Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  brahmins lay with kshatriya women. In this way

  the kshatriya population was restored.”

  When Bhishma said this, Satyavati thought

  of Vyasa. Shyly, she told Bhishma

  the circumstances of Vyasa’s birth.

  “I was mastered—completely overpowered

  by the sage Parashara; I was frozen

  with fear that he would curse me if I refused;

  and his boons were a consideration.

  I can summon Vyasa now, and ask him

  to father children on the royal widows.”

  Bhishma readily approved the plan.

  Satyavati bent her mind on Vyasa

  and he appeared. He was tall and gaunt

  with rusty, matted hair, filthy, foul-smelling,

  smeared with earth and ash: a fearful sight.

  “I will do it,” he said, “but we must wait

  for a year, during which the young queens

  must observe a vow, to sanctify themselves.”

  “No! No!” cried Satyavati, “we have no time!

  A kingdom without a king cannot flourish;

  it must be done at once.” “Then,” said Vyasa,

  “their discipline must be to tolerate

  my smell and unkempt looks without flinching.”

  She prepared Ambika: “In the dead of night

  your brother-in-law will come into your room.

  Welcome him, so you can bear a son

  to save the Bharatas.” At night, soft lamps

  were placed around the room, and incense burners

  wafted pleasant scents. Ambika thought

  it would be Bhishma who would come to her.

  Instead, she saw a dirty, bearded stranger

  whose piercing eyes appeared to blaze at her.

  The girl was so appalled and terrified

  she kept her eyes closed tightly.

  “My wise son,”

  asked Satyavati, “will a prince be born?”

  “He will,” replied Vyasa. “He will be

  immensely strong, courageous, learned, wise;

  he will be the father of a hundred sons,

  but because his mother would not look at me

  he will be blind.”

  “Alas,” said Satyavati,

  “a blind man cannot be an effective king.”

  In due course, as Vyasa had predicted,

  Dhritarashtra was born, completely blind.

  Satyavati made the same arrangement

  with Ambalika. But when Vyasa

  stood beside her bed, the girl took fright,

  her face drained of color. So it was

  that her son was born unnaturally pale,

  though well endowed in every other way.

  He was named Pandu, “pale one.”

  Satyavati

  asked Vyasa to give Ambika

  one more chance to bear a perfect son.

  But, her courage failing her, Ambika

  put a maidservant in her bed instead.

  The girl welcomed Vyasa as a lover

  and the seer greatly enjoyed his night with her.

  “You will no longer be a servant,” he said,

  “and your son will be the wisest man on earth.”

  So Vidura was born, an incarnation

  of Dharma, god of virtue, who had been cursed

  to be born from a shudra womb. Vidura

  would become known for loyalty and wisdom.

  But because his mother was lowborn,

  he would frequently be disregarded

  within the household.

  After this third birth

  the seer vanished, for now no longer needed.

  So it happened that the great Vyasa

  secured the future of the lineage,

  to general rejoicing in the kingdom.

  2.

  DHRITARASHTRA AND PANDU

  Now came a joyful time. It was as if

  the coming of the three Bharata princes

  conferred a benediction on the land.

  The kingdom prospered. Rains were plentiful,

  swelling the Ganga, spilling generously

  onto the lush green of the paddy fields.

  Plump ears of barley, rice, fruits, vegetables

  were piled high in the markets; livestock thrived

  and granaries were full to overflowing.

  People flourished: in countryside and city

  calm contentment reigned. There was no crime.

  Merchants and craftsmen plied their diverse trades

  with honesty and skill. Throughout the land

  shrines and sacred monuments were seen.

  People were kind and generous to each other

  and, under Bhishma’s wise and steady hand,

  reverence for holy rites prevailed.

  Bhishma was like a father to the princes.

  He brought to court the best and wisest teachers

  to ensure that the boys would be well trained

  in Vedic lore, and all the skills and arts

  essential to a royal kshatriya.

  They learned to fight with every kind of weapon;

  Pandu excelled with a bow, Dhritarashtra

  at heroic feats of strength, while Vidura’s

  knowledge of dharma was unparalleled.

  Janamejaya said, “Now please tell me

  what happened as those princes grew to manhood.”

  Vaishampayana resumed his tale.

  Owing to his blindness, Dhritarashtra

  was thought unfit to rule without assistance.

  Many of the functions of a king

  were held by Bhishma, while the fearless Pandu

  took on the protection of the realm.

  His successful conquests swelled the coffers

  of the treasury, and Hastinapura

  teemed with travelers from many lands.

  He shared his personal booty with his brothers

  and decked their mothers with exquisite jewels.

  Dhritarashtra, as the senior brother,

  held splendid and elaborate sacrifices,

  with fat remuneration for the priests.

  With the lineage always in his mind,

  Bhishma arranged a marriage for the blind prince

  with Gandhari, daughter of King Subala.

  On her wedding day, she took a cloth

  and bound it around her eyes. This she wore

  from that time onward, so she would not enjoy

  superiority over her husband.

  Bhishma thought hard about a match for Pandu.

  Not only must his bride be virtuous,

  but the marriage should be advantageous

  politically, securing an alliance

  with another powerful kingdom. He heard

  that Kunti, a lovely Yadava princess,

  as spirited as she was virtuous,

  and Madri, daughter of the Madra king,

  were of an age to marry. Pandu traveled

  to Kunti’s svayamvara, and was chosen

  by her, from many thousands of contenders.

  Then Bhishma visited the Madra king

  and, at great expense, obtained for Pandu

  Madri, celebrated for her beauty.

  Last, Bhishma found a bride for Vidura:

  the illegitimate daughter of a king,

  of mixed descent like him, with whom he found

  great happiness, fathering many sons.

  Perfect. But all was not quite as it seemed

  for Kunti had a secret. She had buried it,

  consigned it to a rarely visited

  corner of memory and there, she hoped,

  it would stay. But acts have consequences.

  Karma, the eternal law, plays out

  ineluctably, and Kunti’s secret

  contained the seed of tragedy and grief.

  When Pandu was not absent on campaigns

  he often spent his time deep in the fore
st

  on hunting expeditions, for the chase

  was his great passion. One unlucky day,

  he saw a deer in the act of mating

  with a lovely doe. He aimed; he shot it.

  The deer was actually an ascetic

  who had assumed the likeness of a deer

  because he had renounced all human contact.

  With his failing breath, he shouted out,

  “Even the vilest sinner would stop short

  of doing what you have done! You are highborn

  and come from a distinguished lineage

  yet you have allowed yourself to act

  brutally, out of greed!”

  “You should not blame me,”

  protested Pandu, “I am a kshatriya.

  Killing is what we do, whether it be

  enemies or animals. Besides,

  any deer I kill are consecrated

  as sacrifice to the gods.”

  “I don’t blame you

  for hunting,” said the sage, “but it was cruel

  to kill an innocent in the act of love.

  Because you had no knowledge of who I am

  you escape the guilt of brahmin-murder

  for which the punishment is terrible.

  But you will share my fate—your life will end

  when you give way to passionate desire

  for a beloved woman.” Then he died.

  Pandu was desolate—he must become

  a celibate. Never to have children!

  To live without the comfort of his wives!

  The deer-ascetic had revealed to him

  the errors of his pleasure-seeking life.

  “Better renounce the world, shave my head,

  wander the land homeless, without blessings,

  without possessions, eating what I beg.

  In that way I can expiate my guilt.”

  Kunti and Madri cried, “We will come too!

  What would our lives be worth apart from you

  whom we love above all other beings?

  We will go together to the wilderness.

  Living simply, even this dreadful curse

  will not prevent us finding joy together.”

  Pandu at last agreed. He gave away

  his royal robes and all his worldly wealth.

  Putting on the roughest, simplest garments,

  shouldering a few necessities,

  passing through lines of weeping citizens

  the three of them set out into the wild.

  They traveled north. For many months they walked,

  across bleak desert country, through the foothills

  of the Himalaya, into the high mountains.

  Through austerity and self-denial,

  Pandu did penance for his previous life,

  only refraining from the harshest pain

  out of consideration for his wives.

  Compassionate, unselfish, disciplined,

  he won great merit, great respect. And yet—

  he was still disturbed. “A man’s duty

  is to beget sons for his ancestors.

  Childless, I’m no better than a eunuch.

  When I die, I will die forever;

  there will be no one to remember me

  and I shall never reach the heavenly realms.”

  This thought came to distress him more and more.

  His wives were desperate to ease his sorrow.

  At last he said, “Consider—in ancient times,

  there were no rules for who could mate with whom.

  Long ago, during the golden age,

  women were not confined to just one husband.

  Even more recently, in times of crisis

  rules have occasionally been set aside

  to serve the greater good. Beloved Kunti,

  you could conceive by a holy man.”

  “Pandu! You violate me by such talk!

  You are proposing to treat me like a whore,

  with you as pimp. I am your wife, Pandu,

  and that, to me, is sacred. I am devoted

  only to you, beautiful husband. Never,

  not even in my thoughts, shall I consider

  any man but you.”

  Pandu persisted:

  “But reflect for a moment—I myself

  am only on this earth through the good deed

  of the sage Vyasa.” Kunti knew the facts

  but, though she wanted to console her husband,

  she was adamant. No other man

  would ever lie with her.

  Then, quietly,

  she revealed to Pandu the following:

  “When I was young, not much more than a child,

  a brahmin taught me how to summon gods

  to do my bidding. I shall say no more,

  but now, if you agree, cherished husband,

  I will call on a god to give us a son.”

  “Lovely woman!” cried Pandu joyfully,

  “summon Dharma, god of righteousness.”

  Kunti did so and, through the power of yoga,

  Dharma took human form to lie with her.

  In due time, when she gave birth to a son,

  a disembodied voice was heard to say,

  He shall be called Yudhishthira; he will be

  the Dharma King, defender of right action.

  After a year, another son was born—

  sturdy Bhima, child of the wind god, Vayu,

  he who stirs up cyclones and tornados.

  Bhima was built like a block of iron.

  Once, he tumbled off his mother’s lap

  when she was sitting on a mountain ledge.

  Down he hurtled, spinning, plummeting

  as Kunti screamed in horror. But the rocks

  were shattered as his body hit the ground,

  while he laughed in delight.

  Pandu reflected:

  “Success on earth rests on both fate and effort.

  One cannot change the course of destiny

  but heroic acts can achieve wonders;

  I wish for a son whose deeds will be supreme.”

  He thought of Indra, chieftain among gods,

  he who hurls thunderbolts and lashing rain.

  “I will obtain a powerful son from him.”

  Pandu engaged in strict mortifications,

  and Kunti, too, observed stringent vows

  to honor Indra. Then she summoned him

  and the god favored her with a child.

  When Arjuna was born a voice was heard,

  rumbling from the clouds: This child will bring

  joy to his mother. He will be a scourge

  to countless enemies. Bull among men,

  undefeated, he will save the Bharatas.

  Then a joyous clamor was heard—the voices

  of heavenly beings, singing in their delight

  while gongs clanged, and flowers rained on the earth.

  Madri longed to have sons of her own.

  Too diffident herself, she asked Pandu

  to speak to Kunti for her. So it was

  that Kunti gave Madri one use of the boon.

  Madri fixed her mind upon the Ashvins,

  beautiful twin deities who drive

  away the darkness, heralding the dawn.

  She gave birth to Nakula and Sahadeva,

  twins who would be both beautiful and brave.

  When Yudhishthira was born to Kunti

  the joyful news soon reached Hastinapura.

  Gandhari wept. She herself was pregnant—

  had been pregnant for a year already—

  but as the seasons came and went, she waited,

  and waited. Nothing.

  Some time before, Vyasa

  had arrived at court exhausted, famished,

  and Gandhari had welcomed and cared for him.

  Vyasa had been moved by her compassion,

  her piety, the fact that she had chosen

  blindness, when she
could have had the joy

  of seeing the glorious created world.

  He blessed her, saying, “You will be the mother

  of a hundred strong, courageous sons.”

  Did the wise and far-seeing Vyasa,

  even as he granted her this boon,

  know the sorrow that would come of it,

  as though he had just cursed her, not wished her joy?

  Perhaps. But with his insight he could see

  all that had to happen, and how. And why.

  He understood the business of the gods;

  his task, to be their earthly emissary.

  Now, Gandhari nursed her swollen belly

  as the months dragged on. It was hard and lifeless.

  Despairing, she decided she must act.

  Grimacing with pain, to rid herself

  of the intolerable load she carried

  she struck her belly, pushed, strained, cried aloud

  and gave birth to a monstrous mass of flesh,

  like a dense and glistening clot of blood.

  Horrified, she made to throw the thing

  onto the fire, but found Vyasa standing

  in the room. “Is this the hundred sons

  you promised me?” she asked him bitterly.

  “I never lie, not even as a joke,”

  said Vyasa, “still less when I am serious.

  Have a hundred jars filled up with ghee.

  Now, sprinkle the flesh with water.” Instantly,

  the hideous ball split into a hundred pieces—

  embryos, the size of a finger joint—

  and one extra. Vyasa took each one,

  placed it in a jar, and left instructions

  about the tending of the embryos,

  and when the vessels should be broken open.

  “I would have liked to have a daughter too,”

  thought Gandhari. Vyasa read her mind.

  Then he departed for the far Himalaya

  to perform austerities and prayer.

  More months of waiting. In the room of jars,

  a dozen nurses tended the embryos

  that slowly grew inside the glowing vessels.

  One day, Gandhari woke to a loud commotion.

  The first baby had been born from his jar

  and was brought to her. Her hands encountered

  a large, muscular infant, her first-born son.

  But those who cared for him became uneasy.

  They shuddered as the infant raised his voice,

  dismal, ugly, like a braying ass.

  This infant, who was born on the same day

  as Kunti’s Bhima, was named Duryodhana.

  Dhritarashtra summoned many brahmins

  as well as Vidura and Bhishma. “I know

  that Yudhishthira as the eldest prince

  will inherit the kingdom. But will my son,

  my Duryodhana, come after him?