Mahabharata
Page 10
One day, the master feeling tired, Karna
made a pillow of his lap, and soon
Rama was sound asleep. Time passed slowly
in peaceful meditation. Suddenly
Karna felt a piercing pain—a worm,
a parasite, feeder on flesh and blood,
was sitting on his thigh, burrowing, biting!
He wanted to leap up and crush the creature
but, fearing to wake his master, he sat still,
enduring agony. When his blood trickled
onto the teacher, Rama sprang up, shouting:
“Aaah! I am polluted! What have you done?
Out with it now—tell me what has happened.”
Karna told him.
The master was enraged.
“No brahmin could have tolerated pain
so agonizing—you have lied to me,
you must be a kshatriya! I have given
the astras to a lying kshatriya!”
Karna explained—“My passionate desire
to learn the Brahma weapon tempted me
to lie about my birth—master, forgive me!”
But the teacher uttered a solemn curse:
“Your selfish craving is at the root of this.
One day, when your very life depends on it,
and you try to invoke the Brahma weapon,
your memory will fail you. That is the day
that you will meet your death. Now, go from here!”
On that day, the youth became the man.
From then on, Karna walked through the world
alone. Destiny could not be bargained with.
He would dedicate himself to the pursuit
of truthfulness and virtue for their own sake,
looking for no immediate reward.
The curses always crouched in wait for him.
Living his life according to his nature,
he was crucial to the cosmic drama
the gods had devised for the sake of Earth.
6.
THE TOURNAMENT
Now Vaishampayana regaled the king
with an account of how the royal princes
proved themselves, and came of age as warriors.
Imagine an enormous amphitheater.
To build it, on the outskirts of the city,
hundreds of laborers had toiled for months.
For Drona had decided the young princes
had now learned from him everything they could,
and all their years of effort would be crowned
by a grand demonstration of their skills.
Hastinapura had never seen the like.
Word had traveled fast throughout the kingdom.
Excited crowds had gathered from small towns,
from villages, from fishing settlements;
even ascetics in their forest ashrams
had heard the news and come for the spectacle.
People camped outside the city walls
on land that gently sloped down to the river,
and near the forest’s edge, where they could gather
brushwood for cooking. Even before first light,
fragrant woodsmoke from a thousand fires
was already rising, flames leaping
as if impatient, like the jostling people
anxious for the great day to begin.
A crowd formed, pressing toward the gate
which opened when the sun began to rise
above the pinnacles of the king’s palace.
How glorious the arena was, far bigger
than anything ever seen, even in dreams:
oval-shaped, and lined with ranks of seats
steeply banked, rising, tier on tier,
and shaded from the sun by colored awnings.
While people waited, drummers and trumpeters
made joyful, stirring music. Crafty tinkers
touted their wares—bangles, lamps, ornaments,
gaudy trinkets that children pestered for—
and snack sellers worked the narrow aisles.
Just as people started to get restless,
deep triumphal notes sounded from conches
positioned all around the stadium.
There was a stir, up at the far end.
All heads turned toward the royal enclosure
splendid with its patterns in gold leaf,
its lattices, its jeweled canopy.
A walkway linked the arena to the palace
and now, emerging into the bright sunlight,
King Dhritarashtra came with careful steps,
guided by the arm of Vidura.
His queen walked beside him, led by Kunti,
then Kripa, and then grandfather Bhishma
with other court notables, all resplendent
in brilliant silks and jewels. And at last
came Drona, the master, dressed in purest white—
white sacred thread, white hair, white beard, white garlands,
white sandal paste smeared across his body.
A roar went up, a salvo of applause:
whatever skills the young princes possessed,
whatever feats they were about to show,
they owed to him.
And now the performance starts.
First the princes each take up a bow
in order of age, led by Yudhishthira
and, mounted on horses, canter round the ring,
then wheel in an elaborate formation,
well-fitting breastplates glittering, dazzling.
They perform amazing feats of archery,
taking aim at a revolving target
hung in the center, shooting, galloping
faster and faster, while not a single arrow
misses its goal. The display only stops
when the bristling target is crammed with arrows.
Next, there are races. The best charioteers
among the princes line up to compete—
which of them will drive his gleaming vehicle
fastest round ten laps of the arena?
One by one, they weave a complex course
round obstacles, cutting through twists and bends
hugging them close, hauling their horses round
without the wheels grazing. Each chariot
is freshly painted and adorned with flowers.
Each one is drawn by four glossy horses
bred for this, superbly schooled, manes braided,
and in each, the driver stands, erect,
magnificent, dressed in burnished armor.
Now, Drona announces a mock fight.
One hundred and five princes brandish weapons
and seem about to slaughter one another
so savage are their shouts, so fierce they look,
their swords and daggers flashing as they thrust,
feint, dance around each other. The huge crowd
is on its feet, shouting the princes’ names,
more anxious than encouraging—and yet,
at a slight sign from Drona, it all stops;
not a single drop of blood has been spilled.
In the royal enclosure, Vidura
is describing everything that happens
to Dhritarashtra, and Kunti to Gandhari.
“On a day like this,” sighs Dhritarashtra,
“I envy hopelessly those who can see,
who now are witnessing my young sons’ triumph.”
Now Bhima, built like a colossal boulder,
and the strong and nimble Duryodhana
fight with maces. Drona emphasizes
that this, too, is a mock fight—though quite soon
it is clear they are serious. They will inflict
as much harm as they can, swinging their clubs
with the huge momentum of their powerful arms,
roaring like two rutting elephants,
sparks leaping as the weapons clash, rebound.
&nb
sp; The crowd screams support, some for one,
some for the other, starting to trade blows
between themselves. Drona stops the contest,
fearing a bloody riot in the stands.
Each cousin has suffered wounds. Grim-faced, silent,
they stalk off. This has seemed like a rehearsal
for a deadly fight that is to come, one day.
There is loud grumbling on the terraces
at the violent and exciting duel
being cut short. But Drona raises his voice:
“I now present to you Prince Arjuna,
son of Indra, greatest of all archers,
whom I love even more than my own son.”
Conches blare, drums beat out a tattoo
in a joyful musical explosion.
The cry goes up—Ar-ju-na! Ar-ju-na!
The crowd yearns for the legendary warrior;
they stamp their feet, chanting in ecstasy.
He, above all, is the prince they wish to see.
Wild anticipation often leads
only to disappointment. Not today!
Muscular, graceful, shining hair unbound,
Arjuna steps forward, bows to Drona.
Completely focused, with no hint of strain
he raises his bow, draws back his left arm
and then—
and then the miracles begin!
First he sends an effortless stream of arrows
into the mouth of a tiny wooden boar
so far off it is almost out of sight.
Not one misses. The crowd roars in delight.
Then he does the same again, blindfolded,
then with his back turned. It looks impossible,
and yet it seems tame when you see what follows.
He stands with his eyes closed, his lips moving
in a silent mantra. He shoots an arrow
straight into the sky. Slowly it rises,
then begins to glow, then blazes, then
the sky is on fire over the arena.
The crowd cringes in terror but, next moment,
a stream of flashing silver arcs upward
and instantly the sky becomes a sea,
an upside-down ocean, quenching the flames.
These are truly weapons of the gods!
More marvels follow. Arjuna moves swiftly
with the panache and poise of a great dancer,
master of his body, never doubting
that he can transcend nature’s normal laws.
He changes size at will. He conjures mountains.
He shoots an arrow into the sand, making
the ground split wide open in front of him,
and close when he has walked inside—and then,
when people start to worry, a yawning crack
opens up before the royal stand—
Arjuna steps out and bows to his uncle!
The crowd erupts, delighted and relieved.
They shriek themselves hoarse, blow whistles, stamp their feet
until they are sore. This is the day’s climax;
what they have seen will never be surpassed.
When at last the uproar had died down,
and people were preparing to go home,
they became aware of a strange sound,
like thunder, coming from beside the gate.
Someone said, “That sound is a challenge,
some hero is slapping his arms boastfully.”
The crowd was hushed, looking toward the gate.
A man strode forward, an imposing figure,
beautiful, tall as a kadamba tree.
A shining gold cuirass encased his body
and in his ears, there sparkled golden earrings,
like two drops of sunlight. He looked forbidding
—serious, remote, stern even, as if
his life had been hard. Anyone could tell
from his bearing, the authority
with which he walked into the arena
holding his bow as though it were a scepter,
that this man was a very great warrior.
He inclined his head to Dhritarashtra,
nodded to Drona, then turned to Arjuna
and, although he did not raise his voice,
his words were heard all over the stadium.
“Pandava, you seem to take great pride
in the facile feats you’ve just displayed to us.
With the master’s permission, I, Karna,
will now match every easy act of yours,
each paltry trick. So don’t be too puffed up.”
Drona gave consent, probably curious
to see what his former pupil had become
since he left Hastinapura as a boy.
Surely this man would not outdo Arjuna.
The crowd was humming with curiosity.
Who could this be? There was complete silence.
Then, effortlessly, Karna emulated
every feat Arjuna had performed.
Some people thought them even better done,
and felt like fools that they themselves had been
so easily impressed before. As one,
like a surging wave, the crowd rose, cheering.
Karna raised his arms triumphantly.
Drona seemed shocked. Arjuna looked tense
and angry; he considered himself insulted.
But Duryodhana joyfully embraced
Karna. “Welcome to you, strong-armed hero!
Hastinapura is honored by your presence.
You certainly know how to humble pride!
From today, the kingdom of the Bharatas
is home to you; ask of me what you will.”
“I choose two things to ask of you,” said Karna,
“your friendship, and a duel with Arjuna.”
Arjuna addressed the towering Karna:
“How dare you barge in here uninvited!
Karna, I swear to you, when I have killed you
you will sink to the realm reserved for those
who indulge in empty boastful prattling!”
Karna smiled. “This place is open to all.
Strength is what matters here, not whimpering words,
not half-baked insults. A truly great warrior
will rise to any challenge. I, Karna,
challenge you to a contest—no mere display,
but a duel to the death between archers.
I shall behead you in your teacher’s presence—
or will you admit I have the greater skill?’
“I’ll send you to hell first!” cried Arjuna.
As he spoke, the sky grew dark—Indra,
bringer of storms, was gathering his forces
as if to bless his son. But the next moment
a shaft of brilliant sunlight pierced the clouds,
making a golden circle around Karna.
In the royal box, Kunti fainted.
She had realized who Karna was
and was overcome, remembering
the lovely golden infant she had sent
floating down the river, to take his chance.
Now her heart hammered with fear—her sons
fighting to the death! But she said nothing.
Kripa, expert in the etiquette
of dueling, spoke now: “Here stands Arjuna,
third-born son of Pandu of this royal house,
youngest offspring of Kunti, his wife.
It is known that no prince will condescend
to duel with a man of lesser lineage
than his own. You must tell us, hero,
who your father is. Who is your mother?
To what royal clan do you belong?”
Like a drooping flower drenched with rain,
Karna hung his head. Arjuna waited.
Then Duryodhana spoke up forcefully:
“This rigmarole is just old-fashioned nonsense!
But if Arjuna is too punctilio
us
to fight with anyone except a prince
I have the solution. Our vassal state,
Anga, lacks a ruler. Here and now
I propose that this outstanding man
shall be consecrated king of Anga.
Then there will be no excuse for Arjuna
to dodge away from dueling with him.”
Dhritarashtra gave his blessing; brahmins
were summoned, bringing all the ritual objects
needed for consecration—flowers, gold,
roasted rice grains, water from the Ganga,
a white silk parasol, emblem of a king—
and, in the presence of the cheering crowd,
Karna was installed as king of Anga.
He turned to Duryodhana. “How can I
ever repay you for this priceless gift?”
The prince smiled with pleasure. “All I want
from you, Karna, is your lifelong friendship.
I know, together, we shall do great things.”
Karna’s face lit up. “Here is my promise—
as long as I shall live, while these two arms
have strength and skill in them, I shall defend you.
Your future will be mine, your interests, mine.
All that my head and heart can give are yours.”
An old man tottered forward from the crowd
sweating and trembling, leaning on a stick.
The man was Karna’s father, Adhiratha.
Seeing him, Karna went over to him
and, in reverence, touched the old man’s feet
with his head, still wet from the anointing.
Adhiratha’s face was bright with love.
“My son!” he cried, his eyes moist with tears.
The Pandavas laughed. “This man’s a wagoner,”
jeered Bhima, “and you’re his son! Off with you,
off to the stables—go and muck out horses.
That’s where you belong!” Karna breathed hard
and fixed his gaze on the sun, low in the sky.
Immediately, up sprang Duryodhana
and, in a white-hot rage, he said to Bhima,
“Wolf-belly, your rudeness and crass ignorance
are hardly worthy of the kshatriya
you claim to be. The learned texts distinguish
three kinds of king—one of a royal line,
the leader of an army, and a hero.
This man, by his heroic skill, his courage,
has proved himself equal to any of us.
Prowess counts most for a kshatriya.
“As for lineage—just think about it.
It’s not unknown for sons of kshatriya mothers
to become brahmins. Drona here was born
from a water pot, Kripa from reeds.
Arjuna calls himself a son of Pandu
but in fact, as we all know, his origins