The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  There had been nothing to forgive. Even the heavens change with us. Here there was dancing but no movement. The sabha was a statement and what it sang was joy. I understood at last what the forms of Maya’s sabha said: “With Krishna leading us, our lives had surfaced from the darkness, and whatever happened afterwards was grace.” We walked across the lapis lazuli floors, around the fountains and to a playful pool that mimicked stone. Duryodhana’s anger was all gone. Confusion here resolved and perished which was the real Maya magic.

  At last, remembering I was not alone, I turned. Krishna and Puru had slipped out of the sabha’s light; I could not find them.

  Outside, Puru was kicking stones. Krishna had wandered to the lotus pond. When I asked Puru what had happened, he told me that the axle of his chariot had cracked and that his charioteer was incompetent. He went on kicking, and when I asked him why he kicked the stones, he kicked a tree-root. How could it matter in a place like this? A hundred chariots cracked should not have made him angry amidst the beauty of the Mayasabha. I now looked at the gleaming acacia wheels with gold swans inset right round. The wheels were silver-bound and not a scratch was anywhere. It must be some other chariot, I told myself, and turned. We took our meals with Puru. Today he would not eat but made mounds with his rice and pushed it round like a sullen child. I thought the boy was ill or else it was his bad blood that made him temperamental.

  “Puru,” I said at last, “what is the matter?” He gave no answer but looked away and left us. Since nobody upbraided him, I thought it was his way.

  Soundlessly moving my lips, I said to Krishna, “Just like Duryodhana.” He did something with his eyebrows to warn me to be careful. It made me pause. After a while I made as though to scratch my shoulder and looked around. I saw Jhillin staring at us. It was a hot day but I felt a chill.

  That night Puru was himself again, feasting with us and laughing, affectionately popping choice morsels into our mouths. Perhaps he had reason to be moody. His father and his brothers had been killed and he was hobnobbing with the brother of the men who did it. The world had changed around him. They had told him that Indraprastha had been built by them; we did not know what else they might have told him. Next day we went to pay homage to his mother. We passed a summer house and heard his childish wail.

  “You cannot make me.” There came another voice.

  “It is you or them. Will you enjoy being their slave? Do you wish to see your mother banished to the forest for thirteen years? You are a child to think they have forgiven the past.” There was a silence. “Would you forget, my Prince, if you and all your brothers were sent into exile for thirteen years? It could be thirty years for you.” It was the voice of one whose tongue struck against gums and lips instead of teeth. It was Jhillin. “What do you suppose they came for if not to do to you what you are reluctant to do to them?”

  “It is not true but if you are so eager, Acharya, and so sure, why not try it for yourself?”

  “You are a Kshatriya, but you behave like a girl.”

  “They trust me. A Kshatriya’s way is with a sword and not with poison.” Puru’s voice rose. The old tongue beat ineffectually against the lips, unable to express its owner’s anger. “Fool boy, you will be heard. It must look like an accident or illness.”

  “Poisoning an accident?” he laughed contemptuously.

  “If we poison Krishna first, it can be given out he took a fever. The other will be so destroyed by grief that when we poison him it can be given out he took his own life. But you must do it.”

  “Do it yourself.”

  “I cannot feed them morsels from my hand.” The old man’s voice rose in a squeak we could not understand and then hissed something. A gardener came towards us bearing water pots. I made as if to take a pebble from my shoe and then we had to move. We walked in silence to the palace. How had we shed so many lakes of blood and not stamped out the Kanikas and Jhillins? I thought of Abhimanyu’s child. We walked away. Krishna said: “Everywhere there is a Kanika but everywhere there is also an Uncle Vidura, and in the end the Kanikas will die out.” In the immediate event Krishna was right. Puru ordered a great banquet in our honour and fed the poison to the old man. Nobody questioned that he had died of colic. He was not cherished.

  Krishna’s last words to me before we parted were, “Tell Uttaraa that I will come in time, and tell Subhadra she is the pride and joy of all the Vrishnis and that I hold her in my heart, and tell Draupadi that she is our Queen of Queens and she never leaves me.”

  In the last month of Uttaraa’s pregnancy we thought of nothing else, we spoke of nothing else. No word was said about the curse but fear lay curled up in our hearts as Parikshita lay in the womb of Uttaraa. Draupadi, Subhadra, the twins, and Bheema took it in turns to be near her at night with her Matsya ladies in case the labour should begin. The lying-in room was prepared each day and sanctified with many garlands of white flowers, with many water-pots on every side; with charcoal soaked in ghee, tinduka wood, and mustard seed. Small fires burned against each wall. The matrons of the court were on call as were the skilled physicians from several specialities and from several regions. The priests and midwives had traced auspicious yantras with gold dust before the windows and entrances as invitations to the gods and goddesses. Others were designed on pathways to keep demons away.

  The preparations in the chamber gave me such confidence I told Subhadra that nothing could go wrong. She looked at me with troubled eyes and said she wished that Krishna were here. This gave me pause for Subhadra like so many women, but in very large degree, knew things with more directness than men do. Yet I tried to reassure her. Apart from Krishna’s promise that the child would live, Uttaraa, after our talk on courage, had become a lioness and herself had chosen the hymns and prayers that were chanted to her every day hymns of strength, of light, of delight, and of victory, of truth that no ill shadow could approach.

  Her chamber was ablaze with peaceful force and her body had grown strong again with her determination to give birth to a hero. She knew that our whole race depended on her for its continuance. She went for long walks every day and held the postures the court physicians prescribed morning and evening. And all of us had thrown circles of white protective light around her. But when I saw that Sahadeva would give us no assurance from the stars, my heart lost courage day by day until Krishna’s advance party arrived to say that he had crossed the desert and would hold us in his arms within two days.

  That very night I saw the shadow from an eclipse leaving the moon disc by the north side, that is the Vamakukshi which threatens pregnancy. I felt the Brahmastra chill my whole body. The thought of Krishna’s promise saved me from despair.

  It was early one morning on the day after Krishna’s return with his Queen Satyabhama and Pradyumna, his son by Queen Rukmini, along with Satyaki, that Uttaraa called her women. She was in labour all day long. I tried to tell myself that it was nothing out of the usual for a first child.

  “This child must be a Kshatriya,” I said to Krishna without certainty. “This son of Abhimanyu’s…” Krishna looked grave and so I stopped. Not long after this we heard a frightful sound. Was it a cry of pain or someone keening? Krishna opened the door and collided with Subhadra, who held a bundle to her breast. Moments later we heard the citizens rejoicing with cries of victory and long life to the prince, which were drowned out immediately by drums and cymbals and the trumpeting of an elephant procession.

  It was a boy with the sensitive mouth and long eyelashes, and all the beauty of the Vrishnis, but he neither moved nor breathed. Krishna took him and held him to his heart. Up and down the corridor he paced as though the motion and his own heartbeat would impart life. The sweat rolled down from Krishna’s cheeks. It is impossible to say how long we waited. My whole life passed. Krishna struggled with death as though it were a demon suffocating him. His face went pale and dark in turns while he held all that we had fought for. Krishna had said this child must reign and I had seen it in my dream. With eve
ry breath we took and that the child did not, the dream lost blood and became pale. All who stood around held back their breath as though to cheat Lord Yama out of time. In this child were bound our life-breaths. Sweating profusely, Krishna laid the child down on the floor. It was all over. If Krishna could not bring him back to life, it was all over. Then Krishna raised his foot showing its sole’s auspicious markings, and brought it slowly down upon the baby’s chest. I could not bear to look. I thought that he would try to crush the demon that was sucking out the life even if he could not save our child. The pall of gloomy silence that had descended upon the room was so dense, that I was compelled to open my eyes to see why the lamentations had suddenly stopped. Each one of us sat as though frozen for eternity. Once before, Krishna had given me the sense of earth and heaven meeting, and now the child was in between. Both had to meet and merge in Parikshita’s life.

  From within came a sudden wail, it was the voice of my old governess who had followed Abhimanyu to Dwaraka.

  “…save this child, Lord Krishna, as you have promised to Princess Uttaraa. On him depends the obsequial cakes of King Pandu and all the Pandavas and my Abhimanyu, too… your darling nephew, Lord, who was your spitting image.” It ended as abruptly as it had begun, for the ladies and physicians who ran to her must have fed her the necessary potions.

  The earth, our mother, gives birth, and restores life. Ten lives sprout for one man’s fall. Krishna’s power was above this, but Ashwatthama’s curse was indeed terrible and very powerful. Lord Yama had arrived with many heads and arms and each and every pair of hands sent out a noose each time that Krishna called the soul back. I had my eyes closed when I heard a sound that made me look. It was a stifled cry from Subhadra. Krishna held the child up for everyone to see. Its mouth was opening and closing. Its hands and feet began to pump. I saw how hollow death can be when a man is meant to live. The will and power and imagination of Krishna had overcome the ill-will of earth’s darkest forces. From him came all that conferred life. With Krishna holding up the baby for all of us to see, it seemed as though the child, like us, had merely held his breath too long. We smiled, exclaimed, put hands upon our hearts or laughed, forgetting for the moment that the world’s fate had shifted its course. Krishna gave the child to Subhadra, who carried it to Uttaraa. She was unaware that anything out of the ordinary had happened. Her chamber was so full of light that death seemed inconceivable. Uttaraa gaped in wonderment. We watched her from the door as her tears welled up, and her lips uttered the single word: “Abhimanyu!”

  The room was full of him.

  It came in softly now, the muted hum of myriad voices. Dancers wound their way through the streets past houses, decorated with flowers and pennants. Bards and eulogists sang out the saga of our race.

  Krishna presented Parikshita with a casket full of gems, and Satyaki gave him his grandfather Sini’s invaluable jewel-encrusted bow and javelins that had been destined for the eldest of his sons. His Greatuncle Dhritarashtra offered Duryodhana’s diadem and sword. Others who had come in Krishna’s party gave chariots, elephants, Sindhu horses, soft blankets, deer skins, and silks from Cina. From Virata came chariot-loads of gifts with loving messages from his Greatmother who was ailing.

  The life of all the palaces revolved around this child Krishna named Parikshita, because, as he said, the race of the Pandavas had so nearly been extinguished. My mother glowed again, and so did Eldest when he saw how Bheema held it with infinite care, like a flower in his open palm. The attendants crooned over it and each and every one chanted at least one incantation against misfortune every day.

  When the child was one month old, I finally gave some thought to the Ashwamedha campaign. Until this was performed none of us could rest. If I came back alive Eldest and Draupadi would sit supreme upon the imperial throne. The future was for Parikshita.

  36

  When the horse arrives upon the sacrificial ground, followed by lesser animals, priests, and singers, the presence of god is felt by all, said one of our old priests.

  “It is not enough to let him wander through the world in order to subject it,” said a second priest, instructing us.

  The Brahmins said, “The true conquest takes place when, having conquered all, he majestically ascends the sacrificial platform and gives his life to guard the cosmic order.” We listened with respect for they were venerable men. It was no use telling them what Krishna had said and planned in Eldest’s tent when I came back from Island-born Greatfather.

  The oldest of our Brahmins told of how in the Sarvamedha it used to be the king who sacrificed himself and added that had not Eldest done that many times?

  Now Eldest planned to spend the entire treasury on preparations and on the celebration. “Let us hold nothing back,” he said. “What we offer gladly will prosper not only all of us but the whole world.”

  Greatfather Vyasa was a master of all hymns and rites and he would initiate Eldest on the day of the full moon of the month of Chaitra. He named the Brahmins and the sutas who understood the secret signs of horses, and he himself would set loose the horse in the time-honoured, sacred manner, on an auspicious day.

  He asked Eldest to have made a long curved golden knife with the sharpest edge. “Let the horse wander,” said he, “over the whole earth with her belt of seas, displaying everywhere your glory. And let it be Arjuna and none other to protect him. He is the one to let the steed roam and graze at will. Let Bheema stay and protect the kingdom aided by Sahadeva.” The affable Nakula was to attend to the needs of all the Vrishnis and our other relatives in Hastina. Eldest wanted Krishna to be initiated in his stead but Krishna declined, insisting it was for Eldest to offer the Ashwamedha for the world.

  The preparations for the Ashwamedha campaign are so rife with ritual that the priests need to rest for many days after the horse is first let loose. This requires sixteen priests, each one with his acolytes.

  There was so much discussion as to whether the rope that tied the horse should be of twelve or thirteen lengths that I feared we would delay beyond the season. In the end the priests deferred to Greatfather Vyasa who said both numbers were auspicious and chose thirteen, which turned out to be the exact length of the rope. The rope was softened with the butter prasad which had fed the four high priests the night before.

  A great platform was built for the horse to be paraded on.

  Around the platform were the hundred chosen Kshatriyas, and waiting at a distance behind them, the hundred white and gelded horses that would surround the sacrificial horse the moment the rope was cut.

  We started early. Eldest sat on his golden throne wearing red silk and a black deerskin about his torso. Gold garlands hung heavily from his handsome neck. Our queen sat beside him attired in matching black and gold. Around them were the priests, arrayed in black and red. The air was taut with expectation. The triple sacrificial fires burned near Eldest. With the rhythm of a dance the pestles pounded soma into wine. When its heady perfume came to us the horse was led onto the platform. He held his black head high. His eyes had great intelligence and above them was the constellation of white marks required by the Vedas. He was all black up to the middle of his body, the rest of him was white with a great white tail that swished this way and that like a royal flywhisk. He was so completely what the shastras decreed that one might have thought him painted. I recognized him as the horse that had come to me in my dream. He looked at me as though to say there was no turning back now and then passed on. He was now given the coronation bath that is given to a king, which indeed was how he was regarded. The fragrance of its rose water and spices blended with the soma. He stood beside a pillar of gold, one foreleg lifted, head held high, and neck arched towards the priests to follow what they were doing. The head-priest held up the softened rope and addressed the other Brahmins ritually:

  I am fastening this horse for the gods,

  For Prajapati.

  May I prosper.

  The Brahmins raised their voices:

 
Fasten the horse for the gods,

  For Prajapati.

  May you prosper,

  May you prosper,

  May you prosper.

  Winding the rope once around the pillar he addressed the horse:

  You are the one who encircles and contains.

  Taking the rope around a second time he sang:

  You are the universe,

  You are the guide and the protector.

  The chorus echoed him:

  You are Agni. Go to the wide open spaces.

  Greatfather Vyasa came down to take the water from the golden vats in his cupped hands. The horse was sprinkled with holy water:

  I sprinkle you to make you pleasing to the gods,

  So you will please Prajapati.

  Some more water was sprinkled:

  I sprinkle you

  So that all the gods will find you pleasing.

  I sprinkle you

  So that the Great God Indra

  And Lord Agni will find you pleasing.

  And then they brought the four-eyed dog. The dog was black and had two perfectly white round spots above his eyes. A Shudra in a loincloth carrying a wooden mace was ushered onto the platform. I looked into the dog’s eyes to see if he understood. Wagging his tail, he tried to lick the Shudra’s hand. I looked at Eldest.

  “Now kill the four-eyed dog, son of a Shudra.” Eldest winced so that the priests threw him a look and then made Eldest say:

  May Varuna strike down like this

  Whoever tries to kill the horse.

  The wooden mace came down in a single sharp move. There was a single yelp and the body of the dog was plunged into a vat of water.

  And now the ceremony of drops began. Each drop of water on the horse was dedicated to a god:

  Agni swaha, Soma swaha,

  To the joy of the waters swaha.

  The staccato syllables raced on to a hundred, five hundred, a thousand, and beyond to extend the limits of our kingdom indefinitely. And then: