“Today Hastinapura gathers here to pay tribute to your spirit and compassion. When the Ashwamedha horse returns, all Bharatavarsha will pay you tribute. We who are here today at the beginning of an age of peace are fortunate to be the first to honour you… Victory to Draupadi! Victory to Dharmaraj!” A bright garland fell around Draupadi’s neck and one at Krishna’s feet.
The victory chant was taken up and the sabha was on its feet. Acclaiming us they wiped out their own shame. A strong brilliance streamed throughout the sabha and birds joined the cries in strong chorus. Krishna smiled and folded his hands in the direction of the birdsong which made the cries die down. People listened with mouths open. Suddenly the birdsong faded. We listened to its absence, then laughed and nodded to each other at the wisdom of the birds. Krishna held up a hand.
“The Ashwamedha is the way devised by man and blessed by gods to bring all our countries under one emperor. It brings to all wealth and stability. Gods shower down their blessings on a peaceful land. In times past, the sacred horse was followed by an army and when it was opposed blood spilled over the issue.
“In this aftermath of war, the horse will enter territories whose kings and princes we have killed. It is the bounden duty of their remaining kinsmen to avenge death of their fathers and brothers.” Sighs were heard and a low moan from Uncle Dhritarashtra, an elemental sound as though the earth herself had been disturbed again when she began to rest. Krishna held up a hand and continued: “There is only one way to overcome this. Our armies will not follow the Ashwamedha steed. This time the horse will be followed by a single Kshatriya hero. Kshatriyahood stands for protection, chivalry, nobility, and courage. You know that we have a warrior who has all these qualities and can plead our cause for peace. Even in the face of the vilest insult he knows how to restrain his hand. If he is unencumbered and alone, the power of his dignity will call forth Dharma and the desire for righteous and abiding peace. The earth will be healed. Our prayers will follow him. This Kshatriya has been graced with all the virtues that the gods bestow upon a favourite child.”
I saw the priests letting loose the horse, and Krishna following in his golden dress. He would dissolve the bitterness in the lands of Gandhara, of Avanti, in Bhagadatta’s realm. Krishna, who had killed no one in the war, could speak for peace as no one could.
And then I heard my name, it broke from Krishna’s lips. I pulled myself into the sabha, ready to do his bidding. But I was startled by the crowd, they too shouted my names and all the names that Krishna had invented for me:
“Partha, the Noble One!”
“Rishi! The Wielder of Shiva’s Weapons!”
“He of the Great Austerities!”
“Jishnu, the Beloved of the gods!”
“Ajaya, the Unconquerable!”
“Arjuna! Arjuna! Arjuna! The Curly-Headed!”
“Dhananjaya! Our own Dhananjaya!”
My names bounced off the sabha walls. It was when I looked at Krishna that I understood, for he embraced me with his gaze. He had called me vain and rightly so, he had called me coward and had struck me. It meant nothing.
The sabha rose. Krishna, smiling, came to help me to my feet. I felt a profound sweetness. I knew that I was nothing except in his gaze, which from the first moment in the potter’s house had begun to shape me. I faded like a shadow and with me faded all the vanity of my ability, and all my vacillation, and in their stead there shone a life which had been growing in their darkness like a strong tree whose roots must drive deep down into the earth.
Chanting began.
Om shanti! shanti! shanti!
Peaceful be heaven, peaceful the earth,
Peaceful the broad space between.
Peaceful for us be the running waters,
Peaceful the plants and herbs!
Peaceful to us be the signs of the future,
Peaceful what is done and undone,
Peaceful to us be what is and what will be.
May all to us be gracious!
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“Greatfather Bheeshma calls, Yudhishthira,” Krishna said. “He will soon be free. Now the sun approaches the Northern Solstice and his body cannot keep him.” Satyaki came in then to say the chariot was ready; Sugriva and Saibya shone like moon gems and Daruka turned them around to meet us at the steps.
As we descended from the chariot, I put my foot upon the earth and felt a stillness in it which pressed against my soles and mounted through me to seal my mouth. It almost seemed like a sign of Greatfather’s austerity.
We moved across the forest floor until stopped by his emanation. Without a word one to the other we walked softly. The light fell down with clarity. The stones and rocks were knotted up and listening. I knew that we approached the death of something greater than a single man. If we spoke too loud it seemed the sky would buckle down on us. The weight of Dharma hung above us.
Greatfather’s eyes were open. They looked at us from far away. We greeted him with joined palms held to our bowed heads and Eldest made a full prostration.
“Be seated all of you,” said Greatfather. It was as though Himavat had spoken. Krishna made Eldest sit next to Greatfather’s head and me next to his shoulder. Greatfather’s voice was but a mere whisper, and every whisper spiralled in the air and grew as though it were a weapon empowered by a mantra.
“You are the king…Yudhishthira. Never forget.” He paused long enough to breathe and then continued: “This world is based on kings and it has been changed by war. In this age the first duty of a king is to be resilient, for if a king adheres entirely to the doctrine of rule by chastisement, there is only brittle Dharma. Unrighteousness sets in if he forgets to mete out justice as well as forgiveness. The golden age, the age of truth knew nothing of transgression, and therefore nothing of chastisement. Remember, Yudhishthira, we are entering a yuga of darkness and of iron, where without strength you cannot rule.” He sighed. “Gone is the yuga when the earth was happy and offered its crops without having to be tilled, there was no disease and men lived long and peacefully.
“Dharma in the second yuga is diminished to one-fourth, and then the earth awaits yet more tillage before yielding crops, and men must learn that they must sweat to eat. But when that much Dharma goes, the earth yields only that much of her crops no matter how man toils, and one-fourth of life is Dharma and three-fourths Adharma. And now what we have suffered is the dying of the world’s third yuga.” If all that we had lived was only three quarters Adharma, what hell would Kali Yuga be?
“Anarchy will be Kali Yuga. Men will lose their strength and die before their time and outlive their potency. They will know senility. You cannot picture it. But men of seventy or even sixty will lose their hair. At ninety years they will no longer climb a mountain or procreate. It will not be believed that men of my years or even yours can fight on the battlefield. And as for shooting the ring off a finger as you do, Arjuna, even the sharpest eyes of the Kali Yuga will be like those of moles and bats. Man will be a puny being. No one will lift Gandiva or have the breath to blow the Paundra notes. Disease upon disease appears. The seasons are disturbed. You may till and toil but men go hungry. Not entirely in your time, nor in your sons’ time, nor in their sons’ time, children will be born diseased or develop illness and live their youth in suffering… But slowly…it will come; it cannot be averted. The Wheel turns.
“In times to come no man is to be trusted. Not even sons or brothers or wives. The thoughts and actions of a king will be as secret as his spies.” Was this what Krishna wanted us to hear?
“The duty of a king is to practice truth and self-restraint, but above it is action. Yudhishthira, a king is action. If you refrain from giving judgement, you are not saved from giving wrong judgement.” While I looked at Eldest, Greatfather flared with sudden energy. His eyes fixed upon him. Fire ran through Greatfather and he said, “A kingdom without order? That king is a wooden elephant, a leather deer, a barren field, a rainless cloud, a eunuch.”
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sp; “I woke to the sound of tapping, a great tap-tapping in the street below my window,” Uncle Vidura recalled the day we entered Hastina for the first time. “I knew then in my heart that it would bring me gladness and something to fill my life with. I looked out and all that could be seen were the topknots of the sages and their water pots and staves, except that in a clearing there were five small boys they shepherded.” It was after our father’s death. “Your mother followed, surrounded by another group of sages. The tapping was from their staves, of course. It seemed that all the sages of the forests had gathered round you. I had never seen so many holy men together. They were bound to you by love as I was soon to be.” He stroked Eldest’s hair. He had always looked like Eldest’s father. Now, sitting side by side in uncle’s house, they looked like brothers.
We spoke of the many lives that we had lived in just one, and all the traps and perils that we had escaped. Dangers of the past were savoured with a sweet nostalgia. We ran again through the tunnel uncle dug to save us from Varanavata’s Palace of Delight; and recalled how, when she collapsed, Bheema carried our mother on his hip. I lived again the drama of the fire pursuing, even as we fled it and of Uncle Vidura’s arms around me when we found the river bank. Perhaps Bheema remembered too for suddenly he got up and put his arms around our uncle and Eldest.
Uncle’s presence exuded the ease that is brought about by happy childhood memories. He was the lamp that shone through every darkness.
He held a portion of each one of us in his safekeeping. Now uncle stroked the baby cheeks of Bheema and we fell into a round of stories about Bheema’s pranks. How he had put a toad in Uncle Dhritarashtra’s bed who thought it was our aunt’s cold hand.
But Satyaki said, “Eldest smiles, but I think the Kali Yuga sits heavily upon his mind. He would rather be anything but king.” All of us looked at Eldest, which made him smile harder. Bheema tightened an arm about his shoulders and said: “You are the only one to do it, Eldest. Else it would be me.”
“Which would never work,” said Nakula. “The king is an example in all things. If the population ate like you, there would be famine.”
“Well, I must have my meals, so let Arjuna reign. He wears a crown so nicely on his curly locks. And all the women are in love with him.”
“He would die if he could not wander about and come sometimes to Dwaraka,” said Satyaki. Krishna who had just come in, said laughingly: “And you should have shared his chariot in battle.”
Even Eldest snorted with laughter as Krishna grossly mimicked me: “I used to sit upon Greatfather’s lap with my dusty little legs.” Bheema shook with laughter and could not stop. Draupadi began to laugh, the first time I had heard her do so since the war. It was a merry sound, unexpected as though a bird had spoken. Eldest looked at her with something like pleased wonder.
After a war when Kshatriyas sit together they speak of nothing but their feats and live them over as though there were no other world. But Uncle Vidura led us gently back into ourselves.
“This place,” I thought, “where Greatfather lies on arrows, will always hold its truth. People will come on pilgrimage and feel it, perhaps not knowing why.” The thought was so strong that I stopped in the middle of the path. Krishna had to take my arm again. When we arrived there were six ascetics sitting on kusha mats. Greatfather’s body looked more thin, frail, and shrunken every passing day. We waited for Krishna to recall him. Suddenly, the words began to flow.
“A king owns nothing.” Each word was separated from the other as though a high-flying bird hovered to drop a petal and then waited, and dropped another, and another. Then there was silence. Satyaki looked his question at me. It was the same as mine. Would these be the last words of Greatfather Bheeshma? His chest still rose and fell but perhaps his spirit was taking flight to its next abode. Once more his voice came low and steady.
“He does not even own his griefs. The king must own no griefs. He must not even own himself. The people own their king. Their king is god to them and they must own their god. That is the sacrifice.” We had heard it from our tutors. It was a lesson learnt and oft repeated, but which of us, in that fisherman’s hut, would have renounced love and sons? I would not have, not then, not now. The work of kingship was to live the sacrifice. Of all the putrid Dharma which had to go, Greatfather had a seed to be preserved. To sow it was the task of Greatfather Bheeshma. To germinate it was for Eldest to do.
“A thousand thousand horse sacrifices cannot tip the balance against Truth.” Greatfather stopped for breath. After a long pause he said, “Nor a hundred thousand thousand. Desires fulfilled bring no joy in heaven. Put all of them together and they do not weigh in the scales against the joy found in the death of desire. The death of desire,” he said. He repeated it three times. “Look carefully at the tortoise, Eldest. When desire comes, be as the tortoise. When danger comes it pulls its legs and head in. The body houses death but it also houses immortality. Pull in your consciousness, Yudhishthira. Nothing purifies like knowledge. Nothing purifies like Truth. Nothing is as rewarding as giving. And nothing enslaves you more than desire. Why do I say this to you, Eldest, who desires neither wealth nor kingdom? You have more yet you must renounce. The desire for peace, for unburdening yourself of your royal duties. To discard that last desire is to allow yourself to be carried by the sacrificial fire in triumphant offering. In that moment when you cease to strive, desirelessness is complete, you are the king.” He could have nothing more to say to Eldest now, we thought. But we were wrong.
Next day there was a stillness that had nature in it, a thread of joy that comes from expiation and surcease of pain like when an arrow wound stops biting. But Greatfather was still alive to answer what was in Eldest’s mind.
“Greatfather, yesterday I saw what I had never clearly understood. You were the guardian of the kingship. You were the true king all along. We had forgotten it.”
“I was. But I did not rule.” He opened his eyes and they were wide and staring at King Yudhishthira, as though to mark him. “So there was Kurukshetra. There had to be. You are the king. If you refuse to rule because of false compassion and remorse, there will be other Kurukshetras. They cannot be averted. Only the true king on the throne can sacrifice for his people, can sacrifice himself.” He paused. “The highest duty of a king, the only duty, is to rule. There is no higher Dharma for him. It is his only Dharma. He cannot sacrifice it to please his father or his guru or his son, or anything or anyone in all of the three worlds. Not even Indra, King of Heaven, nor the great God Shiva, nor even the All-Creator, can relieve you of your sacred trust. Do not let false compassion hinder you. If a god should come to you and tell you not to rule, unsheath your sword and cut him down. Discernment is your sword. Today I tell you what at last can reach your understanding.” Krishna sat detached and quiet.
Whatever suffering kingship would entail, this morning had made Eldest the king once and for all. His face was set in lines of strength.
Greatfather told Eldest to come alone. The rest of us were not to see him until the sun had reached the northern solstice.
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Eldest had lost none of the dignity of kingship, none of his skill, but you saw it in his eyes.
He said it once to me, “Arjuna, I feel that the gods have taken those they chose, we are the prasad that nobody wants.”
The people wanted us and needed us, and Eldest’s mourning lent him a poignant gravity that befitted his position. Did we not all feel it so when we thought of the sons decapitated and mutilated? Yet Eldest was our preceptor and our mood could not but follow his.
One day his discourse would be on the common soldiers who had died hardly knowing what the dispute was about and of the wives who would live on without their lords, and the children without fathers. What meaning could life hold for them, and since it was like this, what meaning could life have for him who was the cause of it? He had never driven from his mind the words of Island-born Greatfather when Shishupala fell to Krishna at the rajasuya
sacrifice: “Not only will you not be able to prevent the great conflagration, but indirectly you will be the cause of it.” When Eldest murmured these words to me and to himself, I remembered what Greatfather Vyasa had told me in the ashram of Mother Kunti: “When you have a power, life will present you with the only thing that you do not want if you cringe from it within. It is the thing that can resolve you if you understand in time.”
On another day it would be that if we had tried hard enough we could perhaps have become friends with Duryodhana. And on yet another he spoke of the warriors who had come from foreign lands, from Cina and Kamboja, who would never have the funeral rites they deserved. Eldest seemed to need to find as many causes to mourn as we needed to escape mourning. They were the embers that he fed with his remorse. And in the end, I could not bear to be near him, nor could the others. One by one we spoke to him. Draupadi, gravid with an other-worldly radiance, spoke to him of Karma, and the patience that outlasts it. Krishna wrapped him in his light and now always addressed him as “my King”, as though to wake in him an echo of his destiny. I kept on hoping that the weight of his dilemma would cleave his obstinate resistance and reveal to him the Krishna I had seen through my dilemma. Nakula with infinite serenity massaged his body, and sat beside his bed at night. Sahadeva told him of the cosmic influences which cannot be gainsaid, but which yet open the door to the cosmic play of deep delight. It was he who came the nearest to what I felt the key was, and listening to him I felt the revelation close to me again, the smile of Krishna in the stars he pointed to. Bheema like a mother tried to feed and coddle him out of his depression. But even he one day burst out with one of his great speeches, in which he told him roundly that life without pleasure as its main ingredient was a nauseating meal: “Your recipe for living is a foul one! It lacks all savour and all colour, and as a daily diet it makes me vomit! Shake yourself out of it and laugh and drink up this jar of wine!”
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 63