The Seduction of Shiva: Tales of Life and Love (2 page)

Amrit gives immortality to anyone who drinks it. Desirous of obtaining this divine nectar, the gods and the demons churned the ocean in times bygone. The mountain Mandara was their churning rod, and the serpent Vasuki the strong cord for turning it.

After a long churning, during which the ocean yielded many treasures, at last, an extraordinary personage appeared from its frothing billows. He had long muscular arms, a throat contoured like a conch shell, and eyes tinged with red. He wore a garland and jewelled earrings, gleaming ornaments on every limb and a yellow garment on his dark and handsome body. Broad-chested and with wavy glistening hair, he looked in his
unparalleled beauty like a young lion. This was none other than Dhanvantari, the expounder of the Ayurveda.
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In his hands was the pitcher filled with amrit.

The demons had been waiting for this moment. At once they seized the pitcher of amrit from Dhanvantari’s hands. The gods were dismayed and sought refuge with Sri Hari
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who is a wish-fulfilling tree for his devotees. ‘Gods,’ he said to them, ‘do not be distressed. I will help you and sow dissension among the demons with my power of illusion.’

Then, as the demons fought among themselves for the nectar, the all-wise Hari assumed the form of a young woman, marvellous beyond all description. This was Mohini, the enchantress. Her complexion was the colour of a blue lotus flower and all her limbs were exquisite. Rings glittered in her perfectly matched ears, set on either side of a lovely face with charming temples and a chiselled nose. Above a slender waist, her bosom seemed to be bursting with youth and
her eyes flashed at the bees which were drawn to the fragrance of her breath. Her long hair was braided with a garland of jasmine buds. She wore ornaments at her throat and wrists, and a girdle over her gleaming garments, with anklets tinkling softly on her feet. Her coy smile, arched eyebrows and sensuous gaze aroused waves of desire in the hearts of the demon generals.

The rest of the story is well known. The demons were infatuated by Mohini. They ceased quarrelling amongst themselves for the pitcher of amrit, and asked her to distribute its contents between them. She told them she could not be trusted, but they insisted and agreed to abide by all her conditions, even if they were improper.

Mohini made the demons and the gods sit in separate rows facing each other. Passing in between, she distracted the demons with her gait and glances even as she distributed the nectar only to the gods before disappearing from the scene.

The great god Shiva
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heard that Sri Hari had assumed the form of Mohini to bewitch the demons and enable the gods to drink the amrit. He then got up on his bull and proceeded, along with his consort Sati and a flock of attendants, to Hari’s abode.

Sri Hari welcomed Shiva with great affection. ‘Lord,’ Shiva said with a smile, ‘you have assumed numerous incarnations and I have seen them all. Now I wish to see this feminine form you adopted which enchanted the demons and allowed the gods to quaff that ambrosia. We have all come to see that form, for our hearts are filled with curiosity.’

‘O Shiva,’ replied Sri Hari, ‘the bowl of amrit had come into the demons’ hands at that time. It was only to distract them with a new wonder and to help the gods that I assumed the form of a woman. Since you too wish to see it, I will show it to you; but it is sought only by pleasure-loving people, for it excites sexual desire.’

Even as he spoke, Sri Hari disappeared. As
Shiva sat with the lady Sati, looking in every direction, he saw before him a beautiful garden with all kinds of trees laden with flowers of many colours and tender leaf buds. In that grove he beheld a beautiful young woman playing with a ball.

The woman wore a pretty sari with a tasselled girdle around her hips. Her breasts and the garlands upon them trembled as she threw the ball and leapt to catch it. Her slender waist swayed and it almost seemed that it may snap with each dancing step under the weight of her bosom. Her large eyes flashed with just the hint of an expectant look. The gleam of her earrings cast a glow on her cheeks, which were swept by dark curling tresses, making her face bloom all the more. And every time her sari tended to loosen or her braided hair to unravel, she would manage them daintily with one hand while continuing to toss the ball with the other.

As she played about thus, she cast a sidelong look at Shiva and smiled demurely. Well, he
lost his heart there and then. Captivated by her glances, he became so mesmerized with Mohini that he lost all awareness of himself, what to say of Sati or the attendants at his side.

The ball then seemed to fly out of Mohini’s hand and she ran after it helter-skelter. At that moment a breeze swept away her flimsy sari along with the girdle even as Shiva watched. Every part of her body was delectable: whichever the eye fastened upon, the mind sought to enjoy. Shiva was fascinated. Her demeanour had already made him feel that she admired him; now her ways deprived him of the sense of discrimination and overwhelmed him with desire. Abandoning all decorum, he ran after the girl, right in front of Sati.

Mohini was now naked. Seeing Shiva come after her, she appeared to be very embarrassed and ran for cover from one tree to another, giggling and laughing all the while, but never stopping. Lord Shiva’s senses were out of his control. Consumed by Kama, he ran after her like an elephant does after its mate. With a burst
of speed, he caught her by the hair and folded her into his arms even though she appeared unwilling. He then mounted her like the elephant does its inamorata while she struggled to free herself, her hair dishevelled.

She was in fact a divinely created illusion, a maya; somehow she escaped from Shiva’s arms and sped away. Shiva ran after Mohini who was actually that worker of wonders, the lord Sri Hari. Shiva chased her like a rutting tusker does a she-elephant in heat. Though his seed is infallible, such was Mohini’s illusory power that it spilt nevertheless, creating mines of gold and silver wherever it fell on earth. It was only then that Shiva remembered himself. ‘I have been deceived by this divine illusion,’ he thought, as he distanced himself from this sorry interlude. But he was not surprised, for he realized the greatness of the lord Sri Hari, who is both one’s own spirit as well as the spirit of all.

From
Bhāgavata Purāṇa
, 8.7–8, 30–46; 8.12, 15–36

There lived in times of yore a famous prince by the name of Puranjan. He had searched the whole earth for a worthy habitation, but had found none. This had saddened him, for he longed for all kinds of enjoyment, but of all the cities he had seen, not one had been found adequate for his pleasures.

One day, in the land south of the Himalayas, he saw a city with nine gates. It possessed all the good attributes—battlements and moats, gardens and terraces, latticed windows and royal gates. It was full of great mansions crowned with domes of gold, silver and steel. The palaces in that city were adorned with emeralds and rubies, crystals and pearls, opals and sapphires,
and shone like the citadels of the serpent kings. They were surrounded by avenues and squares, markets and halls of assembly, places for sport and for relaxation, with benches of coral and many flags and banners.

Outside that city was a beautiful park full of wonderful trees and creepers, with birds singing and bees humming over the flowers. There was a lake within the park, and the verdure around it rustled in the mild spring breezes and the cool spray of waterfalls. The animals in that park were peaceful and harmless; and the nightingale’s call beckoned the traveller to rest in it.

Wandering in that marvellous woodland, Prince Puranjan beheld a damsel coming his way. With her was a retinue of ten attendants, each the leader of a hundred maidens, and a five-headed serpent guarded her. She was in the first bloom of youth. Her complexion was dusky, her nose and temples, teeth and mouth, and the curve of her waist were of exceeding beauty. She wore a yellow garment and a girdle of gold.
Rings sparkled in her ears and the anklets on her feet tinkled as she walked, modestly covering a rounded bosom which testified to her flowering charms. In truth she looked like a goddess. And she was in search of a worthy husband.

The arrows of that beauty’s glances struck the brave Puranjan in his heart, and he addressed her in a sweet and gentle tone: ‘Lotus-eyed one, who are you? Who is your father and from where do you come? For what purpose have you come near this city? Tell me, tender one, who are these ten attendants commanded by an eleventh warrior, and who are these women and the serpent that goes ahead of you? Are you a goddess, or do you wander here like an acolyte searching for your lord? All the desires of your husband would be satisfied merely in knowing that you look for him.

‘But, lovely one,’ he continued, ‘I see that your feet touch the earth. This would not happen if you were celestial. So, if you are indeed of the human race, will you not adorn this best of cities
with me, as the goddess Lakshmi graces paradise with the god Vishnu? Behold, I am brave and powerful. But your eyes have smitten my heart today. Your smiles and glances, modest but full of passion, have made me suffer with desire. Give me your favour, beautiful one. Your face is like a lotus blossom, surrounded by the dark wreath of your hair. Your voice is sweet. But your modesty makes you avert your face from me. Give me at least a glimpse of your beauty.’

The damsel smiled to indicate her acceptance of Puranjan’s plea. She too had become enamoured of the prince. ‘O best of men,’ she said to him, ‘my companions and I do not know our names or clans, nor who gave us birth. We live in this city at present, and this is all that I know. Who built it for us to stay in, even of that I am ignorant. These men and women are my companions. When I sleep, this serpent remains awake, guarding the city. Well have you come, my dear, and well may it be with you. My companions and I will offer you every pleasure
to fulfil all your desires. May you stay for a hundred years in this nine-gated city, enjoying all the delights you seek and which I will offer you. How could I ever consort with any man other than you?

‘Others,’ the damsel added, ‘the celibates and the renunciants, know neither the delights of love nor enjoy other pleasures; they only think of tomorrow and the hereafter. It is only the householder who can attain in this world both the sacred and the secular ends of life, fame and paradise. Hermits and renunciants cannot even imagine all this. It has been said that the householder’s status is the one foundation in this world for the happiness of all beings—human and celestial. Which woman would not choose a husband as famous, generous and handsome as you? Which woman’s heart would not long to find a place in your arms, smooth and strong as a serpent? You walk the earth, as it were, only to solace women like us with your sweetness and compassion.’

Their views in concord, those men and women then stayed in that city for a hundred years, enjoying every felicity. The bards and the balladeers would sweetly sing of Puranjan’s fame.

Of the nine gates of that city, seven were above it and two below.
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They had been built to enable the city’s ruler to go in different directions. Five gates faced eastwards and two to the west. One opened to the north and another to the south. Of the eastern gates, four were paired and one stood separate. Each gate had a name, and through each Puranjan would visit different places, accompanied by different friends. But above all he took help and counsel from two blind citizens of his capital city.

Whenever Puranjan went to the inner apartments with his chief attendant, he experienced great happiness, joy and attraction for his wife and children. His mind was
entangled in them and smitten with desire. He had been ensnared by his beloved. He followed her in whatever she did. When she partook of wine or food, he did likewise, eating whatever she ate. If she talked or sang, laughed or wept, he did the same. When she ran, he would run, and when she stopped, he too would stop. He slept and sat, listened and looked, smelt and touched as and when she did. He would plunge into grief when she was sad, and be filled with joy when she was happy. Thus entranced by his wife, Prince Puranjan followed her every instruction, like a tame animal, and he also came to be controlled by her attendants.

One day Puranjan put on his gilded armour, took in hand his great bow and quiver of arrows, and set out for the forest in a swift chariot
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with his eleventh attendant. Five horses were yoked to that chariot, which had two rods and wheels, one
axle and three flagstaffs, a charioteer with five leashes and one set of reins. It was equipped with five weapons and seven curtains, and it could move at five different speeds. All its trimmings were of gold. Though it was difficult for the prince to leave his beloved even for a moment, such was his desire to hunt that day that he left her without ado.

A demonic passion had made his heart cruel and hard. With sharp arrows did he kill many innocent animals in the forest. Many died in agony, pierced by his feathered darts. All compassionate people sorrowed to see this pitiless slaughter. At last, having killed many buffaloes, deer, boars, rabbits and other animals, Puranjan was fatigued. Tired out, he returned to the palace where, having bathed and rested, dressed and dined, he remembered his beloved. His desire aroused once more, he searched for his beautiful wife but she was not to be seen anywhere.

Puranjan asked the women of the inner
apartments: ‘Maidens, is all well with your mistress? Why does all the magnificence of this mansion not appear pleasing today? A house without one’s mother or a devoted wife becomes like a chariot without wheels. Which wise person would live and be miserable in such a house? So tell me, where is that beauty who revives me every time I am in pain and sorrow?’

‘Lord, we do not know what has come over your beloved,’ the women replied. ‘Behold, she lies there on the floor without any covering.’

Puranjan went to his wife, took her in his arms and soothed her with endearments. ‘Darling,’ he said, ‘a passion for the hunt made me go away without asking you. In this I certainly did wrong. Even so, look at me kindly as your own. What woman will not accept a dear husband who, tormented by love’s arrows, is always her slave?’

Then his wife came close and embraced him, for with many wiles had she brought him completely under her control. And he was so smitten by her that he lost count of time,
spending day and night in her company as if she was his supreme end in life.

Constantly rapt in desire, Puranjan’s youth passed as if within moments. From his wife, Puranjani, he had many sons and daughters, and after they too were married, many grandchildren also. His line spread through the entire land of Panchal and he remained engrossed with his children, grandchildren, kingdom and treasure. To seek yet other comforts, he performed great sacrifices to all the gods. At last he entered old age, a state always unpleasant to those who love pleasure.

There was a king of the demons called Chanda Vega. He had a retinue of three hundred and sixty demons and a like number of demonesses, both dark and fair. They would by turns plunder Puranjan’s city of many delights. The five-headed serpent, who guarded the city, long resisted these
marauders. For one hundred years he fought alone against the demonic seven hundred and twenty till he was weary. Then Puranjan was stricken with worry, for all this time he had been immersed in pleasures brought to the city by his attendants and had remained unaware of this peril.

Another danger also appeared at this time. The Kalkanya, that is the daughter of Kaal, the lord of time, had been wandering over the world in search of a husband but none would accept her. This maiden of ill aspect, whose name was Jara, finally went to the king of the barbarians and requested him to take her hand. ‘O great one,’ she said, ‘I have come to you as I wish to make you my husband. Gratify me with your acceptance of my wish.’

‘I have already found someone for you,’ the barbarian king told Kalkanya. ‘Inauspicious and unpleasing as you are for all people, none will accept you of their own will. But you can take the people of this world and enjoy them by force,
even though you are unwanted by them. I will give you my army, and with its help none will be able to withstand you. Here is my brother Prajvar and you are now my sister. With both of you and my army of terror I will wander in a subtle form through the world.’

Then the barbarian king’s hordes, together with Jara, the Kalkanya, began to traverse the earth at will. With great force they besieged the city of Puranjan, which was guarded by that ancient serpent and endowed with all earthly pleasures. Kaal’s daughter Jara started to enjoy the denizens of that city forcibly. While the city was being thus ravished, the barbarian hordes also penetrated it through different gates and commenced its destruction.

Puranjan, who was deeply attached to his family, had exulted in his lordship of the city. He now began to suffer untold agonies. His sense of discrimination was lost and his lustre tarnished by the Kalkanya’s embrace. His continued attachment to pleasures made his condition
pitiable. The barbarian soldiers plundered him of his glory. He saw his city ravaged and the Panchal country disintegrating under the occupation of enemies. His sons and grandsons, ministers and servants lost their respect for him; his wife ceased to be affectionate; and his body was possessed by Jara. Finding no means of escape, he was seized by anguish. Debased by craving for pleasures—pleasures which the Kalkanya had made worthless—deprived of his kinsmen’s esteem and the fruit of afterlife, his mind dwelt only on looking after his wife and children. Even though he did not want to leave them, he was forced to do so, for he was surrounded by demons and barbarians and made useless by Jara. At this moment Prajvar, the brother of the barbarian king, set fire to Puranjan’s city.

With the whole city aflame, the condition of Puranjan, his wife and family, his servants and subjects became even more desperate. The serpent that protected the city was in dire
straits. His dwelling was attacked by Prajvar and captured by the barbarians. Exhausted, in pain and unable to protect his charge, he wished to leave the city, just like a snake tries to escape from the hollow of a burning tree. Prevented by the barbarians, he wept in misery.

Immersed in attachment to himself and his possessions, Puranjan had almost lost his mind. His ability to enjoy his belongings had long since departed, but his possessiveness for them, for his children and grandchildren, household and treasures still remained. Noticing that the time to be separated from them had now arrived, he began to lament.

‘Alas!’ he wept. ‘My wife was the mistress of a great household. Who will help her and how will she survive when I leave this city? Surely, worry for our children will consume her. She was always ready to serve and support me, and to warn me of my mistakes. But will she be able to manage this household when I am gone? And how will my children live when I go, for am I
not their sole support? Surely, they will become like travellers on a ship wrecked at sea.’

Compelled by unwisdom and debased in mind, while Puranjan thus lamented, he was seized by the terrible barbarian king. As the barbarians tied him with ropes like a beast and began dragging him to their camp, his lamenting kinsfolk followed him out of the city which was simultaneously destroyed. Thus was Puranjan driven from his city by the mighty king of the barbarians.