Vach’s Voice
“The whole universe exists through the undying syllable that flows from her.” — Rig Veda 1.164, verse 42
A stream of liquid golden light snaked its way downriver, diving into a swirling eddy and pooling into the shallows. Further upstream, filaments of moss and leaves dripped from a tangle of branches into the water, and sparks of brightness flickered into life and blinked back out again where the sun filtered through.
But just beyond that, a strange hidden fire glowed from beneath the surface of the stream, as if Agni himself lay hidden in the depths.
A tiny bird cocked her head, watching the curious bubbling and roiling up of luminosity from the depths. Was it a fish? Sometimes, when they swam in the clear midstream waters, their scales caught the sunlight and shimmered as brightly as peacock feathers. But this was not a fish. She was quite sure of that.
A soft breeze ruffled her feathers, carrying with it the scent of wild jasmine mixed with the moisture of the river air. Shifting from one foot to the other, she peered intently at the increasing turbulence below.
Bubbles of liquid amber suddenly burst forth from the depths. Reaching the surface, they spewed forth a shower of golden dust that caught the caress of the wind. Mesmerized, the tiny bird watched the golden particles dip and dance through the air, some landing here and there on flowers and trees, rocks and ferns, some drifting high enough to catch in the iridescence of her own plumage.
And then, the oddest thing happened. All at once, the bird not only felt the breeze rustling through the leaves around her, she was enveloped in an entirely new sense. The breeze actually wrapped her in something akin to the turbulence of the river, but yet entirely different.
Sound had been born.
The wind suddenly whispered through the world for the first time, carrying with it stories so ancient that the little bird felt as if her very essence had been touched by something both new and old, something that had simultaneously existed forever and not at all.
Beneath her, the river meandered over the small smooth stones that had gathered near the shore. And the stones, too, sang. The sweetness of their gathered voices rose up in a chorus to the heavens. A thrill pierced her, and she flew down from her branch to investigate more closely.
And that was when she noticed the hum of her own wings beating the air around her. Hovering, she looked first over one shoulder then the other, amazed at this new thing. How had the world ever lived bereft of this miracle?
Even the flowers sang. Their liquid nectar voices swirled together in a stream of thick, honeyed resonance, rounded out by the buzzing of the bees. And the clouds swirled and dipped with the wind, singing in harmony with the gurgling of the river.
And beneath it all, there hummed an almost inaudible tone, one that struck a note within the little bird that rose and swelled and flooded her breast with inexplicable happiness. And she somehow knew that the same note trembled inside every other thing in the universe as well. The rocks and trees and flowers and bees all danced an inner dance to it.
The river stirred again, and the little bird glimpsed something sinuous and golden sliding just beneath the surface. Suddenly, a smooth hand emerged from the depths, the waters rippling away from it in perfect concentric rings. Then a delicate wrist emerged, followed by a golden arm and next by a woman draped in diaphanous liquid silk that flickered from silver to gold and back to silver again. The current tugged at her ebony hair, revealing a face so smooth it might have been sculpted of amber-hued marble. She rose from the water and more of the tiny particles of gold dust that had floated up in the bubbles earlier now glowed in a bright nimbus all around her.
She glanced around the little bend in the river and everywhere her gaze touched, it seemed as if the world sprouted a new song. The rocks rumbled with an ancient raga. The iridescent dragonflies chattered in voices so high-pitched the bird could barely hear them. The mongoose family that had ambled down the river erupted into a series of squeaks and chirps.
And then a new sound arose. For the first time ever, the sounds of man filled the air. The little bird flew to a higher perch, where she could just make out a gaggle of women washing clothes a bit downstream. Their voices came together in the birth of language. And just up the path, on the way to the village, a young shepherd hummed a sprightly tune, a look of puzzlement on his face, as if he knew that he was experiencing something heretofore unknown, but that the hand of Maya had cloaked his previous ignorance from him. A few steps behind him pranced a young girl. She began to dance and sway to the sound of his humming, lost in the fervor of the rhythm of her own feet, of the pulse at her throat and the air in her lungs.
The little bird flew further on, to the village itself, where the blacksmith pounded out his metalwork in a sharp staccato and the baker ground his grains with mortar and pestle.
And through it all floated a hazy golden dust that shimmered and danced with the wind. Everywhere it landed, new voices were born.
The little bird returned to the river, re-alighting on her favorite branch. Below her, the lady of the river glanced up. Their gazes met, and the little bird felt a ripple glide through her very core.
And suddenly, a twittering song erupted from her throat. She closed her eyes. Rapture bubbled up through her. It was song, her very own song!
The lady smiled at the little bird, tilting her head as if to listen more closely.
And then she slipped back beneath the waters again, gliding away as sinuously as a snake. The little bird watched her go. Behind Vach, a trail of gold dust sparkled on the surface of the stream, catching the mid-day light and spreading across the surface like a thousand tiny flames.
And the little bird trilled away, completely lost in the wonder of her song.
This story is my imaginative telling of the story of the Indian Goddess, Vāc, from the ancient teachings of the Vedas. Vāc is said to have created voice and sound. Over time, she morphed into the archetypical Saraswati, who is the Goddess of song, creativity and learning.
©Story and photos by Erika Burkhalter
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