Religions of India in Practice

The Bhaktāmarastotram is a collection of verses in praise of the Jain saint, Ṛṣabha, first of the twenty-four Jinas. It was composed in Sanskrit by a Jain sage, Mānatuṅga, who flourished some time before 1000 C.E. and was already revered as an ancient teacher by the end of the thirteenth century. Four of his verses are presented below, each followed by a short tale composed by a later commentator, who in turn summarized his plot in a brief introductory verse.

In the accompanying stories, each Mānatuṅga verse is shown to provide a mantra, or sacred formula, for use in some specific human predicament. It is made clear that the Jain saint, when invoked, will save his devotees from all manner of calamities. He usually performs his miraculous rescues through an intermediary, the goddess Cakrā or Cakreśvarī.

Mānatuṅga’s own style in the verses of the Bhaktāmarastotram is a model of clarity; but even though it is quite restrained in its use of figures of speech, it belongs to the tradition of refined Sanskrit poetry (kāvya). The stories, on the other hand, are written in prose in a colloquial Sanskrit, interspersed with verses of popular wisdom drawn from both the Sanskrit and the vernacular literature.

The tales demonstrate the effectiveness of Mānatuṅga’s verses as mantras by taking the figurative speech of the original and giving it a very literal sense. For example, whereas Mānatuṅga calls the impossible task of enumerating the sublime virtues of the saint equivalent to swimming across a perilous ocean, the commentator’s story relates the rescue of a Jain devotee from an actual shipwreck. In another case, the original verse refers to the saint’s unblemished nature, whereas the tale tells how the face of the Hindu goddess Durgā is permanently scarred by a Jain sage. In fact, all of these stories explicitly declare the superiority of Jain doctrine over other religions. In addition, they often hold out some implicit promise of worldly prosperity to accompany the hope of spiritual perfection.

It is, of course, not to be assumed that the commentor himself did not fully comprehend the metaphors of the original verses. Rather, the simplicity of form and content of the illustrative stories seems designed to provide more direct reassurance to a humble devotee than is found in the traditional poetic imagery of Mānatuṅga’s meditative verses. The combination of verse and accompanying tale would thus encourage virtue and steadfast devotion, while appealing to the widest possible audience.

The following selections are translated from Bhaktāmarakalyāṇamandiranamiūṇstotmtrayam, edited by Hirālāl Rasikdās Kāpadīā, with foreword by Hermann Jacobi (Bombay: Nirṇayasāgara Press, 1932).

Oh ocean of virtues, your qualities shine like the moon! What person, though equal in intelligence to the teacher of the gods, could describe them? Who, after all, could by the power of his arms alone swim across an ocean swarming with crocodiles churned up by winds as fierce as those at the end of a world-age? (verse 4)

In this very verse a mantra has already been disclosed, as is illustrated in a story concerning its power:

There was once an illustrious man, Sumati,
who by recalling this wish-granting hymn of praise,

Crossed the ocean by the grace of the goddess Cakrā,
with only his arms to keep him afloat.

Formerly, in the city Ujjayinī, there was a merchant named Sumati who lived in poverty but whose character was good. And he revered a certain Jain sage who, in his presence, imparted the following instruction:

Giving wealth to those seeking wealth and satisfying every desire of those seeking worldly pleasures,

The dharma taught by the Jina bestows both heaven and emancipation.

Without the dharma you cannot know happiness.

It is like working in someone else’s house fetching water and fuel: you chop, crush, and stir, but you get nothing at all to eat.

Lowly birth, misfortune encountered, the threat of separation from one’s loved ones,

Disgrace, and the contempt of the whole world—
such is the fruit that arises from the tree of evil.

It is a sign of past virtue that even those who are possessed by demons have wealth.

It is further a proof of past sin that virtuous people must beg.

When he had heard the sage’s words, Sumati believed that the great white-robed Śvetāmbara sage had given him instruction in the dharma that was proper for him. So, provided with the Jina’s dharma and desirous of wealth, he studied the Bhaktāmara hymn of praise. He recited it constantly, morning, noon, and evening, a practice that never fails to develop devotion.

Even though he is born into a distinguished family,
a man who is without wealth gets no respect.

He is disdained and is thought to be as lacking in merit
as a bow without a bowstring.

With this in mind, Sumati, wishing to increase his wealth, went to a city on the shore of the ocean and boarded a ship. When in due course the boat reached the open sea, terrible winds began to blow, like the winds of destruction at the end of a world-age. A long bank of clouds like a veil of darkness obliterated the circle of the heavens. Forked lightning, like a flame from the pupil of a demon’s eye, burst forth from inside the dark clouds. Loud thunder groaned, as terrible to the boatsmen’s ears as the onslaught of a hurricane. Multitudes of vicious sea-dwelling creatures—huge, fabulous fish such as timis, timiṅgalas, pāṭhīnas, and piṭhas, and every kind of crocodile, alligator, tortoise, and man-eating dolphin—were churned up and floated drunkenly hither and yon in the ocean waves. The grains of sand were also stirred up from the ocean floor, like people released from their karma. A wall of waves surged upward, like a demon trying to swallow the universe. Running hither and thither as if terrified by robbers, the seafaring merchants cried out loudly and each began to say his final prayers to his chosen deity.

Unable to remain above the waters, the ship’s hull, like a wicked person, could not steady itself anywhere. The white sail was torn to shreds, like the dreams of the seafaring merchants. Like the affections of the ungrateful, the ropes, though strong, broke apart. And even though the sailors were capable men, they could not protect against the destruction of the boat. So at that point they cut down the mast at its base, just as certain sages destroy the knot of grief caused by their previous ignorant actions. Some clutched at planks with both arms, as if clasping the body of their sweetheart. Others riveted their thoughts on all their fine jewels as if they were the words of their gurus. Then at that moment, drifting hither and thither like a demon-ridden sinner afflicted by the pain of death, the boat went to pieces, just as a favor goes to waste on an ingrate. That entire mass of wealth was sunk in the middle of the ocean.

But Sumati meditated on the fourth verse of the Bhaktāmara hymn, and through the magic power of the goddess Cakreśvarī, swam across the mighty ocean by the power of his arms alone. As he reached the shore, Cakreśvarī, herself appeared before him and gave him five jewels equal to five akṣas in weight, and led him to the city. There, munificent and worthy of respect from kings, righteous Sumati enjoyed his wealth. Then, with his fame as bright as a white kāśa flower, after enjoying preeminence in this mundane existence, he became one of the foremost Jain disciples.

I think it was surely for the best that I saw Hari [Viṣṇu], [Śiva] and the other gods first. For I have seen them, and now my heart can find satisfaction in you. What has happened since I saw you? No other in the whole world can win over my mind from you, oh lord, even in my next life, (verse 21)

Glorious Jīvadeva, chief of Jain pontiffs, went to Devapattana,
where he brought all the gods,

Including Śiva, Brahmā, and Viṣṇu, before the very eyes of the citizens.

Formerly in the important Gujarati town called Vāyaḍa, there was a Jain pontiff, glorious Jīvadeva, who knew the science of entering into the bodies of others. By reciting each night the twenty-first verse of the Bhaktāmara hymn of praise along with the secret lore, he was given by the invincible goddess Cakrā the ability to summon all the gods.

From Gujarat, he went to the town of Devapattana in Saurashtra. Now in that place there was a very great religious celebration at Somanātha, the Śivaliṅga temple. The pilgrims, people who were Śiva’s devotees, vied with each other in bowing down to their god. But among the residents there were some Jain disciples who went to greet their guru. And when their master asked them whether they were prospering in the dharma, they said: “How can we prosper in the dharma here, where there is only one prevailing doctrine, which is a false one?”

Then the teacher, glorious Jīvadeva, together with the Jain disciples, approached the Somanātha temple. At this, Śiva’s devotees were delighted and exclaimed: “Aha! Even the white-robed Śvetāmbara ascetics have come to bow down to Śiva!”

But the teacher meditated on the goddess Cakrā and then said: “Someśa [Śiva]! Come forth!” At this, Śiva showed himself and stepped forward. Next Brahmā and Viṣṇu came forward from the temple, and then Sūrya, Gaṇeśa, Skanda, and the rest of the Hindu gods also stepped forward.

So then all the gods who had been summoned, together with the astonished citizens and the worshipers of Śiva, bowed down to the Arhat Candraprabha, lord of Jinas, in his own temple. And Somadeva [Śiva] was asked to give tribute to honor this eighth Jina, and he agreed to do so. Then when Hara [Śiva] and the other gods had been dismissed, they vanished and returned to their respective places.

After this, there was a great increase in instruction in the true doctrine. The keepers of the liṅga in the Śiva temple now became submissive to the Arhat Candraprabha and believed the Jina to be the great god. For who goes astray after seeing real proof? There are very few on earth who would do such a thing. And it is said:

Among all the gods, who number more than one hundred thousand, there is only one worthy of that name.

Among all the trees, there is only the rose apple tree, the Jambū,
whose name has been given to Jambūdvīpa, the earth’s centermost continent.

So each month Śiva gives in tribute ten thousand blossoms for worship, five seers of sandalwood, three seers of sesame oil, two measures of grain in the food offering, two palas of saffron from lotus filaments, one māṣaka of camphor, and a kara of musk, all for the eighth Jina, Candraprabha.

The sages know you as the supreme spirit, bright as the sun, beyond darkness, and unblemished. When they have truly perceived you, they conquer death, for there is no other auspicious path to final liberation, oh lord of sages, (verse 23)

When the goddess Durgā was struck on the cheek and wounded by a fingernail,

Tears flowed from her eyes, and she became a wish-granting deity.

Long ago, the glorious sage Āryakhapuṭa meditated on the Ṛṣabha mantra that derives from the twenty-third verse in the Bhaktamāra hymn of praise. The goddess Cakrā and the Arhat Sarvānubhūti were pleased with him and granted him a boon, and so it was that he obtained the means of overpowering wicked gods.

Afterwards, he went to the illustrious city Ujjayinī. There this man with a brilliance of knowledge that blazed like fire spent the night in the city gardens in a Durgā temple. Now this wicked goddess, whose doctrine was false, was angry with the people of the Jain monastery, particularly with the white-robed Śvetāmbara ascetics. So she appeared in a hideous form, her face reddish as if she had been drinking alcohol, and came toward the master.

The master was seated, occupying himself with meditation, but he saw that she was enraged. So he scratched her cheek with his fingernail, and a scar formed, as hard as a diamond. Then tears flowed from her eyes, and she granted him a boon.

The guru ordered that killing be prohibited, and he wanted the people not to be troubled any more. And the goddess was changed so that she became peaceable.

Toward daybreak, preceded by the master, she and the townspeople set off toward the Jain monastery. Turning back at the city gate, she bowed down to his venerable feet and returned to her own abode. But she remained just like that, with the nail mark on her cheek.

The people respected her command, which had to be carried out correctly. Many of them achieved faith in the true religion, and they remembered the virtues of the guru as they returned to their homes.

Why should virtuous people, who have their very own virtues,
need to be endowed with wealth?

Does not a sandalwood tree give pleasure even though it lacks abundant fruit?

People who are bound from head to foot by heavy chains and whose legs are harshly scraped by the sharp edges of massive shackles are freed at once from the danger of their bonds by constantly invoking the mantra of your name. (verse 42)

The great power of this verse was first demonstrated when the strong chains and shackles binding the glorious teacher Mānatuṅga were broken. But then later the iron chains of several royal ministers also came apart.

In this worst of times, the Kali age, when the gods suppressed by the Muslims still produce amazing results,

The strong chains on prince Raṇapāla were broken.

There once was born a king’s son, Raṇapāla, who possessed a great number of villages in the vicinity of the famous fortress Ajayameru. He pleased all who met him with his inborn generosity, good behavior, and virtues. He often thought of this verse:

Great generosity in the giving of food, and deep respect for all doctrines—

These two things working together bestow greatness on the person who displays them.

And since he had a good basic nature from associating with the Jain sages, he recited the Bhaktāmara hymn of praise and the five principal mantras. He maintained his devotion to Ṛṣabha, the glorious Yugādi Jina, and knew the meaning of the great power of the hymn. And because he protected the dharma, he was to the minds of the virtuous like a garland of lotuses, and because of his great eminence he was like a dagger in the hearts of the Muslims. Once, he was tricked by an evil amir staying in the fortress Ajayameru and was captured, along with his son. This was a wicked trick typical of this Kali era, the last age before the end of the world. And it is said:

Good people sink down, the evil enjoy themselves.

Sons die, while their parents are long-lived.

There is friendship toward enemies, yet anger toward one’s own people.

Let the whole world behold the topsy-turvy Kali era.

In the Kali era, the small shrink, the wise prosper.

In the summer, lakes dry up, yet the ocean swells.

And so the mind of this man, an ocean of nobility, never deviated from the dharma.

With his son he set off, and reached the city of Yoginī. Now Jalāludīn, a protector of demons, ruled the kingdom there. He had Raṇapāla and his son bound with strong shackles and chains and thrown into prison inside the old fortress of Delhi. There virtuous Raṇapāla meditated night and day on the forty-second verse of the Bhaktāmara hymn.

At the end of the ten thousandth night, there appeared before him a lovely young woman of enchanting appearance, resplendent in fine garments. The sound of her jingling anklets revived love, the tinkling of the string of bells on her jewel-studded girdle bewitched the three worlds, her rows of necklaces of large, perfect, incomparable pearls glowed like a host of captive stars. It was as if the whole multitude of human desires was fulfilled at the sight of the beautiful jeweled rings on her outstretched fingers, tender as lotuses. Her braided hair, as shiny as a row of black Indian bees, was so thick that it seemed to have been used as a staff to make gleaming nāga serpents attend her.

She said: “My child! Arise at once.” So Raṇapāla replied: “Oh Mother, who are you? Are you a goddess or a human or a supernatural vidyādharī?” She replied: “There is a goddess Cakreśvarī, who is borne by the fabulous garuḍa bird. She is devoted to the glorious Jina Yugādi, and protects those who recite the Bhaktāmara hymn of praise. I am her servant and warder, and have been sent by my mistress Cakreśvarī to release you from prison.”

Raṇapāla spoke: “Oh goddess! To me you are greater than Cakrā, but how can I arise when my hands and feet are fettered?”

Said the goddess: “Touch your hands and feet.” And when he touched them, he saw the thick chains fallen before him in a heap. His son’s shackles also fell, and then the bolt on the prison doors unfastened by itself. But as they were both about to stand up, the goddess stopped them, for just then the watchmen on guard came along. And when they came and saw those two there as usual, the watchmen left.

The goddess then showed Raṇapāla and his son a staircase by which they climbed up to the top of the fortress, and when they both leaped off together, it was as if they were landing on a bed of goose down covered with a fine silk cloth. And then they set off toward their own village.

Now the king’s army was stationed on the side of a hill. But while those two saw the approaching army, the army could not see them. So Raṇapāla and his son went on as far as the mountain and Lake Śākambharī and finally returned to Ajayameru, where they safely took refuge in Raṇapāla’s own dwelling. Reunited with his family in his fortress Citrakūṭa, he enjoyed worldly pleasures and protected the dharma.