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| Source: Internet |
Once upon a time, in ancient India, lived a sage of immense knowledge,
Jamdagni,
one of the divine Saptrishis,
Feared
by God of Gods, Revered by Lord of Lords,
Though
spiritual, he was mercuruial.
Had
a wife, divinely beautiful, Renuka,
Epitome
of chastity & faithfulness.
World
of wives & husbands envied her, when stories spread of her faithfulnes.
Suryadev
bowed down to seek her blissfulness,
The
Vaitarni, every morning, purified herself, when
Renuka
dived and water rippled owing to her thrilling body.
Then
she carried water, in an unbaked, bottomless clay pot.
Such
was her fidelity that water feared to drain onto the ground.
One
fine day, Suryadev was yet to sharpen,
Playing
along the river were the Gandharvas,
Oblivious
and joyful and exhilarating, they wandered;
Tuning
their bodies to the rhythm:
Of
the roaring river,
Of
the chilling yet ferocious wind,
Of
the sweet-smelling mogra, they danced.
Arrived
Renuka for her daily ritual, diving into the Vaitarni she found sensed change.
Rising
up, she followed the trail. There they were, the Gandharvas, with eye-catching
handsomeness.
Breathtaking!
To see the husbands of Apsaras,
Dancing
on ambrosial Swaras.
Smiles
of ecstasy lured her to oblivion.
World
of fantasies swirled with sheer happiness, when her eyes coincided with
Gandharvas’
She
lost, against his charm, skipped a heartbeat.
Intense
emotions coaxed her, to let herself run into his arms. She held back.
Taking
water into the unbaked, bottomless pot, something happened she dared not:
Water
drained, her chastity crumbled.
Oblivion
evanesced to obvious.
Her
fidelity compromised, she bitterly cried.
Repent,
regret filled her conscience, cursed herself,
As
herself as she relinquished for ephemeral desires!
Her
body soaked, pot empty, she returned to ashram,Jamdagni
grasped infidelity.
‘A
grave shame’, he fumed.
The
scholar across the seven seas, ordered his eldest son to behead mother.
Trembling
in fear, yet the son refused to sever.
Burnt
down to ashes, in his father’s rage, then,
Called
the second, and the third,
And
the fourth and the fifth;
All
turned into ashes.
The
youngest of all, Parshuram, avatar of the great Vishnu,
Raised
himself on the occasion,
Swirled
his axe and killed his mother, but,
Not
without heart-burdening conviction.
Impressed
by son’s obedience, Jamdagni granted him two wishes.
The
brave boy, with unrelenting tears in eyes, with hands folded,
Pleaded
to grant life back to his brothers and his mother.
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