Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  Returned in triumph to his happy city

  after his victory over the Trigartas,

  Virata was rejoicing with his court

  when he heard that Uttara had ridden out

  to fight the Kauravas—with just the eunuch

  as charioteer. The king was horrified.

  Full of dread, he ordered a pursuit,

  but then messengers arrived, announcing

  that Uttara was safe, the cattle captured,

  the enemy reduced to a shame-faced rout.

  Virata was relieved and overjoyed,

  full of paternal pride in Uttara.

  “Let the whole city be decked out with bunting.

  Let my ministers and other notables,

  together with drummers, singers, dancing girls,

  go out to meet my valiant Uttara!

  And let his sister, with her handmaidens,

  go to welcome home the dancing master.”

  While he waited, the king played Yudhishthira

  at dice. “Just imagine,” said Virata,

  “my son has defeated the mighty Kauravas!”

  “How could he lose, driven by Brihannada?”

  replied the gaming master. Furious,

  the king shouted, “How dare you praise the eunuch

  in the same breath as my son!”

  “I merely know

  that only Brihannada could have taken on

  the powerful Kauravas, and beaten them.”

  Virata, enraged, hurled the heavy dice

  which struck Yudhishthira so that his nose

  began to bleed. He caught the blood in his hand

  and Draupadi, reading his intentions,

  brought a bowl, to catch the falling drops

  before they reached the ground.

  Soon, Uttara

  made his triumphal entry to the city.

  Seeing the gaming master dripping blood,

  and knowing who he really was, he asked

  what had happened. “I struck him,” said his father.

  “When I was praising you, he praised the eunuch.”

  Uttara was aghast. “You have done wrong!

  Please ask his forgiveness, lest the brahmin

  exact a terrible revenge.” Virata

  did so. “I’m not angry,” said Yudhishthira.

  “Cruelty is easy for the powerful.

  But if my blood had fallen on the ground

  you and your kingdom would have been destroyed.”

  “Now, my brave son,” said the king, “I wish to hear

  everything about your great achievement.

  How was your fight with Duryodhana?

  How did you conquer Drona? And great Bhishma?

  Tell me every single blow, in detail.”

  Arjuna and the prince had planned beforehand

  how the victory would be explained.

  “Father,” said Uttara, “it was not I

  who won back our fine cattle from those thieves.

  It was not I who beat the Kauravas.

  All this was done by the son of a god.

  I was fleeing in terror when that god’s son

  stopped me, and took my place on the chariot

  while I drove him. He did everything.

  He sowed panic among the Kauravas.

  It was that hero who won victory

  and crushed our enemies. It was not I.”

  “Where is that glorious warrior,” asked Virata,

  “that god’s son who has saved for me my own son

  and my cattle?”

  “He has disappeared,

  but he will be here in a day or two.”

  With the king’s permission, Brihannada

  presented his daughter, Princess Uttaraa,

  with the clothes captured on the battlefield—

  beautiful and valuable fabrics.

  The princess and her friends laughed in delight.

  Three days later, to the king’s amazement,

  the Pandavas appeared in splendid robes

  and revealed their true identities.

  Draupadi was with them, far outshining

  all the beautiful women of the court.

  Virata could not have been more delighted

  and was most contrite for any insults

  they had received while living at his court.

  He offered Arjuna his daughter’s hand

  in marriage. Arjuna declined with tact.

  “All this year, I’ve lived in close proximity

  to the princess. She has placed her trust in me

  as her teacher, and I have looked on her

  as a daughter. But, to protect her honor,

  may she instead be married to my son,

  strong-armed Abhimanyu, beloved nephew

  of long-haired Krishna?” The king gave glad consent.

  The Pandavas stayed in Virata’s city,

  Upaplavya, and elaborate plans

  for a joyful wedding were set in train.

  Abhimanyu was brought from Dvaraka

  together with his mother, Subhadra.

  Drupada and valiant Dhrishtadyumna,

  Draupadi’s kin, journeyed from Panchala

  with Draupadi’s now tall and stalwart sons.

  Krishna came, of course, with Balarama

  and a great retinue of Yadavas.

  Many allies came from far and near

  to celebrate the Pandavas’ survival,

  and to attend the splendid royal wedding.

  It can be imagined what rejoicing,

  what tears, what laughter, what exchange of news

  were witnessed at the long-delayed reunion

  of all these friends and kinsfolk of the Pandavas.

  For many days, there was no thought of anything

  but happiness, and heartfelt thanks were offered

  to the gods, for their longed-for deliverance.

  V

  THE BOOK OF PERSEVERENCE

  27.

  SUING FOR PEACE, PREPARING FOR WAR

  After the joyful wedding, the Pandavas

  called a council in Virata’s hall.

  Their sons were there, impressive as their fathers,

  as were the kings, Virata and Drupada,

  Krishna and his brother Balarama,

  and many other heroes. The hall glittered

  with their dazzling jewels and fine silk robes.

  No longer was Yudhishthira the quiet,

  patient ascetic of the forest days,

  or even the gaming brahmin of the court.

  Now, his natural authority

  was obvious to all as he sat erect,

  attentive to what Krishna had to say:

  “You all know the history. You remember

  how Shakuni, a skilled and artful player,

  took advantage of Yudhishthira

  and stripped him of his kingdom. You know the terms—

  how the Pandavas had to endure

  thirteen years of exile, now completed.

  Yudhishthira would not claim an inch of land,

  if he thought that claim at all unlawful.

  It’s clear for all to see—he is entitled,

  as Pandu’s heir, and as first-born Bharata,

  to the whole kingdom of the Bharatas.

  Nevertheless, he asks for only half—

  his beautiful domain of Indraprastha.

  Nor does he seek revenge for all the times

  the Kauravas conspired to do him harm.

  “We do not yet know what Duryodhana

  intends. So I propose an ambassador

  be sent from here, someone wise and calm,

  to persuade the Kaurava of the merit

  of Yudhishthira’s claim. He must approach this

  in the most tactful way, not hectoring

  but calmly, clearly laying out the case.”

  Balarama said, “That is important.

  After all, Yudhishthira, in gambling


  all he possessed, took on Shakuni

  whose skill at dice he knew was unsurpassed,

  and he did so of his own free will.

  He lost his wits, and that was his undoing.

  Shakuni was not to blame for that.”

  Krishna’s kinsman Satyaki burst out,

  “How is Yudhishthira responsible

  when he was entrapped? And now Duryodhana

  is pretending that the Pandavas were found

  before their agreed exile had expired.

  Bhishma has told him it is not the case,

  but that’s his bluff, his pretext for retaining

  what rightfully belongs to Yudhishthira.

  He should be taught a lesson! Let sharp arrows

  and spears present the arguments for us

  rather than soft diplomacy.”

  “Quite right.

  Gentleness and tact won’t work with that one!”

  said Drupada. “It’s like trying to reason

  with a balky mule who understands nothing

  except force. We should be drumming up

  as many powerful allies as we can

  before they’re recruited by the Kauravas.

  But there’s no harm in doing things decently—

  I propose that we send my household priest,

  a learned, stately man, to Hastinapura

  as ambassador of King Yudhishthira.”

  Krishna agreed. He emphasized that he

  and Balarama were loyal to both sides,

  related to both as they were, by kinship.

  Then the Yadavas set off for their home.

  Yudhishthira sent out well-chosen envoys

  to the lords of many neighboring kingdoms,

  canvassing their support. And Duryodhana

  did the same. In the weeks that followed

  the whole land was astir with the mustering

  of men—the practiced tread of professionals,

  the bustle of recruiting agents, fanning

  out into the countryside, to snatch

  and cajole men from their fields and herds.

  Animals of war were being assembled—

  beasts of burden, horses, fighting elephants

  trained to charge, trample, wheel in formation.

  As they gathered, the armies—fighting forces

  hundreds of thousands strong—marched to the base camps

  of the protagonists, where they stayed, waiting.

  The earth held its breath, anticipating

  the feast of blood to come.

  Duryodhana,

  hearing that Krishna had gone to Dvaraka,

  hurried there, to ask for his allegiance

  in the coming war. With the same idea,

  Arjuna also went there. They arrived

  at a time of day when Krishna was asleep.

  They waited quietly, Duryodhana

  at his head, and Arjuna at his feet.

  When Krishna woke up, each began to speak.

  “I was here first,” argued Duryodhana.

  “But Arjuna was the first one I saw,”

  said Krishna. “You are both close to me

  and I will give both of you my support

  if it should come to war. I have an army

  of a million men. And I have myself.

  I shall be present on the battlefield

  but I will not fight. You can choose.

  Arjuna, choose first, as you are the younger.”

  Without hesitation, Arjuna

  chose Krishna, by himself, non-combatant.

  “I choose to have you as my charioteer.”

  Duryodhana was exultant. He visited

  Balarama. “Do not ask me to fight,”

  said Krishna’s brother, “I will not take sides

  in a war between noble Bharatas.

  Go, and behave like true kshatriyas.”

  Duryodhana visited Krishna’s kinsman

  Kritavarman, and gained his support.

  Then the Kaurava traveled home, rejoicing.

  With Krishna and Balarama out of action,

  and with Krishna’s army on his side—

  how could he lose!

  “What did you have in mind

  when you chose me, rather than my army?”

  Krishna asked Arjuna when they were alone.

  “I know you could win this war single-handed,”

  said Arjuna, “and so could I. With you

  steering my chariot, we shall gain great glory

  together. Best of men, may we prevail!”

  Shalya, uncle to the younger Pandavas

  (he was their mother’s brother, King of Madra),

  had been expected to weigh in on the side

  of his relatives. And that was his intention.

  But, traveling toward Upaplavya,

  and finding splendid rest-houses on the way

  which he thought Yudhishthira had built for him,

  he declared that he would give a boon

  to his host—but this turned out to be

  Duryodhana, who asked for his allegiance.

  So Shalya arrived at Upaplavya

  seriously embarrassed and contrite.

  “It can’t be helped,” said Yudhishthira calmly.

  “Of course you must keep your word. But, listen,

  when Arjuna and Karna face each other,

  you’ll probably serve as Karna’s charioteer,

  your skill being famous. As you join the fray

  and are in conversation, talk to him

  in such a way that he becomes discouraged;

  try to undermine his fiery zeal.

  I know this is not proper, but please do it

  to protect the Left-handed Archer.”

  Shalya agreed. “You deserve every help

  after the sufferings you have endured—

  though, as we know, even the gods suffer.”

  Other kings were arriving with their armies,

  gigantic forces which, vast as they were,

  merged with the Pandava battalions

  as a stream is swallowed by a mighty ocean—

  Satyaki the Vrishni, Dhrishtaketu

  king of Chedi, the powerful Jayatsena

  of Magadha, and more. Altogether,

  there were seven armies. With their weapons

  primed and polished, glittering in the sun,

  they resembled a threatening thundercloud

  lit by lightning flashes.

  At Hastinapura,

  the city could not house the mass of men

  —even the allied kings and their chief warriors—

  who had arrived to join the Kaurava ranks.

  There were eleven armies altogether.

  The entire terrain between the two rivers

  and beyond was covered with a sprawling

  overspill of tents, a massive camp

  that seethed with furious activity,

  though not yet with a purpose or direction.

  Their field commanders were fully aware

  that they must keep the men well occupied

  or else fighting, drunkenness, debauchery

  and homesickness would start to dissipate

  their fighting ardor.

  For there was still no word

  that war would really happen—the two sides

  were still deliberating. Only the massed

  armies, and the joyful gallimaufry

  of war, were signs of serious intent.

  It was this that Drupada’s priest saw

  from miles away, as he approached the city.

  The dignified, distinguished priest was welcomed

  by Bhishma, and by his fellow brahmins

  and, with due ceremony, he was ushered

  into the presence of King Dhritarashtra

  sitting in council with his ministers.

  After the appropriate formalities,

  he soon came to the point. He itemized

&n
bsp; the sufferings and wrongs the Pandavas

  had undergone, caused by the Kauravas:

  attempts on their lives, loss of their fine kingdom,

  grave insults inflicted upon Draupadi,

  the years of hardship in the wilderness.

  “However,” he said, “the noble Pandavas

  have set grievance aside. Yudhishthira

  does not want war. He wishes above all things

  to be reconciled with the Kauravas.

  He does not lay claim to Hastinapura

  even though his entitlement is clear.

  If Indraprastha is restored to him,

  he will rule over his half of the kingdom

  in perfect happiness, wanting no more

  than close, harmonious relationships

  with you and your sons. If this is agreed

  he will persuade the kings who are his allies

  to demobilize their fighting forces

  and send their well-armed men back to their homes.

  Great king, I hope you will see the sense in this.

  After all, Krishna is with the Pandavas.

  Who, knowing that, would want to fight with them?”

  “Sir,” said Bhishma. “What you say is welcome.

  The way you put it is a bit too blunt,

  but that can be forgiven in a brahmin.

  You speak the truth and, furthermore, Arjuna

  could subdue the three worlds single-handed.”

  “Why keep on saying that?” said angry Karna.

  “The fact is, there was a covenant

  and the sly sons of Pandu have broken it.”

  “No,” said Bhishma, “by my calculations,

  the Pandavas had served their thirteen years

  before they revealed themselves. I think the law

  supports Yudhishthira’s claim.”

  The arguments

  went to and fro. Dhritarashtra said nothing,

  gnawing his lips; then he said, “After due thought,

  weighing the pros and cons, I have decided . . .”

  the council held its breath, “. . . I have decided

  to send my aide Sanjaya as my envoy.

  You, sir,” he told the priest, “can now return

  to Upaplavya. Tell them to expect him.”

  “What’s to be done, Sanjaya?” said the king

  when they were alone (for every ruler

  needs a disinterested confidant

  whose discretion can be relied upon).

  “I can find no fault with the Pandavas.

  Exemplary kshatriyas, they act

  always in line with dharma and good sense.

  It is only my foolish son and Karna

  who, stubborn and self-interested as always,

  insist that they themselves are in the right.

  Duryodhana has always been resentful