In the Kaṭha Upaniṣad (1.3.14), Yama employs the phrase, “the razor’s edge” (kṣurasya dhārā), when he describes to Nachiketa the difficult and perilous path to the supreme Reality. In spiritual life every moment we face, every step we take, is fraught with potential risks. Only a constantly vigilant student can avoid these possible pitfalls and forge ahead. Even a little slip can send us crashing down, and it may take quite a while to heal the wounds, to rise up, and to resume our journey.
Dangers come at both the levels, gross and subtle. Nārada’s story, described by Gosvāmī Tulasīdās in his Rām-carit-mānas, shows the kinds of hurdles spiritual seekers are likely to face at some stage or other. The story is highly instructive. It holds before us a mirror in which we can see our own faces and our own lives reflected. It awakens us and exhorts us to be always on the alert.
Nārada’s Story
Nārada is a reputed figure in Indian religious literature. References about him are to be found in the Vedas, the Upaniṣads, Gita, Bhāgavata, Mahābhārata, Rāmāyaṇa, and in several Purāṇas as well. Nārada is the “divine sage” (devarṣi), traveling always with a vīṇā (a stringed musical instrument) in his hands and God’s name on his tongue. Our focus of attention here will be on one incident from Nārada’s life described by Gosvāmī Tulasīdās.
The story goes that Prajāpati requested Nārada to teach his four sons. Nārada filled their minds with ideas of renunciation and dispassion to such an extent that all four of them renounced the world and became monks. Prajāpati was annoyed. How was creation to proceed if Nārada went about preaching renunciation to one and all? He cursed Nārada that he would have to remain always on the move. The idea was to keep Nārada from staying too long in any one place and influencing people to embrace the monastic life. Thus we see Nārada in most of our books as a wandering minstrel, continually traveling from place to place, preaching the glory of devotion to God and extending help to devotees everywhere.
One fine day it so happened that Nārada was passing through the Himālayan region. He had passed by that route several times before. But this time the place somehow felt different. It was springtime. The natural setting seemed alluring and enchanting. Nārada spotted a cave there. A little away was the holy Ganga, flowing with a melodious rhythm. Nārada stopped. He went near the cave, found there a suitable rock and perched himself atop. His mind became filled with thoughts of the Divine. Sitting there he spontaneously entered into meditation. Hours passed into days, and days into weeks—but Nārada sat still, immersed in deep samādhi.
This was quite a miracle. Prajāpati’s curse had somehow lost its effect and was overpowered by the divine beauty of the place. News about miracles spreads fast. Gandharvas, yakṣas, devas and other being from different celestial worlds were all struck with wonder to hear that the ever-wandering devotee of Śrī Hari was seated in one place—and that too in deep meditation.
Indra, the king of gods, became panicky with the thought that Nārada might have begun tapas to usurp his throne. A very typical reaction with which we are familiar. When weak people occupy positions of power, they always feel insecure and suspicious. There’s the constant fear that someone someday may displace them. So we find in our mythologies Indra agitated on many occasions with the fear that he may be toppled by some ascetic doing severe penance.
Perhaps it would be good to clarify one point before we proceed with Nārada’s story. Who are these celestial figures, often generalized as simply “gods,” that figure again and again in our ancient books? Swami Vivekananda answers:
“Those who do good work here [in this world] with the thought of reward, when they die, are born again as gods in one of the heavens, as Indra and others. These gods are the names of certain states. They also had been human, and by good work they have become gods; and those different names that you read of, such as Indra and so on, are not the names of the same person. There will be thousands of Indras. Nausha was a great king, and when he died, he became Indra. It is a position; one soul becomes high and takes the Indra position and remains in it only a certain time, he then dies and is born again as human. But the human body is the highest of all. Some of the gods may try to go higher and give up all ideas of enjoyment in heavens; but, as in this world, wealth and position and enjoyment delude the vast majority, so do most of the gods become deluded also, and after working out their good karma, they fall down and become human beings again. This earth, therefore, is the ‘place of action’ (karma-bhūmi), it is this earth from which we attain to liberation. So even the heavens are not worth attaining to.” (CW 3. 127)
Good actions guarantee us a stay in heaven, a god-body, plenty of enjoyments—but all of this only for while. Once our merits (puṇya) are exhausted, as they must sooner or later, we have to come “down” and be born again on this earth. A discerning mind therefore rejects the heaven-ideal, and seeks for something permanent. Do good actions, says the Gita (2. 47), but without seeking their reward. That will purify the mind and make us fit to pursue the goal of spiritual freedom (mukti), attaining which all bondages are broken for ever.
The gods we meet in our books, it must be kept in mind, were men and women who did good things in their lives and had the desire to reap the reward in heaven that the scriptures promise them. Desire is something they are not free from. And desire, we all know only too well, is the ideal breeding ground for fear, hatred, jealousy, anxiety, competition, and envy. There is nothing to be wondered at, therefore, when we see Indra in our story perturbed at the thought that he may have to vacate the covetable throne he was occupying.
What did Indra do? He did what most others in his position would do. He tried to put obstacles in Nārada’s path in order to frustrate his attempts to continue with his tapas. Let us remember that Nārada had not even thought of occupying Indra’s throne. He had simply sat down there in meditation, attracted by the peace, beauty and sanctity of the place. Indra’s fears were totally imaginary. Imagination puts on the cloak of reality in the minds of all who feel inwardly insecure and weak. The nonexistent threat to his sovereignty had become very real to Indra. He sent for Kāmadeva, the god of love, and ordered him to go and divert Nārada’s attention and prevent him from continuing his tapas.
Kāmadeva set forth with his bow, love-arrows, and his army of celestial nymphs. Approaching the place where Nārada was seated, Kāmadeva first of all filled the surrounding area with a kind of air that would generate lust-fever into any living creature. Then he and his group tried all their tricks to drag Nārada’s mind down to the worldly plane. Dance, music, sensual conversations went on around Nārada. Kāmadeva sent his love-arrows one after another. But, wonder of wonders, they failed to disturb Nārada’s deep absorption. Kāmadeva was dumbstruck. In the past a single arrow was enough for most beings to succumb. But here was Nārada, completely unaffected even when a volley of arrows was shot at him.
When Kāmadeva realized that his ammunition was exhausted and it was beyond his power to shake Nārada, he was terrified. Nothing teaches so well as agonizing experiences of the past. Earlier, when Kāmadeva was sent on a similar mission to Śiva, he was burnt to ashes by Śiva’s wrath. Fortunately, the easily pacifiable nature of Śiva had prevented Kāmadeva’s total annihilation and had allowed him to live without a body—hence his other name, Anaṅga (“the one without a body”).
Kāmadeva found himself now in a similar situation. What if the sage Nārada pronounced a curse upon him? What if the sage destroyed him altogether? Trembling with fear he approached Nārada and prostrated before him. The host of dancers and nymphs too fell at Nārada’s feet and sought his forgiveness.
At last Nārada opened his eyes and saw the whole lot surrendering to him and seeking his blessings and forgiveness. He blessed them heartily and said that he was not at all offended at what they had done. Relieved by this magnanimous gesture of the sage, they hastily retreated to Indra’s palace.
Kāmadeva reported to Indra everything that had taken place. By and large, everyone attributed Nārada’s conquest of lust and anger to his one-pointed devotion to the lotus feet of Śrī Hari, the Lord of Vaikuṇṭha. It was the Lord, they all said, who had protected his beloved devotee from falling prey to lust (kāma) and anger (krodha), the two great enemies (Gita, 3. 37). They sang the glories of Hari and tried to strengthen the intensity of their devotion to him by holding Nārada as a model before them.
So far so good. But let us go back to Nārada, who was sitting there outside the cave in the sylvan Himalayan setting. What was the state of his mind?
After Kāmadeva and his retinue left, Nārada looked around and realized for the first time that something unusual had indeed taken place. First of all, he found that in spite of Prajāpati’s curse he had been sitting in one place, deeply in samādhi, for such an immense length of time. Secondly, he saw that though Kāmadeva and his army of celestial damsels tried everything in their power to draw his mind away from God, they had miserably failed. No lust had sprouted in his heart even when he was surrounded by all manner of allurements through dance and music. Kāmadeva’s love-arrows had proved ineffective in piercing his heart. Furthermore, Nārada realized that he had even conquered and vanquished the other enemy, anger, for he did not feel the least anger at Kāmadeva and his army for trying to seduce him.
Then came the fatal conclusion. Nārada felt that it was a unique achievement, and it was his achievement. What an irony of fate! While the gods and other celestials were celebrating the event as the victory of Hari, as the Lord’s protective act to save his devotee, and were trying to emulate Nārada’s devotion to the Lord, here was Nārada celebrating what he considered to be his own victory. Nārada was too elated now to even notice that his practice of the unceasing chanting of the Lord’s name had ceased. He was now immersed in his own glory.
Once egoism raises its hood, it eclipses everything. Poor Nārada! The “razor’s edge” had come to the fore. So long as we hold on to God, so long as God’s presence is acknowledged in all our actions, words and thoughts, the path we tread is broad, smooth and easy. Once we let go of the hold, the path becomes narrow, hard and difficult. The farther we go, the narrower the path becomes, until it becomes the “razor’s edge.” Nārada was now treading on the razor’s edge and, worse still, was not even aware of this.
Come to think of it, what really had Nārada achieved? Nothing so spectacular, after all. He had only managed to stave off lust and anger for some time. This is nothing unusual. There are times when even the most worldly person is not provoked to indulge in passions. There are moments of satiety. There are times, however short their duration, when we become indifferent to the charms of this world. No person is bad twenty-four hours of the day. No one spends every moment of their life cheating other people. Thus there was nothing so very unique about Nārada’s victory.
Besides, a great devotee like Nārada, who was beloved of Hari himself and was ever protected by him, had no real reason to be so elated at this very natural event. But egoism eclipses everything. When it casts its spell, right becomes wrong, wrong becomes right, and ordinary things appear extraordinary.
No spiritual seeker can afford to mistake momentary successes for permanent achievements. In matters connected with lust and anger, no one can assume themselves to be too safe. A story is told of a holy man who was once asked, “Sir, has your life been perfectly pure, free from lust and anger?” The holy man said he’d answer the question later on.
Years later, as he lay on his death bed, he summoned the questioner and told him, “Yes, now I can answer your question with a positive yes.”
“Why did you wait all these years to tell me this?”
“Well, my friend, so long as this body lasts, one can never be too sure of anything. Now the time has come to lay down this body and I can say with certainty that my life has been absolutely pure.”
Only those who are spiritually illumined, whose body-consciousness has been completely erased, are free from lust, anger and other passions, wherever they may be and in whatever situation. As for the rest, no precaution is too much. The Nārada we meet with in this story is still a seeker. A great devotee, a beloved of the Lord, a holy sage—all very true, but still a seeker, not an enlightened being. He ought not to have assumed that he had achieved what he really had not. Anyway, let us go back to him and see what he is doing now.
Puffed with pride Nārada looked around. Earlier he used to behold the glory of Hari everywhere and at all times. But now all that he saw around was a Himalayan forest and he its solitary resident. Nārada felt uncomfortable. He had achieved an absolute victory over lust and anger, while all others, he reasoned, were slaves of those two. Nārada realized that he was the greatest person living and he felt it outrageous that the world was still ignorant of this fact. It was time to go and announce the news of his victory to one and all.
The first person Nārada chose to go to was Śiva, the Lord of Kailāsa. There was a special reason why Nārada wanted Śiva to know about his achievement. His encounter with Śiva and, later on, with Hari, forms another interesting phase of this story. It depicts the subtle dangers in spiritual life from which we need to guard ourselves.
Though it would not take a fortnight for Nārada to reach Kailāsa, that’s when our story will resume.