The Goddess Made of the Gods' Light

The sages ask for the Mother's story

The sages said to Sūta: we have heard the story of Śiva with all its many tales. Now we want to hear of Jagadambā. The eternal, first Power of the supreme Maheśvara is known as Umā; she is the highest Śakti, who gives birth to the three worlds. We have heard of two of her descents — Satī, daughter of Dakṣa, and Pārvatī, daughter of Himavat. Tell us of the others. Even the wise never tire of hearing her praise.

Sūta was glad. Blessed are those who ask about the Mother, he said. The sages call the dust of the feet of those who ask, hear and recite her story a tīrtha in itself. Those who do not praise her, the cause of all causes, stay bewildered by the qualities of māyā; those who do not worship that ocean of compassion fall into the dark well of worldly life. To leave the Goddess and take refuge elsewhere is like leaving the Gaṅgā for a pool in the desert.

By simply remembering her, he said, the four aims of life come without toil. Long ago King Suratha asked the sage Medhā this very thing, and what the sage told him I will tell you.

A king without a kingdom

In the Svārociṣa manvantara there was a king named Viratha, and his son was Suratha — strong and brave, generous, truthful, skilled in his own dharma, a devotee of the Goddess, kind, and a protector of his people.

While he ruled the earth with the splendour of Indra, nine kings set their hearts on his realm. They laid siege to his capital, Kolā, and a fierce battle followed. The enemies won. They took his whole kingdom and drove him out of Kolāpurī.

He went back to his own city and tried to rule there with his ministers, but there too his enemies overcame him. And, as fate would have it, his ministers and chief helpers turned against him and took for themselves whatever wealth lay in the treasury.

Left with no one, the king mounted his horse as if going out to hunt and rode away into the deep forest. Wandering there he came upon the hermitage of a sage. Flower gardens lay all around it; it rang with the sound of the Veda; it was full of gentle animals and of the sage's disciples and their disciples. Such was that brahmin's power that in his hermitage tigers and other strong beasts did not trouble the weak.

The sage received the king with kind words, food, a seat and drink, and the king stayed. But one day worry overtook him. How strange, he thought: I have no luck, no sense, no fire left, and proud enemies have taken everything. They now enjoy the kingdom my forefathers guarded. There has never been a king like me in the line of Caitra. What shall I do, where shall I go, how shall I win it back?

And he went on brooding. My hereditary ministers — which king do they serve now? Having ruined the kingdom, what has become of them? My great warriors, who cut down enemies in battle, must be in another king's service. My elephants like mountains, my horses swift as wind, the treasure my ancestors gathered — is anyone looking after them? So that righteous king fell into the grip of delusion.

The merchant Samādhi

Just then a merchant came that way. Who are you, the king asked, and why have you come here? Why do you look so sad?

Hearing the king's kind words, the merchant wept, and answered with affection and courtesy. I am Samādhi, a vaiśya, born in a wealthy family. My wife and sons, greedy for my wealth, have cast me off. Grieving over what my own karma has brought me, I came to this forest. And yet I do not know how they are — my sons and grandsons, my wife, my brothers and nephews and friends — and I cannot stop wondering.

The king said: those sons and the rest are wicked and greedy; they threw you out. Why do you go on loving them like a creature without sense?

What you say is true and to the point, said the merchant. But my mind is bound with the rope of affection, and it is deeply deluded.

“Who is this Mahāmāyā?”

So the two of them, the king and the merchant, each troubled by the same delusion, went together to the sage Sumedhā and bowed their heads before him.

The king joined his hands and spoke. Lord, please clear our doubt. Royal fortune has left me and I have come to this deep forest, yet I have no peace, because my kingdom was taken. This merchant has been driven from his house by his own family, yet his attachment to them will not go. What is the reason? We both know better, and still our minds are shaken by delusion. That is great foolishness.

The sage answered: it is the eternal Mahāmāyā, the Power who upholds the world, who draws every mind and casts it into delusion. Brahmā and all the gods are bewildered by her māyā and do not know the highest truth — what then of human beings? She, the supreme Goddess of the three guṇas, brings forth the whole world, protects it, and when the time comes dissolves it. Only the one with whom she is pleased, the giver of boons who takes whatever form she wishes, crosses beyond delusion. No one else does.

Who is this goddess Mahāmāyā, the king asked, who bewilders everyone? How did she come to be? Be kind and tell me.

Madhu and Kaiṭabha

The sage said: when the world had become a single ocean, Viṣṇu, lord of yogis, lay asleep on the couch of Śeṣa, resting in yoganidrā. From the wax of his ears two daityas were born, who became known as Madhu and Kaiṭabha. They blazed like the sun at the end of the world — terrible, huge of body, heavy-jawed, their mouths made dreadful by their tusks. They looked as if they would swallow all the worlds.

They saw Brahmā seated on the lotus that rose from the Lord's navel, and made ready to kill him. “Who are you?” they demanded.

Brahmā looked at the two daityas, and he knew that Viṣṇu lay asleep on the ocean. So he began to praise the supreme Goddess. Mahāmāyā, you who are tender to those who seek refuge, Mother of the world — protect me, protect me from these two of dreadful form. I bow to Mahāmāyā, Yoganidrā, Umā, Satī; to Kālarātri, Mahārātri, Mohārātri; to her who is beyond the highest, the eternal mother of the three gods, who gives her devotees what they long for, who protects all the gods, an ocean of compassion.

By your power, he said, I, Viṣṇu and Śiva create the world, sustain it and in time withdraw it. Mother, you are called svāhā and svadhā, modesty and clear understanding; you are contentment, nourishment, peace, forbearance, hunger and compassion. You are called Viṣṇu's māyā and consciousness itself; you are the highest Power, and thirst. You are error and you are memory; you stand as mother; in the homes of those who live rightly you stand as Lakṣmī. You are birth and livelihood; you pervade all things as awareness. Ambikā, womb of the world — delude these two who cannot be conquered, and wake the unborn, all-pervading Nārāyaṇa.

So entreated by Brahmā, the sage went on, the Goddess — the Great Knowledge, upholder of the world, presiding deity of all knowledge — appeared, to bring about the end of Madhu and Kaiṭabha, on the twelfth day of the bright half of Phālguna. That Power, who bewilders the three worlds, became known by the name Mahākālī.

A voice spoke from the sky: “Do not be afraid, Brahmā. Today I will have Madhu and Kaiṭabha killed in battle and take away your distress.” Having said this, Mahāmāyā came out from Viṣṇu's eyes, his mouth and the rest, and stood before Brahmā.

Then Viṣṇu, lord of the gods, rose from sleep and saw the two daityas before him. He and they began to fight, and they wrestled arm against arm for five thousand years. At the end of it the two great daityas, bewildered by Mahāmāyā's power, said to Viṣṇu: choose whatever boon you wish.

If you are pleased with me, said Nārāyaṇa, grant me this: that I myself may kill you both. I ask you for no other boon.

The two looked about them. The earth lay under water on every side. Kill us, they said, in a place where there is no water on the earth. So be it, said the Lord. He lifted his blazing discus, laid the two daityas across his own thigh, and cut off their heads.

So, king, I have told you how Kālikā arose, said the sage. Now hear how Mahālakṣmī arose. The Goddess Umā is without change and without form, yet age after age she takes a body to remove the distress of the gods. To take a body at will is the splendour of her own wish — and she does it in play, so that her devotees may go on singing of her.

Mahiṣa on Indra's throne

Long ago, the sage said, there was a daitya named Rambha, the crest-jewel of his race. From him was born a dānava of great brilliance named Mahiṣa. This lord of the daityas defeated all the gods in battle, sat down on Indra's throne and ruled in heaven.

The beaten gods went to Brahmā for refuge, and Brahmā took them to the place where Śiva and Viṣṇu were. They bowed to Śaṅkara and Keśava and told the whole story in order.

Lord, they said, the wicked Mahiṣāsura has beaten us in battle and driven us out of heaven. We wander in the world of men and find no peace anywhere. What indignity has he not put upon Indra and the others? Sūrya, Candra, Varuṇa, Kubera, Yama, Indra, Agni, Vāyu, the gandharvas, the vidyādharas, the cāraṇas — he has taken the work of every one of them and does it himself, this sinner who gives the daityas their safety. We have come to you for shelter. Protect us, and think quickly of a way to kill him. You two are our lords.

A woman made of light

When Viṣṇu and Śiva heard this, they were filled with anger, their eyes rolling with rage. And from the faces of the angry Viṣṇu and Śiva, and from the bodies of the other gods, light came forth.

The gods, their minds fixed on Durgā, saw that mass of light blazing in all ten directions. The fierce radiance born of all their bodies drew together into one — and became a woman, Mahiṣamardinī herself.

Her shining face was formed of Śiva's light, her hair of Yama's, her arms of Viṣṇu's. Her breasts were formed of the moon's light, her waist of Indra's, her calves and thighs of Varuṇa's, her hips of the Earth's. Her feet came from Brahmā's light and her toes from the Sun's; her nose from Kubera's, her teeth from Prajāpati's, her three eyes from Agni's, her brows from the light of the twilight, Sandhyā, and her ears from the Wind's. With limbs made of the light of all the other gods as well, there stood revealed Mahālakṣmī, she who dwells in the lotus.

The gods arm her

Seeing the Goddess risen from the massed radiance of them all, the gods were overjoyed. But they saw that she carried no weapon, and Brahmā and the rest resolved to arm her.

Śiva gave the great Goddess his trident. Viṣṇu — the Purāṇa here calls him Kṛṣṇa — gave a conch and the Sudarśana discus. Varuṇa, bearer of the noose, gave a noose; Agni gave a spear; Vāyu gave a bow and a quiver full of arrows; Indra, husband of Śacī, gave a thunderbolt and a bell. Yama gave the rod of Time, Prajāpati a rosary, Brahmā a water-pot, and the Sun set his rays in every pore of her skin.

Kāla gave a sword and a bright shield. The Ocean of Milk gave a lovely necklace, two garments that never wear out, a crest-jewel, earrings, bracelets, a half-moon ornament, armlets, a pair of anklets, ornaments for the neck and rings for every finger. Viśvakarmā gave a fine axe, and with it many missiles and armour that cannot be pierced.

The Sea gave a fresh garland and lotus flowers. Himālaya gave a lion and many kinds of gems, and Kubera a cup filled with wine. Śeṣa, lord of all serpents, gave a serpent necklace of wonderful workmanship, set with the finest jewels.

Honoured with these weapons and ornaments by these gods and the others, the Goddess roared, loud and long, laughing again and again. That terrible sound filled the whole sky and echoed until the three worlds shook; the four oceans heaved and the earth swayed. The gods whom Mahiṣa had tormented cried “Victory!”, and with voices choked by devotion they praised Ambikā, the supreme Power in the form of Mahālakṣmī.

The battle

When the asuras, enemies of the gods, saw the world in such upheaval, they took up their weapons and made ready for war with all their troops. Mahiṣāsura himself, furious, rushed towards the sound — and saw the Goddess, filling the three worlds with her radiance.

Meanwhile crores of great warriors kept by Mahiṣa came up, weapons in hand. Cikṣura, Cāmara, Udagra, Karāla, Uddhata, Vāṣkala, Tāmra, Ugrāsya, Ugravīrya, Biḍāla, Andhaka, Durdhara, Durmukha, Trinetra and Mahāhanu — these, and many others skilled in war and in every weapon, fought the Goddess, and a terrible time passed as the two sides battled.

The showers of weapons the enemy hurled were destroyed in a moment by Mahāmāyā's power. Then the Goddess struck Cikṣura and the other chiefs, with their troops, with mace, arrows, trident, spear and axe.

When his whole army had been destroyed in this way, Mahiṣa fell on the gaṇas who had been born from the Goddess's breath. Some he struck with his hooves, some with his two horns, some with his tail and some with his muzzle, again and again.

Having cut down her gaṇas, the lord of the asuras charged at her lion, wild with anger. He tore up the earth with his hooves, wrenched up mountains with his horns and flung them, and bellowed. As he raced about, the great hills he had thrown came crashing down from above. Clouds, ripped by his horns, were torn to pieces; the seas, lashed by his tail, broke their shores and ran in all directions.

Seeing Mahiṣa in such fury, Ambikā, who gives the gods freedom from fear, set about killing him.

Buffalo, lion, man, elephant

She raised her noose and threw it over him to bind him — and he gave up his buffalo shape and in that instant became a lion. By the time she brought her sword down on his head, the trickster had become a man with a sword.

She struck that man, sword and shield in his hands, with her arrows — and he became an elephant and began to batter her lion with his trunk. With her great sword she cut the trunk off. Then the demon took his buffalo form once more and set the whole world, moving and unmoving, in turmoil.

At this the proud Caṇḍikā's anger knew no bounds. Her eyes rolling, she drank again and again from the cup and laughed aloud. The asura, drunk on his own strength and valour, roared, and tore up mountains and hurled them at her; with volleys of arrows she quickly ground them to dust.

Then, her face flushed with the wine and her senses swimming, the Goddess spoke in a voice as deep as a thundercloud: “Fool, your wits are gone. Why this pointless stubbornness? In the three worlds there is no asura who can stand before me.”

With these words she leapt up, pinned the daitya beneath her feet and drove her dreadful trident into his throat. Held down by her feet and helpless before her power, he came halfway out through his own mouth — and, half emerged, that vilest of daityas began to fight her again. Then with her great sword the Goddess cut off his head and dropped it on the ground.

Songs in heaven

Mahiṣa's followers cried “Alas, alas!” and, with faces lowered, calling out “Save us, save us!”, they fled the battlefield in terror.

Then Indra and all the gods praised the Goddess, the gandharvas sang, and the apsarases danced.

So, king, said the sage, I have told you how Mahālakṣmī arose. Now listen with a quiet mind to how Sarasvatī arose — the story of Śumbha and Niśumbha, which the Purāṇa takes up next.