Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  Blind as you are, unfit for a warrior’s life,

  perhaps the glamour of war excited you,

  that glorious ideal. However it was,

  you were too fond of Duryodhana

  and loved to please him. You yearned for the kingdom

  to belong to the Kauravas alone,

  and you were blind to dharma. But now regret

  is useless. Rather, seek for understanding.”

  Vidura, too, exhorted Dhritarashtra

  to put aside self-pity. “We all die.

  Death seizes us, heroes and cowards both.

  A man may fight, and live; or stay at home

  and die anyway. Time cannot be cheated.

  You should not mourn your sons who fell in battle.

  They all died facing forward. Heaven receives them

  even without rituals; they are fortunate.

  Remember, once they did not exist for you;

  now, again, they inhabit a different world.

  Like clouds, your lives overlapped, then parted.

  They did not belong to you, nor you to them.

  There is nothing to lament. Listen:

  “In our rebirths—hundreds of children,

  mothers, fathers, brothers.

  Which are ours? To whom do we belong?

  The foolish allow grief and fear

  to torture them dozens of times a day.

  The wise do not.

  A person in the grip of greed or pride

  is happy to tell others how to live,

  but does not want to learn himself.

  Time treats everyone alike:

  the lowest outcast, the greatest king.

  No one can negotiate with time.

  Nothing, and no one, lasts;

  our lives are inscribed on a flowing stream.

  The wise do not grieve over this.

  Heartache does not leave

  the man who dwells on it; it settles in

  and makes itself at home.

  Knowledge is for this:

  to fight disease with medicine

  and misery with wisdom.

  We cannot escape the fruits of our deeds;

  like burrs that we have brushed past thoughtlessly

  they cling to us everywhere we go.”

  Dhritarashtra sighed. “These words of yours

  are no doubt full of wisdom. But please tell me,

  how do the wise avoid being made unhappy

  by what they cannot have, and by affliction?”

  “By meditating on impermanence,”

  said Vidura, “until awareness of it

  is experienced with every breath,

  not just with the head. Our bodies are houses

  that fall apart in time, but the soul inside

  is ageless and beautiful and, in time,

  is born again. We act, we speak, we think,

  we make our own misery and happiness

  and come to heaven or hell as we deserve.”

  Then Vidura told the blind king this story:

  “

  ABRAHMIN CAUGHT in an endless cycle of rebirth finds himself in a thick forest, full of terrifying animals and other creatures. He is lost, and runs here and there, searching for a way out, or at least some place of safety from the dangers that surround him at every turn. In the heart of the wood is a hidden well, overgrown with vines, and the brahmin falls head-first into it, and hangs there, upside down, struggling, unable to get free. A fierce elephant waits at the top of the well shaft, to attack him in case he does happen to escape. Black and white rats gnaw busily at the roots of the vines.

  “A bees’ nest on an overhanging branch is letting fall a continuous stream of honey. Surrounded by dangers of every kind, he nevertheless avidly sucks at the honey—he can’t get enough of it. In this way, pleasure distracts him, even though the rats will eventually gnaw through the roots of the vine, and he will fall to his death.”

  “Ah! the poor man!” exclaimed Dhritarashtra,

  “I’d like to rescue him.”

  “It’s just a story,”

  explained Vidura, “an allegory.

  We get caught up in pleasures and desires,

  and we ignore the rats of time, working

  for our destruction. The wise, who understand

  the wheel of death and rebirth, cut the ties

  that bind them to the wheel.

  “Think of it this way:

  The body of a person is a chariot,

  the mind the charioteer, and the senses

  are the horses. The unskillful mind

  lets the horses career round in circles,

  plunging after this or that attraction

  in the cycle of rebirth. When the senses

  are schooled in renunciation of desire,

  the person is undistracted, free from fear

  of death. That way salvation lies.”

  Alas,

  such lessons are not easy to absorb.

  Dhritarashtra was seized anew with pangs

  of longing for his sons, and fell, fainting.

  When he revived, he became agitated;

  he cursed this human life, and was resolved

  on suicide. Vyasa came to him—

  that seer with access to the world of gods

  as well as that of men—and pacified him.

  “Listen to me. Once when I visited

  the realm of Indra, I found the gods and seers,

  headed by Narada, talking together.

  Earth had come to them with a request

  to rid her of her burden—too many people

  had swelled her population, bad kshatriyas

  had overrun the world, and she was suffering.

  Vishnu, greatest of beings, smiled and told her

  Duryodhana would resolve her problem.

  Because of him, a great war would take place

  at Kurukshetra, and kshatriyas by the million

  would be killed. This I heard with my own ears.

  “Dhritarashtra, try to accept this:

  your son was an embodiment of Kali,

  discord incarnate, born to bring destruction.

  He was willful, angry, unforgiving.

  His brothers copied him. His friends and allies

  played their part in the celestial plan.

  You should not weep for them; they were at fault.

  They died because of their own wickedness.

  These events were ordained by the gods

  and could not have been otherwise. Knowing this,

  might you come to find your life worth living?

  And might you find it possible to feel

  some love for the Pandavas? My son,

  try to move beyond this searing pain:

  quash your sorrow each time it arises.”

  “I have been struggling in a net of anguish,”

  said Dhritarashtra. “My mind was not my own.

  But, having heard your story, I will live,

  I will try not to drown in misery.”

  After this, Vyasa disappeared.

  Later, Dhritarashtra stirred himself.

  He ordered chariots, and asked Vidura

  to assemble all the women of the court,

  Gandhari and Kunti first among them.

  They would travel to the battlefield.

  Sunk in despair, but glad to be occupied,

  Gandhari and all the royal women

  joined the king and, hollow-eyed and drawn,

  rode out of the city. They were watched

  by all Hastinapura, all bereaved.

  It seemed that every house contained a widow,

  a sister or a weeping mother; women

  whose normal lives were lived in strict seclusion

  ran into the streets with hair unbound,

  dressed in simple shifts, screaming, wailing,

  as if all sense of modesty was lost.

  Artisans, merchants and laborers

  streame
d from the city behind the royal party.

  Yudhishthira, too, went to Kurukshetra,

  taking Draupadi and the other women.

  Each woman on that field, of either side,

  was engulfed in the most vivid grief,

  screaming, sobbing, almost mad with horror

  at witnessing the hideous devastation.

  Nothing their anxiety had imagined—

  not descriptions, not their restless dreams—

  had prepared them for this.

  Yudhishthira

  looked for his aunt and uncle in the crowds

  of women rooting among mangled bodies

  and body parts for someone they recognized:

  their man, among these thousands of mere things,

  beloved flesh among the mounds of corpses.

  Craving a face, an amulet, a ring,

  anything familiar, they searched, keening

  like ospreys calling for their mates at dusk.

  Hundreds of women mobbed him, crying out,

  “How can a king claiming to know dharma

  kill his kin so cruelly? Can you stay sane

  after killing your teacher? Your grandfather?

  How will you rule without your kin around you?

  Shame! Oh, shame on you, Yudhishthira!”

  In dread, Yudhishthira and his brothers

  announced themselves to their aunt and uncle

  and paid them homage. Dhritarashtra managed

  to embrace Yudhishthira, but when it came

  to Bhima, lawless killer of his dear son,

  rage welled up in him like molten lava.

  Summoning all his power, he made to crush

  his nephew, but Krishna, knowing the king’s mind,

  pushed Bhima to one side and quickly shoved

  an iron effigy into the old man’s arms.

  Dhritarashtra pulverized it, injuring

  his own chest in the process. He fell, bleeding,

  crying, “Oh! Bhima!” And all-knowing Krishna,

  seeing that the king’s anger had subsided,

  told him he had only crushed a statue

  and counseled him:

  “Try to call to mind

  the times when you betrayed the Pandavas

  although they were blameless. You know the Vedas,

  you know how a righteous king should act,

  yet you followed your own stubborn path,

  were deaf as well as blind. Because your son,

  among his many wrongs, insulted Draupadi,

  Bhima vowed to kill him. It was deserved.

  Try to understand your own part in this.”

  “It is as you say,” said Dhritarashtra.

  “Love for my son undermined my judgment.

  With all my sons dead, only the Pandavas

  will give us consolation. Who else is there?

  Who else will protect us in our old age?”

  Weeping, and with trembling arms, he embraced

  Bhima and his brothers, blessing them.

  Then the Pandavas approached Gandhari,

  standing tall and silent. In her agony

  over her lost sons, she was at first

  inclined to curse Yudhishthira. But Vyasa,

  reading her thoughts from far off, instantly

  appeared. “Excellent woman, this is no time

  for curses—rather, this is the time for peace.

  Eighteen days ago, when Duryodhana

  asked for your blessing on his enterprise,

  you said, ‘Whoever is in the right will win.’

  And so they did—you always speak the truth.

  Restrain your anger now.”

  “Blessed one,

  I have no animus toward the Pandavas.

  I have no quarrel with what was done in war—

  I know how war is, I know kshatriya dharma.

  But when, afterward, Bhima killed my son

  by striking him below the waist—it’s that

  I find inexcusable. And when, earlier,

  he gulped the blood of my Duhshasana—

  that was how a barbarian would act!

  How could Bhima, who knows dharma, do it?”

  Bhima said, “I did not drink his blood—

  it did not pass my lips. I smeared my face

  and bathed my hands in it—so all would think

  I had fulfilled that solemn vow I made

  when your son dragged Draupadi by the hair

  to the gaming hall. As for Duryodhana,

  you know that I had vowed to punish him

  for exposing his thigh to Draupadi.

  I realized, as we fought, I could not win

  by fair means—he was too skilled for me.

  Rather than lose everything we’d fought for

  I did what I did. Please forgive me for it.”

  Gandhari understood. “But oh, Bhima,

  could you not have spared us just one son,

  one who had offended only slightly,

  one who would live to comfort our old age?

  Even in the bedlam of battle,

  could you not have thought of us, and left

  just one of them? Where is Yudhishthira?”

  Grim-faced, Yudhishthira approached his aunt.

  “I am the killer of your sons, great lady,

  I have caused devastation on this earth;

  I am not fit for wealth, not fit to govern.

  Curse me, for I deserve to be cursed.”

  And, though he was afraid of his aunt’s wrath,

  Yudhishthira prostrated himself before her.

  Gasping with rage, Gandhari looked down

  and glimpsed the tips of Yudhishthira’s fingers

  below her blindfold. Instantly, his nails

  shriveled and turned black. Nervous, Arjuna

  moved away, but Gandhari’s anger

  had spent itself. She blessed the Pandavas.

  Having observed the proper etiquette,

  the Pandavas could now go to their mother,

  Kunti—the mother none of them had seen

  since they left Hastinapura to begin

  their long exile. Imagine with what joy

  they held each other now; what scalding tears

  streamed from their eyes. But Kunti did not forget

  Draupadi, whose sons would never again

  embrace their mother, and who now was crouching

  on the unyielding earth. “Oh, Kunti,” she cried,

  “where are your grandsons, all my lovely boys

  and Abhimanyu? What use is the kingdom

  now that my courageous sons are dead?

  For years, in the affliction of our exile,

  the thought of them was a bright talisman

  I kept safe in my heart. Now they are gone.

  What was it all for?”

  Kunti raised her up

  and comforted her. Then they went to join

  Gandhari. Together they stood, trying

  to console each other. “We must accept it,”

  said Gandhari. “We have to think this carnage

  was the will of the gods. It had to happen.”

  47.

  GANDHARI’S LAMENT

  Acknowledging her spiritual strength,

  Vyasa gave a gift to Gandhari:

  standing where she was, blindfolded still,

  she could now see the entire battlefield,

  distant and close, by means of divine vision.

  Her inner eye was opened. She exclaimed

  to Krishna at everything she saw and heard.

  “Ah! I can see this sweeping, blood-drenched plain

  of Kurukshetra, in all its dreadful detail.

  Everywhere is chaos, mangled flesh,

  the aftermath of massacre. Everywhere

  I look, in all directions, countless bodies

  lying in abandon, heads and limbs

  at sickening angles, mouths gaping as if

 
; their final cry should still be reaching us.

  Eyes that shone with every heartfelt passion

  now are empty pits, cleaned out by crows.

  Gashes and holes in the silk of skin

  show where a cunning spear has found its way

  between the panels of bright, well-wrought mail.

  Some wear their armor still, and seem unscathed

  as if lapped in the luxury of sleep,

  while others are half-naked, stripped of all

  that marked them out from the mire they’re made of.

  “Krishna, who am I now? I am Gandhari,

  childless mother of a hundred sons.

  But is there no word for women such as I,

  a word like ‘widow,’ another word for ‘empty’?

  “Look at these fine young men, embracing Earth

  as if discovered in the act of union

  with a beloved bride—arms spread, their faces

  oblivious to everything but this.

  Oh, Earth has stolen them! Earth has triumphed

  over all of us, defeated women.

  “What priceless wealth is scattered all around—

  crowns, jeweled bracelets, ropes of gold

  twisted round the muscled upper arms

  of so many heroes; anklets, torques,

  all the regalia of rank. How useless

  is that wealth—why, it could not protect them

  from the smallest dart; and it cannot keep

  monsters and other scavengers from feasting

  on their fat and flesh. Look at those kanka birds,

  tall as men, looking so disdainful,

  picking their way among the piled-up corpses,

  yet ripping flesh from bone with cruel beaks

  as ruthlessly as any rakshasa.

  “A month ago, who could have imagined

  that men who loved the music of the bards

  would now hear only the despairing cries

  of their beloved wives. They who slept soft

  now lie uncushioned on the filthy ground.

  Men who plunged deep in the sumptuous flesh

  of women now lie, torn, gnawed by jackals,

  their rigid arms locked hard around a mace.

  “Oh, these poor women! Some are mute with shock;

  most are wailing, shivering in their pain.

  They call like cranes for mates that will never come.

  Some try to find the body that belongs

  with the head they love, then they realize

  it is not his. Some fail to recognize

  the face of their own brother.

  “And, Krishna—

  there is Duryodhana! Oh! my tragic son,

  caked in blood, your strong legs smashed, distorted,

  your breastplate still in place. I remember

  how you looked when you asked for my blessing,