A golden strip,
gently emerging from the eastern horizon sparked fire on the pristine water of
Chandrabhaga at early dawn. A man dressed in white pattavastra, majestic in his
gait gradually entered the river to face the rising Sun. From the back he
looked magnificent, his bare torso chiselled to the perfection suggested of extreme
handsomeness. The radiant beam of dawn created a golden rim surrounding him. It
was time for his daily ritual of worshiping the Sun God; a ritual that had been
part of his life for past twelve years. Chanting of Surya Namaskar in his deep
melodious voice reverberated in the air; a sense of utmost adjuration reflected
in its resonance.
The Sun was already
up by the time he finished his prayer and turned back to leave the water; in broad
daylight his face looked shocking with severe lesions all over. The fine
features that once mesmerised every bystander were now too appalling even to
look at. He was Samba the coveted son of Lord Krishna from his wife Jambavati.
***
Samba was born under
the blessings of Lord Shiva after months of austere meditation by his father to
the Supreme Lord. ‘Born with many qualities, but he will cause destruction to
your Yadu Vansh’ prophesied the departing Lord, being himself the God of devastation.
True to the prediction, Samba was a prodigy, be it in his charisma or skill in
weaponry; he was the undoubted hero for the Yadava youth and definitely the
favourite within Royalty. As a result of this he grew up to be probably a
little too self-assured for the comfort of Yadupati Krishna.
Like his father Samba
was known for his boyish notoriety as a kid that occasionally created trouble,
though his popularity among peers remained undaunted. His courage led to aggression,
hero worshiping by followers resulted in mindless mischiefs.
Dwarka was often
graced with the sacred presence of sages, as they preferred to seek advice from
Dwarkadhish Krishna on spiritual intricacies; in one such occasion, the young
prince dressed like a pregnant woman approached three visiting sages awaiting
his father’s audience. ‘Hon’bles, could you please predict the gender of her
unborn child?’ his enthusiastic friends contributed to the prank. With one look
at the disguised Prince, the seers understood; ‘So, the descendants of Sri Hari
have come down to this!’ the chief of the trio remarked. ‘Listen, this woman
will deliver neither a boy nor a girl; but an iron club and that club will one
day destroy the entire Yadu Vansh’ the sages pronounced in unison with glaring
eyes. To their surprise the group of boys discovered shortly that the earthen
pot they used to portray the womb had actually turned into a big club of solid
iron. ‘It is your destiny that called for it’ Shi Krishna sighed when the boys
went to him in nervous bout. ‘Grind it in powder and throw into the sea’ was
his advice. The boys didn’t care to take so much of trouble, instead threw it
into the sea as it was. Many years later the club floated back to the shore and
became an instrument in annihilation of the entire clan; but that was a
different story.
***
The court of
Hastinapur surpassed even Indrasabha in grandeur on this special day; the mighty
kings and crown Princes of entire Aryavarta even charismatic Gandharvas from
heaven sat at the ornate main sanctum with much anticipation. The sages and
Gods were present to grace the occasion with their blessings which was to be
presided by none other than Lord Indra. It was the swayamvar ceremony of
Princess Lakshmana, the glorious daughter of Kuru Prince Duryodhana.
At the predefined
auspicious moment Kripacharya, the Royal Priest chanted praises for Brahma,
Vishnu, Maheshwara and initiated the ceremony, father of the bride Duryodhana
invited Lord Indra at the centre stage to preside the swayamvar. The bride was
brought in along with an entourage; the gorgeous Princess with an intelligent
face and gait of a true royal, formally sought for blessings from holy men and
divinity. Lord Indra set mark of inauguration of the ceremony, prospective
bride-grooms sat upright with renewed attention. As the proceeding started Samba,
one of the contenders in the swayamvar jumped of his seat in a flash of moment and
stormed out of the venue gathering the bride in his arms. The members of the
court remained motionless in amazement for some time before comprehending the
situation. Duryodhana along with his brothers and Karna chased after the
runaway couple with nothing but revenge in mind. Samba finally faced them midway
towards Dwarka, a fierce battle initiated between two most uneven forces. The
volley of arrows continued to confront across the sky for the entire day
tirelessly, the unbending spirit of the lonely warrior drew adulation from the
veteran opponents, though Duryodhana remained vehement in his decision to
destroy the audacious Prince. Little before Sunset, the outcome of the war
became too apparent to both the parties; Samba decided to accept his fate with
dignity.
A forceful sound of
conch echoed around like a sudden thunderbolt; a great plough divided the earth
across the enemy line and Balavadra appeared from distance to take the side of
his nephew. ‘Duryodhana! If you are so eager to fight then accept my challenge;
you need to defeat me for winning over Samba’ the great warrior roared.
Duryodhana in turn laid down his weapon seeing his shashtra Guru (mentor for
weaponry) in opponent side.
‘Dev, he has abducted
my daughter against her will’ he complained to Balavadra. ‘Let us take
Lakshmana’s opinion before deciding the fate of my nephew’ Balavadra suggested
in the course of convincing Duryodhana about the marriage. ‘Bhadre, do you want
to go back to Hastinapur with your father? Or do you accept Samba as husband?
Think carefully before taking decision’ the elder Yadava approached the
princess with fatherly affection. Lakshmana took her time to answer, ‘I was
angry with him for depriving me to choose my husband and even hated him for the
abduction’. With a pause she continued, ‘but, my feelings have undergone a change
in these last couple of hours; no one among the contenders in the court could
have been a match with Samba in terms of courage and skill’, her voice remained
calm, though not cold. ‘I accept him as husband in my own accord’ she
pronounced without hesitation, her celestial face blushed in the crimson of
setting Sun most appealingly.
***
It was the lovely
evening of Phalguna Purnima, romance floated in the air on the eve of Vasant
Utsav. Every house in Dwarka looked fascinating with unique decoration of
flowers and rangloli. Young men dressed in saffron and yellow, adorned in
elaborate champak garlands roamed around the streets with phag (colourful
powder) in hand. Especially made bhanga laced sweet and buttermilk were the
favourites of the day at the public houses. Colour of clothes touched the yearning
soul of young lovers, all too enthusiastic to meet in privacy of arbours in the
public gardens; even middle-aged menfolk hurried back home with small treats to
gain favour from wives.
Samba specially
dressed for the occasion looked at the tiara in his hand, the giant ruby at its
centre dazzled even in the soft twilight; he thought of the exquisite face it
will adorn, he thought of Lakshmana; his eyes softened in subtle tenderness.
‘There is a message for you from Dwarkadhish, Dev’ personal attendant of Lord
Krishna approached Samba. With mild surprise he accepted the note that said, ‘An
urgent political debate will cause delay to my visit to the ladies at the palace
on this special occasion. I wish you to personally convey this message to the
minor queens so that they don’t feel ignored’.
An ensemble convoy carrying
elaborate gifts for the sixteen thousand junior wives of Lord Krishna followed Samba
who took the responsibility of representing his father with the message. The
private gardens at Palace courtyard flooded with bright colours, enchanting
tune of flute resonated in the air, colour of Phag caught up in the sky
spreading the most endearing radiance; among all these the young wives waited for
their beloved Lord with ardent fervour.
His tall form
reflected on the fountain water as he approached gently; those mesmerising eyes
full of emotion, that enchanting smile, the chiselled torso graced with champak
garland, all too familiar; the ladies held their breath looking at Samba. ‘Is
that you my Lord? Welcome to the abode of passion in this Vasant Utsav, you are
absolutely an image of Kamdev today, more endearing than ever’, few of the
ladies greeted; their words mildly slurred under the influence of bhanga. Samba
was too perplexed to react at the behaviour of his step mothers when Nandini
the youngest of all came near and fastened him in a sudden embrace.
Like an unbended
arrow he stormed out of the place in utter despair, the news reached his father
at the speed of light. ‘You were so much driven by your desire that couldn’t
even hold your dignity!’ Lord Krishna was more in anguish than anger while
confronting his fallen wives. ‘After my death, you will be abducted and
stripped of your dignity by a petty robber, it is my malediction!’ with these
words he departed without giving any chance to his wives to plead.
Samba was crouched on
a divan, his handsome face darkened in shame and agony; the room was obscured
like his awkward temper, the soft beam of full moon being the only source of
illumination. The shadow of Lord Krishna elongated inside the room as he
appeared at the doorway, Samba looked up; his eyes carried the expression of a wounded
deer, pleading for solace. ‘What is the point in hiding your face now, when you
flaunted it to entice those lonely ladies?’ Lord Krishna lashed, a glimpse of
jealousy passed through his hardened face. ‘I curse you Samba for bringing such
shame to my name! I curse your handsomeness, your face that appeal so much will
soon be full of lesions; you will turn into a leper’. ‘Father, my Lord!’ Samba’s
voice choked in dejection, his eyes moistened in unfathomed emotion. Jadupati
regretted his words, when the moments of resentment elapsed. ‘Take refuge to
sage Kataka, he will guide you my Son’ he almost whispered.
***
The humble hut at
Mitravana was very near to the bank of Chandrabhaga. The austere room in it
with mud floor and walls of bamboo sticks was devoid of any furniture, yet it
was neat and pleasing to the eyes. Samba entered the room with a few champak
flowers in hand, his body still wet from morning bath. He kept those flowers at
the reading corner piled with punthis on Vedas and Puranas. The fragrance soon
filled the air, a cuckoo started tweeting from a nearby tree; he looked out of
the window towards the bright sky. His eyes glittered with deep emotion
thinking of a face he yearned for so long.
It was the tenth day
of Shukla Paksha (waxing phase of moon), Samba completed twelve long years of
his recluse life in devotion to the Sun God. Like every day he reached the
water at Bramha Muhurta (God’s hour), the first streak of light touched his
face as he took the first dip. A sudden sensation made him touch his wounds, he
froze with numbness; a very handsome face long forgotten reflected on the
surface of the water. Stream of tears found way first time in those years of
solitude; he took another dip thanking the rising Lord. A heavy figurine came
in his hands as he stood up, it was a likeness of the Sun God curved
magnificently in black stone.
Epilogue
Samba built a Sun
Temple near Mitravana at Mundira where he instated the statue believed to be
curved by none other than Viswakarma.
Thousands of years
later at the same place another Sun temple was built by Gangeya King Narasimha
Deva I which was named as Konark temple.
*** ***
Note:
Samba in popular belief is shown as an irresponsible and spoilt prodigy who
suffered for his own rashness. I somehow could not believe that a child born
under the blessings of Lord Shiva could be such a savage. Hence, I tried to
depict my interpretation of the misadventures of his life without altering the
basic facts.
©2014 ananyapal ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
