Epic Retold: The Mahabharata in Tweets (10 page)

Sahadeva is the first to see our chariot when we enter the main settlement. He rushes to embrace me, then greets Balandhara respectfully.

Much has happened in my absence, my brother tells me. New buildings have come up. More immigrants have arrived from Hastinapur and Panchala.

Seeing me look at the burnt landscape, Sahadeva says, ‘Oh, that’s Arjuna’s doing! He and Krishna cleared the forests one day!’

What about the tribes who lived there? The Nagas and the rest?

‘Some agreed to move here and work for us. The others ran away when we began setting fire to the forests!’

Sahadeva takes us to Mother’s house. She has moved to a spacious building. She greets Balandhara with a warmth she never showed Hidimbi.

Embracing Balandhara, Mother says, ‘This will be your new home.’ Then, looking at me, she asks, ‘Have you seen Arjuna’s newborn?’

Arjuna is in the courtyard, talking to a swarthy, middle-aged man who looks like a tribal. My brother introduces him as Mayan, an architect.

‘He has built many magnificent temples in the south,’ Arjuna says. ‘He is making us a grand central hall like none other!’

Subhadra hurriedly gets up when Arjuna ushers me inside. After seeking my blessing, she takes her son from a maid and holds him out to me.

I kiss the child’s forehead, cradling him in my arm. He is asleep. He has Arjuna’s complexion, Subhadra’s eyes.

‘Abhimanyu,’ Arjuna says. ‘Krishna is besotted with him!’

‘May you have a long life,’ I bless the sleeping child. ‘May you grow into a greater hero than even your father!’

A messenger arrives to summon me to Yudhistira’s house soon after. I should have met him first. My elder brother is unlikely to be pleased.

‘Come,’ he says impatiently when I arrive. ‘Did Mother tell you Draupadi is pregnant?’

Without waiting for an answer, he leads me inside. Yudhistira is frowning, but he appears pleased with my choice of bride.

‘The Kashi rulers are worthy in-laws,’ he tells me. ‘Good alliance.’

He changes the subject suddenly. ‘Did you hear about the great hall we are building? We need a place to discuss statesmanship.’

Discuss statesmanship? More like a place for Yudhistira to assemble royals to play dice! I hide my smile.

The next morning Nakula and Sahadeva arrive to take me around the settlement. I am amazed; so many buildings have come up while I was away.

Outside the enlarged armoury, carpenters are building what looks like a large chariot. The man I met at Arjuna’s house is overseeing them.

‘Mayan,’ Nakula says. ‘Arjuna’s new friend!’

It is Sahadeva who explains. Arjuna had saved Mayan from the fire set to clear the forest. And Mayan had agreed to stay on.

‘He is designing a great bow for Arjuna,’ Sahadeva says. ‘He even has a name for it—Gandiva!’

Inside the armoury I train with the twins. Swords first. Then maces. Then archery. A crowd of new soldiers gathers to watch us.

Mayan approaches me when we finish. ‘You need a bow to suit your strength,’ he says. ‘Something that will give you great range.’

Kneeling, he draws designs in the dirt. He is also making me a mace. Light enough to swing one-handed, but heavy enough to kill an elephant.

Mayan speaks of arrows with snake venom. Crescent-tip arrows to slice off the enemy’s head. Arrows that could set the target on fire.

I am astounded. Who would have thought this tribal knew so much about weaponry? Arjuna did well to win him over.

Just then, an old woman comes in to say Mother wants to see me. Reluctantly, I get up.

Yudhistira is at Mother’s house, absently rolling dice. He is, as usual, frowning.

Mother asks me without preamble, ‘What are your thoughts about the Rajasuya?’

I know Yudhistira intends to perform the Rajasuya. To proclaim his sovereignty and acquire the title of emperor, it is required.

But first, a military campaign is needed. ‘Krishna suggests that we begin our campaign by defeating Jarasandha,’ Mother says.

I can see the sense in that. But even with the Yadava forces, I am not sure we are strong enough to conquer Magadha.

Mother has not finished. ‘If you are to challenge Jarasandha to a duel, he will not refuse.’

Yes. Bhima will fight so that Yudhistira can avoid it! Trust Krishna to come up with such a solution.

‘It is best to avoid futile wars,’ Yudhistira says to no one in particular.

Let it not be said that Bhimasena failed his brother. ‘I will prepare,’ I say.

JARASANDHA

EPISODE 13

TWEETS 58

Magadha is a long journey from Indraprastha. A secure kingdom surrounded by five mountains, its borders are all but impenetrable.

To avoid Hastinapur and Duryodhana’s army of spies, Krishna, Arjuna and I take a circuitous route to the north, over the Kalakuta hills.

Crossing Kosala, we make our way into Mithila, then travel south till we see the rushing Ganga again. Magadha lies across.

We have travelled light. No servants, no flag. Complete surprise is Krishna’s strategy.

It is evening when we make our way down to Girivraja, Jarasandha’s capital city. Hidden from view on a hill, we have spent the day resting.

Krishna points to the huge shield made of elephant hide that hangs by the main gate. To challenge Jarasandha, one had only strike it.

The Magadha king enjoys personal combat. And it is said he has never refused any challenger a duel.

The story goes he imprisoned his defeated opponents in caves and, later, offered them as human sacrifice.

When I strike it, the shield makes a booming sound. It echoes off the hillside. Before the noise dies down, I strike it again. Then again.

The guards who open the gate look annoyed.

‘We are here to challenge the degenerate who rules Magadha,’ Krishna tells them. ‘A king who offers others as sacrifice is not fit to live!’

Jarasandha’s men look at us pityingly. They lead us through the empty streets, straight to the arena in the middle of the city.

Attendants receive us at the entrance. They usher us into a spacious room. When they begin laying out milk and honey, Krishna says sharply:

‘We are here for battle, not banquet.’

An old man overseeing the servants responds with a smile, ‘Challengers such as yourselves usually have their last meal here.’

Later, Jarasandha approaches us. An ageing giant of a man, he is at least half a head taller than me, with arms as long as Dritarashtra’s.

After enquiring about our wellbeing, he says, ‘I am happy to accept a challenge. But in what way have I offended you?’

‘A warrior who offers other warriors as sacrifice violates the laws of warfare,’ Krishna replies. ‘He deserves death.’

If Krishna hoped to provoke Jarasandha, it doesn’t seem to work. The king responds evenly.

‘I do not violate any law, stranger. Do you not know such sacrifices are permissible by the laws of my people?’

He continues in the same tone, ‘Be that as it may, it is customary to be acquainted with one’s opponents before battle. Who are you?’

Krishna chooses to introduce himself first as the brother of Balarama, ruler of Mathura. A knowing smile appears on Jarasandha’s face.

‘Ah, forgive me,’ he says. ‘You were but a child when we came to Mathura. I never got a good look—you fled the battlefield!’

Krishna looks unperturbed. He speaks of Arjuna, of how he won the bride in King Drupada’s court, defeating all archers.

Then it is my turn. ‘As for your challenger, it is Bhimasena, who singlehandedly defeated the whole army of Kashi to win his bride!’

Me, the vanquisher of my brother-in-law? Krishna has a way with words.

Jarasandha looks at me thoughtfully. After a few moments, he claps his hands to summon an attendant.

When the old man appears, he says: ‘Arrange for our guests to rest tonight. Announce the duel at first light—let everyone know.’

Then, Jarasandha turns to me. Gone is his hospitable smile. ‘Rest well. We fight at midday.’

Krishna interjects pointedly, ‘If the king needs to rest before he duels, we are prepared to wait.’

Fight Jarasandha on our terms. That is the strategy. I say loudly, ‘Let the infirm king have his sleep. It will be his last!’

Jarasandha’s face changes. Muttering about the arrogance of youth, he orders, ‘Awaken the priests. The usual rites first.’

Later, as the priests begin their chants, the king sits still in front of the sacrificial fire, head bent, brow covered in sandal paste.

Helping me gather my hair into a tight knot, Krishna warns, ‘Do not underestimate the old man. Tire him out first.’

I walk to the centre of the arena. Despite the hour, a small crowd of palace servants and ministers has gathered around the edges.

We bow without taking our eyes off each other.

The blows I take to test Jarasandha prove the wisdom of Krishna’s advice. I am amazed at the strength of this old man who is at least sixty.

When I jump back to avoid a vicious strike to my ribs, he rushes me. Off-balance, I am too slow to escape his attack.

The long arms that lock around me are made of iron. They grapple to manoeuvre me into a position where Jarasandha can squeeze me to death.

It takes all my strength to break his hold. As I stumble away, I see concern on Arjuna’s face. Krishna is a picture of calm.

Warily, I circle Jarasandha. Around the edges, the spectators cheer him. Their king has not disappointed.

I am ready when he attempts to seize me again. Sidestepping, I bring my locked hands on his back, sending him staggering.

Again, he rushes me. Again, I slip out of his grasp.

Staying well out of Jarasandha’s reach, I aim for his vital areas. I need to weaken him considerably before I risk closing in.

As the duel drags on, I sense the energy drain from the old king. He is breathing hard, moving slower.

Around us, the crowd has grown silent. In the silence, the cheers from Krishna and Arjuna sound louder.

I realize Jarasandha is trying to manoeuvre me into a corner to smash me against a pillar. I take a step back. Then another.

The old king seems to have found a new source of energy. Pressing home his advantage, he advances with renewed vigour.

Even Krishna and Arjuna have fallen silent. Louder than ever, I hear my harsh breathing, the scuffle of my feet in the sand.

The pillar is only a few paces behind me now. I stop.

When Jarasandha rushes me like a whirlwind, I am ready. I slip to my knee, ducking under those massive arms and torso seeking to engulf me.

As he stands outstretched, struggling to stop his headlong rush, I pick him up by his knees, and throw him over my right shoulder.

Jarasandha’s body hits the pillar with a thud that shakes the arena. He screams.

As he crumbles to the ground, I jump on his back, thrust a knee against his spine. I hear his vertebrae crack.

I grab his head and twist. The old king is limp. The mighty Jarasandha has stopped breathing.

Panting, I rise. The spectators watch me, stunned and silent.

Without looking at the broken body at my feet, I make my way out. The crowd parts as I approach.

I have won. But it doesn’t feel like a victory.