The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  “The Prince is right,” said Island-born Greatfather. “Shuka could be gone to the abode of snow for many months and it would not matter.”

  “Do you never feel his absence, Greatfather?” I asked Island-born Greatfather who gave that special look which made me feel like a little child again.

  “Sometimes I do, and then I call him, as I called him once before. Listen: ‘Shuka, Shuka, Shuka.’”

  Squirrels scurried down trees and sat around Greatfather, and deer came springing from the streams, their mouths still wet. Clouds stopped overhead as though caught in Shuka’s hair. It was then that I saw him and knew that they were right. He was in everything, everywhere. At the sacrifices and in the debates I had heard the priests argue on the undifferentiated Brahman. They had never made much sense to me. Words would never capture the wonder that was Shuka. Yet with Shuka in the high mountain cave, and Krishna across the desert, I was filled with a foreboding I had never known before.

  21

  Winds blew from the desert, dry and strong, carrying dust. No sooner had the servants sprinkled the grass fans with perfumed water than they were dry again. The air was hot. The dust stuck in our throats. A sense of uneasiness pervaded us.

  In the morning the sun’s disc itself was veiled by dust. Later in the day both sun and moon exhibited Sorna—their edges rough, black and ashy red in colour. The horizon had been eaten by fog and when birds began to wheel, screeching, from right to left, our hearts could no longer deny the portents. I began to dream of Krishna. He was always smiling. Over and over he would say, “Arjuna, never forget that we are always together. Nara and Narayana. Nothing can drive us apart.” In the mornings I awoke with my heart brimming with sweetness. Once I dreamed of Shamba in the guise of a pregnant woman. When I asked Subhadra what it could mean, she put one hand over her mouth and one over her heart. Before she could disguise her dismay, I remembered the story. Shamba had brought down a curse upon himself from the fiery sage Vishwamitra when he, pretending to be a pregnant woman, had asked the Rishi to predict the gender of the child. It was said that Vishwamitra had called down a fierce iron bolt which in time would destroy the Vrishnis and the Andhakas. The Lord of Dwaraka, Ugrasena, had ordered that the iron bolt be reduced to powder and cast into the sea.

  “Beloved,” Subhadra said to me, “we do not know that the time has come. Krishna said that he would call you when in need. Even if the time has come, there is but one thing to keep in mind and that is surrender. Sinless One, my brother’s fate is beyond our understanding. He was saved at birth from Kamsa’s evil; no one can alter his fate. Do you not say that he comes smiling to you every night?”

  But when I told Satyaki of my dream he set out for Dwaraka the next day. Aunt Gandhari too had cursed Krishna after Kurukshetra, for not having prevented the carnage. He and his kinsmen, she had said, would kill each other in a drunken brawl. We heard that at the command of Krishna, no one in the city was to be permitted to make wines. Anyone found with wine would be executed on first offence. This reassured me somewhat. We sent messengers across the desert and word came back that all was well and peaceful, the wine shops were still closed. Even Balarama had given up spirituous drinks. There were messages of love for Subhadra and myself, and for Parikshita a tender reminder that he would reign as king one day and must always behave like one. There were no new portents and our misgivings faded. You cannot live forever in fear of what may happen and Krishna’s messages carried no hint of trouble. Moons later, unofficial messengers crossed the desert to tell their tales in our own wine shops which were not closed. You cannot always trust such stories, yet by such means had we once learned of Kanika’s murderous designs for us.

  What were the stories? The exaggeration of a frightened family who had lost a kinsman? I thought about the lovely city that Krishna had built on the seashore, the flowering trees, the high eves full of singing birds, the gleaming palaces of his queens, my first sight of Subhadra. I would have liked to take Subhadra and Parikshita, who had never been to Dwaraka, with me and cross the desert once again, but we had death rites to perform for our kinsmen. So I had to make do with Krishna’s dream visits. He was still smiling, always smiling. Sometimes we would be back in Indraprastha watching the wild horses come in from the forest as though they knew their destiny. Sometimes we sat again in the great Sabha, or walked beside the river where Agni had appeared to us as a hungry Brahmin; but best of all was when we returned to the first day of Kurukshetra and Krishna lifted me into the worlds beyond our world. I knew that he prepared and strengthened me with these glimpses as though to say, “hold on to this in times to come.”

  One of our wine shop stories had it that Kala, God of Time, had begun stalking the streets of Dwaraka. To some he appeared bald of head and black of skin. To others he was a spirit, terrible and fierce, but bodiless. He peered into houses, frightening women. Infants were born before their time. Children were struck down, seized by convulsions. The Vrishni warriors shot their arrows at him to no effect. So they claimed that since nothing could destroy him, he must himself be the Destroyer of Creatures.

  The winds had turned and now blew in Dwaraka. Since we had had the wind in Hastina and no great ill followed, we agreed that that there was probably no great cause for alarm. And yet my heart misgave me. The stories grew suddenly more terrible and spread beyond the wine shops. The streets of Dwaraka were alive with rats and mice. Earthen pots had begun to crack and break from no material cause. The Sarika birds of evil omen sang from the rooftops of Vrishni houses. Goats wailed like jackals. The citizenry was in a panic, morality forgotten. Wives were neglected by husbands, and husbands deceived by their wives. Sacrificial fires burnt with flames of purple, blue, and red. At the sacred hours of morning and evening prayers, headless human trunks surrounded the sun. Innumerable worms were found in freshly cooked food. Though the priests attempted to ward off the evil, when they chanted their mantras or sat to recite slokas, the tramp of invisible armies echoed through the streets.

  I thought that no new horrors could be told, yet another report chilled my heart: When the Vrishnis blew their war conches to dispel the evil, the auspicious notes were echoed by the awful braying of asses. Then Krishna had summoned his people and explained to them that the new moon coinciding with the fourteenth lunation had once more appeared,and being the portent of Rahu, signalled their destruction. I had seen these omens once before when the armies stood arrayed at Kurukshetra, and decided to leave for Dwaraka at once, though there were important rites still to be performed for our mother, when still another story came from across the desert: Under the very nose of Daruka, Krishna’s charioteer, his four noble horses had bolted, dragging their chariot along the surface of the ocean. The chariot had been carried over the water for several yojanas. The Garuda emblem had been snatched into the air and many people had seen the apsaras carrying it away. A charioteer who had been in Uncle Dhritarashtra’s service and whom I had sent to Dwaraka confirmed this account. Though we were by now in the middle of our family rites, I decided to go to Krishna. I begged leave of Eldest who said that my journey would have to wait, that it was unthinkable that I should leave at such a time. Everyone reminded me of our mother’s last words, that we should stay together. But my mind was now resolute. Krishna had promised to call me; the image of his chariot out of control acted like a summons. Though unwillingly, only Subhadra gave me leave to go: “Sinless one, do what you must do.” There was that between us, a deep trust that hardly needed words. A nod, a look…something I had only with Subhadra.

  I took leave of Eldest. When I touched his dust to my eyes, he put his arms around me, and repeatedly took the scent from my head. He was full of foreboding and perhaps never thought to see me alive again. I was to leave at dawn. That night I saw Krishna in my dream. He said he had not called me yet. The time had not yet come. We were sitting in his chariot and he showed me how his horses were under control. They all turned around to look at me. Daruka was not there. Krishna held the reins and
I sat behind him as I had right through the battle. Then without speaking he bade the horses move. We did Pradakshina around the city. It was the Dwaraka that I remembered. There were garlands in the streets and little lamps shone everywhere. There was no sign of evil spirits. The stalls were selling sweetmeats and festive preparations.

  The horses took a wide curve and we left by the very fortress gates through which we had escaped when I eloped with Subhadra. I knew Krishna remembered, though no words passed between us. We circled the mountain and set the horses to canter along the seashore, sending up a fine spray that left a taste of salt upon our lips. The wind blew back their manes Their canter lengthened into a silent gallop, their hooves no longer touching the sand. It was like Indra’s chariot once again. The waves, the horses’ rippling muscles, and our heartbeats were but a single rhythm.

  Krishna turned to me and said, “Now get down, Arjuna.” I did not want to, remembering how once before he had spoken these very words before my chariot had been reduced to ashes. I began to remonstrate, still without words, saying that I would get down if he did, at which he smiled, saying that he had promised that he would call me and had I ever known him to break a promise? I must obey, he said, my mother’s injunction that her sons stay together, until he called me.

  So I did not leave for Dwaraka. It was not time.

  Then we received good news. The Vrishnis and the Andhakas had left the city in a great procession for the sacred waters of Prabhasha where all evil spirits could be dispelled. Everyone, men, women, and children left the city in chariots, on horses, and on elephants. The Yadavas too proceeded to Prabhasha with enough provisions to camp there for some time. Uddhava, Krishna’s special devotee, had begged Krishna’s leave to depart from his body through yoga. His wish had been granted. We did not know quite what to make of this news. Krishna had always told us that ours was a warrior’s yoga. That was the last news that we got from Prabhasha before Krishna called me in a dream.

  “Cousin, I have work for you,” he said. “I promised I would call you. The time has come. Bring an army with you to escort the ladies.” Then he embraced me. I awoke, my heart brimming with the memory of his touch.

  22

  Next morning, after my ablutions and worship of Maker-of-Day, I set out with my men. My mind was full of questions. To where would I be escorting the ladies? Would they be coming back to Hastina to visit Subhadra and Draupadi? It did not matter. Whatever Krishna wanted, it would be done. Whenever I had let myself be guided by him, things had taken the right path. The time when I might have questioned him was long past, another life. And yet my mind was full of the past as well as of the future. This time it was not Shamba who would meet me at the gates of Dwaraka. I smiled, remembering how on my Ashwamedha campaign I had had such expectations of my welcome, and how it was only my uncle Vasudeva, Krishna’s father, who had saved me from certain ignominy. This time Krishna would be there to embrace me, and Satyaki too. The younger ones would garland me and sprinkle me with rose-scented water. Dwaraka would be once again Krishna’s Dwaraka.

  The evil spirits would have fled by now, washed away by Prabhasha’s waters. But at the thought of Satyaki I wondered if at long last he and Kritavarman, who had been the friend of Bhoorishravas, would have buried their enmity. Well, Krishna was there to see to that. Was it then the ghosts of Kurukshetra that had so disturbed the city? Was there still some spirit to be propitiated, some rites that had been neglected? Was it for this that Krishna had called me? But Krishna had no need of rites. I had been waiting an eternity for his invitation but something had always come in the way, some reason for Krishna to remind me of all we had done in order to put Eldest on the throne, of how Eldest needed my support. “You are the most important of his four pillars,” Krishna would say. “You are one finger of the hand,” though we both knew it was he who bound me.

  As well as the happiness at the thought of merely seeing Krishna again, I felt the Kshatriya spirit in me rejoice in anticipation. We would exchange stories of Kurukshetra, remember with laughter how with Bheema the three of us had danced upon the drums outside Jarasandha’s city so many years ago; or even better, talk about a future where there would no longer be a need for war, when a new light would shine into the minds of men. “What will we do with your compassion then, Jishnu?” he used to tease me. Then a memory came to me of Krishna saying, “Arjuna, I do not have any power to alter certain things that are fated.” Was it memory? He seemed to be speaking the words to me at this very moment, when my chariot turned into the road bordering the sea.

  The chariots coming towards us slowed and I told my own charioteer to rein the horses to a halt. Moments later I recognized Daruka standing before me. His face was working but he could form no words. Tears welled in his eyes. Sobs broke from him when he tried to speak. The knowledge was cold in my belly, and worms crept up from it into my heart. But it was slow to reach my mind. I only knew that I was now alone. I turned to the man who stood beside Daruka, a counsellor of Krishna’s father. He said, “Our Lord has gone.”

  I stared at him. It was the compassion for me that I saw in his eyes that made me understand. I turned my head this way and that. I found Gandiva in my hands and tried to break it on my knee as you snap a warrior’s bow when he is dead, but I had not the strength in me, and a voice in my head said, “What are you doing? That is Gandiva.” At the same time Daruka said, “We have broken Lord Krishna’s bow and put it by his side, Prince Arjuna. You will have need of Gandiva. Lord Krishna bade you protect the women and children.” His words bounced off me but soon returned. My hands had tried to break Gandiva, not for Krishna, but for Arjuna who was now dead. My body knew it and my hands, before it reached my mind. I looked down at the sea. I knew this place well from the days when I walked the beach with Krishna. There was a spot with a rocky outcrop where I had stood beside him, but it was almost submerged now. The sea was swirling in a way which tried to tell me something. There was much less beach than I remembered. After a time I echoed, “the women and the children.”

  Daruka closed his eyes and bit at his moustache to brace himself for speech. “Prince Arjuna, everyone else is dead. All our warriors.” I looked out at the curling waves. There was something wicked in that curl. Out of my desolation and numbness something stirred. I understood what was to come and I was not sorry. Dwaraka without Krishna was something that needed to be swept away. And there was no place for sorrow in me. When you are already dead, you cannot weep.

  “Satyaki?”

  “He is dead.”

  “Kritavarman?”

  “He was killed by Lord Satyaki. There was…” He hesitated. “…a battle. Everyone is dead.” If there were no tears in me for Krishna’s death, I knew that I too was dead. My hands had known it when they tightened on the bow. But now I felt a dull anger. Krishna had known, and had not let me come to him. He had known long before he called me, but had not let me die beside him like a warrior with my face towards the enemy. Everyone was dead besides the women and the Pandavas. We were the Naivaidya offering that the Lord had refused. The sacrifice from which the fire turns away. I shook my head to ward away these thoughts. Krishna would not have done this to me, would not have left me out, not after those eighteen days together in a chariot, sharing each thought and movement, welded as one into an astra hurled against the enemy of truth that was Duryodhana. It could not be. Nara and Narayana were meant to die together.

  “Daruka,” I suddenly shouted, “tell me the truth! When did Lord Krishna send you? Why did you not come before?” I felt hands upon my shoulders from behind. Suddenly something was pulling me away, and I realised I had been shaking Daruka.

  “Look to the Prince,” he was saying in a broken voice, as hands began stroking my back and shoulders. Daruka bent down to pick up Gandiva. I had not noticed that my foot was on it. It might as well have been a dead branch they pulled from under me. I had no use for it or anything else. As my brain began to clear a little I saw there was one duty left for Gandiva. S
o I took it back and wiped it with my angavastra. Whatever Krishna had failed to do, I had to give to him what a dead warrior requires. The life of the one who killed him.

  “By whose hand did Lord Krishna die?” I asked.

  “It was an accident,” Daruka answered as he handed me into a chariot. I turned on him. “There were no accidents in Lord Krishna’s life.”

  “Please to be seated, Prince. Lord Krishna had seen his sons and relations all slain. He went away to sit in meditation. A hunter’s arrow found his foot.”

  A hunter’s arrow. Then there was no one on whom to wreak my anger. The knowledge burned in my mind. I had sat safely in Hastina, lulled by dreams in which a smiling Krishna assured me that all was well.

  “Where is Lord Krishna’s body?”

  “He is in his father’s palace. The Lord Vasudeva bade me bring you to him.” My uncle was alive, though too old and frail to have attended the funeral rites of our mother, his only sister. Would he survive the death of his most beloved son? I was in the chariot behind Daruka. He turned to give me more instructions. “Lord Vasudeva may not remember all that his son wanted you to do. So by your leave, Prince, I shall inform you. Prince Vajra is to be taken to Indraprastha with his mother.”

  We had discussed it. It had been decided at the Ashwamedha after the death of Puru that Krishna’s grandson would reign in Indraprastha. There was still work for me to do even if it did not offer me the sweetness of avenging Krishna’s death. So be it. I would do what was required.

  “Lord Kritavarman’s son Mardikyatanayam is to be installed at Martikavarta and Lord Satyaki’s son is to return with you to Hastina until he is old enough to be installed. The ladies and the children are also to be conducted to Hastina by you, Prince Arjuna.” Even after I had performed these duties I knew I would not be free to join Krishna. There was Parikshita to hold me back. I was chained as securely as a captured king in Jarasandha’s dungeon. I could not go to Krishna. I did not even feel him near me. He had been real only in my dreams.