BHAGAVATA PURANA STORIES

Bali in the Kingdom of Sutala

I am back with another illustration of the 1648 Bhagavata Purana manuscript, now destroyed. Fortunately, however, I have the illustrations in their original condition, which I photographed in 1979 when I visited the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute of Pune. In this illustration, King Bali is seen seated on the balcony of his palace located in Sutala. From the balcony he gives an audience to his subjects gathered below. This scene is reminiscent of modern scenarios where a certain head of state comes out from his palace to greet his audience at a special event. I can picture this happening in the south portico of the White House facing the Rose Garden, or a presidential or imperial palace elsewhere.

Sutala is one of the seven underworlds of which Bali is the ruler. The other underworlds are Atala, Vitala, Sutala, Rasātala, Talātala, Mahātala, and Pātāla. How Bali wound up in Sutala is narrated in the Bhagavata Purana under Vamana Avatara when God Visnhu incarnated as a dwarf to punish Bali for his arrogance. I have discussed this story in detail in a previous post. Please read it there to place this painting in context.
As we know, Vishnu, disguised as Vamana (a dwarf), asks for three steps of land, and Bali, against his guru Sukracharya’s caution, grants his request. The dwarf transforms into a giant, covering the entire earth with his first stride. With the second, he covers the entire universe, and as Bali runs out of space, he offers Vishnu his own head. With his foot, Vishnu pushes him to Patala, the underworld, the lowest underworld. However, recognizing his good actions and benevolent nature, Vishnu offers him Sutala, the best among the underworlds, to rule.

As king of Sutala, Bali, surrounded by a large following of the Rakshasas (demonic tribes), is content. Bali gives the audience to his followers who have gathered below the balcony to get a glimpse of the ruler. I find this painting particularly intriguing because it shows a cross section of Bali’s subjects who belong to the race of Rakshasa. In Hindu texts, rakshasas are a race of malevolent demigods or demons who stand against gods. Having supernatural powers, they can change shape at will. As shapeshifters, they often appear as animals for the purpose of deceiving humans. Mahishasura in the Devi Mahatmya is a prime example of such a formidable demon. Sometimes, they can also transform into a beautiful woman to lure humans to their doom as Circe in Greek mythology. The trope used to represent Rakshasa fascinates me because of its many supernatural dimensions.

The origin of Rakshasa is another subject that can only be theorized. I believe that the portrayal of Rakshasas as man-eating beings might have been based on some tribal people who engage in cannibalistic practices such as the head-hunting tribes of Nagaland. In the Ramayana, the flesh-eating beings are described as Rakshasas, causing disruptions during Rishis’ religious ceremonies performed in the forests. Because forests are homes to these tribes, the performance of religious rituals that required homa (fire sacrifices) may have been viewed by them as intrusions or threats to their way of life. Hence, they would destroy the rituals, which they find alien, and kill anyone who stood in front of them.

Rakshasis (the female counterpart), on the other hand, are believed to be beautiful and seductive, as exemplified by Surpanakha, the sister of Ravana, the demon king of Lanka, who abducted Sita in the Ramayana. According to the story, Surpanakha, before Sita’s abduction, comes to Panchavati Forest where Rama, Sita and Lakshmana were staying. As the story has it, the widowed Surpanakha falls in love with Rama at first sight and expresses her desire to marry him.

The Brahmanda Purana explains that the Rakshasas, like any other living beings on earth, were created by Brahma when he was in the state of Tamas (darkness). Although all Asuras are broadly classified as demons, Rakshasas are man-eaters while Yakshas and the Asuras are not.
In this illustration, Bali, a rather handsome and a youthful looking man, is seated on the balcony of his grand palace, his left-hand dangling from the balcony railing covered with a bright rug. He appears to the adoring crowd below who are standing with their hands folded. They form the bulk of his army, who are willing to take his orders to die in a battle against gods. A comparison could be made to modern warfare where a young soldier makes a sacrifice of his life for the sake of his leader whether the war is just.

After having watched many Hollywood movies such as Star Wars, the Lord of the Rings, and the Guardians of the Galaxy, I suspect that the makers of these movies might have received inspiration from Hindu mythology and paintings such as these based on the Puranas. The balcony where Bali is seated is reminiscent of the Rajasthani architecture of the time. Two red canopies, one on either side, provide shade for the visitors below much like in religious ceremonies held outdoors or a wedding party. The most interesting feature of this illustration, however, is the portrayal of the characters who are standing—six on either side of the pavilion with their hands folded in adoration. After all, Bali is king of the Ashura tribe, and he is super powerful. With immortality granted to him by God Vishnu for his honesty, truthfulness, generosity and devotion to God, he is worthy of ruling over a dominion where he belongs as a leader of the Ashura, Rakshasa and Danava tribes.

The twelve characters portrayed in this painting perhaps represent all of them, each one having a distinctive and unique look. Each one, except for the lady, has the head of an animal attached to the body of a human. This composite representation suddenly solicits a comparison between the Greek and Hindu mythologies. The first ones to come to mind are Minotaur and Pan. Each character from the Bhagavat Purana page seems to represent a species of animal such as a goat, a bear, a dog, a pig, an elephant, and the rest are hybrid, many possible characters can be read in them, for example one that looks like a crocodile but is not. One that looks like a horse but is not. Having a liminal quality in these figures is truly unique, which solicits nothing but praise for the captivating creativity of the artists.

Bali Invades Amaravati, Indra’s capital

During the battle that ensued between the Danavas and the Devas, the Danava king Bali was destroyed by Indra with his mighty Vajra, the thunderbolt. But Bali’s guru, Sukracharya, revived him by restoring his body. To me, this is a concept of a futuristic world where human beings have designed a machine that restores life from the dead. After Bali regained his body and strength, he felt powerful again. Bali’s desire to avenge the gods for his fair share of amrita, the elixir of immortality, led him to gather a large contingent of an army and set out to wage war against Indra in Amaravati. This conflict erupted shortly after the churning of the sea of milk, which I discussed in my previous post.

In the present painting, we see a building representing Bali’s palace, where his guru, Sukracharya, is seated with another figure. According to the story, Sukracharya had revived Bali from death, and he is now fully charged with strength and power to conquer Indra’s world. Bali, thus arming himself with weapons, stood before Sukracharya, to seek his blessings. Clad in a green tunic, Bali sits on a chariot pulled by four horses. Seated at the center of the chariot, he wields a bow in one hand and a sword in the other, with two quivers filled with arrows strapped to his back. His entourage includes foot soldiers and men mounted on various animals—horses and a bull. Notably, a figure mounted on a bull stands out; he has a single horn protruding from his red face and carries a strange weapon unlike those borne by others, suggesting he might be a Gana, a denizen.

The composition of the painting is rather straightforward, with the narrative unfolding from left to right as Bali and his forces advance. As a king, Bali is shaded by a beautiful parasol, a symbol of royalty. A young attendant behind him holds the umbrella while he fans the king with a chauri (yak’s tail used as a flywhisk).

As I write this story, I am reminded of the turbulent world in which we presently live. Wars are going on in the Middle East and in Russia and Ukraine. In fact, wars have been fought throughout history. The world has never been a peaceful place, as these paintings of the Bhagavata Purana illustrate. Hindu mythology, which could be a reflection of actual past events, is full of wars fought on an epic or cosmological scale. The Ramayana and the Mahabharata are classic examples, along with many bloody wars fought between gods and demons. I am familiar with the story of the Devimahatmya, which narrates the bloody battles between Goddess Durga and Mahishasura. The Bhagavata Purana, on the other hand, is about the deeds and exploits of male gods. The battles are about keeping a balance between the forces of good and evil, which are represented by gods and demons.

Bali is very powerful because he is the son of Virochana and the great-grandson of Hiranyakashipu. Additionally, Vishnu granted him the boon of Cheeranjivi (immortality) for his extreme generosity. Considered one among the seven Chiranjeevi (immortals) Bali is empowered to mount another attack on Indra himself. Gathering a large army, Bali stood in front of Amaravati and blew the conch given to him by his guru. The loud sound of the conch reverberated through the heavens, and Indra’s Apsaras were terrified. Some gods even came out to see, in their flying vehicles, to inspect the commotion. When they saw Bali’s large army, they immediately informed Indra—who is painted with a thousand eyes—about the imminent attack. On the advice of Brihaspati, Indra’s guru, he fled his capital with his Apsaras and trusted advisors. They are seen leaving in the upper left-hand corner.

Bali, in the next painting, is seen seated on Indra’s throne, claiming to be the ruler of Triloka (the triple world, including the heavens, earth, and the area in between, the atmosphere). According to Hindu tradition, he had to be ritually coronated before he could claim the throne and rule the world. Hence, in the next scene, Bali is seen seated on Indra’s throne blessed by his royal guru in front of him.

A coronation is a cause for celebration, and a group of Gandharvas and Kinnaras (musicians and dancers) are seen entertaining the new ruler while a beautiful lady-in-waiting fans him from behind. This painting shows two distinct but related scenes. In the lower register, the activities of the palace are depicted, while on top, Indra and the gods leave in their celestial vehicles with their wives. Escorted by gods, Indra’s vimana is in the middle accompanied by his two wives.

Chaos and Order Seen through the Churning of the Ocean of Milk

As in mythological tales of other cultures, the Hindu story of creation is equally intertwined with the concept of good and evil but with a major distinction. While in Abrahamic religions, there is a clear distinction between good and evil without the possibility of crossing over between them. However, in Hinduism, the concept is that of chaos and order. To explain this concept, we have been presented with the character of Kaśyapa, the son of God Brahma. Interestingly, Kaśyapa in Sanskrit means clear vision.

One day, as Kaśyapa strolled amidst the celestial realms, he found himself greeted by Diti and Aditi two beautiful heavenly maidens. While Diti stood for division, duality, and an unsettling alienation, Aditi, on the other hand, bore the essence of the undivided, unseparated, integrated, and unified. He married both, knowing very well that they were two diametrically opposite to each other. It is interesting to observe that the man was presented with a big challenge of maintaining a delicate balance between these two opposite forces as represented by Diti and Aditi from the dawn of civilization. We might ask again why Kaśyapa, whose name meant clear vision, got himself drawn to a messy situation like this? Could he not see what Diti and Aditi represented with the divine vision with which he was endowed? Or is man, by nature, born to accept challenge, or doomed to his own follies?

In due course of time, Diti and Aditi made Kaśyapa a proud father. Their progeny mirrored the essence of their lineage. Aditi’s children, the Devas or Suras, personified integration, non-duality, harmony, and order. Conversely, Diti’s offspring, the Daityas or Asuras, manifested chaos, disorder, separateness, and confusion. The progeny of these two sisters created a perennial tension between good and evil, entertaining us with limitless stories to learn the lessons of war, peace, compromise and finally death and destruction. These are the eternal plays of life here on earth.

The eternal cosmic binary was not a struggle between good and evil, as seen in Abrahamic religions, but a perpetual tug-of-war between order and chaos. Chaos, the crucible of all possibilities, harbored both positive and negative facets. Some Daityas, like Prahlada and Vibhiṣaṇa, were virtuous, while others, like Rāvana and Hiraṇyakaśipu, reveled in malevolence.

From chaos, the phoenix of order and beauty arose, personified by the radiant Lakshmi. The stage of chaos and order and possibilities it presented is suggested by the cosmic ocean. The churning of the Ocean of Milk is a celebrated theme of Hindu mythology about which I have spoken in the past.
In the grand tapestry of existence, chaos and order were not adversaries but intertwined companions. A balanced life, Kaśyapa believed, embraced both—neither could flourish without the other. Humans, ever the thrill-seekers, teetered on the edge, seeking excitement in chaos and security in order. Humans like to take risks while going on adventures exploring, creating, inventing, investing, mounting wars, etc., the list goes on. Chaos bred confusion and decay, while order forged defined goals, aspirations, and the discipline to succeed.

The nectar of immortality, amṛta, lay hidden in the delicate alliance of chaos and order, a symphony that promised everlasting life. Alas, the promise often waned, for cooperation was a fleeting muse. Inextricably linked to competition, the Devas and Asuras, at times, danced in harmony, but more often engaged in the age-old rivalry that echoed through nations as unfolded right before our eyes around the world.

About Conflict, Battle, and War

The concept of a “fight,” whether between individuals, groups, or nations, has been a persistent feature of human history, driven by a complex interplay of motivations and justifications. On an individual level, fights often stem from personal grievances, misunderstandings, or competition. An individual might engage in a fight to defend their honor, protect their interests, or assert dominance. These confrontations, though sometimes viewed as primitive, can be justified by those involved as necessary for self-defense, self-preservation or justice. Behind every conflict—whether a world war, a war between neighboring countries, or a small village skirmish—there is always a reason, and the aggressor always has a justification.

When we move to the group level, fights can arise from a sense of collective identity and the defense of shared values or resources. Groups might clash over territory, ideological differences, or economic disparities. For instance, rival gangs in urban areas often engage in violent confrontations to control territory and resources. These fights are justified internally by a perceived need to protect the group’s interests and ensure its survival against external threats.

On the national stage, fights manifest as wars, driven by a multitude of factors including political power, economic gain, and cultural or religious dominance. Nations justify these conflicts through a variety of lenses. Politically, a country might argue that a fight is necessary to defend national sovereignty or to support allies. Economically, wars are often justified by the promise of resources and trade advantages. Culturally or religiously, nations may frame their fights as crusades or holy wars, depicting them as moral imperatives.

The Hindu epics and puranas are filled with stories that teach the consequences of one’s actions. Every conflict has an underlying reason, whether internal or external. And every action has a reaction. This concept is vividly illustrated in the Bhagavata Purana, one of the most revered texts in Hindu literature. The Bhagavata Purana, rich with narratives of divine incarnations and moral lessons, presents conflicts deeply rooted in the cosmic struggle between good and evil, righteousness and unrighteousness (dharma and adharma).

One of the most poignant examples of conflict in the Bhagavata Purana is the story of the churning of the sea of milk (Samudra Manthana). The primary goal of this monumental task was to obtain amrita, the elixir of immortality. The churning required the combined efforts of positive and negative forces, depicted as gods (devas) and demons (danavas). Indra, the king of the devas, made an agreement with Bali, the king of the danavas, to share the rewards of the churning equally. From the churning, many wondrous items emerged, including the white elephant (Airavata), the winged horse (Uchchaihshravas), the wish-fulfilling cow (Kamadhenu), the goddess of wealth and happiness (Lakshmi), and many precious gems. I recommend readers to refer to my previous posts regarding the churning of the sea of milk. However, when the elixir of immortality (amrita) was presented in a jar by Dhanvantari, the god of medicine, the danavas were the first to seize it. Recognizing the chaos and potential disaster if the amrita fell into the hands of the danavas, who would spread evil and disorder, God Vishnu intervened. He took the form of Mohini, an enchanting damsel, and mesmerized the danavas with her beauty. Under her spell, the danavas relinquished the jar of amrita. Mohini instructed the devas and danavas to sit in a large circle and began distributing the amrita, starting with the devas. A clever danava, realizing that the amrita would be depleted before it reached them, stealthily moved to sit among the gods. When Mohini, thinking the danava was a deva, dropped the amrita into his mouth, the gods—Sun and Moon—immediately recognized him and revealed his true identity.

Mohini quickly severed his head with her Sudarshana Chakra (the flaming wheel). This led to chaos, and the enraged danavas, feeling betrayed, left with a vow of revenge. The devas, however, believed that if the danavas became immortal, their wicked and immoral actions would disrupt the balance of the world. So, they justified their action for not sharing amrita with the danavas.

Following this incident, the danavas, led by King Bali, launched a massive attack on the gods in heaven. The gods, now invigorated by the amrita and free from Rishi Durvasa’s curse, fought back fiercely. The ensuing battle was brutal, with the ground littered with the mutilated bodies of danavas. The scenes are gruesome. The illustrations of this battle in the following several pages depict intense action and movement, with the bright red colors emphasizing the ferocity of the conflict. In the Bhagavata Purana, conflicts are not arbitrary but are deeply embedded in the struggle between good and evil. The reasons behind these conflicts underscore the principle that there is no conflict without a compelling reason. The narrative teaches that conflicts, though often painful and gruesome, are present in the world and we must balance them.
-Deepak Shimkhada

Gender Fluidity: The Case of Transgender

Gender fluidity is a hot topic today with the use of pronouns driving public discourse. It’s common to receive letters or emails where the sender signs his/her name along with a list of pronouns like He/She/Them. I know who I am and what my gender is, so I don’t feel the need to identify myself with such labels. To me, doing so feels like wearing a label on my forehead.
 
Interestingly, gender fluidity is not a new concept. Ancient Hindu literature is filled with characters of all genders: male, female, and third-gender individuals such as transsexual, homosexual, androgynous, hermaphrodite, and others in between. However, they didn’t advertise their gender like we do today. I bring up this topic not because I oppose it or wish to criticize society’s current focus, but because today’s illustration from the 1648 Bhagavata Purana manuscript touches on the subject of transgender identity.
 
Once upon a time, there was a prince named Sudyumna, the son of Vaivasvata Manu. His story involves a fascinating case of gender change, a phenomenon that could be classified as a real medical issue related to endocrinology. Since I’m not a medical professional, I’ll leave that aspect to the medical experts. However, it’s a compelling field that traces back to ancient times, and its biological roots challenge the belief held by some in American society that homosexuality is purely behavioral. For those interested in a medical perspective, I recommend Krishna G. Seshadri’s paper, “The Curious Case of Sudyumna: A Tale of Sex Reversal from the Bhagavata Purana,” published in the Indian Journal of Endocrinology and Metabolism (January 2013).
 
Sudyumna’s journey of gender transitions—becoming male, female, and then reverting to male—is both fascinating and medically perplexing. The narrative twists, added to increase its complexity, reflect the imaginative genius of Rishi Vyasa. Since this is a lengthy story, I’ll leave it to readers to explore the full details themselves.
 
Ila, the daughter of Vivasvata Manu and his wife Shraddha, is central to this story. The origin of the story begins even before the child was conceived. The royal couple had conflicting desires: Vivasvata wanted a son to continue his family line, while Shraddha wished for a daughter. When the child was born female, she was named Ila, but later, to fulfill her father’s wish, she was transformed into a male (Sudyumna). The details of how his transformation occurred are convoluted, and I encourage readers to explore the full story rather than relying on a summary here.
 
Another layer of intrigue is added when God Shiva curses Sudyumna to become female. However, the curse is eventually mitigated by Shiva himself, after being entreated by his disciple, Vasistha. Shiva agrees that Ila may alternate between being female for one month and male for the next. I’m not qualified to speculate on the nature of such gender transformations, though the story in the Bhagavata Purana suggests a possibility. One could even draw a parallel to quantum physics, like Schrödinger’s Cat—a scenario of fifty-fifty potentiality.
 
Understanding the illustration requires familiarity with the full story, as the visual cues alone may not suffice to guide one through the narrative. Shiva and Parvati, who play key roles in transforming Ila’s gender, are prominently depicted in the painting. According to the Bhagavata Purana, there was a secret grove where the divine couple engaged in their dalliance (lila), and Shiva protected it for privacy with a curse. Any man who entered this grove would be turned into a woman. This is exactly what happened to Sudyumna and his bodyguards when they unwittingly entered the grove. They all turned into women, even their horses. As Sudyumna became a woman, he pleaded with his guru, Vasistha, who was a great devotee of Shiva.
 
The figure with matted hair seated before Shiva and Parvati in the center is Vasistha, advocating on behalf of Sudyumna. The man in the red tunic and cap is Sudyumna, facing his female counterpart, Ila. The young figure with a woman in the upper right corner represents Sudyumna and Ila as one. These multiple representations—male at one time, female at another—can be difficult to track. In the lower left corner, the three women on horseback are Sudyumna and his men, now transformed into women, returning home.

Genocide of Snakes


These two paintings are part of the 1648 Bhagavata Purana manuscript, which is now destroyed. In the first painting, King Parikshit dies from a snakebite, and the engulfing fire symbolizes his cremation. To provide context, I suggest readers review my previous post to understand the circumstances leading to Parikshit’s death by snakebite.

To recap the story: the young King Parikshit once threw a dead snake at the meditating sage Shamika when the sage, deep in samadhi, did not respond to Parikshit’s request for water while lost in the forest. When Shamika’s son, Sringin, returned and saw his father disgraced, he was enraged and, without knowing the true identity or reason, cursed that the offender would die in seven days by a snakebite.

Takshaka, one of the nagas, upon hearing the curse, volunteered to deliver the fatal bite to the king. As depicted in the painting discussed in the previous post, Takshaka comes in disguise as a Brahmin and kills the king.

Snakes have been on Earth for approximately 190 million years, predating humans by a significant margin. Their ubiquitous presence on every continent has naturally led to their inclusion in human legends, myths, and cultural narratives. This intricate relationship between humans and snakes is characterized by a blend of fascination, fear, reverence, and vilification.

The fear of snakes, known as ophidiophobia, is one of the most common phobias worldwide. This fear is believed to have evolutionary roots. Early humans who quickly learned to avoid venomous snakes were more likely to survive and pass on their genes. This ingrained wariness of snakes has persisted through generations, influencing how they are perceived in various cultures.

Snakes’ stealthy movements, often silent and sudden, can evoke a sense of unpredictability and danger. Their ability to deliver a venomous bite or constrict their prey adds to their menacing image. Consequently, this fear has led to both the demonization and deification of snakes in art and literature.

In South Asian cultures, snakes are often referred to as nagas. These mythical serpents are both terrestrial and otherworldly, embodying dual aspects of creation and destruction. In Hinduism, nagas are considered semi-divine beings residing in the netherworld (patala) and are associated with water bodies, fertility, and prosperity. They are both revered and feared, symbolizing the primal forces of nature.

Returning to the painting on the right, it is significant to note that the event depicted is both disturbing and thought-provoking, as it portrays the killing of snakes. Janamejaya, King Parikshit’s son, has determined to wipe out the entire species of snakes by performing a unique homa ritual called sarpa sastra, in which snakes are offered as sacrifices in fire. This ritual is so powerful that snakes hiding anywhere on land or in water would voluntarily come out and jump into the fire, thus self-immolating. We see groups of snakes—single-hooded and multi-hooded—flying from every direction and falling kamikaze-style into the blazing fire. With the aid of purohits (priests) and rishis (sages), King Janamejaya performs the rite, while God Indra in the sky, riding in his celestial vimana (flying ship), witnesses the wondrous event. If this ritual is completed, not a single snake will remain on earth. They will all be wiped out.

This raises important ethical and moral questions: Is this a genocide of snakes? Is it ethical and moral to wipe out an entire species–whether animal or human? The whole incident occurred because of a misunderstanding, highlighting how many wars or disputes arise from a lack of mutual understanding.

Fortunately, there is a happy ending to what seemed like a tragic story. A young rishi named Astika intervened in the ritual, arguing that annihilating an entire species would disrupt the natural order of the world. The young sage, representing a new dawn, made the king see the light and put an end to the ritual.

Hayagriva Steals the Vedas

Disruptions can take many forms, such as sabotaging a well-functioning system—like tampering with someone’s work, a car, or infecting a computer. The degradation of society—cheating, stealing, lying, killing, spreading rumors, or inciting wars—is not new. According to the Bhavishya and Kalki Puranas, these are visible signs of the Kali Yuga, the age in which we now live. Welcome to the club. The Puranas are full of such stories, and the one I discuss below—a page from the 1648 Bhagavata Purana manuscript—is beautifully painted.

On this single page, four scenes are stitched together in narrative form. In the lower left-hand corner, Lord Vishnu is shown sleeping on a wooden cot resting on Kshira Sagara, the Ocean of Milk. In the beginning, the universe was covered with a vast body of water. While sleeping on this ocean, Vishnu created Brahma, and Brahma created everything living and non-living, tangible and intangible. The Ocean of Milk represents this primordial water, which may symbolize the Milky Way, our galaxy, of which Vishnu is the cause and the lord.

Reclining on the coiled body of Sesha Naga, Vishnu takes an eternal slumber. The Ocean of Milk, when churned by the united forces of the Devas and Danavas, yielded many things (please refer to my previous post about the Churning of the Ocean of Milk).

In Skanda Eight of the Bhagavata Purana, it is said that at the end of a Kalpa (eon), Brahma closes his eyes to nap, and the world is destroyed by a flood. While in deep slumber, Brahma’s mouth remained open, allowing the four Vedas to fall out. Seizing the opportunity, Hayagriva, a Daitya (Danava) with the head of a horse, took them and fled. The loss of the Vedas meant the loss of dharma, societal order, and righteousness. To restore a well-functioning society, Vishnu incarnated as a fish (Matsya Avatar). Interestingly, we can connect this to Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution. It is believed that all tetrapods, including humans, descend from a group of bony fishes known as sarcopterygians. If this is true, Vishnu’s first incarnation may symbolize the evolutionary pattern Western scientists describe.

After destruction, the world re-emerges into new life, suggesting the concept of life after death. According to Hindu scriptures, this cycle continues perpetually.

In the upper left-hand corner of the painting, Rishi Satyavrata, dressed in a red dhoti, squats on a small brown rock by the bank of the Kritamala River, performing his daily ablutions. As he scooped water, a tiny fish landed in his palms. The Rishi placed it in a nearby jar. The next day, the fish grew too large for the jar, so he transferred it to a larger one. The day after, it outgrew the larger jar, so he placed it in a small pond. The fish continued growing, so he moved it to a nearby lake. By the fifth day, the fish had grown enormous, prompting the Rishi to release it into the sea. But then the fish transformed into Lord Vishnu, dark blue in color, who said, “In seven days, the earth will be submerged in water, killing all beings. Before the water rises, gather all species of animals, plants, and sages into a boat and wait for me. I will come to rescue you and your companions. I will pull the boat with my horn, tied to Vasuki Naga, during the darkness of Brahma’s night.”

After Hayagriva’s defeat, the Vedas were returned to Brahma, and Satyavrata became Vaviavata Manu of the next Kalpa, ruling the world in peace and harmony.

Hero Without a Villain

Can we imagine what a story would be like without a villain? The value of a hero is only increased if there is a villain. The struggles the hero goes through to overcome the roadblocks the villain lays are interesting to read or watch. Without them, the story would be uninteresting—like a dish without marmasala (salt and spices) that is guaranteed to taste bland.

What would be the role of gods if there were no devils? Demons and devils, though they may not be savory characters, make the story exciting because they provide the necessary ingredients for the plot. Everyone, including gods, needs a cause to fight for justice, righteousness, and to bring order from chaos. God Vishnu incarnates only when bad actors cause atrocities to living beings. Villains are the reason for Vishnu to return. Without them, Vishnu would have no job. Perhaps it is for the same reason that the temporal leaders, although they preach against war, do not like the world to be at peace for a long time. Sometimes they incite wars so that they can remain in the spotlight as heroes. Additionally, they benefit from wars because wars require manufacturing various equipment, arms, ammunition, and other air, ground, and sea defense systems, not to mention the thousands of people who are needed to make them and defend the country. A war is an interconnected system that requires interconnected operations to run. Eventually, it can become a profitable enterprise.

Is Bali a Villain?

Before taking up the case of Bali, the king of the Ashura clan, let us return to a popular Hollywood film named Star Wars. The film became a box office hit because of its epic story between good and evil. On one side, there are the Jedi Knights represented by Luke Skywalker, and on the other hand, there is Darth Vader, who was formerly a Jedi Knight. Anakin Skywalker, a Jedi Knight, was drawn to the dark force to save his wife. Throughout the film, Darth Vader symbolizes evil because he is controlled by Emperor Palpatine, the lord of the Dark Force representing the Sith Order. However, at the end of the film, Darth Vader redeems himself by giving his own life for Luke Skywalker, his son.

After having taught Hindu art and religions of Asia for many years at American universities, I hope I have gained some insights into the nature of evil. To explain or rather understand the concept of evil in Hindu tradition, the character of Bali is most beneficial. First, let us examine who Bali is. The great-grandson of Hiranyakashipu, Bali is already lumped together with the class of Ashura, the demonic race, simply being associated with Hiranyakashipu, one of the evil characters of Hindu mythology. We often hear the popular caution that we should not judge a book by its cover. By the same token, one should not judge a person by his race or skin color, but by his character and actions. Bali, therefore, falls into that gray area; although he belongs to the demonic race, he is more like Prahlad, his great-grandfather, who went on to become a paragon of godly devotion and good karma. Similarly, Bali was a pious and generous king of the demons, which went against his swa-dharma (intrinsic character).

In my last posting about snakes, I talked about evil represented by the snake as a negative force because a snake, by its nature (although not all species of snakes are venomous), is venomous. In class, students often ask me why there is evil in the world. As I am not a theologian, I find it hard to answer citing textual references. My simple answer, as I have understood it, is that evil is like pain, and it is necessary to contrast with pleasure. Without experiencing pain, how can one appreciate pleasure, i.e., the absence of pain? Hence, in Hinduism, evil is not a separate entity that is unrelated to one’s life. Evil is part of life, and it comes in many forms such as ignorance, bad judgment, bad action, negative thinking, dementia, or anything that prevents us from attaining enlightenment or moksha, i.e., release from rebirth.

Generally, evil arises from ignorance, selfishness, ego, hatred, anger, and all the negative emotions that lead us to act negatively against others. Hence, its presence acts as a speed bump, keeping us vigilant and on our toes. Let us consider for a moment, if we lived in a utopia (if there is such a thing) with no crime, no pain, no suffering, no disease, no worry about money, no long lines anywhere, no need to report to a superior, and no punishment for wrongdoing because no one does any wrong. In other words, it is like heaven with the caveat that it is located here on Earth. If that were true, then human beings would not be motivated to make progress materially or spiritually. They would have no concept of dukkha (suffering, unhappiness), We make medicine because we get sick; we make products to make our lives easier. We are constantly inventing something new, i.e., making improvements upon improvements, for example, from iPhone one to iPhone fifteen.

In Hindu philosophy, the existence of evil is often seen as a necessary force for the progression of the soul and the maintenance of cosmic balance. One key idea is that evil, or adharma (absence of righteousness), serves as a contrast to dharma, allowing individuals to make conscious moral choices. The Bhagavad Gita emphasizes this duality, where Krishna explains to Arjuna that without challenges or obstacles, including those posed by evil, growth and spiritual evolution would not be possible. The presence of evil creates the conditions for humans to practice virtue, self-discipline (self-policing), and ultimately transcend material desires (Gita 2.47-50).

Additionally, in the Mahabharata, it is illustrated that evil plays a role in the cosmic cycle of creation, preservation, and destruction. Lord Vishnu, in his avatars, descends to earth to restore balance when adharma prevails, suggesting that evil is part of the natural order and serves to catalyze divine intervention. The Rigveda also touches upon the idea of duality, highlighting the cosmic tension between forces of light and darkness, good and evil, which sustains the universe.

If we simply take life and death as a metaphor for good and evil, we will understand the concept better in simpler terms. Since the universe is constantly evolving with the birth of a star, a planet, or a galaxy, and eventually their demise, we may equate death with evil. If that is the case, evil exists in the universe on a cosmological scale. But evil is not permanent, and hence one need not worry about being in that condition for an eternity as is the case in the Western tradition. Evil or the negative force will pass, as there is life after death.

Incarnation

यदा यदा हि धर्मस्य ग्लानिर्भवति भारत ।
अभ्युत्थानमधर्मस्य तदात्मानं सृजाम्यहम् ॥४-७॥
परित्राणाय साधूनां विनाशाय च दुष्कृताम् ।
धर्मसंस्थापनार्थाय सम्भवामि युगे युगे ॥४-८॥

Yada yada hi dharmasya glanirbhavati bharata
Abhythanamadharmasya tadatmanam srijamyaham
Paritranaya sadhunang vinashay cha dushkritam
Dharmasangsthapanarthay sambhabami yuge yuge

Trivikrama (conquering the triple world)

In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna, the god-incarnate, proclaims that he descends to restore balance whenever atrocity and injustice afflict society. This divine commitment finds expression in various forms, one notable instance being the tale of Trivikrama, where God Vishnu transforms into Vamana, a dwarf, to intervene in the affairs of the mortal realm.

The narrative unfolds across ten detailed illustrations, commencing with the birth of Vamana, a poignant moment where the divine takes on the humble form of a dwarf. As the story progresses, the god prepares to depart from the celestial realms to the earthly domain, poised to undertake a delicate mission crucial to the cosmic order.

The stage was set in a distant eon when Bali, a demon king, an ardent devotee of Lord Vishnu, ascended to power. Blessed by the very god he worshiped, Bali became a Chiranjivi, immortal beyond the grasp of death. Yet, with power, he succumbed to arrogance, displacing gods from their celestial abodes and claiming dominion over the heavens. Distressed, the deities sought the intervention of Lord Vishnu to rectify the imbalance.

In a strategic move, Vishnu chose not to annihilate Bali, his own devotee, but to outsmart him. Despite being a demon king, Bali ruled with benevolence, keeping his subjects content. His desire for unparalleled power, however, transgressed the boundaries of the Triloka, the triple world, inviting the cosmic order’s reprimand.

Amidst Bali’s grand Ashwamedha Yajna, a ritual symbolizing the aspiration for universal rule, God Vishnu descended in the form of a child monk named Vamana. Clad only in a loincloth, the dwarf entered the court of King Bali, captivating everyone present.

Welcoming the unexpected guest, Bali washed the tender feet of Vamana and inquired about his identity and purpose. The dwarf replied, “As I was passing by, I saw the yajna and thought that I might receive some alms from a mighty and generous king like you.”

Bali, boasting of his rule over the triple world, offered Vamana anything he desired. The dwarf humbly requested land that he could cover in three steps. Puzzled, Bali suggested more substantial gifts, but Vamana remained steadfast in his request.

As the royal priest Sukracharya prepared to seal the deal, he sensed a divine intervention and warned Bali of a potential ruse. Despite the caution, Bali, a man of his word, proceeded with the ritual. However, Sukracharya had cleverly chanted the mantra without using the sacred syllable ‘om,’ rendering the spell ineffective.

Witnessing the transformation of Vamana into a Vishwarupa (giant figure), Sukracharya confirmed the divine hand in the trick. Seeing the sudden change of events, Bali’s loyal bodyguards and retainers attacked the Vishwarupa form of Vishnu. But they were no match for the Lord of the world. Then the royal priest informed Bali of the invalid mantra, offering him an escape from the consequences. However, Bali, true to his word, embraced the outcome.

With one stride, Vishnu covered the earth, and with another, he enveloped the sky. Now, with no place to step his third foot, Bali, displaying unparalleled devotion, offered his head. Vishnu, in the guise of Vamana, placed his foot on Bali’s head, pushing him to Sutaloka, thereby reinstating the cosmic order. Mapping the entire universe in three steps by Vishnu is a popular theme in Hindu mythology, carrying profound layers of meaning. Scientifically, our universe comprises: 1) Earth, governed by gravitational force; 2) the space above Earth, defined as the atmosphere, and the deep space beyond gravity, known as Triloka (triple world). Regardless of a king or ruler’s power, their dominion is limited, as the universe is an immeasurable expanse beyond comprehension. Only the divine force can oversee this vast domain, as exemplified in the story of Bali, a king seeking to rule the triple world, who ultimately learns a lesson.

Given the narrative nature of the story, the artist is allotted twelve pages to illustrate the tale in detail. Let’s examine some of the major pages:

1. First Page: In the initial painting, God Vishnu decides to be born as a mortal through the womb of Aditi, married to the wise Rishi Kashyapa. The image depicts Vishnu meeting with Aditi, announcing his decision. It’s crucial to note that his birth would be unusual, as he would be born as a dwarf, perceived as somewhat abnormal. This advance announcement ensures that the mother is not taken by surprise or disturbed by the unconventional child.

2. Second Page: The second illustration portrays Kashyapa and Aditi being blessed by God Brahma for a divine son. This leads to the birth of the boy named Vamana, who is depicted wearing a red loincloth and holding an umbrella. The subsequent scene shows Vamana departing to Earth for his mission.

3. Third Page: On the next page, Vamana reaches Earth, where King Bali is performing the Ashvamedha yajna. Vamana is received by King Bali, his queen, and the royal priest Sukracharya. Seated on a stool, Vamana’s feet are washed by the royal couple.

4. Fourth Page: This full-page illustration presents two simultaneous scenes. On the right, the priest chants the mantra as commanded by King Bali. While chanting, Sukracharya realizes the divine intervention and, in the left scene, warns the king to withhold his gift to Vamana.
5. Fifth Page: Vamana transforms into the Vishwarupa of God Vishnu, covering the earth with his leg. Gods, including Brahma, admire this act from above.

6. Sixth Page: Here Vamana’s sudden transformation into a giant figure is misconstrued by Bali’s demonic armies as a hostile attack. Vishnu multiplies himself, and repels the demons after defeating Bali’s army.

7. Seventh Page: After overcoming Bali’s army, Vishnu reveals his true form, adored by all, including Brahma descending from heaven to salute him.

8. Eighth Page: This scene symbolizes Vishnu covering the heavens, his foot touching the abode of Brahma (Brahma Loka), signifying the encompassing of the entire universe. Witnessing Vishnu’s miraculous wonderment, Bali and his retinue bow down to the God, begging for mercy. In two strides, Vishnu covers the entire universe, and when asked where he should rest his foot for the third step, Bali offers his own head—a poignant scene of submission where salvation or happiness lies.

9. Ninth and tenth page: Bali is sent to Sutaloka, and Indra is reinstated as the king of the heavens. The painting celebrates this occasion, showing Indra seated in his throne (Indrasana), surrounded by the assembly of gods, apsaras, dancers, musicians, courtiers, and the army. With order restored, peace and happiness prevail everywhere, including the heavens.

Standing on one leg

Stories from the Bhagavata Purana Manuscript
Written and painted in Mewar, Rajasthan, India
Date 1648

Standing on one leg is a yogic posture called Ekapada. It is an extremely difficult asana because it requires balance and concentration. In this first illustration from the 1648 Bhagavata Purana manuscript, Swayambhuva Manu stands on one leg to do tapas (austerity). It is a hard austerity for which there is a big reward of physical and spiritual power at the end. Works of art showing an ascetic standing in the Ekapada posture come from Mahabalipuram and Hampi, both in South India.
 
According to Hindu puranic tales, the world is born and destroyed in a single day of Brahma. In that single day fourteen Manus are born who rule the world. Among the fourteen ​Manus Swayambhuva was the first. He was a pious and righteous man, not attracted to ​the life of sensual pleasure. Abandoning his kingdom, he and his wife left for the forest to practice austerity (tapas). He stood on one leg for one hundred years while extolling Vishnu, the supreme ​Lord.
 
As Swayambhuva Manu was in a deep meditation (samadhi), Ashura, seeing this an opportunity, attacked him. However, Yajna, Swayambhuva Manu’s grandson from his daughter’s side who is no other than Vishnu himself, came to his rescue. After killing the Ashura, Yajna ruled the universe.
 
On the upper left-hand corner Swayambhuva Manu is being attacked by the demons and in the foreground below, Yajna is engaged in killing the army of Ashura. This is a classic example of struggle between good and evil—human beings versus diseases. Virus and bacteria attack us when our immune system is weak. With the same logic, small fish are eaten by bigger fish, weaker countries are overtaken or attacked by bigger or stronger nations. Weaker or poor people are oppressed by stronger or richer people and the list goes on.

Prayer

Prayer is like giving a compliment. Just as we humans feel happy when someone praises us or gives us a reward, the gods feel the same way. In Hindu scriptures, there are many stories where people, whether they are regular folks or even demons, meditate and praise a god so much that the god appears before them. When the god is pleased, the person knows that they can ask for almost anything, and they usually get a special favor that makes them very strong. But here’s the twist: when they get this power, things change. Good people can turn bad because power can corrupt even the best of us.

In a scene from the Bhagavata Purana, God Vishnu, who was once seen just a glowing light, transforms himself into a human form with four arms, holding a club (gada) and a flaming wheel (sudarshan chakra). He’s sitting with his legs crossed in a lotus position (padmasana), and his radiance is like the brightness of a thousand suns. Other powerful gods like Brahma, Shiva, and Indra bow down to him with great respect. Vishnu promises to help them to solve the big cosmic issue of harnessing Amrita.

So, the gods play a role in the cosmic drama, which is full of conflicts between good and evil. This tension between good and bad will keep going as long as the world exists. Struggles are just a part of how the world works, and the story continues.

Salvation

A long, long time ago in the heart of a dense forest, there thrived a harmonious herd of elephants. On a scorching day, the wise and experienced leader of this majestic herd decided to lead them to a nearby lake. The purpose was twofold – to quench their thirst and revel in the joy of water activities, a favorite pastime among elephants.

As the elephants joyfully immersed themselves in the cool waters of the lake, unknown to them an unforeseen danger lurked beneath the surface. A colossal alligator, residing in the depths of the lake, seized the opportunity to strike. With sudden ferocity, it clamped its powerful jaws around the leader’s leg, trapping him in a vice-like grip.

Panic spread through the herd as their leader struggled against the relentless predator. In that desperate moment, the beleaguered elephant turned to the divine, invoking the name of Lord Narayana, the preserver and protector of the world.

Responding to the earnest plea of the distressed elephant, Lord Vishnu swiftly descended from the heavens, mounted on his divine eagle, Garuda. The air crackled with divine energy as the god approached the scene of the unfolding crisis.

With a decisive and compassionate gesture, Lord Vishnu drew his divine weapon and cleaved the colossal alligator into two halves, liberating the trapped elephant. The atmosphere, once thick with tension, now resonated with relief and gratitude.

As the celestial intervention unfolded, a divine transformation occurred. The rescued elephant, bathed in the ethereal glow of divine grace, underwent a metamorphosis. In the aftermath of this miraculous rescue, the once earthly being had ascended to a divine realm. The painting capturing this momentous event portrayed the transformed elephant in hues of celestial blue, standing alongside Lord Vishnu. The transformed elephant returns his gratitude to the Lord by bowing down in reverence.

In the final moments of the tale, the God-incarnate elephant leader found himself in the embrace of divine destiny. Lord Vishnu, the cosmic architect, swept down from the heavens to escort the elephant to the ethereal realms of Vaikuntha Loka. Perched upon a celestial Puspak Vimana, propelled by the vibrancy of cosmic energies, they embarked on a journey beyond the mortal plane.

The radiant glow of benevolence surrounded Lord Vishnu as he bestowed this celestial reward upon the noble elephant, a leader among his kind. The great deeds of compassion and righteousness performed on the earthly stage had not gone unnoticed by the divine forces that govern the universe. It was a poignant lesson etched in the cosmic order that good deeds, no matter how small or humble, resonate through the fabric of cosmos.

As the Puspak Vimana ascended, carrying with it the godly embodiment of the elephant leader, the heavens themselves seemed to whisper tales of gratitude. Other gods and celestial beings like Gandharvas and Kinnaras welcomed the party by playing musical instruments. With the sound of music, Lord Vishnu and elephant-god were escorted by them all the way to Vaikuntha. The celestial chariot soared through the skies inching to reach its destination.

In this celestial odyssey, the overarching message echoed through the cosmos: that every act of kindness, every flicker of compassion, is a thread that weaves into the grand tapestry of cosmic justice. The elephant leader, now adorned with the radiance of divine approval, became a beacon in the night sky — a testament to the belief that, in the cosmic ledger, our good deeds are inscribed, awaiting their moment to ascend on the wings of celestial grace.

These pages from the Bhagavat Purana manuscript narrated the story of salvation in two parts—the lower section depicted the earthly realm, symbolized by the jungle and the lake, while the upper portion, bathed in heavenly red hues, represented the divine realm. Together, they encapsulated the tale of an animal in distress, transcending its mortal bounds to become a deity in the eyes of the compassionate Lord Vishnu. Even an animal has a chance to attain heavenly realm (Vaikuntha Loka) if he performs his dharma (duty) toward his herd as the leader did with selfish dedication, he is bound to receive the grace of God—his salvation is certain.

Samudra Manthan 3

The story of Samudra Manthan continues…..

In the realm of gods and demons, a monumental task lay ahead. All the necessary items had been gathered for a great undertaking, but as the colossal Mount Meru was carefully lowered into the vast expanse of the ocean to serve as the churning stick, an unforeseen challenge arose. The tallest and heaviest mountain of the world began to sink inexorably into the depths of the sea.

Desperate to avert disaster, God Vishnu sprang into action, his divine form transforming into that of a tortoise. With unshakable determination, he positioned himself beneath the sinking mountain, using his sturdy back as a support. It was a momentous decision that marked the birth of Vishnu’s second incarnation, known as Kurma Avatar.

With Mount Meru now securely cradled by the tortoise’s unwavering strength, the gods and demons, traditionally rivals, found themselves united by a common goal. They encircled the colossal mountain, binding it with a massive, serpentine rope known as Ananta Naga. Yet, an intricate problem remained, for the Naga was no ordinary rope; it was a living being with a head and a tail.

Churning the vast ocean required holding both ends of the rope and pulling them in harmony. The vexing question that lingered in the minds of the gods and demons alike was who would bear the responsibility of holding the Naga’s lethal head and its non-lethal tail. The gods, renowned for their intelligence and cunning, were far from eager to take hold of the Naga’s head, for they feared the wrath of the formidable serpent.

However, the gods were determined to find a solution that would safeguard their interests. With clever strategy, they gathered in secret and devised a plan to manipulate the situation. They then approached the demons, their rivals, with a seemingly humble proposition.

“Dear friends,” the gods spoke diplomatically, “we harbor no disrespect for your kind, but it is an undeniable truth that we are gods. Among all living beings, we hold the esteemed status of being the best. Therefore, it is only fitting that we, the most superior among all living beings, should hold the head of the Naga. After all, the head is undeniably the most esteemed part of any living entity, and we, as gods, are the epitome of living beings.”

The gods, it seemed, had employed reverse psychology in their quest to ensure their own advantage in the monumental task that lay ahead. As tensions simmered between the gods and demons over who would claim the head of Ananta Naga, the demons too huddled in earnest discussion, their decision-making process shrouded in determination.

“Apologies, dear gods,” King Bali, their spokesperson declared with an air of defiance, “but we find ourselves in stark disagreement with your proposed arrangement. It is not a matter of mere preference but a matter of might and authority. We have, in the past, proven our dominance on the battlefield, and it is undeniable that we hold the reins of power. As the rightful rulers of the heavenly domains, we assert our prerogative to grasp the Naga’s head. There is no room for further discussion.”

The demons’ proclamation was met with an air of relief by the gods, for it was precisely the response they had hoped for. The gods concealed their delight beneath masks of acquiescence, their carefully crafted plan coming to fruition.

With the matter seemingly settled, the gods accepted the role of holding the Naga’s tail, while the demons, resolute in their position, claimed the head. Thus, with tensions momentarily quelled, they embarked on the herculean task of churning the vast ocean with their combined strength.

As the ceaseless motion of the churning stick and rope agitated the boundless ocean, a wondrous transformation began to unfold. With each whirl and turn, the depths of the ocean yielded an ever more astonishing array of treasures and marvels. The divine alchemy of their combined efforts would soon reveal the priceless and extraordinary gifts hidden within the heart of the turbulent ocean called the Milky Way.

Samudra Manthan 2

Continuation of the story of churning …..

In the timeless realm of gods and celestial beings, a grand mission was set into motion. This mission, the churning of the cosmic ocean, held a singular purpose – the acquisition of amrita, the sacred nectar of life. Much like the elixirs of ambition seen in the hands of today’s go-getters, amrita promised endless vitality and strength to face the trials of existence.

As the heavens above felt the wane of their divine power due to a scarcity of energy, the gods turned to Vishnu, their leader and protector, seeking guidance. Vishnu, the preserver of the universe, counseled them to partake of amrita, a tonic that bestowed boundless energy and overall well-being. However, the challenge lay in locating this life-giving elixir. For you see, such a precious elixir could not be simply purchased at a store; it had to be earned through arduous toil. In the case of amrita, the task was even more daunting, for it lay hidden in the depths of the ocean, zealously guarded by Dhanvantari, the god of medicine.

To unveil this elixir of life, the gods and demons, devas and danavs, had to join forces in the monumental task of churning the ocean, a task of epic proportions. To draw a parallel, one might consider the International Space Station, an astonishing creation resulting from the collaboration of 15 nations and five space agencies, albeit without invoking divine or demonic beings in the mix.

Ultimately, the mission reached its climax with the emergence of amrita, the nectar capable of bestowing good health and enduring energy. A sip of this elixir promised immortality. Naturally, the danavs coveted this divine elixir, and when Dhanvantari surfaced from the ocean bearing the golden jar of amrita, they wasted no time in confronting him. Unable to fend off the danavs, Dhanvantari invoked Vishnu for aid.

Vishnu, ever the master of transformation, came to the rescue in the form of Mohini, a resplendent and beguiling damsel. Her every step was a graceful dance, her anklets producing a melody that ensnared the eyes of the danavs, who could not divert their gaze from her. Mohini, as her name suggests, possessed an enchanting allure that mesmerized all who beheld her, with her beauty, charm, and grace. Even the great yogi, Shiva, was not immune to her irresistible charm. Enraptured by her beauty, Shiva, the ascetic, followed her, compelled by a desire he had long renounced.
In a painting that immortalizes this celestial episode, Shiva can be seen gently pulling Mohini’s hair from behind, seeking to gain control over her, while in the lower section, he attempts to kiss her. It was a poignant testament to the power of beauty, an enchantment so profound that even Shiva, the mighty god, could be led astray. Hindu mythology is replete with such tales, where the beauty of a woman ensnares even the most revered sages, from Viswamitra to the king of the heavens, Indra.

The Eternal Tension Between Gods and Demons

In a time before history shrouded in the mists of mythological drama, the divine forces that governed the universe found themselves at the nadir of their power, a formidable vulnerability unveiled itself in their divine hierarchy—their power waning like a flickering flame. It was during this precarious juncture that the malevolent demons seized the opportunity to launch an audacious assault on the heavens.

This unfolding cosmic drama mirrored the delicate balance of our own existence. Much like our physical immune system that guards against disease, the gods were at their weakest, and the demons stood poised to exploit their weakened state. In the grand tapestry of existence, when the guardians of order faltered, chaos loomed large.

Within the painting of this timeless narrative, two distinct scenes were meticulously illustrated, each a tableau of its own significance. The upper register of the painting is the celestial realm, a domain of divine majesty. Here, at the very heart of this ethereal plane, was Lord Brahma, the four-faced deity, seated with regal splendor. In each of his four hands, he cradled the Vedas, the sacred scriptures, symbolizing the repository of divine knowledge.

Beneath this resplendent celestial panorama unfolded a tumultuous scene of battle and strife, the foreground of the story. Here, the gods and demons clashed in a frenetic dance of life and death, a brutal conflict between the forces of good and evil. The demons, relentless and powerful, bore down upon their celestial adversaries, steadily gaining the upper hand in the fray. The gods, their divine countenances marked with fear and desperation, found themselves forced to flee their heavenly abode.

This dynamic scene unfolded from left to right, a vivid portrayal of the gods’ desperate retreat as they sought refuge from the relentless onslaught of the demon horde. At the forefront of the chaos, King Bali, the indomitable leader of the demons, mounted a horse, his presence commanding and ominous. Under his leadership, the demons trampled the gods, who, driven by the primal instinct of self-preservation, fled in haste. Their eyes cast backward in despair; the gods were driven from their celestial abode.

In the subsequent panel, we bore witness to the pitiful state of the displaced gods. Cast adrift from their celestial home, they wandered the cosmic expanse, destitute and desolate. With no sanctuary left to call their own, they turned to the divine refuge of Lord Vishnu, the Master of the cosmic waters.

In this poignant scene, the resplendent form of Narayana, Lord Vishnu, was symbolized solely by a radiant, golden hue that emanated an unparalleled luminosity. Standing before a sacred shrine, Lord Brahma and other gods, including Shiva and Indra, displayed their reverence, seeking solace and protection in the presence of the Supreme Being.

The Flood

In South Asia, floods are an intrinsic part of life, intertwined with the rhythms of the monsoon season. Whether through personal experience, anecdotal accounts, or media reports, the reality of floods is ubiquitous in this region. These floods result from the annual monsoons that bring copious amounts of rain, often leading to overflowing rivers and inundated lands. However, there exists another type of flood, one steeped in the religious and mythological texts of various cultures from both the East and the West. It is this latter category of flood, rich with symbolic meaning, that I will explore here, focusing on a significant depiction from the Bhagavata Purana.

The Bhagavata Purana, one of the eighteen great Puranas of Hindu literature, devotes an entire page to the event of the great flood, known in Sanskrit as the “deluge” or “pralaya.” The concept of pralaya signifies not merely a flood but the complete dissolution or destruction of the world through the medium of water. This narrative bears striking resemblances to flood myths found across cultures, such as the story of Noah’s Ark in the Bible and the Epic of Gilgamesh in Mesopotamian literature.

In the Bhagavata Purana, the tale of the flood is intricately linked to the story of Matsya, the fish incarnation of the god Vishnu. According to the text, the sage Manu, the progenitor of humankind, receives a warning from Matsya about an impending deluge. Matsya instructs Manu to build a large boat and to gather seeds of all plants, as well as representatives of all living creatures, to preserve life. As the floodwaters rise, Manu’s boat is guided to safety by Matsya, who ensures the continuation of life and the re-establishment of order in the world. This narrative underscores themes of divine intervention, the cyclical nature of creation and destruction, and the preservation of dharma (cosmic order).

The symbolism of the flood in the Bhagavata Purana resonates deeply with the ecological concerns of our contemporary world. Scientifically, the notion of pralaya is not entirely removed from reality. Global warming, driven by human activities, is causing polar and Himalayan ice to melt at an alarming rate. This melting ice contributes to rising sea levels, which threaten to submerge coastal cities and island nations. The parallels between the mythological deluge and modern scientific predictions highlight the timeless birth and death cycle ever occurring in the universe.

Flood myths, such as the one found in the Bhagavata Purana, serve as potent reminders of humanity’s vulnerability to natural forces. They also emphasize the need for preparedness, resilience, and the responsible stewardship of our environment. Just as Manu was guided by divine wisdom to preserve life during the pralaya, contemporary society must heed scientific warnings and take proactive measures to mitigate the effects of climate change.

Furthermore, these myths offer profound insights into the human psyche. The recurring motif of a great flood in diverse cultures points to a shared collective consciousness that grapples with the existential threat of destruction and the hope for renewal. In the context of South Asia, where floods are regular occurrences, these narratives provide a framework for understanding and coping with the cyclical nature of natural disasters.
Finally, the flood depicted in the Bhagavata Purana, and other religious texts transcends its literal meaning, embodying themes of destruction, renewal, and the delicate balance of life. The scientific reality of rising sea levels due to global warming adds a contemporary dimension to these ancient stories, urging us to reflect on our relationship with nature. By drawing on the wisdom of these myths, we can find inspiration to face the ecological challenges of our time with resilience and foresight.

In 1976, when I was a graduate student at the University of Chicago, I was captivated by a 1648 painting of the Flood. This illustration adorned the cover of the University of Chicago Bulletin, serving as a profound source of inspiration and leading me to study South Asian art and religions. At that time, Professor J. A. B. van Buitenen, a distinguished Sanskrit scholar at the university, was translating the Mahabharata into English, and this painting was chosen to highlight his monumental work. While the theme of the flood is prevalent in many Hindu texts, this particular illustration is derived from the Bhagavata Purana, not the Mahabharata.

The painting depicts a vast expanse of water, symbolizing the earth submerged by the deluge. At the center, a giant fish, representing the god Vishnu, pulls a boat to safety with its horn. Aboard the boat are five wise sages, their hands folded in gratitude as they thank Vishnu for rescuing them who stand for the entire humankind. In the background, mountains rise, symbolizing the Himalayas, the highest points on earth. The implication is clear: when the world is on the brink of being submerged, the Himalayan regions are the safest refuge.

—Deepak Shimkhada

The Marriage of Revati

In this painting, another illustration from the destroyed 1648 Bhagavata Purana manuscript, the narrative begins from left to right, running from top to bottom. The story is about the marriage of Revati, the daughter of King Revata, also known as Kakudmi. The king had an exceedingly beautiful daughter, named Ila, for whom he wanted to find a suitor. Unfortunately, he was unable to locate a compatible bachelor to match her beauty as well as her physical proportions, as she was defined by a taller and larger body. Hence, her father took her to Brahma Loka, the abode of God Brahma in heaven, to seek his help. At that time, Brahma was being entertained by dancers and musicians, so Kakudmi did not want to disturb him with his personal problem.
 
Let’s now analyze the painting in some detail. Brahma, with four heads and four arms, fanned by a lady, is seated cross-legged in the upper far right corner. The father-daughter journey begins in the left corner, as the king and Revati board a vimana (airplane) shaped like a boat. After deboarding the plane, the father and daughter walk to meet Brahma. However, as he was busy watching a performance, they waited patiently. Upon the conclusion of the performance, the father and daughter, with hands folded in an anjali mudra, kneel before Brahma. Brahma, being a gracious host, asked his guests the reason for their visit. When Brahma heard that the king could not find a suitable husband for his daughter, he told the king that everything would change when they returned to earth, as time runs differently in heaven and on earth. Hundreds of years would have elapsed between the two realms. All the people he knew would have been gone. So, there was only one man who met the qualifications to marry Revati. That person was none other than Balarama, the older brother of Lord Krishna.
 
With Brahma’s advice, they returned to earth and arranged a meeting with Balarama. In the lower middle ground, right next to the building representing Kakudmi’s palace, the young, tall man in a deep blue tunic is Balarama, who is met by the father and daughter. In Hindu culture, the marriage of one’s daughter is a major duty for the parents. After giving Revati in marriage to Balarama, the king retired to the forest to spend his last days in meditation. Wearing a red dhoti and removing his crown and upper garment, symbolizing his renunciation of his regal duties, the king, now an ordinary citizen, sits on top of a mountain with his legs crossed, absorbed in deep meditation.
 
Personal Comments
 
Two things stand out from the story of Revati and Kakudmi: galactic travel and time. The Puranas are filled with such stories. With advancements in science and technology, galactic travel is likely to become a reality in the near future, with spaceships shuttling between earth and colonized planets. My observation is based on the presence of satellites and space stations that are already operating in space. It is a known scientific fact that time moves more slowly in space than on earth due to time dilation, which is caused by gravity and relative velocity. However, the farther we travel into space, humans are likely to age differently. The story of Kakudmi and Revati grapples with this concept.
 
NASA has estimated 21 months to travel from earth to Mars and back. Hence, in 21 months, a great deal of change can occur. Even from that point of view, Brahma’s explanation that things would be different on earth when the father and daughter returned holds true. The people they knew would no longer be there. How perceptive such an observation is!

The Paradox of Evil

Is evil truly evil, or is it merely a necessary force in the grand tapestry of life? Evil, in its myriad forms, may appear as a gaping hole, an unexpected obstacle, the engulfing darkness, or even a microscopic virus, COVID-19 for instance, anything that disrupts our carefully laid plans. Yet, such disruptions, often perceived as negative, can hold valuable lessons and serve as vital warnings.

Consider criticism. To some, criticism is the embodiment of negativity, a cruel attack on our self-worth. However, when delivered constructively and grounded in truth and supported by evidence, criticism becomes a potent tool for self-improvement, illuminating flaws and paving the way for growth.

Similarly, the seemingly innocuous evil of a hole (Black Hole for example) or a speed bump on the road serves a profound purpose. Imagine the chaos and destruction that would ensue in their absence, cars hurtling at unchecked speeds, oblivious to potential danger. Such obstacles, while inconvenient, instill a sense of caution and responsibility, making us better, more mindful drivers.

Therefore, instead of viewing “evil” as a force to be eradicated, we must strive to understand its deeper message and its function. It is not a malevolent entity bent on our destruction, but rather a guiding light, illuminating the pitfalls and leading us toward a cautionary path of safety, awareness, and ultimately, self-improvement.

While exploring serpent symbolism, we encounter a fascinating paradox. Enter the Garden of Eden. The snake, often demonized as a harbinger of evil and temptation, simultaneously embodies benevolence and divine service in various religious traditions. This duality is particularly intriguing within Hinduism, where the serpent, in the form of the Naga, occupies a complex and multifaceted space.

On the one hand, the Judeo-Christian narrative casts the serpent as the ultimate antagonist, the embodiment of Satan and anti-God. This negative association finds echoes in Hindu mythology with figures like Kaliya, the poisonous serpent of the Yamuna River, and Taksha, the serpent who killed King Parikshit. These serpents represent destructive forces—forces that threaten and disrupt the natural order. However, Hinduism also presents a starkly contrasting image of the serpent. The Nagas are revered as benevolent beings, protectors of deities and guardians of sacred knowledge. The Muchalinda Naga, who sheltered Prince Siddhartha during his quest for knowledge of life. The protection it provided to a meditating young man exemplifies this protective aspect. Similarly, Sesha Naga, the cosmic serpent, plays a vital role in the churning of the ocean, a transformative act that brings forth the elixir of immortality.

This duality extends beyond mere protection. Serpents are also associated with fertility and prosperity. Their shedding of skin symbolizes renewal and transformation, while their connection with the earth signifies abundance and life-giving power. The serpent, therefore, emerges as a literary trope that straddles the line between food and evil, between earthly venom and cosmic renewal. This inherent ambiguity is what makes the serpent in Hinduism so captivating. It is a creature of both destruction and creation, a symbol of danger and divine service, a constant reminder of the intricate and paradoxical nature of existence itself, a necessary balance like the beautiful Tango dance.

By examining the serpent’s multifaceted portrayal across various religious traditions, we gain a deeper understanding of how cultural narratives shape our perception of good and evil, and how these perceptions, in turn, influence our relationship with the natural world. The serpent, in its slithering ambiguity, serves as a potent reminder that the boundaries between light and darkness, between benevolence and destruction, are often more fluid than we may initially perceive.

The Story of Bhagavata Purana in Vivid Colors

In 1979, during my Ph.D. field research at the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute in Pune (formerly known as Puna), I had the privilege of taking photographs of a remarkable manuscript of the Bhagavata Purana. This manuscript was a unique gem, adorned with exquisite illustrations painted by some of the most skilled artists of that era. Notably, one of these artists had worked in the atelier of Emperor Akbar.

Regrettably, the illuminated manuscript was destroyed recently, but I am fortunate to possess digitized copies of the photographs, thanks to the assistance of Claremont McKenna College for digitization. These photographs depict 129 paintings, and I intend to share them gradually on my Facebook page, accompanied by their respective narratives. As we celebrate Dasain (Durga Puja), I am eager to begin by sharing the pages illustrating the Samudra Mathana, which portrays the churning of the sea of milk beginning with a prelude to the actual event of the churning.

This manuscript holds historical significance for multiple reasons: First, it was commissioned by the Maharaja of Mewar and stands out due to its larger format, which was uncommon for manuscripts of its time. Secondly, the manuscript is dated 1648, adding to its historical importance. Furthermore, the artwork within was created by renowned artist who served at the court of Emperor Akbar, notably Shahabadi (Shah Uddin), a Muslim who masterfully depicted Hindu deities with profound passion and insight.

It’s worth noting that in our modern era, discussions often revolve around ethnic and religious divides and distinctions, leading to biases and prejudices. However, during the period when this manuscript was created, it appears that artists transcended these boundaries with a remarkable degree of freedom and harmony.

The tale of the churning of the sea transports us to a time when the demons had triumphed over the gods in the celestial realm, leaving the gods bereft of their spiritual and temporal authority and power. Faced with their powerlessness, the gods sought assistance by journeying to Vaikuntha Loka, the divine abode of Lord Vishnu, who governs the universe. Vishnu explained their lack of power was due to their vitality deficit and suggested that to regain vitality, they must consume amrita, also known as ambrosia or the nectar of life. Curious, the gods inquired about the source of amrita.

Vishnu revealed that they could find amrita at the bottom of the sea and must embark on the arduous task of churning the ocean to retrieve it. Thus, the gods began their preparations for this colossal undertaking. Recognizing the need for assistance, they approached the leader of the opposing demonic forces. After striking a deal, they assembled the necessary tools for the churning: Mount Meru served as the rod, and Ananta Naga, the endless serpent, acted as the rope.

The narrative unfolds in the first painting, where Indra, the leader of the gods, proposes a collaboration with Bali, the leader of the demons. In the second painting, despite their combined efforts, the Devas and Danavas prove unsuccessful in moving Mount Meru, also known as Mt. Mandara, due to its immense weight. At this critical juncture, God Vishnu intervenes, riding atop Garuda, and carries the mountain to the sea, marking a pivotal moment in the story.
To be continued………

The Story of King Parikshit and His Demise

To continue with the story from the Bhagavata Purana manuscript, I begin with a series of paintings dealing with life, death, curse, consequences of one’s actions, and finally redemption. These themes are necessary aspects of life, and through words and images, they come alive like today’s cinema or video. These illustrations are, therefore, yesterday’s moving images. One of the stories illustrated here is King Parikshit’s actions leading to his death.

When King Parikshit found out that he had only seven days to live and how he would die, he gladly accepted it and decided to spend the time he had at his disposal listening to the Bhagavata Purana that contained wisdom. Rishi Suka, the son of Rishi Vyasa, was selected to be the narrator of the scripture, which he divided into seven sections for narrating within seven days. Hence, the tradition of narrating Bhagavata Purana in seven days (saptaha) came to be established.

Parikshit was the son of Abhimanyu and the grandson of Arjuna. When the Mahabharata war ended, all male members of the Kuru Dynasty perished except Parikshit, who was still in his mother Uttara’s womb. Lord Krishna took special interest in him. The young boy, like his father and grandfather, had the power to conquer the world and become a just king because he had knowledge and power. But power, if not controlled, can distort the person’s perception. That is exactly what happened to Parikshit, and that changed his destiny. When he became the king of Hastinapur, it came with unlimited power. Right at that moment, with the death of Lord Krishna, the time changed from Dwapar to Kali Yuga, as though the day had turned into night. He came under the influence of Kali Yuga. As a result, Parikshit became arrogant and intolerant.

In this scene, Sage Suka discourses the king about the body and spirit not being one, even though Atman resides in the body. On the foreground, a person who is dead is seen lying on a bed, as an example of the body without prana. When prana leaves the material body, it has no function, which remains useless, and it’s fed to the fire as shown in the next painting. On the foreground, there are two scenes—one on the left and the other on the right.

When the news of Parikshit’s cause and time of death was announced, another sage, Kashyapa, who knew the mantra of extracting snake venom, rushes to the site of Parikshit to save the king in hopes of receiving a reward for rendering his life-saving service. Snake Takshya, who was going to bite the king, knows this, and he too rushes toward the same direction to complete his mission, which is to kill King Parikshit. Although they both meet, Kashyapa doesn’t recognize Takshka, who is disguised as a Brahmin. The Brahmin asks the reason for the sage’s haste. When the sage revealed his mission, the snake offered him a greater prize, which the sage accepted, thinking that what is fated can’t be altered. This is the earliest incidence of bribery in human civilization. We see this in a movie when a hired killer is offered more money than the person who hired him; he flips the side, and the hunter now becomes the hunted.

In the next scene, depicted on the left, the king is seated while the snake Takshka, disguised as a Brahmin, appears in real form and bites his left hand.

The third painting is quite interesting as it combines three separate but related scenes. On the upper register, the king thanks Sage Suka for his services. Through his recitation of the Bhagavatam, the king is now knowledgeable of the immortality of Atman (soul). As the sage takes leave with his party, in the next scene below, precisely at the end of seven days, the snake Takshaka kills the king by biting him.

In the next painting, King Parikshit is cremated on the riverbank as his subjects on earth and celestial beings in the sky praise him.

Finally, the story comes to a climax. When King Parikshit’s son, Janamejaya, comes to know the identity of his father’s killer, he vows to kill not only Takshka but his entire snake species on the land, tantamount to a genocidal act.

To wipe out the entire snake species, he organizes a Sarpa Sastra Yagna. As hundreds of rishis chant the powerful sarpa mantra, thousands of snakes from near and far places come out of their holes and jump voluntarily into the agni kunda (fire pit). This is a spectacular scene. Some snakes even come flying from faraway lands to sacrifice themselves. Such was the power of the sarpa sastra yagna!

Love at First Sight: Urvashi and Pururavas

In the religious context, the concepts of heaven and earth present a compelling dichotomy. Heaven is often depicted as an elusive, transcendent realm, while earth, bound by gravity, is easily accessible yet seen as a domain of suffering and mortality. This contrast underscores the perception that birth on earth is a curse, characterized by a finite existence filled with struggle. The Buddha encapsulated this understanding of life with the concept of dukkha (suffering). Hindu mythology also incorporates themes of suffering, frequently using it as a form of punishment. For instance, individuals who have earned a place in heaven may be sent back to earth to atone for their transgressions, effectively making earth a prison where sinners serve their sentences. Such narratives are found in epic and puranic texts like the Mahabharata and the Bhagavata Purana.

The painting under discussion, originating from the Bhagavata Purana dated 1648, illustrates the tale of King Pururavas and the celestial nymph Urvashi. Their chance meeting, subsequent marriage, and eventual separation are portrayed through a series of scenes which I will discuss shortly. Meanwhile it is necessary to understand context leading to the encounter between the apsara and the mortal king. Among the many enchanting and alluring apsaras in Indra’s heavenly court, Urvashi was preeminent. She was renowned for her beauty, charm, and seductive prowess. However, her infidelity—bearing the seeds of both minor deity Mitra and Varuna—was deemed a moral transgression. Consequently, she was punished with banishment to earth. Mitra cursed Urvashi to marry a mortal, and thus, she descended to earth seeking a suitable partner. King Pururavas, captivated by her beauty, fell in love with her and proposed marriage. According to destiny, she agreed but imposed two conditions: 1) He should never expose his naked body to her except during lovemaking; and 2) He must care for her two pet sheep as his own.

This story exemplifies the stark contrast between the divine and the earthly. Urvashi’s banishment from heaven to earth symbolizes a fall from grace, where the ethereal perfection of heaven gives way to the imperfections and trials of earthly life. Her conditions for marriage reflect the lingering remnants of her divine nature, imposing celestial standards in a mortal realm. The narrative encapsulates the struggle of reconciling heavenly ideals with earthly realities, a theme that resonates deeply within Hindu mythology and art.

Against this backdrop, let us now analyze the painting that depicts the story of Pururavas and Urvashi. The narrative is divided into several sections, each scene leading seamlessly to the next. Urvashi appears five times in the painting, engaged in various activities. Initially, she is shown flying through the sky, descending to earth. Once on earth, she stands with her two-pet sheep before the king, who is seated in his palace. Here, she proposes marriage to him under two specific conditions, to which he agrees. In the next scene, right below, the newlywed couple is making love in a large green bed. Interestingly, the king is fully naked while Urvashi remains fully clothed. During their lovemaking, the sheep are shown grazing in the palace ground.

Let’s briefly return to heaven, where Indra, the king of gods, resides. Indra, a debauch and fond of Urvashi, misses her presence in his court. Using his power, he seeks to bring her back by shortening her sentence. Indra, a man of power, employs a cunning plan involving two tricks. First, he sends a Gandharva in the guise of a spy to steal Urvashi’s sheep. As the Gandharva with wings carries off the sheep, they panic and bleat loudly, diverting Urvashi’s attention from lovemaking. She orders her husband to check on the sheep. Startled and obedient, Pururavas runs outside, forgetting he is naked. It is dark, but he catches up with the thief to retrieve the sheep. At this precise moment, Indra, the cunning schemer, illuminates the dark room with lightning, revealing Pururavas’ nudity. As the god of clouds and lightning, Indra chooses this opportune moment to light up the sky.
The story of Urvashi and Pururavas is found in the Rigveda (X.95.1–18) and the Śatapaṭha Brāhmaṇa (XI.5.1). Later versions appear in the Mahābhārata, the Harivaṃsa, the Viṣṇu Purāṇa, the Matsya Purāṇa, and the Bhāgavata Purāṇa. Although the basic storyline is consistent across these texts, details in the Bhagavata Purana vary significantly. Since this painting is based on the Bhagavata Purana manuscript, I have used the BP version here.

Because Pururavas failed both conditions, Urvashi leaves him. She is depicted in the top right-hand corner of the painting, flying back to heaven. The artist skillfully conveys a trace of emotion, suggesting Urvashi is saying goodbye to Pururavas with her head turned, as if she misses him. Despite the brief sexual encounter with the celestial, it may have left an indelible impact on the human king. After all, she bore him several powerful sons who carried on his great legacy. –Deepak Shimkhada

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