IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 98 - TRISHANKU'S SWARG Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

 “My respect for the wisdom embedded in our Panchatantra, Jataka Tales, and Indian folklore has grown manifold this year,” said the old man, settling into his bench among the other morning walkers.

“Why this year in particular? That wisdom has always been there,” I asked.

He smiled, “Because this year, across the ocean, someone’s come to power in Amrika—a man who reminds me of the crow in the Panchatantra who stuck peacock feathers to his butt and thought he could pass off as a peacock.”

“Still not following. There are so many of them,” I said.

“You know, that man who just can't keep quiet. Like the turtle in the Jataka tale—being airlifted by swans, told to stay silent, but couldn't resist blurting out mid-air that he had single-handedly brokered peace in four days on the Twitter—only to come crashing down.”

“With so many conflicts going on, who exactly are you referring to?” I asked.

He leaned in, “Let me give you another clue. Like the monkey in the Panchatantra who foolishly tried to remove the wedge (read: fissile material) from the log that two carpenters—Esrail and Eran—were working on. He may have tried to act clever, but instead got his tail stuck. Luckily, the carpenters were tired and accepted his terms. Had they not, he’d have had to explain a surge in body bags returning home.”

“Are you talking about the guy who, like the crocodile in the Jataka, wanted to serve the monkey’s heart—ilon’s, in this case—to his wife? Despite the fact that the monkey fed him sweet jamuns (Java plum or black plum) every day?” I asked, finally catching on.

“I’m sure many people see a Tughlaq in him—grand ideas, bizarre logic, and total chaos,” the old man chuckled.

Another walker chimed in, “Except I don’t recall any text suggesting Tughlaq was petty, loud, insulting, egotistic, overambitious, or a bully—qualities our folk tales constantly warn us against.”

“Well, whatever he is, he’ll probably get a medal soon—for being a so-called harbinger of peace,” I said dryly.

“You see,” the old man continued, “Trishanku, ruler of the solar dynasty, once dreamed of reaching heaven—not after death, but in his living, physical body. When he asked his royal priest, Sage Vashistha, to perform the rituals, he was refused. The request was called arrogant and against dharma. Undeterred, he turned to Vashistha’s rival, Sage Vishwamitra, who, out of pride and rivalry, agreed. With immense yogic power, he launched Trishanku toward the heavens. But the gods, led by Indra, rejected him and flung him back to Earth. Enraged, Vishwamitra created a parallel heaven mid-air. And Trishanku was in the parallel heaven. But suspended Trishanku upside down—forever caught in limbo. Trishanku’s Swarg has since become the symbol of hollow glory and impossible ambition.”

Everyone was silent for a moment, impressed by the tale and its relevance.

I couldn’t help but add, “Well, one thing’s for sure—he’s not making Amrika great again. But ‘saanu ki’—we are fortunate to have sane, steady leadership.”

Heads nodded in agreement.