The Stories of Vishwamitra, Vashishtha, Trishanku and Kamadhenu (Sarga 52-60)

First, we should note that curse and blessing in the scriptures don’t mean what we usually imagine—no one is actively harming or favoring someone. There, curse and blessing mean: if you act in a certain way, a specific result will definitely occur. The word “curse” is used to indicate this inevitability. The same is true for “blessing.”

Take gravity, for example. The earth has a gravitational pull. If we jump about without balance, we will fall as a necessary consequence. Gravity isn’t “doing” anything to us; it’s simply its nature. Likewise, if we lie, the sure outcome is that we ourselves will suffer for it.

So the talk of curses and blessings exists only to say: act like this, and this will surely happen—no one can shield us from the natural result of our own actions. That’s the clear sense we should keep throughout the Puranic literature.

Next, when it says that sages get “angry,” remember this isn’t a physical, everyday anger. Names like Vishwamitra, Vashishtha, or King Trishanku point to inner states within us. Vashishtha signifies a consciousness that keeps rising upward—a mind steadily inclined to the higher, always thinking for others’ welfare, never for anyone’s harm. In that spiritual sense, Vashishtha isn’t merely a person but the movement of the mind toward height.

Vishwamitra at the spiritual level means acting for the good of all—working for society’s welfare. In life, then, we see two tendencies: some people strive to think and do what is higher; others, though not thinking higher thoughts themselves, focus on doing for society—even while carrying ego and wanting to correct others’ ego. These are like two groups or orientations, and both types still exist today.

This story is therefore not a physical or historical tale; it is an inner, spiritual one. So the “anger” here is symbolic, not the temper we show when a child doesn’t act as we wish.

Our stories are often long because a small, essential point needs room to unfold. The narrative we’re reading will yield a very short essence, even though its telling is extensive.

Who is King Trishanku within us? He is our own mind. Look closely and you’ll see it: sometimes it wants to rise upward; sometimes it thinks, “Why not enjoy worldly pleasures? What’s the point of becoming godlike? People with demonic tendencies seem richer and more comfortable.” This is the Trishanku-mind—unstable, swinging up and down. That, it seems, is what this story is pointing at.

And the core message is this: no matter how many abilities we gather at the bodily or material level, they are pale before Self-knowledge. Vashishtha stands for Self-knowledge. If a person attains it, there’s no need to chase other attainments. Conversely, if we acquire countless skills but lack Self-knowledge—if we don’t know who we are—then all those skills are small and lower.

So our effort should not be to stack qualities one by one, but to know ourselves and become masters of our senses, mind, intellect, and ego. Right now, our focus is on name and fame—on being seen and celebrated—something lower compared to Self-knowledge.

The story says that against Vishwamitra’s thousands of weapons, Vashishtha’s single Brahmadanda stands higher. Likewise within us, we should hold the Brahmadanda—that is, Self-knowledge. To hold it means first establishing mastery over ourselves and our nature. If small things still make us angry, that shows we don’t yet have control over our own mind and intellect.

The story also mentions wishes like wanting to reach heaven with the body—desires that go against the order of nature. We too make such odd wishes. Instead of putting our energy where it’s truly needed, we pour it into name and glory. The story signals: don’t get trapped in reputation and display. Raise your consciousness in the real sense—become aware of who you are, what this world is, what birth and death are, what the immortality of the Self means. Am I merely the body, or am I the deathless, imperishable Self? Our contemplation should turn toward this, rather than short-term aims that consume our lives.

This is why the story is so important: it alerts us. Before beginning the tale of Rama, we keep getting these preparatory narratives—the yajna of Vishwamitra, the descent of Ganga, the churning of the ocean, the redemption of Ahalya, and now this—how Vishwamitra became a Brahmarshi from a Rajarshi, and why that transformation was necessary. These stories repeatedly indicate that abiding in Self-knowledge is indispensable. Through the Ram-katha we will study that in detail; for now, these are prologue tales to prepare us to understand it.

Satananda narrates Vishwamitra’s earlier state: once he was a Rajarshi, not a Brahmarshi; Vashishtha was the Brahmarshi. Seeing Vashishtha’s glory—especially the glory symbolized by Kamadhenu—Vishwamitra longed to move from Rajarshi to Brahmarshi. Valmiki is preparing us before Ram’s story, because we won’t grasp Rama all at once. In the Valmiki Ramayana, the word Rama doesn’t simply denote the Supreme Being; there, Rama signifies Self-knowledge. The Ram-katha will teach: “I am not the body; the energy we call Atman or Paramatman—I am that.” If we first read and understand these pre-stories, it becomes easier to understand Ram-katha.

So, yes, the narration is long—as stories are—but its gist is small: we must all move from Rajarshi to Brahmarshi. Rajarshi means living only at the bodily level, expanding abilities without knowing the Self. Brahmarshi means first knowing oneself; then the bodily abilities descend of their own accord. That is the difference. We must keep returning to this understanding until it sinks deep.

We are told that though Vishwamitra had countless weapons, they were ineffective before Vashishtha’s Brahmadanda. The point is pressed into us: do we want thousands of weapons, or do we want the Brahmadanda? The story says we should choose the Brahmadanda.

The same lesson appears in Trishanku: without performing the highest actions, he wants to go to the realm of the gods—defying the law of nature. We often do the same: we ignore what we think, speak, and do (manasa, vacha, karmana), yet we want heaven. That, too, is the hint here.

Now, about Kamadhenu. It means our nature (prakriti) when we have complete mastery over it. When our nature obeys us exactly—when, for example, we decide “I will think goodwill for all,” and the mind can only think goodwill and cannot think ill—that is Kamadhenu. At present, our nature isn’t Kamadhenu: our eyes look where we don’t intend, our ears listen to what we don’t need, our nature does not follow us. Such lower nature is merely gau (cow), not dhenu. Dhenu is the superior form—our nature aligned with our intention.

“Kamadhenu emerged from the churning of the ocean” means: only after deep churning of our own mind—relentless self-inquiry and reflection—does our nature become Kamadhenu. Then our mind thinks as we will, our intellect reasons as we will, our eyes see what we choose, our ears hear what we choose, our hands do what we choose, and our feet go where we choose. Until then, when nature is not under us, it is gau; when it is under our command, it is Kamadhenu. This comes only through sustained contemplation, meditation, and discipline—full control over senses, mind, intellect, and ego. Hence the symbolic language: “Kamadhenu provided the food.” You’ll see this again in Bharata’s visit to the ashram at Chitrakoot—Kamadhenu provides for the entire army. The scriptures repeat this motif, and the meaning is the same.

Why did Vashishtha refuse to give his cow despite many temptations? Because one’s purest nature cannot be handed over. If I hold truth as a total imprint within, can I give you that imprint? No. Inner purity isn’t bought with money; it demands our body, mind, wealth—our life. Such purity and truth are the outcome of many births of effort; they aren’t transferable like material goods. That’s why Vashishtha says, “I cannot give Kamadhenu.” Kamadhenu runs back to him—“Are you leaving me?”—and he answers, “I will not give her, whatever you do.”

And whoever truly possesses Kamadhenu has no worldly cravings. Our attention drifts to material desires; theirs does not. Their desires are of the highest kind. Someone like me, if given Kamadhenu, might ask for worldly things; but the one who truly holds Kamadhenu neither thinks of nor asks for material objects.