Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  are the widows of the hundred Kauravas.

  Many of them lost their sons as well.”

  And Sanjaya went on to itemize

  every member of the royal household.

  Thoroughly awestruck and well entertained,

  the ascetics thanked him and took their leave.

  “Where is Vidura?” asked Yudhishthira,

  looking all around and not seeing him.

  Dhritarashtra said, “My beloved brother

  has gone further in extreme self-denial

  than the rest of us. He eats only air

  and no longer speaks.” Just then, Yudhishthira

  caught a glimpse of Vidura in the distance

  and pursued him, calling. He followed him

  to a remote clearing deep in the forest

  and found him standing, leaning against a tree.

  He was almost unrecognizable—

  filthy, skeletal, his mouth filled with stones,

  his hair matted and dusty. Yudhishthira

  paid him homage, and Vidura stared at him

  with a luminous gaze. As he did so,

  his life-breath left him and, with yogic power,

  entered Yudhishthira. Each of these two men

  was an aspect of the god of righteousness,

  Dharma. Now they were one. Yudhishthira

  felt himself increase in inner strength

  and was aware of an expanded wisdom.

  His mind turned to arranging the last rites

  for his beloved uncle, whose lifeless body

  still leaned against the tree. But then he heard

  a voice from heaven say, Do not cremate

  the body of this man called Vidura.

  Your body is in his. Do not grieve for him;

  he has gone to the regions of the blessed.

  Full of wonder, Yudhishthira went back

  and told Dhritarashtra what had happened.

  Dhritarashtra said, “It makes me happy

  to have you all around me, those I love.

  My strict penances and your presence here

  have consoled me. I am confident

  that I shall have blessings in the afterlife.

  But my mind never ceases to be tortured

  by memories of the many wrongful acts

  my foolish and misguided son committed.

  When I think of how many brave men

  died because of him, and because I

  indulged his wickedness, well, then I burn

  and know no peace, either by night or day.”

  “My husband speaks the truth,” said Gandhari,

  “and we all suffer—all who are bereaved—

  even though sixteen long years have passed

  since those terrible events. The worst

  is wondering what has happened to them now,

  all our fallen sons, brothers, husbands.”

  She turned to Vyasa, who was visiting.

  “O rishi, you are capable of wonders.

  If you could enable us to see them

  as they are now, in the afterlife,

  then I think we would find peace at last.”

  Vyasa said, “It is with this in view

  that I have come to see you. When night falls,

  if you go down and stand beside the river

  you will see them rising up like swimmers

  from their far dwellings in the afterlife.

  They all met death as true kshatriyas;

  all of them fulfilled their destiny.

  Each one of your kin contained a portion

  of some god or demon. They were on earth

  to accomplish a celestial purpose.”

  Just as, in the aftermath of the war,

  Vyasa had enabled wise Gandhari,

  through the gift of divine sight, to see

  all that took place on the battlefield,

  so, now, he granted her and Dhritarashtra

  the power of vision. As the daylight faded

  and the sun dipped low behind the trees,

  Vyasa conjured up a miracle.

  This is what Gandhari saw, speaking

  silently to herself as it occurred:

  “The air is growing cooler. All of us

  have come to stand beside the river Ganga

  and we are waiting. Time drags. No one speaks.

  Slowly, the forest birds are falling silent.

  Our hearts are pounding—with dread? With excitement?

  How will it be? Will we know what to say?

  Soon, through Vyasa’s power, Dhritarashtra

  will see the sons he has never seen before!

  Will he know them? I believe he will.

  “The light is fading. There is mist, floating

  over the water. Silence. Vyasa stands

  in the shallows, erect, his lips moving.

  Now, a murmur from the river, becoming

  an immense rushing, a roar. Oh wonderful!

  The water is churning, heaving, and the warriors

  I last saw on the field of Kurukshetra,

  broken and torn apart, are rising up

  from the depths of the Ganga in their thousands.

  “Their lovely heads and bodies are unblemished,

  whole again, as when their womenfolk

  gave them a last embrace before the battle.

  Their graceful robes are shimmering with color

  and they are all wearing auspicious jewels—

  they must be gifts, blessings from the gods.

  “Oh, but this sight defies the power of language

  to describe! The most splendid celebration

  ever seen must have been dull, compared with this.

  All the different celestial realms

  have yielded up their dead inhabitants

  for this one night, and bitter enemies

  are embracing now—Drona with Drupada,

  brave Abhimanyu with Jayadratha,

  Ghatotkacha with Duhshasana . . .

  “Friends parted by death embrace each other—

  Karna and Duryodhana, Bhishma and Drona . . .

  Dhritarashtra has copious tears of joy

  flowing down his cheeks, and how I tremble

  with gladness to see all my beloved sons

  without their hideous wounds, their faces, too,

  unmarked by their suffering.

  “Vyasa said

  destiny had decreed these savage losses.

  It is as if fate was the puppet master,

  and these brave men were galloped off to war

  on invisible strings, their faces lit

  by foolish happiness and warrior’s pride.

  Now, fate is satisfied; the gods, whose wishes

  are opaque to us, have had their way

  and, by the grace of Vyasa’s yogic power,

  have released our heroes. For this one night,

  they can again be loving, open-hearted;

  they are perfected, cleansed of the human stain

  of hatred.

  “Now they are turning to us, our men,

  and we, the living, take them in our arms

  and sink in their embrace. All these widows,

  whose shrieks I last heard on the battlefield,

  are screaming now with joy and recognition

  and something more. The Pandavas, with Kunti,

  meet Karna and are reconciled with him

  in perfect understanding. And now they rush

  to embrace their beloved Abhimanyu,

  and Uttaraa, too, is blissfully united

  with the husband whose son now looks like him.

  Dhritarashtra clasps Duryodhana,

  as I do, and we have all passed beyond

  any need for words . . .”

  Dawn began to turn the treetops red.

  At a gesture from Vyasa, the warriors

  began to plunge into the rippling Ganga

  and were gone, back to their heavenly h
omes.

  Vyasa spoke. “Any widow who wishes

  to join her husband in the afterlife

  should quickly plunge into the holy Ganga.”

  So many women, released from their bodies,

  regained the companionship of marriage

  in celestial worlds.

  Vyasa promised

  that any person, at whatever time

  and in whatever place, who heard the story

  of how the dead were brought back to this world

  to bring joy to the living, would be changed,

  consoled by it. And you have heard it now.

  Having seen his sons for the first time,

  and the last, Dhritarashtra shed his grief

  and returned, content, to his retreat.

  “My son,” he said to King Yudhishthira,

  “the time has come for you to leave this place.

  Through your visit, and through the miracle

  summoned by Vyasa, I have achieved

  perfect equanimity. I must resume

  my penances without any distraction.

  And the kingdom needs you.” Sahadeva

  longed to stay with Kunti, sharing her life

  of self-denial. “No, you must leave, my son,”

  she said. “Seeing you daily, my affection

  would undermine my vow of non-attachment.”

  So Yudhishthira and his family,

  knowing that this parting would be final,

  sadly took their leave, and made their way

  back to the City of the Elephant.

  Two years later, Narada visited.

  Eagerly, Yudhishthira asked for news

  of the elders. “After you saw them last,”

  said Narada, “the revered Dhritarashtra,

  with his companions, moved his sacred fire

  deeper into the forest. There he practiced

  more severe austerities than ever,

  holding only pebbles in his mouth,

  not speaking, and wandering randomly

  through the woods. Gandhari and Kunti

  starved themselves too, and drank very little.

  “One day, a forest fire sprang up, creeping

  closer and closer to where the elders sat.

  Sanjaya urged his master to escape,

  since this fire had not been sanctified,

  but Dhritarashtra refused, confident

  in the power of his penances—and indeed,

  he was too weak to run from the hungry fire.

  Sanjaya escaped, and has made his way

  to the high Himalaya. But your uncle,

  Gandhari and your mother were burnt to death.

  You should not grieve for them—it was their will

  that they should die like this.”

  The Pandavas

  were heartbroken, and felt like dying themselves.

  “How could the god of fire be so ungrateful,”

  cried Yudhishthira, “after Arjuna

  went to his aid all those years ago

  in the Khandava Forest! Had he forgotten?”

  “In fact,” said the seer, “this was no ordinary

  inferno. The conflagration had been sparked

  by the elders’ own sacrificial fire,

  left carelessly unguarded by assistants—

  so they died in a sacred fire, after all.”

  Gradually, the wisdom of Narada

  calmed the brothers’ horror and desolation.

  Every apt ceremony was performed

  and they spent a month living simply

  outside the city walls, undergoing

  purification. Then the Pandavas

  re-entered Hastinapura and, grieving still,

  resumed the heavy burden of government.

  XVI

  THE BOOK OF THE CLUBS

  59.

  KRISHNA’S PEOPLE

  Thirty-six years after Yudhishthira

  had come into his kingdom, strange portents

  began to trouble him. His reign had been

  largely without incident, prosperous

  and peaceful. But now he felt uneasy.

  Strong winds howled through the streets, scattering stones.

  The great rivers flowed backwards to their source.

  The sun and moon were cloaked in angry colors,

  partly obscured by fog and framed in black.

  Then came dreadful news: Krishna’s people,

  the Vrishnis, had been violently destroyed,

  killed by an iron bolt, through a curse inflicted

  by outraged brahmins. It seemed that only Krishna

  and his brother, Balarama, had escaped.

  The Pandavas cried out in bleakest grief.

  Janamejaya asked Vaishampayana,

  “How could all those warriors have been killed,

  slaughtered in front of Krishna’s very eyes?

  I want you to explain to me in detail.”

  Vaishampayana did as he was asked.

  One day some Vrishnis tried to play a trick

  on a distinguished group of brahmin sages,

  including Narada, who were visiting.

  They dressed Krishna’s son, Samba, as a woman

  and called out to the sages, “Hey, rishis,

  this is the wife of Babhru. As you can see,

  this lady is expecting—can you tell her

  if her offspring will be male or female?

  She really wants a son.” The holy brahmins

  were not deceived, and they took great offense.

  “Wicked and cruel louts, drunk with pride!

  This son of Krishna’s will certainly give birth,

  but to an iron club, which will bring destruction

  and death to the entire race of Vrishnis.”

  The sages traveled on to visit Krishna

  and told him what had happened, and of their curse

  on his crass relatives. This would fulfill

  his own purposes; he would not intervene.

  As was foretold, Krishna’s son gave birth

  to an iron bolt, a messenger of death.

  The king, Krishna’s father, in great distress

  decreed that the bolt should be ground up small,

  reduced to powder, and the powder then

  be scattered in the sea. He issued orders

  that no intoxicants of any kind

  should be manufactured. The frightened people

  obeyed, hoping to avert disaster.

  In the sea-lapped city of Dvaraka,

  Time stalked the streets in an embodied form,

  a bald and monstrous figure. Few could see him

  though his relentless tread was heard by many.

  Cooking pots cracked; cats were born from dogs,

  elephants from mules. All was awry.

  Dharma began to be disregarded.

  Krishna knew the signs, and as he watched

  his Vrishni people wallowing in sin,

  Gandhari’s old curse came into his mind.

  He knew catastrophe was in the offing,

  and that his time on earth was almost over.

  He would see Gandhari’s words made true.

  Signs of doom and decay were everywhere.

  Rats and mice infested every house

  and ate men’s hair and nails while they were sleeping.

  Freshly cooked food rotted instantly.

  There were unceasing cries of raucous birds.

  People became deranged, wives attacked husbands,

  fathers killed their children. Priests and elders

  were treated with contempt. Witnessed by all,

  Krishna’s discus rose into the air

  and flew back up to those celestial regions

  from whence it came. His splendid horses fled,

  pulling his divine chariot behind them,

  galloping over the surface of the sea.

  Krishna summoned his kinsfolk and explained


  Gandhari’s curse. They were filled with fear.

  Knowing events would take their predestined course,

  he told them to undertake a pilgrimage

  along the coast, to bathe in the sacred ocean.

  A huge expedition was prepared

  with an armed guard and wagons of food and drink,

  and the Vrishnis set off, with their families,

  to Prabhasa, on the rocky coast,

  where the sacred Sarasvati joined the sea.

  Rather than a sober pilgrimage,

  this was a bacchanal. There was loud music,

  actors and acrobats entertained them,

  trumpets blared and, as the sun went down,

  men became more and more intoxicated.

  Food that had been cooked specially for brahmins

  was doused in alcohol and given to monkeys.

  Krishna joined the party, silently.

  Satyaki started taunting Kritavarman

  for his involvement in the night attack

  on the Pandava and Panchala camp.

  “What kind of a kshatriya are you,

  slaughtering sleeping men, put up to it

  by a perverted brahmin! Shame on you!”

  His friends clapped and cheered uproariously.

  “What right have you to take the moral high ground?”

  shouted Kritavarman, pointing the finger

  of his left hand in disrespect. “Call yourself

  a hero? You cut down Bhurishravas

  despicably, when he had lost his arm

  and had withdrawn from battle.” Krishna frowned

  at Kritavarman.

  The quarrel escalated.

  Satyaki leapt to his feet in a fury.

  “I swear,” he shouted, “you’re about to join

  Draupadi’s sons, and those other heroes

  you cruelly killed, you coward!” And with that

  he rushed at Kritavarman and cut his head

  from his body. Then Kritavarman’s friends

  attacked Satyaki with any implement

  that came to hand, and soon the entire party

  were striking one another viciously.

  Krishna watched calmly, knowing what must happen,

  but when he saw his son Pradyumna killed,

  then his son Samba, and Satyaki his friend,

  Krishna became angry and snatched up

  a handful of the coarse eraka grass

  that grew there on the shore. In his hand

  it became a massive, lethal club, transformed

  by the powdered iron—the brahmins’ curse.

  Others copied him. Each blade of grass

  became a deadly weapon, capable

  of penetrating the impenetrable.

  Inflamed by wine, the fighters soon became

  indiscriminate, father attacking son,