The Birth of Kāma

Nārada asks for the story of Satī

In the Naimiṣa forest Sūta told the sages how Nārada, never tired of hearing about Śiva, put a new question to his father Brahmā. Tell me, he said, the whole holy story of Śiva and Satī. How was the radiant Satī born to Dakṣa? How did Hara, the great ascetic, come to think of taking a wife? Why did Satī give up her body in anger at Dakṣa, and how was she born again as Pārvatī, the daughter of Himālaya? How did her hard tapas and her marriage come about, and how did she become one half of Śiva, the destroyer of Kāma? No one clears doubts as you do.

Brahmā agreed gladly. This story, he said, is the most purifying and most secret of all. Long ago Viṣṇu asked Śiva about it, out of devotion and for the good of the world, and Śiva told it to him. Later I asked Viṣṇu, and he told it to me lovingly and at length. Now I will tell it to you — an ancient story, full of Śiva's glory, that grants every wish.

Brahmā's pride

In the beginning, Brahmā said, Śiva was beyond all qualities, beyond all forms and thought — pure consciousness, beyond being and non-being. Then the Lord took on qualities and a divine form, together with his Śakti, Umā — still unchanging, still beyond all.

From his left side Viṣṇu was born, from his right side I, Brahmā, and from his heart Rudra. I became the creator, Viṣṇu the protector, and Rudra the one who dissolves. So Sadāśiva took three forms.

Worshipping that same Sadāśiva, I created all beings — gods, daityas, humans and the rest. I made Dakṣa and the other Prajāpatis and the chief gods, and I was very pleased with myself. I began to think I was the greatest of all.

Sandhyā, and the youth with the flower-bow

Then, Brahmā went on, I brought forth from my mind ten great sons: Marīci, Atri, Pulaha, Pulastya, Aṅgiras, Kratu, Vasiṣṭha, Nārada, Dakṣa and Bhṛgu. At that same moment a lovely young woman was also born from my mind. She came to be called Sandhyā, the twilight — the morning twilight and the evening one. The Purāṇa says no woman so complete in every virtue had been born, or ever would be, in heaven, on earth or below it.

The moment they saw her, Brahmā admitted, his own thoughts and the thoughts of Dakṣa, Marīci and his other sons began to turn towards her. And while those thoughts were still forming, another being sprang from Brahmā's mind — a man, wondrous and captivating.

He shone like molten gold. His hair was dark and curling, his face like the full moon, his chest broad as a door, his eyes like opened lotuses, his hands, feet and lips a soft red. He wore blue, and the fragrance of saffron and flowers hung about him. His banner bore the sign of a fish; his mount was the makara, the sea-creature. He carried a bow made of flowers and five arrows tipped with blossoms, and his sidelong glances were enough to unsettle anyone who met them.

Dakṣa and the other sons stared at him in wonder, eager to know who he was — and already, the Purāṇa says, their minds were stirred and their composure gone.

The task Brahmā gave him

The youth bowed his head to Brahmā and spoke humbly. What work shall I do, O Creator? Set me to it. You are the one I must honour, and it is right that I obey you. And tell me where my place is to be, and who will be my wife.

Brahmā was so astonished that for a while he could not speak. Then he steadied his mind and told the newcomer his work. With this form of yours and your five flower-arrows, he said, enchant every woman and every man, and so carry on the eternal work of creation. No one in the three worlds — no creature, no god — will be able to defy you. Even I, even Vāsudeva, even Śaṅkara will be in your power; what then of anyone else?

Enter the hearts of living beings unseen, Brahmā said, and as the very cause of their happiness, keep creation going. The restless minds of all creatures will be easy targets for your flower-arrows; you will make everyone giddy. That is your work, which turns beings towards creation. My sons here will tell you your names.

Having said this, Brahmā glanced at his sons and sat down for a moment on his lotus seat.

Manmatha, Kāma, Madana, Kandarpa

Marīci and the other sages understood what their father wanted. They had read the youth's whole nature from his face and his ways; they gave him a place to dwell and the promise of a wife, and then, conferring together, they told him his names.

You churned our minds the moment you were born from Brahmā, they said, so the world will know you as Manmatha, the churner of minds. No one in all the worlds is as beautiful as you, so you will also be called Kāma, the desired one. Because you make everyone drunk with longing, you will be Madana. And because you were born full of pride, you will be Kandarpa. No god will have prowess like yours; every place will be yours, and you will pervade everything.

As for a wife, they told him, the great Prajāpati Dakṣa himself will give you a beautiful woman fit for you. And the radiant girl born from Brahmā's mind — fair as a jasmine flower, born from his heart as he sat in deep meditation — will be known in all the worlds as Sandhyā.

The five arrows

Kāma took up his five flower-weapons and, keeping himself hidden right there, began to think. My five arrows, he reflected, are called Harṣaṇa, Rocana, Mohana, Śoṣaṇa and Māraṇa — the one that delights, the one that attracts, the one that bewilders, the one that dries up, and the one that strikes down. They are said to bewilder even sages.

Brahmā has given me an eternal task, he thought, and I will begin it here and now, in front of Brahmā and the sages. They will be my witnesses, and my work will be proved true from the start. This girl Sandhyā will bear out what I say. I will test my power in this very place.

Resolved, he set his flower-arrows to his flower-bow, took his stance like a master archer, and drew the bow into a full circle. At once a sweet, fragrant breeze began to blow. With his sharp flower-arrows Kāma struck Brahmā and all his mind-born sons.

The Purāṇa does not hide what followed, though it tells it briefly. The sages and Brahmā himself were overcome; their minds were stirred, and their eyes kept turning towards Sandhyā. Brahmā says that forty-nine moods arose in his own body. Sandhyā too, struck by the same arrows as she felt their gaze, showed many feelings in her glances, like the Gaṅgā rippling with small waves. Brahmā confesses that he too began to long for her, and that Marīci, Atri, Dakṣa and the rest lost the mastery of their senses.

Seeing all of them — and Sandhyā too — under his sway, Kāma was sure of himself at last: he could do the work Brahmā had given him.

Dharma calls on Śiva

But one of Brahmā's sons was not swept away. Dharma saw what had become of his father and his brothers, and in distress he called to mind Sadāśiva, the protector of dharma, and praised him.

Salutations to you, Mahādeva, God of gods, guardian of dharma, Dharma prayed. You alone create, sustain and destroy. Beyond all qualities, you take the forms of Brahmā, Viṣṇu and Rudra through rajas, sattva and tamas. You stand beyond nature, in the fourth state, changeless — and skilled in countless plays. Save me, Mahādeva, save me from this terrible wrong. My father and my brothers have lost their good sense.

Śiva appeared at once to protect dharma, standing in the sky. Seeing Brahmā, Dakṣa and the others so bewildered, he laughed to himself. Then, praising them ironically and laughing again and again, he put Brahmā to shame.

Brahmā, said Śiva, how could desire stir in you at the sight of your own daughter? This is not fitting for those who follow the Veda. A wise person looks upon a mother, a sister, a brother's wife and a daughter alike, and never with a wrong eye. That teaching of the Vedic path lives in your own mouth — how could you forget it the moment Kāma was born? Your steadiness should have stayed awake, Four-faced one. And Dakṣa, Marīci and the others — yogīs who live in solitude and always gaze at the sun — how have they too lost their hearts? How could Kāma, a small-minded being who knows nothing of time or place, overpower you all with his arrows? Shame on the learning, the Veda and the śāstra of anyone whose mind can be carried away like this.

The Pitṛs and Rati are born

Hearing Śiva, Brahmā was doubly ashamed, and sweat poured from his body. Though the pull towards Sandhyā was still there, out of fear of Śiva he mastered his senses and let the desire go.

From the sweat that fell from Brahmā's body were born two great hosts of Pitṛs, the ancestral fathers: the Agniṣvāttas and the Barhiṣads. They are dark as collyrium, with eyes like opened lotuses — great yogīs, holy, turned away from the world. The Purāṇa counts sixty-four thousand Agniṣvāttas and eighty-six thousand Barhiṣads.

At the same moment sweat fell from Dakṣa's body to the earth, and from it rose a woman of every grace: slender, tender-limbed, with lovely teeth, glowing like heated gold, her face like the full moon. Her name was Rati, and she could enchant the hearts of sages.

Of the sages, the Purāṇa says, all but four regained control of themselves. From Kratu, Vasiṣṭha, Pulastya and Aṅgiras, who did not, still other Pitṛs came into being: the Somapās from Kratu, the Sukālins from Vasiṣṭha, the Ājyapās from Pulastya and the Haviṣmāns from Aṅgiras. All of them became bearers of the kavya, the offerings made to the ancestors.

So Sandhyā became the mother of the Pitṛs. And because Śiva had looked upon her, the Purāṇa says, she was free of fault and devoted to dharma. Having shown grace to all the sages and protected dharma as it should be protected, Śiva vanished.

The curse, and its softening

Stung by Śiva's words, Brahmā frowned and turned his anger on Kāma. Reading his face, and afraid of Rudra, Kāma drew back his arrows. But Brahmā blazed up like a fire ready to burn everything, and in front of the Pitṛs and the self-controlled sages he spoke a terrible curse: this Kandarpa, blinded by pride, will do a hard deed against Śiva — and he will be burnt to ashes by the fire of Śiva's eye.

Terrified, Kāma threw down his arrows and showed himself to everyone, all his pride gone. Before Dakṣa and the other sons, the Pitṛs, Sandhyā and Brahmā he cried out: Lord of the worlds, you follow the path of justice — why have you cursed me so cruelly when I have done no wrong? I did only what you told me to do. You yourself said that you, Viṣṇu and Śiva would all be under the power of my arrows; I only put those words to the test. The fault is not mine. And if you have cursed me, an innocent one, at least set a time when it will end.

Brahmā scolded him again and again. This Sandhyā is my daughter, he said, and you made me your target with her. That is why I cursed you. But my anger has cooled now, so listen, Manobhava. Be at ease, free of doubt and fear. You will be burnt to ashes by the fire of Mahādeva's eye — but soon afterwards you will have a body again, just like this one. When Śaṅkara takes a wife, he himself will give you your body back, without any effort.

Having said this, Brahmā vanished while his sons looked on. Kāma and the mind-born sons, relieved, went quickly to their own homes. The curse would come true long afterwards, when Kāma went to Kailāsa to wake Śiva for Pārvatī — a story told in “The Burning of Kāma”.

Kāma and Rati

What happened next, Nārada asked, and Brahmā continued. When Śiva had gone to his own place and Brahmā had vanished, Dakṣa remembered what the sages had promised. Kāma, he said, this girl was born from my body; she is beautiful and gifted, and she is your equal in every quality. Take her as your wife. She will always be with you, and will follow your wishes in keeping with dharma. Then he named the girl born of his sweat Rati, set her before him, and gave her to Kāma.

Kāma married her and was overjoyed. The Purāṇa describes Rati with all the delight of a poet, and much of it is seen through Kāma's own amazed eyes. When he saw her quick, arching brows, he wondered whether the Creator had set his own all-conquering bow in her eyes. When he saw how swiftly her glances flew, he lost faith in the speed of his own arrows. Her fragrant, gentle breath made him give up his fondness for the Malaya breeze, and he could not tell her face from the full moon. Gazing at her, he even forgot to look at his own flower-bow with its string of bees.

She seemed to him like the Gaṅgā herself: the play of her brows the ripples, her glances the rushing current, her eyes the lotuses. Adorned with every ornament, lighting up the ten directions, she was like Mahālakṣmī. Kāma received her as Mahādeva once received the Gaṅgā born of Himālaya, and as Nārāyaṇa received Mahālakṣmī when she came to him out of love.

In his joy Kāma forgot Brahmā's harsh curse altogether and said nothing of it to Dakṣa. There was a great festival that brought happiness to all. Dakṣa was delighted, Rati was delighted, and every sorrow of Kāma's was gone.

The sweet-voiced Kāma, his throat choked with feeling, shone beside Dakṣa's daughter like an evening cloud beside its lightning. He held Rati in his heart as a yogī holds the knowledge of Brahman; and Rati, having won the best of husbands, was as happy as moon-faced Mahālakṣmī when she won Viṣṇu. So ends the story of Kāma's birth and marriage — and Nārada's next question, about what became of Sandhyā, opens the story of her tapas.