Reasons and Rationale of Aryan Movement and Migration from Bharat Varsha to West Asia and Europe in 5,000 BCE
Selected extracts from Return of the Aryans by Bhagwan S. Gidwani, published by Penguin Books, India, ISBN 0-14- 024053 – 5
(Main Reference: Page 695 to 709 from Return of the Aryans)
Sindhu Putra, known as Mahakarta in the land of Sindhu, Mahapati in the land of the Ganga, Periyar in the lands of the South and Maharaj everywhere in Bharat Varsha was no more. Thousands had followed his footsteps while he lived but, in a sense, he walked alone. He left no successor no one on whom people could pin their hopes and faith. Adored and cherished, his memory lingered in people’s hearts but after his tragic assassination, there was no one left to guide their footsteps.
The teams which had been sent out by the silent Chief, who served as the administrator of Sindhu Putra’s affairs, faded away; many disappeared and some were suppressed. The silent Chief himself was slain. Those that remained could do little. Their voice was not the same as the voice people had loved and revered. They were shrill and loud. But the man, who was no more, had been soft and gentle his voice had been quiet and low, yet audible above the din and shouting of all, thrilling men and moving the lords of the land. To the weak, he had said, ‘Shed your fear.’ To the strong and powerful he had said, ‘This land is yours, theirs and mine. Make it worthy for all of us.’
Now that voice was stilled. The black pall of fear would re-emerge; restraint on the lords would disappear. The hurt that Sindhu Putra had caused to the powerful was great the poor do not mind when much remains denied to them but pain to the mighty lords was greater, not only because of the encroachments on their privilege but more, at the shame of being regarded subordinate to his commands, and even to the ‘advice’ of his deputies.
The high and mighty lords smirked. Said one, ‘They are not mourning Sindhu Putra’s absence. They are celebrating his second coming and they sing: He comes, He comes, and ever He comes.’
Another asked in mock-fear, ‘How long do you think we have before he comes again?’
‘Well, his last coming was after a prophecy that raged for a thousand years.’
‘Oh, we have time then!’
‘Certainly. Enough time to make his Bharat Varsha fit for him.’
‘I hear, they are also singing that his glorious radiance shall arise when the land is in the blackest of black nights!’
‘I am glad. Many oil lamps burn in my house and yours at night.’
‘Yes, but I think we should burn lamps in the village-streets also.’
‘Good idea! Let us keep thieves and gods away.’
Poets rarely give names not even their own. So it’s not clear who these two speakers were. However, neither Karkarta Sauvira, nor Gangapati XIV nor any of the other mighty chiefs indulged in such open glee. Publicly, they maintained a solemn appearance and joined the mourning over Sindhu Putra’s passing away.
So that the masses did not feel dejected that there was no one to listen to their woes and right their wrongs, now that Sindhu Putra was no more, Karkarta Sauvira declared that he felt honour-bound to listen to people in the same way, with the same attention and compassion, as Mahakarta Sindhu Putra had done. Soon, those around him began to address Sauvira by a title that went far beyond mere Karkarta. They would call him Karkarta Mahakarta Maharaj. And others soon learnt that the use of this expanded title encouraged a better hearing from Karkarta.
To prove that people everywhere think alike, poets say that similar changes arose in other lands as well, and in Ganga too, where Gangapati came to be called Gangapati Mahapati Maharaj.
Of course, it meant less to Gangapati than to Karkarta; Gangapati in the land of Ganga was not subject to the vagaries of elections; and succession went form father to son; while Karkarta in the land of the Sindhu was elected to serve a seven-year term. But what happens to Karkarta who is also Mahakarta! Surely Mahakarta Maharaj couldn’t be subject to elections. To those who still harboured the illusion that Mahakarta was simply a title of respect but not of authority, much was said even by Karkarta Sauvira of the power of Sindhu Putra, that was.
How these new and various titles were to add to the luster, power and prestige of Karkarta and other lords would remain to be tested in the future. The present certainty was that armies were on the move everywhere. Poets speak of Karkarta Sauvira’s forces moving in two directions; of the thrust of Gangapati’s contingents in all the lands around and of the eleven armies of the other mighty chiefs advancing to many lands.
And the lands under attack? These were lands from which petty tyrants were dispossessed by Jalta who served Sindhu Putra and other commanders under him to free them from enslavement. In some of these, new chiefs were appointed, but in many, sabhas (elected councils) were set up.
Then there were a vast number of lands, newly cleared, to resettle freed slaves and many others, who moved there for a better future. These new lands came under no lord. Monumental efforts had been made to clear these lands, plant fields and farms, irrigate them and even to provide housing and amenities. All these initial efforts came from Sindhu Putra’s Rocks, often with personal supervision of the Silent Chief who was the foremost among Sindhu Putra’s disciples and served as the chief administrator.
Later, some tried to follow the trail of massive wealth in Sindhu Putra’s hands which allowed him to fund such huge, far-flung projects. Sindhu Putra had, at his disposal, Kanta’s wealth, and tremendous revenues that flowed regularly from the temple in Gatha’s village. Besides, his influence on many devotees had changed the entire texture of their lives and they too donated everything they had. To many other rich devotees, Sindhu Putra would say, ‘Help me to improve that new village’ and some would respond by ‘adopting’ that village. He would make the same appeal to artisans, builders, peasants and even singers. For the rest, he had only to extend his hand to Karkarta, Gangapati and the lords everywhere and ‘how could those gracious lords ever refuse!’
There was also considerable wealth confiscated by the silent Chief from tyrannical chiefs which went to build up Sindhu Putra’s treasury. Additionally, many visiting devotees left their little offerings at the Rocks. Some women took off their small ornaments and even ancient family heirlooms. Little by little, but in an almost unending stream, contributions flowed to the treasury guarded by the silent Chief. Some said, even thieves left a part of their loot in the hope that this pious contribution would wash away their sins.
As if all this was not enough, the silent Chief would sell and even ‘auction’ little leaves on which Sindhu Putra had written ‘Om’.
‘How come!’ asks a poet, ‘that nothing was found after Sindhu Putra departed?’ The fact is that Karkarta Sauvira, Gangapati and even other lords had, together, come to the Rocks to collect with reverence the relics of Sindhu Putra so that ‘they are distributed in all the temples of Bharat Varsha, lest it be said that he belonged to the Rocks alone.’ The story is that they found very little gold, silver or wealth.
Lands, to which the various armies moved, were not carved out from territories of any lords and chiefs. They were ‘abandoned lands, far from the rule and jurisdiction of lords; out of the way, virgin, unclaimed, where rock and weed once abounded, with no sustenance for man, beast or bird; but then men came, inspired by the god from the Rocks, and they made the land lush, green and fertile with their incessant toil and vowed for ever to serve the land with virtue and merit and though each land bore its separate name, all such lands together came to be known as punya-bhumi (land where virtuous acts are performed sacred land).’
In these lands, no chiefs were appointed. Sabhas (councils) were established on the basis of free elections.
As armies moved to these vast, extensive pockets of punya-bhumi, some asked, ‘But why?’ The reply was ‘To unite. Deep divisions in Bharat Varsha must cease.’ Some still argued, ‘But to take punya-bhumi! This was not Sindhu Putra’s legacy!’ The reply : ‘His aim was unity … his mission timeless … on our shoulders falls the burden of his greatness … we must pick up the fallen torch … and with faith, forward we must go … unity is our aim … if some fall by the wayside, so be it…’
Some still argued, ‘But Sindhu Putra never conquered with force, fire and sword!’
‘No!’ – was the mocking reply to this simple-minded question. ‘What about the heroic battles fought faraway in Sindhu Putra’s name by commanders to free slaves and remove repressive chiefs?’
Yes, the sword! Always the sword to conquer evil as also the spirit!
Relentlessly, the armies moved to punya-bhumi.
Suddenly, then, a cry arose. No one knows how it began or who began it. Some poets say that it was the spirit of Sindhu Putra that cried. But others offer a realistic explanation to say that its inspiration came when an army commander called upon people to leave their land.
‘But where do we go?’ People asked. He pointed to the wilderness, far beyond, where their land ended. Again the people cried out, ‘There is nothing there!’ The commander’s reply was, ‘That is what you are! Nothing! Leave this land. It belongs to our people.’
‘We are the rya (the people of the land),’ they shouted.
‘Leave! You are not the rya!’ the commander thundered.
‘This land is ours.’
‘You are not of this land’.
‘We are rya!’ they insisted.
The soldiers’ swords gleamed. The villagers stood unmoved. The commander had no wish to order his horsemen to charge and cause bloodshed. He pointed his sword at the throat of the old man who seemed to be their spokesman and said, ‘Listen, old man, you have not many years to live but others have. Leave. Go beyond. You can make those rocky barren lands as green as this one. No one shall molest you there, so long as you set no foot here. By midday, if all of you are not gone …’
But here the unpredictable happened. The old man’s six-year-old grandson suddenly lunged forward at the commander. Both the old man and the commander moved. Unplanned, unintended, the sword-point went deeper into the throat of the old man. Blood gushed.
The old man was dead.
And all that the six-year-old child was saying to the commander was, ‘Let my grandfather go! We are not rya, not rya, not rya!’ He only wanted to save his grandfather from the menace and thought that all that the commander wanted was to hear that they were not rya.
The child saw his grandfather fall. He buried his face in his and kept repeating, ‘Baba, Baba, say, you are not rya, not rya.’ Somehow he hoped hat if his grandfather said that, the commander would restore to him the life that he took away.
But then at last a whisper came in the child’s tiny heart and as he rose with his grandfather’s blood on his face there was a terrible silence inside the core of his being. Quietly, he said, ‘We are not the rya.’
The child no longer said this to gain favour with the commander. There was a silence in his heart that he did not understand. All he knew was that he was not the rya of those that struck his grandfather.
The commander moved away with his men. Outside the heat of battle, he had never killed a man. Perhaps, he would not have grieved if the crowd was rebellious and he had charged, killing many in consequence. He washed his hands in the stream, repeatedly, though he knew the stain was not on his hand but in his heart. He had no wish to menace these people further. There would be other lands hundreds from which people had to be moved.
But the villagers hardly noticed the commander moving away with his men. Their eyes were riveted on the little boy, standing next to his grandfather’s fallen body, who had said, ‘We are not rya’ and as they heard him, it was not the voice of grieving child; there was no emotion, no tears neither fear nor despair neither hate nor anger, but a simple undemonstrative acceptance of a reality and it came anew to them ‘we are not the rya.’
Their thoughts raced back three years, when the boy’s father had died, working on the rope-bridge over a ravine, and the child was in shock, without words, without tears. When Sindhu Putra had visited the village, he took the boy in his arms and asked, ‘Would you accept me as your father?’ Rebelliously the boy replied, ‘No, I am my father’s son.’
Gently, Sindhu Putra had spoken to him ‘I too lost my father and my mother. I was younger than you then…’ The child then had tears for someone who had possibly borne greater sorrow. His hand moved to touch Sindhu Putra and with tears he made a concession, ‘You shall be my father-friend.’
Father-friend! It was a new relationship, unknown, unheard of. A respected elder, a father-figure, would be called ‘uncle’. But Sindhu Putra said, ‘Then you will be my son-friend’ and thus a new bond was forged. Sindhu Putra invited the boy for a visit to the Rocks. But the boy objected, ‘My grandfather will be lonely without me.’ ‘Then your grandfather must come too’ Sindhu Putra insisted.
Both the boy and his grandfather had gone to the rocks for a month. The boy returned with mountains of toys everyone at the Rocks wanted to give a gift to Sindhu Putra’s ‘son-friend.’
Ever since his return from the Rocks, the boy had stood apart in the eyes of others. His grandfather was already the head of the village council. His father had toiled for the village with love and lost his life in its service; and his little son had Sindhu Putra as his father-friend.
Now they heard the boy ‘We are not the rya.’ With an icy chill, the pitiless words echoed in their hearts, and would soon be heard all over ‘We are not the rya.’
Yet this was only a tiny village in the vast, unending lands that were called punya-bhumi. Poets tell various stories of how the same cry came to be heard elsewhere. In some villages; commanders pleaded, in others they roared and, in yet others, they charged without warning; at places crowds were mowed down, their huts were burnt and crops destroyed; in others they refused to move and some were slain. At a village, a commander was unhorsed and a reign of terror began, with children roasted on the fire and women thrown into wells.
There were many stories diverse and different, sad and sentimental each with its own tale of tears and pathos. Names were different; heroes and villains, diverse; villages far apart. Yet, in essence, where was the difference! Everywhere, all these stories ended with the same cry from the hearts of the people ‘We are not the rya!’
Clearly, the cry began with an anguished whisper from people’s hearts and their desolate realization of their nothingness in a land that disowned them.
Maybe, the cry started even as a pitiful lament to pitiless gods! ‘Why have you forsaken us and left us ‘anath’ (orphan, without any one to guide us)?’
Maybe then, a quiet voice spoke, or maybe no one spoke and a voice rose in their hearts that asked ‘How can we be the rya of those that caused the death of our ‘nath’ Sindhu Putra?’
‘No, we are arya!’
We are arya! The cry rose, but it was no longer an agonized cry. It was a cry of conscience to separate themselves from their oppressors, to cling to their one certainty of Sindhu Putra in the shifting sands around them.
NOTE: This method of prefixing ‘a’ to a word in order to convey opposite meaning is common in many ancient and modern languages of Bharat Varsha . Thus while ‘rya’ meant people of the land , by pre-fixing it with ‘a’, it came to mean non-people or exiles. Similarly, ‘nath’ meant protector and could refer to master, husband or god but with the prefix of ‘a’, to make it ‘anath’, it takes on an opposite meaning. Thus, ‘anath’ would mean: unprotected, orphaned or abandoned.
No one knew who had slain Sindhu Putra. The mighty lords and chiefs had publicly mourned his passing away with unrestrained tears. They spoke of their determination to hunt the faceless, nameless killer.
Meanwhile, there were many rumours that it was a demented lunatic; or a tribal, angry that his land was united with another; or someone whose wife or daughter became a ‘bride of Sindhu Putra.'; or a drunkard with nothing, whose parents donated their all to Sindhu Putra; or it was the Devil himself; or he who had sold his soul to the Devil.
But now a new certainty emerged in the heart of the oppressed that all those who were terrorizing them were the real killers of Sindhu Putra. But how could that be ?- it was only one man who thrust his dagger into the heart of Sindhu Putra! They silenced the question the Devil comes in ten thousand forms and single or together, he it was that shed the blood of their ‘Father’ their ‘nath’.
The cry of arya was then like a badge of honour with a deep longing for Sindhu Putra and an intense feeling of trust in his all conquering love. It was as if the cry gave them a new, distinct identity with the sensation of being divinely separated from those that shed Sindhu Putra’s blood; and they heard even the thrill of being ‘the chosen ones’ who served Sindhu Putra with their whole heart and soul. And they were certain that as unrighteousness increased, he would reappear for their redemption.
A few poets are misled into believing that the cry of the ‘arya’ was widespread, extending across the land and skies of all Bharat Varsha, in one single sweep like a giant crusade. Not so. Other poets are realistic and quick to point out that movements, unled and undirected, are never fast-moving.
Meanwhile, the turmoil continued not only in punya-bhumi but throughout the heart of Bharat Varsha. With armies on the move, fresh alliances were forming, new spheres of influence were being established, and recently appointed chiefs were being sacked to make way for new favourites. But hose developments distressed only a few at the top.
What affected the vast populace was that even the dispossessed, who had been rehabilitated by Sindh Putra, were being uprooted anew. Terrified and dazed, they tried to flee and migrate, but they had no place to run to and no place to hide. Every step was a step to nowhere. Their way to punya bhumi was barred; and they were being forced to leave for the wastelands beyond. And their cry rose too ‘We are arya!’
Yet the cry came not only from the displaced and the uprooted. Some with affluence, secure in their position, and threatened by no one, also joined the cry; they were moved by the pain and tears of others; and as their minds dwelt on Sindhu Putra, the feeling in their hearts was that they too were victims. Many more there were, who, in their soul, reflected the suffering of others, but theirs was a silent despair and they were fearful of the vengeance of the mighty lords of the land. But in their inner ear, came the echo of what Devdatta had once said and Bharatji had repeated ‘There is guilt in silence.’
Confusion and chaos spread. Yet the cry of arya rose and surged like a whirlwind. Mighty lords laughed in their contempt and said, ‘Yes, you are arya, and so must you be treated landless, homeless and driven to barren, infertile wastelands beyond our villages and driven again, if by miracle those lands become luxuriant!’
But to those that banded together to participate in the cry of ‘arya’ it was like a beam of light that pierced the darkness from their eyes. Suddenly, they found that they were not alone, that thousands joined the cry, that it was a cry of togetherness, of fellow-feeling, of belonging, of comradeship and brotherhood.
Troubled in mind they still were, but no longer did they feel lonely and lost; and the realization dawned on them that they were being tyrannized, not because of their intrinsic inferiority but because those that ruled the land were vile and vicious. With that came a sense of their own dignity and righteousness and even a feeling that they were being hunted because they had chosen to follow the auspicious path of Sindhu Putra.
Thus it was that the cry of arya achieved two different, disparate dimensions and a poet, explains it in a two-line dialogue
‘Yes, you are arya,’ said the lords, with contempt ineffable.
‘Yes, we are arya,’ said they, with pride ineffable.
But faith alone! How much could it achieve anything against the mighty lords! And the power of the sword, some said, was mightier than the power of the spirit! Fear thus alternated with faith and sometimes it was all the greater; yet fear arose not so much from the threat of being driven to wastelands of inhospitable terrain as from being herded in separate, isolated areas. Were they being sent there so that it should be easy to pick them up, at will, to be enslaved! Slavery was abolished throughout Bharat Varsha in fact and in law. Yet its memory lingered.
The movement thus began, in fear and faith fear of the land in which they felt rejected and faith that the spirit of Sindhu Putra would guide their footsteps onto an auspicious path. But there was far more to their faith. They were convinced that the land where they felt disowned had also denied their nath (protector), Sindhu Putra; yet surely Sindhu Putra reigned elsewhere. And hundreds of songs were being sung to radiate this faith.
Such songs, heard everywhere, fired the imagination of receptive listeners, luring them to ‘walk the earth where Sindhu Putra walks.’
Yet it is not as if the great migration began overnight. Fear there was that the route to new lands would be difficult and dangerous but again they thought: can it be more dangerous than remaining here? Another question troubled them: what happens if we find no new lands? But the counter to that was: how is that possible? Did not Sadhu Gandhara go all over and surely land was there wherever he went! Did not Rishi Newar (of Nepal) find the land he was seeking? Did not… ? Thus stories of discoverers and explorers were told, of Tirathada who went all over to witness each sanctified spot; and of the brave expeditions which reached the source of Sindhu and Ganga, across the Himalayas and trans-Himalayas, to touch Mount Kailas and Tibata … and to the 108 mouths of the sacred Ganga … and so many faraway lands. Little was said of the intrepid wanderers who died on the way from starvation, exposure or attack and never returned to tell their tale. Yes, danger there would be, they knew, but God would guide them.
Even from themselves, these Aryans tried to suppress the thought that it was fear that tempted them to flee their land and they would say :
‘Escapees we are not, nor vagrants, nor aimless wanderers,
But pilgrims we are, in search of God’s land, pure and free.’
Others were even more positive and said : ‘We go not for enticement into the unknown, but with the sure knowledge of being near the blaze of unfading glory of our nath (protector) Sindhu Putra).’
Some, to gain courage and take the final, awesome step of leaving their land, wrapped themselves with many comforting self-assurances, and cried out :
Noble our aim, noble our thought
Rya of house of clay we are not!
Noble our quest, noble our deed
Rya, we of distant noble land indeed!
Where our Nath, radiant, untouched by evil is He
There are we rya, noble, pure, free!
So onward in joy!
No tears, no sighs!
And if unseeing, our eyes
Pass that land by,
We will hear love’s cry
From earth and sky,
“Come! Here am I!”
And He will bless us then
And we, Arya no more, Rya again …
Great poetry this was not. But as slogans, they gave comfort and cheer to those that were afraid to move; they exhilarated and intoxicated; and even excited and incited the Arya to move out. But faith and fear? Like light and shadow they cling together and when you embrace one, surely the other waits to embrace you.
But then, if an Arya sought to whisper his fears, another would burst into a song of faith, ‘Onward Arya, onward in joy…!’ And emotions would then rise to cascade, sweeping past all fears and uncertainties. Thereafter, it was neither a discussion nor a dialogue, nor a debate, but simply a series of songs and declarations, each full of faith in the future.
Later, Nandan’s eighth great-grandson asked : ‘Where was the scope for fear! Did not the mighty lords and chiefs, Karkarta and Gangapati, and everyone in power, go out of their way to assist the Aryans? Were not the doors of vast treasure-houses opened to equip the Aryans? Were they not given horses, swords, axes, arrows and even tents and clothing? Like filthy beggars, these Aryans came, swarming before their lords and freely and fondly the benevolent lords gave. Are we then so lost to logic, so bereft of reason, so devoid of sense, as to believe that the Aryans fled from those bounteous patrons who gave them such prodigious help!’
Powerful argument indeed! And powerfully presented! Even persuasive! And, by and large, his facts were right too! Only the conclusion is wrong.
The mighty lords gave liberal help to the Aryans when they moved out because, to them, the Aryan’s desire to migrate to faraway lands came like a breath of fresh air. After all, what was their intention in trying to herd these unfortunate Aryans into deserted expanses outside their villages, where nothing grew! Certainly, an immediate advantage was that their lush and green lands could be given to more desirable citizens for patronage or sale; but beyond that short-term gain was the hope that once again these toiling men, forced to eke out a living in the rocky, toilsome terrain, would renew the land and make it fertile. Then it would again be time to take over those lands and send them out to other uninhabitable areas. As it is, lands from which they were now being displaced were once barren. With unending labour, these men had performed the miracle of making them green. Why could they not keep repeating the miracle!
But now the lure to the lords was even greater. Here they had huge, heroic Aryan groups, fired with the passion to leave Bharat Varsha, to seek out new lands. The lords laughed, though with a new hope springing in their hearts who knows, some of these miserable Aryans, on this hazardous quest, may even survive to find new lands. Surely then, the lords could move to take over the lands so discovered! True, many of these pathetic Aryans would die in the attempt but all in a good cause, and their very failure would at least reveal the routes which do not lead to new lands.
The mighty lords were convinced that wealth from the new, faraway lands would be enormous. Why worry then about simply improving the bleak lands outside their villages! And why not encourage this exploration! Obviously, these dull-witted dregs of humanity that moved out as Aryans would know nothing of the rich rewards in these new lands but surely, they would pave the way. Let us encourage them, resolved the lords.
Were the lords pinning their hopes on something too far-fetched? Was there a real prospect that the Aryans may find new lands which the lords could take over? The fact is that not all new lands in the past were found by intrepid explorers, with design and intent or even the will to explore. Everyone knew the ancient story that a drunkard had leapt into Sindhu to retrieve his half-empty liquor-barrel which fell in the river. In the fast flow of the river, somehow the barrel moved faster than he could swim. Before he lost consciousness, he had the sense or good fortune to climb on to a large chunk of driftwood. On that he slept, dead to the world; and apparently all the beasts in the river had kept away form him because he smelt so strongly of liquor. He woke up the next morning. He did not find his liquor-barrel. But he saw there, the confluence of Sindhu River with Sutudhri (Sutlej River in Panchanad Punjab). He returned sadly without his liquor-barrel but was later delighted when the Sindhu Council of Chief presented him with five large, full, liquor-barrels for his amazing discovery of the confluence.
So why was it surprising for the mighty lords to hope that these ‘faith-drunk’ Aryans might succeed in finding new lands? And if they failed and died in the attempt… So what! Good riddance!
No one should therefore be surprised if the mighty lords encouraged the Aryan migration. From various, scattered pockets, small bands of Aryans were helped with transport, to join together in sizeable groups.
The choice for the Aryans was simple, even virtuous go empty-handed, unprotected, in the raw, rocky, untamed land in the wild expanse outside the village or heed the call of hope in lands beyond. They chose the lands beyond; and the lords, for once, were generous ready to offer stores, equipment, food and even draft-animals, horses, swords and arrows. The lords also nominated men to give advice to these Aryans on the different routes to follow and their intention was to avoid the concentration on one single route; surely much would be revealed, if more routes were taken.
Whenever an Aryan group was overtaken by momentary panic at embarking on a journey into the unknown the men sent out by the lords were ready not only with words of comfort and cheer, but larger aid in stores and equipment. Singers sent out by the lords would also sing,
‘Child! Be blessed of one mind;
Go! His glory seek, and find;
On and On …’
Some Aryan groups paused to wonder that, if the mighty lords supported their move, maybe there was something really wrong with it. But was that reason enough to give it up, when the alternatives were so bleak! Instead, greater wisdom came to them and they spoke of their fear and torments as though they were hesitating even uncertain to go so ill-equipped into the lands beyond.
The lords responded with greater generosity. Said one Aryan to another, ‘How stupid these clever people are!’
The petty chiefs marveled at the patience of their lords with the Aryans. They fumed that their lords should demand that so much be given to these miserable creatures. They suggested: let the Aryans be sent to work in barren areas beyond their villages, or be driven out altogether. The lords were magnificently unconcerned, for the burden of their largesse fell on the petty chiefs.
Thus the great migration of the Aryans form Bharat Varsha began with the aim of finding the Land of the Pure, where their god, Sindhu Putra reigned. As Bhagwan S. Gidwani’s Return of the Aryans explains, the Aryans who left Bharat Varsha were not warriors or conquerors or soldiers of fortune, and certainly they were not religious zealots, fanatics, or crusaders. They went neither to plunder, nor to persecute in the name of dogma, nor to propagate their faith, nor to dethrone and destroy gods and idols of others. These travelers simply had a dream that led them on towards unreachable goal of finding Land that was Pure and free from evil – and it was a road that led everywhere but finally Nowhere, and at last, having seen the degradation, cruelty misery that existed in all those foreign lands, they realized that there was no Land of Pure, except what men might make by their own efforts.
If in their travels, these Aryans of Bharat Varsha performed deeds of nobility and honor, to assist everyone in these foreign lands, they were what they were . guided by their self-imposed vow of noble conduct