The current was strong. I heard a song that welled from fathoms below, hissing, “Krissshna Krissshna Krisssh-na,” the waves’ welcome to the Beloved. They had come to take him home like girls dancing before the elephants when a warrior-hero returns after a campaign. I wept and began to swim out with stronger strokes. “Father Varuna, accept me too,” I prayed. I was beyond most of the breaking waves by now and a mad hope that the God would accept me took hold of me, giving demonic strength to my limbs. I felt myself almost propelled. This is how dolphins swim, I thought, just as a wave caught me sideways. I felt the ashes snatched from my hands and knew Varuna’s anger as my head was almost knocked from my body. I was turned around, my heart protesting, all strength now drained from me, all life, all hope. Varuna, angry at my presumption, slapped at me broadside with another wave. Blackness fell upon me and the sea grew cold. The ashes were accepted; I was returned, spat out. My body floated, drifted, floundered. Another message surged up from the deep. Sick with anger, with mortification, I would not listen until I reached the breaking surf, and it insisted: “Ssssurrend-er, Ssssurrender, Ssssurrend-er.” The hissing died, and on its dying came whispered laughter. Krishna’s.
I crawled out of the water panting and kneeled in the sand, my hair matted with sand, my eyes stinging with salt. I murmured the Narayanastra mantra, not feeling my own tears but only the movements of my heaving chest. “Father Varuna,” I said at last, “We came to do the work together. We are Nara and Narayana and you have separated us. So be it.”
Then I told Daruka to gather all the people from the beach. I told them that they had only seven days to get together what they would carry with them, for Dwaraka would soon be gone. Krishna must have lent me his power for I spoke without having to think. What I told them was the story of how Krishna had been saved from infanticide and of his parents’ years in prison. Those of Aniruddha’s generation knew the story but not the younger ones. There was no time for twelve days of mourning or for bardic recitations—what I said would have to serve both purposes. I reminded them how Krishna had slain the tyrants of this world, which was what he had come to do. I reminded them of Jarasandha of Magadha, and of Krishna’s mission to Hastina before the battle of Kurukshetra. To the little boys and girls of Vajra’s age, that battle itself had been only a legend. I told them that Krishna had come to bring unity and peace, but that men had not been ready for it, so the price that all had paid was great. But now it had been paid in full and we must honour it by living out his hope for us.
I would take all the ladies and children and any others who chose to come with me, first to Indraprastha where Lord Vajra must be installed, then to Marthikavarta where Kritavarman’s son Hardikyavarman would reign, and then to Hastina with Satyaki’s son. Each might choose freely the city in which to start anew but I could see in the eyes of some of the older citizens who had travelled up from Mathura with Krishna that they would not leave Dwaraka. I tried to put heart into them: “Just as this end has been foreseen, a century of prosperity and peace is promised. We owe it to Krishna never to lose heart, for what has come to all of us is the working of Prajapati, in whose compassion we must trust.” The eyes of some of those who listened seemed to brighten and look towards the future. But others had finished with this life and looked away from me.
27
Suddenly it was our last night in Dwaraka. We would be up at dawn, and I slept but fitfully. Muddled and disordered battle scenes that I had thought long swept away, played through my mind. I saw Bhoorishravas sitting in meditation. I saw Satyaki spring up with flashing sword to lop his head off. I saw Satyaki challenge Kritavarman in the swirling, billowing battle dust of Kurukshetra. Krishna was plucked from our chariot by a great whirlwind and once more our banner of the ape and the great chariot fell to ashes. Then Daruka was driving me over a road of broken clods, the chariot rocking from side to side.
I sat bolt upright, grasping the chariot seat which turned into my bed, and went on rocking. A little butter lamp had fallen to the floor guttering flame. By the time I remembered where I was the room was still. But the warning of what must come was clear. There were two piercing cries, sobbing, and then silence, save for the thud of running feet. It was the hour of the gods when energies begin to gather. I could feel the city and the sea impatient to be rid of us before their meeting. I slid out of Krishna’s bed and placed the burning incense at its head. There was no time for more ritual. I touched my finger tips to the foot of his bed an instant before gathering my weapons. I hurried down the stairs which tilted under me even as I moved down. Shiva Shankara of the great destruction was stamping in salutation before his dance. I ran on down stairs that moved this way and that; my practice in the chariot and standing on running horses serving me well until the last step which sent me sliding. Deep in the centre of the earth Lord Varuna stirred, cracking the gem-studded floor on which I sprawled. I pushed myself up. A light flashed past my eyes and fell. A deep violet amethyst pried loose had flung itself into the air. Quickly everything was quiet again; but Lord Shiva had given us warning. There fell a sudden silence. The people of the palace must have held their breaths thinking the end had come. But now they tore the air with screams and lamentations. My concern was Vajra and his mother and the other children, and I ran towards the women’s chamber. They met me half-way running with the household behind them. “Everybody outside!” I shouted, for at any moment the earth might tilt again. We ran past Brahmins in the Homa room reciting the first mantras of the day. There was no time for ceremony but I let go off Vajra’s hand and saluted, as I shouted for them to quench the fires and leave with us. Then we were off once more towards the great front doors. I saw two servants digging at the floor for loosened gems. I shouted that they would make Lord Shiva stamp again. Perhaps they did not hear me, for a moment later the earth trembled again and a lion pillar fell on one of them. We ran towards the gate between a court of flowering trees that still sent out strong perfume, and past the lotus pool. Gleaming fish darted here and there in agitation. Some leapt above the surface and lay panting on the lapis edge. Vajra wanted to stop to throw them back. I pulled him after me. The stable keepers were leading out horses that stopped to rake the ground and toss their heads or plunge or rear. The cries of men and animals were heard from every quarter. My men had reached the gates and some ran forward for my orders. I told them to bring me Satyaki’s and Kritavarman’s sons. I swung through the palace gates which stood wide open, and left the team with a guard at some distance. I did not trust those walls to stand. Then someone called my name.
“Prince Arjuna.” I looked up to see an arm waving from a window. I fought my way against the tide of fleeing humans and ran through the great hall which tilted up and then down like a children’s seesaw. The stairs leaned sideways. The banisters had collapsed. There was a great gap in one wall. I followed the cries that came from the women’s quarters. A painted column had fallen right across a room and pinned a woman down. It lay across her chest. Two of her servant ladies struggled desperately to shift it. The woman was Kritavarman’s wife. Her son lay by her, sobbing. Her silk shawl was red with blood.
“Arjuna,” she gasped, “Bring me fire from the Homa room. Then take the boy and the maids away with you. Quickly, my lord is waiting for me.” Her hands passed over the column and then her breath was gone. I picked up the boy who kicked against me, not wanting to leave his mother, and ran downstairs with the maids behind me. The fires in the Homa room had been quenched and even as I turned, the stairs collapsed into a heap of splintered wood and masonry. The door swung open and slammed again and then fell from its hinges through the arch. Through this arch another arch framed flames that leapt towards us. I hurled a mantra into them and ran out the door, carrying the child who wept, pushing his head against my neck, his little nails digging at my shoulders. Clearly the gods still had work for me for we reached the gates unscathed. A little further the chariot was waiting and Daruka had brought Satyaki’s youngest son and his nurse. His mother
had been killed when a floor gave under her. I gave the child to Vajra’s mother.
“See, here is your cousin and your aunt,” I told him. I packed the woman and the child in, and took the reins again. From somewhere came the scent of jasmine and I remember wondering how, amidst this chaos, the flowers still knew how to release their perfume.
My men had been rounding up the people who, dazed and hopeless, had stayed behind and wandered aimlessly inside the palaces. These, on foot, now mingled with a mass of chariots, bullock carts, and elephants jostling towards the city gates, while behind them busy Agni was sneaking into every corner, climbing walls, looking in at windows, and licking at their frames.
Now another sound came through the rattling of chariots and the constant rumble and the shouts of voices. It was the sea’s voice; a gulping, sucking sound. I looked down at the ocean. Maker of Day had just begun to light the elephant-coloured sea which was running backwards, slipping into the distance, a bowstring pulled far back before release, revealing sunken boats and other rubbish rotting on the sea bed. I watched the water crawl toward the horizon, and then shouted to Daruka to whip the horses on. We overtook other chariots, shouting warning as we went past that the sea would soon come surging back. I left the chariot, commandeered a horse and rode back to round up stragglers. And still the waters receded till the beach stretched into a desert.
Praying to merciful Varuna to give us time, I threaded the procession, at once reassuring the people and urging haste. The gajarohas had their heads bent to their elephants’ ears, shouting their names, pleading with them, offering prayers and endearments. Charioteers and riders struggled to keep their horses from shying off the road. As it was, one of the chariots driven by a Vrishni lady went careering through a grove of wood apple trees. I was in the middle of the column when the last half of our procession began threading the city gates. By now the animals sensed what was coming and were half mad with fear. Many of the Vrishni ladies I passed handled their teams almost as well as Subhadra as they drove out in chariots filled with children and the last of the older people. I worked my way to my chariot and joined the procession. We could hear the bellowing of cattle. Suddenly two pet deer came leaping out of nowhere making the nervous pair of horses just behind us bolt past into a field, upsetting one of the ladies’ chariots. The antlered creatures were springing upwards in a frenzy. Soon the road began to slope downwards. We would be turning inland.
Again the mantra that we had said on the fifteenth day of the war surged up within me. It was the mantra of surrender. This time I called it out aloud. “OM Namo Bhagavate Narayana,” over and over. Soon many voices joined mine in a strong cry for surrender.
In my heart I stretched out to them all as we had done that day at Kurukshetra. Once again I felt a cool breeze, like the Narayana astra passing over us. The mantra repeated inside of me while I shouted orders, and the procession moved forward.
The strip of beach which came into view was full of marooned fish, some still thrashing about. A sickly sun had risen just above the furthest line of the horizon. There were still no waves coming in. The world stood still except for the fires of Dwaraka which tinged the sky. I did not slow the pace.
We heard it before we saw it, a rushing sound, and at the same time the ground began to sway beneath us. There was rumbling in the distance. It was Lord Indra throwing thunder. I shouted for the charioteers to increase their speed and my shout released the earthquake. Shiva stamped on the sea floor and water came rushing in. The sea like a great monster sighed and rose and filled the sky with waves. Their crests rushed together and rose into high hills, and then rushed forward as though an akshauhini’s conch had summoned them to charge. I looked back at Dwaraka. The lines of gleaming palaces were like jagged, painted rocks pointing to the sky. The fires were everywhere; Lord Agni and Lord Varuna had both laid claim to Krishna’s Dwaraka. Even as I gazed, the great vyuha rushed in. It surged over the high bank, covering the mansions before receding noisily.
We were now climbing the road, with trees fallen across it, necessitating frequent halts while elephants cleared the obstacles. Thunder stunned our ears and resonated in our bones as though all the cattle of Bharatavarsha were stampeding. Looking back we saw the water rushing in again, this time rising to the treetops. Later we learned that Dwaraka was lost beneath the sea with all its trees and buildings. Not even the highest branches or the tallest tower could be seen.
Yet the spirit of Dwaraka and the courage that had given birth to it, which to my heart was Krishna, only Krishna, neither fire nor water could erase.
28
We proceeded on our way by slow marches and, indeed, could not have done otherwise. The high-born ladies had brought the wealth of their households with them on chariots drawn by bullocks, mules and camels: chests full of silken cloth and jewels, others filled with gold and silver vessels. Many of their serving people moved on foot, the latter carrying on head or back whatever of their possessions they had deemed most worth saving. And then there were the children; on ox-drawn carts and donkeydrawn carts and on pony back, the children, our hope for the future, the seeds of a great flowering. Though much plied with sweetmeats, their eyes were still wide with images of destruction. This was not an assemblage with which to attempt forced marches.
We had Brahmins and Vaishyas and Shudras with us as well. Dwaraka had known prosperity, and even its poorest refugees formed a great and rich concourse. Elephants still wore their pilgrimage paint and their caparisons. Most of the chariots were shaded by silk umbrellas. It must have looked a little like this when Krishna led his people up from Mathura after he had slain the tyrant Kamsa; a proud assembly moving, hearts high, into a brilliant future; now, of course, we were journeying in the trappings of the past.
Each day we would start from our camps at dawn, the sky sapphire, a river glinting silver in the distance. Often we passed ponds filled with lotuses. Each day the people prayed to Pushan, Lord of Pathways and Travellers, to lead us to our destinations. I prayed to Krishna.
By the time we reached the country of five waters, I could almost believe my prayers would be answered. Looking at the city of white silk tents, hearing the sound of gurgling streams, and seeing the children’s first tentative smiles, I knew that something of Krishna was preserved in them, and knowing that gave life some meaning.
Children know nothing but life. Vajra held his little fist out to his cousins and they whispered their guesses. They were playing panchasamanvaya. “Which is my little finger?” Satyaki’s son, with his quick, bright eyes extended his arms, his half-hidden fingers buried in a fist. When Vajra picked the wrong one, they stifled their first giggles behind their hands. Seeing that they were not reprimanded for their levity they were soon drawing diagrams on the ground for hopscotch. Some adults cast doubtful looks at them, but I forestalled reproof by adding to the diagrams with my arrow tip, so the children caught my hand and made me hop with them. I jumped around a while, and then landed on a line. They laughed and pointed, and Vajra, delighted, spun on his heel. The others clapped and before I knew it I was laughing with them. Then, seeing me standing there, staring at the sky, they pulled me out of the way so as to get on with the game to which I was an obstacle. Standing in the middle square, I was an obstacle to life, the game that never stops. Full of that Vrishni mischief, they started making fun of me, miming my stare at the sky.
It took longer for the princesses to join in. They sat beside their mothers making garlands or patterns in the sand, but they were the daughters of queens who drove chariots, and could slice thrown guavas with their arrows, so when I felt that enough time had passed, I told their mothers that they needed exercise. Soon they were throwing balls and playing hopand-catch with their brothers.
In a few years we would be arranging their Swayamvaras. I had already picked out Vajra’s lovely sister for Parikshita. She had the merry laugh of Subhadra and the teasing boys could never provoke her to lose her temper. That, as I well knew, was what a man wants t
o come home to and breed into his children. But when I saw her weaving jasmine flowers with Hardikya, as we now called Kritavarman’s son, it seemed that I might have to look elsewhere. It became my whole concern to plan for the next generation. Dwaraka had gone but the Vrishnis and the Bhojas, the best of us, would have to survive. The seed of Krishna and Satyaki could not be allowed to die.
We were heading northeast for Indraprastha. Once I had installed Vajra there and named him regent, I would breathe more easily. Then we would not be far from Marthikavarta which would be due north and where I must leave Hardikyavarman, Kritavarman’s son. After that I could take Satyakiputra to Hastina and let him stay a while with Parikshita, before I took him to his kingdom on the banks of the Saraswati.
When we had migrated to Indraprastha from Hastina before the dice game, we had passed through Panchala, Draupadi’s kingdom, where I had later won her. It had been a partly forested and partly cultivated country. This time, however, we would have to cross a stretch of desert. There was no other way to Hastina unless we travelled far southeast and then turned north through Chedi country and Mathura. I had decided on the shorter way; there was only so long I could wait to see Subhadra and Parikshita again. We would start, however, by following the Narmada river, and then a tributary of the Yamuna. This route would save a piece of desert at the cost of two weeks travelling which seemed to strike a fair balance between haste and precaution. For myself I would at once have set out but I saw the ladies needed more time to recover. Their wounds were still too green for further hardship.
So we watched flamingos streak their colour in the distance towards horizons of greenish tamarisks. There were great ponds of water flowers, pink, white, magenta, and mauve, throbbing with light and offering their fragrance to Lord Surya. Kingfishers flew over us and perched for some moments by the ponds before darting away as though from perfumes too heady. Sometimes they dove for little fish, and with a flick of their beaks, they had them. There was beauty here, healing beauty, but though I was aware of it, it was just beyond my reach. My soul haunted my body but it would not enter the world. From the moment I had tried to break Gandiva, my soul had lived in a no-man’s land.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 89