He wondered how his audience felt, listening to the names of so many familiar personages cited, their genealogy, their family history, their divine origins . . .
But that was not his task. His task was to tell the tale, as simply yet effectively as possible, in a manner that was pleasing and memorable.
After all, if Krishna Dweipayana Vyasa, a forebear to the main protagonists of the tale and one of the principal participants in that great epic, could compose a poem about himself and his family and narrate it professionally, why should Ugrasrava Lomarsana Sauti have any hesitation or doubt? That was the greatness of itihasa. One simply did one’s task: of telling the tale. What the listener took away depended on the listener. It was certain that the deep understanding Kulapati Shaunaka and some of the other maharishis here gained from his account was nowhere near the superficial and peripheral glimpse gained by the young brahmacharyas. For a great story was like a river. One could return to the river at any time, but in fact each time one came back, the river was changed and you were different as well. Never again could you repeat the same visit exactly as it had occurred before. That was the power of Kala, the lord of Time. Just as the water flowing in the river was not the same that had flowed on your last visit, so also you had grown since that visit, changed in some way or other, small or substantial. So also each time one heard a tale as massive and epic as the Mahabharata of Krishna Dweipayana Vyasa, the tale itself reshaped itself with the telling or due to the change in the person reciting it, as well as the listener hearing the poem.
This was starting to happen now. At certain points in his narration, he had experienced a strange phenomenon: As if the particular story he was reciting had begun to take shape before his very eyes, real-life figures and structures rising up around him in three- dimensional reality, horses neighing, chariots pounding, swords clashing, men shouting hoarsely, brahmins chanting, fire roaring . . . as if the story had begun to come alive, to take on a life of its own making. Like a coal feeding off air alone, he felt the words leave his mouth to ignite into something greater than mere sounds and symbols. Sanskrit incarnated. Poetry made flesh. An epic carved of sound and light and fury, signifying everything that mattered.
And as he continued, he knew that soon, in the next few shlokas, he himself would begin to disappear like a wraith, along with all the denizens of this great ashram, leaving only the living coal of story itself, the flame that fed on air to sustain itself, blaze and flare into an inferno that consumed this entire great jungle of lost souls, blazing not with real flame and ash and heat, but with the tapas of meditation and contemplation, the intellectual power that had sparked this great epic into existence over years of effort. For three years the great Krishna Dweipayana Vyasa had risen each morning to compose this history of the greatest human conflict ever waged, then he had taught it to his disciples who in turn had taught it to others, and so the pilot flame of culture was passed on from hand to hand, kept alive by the force of mind alone, generation to generation . . . And soon, he, Ugrasrava, would disappear. For as time passed, all narrators must die. Only the tale itself lives on. Eternally.
Listen. Now he heard a gentle sigh deep within the belly of the dark woods. A sigh of expectation and anticipation.
A sigh of longing and becoming. As the countless listeners, past, present and future, dead, living and yet-to-be-born, all sat together in this vast infinite forest of stories, listening to every syllable of every shloka. Until the real and unreal, living and not-yet-living and once-living all merged into one vast audience, drinking together from the deep well of itihasa. Warmed by the same eternal fire. Soon he would be gone. But the story would remain.
With a soft sigh of his own, he resumed the story.
||Paksha Nine||
SHAKUNTALA AND DUSHYANTA
||One||
A great king entered a vast jungle. He was accompanied by his army, hundreds of horses, elephants, warriors armed with swords, spears, balas, maces, javelins, lances and other weapons. They roared and cheered as they rode through the forest to show their might. Conch blowers sounded their shell trumpets, dhol drummers pounded their kettle drums. The chariot wheels rumbled, the elephants trumpeted, the horses neighed. All the denizens of the forest, animal, insect and human, wondered at this great noise and stopped still in fear.
The king was exceedingly handsome and well loved. The women of his kingdom showered flowers and praises—and coy invitations— upon him when he rode through the streets. Wealthy and powerful, he wanted for nothing. His enemies feared him enough to show great respect and avoid confrontations—those that were foolish enough to oppose him in battle met with devastation and ruin, and were massacred or enslaved. Brahmins paid homage to his greatness; kusalavyas sang his praises. After he had conquered all the realms he desired to possess and partaken of all the fruits of pleasure, he grew restless of kingship and sought new thrills and pursuits. His favourite pastime was the hunt. But unlike earlier kings of his line who preferred to ride out alone or in small packs, hunting stealthily, he rode out with small armies, making a great show of it so that everyone knew that the king’s hunt was passing by. All heads turned to watch the glamour of his entourage. Many of the citizens even ran behind his train or followed on horse or by wagon. But each time he went farther and farther into the deep jungle, and eventually, all fell back and turned homewards. Finally, only he and his retinue continued, making their way noisily forward, with great merriment and clash of music and voices. Even his chariot was designed to produce the loudest sound, its heavy iron-clad wheels rumbling ominously, the effect intended to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies; it had become his trademark as a king at arms. Despite its ponderous rumbling, the chariot was drawn by powerful bhoja stallions and capable of achieving great speeds, often compared to the swiftness of Garuda, by those who observed it from afar.
That day, the king came to a new place, a forest within the great aranya, the unexplored wilderness that still covered much of the earth. It was a beautiful grove comparable to Nandana itself, the fabled garden of the king of gods in his heavenly realm Indraloka. Magnificent bilva, arka, khadira, kapitha and dhava trees grew in great profusion. The landscape was varied, and ranged from mountains and valleys to vast plains spotted with great boulders. There was no sign of water or human habitation. The king and his retinue rode on for several yojanas, marvelling at this new place they had discovered, so far removed from civilization. In the forested parts of this country within a jungle, they were amazed at the profusion of game. The greatest herds of deer they had ever seen abounded here, as did every other species of forest creatures. So unaccustomed were these beasts to the sight or scent of humans that they stood still at first and stared in puzzlement at the new arrivals, unafraid and unshy. With great enthusiasm, the king and his best men embarked on their hunt. They slaughtered deer by the score. Entire families of tiger were massacred by arrowshot alone. Those that were only wounded, he dismounted from his chariot and slew with his sword. The hunt continued for days and he had recourse to every manner of weapon which he employed in the killing of all manner of beasts. He brought down lions with spears, smashed the skulls of wild boars with maces, flung javelins into the thick hide of elephants. Roaring with exultation like the very predators he killed, he took pleasure and pride in his kills, massacring the animals of that unspoiled forest. At last, in alarm and panic, the creatures of the region began to flee before the thundering advance of this manic herd of two-legged killers, entire herds dispersing and stampeding, deer crying out and leaping in all directions to flee their tormentors, even the long-fanged cats slinking away silently to hide in the deep shadows and glare balefully at their new rivals.
At night, while the king and his jubilant band of followers feasted on the choicest portions of the meat they had hunted, some predators worked their vengeance. Men were dragged off screaming into the darkness, heads chomped to pulp and limbs crushed between iron jaws, bones smashed by rampaging elephants or bellies ri
pped open by razor-sharp boar tusks. But these losses were minor compared to the slaughter of the animals. As always, man was the cruellest predator of all, hunting for pleasure rather than need. The carcasses they piled up could have fed a force a hundred times their size for weeks. Most would rot uneaten, beautiful beasts slain for man’s cruel pleasure.
The forest had its revenge on the invading force. The riverbeds grew parched, the ponds dry. Not a drop of water was to be found for miles and miles. Search as they may, they could find no trace of water, running or still. Surely, the animals must slake their thirst somehow? But the animals could not speak, nor did the forest yield its secret. And so the king and his entourage thirsted mightily even as they tired of the salty meat of their kills and craved other foods. Yet these deprivations only infuriated the king further and rather than withdraw his men, he drove them further into the new country each day, slaying more and more creatures in prodigious numbers. The sheer scale of the massacre grew to epic proportions. Some say he slew several hundreds at the very least, but most insist the number of slaughtered beasts ran into several thousands. Enraged by extreme thirst and blood-rage, he was like a conqueror possessed, waging war against the animals of that region like a mad buffalo run amok.
||Two||
Ravaged by thirst and exhaustion, its numbers already depleted by the attacks of vengeful animals, the king’s retinue dwindled further as men began to drop for want of the most simple succour. Water. By degrees, their bloodlust diminished, as the king’s anger waned. His own head pounding for lack of water, body parched and blood heated, he ceased his killing spree. Onward they rode, further into unknown territory. Across plains, over mountains, through valleys, they had no choice but to push on—already they had come too far from the last source of water. Turning back was no longer an option. Men fell like the beasts they had slain, dropped by the invisible arrow of thirst, to lie dying or dead in strange lands. The predators that followed the human force crept up under cover of night and consumed these fallen, often tearing them to shreds while still alive. The angry forest wreaked its own revenge on its ravagers.
Finally, when his force had been reduced to a fraction of its original size, his own strength halved, even the horses and elephants half-dead from lack of water, and it seemed as if every last one of them would die there in that unknown country, the king came to a rise. Goading their mounts, his men and he rode upto a ridge overlooking a vast valley. Reining in their exhausted mounts, they gazed upon an extraordinary sight. Below lay a great forest, lush and beautiful like nothing they had seen before. There was water there in plenty—they could see a great river snaking its way through the valley, waterfalls plunging from the surrounding cliffs, ponds and pools visible through gaps in the trees. The trees were emerald green, filled with a profusion of colourful birds of every description. The air was filled with their calls. There were animals in the woods below as well, roaming freely, even more unspoiled and innocent than the ones they had seen earlier. The sounds of lions roaring could be heard, yet a herd of deer continued to graze unafraid. The sight of ripe fruits hanging from the trees made their parched mouths water, and the pristine unblemished beauty of that arboreal vision brought tears to the eyes of these battle-hardened men.
Riding down a sloping pathway that led down, they entered the valley and cried with relief at the sight of water and nourishment. Slaking their thirst and eating their fill of luscious ripe fruits, they lay on the soft cool grassy mounds, beneath the gentle shade of great trees, and recovered their strength. Their urge to hunt was satiated and all they desired was to regain their energy that they might return home. But the king grew eager to explore further. Wishing to continue alone, he bade all his men except two—a priest and an advisor—remain here and indulge their fill of nourishment and rest until he returned. Then, accompanied only by the brahmin and the minister, he proceeded upon his chariot.
So lush was the grassy undergrowth that it all but muffled the rumbling thunder of the king’s war chariot. The sun was warm and energizing yet never harsh, even as the day wore on from morning to afternoon. Cool scented breezes blew and all the animals they saw were innocent and unafraid. They saw lions resting beside grazing deer, and everywhere the trees were dark with swarms of shatapadas, buzzing and busily making their sweet treacly honey. The king knew then that this was the innermost heart of the strange realm they had discovered, and that the first forest they had entered had been the gateway to this heavenly country.
At length, they came to a grove at the delta of the river they had glimpsed from the ridge above. The trees here were as smooth and slender as flagpoles, and nestled within the perfect spot was a vast ashram. From the sight of the numerous yagna chaukats they saw everywhere, and the sheer number of thatched huts of all sizes, it was evident that a great number of rishis resided here. It was an idyllic place, fit for the most austere yatis and valakhilyas.
‘What place is this?’ asked the king of the brahmin.
The brahmin stared in wonderment, enraptured by the beauty and calm of the place. ‘It can be none other than the fabled ashram on the banks of the sacred river Malini. I have heard tales of it from sutas but never thought I would live to see it with my own eyes. It is the domicile of Rishi Kanva, descendant of Kashyapa.’
The king gazed out across the hermitage for a while, but neither he nor his companions saw any living soul in sight.
The king handed the reins of the chariot to his advisor. ‘Stay here until I return,’ he commanded, then disembarked from the chariot.
Continuing alone on foot, he entered the grove, passing through it to the ashram beyond. The ashram overlooked the river and his attention was diverted by the cries and sight of chakravaka birds frolicking in the water noisily. The ruddy geese sent up loud cries, unafraid of any predators as they thrashed and splashed water with their wings. The king smiled at the sight, wishing now that he had carried his bow and quiver, then continued through the ashram. He found every hut empty, every yagna chaukat cold and unlit, and not a single person in sight. Yet there was no doubt that many lived here, for he found garments and belongings, sacrificial oblations and items for the living and ritual sacrifices of brahmins everywhere. Where were the denizens of the ashram? He saw various items and arrangements that he recognized from his own studies of the Vedas—some he knew to be preparations for rituals spelled out in the Rig Vedic chapters of the great books of knowledge, others related to the Sama Veda, Yajur Veda or Atharva Veda. Clearly, many great rishis resided here and pursued their Vedic studies and rituals with complete dedication. ‘This must be what Brahmaloka looks like,’ he thought, awed.
Not finding anyone through the entire length and breadth of the ashram, yet certain that many must reside here, the king began to call out as he went. His voice echoed in the woods. Finally, just when he was about to give up and retrace his steps, a voice answered. He was surprised to hear a woman’s soft tones respond, coming from the direction of the river.
A vision came into sight, freshly bathed, her long black hair still wet from the river. Clad in the humble attire of an ascetic, she was dark of hair and eye, dusky of skin and beautiful beyond description. Surprised to see him, she was nonetheless the epitome of charm and grace and received him with great honour and respect. Offering him a seat, she gave him water for the arghya, and he washed his feet, hands and face and accepted her offer of refreshment. After observing all formalities, she then enquired who he might be and what he desired. Even though it was evident that she was bursting with curiosity, her questions were brief and polite, which impressed him further.
‘I am Raja Dushyanta and I am told this is the ashram of the fabled Rishi Kanva. Is it so?’
‘It is, sire,’ replied the woman. ‘But my father is not presently here.’
‘Where has he gone?’ asked Dushyanta, doing his best not to stare. Her beauty captivated him and he could feel his heart quicken, his blood race.
‘He has gone on an errand,’ she replied. �
�He may be a while returning but please do us the honour of waiting until he returns.’ ‘And where are the other rishis who reside here? For I see that
there must be many, surely?’
‘Aye, sire, indeed. The rishis of this ashram are extremely austere
in their vows and dedication. There are yatis, valakhilyas and other devout sages. Presently they are all on pilgrimage and my father and I are here alone.’
Unable to contain his eagerness to know the maiden better, Dushyanta began to ask her questions, always polite and courteous, but also enquiring more than any casual visitor might. He learned that her name was Shakuntala, and that she lived here in service to her father Rishi Kanva and the other rishis of the ashram. While she spoke, Dushyanta kept stealing glances at her, admiring her beauty, her youth, her perfection. For her part, she seemed unaware of her own beauty and wore it casually, unselfconsciously, unlike the apsaras of his court who preened and primped themselves all day. Her damp hair hung by her side, waist-long, and it drew his attention time and again to her voluptuously undulating body and shapely hips. He listened as she praised her father and described his qualities and reputation as a man of great self-sacrifice and dedication to the brahman.
MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#1: The Forest of Stories (Mba) Page 24