Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  But he must help the brahmin; royal dharma

  required it. He rushed into the apartment,

  grabbed the bow and arrows and rode off

  in pursuit of the thieves. He scattered them

  with a stream of well-aimed arrows, and returned

  the stolen cattle to the grateful brahmin.

  Then he presented himself before the king.

  “Brother, I shall now go into exile,

  in accordance with our covenant.”

  Yudhishthira protested—Draupadi

  and he had not been offended in the least.

  It was no sin for a younger brother

  to invade the privacy of the older.

  Exile was unnecessary.

  But Arjuna

  insisted. “Dharma has to be respected;

  you yourself have taught me that one should not

  try shiftily to dodge round its requirements.

  We all agreed on what should happen now.

  I shall embrace exile for a time.”

  12.

  ARJUNA’S EXILE

  Never, in all his life, had Arjuna

  been separated from his family.

  He would return to them in time. But meanwhile

  the world was large, and offered new encounters.

  He traveled widely, seeking holy places

  on sacred rivers. From time to time, he stayed

  in forest ashrams, learning all he could

  from wise teachers. He was accompanied

  by an entourage of learned brahmins

  and they journeyed north to where the Ganga,

  taking birth in the snow-peaked Himalaya,

  leaps over rocks and tumbles to the plain.

  There, he settled for a while.

  One day,

  as Arjuna was bathing in the river,

  offering oblations to his ancestors,

  he was seized, and pulled beneath the water

  by Ulupi, beautiful snake princess.

  She whisked him off to the kingdom underground

  where snakes live amid sacrificial fires.

  She wound herself around him tenderly.

  “As soon as I caught sight of you, the love god

  churned me with desire. Ah, make me happy,

  handsome hero of the Bharatas!”

  Arjuna hesitated. “Enchanting one,

  I am committed to a celibate life

  during my exile; I cannot break my vow.

  Believe me—I would truly like to please you . . .

  But how can I, without transgressing dharma?”

  “Surely your vow,” said sensuous Ulupi,

  “relates to Draupadi, not other women.

  Remember too—the highest form of duty

  is to preserve life. And, rest assured,

  I shall die unless you slake my thirst.”

  His course was clear. Arjuna passed the night

  in pleasure with the sinuous snake princess,

  and returned at sunrise to his lodging.

  Soon after this, Arjuna left the mountains

  and traveled southeast toward Manalura.

  There, he called on King Chitravahana,

  an ally of the Bharatas. The king

  had a nubile daughter, Chitrangadaa,

  plump and graceful. Arjuna desired her.

  He spoke to the girl’s father. The king said,

  “You need to understand: in our line,

  in each generation, just one child is born.

  Mine is a girl, but I am treating her

  as a son for purposes of descent.

  You may marry her on one condition:

  father a son on her, who will belong

  not to you, but to our lineage.”

  Arjuna acquiesced. Then, after staying

  with Chitrangadaa for the next three months,

  he continued touring the sacred fords.

  Most holy sites thronged with devout pilgrims

  bathing, praying, offering oblations,

  but he was told of one that was deserted

  although it was quite beautiful, with trees,

  graceful as dancers, shading the riverbank.

  Ascetics told him: lurking in the water

  were five huge crocodiles, who were inclined

  to make a meal of bathers. Undeterred,

  Arjuna dived in and, straight away,

  was clamped between the jaws of a great beast.

  He wrestled with it, thrashing, twisting, churning,

  then managed to stand, holding it in the air.

  That instant, it became a lovely woman.

  Arjuna was astonished. “Beautiful one,

  who are you? And, tell me, why this wickedness,

  attacking innocent and pious bathers?”

  She explained she was an apsaras,

  one of five, as alluring as each other,

  who had been cursed by a virtuous brahmin

  for trying to seduce him. “Narada

  told me you would be traveling nearby

  and would help us.” The Pandava released

  the other nymphs from their curse in the same way.

  Then Arjuna returned to Chitrangadaa

  to see Babhruvahana, his newborn son.

  Despite his energetic pilgrimage,

  Arjuna knew that his true destiny

  would not be one of wandering the world.

  A kshatriya was meant to live a life

  as a man of action, and in time

  he would rejoin his brothers. But for now

  he was free to travel as he wished.

  He headed southward, to Cape Comorin,

  the tip of the subcontinent, the place

  where Hanuman once leaped across the sea

  to Lanka. There, he immersed himself at dawn

  and at sunset, standing with folded hands,

  bowing in homage to the god of light.

  Eventually, he turned his footsteps north.

  He followed the line of the Western Ghats,

  along deserted beaches. As he traveled

  the season was changing: the time of monsoon

  had arrived. The air was still and heavy

  with expectation, earth begging for rain

  as though the whole of life were in suspense.

  Then the weather broke. First came the wind

  whipping the sea to frothy peaks and troughs,

  bullying the trees to bow before it.

  Then the rain: a few large drops at first

  followed by blue forked lightning, which lit up

  the lashing sea; and then the deafening crash,

  the cannonades of thunder so explosive

  it was as if immortal gods were battling

  for supremacy. The black clouds burst,

  the long-awaited rain swept down in sheets

  pounding, sluicing over the thirsty land.

  Everything that lived opened itself

  to the reviving torrent.

  Krishna learned

  that Arjuna was close to Dvaraka

  and went to meet him. The two friends rejoiced

  to see each other, and Arjuna agreed

  to spend time at Dvaraka as Krishna’s guest.

  Entering the city with his friend,

  Arjuna was welcomed by a throng

  of citizens, all eager to set eyes

  on the handsome and illustrious Pandava.

  One day, the cousins went to a festival

  and, strolling among the crowds, Arjuna

  caught sight of a fair-skinned and graceful girl

  in the company of her maids. Krishna

  looked at Arjuna, smiling his mocking smile.

  “Dressed as you are, in a simple robe,

  you look the image of a pious pilgrim.

  But are your thoughts really a pilgrim’s thoughts?”

  He always knew what Arjuna was thinking.

  “That is my sister, the gentle Subhadra,
/>
  favorite daughter of the king, my father.”

  Arjuna was desperate to marry her.

  How could it be achieved? In Krishna’s view

  a svayamvara would be too uncertain

  in its outcome. Instead, Krishna proposed

  that his friend should carry the girl away.

  Messengers were sent to Yudhishthira

  who consented to the cousins’ plan.

  So it happened. On a favorable day,

  Arjuna seized the beautiful Subhadra

  and galloped off with her in Krishna’s chariot.

  Balarama, Krishna’s older brother,

  was outraged. “The man has insulted us,

  grossly abused our hospitality

  after we received him with every honor!”

  “My dear brother,” said Krishna, “think about it.

  There’s no sign that Subhadra was unwilling

  and, after all, she’s gone off with the noblest

  kshatriya in the land. To seize her by force

  accords well with our warrior tradition.

  There’s great advantage for us in this match.

  Who would not be proud of an alliance

  with that hero? The pair should be followed

  and brought back for a ceremonial wedding.

  Diplomacy is all—we would lose face

  if it looked as though he had defeated us.”

  Once he had calmed himself, Balarama

  saw the force of Krishna’s argument.

  Next day, the couple was escorted back

  and, with the blessing of her family,

  Subhadra, lovely Yadava princess,

  was married to the Bharata prince, Arjuna.

  The people of Dvaraka were delighted

  to have their princess joined in matrimony

  to such a legendary kshatriya.

  The time of exile was almost at an end.

  Family feeling, strongest of all ties,

  was tugging at the heart of Arjuna,

  and soon the wedded couple said goodbye

  to Dvaraka and, with their retinue,

  made their way northeast to Indraprastha.

  No doubt there would be great celebrations

  at Arjuna’s return. But how would Draupadi—

  Draupadi, adored princess of Panchala,

  called the most beautiful woman in the world—

  how would the fiery queen of the Pandavas

  receive Subhadra? Though she had five husbands

  Arjuna was the brother who had won her.

  A great deal would depend on the first meeting.

  In proper order, Arjuna paid reverence

  to Yudhishthira his king, to the brahmins

  and to his other brothers. He presented

  Subhadra to his mother, who was pleased

  that Arjuna had married her young niece.

  Then, he went to Draupadi’s apartments.

  Haughty, she turned away: “Go to that woman!

  Things are changed between us. I’m well aware

  that the first knot tied loosens most easily.”

  Arjuna tried to soothe and reassure her

  but after angry looks and proud reproaches,

  she swept off into an inner room.

  Arjuna, dismayed, spoke to Subhadra.

  “Go to Draupadi alone, dressed simply,

  not like a queen. Just be your natural self

  and I’m sure her heart will warm to you.”

  Subhadra put on simple peasant clothes

  and presented herself with her head bowed

  at Draupadi’s apartments. “I am Subhadra,

  I will be your servant.” Draupadi,

  softened by the girl’s sincerity,

  embraced her, appreciating her beauty—

  as different from the way she looked herself

  as is the moon compared to the velvet dark.

  She took Subhadra’s hand. “At least,” she said,

  “may your husband never have a rival.”

  And Subhadra replied, “Let it be so.”

  Shortly after Arjuna’s homecoming

  a party arrived from sea-set Dvaraka:

  Krishna, Balarama and companions,

  come to mark the auspicious alliance

  between their clan and that of the Pandavas.

  They had brought most sumptuous wedding gifts—

  priceless silks, sacks of gold and jewels,

  a thousand chariots, hung with little bells,

  four thousand horses, ten thousand fine cattle,

  a thousand tame mules, speedy as the wind,

  some with black manes, some with white, a thousand

  choice-bred mares, a thousand fine elephants

  trained for battle, their howdahs bright with gold.

  Yudhishthira acknowledged the largesse

  and gave gifts in return. The visitors

  stayed on as guests for many days, and Bhima,

  the world’s greatest host, arranged such feasts,

  such lavish entertainment, such excursions

  that the Yadavas, returned to Dvaraka,

  probably felt life was rather dull!

  But Krishna stayed behind at Indraprastha

  and the Pandavas derived great joy

  from having their cousin with them for a while.

  There followed happy years at Indraprastha.

  Many other rulers were defeated

  by the Pandavas, and their lands annexed.

  The population prospered and increased.

  King Yudhishthira rejoiced in action

  that served the people and his kinsmen too—

  he saw no conflict. And his contented subjects

  worshiped him as their kind and splendid king.

  Subhadra bore a son by Arjuna,

  Abhimanyu. From his infancy,

  he was Krishna’s favorite, affectionate,

  quick-witted, mettlesome as a young bull,

  loved by all, as a bright star is loved.

  Krishna oversaw his initiation.

  He would be an exceptional warrior.

  Draupadi too gave birth to five strong sons

  a year apart, one son by each husband.

  Like their fathers, these five boys grew up

  devoted to each other. They excelled

  to differing degrees, in Vedic knowledge,

  and in the arts of war taught by Arjuna.

  All seemed perfect in the Pandava kingdom.

  Only Krishna, who was a frequent guest,

  knew of the trials his beloved cousins

  would have to undergo before too long.

  13.

  THE BURNING OF THE KHANDAVA FOREST

  One day in high summer, when the air

  seemed to scorch the skin, and every breath

  was an effort, Arjuna proposed

  that there should be a grand expedition

  to the countryside. It would be cool

  under the trees on the shady riverbank.

  Arrangements were made. With family and friends,

  together with a retinue of cooks,

  maids and other servants, they left the city

  in palanquins, in chariots, on horseback;

  dozens of carts were piled with the provisions

  Bhima thought essential for their needs.

  Encamped beside the sparkling Yamuna,

  some plunged into the refreshing water;

  some played games, others brought out flutes,

  drums and vinas, and there was dance and song.

  Needless to say how plentiful and varied

  the food was, how delectable the drink.

  Krishna and Arjuna walked off by themselves

  among the trees, talking, reminiscing.

  They were enjoying each other’s company,

  seated at their ease in a pleasant grove,

  when they were approached by a strange brahmin.

  He towered a
bove them, tall as a shala tree.

  His hair and beard were red, his skin coppery,

  and he was radiant as the morning sun,

  blazing with glory. The two kshatriyas

  stood up to honor him.

  “I see,” he said,

  “the world’s greatest heroes standing before me.

  I beg you—give me enough to eat. I’m starving.”

  Arjuna said, “We’ll fetch you food, enough

  and more than you can possibly consume.”

  “It is not food I want,” said the stranger.

  “I am Agni. I am Fire itself.

  This Khandava Forest is the feast I crave,

  but every time I try to gobble it

  with my fiery mouth, Indra sends bank on bank

  of voluminous black thunderclouds,

  dousing the flames with deluges of rain,

  frustrating my voracious appetite.

  He does it to protect his friend—the snake,

  Takshaka, whose home is in this forest.

  But now I have met you, I shall succeed.

  I know your mastery of every weapon—

  come to my aid! Fend off Indra’s rain clouds;

  prevent the million creatures of the forest

  from escaping death.”

  The god of fire

  was in poor health, suffering from a surfeit

  of clarified butter, which had ceaselessly

  been poured into him, in sacrifices

  sponsored by an overzealous king.

  He had been told that only by consuming

  fat from the creatures of the Khandava

  would he be cured.

  “It’s true,” said Arjuna,

  “that we know how to summon divine weapons,

  but we have come here on a pleasure outing—

  we have no bows, or quivers, and have only

  ordinary chariots and horses.

  If I am to help you as you wish

  I need a bow commensurate with my strength,

  an inexhaustible supply of arrows,

  and a chariot that shakes the ground,

  as dazzling as the sun. I want fine horses—

  divine white horses, faster than the wind.

  Krishna, too, needs weapons to suit his skill.

  We’ll help you, willingly, but we must have

  tools for the task.”

  Agni summoned Varuna,

  keeper of weapons, one of the world guardians,

  lord of waters. Agni paid him homage,

  then asked him to provide the two warriors

  with the weapons they would need. First Arjuna

  received with joy the marvelous bow Gandiva,

  the indestructible, the shining arc,

  a bow so mighty that the cording of it

  caused the air to throb, the mind to shudder