Last Thursday was Guru Purnima. It has become a beautiful occasion to honour personal gurus. But its core reason remains paying tribute to Veda Vyasa, the vyasa (sorter) and compiler of the Vedas. He was also the author of the Mahabharata, the Srimad Bhagavatam and several Puranas. Guru Purnima thus honours the most prolific Indian author of all time, whose work continues to influence millions even after millennia. This master storyteller delights in suspenseful chiaroscuro, in ‘light-and-dark’ shades. Characters that he casually describes as ‘among the most learned’ experience catastrophic falls soon after. Utanga’s story from last Monday is but one example.
Vyasa’s mastery of irony is evident in other ways, too. Perhaps you would remember the story of Pingala that I retold in 2022? Let us briefly revisit it to savour Vyasa’s subtle sarcasms. The case of Pingala, the public woman, is mentioned in Vyasa’s Srimad Bhagavatam, Canto 11, Chapter 8. King Yadu, who is Sri Krishna’s ancestor, happens to meet a young ascetic whose face and manners shine with lustrous composure.
Yadu is so impressed that he wants to know how the ascetic achieved it. The ascetic humbly replies that he had many teachers, including a serpent, and the five elements, and explains what he learned from them. He then shocks King Yadu by saying, “In the city of Mithila, there used to be a public woman called Pingala. Now hear, O king, what I learnt from her.”
“I can readily accept that the natural world holds many lessons. But really, a public woman…I don’t see how,” says the startled king. The ascetic smiles serenely. “She told me herself one day at the temple,” he says: Pingala stood at her doorway as usual that evening in her hometown, Mithila city, displaying her beautiful form to attract customers. Mithila was the capital of Videha, renowned as a seat of learning. Above all, it had been Sita’s home. Sita was deeply loved across the Indic world. Nobody could think of her without feeling utterly wretched that she had been punished and sent away for no fault of hers. People took her fate very personally, and when a daughter was married, they would use Sita’s father’s words in the core rituals, “Iyam Sita, mama suta” (This is Sita, my daughter). To take Sita’s name in their own weddings was their way of trying to make it up to her forevermore.
Pingala often thought of Sita, whose good character had not saved her from heartbreak. She had been born into a respectable family and had been taught her prayers. But her parents had died of an illness, and there was no one left to care for her. She had been put to work as a maid in a merchant’s kitchen and was seduced by the son of the house. Thrown out on the street when discovered, Pingala had lost all reputation and had nowhere to go. Mithila’s richest bawd had picked her up and taught her the tricks of the trade. Pingala had done reasonably well for herself. She had a little house of her own and could employ a maid to cook and clean while she devoted herself to looking her best.
But Pingala was acutely lonely and longed for a secure life. She fantasised every day about a man who would fall in love with her and look after her for good with affection and respect. She prayed every day for this and worried about it constantly. She worried about it that evening in the soft purple twilight of Mithila as she stood at her door, and went on worrying until midnight, when she suddenly had a startling revelation. “Just what am I doing making myself unhappy, selling myself to men who are lamentable themselves, and desperately hoping that someone will love me and look after me? “
Am I so unintelligent that I can’t see how pointless this is? This body is but a cage of bones that will burn one day. Somehow, detachment has risen in my heart and set me free of my body.
“The best way to be happy is to be unafraid and live my life confidently with the faith that I’ll cope; that ‘someone’ is with me already,” she found herself thinking, amazed at her own clarity of thought. With that resolve, Pingala shut the door and sat down on her bed. No more would she look for affirmation outside when true happiness lay in self-possession and faith in God. Serene in her newfound realisation, she went to sleep happy. “And so, I learnt from Pingala that people can always remake their lives with independent reasoning,” says the young ascetic to the fascinated King Yadu. Retelling the story of Pingala, it struck me that it could have been set in any kingdom. But not only does Videha mean ‘bodiless’, but also, when set in the realm of Vaidehi Sita, Pingala’s story is textured with superb ironic depth. Realising the significance of that location made me feel close to the subversive mind of Vyasa. It was a ‘Vyasa moment’, as hundreds of thousands of people must have had before me, and always will.
Moreover, what shines through poignantly is that Vyasa, whom we honour on Guru Purnima, himself did not claim that crown but instead tells us very clearly that we should learn from the whole world. The profound humility of Vyasa’s intent cannot but melt the stoniest of hearts. What a worthwhile person he is to celebrate. No wonder a stage of honour is called a ‘vyasapeeth’ or Vyasa’s seat even today.
Renuka Narayanan | FAITHLINE | Senior Journalist
(Views are personal)
(shebaba09@gmail.com)