The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  When our son was born, Subhadra’s and mine, we called him Abhimanyu, and from the first he was everyone’s darling. Abhimanyu’s radiance was that of Krishna and it made him irresistible to all. Draupadi now had two sons, Prativindhya by Yudhishthira and Sutasena by Bheema, and there was no lack of young life in the palace. Thus we had our duties and pleasures and our loves and, at the centre of everything, we had each other. We were the five sons of Mother Kunti. We were the five husbands of Draupadi. We were the Pandava brothers.

  Yudhishthira was content. He breathed life into the old saying: “He ruled with justice.” He was Dharmaraj.

  One day the great sage Narada himself visited us, saying that he had heard about the Mayasabha. He and Yudhishthira chatted for a while, comparing the different Sabhas of Bharata. Narada knew everything and everyone. He could give a list of the gems in all the Sabhas on earth and in heaven, as well as the kings who had inhabited them. When he came to the name of the emperor Harishchandra, who now shared the throne with Indra, King of Heaven, Yudhishthira opened his eyes wide and asked what the emperor had done on earth to deserve such honours.

  In the enthusiastic way of one who loves to be asked the right question, Narada said: “He became the emperor, of course.” And then with mounting excitement, “That reminds me. I have a message from your father, Pandu. He told me to tell you that now that you are so powerful on earth, you should also perform the Rajasuya sacrifice that would enable you to become emperor. Then you could also go to Indraloka. You could do it, you know, Yudhishthira; with Krishna beside you, you are the one to do it.” Seeing Yudhishthira passive, he began with his rhetorical questions to him.

  “Are you not a righteous king?”

  “Do you not recognize learning and humility with suitable rewards of wealth and honour?”

  “Is your army not paid regularly? Do you not give sufficient bribes to important enemy officers?”

  “Before you declare war, do you not try the four arts of conciliation, gifts of wealth, sowing dissension amongst the enemy’s friends, negotiation not sword rattling?”

  “Your budget, is it not balanced?”

  “Are not the four pursuits of agriculture, cattle-raising, trade, and usury run by honest men?”

  “The women, are they not protected in your kingdom? I do not imagine you are whispering state and military secrets in their delicate ears.”

  Before we could join his laughter or hope that Draupadi could hear none of this, he was off again relentlessly.

  “Do you not cure diseases with potions and fasts, and mental distress with the counsel of gurus and elders?”

  “Are not wise men and Brahmins respected and given gifts?”

  “Do you not stay away from all the fourteen vices of kings: hedonism, anger, rashness, procrastination, not consulting the learned, sloth, irritability, following the advice of only one man, adopting the ideas of mercenary friends, vacillating over decisions, giving away state secrets, wasting money in fruitless projects, and acting on sudden impulse?”

  “Of course,” he ended triumphantly without a pause, “we all know you are the one.” I don’t think Yudhishthira heard him. He was thinking of our father and how he had died and that there was now a wish of his which might be piously fulfilled.

  Eldest was never the same again after Narada’s visit. Ambition was not part of his make up. He was a man for conciliation, but he was the last one to disregard the counsel and wishes of a father for whom he was anxious to win a high place in heaven. Bheema ached to crack skulls with the jewelled mace Maya had given him. I looked forward to the dreadful sound of Gandiva twanging in battle. The twins and Mother Kunti and Draupadi were ready to urge Yudhishthira, but Krishna alone could persuade him to act. Vaguely we sensed that Sahadeva knew the outcome, but none of us could find the questions that would release his knowledge.

  Summoned, Krishna arrived. He came straight to the point.

  “If you perform the Rajasuya you can be emperor. But Jarasandha is in the way.” Krishna was as bent on destroying him as he had been on destroying Kamsa. He now pointed out that Jarasandha’s army was invincible. Jarasandha’s allies—Shishupala, Dantavaktra, Kamakosha, Rukmin, and Paundraka, were all powerful kings. Shishupala, son of Damaghosha of the Chedis and of Krishna’s maternal aunt, was Jarasandha’s neighbour to the west and his commander-in-chief. He was directly south of us and could intercept anybody we sent on a victory march in that direction. There was Bhagadatta, King of Pragjyotisha to the north, who had made obeisances to Jarasandha and who was bound to stand beside him in battle. We wished it had been otherwise because he was a redoubtable enemy. Nothing could withstand him when, riding his favourite elephant Supratika, he bore down on the foe. Then there was Rukmin who had no reason to love us, for he had wanted to give his sister Rukmini to Shishupala that time when Krishna had saved her from a forced union by marrying her himself. He had sworn to slay Krishna. I named them, counting them on my fingers for Krishna.

  “Yes,” said Krishna, “and there are others. He has friends and then you know there is your favourite cousin Duryodhana and his brothers. However much Drona and Kripa and even Bheeshma love you, they will not be able to keep out of it without Duryodhana whining, ‘You have eaten our salt.’ And Karna will not want to keep out of it. There is only one thing to do if you want a Rajasuya and that is to kill Jarasandha in single combat.”

  I remembered our conversation just before the great forest fire and I saw the pattern. The Mayasabha had somehow been the beginning of Jarasandha’s death. Yudhishthira, who treasured peace above even our father’s wishes, seized upon these words.

  “Only you could have given me such advice, Krishna; whatever you say.”

  I gave Bheema the signal to speak. He said, “Arjuna and I and Krishna can kill him, Eldest Brother.”

  I backed up Bheema with enthusiasm and launched into a plan to save the sacrificial victims.

  “Jarasandha is a great favourite of Shankara Shiva,” said Krishna. “When he is not collecting his sacrificial victims, he can be generous and just.”

  “Krishna, what if Jarasandha were the victor? Bheema and Arjuna are my right and left eye,” Yudhishthira said in an agonized voice, then quietly, “Krishna you are my conscience.”

  Krishna said: “Immortality is never given as a boon to those who refrain from fighting. If we triumph you will be the emperor of the whole world, and anyway, you must not deny us the bliss of reaching the heaven for warriors who die in battle.”

  Krishna, Bheema, and I travelled south-east. We passed through the Kuru jungle and travelled over the Kalakuta hills. We crossed rivers and mountains, and finally from the Goratha hills we saw the city of Magadha and found that indeed it was rich with cattle and water and very verdant. Krishna pointed out the five large hills which protected the city. Their breasts were covered with flowering trees and we heard that Manu himself had ordained that this country should never be afflicted by drought. Of the five protective hills the Chaityaka was the one whose peak was worshipped by the citizens. We climbed up to it and found it covered with flowers, perfumes, coconuts, and other offerings. These alone told us of the region’s prosperity. Three huge drums which were said to be made of the skin of a slain monster were placed here in such a way that even when tapped lightly they would reverberate on and on. Krishna had told us that in order to demoralize Jarasandha, we would have to demolish the Chaityaka peak sacred to all the Magadhans. We set to and broke it down. Then Krishna jumped on to the huge drum and made it gulp and sob with his dance. Bheema and I jumped on to the other drums and danced with him. The skin began to throb under my feet, growling and rolling like never-ending thunder. I shouted jubilantly to Krishna above the din. I whirled around and turned my head to call Bheema, but my voice hurt me. I stopped dead, my mouth open, breathing in fiery air. The beat of the drum forced itself through my soles like pointed sticks. They raced up my legs and racked my body. I jumped down, but the whole mountain was throbbing and sending shar
p needles through my muscles. Krishna had jumped down and was doing a curious hopping dance. Only Bheema was still prancing up there.

  “Come down,” we yelled at him, but he waved at us; clearly, he heard nothing. We kept on waving him down and finally he read our expressions.

  We raced down, tripping over great rocks, running from the drums— their voices following us like avenging demons. At last, dizzy and panting, we stopped to look back. We ourselves shuddered. Krishna gleefully lifted his left foot in the direction of Jarasandha’s capital and we responded by doing the same. We had indeed placed our feet on Jarasandha’s head. Even as we descended into the city, the Brahmins were rushing towards the palace to interpret evil omens. So bad were these omens that the royal priests made the king ride on an elephant while they waved incense about him to ward them off. Meantime we went down to the city, which was marvellously rich. We were like children, pointing at the rare inlays and jewels and the gold and silver articles in the hastily closing shops. There were all sorts of vegetables and flowers we had never seen before. In the confusion we snatched fresh garlands for our necks, took last looks into the shops.

  Jarasandha’s extreme and well-known piety made it easy for us in our garb of Brahmins to gain entry. He rose courteously and called for water to wash our feet, and also honey and other ingredients of the sacrifice, and he gave us the traditional greeting of respect, to which Bheema and I did not respond. Krishna spoke for us saying that the two of us observed silence until midnight. At midnight when we were all sitting before him, Jarasandha peered at our persons.

  “Since when,” he asked, “did Brahmins begin to wear brightly coloured clothes and come decked with flowers?” He scrutinized us more closely and with mounting indignation. “And how do Brahmins develop such muscles? And look at those bowstring scars on your arms. And, above all, why did you choose to enter by way of the sacred Chaityaka peak? You are no Brahmins but Kshatriyas. It is truth and not garlands that most becomes a king. What do you want? What have you come for?”

  What with the omens and the drums still reverberating, I think Jarasandha knew that the incense the priests had waved about him would be to no avail. As we sat silent he must have known he was face to face with death. Though he was no coward he had no taste for mystery. He liked things to be ordered and easily explained or compartmentalized; a man who could slaughter a hundred kings for his god and yet be most punctilious in offering gifts to Brahmins. Coming from his worship he had no burden on his conscience and no thought for the imprisoned kings waiting to be slaughtered for Lord Shankara Shiva. Krishna was right. There was no road open into the hearts of such as Jarasandha and Kamsa. Krishna had killed Kamsa. We would have to kill Jarasandha. Even if he had not stood in the way of the imperial sacrifice, such a king could not rule in Bharatavarsha. Krishna spoke:

  “Yes, Jarasandha. The Kshatriya has little use for words, for wild and profuse speech. He speaks from his arm and if you are interested in witnessing Kshatriya virtue, we will not frustrate you. There is no point in quibbling about whether we came in through the gate or through the window. One enters a friend’s house by the door, but the enemy’s house has no doors. As for the offering, we can accept none from the enemy.”

  Jarasandha looked carefully at each of us, one by one. Even though we were disguised I wondered that he did not know Krishna from the radiance of his face. Impervious to that, he might at least have recognized the tigerwaisted Bheema from his size and the muscles on his arms which nothing could disguise, and I myself had the distinctive scars on both arms. But Jarasandha, living in his strange world, must have made his own images of people to fit it.

  He said musingly, “I have many enemies, but I thought I knew them all. In any case, be so kind as to tell me what you have against me, that you should enter my palace in disguise. I am a Kshatriya and follow the Kshatriya code. I worship Shankara Shiva and as everyone knows, I revere Brahmins and never fail to offer them gifts. I observe all the rituals. What can you have against me without my knowing you? I am a sinless man. I can understand my foes attacking me, but you…?”

  “We know you, Jarasandha,” said Krishna. “We come here at the command of a king. You plead innocence and piety, but what about the kings, your prisoners?”

  “My prisoners, is it? I have defeated them in equal combat and I shall offer them to Shiva. Are not all Kshatriyas bound to defeat their enemies? Is Shiva not worthy of the sacrifice?” His argument was as convincing as it was simple.

  Krishna replied, “Do all kings butcher their enemies? Who is your god, this god who wants human sacrifice?” Never before had I met anyone like Jarasandha, a mind so violent and so blind. “You butcher your own caste. Kshatriyas do not butcher Kshatriyas. We are here to champion Dharma.”

  Jarasandha made a mocking face and said, “You think yourself invulnerable? I shall prove you wrong.”

  “If that is so, in falling by your hand we attain heaven. Do not make the mistake of thinking your courage exceeds that of all others. Pride veils your vision. What if you die? Release the captive kings.”

  “Release the captive kings!” echoed Jarasandha, incredulous. “They were won in a fair fight. Conquered,” he repeated. “And they are my debt to Shiva. Would you rob Shiva of them or should I, like a shivering coward, allow him to be cheated of his due? They are promised to him. I accept your challenge. My army will battle yours or I will meet you in single combat myself alone, with two or three of you or one by one.” He was a monster, but not afraid.

  “Make your choice, Jarasandha,” said Krishna. “Will you fight with me or with Arjuna or with his brother Bheema?” Jarasandha stared and stared, looking again and again from one to another and then bellowed with laughter.

  “Oh, it is you, Krishna!” he said. “I should have known you would come in disguise. I have lost count of the times you have fled from me. You mean, you actually worked up the courage to leave your western ocean and cross the breadth of the country to see me at last? I am flattered, but it would be beneath me to fight with the coward who hides behind the Raivataka hill. Do not worry, I will not take you at your word. And as for the pretty princeling hero Arjuna, he is too small.” He appraised Bheema: “This one here looks about my size.”

  Jarasandha kept us waiting while the astrologers were called. The omens were so bad that he took the precaution of having his son, Sahadeva, hastily anointed king. He had wreaths, auspicious pigments, and medicinal ointments brought, and the high priests rattled away over the new king’s head, glancing nervously at Jarasandha from time to time.

  In the early hours of the morning we went down into the sacred circle of the wrestling ring in which kings could be claimed for the sacrifice. There was something dark and ominous here. Jarasandha took off his crown and gave it to an attendant and then prostrated himself in prayer to Shiva. When he raised his arms to bind his hair, I saw they bulged to about the size of Bheema’s and though older he looked no less powerful.

  The two great men stood opposite each other, slapping their thighs and their shoulders in challenge. Jarasandha rushed up to Bheema who stepped aside and turned to pinion him. They locked their legs and grappled and leaned against each other like fighting elephants. They twisted each other’s arms and legs like flower stalks. They tried to find each other’s knees with long mace-like arms. The only other man I had seen wrestle like this was Balarama.

  The ring shivered and shuddered with their falls. Bheema fell with sickening thuds that made me shut my eyes in case he should not rise, but groaning and roaring they both came back for more, straining against each other, forehead to forehead, neck to neck, with all their veins bulging. They kicked and they pounded. It looked like an exhibition of all the holds we had ever learnt. Bheema held Jarasandha in a “back-breaker” and when Jarasandha, enraged and bloody, had freed himself he pressed his thumbs furiously on Bheema’s windpipe in a “breath-choker”. Bheema broke the hold, gasping horribly.

  At one point, when we all heard an ominous
crack, it seemed it would end in a broken knee for Bheema, and once Bheema jerked Jarasandha’s head back so violently, I was sure his neck had snapped.

  It went on for a day and half a night and somewhere towards the middle of the first day, I became aware of a murmur and shouts behind me. The citizens of Magadha had heard of the combat and had come running to cheer Bheema. Jarasandha was not a popular king.

  “Bheema, remember who you are. Remember your strength. Remember your father. You are the strength of the Pandavas.” Krishna shouted, “Use your arms, he is behind you,” for Bheema stood dazed, his hair hanging over his eyes.

  “This is the end,” cried Bheema, and lifting Jarasandha’s huge frame he whirled it above his head a hundred and one times and dashed it to the ground. There was silence from the citizens and then Bheema took hold of a leg and an arm and started tearing the body. Jarasandha now lay torn on the floor. It was horrible to see. I rushed towards Bheema to embrace him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jarasandha begin crawling up, dragging himself towards Bheema. He caught Bheema’s ankle and with his last strength jerked him to the ground. Bheema looked to Krishna for direction. Krishna took a blade of grass, tore it in two, and put the one in his left hand into his right hand and threw them down. So Bheema took one of the king’s legs in each hand and tore him into two like an animal’s carcass and threw the two halves to opposite sides of the ring. The shrieking was so terrible that, as we later learned, several children were born prematurely in the palace and one aged Brahmin died. While I sponged Bheema, Krishna was preparing Jarasandha’s chariot. We went to the Girivraja hill prison and released the incarcerated kings. I do not want to talk about their condition. They wept and embraced us. Before we left, Krishna took the dead king’s son by the hand.