Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  that grabs some choice tidbit from the oblation

  intended for the gods, and gobbles it!”

  Shishupala stalked toward the exit,

  followed by several disgruntled kings.

  Yudhishthira called after him, “My lord,

  what you have said is neither kind nor fair,

  and insults Bhishma’s judgment—you suggest

  he doesn’t understand what virtue is.

  You do not know Krishna as Bhishma does.

  Krishna is our guide; his inspiration

  lies behind everything we have achieved.

  Through us, he has conquered every king

  who sits in the hall today, by force of arms

  or by capitulation. For this alone

  the highest accolade is due to him.”

  Bhishma added, “We behold in Krishna

  the source of everything that’s valuable.

  As Mount Meru is the greatest mountain,

  as the eagle is the lord of birds,

  as the ocean is deepest among waters,

  so is Krishna foremost among beings

  in all the worlds, past, present and to come.

  Good people everywhere pay tribute to him.

  Contained within him is the universe,

  its origins, its being and its end.

  “The King of Chedi wallows in ignorance

  and sees only the surfaces of things.

  As for those kings he thinks deserve more praise

  than Krishna—they are mere straw effigies.”

  Sahadeva rose to his feet, eyes flashing.

  “If there is any person in this place

  who still disputes Krishna’s entitlement,

  let him speak. I place this foot of mine

  on his dimwitted and unworthy head!

  And if any man desires an early death,

  let him challenge Krishna to a duel.”

  There was a furious muttering in the hall,

  a stirring and billowing, like an angry sea.

  Many present felt themselves entitled

  to the honor of the first guest-offering.

  The tide was turning against Yudhishthira,

  whose consecration was not yet complete.

  Even now, those present might refuse

  to acquiesce to his imperial rule.

  Shishupala’s copper-red eyes flashed

  in anger. “Bhishma, you’re a senile fool.

  How can the Bharatas respect your views

  when you have shied away from a man’s life?

  Celibate, whether it’s from impotence

  or poor judgment, you have done great harm.

  By abducting Amba and refusing

  to marry her, you ruined that girl’s chances.

  You caused the blighted lives of your own kin

  when you would not sire sons by your brothers’ wives.

  “Old, unworthy wretch—you only remember

  what’s convenient. This Krishna here,

  this crook, has grossly violated dharma.

  What about my friend Jarasandha,

  who never wanted war, yet Krishna killed him?

  What about my intended bride, Rukmini,

  whom Krishna stole?”

  Bhishma exclaimed, “For sure

  this foolish man has been marked out by fate

  for destruction!” Bhima, incandescent

  with rage, was about to fall on Shishupala

  but Bhishma held him back. Shishupala

  laughed, “Let him go, Bhishma, let these kings

  see him destroyed by the fire of my majesty,

  like a foolish moth flying into flame.”

  All this time, Krishna had sat serenely,

  saying nothing, paying great attention.

  But now he spoke, and not to Shishupala

  but to the assembled kings. He told the story

  quietly, simply, of how the Pandavas

  had freed imprisoned kings from the dank dungeons

  of Jarasandha. He told them of the times

  Shishupala had offended him, and how,

  on each occasion, he had spared his life

  to honor a promise given long ago

  to Shishupala’s mother, Krishna’s aunt.

  The listening kings started to change allegiance.

  Krishna described Shishupala’s many acts

  of cruelty. “And as for Rukmini—

  she spurned him. This man could no more hope

  to win her than a shudra can aspire

  to hear a recitation of the Vedas.

  Today, he has insulted me in public,

  before you all. Today, there will be no pardon.”

  Shishupala jeered, “Do as you like—

  pardon me, or not. What harm can you do?”

  With that, the glimmering and deadly discus

  given by Varuna, the god of waters,

  appeared in Krishna’s fingers. Instantly,

  the Bull of Chedi’s massive, angry head

  was sliced clean from his shoulders, and he fell

  like a great tree struck by a thunderbolt.

  A radiance arose from the dead king,

  enveloped Krishna and entered his body.

  All were awestruck. The sky which, up to then,

  had been blue and cloudless grew menacing,

  black clouds massed overhead, and violent rain

  pelted the awnings over the kings’ heads.

  Not everybody present, by any means,

  was convinced that justice had been done

  but they kept silent. Funerary rites

  were solemnly performed for Shishupala.

  The sacrificial fires were still blazing

  and now, at last, the imperial consecration

  could be completed. As the lustral water

  was poured in a silver stream over his head

  Yudhishthira became the king of kings.

  Soon afterward, the guests began to leave

  to go back to their kingdoms. Krishna, too,

  to the sorrow of the Pandavas, prepared

  to set off on the road to Dvaraka.

  But as he left he said to Yudhishthira,

  “Lord of the earth, you should protect your people.

  They depend on you as everything that lives

  depends on rain, as the immortal gods

  rely on Indra of the thousand eyes.”

  The cousins solemnly embraced each other.

  The seers presented themselves at the palace

  to take their leave. Yudhishthira was worried;

  the strange weather that had accompanied

  Shishupala’s death—what did it mean?

  Had it been a blessing, or a warning?

  And if it was a warning, had the danger

  been dispelled by the king of Chedi’s death?

  Vyasa said, “The freakish sky and downpour

  were portents of enormous consequences.

  For thirteen years, O king, life will be hard,

  and when that time is up, a cataclysm

  —a war the like of which was never seen—

  will bring destruction to the kshatriyas.

  Duryodhana’s sins will generate this war

  with you, Yudhishthira, as the occasion.

  It is ordained. No action on your part

  can divert the steady flow of time.

  You can only bear it.” And Vyasa

  said farewell, and set out with his disciples

  for his hermitage.

  King Yudhishthira

  was overcome with horror. His first impulse,

  if he was to be the harbinger of death

  to the kshatriya order, was to kill himself.

  But Arjuna dissuaded him, advising

  fortitude. “Then,” said Yudhishthira,

  “since dissension is the cause of war,

  I vow that, for the next thirteen years,

  I shall practice virtue, rul
ing impartially,

  so there can be no dispute, in word or deed,

  between myself and any other person.”

  The guests had left. Only Duryodhana

  and his uncle, Shakuni, stayed longer,

  so they could examine the many marvels

  of Maya’s great hall, now that the crowds were gone.

  Their cousins showed them round, and what amazing

  craftsmanship and beauty met their eyes

  at every turn. But it seemed Duryodhana

  was half blinded by his passionate envy,

  seeing what was not there, not seeing what was.

  He bumped his head on walls he thought were doors,

  lifted his robes to pass over a rill

  that turned out to be crystal paving, plunged

  into a deep pool he took for crystal,

  tumbled through arches, thinking them painted walls.

  The servants were beside themselves with laughter,

  nor could the Pandavas suppress their mirth—

  except Yudhishthira, who had the servants

  bring fine, dry clothes for Duryodhana.

  Sick with humiliation, the Kaurava

  managed to conceal his misery,

  but could not bear to stay another hour.

  He and Shakuni climbed into their chariot

  and fled from hated Indraprastha.

  16.

  DURYODHANA’S DESPAIR

  As they traveled, Duryodhana kept

  a baleful silence, sighing frequently

  and growling to himself. “Best of Kauravas,

  why are you sighing?” asked Shakuni at last.

  Pale and haggard, Duryodhana groaned,

  “Oh, uncle, I keep seeing that great hall,

  my cousin’s treasury, bursting with wealth.

  And all five brothers rich in the attentions

  of radiantly lovely Draupadi—

  more beautiful than any other woman.

  And that sacrifice, fit for the immortals!

  I burn with jealousy—I’m like a river

  scorched dry by summer sun. And Shishupala!

  What Krishna did was unforgivable

  and no one had the courage to object—

  those craven kings, cowed by the Pandavas,

  only bit their lips and kept their seats.

  “Thinking of Yudhishthira ensconced

  as emperor of the earth, the sons of Pandu

  wallowing in wealth, is agony.

  I cannot bear to live! I shall take poison,

  or drown myself, or set myself on fire!”

  And Duryodhana sank to the chariot floor

  in dark despair.

  “Come now,” said Shakuni,

  “the sons of Kunti deserve prosperity;

  the wealth their father left to them has been

  increased through their own energy and skill.

  And they enjoy good fortune—think of the times

  you tried to finish them, yet they survived.

  The gods are on their side—jealousy’s useless.

  Accept things as they are.”

  “Impossible!”

  cried Duryodhana. “What man worth the name

  who sees his enemies enjoy such splendor,

  holding imperial sway over half the world—

  what man, knowing that such huge success

  is beyond his reach, would not despair?

  Seeing that success, remembering

  how I tried to erase them from the earth,

  I know that effort’s fruitless. Fate is supreme.”

  As soon as he arrived in Hastinapura,

  Duryodhana rushed to his apartments.

  His silks, brocades, the jeweled necklaces,

  chests designed by the most gifted craftsmen

  inlaid with ivory and precious stones

  seemed insufficient now. If they could not be

  more splendid than the riches of the Pandavas,

  more voluptuous, colored more vibrantly,

  then everything he owned was worse than worthless.

  Was there some detail of his cousin’s court,

  anything in the chambers, cloisters, galleries

  he could despise? Some detail cheaply made?

  Some carelessness? Some error of proportion?

  There was nothing. Everything possessed

  by the Pandavas seemed to him perfection.

  They owned the world—all that was of value,

  all joy, all goodness. What he had was nothing.

  He thought of the fire trap he had laid for them

  at Varanavata—how had they escaped?

  And then, when the kingdom was divided,

  and they consigned to a wilderness of thorns,

  had he not crushed them? No—they had sprung up

  stronger, converted setback into triumph,

  his triumph into sharp humiliation.

  He ground his teeth to think how gleefully

  they must be gloating. He writhed, remembering

  how everyone had laughed—Bhima, Draupadi

  and her women, speechless with amusement,

  his cousins’ servants doubled up with laughter—

  when he fell into the pool he thought was fake,

  and teetered round the crystal marquetry

  he’d taken for a pool of lotuses.

  Shakuni sought him out, and was dismayed

  to see his nephew red-eyed, pale, as if

  some parasite was gnawing him within.

  “Uncle,” he whispered, “I am sick with sorrow.

  I think of nothing but the Pandavas

  and how they block my path to happiness.

  Until they’re crushed, I have only death in life.

  The whole world has flocked to honor them;

  I am alone, with no one to support me.”

  His uncle tried to comfort him. “My dear,

  your position is not so terrible.

  You say you are alone, bereft of allies,

  but you forget your brothers and your friends—

  I myself, with all my kin, Drona,

  Ashvatthaman, Karna . . . I could go on.”

  “You are right!” exclaimed Duryodhana.

  “All these men are powerful warriors.

  Together we can march on Indraprastha

  and defeat my cousins. Then I myself

  shall become the emperor of the earth

  and possess that great assembly hall!”

  “War would be foolishness,” said Shakuni.

  “You’ve seen their countless legions. And not only

  do they have numerous and powerful allies,

  but Krishna is on their side. Even the gods

  would hesitate to fight the Pandavas.

  But in any case, don’t let them trouble you.

  They’ve laid no claim to your half of the kingdom.

  Why not forget them? Just enjoy your life.”

  “They won’t let me do that. My bitter hatred

  pierces and chokes me every waking minute.

  Night and day, I hear them laughing at me.

  My one goal is to send them to their deaths.

  I’d rather die fighting than live like this,

  skulking like a pauper, while they flourish.”

  “Nephew, I understand,” said Shakuni.

  “There is a way for you to have revenge,

  but cleverness and guile are the best tactic,

  not unsubtle force. Let Dhritarashtra

  invite Yudhishthira to the traditional

  game of dice. I’ll play on your behalf.

  No worse gambler exists than Yudhishthira—

  he’s far too honest, transparent as a child—

  yet he loves to play. I, on the other hand,

  have never lost a game—my skill at dice

  is widely known. I promise I will win

  his wealth from him.”

  A widening chink of hope<
br />
  lit up the dark heart of Duryodhana.

  He saw the possibility of stripping

  the Pandavas of everything they owned,

  grinding their faces in the dirt. But first

  his father must be talked to and persuaded;

  the invitation must come from the king.

  “How did that fateful dice game come about?”

  asked King Janamejaya. “That dicing match

  was the root cause of dreadful tragedy.

  How was it allowed to happen? Tell me

  in detail.”

  Vaishampayana proceeded

  to describe the events as they unfolded.

  When Dhritarashtra learned of the proposal

  from Shakuni, he was, as usual, doubtful,

  but also wracked with sorrow for his son

  whose voice he could hear cracking with distress;

  whose trembling and emaciated body

  he felt under his hands when he embraced him.

  He hesitated.

  “Oh! What kind of father,”

  cried Duryodhana, “won’t agree at once

  to do something so simple for his son.

  I’m burning, Father, tortured by desire.

  Envy twists my entrails—the Pandavas

  have made us look like beggarly provincials.

  I’ve seen their heaven-made city, Indraprastha,

  I’ve seen their treasuries, engorged with gold

  exceeding every dream—tribute from Sind,

  from Kashmir, from Kalinga, sumptuous gifts

  from far-flung countries—China, Scythia . . .

  the jewels, the splendid horses—I can’t bear it.

  And the consecration—beyond imagining!

  The greatest kings, the fiercest and most valiant,

  who adhere most strictly to sacred vows,

  who are learned in the Vedas, who practice

  all the correct sacrifices—all these,

  like merchants queuing up to pay their taxes,

  made their obeisance to Yudhishthira.

  The most holy rishis were in attendance,

  uttering mantras, praying to the gods

  for blessings on Yudhishthira. And then

  there was the silk parasol, the peacock fan,

  there was the great conch of Varuna,

  fashioned in the workshops of the gods,

  which Krishna used to scoop up sacred water

  and anoint Yudhishthira, to seal the rites.

  At that sight, I fainted.

  “Father, Yudhishthira

  has had himself raised up to the position

  of the legendary Harishchandra.

  Seeing this, I have no will to live.”

  Shakuni spoke up. “Illustrious king,

  I urge you to accept this plan of mine.

  It is a way to take wealth from the Pandavas