Mahabharata
Page 73
the Kauravas and the Pandavas? I’m sure
you must have brought peace, powerful as you are.”
“I tried,” said Krishna, “but Duryodhana
refused to listen to advice—from me,
or from the elders. Now the Kauravas
are guests of Yama in the realm of death,
together with countless thousands of brave men.
Only the Pandavas remain. You know well,
there is no way of evading destiny.”
Uttanka’s eyes grew wide in shock and outrage.
“But you are Krishna! You could have prevented
such carnage, so much catastrophic waste.
Many of those heroes were dear to you
and yet you let it happen. I shall curse you!”
“Uttanka, in your life of discipline
you have acquired much spiritual merit.
I should hate to see that merit canceled
by an ill-judged curse—which, in any case,
would be ineffective.”
“Well,” said Uttanka,
“tell me more about your part in this.
Then I will decide whether to curse you.”
“Know me, then,” said Krishna, “as the source
of all that is, and of all that is not.
I am sacrificer and sacrifice.
I am the heart of every righteous act,
the hymn of praise, and also the object
of adoration. In all the three worlds
I am known as Vishnu, Brahma, Shiva.
I am the creator, the preserver
and the destroyer. In every age
I am the supporter of righteousness.
In every realm I take birth differently,
and I act in the manner of that realm.
Among gandharvas, I am a gandharva.
Among the Nagas, I take a Naga form.
Born now in the realm of humankind,
I take on fully human qualities.
In that form, I appealed to Duryodhana.
Finding him obdurate, I even revealed
my divine nature. But being sunk in sin,
he was not changed. War was the result.
Time overtook him.”
“Now I understand,”
said Uttanka, and he begged to witness
Krishna’s divine form, whereupon,
the curse forgotten, he bent and worshiped him
as the supreme Lord. Krishna gave him a boon:
wherever Uttanka was, needing water,
if he thought of Krishna, he would find it.
Uttanka wandered on into the desert.
Soon he became thirsty, and thought of Krishna.
A naked chandala appeared, caked with dirt
and followed by fierce dogs. A stream of urine
was flowing from his penis. “Drink,” he said,
“I can see you are thirsty.”
“I am indeed,”
said Uttanka, appalled, “but not that thirsty!”
and he sent the chandala on his way.
Presently, Krishna appeared before him.
“That was a test,” he said. “It was to see
if you could look beyond appearances.
You failed.” Uttanka was bitterly ashamed.
Krishna consoled him, “You shall still have your boon.
When you are thirsty think of me, and clouds
will instantly appear and drop sweet water.
Those rain clouds will be known as Uttanka clouds.”
And so they are, up to this very day.
In Hastinapura, there was an air of waiting.
Uttaraa was far gone in pregnancy
but still deeply grieving for Abhimanyu
and refusing food. “Please eat,” begged Kunti,
“or you will harm your baby.” Wise Vyasa
arrived to give reassurance: “This new child
will be a great hero and rule the earth.
It has been foretold. Meanwhile, O king,
you should turn your mind to preparations
for the horse sacrifice.”
Yudhishthira,
together with his brothers, started off
on the journey north to the Himalaya
in search of gold. They took along with them
substantial forces—soldiers, retainers, priests
and men possessing all the varied skills
needed to sustain their enterprise.
As the procession left, citizens gathered
to wish them well. With his white parasol
held over his head, the king was radiant.
After much traveling, the party reached
the lower mountain slopes. Vast dazzling peaks
soared above them. “This is the place,” said Vyasa.
Yudhishthira ordered that they should pitch camp,
and the party settled for the night, fasting.
Next morning, priests made offerings to Shiva—
flowers, meat and various kinds of grain—
and ghee was poured on the sacrificial fire.
Kubera, god of wealth, was also worshiped.
The ground was measured and marked out in squares
and the great excavation was begun.
After some time, glints of gold were seen.
Stashes of gold coins, vessels and objects
of various kinds, some small, some very large,
all gold, were brought out of the ground. Digging
took several weeks. Then the gold was hefted
into large panniers, and onto the backs
of thousands of pack animals. At last
the caravan lumbered off toward home,
traveling very slowly, so laden was it.
Krishna’s kinsfolk welcomed his return
with joy and celebration. As it happened,
a festival was in full swing, with flags
and floral garlands adorning every house,
and singing in the streets. Of course, his father
knew about the war, but not the details,
and Krishna told him—though selectively,
not wanting to break bad news all at once.
“Tell him!” cried Subhadra. “Tell our father
about Abhimanyu,” and she fell down
in a faint. The king, too, lost consciousness
when he heard of Abhimanyu’s death
but, recovering, wanted to know more,
longed to hear how his beloved grandson,
beautiful as Krishna, brave as Arjuna,
could have met his death. Krishna told him
how courageously Abhimanyu fought,
how sinfully he was surrounded. He spoke
of the grief of all the women, of how Uttaraa
was carrying his child. And the king,
summoning his strength, and comforted
by the certainty that Abhimanyu
had reached the highest heaven, set in train
elaborate funeral ceremonies.
Krishna performed shraddha rites, and made
rich gifts to the officiating brahmins.
The weeks passed pleasantly. But Krishna knew
that Uttaraa’s due time had nearly come.
Subhadra had already made the journey
back to Hastinapura, to be with her.
Krishna thought of the lethal Brahma weapon
and of Ashvatthaman’s curse. The whole future
of the Bharatas now rested on him.
After loving farewells to his parents,
he set out in his wonderfully made chariot
driven by Daruka, fast as the wind.
When Krishna arrived at Hastinapura
the Pandavas were still away from home
in the Himalaya. He found the women
tense with expectation; Uttaraa,
scarcely emerged from childhood herself,
was in labor. The whole city held its breath
and there was cheering, drumming, serenade—
until the bulletin that quickly followed,
“The baby is born dead!” Catastrophe!
Every face was slippery with tears,
every house loud with lamentation,
knowing that the dynasty’s last hope
was now extinguished.
Through the palace halls,
through courtyards, corridors and colonnades
strode Krishna, his yellow silk robe streaming
behind him, his dark features purposeful.
At the entrance to the women’s quarters
Kunti met him. “Krishna! You must help us!
Fulfill your promise now. Don’t let my sons
die unmourned by heroes after them.”
She collapsed in grief, and so did Draupadi,
Subhadra and the other weeping women.
Krishna entered the room where Uttaraa lay.
Midwives and physicians were in attendance,
silent and helpless. The room was orderly
with rows of water pots, flowers and fragrant
burning wood. Uttaraa was prostrate,
convulsed with tears, crying, shrieking aloud
like a madwoman, with all the other women
weeping in sympathy. All her kin were dead;
now her lifeless baby was in her arms.
Then sitting up, trying to calm herself,
she rocked her infant son, and murmured softly,
the baby lying inert as a swaddled doll.
“O my dear one, just wake for a moment
to see the mother of your grandfather
plunged in sorrow. Pity us, my son.
But if you cannot live, go to your father,
tell him how my life is pointless now;
I should be dead myself!”
Krishna listened,
then he poured a few drops of fresh water
into his right hand, and touched with it
the infant’s lips, nostrils, both ears, both eyes,
drawing out the toxic Brahma weapon.
“I have never spoken an untruth;
I have never turned away from battle;
I have never failed to support brahmins.
By the merit of those acts of mine,
may this child live.” Silence in the room.
Then, almost imperceptibly at first,
the child began to stir.
What thankfulness!
What joy sprang up! It was a great explosion
that burst from the women’s quarters into all
corners of the palace, and out, out
among the disbelieving citizens
of Hastinapura. Then, tumultuous joy
seized them like a fever, and all night long
with celebration, feasting and loud music,
the city was ablaze with noise and light.
Next day, Krishna announced the infant’s name:
Parikshit, born to save his failing line.
He would go on to rule for many years,
after the Pandavas had left the earth.
About a month after the baby’s birth
news came that the Pandavas were approaching,
bringing with them unimaginable
quantities of wealth. All the townsfolk,
of every station, crammed the thoroughfares
as the great caravan, groaning with gold,
trundled slowly toward the treasury.
Entering the city, the royal party
was greeted by cheering crowds. Their success,
and the horse sacrifice it made possible,
would bring blessings to the entire kingdom.
57.
THE HORSE SACRIFICE
The birth of Parikshit changed everything.
Despite the victory of the Pandavas,
Ashvatthaman’s awful invocation
of the Brahma weapon had cast dragging doubt
on the future of the Bharatas, planting
a seed of hopelessness in every heart.
But now it seemed the dynasty was safe.
One of King Yudhishthira’s first acts
was to consult Vyasa. Touching his feet,
formally he sought the seer’s permission
to conduct the horse sacrifice. “Excellent!”
said Vyasa, “I myself will play a part
in the ceremony, according to your wishes.
This great sacrifice will absolve all sin.
See to it that you please the deities
by making abundant gifts.”
Yudhishthira
also sought consent from Krishna, who
rejoiced at the prospect of the great event.
“Let your brothers, too, be sacrificers,”
he said. Then Vyasa was asked to name
the best time for the ceremony which must
inaugurate the sacrificial process:
the initiation of the Dharma King.
He ordered that the ritual implements
and other objects should be made of gold.
Planning began for the great event.
A superb stallion would be selected
and then let loose to wander the land at will.
The horse would be protected by the army
led by a distinguished kshatriya,
and in whatever kingdom it might roam
that land would be claimed for King Yudhishthira.
Any ruler who put up resistance
would be subdued. Then he would be invited
to Hastinapura, as a welcome guest
at the splendid sacrifice, when the time came.
After a year, the horse would find its way
back to the kingdom of the Bharatas,
and then the great ceremony would be held.
On Vyasa’s advice, Yudhishthira
designated strong-armed Arjuna
to be protector of the horse, saying,
“As you progress, when hostile kings come out
to oppose you, and resist our rule,
try to avoid battles, and above all
avoid killing warriors whose kindred
met with death on the plain of Kurukshetra.
Be friendly. Invite them to the sacrifice.
Consecrate the sons of fallen heroes
—or daughters, if there are no surviving sons.”
A most beautiful piebald horse was chosen
and kept in readiness. From near and far,
guests arrived for the initiation
of King Yudhishthira, the first ritual step.
He was resplendent in red silk, with gold
accoutrements. Staff in hand, wearing
a soft black deerskin for his upper garment,
the king shone like a star in the firmament.
Priests performed the rites; then it was time
for the magnificent horse to be let loose.
As it began to wander on its way
from Hastinapura, an exuberant crowd
pressed and jostled to get sight of it,
shouting, “Farewell, Wealth-winner, return safely!”
and Arjuna, accompanied by priests,
soldiers and retainers, began his journey.
Through the months that followed, Arjuna,
riding a chariot drawn by fine white horses,
followed the stallion as it made its way
on a meandering route through many lands.
Despite his brother’s hopes, there were fierce fights.
Men who had lost most at Kurukshetra
were often just the ones who wanted battle,
thirsting for revenge. Thus it happened
that the horse crossed into Trigarta country,
the kingdom whose men had harried Arjuna
so tenaciously on the battlefield.
Now they came out in strength, intent on
capture.
Mindful of the king’s request, the Pandava
tried to make peace. “Do not attack, you villains.
Life is precious, as you should know by now!”
The Trigartas took no notice, but let fly
a cloud of arrows which, flexing Gandiva,
Arjuna deflected in mid-flight.
Bitter conflict followed. Arjuna
was wounded in the hand by a young warrior
whose outstanding skill he much admired
and whom, for that reason, he refrained from killing.
Instead, he slew a host of his companions.
Eventually the rest threw down their weapons
and formally acknowledged Yudhishthira
as their ruler. Arjuna invited them
to be present at the horse sacrifice.
This was the shape of many more encounters.
The horse wandered up hills, into valleys,
across desert terrain. Sometimes the rulers
of these lands met Arjuna’s conditions,
sometimes they resisted. A great engagement
took place between Arjuna and the Sindhus.
Jayadratha (husband of Duhshala,
sole sister of the hundred Kauravas)
had been their king, and they were full of wrath
at the way Arjuna had slaughtered him.
They launched a blistering attack against
the sacrificial horse and its protector.
In the savage fighting, Arjuna
was badly wounded, and lost consciousness.
Celestial rishis revived him with their prayers,
and he fought on. Remembering Yudhishthira,
he called to his enemies, “We are intent
on your surrender rather than on slaughter.”
But, unpersuaded, the Sindhu forces hurled
their spears and arrow showers ever more fiercely.
They were losing ground when Duhshala,
their interim ruler, approached, carrying
her infant grandson in her arms. Weeping,
she told the Pandava the baby’s father,
Jayadratha’s son, had been in mourning
for his father when he heard that Arjuna
had arrived to subjugate the kingdom—
at which he died of grief and fear. She begged
her cousin to take pity on the baby,
and sued for peace, ordering her warriors
to lay down their weapons. Arjuna,
seeing that the Sindhus posed no threat,
embraced her warmly, and expressed the hope
that she would come to the horse sacrifice.
The horse came to the kingdom of Manipura
ruled by Arjuna’s son by Chitrangadaa,
Babhruvahana. The stalwart youth
rode out to meet Arjuna, carrying gifts,