Krishna restrained Bheema and said to Eldest, “Only one who has borne a burden greater than yours can converse with you. Go to Greatfather Bheeshma.”
Each day Uncle Vidura continued to attend on our blind uncle, and we spent time with them. Our aunt and uncle must not feel neglected or diminished. Eldest had made his views quite clear and care was taken to furnish them with every comfort and consideration which they could not have been used to from Duryodhana. Our mother Kunti, too, attended them. One day, after she had returned from her visit, I saw her in the garden with Uncle Vidura. He was making a garland for her out of champak blossoms. He put it around her neck and bowed his head. She had a garland ready in her lap and slipped it over his bent head. Her hand had brushed his cheek. He caught it and pressed it a moment to his heart.
“You must forgive me.” He rose. “I must take these old bones to my brother.” He walked away and I carefully stepped back. My mother’s eyes glowed with the tenderness of reminiscence. Had I witnessed a marriage, a marriage many times enacted? The sweetness of this scene perfumed my heart.
That night I dreamt about the sacrificial horse. He was a god, with many wings.
“Arjuna,” he said to me, “I shall lead you through the lands and you must trust me. We shall go without your army. It is a great thing to be a king but no less great to put the rightful king upon the throne. The victory march will not be easy.”
“Why?” I said. I knew the answer, for if the horse roamed through the countries of Bhoorishravas and Bhagadatta and Shakuni, we must not think to find a welcome.
“What is your name?” I asked the god.
“My name is Sacrifice.”
“And what is mine?” I asked.
“Yours, too, is Sacrifice, what must be rendered sacred, and we are brothers. I shall show you where we have to go and conquer.” At first we cantered over fields and meadows, past groups of Brahmins whose voices rose in benediction. And then my horse slowed down and walked past Greatfather Bheeshma’s body. Eldest and Uncle Vidura were wrapping it in silken cloth. Yuyutsu held a shining white umbrella over it. Bheema and I were fanning it with long glossy yak whisks while Nakula and Sahadeva held the head coverings. The Sama hymns were chanted by the Brahmins while Uncle Dhritarashtra lit the funeral pyre. Our uncles and Eldest stood to the right and we all watched the fire that consumed the son of my greatgrandfather Emperor Shantanu and Mother Ganga. It burnt and burnt, and Agni said to us: “Great Bheeshma made so many sacrifices. I find it difficult to consume him. You will have to wait to take him to his mother.” At last the flesh of Greatfather was consumed. We collected bones and ashes in metal jars. I took a piece of bone that must have been next to his temple. It turned to me and said: “My child Arjuna, take me to my mother.” I took the bones and ashes to the river and offered oblations to the one who had borne Greatfather. We heard a wail. Instead of carrying the bones away, the river stopped. A weeping woman rose and took the bones and ashes in her hands. She said: “My child is dead.” She looked at all of us. “He was invincible. Even his guru Bhargava could not defeat him. I say that Devavrata had no equal in this world. He should have ruled as the emperor. How did this happen to him, the son of Ganga who is born in Shiva’s locks? I am the mother and my name will now be tears.” The horse Uchchaihshravas entered the river and said in silence: “Mother of the World, do not weep. Your son was indeed a god. It is not time for gods to rule.” My horse nuzzled her hands to comfort her. “Those who live must suffer time and fate. The earth is not yet ready for such as Devavrata. Do not grieve for him. Devavrata was a god and is so once again.”
“Is this Arjuna?” Mother Ganga said and stopped lamenting to examine me. She smiled a river smile full of wavelet lights and said, “How my Devavrata spoke to me of you and with what love. He loved you more than anyone and chose you to release him. You were his son. I give you both my blessings. Now ask a boon from me.” I have often found that when a boon is offered, all desires disappear. I tried and tried to think. Abhimanyu came to mind, of course. Then I thought that like Devavrata he was a god and must be with the gods. And yet for Uttaraa’s sake… “There must be something you desire.” I thought again. Kshatriyas always think of boons to kill their enemies. But I had killed all enemies, and knowing what I had learnt of Karna, that was a boon that I would never ask. At first I thought to ask that I should be in Dwaraka with Krishna. But if Eldest was the seed, I was protector of that seed. Since we could not always be with Krishna, I said: “If it is true that Aunt Gandhari has acquired merit enough to curse Krishna and his people, let the curse be withdrawn. Let Krishna live in peace and happiness with his race.” Mother Ganga raised her hands.
“Arjuna, there are some things that cannot be for the same reason that Devavrata could not reign. But you already have a boon obtained by Krishna, your friendship shall never die. And now I grant you this: the love that you bear Krishna and that he bears you will grow and grow and never fail. And for all time to come it will blossom in the memories of men and inspire them with sweetness and nobility. Your names are linked together, and when the Vishwarupa darshan that he gave you is remembered it will call down a blessing.” She leaned forward and put her arms around my horse’s neck and pressed her cheek against his cheek. And then it happened as when one has done what to gods is pleasing. A rain of fragrant flowers fell on us and music filled the air.
Suddenly, I found myself dragged down. There was a thundering in my ears and a tightening in my chest and all was darkness. From time to time arrows of shooting light traversed the darkness. I fought for breath and understanding, and wondered if I had died. You never know when fate and time will call you. And when they do, there is no sense in fighting them. And just as I was saying farewell to Subhadra and seeing all my life flow past before me like the rushing river, we came up into a world of light again. A world such as the All-Creator had decreed at the beginning before our passions had grown monstrous. I saw it through my lashes hung with drops of river water. The banks flowed into distant hills. Mother Ganga flowed serenely past us; her face was but a memory that smiled upon the water; her voice was in the air: “I had to take you down into myself, Arjuna.”
“I thank you, Mother of the World. It was a blessing. Do not grieve for Devavrata. We are all your sons.”
In her fading voice the answer came: “I know, my son.”
The dream went on.
The terrain was not unknown to me. I had traversed it all on my campaign for Eldest before the dice game. I knew each tree, each hill, each boulder. I knew the fragrances that filled the air and recognized the bird song. This time I understood they were my allies. They would help me rout the enemy.
The city gates came towards us and behind them rose gleaming walls of seven-storey palaces and pennants floating in the breeze. The windows caged with golden filigree gleamed and glittered and birds sang in the eaves. No one guarded the gate, yet it was clear that I must seek the king and make him a tributary to Eldest. We rode through avenues of flowering trees. But coming face to face with the foe. I realized that he did not match the palaces. There was an air of impoverishment about him as though he had already been defeated. I hesitated. I thought it might embarrass Eldest to have someone like this bringing him tribute. He wore no diadem and the cloth he wore was shabby. There were no bracelets on his arm, no rings on his fingers or his ears. I pretended I did not know that he was the ruler and I said: “Where is your king? This sacred horse leads me on my imperatorial campaign. The king must give me right of way and come to the Ashwamedha of Emperor Yudhishthira, son of Pandu, or defeat me.”
“And who are you?” he asked.
“I am Arjuna, third son of Pandu and Protector of the Seed.” The man before me shed his years. As he grew younger, I thought I recognized him. He stood with legs apart so that I saw he would not let me through. I liked his face and was sorry I would have to kill him.
“The son of Pandu, is it?” he said and threw his head back. His laughter came at me and sh
rouded me in rage. “The son of Pandu, is it? The son of Pandu, is it?” The words beat against my skull. “You are too proud, Arjuna. You are too vain.”
“Speak your last words,” I shouted silently as one does in a dream, “for I shall cut your tongue out.” And I drew my sword as he drew his. I felt a wrenching at my wrist; a metal bird flew up before me. It was my sword. It landed with a clatter. I stared at it and held my wrist. Kripacharya was my teacher and this had never happened.
He threw his sword away and said: “Name your weapon.” I looked at him more closely. His face was guileless and serene. I thought it was my turn to laugh. I was surprised at how unsure my laughter was as it echoed back to me, chastised.
“That would be giving you the disadvantage, indeed,” I said.
“Oh, would it?” smiled the lad, amused.
“Have you really never heard of me” I said.
“I have,” he answered.
“Have you not heard that I excel in archery?”
“Well,” he said, “you are telling me. So shall we fight?”
I hesitated. “Let us fight then. But I must warn you my quivers are inexhaustible. My bow is Gandiva. And my Guru was Dronacharya. It hardly seems the right thing.”
“Let our arrows decide,” replied the boy with laughing eyes.
“When I have thrummed Gandiva, you can change your mind and choose your weapons, or we can wrestle.”
“That is noble of you, but let me hear Gandiva. And as soon as you have thrummed, we will both be free to shoot.” The music of Gandiva traversed my spine, heart, and mind. I saw it did the same to him but he was not afraid. This made me glad as I nocked an arrow to my string. Before I let it fly it fell in front of me. Something had bit my string in two and shot right past me. It was his arrow. I strung my bow while he waited patiently. It happened once again. In humiliation and with fingers that had lost their knowledge, I strung my bow once more. But my arrow fell before me. I felt a growl arise inside.
“Your weapons are of no use, Arjuna. You have always hidden behind them. Throw Gandiva away. While it was invincible, you had nothing to fear. And with Krishna in your chariot you were invulnerable. But now there is no Krishna with you. So throw your weapons down and fight.” He had no weapons and had shed his shabby clothes. His gleaming body wore a wrestler’s thong. He was well-built, but still a lad and my weight was a third more than his. I stripped. We grappled. Now that I had no weapons, he took me seriously. Who had his teacher been? Every time I thought I had him, he slipped away and had me trapped in holds that I had never learnt.
“Was you teacher Balarama?”
“No,” he said.
“Was it Keechaka?”
“Shalya?”
“Save your breath. You will need it.” It was a nightmare. He twisted, turned and slipped through every hold and all the time grew smaller. As he did so, he grew stronger and more cunning. At last he was so small I could not find him.
There was no one to challenge, no one to levy tribute from. There was no one. Even my horse was gone. I left this empty city and continued on my victory march. My victory march!
I found my horse chomping on the grass. In silence we proceeded. The next town was like Prabhasa, a fortress in the rock and a drawbridge which was let down for us. The ruler here was so much like the first, I thought that he had followed me.
What can I say of this campaign? The towns were not alike. At first their rulers seemed to differ, but in each place, though I pitted all my strength against them, I was vanquished; I stood alone, and mortified. Not only had I failed to save my honour, but as I returned into the forest, I saw that I had failed to guard Eldest’s sacred seed of kingship. I had failed him, Greatfather, Krishna, and the thing that I had come for.
Next time the fight was full of monstrous holds in which we twisted limbs. It was a miracle that nothing snapped. He was an ugly hairy brute, a cross between a bear and Alambusha. He shed his beard and took on Abhimanyu’s likeness. His eyes smiled at me and said “Arjuna”. I had no other chance so I fought desperately, knowing that my efforts only fed his victory.
The pain of failure was a thousand times compounded. Why must the greatest grief of my life always be repeated? Why did I have to fight the ones I loved? Greatfather, Dronacharya, Ashwatthama and—Abhimanyu. With bitterness and rage I hurled myself against him and grabbed his throat. But now he, too, began to shrink. He threw me off with ease and said: “Listen to me, father, and look.” Without thinking I looked and could not see if it was Abhimanyu or Ekalavya. Their features merged and then he said, “Victory? Do you think it is something to be grabbed? Do you think the likes of you can guard the sacred seed for Eldest?” I hurled myself against him once again but found nothing to seize hold of. “If you want victory, surrender.”
“Surrender!” I yelled. Surrender-Surrender-Surrender…echoed through the forest. “A Kshatriya does not surrender.” Surrender…Surrender… Surrender…
“Be a Kshatriya then and you will stand defeated and alone.” He looked like the boy who had raced Ashwatthama to the river. Anger boiled in me. Rage and humiliation fought with the fear of losing to my opponent. I stood suspended, a razor’s width on either side from defeat. “Surrender,” he repeated—that word most abhorrent to a Kshatriya.
“I have never surrendered. Who are you?” I said, already vanquished.
“Look.” I saw a small boy holding a toy arrow. And with a superhuman effort I broke the useless bow and arrow that I held and threw it down. Something cracked and buckled. They were my own ribs, I realized. I now stood where the child had been and looked at the warrior Arjuna lying dead, pierced by a toy arrow. The one who had obstructed me lay dead. I was at ease, I saw that all I had believed must fall before I could guard the sacred seed. I had subdued king after king but not myself. I turned back to my horse and there stood Krishna. He said: “This is what I could not do for you. Each man must do it for himself.” It was dusk. We walked into the night which turned to day and into night again and into day and so on, endlessly, leaving behind the knowledge of defeat.
I saw my body lying prone. It woke and stretched and timidly came towards me. It was a semblance now, a shadow without power. It said to me: “I will stay with you till we cross the desert.”
33
In the days that followed I understood something that Rishi Markandeya had said to Eldest in the Dvaitavana forest when we were in exile.
“Yudhishthira,” he had said, “you will rule the world after your trials are over. Your name will ride upon the winds of time forever because you walk in Truth.” I did not know what truth he spoke about, although his words had moved me deeply. I thought then he had meant Eldest’s unwillingness to tell a lie and that he spoke to comfort us. I had seen Nakula’s eyes and Sahadeva’s eyes drink in the things he said like rivers swallowing their own oblations. They had known. Bheema did not have to know. He had sat at Eldest’s feet.
In the days after my dream, when sudden tears crept into Eldest’s eyes, I did not cringe from them.
Once when I came into the garden, I saw him staring into the lotus lake, his back and shoulders hunched. I came and stood by him and looked into the water.
“What does it make you think of?” Eldest asked, not looking up. I hesitated.
“It makes me think of something Rishi Markandeya said in the Dvaitavana Forest. When kings like you are rulers, rivers stay within their banks as easily as the waters of this lake, and the worlds circle within their orbits.” There was a silence. The birds had stopped to listen. I was shy and could not look at him. We went on staring into the water, our shoulders a hand’s breath apart. Something passed between us. I waited for the words to form. “This time when I go on the campaign for you, I shall know what I am doing and why, and all that is at stake.” After a while he turned his head and gave me a look that made me feel I had been waiting for it all my life. Eldest did not believe I would return alive, and though he did not himself want to contradict what Krishna
wanted, I knew he hoped that I would ask Krishna to grant an army to accompany me.
“Brother,” he said to me. “Neither of us would want you to forsake your honour but we cannot lose you.” His honesty permitted him to say no more. But I could see into his mind. He would have liked me to set out alone before the populace for Krishna’s honour and my own and then to let an army join me later. He sought words but none came to him.
After the tribute that Krishna paid me in the sabha, my faith had soared and then as always happens to a mortal man it faltered in the face of an unlikely victory. I did not see how I could persuade the son of Bhagadatta or the brothers of Avanti and Shakuni to let the horse through without unleashing their war chariots upon me. It was, strangely enough, the concern of Eldest that gave me faith. Now our shoulders touched.
“Eldest,” I said and left it there.
“I am not, you know,” he said at last, choking with emotion, “a person who can demonstrate his love.”
I smiled, “I know. It is half killing you to speak of it at all.” I said jokingly, hoping to ward off his propositions.
“We do not want to lose you.”
“Come, Eldest,” I said, pursuing my defence. “Krishna believes there is no one to defeat me, and you too should know that we are reconciled with Karna.” I flinched upon pronouncing Karna’s name. It is not wise to touch a wound while it is green. Still, our shoulders touched.
“You were so certain that Karna would defeat me and wasted so much time on that. Why are you certain I cannot return alive if I set out alone? We returned from Jarasandha.”
At this he turned his head and raised his brow at me. Then he withdrew his sword and leaning forward, drew a lotus bud to him gently so as not to cut the stem. He held it out to me.
“I have no certainties, Jishnu. You know what Greatfather always said: ‘Our certainties make fools of us.’ Life sees to that and yet there is one thing to lean on; it has taken me a life to see it and it is this…”
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 64