Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  Give me your best advice.” At that moment

  a horrible cacophony was heard—

  howling wolves, hyenas’ insane cackle,

  harsh croaks as crows and other carrion-eaters

  flapped overhead. The city streets swarmed

  with creatures never seen before—familiars

  of the strange royal brood born in darkness,

  born to remain always invisible

  to their blind father, their blindfolded mother.

  Dhritarashtra heard the disturbing sounds,

  and was apprehensive. Vidura

  knew what the portents meant. “Oh, my brother,

  this birth portends the ruin of your line.

  Your first-born son is destined to destroy

  all that we’ve held sacred through the ages.”

  Dhritarashtra wept and wrung his hands.

  “What can I do to guard against disaster?”

  “Only something that you will not do—

  kill him! Content yourself with ninety-nine.

  Without this eldest, all your other sons

  will be harmless, ordinary boys.

  But this creature comes from an evil place

  to spread pain and destruction everywhere.

  Exterminate him so the rest may flourish.

  Give him up for the sake of all of us.”

  But Vidura was right. Though Dhritarashtra

  did not doubt his brother spoke the truth,

  he could not bring himself to kill the child,

  his longed-for first-born, Duryodhana.

  Over the next month, the other jars

  yielded ninety-nine more infant boys

  and one daughter, who was named Duhshala.

  The hundred sturdy sons of Dhritarashtra

  would come to be known as the Kauravas.

  Meanwhile Gandhari, fulfilled at last,

  caught up in the delight of motherhood,

  did not hear the howling of the wolves,

  nor the unearthly predatory birds,

  nor the harsh grunting from her children’s throats.

  She only heard the cries of human babies

  demanding to be nourished.

  At this time,

  another son was born to Dhritarashtra

  by a lowborn woman, sent to serve him

  while Gandhari was indisposed. His name

  was Yuyutsu, and he would become

  a loyal friend to the five sons of Pandu.

  In their forest home among the mountains

  the Pandavas were happy—running free,

  climbing, inventing games, learning the skills

  a kshatriya boy should know, protected, cherished

  by Pandu and their two devoted mothers.

  But their father never saw them grow

  to manhood. One spring day, when lovely blossom

  and soft unfurling leaves infused his mind

  with lustful vigor, Pandu was consumed

  by love and passionate desire for Madri.

  Despite her screams, her terrified reminders,

  destiny deprived him of all sense;

  he entered her, and died in the act of love.

  Thus was the curse fulfilled.

  Kunti bitterly

  blamed Madri and, despite her protestations,

  the weeping Madri felt responsible.

  As the senior wife, Kunti proposed

  to follow Pandu. But Madri held her back:

  “Our beloved husband died because of me,

  cheated of fulfillment, as was I.

  I will follow him to Yama’s realm.

  Kunti—be a mother to my children

  as, I know, I could never be to yours.”

  With that, she climbed onto the funeral pyre

  and, covering Pandu’s body with her own,

  abandoned herself willingly to the flames.

  The last rites for Pandu were performed

  by the seers among whom he had lived

  and who were now entrusted with the care

  of his wife and sons. They thought it right

  to take the family to Hastinapura,

  where Bhishma would look after them. For twelve nights,

  wan with sorrow for their beloved father,

  the boys slept on the ground outside the walls

  while rituals to cleanse them of pollution

  were performed. A lavish ceremony

  was held for Pandu and, when all was ready,

  the Pandavas processed into the city.

  The grieving people gladly welcomed them.

  Pandu’s sons were home where they belonged,

  to take their place beside their hundred cousins!

  But Vyasa spoke to Satyavati.

  “With Pandu’s passing, the times of happiness

  are over. There is trouble in the offing.

  Earth herself is growing old and sick.

  If you would avoid a painful sight—

  the Bharata clan tearing itself apart—

  you should leave now.”

  Satyavati listened.

  She sought out Ambika and Ambalika

  and, together, the three aging women

  entered the last phase of their earthly life.

  After retreating to a forest ashram

  they passed their days in great austerity,

  before embarking on their final journey.

  3.

  COUSINS

  The Pandavas were awed by Hastinapura.

  The main gateway, topped by massive towers,

  was tall enough for elephants to enter.

  Not far away stood impressive buildings

  whose several stories housed the offices

  of the foremost state officials, their gables

  ornamented with imposing statues.

  Just inside the gate, a tall stone column,

  its capital ornately carved, proclaimed

  the king’s authority, and the protection

  that his rule extended to his people,

  like a father’s strong, benevolent arm.

  This was the noble City of the Elephant.

  A broad, straight avenue, lined with the houses

  of the wealthy, led from the entrance gate

  to the high ramparts of the royal palace—

  soaring, dwarfing even the grandest mansions

  of the nobility. Here, the Pandavas,

  successors to their father, were received

  with every show of joy. They stared around

  bewildered as bumpkins. Their mother, of course,

  remembered elegance and luxury;

  but to her five sons, the spaciousness

  of this new life—soft beds, exquisite food

  (eating was Bhima’s favorite occupation)

  servants on every hand—was wonderful.

  At first, the two families of cousins

  played well together, being close in age,

  keen on the same games and daring stunts.

  But it is never long before young boys

  try to outdo each other, prove who is best.

  So it was with these. The Pandavas

  excelled in every childish game and contest.

  But Duryodhana was used to being

  eldest, biggest, strongest, so was shocked,

  when he challenged Bhima to a fight,

  to find that he was so completely trounced

  that he ached for days. Humiliation.

  This was just the first of many reasons

  that Duryodhana grew to hate Bhima.

  Bhima, in fact, gained everyone’s affection

  (except the Kauravas’) by his energy

  and his engaging, frank enthusiasm.

  His booming voice, his bouncing, boisterous step

  and freely given smiles made all who saw him

  smile in return.

  But the Kauravas

  saw him in another way entirely.

  Bh
ima liked to tease and bully them,

  holding them underwater in the river

  when they were swimming, until they nearly drowned;

  shaking trees they’d climbed, so that they tumbled

  down like mangoes, bumping on the ground.

  His behavior never sprang from malice

  but, because no one had ever beaten him,

  he had no idea how being picked on

  with no chance of redress can wring the heart.

  So he would innocently use his strength

  to bait his cousins, and found fun in it.

  Month by month, year by bitter year,

  in Duryodhana, corrosive hatred

  grew like a hidden reservoir of gall.

  Most of all, he felt the Pandavas

  stood between him and life’s advantages—

  power, in particular. Yudhishthira

  looked very likely, as the eldest prince,

  to be the next king. Yet for all the time

  that Pandu and his sons were in the forest

  Dhritarashtra reigned, and Duryodhana

  had thought he would, in time, be king himself.

  He was prepared to fight if necessary,

  when the time came, but he saw that Bhima

  would bar his way: Bhima the undefeated,

  Bhima, massive, stout as a mighty tree,

  Bhima, brave as a fighting elephant,

  Bhima, so devoted to his brothers,

  Bhima . . . Bhima . . . with a passionate longing

  he wanted Bhima dead. But how? How?

  At the court, Duryodhana had an ally,

  Shakuni, Gandhari’s older brother.

  His mild demeanor, soft voice, silky manner

  concealed a mind quick as a serpent’s tongue

  and as poisonous. To Duryodhana

  this was a kindred soul; and while his parents

  made light of his complaints against his cousin,

  Shakuni listened, sympathized, caressed

  his nephew’s seething head. And put in words

  the thought the unhappy prince had never dared

  voice to anyone: “Bhima must die.”

  For Duryodhana, this was the moment

  when idea, fantasy—to kill a kinsman,

  kill him under the very roof they shared—

  changed from mere dream to possibility.

  Thought became language—that was the alchemy

  that led in turn to deeds. And once such words

  were spoken, fluent on his uncle’s lips,

  next came strategy and, after that,

  action.

  Action, the tipping point, the turn

  that, step by step, and inescapably,

  set him on the road to Kurukshetra.

  Duryodhana arranged a grand excursion.

  All the Pandavas and Kauravas

  set out on horseback, elephants or chariots

  to a choice spot beside the river Ganga

  where all kinds of delight had been devised—

  games, music, swimming, wrestling matches

  and, to top it all, a splendid feast

  specially designed to gladden Bhima’s heart.

  Duryodhana was all affability.

  The Pandavas had never sought to quarrel

  with their cousin; now it seemed that he

  had put his animosity behind him.

  He brought the finest dishes for his friend,

  Bhima. He even fed him personally

  and repeatedly filled his cousin’s wine cup.

  Inside the spicy snacks and luscious sweetmeats

  that Bhima loved, the Kaurava had smeared

  a deadly poison, enough to kill a man

  many times over, then more, to be quite sure.

  Colossal Bhima seemed to manifest

  no instant ill-effects. But in the evening,

  as he was sleeping on the riverbank,

  tired from the games, drugged with poisoned food,

  Duryodhana approached him stealthily,

  bound him with tough vines, and bundled him,

  still sleeping like a corpse, into the Ganga

  where he quickly vanished. Duryodhana,

  exulting, slipped away to join the others.

  Bhima sank, oblivious, down, down

  toward the riverbed. But the Ganga

  is a goddess—and, in a sense, was Bhima’s

  great-grandmother. As he sank, nuzzled

  by phosphorescent fishes, she stirred up

  the deepest bed, where scarlet and green serpents

  awoke, and dug their fangs into his limbs,

  injecting him with oleaginous venom.

  Mother Ganga knew what she was doing—

  rather than killing Bhima, the snake juice,

  an antidote to Duryodhana’s poison,

  was bringing him to life with every sting.

  He struck the river bottom, and fell through

  into the watery kingdom of the Nagas,

  waking to find himself sprawled at the feet

  of Vasuki, the reigning Naga king,

  erect and magnificently hooded.

  The throne he sat on was a single emerald,

  and two scaly, jeweled Naga queens

  were twined around him.

  “This is a welcome guest,”

  he hissed—for he recognized that Bhima

  was no ordinary youth, but the son

  of Vayu, god of the winds and tempests.

  “Young man, I know how you come to be here,”

  and he described Duryodhana’s wicked act,

  which he had witnessed. “We have an elixir,

  which will make you even stronger than before.”

  Bhima was given a soporific drink.

  “Sleep deeply and sleep long,” said Vasuki,

  “the longer you sleep, the stronger you will be.”

  For eight days, Bhima slept, then he awoke

  with a huge roar of delight, sensing his limbs

  newly energized. Thanking Vasuki,

  he left, and rose up through the riverbed,

  up through the sunlit sparkling water, stepping

  onto dry land—and home to Hastinapura.

  All this time, his mother and his brothers

  worried frantically. They looked for Bhima

  everywhere. Duryodhana, his face

  straining to look concerned, had joined the search—

  but there had been no trace. Vidura

  had warned Yudhishthira about his cousin’s

  evil intentions, and he feared the worst.

  Then Bhima walked through the door! What joy there was

  among the Pandavas. What baffled rage

  filled Duryodhana’s heart, though he pretended

  to be as glad as anyone.

  When Bhima

  told his brothers what had happened to him

  they were enraged. But wise Yudhishthira

  warned them not to show it. While they lived

  at Hastinapura, they had to maintain

  a friendly manner, though they must keep watch

  constantly. In this way, they succeeded

  in blocking each attempt on Bhima’s life.

  Year by year, as the princes grew,

  Bhishma oversaw their education.

  He himself would gather them together

  and tell them stories of their ancestors,

  and tales of the immortal gods. He taught them

  how the world began, and how the ages

  follow one from another in a cycle.

  Learned brahmins taught them to know the Vedas;

  they studied history, and the science

  of statecraft and of how wealth is created.

  But, as young kshatriyas, the princes

  measured themselves by prowess in the arts

  of warfare. At first, Kripa was their teacher,

  a brahmin who, for years, had lived at court.

>   How did a brahmin come to be an expert

  in weaponry? The story goes like this:

  A worthy sage had a son called Sharadvat

  who, as well as dutifully acquiring

  Vedic learning, as a young brahmin should,

  thought of little else but weaponry,

  constantly practicing the arts of war.

  In order to enhance his mastery,

  he performed severe austerities—

  to the point that the gods themselves were worried,

  lest he outdo them in discipline and skill.

  Indra, chief of the gods, devised a plan.

  He sent an apsaras to tempt Sharadvat

  to abandon his renunciant ways.

  Walking in the forest beside the river,

  carrying his bow and arrows, the young man

  caught sight of a divinely lovely girl,

  half-naked. She came toward him, smiling.

  Sharadvat held his ground, but stared and stared

  and his bow and arrows slipped from his hand.

  A profound shudder shook him, and he spilled

  his seed, although he did not notice it.

  He turned and walked away.

  The seed fell

  on a reed stalk and, as it fell, it split.

  From the two halves, a boy and a girl were born.

  Soon after, King Shantanu found the babies

  while he was hunting in the forest. Seeing

  a bow and arrows on the ground beside them,

  as well as a black deer skin, he concluded

  that they were the children of a brahmin, skilled

  in weaponry. He took them back to court

  and cared for them. These were Kripa and Kripi.

  Later, Sharadvat came to Hastinapura

  and taught Kripa mastery of weapons.

  Kripa grew up an asset to the court,

  a gifted fighter. He taught the young princes

  how to string a bow, to heft a mace,

  to feint and thrust with short and long sword.

  They learned fast, especially the Pandavas,

  and soon Bhishma saw that he must find

  another teacher for them, more advanced

  in all the branches of the arts of war.

  Around this time, a person of importance

  arrived in Hastinapura, unannounced.

  This was Drona, who had married Kripi,

  Kripa’s sister. By birth he was a brahmin

  but he was also expert in the feats

  appropriate to the kshatriya class.

  Not only could he wield conventional weapons

  with quite outstanding skill but, in addition,

  from his teacher, Rama Jamadagnya,

  he had acquired rare and powerful astras.

  He understood that to become a master