Mahabharata
Page 9
You’re a nishada. It just wouldn’t do.”
Ekalavya bowed his head and, springing up,
was gone.
He ran, sure-footed, through the forest.
In a moonlit clearing at its heart,
lush with vigorous vines, there was a pool
lovely with lotuses. The boy scooped up
clay from the water’s edge and carefully
modeled a life-size figure of his master.
It took him many days and nights of work,
work informed by pure-hearted commitment.
When the likeness was complete, Ekalavya
slept. Then he rose, gathered perfumed flowers
and made a garland for his master’s neck.
“Bless me, Guruji.” And having touched
earth with his brow, he began to practice
with faith, devotion, and pure discipline.
Time passed.
One sparkling afternoon in winter,
the Pandavas rode out into the forest
to hunt wild boar. Their prized dog was with them
snuffling, bounding off ahead of them.
Suddenly they heard it growl, and then
a frenzy of barks, making birds fly upward
in alarm. Then stifled whines. The hound
slunk from the bushes, bleeding and subdued,
and the princes found it had been silenced
by seven evenly spaced arrows clamping
its muzzle shut. They were amazed—surely,
at the first wound, the dog would have bolted.
These arrows must have flown from the bowstring
in unimaginably quick succession.
And so precisely! Even Arjuna
could never have accomplished such a feat.
Following the track the dog had taken
they came upon a clearing in the wood
where a dark-skinned youth, his crude bow raised,
was shooting a cascade of arrows, calmly,
gracefully, and with such dazzling skill
the brothers were astounded.
“Who are you?
And where could you have learned to shoot like that?”
The youth replied, “My name is Ekalavya,
my father is the chief of the nishadas,
and I owe my skill to the great Drona,
my master.”
Soberly, the brothers rode
back to the city. Pale with jealousy,
Arjuna took Drona to one side.
“Did you not promise me, not long ago,
that I would be the world’s greatest archer?
How, then, can you be teaching, secretly,
that lowborn boy—an archer so accomplished
he makes me look like a mere beginner!”
Drona was mystified, then called to mind
the forest boy he had refused to teach.
With Arjuna, he set off for the forest
and there they came across Ekalavya
calmly practicing, his rough-hewn arrows
clustering in a line of perfect circles
on a straw target.
He fell at Drona’s feet,
surprise and joy lighting his dark face
at seeing his master. Drona, for his part,
had never witnessed such unearthly skill—
he could understand Arjuna’s despair.
He framed what he must say. “Ekalavya,
if I am your teacher, you should now
give me my fee.”
“Name it—anything!”
the boy cried, flooded with happiness
that he had been acknowledged by his guru.
“There is no gift I shall withhold from you.”
“Then,” said Drona, “give me your right thumb.”
Ekalavya’s smile did not falter.
With an arrow’s single downward slash
he sliced off his right thumb, and placed it, dripping,
at Drona’s feet. From now on, he would never
shoot with such breathtaking speed. And Drona’s
words would not be falsified—Arjuna
would be the greatest archer in the world.
The Pandava glowed with confidence restored.
Without a word, the two then strode away
and out of Ekalavya’s small story.
But we may imagine this: Ekalavya
bound the throbbing socket of his thumb
with herbs and soothing leaves, then sat in thought.
Sunlight left the forest canopy,
dusk came, then darkness. Still he sat alone.
He listened to the creatures of the night
as they went about their earnest purposes
constrained, and free.
In the dawn light, he rose
and bathed, then stood in front of Drona’s statue.
In respect, he touched its feet. Then, straightening,
he took his bow, began again to practice.
5.
KARNA
Who was the extraordinary youth,
the strong young eagle, child of nobodies,
who dared aspire to outclass Arjuna?
Born in sorrow, born to encounter trouble,
even as a child he was a stranger
in his own skin. The shining gold cuirass
he was born with, the luminescent earrings,
seemed incongruous for a driver’s son.
And with his tawny eyes, the nobility
of his demeanor, he looked so unlike
his humble parents, he was often mocked
by others, so preferred to walk alone.
To understand who Karna really was
we must now uncover Kunti’s secret.
Some time before her birth, Kunti’s father,
ruler of the powerful Vrishni clan,
had made a promise to a childless cousin,
“You shall have the first child born to me
to bring up as your own.” That child was Kunti,
and she grew up in her foster father’s palace
loved and loving, modest and beautiful.
It happened that one day a famous brahmin,
known for his short temper and ready curses,
came to visit. He was tall, formidable,
curt in his demands. Kunti’s foster father,
extremely anxious not to give offense,
said to him, “Great brahmin, my house is yours.
My daughter, who is of excellent conduct,
will satisfy your needs in every way.
You only have to ask.”
So, night and day,
putting aside all wishes of her own,
Kunti served the brahmin. He tested her
by making rude, unreasonable requests
but at all times, promptly and cheerfully,
she waited on him, and the uncouth guest
grew fond of her. When a full year was up
the brahmin was preparing to move on.
“Lovely one, you have served me perfectly.
You may choose a boon and I shall grant it.”
“Sir, that you and my father are pleased with me
is boon enough.”
“Then,” said the great brahmin,
“I shall teach you a mantra; with these words
you can summon any god you like
to give you a son.” And, having taught her,
he disappeared, to everyone’s relief.
Kunti was curious. Could the brahmin’s mantra
really summon the celestials?
At this time, she noticed her first period
and felt ashamed that she was now a woman,
and yet unmarried. One day, as the sun
rose in its glory over the distant hills,
the mantra came into her mind. At once
Surya, the sun god, in human form
blazed before her, the most beautiful
creature
she had ever seen. Immense,
armored in gold, he said, “Speak, charming girl,
you summoned me, what shall I do for you?”
Kunti cried out in terror, “Go back, my lord,
back where you came from! I was only playing.”
Surya frowned. “You cannot call forth a god
simply to dismiss him. I know your mind—
you wish to lie with me, and to bear a son
who will be unrivaled in his prowess.
Come now—if I simply take my leave
and do not give you the son your heart desires
I shall be ridiculed by all the gods,
and I shall curse you—and your father too.”
Kunti sobbed, “But I am just a child,
a virgin. The good name of my family
will be ruined. Spare me! To lie with you
would be a dreadful sin.”
“Not at all,
sweet and comely woman,” said the sun god.
“How could I urge you to do something wrong,
when I have the welfare of the world at heart?
Besides, after we have lain together,
you will remain a virgin.”
“And will my son
have golden armor as you have?”
“He will,
and, in addition, he will be endowed
with divine earrings to protect him from harm.”
“Then,” said Kunti, “I will lie with you.”
She managed to conceal her state from all
except her nurse, and when she came to term,
Kunti gave birth to a boy, most beautiful,
wearing a cuirass of gold, and earrings
that lit up his face. She wept—with joy,
but with grief too, since she must give him up,
play the part of the innocent, carefree girl
she was before. She placed him in a casket
and, at dead of night, she and her nurse
crept to the riverbank.
Holding the casket,
Kunti whispered a blessing to her son:
“May the world welcome you.
May no creature harm you,
neither those that walk on land
nor those that lurk in water.
May your shining father guard you.
May you perform heroic deeds.
May you be loved, my son.
How fortunate you are to have a father
who will watch over you. How fortunate
is the woman who will nurture you,
hear your first words, guide your first tottering steps
and see you blossom into glorious manhood.”
Then, in tears, she floated him adrift
in his casket on the shining water
and he was borne up by the gentle current,
carried on the black breast of the river
drifting onward calmly, silently,
as one river flowed into another
joining, at last, the broad, majestic Ganga.
Eventually, the casket caught in reeds
and there its journey ended.
At that time,
a worthy chariot driver, Adhiratha,
went with his wife, Radha, to the Ganga,
to pray and worship at the sacred river,
as they always did when evening came.
They were a devout and devoted couple
but they had no children—a great sorrow.
Radha had tried every remedy,
always disappointed. On that evening,
she saw the casket by the riverbank
and, when Adhiratha brought his tools
and levered off the lid, they were amazed—
they saw a baby, glowing like the sun,
with golden armor and bright, sparkling earrings
that were joined to him. The man and wife
were overcome with joy, “A miracle!”
said Adhiratha. “This is certainly
the child of a god, given us by the gods.”
They took the baby home and, after this,
Radha bore other children of her own.
The boy grew strong, devoted to the truth.
They named him Vasusena, “armed with riches,”
later known as Karna. When he was older,
his parents told him how he had come to them.
They would often talk about that day
and speculate about his origins.
All through Karna’s life, although his birth
was unknown to him, he was attracted
to the sun god as his special deity.
The brazen heat of day, which drove most others
to seek the shade, slapped him on the shoulders
like a call to action. And at evening
the horizontal fingers of the sun,
piercing the forest foliage, appeared
to beckon to him. Every morning, early,
as the ascending sun, breasting the hills,
painted the world blood-red, he stood alone,
facing east, worshiping Surya.
And in the evening, as the sun declined,
he stood in contemplation, his palms joined
in prayer and devotion. At such times,
if brahmins came to him begging for alms,
he would always give them what they asked.
This was his lifelong practice, and his vow.
No parents could have cherished a child more
than Karna’s; none were more worthy of respect,
and he in turn loved and revered them.
He was very different from his brothers.
Rather than being a driver like his father,
his natural talents and his inclinations
tended toward a hero’s martial calling.
He listened avidly to the old tales
told by his father, of heroic conquest
and courageous deeds. At night, he dreamed
he was the greatest archer in the world.
His father understood what must be done.
When the boy grew old enough, Adhiratha
took him to train at Drona’s weapons school—
and you have heard what happened to him there.
At Hastinapura, he learned many skills,
but he also learned humiliation.
His obsession, his defining passion,
was resentment of the Pandavas—
the careless way they seemed to feel entitled
to be, and have, the best of everything.
His envy fixed, above all, on Arjuna.
Wormwood entered his soul; he became
proud and bitter, and these qualities
remained with him, lifelong.
After he left
the City of the Elephant, he traveled
to where the legendary weapons teacher,
Rama Jamadagnya, had his home—
a hermitage set in a tranquil forest
close beside the sparkling western sea.
This Bhargava, both divine and human,
belonged to another age. Long, long before,
to avenge his father, killed by kshatriyas,
he had slaughtered the whole warrior race
many times over. But these days, he lived
in peaceable retirement. Karna knew
he still hated kshatriyas—though once,
long ago, he had been Bhishma’s teacher.
How would Karna best present himself?
Probably not as a driver’s son.
He abased himself at the master’s feet,
begging to be taken as his pupil.
“I am a brahmin, master,” he declared—
only half a lie since, as a suta,
he was of mixed descent. The weapons master,
touched by the youth’s desperate entreaties,
agreed to teach him.
So began the years
of training with the cele
brated teacher.
Never again would Karna be as happy
as he was then, learning the arts and skills
that most accorded with his deepest nature.
His master loved him, valuing his grace,
his devotion, above all, his truthfulness.
He was a brilliant pupil, more than meeting
every challenge the guru threw at him.
He nurtured in his heart’s secret recess,
a goal: “One day, I’ll be respected, famous.
One day, I’ll show the people who despise me
that I’m as good—no, better than anyone!”
Once, Karna was wandering near the hermitage,
beside the ocean. At his feet, the water
trailed its frothy hem around his ankles.
The sun had kept him steadfast company
from dawn, when the sky was tinged with rose,
to evening, when the final fiery blaze
cast a crimson sheen over the water.
Karna stood, praying beside the ocean
that seemed to stretch out to infinity.
He had his bow with him and, practicing,
he accidentally shot a cow, provider
of milk for the daily ritual offerings
of a devout, Veda-reciting brahmin.
Karna begged forgiveness, “Holy one,
I didn’t mean to kill your cow. Forgive me!”
This he said over and over, and offered
compensation, but the furious brahmin
refused to be placated in any way:
“Wicked kshatriya! You have killed the creature
who was my lovely daughter, mother, friend,
who gave milk for my daily sacrifice.
She was everything to me. I curse you!
Since you killed my cow through inattention,
when you meet your enemy in battle
your chariot wheel will get bogged down in mud
and your enemy will kill you then and there
as you are struggling with the wheel, distracted,
unprepared for death.” Karna sank down
as if oppressed by an enormous weight.
The master’s final teaching to his pupil
was how to bring to mind the arcane mantras
that would invoke the astras, terrifying
weapons of the gods, especially
the death-dealing Brahma weapon. To prepare,
Karna performed rigorous austerities.
“Now,” said the teacher, “you are unbeatable.
Your genius with the bow far surpasses
that of any pupil I have known;
and you command the astras. But remember,
you should only use these sacred powers
in the service of dharma. Death is the price
of using them for any evil purpose.”