The Wedding of Surya and Soma

The bride in this story is named Surya. Her name is spoken with a long last syllable, and she is the daughter of the Sun, whom this hymn calls Savitar. The bridegroom is Soma.

The hymn takes care to say which Soma it means.

"Truth holds up the earth," it begins. "The sun holds up the sky. And Soma has his place in heaven, in the middle of the constellations."

Then the poet gives a warning. When people crush the plant, a man thinks he has drunk Soma. But of the Soma that the wise know, no one on earth ever tastes. When the gods drink him he swells out again. He is the one who shapes the years.

The bridegroom, then, is the Soma who stands among the stars and is drunk and filled again. He is the Moon.

It was Soma who came wooing. The two Ashvins, the twin horsemen, stood beside him as groomsmen. And Savitar gave Surya to her lord, the hymn says, with her own heart willing.

Then the poet describes her going, and almost nothing in it is solid.

Her bridal robe was lovely, for songs had adorned it. Thought was the pillow of her couch. Sight was the ointment for her eyes. Her treasure chest was earth and heaven together. Her own spirit was the chariot she rode in, and the sky was its canopy. Two bright steers drew it, held steady by verse and chant. Hymns were the cross-bars of its pole, and the wind was its axle.

The Ashvins had come on their three-wheeled car, and the poet turns to tease them. "When you came to ask for Surya, where was your third wheel?" Two wheels the priests know by their seasons, he says. One is kept hidden, and only those skilled in the highest truths have learned of it.

Fire went in front of the procession. All the gods agreed to the match.

"Mount this chariot, Surya," the singers called. "It is golden, strong-wheeled, made of kimshuka and shalmali wood. Ride to the world of the immortals. Make a happy wedding journey for your husband."

There was one guest who had to be sent away. A Gandharva named Vishvavasu still lingered near the bride.

"Rise up from here, Vishvavasu," says the hymn, politely and twice. "This maiden has a husband now. We honour you. Go and find another girl still in her father's house."

Then the bride was untied from her old home.

"I free you from the bond with which Savitar bound you," a voice says. "I let you go from here, and I tie you gently there."

"Let Pushan take you by the hand and lead you. Let the Ashvins carry you on their car. Go to the house and be its mistress."

After that the hymn is no longer in heaven. It has become the wedding of every bride. The groom speaks. "I take your hand for good fortune, so that you may reach old age with me." He tells her that Soma had her first, then the Gandharva, then Agni, and that he, born of a woman, is the fourth.

The blessings follow one after another. May the two of you never be parted. May you play with sons and grandsons in your own house. May the bride rule over her husband's father and mother, his sister and his brothers.

"May all the gods and the Waters join our two hearts."

In between, the poet looks up once more at the sun and the moon. They go round like two children playing, he says. One of them watches everything. The other sets the seasons in order and is born again.

"He is born new, again and again."

The priests of the Rigveda had their own memory of this wedding, and what they remembered was a race.

In their telling it was Prajapati, the father of creatures, who gave his daughter Surya to King Soma. All the gods came as groomsmen. For the ceremony Prajapati made a great recitation of a thousand verses.

Every god wanted it for himself. "Let this be mine," said one. "Let this be mine," said another.

"Let us run a race for it," they agreed at last. "Whoever wins shall have it."

They set the course from Agni, the fire of the house, all the way to the Sun.

Agni took the lead in a chariot drawn by mules. The Ashvins came up behind him.

"Give way," they said. "We two will win this."

"So be it," said Agni. "But let me have a share in it."

"So be it."

Next they caught up with Ushas, the Dawn, who drove a team of red cows.

"Give way. We two will win this."

"So be it. But let me have a share."

Then they drew level with Indra in his horse chariot. They did not dare tell Indra to give way.

"We will win this, generous one," they said carefully.

"So be it," said Indra. "Let me have a share."

The Ashvins reached the Sun first. Their chariot, the text says, was pulled by asses.

So the thousand verses are called the Ashvina, the recitation of the Ashvins, and still it has sections for Agni, Dawn and Indra, as promised on the road.

The priests found the marks of the race in the animals. Agni's fire scorched his mules as he drove, and mules bear no young. Dawn drove red cows, and so the sky reddens at daybreak. The ass spent all his speed in winning. He has been the slowest of the beasts of burden ever since, though he kept his strength as a sire.

The Ashvina is recited at the close of an overnight Soma sacrifice. The priest first eats a little ghee, the way a cart is oiled before a journey.