I will find that Vasudev Hari, the one who stole my brother from me. The Narayana who killed my mother’s child. I will find Vishnu, and I will kill him.
Revenge burned in the darkness of Hiranyakashipu’s sadness. Hiranyakashipu had lost his brother to Vishnu, and in Hiranyaksha’s place had gained their mother’s grief and tears. Vishnu’s every name was carved into the recesses of Hiranyakashipu’s heart. He chanted Vishnu’s name relentlessly, willing him to appear before his sword. Hiranyakashipu would never forget the accursed deva who stole everything from him.
It all began with the Churning of the Cosmic Ocean. Everything was bathed in a pink haze, clouds of nebulas rose high along the shore of a swirling, milky pool. Stars dotted this great void. These milky waters held all the greatest blessings of the brahman, all the most prosperous objects in every universe that ever existed. The earth, Bhudevi, lay in the depths of this freezing, stormy sea alongside other devas who had yet to be brought into this plane. The depths held the secret to immortality, amrit, a nectar sweeter than honey and coveted by both the asuras and the devas. Everyone gathered on the shore sought the secrets of these waters.
When the amrit emerged, the devas did not want their cousins to partake in it. The asuras and the gods fought bitterly over immortality. Vishnu volunteered himself to split it equally between everyone. But at the first opportunity, he disguised himself as two identical beings and tricked the asuras with a drink that tasted like the precious amrit but lacked its everlasting life.
“He says he is impartial,” Hiranyakashipu thought bitterly, “And yet, at every opportunity, he chooses those wretched devas over us. He showers them in wealth and riches. And he steals from us to do so.”
Hiranyakashipu couldn’t even weep at his brother’s death, holding his tears back to provide the steadiness his mother needed. “You took everything from us, Vasudev. Couldn’t you leave my brother?” Hiranyakashipu vowed to exact his revenge. There is no corner in all the brahman that Hari could hide from Hiranyakashipu. His heart unendingly called out to his brother, and strangely, his heart ached with the name Hari, Hari, Hari.
Facing the immortal Vishnu, Hiranyakashipu knew his mortality was his greatest weakness. Why else would the devas want it so much? Why else would Vishnu trick the asuras to keep it from them? “If you are so great, Narayana,” thought Hiranyakashipu, “and if you love everyone, why would you keep half your children weaker than the rest?” The only way to become immortal now was to please Brahma.
Hiranyakashipu set out to begin his tapasya. Hiranyakashipu knew that tapasya, penance, was a long and difficult process. He would have to find a quiet spot where he would be undisturbed and his focus would be unbroken. His worship would have to be unrelenting, no matter the circumstances. For his brother? No price was too great.
Hiranyakashipu climbed the Himalayas, reaching the top of Mount Kailasha. All around him chirped insects and squealed playing animals. He selected a towering tree as his shelter, its splaying branches casting long, cool shadows in the spring sunshine. The bright green leaves glowed in the bright rays of the sun.
He appreciated his chosen asana, noting every tree in the grand forest that would bear witness to his tapasya. He would not see these trees or this beauty for thousands of years once he started his meditation. He tried to commit every rock and animal to memory. This is the beauty for which Hiranyaksha lost his life. “This time, brother, we will be victorious.” thought the asura king, closing his eyes to begin his tapas. The mountains held their breath.
Thousands of years passed, and still Lord Brahma tested Hiranyakashipu’s resolve. The insects that had greeted the asura when he first arrived at Mount Kailasha surrounded him. They built colonies around him as if he had become one of the trees of the forest. Storms formed and passed, winds whistling through dancing branches. Every leaf on his chosen tree shook and ripped from the branches. They rained around him in the fall. The snow drowned him in the winter. Hiranyakashipu stood resolute, unmoved and unshaken.
His meditation heated his body, Hiranyakashipu’s temperature rising with every breath. Hotter and hotter, until with a dazzling flash, a spark of flame escaped him. Every tiny ember can become a great fire. The grass under his feet, the tree over his head, each became more fire than plant. The fire raced through the forests and rained down the side of Mount Kailasha, engulfing Bhudevi in its roar. The heat from the penance spread through the brahman. Everything that was ever created watched Hiranyakashipu become a pillar of fire, a sunbeam that stuffed every dark corner until it exploded in a flurry of stars and ash.
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