Decoding the Intertextuality Between Mahåbhårata and Mårka~∂Eya Purå~A

ARTICLE

Avian Artistry: Decoding the Intertextuality Between Mahåbhårata and Mårka~∂eya Purå~a

Raj Balkaran

Toronto-based Independent Scholar [email protected]

Abstract Why do four birds narrate the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a? Narrative enframement plays a crucial role in contextualizing Sanskrit literature. The narrative frame of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a exhibits acute awareness of the framing of the Mahåbhårata. The Purå~a’s Birds are in fact direct descendants of the Çårπgakas escaping devastation at the cataclysmic burning of the Khå~∂ava Forest. This hair-raising episode serves as the monumental terminal frame of the Ådi Parvan, which, as the epic’s Book of Beginnings, itself serves as inaugural frame for the epic as a whole. The Çårπgaka account is therefore laden with themes pervading the epic, themes upon which the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a Birds brilliantly comment. The Birds themselves partake in an even more involved intertextual device: they are deployed to address four questions which inaugurate the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a, questions about the content of the Mahåbhårata. This article examines the clever manner in which the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a’s opening frame intertextually harkens to the Mahåbhårata’s Çårπgaka episode, engaging the epic’s avian artistry through its own. Building on the work of Alf Hiltebeitel and Simon Brodbeck, this article reexamines the Çårπgaka episode in light of the story of Ç®πgin, demonstrating that the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a avian frame responds to a core riddle proper to the epic’s own masterful enframement, one dramatized in the plight of the Çårπgakas. The Mårka~∂eya Purå~a thereby not only demonstrates a sophisticated cultural literacy when it comes to Sanskrit narrative, but it also leverages that literary legacy to execute its own ideological agenda, invoking India’s great epic all the while.

Keywords Mahåbhårata, Mårka~∂eya Purå~a, Çårπgaka, Khå~∂ava, Sanskrit narrative frame stories, birds

Four Birds narrate the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a. What is the significance of this narrative device? Narrative enframement plays a crucial role in contextualizing Sanskrit literature. Frame narratives invariably embellish themes innate to the tales they enframe, themes cleverly encoded within. The narrative frame of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a exhibits acute awareness of the framing of the Mahåbhårata. The former was crafted to respond to the latter. The Purå~a’s Birds are in fact direct descendants of the very same Çårπgakas escaping devastation at the cataclysmic burning of the Khå~∂ava Forest. This hair-raising episode serves as the monumental terminal frame of the Ådi Parvan, which, as the epic’s Book of Beginnings, itself serves as inaugural frame for the epic as a whole. The Çårπgaka account is therefore laden with themes pervading the epic, themes upon which the Birds brilliantly comment. The Birds themselves partake in an even more involved intertextual device: they are deployed to address four questions which inaugurate the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a, questions about the content of the Mahåbhårata. This article examines the clever manner in which the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a’s avian opening frame intertextually harkens to the Mahåbhårata’s Çårπgaka episode, engaging the epic’s avian enframement through its own. Building on the work of Alf Hiltebeitel (2007) and Simon Brodbeck (2009), this article reexamines the Çårπgaka episode in light of the story of Ç®πgin, demonstrating that the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a frame responds to a core riddle proper to the epic’s own masterful enframement, dramatized in the plight of the Çårπgakas. The Mårka~∂eya Purå~a thereby not only demonstrates a sophisticated cultural literacy when it comes to Sanskrit narrative, but it also leverages that literary legacy to execute its own ideological agenda, invoking India’s great epic all the while. Before we proceed, let us pause for a moment to think about texts—specifically, how to interpret them. How do we read Sanskrit narratives such as the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a and the Mahåbhårata? How do we read narrative to begin with? The great novelist and semiotician Umberto Eco theorizes that texts are crafted so as to guide interpretation. They posit “model readership” by virtue of the world they create (Eco 1994: 16). Eco writes that “what actually interests us is not the ontology of possible worlds and their inhabitants…but the position of the reader” (1994: 107; emphasis in the original). His work substantiates the extent to which narratives tell us how they wish to be read, by virtue of their structure and content. Narrative texts are crafted to teach readers how best to play the game of interpretation, supplying specific cues to initiate astute readers (and hearers) into the rules of their particular game. This principle is amplified in the case of highly sophisticated literary works such as the Mahåbhårata and taken to a whole new level given the use of frame narratives common to Sanskrit literature, themselves deployed to exert hermeneutic influence (Balkaran 2019a: 6–33). And yes, whatever else the Mahåbhårata is, it most certainly counts as literature—sophisticated, masterful literature. As Hiltebeitel (1999: 156) observes, “the largest inadequacy in Mahåbhårata scholarship…is simply the failure to appreciate the epic as a work of literature” (cited in Brodbeck and Black 2007: 8). Moreover, in the words of Simon Brodbeck and Brian Black:

For although in one sense there is no difference between [Joseph] Dahlmann’s Mahåbhårata (the product of a single genius) and [E. Washburn] Hopkins’s (the product of centuries of accumulation)—both are the same Mahåbhårata— nonetheless Dahlmann’s text seems suited to holistic literary analysis, and Hopkins’s to analysis in terms of the diachronic development of Indian ideas, but not necessarily vice versa. The dominance of the “analytic” approach for most of the twentieth century is consonant with the normative stance of academic Indology, which has been closely aligned to the discipline of history (historical linguistics, historical anthropology, history of religions, history of philosophy); nonetheless we write today in the ongoing wake of a vibrant critique of the “analytic” approach, and in the realization that the Sanskrit Mahåbhårata, notwithstanding its internal variety and inconvenient bulk, is a natural inclusion in any broad category of world literature (2007: 7–8).

Eco therefore gives erudite voice to a (largely internalized) interpretative methodology common to scholars of narrative (not least of which Sanskrit narrative) who are also astute readers of narrative. Consciously or unconsciously, the most insightful interpreters of Sanskrit literary works take their lead from the ample and clever cues within the world of the text before imposing assumptions about the world behind it. This, to my mind, certainly applies to my prime interlocutors within this article—Madeline Biardeau, Simon Brodbeck, and Alf Hiltebeitel—as they make meaning of the primary text.

Birdcalls in the Mahåbhårata

The Final Frontier The Mahåbhårata is a self-professed literary final frontier. It presents itself as that to which there can be no backstory, as that which explicitly and implicitly contains within itself the complete repertoire of all occurring backstories. It prides itself on being an exhaustive repository of materials, as evidenced by the self-defining dictum—“What is here may be found elsewhere; what is not here does not exist anywhere”—occurring in both the initial and the terminal Book of the epic (Mahåbhårata 1.56.33, 18.5.38). There can be no narrative frame beyond the frame of the Mahåbhårata. This formidable work has indeed been referred to as a literary monstrosity, but make no mistake that it demands that we acknowledge it as a monstrosity whose multitudinous appendages graze every corner of the known narrative universe, as they extend from its gargantuan frame. The Mahåbhårata’s eighteen books are framed by its first book, the Book of Beginnings (Ådi Parvan), which, as the name suggests, establishes the genesis of many of the situational elements and characters comprising the labyrinthine world of the ensuing seventeen books known to us as the Mahåbhårata. The Ådi Parvan then is not merely the beginning of the Mahåbhårata, it is the Book of Beginnings to which all Itihåsa literature might trace its origins. As Vishwa P. Adluri writes:

The Ådiparvan, which van Buitenen considers one of the latest major books…shows signs of remarkable redactorial and philosophical activity. It is here that we must look for clues to the thematic and compositional unity of the entire epic. The first major book is of global significance to the epic, as we find here both a nexus of themes that are carried through the entire epic and the entrance into the labyrinthine narrative of the remaining 17 major books (2011: 155).

The beginning of the Book of Beginnings offers a sophisticated inaugural frame, which sets the tone for the epic as a whole. We hear (twice1) of the bard Ugraçravas approaching the seers of the Naimi‚a Forest at Çaunaka’s great twelve-year sacrifice and regaling them with tales of old. He eventually relays the Mahåbhårata as it was originally relayed at Vyåsa’s behest (by Vyåsa’s pupil, Vaiçaµpåyana) to King Janamejaya, the direct descendant (great-grandson) of Arjuna. The Ådi Parvan is extremely textured and evades linear trajectory. While scholars such as J. A. B. van Buitenen perceive the Ådi Parvan as inundated with “unnecessary episodes” (1973: 1), one wonders: necessary for what purpose? While any given narrative appendage of the Mahåbhårata monstrosity may be “nonessential” to the functioning of the core plot, none are alien to its whole. The same thematic life sap circulates throughout its multitudinous limbs, however far removed they may appear from the heartland of its core narrative. If you are attentive to their motions, these narrative appendages

1 One of the great intrigues of the Ådi Parvan is that it appears to possess two beginnings, one at the first Minor Book and another at the fourth Minor Book. For fascinating insights surrounding the significance of this, see Adluri 2011; Brodbeck 2009: 244– 45fn40. demonstrate a grace which bespeaks an orchestration of the highest order. The Mahåbhårata proper is told in segments, occurring at breaks in Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice (sarpasatra).2 As we learn from Ugraçravas, the sacrifice is a ritual holocaust of all of serpent-kind in an effort to extract revenge on the serpent king Tak‚aka. Tak‚aka, however, is protected by Lord Indra. Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice therefore serves as both the initial frame of the epic and as the initial frame of the Ådi Parvan itself. Let us first turn to the terminal frame of the Ådi Parvan, where we encounter an explosive correlate, which serves as both a symbol of and precursor to Janamejaya’s serpent sacrifice.

The Burning of the Khå~∂ava Forest The terminal frame of the Ådi Parvan consists of the Burning of the Khå~∂ava Forest episode (Mahåbhårata 1.214–225). This finale, in fine framing fashion, masterfully evokes to the Ådi Parvan overture, recapitulating a level of circuitry integral to the Mahåbhårata main frame: Janamejaya’s sacrifice of snakes. Prior to pointing out the parallels, let us examine the episode. While picnicking with their entourage, K®‚~a and Arjuna go off together and encounter a lone Bråhma~a who complains of voracious hunger, wishing to be sufficiently fed at least once. Being proper K‚atriyas, the noblemen of course pledge to feed him, saying “What kind of food would sate you? We will fetch it for you!” (Mahåbhårata 1.215.4; van Buitenen 1973: 415). Ablaze with excitement, the Bråhma~a reveals that he is Fire, and he wishes to consume (burn) the entirety of the Khå~∂ava Forest, ravishing its ecosystems and every single organism within it. He explains that he has tried to do so seven times in the past, but Indra poured rain upon the forest at every attempt so as to protect his friend, the serpent Tak‚aka, along with Tak‚aka’s kin and the multitude of forest creatures. The Bråhma~a who is Fire appeals to K®‚~a and Arjuna’s prowess as warriors, lauding them as capable, through their might, of preventing any of the creatures from leaving during Fire’s feasting and preventing also Indra from raining on Fire’s parade. Arjuna consents to fill Agni’s dietary bill upon requesting the means to do so: a bow that can keep up with his mighty arms, and a quiver of endless arrows to accompany it; a thunderous, spectacular chariot, drawn by divine horses; and a superior weapon for K®‚~a. Agni summons Varu~a who bequeaths Arjuna, at Agni’s behest, the colossal Gå~∂⁄va bow, an inexhaustible quiver of arrows, and a divine chariot; likewise, K®‚~a is granted his famed discus. Endowed with the requisite tools for the appointed task, the two heroes ready their weapons, mount their chariot, and rejoice, intoxicated by their might. They tell Fire to proceed with his consumption of the entire forest-realm, declaring their readiness to procure and guard his fuel. And at their jubilant invitation, that lord of seven flames unrelentingly annihilates all creatures, in carnivorous3 and herbivorous rampage alike. We are presented with a gloriously graphic scene in which, despite the creatures’ leaps and scurries, despite their cries and screeches, despite their boiling blood, annihilation prevails, forged by fire, fueled by a maniacal K®‚~a-Arjuna duo. Alarmed at the devastation, the gods wonder whether the end of the age has arrived. Indra releases tens of thousands of rain shafts, all to no avail. While Tak‚aka is actually away, in the field of Kurus, during the massacre, his son Açvasena is present. Açvasena’s mother tries to save him by swallowing him, but she is decapitated by Arjuna. Indra manages to provide cover so that Açvasena can escape, at which point he is cursed by Agni, Arjuna, and K®‚~a to

2 This is a clever allusion to the story of the Mahåbhårata itself speaking of the “interruption” of the snake sacrifice. 3 Recall that Agni is cursed by Bh®gu to be omnivorous (see Mahåbhårata 1.10.10). remain forever homeless. Various divine and demonic forces attempt to oppose K®‚~a and Arjuna but are no match for their wrathful skill at arms. The desecration of life continues, attaining monumental proportions, as the “two K®‚~as”4 march on, as unrelenting as Time itself, intent upon the destruction of all creatures. A disembodied heavenly voice informs Indra that Tak‚aka is safe and that there is no use in engaging K®‚~a and Arjuna in combat, since they are Nara and Nåråya~a reborn, who, when fighting together, are invincible in battle. The voice further implores the gods to retreat, revealing that the destruction of the Khå~∂ava has been ordained. The two heroes roar a lion’s roar at the sight of the retreating gods and continue their gory enterprise. The demon Maya emerges from Tak‚aka’s lair and appeals to Arjuna for mercy, which is granted. (Here, the narrative segues into the Çårπgaka episode, to be discussed below.) Having consumed streams of marrow and fat, Lord Fire is sated at last. Indra appears before them, and impressed at their awesome prowess, he grants boons to the two warriors. Arjuna chooses divine weapons, and K®‚~a chooses eternal friendship with Arjuna. Thus, Lord Fire, having gorged for six days, rests on the seventh day, completely sated: “having eaten flesh and drunk fat and blood, supreme joy seized him” (Mahåbhårata 1.225.16; van Buitenen 1973: 431). Hiltebeitel understandably describes this as one of the “oddest and most grisly segments of the epic” (1976: 210). To my mind, it is also one of the most evocative tributaries of the Mahåbhårata. It carries the reader into a rather surreal space, where he bears witness to apocalyptic annihilation, wrought by the fires of fury. It is a hair-raising account, which widens the inner eye, stirring emotions all the while. Predominantly soaked in the flavor of wrath, the tributary nevertheless insists that its maniacal transgressions transpire for the sake of something grander than vengeance, spite, or senseless desecration in and of itself. One gets the sense that the brutality depicted is somehow noble, the devastation necessary. It evokes in the audience both the senselessness of its violence and the contrary intuition that this massacre is somehow meaningfully undertaken. This tension is expressed in a number of ways, not least through the acts of Indra. He begins as a staunch opponent, because of whose prowess our heroes are made to undertake this task. Yet by the end, Indra is pleased with the heroes’ accomplishment and confers boons upon them. The carnage is contained within the dictates of (an ever-declining) dharma: a Bråhma~a must be fed and a promise must be kept. This “agni-par⁄k‚å” serves as a rite of passage for our two heroes, whereby their strength is tested before Indra and the gods (Hiltebeitel 1976: 210) and they receive their divine weapons (the Gå~∂⁄va bow and Sudarçana discus). Their eternal friendship and joint prowess in battle are forged by the fires of the smoldering Khå~∂ava, an obvious precursor to their respective roles in the great war to come. The Khå~∂ava massacre, occurring at the very end of Vaiçaµpåyana’s Ådi Parvan narrative, evokes the beginning (and setting) of that narrative: Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice, serving to frame the Ådi Parvan. The massacre also poignantly seals off the Book of Beginnings, which itself, as the initial frame of the Mahåbhårata, is framed by these ominous precursors to the colossal sacrifice featured in the epic’s climax: the war at Kuruk‚etra. That the Khå~∂ava Forest episode is an analogue for Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice is, on the surface level, fairly obvious given that they each entail large-scale destruction by fire. Both the initial and terminal frame of the Ådi Parvan present us with mirrored sacrifices: given that Janamejaya’s “burning” of the snakes constitutes a consecrated “sacrifice,” then Agni is a personification of that sacrificial altar, his

4 As Hiltebeitel notes, “The Burning of the Khå~∂ava Forest reveals Arjuna and K®‚~a for the first time as ‘the two K®‚~as’ (1.214.27, 32; 1.219.3) riding together on one chariot, as they will do in the war” (2007: 133). digestive fire representing ritual fire, particularly given the association of food and sacrifice. Agni burns with his desire to consume the entire Khå~∂ava Forest, along with all of its inhabitants, but his efforts are thwarted by Indra, whose rains keep Agni at bay in order to protect Tak‚aka. Five generations later, Indra still serves as Tak‚aka’s protector, with whom he seeks refuge at the time of the Sarpasatra. Why this king of någas is in alliance with the king of the gods is unclear. The burning of the Khå~∂ava is not only a symbolic precursor to the snake sacrifice (and the great war), it is also a causal precursor. Brodbeck (2009: 189) traces the episodic genesis of Yudhi‚†hira’s Råjas¨ya sacrifice to the Burning of the Khå~∂ava Forest episode, where Arjuna spares the asura Maya, who demonstrates his gratitude by building the På~∂avas a sabhå at K®‚~a’s suggestion. The enmity between Tak‚aka and the Kuru line of kings “seems to have begun when Arjuna and K®‚~a destroyed and depopulated Khå~∂ava Forest” (Brodbeck 2009: 223) which was home to Tak‚aka and his kind. His wife was decapitated during the incident, and though his son, Açvasena, escapes, he does not escape unscathed: he is cursed by Arjuna to remain homeless (Mahåbhårata 1.218.11). Christopher Z. Minkowski further details the “dynastic vendetta” between the Kurus and the snakes as

begun by Arjuna who kills Tak‚aka’s wife (1.218.1–11); Tak‚aka’s son Açvasena, barely escaping the Khandava fire, tries to kill Arjuna by becoming one of Kar~a’s arrows. Arjuna is saved only by Krishna and kills Açvasena (8.66.1–24). Tak‚aka kills Parik‚it, Arjuna’s grandson (1.45–6). Janamejaya, Parik‚it’s son, tries to kill Tak‚aka (1.47–53). Åst⁄ka ends the vendetta (1.53) (1991: 397).

Whatever is symbolized by Tak‚aka and his kind (Tak‚aka is a någa, of a mysterious serpentine race with whom humans sometimes crossbreed), they most certainly constitute a force of opposition, propelling the plot of the Mahåbhårata from the sacrifice of the Khå~∂ava Forest, to the sacrifice occurring on the field of Kuru, to the sacrifice of all snake-kind. Beyond Maya’s and Açvasena’s survival of the forest holocaust, the Mahåbhårata makes a point of enumerating four additional nonhuman survivors of the massacre: four fledglings of the avian species çårπgaka, horned birds. Their story—featured in the Çårπgaka subtale embedded at the end of the Khå~∂ava massacre—will prove pivotal to our discussion. Let us turn to it now.

The Çårπgaka Birds Embedded within the Burning of the Khå~∂ava Forest episode is the Tale of the Çårπgaka Birds (Mahåbhårata 1.220–225). The narrative bridge paving the way for the Çårπgaka episode involves the demon Maya emerging from Tak‚aka’s dwelling, cornered by the hungry K®‚~a with his discus raised, crying out to Arjuna for help. The last line of the bridge reads: “While the forest was burning, the Fire did not burn six—Açvasena, Maya, and the four Çårπgaka birds.”5 This prepares us for Janamejaya’s expositional prompt officially beginning the episode as follows:

5 The full passage reads: “Then the Slayer of Madhu saw an Asura by the name of Maya suddenly dart forth from Tak‚aka’s dwelling. The Fire God, whose charioteer is the Wind, became embodied as a hermit with matted hair and, roaring like a thunder cloud, sought him out to burn him, while Våsudeva stood his ground, raising his discus to kill him. Seeing the discus raised, and the Fire eager to burn, Maya, O Bhårata, cried out, ‘Help Arjuna!’ Hearing his frightened voice, Dhanaµjaya replied, ‘Have no fear!’ as though to fill Maya with new life, O Bhårata. When the Pårtha had granted Maya, who

Why, brahmin, did the Fire fail to burn the Çårngakas, while the forest was in such a blaze? Tell me at once! You have sung to us, brahmin, the reason why Açvasena was not burned, and Maya the Dånava; but not why the Çårngakas were saved. The survival of the Çårngakas is a great marvel, brahmin. Sing to me why, at that slaughter of the Fire’s they did not perish (Mahåbhårata 1.220.1–4; van Buitenen 1973: 423).6

The impetus occasioning the Çårπgaka episode pertains to the imperative to procreate, which, from the perspective of prav®tti, takes priority even above and beyond ascetic self-restraint. The episode emerges from the following problem: the great seer Mandapåla “followed the path of the seers, who held up their seed,” and therefore, though he was versed in the Vedas, conversant in dharma, and master of his senses, upon abandoning his body and arriving at the realm of the ancestors, he “failed to find the fruits of his actions there” (Mahåbhårata 1.220.5–8; van Buitenen 1973: 423). Mandapåla asks why the worlds he won through austerities are closed to him and commits to undertaking whatever action is required to remedy his plight.7 The gods outline the problem and the appropriate remediation as follows:

Listen, brahmin, to what acts men are born indebted: to rites, to the study of Veda, and to offspring, misdoubt it not. One acquits oneself of all of these with sacrifice, austerity, and sons. You are an ascetic and a sacrificer, but you have no offspring; these worlds are closed to you because of this matter of offspring. Beget, and you shall enjoy the worlds of eternity. A son saves his father from the hell called Put, hermit. Therefore, best of brahmins, strive for the continuity of children! (Mahåbhårata 1.220.11–15; van Buitenen 1973: 424).

Wondering to himself how he might quickly father several children, he takes the form of a çårπgaka bird and couples with a she-çårπgaka, Jaritå, with whom “he begot four sons who were wise in the Veda,” and proceeds to abandon his avian family, chasing after a second she-çårπgaka named Lapitå (Mahåbhårata 1.220.16–18; van Buitenen 1973: 424). As Agni approaches to burn the forest, Mandapåla, knowing his intention, praises the god with a “Vedic-sounding hymn full of pralayic overtones” (Hiltebeitel 2007: 118; Mahåbhårata 1.220.20). It is noteworthy for our purposes that Mandapåla specifically alludes to the impetus of the narrative in his hymn, saying: “It is after having bowed to thee that the brahmins go to the sempiternal course they have won by their deeds, with their wives and sons” (Mahåbhårata 1.220.25; van Buitenen 1973: 424). Agni, pleased, offers Mandapåla a boon, and Mandapåla asks that the god spare his sons (Mahåbhårata 1.220.30–33; van Buitenen 1973: 425).

was Namuci’s brother, safe-conduct, the Dåçårha lost his desire to kill him and the Fire did not burn him. While the forest was burning, the Fire did not burn six—Açvasena, Maya, and the four Çårπgaka birds” (Mahåbhårata 1.219.35–40; van Buitenen 1973: 422). 6 The prompt occurs between interlocutor Janamejaya and expositor Vaiçaµpåyana. It is notable, given that the episode entails birds, that Janamejaya requests to be sung to. 7 “Where did I fail that this should be the results of my acts? I shall perform the deeds but for which the reward of my austerities is closed to me” (Mahåbhårata 1.220.10; van Buitenen 1973: 423). Meanwhile, Jaritå, unaware of Agni’s boon, despairs at the plight of her newborn hatchlings. She laments as follows:

Here this dreadful Fire is coming, burning the underbrush, setting the universe aglow, and terrifyingly he increases my miseries. And these children of little wit pull at me—still without feathers or feet, yet the final recourse of our ancestors. Here is the Fire coming, terrifying,̇ licking the trees. My sons are powerless and cannot escape, nor can I escape elsewhere if I take my sons. And I cannot desert them! My heart is torn—whom of my sons must I leave, whom shall I take and escape? What am I to do? What do you think, my sons? However much I ponder your escape, I find none. I shall cover you with my body and die with you. “On Jaritåri is this family founded, for he is the eldest, Saris®kva will beget offspring, increasing the lineage of the ancestors. Stambamitra will practice austerities, and Drona will become an eminent student of the Brahman.”—It was with these words that your father deserted you cruelly that time. Whom can I take and flee? On whom must the final disaster descend? (Mahåbhårata 1.221.3–9; van Buitenen 1973: 425).

Note that Jaritå frames the value of her beloved children through the recourse of the ancestors, which is unsurprising given the thrust of the tale. However, in deliberating whether to die with them or how to save them all (which appears impossible), she also deliberates on which to save. This passage implies that it might be theoretically possible to fly one of them to safety, but she cannot bring herself to decide which. Her series of questions takes as its initial frame “whom of my sons must I leave, whom shall I take and escape?,” and as its final frame “whom can I take and flee? On whom must the final disaster descend?” This deliberation is colored by their father’s prediction of their future vocation, each of them will attend to a different religious duty. In line with the threefold debts indicated at the outset, Jaritåri, the first born, will take up the family’s sacrificial rites in order to repay the gods; Saris®kva will produce progeny to repay the ancestors; Dro~a will study and become an “eminent student of the Brahman” in order to repay the sages; and Stambamitra will presumably renounce in order to practice austerities. While, given the overarching theme of the episode, it would behoove Jaritå to save Saris®kva, the assemblers of the text cleverly refuse to choose between these four forms of religiosity. All are necessary: the three payments of prav®ttic debts, along with niv®ttic religion. Nevertheless, the central concern (the religious imperative of progeny) reasserts itself as the sons urge their mother to save herself on the following basis:

Cast off your love, and fly away to where there is no fire. For when we have perished, you shall have other sons. But when you have died, the continuance of our line will be cut. Reflect on these two outcomes and do what is best for our family—the ultimate moment has arrived for you to do so, mother. Don’t be misled by your love for us your sons into destroying the family; for this deed of our father, who wishes for his worlds, must not be fruitless (Mahåbhårata 1.221.12–14; van Buitenen 1973: 425).

They repeatedly insist that she will have “other beautiful sons” and that she is fully capable of finding her husband in order to do so.8 And this would be best for the familial unit insofar as it would secure continuity both of progeny and of joint sacrifice. As for their own fate, “the four fledglings tell Jaritå they prefer a purifying death by fire to the

8 For example, Mahåbhårata 1.222.4; van Buitenen 1973: 426. uncertainties of being hidden in a rat hole” (Hiltebeitel 2007: 119). Finally, Jaritå departs in grief, and when Agni approaches, the four Bråhma~a birds praise the fire and obtain his blessing.9 The narrative then segues back to an exchange between Mandapåla and Lapitå. We are informed that despite his boon from Agni, Mandapåla laments, overcome with worry for his powerless sons and presumably anguished wife (Mahåbhårata 1.224.2–6). Lapitå is provoked by his concern and jealously accuses him of being primarily concerned for Jaritå and not really caring for his sons (Mahåbhårata 1.224.8–14). He replies:

I am not wandering in the world for the reasons you imagine. It is for the sake of offspring that I roam here, and my offspring have come to grief. He who abandons the things he has and hangs on to future things is a fool, and the world despises him. Do as you wish. For this blazing fire is licking the trees and brings a hateful, malign sorrow to my heart (Mahåbhårata 1.224.15–17; van Buitenen 1973: 429).

Mandapåla appears to realize that his dalliance with Lapitå undermines the very purpose of his avian incarnation. The narrative then returns to the fledglings, post-Agni, with which Jaritå has been reunited, weeping and embracing her spared sons again and again. The reunion is complete when Mandapåla returns shortly thereafter. But it is not a happy reunion since he is ignored by his family, and Jaritå, bitter about being deserted, accuses him (as does Lapitå) of not truly caring for his sons, but only for Lapitå (Mahåbhårata 1.224.24–25). Spurned by his family, he then proceeds to project the blame onto Jaritå (Mahåbhårata 1.224.26–31), before conveying to his sons that they were never in any real danger (which they already knew from Agni). The terminal frame of the episode consists of Mandapåla reassuring his sons that he procured their protection from Agni and did not come sooner given Agni’s promise, their mother’s virtue, and their own power. The family then departs for another, presumably more hospitable, habitat (Mahåbhårata 1.225.1–4). Drawing on the description tapasvin⁄ (taken to mean “suffering woman”10) in reference to Jaritå, Hiltebeitel intriguingly argues that the episode foreshadows the plight of Draupad⁄. He translates Mandapåla as “slow-to-protect” (Hiltebeitel 2007: 118) and probes the Çårπgaka account to demonstrate the extent to which it foreshadows a scene central to the Sabhå Parvan, wherein “a husband will be all too horribly ‘slow-to-protect’ his ‘poor wife’—as Draupad⁄ is called for the first time, and then repeatedly, when she is dragged into the sabhå” (Hiltebeitel 2007: 123). I appreciate this impulse to decode the complex exchange between husband and wife within the Çårπgaka episode. For while the

9 While all four of the Birds, in birth order, take turns praising the fire (Mahåbhårata 1.223.5–19; van Buitenen 1973: 427–28), the fire addresses only the last of them, Dro~a: “When he had thus been praised by Dro~a of unsullied deeds, the Fire spoke to Dro~a, being persuaded by his promise to Mandapåla, ‘You are the seer Dro~a. What you have uttered is Brahman. I shall do your desire, and you shall be in no danger. For before, Mandapåla mentioned all of you to me: “May you spare my little sons, when you burn the forest,” he said. That word of his and what you have just spoken are both of great weight to me. Therefore, tell me what I can do for you, I am greatly pleased, my lord brahmin, with your praise—hail be to you!’” (Mahåbhårata 1.223.20–23; van Buitenen 1973: 428). 10 While it literally denotes Jaritå’s suffering, I suggest that it is invocative of a female ascetic, particularly given the onset of fire, representative of tapas, heat. symbolism of the hatchlings becomes fairly obvious (discussed below), we are left wondering why the episode introduces and indulges the tripartite relationship between Mandapåla, Jaritå, and Lapitå. While it is clear that the text is speaking to us here, the question remains—what is it saying? Of course, like any seasoned speaker, the text possesses the sophistication to speak simultaneously to multiple levels of listening. As such, the merits of Hiltebeitel’s reading notwithstanding, I understand it as an ancillary association of the dynamic between Mandapåla and Jaritå. The primary association pertains to a threesome (male and two female consorts) central to the Mahåbhårata’s framing. Prior to advancing which human actors Mandapåla and his consorts represent, let us reexamine Hiltebeitel’s reading. Though Vaiçaµpåyana provides unambiguous indication that Mandapåla is anxious about his sons (even before Mandapåla himself voices that anxiety to Lapitå), Hiltebeitel does not take Vaiçaµpåyana’s declaration of Mandapåla’s anxiety at face value, considering it to be merely “indirection by which we find direction” (2007: 120). He argues from Mandapåla’s sympathetic reference to Jaritå as tapasvin⁄ (occurring twice during his lament) that Lapitå “sees correctly that Mandapåla cannot really be worried about his sons, whom he knows Agni has agreed to protect” (Hiltebeitel 2007: 120). While it is true that Mandapåla ought not to experience anxiety given Agni’s boon, one wonders whether he was merely experiencing a bout of bird-brain flightiness, the same which landed him with Lapitå to begin with. Even if it is the case that he is not truly anxious about his sons’ safety and that he feigns anxiety (perhaps as an excuse to flee from Lapitå’s company or at very least a ruse to make her break up with him), it is nevertheless the case that his central concern is his progeny: Jaritå, like Lapitå, is an afterthought. If Mandapåla wishes to conceal his undying love for Jaritå, then he certainly would not express concern for her during his lament over his sons. Assuming his anxiety is feigned, he deploys it to excuse himself in order to return to his sons. Hiltebeitel, in advancing his argument, suggests that Mandapåla, upon returning to the Agni-spared fledglings, does not immediately make explicit that he secured Agni’s favor to protect his sons because “Jaritå, who does not yet know that he got Agni’s protection for the children, would realize that he did not get Agni’s protection for her” (Hiltebeitel 2007: 121; emphasis in the original). However, moments later, Mandapåla clearly indicates that he has secured his sons’ (and only his sons’) safety, and he appears in no way squeamish or apologetic about doing so. The text indicates absolutely no qualms whatsoever on behalf of either the children or Jaritå regarding Mandapåla’s decision. Why would this be? It is only the children who cannot fly to safety, since they cannot fly at all. They cannot even run to safety—the text makes a point of telling us they are without feet or feathers. Jaritå, on the other hand, is perfectly capable of flying to safety, which she does; likewise, Mandapåla is fully capable of flying to safety, which he does. Mandapåla therefore, while petitioning Agni, requests protection neither for himself nor his wife. It is only the fledglings who are imperiled by Agni. Jaritå therefore laments, “My sons are powerless and cannot escape, nor can I escape elsewhere if I take my sons. And I cannot desert them!” (Mahåbhårata 1.221.3–9; van Buitenen 1973: 425; emphasis added). Jaritå would only be unable to escape if she tried to take them all with her. She is fully capable of escaping Agni’s wrath but laments the prospect of deserting her sons. Similarly, Mandapåla, in his lament to Lapitå declares, “When the Fire spreads and the wind begins to blow hard, my sons will be unable to make their escape. Why, their poor mother is unable to save them; she must be anguished when she sees no way of saving her sons!” (Mahåbhårata 1.224.2–4; van Buitenen 1973: 429). It is his sons (not his wife) who he deems unable to escape; his concern for Jaritå is born of her anguish in her inability to save them; she lacks no ability to save herself. Jaritå is therefore never endangered, and so Mandapåla is unconcerned for her safety. Frankly, at no point in the episode does he show any concern whatsoever about protecting his life, and given the emphasis on reproductive dharma rather than marital dharma, the text registers no transgression on behalf of Mandapåla where Jaritå is concerned. It is therefore too generous to consider him “slow-to-protect” his wife, whom he not only fails to protect at every turn, but to whose protection he remains altogether aloof. The central narrative is about his progeny, and it is his children whom he strives to protect. While each consort accuses Mandapåla of being preoccupied with the other, it seems consistent with the parameters of the account that Mandapåla be obsessively preoccupied with progeny, since the very purpose of his çårπgaka form is to fruitfully multiply without delay. Given that this ®‚i-cum- çårπgaka is given the name Mandapåla well before either wife or progeny enter his life, the object of his protection can be neither of these. He is primarily “slow-to-protect” his ancestors, which is the very problem the tale is designed to address. In asking after why Agni is “so grim and ruthless” (Hiltebeitel 1976: 210) in the Khå~∂ava account, Hiltebeitel draws upon an episode which explicitly contextualizes Agni’s hunger. The episode is given in full only in the Northern recension and either abridged or missing entirely in Southern texts, and therefore was not included in the reconstituted critical edition which includes only material attested in all manuscript versions, relegating passages attested in only some manuscripts to the critical apparatus. In the episode, King Çvetaki, having exhausted his priest through excessive sacrificing and upon requesting an additional hundred-year sacrifice, is directed to Çiva. Çiva agrees to help if Çvetaki offers a continuous stream of clarified butter into the fire for twelve years, which he does. However, receiving so much clarified butter makes Agni sick, and Lord Brahmå advises him that he may be reestablished in his own nature by devouring the fat of the evil creatures of the Khå~∂ava Forest. He attempts to do so seven times but is thwarted by någas and elephants who douse him with water from their hoods and trunks, until he is finally told by Brahmå that Nara and Nåråya~a will be incarnated as humans and will help him accomplish his task. This brings us to where the Khå~∂ava episode begins. This background event serves as the keystone for Biardeau’s interpretation of the episode, which, as Hiltebeitel affirms, is “the only approach to make sense of the episode as a whole” (1976: 218)—through the symbolism of pralaya, cosmic dissolution. Against this background narrative “a full symbolism emerges” (Hiltebeitel 1976: 219) wherein Agni’s illness represents the illness of dharma itself, and especially of the Bråhma~ical order which is need of cosmic restoration. This restoration can only occur through destruction, which, in the case of the Khå~∂ava Forest, is facilitated by the two K®‚~as, the dual figure of the avatåra. The two K®‚~as certainly appear to be overtaken by the mood of dissolution, as they jubilantly annihilate all beings in their midst. Given that pralaya always precedes a new creation, it is fitting that their weapons, their bond, and their prowess are established at the end of this age of their lives, to thrive in the subsequent age of their collective creation. From destruction stems creation: the Khå~∂ava fire transforms the region into arable land (Brodbeck 2009: 192). Furthermore, that the pralaya-esque Khå~∂ava episode serves as the terminal frame of the Ådi Parvan is suggestive of the formal role it plays in the cycle of destruction and creation occurring within the structure of the text: with respect to content, it terminates the Khå~∂ava; with respect to form, it terminates beginnings. As Hiltebeitel writes:

One might thus propose that whereas the initiatory content provides a narrative link with the rest of the epic, the pralaya symbolism supplies a thematic link that continued to serve as a base for further elaborations. Such reflections, of course, neither confirm nor undermine the geo-political considerations raised by van Buitenen, or for that matter by others. They only indicate that the story itself can begin to make sense as story, whether or not it also makes sense as history (1976: 223–24).

Through the lens of pralaya, Biardeau is able to offer a fascinating explanation of the significance of the survivors of the burning of the Khå~∂ava forest, each of which represent indispensable components for a subsequent creation to ensue: Tak‚aka (the cutter/carpenter) as creator; Açvasena as warrior; Maya as måyå permitting the phenomenal world to exist; and, most crucially, the four Çårπgaka birds as the four Vedas (Hiltebeitel 1976: 219). It is clear that the Çårπgaka birds represent Vedic learning and Bråhma~ical religiosity. As Hiltebeitel notes, “not only are the four birds brahmavådinaª (220,17), but they obtain Agni’s favor by chanting hymns to him in a pseudo-Vedic manner (223,7–19)” (Hiltebeitel 1976: 219fn36). That the text prefaces the Çårπgaka account by listing these specific six survivors bespeaks its interest in amassing a symbolism evocative of the necessary post-pralaya cosmological components for creation to flourish anew. One could object that looking to unattested material such as the Çvetaki compromises the methodology espoused in this article: does Eco’s narrative theory not presume single (or at least synchronic) authorship? Can diachronically produced materials be subject to Eco’s synchronic methodology? One of the advantages of his model readership theory is that it is generated by the cues in the text itself. Therefore, even single-authored works may make for poor literature insofar as they betray the very structure of the story they try in vain to tell. Conversely, an author can conceivably complete and posthumously publish the work of another, provided they are astutely attentive to the cues embedded in the partially completed work. The Çårπgaka episode, for example, powerfully serves to signal and embellish the most essential themes of the text. Yet how could this be, if the Mahåbhårata’s constituent tributaries represent the work of different hands, working from different points in history? If we understand the Mahåbhårata as literature which was “collectively authored” through individual hive mind attentiveness to the contours of the work, then “lateness” need not preclude “relevance” or amount to “intrusion.” Biardeau rightly takes her direction from the Çvetaki episode because it possesses a deep insight into the event which it contextualizes. While through a diachronic rubric, the episode may well be viewed as an “interpolation,” from a synchronic perspective, it distils and embellishes the essential themes of the episode. Take, for example, the classical music analogue of the cadenza. It is created by a musician other than the composer, often centuries post- composition and quite often improvised. Yet cadenzas serve to embellish the themes of the larger symphonic work, crafted to exhibit not only the technical virtuosity of the soloist, but, perhaps more importantly (and especially so for our purposes), they exhibit the soloist’s musical acumen as expressed as a function of their ability to interpret and embellish the work at hand. A successful cadenza empowers the listener to appreciate the themes of the larger work, rather than obscuring them; so too with a successful subtale. As Hiltebeitel notes:

Three upåkhyånas in Book 3 stand out as what Biardeau calls “mirror stories”: the Nala-Upåkhyåna—the love story about Nala and Damayant⁄ told by the seer B®hadaçva while Arjuna is visiting Çiva and Indra and Draupad⁄ misses this favorite of her husbands; the Råma-Upåkhyåna—a “Mahåbhårata-sensitive” version of the Råma story…focused on S⁄tå’s abduction and told to all five På~∂avas and Draupad⁄ by Mårka~∂eya just after Draupad⁄’s abduction; and the Såvitr⁄-Upåkhyåna—the story of a heroine who saved her husband from Yama, told by Mårka~∂eya just after the Råma-Upåkhyåna when Yudhi‚†hira asks, having already heard about S⁄tå, if there ever was a woman as devoted to her husband(s) as Draupad⁄ (2005: 483–84).

The notion of interpolation loses force once we understand a model wherein attentive individuals collectively craft a work overtime, in the manner that multiple builders might over the centuries contribute to the construction of a single mansion, drawing from the designs of their predecessor. Subsequent additions—when tastefully done—add to, rather than intrude upon, the original structure. With respect to the collective authorship at play between the Khå~∂ava and Çårπgaka accounts, in order to make space for the possibility that the Çårπgakas could be spared during the massacre, Maya’s appeal to Arjuna serves as the direct preceding narrative associate, itself utterly uncharacteristic of the Khå~∂ava massacre. Nothing in the tone of the episode to this point suggests that either Agni or Arjuna would spare even a gnat from the carnage. Yet that they extend mercy to Maya is a precedent and precursor to Agni showing mercy to the Çårπgaka offspring, since they, along with Maya and Açvasena, are important signposts to the imagery of pralaya dominating the episode. Whether the Maya episode predates the Çårπgaka episode, or vice versa, is irrelevant to the fact that the assemblers of one were attentive to presence of the other. Similarly, the pleased, boon- granting Agni appearing in the Çårπgaka episode makes for a suitable precursor to the remainder of the Burning of the Khå~∂ava episode directly following the Çårπgaka episode, wherein, having completed his grisly task, Agni is completely sated and Indra descends to grant boons. Does this mean that the end of the Khå~∂ava episode inspired the Çårπgaka account, or vice versa? Again, the point I wish to make is that either way, the Çårπgaka episode is clearly consciously interlaced into the Khå~∂ava narrative, richly contributing to, and embellishing, the symbolism of pralaya which is inalienable to the text. Therefore, despite some scholars’ disinclination to regard the Çårπgaka story as proper to the earliest kernels of the Mahåbhårata (van Buitenen 1973: 1),11 one must agree alongside Hiltebeitel that

even if the “background myth” is late, the pralaya theme is probably essential. Indeed, it would seem most likely that this theme, which is woven through the narrative as it is presented in the Critical text, has been amplified by incorporating into the main story the sub-episode concerning the four precocious Çårπgaka birds (1976: 223).

One need not equate its absence of antiquity with inaptness or insignificance to the thematic core of the work. If even unattested material such as the Çvetaki episode can serve to augment our understanding of the Mahåbhårata as a story, then so much more so do universally attested allegedly late episodes such as the Çårπgaka story. Thankfully, the critical edition team was prudent enough to preserve within its appendices all unattested materials, comprising in itself a process of canonization through apocryphization, as it were. Each manuscript is authoritative in its own right with respect to the community

11 The context for van Buitenen’s quote reads as follows: “When we look at the main story, it is reasonably clear that originally it could hardly have begun before 1.90, and all that went before, roughly half the entire book, was added at a later time. In the latter half, too, quite a few additions are evident [including]…The Story of the Çårπgaka Birds in 1(19)” (1973: 1). preserving it and, as evidenced by the case of the Çvetaki story, can often shed light on the reconstituted epic as a whole. Is the Çårπgaka narrative merely embroidery on the fabric of the burning of the Khå~∂ava account, stitched there for the sake of pralayic imagery? Could a four-fold symbol of the Vedas not have been supplied in a much less long-winded fashion? Given the emphasis on frame narratives adopted throughout this article, how might this story serve to specifically mirror the Mahåbhårata as a whole? Would van Buitenen be correct in deeming this an obvious accretion, which possesses “no organic relationship to the story whatever? (1973: 1). In preparing to broach this line of inquiry, we must turn to the illuminating findings of Brodbeck.

A Mahåbhårata Riddle The Mahåbhårata informs us that it is first conveyed during Janamejaya’s Sarpasatra, so the contours of the sacrifice must be somehow entwined with the contours of the Mahåbhårata: in probing the purpose of one, one finds parallels to the purpose of the other. What exactly, then, is the purpose of Janamejaya sacrificing all of serpent-kind? The story involves Sage Çam⁄ka, who, as his name suggests, is fairly tranquil and his son, Ç®πgin, who, on the other hand, is notoriously ill-tempered, described as “prickly as well as austere” and “a choleric, unforgiving boy, prone to grand vows” (Mahåbhårata 1.36.21; van Buitenen 1973: 97). King Parik‚it (Janamejaya’s father and son of Abhimanyu) is out in the woods hunting one day and shoots a deer who continues running into the forest—an omen of evil if ever there was one, since so great a marksman was Parik‚it that no animal had ever before continued running after he had shot it. Parik‚it pursues the deer deep into the forest until he comes upon Sage Çam⁄ka, sitting in a cow pasture in serene silence. Parik‚it asks if he has seen the deer. Having taken a vow of silence, Çam⁄ka makes no reply, whereupon Parik‚it tosses a dead snake around Çam⁄ka’s neck with the crook of his bow before departing. Ç®πgin’s friend K®ça (also a hermit’s son) capitalizes on the opportunity to poke fun at the arrogant, quickly enraged Ç®πgin. He mocks Ç®πgin for being so self-important when his father has taken to carrying cadavers.12 The ornery, ill-tempered Ç®πgin is consumed with rage at the accusation and demands that K®ça clarify what he means, to which K®ça relays what had transpired between Parik‚it and the stoic Çam⁄ka (Mahåbhårata 1.37.1). When Ç®πgin hears this, he curses King Parik‚it to die within seven days from the venom of the serpent king Tak‚aka (Mahåbhårata 1.37.10–15). The hot-headed young ascetic then goes to his father in the cow pasture. Distraught by the sight of the dead snake still dangling around his father’s shoulders and tear-soaked in grief, he informs the sage of his curse (Mahåbhårata 1.37.15–20). It is surprising that Çam⁄ka breaks his vow of silence to reply. Even more surprising is that he replies in a manner so favorable to Parik‚it (discussed below). Çam⁄ka, understandably, is sympathetic to the hungry, thirsty king who obviously was unaware of his vow of silence. He also emphasizes that Parik‚it had been protecting them, and without his protection, they would be in trouble (Mahåbhårata 1.37.20–30). Ç®πgin, still full of hubris, retorts that despite his own wrongdoing, or Çam⁄ka’s displeasure, his curse is bona fide and will inevitably bear bitter fruit for Parik‚it (Mahåbhårata 1.38.1–2). Çam⁄ka acknowledges Ç®πgin’s awesome power, indeed indicates that it is nevertheless

12 “You are full of power and full of heat, but your father is carrying a corpse on his shoulder! Don’t be too puffed up, Ç®ngin! You had better keep quiet when hermit’s sons like us, successful and learned and austere, are passing the time together. What will happen to your arrogance and your high and mighty speeches when you see your father carrying a corpse?” (Mahåbhårata 1.36.25–27; van Buitenen 1973: 98). his fatherly duty to correct an errant son, urging Ç®πgin to let go of his anger and nurture within himself forgiveness and serenity instead. He then sends word to the king to warn him of the curse (Mahåbhårata 1.38.3–12). The warning proves futile, as Tak‚aka succeeds in killing Parik‚it on the seventh night, having paid off a Bråhma~a healer named Kåçyapa who had the power to cure Parik‚it of the snake bite. It is for this reason that Janamejaya (Parik‚it’s son) seeks vengeance and initiates the sacrifice to destroy all snakes, geared especially at the destruction of Tak‚aka. But is none of Janamejaya’s venom to be directed at Ç®πgin, who, after all, is the curser-cum-assassin of his father Parik‚it? The designation “snake” is ambiguous, because while at times it refers to an actual snake, such as the one Parik‚it wraps around Çam⁄ka’s shoulders, it can also refer to a class of beings (någa) who are capable of humanoid crossbreeding. Brodbeck (2009: 226) proposes that Çam⁄ka is a descendant of Tak‚aka. This ancestry would of course hold true for Ç®πgin as well, who kills through snakebite-cum-curse. For this reason, perhaps, Janamejaya need not specifically target Ç®πgin, for, in conducting a holocaust on the entire race, Ç®πgin’s life would be necessarily imperiled. Does the Mahåbhårata support Ç®πgin’s serpent ancestry? We may note that while taunting Ç®πgin, K®ça says that Çam⁄ka is carrying a “corpse.” Similarly, the indignant Ç®πgin replies, “Why should my father now carry cadavers?” (Mahåbhårata 1.37.2; van Buitenen 1973: 98). If in fact they were both descended from snakes,13 we more readily grasp the equation of dead snake with dead body. Yet still one cannot fully account for the extent to which Ç®πgin flies off the handle, irritable or not. In order to understand the deeper significance of the insult conveyed by the dead snake, we must bring in the second, even more crucial, component to Brodbeck’s theory. Brodbeck proposes that Çam⁄ka is not Ç®πgin’s biological father, but that he is Ç®πgin’s lineal father, that is, “the father of a woman with whom Parik‚it had had sexual relations, and their negotiation is over rights to her son” (2009: 225). Therefore, “in this scenario, Ç®πgin is not Çam⁄ka’s natural son but his lineal daughter’s-son,” so

when Parik‚it hangs the dead snake around Çam⁄ka’s neck, this can indicate the position Çam⁄ka would be in were Parik‚it to take the son: Çam⁄ka’s ancestors would die, on his watch. The dead snake around Çam⁄ka’s neck might also indicate the sarpasatra, the eventual result of this negotiation (Brodbeck 2009: 225).

Brodbeck notes further that “as Parik‚it leaves, Çam⁄ka seems prepared to reconcile himself to his lot. But Ç®πgin has other ideas. Ç®πgin’s cursing Parik‚it, thus causing Parik‚it’s death, is his choosing his maternal line as befits his name (‘the one with horns’)” (2009: 226). His thesis accounts for Çam⁄ka’s incredibly apologetic tone, especially given that the sage has done no wrong. The otherwise-silent sage delivers two speeches—one referring to Parik‚it, delivered to Ç®πgin in Parik‚it’s absence, and another to Parik‚it, delivered by messenger in his own absence. Regarding the first speech, we can now perhaps explain why Çam⁄ka appears so sheepish in reprimanding Ç®πgin: “You have done me no kindness, son.…I do not approve of his crime, yet our like must always and in every way condone the ruling king, son. The Law that is hurt, hurts back. Were the king not to protect us, we should be severely oppressed.”14 One gets the sense that

13 Brodbeck notes that “At 1.52.10 ‘K®ça Airåvata’ is listed among those killed in the sarpasatra” (2009: 221fn3). 14 Çam⁄ka’s full speech follows: “Thereupon the father said to his furious son, ‘You have done me no kindness, son. This is not the Law of ascetics. We are living in the realm of Parik‚it is extending some special sort of protection to Çam⁄ka and Ç®πgin, above and beyond his kingly duty as the protector of the realm and all of the subjects within it. Çam⁄ka presents their position as precarious, and while such may be true of ascetic Bråhma~as in relation to the social order, it most certainly is not true of such religious virtuosos with respect to their special relationship with the king. Quite the contrary, Sanskrit narrative measures the virtue of kings—not least those of the Kuru line—by their capacity to perform this prime duty to protect with dignity and pride. What nobler dharma is there for a royal personage than the protection of necessarily nonviolent (and thus defenseless) spiritual adepts? This legitimizes—indeed valorizes—his penchant for bloodshed. How many kings have been cursed by ascetics for improper conduct? Can we really take at face value, then, Çam⁄ka’s stance that Parik‚it “in no way deserves a curse”? Regarding Çam⁄ka’s second speech, the proposed relationship between Çam⁄ka and Parik‚it would account for why Çam⁄ka immediately follows up with a warning to Parik‚it which is much more than a word of warning—it makes perfectly clear that the curse was in no way premeditated and that Çam⁄ka had no control over it. Gauramukha (Çam⁄ka’s disciple-cum-messenger) declares at Parik‚it’s court:

There is a seer named Çam⁄ka, O lord among kings, who lives in your domain, a great ascetic, supremely law-abiding, serene, and restrained. He was observing a vow of silence when you, tiger among princes, hung the lifeless carcass of a snake over his shoulders with the crook of your bow. He forgave you this act, but his son forgave it not, and unbeknownst to his father he has now cursed you, Sire. “In seven nights Tak‚aka will be your death,” quoth he; and Çam⁄ka repeats again and again: “Protect yourself against it.” But no one can change the curse. He was unable to control his son who is obsessed with his rage; and so, as he has your welfare at heart, he has sent me to you, sire (Mahåbhårata 1.36.17–22; van Buitenen 1973: 101).

Parik‚it’s introduction to Çam⁄ka (through his pupil’s message) appears quite contrived. Would Parik‚it not be aware of this great ascetic dwelling in his domain? Would he really need to be reminded of the incident which occurred only hours before? The message appears to be crafted such as (a) to give the impression to its story-world audience that Parik‚it and Çam⁄ka have not only not had any previous dealings, but that they do not even know of each other’s existence; and (b) to clarify the precise extent of their interaction as occurring that afternoon, verifying that it comprises the sole occasion of their interaction. Çam⁄ka takes the risk of revealing their relationship by sending a note to the court of Parik‚it, a risk he is inclined to mitigate by these aforementioned, well- intentioned contrivances. Çam⁄ka’s vow of silence perhaps then symbolizes to the reader this mighty king and are protected by him in accordance with the Laws. I do not approve of his crime, yet our like must always and in every way condone the ruling king, son. The Law that is hurt, hurts back. Were the king not to protect us, we should be severely oppressed; we should not be able to live the Law as we desire. It is because we are protected by kings who do see the scriptures, son, that we reap abundant merit of Law, and they have their share of it. Parik‚it especially has been protecting us, like his great- grandfather did, as subjects should be protected by a king. He came here today hungry, tired, and wretched; and that he did what he did was doubtless because he did not know of my vow. Therefore you have acted foolishly and rashly, and done him a wrong, for the king in no way deserves a curse from us, son’” (Mahåbhårata 1.37.20–30; van Buitenen 1973: 99). his avowed silence of the dynamic between himself and Parik‚it, a silence to be broken by Ç®πgin’s curse. When Parik‚it first comes across Çam⁄ka, he pretends to introduce himself in order to indicate that they do not have any current dealings, and thus overcompensates in introducing himself as “Parik‚it, son of Abhimanyu” (Mahåbhårata 1.36.17; van Buitenen 1973: 97). Are we expected to believe that Çam⁄ka is ignorant of the lord of his own realm, the man of whose protection he appears acutely cognizant while reprimanding Ç®πgin? Can we really expect a sage to be oblivious to the line of kings hailing from the apocalyptic events at Kuruk‚etra? Would the great Kuru heir really presume himself unknown to the inhabitants of his realm? When K®ça taunts Ç®πgin about the incident, he starts by saying: “King Parik‚it was running about hunting today and then hung a dead snake from your father’s shoulder, friend” (Mahåbhårata 1.37.2; van Buitenen 1973: 98). There is no need to introduce King Parik‚it. Ç®πgin responds with “What had my father done wrong to that evil king?” (Mahåbhårata 1.37.3; van Buitenen 1973: 98). Both youths appear to be fully aware of the ruler of their realm, as one would expect. Also, given Çam⁄ka’s tranquil disposition, it is surprising that Ç®πgin would assume his father ill-treated the king, that is, surprising in the absence of existing dissention between them. Ç®πgin’s response implies that he already regards Parik‚it as an evil man. His anger may well be a reaction to Parik‚it’s abandonment of him, as Brodbeck argues. Parik‚it’s introduction to Çam⁄ka therefore appears gratuitous and is perhaps contrived, like Çam⁄ka’s court message, in order to maintain the façade that they have had no prior dealings whatsoever. In this vein, when Çam⁄ka refrains from answering Parik‚it’s query about the whereabouts of his lost deer, Parik‚it does not bother to ask about Çam⁄ka’s silence, nor does he even repeat his query. He assumes that Çam⁄ka is spitefully silent towards him. The perceived slight appears dependent upon some existing bad blood between them, as evidenced by Parik‚it’s disproportionately rash response. How else do we begin to account for Parik‚it’s desecration of this silent holy man? While he would surely consider a tranquil, silent sage to be observing some sort of spiritual practice (or would at least attempt to clarify the reason for the sage’s silence), he assumes insolence on the part of Çam⁄ka. Parik‚it may well perceive Çam⁄ka’s silence as a spiteful mockery of his avowed secrecy. This same silence, then, that functions for the astute reader (in the world beyond the text) as symbolic of Çam⁄ka’s avowed secrecy, doubly functions for Parik‚it (in the world within the text) as perceived insolence. This startling dynamic between Çam⁄ka and Parik‚it renders Ç®πgin Janamejaya’s “previously unknown elder half-brother” (Brodbeck 2009: 238). This relationship therefore completes in Janamejaya’s generation a four-generation pattern pervading his patriline whereby heirs to the throne are obtained through second-born sons: for example, “Parik‚it, like Çaµtanu, got his heir from his second wife” (Brodbeck 2009: 226). Similarly, Yudhi‚†hira’s reign was sorrowful “principally because he had ordered the killing of Kar~a, his previously unknown elder half-brother” (Brodbeck 2009: 238). Brodbeck writes:

So might Janamejaya’s abandoning the sarpasatra mean he realises, during the event, that he doesn’t want to order the killing of his own half-brother? When the satra is abandoned, Tak‚aka is falling from Indra’s heaven. Those of his descendants listed at 1.52:7–9 have already perished, and the rest would have followed; but since Tak‚aka survives, his line must survive. At 15.43 Janamejaya meets Parik‚it and anoints him for heaven as a good heir can; but he also meets Ç®πgin whom he can know to be a spared brother, and Çam⁄ka whom both brothers now have spared (2009: 238).

While the Mahåbhårata is far from forthcoming about the proposed Ç®πgin-Çam⁄ka- Parik‚it connection, perhaps that is just the point: the Ådi Parvan framing of the Mahåbhårata presents a riddle which invites astute readers to explore. Brodbeck’s theory does seem to answer some questions: Why does Ç®πgin curse Parik‚it to die by snakebite? And why specifically by the venom of Tak‚aka? Why does Parik‚it choose to toss a snake around Çam⁄ka’s shoulders? Why does he use his bow (symbol of his K‚atriya prowess) to do so? If Ç®πgin is yet a boy, why does he describe his father as already elderly? Given the plethora of tales explaining sage procreation, why is the Mahåbhårata silent on how the self-composed sage Çam⁄ka managed to father a son? Ç®πgin’s mother is conspicuously absent from the text, she is never once mentioned or even named. And perhaps this is just the sort of silence needed to invite the reader to investigate, infer, engage—in part to author—the Mahåbhårata’s frame, as does Brodbeck through his proposition of Çam⁄ka’s invisible putrikå birthing Ç®πgin with Parik‚it’s seed. Brodbeck’s thesis assists in attending to a line of questioning more central to this study, specifically, pralaya motif notwithstanding, how the Çårπgaka episode relates to the burning of the Khå~∂ava Forest. Ç®πgin is not the only Bråhma~a-serpent hybrid that plays a crucial role in Janamejaya’s Sarpasatra: Ç®πgin is instrumental in starting it, while the Bråhma~a- serpent hybrid Åst⁄ka is instrumental in ending it, saving the surviving snakes from death by sacrificial fire. Åst⁄ka is the son of Jaratkåru, a male Bråhma~a ascetic who finds his ancestral spirits hanging upside down in a cave, by a single string of grass, being devoured by a rat nesting in the cave.15 They explain that they suffer for lack of progeny since their single descendant (the same Jaratkåru to whom they speak, unknown to them as their descendant)

has become an ascetic…[and] in his folly he does not want to take a wife in order to beget a son, and therefore we are hanging here in this cave, because our line is extinct, helpless with such a helper, as though we were criminals (Mahåbhårata 1.13.15–17; van Buitenen 1973: 69).

Jaratkåru reveals himself as that descendant and asks what course of action will remedy the situation. They instruct him to strive for the continuation of the family, saying:

For by neither merits of Law nor high-piled austerities do people in this world gain the goal that others reach by having sons. Put your efforts into wedding a wife and your mind on begetting offspring, as we now instruct you, son of ours! You are our last recourse (Mahåbhårata 1.13.20–25; van Buitenen 1973: 69–70).

The problem presented here should sound familiar: it is reminiscent of Mandapåla’s plight in the beginning of the Çårπgaka episode. The Bråhma~a Jaratkåru’s story is cleverly superimposed upon Mandapåla’s. Jaratkåru agrees to marry as long as his wife is proffered to him as alms and that she bears his name. Shortly thereafter, Våsuki offers him his sister as a bride, also of the name Jaratkåru. That both Bråhma~a and snake bear the same name blurs the boundaries between the two species. We might also note the similarities between the name Jaratkåru

15 This is resonant with the rat hole in the Çårπgaka story of whose inhabitant Mandapåla’s progeny are terrified. (Jaratkåru’s wife) and Jaritå (Mandapåla’s wife).16 The snake Jaratkåru, Våsuki’s sister, was the last recourse for the survival of the serpent race. The species was cursed by their own primordial mother thus: “Fire who is driven by Wind shall burn you at Janamejaya’s sacrifice” (Mahåbhårata 1.13.35; van Buitenen 1973: 70). However, Brahmå prophesizes that through Jaratkåru’s offspring, Janamejaya’s sacrifice would be halted, sparing the properly behaved snakes once the ill-behaved ones have been destroyed. The Bråhma~a Jaratkåru marries a nonhuman dvija in serpent form, while Mandapåla marries one in bird form since “snakes and birds are dvija (twiceborn), born then born again from the egg, as human dvija graduates have second births from the guru-plus-instruction” (Brodbeck 2009: 226). Just as he displeases his ancestors and needs offspring quickly, so does Mandapåla. Like Mandapåla, Jaratkåru “acquitted himself of his debts: the Gods he satisfied with sacrifices of various stipends, the seers with his scholarship, and his ancestors with progeny” (Mahåbhårata 1.13.40-45; van Buitenen 1973: 71). Furthermore, just as Jaratkåru abandons his wife and yet-to-be-born offspring, so does Mandapåla. Jaratkåru’s progeny, Åst⁄ka, succeeds in interrupting Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice through singing praises. In like manner, Mandapåla’s offspring interrupt the burning of the Khå~∂ava. It is perhaps for this reason that the Çårπgaka episode “interrupts” the account of the burning of the Khå~∂ava. While this interpretation augments the centrality of the Çårπgaka episode to the framing of the Mahåbhårata, it does nothing to account for the ancillary (but prominent) emphasis of the episode: the exchange between Mandapåla, Jaritå, and Lapitå. How do we make sense of this element? That “Ugraçravas suggestively intercuts the stories of Jaratkåru and Parik‚it (1.36– 45), and Jaratkåru’s brief marriage implies Parik‚it’s obscured liaison with Çam⁄ka’s daughter” (Brodbeck 2009: 243). Otherwise, it is unclear why the assemblers of the Mahåbhårata would choose to alternate between these two otherwise obliquely related episodes. Aided by Brodbeck’s insight, however, one comes to understand that the assemblers of the epic intermittently juxtapose scenes from the genesis of Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice (the Parik‚it-Ç®πgin episode) and scenes from the outcome of the snake sacrifice (the Jaratkåru-Åst⁄ka episode). Thus, both of these episodes are in tandem superimposed upon the Çårπgaka account, where, from one perspective, we perceive the semblance of Mandapåla’s progeny and Jaratkåru’s (that is, Åst⁄ka) and, from a second perspective, we perceive the semblance of Mandapåla’s progeny and Parik‚it’s (that is, Ç®πgin). That the assemblers chose to tell a tale about Çårπgakas is etymologically suggestive of this association with Ç®πgin.17 How do the Çårπgaka fledglings represent Ç®πgin? Just as Ç®πgin was spared from the snake sacrifice (by a boon granted to Åst⁄ka), the Çårπgakas were spared from the burning of the Khå~∂ava Forest (by a boon granted to Mandapåla). Both progenies represent the last resort for the continuity of their respective lineages in the face of extermination by fire. Were the fledglings to perish, Mandapåla, like Çam⁄ka, would feel the ancestral weight of the “dead snake” around his shoulders. Taken in relation to his offspring (who alternately represent Åst⁄ka and

16 Jaritå cannot mean “old” given that she is specifically described as young and attractive and fully capable of regaining her husband. As for the etymology of Jaratkåru, the Mahåbhårata supplies it at 1.36.2–4 where Çaunaka asks after the etymology. 17 Ç®πga refers to a horn or summit; ç®πgin therefore denotes that which is horned, crested, peaked (possessing a horn). Çårπga means made of horn, corneous, thus Çårπgakas are a kind of horned bird. See Monier-Williams 2006: 1087. Ç®πgin18), Mandapåla alternately represents Jaratkåru and Parik‚it. The semblance to Parik‚it is where we might interpret Mandapåla’s relationship with his two consorts. If Mandapåla represents Parik‚it, his two consorts Jaritå and Lapitå represent Parik‚it’s two consorts: Jaritå represents Çam⁄ka’s daughter with whom he first conceives (and probably even married), and Lapitå represents his second consort, Mådravat⁄ (Mahåbhårata 1.90.93). It is worth noting (in reference to Hiltebeitel’s basis for comparing Jaritå and Draupad⁄) that Mandapåla’s first consort is referred to as a tapasvin⁄, which can be taken as an allusion to the ascetic’s (tapasvin’s) daughter with whom Parik‚it couples. Presumably the ascetic Çam⁄ka’s daughter would have also been an ascetic of sorts in her own right. Hiltebeitel notes that we first hear the term “when Jaritå starts bewailing the onset of Agni” (2007: 120). The image of heat, as derived from austerities, is palpable: as the internalized tapas of the tapasvin burns away the animal aspect, transforming the field of the body into spiritually arable land as it were, so does external Agni transform the Khå~∂ava wilderness through means of searing purification. This passage therefore likens Jaritå to an ascetic (tapasvin⁄) who prevails in the face of the fires of austerity. The relational comparison to Parik‚it is partial, emphasizing the fatherhood of Ç®πgin (and not Janamejaya) in that Mandapåla does not, as far as we know, conceive with Lapitå. The fact that Mandapåla, unlike Parik‚it, has no throne—and thus no royal succession—to consider should in no way undermine the commensurate pressure on Mandapåla to produce a lineal heir. Yet, despite the fact that Mandapåla is a Bråhma~a, his name actually befits a K‚atriya, whose duty it is to protect. Protecting his line of succession is the very impetus of the Çårπgaka story. Might this dire need factor into why Mandapåla plays the field with Lapitå, to double his chances as it were? Would it have been too risky to place all of his lineal eggs in only Jaritå’s basket, so to speak?19 Furthermore, with respect to this comparison, we note that the roles of “wife” and “mistress” are somewhat reversed. However, while Madravat⁄ ends up as Parik‚it’s wife proper, we may note that “the Madra folk are criticized particularly for their oversexed women” (Brodbeck 2009: 226), which would render a parity between Parik‚it’s second consort and Mandapåla’s avian mistress, Lapitå. Like Parik‚it, Mandapåla’s first-borns are begotten from dvija pairing of the animal variety (snake and bird respectively), and they are spared from the fires of sacrifice. That the birds’ eggs are laid but not hatched (unhatched, that is, by the time of Mandapåla’s desertion; they hatch in his absence, sometime before the onset of the burning of the Khå~∂ava) is symbolic of a twice-born who has emerged from his first birth (from the womb) and has yet to undergo his second birth, yet in training with his guru. Mandapåla’s offspring, though unhatched, are already “born,” and so already possess names and destinies. Mandapåla is cognizant of his sons’ existence, though he has yet to meet them post-second birth. On the human scale, this represents the period post-birth and pre-twice-born convocation for the gurukula. This is representative of Parik‚it’s abandoned son, Ç®πgin, who, though he has left the womb, has yet to be “hatched” as a twice-born, still in the åçrama, since he is under Çam⁄ka’s care, during which time Parik‚it is absent from his life. The Khå~∂ava fire itself symbolizes the Vedic sacrificial rite of initiation for the birds, whereby they emerge from their eggshells and become twice-born, demonstrating their Vedic learning in hymning Agni. The fact that

18 Compare Brodbeck’s suggestion that “Janamejaya’s elder brother (Ç®πgin) is represented severally, as Vaiçaµpåyana, (Ugravçravas’s father) Lomahar‚a~a, Lohitåk‚a, and Åst⁄ka” (2009: 218). 19 My gratitude to an anonymous reviewer from IJHS for this insight, along with the playful “egg’s in one’s basket” phraseology. Mandapåla returns to his first-borns is unique to the Çårπgaka episode, for neither Parik‚it nor Jaratkåru return to rear their offspring. Nevertheless, the allusion to Parik‚it’s presumed oscillation between his two consorts serves to contextualize Mandapåla’s humming and hawing between Lapitå and Jaritå. It furthermore augments the symbolism entailed in the Çårπgaka episode and justifies its placement within the Burning of the Khå~∂ava Forest episode; for just as Ç®πgin, abandoned by Parik‚it, is nevertheless spared from the sacrifice sustained by Janamejaya’s wrath, so too are the Çårπgakas, abandoned by Mandapåla, nevertheless spared from the sacrifice sustained by Arjuna’s wrath. In appreciating its capacity to encapsulate the riddled relationship between Ç®πgin and the På~∂ava line, we may account for the significance of the episode of the Çårπgaka birds with respect to the framing of the Mahåbhårata as a whole.

Answers in the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a

A Mårka~∂eya Purå~a Answer While one might have misgivings about this seemingly outlandish reading of the Mahåbhårata—one which views the Çårπgakas as representative of Ç®πgin and Ç®πgin as somehow central to the Mahåbhårata as a whole—one’s misgivings might be mitigated by the following fact: the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a appears to point to the same Mahåbhårata connection. This insight is encoded in the backstory of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a’s Birds, deployed as a narrative device to frame and give voice to the Purå~a, invoking the framing of the Mahåbhårata all the while. Intertextuality with the Mahåbhårata is established from the very inception of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a whereby Jaimini (student of Vyåsa) asks the exalted Mårka~∂eya four questions, questions which were apparently left unsatisfactorily addressed in the Mahåbhårata itself.20 Mårka~∂eya defers to four learned Birds, indicating he is too busy with religious observances to answer Jaimini. Mårka~∂eya’s Purå~a is therefore voiced by four birds. Let us be sure to distinguish that the work is not primarily exposited by the Birds. The Birds for the most part serve as a collective mouthpiece21 parroting to Jaimini

20 Jaimini’s four questions are as follows: “Why was Janárdana Vásudeva, who is the cause of creation[,] preservation and destruction of the world, although devoid of qualities, endued with humanity? And why was Drupada’s daughter K®ish~á the common wife of the five sons of Pá~∂u? for on this point we feel great perplexity. Why did the mighty Baladeva Haláyudha expiate his brahmanicide by engaging in a pilgrimage? And how was it that the unmarried heroic high-souled sons of Draupadí, whose protector was Pá~∂u, were slain, as if they had no protector? Deign to recount all this to me here at length; for sages like thee are ever the instructors of the ignorant” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 1.13–18; Pargiter 1904: 2–3). 21 Note that I refer to these birds as “mouthpiece” in the singular (versus “mouthpieces”) since the Birds, though they are four in number, are clearly intended to be taken as a single collective mouthpiece. This may be readily ascertained by the fact that they only ever speak in unison, primarily occupied with collectively mouthing the words of single speakers. No distinction is made between them, and no individual contribution is accorded among them during the entire Purå~a, even when it is they who are doing the expounding. They lack any disambiguating features apart from the fact that Mårka~∂eya provides four names to Jaimini upon first introducing them: Piπgåk‚a, Vibodha, Suputra, and Sumukha (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 1.21; Pargiter 1904: 3). Yet these names appear nowhere else in the Purå~a, and despite knowing these names, Jaimini consistently the words of Mårka~∂eya and other teachers (in the same fashion that Saµjaya relays the words of K®‚~a, except while he relies on distance hearing, the Birds rely on memory). From early on, scholars note that the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a in its current form lends itself to classification into thematic sections by expositor (see Figure 1).22

Figure 1. Expositional Sections of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a

Section Cantos Expositor Interlocutor One 1–9 The Birds Jaimini Two 10–44 Sumati-Ja∂a Father Three 45–81 Mårka~∂eya Krau‚†uki Four 82–92 Medhas Suratha Five 93–136 Mårka~∂eya Krau‚†uki Six 137 The Birds Jaimini

In the words of F. Eden Pargiter:

The Purå~a is clearly divisible (as Dr. Banerjea noticed) into five distinct parts, namely:— 1. Cantos 1–9, in which Jaimini is referred by Mårka~∂eya to the wise Birds, and they directly explain to him the four questions that perplexed him and some connected matters. 2. Cantos 10–44, where, though Jaimini propounds further questions to the Birds and they nominally expound them, yet the real speakers are Sumati, nicknamed Ja∂a, and his father. 3. Cantos 45–81: here, though Jaimini and the Birds are the nominal speakers, yet the real speakers are Mårka~∂eya and his disciple Krau‚†uki. 4. Cantos 82–92, the Dev⁄-måhåtmya, a pure interpolation, in which the real speaker is a ®‚i named Medhas, and which is only repeated by Mårka~∂eya. 5. Cantos 93–136, where Mårka~∂eya and Krau‚†uki carry on their discourse from canto 81. The 137th canto concludes the work; it is a necessary corollary to the first part (1904: iv).

Nevertheless, all of these expositions are placed in the mouths of the Birds who relay them verbatim to Jaimini, for example, the teachings expounded by Mårka~∂eya to his student Krau‚†uki over the course of Cantos 45–136. As noted in Figure 1, the Purå~a comes to a close as the Birds resume primary speaking status for a single canto in order to seal off their interaction with Jaimini. It cannot be inconsequential that these Birds were implemented as a narrative device to give voice to Mårka~∂eya’s very own Purå~ic namesake. Mårka~∂eya could have easily remained the mouthpiece of the work and relayed the teachings of the Birds (as the collectively addresses them simply as Birds (pak‚inaª) throughout. We are guided by the text to symbolically understand them in one fell swoop, simply as “the Birds.” 22 This was noted as early as 1855 by K. M. Banerjea who first edited the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a. It is upon his edition both extant English translations (Dutt 1896; Pargiter 1904) heavily rely. Birds do for Mårka~∂eya himself). Yet, for whatever reason, the Birds are made to assume command of the surface level narrative, imbuing the work with their—and not Mårka~∂eya’s—biographical import. This is doubly important in that the opening cantos of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a strive to establish the Birds’ biography and in so doing symbolically signal their significance to the work as a whole. While the Birds themselves directly expound very little, what they do expound is quite crucial. It is the Birds, not Mårka~∂eya, who answer Jaimini’s burning questions about the themes of the Mahåbhårata, those which inaugurate and frame the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a. Furthermore, this is virtually the only direct exposition they provide, serving as expositor and not merely as mouthpiece to answer Jaimini’s questions. While the Purå~a could easily have framed these responses as Mårka~∂eya’s insight and merely placed them in the mouths of the Birds (as it does for Cantos 45–136; recall Figure 1), it creates the Birds for the distinct purpose of addressing these crucial questions about the Mahåbhårata. It is the Birds’ insight which appeases Jaimini’s questions about key themes from the Mahåbhårata. The assemblers of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a hereby strive to supply an expositional frame showcasing an important interplay between expositor and prompt: Jaimini’s four questions and the four Birds addressing them are each crafted for the other, together framing the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a in an unabashed intertextual overture to the Mahåbhårata (see Figure 2).

Figure 2. Birds in the Opening Frame of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a

Canto No. of Verses Content Verses 1 54 1–18 Jaimini appeals to Mårka~∂eya with his four questions about the Mahåbhårata 19–23 Mårka~∂eya defers to the Birds; Jaimini asks about them 24–26 Mårka~∂eya address Jaimini’s questions about the Birds 27–54 Mårka~∂eya further relays Bird’s mother’s kårmic antecedent curse 2 65 All Mårka~∂eya relays Bird’s Mahåbhårata backstory (discussed below) 3 85 All Mårka~∂eya relays Bird’s Mahåbhårata backstory (discussed below) 4 59 1–35 Jaimini meets Birds, repeats inaugural four questions about the Mahåbhårata 36–59 Birds answer first question (about Vi‚~u’s incarnation) 5 26 All Birds answer second question (about Draupad⁄’s polyandry) 6 37 All Birds answer third question (about Baladeva’s expiation for brahmanicide) 7 69 All Birds answer fourth question (about Darupad⁄’s five sons) 8 270 All Birds relay Hariçcandra episode (answering Jaimini’s follow-up question) 9 33 All Birds relay Viçvåmitra and Vasi‚†ha subepisode of Hariçcandra episode

In the Purå~a’s opening three cantos, Mårka~∂eya does more than defer to the Birds: he introduces them first. Though he is too busy to tend to Jaimini’s substantive questions about dharma (the four that launch the work), he takes the time to tell the Birds’ backstory, contextualizing the Purå~a’s prima facia mouthpiece. The boundaries are blurred between its two mouthpieces: the Birds mouth the teachings of Mårka~∂eya, while the Birds’ own words are placed in the mouth of Mårka~∂eya, as he relays their kårmic antecedents to Jaimini (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.15–80; Pargiter 1904: 12–16). In response to Jaimini’s astonishment at how such great learning might inhabit the brains of birds—and furthermore, that birds may possess the ability to articulate such learning (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 1.24–25)—Mårka~∂eya explains that the Birds are actually reborn Bråhma~a brothers. In their previous life, the four Birds were the four devoted sons of the great sage, Suk®‚a, by whom they were cursed to be reborn as birds by a horrible twist of fate. In order to test the steadfastness of sage Suk®‚a, Indra dons the guise of a tattered and greatly suffering bird23 (henceforth avian-Indra) and begs Suk®‚a for aid, which Suk®‚a promises, stating: “I will give thee the food thou desirest for the support of thy life.…What food shall I prepare for thy use?” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.26–27; Pargiter 1904: 13). To this, avian-Indra boldly replies, “My chiefest delight is in human flesh” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.27; Pargiter 1904: 13). While the sage severely chastises Indra for his bloodthirsty request, he nevertheless agrees to keep his promise and provide the bird with the meal it desires (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.28–31). What Suk®‚a does next is most astonishing: he calls forth his four sons (the same destined to incarnate as the Birds of our Purå~a) and, having praised their virtues, says to them: “If a father is deemed by you a guru worthy of reverence and most exalted, perform ye then my promise with cheerful mind.”24 To this the pious and dutiful Bråhma~a sons eagerly indicate that they are happy to grant whatever it is their father requests. This time it is the sons who, like their father a moment before, are made to unwittingly deliver a dire promise. The sage then discloses the horror incurred by their loyalty saying: “of me has this bird sought protection oppressed with hunger and thirst; wherefore let him be straightway satisfied with your flesh, and let his thirst be quickly assuaged with your blood” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.37; Pargiter 1904: 13). The sons, terrified, default on their promise, which arouses the wrath of Suk®‚a. Angered that they revoked their word, the sage curses them to be reborn as birds. He then resolves to

23 He is described as “mighty in size, with broken wings, stricken with age, with eyes of a copperish colour, down-cast in soul; desirous to prove that venerable ¸ishi, who practised truth, purity, and patience, and who was exceedingly lofty in mind; and for the coming of the curse upon us” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.19–20; Pargiter 1904: 12). 24 The passage reads (note that this, though mouthed by Mårka~∂eya, is in the voice of the Birds): “Calling us quickly and commending us according to our good qualities, the Muni, agitated at heart, addressed a most severe speech to us all, who were respectfully bowing, full of faith, with hands reverently joined. ‘Ye noble dvijas, whose minds are improved, are bound by obligations equally with me. A glorious progeny has sprung from you, just as ye, O twice-born, have sprung from me. If a father is deemed by you a guru worthy of reverence and most exalted, perform ye then my promise with cheerful mind.’ Whilst he so spoke we exclaimed respectfully, ‘What thou shalt say, consider that in truth as already accomplished’” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.32–36; Pargiter 1904: 13). perform his own funeral rites and offer his own body as sustenance for the wretched bird. Impressed by his resolve, Indra finally reveals the ruse and, pleased by the would-be sacrifice of the sage, offers him a blessing before departing. Although the sons then propitiate their father and appeal to him to revoke his dreadful curse, as we have learned from innumerable Sanskrit tales, once a curse is issued, it cannot be undone. To do so would make a liar of the being of steadfast truth issuing the curse; hence Suk®‚a replies, “What I have uttered, will never become false; my voice has not spoken untruth hitherto, O sons!” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.75; Pargiter 1904: 16). But as we have also learned from countless Sanskrit tales, curses may be modified. So Suk®‚a, remorseful that the pressures of destiny compelled him to “thoughtlessly…do a deed that ought not to be done,” blesses his sons to attain the highest knowledge despite undergoing avian incarnation.25 Hence (concludes Mårka~∂eya to Jaimini in Section One of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a) these supremely intelligent birds, minds composed, reside within a cave in the Vindhyas (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.85; Pargiter 1904: 17), poised to address Jaimini’s queries about the Mahåbhårata. The Birds’ human past life evokes themes of the Khå~∂ava account: they were Suk®‚a’s four devoted sons, diligently procuring fuel for his sacrifices.26 The episode evokes, and inverts, the themes of the Khå~∂ava encounter: in the Suk®‚a episode, it is Indra (not Agni) in the guise of a bird (not Bråhma~a) who feigns being famished and, upon receiving promise for sustenance, requests most shocking fare. Agni asks to devour all of the creatures of the forest, but the Çårπgakas are spared; Indra asks to devour human flesh, and the sons refuse, and so they survive but suffer the curse to be reborn as four birds. While both the Çårπgakas and the young Bråhma~as were to serve as fuel for their respective sacrificial fires, Angi’s hunger is sated whereas Indra’s is not. In both episodes Indra gives a boon: in the Khå~∂ava episode, he gives a boon to K®‚~a and Arjuna, pleased at the lengths they go to feed Agni and impressed by the martial prowess demonstrated in doing so; in the Suk®‚a episode, he grants a boon to Suk®‚a, pleased at the lengths he would go to feed avian-Indra and impressed by the ascetic prowess demonstrated in doing so. And while Mandapåla goes out of his way to protect his four sons, Suk®‚a most certainly does not. The Çårπgaka account features protection and emphasizes the ethos of prav®tti, which the Birds evoke in their insistence on protecting themselves from their niv®tti-bent, son-sacrificing father. Beyond their kårmic antecedents, the Birds’ actual avian ancestry explicitly evoke the Çårπgaka account at Khå~∂ava: the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a informs us that they are none

25 “What I have uttered, will never become false; my voice has not spoken untruth hitherto, O sons! Fate is here supreme, I think. Fie on worthless manhood, whereby I have been thoughtlessly forced to do a deed that ought not to be done! And since I am besought reverently by you, therefore, when endowed with the nature of brutes, ye shall obtain the highest knowledge. And ye, having your paths illuminated by knowledge, with the stains of pain removed, free from doubt, shall through my favour gain the highest perfection” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.75–78; Pargiter 1904: 16). 26 “There was of yore a most virtuous Muni named Vipulasvat. To him were born two sons Suk®isha and Tumburu. We are the four sons of soul-subdued Suk®isha; to that ¸ishi we were ever submissive in reverence, religious practices and faith. As he desired, who was diligent in the performance of austerities, and who constantly kept his organs under control, we at once produced fuel, flowers and everything else, and whatever was needed for sustenance” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.15–18; Pargiter 1904: 12). other than the children of Mandapåla’s youngest fledgling, Dro~a.27 While the Çårπgaka quartet collectively hymn Agni, we note that “one in particular, Dro~a, is credited by the gratified Agni with being a ®‚i and a speaker of brahman (223,21)” (Hiltebeitel 1976: 219fn36). It is unsurprising, then, that among Mandapåla’s four offspring, the assemblers would single out Dro~a as the ancestor of the Birds, for he appears preeminent among them. The Birds’ backstory also explicitly evokes the Kuruk‚etra, thematically tying it into the Khå~∂ava. The Birds’ mother Tårk‚⁄, upon conceiving them, ventures onto the Kuruk‚etra battlefield seven fortnights into her pregnancy. While watching the contest between Arjuna and Bhagadatta, one of Arjuna’s arrows pierces her belly whereupon the four eggs fall to the ground. At that same time, a bell is severed from around the neck of Bhagadatta’s elephant Suprat⁄ka and falls to the ground so as to perfectly cover and shield the eggs from the carnage of the war. Days later, while Yudhi‚†hira approaches Bh⁄‚ma on his bed of arrows for teachings, Çam⁄ka, who was among those who heard the grandfather’s sermon, hears the chirping of the birds and lifts the bell to discover the hatchlings. This is the same Çam⁄ka involved in the demise of Parik‚it. Beholding them in their vulnerable infancy, without mother or father, the sage is absolutely astounded that they could possibly have survived the devastation of the war.28 Upon musing on the miraculous nature of their survival,29 Çam⁄ka orders his pupils to take the birds to safety

27 “And Mandapála had four sons of boundless intellect, Jaritári the eldest and Dro~a the youngest, best of dvijas. The youngest of them, righteous in soul, thoroughly read in the Vedas and Vedángas, married her the beauteous Tárkshí, with the consent of [her father] Kandhara” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 2.32–33; Pargiter 1904: 8). 28 “And after a while Tárkshi conceived; when she had gone seven fortnights in her pregnancy, she went to Kurukshetra. The very terrible battle between the Kurus and Pa~∂avas was then being fought, and, in consequence of her action being predestined, she entered into the battle. There, then, she beheld the contest between Bhagadatta and Arjuna. The sky was thick filled with arrows, as if with locusts. Discharged from the bow of Arjuna an arrow, black as a serpent, fell with great force and pierced the skin of her belly. Her belly being pierced, four moon-like eggs fell on the ground as if on a heap of cotton, from the fact that their allotted period of life was not ended. At the same time that they fell, fell the great bell, the cord of which was cut by an arrow, from the noble elephant Supratíka. It readied the ground evenly all around, cutting into the surface of the ground, and covering the eggs of the bird which lay upon flesh.…After king Bhagadatta, ruler of men, was slain, the fight between the armies of the Kurus and Pá~∂avas went on many days. At the end of the battle, when Dharma’s son Yudhish†hira approached the son of Çántanu to hear the high-souled Bhíshma proclaiming the entire laws, a sage named Çamíka came to the spot where, O best of dvijas, lay the eggs within the bell. There he heard the voice of the little birds chirping, whose voices were inarticulate on account of their infancy, although they had transcendent knowledge. Then the ¸ishi, accompanied by his disciples, lifted up the bell and saw with surprise the young motherless and fatherless birds. The venerable Muni Çamíka, having so seen them on the ground there, filled with astonishment, addressed his attendant dvijas” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 2.34–46; Pargiter 1904: 8–9; emphasis in the original). 29 For example, “Whence comes the laying of the eggs, O brahmans? Whence comes the even fall of the bell? And how comes it that the ground is covered with flesh, fat, and blood? Certainly these must be some brahmans; they are not ordinary birds. The favour of destiny shows great good-fortune in the world” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 2.57–58; Pargiter 1904: 10; emphasis in the original). within his åçrama.30 The good sage nourishes and protects them, and within a month, they take flight, circle about, and return to the åçrama, their speech now intact.31 They offer heartfelt thanks to Çam⁄ka,32 at which the sage, again astounded, asks how it is they are capable of speech, as follows:

Having clearly heard this their perfectly articulated speech, the ¸ishi, surrounded by all his disciples, and accompanied by his son Ç®ingin, being full of eager curiosity, and covered with horripilation as with a garment, said, “Tell me truly the cause of your power of speech. Through whose curse did you incur this wondrous transformation both in form and speech? Deign here to tell me that” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.12–14; Pargiter 1904: 12; emphasis in the original).

And so the Birds tell the backstory about their past life with Sage Suk®‚a (which Mårka~∂eya relays to Jaimini). Figure 3 exhibits the extent to which the Birds’ history coincides with events within the Mahåbhårata.

Figure 3. The Birds’ Backstory

Verses Content 2.1–31 Birth of Birds’ mother

30 “Having spoken thus he looked at them and spoke again, ‘Return, go to the hermitage, taking the young birds with you. Where these egg-born may have no fear of cat, or rat, of hawk or ichneumon, there let the birds be placed. O dvijas, what is the use of great care? All creatures are destroyed or preserved by their own actions, as have been these young birds. Nevertheless men must exert themselves in all matters; he who does a manly act gains commendation from us, the good’” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 2.59–62; Pargiter 1904: 10; emphasis in the original). 31 “Thus he, the most virtuous Muni, O princely brahman, nourished them day by day with food and water, and in safety. After a month they resorted to the sun's chariot-road, being gazed at by the Munis’ sons, whose eyes were tremulous with curiosity. After seeing the earth, with its cities, and with its ocean and noble rivers, which appeared of the size of a chariot wheel, they returned to the hermitage. The spirited birds were wearied in their souls with their toil: and their knowledge was developed there through their energy” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.1–4; Pargiter 1904: 11). 32 “They all performed the reverential circumambulation around the ¸ishi, who was expounding the truths of the law in compassion for his disciples, and respectfully saluted his feet and said, ‘We have been delivered by thee, O Muni! from dreadful death; thou hast given us shelter, food, and water; thou art our father and spiritual guide. Our mother died, when we were still in the womb; nor have we been nourished by a father: thou, by whom we were preserved when young, hast given us life. Thou, of perfect splendour on the earth, lifting high up the elephant’s bell, didst purge away evil from us who were withering like worms. “How may these strength-less ones grow? When shall I see them flying in the sky? When shall I see them alighting on a tree of the earth, settling within the trees? When shall my natural colour be obliterated by the dust which the wind from their wings raises, as they flit about near me?” Thou, dear Sir, thus thinking, didst nourish us; now we, those very birds, are grown up and have become wise, what ought we to do?’” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.5–11; Pargiter 1904: 11–12; emphasis in the original). 2.32–42 The Birds are children of Mandapåla’s youngest Çårπgaka son, Dro~a 2.43–65 Birds at the Kuruk‚etra 3.1–14 Birds found by Çam⁄ka 3.15–85 Birds’ kårmic antecedent curse explained: Bråhma~a boys cursed by Suk®‚a

Connecting Khå~∂ava, Kuruk‚etra, and Sarpasatra The short sequence of events comprising the backstory of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a’s Birds exhibits an unassumingly astute awareness of the framing of the Mahåbhårata. Their backstory firstly pairs the Khå~∂ava and the Kuruk‚etra; then it connects Çam⁄ka and Ç®πgin into that parity. Regarding the first of these enterprises, that the Birds (in their past life) are spared at the hands of the hungry stranger-cum-deity-in-disguise is a direct allusion to the Khå~∂ava-Çårπgaka account. The Birds survive the war, hatched on the Kuruk‚etra, just as the Çårπgakas survive the massacre, hatched at Khå~∂ava. Both sets of four fledglings are, against all odds, preserved in the face of apocalyptic devastation. As the Khå~∂ava was besieged by Arjuna’s volley of arrows, so is the particular juncture of the war in which the birds are hatched, as Arjuna feverishly assails Bhagadatta with his flurry of arrows (more on why this particular juncture below). It is one of his stray arrows which kills Tårk‚⁄, corresponding to the fate of the countless birds and beasts who were struck down during the Khå~∂ava massacre. The Khå~∂ava-Kuruk‚etra parity is enframed and embellished by the Sarpasatra: the carnage of Khå~∂ava and the carnage of Kuruk‚etra are represented by Janamejaya’s slaughter of snakes. The feud between Tak‚aka and the Mahåbhårata line of kings begins with Arjuna’s Khå~∂ava massacre, destroying the homeland of the snakes. It resurfaces during the war when Tak‚aka’s son Açvasena attempts to kill Arjuna in the form of one of Kar~a’s arrows (a plan which K®‚~a foils, enabling Arjuna to slay Açvasena); and resurfaces again after Parik‚it’s hunting trip, where the business of the dead snake links back to earlier incidents at Khå~∂ava and Kuruk‚etra (Brodbeck 2009: 223–24). And this latter incident serves as the impetus for the Sarpasatra, thereby sealing the sacrificial trinity between the three. This makes for an association between ritual sacrifice, animal sacrifice, and the human sacrifice of war. Pertaining to this triangulation, the Suk®‚a episode presents us with oblations of human flesh and blood into avian-Indra’s digestive fire. The brevity, therefore, of the backstory of the Birds is unassumingly incommensurate with the penetration of its insight into the framing of the Mahåbhårata, which it flaunts by playfully interweaving the sacrifices at Khå~∂ava, Kuruk‚etra, and Tak‚açilå (the location of the Sarpasatra) in the backstory of the Birds. Not only does the backstory succinctly triangulate Khå~∂ava, Kuruk‚etra, and Sarpasatra, of all of the very many sages populating the Mahåbhårata, it elects the little known Çam⁄ka as central to their story. Why would this be? As a consciously crafted narrative device deployed to respond to the Mahåbhårata, it becomes abundantly clear that in the Birds’ eye view of the Mahåbhårata, Çam⁄ka holds significance to the centrality of the epic. That the four imperiled fledglings at Kuruk‚etra correspond to the four imperiled fledglings at Khå~∂ava seems fairly obvious given the evidence presented, not least of which is the fact that the Birds are themselves children of one of the four Çårπgaka fledglings, Dro~a. That Çam⁄ka specifically instructs his students to take the avian fledglings to where they will be protected from cats, rats, and hawks33 signals his

33 “Having spoken thus he looked at them and spoke again, ‘Return, go to the hermitage, taking the young birds with you. Where these egg-born may have no fear of cat, or rat, of symbolic centrality to the Khå~∂ava-Çårπgaka episode, wherein these are the very creatures feared by the Çårπgakas. That the Birds are rescued by Çam⁄ka and the Birds represent the Çårπgakas, then, signals that the Çårπgakas correspond to Ç®πgin (thematically as well as etymologically), whom Çam⁄ka protects in the Mahåbhårata. Furthermore, given the symbolic association between Kuruk‚etra, Khå~∂ava, and Sarpasatra, the fact that Ç®πgin is not literally imperiled by either the Khå~∂ava massacre or the Kuruk‚etra war (both occurring generations before his time) suggests—as Brodbeck argues independent of this intertextual evidence—that he is imperiled by the Sarpasatra. The Mårka~∂eya Purå~a Birds’ backstory relates the Çårπgaka episode to Ç®πgin and Çam⁄ka to the point of collapsing all three time frames (those of Khå~∂ava, Kuruk‚etra, and Sarpasatra) into a single time frame which is contemporaneous with the great war. In the Mahåbhårata, Çam⁄ka plays no role in the war or in the Khå~∂ava massacre. This suggests he plays a role of rescue from the snake sacrifice. Once we understand the Birds of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a as representative of Ç®πgin, then, perhaps their explanation to Çam⁄ka fills in the gaps in Ç®πgin’s own occluded parentage. The Birds declare to Çam⁄ka:

We have been delivered by thee, O Muni! from dreadful death; thou hast given us shelter, food, and water; thou art our father and spiritual guide. Our mother died, when we were still in the womb; nor have we been nourished by a father: thou, by whom we were preserved when young, hast given us life (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.5–11; Pargiter 1904: 11).

The Mårka~∂eya Purå~a gives no indication that their father is dead. If we transpose this scenario onto Ç®πgin, then his mother may have died in childbirth, and after being abandoned by his father (Parik‚it), as Mandapåla abandoned his children, he finds refuge in the hermitage of Çam⁄ka. This analogy accounts for why, of all the Mahåbhårata’s very many sagacious characters, the Birds directly inject Çam⁄ka into the Khå~∂ava- Kuruk‚etra backdrop. Clearly there is room for debate in terms of what Brodbeck makes of the significance of Ç®πgin (as there is commensurate room for what the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a makes of this connection). However, the fact that he makes something of it cannot reasonably be dismissed as contrivance or invention given not only the (to my mind convincing) internal story evidence he provides pertaining to the manner in which the Mahåbhårata itself invites the reader to register this riddle (to invoke Eco), but also given the fact that the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a explicitly includes these otherwise minor characters in a very terse backstory embellishes the main themes of the epic as a whole. Why would it bother to mention Çam⁄ka and Ç®πgin at all given the brevity of the 47-verse Mahåbhårata backstory in light of its goal to provide commentary on the meaning of the Mahåbhårata as a whole? The only place the Birds appear other than the Kuruk‚etra itself (in the midst of the great war) is at Çam⁄ka’s hermitage. This is most telling. The Mårka~∂eya Purå~a’s frame narrative, like Brodbeck, posits the centrality of Ç®πgin and Çam⁄ka to the Kuru line of kings, collapsing three Mahåbhårata time frames to superimpose Kuruk‚etra, Khå~∂ava, and Sarpasatra in order to do so. Both Brodbeck and the authors of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a’s inaugural frame play the game of interpretation by the rules hawk or ichneumon, there let the birds be placed. O dvijas, what is the use of great care? All creatures are destroyed or preserved by their own actions, as have been these young birds. Nevertheless men must exert themselves in all matters; he who does a manly act gains commendation from us, the good’” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 2.59–62; Pargiter 1904: 10; emphasis in the original). set out in the cues within the epic itself. Brodbeck shows how the Mahåbhårata hints at Ç®πgin’s affinity with the Kuru line of kings and the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a embellishes his observation by explicitly positing as analogues the Çårπgakas (surviving Khå~∂ava), Ç®πgin (surviving the Sarpasatra), and the Kuru line of kings (surviving Kuruk‚etra). The Mårka~∂eya Purå~a hence deploys a narrative framing device to evoke the frame of the Mahåbhårata which it explicitly aims to interpret through its four inaugural questions. It creates four Birds—descended from the Çårπgakas, who are reborn Bråhma~as whose father tried to feed them to a hungry god disguised as a Bråhma~a (the very device used to set off the burning of the Khå~∂ava)—who are hatched on the Kuruk‚etra and saved by Çam⁄ka. Now, of all junctures during the Kuruk‚etra war, why do the Birds make their appearance specifically during Arjuna’s battle with Bhagadatta?

Background on Bhagadatta Bhagadatta was the King of Prågjyoti‚a,34 who succeeded his nefarious father, Naraka. Much of Bhagadatta’s prowess in battle is attributed to his formidable elephant Suprat⁄ka. The Mahåbhårata makes a point of emphasizing the daunting prowess of Suprat⁄ka35 as well as Bhagadatta’s prowess in riding his fearsome tank-like beast. Bhagadatta was an ally of the Kauravas in the Mahåbhårata war, and as such, there is a description of his mortal combat with Arjuna (taking place on the thirteenth day of the Kuruk‚etra war) to be found in the epic’s seventh book, the Book of Dro~a (Mahåbhårata 7.26).36 Even the mighty Arjuna acknowledges the invincibility of the Bhagadatta-Suprat⁄ka combination. He says to K®‚~a:

As Bhaga·datta flew through the Pándavas’ midst the risen dust filled Árjuna’s eyes and the cries of men his ears. He turned and spoke to Krishna. “O slayer of Madhu. King Bhaga·datta flies abroad on his steed: this sound presages his work. An elephantrider of the caliber of the gods, he has few if any peers on this earth whom I could name. The tusked beast he rides is one of the strongest of its kind, an animal of war unbowed by fatigue and untamed by any blade raised against it. It heeds neither the bite of swords nor the lick of flame for to be sure o Pure One it could destroy by itself this wide army of Pandu’s sons. There are only two who

34 This was an ancient kingdom located in present-day Assam whose name means “light of the East,” also known as Kåmar¨pa. Note that Harivamçạ 105.9 indicates that Prågjyoti‚a actually lies beneath the ocean (samudramadhye) (Brodbeck 2019: 308). 35 “They scattered in all directions. Even the mightiest of men felt the pulse of terror and though a single beast thundered at their heels they thought it a hundredhead of soldiers in pursuit. In olden times the king of the gods had mounted his elephant Airávata and beaten back the demons, and now Bhaga·datta beat back the Pándavas from atop his own steed as a vast and horrible noise gathered from the hooves and feet of the Panchálas’ horses and elephants fleeing wherever they could” (Mahåbhårata 7.26.47–49; Pilikian 2006: 233). 36 “With his thumbs and his heels and his hook Prag·jyótisha held his steed fast and drove it on and it went quickly with its ears rigid and its eyes fixed and its trunk winding in the air, and then my king it brought down its foot on Yuyútsu’s horses and crushed the life from his driver as Yuyútsu leapt in terror from his car, and still my lord came the baying and the bellowing as once more the Pándava warriors poured arrows flowing down upon that king of beasts” (Mahåbhårata 7.26.56–58; Pilikian 2006: 235). can withstand it and they are you and I. So let us make haste for the King of Lights” (Mahåbhårata 7.27.2–7; Pilikian 2006: 237).

Bhagadatta approaches Arjuna and engages in combat (Mahåbhårata 7.28.21). During the course of this battle, Bhagadatta deploys an invincible weapon (the vaiçnavåstra) which he inherited from his father (Naraka) who earned it from a boon from Lord Vi‚~u, as its name suggests. K®‚~a (Arjuna’s Vi‚~u-incarnate charioteer) intervenes to receive the impact of the weapon in his own breast, whereupon it is immediately transformed into a garland of victory. Though chastised for intervening in the battle, K®‚~a explains that none other could neutralize the weapon but he, since he himself (as Vi‚~u) had granted it to Naraka at the behest of Naraka’s mother, the Earth. Upon neutralization of the deadly weapon, Arjuna kills Suprat⁄ka with one arrow and Bhagadatta with another.37 Once Bhagadatta has been slain, Arjuna “circled his corpse out of respect” (Mahåbhårata 7.30.1; Pilikian 2006: 257). The episode serves to underscore the wrath of Arjuna, a wrath necessary to contend with so formidable a foe. The following exemplifies this:

But the reaver of men saw the elephant bearing down upon them mad as Death and he quickly swung the chariot about and away to its right. As the elephant flew past them Árjuna had it before him. Yet at the last moment he stayed true to what was right and chose not to deliver over the beast and its burden to their end. As it rode on, o father, horses and chariots and others of its kind fell one after another beneath its hooves and down into Death’s kingdom. And as Dhanan·jaya watched, his anger rose (tataª kruddho Dhanaµjayaª) (Mahåbhårata 7.28.30; Pilikian 2006: 247).

That wrath is central to the encounter between Arjuna and Bhagadatta is indicated right from the expositional prompt wherein Dh®tarå‚†ra asks Saµjaya, “What violence did the wrathful Pándava do next to Bhaga·datta? Or Prag·jyóti‚a to Partha? Tell me all that happened” (Mahåbhårata 7.29.1; Pilikian 2006: 247). That the Birds should be born amid wrath befits the mood of their incarnation, instigated by a wrathful father. The Birds report that upon their refusal to be slaughtered and made into avian-Indra food:

Having heard us speak thus, the Muni, burning as it were with anger, again addressed us, scorching us, as it were, with his eyes. “Since ye will not perform this my plighted word for me, therefore, blasted by my curse, ye shall be born among the brute creation!” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.43–44; Pargiter 1904: 14).

Wrath pervades both initial and terminal frames of Mårka~∂eya’s Birds’ backstory discourse, taking the shape of curses through verses: the first features the wrath of Durvåsas cursing Vapu, the second features the wrath of Suk®‚a cursing the young Bråhma~as. The latter of these proxies for the wrath of Arjuna and K®‚~a whose function it is to provide food for the Agni. It is Arjuna’s wrath which aids in the razing of the Khå~∂ava and which fells Bhagadatta. That wrath pervades Kuruk‚etra is self-evident; and further, on the level of the Sarpasatra, it is the wrath of Janamejaya which fuels the sacrifice of snakes, a wrath incited by the unusually angry ascetic Ç®πgin.

37 For a summary of this passage and its context, see Smith 2009: 417–18. Also, much of the epic’s main events are summarized in the epic itself (Mahåbhårata 1.2.30–70), found in the work’s inaugural Book of Beginnings (van Buitenen 1973: 33–36). While the wrath of the warrior might be harnessed for protection, the wrath of the ascetic only ever destroys. It is therefore the former of these which the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a privileges. In looking to the Purå~a’s genesis, Suk®‚a repents for his wrath and modifies his curse so as to bless the Birds (his reincarnate sons) with attainment of the highest knowledge. In looking to the Purå~a’s terminal frame, however, the ghastly wrath of King Dama—who rips out the heart of his father’s murderer, Vapu‚mat, and performs the çråddha ritual with Vapu‚mat’s flesh and blood (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 136)—is celebrated, without apology. It is noteworthy that Dama’s father, Nari‚yanta, was a defenseless forest-dwelling king-turned-ascetic at the time. It is perhaps this very celebration of the violent wrath of kings, sworn to protect even at the expense of bloodshed, which accounts for the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a’s inclusion of the violent exploits of the regal warrior goddess, Durgå, eager to annihilate the enemies of dharma.38

Prav®tti and Progeny The only place we find birds as main actors within the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a is where they are deliberately deployed for the purpose of its framing: Cantos 1–9 and 137, the finale. This is perhaps unsurprising, since,

as Biardeau has emphasized, birds are dvijas, “twice-borns,” especially as implying brahmins, and thus upåkhyånas featuring birds can work out norms and implications of dharma especially as they bear on brahmins—although clearly some birds are more brahmins than others (Hiltebeitel 2007: 117).

The erudite Birds of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a are invariably Bråhma~a—both as incarnated Bråhma~as and as masters of Bråhma~ical knowledge in their own right. Yet rather than emphasize the ascetic impulse of dharma’s prav®tti-niv®tti duality—a tension so often encoded in Itihåsa literature through the narrative interplay of ascetics and kings (Balkaran 2019a: 35)—our Birds sing the praises of preservation, emphatically calling attention to the needs of worldly life. The theme of preservation in fact pervades the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a (Balkaran 2017), along with the biography of the sage after whom it is named: Mårka~∂eya remains the only embodied being known to have survived cosmic dissolution (pralaya) itself. While Suprat⁄ka’s bell appears to bear no particular symbolic import (used only to serve as a clever means to protect the eggs mid-battle),39 we can also understand the bell as evocative of sound, particularly the sound of Vedic learning, which the birds represent. Upon first encounter, Jaimini is in fact struck by the sound of their impeccable incantation, even before setting eyes on them (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 4.2–7). And the preservation of Vedic learning is predicated upon progeny. Birds not only

38 This is not to say that the goddess of the Dev⁄ Måhåtmaya is a de facto goddess of wrath. An attentive reading of the narratives of the Dev⁄ Måhåtmaya illumines that the goddess’ wrathful emanation is necessarily subordinate to her face of compassionate care. Hers is a fundamentally composed presence which gives way to episodic wrath when need be, in proportion to that of the enemy she is tasked with defeating for the sake of cosmic welfare. For a focused discussion of this ambivalence, see Balkaran 2019b. 39 There is a passage a bit further down from the slaying of Bhagadatta (within the Book of Dro~a) wherein there is mention of bells being separated in battle. This time the hero is Arjuna’s valiant son, Abhimanyu. “With arrows sharpened at tip and edge he threw down elephants and the men that rode them and pennants and poles, hooks and quivers and armor, girdles and chains and blankets and bells” (Mahåbhårata 7.36.35–40; Pilikian 2006: 309). represent Bråhma~as, birds specifically represent reproduction. For example, Çakuntalå, mother of the great patriarch Bharata, was abandoned at birth by her apsara mother, Menakå (who conceived Çakuntalå through seducing the ascetic Viçvåmitra), and protected by birds. Also, Sage Medhas of the Dev⁄ Måhåtmya, in his attempt to explain the entrapments of the manifest universe, uses the example of birds who busy themselves all day feeding their young. It is for this reason that Mandapåla becomes a bird, since it was a method of producing many young in a short time. Doing so was all the more important for him, given his ancestral plight. Procreation is necessary not merely to pass on learning, but for one to repay one’s debt to one’s ancestors. For example, the Jaratkåru account informs us that “Having taken away his ancestors’ heavy burden, Jaratkåru of strict vows went to heaven with his fathers” (Mahåbhårata 1.13.40–45; van Buitenen 1973: 71). Aside from Jaratkåru, the imperative to please the pit®s dominates the religious ethos of the Mahåbhårata. For example, when Indradyumna falls from heaven when he becomes forgotten, Mårka~∂eya assists him in seeking someone who recognizes him. Due to the fact that an ancient tortoise (Ak¨påra) remembers that the king’s generosity was central to founding the lake in which he currently resides, Indradyumna is able to re-ascend to heaven (Mahåbhårata 3.191; Brodbeck 2009: 31). The act of remembrance which keeps one in heaven is to be undertaken by one’s descendants; had Indradyumna’s descendants continued to remember him, he would not have fallen from heaven. He was fortunate that his deeds while alive were so memorable that they were remembered by someone, albeit a nondescendant tortoise. How many of us can expect to have such an impact that we remain memorable outside our family line? Similarly, in the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a, during their protest to their father against sacrificing their own life, the Bråhma~a boys (the Birds in their past life) state that “A son pays those debts, indeed, that have been declared due to the pit®is, the gods, and men; a son does not offer up his body.”40 This religious practice (pit® p¨jå) not only bespeaks the ethos of prav®tti, but also its religious goal: ancestral piety is undertaken so that one’s ancestors stay in heaven and so that one can join them there. Suk®‚a, in modifying his curse, blesses his sons with attainment of the highest knowledge, despite undergoing avian incarnation. There is no mention of mok‚a as the highest ideal. The only exception where a bird represents mok‚a is the story of Çuka, but the Mahåbhårata sufficiently problematizes that pursuit since his father Vyåsa not only bewails his departure, but finds out he is unable to pursue Çuka given that he lacks the requisite qualification. The story of the Birds of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a is the story of the ascetic’s curse of perhaps life’s greatest pull: the instinct of self-preservation. Recall the Bråhma~a boys refuse to sacrifice themselves, for which their father cursed them. In short, this is emblematic of niv®tti cursing the affairs of prav®tti. The Purå~a represents the overcoming of that curse through the reaffirmation of prav®ttic religiosity (Balkaran 2020). While Çuka escapes the narrative realm through his attainment of mok‚a, the

40 Their entire speech reads: “Then we, afflicted, our terror visible in our trembling, exclaimed, ‘Alas, alas!’ and said, ‘not this deed! How for the sake of another’s body can a wise man destroy or injure his own body? for a son is even as one’s own self. A son pays those debts, indeed, that have been declared due to the pit®is, the gods, and men; a son does not offer up his body. Therefore we will not do this; we have done as has been done by men of old. While alive one receives good things, and while alive one does holy acts. When one is dead, the body perishes, and there is an end of righteousness, &c. Men skilled in holy law have declared that one ought by all means to preserve one’s self’” (Mårka~∂eya Purå~a 3.39–42; Pargiter 1904: 14). This speech is addressed below, viewed through the heuristic of prav®tti dharma. Mårka~∂eya Purå~a Birds hail from the Çårπgakas escaping the burning of the Khå~∂ava. The former lauds a soteriologically centered ethos of world-denial, while the latter unabashedly affirms life in the world. Central to the aims of prav®tti dharma, the imperative of ancestral piety is amplified within the ranks of kings. As such çråddha rituals play a significant role in the Mahåbhårata (Brodbeck 2009: 31–40). As Brodbeck explains:

[Regarding] the patrilineal soteriological technology: every generation, one son takes responsibility for feeding and remembering the patrilineal ancestors (thus keeping them in heaven) and having a son to do so in future.…Inherited responsibility for royal ancestors is also inherited responsibility for a realm and population (2009: 85).

Furthermore, as noted earlier, the same applies for the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a. In the case of kingship, the generation of progeny is necessary not only for ancestral appeasement, but also for the purposes of royal succession. Kingship is crucial not merely for preservation by means of protection, but equally crucial is preservation by means of progeny. The centrality of lineage is abundantly clear within the Kuruk‚etra context—what about within its correlate episodes, at Khå~∂ava and the Sarpasatra? In the case of the Khå~∂ava, it is significant that the lineal dimension is introduced through the embedding of the Çårπgaka account, which insists that Mandapåla’s heirs survive for the sake of posterity. While van Buitenen writes of the Ådi Parvan that “parts of it are manifestly components of the main story; others are equally obviously accretions that have no organic relationship to the story whatever; still others are difficult to determine one way or the other” (1973: 1), I suggest we soften our gaze towards any of the work’s tributaries as being “obvious accretions.” For, “original” or not, the Çårπgaka account is vital to the parity between Khå~∂ava and Kuruk‚etra in endowing the Khå~∂ava account with lineal survivors of the massacre. And this parity between Khå~∂ava and Kuruk‚etra is crucial to the Ådi Parvan’s integrity as an inaugural frame to the work as a whole. In the words of Adluri: “If one sets aside these text-historical prejudices for a moment and considers the text itself, it becomes clear that the text is not deficient with respect to structure but, rather, carefully and purposefully constructed” (2011: 155; emphasis in the original). As for the Sarpasatra, while it might appear at first glance to lack an emphasis on preservation of lineage, we may note that Janamejaya’s sacrifice is aimed at the holocaust of a class of beings—indeed, at the prevention of their possible procreation. In this sense, lineage is at its very heart, albeit in an inverse manner whereby the goal is the destruction, rather than preservation, of a bloodline. For the Sarpasatra to be a viable correlate to the Kuruk‚etra war, lineage must play a role. Brodbeck therefore astutely arrives at a sensible symbolism for the dead snake around the neck of Çam⁄ka, representing the cessation of Çam⁄ka-Ç®πgin’s lineage. And yet this crucial connection is far from overt. Intriguingly, van Buitenen sheds light on this:

As is obvious from this outline of the barest skeleton of the central story of the great epic, the plot is extremely complex. The succession rights of the male descendants are a genealogist’s nightmare, and, to me at least, there is little doubt that the story was in part designed as a riddle. Whatever historical realities may also have been woven into the epic, it is not an accident of dynastic history; however fortuitous its career of expansion, the epic is not an accident of literary history. The grand framework was a design (1973: xvi; emphasis in the original).

This discussion calls attention to the fact that assemblers across history—not least the assemblers of the Çårπgaka account—were able to attend to, and partake in, the grand design of the Mahåbhårata, indulging and embellishing its riddles. They accomplish this by remaining attentive to the cues of the existing text. In each of the three episodic correlates, then, survivors remain to carry on the line: the twelve who survive the Kuruk‚etra war, Tak‚aka and his descendants (Ç®πgin in particular) who survive the Sarpasatra, and the Çårπgakas who survive the Khå~∂ava massacre. Insofar as the destruction of the Khå~∂ava might be likened to pralaya, the Çårπgakas may be likened to Mårka~∂eya, who himself survives cosmic dissolution. This renders their heirs, the Birds, a fitting proxy for Mårka~∂eya in serving as a mouthpiece for the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a. The Birds are of lofty and sturdy stock, descendants of the Çårπgakas themselves. They survive not only the stomach of avian-Indra (in their previous incarnation), but also, with the aid of Çam⁄ka, they survive the war at Kuruk‚etra. Their survival amid atrocities at these very junctures bespeaks an intimate interplay between the framing of the Mahåbhårata and the framing of the Mårka~∂eya Purå~a, for, in invoking their heritage, the Birds call to the Çårπgakas, singing of Khå~∂ava, Kuruk‚etra, and Sarpasatra all the while. They thus engage an avian interplay across Itihåsa, of birds answering riddles and birds riddling answers.

References

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