Bal Kanda
Analysis
We had read the story from the Bāla Kāṇḍa, from Sarga 38 up to Sarga 43. The story is quite long, so it makes sense to split it into two parts. For today’s discussion, I’ve taken the first half of the Sagara story—from Sarga 38 to Sarga 41. I think we should do a quick recap.
The story says there was a king of Ayodhya named Sagara, with two queens, Keshinī and Sumatī. They had no children. So the king performed austerities on Bhrigu Prashravan Peak, and as a result he was blessed with sons. Queen Sumatī received sixty thousand sons, and Queen Keshinī had one son named Asamanjasa. Now that the king had sons, he thought of performing a sacrifice (yajña). A horse was brought for the rite, and the duty of protecting the horse was given to Anshuman, the son of Asamanjasa.
Before the sacrifice could even begin, Indra, taking the form of a demon, stole the horse and took it down to Rasātala (the netherworld). The officiating priests told the king, “We can’t start the sacrifice because the horse has been stolen. First bring the horse back, only then can we begin.” So the king ordered his sixty thousand sons to go find the horse and catch the thief.
Those sixty thousand sons set out to search for the horse. They dug into the earth—kept digging and digging. Along the way they saw Diggajas (guardian beings): while searching the east, they saw one named Virūpāksha; in the south, one called Mahāpadma; in the west, a diggaja named Svāmanas; and in the north, one named Shvetabhadra. But the horse was nowhere to be found. The sons returned to their father and said the horse hadn’t been found. Sagara ordered them to go again and keep digging.
Digging and digging, they reached Rasātala, where they finally saw the sacrificial horse standing—and nearby was the hermitage of Sage Kapila. The sixty thousand sons thought, “This Kapila must be the one who stole the horse.” Anger rose in them. They spoke harshly to Kapila, insulted him, and even rushed to kill him. As they charged at him, Kapila burned them to ashes with a single utterance.
Many days passed with no news reaching Sagara. Worried, he told Anshuman, the son of Asamanjasa, “Go by the same path they took and find the horse.” Following that path, Anshuman reached Rasātala, saw the horse standing there, and saw Kapila seated in his hermitage. Anshuman bowed to Kapila. Unlike the sixty thousand sons, who had accused him, Anshuman paid his respects.
Kapila said, “This is your horse. Take it back and complete your sacrifice.” But Anshuman wondered, “What about these sixty thousand uncles who lie here reduced to ash? What should I do for them?” He wanted to offer water oblations for them. Garuda happened to be there. Garuda said, “These water offerings won’t help. They will only be liberated when the waters of the Ganga touch this ash. If Ganga’s waters touch these ashes, your uncles will be freed.” Hearing this, Anshuman returned and told King Sagara everything. In the next part of the story, we’ll see what Sagara did to bring Ganga down to Rasātala.
Now let’s look at this spiritually—what is the real intent of the story?
The central point is this: a sacrifice was to be performed, the horse was brought, but Indra, in the form of a demon, stole it and placed it in Rasātala. The sacrifice simply cannot proceed until the horse is brought back.
The sacrificial horse here stands for the purification of our mind, intellect, and senses. How can the mind become pure, holy, and steady? That is the key symbol—the horse of the yajña equals our mind. What should we do so that our mind becomes pure and steady?
The mind becomes pure only when we apply each drop of knowledge in our conduct. We may hear, “Speak the truth,” “Be honest,” but just saying these things won’t purify the mind. Does merely talking about truth make the mind pure? No. Do speeches on honesty make the mind pure? No. The mind becomes pure only when we practice the truth—when we live it practically. Talking about truth doesn’t purify the mind; becoming truthful does. Whatever the situation, however difficult, if we remain honest in action, only then will the mind become pure, clean, and steady. We’ll talk about that, but first a key question arises: Why do we need to purify and steady the mind?
In simple terms: when the mind is impure or restless, we don’t feel good. It’s uncomfortable. The mind keeps spinning odd and messy thoughts, and it’s unpleasant. So one reason is straightforward: we want a pure, holy mind so that we feel comfortable and peaceful in life.
There’s another reason, as the scriptures say: every human being is a soul (ātman); the body is just an instrument. Every soul has seven innate qualities—we repeat this often here: blissful, pure, peaceful, powerful, loving, and joyful (seven in all). These qualities are in every soul, not just a few. What’s the problem then? We don’t experience them. Why? Because our mind, the mirror, is dusty. If a mirror is covered in dust, it won’t reflect the face before it. Likewise, if the mirror of the mind is dirty, the seven qualities of the soul won’t reflect in it—and as the mind is, so our life becomes.
Or think of the mind as a lake. If the lake is choppy, no reflection—of the moon, of trees on the bank—comes out clearly; it’s broken and distorted. In the same way, if our mind-lake is very restless, the soul’s seven qualities don’t reflect within us; we don’t experience them. Therefore we must clean the mirror of the mind, we must still the inner lake. Only then will what already belongs to us shine through in our life. So two points: we experience the soul’s qualities—like peace—and, in simple terms, we gain peace in life.
How does the story say we can purify and steady the mind? It makes two key points. First: if you rely on the intellect alone—yes, for worldly goals, if you use your intellect fully, you will succeed. We all know this from experience. If I want to understand this story, I can use my intellect and grasp it conceptually; I’ll succeed.
But if you try to purify and steady the mind using only the intellect, you won’t succeed. Why? Because the nature of the intellect is to analyze and dig. In the story, the sixty thousand “sons” of the intellect dug the earth all the way to Rasātala—yet they couldn’t bring back the horse. The hint is: purely intellectual, theoretical knowledge can know all the facts about truth—where it is, how to attain it, who walked its path, how joyful it is. You can read, analyze scriptures, and know all the facts. But knowing facts doesn’t purify the mind.
A person might write a thesis on truth or honesty, or lecture for an hour with many examples, but that lecture alone won’t make the mind pure. When does the mind become pure? Only when the speaker lives what they speak—speaks truth, practices honesty. That’s the point. In the story, King Sagara sends his sixty thousand sons to bring back the horse—meaning, to bring back a pure mind.
Before that, one small point: Indra took a demonic form and stole the horse, placing it in Rasātala. What does that mean? It means that our own mind, which is naturally pure, turns impure and steals away our purity, hiding it in our subconscious. For example: I go to buy vegetables and ask the price. The vendor says, “Ten rupees a kilo.” I reply, “But the other vendor sells it for eight,” even though I haven’t checked and don’t actually know. I’ve just told a lie. My mind was pure, but I myself made it impure. That purity then withdraws; it doesn’t operate in the conscious mind anymore—it sinks into the subconscious. That’s what it means when the tale says Indra, as a demon, took the horse to Rasātala: Rasātala = our subconscious.
The story also says: as the princes dug the four directions, they met four diggajas—Virūpāksha in the east, Mahāpadma in the south, Svāmanas in the west, Shvetabhadra in the north. The suggestion is: with the operations of the intellect, you can achieve worldly aims. Now, about the number sixty thousand. Literally, no one has sixty thousand sons. In the Purāṇas, numbers often carry symbolism—sometimes hundreds or thousands are added to veil a smaller core number. When I looked into our scriptures for the “sixty” behind “sixty thousand,” I found a clue in the Mahābhārata, Shānti Parva, Moksha Dharma Parva, chapter 255, verse 12. It says there are sixty qualities/functions of the intellect—“ṣaṣṭim buddhi-guṇān…”. Ten qualities each are linked to the five mahābhūtas—space, air, fire, water, earth—making fifty; and five qualities belong to the intellect itself: the removal of favorable/unfavorable tendencies, vichāra (consideration), samādhāna (resolution), saṃśaya (doubt), and niścaya (firm decision). In modern terms, we speak of the intellect’s abilities to discriminate, analyze, evaluate, reason, and judge. The languages differ, but the point aligns.
So the “sixty thousand” hints that while the intellect’s many functions can win material goals, they cannot by themselves purify the mind. Why? Because the intellect is theoretical, not practical implementation. If someone gives a brilliant talk on honesty but doesn’t live honestly, we all feel the mismatch. That’s the limitation: intellect is conceptual.
In the story, Kapila Muni sits in Rasātala. Kapila stands for practical, conduct-based knowledge. The sixty thousand rush at him—they do not honor practice. But when Anshuman goes, he bows to Kapila—meaning: one who lives in knowledge respects practice. The name Anśumān literally means “endowed with a ray of knowledge.” So: theoretical knowing tends not to honor practice; genuine knowledge honors it.
Also, Rasātala or Pātāla here is not a physical place—it’s the depths of the mind. There’s the conscious mind and the subconscious mind; Rasātala points to the deeper, subconscious layers.
Thus Kapila is practical, actionable knowledge; the horse is the pure mind; the “burning to ash” of the sixty thousand means the operations of the intellect become futile when used to purify the mind—they don’t work there.
The story adds: Sagara sends Anshuman to find the horse. He goes the same way—“digging the earth.” Here earth (bhūmi) doesn’t mean soil with a spade; it means examining our own personality—mind, intellect, senses, conscious and subconscious. When even a small ray of knowledge enters, we begin to look within deeply and we discover: the pure mind hasn’t been destroyed; it has only sunk into the subconscious when we stop using it. When we practice purity, it stays in the conscious mind; when we don’t, it slips into the subconscious as a saṃskāra (impression).
For example, if I keep telling lies, the saṃskāra of truth doesn’t vanish; it lies dormant in the subconscious. The great question of our scriptures—especially the Rāmāyaṇa—is: How do we bring out the good saṃskāras from the subconscious into life? The answer given is: by abiding in self-knowledge (ātma-jñāna)—knowing our real nature and acting accordingly, using the body as an instrument. Without that, we can’t bring those good impressions back into daily living.
Next, Garuda appears—not literally a bird here, but the arising of a noble, elevated thought within Anshuman: “How can these saṃskāras be redeemed?” Garuda says, “Water offerings won’t do. Bring Ganga. Only the touch of Ganga’s waters will free them.” This Ganga is not the physical river from Gangotri to the ocean. Here it means the Ganga of self-knowledge. Only when the Ganga of ātma-jñāna flows down into the subconscious will these impressions be liberated. How that descent happens is told in the story of Ganga’s descent, later.
The main takeaway here is: listening to lectures and studying theoretically won’t purify the mind. For purity, we must live the knowledge.
Now, a word on Sagara, Anshuman, and Asamanjasa. “Sagara” isn’t just a historical king. The word comes from sa + gara—“with poison.” Here poison means ignorance—especially the fundamental ignorance “I am the body.” So “Sagara” symbolizes the individual soul (the inner king) afflicted with ignorance.
He has two “wives”—in Purāṇic language, wife symbolizes śakti (power). Every soul has two powers. Here their names are Sumatī and Keshinī. Sumatī means good intellect (su-buddhi)—and her “sixty thousand sons” are the many functions/traits of the intellect. Keshinī is identified in the Ṛgveda with parāśakti, a higher, trans-intellectual prājñā.
Keshinī’s son is Asamanjasa, which means dilemma or confusion. Why would higher prājñā produce dilemma? Because in its initial stage, when we have only partial understanding—some knowledge here and there—we get into a state of doubt. For example, we hear “Surrender to God,” but we don’t yet know who or what God truly is. Then we start attributing every little thing to God—“God made the taxi arrive; God took me there”—dragging the Divine into trivialities because we don’t actually understand. In the story, this is symbolized as Asamanjasa drowning children in the Saryu—not literally throwing kids, but tossing small, trivial matters into the river of the Divine. So the king expels Asamanjasa from the city—meaning: as true insight grows, that state of dilemma leaves us, and in its place arises Anshuman—the ray of knowledge.
Finally, about the four directions—these symbols will be important later when Sugrīva sends his armies in the four directions:
East: the direction of the rising of knowledge. The sun rises gently there; likewise, knowledge first dawns softly.
South: the direction of acquiring skill (dakshatā)—think of the story of King Daksha in the Bhāgavata.
West: the direction where karmic fruits set—how our accumulated, habit-formed impressions (vices as saṃskāras) can be brought to an end.
North: the direction of ascent—steadily rising toward knowledge and progress.