Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  and I cannot bear to see him suffer.”

  “I understand,” said Vyasa. “It is well known

  that nothing is more important than one’s son.

  You, Pandu, Vidura and all your sons

  are dear to me. And yet the Pandavas

  touch my heart most, as they are most afflicted.”

  Knowing the king’s weakness, how he always

  bent before the will of his eldest son,

  Vyasa summoned the great sage Maitreya

  to speak to Duryodhana and his father.

  Maitreya had been to see the Pandavas

  and, after greeting him appropriately,

  Dhritarashtra asked for news of them.

  “This is a bad business, Dhritarashtra,”

  said the blunt-speaking sage. “It will not do

  that, while you are alive, you let this conflict

  be played out between your sons and nephews.

  A king is the ultimate authority,

  for punishment as well as patronage.

  How is it, then, that you allowed your son

  to organize that catastrophic dice game?

  How could you permit such evil goings-on?”

  He turned to sullen-faced Duryodhana.

  “Listen, son, I speak for your own good.

  Do not offend the blameless Pandavas.

  All of them are devoted to the truth,

  formidable warriors, every one—

  strong as elephants, accomplished fighters.

  Think of how Bhima slew Jarasandha

  and numerous rakshasas—including one

  just recently in the forest, Kirmira.

  Think of Arjuna’s unrivaled prowess

  as an archer; think of their tie with Krishna.

  It is pure foolishness for you to think

  that you can crush the Pandavas. That way

  lies only ignominy, and your own death.”

  While the sage was speaking, Duryodhana

  was looking at the ground with a fixed smile,

  drawing patterns in the dust, as though

  indifferent to what the sage was saying.

  With desperate bravado, he slapped his thigh.

  Maitreya, enraged, cursed him. “Since you treat me

  with such disrespect, that thigh of yours

  will be broken, leading to your death,

  when Bhima fights you in the greatest war

  the earth has ever seen—entirely caused

  by your own wickedness.” Duryodhana,

  despite his defiant manner, felt his heart

  shrivel up in dread. Shaken by hearing

  of Kirmira’s killing, he left the room.

  “May it not happen!” cried the anguished king.

  “Unless your son makes peace, then, without doubt,

  my curse will be fulfilled,” said Maitreya.

  “I never wanted it to be like this,”

  moaned Dhritrashtra, “but who in this world

  can pit their will against fate? Kindly tell me

  how Bhima killed the rakshasa Kirmira.”

  But Maitreya had had enough. “Ask Vidura,

  he’ll tell you,” he snapped. And then departed.

  Later, Vidura told the king the story

  of Bhima’s victory over the ogre

  who had been seeking to avenge his kinsmen,

  Baka and Hidimba. “Once the forest

  was safe, your nephews entered it, and settled.

  I myself, when I went to visit them,

  saw the loathsome body of Kirmira

  sprawled on the path, killed by heroic Bhima.”

  Dhritarashtra sighed in misery

  to think of Bhima’s preternatural strength.

  Krishna visited the exiles’ camp,

  bringing with him several powerful allies:

  warriors from the kingdoms of Panchala

  and Chedi, Bhojas, Vrishnis and Andhakas.

  All were filled with rage at what had happened.

  Never had the brothers witnessed Krishna

  so angry, fire blazing in his black eyes.

  “Duryodhana, Shakuni and their cronies

  are villains! Here are you and Draupadi

  condemned to vegetate, year after year,

  in rustic poverty, dull, isolated,

  deprived of every comfort you have fought for

  and deserve. Be assured—the thirsty earth

  will drink their blood! They will not prevail.”

  To calm his cousin’s rage, Arjuna said,

  “Krishna, your sojourn in this world has been

  a chronicle of most amazing feats.”

  And, at length, in the presence of everyone

  gathered there in the forest encampment,

  Arjuna, perfect kshatriya, recited

  Krishna’s history since the dawn of time:

  his fundamental being as Lord Vishnu,

  and all his incarnations up to now,

  acting to protect the world from harm.

  “We are one being, you and I,” said Krishna.

  “Anyone who hates you hates me; your people

  are my people too. You are Nara,

  I, Narayana, come from another world

  for the good of this one. I am you.

  You are me, Arjuna. There is no difference.”

  The lovely Draupadi addressed Krishna,

  tears streaming down like rain onto her breasts.

  “Krishna, you are the supreme person,

  lord of the world. You know everything that is

  and all that is to come. Tell me—how could I,

  the most devoted wife, mother, sister,

  be dragged from my seclusion by the hair

  in front of that assembly, wearing only

  one bloodstained garment, and treated like a slave?

  The vile Duhshasana insulted me

  as no woman should be insulted—still less

  one born, as I was, to a royal line.

  “Had I no husbands? Even a feeble husband

  protects his wife. That is the way of dharma.

  And yet the Dharma King and his valiant brothers

  sat watching this, motionless and silent

  like effigies, while the mother of their sons

  was vilely savaged. Even the worthy elders

  sat silent, shuffling in their splendid seats.

  I despise these men. I have contempt

  for skill, heroic strength, for marvelous weapons

  that yet allow evil Duryodhana

  to live and breathe unpunished, unrepentant.

  I won’t forgive it. I was not born for this!

  I have no husbands if my humiliation

  goes unavenged!”

  Krishna said to her,

  “Blameless Draupadi, I make this promise:

  you will be queen again. And you will witness

  the Kaurava wives shrieking with grief to see

  their husbands’ corpses sprawled on the battlefield,

  cloaked in blood, slain by the Pandavas.

  “I wish I had been in that gaming hall!

  I never would have held my tongue, as Bhishma

  and Drona did, to their eternal shame.

  I would have given clear counsel to the king

  and, if he persisted, I would have pressed him

  to call off the dicing, even to the point

  of force if necessary. That dreadful game—

  which was no game at all, but perfidy—

  brings deferred disaster on the Kauravas,

  as well as deprivation upon you.”

  Yudhishthira inquired, “How was it, Krishna,

  that you were absent from the gambling match?”

  “I heard too late about it,” replied Krishna.

  “I was caught up in a desperate fight

  with Shalva, the demonic king of Saubha.

  He’d heard about the death of Shishupala

  who
was his brother, and was mad with rage.

  While I was still with you at Indraprastha,

  he struck Dvaraka from his airborne city

  which can travel anywhere, and flattened it.

  He destroyed dwellings, wrecked verdant parks,

  and killed many brave young Vrishni warriors

  before he realized I was not at home.

  When I got back and saw the devastation

  I went in search of him, and found his city

  hovering over the ocean. I attacked,

  and a bitter fight followed. He mobilized

  his powers of illusion to confuse me.

  At one point, I saw my beloved father

  being flung out of the flying city,

  hurtling to earth like a stricken bird,

  his arms and legs flailing. I was appalled

  until I realized this was wizardry.

  “My charioteer, Daruka, though wounded,

  urged me on, and I rallied my army,

  mounting an assault with renewed resolve.

  The short of it is—I defeated Shalva.

  I took my shining bow, aimed it upward,

  and cut the heads of Shalva’s men clean off.

  He pelted me with rocks until I was

  submerged under a mountainous pile of stones.

  My troops became despondent, but I raised

  my thunderbolt and pulverized the rocks.

  “Taking my discus, uttering a mantra,

  I hurled it at Saubha, cutting it in two,

  and the flying city fell to earth. Again

  I raised my discus, aiming now at Shalva,

  and sliced him through. The demon was no more.

  I razed the city. Then I traveled home

  and only then did I receive the news

  of the dire events at Hastinapura.”

  Soon the time came for sad leave-taking.

  Krishna departed, taking Abhimanyu,

  and Dhrishtadyumna took Draupadi’s children

  back with him to his city of Panchala.

  Yudhishthira proposed a change of scene.

  Arjuna suggested Dvaitavana,

  known as a holy and auspicious site.

  20.

  DISCORD

  Lake Dvaitavana was indeed delightful,

  bordered with bright flowers and graceful trees

  pendulous with many types of mango

  and other fruits. Birds sang among the leaves

  of the tall palm, arrac and shala trees—

  flocks of doves, linnets and forest cuckoos.

  Deer and game were plentiful.

  The Pandavas

  made their home there, together with the brahmins,

  who had brought their sacrificial fires,

  and all the ritual objects necessary

  for pious observance.

  The sage Markandeya,

  passing on his way to the Himalaya,

  smiled to see Yudhishthira and his brothers

  living as forest dwellers, like Prince Rama,

  his wife, Sita, and his brother, Lakshmana.

  He knew inaction could be hard to bear

  and counseled patience. “Wait, Yudhishthira,

  do not be tempted to depart from dharma

  and wage war on the Kauravas too soon.

  Keep your promise, tolerate your exile

  and you will retrieve your fortune in the end.”

  Time passed by. Yudhishthira was content.

  A life stripped of pomp and ceremony,

  of luxury, of complex affairs of state,

  was the life his introspective nature

  welcomed. He had been an excellent ruler—

  firm, judicious, capable and fair—

  and would be again, but these were years

  when he delighted in simplicity,

  practiced meditation, learned all he could

  from the rishis whose ashrams in the forest

  were a haven for him. He took refuge

  in the Vedas, and in their wider vision

  that lifted his attention from the sorrow

  of his current plight.

  But not everyone

  was at peace. Draupadi was restless.

  Rage and grief gnawed at her constantly

  until, one evening, she could not keep silent.

  “Oh, Yudhishthira, it breaks my heart

  to see you like this, living a hermit’s life

  when you should be the all-powerful ruler

  of Bharatavarsha. I remember you

  on your jeweled throne, dressed in rich silk;

  now you are wearing garments made of bark.

  Once, your skin was fragrant with sandalwood,

  and now it is rough, crusty with mud and ash.

  “Now no bard sings of your accomplishments.

  Have you forgotten who you are? How can you

  happily spend time examining

  the finer points of scripture with the brahmins,

  performing pujas morning, noon and night?

  You’re a kshatriya! So are your brave brothers.

  Bhima, whose every sinew longs for battle,

  who used to be so vigorous and playful,

  now droops, despondent. Why, Yudhishthira,

  does that not make you angry? Arjuna,

  outstanding archer, who could conquer worlds

  with his two arms, now sits in idle thought.

  Why does the sight of him not rouse your rage?

  Tall Nakula, spirited Sahadeva,

  accomplished sons of Madri, waste their talents

  on chasing birds and shooting animals.

  You see me, daughter of a distinguished line,

  living like a peasant! Best of Bharatas,

  why does all this grief not make you furious?

  “Patience may come easily to you

  but not to them, and certainly not to me.

  We all crave revenge. Have you forgotten

  how you were led into a trap, and tricked

  so easily? How, then, can you be patient?

  “You may be sure that wicked Duryodhana

  and his friends take pleasure every day

  in contemplating our humiliation.

  Do they not deserve harsh punishment?

  Don’t you remember how Duryodhana

  and his vile brother grossly insulted me?

  Only Shakuni and cruel Karna

  in that whole assembly did not weep

  for shame and pity! Why are you not enraged?

  It is said there is no kshatriya

  who lacks anger. You are the exception!

  You seem to have banished anger from your heart,

  but the whole world despises a kshatriya

  who buckles under insults such as these

  without wrath, lacking determination

  to strike with the rod of punishment

  those who behave wrongfully toward him—

  as is required by kshatriya dharma.

  “A kshatriya who allows his enemies

  to rejoice in the fruits of their wickedness

  is reviled throughout the earth, and rightly so.

  Every day, I relive those abuses

  and boil to think of how the Kauravas

  are reveling in luxury and joy

  while we, for want of proper fighting spirit,

  live out our days wandering among the trees!

  “There is a time for patience in this life

  and a time for wrath—surely, if ever

  anger should guide your actions, it is now!”

  Yudhishthira replied, “Oh, Draupadi,

  best of wives, I understand your fury.

  But do not think there’s nothing on my mind

  but prayer and philosophy. Yes, it is true

  I love to sit with the rishis—they can see

  beyond this forest, beyond this life, even.

  They have their gaze fixed on eternity

&nbs
p; and that helps me achieve a kind of peace

  when otherwise I would be overwhelmed

  by grief and guilt. I too relive those hours

  when I lost everything. I’m keenly aware

  of how you suffer now, and how my brothers

  waste their manhood here.

  “But, Draupadi,

  as the wise know, sinful acts arise

  from overhasty rushing to revenge.

  One who is wronged and who responds with anger

  is prone to bad judgment, liable to act

  impulsively. Good rarely comes of it.

  If every person with a sense of grievance

  struck back immediately, where would it end?

  Unceasing death inflicted, death returned.

  An endless round of blow and counter-blow

  allows for no reflection or repentance

  and only leads to sorrow upon sorrow.

  A peaceful world is founded upon patience

  and only when a kingdom is at peace

  can children flourish, cows grow fat, and farmers

  plant seeds with confidence, watch their crops grow,

  and gather a rich harvest.

  “I believe

  that forbearance is the strength of the strong.

  One who is forbearing retains power.

  Anger is not strength but, rather, weakness;

  it is not the same as authority.

  True, I was entrapped, but it was my madness

  that lost us every precious thing we owned.

  I knew the terms. I played. I lost the game

  and agreed to these years of banishment.

  If now I were to go back on my word,

  I would be as sinful as the Kauravas.”

  “I think the Almighty has addled you!”

  retorted Draupadi. “Rather than follow

  the path blazed by your ancestors, your mind

  has veered off on a different tack entirely.

  There is no justice if a man like you—

  the very soul of dharma—can encounter

  such misfortune. Until the dreadful day

  when the passion for gambling possessed you,

  no one was more virtuous than you,

  Yudhishthira. You have always served the gods,

  the brahmins, the ancestors—and yet

  grief is your reward. It makes no sense.

  The Almighty is not like a loving parent

  but, like a child playing with its toys,

  manipulates our limbs, controls the strings

  as though we were wooden puppets. I believe

  there’s no such thing as freedom, no mastery

  over ourselves or anybody else.

  Well, I utterly condemn a God

  who can allow such vile injustices

  as have afflicted us! What can he gain

  by giving fortune to such wicked wretches

  as the Kauravas? If it is true