Atonement

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