned in the Mahabharata that in the Kurukshetra War the Pandava army consisted of seven akshauhinis (1,530,900 warriors), and the Kaurava army had eleven akshauhinis (2,405,700 warriors).
[7] 4th varna of 4 varnas
[8] maybe an hour