Satī Tests Rāma

Can Śiva and Satī be parted?

Brahmā had been telling Nārada of the happy life of Śiva and Satī on the mountain after their wedding. Then he said something strange. Some wise people say that Satī was later separated from her husband Śiva. But how could that really be? Śiva and his Śakti are consciousness itself, joined like a word and its meaning. Still, because they love to play, they follow the ways of the world — and whatever they do in that play is right.

Brahmā gave the outline first. When Dakṣa's daughter saw that her husband had given her up, she went to her father's sacrifice, saw Śiva dishonoured there, and gave up her body. She was born again in the Himālaya's house as Pārvatī, and by hard tapas won Śiva back in marriage.

Nārada was astonished. Why would Śiva give up the wife dearer to him than life? Tell me everything.

It is all Śiva's play, said Brahmā. He is free, changeless, and does many kinds of līlā, and Satī is the same; who else could act like this? Viṣṇu, I myself, all the gods and sages worship him; Śeṣa sings his glory without end and never reaches the end of it. Any confusion about the truth in this story comes from his play. No one is to blame, for he moves everything from within.

In the Daṇḍaka forest

Once Rudra, who loves to roam the three worlds, was travelling over the earth with Satī on his bull. They passed over oceans and through the sky and came to the Daṇḍaka forest, and Śiva began to show Satī its beauty.

There they saw Rāma with his brother Lakṣmaṇa, searching for his beloved wife Sītā, whom Rāvaṇa had carried off by force. Rāma was crying “Hā Sītā!” at the top of his voice, looking everywhere, weeping again and again. He was overcome by the pain of separation. He asked the trees where she was; he had lost all judgement and all shame, and was drowning in grief. This was the hero of the Solar dynasty, the son of Daśaratha and elder brother of Bharata, living in the forest because of the boons Kaikeyī had won — and all the light had gone out of his face.

Śiva, who lacks nothing, looked at him with delight, bowed to him, cried “Victory! Victory!” and turned away in another direction. He did not show himself to Rāma again in that forest.

“Why should the master bow?”

Satī was amazed at this play of Śiva's, and his māyā clouded her mind. Lord of the gods, she said, you are the supreme Brahman, the Lord of all. Brahmā, Viṣṇu and all the gods serve you forever. Everyone should bow to you, serve you, meditate on you; you are the one the Vedānta strives to know.

So who are these two men, worn down by the grief of separation — two archers wandering the forest, miserable and helpless? Why, when you saw the elder one, dark as a blue lotus, were you so overwhelmed with joy, as happy as a devotee? Clear my doubt, my lord. It does not seem right for the master to bow to his servant.

Śiva laughed. Listen, Satī, he said; I am telling you the truth, with no trick in it. I bowed to him with reverence because of a boon. These two brothers are honoured by heroes. Their names are Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, sons of King Daśaratha of the Solar dynasty. The fair younger one, Lakṣmaṇa, is a portion of Śeṣa. The elder, Rāma, is a full portion of Viṣṇu, untouched by any flaw. They have come down to earth to protect the good and for our own welfare. And then he fell silent.

But Satī's mind was not convinced. Śiva's māyā is strong; it bewilders the three worlds.

Śiva saw that she did not believe him. If your mind is not satisfied, he said, go there yourself and test Rāma with your own judgement. Do whatever will clear away your confusion. I will sit under this banyan tree until you come back.

Satī in Sītā's form

Satī went, and wondered how to test a man who lives in the forest. I will take Sītā's form and go to him, she decided. If Rāma really is Viṣṇu he will know everything; if not, he will not recognise me.

So, still under that spell, she took the form of Sītā and went to Rāma. Rāma saw Satī in Sītā's form. He was repeating the name of Śiva; he understood everything at once, bowed to her, and said with a smile:

Satī, I bow to you. Tell me, where has Śiva gone? Why have you come to this forest alone, without your husband? Why have you left your own form and taken this one? Be kind and tell me.

Satī was stunned. She remembered Śiva's words and knew now that they were true, and she was deeply ashamed. Knowing Rāma to be Viṣṇu himself, she took back her own form, thought inwardly of Śiva's feet, and spoke.

The free and supreme Lord Śiva, she said, was roaming the earth with me and his attendants, and came into this forest. He saw you here with Lakṣmaṇa, searching for Sītā, heartsick at her loss. He bowed to you and went on, and now he sits under a banyan tree praising your glory as Viṣṇu, full of joy. He was filled with bliss just seeing you in this pure form, without seeing your four-armed form at all. His words confused me, so I took his leave and came to test you.

Now I know that you are Viṣṇu; I have seen your full power, and my doubt is gone. But tell me truly: how did you come to be one whom Śiva bows to? Free me from this last doubt, and give me peace.

How Viṣṇu became worthy of Śiva's bow

Rāma's eyes lit up. He remembered his lord Śiva, and his heart overflowed with love. Without Śiva's leave he did not go with Satī to where Śiva sat. Instead, praising Śiva's greatness in his mind, he told her this story.

Long ago, Goddess, Śambhu, the supreme maker, called Viśvakarmā to his own highest abode and had him build a wide and lovely hall in his cow-pen, with a splendid throne, and over it a wondrous divine canopy to keep all obstacles away. Then he summoned Indra and the gods, the siddhas, gandharvas and nāgas, all the lesser divinities, the Vedas and the Āgamas, Brahmā's sons, the sages, the apsarases and all the goddesses, and sixteen auspicious maidens each from among the gods, sages, siddhas and nāgas. There was music of vīṇā and mṛdaṅga, and fine singing. His attendants brought every healing herb, everything needed for a royal consecration, five jars of water from the holy tīrthas, and many other divine things, and the Vedic chants rang out.

Maheśvara is always pleased by Viṣṇu's complete devotion. So, with a glad heart, he called Hari from Vaikuṇṭha, seated him on that throne at an auspicious moment, and with his own hands lovingly adorned him and tied a beautiful crown on his head. Then Śiva himself consecrated Hari in that hall as wide as the cosmos, and gave him all his own sovereignty — which he gives to no one else. He praised Hari, and, making known everywhere that he is himself bound by his devotees, said to Brahmā:

From today, by my command, this Viṣṇu is worthy of my own reverence. Let everyone hear it. Bow to him, with all the gods; and let the Vedas describe Hari as they describe me.

And Rudra himself, pleased by Viṣṇu's devotion, bowed to Hari, whose banner bears Garuḍa. Then Brahmā, the gods, the sages and the siddhas bowed to him too.

Then Śiva gave Hari great boons before the gods. By my command you will create, protect and dissolve the worlds, grant dharma, wealth and pleasure, and punish the unjust. You will be mighty, worshipped by the world — and in some places not to be conquered even by me. Take from me three powers: the fulfilment of your will, the power to show many kinds of līlā, and lasting freedom in the three worlds. Those who hate you I will surely punish; to your devotees I will give the highest freedom. Take this māyā too, hard even for the gods to overcome. You are my left arm, and Brahmā my right; you will bring forth and sustain even him. The Rudra who is my heart is myself, and he is to be worshipped by you and Brahmā and the gods. Stay here and protect the whole world through your many avatāras. Your radiant place in my world will be known as Goloka. Your avatāras on earth will protect everyone and will be my devotees; I will go to see them, and by my boon they will always be glad.

Having given Hari his undivided sovereignty, Hara went back to Kailāsa to play with his attendants. From that time Lakṣmī's lord took the dress of a cowherd and lived happily as the master of the cowherds, the gopīs and the cows, and protected the world, taking many avatāras at Śiva's command.

Now, said Rāma, by Śiva's command Hari has come down in four forms: I am Rāma, and the others are Bharata, Lakṣmaṇa and Śatrughna. I came to the forest at my father's command, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. By fate I am in sorrow now: some night-roaming demon has stolen my wife, and I am searching for her with my brother. But now that I have seen you, Mother, all will be well by your grace. Seeing you is itself a boon: by your grace I will kill that wicked rākṣasa and win Sītā back. How fortunate I am today that you have both been kind to me. Whoever you two look on with compassion is blessed.

After saying much more, Rāma bowed to Satī and, with her leave, went on through the forest.

Remorse on the road back

Satī was glad at heart to hear the pure-hearted Rāma speak with such devotion to Śiva and in such praise of him. But then she remembered what she herself had done, and grief came over her. Her radiance faded, and she walked back towards Śiva with a heavy heart.

All along the way she kept thinking: I did not trust Śiva's word, and I thought ill of Rāma. What answer can I give Śiva now? And she was full of regret.

She came to Śiva and bowed to him in her heart, her face clouded, pale and stricken. Śiva saw her sorrow, asked lovingly if all was well, and said: how did you test him? “I did not test him at all,” Satī said, and stood beside him with her head bowed, lost in grief.

The vow kept in silence

Then the great yogī Maheśvara looked within, in meditation, and knew everything Satī had done. He remembered a vow he had made long before — when the gods had begged him to marry, and Hari had pressed him hard, and he, the keeper of right bounds, had given his word. Sorrow rose in his heart. And the one who speaks, does and guards dharma said to himself: if I love Satī now as I did before, my great vow will be broken — I who follow the ways of the world.

After turning it over many ways, Śiva, protector of the Veda and of dharma, gave Satī up in his heart; he would not break his vow. And having renounced her in his mind, he set off for Kailāsa, telling no one what he had decided.

As they went, a voice rang out from the sky, for Śiva and all to hear, and Satī above all: Blessed are you, supreme Lord! No one in the three worlds has ever made such a vow. You are the great yogī, the great Lord.

Pale and dimmed, Satī asked Śiva: My lord, what vow have you made? Tell me, great Lord. But Śiva, who seeks the good of all, did not tell her of the vow he had once made before Viṣṇu about his marriage.

Then Satī meditated on her beloved husband, and understood the whole reason why he had given her up. Śambhu has abandoned me — knowing this, Dakṣa's daughter sank into deep grief, sighing again and again and sobbing.

Śiva knew what was in her mind. He kept his vow hidden and began to tell her many other stories. Telling them, he reached Kailāsa with her, sat on his high seat, and entered samādhi, meditating on his own nature. Satī went to her own dwelling and lived there in anguish. No one knew what had passed between Śivā and Śiva. And so, for a very long time, these two lords, who take bodies at will and follow the ways of the world, stayed like that.

Word and meaning

At last Mahādeva came out of his meditation. Knowing it, Satī, the Mother of the world, came to him and bowed with an aching heart. Śiva, generous as ever, gave her a seat facing him and lovingly told her many delightful stories, and by that play he soon took away her grief. She was happy again, as before. And yet Śiva did not break his vow.

Do not think this strange in Śiva, Brahmā told Nārada. This is how the sages tell the story of Śiva and Śivā. Only foolish people think they can truly be parted. Who can know their real story? They play as they please. Satī and Śiva are forever joined, like a word and its meaning; separation between them is impossible — except in play, when they themselves will it.