by Mukunda Rao
It was a world of hollow men, of deceit and false pride, a world where the wicked and evil often masqueraded as the epitome of good, and where dharma meant either vengeance or cowardice, or sacrifice and suffering. Behind the splendour of Hastinapura lurked a danger more inhuman and malevolent than the raw, naked evil of the forest.
‘You are born for great things, son,’ Kunti continued, desperately trying to persuade him to reverse his foolish decision. ‘You are born to rule the world, to become a god of power and glory.’
Bheema kept silent. Even the generally calm and balanced Yudhishthira found himself growing restless and annoyed. Bheema was his right-hand man; without him, Yudhishthira would never be able to reclaim his right to the throne. In fact, Bheema was their key to unlock their promised power and glory. Nakula and Sahadeva felt like children lost in the woods. Arjuna, who always believed he knew his brother better than the others did, thought that Bheema should stay back, for he was too strong-minded to be influenced by others. He also was a deeply restless person, so it was most likely that he would soon get bored with forest life and decide to return to Hastinapura. The best thing was to leave him alone and let him return when he was ready to do so. But Arjuna did not express his opinion.
Hidimbi was speechless. As lovers, Bheema and Hidimbi had changed each other in many ways, but it was the birth of Ghatotkacha that had bound them together as husband and wife, as father and mother, and they had begun to understand and love each other as man and woman. It was a blessing. Let it be true, Hidimbi prayed fervently, and tears filled her eyes like sacred waters that cleanse and transform life. O Shiva, she prayed silently, I am blessed. Forgive me for doubting my husband. And give me the strength, give me the imagination to understand and make this man happy.
Bheema turned to Yudhishthira and said quietly but not without feeling, ‘Brother, it’s getting late. You must reach Ekachakra before sunset. So you better start, and please take care of Mother.’
‘This is totally unexpected.’
‘I’ll be all right. Take care of yourself.’
‘No,’ Kunti screamed. ‘This cannot happen. I’ll not allow it. We cannot go against the advice of your grandfather. Yudhishthira, request him to come immediately. I have to talk to him.’
‘But, Mother, it is my choice…’ Before Bheema could complete his sentence, Kunti, showing her anger, turned her back to him and went and sat by the lake. ‘I should have died with your father,’ she cried in despair. ‘Like Maadri, I should have ascended the pyre and gone with him.’
Vyasa came on the wind of thought, shaggy and smelling of damp forest, of rotten leaves that fertilize the earth, and he came pecking at his great beard in apprehension, worried over the fate of his great work. He confronted Bheema. ‘Son, this is most amazing. You cannot do this. It is not possible.’
‘Grandfather,’ Bheema said in a soft but resolute voice, ‘I do not know what is possible or otherwise. All I know is what I want to do.’
Vyasa saw that Bheema was serious. Something unknown to him had taken hold of Bheema, but how could it happen without his knowledge? Something very mischievous was afoot, something beyond his understanding, beyond his power. Suddenly he was inspired by a thought. He found this twist in the tale quite fascinating, and decided to chase it a little and see what happened. But the next moment, he dismissed the idea as detrimental to his years of hard work. It was like standing at the edge of a precipice and looking down into the mouth of an abyss. He said, ‘My dear Bheema, come, let’s talk it over,’ and took him aside. ‘Look,’ he said in a deeply troubled voice, holding Bheema’s hand in his, ‘you cannot walk away from the story like this and speak a language not meant for you.’
‘What are you saying, Grandfather?’
‘Listen carefully. I’m not only your grandfather but also your author…’ Vyasa stopped, unsure of his approach.
‘What is it, Grandfather?’
‘What? Yes… I mean, listen, without you the story will fall.’
Fall? The story will fall? What was his grandfather saying? Vyasa was a serious person, but not without a sense of humour. Was he trying to pull his leg, to see what happened, how he would react? ‘Grandfather, I’m a full-blooded human being who exists in reality, not some character in your story. By the way, I did not know you were writing a story! What is it about?’ And Bheema started to laugh, as if they were exchanging humorous anecdotes.
‘My dear Bheema, you are the most powerful character I have created, and a deeply lovable one as well. And of course, you are more than a character…’ Vyasa paused and then added, ‘Please, Bheema, don’t laugh.’
Controlling his laughter, Bheema queried, ‘So I am a powerful and lovable character, am I? How fascinating!’ Then, as if he were in some impromptu comedy where he had to produce his own lines, he said, ‘Then let me live as I want to. Don’t try to control me. I’m sure the story will grow more interesting.’
The thin, short-statured Vyasa looked like a dwarf in front of Bheema. Huge though he was, Bheema had grown well beyond the imagination of his creator. ‘Yes, son.’ Vyasa sighed. ‘I understand. In fact, you are the one character over whom I have the least control. I have let you grow the way you liked. Truly, believe me, I’m fascinated by your leaps and bounds. It’s because of you the story is growing long and wonderful. But please don’t walk out on me. It’s not done in the Mahabharata.’
Trembling like one struck with ague, perspiring profusely, it seemed Vyasa would break down any moment. Bheema’s eyes grew wide with amazement. No, the venerable Vyasa was not joking. But what he said didn’t make any sense. Had he gone out of his mind? Or was it really some kind of a game, a puzzle to be unravelled? Vyasa was certainly a great actor when he wanted to be.
Mahabharata. What could it mean? Was it the old man’s ploy to trick him into changing his mind? Bheema chuckled. No, he was not stupid enough to walk blindly into the trap. He teased the old man, ‘Grandfather, why don’t you write another Mahabharata?’
Blood rushed to Vyasa’s face, but he didn’t want to get angry with Bheema. No, not with this character who was the most intransigent and impetuous of all of them, the most savage of his creations. He needed to be tactful, he needed to … He sighed. ‘Bheema,’ he said desperately, ‘you are asking the impossible.’
Bheema did not care. He merely wanted to be alive, live in accordance with the decree of his body. He had made his decision. He spoke with an air of finality, ‘Sorry, what you are asking of me is not possible. I will stay here with my wife and child.’
‘My dear Bheema, listen to me.’
‘I have made my choice.’
Vyasa had never felt so helplessly, hopelessly miserable before, not even when Mother Satyavati had ordered him to impregnate the two queens, (who had both, by the cruel act of fate, become widows) so that the Kuru House would have an heir.
He was truly in despair. The great tale threatened to end before it had even begun properly. Years of tapasya were about to be reduced to ashes. What should he do now? His head would burst if he could not release all his meditations on life, all the insights, conflicts and contradictions, all the experiences and thoughts of innumerable generations he had garnered from the world into this great work: the Mahabharata. It was to be the ultimate work of art, the ultimate catharsis. How could he now write another Mahabharata?
Stop. Look. Listen. Who is screaming? Is it Bheema? The sky splits, the earth cracks open and Vyasa feels himself sinking, floating into a world unlike Hastinapura; unlike Chedi or Magadha; unlike anything he has ever known; a world green and vibrant like the smile of Mother Earth; dark and fearful like the Goddess of Death; and rugged, harsh, yet pervaded by the silvery white brilliance of the mountain peaks; a fit home for Shiva and Parvati. Then tribes of dark-skinned people with magnificent bodies appear, and right in front stand Bheema, Hidimbi and Ghatotkacha, all screaming for his attention. They are saying something, showing him something. What is it?
Vyasa heard
the voice again, and this time it seemed to explode from within him. No, he wouldn’t stop; he ought not to. To stop writing now was to be sucked up into this strange, emerging new world of bewildering realities, and something in him was terrified. He felt himself swimming against the current, a tremendous current that was pushing him into utterly new waters. No, he found himself screaming. He fought against the force and tried to pull away from the swirling, whipping waters … and in the thick of this terrible confusion and fear and struggle, the image of Krishna flashed in his mind like a revelation. Krishna, the magical glass that reflected and refracted the terrific complexity of humanity, the profound depths of human mind and body. Yes, only Krishna could handle Bheema. With all his charm and guile, only he could make Bheema understand the truth and save the story.
Krishna’s arrival had a soothing effect on everyone. He seemed to be the answer for all their questions, an antidote to every illness of mind and body. He looked radiant, like the sun come down on earth. His gentle smile put everyone at ease, including Kunti and Hidimbi. If Kunti felt that her dilemma was sorted and Krishna would persuade Bheema to go with them, Hidimbi lost her fear of losing her husband. Even Ghatotkacha was immensely attracted by this strange figure, and gladly let himself be lifted and hugged by the man who felt and smelt like a warm-hearted woman. Only Bheema felt ill at ease, and he grew cautious. Krishna’s smile made him want to forget himself and sacrifice his life for Krishna. But he could not; he could not let himself be mesmerized by this being.
‘So, Bheema,’ said Krishna, smiling broadly and winking, ‘you have decided to write your own story, eh?’
Bheema scratched his stubbly chin and smiled back as if to say, yes, please leave me alone. He told himself that Krishna was a master of tricks and he had to be careful.
‘I’m so happy for you, Bheema. You are blessed with a wonderful wife and child.’ Krishna beamed at Hidimbi. Then, turning to Bheema again, he said, ‘Come, let’s take a walk.’
Much against his wishes, Bheema walked with Krishna into the forest, but with a firm resolution that whatever Krishna’s advice was going to be, he would not reverse his decision. No, never. And yes, he would write his own story…
‘It’s a wonderful place to live!’ said Krishna, smiling.
Bheema frowned, now annoyed with himself for having agreed to go with Krishna. He drew in a deep breath, stilled his mind and spoke with a tenacity that surprised him. ‘Yes, Krishna, it’s a wonderful place, that’s why I have chosen to stay back and live with my wife and child. And I think I have fallen in love with this forest. After all, you know, I’m a child of Satashringa.’
‘But, Bheema,’ Krishna said, ‘this is not Satashringa.’ Then, throwing his arm round Bheema in an affectionate gesture, he asked cryptically, ‘My dear Bheema, do you really think there is such a thing as choice?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let me explain,’ said Krishna, looking deep into Bheema’s eyes. ‘Don’t resist or agree with what I’m going to say. Just listen attentively. Come, let’s sit under that tree over there and talk, for I need to rest my limbs.’
SANJAYA SPEAKS
THE SUN LOOKED OLD AND TIRED, ready to fall into the underworld of dark silence. Soon the day would end. The rejuvenated sun would rise tomorrow and come up his habitual path, but would it be only to witness the earth shudder in agony and bleed to death? For it seemed to Sanjaya that the story of man was on its last legs.
Sitting by the river, Sanjaya laughed sadly, and tears of sorrow filled his eyes. Mother Ganga flowed by, feeling and not feeling, as if she did not care, as if she could not distinguish between good and evil, between pain and pleasure, between life and death, as if opposites did not exist and the world was merely a web of maya constructed by a self-devouring Brahma. Still, his heart bleeding in grief, Sanjaya asked: ‘Why, Mother, why? Whence all this?’
‘My Lord, I cannot, I cannot do this any more,’ Sanjaya cried. He had seen and heard too much, things that Brahma himself would have shuddered to see, what no human being could ever have seen and heard and yet remained sane. He had seen the dark cunning of dharma, the charming smile of treachery, the fiendish laughter of courage, the black fear of fearlessness, the underside of love and the ghastly face of death.
‘You cannot stop at this point,’ Dhritharashtra yelled in rage. ‘Tell me. Tell me quickly what happened to my son.’
Sanjaya had never disobeyed the king. ‘Bheema broke his thighs,’ he replied with a grieving heart.
The blindfolded Gandhari leapt from her seat, crying, ‘Is my son dead, is my Duryodhana dead? Tell us the truth.’ When Sanjaya did not answer, she burst into a heart-rending wail.
‘No, Mother, control yourself,’ he said, for he was condemned to speak, and speak the truth. ‘He is not dead. But he is suffering the pangs of death.’
‘O God,’ she cried, smacking her forehead with her palm. It must be her fate that was the cause of this endless suffering. Why was she still tied to this wretched life?
‘You should not think like that,’ said Sanjaya, who could divine her thoughts. She was not the cause but one of the many links in the chain of causes for this terrible tragedy.
‘There is no excuse, Sanjaya.’ She sobbed, the cloth band strapped over her eyes wet with tears. ‘No excuse for the sins we have committed. Tell me now, is my son suffering very much? Will he survive? He will survive, won’t he?’
Sanjaya closed his eyes, drew in his breath deeply and stilled his mind. He saw the trees trembling and the lake shivering, as if in fear; and, beside the lake, he saw Duryodhana writhing on the ground. What should he say? That her son was dying, that his body was dying but he was holding death back by the sheer power of his will and his thirst for revenge? Sanjaya opened his eyes and said plainly, ‘He is still alive. He is alive with hatred and wrath.’
‘Sanjaya, my son, my friend, tell us everything, don’t hide anything from us,’ Dhritharashtra wailed. ‘Tell us, can you still see everything clearly, can you hear what is being spoken, can you feel what he is feeling? So far you have reported everything dispassionately, honestly; please don’t stop now, don’t go away. The worst has happened, let’s hear the rest to the end.’
‘No, King Dhritharashtra, the worst is yet to come.’
Duryodhana lay limp by the lake, calumniated in dust and blood, his thighs mutilated, his manhood smashed. Duryodhana, who wanted to rule the world, at whose feet kings fell like slaves, at whose command even the wise ones complied like frightened children, now lay on the ground, utterly helpless. Yet, as Sanjaya had seen, his heart burned with hatred, his mind longed for revenge.
At last, unable to control himself any longer, he let out a cry of agony. ‘Look at me,’ he cried to the elements, coughing blood. ‘I had Bheeshma, whom even the gods respected and feared; I had Drona, the great acharya and an invincible archer; I had Karna, the likes of whom the world will never see again, Karna the Fearless, Karna, my greatest friend, dearer to me than my own brothers, than even my parents; I had Salya, Kripa, Ashwathama and so many great warriors, with whose support I must have won a hundred Kurukshetras. Look at me now; I, who should have been the lord of the world, abandoned, alone, dying like a dog crushed under the wheels of a chariot…’
They came then, the three survivors of the Kaurava army: Ashwathama, Acharya Kripa and Kritavarma. Their eyes were moist with tears after burning Drona’s corpse, whose body had gone stiff like hardened sin. They came fearing the worst, and burst into tears upon seeing Duryodhana matted in blood and dust. The son of Drona threw himself next to his king and cried, ‘My Lord, what has happened? Who did this to you?’
Duryodhana spoke with effort. ‘What can I say, Ashwathama? What can I say?’
He had drifted along in a blank state of mind until his horse, which had been hurt by many arrows, collapsed and breathed its last. He squatted by the dying horse and began to stroke its cold body, all the while speaking feverishly to himself. He wanted to die. His heart
was suddenly empty of hatred, empty of anger, and in its place sat grief, heavy as a rock. He stood up, picked up his mace out of sheer habit, or perhaps he wanted it to go with him as a companion, and started walking without a sense of direction. Such a waste, he kept muttering to himself. Thinking of Karna, tears welled up in his eyes. No, he did not want to prolong this miserable existence; he wanted to shed this gross body and go and be with his friend in the other world.
His body–mind burning like a tree on fire, he had walked on thus, talking to himself, on and away from blood-drenched Kurukshetra. Finally, he had arrived at Dwaipayana. The lake looked cool and refreshing, like an antidote to all his sorrows. He dropped the mace on the ground and stepped into the lake, feeling the cool water penetrate his tired limbs.
‘Forgive me, Grandfather Bheeshma,’ he whispered in a fit of remorse. ‘I shouldn’t have dragged you into this madness. If there was one person who was most fit to rule the world, it was you, yet you did not want to become the king, even though it was your birthright; you sacrificed everything for the welfare of the Kurus. And that Kuru race you so assiduously protected and nurtured is in ruins now. Forgive me, Acharya Drona, you were too good and kind to an unworthy disciple like me. Forgive me, Karna, my dearest friend, for only you knew that I sought all this power and glory not merely for myself but for you too, and for my brothers and friends. Forgive me, Mother, you are a great soul, and I am not fit to be your son, but I want to have you as my mother in all my births to come.’
When the Pandavas, accompanied by Krishna, had arrived at the lake like a pack of wolves in search of prey, Duryodhana was still lost in sorrow. It was Yudhishthira who, like a clown in the middle of a tragic scene, drew Duryodhana’s attention and challenged him to a fight.