In the place of our usual explainer, here is a wonderful essay by Samhita
Arni—an author whose resume spans everything from the fabulously illustrated ‘Sita’s Ramayana’ to the mystery
thriller ‘The Missing Queen’ and her
latest piece of mythological fiction ‘The Prince’.
On this day, aeons ago, the devas and asuras gathered together, to churn the primordial ocean. The serpent Vasuki, obligingly, wrapped his coils around Mount Mandara, and the Devas picked up his tail, and the asuras held on to his head. Mount Mandara itself was balanced on Vishnu, in his avatar as a turtle. The devas and the asuras began to heave and turn, and the ocean was churned. Many beautiful, surprising gifts emerged from its depths. The apsaras emerged, Varuni emerged, and then there was the goddess Lakshmi, deity of wealth, abundance, fertility and prosperity—who chose Vishnu as her husband. This then marks what we call Diwali… according to one story we tell ourselves.
Of course, there’s the other more popular version. Diwali is also the day of Ram’s triumphant return to Ayodhya, after fourteen years of exile, with Lakshman and a newly-rescued Sita in tow. But these are not the only myths that feature and celebrate this occasion—and it is not always about what we call Diwali or even Deepavali.
One of my favourite stories is the one that explains the origin of Naraka Chaturdashi, the day before Diwali. This story features another form of Lakshmi—Lakshmi as Bhudevi, the earth, the material world. Bhudevi is also the mother of Sita in the Ramayana, but in this story she is the mother of a far more menacing figure—the evil King Narakasura.
Narakasura was a tyrant, who abused his power and ruled over the kingdom of Pragjyotthisya, in Assam. Like all megalomaniac mythic tyrants, Narakasura was the recipient of a boon, which made him invincible and allowed him to defeat all challenges to his authority and hoard power. Brahma had assured him that he could be killed only if his mother was the instrument of his death. In other versions of this story Bhudevi herself—wishing to make her son invincible and immortal—had asked for a similar boon from Vishnu: the only way her son could die was if she wished for it.
And so Narakasura’s excesses carried on unabated. He was a tyrant, a molester, a criminal. He defeated Indra, and forcibly kidnapped 16,000 women. The myths state that he ‘imprisoned’ them—a modern day reteller might interpret this as rape. In his rampage through Indra’s kingdom, Naraksura committed another crime: he stole a pair of earrings that belonged to Aditi, the mother of the devas.
It was this theft—a seemingly small sin compared to his other excesses—that caused his downfall. Aditi, wishing to get her earrings back, approached Krishna’s wife, Satyabhama, for assistance. Satyabhama—the incarnation of Bhudevi—was furious at Narkasura’s crimes. She appealed to her husband, wishing for Narakasura’s death. Krishna set off, accompanied by his wife as his charioteer (much like Dasarath and Kaikeyi) to do battle with Narakasura. As Satyabhama was an avatar of Bhudevi, and wished for her son’s death—this met the criterion for Vishnu’s and Brahma’s boon and the demon was killed. In many retellings, it is Krishna who battles Narakasura, kills him and frees the 16,000 women (who then all marry him).
But in another retelling, Krishna is unable to defeat Narakasura. In battle, he swoons. Satyabhama, seeing her husband unconscious, is furious. When her husband regains consciousness, he realises that he is unable to defeat the tyrant—and suggests that his wife switches places with him. Krishna takes the reins—like he does for Arjuna on the battlefield of Kurukshetra—and becomes his wife’s charioteer. She takes on the role of warrior, wears his armour and wields his weapons. After a lengthy battle, Satyabhama is triumphant. She kills and defeats Narakasura.
As he dies, Narakasura begs this incarnation of his mother for a boon: that his death be celebrated. And so this is the day on which we celebrate his death, and the triumph of Bhudevi, or Lakshmi, in the form of Satyabhama.
A footnote: In Bengal and Assam, this is a day to celebrate not Lakshmi, but the goddess Kali. After killing a pair of demons that were plaguing the world, Kali, triumphant, begins to dance. The earth quivers and shakes beneath her feet. Her wild, frenetic energy turns destructive. The gods beseech Shiva to calm her down, and Shiva does so by lying down, in front of Kali. When Kali steps on him, she suddenly comes to herself, lets her tongue hang out and calms down.
The festival celebrated two days after Diwali has its own set of stories meant to mark the bond between brother and sister—specifically between divine siblings, Yama, god of death, and his twin-sister, who is known as Yami or Yamuna. Yami had a deep affection for her brother, who could not visit her. When he did, on this day, she applied a tilak on his forehead, and pleased by her affection, Yama decreed that this be the day that brothers and sisters honour and celebrate each other.
As with all mythological stories, there are multiple versions of the story of the relationship between Yami and Yama. In these other versions, Yami is not just Yama’s twin sister but also his wife. Yama and Yami are the first two beings to come into existence. They love each other and have a child together. One day, tragedy strikes: Yama drops dead. When Yami discovers that Yama has died, and has gone to become the lord of the underworld, she is heartbroken. She begins to cry. Her tears fall swift and plentiful: soon her grief turns into the mighty river, Yamuna.
But still, she continues to cry, and now her tears, flooding the earth, threaten to destroy the world. All mortal beings appeal to the gods for help. Finally, Surya, the sun, decides to cover himself—and this is how night comes into being. Yami, suddenly startled as darkness descends for the first time in existence, stops crying, in wonder. Staring at the night sky, filled with stars, she drifts to sleep. When the next day dawns, she awakens, and remembers her grief, but it is a little less than the day before. In time, as the days pass, Yami’s grief slowly fades.
In conclusion: In all these stories, women become more than just damsels to be rescued or married. They rescue themselves, are warriors and go through the struggle to be on their own (as in the case of Yami, or Sita at the end of the Ramayana). These stories affirm for me that our mythic traditions can offer us a variety of ways of being independent, of having a voice and expressing one’s truth—this, for me, is the truest kind of triumph.
PS: Our lead image is a late 18th century painting of Krishna and Satyabhama rescuing women from the Demon-King Narakasura—taken from a Bhagavata Purana.
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