MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#1: The Forest of Stories (Mba)

by Ashok K. Banker

  King Arjuna Kartavirya grinned at his men, then permitted himself a hearty chuckle. ‘The boy has spirit. Clearly he was struck too hard on the head when yet an infant. Cut him down where he stands.’ He raised a finger, adding, ‘Use archers first. He seems to be fairly effective with the axe, but it won’t be any use against arrows.’

  Several shortbows appeared in the hands of the Haihaya horsemen. Accustomed to shooting from the saddle, this was an easy target for them. They loosed a volley of several dozen arrows at once at Parashurama.

  Parashurama twirled the axe on his finger as he had before. The blade blurred. He stood rock still. The hail of arrows flew at him, lethally aimed, and almost all found their mark—and were chopped to splinters by the spinning axe.

  The watching crowd oohed in amazement. This was something new.

  King Arjuna Kartavirya frowned. ‘Try javelins. All at once.’ They did.

  The result was the same. The axe chopped every last javelin to fragments. The splinters fell in a pile around Parashurama, yet not a scratch marked his body.

  The audience cheered and applauded. Despite the presence of the Haihayas and the knowledge that this charade could not possibly continue forever, they felt an overwhelming joy at seeing the brutal kshatriyas bested at their own game: use of weapons. The watching brahmins cheered loudest of all.

  Parashurama let the axe slow, then lowered it. ‘Surrender the calf to me now, Haihaya, and you may yet live. I will not warn you again.’

  King Arjuna Kartavirya bared his teeth. He was no longer amused by the brahmin boy. ‘Kill him,’ he said shortly to his warriors. ‘Attack him with everything you have, all at once, and do not stop until he lies dead.’

  It was easier said than done.

  A short while later, every last man of King Arjuna Kartavirya’s contingent lay dead on the ground, butchered by the unrelenting axe.

  The crowd had swelled to the size of most of the city’s population by now. Word was spreading far and wide. A brahmin boy had challenged the Haihayas—and he was slaughtering kshatriyas by the hundreds, single-handedly. Already, the poets would be composing their lyrics.

  King Arjuna Kartavirya stared coldly at the insolent brahmin boy who stood before his gates, barring him entry to his own city, his own kingdom, his own home.

  It was intolerable. An example must be made.

  But how? Clearly the boy was possessed of some extraordinary astra. That axe was no ordinary wood axe. Nor was its wielder merely a brahmacharya: he displayed a skill comparable to the greatest champions the Haihaya king himself had seen in combat.

  He thought of asking the calf to produce a greater champion than the boy.

  To produce the greatest axe-wielder that ever lived.

  Or even, a stroke of brilliance, the guru who had taught the boy! That personage would undoubtedly be able to best the youth, surely?

  But there was another factor to consider.

  The watching crowds.

  Had this encounter taken place within the palace compound, or in a remote forest clearing, it would not matter what means Arjuna Kartavirya resorted to in order to secure victory. He could summon up entire armies of champions from Kamadhenu to destroy the son of Jamadagni. Ironic, considering that the calf itself was Jamadagni’s!

  But he needed to set an example. The boy was fighting alone. And to throw armies against him would suggest that Arjuna Kartavirya himself was the weaker one, to need such great numbers to best a mere brahmin boy. It would engender any number of rebellions across the land. Every brahmin boy would be inspired to take up an axe or a hoe or a yoke and attack kshatriyas. Parashurama would become a legend for all brahmins to follow.

  He needed to set an example.

  He needed to best this boy himself.

  Man to man.

  In single combat.

  To prove that he, Arjuna Kartavirya, was the greatest warrior of all. And nobody else, brahmin, kshatriya or otherwise, could challenge him and live.

  Nobody.

  And so, the king of the Haihayas dismounted from his horse, and walked towards the spot where Parashurama stood, swinging his axe.

  Parashurama mistook the kshatriya king’s action for capitulation. He thought that he had made his point effectively and the Haihaya had decided to cut his losses and surrender the calf to its rightful owner. As Jamadagni’s son, he had been raised to the highest standards of morality. Dharma dictated that the kshatriya acknowledge defeat and return the calf willingly. So Parashurama expected that this was what the Haihaya was doing. He watched as the kshatriya approached, then stopped about one score yards from the place where Parashurama waited.

  Parashurama noticed that the calf was farther ahead, tethered to an uks cart, one of several in a long grama train of heavily laden wagons. The men on the uks carts made no move to dismount, untie the calf or bring it to their king. Perhaps the Haihaya king intended to speak with Parashurama before having the calf fetched, or perhaps he intended to tell Parashurama to take the calf himself and return home with it. Either option was acceptable. Parashurama had killed a number of kshatriyas here today. He had taken no pleasure in the act. It had been mindless butchery, no different from the practice sessions with his guru Mahadev where he was expected to wield the sacred Parasu until he no longer thought about each action or gesture, but merely acted. It was thanks to those rigorous training sessions that he had acquired the ability to wield the axe relentlessly, moving with the automatic repetitive actions of a man chopping wood or cutting down a tree.

  Parasu was partly responsible of course. The axe was no mere object made from wood and metal. It was a living thing, created and consecrated by Mahadev himself, Lord of Destruction. This was why it sang when it worked, just like any woodcutter might sing as he chopped down trees. And it was why it drank the blood of those it slew. Shiva had warned his shishya about that last part. Parasu loved the taste of blood; the more it drank, the more it desired. If its wielder permitted it to drink too much, it might not be able to stop. Then a point might be reached whereupon the axe drove the bearer to fight on, so that Parasu could continue to drink more blood. An endless cycle of thirst and slaking would follow and there might be no limits to how many Parasu would slay. Its thirst could never be fully quenched and that meant it could drink on forever, until its owner reached a point where he might no longer care whom he killed, so long as Parasu could drink. In exchange, Parasu granted its wielder a sense of invulnerability—nay, not merely a sense, but invulnerability itself. So long as Parasu was given the blood of new victims to drink, its wielder could not be harmed or killed. He would effectively be immortal.

  After all, it was a weapon of a god.

  Parasu had drunk a fair amount today, more than it had ever consumed in Parashurama’s hand. Parashurama could feel the power surging from the axe even now, singing in his veins, filling his being with a sense of supreme power. Immortal. Invulnerable. Unassailable . . . Parasu sang these thoughts to him silently, giving him a sense of complacency. This must be what it felt like to be a deva. Yet, it was important to remember what Lord Shiva had taught him: Use Parasu only to accomplish your given task, no more. You must wield the axe, not let the axe wield you.

  He was glad that the Haihaya was capitulating. He felt that already Parasu had drunk too much, that the axe was intoxicated with the blood it had consumed, and he could hear it singing out to him silently, craving more, pleading for more . . . demanding more . . .

  King Arjuna Kartavirya began swinging his arms.

  Parashurama blinked.

  What did this mean?

  No words, no offer of conciliation, no acknowledgement that he had stolen the calf and was now willing to return it, just this peculiar . . . windmilling motion of his hands?

  What was the Haihaya doing?

  As Parashurama watched, the kshatriya’s hands began swinging around in a diagonal motion that did not appear plausible by human standards, let alone physically possible. That angle, the way those
shoulders bent and those elbows twisted? Had he broken his arms? How was he swinging them so rapidly? And why was he doing it?

  Then a remarkable thing occurred.

  King Arjuna Kartavirya’s arms elongated, stretching out impossibly long and far, yards long, then a score of yards long . . . Then, they divided, splitting into multiple arms, all different lengths, thicknesses, different in form and function . . .

  In moments, there were hundreds of arms stretching out from the torso of the Haihaya king, sprawling across the raj marg and the surrounding area, like the vines of some great banyan tree, flailing about madly, still forming and shaping themselves, solidifying into a variety of forms. As Parashurama watched in fascination, each arm began to pick up a weapon from the several hundreds laying about. With several hundred men lying dead around, there were any number of weapons present. The elongated arms of Arjuna Kartavirya began taking up various weapons and wielding them.

  Parashurama was astonished by the sheer number of arms that now sprouted from the body of King Arjuna Kartavirya. The Haihaya king’s torso and body remained exactly as it was, standing rooted to the ground with surprising stability, anchoring the morass of flailing arms that covered the ground for tens of yards around him. There must be easily hundreds of arms, for every single weapon laying about had been taken up and still there were many arms seeking more weapons. Parashurama saw some arms simply reach out and close fists over rocks, rusting metal objects and anything that lay within reach.

  The watching crowd gasped and emitted sounds of awe. Yet it was evident from the nature of their reaction that they had witnessed something like this before. Apparently, King Arjuna Kartavirya had displayed this astonishing ability on earlier occasions.

  Parashurama was fascinated. He had never seen a man with a thousand arms before. For surely that was how many arms now swung about in the air, bearing weapons, swaying like cobras preparing to strike.

  What a fascinating sight. And what an interesting challenge. If only his guru were here to watch this, Shiva would undoubtedly take great interest in observing his pupil engage with such an unusual opponent.

  Clearly, King Arjuna Kartavirya had no intention of returning the calf amicably to Parashurama. He intended to fight. And from the looks of it, he intended to kill Parashurama himself. That was honourable, to do his own fighting instead of having his endless supply of lackeys do it for him. Parashurama respected him for that much at least. Whether or not the kshatriya succeeded in his goal was another matter. What concerned Parashurama was that the Haihaya had challenged him and had started by demonstrating that he possessed an ability far superior to that of his fellow kshatriyas.

  If nothing else, it would make this one fight more interesting at least than all the earlier ones—he barely remembered those, blurring as they all did into one another, an endless succession of slaughter in which Parasu gained more satisfaction than he did.

  Now, at least he had a worthy opponent.

  Parashurama hefted his axe and began to swing it around on its leather thong.

  Parasu began to sing again as it swung around, faster and faster, until its movement was a blur even to Parashurama, and its song a sharp keening at the farthest limit of hearing.

  Across the city, the dogs resumed their barking.

  The crowd oohed and aahed, anticipating the clash of the brahmin with the axe and the kshatriya with a thousand arms.

  Parashurama waited for the enemy to attack.

  ||Eight||

  The yagna at Naimisha-sharanya demanded a great deal of attention from the rishis as well as the acolytes. Coupled with the numerous daily chores, sandhi recitation lessons and other kul learning, it was always evening by the time everyone finished their sandhyavandana and assembled in the clearing to hear Ugrasrava Lomarsana Sauti resume his narration of the epic. Everyone looked forward eagerly to each day’s narration and everyone felt more than a little disappointed when it ended for that evening. In this, there was little difference between the oldest maharishis and the youngest acolytes. Everyone wanted more.

  Sauti smiled apologetically each night as he rose after declaring that day’s narration ended, taking in the sea of wistful expressions and disappointed sighs. As the days passed, he grew certain that his audience expanded daily and in time, it seemed as if their numbers extended beyond the clearing itself, into the deep recesses of the jungle, until he felt as if the entire Naimisha-van was listening, each tree representing a dead soul in the Kurukshetra war, eagerly listening to hear the itihasa of their ancestors and to know the events leading up to the great war that caused their demise. If there is one question that has always haunted the human mind, it is this: What is the point of living? What is our purpose here on earth?

  Why were we put here on this mortal plane? Is there a larger plan? Phrase it any way one wishes, they all come back to the same question: Why are we here?

  It was a question that everyone hoped the great epic Mahabharata would answer. After all, it was called the Fifth Veda for good reason. It not only told a great tale, but also illuminated the essence of the human condition through the events of that great tale. And no question was more essential to the human condition than knowing why one existed.

  ||Nine||

  The fire crackled as Sauti resumed the tale of Parashurama and the history of the Bhrigu clan:

  ‘Parashurama slew King Arjuna Kartavirya and returned home with the calf. The Haihaya king’s thousand-armed attack was formidable and was capable of routing entire armies, for each arm could function independently of the others, extending longer or shorter, stronger or leaner, and fight separately of the rest of its sibling limbs, thereby confounding any number of the enemy. King Arjuna Kartavirya could plough through an enemy force like a pair of uksan dragging a yoke through soft earth, leaving a trail of churned bodies and sods of flesh. He was an unstoppable force.

  ‘But against a single opponent, and that too Parashurama, his power proved futile.

  ‘Parashurama’s ability to wield the Parasu at blinding speed enabled him to chop off every last one of Arjuna Kartavirya’s thousand arms. It was pure butchery. A thousand arms on one man or a thousand arms on five hundred men, it made no difference to Parashurama. Or to Parasu. They hacked off every last limb, evading every attempt to strike, cutting through every weapon, eliminating every threat, until the Haihaya king lay standing on the raj marg before the gates of his own city, shoulders spouting blood in thick, viscous jets. He slumped to the ground, lifeless and lay staring blindly up at the sky.

  ‘Parashurama stepped over him and untied the calf from the cart to which it had been tethered.

  ‘He took the calf home to his father, who was pleased and relieved to see it. He intended to return it safely to Indra at the earliest possible moment. Some things were too powerful to remain in the possession of mortals.

  ‘But that was only the beginning of the conflict.

  ‘King Arjuna Kartavirya’s sons returned home soon after, their mission successfully accomplished, and the last rebels dead. They found that their father had been slain in a humiliating encounter, cut down at the gates of his own city by a mere brahmin boy. The enemy their father had captured and brought home, Bahu, son of Sagara, had taken advantage of his captor’s death to make good his escape. Now, Bahu was raising a great army and preparing to wage all-out war against the Haihaya and the Panchagana, to stake his claim upon the throne of Ayodhya once and for all. And when he was done reclaiming Ayodhya, he had promised, he would take over Mahishmati and the possessions of the Haihaya and their allies as well. With Arjuna Kartavirya gone, it was likely he would accomplish his goal. What was more, the slaying of the Haihaya king at the hands of a mere brahmin boy had already become the stuff of legend, and across the land, kshatriyas were taking up arms and declaring war against the Haihayas and the rest of the Chandravanshis.

  ‘The sons of Arjuna Kartavirya were not capable of standing up to the might of a full-blown opposition. With their father gone,
their own kingdom would crumble quickly. He had held the conflicted forces of their allies together through brute strength. Now, they would be lucky if their own army remained loyal to them long enough to fight one battle.

  ‘Seeing the end of their dynasty, brought down so suddenly and shockingly, they laid the entire blame at only one man’s feet. Jamadagni. After all, it was he who had demanded his calf back. He had sent his son forth to reclaim her. And so he was responsible for their father’s death.

  ‘They rode towards Jamadagni’s ashram. As it so chanced, Parashurama was away at that moment. The sons of Arjuna Kartavirya fell upon Jamadagni like wolves on a lamb, and tore him apart. They did to him what Jamadagni’s son had done to their father, severing his limbs and then chopping his body into multiple parts and pieces.

  ‘Then they rode away to try to piece together the fragments of their own disintegrating legacy.

  ‘Parashurama returned home and saw the fate that had befallen his father.

  ‘He recalled the sufferings of his Bhrigu ancestors over generations at the hands of kshatriyas such as the Haihayas and other enemies of the brahmin varna.

  ‘He saw that the violence that existed in the world at present was all the work of these very kshatriyas, who, despite their so-called code of kshatriya dharma, were wanton, ruthless, immoral beings who did nothing but shed blood and spread violence like a disease upon the earth.

  ‘He saw them as a pestilence upon the mortal realm. ‘And he resolved to cleanse them from the world.’

  ||Ten||

  Three times seven Parashurama scoured the world of every living kshatriya. Twenty-one times he travelled the earth, seeking out warriors he had missed before, who had hidden away out of cowardice, or disguised themselves as brahmins or sudras or even vaisyas rather than fall prey to his terrible axe. Twenty-one times in all, he slaughtered every last warrior and cleansed the earth of every last person of the kshatriya varna.