The Parade of Ants

Indra had killed the dragon Vritra, and heaven was his again. But the city of the gods had cracked and crumbled while the dragon ruled. So Indra sent for Vishvakarma, the architect of the gods, and told him to build it all anew.

Vishvakarma worked for a full year. He raised palaces set with jewels, and laid out gardens, lakes and towers. Nothing like it had been seen in the three worlds.

Indra came to inspect it, and he was not satisfied. He wanted more terraces and pavilions, more ponds and groves. Vishvakarma built them. Indra came again, and thought of something grander still. Each visit left the list longer.

Vishvakarma could not leave without the king's permission, and he could see that it would never be given. He went in secret to Brahma and told him everything.

"Go back," said Brahma. "Tomorrow you will be free of this."

Then Brahma went to Vishnu and put the matter before him. Vishnu listened in silence, and nodded.

Early the next morning a boy stood at Indra's gate. He looked about ten years old, small for his age, dressed in white, with a staff and a parasol. A crowd of children had gathered to stare at him.

Indra came out himself, bowed, and offered him honey and milk.

"Tell me why you have come," he said.

"I have heard about the city you are building," said the boy. His voice was deep and soft, like slow thunder far away. "How many more years will it take? What more will Vishvakarma be asked to do? No Indra before you has ever built so much."

Indra laughed aloud. "No Indra before me? And how many Indras have you seen, child, or heard of?"

"I knew your father Kashyapa," said the boy, "and your grandfather Marichi, and Brahma, who was born from Vishnu's navel. I have seen the world dissolve into water and rise again, many times. Who could count the worlds that lie side by side, each with its own Brahma and its own Indra? People say you might count the grains of sand on the earth, or the drops of rain. Nobody will count the Indras."

While he was speaking, a column of ants had come into the hall. They marched across the floor in good order, four yards wide. The boy looked at them and laughed out loud. Then he fell silent.

Indra's mouth had gone dry. "Why did you laugh?" he asked. "Who are you?"

"I laughed at the ants," said the boy. "Do not ask me why. It is a secret that cuts down pride like an axe at the root of a tree."

"Tell me," said Indra.

"Each of those ants was once an Indra," said the boy. "Each one rose by his good deeds to be king of the gods, as you have. And each, through many births, has become an ant again. That is an army of former Indras."

Before Indra could answer, an old hermit walked in. He wore a black deerskin and carried a parasol of grass. On his chest was a ring of hair with a bare patch in the middle. He sat down on the floor between them and did not speak.

It was the boy who asked the questions. Who was he? Why the grass parasol, and what had happened to the hair on his chest?

"I am called Lomasha, the hairy one," said the old man. "I have no house and no wife, because my life is too short to trouble with them. This grass keeps off the sun and rain. As for my chest: each time an Indra falls, one hair drops out. Half of them are gone already. When the rest have fallen, I shall die."

Then he vanished, and so did the boy. The hermit, the Purana says, had been Shiva, and the boy was Vishnu.

Indra stood alone, as if he had woken from a dream. He sent for Vishvakarma, thanked him with kind words, loaded him with jewels and sent him home.

He would have gone further and left his throne for the forest, but his queen Shachi went in tears to Brihaspati, the teacher of the gods, and Brihaspati talked him into ruling on, with a quieter mind.