Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  of anyone who heard it. Then Varuna

  gave ambidextrous Arjuna two quivers

  filled with an ever-replenishing supply

  of shafts. Krishna received a keen-edged discus

  that would always return to the thrower’s hand;

  and a great club, lethal as a thunderbolt.

  Lastly, Varuna summoned for the heroes

  a horse-drawn chariot, made by Vishvakarman,

  celestial craftsman. It was magnificent—

  huge and well-proportioned, flying a banner

  marked with the image of a divine monkey

  whose terrifying and unearthly roars

  could render an enemy insensible.

  Four white horses, fast as thought, faster

  than the strongest wind, drew the chariot.

  Now the heroes were equipped for battle

  and eager to engage with the chief of gods.

  Agni spewed out a ring of fire encircling

  the dense forest, to cut off all escape.

  Then, working inward, the hungry fire consumed

  everything in his path. Insatiable

  flames leapt, roared and crackled through the trees,

  and billows of smoke, rivaling Mount Meru,

  could be seen from scores of miles around.

  A dreadful screeching started. Many creatures

  were burned immediately. Others ran

  blazing, scattering mindlessly, eyes bursting,

  pawing the ground until they atomized

  in the white heat of the conflagration.

  Everywhere, animals ran, struggled, writhed.

  Some clung to their mothers, fathers, mates

  unable to abandon them. In this way

  whole tribes and families met death together.

  Anything that managed to break free

  was hunted down by Arjuna and Krishna,

  guarding the periphery of the forest

  so nothing could escape the conflagration.

  Birds flew upward, but burst into flames

  before they could escape to cooler air

  or they were shot by Arjuna, to fall

  and perish in the deafening inferno.

  As forest pools came to boiling point

  fish and tortoises jumped out or crawled

  onto the banks, to burn and suffocate.

  When Arjuna saw them, he cut them to shreds

  and, laughing, threw them into the leaping flames.

  The creatures’ screams ascended to the heavens

  so that the gods themselves were terrified

  and cried out to Indra, sacker of cities,

  “What is this? Why are these creatures dying?

  Are we witnessing the final destruction

  of the world?” Indra hurled down immense

  volumes of water, pelting the burning trees

  with shafts of rain, and a barrage of hailstones

  as big as pigeons’ eggs. So great was the heat

  that they turned into scalding clouds of steam

  before they reached the ground. Indra increased

  his onslaught. Arjuna, raising his bow,

  loosed cascades of shafts, shattering hailstones,

  casting a net of arrows, a canopy,

  so Indra’s rainstorm failed to penetrate.

  Agni raged on, in his many fiery forms.

  Though frustrated, Indra looked down with pride

  at his mortal son, the mighty Arjuna,

  then mobilized an army of snakes, demons

  and predatory creatures, who converged

  on the heroes with an almighty din,

  as if the oceans of the world were churning.

  They unleashed a storm of iron bolts.

  Arjuna shot innumerable arrows.

  Krishna hurled his discus, which returned

  to his hand, time after time, slick with blood.

  The attack was soon repelled, and the searing fire

  continued unabated. Agni devoured

  rivers of fat and marrow, as the millions

  of forest creatures gasped their final breath.

  His eyes alight, his scarlet tongue flickering,

  his flaming mouth and crackling hair ablaze,

  Agni feasted, protected by the heroes.

  Then the battle of earth and sky began

  in earnest. Indra called upon his allies

  among the gods, and Arjuna and Krishna

  were soon under assault from every side.

  But their weapons, and their skill, prevailed.

  The gods retreated. Indra then tore off

  a mountain peak and hurled it at the heroes;

  but Arjuna’s arrows intercepted it

  and broke it up into a thousand fragments.

  Indra summoned predatory birds,

  with razor beaks and claws, to strike the warriors;

  and snakes slid all around, their sussuration

  filling the air, their scalding venom shooting

  from burning mouths. Arjuna’s heaven-made arrows

  diced them up, to shrivel in the flames.

  Krishna knew, though Arjuna did not,

  that this hard-fought fight was a rehearsal

  for the great annihilating war

  that would come—a war they would fight together.

  Not all the forest dwellers were devoured.

  The king of snakes, Takshaka, was away

  in Kaurava country. His son, Ashvasena,

  tried to escape the advancing flames, but failed.

  His mother, desperate to save him, started

  to swallow him, but Arjuna shot an arrow

  which sliced off her head. Indra, seeing this,

  sent great gusts of wind to save his friend’s son

  which, for a moment, distracted Arjuna

  and, in that moment, Ashvasena fled.

  Maya, a gifted demon, dodging the flames,

  about to be cut down by Krishna’s discus,

  cried out, “Arjuna! Save me, Arjuna!”

  Appealed to in this way, Arjuna called,

  “Have no fear.” And Maya was protected.

  Four other forest creatures survived the blaze.

  These were fortunate young sharngaka birds.

  The listening king, Janamejaya,

  was amazed at this. “But how could young birds

  possibly survive such an inferno?”

  Vaishampayana explained as follows:

  The celebrated seer Mandapala,

  thwarted in his spiritual aspirations

  by lack of sons, resolved to be a father.

  To expedite the process, he became

  a sharngaka bird, mating with a female

  called Jarita. Having begotten four sons,

  he promptly flew off with another female,

  Lapita, abandoning his family.

  As he was dallying with his lady love,

  he saw Agni arrive to burn the forest

  and worshiped the fire god with fulsome praise.

  Agni, flattered, offered him a boon.

  Mandapala bowed: “Please spare my sons

  when you are laying waste to the Khandava.”

  As the fire advanced, the mother bird

  was consumed with terror for her chicks

  who could not yet fly. What was she to do?

  She could not carry them all—should she take one?

  Should she cover all four with her body?

  The four young birds said, “You should fly away

  and save yourself. You can have more sons

  and in that way our line will not die out

  though we ourselves will perish in the flames.”

  Jarita urged them to hide in a rat hole

  but they preferred death by fire. Eventually,

  she flew away to safety. The fire approached,

  and the little birds sang a loud hymn of praise

  to Agni. The fire god was delighted,

&n
bsp; and remembering Mandapala’s request,

  he left the young birds alone, and raged onward.

  Meanwhile, Mandapala was suffering

  sharp pangs of anxiety for his offspring

  despite the fire god’s promise. He lamented

  loudly for his little sons. Lapita

  was furious, “It’s not your sons you’re mourning—

  Agni promised to spare them after all.

  No, it’s that other bird you’re hankering for.

  You love her more than me—go to her then!”

  When the fire had passed, Jarita returned

  and found her four young sons alive and well.

  Full of joy, she embraced each one, and wept.

  Then Mandapala arrived, much relieved

  to see his family. They, however,

  refused to look at him, although he burbled

  to each one in turn. “Uncaring wretch!”

  cried Jarita. “You left us unprotected

  to frolic with your buxom Lapita!”

  “Jealousy really is a dreadful thing,”

  said Mandapala. “And when once a woman

  has sons, she neglects her wifely duties.”

  Eventually, the two were reconciled

  and the entire family left that forest

  and flew to settle in another country.

  After the two heroes had done their work,

  after Agni was completely sated

  and the Khandava Forest was no more

  than a blackened, desolate expanse of earth,

  Indra appeared before them. “I am pleased.

  You have achieved feats that even the gods

  have failed at. I will grant you any boon

  you ask for.” Arjuna chose divine weapons.

  “You shall have them, but only at the time

  I think is right,” said Indra to his son.

  As his boon, Krishna asked that Arjuna

  should be his friend lifelong, both in this world,

  and in worlds to come. Indra gladly blessed

  the friendship which had been ordained by heaven.

  II

  THE BOOK OF THE ASSEMBLY HALL

  14.

  THE DECISION

  As Arjuna and Krishna made their way

  back to Indraprastha, they saw Maya,

  the asura whom Arjuna had spared,

  waiting to speak to them. “Sir, I owe you

  my life—I wish to do something for you

  out of friendship. I am a great artist;

  what shall I make for you? Name it—anything.”

  Arjuna demurred, “Make something for Krishna.”

  Krishna knew Maya. He was the architect

  of the marvelous threefold city in the sky,

  the Tripura, once destroyed by Shiva.

  What Krishna asked for now would play a part

  in shaping the direction of events

  he was on earth to foster—great events

  designed to realize the gods’ intentions.

  “Maya, your genius is well known to me.

  Here is how you can repay Arjuna—

  build a great hall for Yudhishthira

  in Indraprastha, an assembly hall

  more beautiful than any ever seen

  here on earth, one like your great Tripura.

  It should be the visible embodiment

  of cosmic harmony, divine proportion.

  Let it be the envy of the world.”

  Soon afterward, dark Krishna took his leave

  to return to Dvaraka, where he was needed.

  To the Pandavas, the separation

  was always sad, as though the life-giving sun

  were hidden for a time behind the clouds.

  How to convey, when one has only words,

  the transcendental beauty of the building?

  Decades afterward, old men would tell

  how seeing the great hall at Indraprastha

  had changed them, changed the meaning of the word

  “beautiful.” So, ever afterward,

  when something was described with admiration,

  they would say, “You don’t know what beauty is

  unless you saw the hall at Indraprastha.”

  No expense was spared, nothing wasted.

  Maya took his time imagining

  every aspect of the inspired work,

  choosing the location and materials,

  calculating sight lines and symmetries.

  He envisioned with consummate artistry

  the intricate design of every surface:

  how to place each precious stone where sunlight,

  piercing through graceful stone tracery,

  would best reveal its inner properties;

  where to position pools, so as to double

  the beauty of what was reflected in them.

  For some weeks, he was absent on a journey

  to Lake Bindu, where he had secreted

  a cache of jewels—jewels he now intended

  for his masterpiece. He brought back, too,

  a heavy club, embellished with golden eyes,

  which he gave to Bhima. And for Arjuna

  he brought the marvelous conch Devadatta.

  It took more than a year to build the hall.

  Maya and the colleagues he had brought

  worked secretly behind tall woven fences.

  On an auspicious day named by Dhaumya,

  the new hall was complete, screens swept aside,

  and there it stood, in all its magnificence.

  The hall had many rooms of different sizes,

  for differing purposes, and in between

  were corridors and courtyards meant to trick

  and captivate the eye in equal measure—

  marble that looked like water, artful stairs,

  ponds so clear and still they seemed like stone,

  painted roses asking to be picked,

  jeweled flowers among real lotuses.

  In this way, the inspired architect

  invited visitors to be alert,

  to reflect on the nature of illusion.

  Yudhishthira was delighted and amazed

  by Maya’s work. At once, he set in train

  a festival, to inaugurate the hall.

  For a week, every kind of entertainer

  performed for the pleasure of the citizens.

  People of every social rank converged

  on Indraprastha, many from far off,

  to see the wonderful assembly hall.

  All were seized with envy or admiration

  according to their diverse temperaments.

  One autumn day, there was a visitor:

  the seer Narada, holy troublemaker,

  had come again to see the Pandavas.

  With perfect courtesy, Yudhishthira

  welcomed the exalted wanderer

  and sat beside him, listening patiently

  to his lengthy strictures on good governance.

  For many hours, and in exhaustive detail,

  the seer interrogated the Dharma King

  on whether at all times, and in all respects,

  he was ruling as a ruler should.

  At last, Yudhishthira managed to turn

  Narada’s attention to other matters.

  “Sir, you travel throughout the three worlds.

  Have you ever seen an assembly hall

  as beautiful as mine?” Narada answered,

  “Never, in all my extensive journeys

  in the world of men, have I seen a hall

  to rival yours in beauty and opulence—

  though in the worlds of gods . . .” And he proceeded

  to describe the halls of Indra, Yama, Varuna,

  and the hall of Brahma—self-sustaining,

  self-illuminated, completely perfect.

  “Tell us more about your epic journeys

  in the heavenly realms,” said the Pandavas,
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  hoping he would have news of their father.

  But though Narada spoke of Indra’s palace

  where Harishchandra, a great king of the past,

  dwelled perpetually, the name of Pandu

  was never mentioned.

  “Muni, how can it be,”

  said Yudhishthira, “that Harishchandra

  is Indra’s guest in the kingdom of the gods,

  while our father, no less a pure kshatriya,

  who never lied, or acted selfishly,

  languishes with Yama, god of death?”

  “Ah,” said Narada, “you see, Harishchandra

  never rested until he was king of kings,

  subduing every other and, finally,

  performing the Rajasuya ritual,

  the imperial consecration sacrifice,

  dispensing vast riches in gifts to brahmins.

  Pandu died before he could do the same—

  and, then, consider the manner of his death.

  His fate now depends on you, his heir.

  In fact, I met him in the halls of Death

  not long since, and he made clear to me

  his ardent wish that, with the help of Krishna

  and your strong brothers, you should subjugate

  every other kingdom of Bharatavarsha

  and perform the Rajasuya sacrifice.

  Through you, he can fulfill his destiny

  as a kshatriya. And only then,

  escaping the dark maze of the underworld,

  can he enter Indra’s realm of light.”

  After Narada had taken his leave,

  the king sighed heavily, weighed down by doubt.

  He wanted to perform the Rajasuya

  but how, he wondered, could it be achieved?

  The undertaking was an enormous one.

  True, the territory he ruled over

  already embraced many other kingdoms.

  But to perform the imperial consecration

  he must be sovereign of the farthest reaches

  of the land. He must be emperor.

  He thought of his father, Pandu, languishing

  in Yama’s realm, and longed to release him.

  He was wary of being led astray

  by impulse. But the faces of his brothers

  were alight with pleasure and excitement

  at the prospect Narada held out—

  the chance of challenge, glory, victory!

  He listened to the views of his councillors,

  and wise Vyasa. They all approved the plan.

  Then he thought of Krishna—what would he advise?

  He would consult the prince of Dvaraka

  before deciding what was for the best.

  Krishna arrived, as he usually did

  when his cousins needed him. He listened