Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  and Indra appeared to him on a fine chariot.

  “Climb on,” he said, “and come with me to heaven.”

  But Yudhishthira stayed where he stood,

  looking back down the mountain. “My brothers

  and Draupadi must go with me,” he said.

  “I do not want to be in heaven without them.”

  “Do not grieve for them, Bharata,” said Indra.

  “They have all reached heaven ahead of you,

  having cast off their bodies. It is ordained

  that you should reach heaven in bodily form.”

  “This dog must come with me,” said Yudhishthira.

  “Through our entire journey, he has walked

  beside me loyally, sharing all hardships.”

  “Impossible. Heaven is no place for dogs,”

  said Indra. “You have won the supreme reward

  by your virtuous life—there is no sin

  in abandoning the dog.”

  “I cannot do it,”

  said Yudhishthira. “It would be wicked

  to cast aside one who is so devoted

  from a selfish desire for the joys of heaven.”

  “But you have renounced all other ties,”

  said the god. “You left your wife and brothers

  lying on the ground. Why is this dog different?”

  “They were already dead. There was nothing more

  I could do for them. This dog is alive.

  To abandon him would be equivalent

  to the worst sins—slaughtering a woman,

  theft from a brahmin, injuring a friend.

  I have never done such a sinful deed,

  and I never will, so long as I have breath.

  Indra, I cannot, and I will not do it.”

  Suddenly, the animal was transformed

  into the god of righteousness himself:

  Dharma, father of Yudhishthira.

  He was delighted with his virtuous son.

  “This compassion is a supreme example

  of your righteous mode of life. There is no one

  in all the worlds more virtuous than you.”

  Yudhishthira was taken up to heaven

  by Indra, accompanied by other gods

  and celestial beings. The seer Narada

  was one of many there who welcomed him.

  He told Yudhishthira that no one else

  had ever had the privilege of earning

  heaven while they were in their earthly body.

  Yudhishthira thanked the gods. “But now,” he said,

  “I wish to go to that realm where my brothers

  and Draupadi have gone. I want to join them.”

  “You have earned a special place,” said Indra.

  “Why do you still cling to your old attachments?

  Your four brothers and Draupadi have reached

  happiness. You should stay here with us—

  enjoy your great success.”

  But Yudhishthira

  insisted that he wanted to be only

  where his brothers and his wife had gone.

  “Open your eyes, Yudhishthira,” said Indra.

  Yudhishthira looked around—and what he saw

  was Duryodhana! The Kaurava

  was seated on a splendid throne, surrounded

  by gods and many heavenly attendants,

  together with the other Kauravas.

  Yudhishthira, shocked and outraged, turned his back.

  “How can this be! This wicked cousin of ours,

  this man, driven by greed and bitter envy,

  was responsible for the deaths of millions

  and the desolation of millions more.

  It was due to him that the blameless Draupadi

  was humiliated; due to him

  that we endured those thirteen years of exile,

  suffering privation—yet here he sits

  enjoying the rewards of Indra’s heaven!

  I do not even want to look at him.

  Let me go to where my brothers are.”

  “This response is wrong, Yudhishthira,”

  said Narada. “Heaven knows no enmity.

  You should put all these concerns behind you.

  I know Duryodhana behaved wrongly

  to the Pandavas, but by the sacrifice

  of his body on the field of battle,

  and by his courage, he has pleased the gods.

  He never ceased to follow kshatriya dharma.

  He never fought unfairly. You should approach him

  in a spirit of goodwill.”

  Yudhishthira

  looked away. “I do not see my brothers,

  or any of the heroes who fought with us;

  nor do I see Karna. Ever since

  my mother told me that he was our brother

  I have longed for him, both night and day.

  When I noticed, in the gaming hall,

  that Karna’s feet so much resembled Kunti’s,

  I should have realized. I should have spoken.

  I wish to go to him, and to the others,

  my other brothers and faithful Draupadi.

  Where my loved ones are—that is heaven.

  For me, this place is not heaven at all.”

  The gods ordered a celestial messenger

  to escort Yudhishthira to his kinsfolk.

  The messenger went first, to show the way

  over rough terrain. It was treacherous,

  mushy with flesh and blood, bones, hair,

  and stinking of the cadavers that lay

  all around, swarming with flies and maggots

  gorging on the decomposing bodies.

  The way was lined with fire, and it was jostling

  with crows and other scavengers, their beaks

  iron-hard and cruel. Dark spirits lurked there

  with needle-sharp incisors and hideous claws.

  They passed a river, boiling and foul-smelling,

  and a stand of trees whose every leaf

  cut like the keenest blade. Worst of all,

  people on every side were enduring

  the most dreadful torture imaginable.

  “How much further?” asked Yudhishthira.

  “What is this place? And where are my brothers?”

  The messenger stopped. “My instructions are

  that I should come this far only. If you wish,

  you may return with me.” Yudhishthira

  was suffocated by the dreadful stench

  and stifling heat. His courage was failing him.

  He turned round to follow the messenger.

  But then he heard piteous voices, calling out,

  “Son of Dharma! Royal sage! Great Bharata!

  Pity us! As long as you are here

  a fragrant breeze is bringing us relief.

  Please stay, even for a little while.”

  “Ah, how terrible!” exclaimed Yudhishthira.

  The voices seemed familiar. “Who are you?”

  he called to them. He heard the voices answer,

  clamorous with pain—

  “I am Karna!”

  “I am Bhima!”

  “I am Arjuna!”

  “I am Nakula!”

  “I am Sahadeva!”

  “I am Draupadi!”

  “I am Dhrishtadyumna!”

  “We are the sons of Draupadi!”

  Yudhishthira, horrified and bewildered,

  could not understand. It seemed to him

  that everything he knew, and had believed

  throughout his life, had been turned upside down.

  “What madness is this?” he asked himself.

  “What have these beloved people done

  that they should be consigned to hell like this?

  It makes no sense at all that Duryodhana

  should be enjoying every luxury

  while these dear ones, who have been most scrupulous

  in observing dha
rma—and all these months

  have been steadfast in yoga—are suffering.

  Am I dreaming, perhaps? Is this delusion?”

  Yudhishthira began to blaze with anger.

  “What kind of beings are the gods we worship

  with such devotion? What is dharma worth

  if these good souls can be so cruelly treated?”

  He spoke to the messenger. “I shall stay here.

  How could I enjoy gross privilege

  in heaven, having seen what you have shown me?

  My presence here seems to bring some relief

  to these dear people. Therefore, I shall remain

  to comfort them. This is where I belong.”

  The messenger went away. But in no time

  the gods appeared, with Indra at their head,

  and, among them, the lord of righteousness.

  Immediately, the scene changed completely.

  Dark became light. The dreadful sights and smells

  disappeared. A gentle, fragrant breeze

  blew all around. There were no tortured beings,

  no rotting corpses, no lacerating trees.

  “Yudhishthira,” said Indra, “do not be angry.

  You will suffer no more of these illusions.

  Hell has to be witnessed by every king.

  Whoever first encounters heaven will afterward

  experience hell. He who endures hell first

  will afterward see heaven. Sinful people

  enjoy the fruits of their good actions first,

  spending some time in heaven before hell.

  For those whose lives were mainly virtuous

  it is the opposite. Because you tricked Drona

  by letting him believe his son was dead,

  you, through a trick, had to spend time in hell.

  It was the same for your brothers. Illusion

  caused them to suffer, just for a short time.

  Now that is at an end. Shed grief and anger.

  Your brothers and your kinsfolk have now gone

  to those realms where they enjoy happiness.”

  Lord Dharma spoke. “My son, I am highly pleased.

  You have passed all the tests I set for you.

  By the Dvaita lake, you answered my riddles.

  You showed loyalty even to a dog.

  And here, out of compassion, you chose to share

  the suffering of others. There is no one

  in all the worlds more virtuous than you.

  You must now bathe in the celestial Ganga

  where you will cast off your human body.”

  This Yudhishthira did. And, with his body,

  all resentment, grief, hostility

  also fell away. Then the gods took him

  to the place where everyone he loved,

  as well as all the sons of Dhritarashtra,

  were enjoying bliss. There he saw Krishna

  in his divine form; and each of his brothers

  transformed by splendor, yet recognizable,

  associating with the gods, their fathers.

  He saw Karna, with Surya, the sun god.

  He saw Draupadi, radiant with light,

  accompanied by all her royal sons.

  He saw Abhimanyu. He saw Pandu

  reunited with Kunti and Madri.

  He saw Bhishma, Drona . . . so many heroes

  it would take an eon to name them all.

  Epilogue

  “Now,” said Ugrashravas, “I have related

  the story of the Pandavas and Kauravas

  in its entirety.” The bard fell silent.

  Then he rose, preparing to take his leave,

  but the Naimisha Forest seers detained him,

  clamorous for more: “What happened then

  at King Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice?

  What did the king say when Vaishampayana

  had finished telling Vyasa’s epic tale?”

  “He too wished to know what happened next

  (since no one wants a great story to end),

  bombarding Vaishampayana with questions:

  Did the heroes enjoy heaven for ever?

  Did they attain freedom from death and rebirth?

  What about those who had not been mentioned—

  Ghatotkacha, say, and Jayadratha?

  “So, with the approval of Vyasa,

  his disciple answered the king’s questions.

  ‘When a person goes to Indra’s realm,

  spending time in heaven and in hell,

  not all the fruit of their actions on earth,

  their karma, is used up. In the course of time,

  they are reborn in whatever body

  they deserve, according to the balance

  of the good and bad deeds that still cling to them.

  Those who have no remaining karma

  are not reborn, and reach absolute freedom.

  ‘For most of the heroes whose earthly deeds

  are told in Vyasa’s epic poem—whose names

  we do not even know—it is not revealed

  what was their journey in the afterlife,

  nor what was the nature of their next rebirth.

  But some of those whose parts in the great events

  were most significant were incarnated

  portions of gods and other divine beings.

  After their task in this world was accomplished,

  they returned and fused with those deities.’

  And Vaishampayana listed by name

  the demons, rakshasas and deities

  associated with each character

  in the great narrative.”

  The forest seers

  urged Ugrashravas to tell them more

  (as the king had urged Vaishampayana)

  concerning the creation of the cosmos,

  and how it happened that the first king, Prithu,

  was appointed. What was it that caused

  the battle between gods and demons, leading

  Vishnu-Narayana to descend to earth?

  They asked the bard to tell what he had heard

  about the life of Krishna Vasudeva

  and his people, the Vrishnis and Andhakas.

  Ugrashravas described the early life

  of Krishna and Balarama, their childish pranks

  among the cowherders, and Krishna’s part

  in the Vrishnis’ migration to Dvaraka.

  Many tales were told, but at last the bard

  turned to leave the forest and travel on.

  No one knew where next he might relate

  the marvelous story.

  These were his parting words:

  “What is found in the poem I have recited—

  concerning dharma, riches and enjoyment,

  as well as the path to final liberation—

  may be found elsewhere. But anything

  it does not contain will be found nowhere.

  “It is sacred, equal to the Vedas.

  It should be heard by everyone on earth,

  the most exalted as well as the most humble.

  To read it brings enormous benefit.

  To recite it spreads enlightenment,

  for whoever gives voice to these teachings

  takes on the mantle of the wise Vyasa.

  It is said that the day’s sins may be dissolved

  by listening to a part of it at night

  in a joyful spirit, with a trustful heart,

  with a perfect quality of attention.

  “Just as Himavat is a mine of jewels,

  the Mahabharata is a fathomless

  mine of wisdom, precious gems of knowledge

  for anyone receptive to the truth.

  “We are born, we live our lives, we die;

  happiness and grief arise and fade.

  But righteousness is measureless, eternal.”

  So ends the matchless Mahabharata,

  composed by Vyasa, for the good of a
ll.

  AFTERWORD

  The Poetry of the Mahabharata

  VINAY DHARWADKER

  Dites, qu’avez vous vu?

  Tell us, what have you seen?

  CHARLES BAUDELAIRE, Le Voyage (1857)

  ROBERT LOWELL, Imitations (1961)1

  ONE OF THE pleasures of Carole Satyamurti’s retelling of the Mahabharata is that it pursues a variety of goals and accomplishes them with seemingly effortless skill. It is a contemporary poem in English that seeks to stand aesthetically on its own, to be valued for its craft, thematic significance, and imaginative scope and depth. At the same time, however, it is overwhelmingly concerned with representing another poem as transparently as possible, even though the latter is remote in time and place as well as language and culture, and embodies a very different set of shaping principles. On a different plane, Satyamurti’s poem sifts through the numerous interwoven stories of the original in order to fashion a cogent storyline, and creates a narrative momentum that will hold our interest continuously. But it also pulls us in other directions, as it flexibly accommodates a mass of material from Sanskrit, and absorbs an abundance of unfamiliar terms, concepts, and qualities. Even as it maintains balance and restraint, the book takes some remarkable risks: adapting iambic pentameter and English blank verse to its practical tasks, it achieves a monumental size of almost 27,000 lines and 200,000 words. More than two and a half times the length of Milton’s Paradise Lost and over three times the length of Wordsworth’s 1850 Prelude, it emerges modestly as the longest successful experiment in English narrative poetry in modern times.

  Astonishing as Satyamurti’s technical accomplishments are, however, it is her desire to re-narrate an ancient Indian poem that defines her primary purpose in these pages. But what kind of work is the Mahabharata itself, and what are its attributes that a modern version ought to represent? How does this English poem actually relate to its largely inaccessible Sanskrit source? And what sort of world do the original Mahabharata and this innovative retelling open up for us, as cosmopolitan readers here and now? Wendy Doniger’s Foreword and Satyamurti’s Preface offer two kinds of answer to these and related questions; in this Afterword, I would like to explore a third angle of vision that complements their perspectives.

  TEXTUAL FORMATION2

  The Mahabharata became a subject of international interest beyond the borders of Asia almost two hundred and fifty years ago, when the typographer and philologist Charles Wilkins, working in Calcutta under the patronage of Warren Hastings, then governor-general of the East India Company’s Indian territories, started to translate it from Sanskrit into English. Like most other translators who have followed him, Wilkins was unable to complete the project, but he did publish his rendering of one part it, the Bhagavad Gita, in 1785, which proved to be both popular and influential in Europe.3 Ever since then, scholars and commentators have been divided into two main camps about the form and classification of the Mahabharata, especially in literary terms: one camp essentially views it as a “library,” or a loose-leaf “encyclopedia” at best, whereas the other regards it, first and foremost, as a particular poem in Sanskrit, with a well-defined structure and definite aesthetic properties. It may be difficult to pinpoint the work’s authorship, or to fix its date, place, and process of composition the way we can for modern works, but uncertainties of this kind do not deprive it of specificity as a Sanskrit poem. The poem’s unifying principle does not lie in a “coherent point of view” or a fixed set of themes on the surface, but lies instead, as A. K. Ramanujan also argued in the 1980s, in a multilayered integration of shape and substance, sources and ends, at a deeper level of organization.4 The aesthetic and imaginative aspects of the Mahabharata are vital factors in its reception in world literature today.