Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  Yudhishthira consulted Dhritarashtra

  on many affairs of state. The old man

  had Vidura, Sanjaya and Yuyutsu

  as his frequent companions. And Vyasa

  would visit him, reciting many stories

  about the rishis back in ancient times.

  At the king’s request, his younger brothers

  would very often sit with Dhritarashtra,

  showing him their respect. And their mother,

  Kunti, with Draupadi and Subhadra,

  waited on Gandhari with great devotion.

  Vidura was now Yudhishthira’s steward

  and managed his dominions with such skill

  that they prospered, and his subjects too.

  Dhritarashtra took it upon himself

  to dispense royal pardons to prisoners

  who were condemned to death, and Yudhishthira

  did not interfere with him in this.

  The king ensured that the most delicious

  food and drink, the most comfortable apartments,

  were made available to the old couple.

  In short, Yudhishthira and his brothers

  behaved toward them like devoted sons—

  in fact with more devotion than their own sons

  had ever shown. Yudhishthira forbade

  any mention of Duryodhana

  and his wickedness. On the surface, then,

  happiness prevailed on every side

  and, in this way, fifteen years went by.

  But all was not exactly as it seemed.

  Dhritarashtra felt only affection

  and gratitude to four of the Pandavas.

  But he could not banish from his mind

  the way Bhima had killed Duryodhana.

  It rankled still. And Bhima, for his part,

  still resented Dhritarashtra’s role

  in the disastrous dice game, and afterward.

  Bhima knew the king would not permit

  any overt insult to their uncle.

  But he found ways of making the old man’s life

  miserable—for instance, causing servants

  to disobey him. And, within the hearing

  of the old couple, he would boast and swagger

  to his friends, “Do you see my powerful arms?

  These are the arms that sent Duryodhana,

  that brute, together with his sons and brothers,

  to their deserved destruction!”

  Dhritarashtra

  suffered this in silence, and Yudhishthira

  never came to hear of it. But in time,

  the old man became more and more despondent.

  One day, he summoned his nephews. “We all know

  how the great destruction at Kurukshetra

  was brought about. I take the blame for it.

  All my advisers gave me the same counsel:

  ‘Control Duryodhana.’ But you see

  I loved him, and that overrode my judgment.

  Bitter remorse has gnawed me ever since.

  Although it was the working out of time

  that brought the destruction of kshatriyas

  as was ordained, still, I regret my part.

  “Now, after many years, I have resolved

  to expiate my sins with renunciation.

  Only Gandhari knows that, for some time,

  I have eaten little, and have slept

  on the bare ground. So has Gandhari.

  Though we have lost a century of sons

  we no longer grieve for them. They all died

  as true kshatriyas.” He turned to the king.

  “Yudhishthira, you have behaved toward us

  as if you were our son. We have been happy.

  But now we have decided to retreat

  into the forest, wearing bark and rags,

  and there, blessing you, eating little,

  we shall end our days. Our austerity

  will be to your benefit, since kings enjoy

  the fruits of acts performed within their kingdom,

  auspicious and inauspicious. Sanjaya

  and Vidura will go with us. Now we come

  to ask you to release us.”

  “Oh no, uncle!”

  cried Yudhishthira, “I thought you were content!

  I have neglected you—I did not realize

  that you were practicing such self-denial

  and had these plans in mind. You need not go—

  I myself will retreat to the forest

  and your son Yuyutsu can rule the kingdom,

  or you can rule, or anyone you choose.

  Or if you insist on leaving here, then I

  will go with you.” In this way, the king

  flailed around in his shock and grief.

  Dhritarashtra, exhausted by his fast,

  was fainting, and unfit for more discussion.

  “I will make no decision,” said the king,

  “until you agree to take a little food.”

  Vyasa appeared then, and urged the king

  to let Dhritarashtra and Gandhari go.

  “It is appropriate,” he urged. “The old king

  should not die a demeaning death at home.

  If not in battle, then he should be able

  to acquire merit through renunciation

  like many kings of old. For kings are like

  exalted householders, and it is right

  that, after their royal duties are completed,

  they should embark on the third stage of life,

  asceticism.” The king said, “So be it.”

  Over the next days and weeks, well-wishers

  came from far and wide to pay respects

  and say their last farewell to Dhritarashtra.

  A great crowd, citizens of every class,

  congregated in the assembly hall.

  In a failing voice, the old king spoke to them.

  “Like my brother Pandu in his time,

  I ruled you fairly. So did Duryodhana.

  Through his wicked pride, he caused great bloodshed,

  and paid for it with his life. That did not mean

  that he neglected you. Now, for some years,

  Yudhishthira has held the reins of kingship,

  supported by his brothers, and he has been,

  and will remain, an outstanding ruler.

  I urge you to look after him with your lives

  as he protects you. Now he has allowed me,

  together with my respected wife, Gandhari,

  to leave the court and spend what life is left

  in renunciation. I ask you, too,

  the people, to favor me with your consent.”

  There was silence. All assembled there

  were deeply moved, their eyes streaming with tears

  at their old king’s humility. Then a buzz

  of discussion arose, and they appointed

  a learned brahmin to speak on their behalf.

  “Sir, I speak for all of us. We honor

  your decision. Everything you have said

  is true. The house of Bharata has always

  ruled us well and fairly. Duryodhana

  never harmed us. The terrible events

  that took place on the field of Kurukshetra

  were not your fault, nor were they brought about

  by Duryodhana, nor by heroic Karna.

  That tremendous slaughter could not have happened

  if the gods had not intended it.

  We therefore, in your presence, absolve your son,

  who now dwells in the heaven fit for heroes.

  And we pledge our deep loyalty to the king.”

  At this, the crowd shouted their approval,

  and the old king joined his hands and honored them.

  The date for the departure of the elders

  was to be the day of the full moon.

  Meanwhile, Dhritarashtra spent much time

  with Yudhishthira
, advising him.

  Although the Dharma King had already ruled

  for fifteen years (and long before, had reigned

  in Indraprastha), he listened patiently

  and welcomed his old uncle’s homilies.

  In his last days at court, Dhritarashtra

  sent Vidura to ask the king a favor:

  would Yudhishthira give him the means

  to carry out large-scale memorial rites

  for his sons, and for all the other heroes

  who were killed, even Jayadratha,

  and including Bhishma? Yudhishthira

  and Arjuna were pleased with this proposal,

  but Bhima frowned. Arjuna said to him,

  “Brother, do not begrudge our uncle this.

  Look at the way time turns things upside down.

  Once, we were begging him to favor us;

  now, by good fortune, he is the supplicant.”

  Bhima burst out, “It isn’t right! Why should he

  perform rites to sustain his wicked sons,

  gladdening his heart? They should be left

  to make their own way in the afterlife.

  Of course, rites should be carried out for Bhishma,

  and Kunti can make offerings for Karna.

  But it should be we who provide the gifts,

  not Dhritarashtra. He and his wretched sons

  subjected us to twelve long years of exile.

  Where was his affection for us then?

  What did he do to protect Draupadi?

  How—” But then Yudhishthira cut him short

  and rebuked him.

  The king turned to Vidura.

  “Please tell Dhritarashtra that my treasury

  is at his disposal. Let him make gifts

  to gratify the priests. And kindly ask him

  to forgive Bhima his lack of charity.

  Our years of exile still afflict his heart.”

  Vidura went back to Dhritarashtra

  with the king’s message. The old man was pleased

  and set about arranging a huge event

  to take place on the day of his departure.

  There would be enormous gifts of wealth

  made to brahmins, and to the assembled guests.

  Yudhishthira collaborated fully

  and decreed that the money spent on gifts

  be multiplied tenfold.

  The day arrived.

  After the elaborate shraddha rites,

  Dhritarashtra and his three companions,

  dressed in deerskins, started on their journey.

  The entire court and the citizens

  came out into the streets, and sorrowfully

  escorted their old king out of the city.

  Then, slowly, they turned back toward their homes.

  Kunti did not turn back. She had decided

  to accompany the others to the forest.

  Yudhishthira was shocked; so were his brothers.

  Together they begged Kunti to change her mind.

  “Mother, you cannot go,” said Yudhishthira.

  “It was you who urged us to fight for justice,

  you who said the kingdom should be ours.

  How can you leave us now, abandon us

  when we have gained the fruits of your advice?

  Show some compassion; please do not deprive me

  of your wisdom in my difficult calling.”

  But Kunti continued walking.

  Bhima said,

  “We were born in the forest; it was you

  who brought us as children to this city.

  Do not reject Yudhishthira’s achievement.

  It is unnatural for you not to share it—

  and, you can see, the twins are heartbroken.”

  “I have made up my mind,” replied Kunti.

  “This is no quick decision. My heart is burdened

  by sorrow and guilt at the death of Karna.

  I was very wrong not to reveal

  the truth about his birth, and now I grieve

  bitterly every hour of every day

  for the man who was, and was not, my son.

  All I can do is seek to expunge my sin

  by penances. True, I encouraged you

  to fight for the kingdom that was yours by right.

  You are kshatriyas, and of royal birth.

  It was for this I brought you from the forest,

  to acquire a warrior’s skills, a noble heart.

  I owed your father that. Otherwise,

  I could have climbed on his pyre, as Madri did,

  and enjoyed heaven with him.

  “I saw you grow

  into fine young men. I stayed with you

  through hard and dangerous times. I prayed for you

  through all the dreary years of your long exile,

  never knowing if you were alive or dead.

  Then I urged you to fight. I understood

  that only victory or death in battle

  could bring you honor, and give any meaning

  to all your sufferings. Only the deaths

  of Duryodhana and Duhshasana

  could avenge their insult to Draupadi

  and give her peace.

  “For the last fifteen years

  I have devoted my life to Gandhari

  whom I revere, both for her great virtue

  and as the wife of Pandu’s older brother.

  I have watched you and your brothers flourish.

  But now my task on earth is at an end.

  The fruits of sovereignty are yours, not mine.

  I do not want them. I now wish to attain,

  through penances, and through obedient service

  to the wise Gandhari and Dhritarashtra,

  happiness with Pandu in the next world.

  So you must let me go, Yudhishthira.”

  The king was now ashamed, and stopped protesting.

  He understood.

  “Take care of Sahadeva,”

  said Kunti. “He is the most attached to me.

  Remember Karna; make generous gifts for him.

  Take care of your brothers. And let your mind

  always be steeped in righteous understanding.”

  With those last words, Kunti turned away,

  following Gandhari into the trees.

  Dhritarashtra and his fellow elders

  made their new home deep inside the forest

  close beside the shining river Ganga,

  where they quickly settled to a life

  of abstinence, austerity and prayer

  in the hermitage of the sage Shatayupa.

  They were visited by many seers,

  Narada and Vyasa among them.

  Narada had just been visiting

  the realm of Indra. There, he had seen Pandu,

  who was always thinking of his brother,

  and who would help him in the afterlife.

  Kunti would join Pandu in Indra’s heaven.

  Narada foretold that Dhritarashtra,

  with his wife, would fly to Kubera’s realm,

  after three more years of earthly life

  burning away his sins through austerity.

  Dhritarashtra rejoiced at this fine prospect

  after a lifetime’s sorrow and wrong turns.

  As time went on, there was much speculation,

  a buzz of talk in street and marketplace.

  How were the old people managing?

  They must be finding life extremely hard.

  Was Kunti pining for her family?

  Might they perhaps return?

  The Pandavas

  were sorrowful. They found no consolation

  in anything—not hunting, wine or women,

  not even in the study of the Vedas.

  This loss of the older generation

  brought back to them the pain of other losses:

  their kinsmen and their sons. Especially,

  they thought of
Karna, their lost, unknown brother,

  of how they might have loved him. Only the sight

  of young Parikshit, so like Abhimanyu

  in skill and beauty, gave them any joy.

  Night and day, they worried about Kunti

  and the other elders, ill-equipped

  for life far from the luxuries of court.

  How would their emaciated mother

  be able to find strength to serve Gandhari?

  What were they eating? Were their lives in danger

  from wild beasts?

  At last, Sahadeva,

  echoed by Draupadi, convinced the king

  to organize a journey to the forest

  to reassure themselves that all was well.

  Members of the court and citizens

  would be welcome to join the expedition.

  At once their spirits rose. Yudhishthira

  arranged that the party would leave the city

  almost at once.

  Arriving at the Ganga,

  they knew they must be near their destination.

  Dismounting, the brothers went ahead on foot

  and soon came to the elders’ hermitage.

  On the riverbank, they saw their mother

  and others collecting water. Sahadeva

  rushed to embrace Kunti, weeping profusely,

  and she gathered her darling in her arms,

  then cried aloud with happiness to see

  her other sons and Draupadi.

  What joy!

  The king presented to the old, blind couple

  the entire stream of visitors—kshatriyas,

  brahmins, women, soldiers, citizens—

  and everyone rejoiced. A large number

  of holy hermits, who lived in the forest,

  gathered to see the famous Pandavas

  and their companions; Sanjaya pointed out

  each one of them, naming their attributes.

  “That one with the nose of an eagle,

  with wide and eloquent eyes, with golden skin—

  that is the king himself. The one whose tread

  shakes the ground like a massive elephant,

  whose skin is fair, whose arms and legs resemble

  tree trunks, is Bhima, scourge of the Kauravas.

  That is Arjuna, with the dark complexion

  and curling hair—he is the great bowman,

  courageous as a lion. He is unbeaten

  and unbeatable. See, over there,

  sitting beside their mother are the twins;

  no men in all the world are more beautiful

  nor more loving and sweet-natured. See

  the way they look at Kunti. Over there

  is Draupadi, the queen. Look—even now

  she is the loveliest woman on this earth,

  resembling a goddess, with her smooth skin

  and shining eyes. All those other ladies

  with their hair scraped back, dressed all in white,