Vayu, the flow of the Draught - RgVeda (Rigveda) Mandala #1 Hymn #2

 Vayu, the Flow of the Draught

By the time the sun had lifted itself fully above the edge of the world, the earlier fire had settled into a steady breath of embers. Ash lay pale and ordered. Heat remained, contained and obedient. What had been opened at dawn now stood firm, holding its place.

The work shifted.

A second space within the enclosure drew the eye, not raised, not marked by flame, but low and broad, prepared to receive the Soma that flowed rather than Agni, that burned. Here the air smelled different, green and sharp, tinged with sweetness and effort. Stones rested where they had been set long before the hour. Wool lay folded, ready.

Dhira knelt over the pressing ground, shoulders darkened with sweat. His hands moved with patience born of strength, turning the stones again and again over the fibrous stalks to squeeze out the Soma juice. The sound was steady, almost soothing, though the labor was anything but light. Juice gathered slowly, coaxed rather than forced, and ran in narrow streams through the wool into waiting bowls of wood, the camasas. Each bowl was set aside with care, as though it already held more than liquid.

Vasu watched without blinking. This work was different from the fire. It demanded endurance, timing, restraint. There was no sudden birth, no leap of flame, only persistence and trust that what was pressed would answer.

Pratiṣṭha approached without announcing himself, his steps measured so as not to disturb the cadence already forming around the work. He stood for a moment at the edge of the pressing ground, watching rather than intervening. The wooden bowls lay aligned in a shallow arc, their rims darkened by repeated use.

Woolen strainers hung heavy with moisture, releasing the last slow drops into waiting vessels. Dhira’s breath set the tempo of the space, deep, even, shaped by long familiarity with effort that could not be hurried. Each turn of the pressing stone followed the last with deliberate patience, neither forceful nor lax.

Pratiṣṭha inclined his head once. It was not a signal to stop, nor an acknowledgment that the work was finished. It marked something subtler: that all was now poised. What needed to be done had been done; what remained would arrive of its own accord.

Vasu, who had been watching the movement of Dhira’s hands with unbroken attention, edged closer to his grandfather. His voice, when he spoke, carried the softness of one afraid to disturb a balance he could sense but not yet define.

“Agni, the fire took the ghee,” he said, almost as an observation rather than a question. “Why does Vayu, the wind, take only the soma?”

Pratiṣṭha did not smile, nor did he correct the way the boy spoke, as though the offerings themselves chose their recipients. He kept his eyes on the bowls, on the faint shimmer that still moved across the surface of the pressed liquid.

“The fire opens the way,” he said at last. “It stands at the threshold. What we give there is shaped to pass through, thick, nourishing, steady. It feeds the crossing.”

“Agni is the mouth of all the Gods, Vasu, but Vāyu and Indra are vigorous warriors. They need the power of Soma. They are the first guests at this great feast,” Pratiṣṭha added.

He turned slightly now, enough that Vasu could see his face. “But there are powers that do not wait at thresholds. They move through the world as force itself. They do not linger. They surge, clear, scatter, gather again. What they require is not weight but sharpness. Not fullness, but quickening.”

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Vasu followed his gaze as Pratiṣṭha gestured lightly toward the bowls. The juice caught the light differently than the butter had earlier, brighter, more restless, as though it could not remain still even when held.

“This draught does carry wakefulness,” Pratiṣṭha continued. “It cuts through heaviness. It drives breath into motion and motion into strength. When it is drawn, those who move first must come first. Not by command, but because the call matches their nature.”

“We begin with Vāyu, the Wind, for he is the lifeblood of the world and the essence of swift movement. We call him beautiful and swift: ‘O handsome Vāyu, please approach! We have diligently prepared these sacred Soma juices especially for you. We ask you to drink the offering and listen attentively to our prayers.’ Vāyu, the very spirit of the air, must come first to accept the very first draught of the day's offering.”

A faint stirring passed through the enclosure then, lifting the edge of cloth, brushing Vasu’s cheek. He felt it before he understood it, a coolness threaded with energy. Pratiṣṭha noticed and said no more. Some answers, he knew, were carried not in explanation but in sensation, arriving exactly when the body was ready to receive them.

As if in answer, a faint stirring passed through the enclosure. Nothing visible moved, yet the air shifted, brushing skin, lifting the edge of cloth, carrying the scent of the pressed stalks outward.

Pratiṣṭha lifted the first bowl. He did not hurry. The liquid caught the light, pale and alive. He held it high, not toward any fixed point, but into the space itself.

No name was spoken aloud at first. Only an invitation shaped by breath and posture. The air responded, not with sound, but with motion, circling once, then settling as though listening.

“This comes first,” Pratiṣṭha said, his voice steady. “For the one who moves before all others move. What we have pressed is ready. What we have prepared waits to be taken.”

Dhira paused his work, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He knew this moment well. He said, “The pressing was never for itself. It existed for this lifting, this holding, this pause in which the world leaned slightly forward.”

“Precisely, Dhira. Our chanting priests know the sacred time and place. The priests, understanding the appropriate time for ritual, glorify Vāyu, with their sacred hymns while pouring the Soma juice as an offering. The right hymn, the right time, the right offering, it is all part of Ṛta.”

Pratiṣṭha continued to explain, his words measured, neither pleading nor commanding. He spoke as one who knew the proper hour, who trusted that sound offered at the right moment did not fall away. He took up the rhythm, his voice rising not in urgency but in recognition. Sound and motion aligned. What had been prepared now stood fully within order.

He pointed to the air flowing through the compound, carrying the sweet scent of the Soma. “Vāyu is swift and pervasive. Vāyu’s invigorating and pervasive force reaches far and wide to the worshipper, spreading out to partake in the prepared Soma drink. He is everywhere, Vasu. The stream of his energy, his chariot, covers the sky to accept this offering, giving him strength to continue his work of blowing the clouds and cleansing the earth.”

Vasu felt the air thicken briefly, then spread outward again, as though something vast had drawn near and passed through without stopping. He shivered, though the sun was warm.

“The wind does not stand still,” Pratiṣṭha said quietly, as if answering the boy’s unspoken thought. “It takes what is offered wherever it must go.”

The bowl was set down. The first draught had been given. Pratiṣṭha rinsed his hands briefly and returned to the pressing ground, where the remaining bowls waited. He selected two of them with care, neither the fullest nor the least, and placed them side by side upon the packed earth. Their rims touched lightly, a deliberate closeness that was never accidental in such matters. The pressed juice lay calm within them, yet not inert; it held a sheen that shifted as the light moved, as though something inside it remained attentive.

Pratiṣṭha now prepared two bowls, one for Vāyu and one for the mighty Indra. “Now, we call the dual Gods,” he explained. “Vāyu has accepted the first draught, but he and Indra are a mighty pair when invoked together.”

Sarā stepped forward then, closing the distance she had kept until now. Her gaze did not rest on the vessels alone but moved instinctively between them and the open sky above the enclosure. Years of watching the world from field and threshold had taught her how patterns announced themselves, how stillness gathered before motion, how pressure sought release. Her posture was intent, her hands folded loosely, ready.

“These are not taken alone,” Pratiṣṭha said, his voice low but certain. “What moves first must not come without what completes its work. What clears the way and what strikes must arrive together.”

He bent and lifted both bowls at once, one in each hand. The weight was balanced, familiar, yet demanded steadiness. His arms did not waver. When he straightened, his stance widened slightly, anchoring him to the ground beneath his feet. The space seemed to draw inward, as if listening more closely.

When he spoke again, his voice had altered, not in volume, but in depth. It carried a density that pressed outward rather than upward, shaped to reach what responded to force and resolve. He did not plead. He did not instruct. He named readiness: the pressing completed at the proper hour, the drops poured without delay, the offering held without reluctance. He spoke of what waited because it had been prepared to wait, of what was given freely because resistance had no place here.

“We address them as one force, ‘O Indra and Vāyu, these Soma juices have been poured out and are ready, please come for the sake of these delicious offerings. The drops eagerly await both of you.’ The drops of Soma are personified. They yearn for the Gods. We are calling the two great heroes who bring power and movement to the universe.”

Sarā, who was listening closely, commented, “Indra brings the lightning and the rain after Vāyu clears the way. They must work together.”

As the words settled, the liquid in the bowls stirred almost imperceptibly. Light broke across their surfaces in brief flashes, then steadied again. It was as though the draught itself recognized the call, leaning toward what would take it. The air shifted, sharper now, carrying a faint pressure that brushed skin and stirred hair at the temples.

Sarā watched closely. She had seen this pattern before, though never in the same way twice. She inclined her head once, neither in reverence nor assent, but in understanding.

“One makes space,” she said, her voice calm. “The other fills it.”

Pratiṣṭha did not answer. The bowls were already being raised higher, offered not to a single point but to the moving expanse itself. What followed would not announce itself with flame or sound. It would pass through, leave its mark in motion and consequence rather than form.

“Indeed, Sarā. And they are Gods of immense power and victory. We remind them of their success, ‘You two, Vāyu and Indra, who are rich in captured treasures and plunder, surely you recognize the importance of these sacred offerings! Therefore, approach this ceremony quickly.’ We are inviting the divine warriors, who are known to protect and reward their followers with spoils from battles, to quickly partake of the offering that strengthens them for their great deeds.”

For a moment, the space felt charged, balanced on the edge of release. Then the energy eased, not by vanishing, but by flowing onward, taken, accepted, set into work elsewhere.

Pratiṣṭha inclined his head. He reminded the unseen guests of what they had always done, how they moved through the world gathering force, how they rewarded those who fed their vigor, how they did not linger where honor was withheld. There was no flattery in his tone, only recognition of what had been proven again and again.

He finished the invocation, looking toward Dhira, the Soma presser. “This is an acknowledgement of the priest’s crucial labor, ‘O Vāyu and Indra, come and accept the offering that the priest who presses the Soma has prepared. I swiftly make my prayer to you, O Heroes.’ The hymn consecrates the hard work of the Soma presser, ensuring the offering is accepted by these powerful Heroes.”

Dhira straightened, listening. His labor was being named, not as effort alone, but as necessary shaping. The stones, the strainers, the ache in his arms all found their place in the call. When Pratiṣṭha spoke of heroes, he did not look upward. He looked briefly toward Dhira, acknowledging that what was pressed by human hands fed what moved beyond them.

The air responded again, more sharply this time. Somewhere far off, a low sound rolled and faded. The bowls were set down, empty now, though no one had seen them emptied.

The pressing was finished. The space changed once more.

Pratiṣṭha returned to the fire. The embers stirred as he approached, as though recognizing the shift. Sarā brought the butter without being asked. The ladle dipped, gleaming.

“This is for those who hold,” Pratiṣṭha said to Vasu, seeing the question forming. “Not what rushes, not what strikes, but what binds and measures.”

The ladle tipped, and the clarified butter slid into the heart of the embers. It did not linger. It did not resist. The moment it touched the heat, it gave itself over completely, flaring once before dissolving into flame. The fire answered not with sudden hunger, but with depth. Its glow thickened, its movement slowed, as though it had taken on weight. Smoke rose in a broad, deliberate column, no longer quick and darting, but measured, almost solemn, curling upward in layered folds.

Pratiṣṭha watched closely, adjusting his stance as the fire settled into this altered breath. This was a different offering from those that had gone before. It asked not for swiftness or force, but for steadiness, for an enclosing completeness that could not tolerate excess or omission. When he spoke, his voice matched the fire’s new cadence.

“There are two,” he said, not lifting his eyes from the smoke, “who are never apart, though they are never the same.” His words did not name them as figures, but as qualities that revealed themselves in every ordered thing. “One stands in the open, visible, binding, present wherever people meet and make their promises. The other moves beneath, watchful, deep, unseen except when something slips out of place.”

“We shift from the Gods of power and movement to the Gods of Order and Truth, Mitra and Varuṇa. ‘Now I invoke Mitra, who possesses sacred, purifying strength, and foe-destroying Varuṇa, who make the sacred rite complete.’ Mitra governs the alliances and the day’s light. Varuṇa governs the deep secrets, the night, and moral justice. They are the twin protectors who ensure that the entire ritual, nourished by the ghee, is complete and successful.”

The smoke continued to rise, its edges catching light before fading into the brightening air. Pratiṣṭha spoke of bonds that did not shout their presence but held firm across time: agreements kept when no one watched, words that did not fray when carried far from their speaking. He spoke of a vigilance that did not tire, that did not turn away when darkness fell or when faces changed. Nothing escaped it, not because it searched, but because it was already there.

“This work,” he continued, “is not finished until everything has been accounted for. Nothing may stand outside the measure. What is too much breaks its own weight. What is too little leaves a gap that spreads.”

Vasu listened, his brow drawing together. He had followed the earlier rites with growing ease, the fire that opened the way, the draught that fed movement and strength. This felt different. Slower. Heavier. He watched the smoke, trying to see what his grandfather saw. “If the Agni carries the order,” he asked finally, choosing his words with care, “why call others to guard it?”

Pratiṣṭha did not answer at once. He let the question settle, as the offering had settled into the fire. He turned then, meeting Vasu’s eyes fully, as though weighing not just the question but the readiness behind it.

“One carries,” he said at last. “Others hold.” He gestured gently toward the rising smoke. “What moves must be received. What is sent must arrive somewhere that does not shift under its weight. The carrier is swift and faithful, but it does not decide where the burden rests.”

“Agni is the messenger of the Ṛta, Vasu. Mitra and Varuṇa are its Sovereigns. They embody the law itself. ‘O Mitra and Varuṇa, through Law (Ṛta), lovers and cherishers of Law, have obtained their might and power.’ Their power is not based on battle, like Indra's, but on the absolute Truth they uphold. They are the most devoted lovers and protectors of the cosmic and moral order, and that guardianship is the source of their infinite power.”

He turned back to the fire. “What is borne must be held by those who do not waver. Those who do not bend when watched, or when unseen. If what is carried finds no such ground, it scatters. Order cannot remain suspended.”

Pratiṣṭha spoke then of law, but not as command or punishment. He spoke of it as alignment, the way pieces fell into place when they were true to their shape. He spoke of how strength drawn only from force burned itself out, leaving ash and emptiness behind. True strength, he said, came from devotion to what could not be bent: to balance, to proportion, to truth that did not change to suit convenience.

“These are not things you can seize,” he said quietly. “They do not answer to noise or speed. They answer only when they are met as they are.”

The words settled into the space, heavy not with complexity, but with breadth. They did not close around the mind. They opened outward, touching work and breath, fire and field, promise and silence. Vasu felt their weight not as pressure, but as something anchoring, like the ground beneath his feet. The smoke thinned as the offering was fully taken. The fire returned to a steady glow. Nothing dramatic marked the end of the act, and yet something essential had been set firmly in place. What had been carried had found its holders. What had been asked had been answered, not with sign or spectacle, but with the quiet assurance that the measure held.

The final offering was poured. Pratiṣṭha’s voice softened, though his posture remained firm. He asked not for triumph, not for abundance that dazzled, but for strength that endured—strength that worked in field and hearth, in counsel and restraint, in silence as much as in action.

“We ask of this pair of deities, our Wise Ones, for lasting, practical strength. ‘O Mitra and Varuṇa, our Wise Ones! You possess vast dominion and inherent strength by your very nature. Grant us powerful energy that is effective and brings positive results.’ We ask for strength that works, strength for farming, for protection, for wisdom, and for peace. The ritual is over, the Gods have been invoked, and the cosmic order is affirmed.”

When he finished, he did not linger.

The four of them stood together, heat and air moving gently around them. No one spoke. There was nothing left to call. What had been prepared had been taken. What had been asked had been set into motion.

The embers glowed. The bowls lay empty. The air moved freely again.

The world, held briefly in attention, resumed its rhythm, not broken, not changed, but affirmed.

(c) Bharat Bhushan

16 December 2025