Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  but he softened when he saw the Pandavas.

  “Bharata,” he said to Yudhishthira,

  “you should keep this brother of yours in check.”

  “Oh, son of Kunti,” exclaimed the Dharma King

  in dismay, “this violence is uncalled for.

  If you love me, never do this again.”

  “Tell me more,” said King Janamejaya,

  “about the Pandavas’ long years of exile.

  Whom did they encounter on their travels?

  How did Bhima curb his restlessness?

  And Arjuna’s return? Tell me the details.”

  Vaishampayana took up the story:

  For some time, the Pandavas dwelled happily

  in the mountains. They moved from hermitage

  to hermitage, and were welcomed everywhere.

  Then they settled on Mount Gandhamadana

  where they waited for Arjuna’s return.

  The mountains offered so much natural beauty.

  They took delight in plants they had never seen,

  fruit-bearing trees, interlaced with vines,

  flowers of vivid colors. Limpid lakes

  reflected the passing clouds. Every morning,

  they awoke to an aubade of birdsong,

  while, all around, tame creatures played and grazed.

  Even Bhima put aside his weapons

  and enjoyed the peace and the pure air.

  But for the pain of missing Arjuna,

  their contentment would have been complete.

  Then, one day, they saw a distant object

  flashing, shimmering across the sky,

  coming closer . . . it was a grand chariot

  driven by Matali, Indra’s charioteer,

  and in it, standing, crowned with a diadem

  and holding weapons glittering in the sun—

  Arjuna! Soon, following close behind,

  Indra himself arrived. Yudhishthira

  paid him homage and received his blessing,

  then the god left.

  It may be imagined

  with what joy, with what unending questions,

  the Pandavas received the beloved hero.

  As if they could wipe out the separation,

  they wanted him to tell them every detail

  of his quest, and his stay in Indra’s realm.

  For many days, under the shala trees,

  for many nights, seated beneath the stars,

  he told them all that had befallen him.

  “And what was it that Indra asked of you

  in return for weapons?” asked Nakula.

  “He asked me to do battle with his enemies,

  demons called the Nivatakavachas,

  numbering many millions. They had their home

  in a well-defended spot beside the ocean.

  Their city was most beautiful for, once,

  it had belonged to the chief of gods himself.

  He had been driven out by the demons.

  Long before, they had acquired a boon:

  that the gods would never conquer them.

  That was why the powerful Indra sent me,

  a human, to wage war on the gods’ behalf.

  He gave me impenetrable armor,

  and I was well supplied with all the weapons

  I had learned from him. Matali drove me

  in Indra’s chariot to the demons’ stronghold.

  “As we approached, I blew my divine conch

  Devadatta, and the demons streamed

  out of their city, thousands upon thousands,

  making an ear-shattering din, screaming,

  storming toward us, armed with spikes and clubs.

  I cut them down with my bow Gandiva,

  while, with miraculous skill, Matali

  swiftly maneuvered the great chariot,

  guiding the hundreds of superb bay horses

  so they moved as one. Thousands of demons

  fell, their severed limbs streaming with blood.

  Then they used their powers of wizardry,

  creating rain in torrents, showers of rocks,

  breath-stopping wind, a darkness so profound

  we were quite blinded. Matali fell forward

  and seemed to become confused. ‘Surely,’ he cried,

  ‘the end of the world has come—I have never

  lost my wits before, though I have witnessed

  the most furious battles ever fought.’

  I was gripped by fear myself but, rallying,

  I reassured Matali, then summoned

  my own powerful weapons. At one point,

  when I was almost overcome with terror,

  Matali shouted, ‘Use the Brahma’s Head!’

  So I invoked that most extreme of weapons

  and managed to defeat the demon hordes.

  Matali told me, ‘Not even the gods

  could have fought as well as you, son of Indra.’

  “Soon after we had returned to Indra’s realm,

  my father crowned me with this diadem.

  Then he told me it was time to leave

  since you were waiting for me—and with what joy

  I am now reunited with those I love!”

  The next day Yudhishthira asked Arjuna

  to demonstrate the weapons he had used

  to conquer the Nivatakavachas.

  Arjuna prepared himself, intending

  to call up the deadly missiles, one by one.

  But hardly had he begun when the ground shook,

  the sky grew dull, and everything around

  turned icy gray. The Pandavas, appalled,

  trembled and covered their faces with their hands.

  Then, sent by the gods, the seer Narada

  and other seers appeared, with serious faces.

  Narada spoke in a voice like thunder,

  “Arjuna, you must never do that again.

  Those weapons must never be used casually,

  on an inappropriate target—or even

  one that is suitable, when you could use

  some other method to achieve your goal.

  Always remember—those missiles, wrongly used,

  could mean destruction for the universe.”

  For four more years, the Pandavas lived in peace

  in the mountains. Now ten years had passed

  since their exile had begun. And now Bhima

  was once again pressing Yudhishthira.

  “We have a task—we should get on with it,”

  he complained, as always craving action.

  “No question—we will definitely win!”

  But Yudhishthira refused as, no doubt,

  Bhima knew he would. Nevertheless,

  the eldest Pandava saw the time had come

  for them to journey to the plain below

  in readiness for the fight that lay ahead.

  Before leaving high Gandhamadana,

  Yudhishthira toured the streams, crags and copses

  he had come to love. He looked upward.

  “I leave you now,” he said to the silent mountain,

  “but when we have regained our stolen kingdom,

  I shall return to you, as a penitent.”

  The time had come for Lomasha to leave them,

  to return to his home in the heavenly realms.

  Then, with Ghatotkacha carrying them,

  they started their slow descent. Often they camped

  for several months in some delightful valley

  or mountain ridge. Coming to the foothills,

  they dismissed Ghatotkacha and his companions.

  The terrain would be easier from now on.

  One day, Bhima, who never could stay still,

  set off into the woods in search of game.

  Rounding a bend, he came upon a snake

  larger than any he had ever seen,

  yellow as turmeric, with fiery eyes

  and fangs that glistened
in its hungry jaws.

  It seized him in its coils and, though he struggled

  with superhuman strength, he could not move.

  “Who are you?” he asked the snake, “and how can you

  render me helpless as an infant—I,

  stronger by far than any mortal man?”

  “I am your ancestor Nahusha, doomed

  to live as a snake, starving perpetually,

  cursed for my woeful disrespect for brahmins.

  The curse will only lift when someone answers

  the precise questions I shall put to him.

  Until that day, I satisfy my hunger

  by eating anything I catch—and now,

  I shall eat you.”

  Wolf-belly replied,

  “I don’t blame you. We all have to do

  as destiny dictates. But I sorely grieve

  for my brothers—without my fighting prowess,

  how will they defeat the Kauravas?

  And how will my poor mother bear my loss?”

  Back at the hermitage, Yudhishthira

  noticed disturbing portents. A jackal howled

  repeatedly, the southern sky grew red

  and a one-footed quail of evil aspect

  spat blood, screeching as if in urgent warning.

  “Caw! Caw! Go! Go!” shouted a dusky crow.

  Yudhishthira, with Dhaumya, the priest,

  ran off in search of Bhima. It was not hard

  to follow the trail of footprints and smashed trees

  where Wolf-belly had passed. They came across him

  still pinioned by the snake, and he told them

  all that had happened. “Dharma King,” said the snake,

  “your brother is my next meal. Nevertheless,

  if you can answer my questions correctly

  he shall go free.”

  “Ask,” said Yudhishthira.

  “First, who is a brahmin?” asked the snake.

  “Brahmins are those who live by truthfulness,

  compassion, generosity, self-control,”

  replied Yudhishthira, “those who may attain

  knowledge of the supreme Brahman, passing

  beyond happiness and unhappiness.”

  “The qualities you mention,” said the snake,

  “are found even in shudras. Are you saying

  brahmins are brahmins not because of birth

  but by virtue of their good behavior?

  As for a state that somehow goes beyond

  sorrow and joy—I doubt that it exists.”

  “It is like cold and heat,” answered Yudhishthira.

  “They are extremes, but there are many states

  between, when we feel neither hot nor cold.

  A person’s parentage cannot be known

  for certain, therefore it is by their conduct

  that we should judge a person’s brahminhood.”

  “What you say is true,” replied the snake,

  “and conduct must be judged by its effects.

  You have answered well. I hardly think

  that I could make a meal of your brother now.”

  He released Bhima, and Yudhishthira

  continued his conversation with the snake

  until Nahusha said, “My curse is lifted!

  Before, I rode round heaven like a god,

  full of pride, drunk with my own importance,

  forcing brahmins to pay homage to me.

  Now I understand the power of virtue.”

  Saying that, he shed his serpent body

  and, acquiring a celestial form,

  went up to heaven.

  You may well imagine

  with what relief Bhima was welcomed back,

  although the brahmins, anxious for his welfare,

  rebuked him for his rashness, and exhorted him

  never, ever, to take such risks again.

  23.

  DURYODHANA’S MISTAKE

  The long exile entered its twelfth year,

  the last in the wilderness. It was the time

  of the monsoon, when scorching sun gives way

  to bank upon bank of dense, black thunderclouds,

  rumbling, clashing, disgorging rain in torrents

  to drench the grateful earth. All living beings

  feel themselves newborn, and leap, run, fly

  more vigorously, according to their natures.

  Delighting in the freshness of the earth,

  the Pandavas rejoiced to see the lakes

  full to the brim with clear and sparkling water,

  and fringed with brightly colored water-plants.

  Krishna visited them, with Satyabhama,

  his chief wife, and, joyfully, the cousins

  embraced each other after so long apart.

  “Who else but you, Yudhishthira,” said Krishna,

  “could have endured your loss so patiently,

  keeping to the terms of your cruel exile

  despite temptation. But now, friend, the time

  is rapidly approaching when your promise

  will be fulfilled, and then, O Dharma King,

  we shall see your kingdom restored to you!”

  Markandeya, the revered ascetic,

  arrived just then to see them. Yudhishthira

  urged him to speak of the nature of existence,

  of humankind’s relation to the gods,

  and how it happens that a person’s actions

  influence their subsequent rebirth.

  The sage spoke to them of the law of karma,

  how, when people die, and they are reborn

  in another womb, their previous acts

  stick to them like a shadow, and determine

  whether their next life will be fortunate.

  Markandeya told them many stories

  from his wealth of knowledge of all the worlds,

  and the eldest Pandava, who loved to learn,

  sat at his feet. “Tell me the tale,” he said,

  “of the seer Manu and the enormous fish.”

  “

  MANU WAS A great and holy seer,” began Markandeya. “His austerities were unparalleled. For ten thousand years, he stood on one foot, arms raised above his bowed head, beside the famous jujube tree on the bank of the river Virini. One day, a small fish swam up and spoke to him.

  “‘My lord,’ it said, ‘I am constantly terrified of being eaten by a bigger fish, for that is the way of things in this world, since time immemorial. Please protect me, and I promise that I will reward you.’

  “Manu was filled with compassion. He scooped up the little fish and placed it in a jar of water, where he looked after it as though it were his own child. In time, the fish grew too big for the jar, and Manu took it to a pond and threw it in. In time, it grew so big that it could hardly turn without bumping into the sides of the pond, and it begged Manu to take it to the river Ganga, which he did. There, the fish kept growing, until a time came when Manu had to take it to the ocean and release it there.

  “‘My lord,’ said the fish, ‘you have cared for me, and I am grateful to you. Here is some good advice: soon the world will be overwhelmed by a mighty flood, and everything that stands will be destroyed. You should build a sturdy and capacious boat and attach a strong rope to its prow. Then, you must collect the seeds of all the different species in the world and take them aboard the boat, together with the seven wisest rishis. Then wait for me. I shall appear to you as a horned animal.’

  “Manu did as he was told. Then the fish appeared with a great horn on its head, and Manu made a loop in the rope and fastened it around the horn. The fish set off at great speed over the billowing and roaring ocean, the boat tossed and danced like a drunken whore, and never did they see a speck of land. Water covered the entire earth. After many years, the fish approached the highest peak of the Himalaya, and there Manu moored the boat. To this day, that peak is called Naubandhana, the harbor.

  “Then the f
ish revealed itself as Brahma, lord of beings, and he decreed that Manu should create anew all the creatures that had perished in the flood. And so it happened.”

  “Great muni, you have lived through a thousand ages,”

  said Yudhishthira, “and witnessed huge events.

  You have seen worlds destroyed and re-created.

  Please describe how the ages arise and pass,

  how they succeed each other in a cycle.”

  “I shall do so,” replied Markandeya,

  “but first I bow to the Supreme Person,

  Krishna, the self-created.

  “At the beginning,

  in the era known as the Krita age,

  human beings mingle with the gods,

  moving from earth to heaven as they wish.

  They live long lives, pain-free, harmonious,

  their every action shaped by righteousness.

  But, in time, people become corrupted;

  lust arises, and corrosive envy.

  Their lives grow short and full of misery,

  they fight among themselves, beset by anger;

  the gods desert them. Virtue is diminished

  by one quarter. That is the Treta age,

  which is said to last for three thousand years.

  That gives way to the Dvapara age.

  Now vice and virtue are mixed half and half.

  “Last is the Kali age, a dreadful time

  when every kind of evil stalks the earth.

  All sense of the sacred fades away.

  Vedas are treated with indifference

  as people think of nothing but possessions

  and make no offerings to their ancestors.

  Social differences are swept aside,

  brahmins and shudras doing each other’s work.

  Greed is universal, with no respect

  for morality, or for the natural world.

  Sons kill fathers, women butcher husbands.

  There is drought, famine, pestilence and death

  —until the Krita age comes round again.

  “Once, after the end of a Kali age,

  in a desolate time between ages,

  wandering the earth, and finding nothing

  that moved or breathed, only a waste of water,

  I came across a towering banyan tree.

  On a branch, a tiny child was sitting,

  round-faced, radiant and lotus-eyed.

  He spoke to me: ‘My friend Markandeya,

  I know you are very tired. Rest in me,

  enter my body and I shall make space for you.’

  He opened his mouth wide, and I found myself

  entering it, and suddenly I saw

  a world spread out before me—kingdoms, cities,

  oceans, rivers alive with gleaming fish,