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Authors: Sharath Komarraju
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only koels and peacocks and prancing fawns.
After they had gone some distance, Amba said to Jarutha, ‘You spoke of two reasons why we are seeking out Sage Parashurama. What is the second?’
‘The second reason why we seek the sage,’ said Jarutha at length,‘is because he has a natural enmity toward the Kshatriyas. They say he has obliterated their clan twenty-one times.’
‘Twenty-one times?’
‘That is so. The Haihayas killed his father, and his mother struck herself twenty-one times in grief. So Parashurama took an oath to kill all Kshatriyas in the world twenty-one times.’
Amba asked, ‘But each time he killed the clan, how did they replenish themselves again?’
‘The blood of the Kshatriyas runs down the line of the women, my lady. If the sage wanted to wipe out all Kshatriyas from the planet, he should have killed the women.’
Amba’s dislike for this sage grew sharper. ‘But I suppose some vow or the other stopped him from doing so?’
‘Yes, my lady. Raising a hand on a woman is a grave sin.’
She wanted to ask if sending her away on horseback to fend for herself was not, and even as she considered the question, anger welled up inside her. But what was the use? Jarutha was just a nobleman, no more than a slave that could fight.
The hermitage was a clutch of five huts surrounding a well and two banyan trees. As they made their way to the clearing in the middle, Amba noticed there were no mythical animals about. She saw a group of squirrels gorging themselves on a heap of nuts by the well, and two or three crows hopping over discarded plantain leaves dotted with grains of cooked rice. She heard the occasional screeching of monkeys and the call of a nightingale, but that was it. No golden deer or a talking tortoise was to be seen.
The central hut was built of mud and it had a large, sturdy teak front door with a latch fashioned out of metal wire. Jasmine and chrysanthemum garlands hung from one corner of the doorway to the other in an inverted arch. At each end of the doorstep sat half a coconut, spotted with vermillion and turmeric. Somewhere near its middle, the word ‘Aum’ had been written in white chalk.
Amba opened her mouth to say something, but Jarutha turned back and gestured at her to remain silent.Once she got off her horse, he pointed towards the door and nodded. Leaning on its side was an axe, with a dark wooden handle so large that it appeared as thick as the frame of the door. Both its heads were of the same size, and the silver blades gleamed in the morning light. For a moment Amba thought she saw them dripping with blood, but when she shook her head and looked again, they were stainless.
The presence of the axe meant, of course, that Sage Parashurama was in the hut.
Parashurama took a pinch of brown powder from his palm, placed it on the tip of each of his nostrils, and took a deep breath. Then he squeezed the tip of his nose, shook his head, and closed his eyes. He was seated cross-legged on the porch of his hut, with his staff underneath his right elbow. He addressed Jarutha first.
‘Your king is doing well, Jarutha. The rain gods have not been unkind to Panchala this year.’
‘By your grace,’ said Jarutha, bowing.
‘Ah!’ Parashurama waved him away. ‘I never prayed for your kind, and I never will. If I ever think of Kshatriyas in my prayers, Lord knows I only ask for their destruction. What did you bring for us from Panchala?’
‘I beg your pardon, Sage. We have not yet harvested our crops. My master pledged you a tenth share of the kingdom’s corn.’
‘Tenth share!’ said Parashurama. ‘What shall I do with so much corn, Jarutha? If you could get us some sesame seeds to plant in our garden, and some peanuts for our squirrels and monkeys, we shall be more than grateful. Did you know that Shurasena only grows paddy?’
‘That is true, my lord. They have the biggest stretch of land along the Great River among all the Kingdoms. They have to make
After they had gone some distance, Amba said to Jarutha, ‘You spoke of two reasons why we are seeking out Sage Parashurama. What is the second?’
‘The second reason why we seek the sage,’ said Jarutha at length,‘is because he has a natural enmity toward the Kshatriyas. They say he has obliterated their clan twenty-one times.’
‘Twenty-one times?’
‘That is so. The Haihayas killed his father, and his mother struck herself twenty-one times in grief. So Parashurama took an oath to kill all Kshatriyas in the world twenty-one times.’
Amba asked, ‘But each time he killed the clan, how did they replenish themselves again?’
‘The blood of the Kshatriyas runs down the line of the women, my lady. If the sage wanted to wipe out all Kshatriyas from the planet, he should have killed the women.’
Amba’s dislike for this sage grew sharper. ‘But I suppose some vow or the other stopped him from doing so?’
‘Yes, my lady. Raising a hand on a woman is a grave sin.’
She wanted to ask if sending her away on horseback to fend for herself was not, and even as she considered the question, anger welled up inside her. But what was the use? Jarutha was just a nobleman, no more than a slave that could fight.
The hermitage was a clutch of five huts surrounding a well and two banyan trees. As they made their way to the clearing in the middle, Amba noticed there were no mythical animals about. She saw a group of squirrels gorging themselves on a heap of nuts by the well, and two or three crows hopping over discarded plantain leaves dotted with grains of cooked rice. She heard the occasional screeching of monkeys and the call of a nightingale, but that was it. No golden deer or a talking tortoise was to be seen.
The central hut was built of mud and it had a large, sturdy teak front door with a latch fashioned out of metal wire. Jasmine and chrysanthemum garlands hung from one corner of the doorway to the other in an inverted arch. At each end of the doorstep sat half a coconut, spotted with vermillion and turmeric. Somewhere near its middle, the word ‘Aum’ had been written in white chalk.
Amba opened her mouth to say something, but Jarutha turned back and gestured at her to remain silent.Once she got off her horse, he pointed towards the door and nodded. Leaning on its side was an axe, with a dark wooden handle so large that it appeared as thick as the frame of the door. Both its heads were of the same size, and the silver blades gleamed in the morning light. For a moment Amba thought she saw them dripping with blood, but when she shook her head and looked again, they were stainless.
The presence of the axe meant, of course, that Sage Parashurama was in the hut.
Parashurama took a pinch of brown powder from his palm, placed it on the tip of each of his nostrils, and took a deep breath. Then he squeezed the tip of his nose, shook his head, and closed his eyes. He was seated cross-legged on the porch of his hut, with his staff underneath his right elbow. He addressed Jarutha first.
‘Your king is doing well, Jarutha. The rain gods have not been unkind to Panchala this year.’
‘By your grace,’ said Jarutha, bowing.
‘Ah!’ Parashurama waved him away. ‘I never prayed for your kind, and I never will. If I ever think of Kshatriyas in my prayers, Lord knows I only ask for their destruction. What did you bring for us from Panchala?’
‘I beg your pardon, Sage. We have not yet harvested our crops. My master pledged you a tenth share of the kingdom’s corn.’
‘Tenth share!’ said Parashurama. ‘What shall I do with so much corn, Jarutha? If you could get us some sesame seeds to plant in our garden, and some peanuts for our squirrels and monkeys, we shall be more than grateful. Did you know that Shurasena only grows paddy?’
‘That is true, my lord. They have the biggest stretch of land along the Great River among all the Kingdoms. They have to make
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