Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  full of pride and foolish hope. I knew then

  it must end in defeat. All I could manage

  were lukewarm words—not what you most wanted,

  not the heartfelt prayer for victory

  men need from women when they go to war.

  “Time turns. You died a hero, Duryodhana.

  Devoted women once fanned you to sleep;

  now only the urgent wings of hungry birds

  make a breeze around you. Here’s your poor wife,

  Lakshmana’s mother, weeping for her son,

  and for you. That broad-hipped, lovely girl

  is huddling in the crook of your strong arm.

  No more good times for her; disregarded,

  she’ll spend her life alone.

  “So many women,

  trying to wash blood off their men’s dead faces;

  others whirling, screeching like lunatics

  at vultures circling on creaking wings.

  What must we have done in a past life?

  What sin could have deserved this utter horror?

  “And look at my other fine sons! There they lie;

  distinct in life, with differing looks and gifts,

  each with his individual voice, his laugh,

  now meat for undiscriminating crows.

  “There is Abhimanyu, still beautiful,

  that brilliant warrior who outshone even

  his father. And there is Uttaraa, his wife,

  crouched beside him, kissing his cold face.

  Now she has undone his gilded armor,

  stares intently at his wounds, and cries,

  ‘Oh, Abhimanyu, my beloved husband,

  my world, soul of my soul, how your injuries

  gape for all to see. My heart, too, is pierced

  by death’s pitiless darts, but invisibly.

  You were like Krishna in your strength and courage,

  so alive. Yet now you sleep too soundly.

  Your skin is soft, delicate as a girl’s;

  isn’t the rough ground grazing you? Your arms

  flung wide, you sprawl as though you are exhausted

  by grinding labor. Rest, my love.’

  “She cradles

  his head in her lap and strokes his tangled hair.

  “‘Where were their hearts, those Kauravas who trapped you,

  a solitary boy? Where were your uncles,

  your natural protectors? How can a kingdom,

  however rich, however well deserved,

  be worth your life, my prince, my precious one?

  I wish I too could die. I long to join you!

  But no one dies before the gods decide.

  You are no more; I have my wretched life.

  In that world you’ve gone to, will there be

  a woman to caress and laugh with you

  as if she were me? Oh, my Abhimanyu,

  be happy in your heaven, but remember

  what I was to you, how we loved together!’

  “Her father’s wives are pulling her away

  from Abhimanyu’s corpse. Now they themselves

  collapse. They have seen Virata’s body—

  and that of Uttara, the bragging boy

  whom Arjuna transformed into a man.

  “There is Karna. His wives are sitting round,

  their hair in disarray, crying miserably

  for him, and for their courageous sons.

  So many heroes looked upon his face

  as the last they saw on earth, until Arjuna

  cut him down. He was the most loyal friend

  to Duryodhana, most brave, most steadfast.

  Firm as the Himalaya, brilliant as fire,

  unforgiving, stern, that great warrior

  lies like a tree felled by a tornado,

  ruined, defaced, unrecognizable.

  “Look at Jayadratha. Puffed with pride,

  full of uncalled-for animosity

  toward the Pandavas, now he is laid low,

  dragged into a ditch by growling beasts,

  though his weeping wives tried to guard his body.

  The Pandavas might have killed him when he tried

  to abduct Draupadi, but they refrained

  out of consideration for my daughter.

  If only they could have thought of her grief now.

  She runs this way and that, quite distracted,

  searching, searching for Jayadratha’s head.

  “And there lies Shalya, complicated man.

  We never knew whose side he really took;

  perhaps, in the end, he didn’t know himself.

  Now it is all the same—and, look, two crows

  are pecking at his lolling, facile tongue.

  “Bhishma, on his tormenting bed of arrows,

  is still alive. He looks like the sun itself,

  fallen to earth. That man is a hero

  like no other. Skilled in warfare, steeped

  in wisdom and dharma—what other warrior

  would have told Yudhishthira how to kill him!

  Who will there be as a bright lodestar

  for the Bharatas, once Bhishma is no more?

  “And Drona, the great teacher—all those weapons

  acquired from the gods were useless in the end.

  Kripi, his loving wife, sits, eyes downcast

  beside his body. His bow still in his hand,

  gauntlet and greaves in place, it almost seems

  that he could rise and resume the fight. But look,

  his feet, honored by so many pupils,

  are gone, already gnawed by scavengers.

  “There is Somadatta’s sorrowing widow,

  lamenting for their son, Bhurishravas:

  ‘Oh, husband, fortunate that you cannot see

  our son—his arm, his lovely arm, hacked off.

  His wife is bathing it with her hot tears,

  mourning the hand that lately would have loosened

  her clothing, stroked her breasts, caressed her face.

  Lucky that you cannot see his parasol

  broken, splintered, lying across his chariot.’

  “Her bereaved daughters-in-law are shrieking

  and crying, a pitiful thing to witness.

  Arjuna acted wickedly. Still more

  horrible was Satyaki’s sinful act—

  killing him as he sat in meditation.

  The world will censure you for allowing it,

  Krishna. I’d like to think you are ashamed.

  “So many shields strewn on the bloody field

  like fallen moons; and scattered spears and bows

  shining like shafts of sunlight in the gloom.

  Look at Shakuni, fallen where he belongs,

  that mischief-maker. This war was his doing.

  I warned my son—told him that his uncle

  walked with death. He it was who stirred up

  the quarrel, as he loved to do. He hated

  the Pandavas. What a barbed tongue he had.

  But he died in battle; the heroes’ heaven

  awaits him, as it does all my brave sons.

  He cared for no one, not even himself.

  “There are the womenfolk of old Drupada

  killed by Drona, his lifelong enemy,

  as an elephant is savaged by a lion.

  He was a heroic warrior. See, Krishna,

  his beautiful white parasol is gleaming

  in the light. His body is already burned.

  His grieving wives and daughters-in-law circle

  the pyre clockwise, heads covered, sobbing softly.

  “Oh, so much sorrow! It is women’s fate

  to love and lose, love and lose again.

  What joy it is to give birth to healthy sons,

  to play with them, sing to them, to see them

  grow in strength, acquire a warrior’s skills

  ready to take on a world of enemies.

  What’s wrong with us? Why do
we not start weeping

  as soon as we see our newborn is a boy?

  But no, we glow with pride—as if this creature,

  these perfect arms and legs, this lusty voice,

  this future food for crows, were an achievement.

  Broodmares for corpses—that’s what women are

  if they are born unlucky kshatriyas!”

  Gandhari sank down, broken, desolate.

  “Krishna, when your peace mission failed, and you

  returned to the Pandavas, then my poor sons

  were as good as dead. You could have done more

  to save them, but this was what you wanted,

  this war, and all my precious sons are lost.

  I curse you, Krishna! For presiding over

  this tragic conflict, kinsman against kinsman,

  a time will come when you will pay in kind.

  In thirty-six years’ time, having killed

  your sons, brothers, cousins, you will meet

  an ignominious end. And then your own

  womenfolk will weep and tear their hair,

  as inconsolable as these women now.”

  Krishna smiled. “Excellent Gandhari,

  you give words to what I already know.

  I, and I alone, shall destroy the Vrishnis,

  and your curse will help me carry out that task.

  When the time is right, they will kill each other;

  I shall decide.

  “But don’t give way to anguish.

  Grief breeds grief; you are wise enough to know that.

  You yourself are by no means blameless.

  You thought too well of Duryodhana

  and tolerated his pernicious acts.

  Now you see the tragic consequence.”

  Dhritarashtra asked Yudhishthira

  for the facts—how big were the armies

  and how many were killed? Yudhishthira

  gave numbers more vast than the mind could hold.

  “And what has become of them, Yudhishthira—

  you who know everything?”

  “The afterlife

  is proportioned to the way a man has lived

  and how he died—how courageously.

  The highest realms welcome those who fight

  like true kshatriyas, who stubbornly

  battle on even when they are wounded,

  when they have lost their chariot, when lesser men

  have fled the field. They go to the seat of Indra.

  Lower realms receive cautious warriors,

  those who fight with qualified commitment.

  Those who desert meet suffering after death.”

  “How do you know all this?” asked Dhritarashtra.

  “I sat at the feet of many holy men

  when we were in exile in the forest.

  There I practiced the yoga of knowledge,

  and I made extended pilgrimages

  to sacred sites and holy bathing places.”

  Dhritarashtra urged Yudhishthira

  to arrange that rituals for the dead

  be performed, especially for those who lay

  neglected on the field, with no relations

  to mourn their passing—those whose loving kin

  perhaps had heard no news, and were still praying

  for their menfolk’s safe return.

  Yudhishthira

  ordered retainers and priests to see to it.

  They summoned sandalwood and precious aloe,

  sesame oil, ghee and fragrant herbs.

  Warriors’ bodies were heaped up by the thousands.

  High piles were made of the smashed chariots

  and other wood, corpses wrapped in cloth

  and burned with all appropriate ritual,

  the fires fed with ghee and perfumed oil.

  Then all went in procession to the river.

  The Bharatas gathered at the water’s edge,

  the serene Ganga, fringed with lovely trees.

  The mourning women shed their ornaments

  and, entering the water, poured libations.

  Suddenly, Kunti, weeping, speaking quietly,

  said to her sons, “You should take special care

  that you perform the proper rites for Karna.”

  Yudhishthira was surprised. “That hero Karna,”

  said Kunti, “whom you thought the son of Radha,

  whom you despised as a driver’s son—that man

  who was unrivaled in integrity—

  pour libations for him. He was your brother.”

  Yudhishthira stared at her, uncomprehending.

  “I bore him by the sun god, Surya,

  secretly, when I was very young,

  too young to understand what was happening.

  I was beside myself with fear and shame.

  Secretly, I stowed him in a casket,

  carried him to the river—and gave him up,

  watched my son float away.”

  Yudhishthira’s

  heart pounded; he shook, his face turned dark.

  “Mother! How can this be? All these years!

  How—oh, how can you have hidden from us

  that Karna was our brother? That towering hero,

  so brave, so skillful it took Arjuna—

  and then only with Krishna’s help—to kill him!

  If Karna had been our acknowledged brother,

  surely the war never would have happened.

  This news is like a death to me, far worse,

  even, than the loss of all our sons!”

  Yudhishthira then sent for Karna’s wives

  and joined them in performing funeral rites

  with Vedic hymns and solemn incantations,

  relinquishing to sacred mother Ganga

  the hero he had never known as brother.

  As the tranquil water flowed around him,

  Yudhishthira stood silent and alone.

  Then, his mind boiling in confusion,

  he stepped out of the river onto the bank.

  XII

  THE BOOK OF PEACE

  48.

  YUDHISHTHIRA, RELUCTANT RULER

  After the funerary rites; when silence

  had fallen on the plain of Kurukshetra,

  the Pandavas remained outside the city

  of Hastinapura, dwelling by the river

  for a month, to purify themselves

  from the pollution brought about by death.

  Learned brahmins gathered, to provide

  help and consolation; foremost of them

  were Vyasa and Narada.

  Yudhishthira

  was sunk in deepest sorrow. Narada said,

  “Son of Pandu, why are you not rejoicing?

  You have won the earth by force of arms

  and won it righteously. Surely, now

  you can put grief behind you, and be glad.”

  “I have, indeed, conquered the whole earth,”

  said Yudhishthira, “through the strength of Krishna

  and Arjuna. But since I have destroyed

  so many of my kin, and other warriors

  from far and wide; since I have caused the death

  of Abhimanyu and Draupadi’s five sons,

  this victory tastes as bitter as defeat.

  It is because I coveted the kingdom

  that Subhadra’s tears flow constantly.

  And how can Draupadi ever cease grieving?

  “But most of all, Narada, I am bowed down

  with sorrow over Karna. He had no equal.

  I think of him constantly, how generous,

  how tall and straight he was, his golden color,

  the way he swayed like a lion as he walked.

  Honest, learned, firm in his resolve,

  skilled in all weaponry, wonderfully brave—

  no greater soul has ever walked the earth.

  Yet Kunti waited until he was dead

  to tell us that he was her son, o
ur brother!

  He knew it. Kunti went to him, and begged him

  to alter his allegiance and fight with us.

  But he was loyal to Duryodhana,

  and he did not want it said he was afraid

  of fighting Arjuna, his arch-enemy.

  “‘After the war,’ he told her, ‘when I have fought

  Arjuna, when I have taken his life,

  then I will make peace with the Pandavas.’

  He promised her that, even if confronted,

  he would not kill her other sons. That hero

  kept his promise, as he always did.

  “I remember—at the fateful dice game,

  when Dhritarashtra’s sons were taunting us,

  I happened to glance at Karna’s feet, and saw

  they were like Kunti’s! It struck me very much

  but I could never explain it to myself.

  I can’t forget that I have caused his death.

  I burn with regret that we were never friends.

  Together, brothers reconciled, united,

  the Pandavas could have fought the very gods!

  Why was Karna so unfortunate?”

  Narada told Yudhishthira the story

  of Karna’s birth and thorny path through life.

  Then Kunti spoke coaxingly to her son.

  “You should not grieve for him, Yudhishthira.

  Grief is not wisdom, and Karna has surely gone

  to Indra’s heaven. I tried to persuade him

  to reveal to you that you were brothers.

  So did the sun, his father. But he was set

  on his chosen course. I could not prevail.”

  Yudhishthira flared up in rage. “If only

  you had not kept that secret to yourself

  for all these years. Ah! I curse all women—

  may they be unable to keep secrets!

  “If only we had given up ambition—

  lived, say, on charity in Dvaraka—

  we never would have done this dreadful harm.

  Ambition, an abiding sense of grievance

  and greed for power brought us to this point.

  Much better are self-control, sincerity

  and harmlessness, the traits of forest dwellers.

  Now, our kinsmen and our friends are dead.

  I know Duryodhana always hated us;

  he wronged us many times; we responded.

  We were like dogs fighting for a bone

  and both dogs died. For neither of us has won.

  Millions of men, too young to have enjoyed

  the pleasures of the world, now never will,

  because of us.

  “But evil can be annulled

  by the merit flowing from renunciation.

  I am going to give up the kingdom,

  take my leave of you, and live in the forest

  without possessions. Then I shall be free.