Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  Vyasa said, “You feel responsible,

  but to think that these events were your doing

  is arrogant, my son. Nothing occurs

  unless the time has come around for it;

  those of perfect understanding know this.

  Only time governs our lives’ events,

  whether they be tiny or momentous;

  the shallowest breath, the greatest massacre—

  both are produced by time. What happens happens.

  To resist, or to recriminate

  and wish it had been otherwise, to yearn

  for another chance, another life, is fruitless;

  craving is the source of suffering.

  Happiness and sorrow, pain and pleasure—

  both pairs of opposites bring suffering

  if one engages with them. Better by far

  to accept what time delivers, knowing

  that there is nothing changeless but change itself.”

  But Yudhishthira was still unconvinced.

  He hardly took in what Vyasa said,

  so gripped was he by grief. “Abhimanyu,

  just a child! And all Draupadi’s sons!

  Bhishma—that dear man who was so kind to us

  when we came as boys to Hastinapura.

  My mind is haunted by the memory

  of how he staggered as if struck by lightning

  under the onslaught of Arjuna’s arrows.

  And the lie I told to our great teacher,

  Drona, making him lose his will to fight,

  causing him such grief! And most of all

  our brother Karna, who always fought fairly—

  all those great men would be among us still

  but for my hunger to possess the kingdom.

  Knowing this, I cannot live. Farewell.

  I will sit in this place, and fast to death.”

  “This is very wrong,” said Vyasa sternly.

  “Your grief is self-indulgent and excessive.

  You have not heard what I have been telling you

  so I will repeat it, in another way.

  Please pay attention.” And Vyasa spoke again

  about the wheel of time, and how it brings

  both pleasure and pain to everyone on earth.

  “We are born; we die. And in between

  we briefly act. We are like transient bubbles

  arising on the surface of a stream:

  not here, then here, and then again not here.

  All that happens, everything we do,

  is conditioned by unfolding time.

  We make plans, choices, we act well or badly,

  and think the outcomes are of our own making.

  But it is time, working through our actions,

  that shapes events. This war, Yudhishthira,

  that gives you so much pain, was predetermined;

  every death was unavoidable,

  no matter how it seems.”

  The Pandava

  was silent. Then Arjuna asked Krishna

  to speak to the downcast king. Yudhishthira

  had loved his cousin since they had first met,

  more deeply, even, than he loved his brothers.

  Krishna held his hand and, speaking gently,

  told him he should not grieve, emphasizing

  everything that Vyasa had said before him.

  As he spoke, he glowed with a gentle light.

  “Those who were killed on the field of battle

  are like figures in our dreams. We have awoken;

  they are no more. You should not weep for them.

  They all died fighting bravely, as true heroes.”

  Vyasa spoke again. “Any kingdom

  needs a ruler to enforce the law,

  to punish those who act improperly.

  That is what you did by waging war

  against Duryodhana and his supporters.

  You set out to protect the social order;

  you acted righteously.”

  “But it was greed

  that motivated me,” groaned Yudhishthira,

  “and, but for that, millions of brave men,

  prematurely swept to Yama’s realm,

  would be here now.”

  Vyasa shook his head.

  “Your cousin sinned against morality.

  To have refrained from punishing transgression

  would have made you complicit in that sin.

  Therefore, the war you fought was justified.

  You did your duty as the Dharma King.

  As for responsibility—consider

  who is the doer. It may be human beings,

  it may be the gods, it may be chance, it may

  be karma, the consequence of previous actions.

  Where the gods act through a human instrument

  they are accountable—just as, if a man

  chops down a lovely tree, we blame the man

  and not the ax he uses. You may object

  that even if the gods determine deeds,

  the people who perform them are responsible

  if they intend them for their own purposes

  and desire their fruits. But this is not correct.

  The gods are still finally accountable.

  No one can escape what is ordained.

  “But even when someone commits wrongdoing

  on their own initiative, it can be

  expiated by subsequent good acts.

  If you believe that acts arise randomly

  by chance, then good and bad do not exist;

  the world is mere chaos. But that will not do.

  People want to distinguish good from bad

  and the most perfect guide to that is dharma.

  Furthermore, actions have consequences

  for the one who performs them—that is karma.

  “So you should be confident, Yudhishthira,

  that you have rightly followed kshatriya dharma.

  But in atonement for the suffering

  the war has brought, you can ensure your conduct

  is exemplary from this time onward.”

  “My guilt is too appalling to be expunged

  by mere good deeds. Only the most severe

  ascetic discipline will do. Please tell me

  of hermitages that will meet my need.”

  Vyasa said, “Sometimes, Yudhishthira,

  right looks like wrong. That’s how it is with you.

  You have acted rightly, as was ordained,

  yet, blind to this, you burn with wrongheaded guilt.

  “The solution I prescribe for you

  is to perform a great horse sacrifice.

  That sacrifice will require huge resources

  of energy and wealth. It will be hard.

  Start by going in turn to all the kingdoms

  whose kings you killed in battle. Make peace with them

  with soothing words. Appoint their sons or brothers

  as successors, and have them consecrated.

  If there is no one left in the male line,

  have queens or princesses appointed ruler.

  After encouraging those territories

  in this way, return to Hastinapura

  and prepare for the horse sacrifice.

  In that manner, even though the war

  was ordained by the gods, you will atone

  for any shameful motive you may have had.”

  For the first time, Yudhishthira was hopeful.

  He began to see a way to conquer grief.

  He asked Vyasa to explain more fully

  right and wrong action. Vyasa answered him,

  then suggested that Yudhishthira

  should go to Bhishma for more profound teaching

  before the patriarch gave up his life.

  “I am not worthy,” said Yudhishthira,

  “to approach Bhishma, guilty as I am

  of his great suffering on his bed of arrows.”

  “No
nsense!” said Krishna. “Stiffen your resolve

  and do what Vyasa tells you. He knows best.

  The whole kingdom is waiting for you—please

  make us all happy.”

  Yudhishthira stood up.

  He had put aside his spiritual torment

  and found some peace of mind. The time had come

  for the Pandavas to enter the city.

  After worshiping the gods, Yudhishthira,

  radiant as the moon in the firmament,

  mounted a gleaming chariot, draped with the skins

  of antelopes. It was drawn by sixteen

  auspicious white cattle, driven by Bhima.

  Arjuna grasped the dazzling white parasol;

  the twins held ceremonial yak-tail whisks.

  The rest of the royal party followed—

  a line of chariots, carts and palanquins

  scattered with fragrant flowers and perfumed powders,

  escorted by huge elephants, foot soldiers,

  horses, and musicians blowing trumpets.

  The streets of Hastinapura were close-packed

  with joyful citizens. The royal cortège

  processed through the decorated entrance

  and up the King’s Way hung with welcoming flags

  and swagged with fragrant garlands. On each side

  of the broad thoroughfare stood splendid mansions,

  and women leaned from every balcony,

  waving and singing praises. At the far end,

  in the vast and well-proportioned square

  stood the royal palace, festooned with flowers.

  Yudhishthira descended from his chariot

  and paid reverence to the effigies

  of the gods, scattering them with petals.

  After he had honored Dhritarashtra

  and Dhaumya, the household priest, Yudhishthira

  bestowed many lavish gifts on brahmins—

  sweets, gold, jewels, cattle, clothing—

  and they loudly blessed him and sang his praises.

  When the noise died down, one Charvaka

  approached Yudhishthira, to speak with him.

  Disguised as a brahmin, he was in fact

  a rakshasa, a friend of Duryodhana.

  “All these brahmins,” he said, “have entrusted me

  to speak for them. They wish me to say this:

  ‘May evil come to the Pandavas. Curses

  be upon you for slaughtering your kin!’”

  The brahmins howled him down. “You wicked monster,

  you do not speak for us. We bless the king!”

  Then, simply by chanting “hum,” the brahmins

  burned up the rakshasa. All were relieved.

  After the brahmins left, Krishna said,

  “I always honor brahmins. They can kill

  through their ascetic power, but at the same time

  they are easy to please. Now, Yudhishthira,

  be cheerful! Be glad of your good fortune,

  kill your enemies, protect your subjects,

  honor brahmins—and do not be weak!”

  “Tell me what Yudhishthira did then,”

  said Janamejaya, “once he regained

  the kingdom.” Vaishampayana continued.

  The royal son of Kunti shed his grief.

  He sat enthroned, surrounded by his household,

  and held an audience for his subjects,

  who brought him gifts according to their means.

  Dhaumya lit a sacred fire on the altar

  and assembled all the objects he would need.

  Then, with Draupadi seated by his side,

  Yudhishthira was duly consecrated

  king of the Bharatas. And so it was

  that the Pandava took back his kingdom

  in the presence of those who wished him well.

  Yudhishthira ordained that Dhritarashtra

  should be treated by all with deep respect,

  as he had been before. Vidura,

  Sanjaya and Yuyutsu should attend

  the aged king. Yudhishthira installed

  Vidura as his own adviser. Bhima

  was heir apparent, and worthy Sanjaya

  was put in charge of records and revenues.

  Nakula was made head of the army.

  Arjuna was to ensure public order

  and look out for subversion in the kingdom.

  The king required sweet-natured Sahadeva

  to be his personal bodyguard at all times.

  The first shraddha rites were carried out

  for the Pandavas’ kinsmen killed in battle.

  Dhritarashtra made lavish donations

  to brahmins, in memory of his sons.

  No one was forgotten, and the king

  was specially solicitous to women

  who had lost all their male relatives,

  guaranteeing them royal protection.

  He made sure the poor were well provided for.

  The next morning, Yudhishthira’s first act

  was to design a system of rewards

  appropriate to every class of person

  who was dependent on him. In doing so

  he laid down a ground plan for the way

  the kingdom would be run. This calmed his mind.

  Then he went to Krishna. The dark-skinned one

  was sitting in deep meditation. Dressed

  in yellow silk, seated on a fine couch,

  he looked like a rare jewel set in gold.

  The king greeted him; he did not reply.

  Yudhishthira marveled at how still he was.

  He bowed to Krishna as the blessed Lord

  and gave voice to his devotion, speaking

  his many names. “O origin of all things,

  changing and unchanging, without beginning

  and without end, ruler of all the worlds,

  I worship you. I submit to your will.”

  Krishna stretched his limbs and smiled at him.

  “Bhishma is meditating on me—my mind

  had gone to be with him. When he is no more,

  the earth will become like a starry sky

  without its moon. Yudhishthira, you should go

  and seek teaching from him, otherwise

  his profound wisdom will vanish with him.”

  “I will,” said Yudhishthira, “and Bhishma needs

  to see you.” Krishna’s chariot was made ready

  and they set off for the field of Kurukshetra

  together with a mounted retinue.

  “Look there,” said Krishna, “over to the right

  are the lakes that Rama Jamadagnya filled

  with kshatriyas’ blood, when he destroyed them

  twenty-one times over.”

  “Then how was it,”

  asked the king, “that kshatriyas survived

  to perish in such numbers at Kurukshetra?”

  As they traveled, Krishna told the story.

  “

  LONG AGO, when people lived for thousands of years, the earth was tyrannized by violent kshatriyas, burning and looting, persecuting brahmins, causing mayhem everywhere. Some of them killed the seer Jamadagni, and in revenge, his son, the fiery-tempered Rama Jamadagnya, swore to rid the earth of kshatriyas. Twenty-one times he almost succeeded, slaughtering men and boys by the million. But each time, a few survived. Some were secretly protected by their mothers, or not yet born when the massacres took place. Others were hidden by seers, or by cows, monkeys, bears, or by the ocean.

  “Eventually, Rama offered the earth to the seer and ancestor, Kashyapa, who banished Rama to a distant spot, in order to preserve the remnant of kshatriyas. The earth was in a state of anarchy because there were no kings to enforce order. The goddess Earth pleaded with Kashyapa to create kings, in order that she would not be continually ravaged, and she nominated kshatriyas who were particularly heroic. Kashyapa appointed kings from among them, and they founded lineages. The Pandavas a
nd other royal kshatriyas who live today are their descendants. As for Rama, he devoted himself to becoming a great master of weaponry. He was the teacher of Bhishma, and of Karna—with the tragic results we know about. He has always retained his hatred of kshatriyas.”

  Now they were getting close to where Bhishma lay.

  The field was still a monument to death—

  the ground a mess of bones and hair and hides;

  millions of skulls gathered up in heaps

  waiting to be dealt with. The remains

  of funeral pyres were everywhere. Mountains

  of arrows, axes, maces, swords lay rusting.

  The patriarch lay with great seers in attendance—

  Narada, Vyasa, Devasthana . . .

  His eyes closed, he was engaged in praising

  Krishna, the supreme deity.

  “O Lord,

  the unmanifest within the manifest;

  the knower of the field, the supreme witness;

  light of the world, lord of all creation;

  whose fiery brilliance is greater than the sun;

  lord of all that moves, and everything

  that is still; the eternal irreducible;

  who is the embodiment of perfect freedom;

  whose hair is the rain clouds, in whose limbs

  run the life-giving waters; who is time

  and beyond time; who is the supreme Self;

  who is the maker and who is the destroyer—

  I devote myself to you. Help me to see

  the path to blessedness in the world hereafter.”

  So prayed Bhishma in his hymn of praise.

  He was like the sun, and his many arrows

  were its rays. Krishna greeted him gently.

  He could see the patriarch’s strength was fading.

  “I hope your mind is clear, O Bharata.

  I hope you are not in unbearable pain.

  Most excellent man, no one surpasses you

  in wisdom and ascetic discipline.

  Here is the virtuous King Yudhishthira.

  The Pandava is struggling with searing grief

  after the death of so many of his kin.

  Please speak to him. Help him to understand

  the dharma of kings; resolve his perplexity.”

  Krishna conferred a blessing on the patriarch,

  and Bhishma witnessed, with his inner eye,

  the divine manifestation of Vishnu—

  in the past, the present and in time to come—

  a revelation granted to very few.

  He raised his voice in wonder, joy and praise.

  “Bhishma, in the days remaining to you,”

  said Krishna, “please instruct Yudhishthira

  in all he should know.” Bhishma joined his hands.

  “My mind is foggy—pain from all my wounds