Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (14 page)

lavishly. Most of the guests went home at last,

but Kunti took the forest family

to her room, where they fell into a stupor.

In the hall, Purochana stretched out

and slept as deeply as a sated pig.

He did not hear Bhima’s cautious footsteps,

the soft click of the barricaded door.

He never heard the flames gobble the rafters,

nor boiling resin bubble from the floor,

the creak, roar, crash as the roof fell in;

he did not smell the scent of burning rushes—

he breathed the toxic fumes of wax and lacquer

and never woke.

The fire surged, crackling

from room to room, through corridors and stairways,

tongues of flame greedy for each other

red, yellow, orange, leaping upward,

playful, free. An ecstasy of burning.

Meanwhile, the Pandavas had clambered down

into the pit, covering it behind them.

They ran through the tunnel—out into the air,

and to the forest. They dodged among the trees

making their way south, and soon the uproar

and horror of the city were left behind.

Watching, helpless, hour after anguished hour,

the citizens of Varanavata

witnessed the House of Wealth become a wreck.

Wracking explosions, showers of sparks and cinders

lit the entire sky.

They flung their garments

over their heads and wept.

“Oh terrible!

Shiva! Shiva!

We’ve lost the Pandavas,

the jewels of the kingdom,

our bright hope!

How could it happen that colossal Bhima,

stronger than any other man on earth,

couldn’t escape?

And the great Arjuna . . .

the twins—so noble . . . !”

But most of all, they wept

for Prince Yudhishthira, and for their future

stripped of the wise ruler he would have been,

a king who would have given them protection

in the difficult conditions of their lives.

With the dawn breeze, the flames exhausted, ash

and stinking smoke were carried everywhere

so that no hovel, courtyard, alleyway

escaped the stench of death.

And despite

the deviousness of sly Purochana,

despite the guile of Duryodhana,

the people guessed this was their evil work.

When the bones of a woman and five men

were found jumbled, raked from the noxious debris,

they were convinced—the brothers had been murdered.

“Let us send a message to the king:

‘You have succeeded; the Pandavas are dead!’”

When he received the news, Dhritarashtra

was torn, as always. Just as a deep pool

is chilly in its depths, warm on the surface,

so Dhritarashtra’s heart was at the same time

hot with instant grief, and deeply cold.

He had not, quite, expected these events.

He and his sons cast off their royal robes

and carried out the proper funeral rites.

He ordered public mourning, kingdom-wide.

No outward show of sorrow was omitted.

In the forest, the six fugitives

were desperate to put the greatest distance

between them and their possible pursuers.

They ran as fast as they were able, wearily

trying to take their bearings from the stars,

impeded by the leafy canopy.

Nothing had prepared them for experience

this difficult. In Pandu’s forest home

they had lived simply, but always had a roof,

plenty to eat, and the certainty

that all who knew them loved them. And at court

they had become accustomed to luxury.

Now all was stripped away. They were bereft

of all the clothing, weapons, pastimes, friendships

that told them who they were.

Hunger, thirst,

scratched flesh and bleeding feet afflicted them.

After a while, forest became thick jungle.

This was a threatening place, very different

from forests they had known and hunted in,

inflicting death for sport. Now it was they

whose skin prickled at the strange and menacing

sounds surrounding them. They had no way

of knowing fierce from friendly, friendliness

from mere indifference. Snared at every step

by twining roots and scrub, they had no notion

which plants and animals were safe to eat.

When they were dropping from exhaustion, Bhima,

powerful as an elephant, carried them.

He placed his mother on one brawny shoulder,

the twins rode on his hips, while Yudhishthira

and Arjuna were tucked under his arms.

Hour after hour, Wolf-belly forged ahead,

racing on as if with the wind behind him,

trampling, smashing every obstacle.

They entered a rank wilderness, infested

with slinking beasts and scrawny, raucous birds.

The trees were sparse, with gray and brittle leaves,

but they came across an arching banyan tree

and made a welcome stop under its roots.

All, except Bhima, fell asleep at once.

Bhima thought he heard the sound of herons

and followed it until he found a lake.

He drank long drafts, and bathed, then brought back water

for his family. He sat beside them

through the night, keeping watch, reflecting

on their misfortune: “Ah, my unlucky brothers

and my dear mother, used to comfort, now

stretched on the unyielding ground like beggars.

These vigorous vines and creepers all around

are struggling upward from impoverished soil,

helping each other climb toward the light.

Why is it, if these plants can coexist

in harmony, that all our pampered cousins

so strenuously seek to damage us

when we’ve done nothing wrong?” And he wept

for the suffering of Kunti and his brothers.

This jungle was home to a rakshasa,

Hidimba, a vile ogre, and his sister,

Hidimbaa. They were vampire bats writ large,

loathsome, yellow-eyed and tireless gluttons.

They would track and slaughter any animal,

drink its blood, gnaw raw flesh from the bones.

But what they relished above anything

was human meat. Now they were very hungry.

Prowling through the trees, the ogre picked up

the scent of the Pandavas, and growled with pleasure.

“Humans! My favorite! I long to sink my tusks

in their delicious flesh, slice their veins

and guzzle their rich, foaming blood. Hidimbaa,

go and find them, bring them here for me!”

Off went his sister, loping stealthily,

but one glimpse of Bhima, and she fell

besottedly, lustfully in love with him.

“Oh, what a gorgeous man, so strong and upright,

bulging in every place a man should bulge,

tall as a shala tree. Look at that neck!

Those lion-like shoulders! And what lovely eyes!

This is certainly the man for me.

He shall be my husband—and a wife’s duty

overrides a sister’s any day.

If I kill this family, my appetite

and my brother’s will be satisfied

for a mere half hour. But if I marry

this delicious man, I will have pleasure

for years on end!”

Then, quicker than a blink

(for rakshasas can change their form at will),

she shed her hideous aspect and appeared

as a shapely girl, casting lascivious looks

at Bhima. She sidled up and stood beside him.

“Who on earth are you, you bull-like man?

And who are these other people, sleeping

on the ground so trustfully? I warn you,

a hungry rakshasa, my wicked brother,

wants to make a meal of you. But, darling,

I shall save you. My body and my heart

are mad with love for you. Be my husband,

and we shall fly to anywhere you choose.

The whole world shall be our paradise!”

“What kind of scoundrel would I be,” said Bhima,

“if—alluring as you are, O luscious one—

I left my helpless mother and my brothers

to be gobbled by a ravenous rakshasa?”

“All right, I’ll save you all,” said Hidimbaa.

“Wake them up now. We can be on our way.”

“I won’t,” said Bhima, “they deserve their rest.

No ill-tempered ogre can frighten me,

sweetheart. The same applies, my gorgeous girl,

to any man or monster on this earth.

Go, or stay, you sexy one—you choose.

But send that evil brother of yours to me.”

Hidimbaa sent a signal to her brother

and, before long, the ugly rakshasa

came powering through the trees, sweating with rage

at how his sister had betrayed him, putting

such soppiness as love before a feast.

He had been looking forward to sweet blood,

and sucking brains from foolish human skulls.

“Have you lost your wits, stupid Hidimbaa?

You’re a traitor to the race of rakshasas.

I’ll kill you now, before I eat these others.”

Bhima laughed. “You idiot, fight with me,

not with this woman who has done no wrong—

in fact, she has been wronged herself, smitten

by the god of love, when she saw my beauty!

Come on—fight! Today, you evil beast,

your body will be severed, head from trunk

and scavengers, not you, will eat their fill.”

The monster gave a roar, insane with fury.

With claws and fangs and superhuman strength

he tore at Bhima, but he could not crush

the huge son of the wind. Bhima fought

with enormous relish, like a lion

tussling with its prey, dragging, shaking it

as though it were a game. And all the time

Hidimbaa was watching, breathless, weak with love.

At the noise, the others stirred from sleep

and were amazed to see the radiant girl.

“Who are you?” asked Kunti curiously.

“I am the sister of the rakshasa—

that flesh-eating monster over there,

being manhandled by your god-like son.

I have chosen Bhima as my husband—

I love him madly. I have to confess

I tried to get him to elope with me

but he refused to leave you unprotected.

Look at them now, rakshasa and human,

dragging each other through the dust!”

Arjuna

sprang up to help Bhima dispatch the monster

but Bhima wanted this to be his fight

and his alone; and, before too long,

the ogre was a mess of skin and blood

smeared on the forest floor. With his death,

birds sang more brightly, and the grayish trees

sprouted new green leaves and scented flowers.

What was to be done with Hidimbaa?

“Kill her,” suggested Bhima, “rakshasas

bear grudges and resort to wicked magic.”

Yudhishthira opposed him forcefully.

“Even if she is a rakshasa,

never kill a woman. It is contrary

to dharma—and what damage can she do?”

Hidimbaa spoke up. “I love your brother.

For his sake, I have betrayed my kin,

my friends, the code that governs rakshasas.

Am I to be rejected by you all

for having spoken truthfully? Have pity,

let Bhima love me, as I know he can.

You may think me foolish, but I promise

that I shall serve you—I can carry you,

all of you, over any obstacle.

Let me marry Bhima.”

Yudhishthira

softened toward her. “You can marry him,

and you can take him anywhere you wish.

But every day, at sunset, he must return

as we rely on him.”

Now Hidimbaa,

summoning her supernatural powers,

took Bhima off on blissful honeymoons

to secret places where time stopped for them

in their exquisite lovemaking. They traveled

to coral islands, sparkling mountaintops,

lovely glades where trees bent over them

heavy with ripe fruit. And, every night,

she brought him back to guard his family

where they had set up house, by a jungle pool.

Rakshasas give birth the very day

that they conceive, and Hidimbaa produced

a son by Bhima. He was huge and hairless.

“The child’s bald as a pot,” said Bhima proudly

and that became his name—Ghatotkacha.

He was an awesome sight: cross-eyed, large-mouthed,

beautifully ugly, with pointed ears

and terrifying tusks. In a few short weeks,

he grew up; it was as if he lived

in another time dimension. He became

mountainous, a master with all weapons,

devoted to truth. He loved the Pandavas

and they in turn adored him as their own.

The day arrived when Hidimbaa announced

the end of their idyllic time together.

Then she disappeared. Ghatotkacha

told his father he would always come

when he was needed. Then he too departed.

The Pandavas decided that they, also,

should seek a new life. They tied up their hair

like brahmin students, dressed themselves in deerskins

and, in this disguise, they traveled widely.

As they went, they studied the sacred Vedas

the better to conceal their identity.

Months passed by. One day the sage Vyasa,

the author of them all, arrived to see them.

As a seer, he knew the Pandavas

were alive and well. He spoke gently:

“I have long known the sons of Dhritarashtra

would try to rid themselves of you. Of course,

you and they are equally my kin.

But it is natural that I should favor you

since you are wronged, and living in penury.”

Kunti poured out her sorrow, and Vyasa

listened. Worse than anything was knowing

that their own family desired their death.

That hurt her like a never-healing wound.

“Be assured that this distress will pass,”

Vyasa said. “Your son Yudhishthira

will rule the kingdom as the Dharma King.

But, for now, you must be patient. Listen,

near here is the town of Ekachakra.

You should live there quietly, as brahmins,

and wait for better times. I shall return.”

Having left the seer, they made their way

toward the undistinguished, one-wheel town.