Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (15 page)

Vyasa had arranged for them to live

as lodgers with a kind brahmin family,

a couple and their children. Every morning

the five young men collected the day’s food,

going from house to house with begging bowls.

When the bowls were full, they hurried home

in case Duryodhana’s spies should be around.

Kunti shared out the food—half for Bhima,

half for the rest of them. But even so,

Bhima grew thin, and was always hungry.

One afternoon, when Bhima was at home

keeping Kunti company, loud crying

came from the landlord’s quarters. Kunti went in

and found the man lamenting to his wife:

“Since one of us must die, it should be I.

You have always been a loving wife,

dear to me as my friend, my great mainstay,

my children’s mother—I can’t let you die.

And how could I sacrifice my daughter?

Some say a father loves his son the most;

I don’t. She is just as precious to me

as her brother. No, it should be I

who loses his life. But then—how will you all

survive without me to work and protect you?

Better we all die!” And the poor man

gave way to utter anguish.

His wife said,

“What is the use of all your education

if you collapse just like a common man

when you meet adversity? Everything ends;

and if an ending is inevitable

grief is pointless. I myself shall go.

A woman’s task is always to defend

her husband’s welfare, even with her life.

We both will gain great merit from my action.

You’re able to protect and feed our children;

I can do neither. How can a widow manage?

How would I prevent unscrupulous men

from sniffing at our daughter? How would I teach

our son good conduct, without your example?

Our children would be left like two small fish

stranded on a dried-up riverbed.

You can find another mother for them;

that is lawful. For me, it is not the same.

My life has brought me happiness; I’ve borne

two lovely children by you. To die now

will not grieve me.” And, with that, the husband

and wife embraced each other, sorrowfully.

But then the daughter spoke. “Listen to me.

I am the one whose life should be surrendered.

You have to lose me sometime—it’s the custom

for a bride to live in her husband’s house—

so why not now? A child should be like a boat

to save its parents—in life and afterlife.

By my death, I save my father’s life

for, if Father dies, my little brother

will surely not survive. Then who will there be

to make the offerings to the ancestors?

Without me, there will still be a family.

As the saying goes, ‘A daughter is a burden.’

Without you, Father, I shall be a wretched,

unprotected girl. Do the right thing.

Sacrifice me, who anyway will be

sacrificed sooner or later.”

They all wept,

and the little boy, not understanding,

seized a stick and waved it joyfully.

“Me kill nasty monster!” he announced.

“What monster does he mean?” Kunti asked.

Then the landlord’s wife told her their trouble.

“Our turn for death has come. There’s no escape.

Baka, a rakshasa, lives in the hills

outside the town. We citizens are powerless.

There’s just one way to stop him coming down

at will, and killing anyone he likes:

each week, a member of one family

loads up a bullock cart with food, and takes it

up to his lair. He eats the food, the bullocks

and the driver—but at least that buys

a blessed reprieve for the rest of us.

And now it is the turn of our family!

We’ve talked and talked about which of us should go,

but none of us can bear to lose each other.

The only answer is to die together.”

And the poor woman began to shed fresh tears.

Kunti saw at once what could be done.

“You have only one son; I have five.

One of my sons will go on your behalf.

You’ve been so kind to us—it’s only right

that we should show our gratitude.”

“No! No!”

exclaimed the landlord. “I could not allow

a brahmin, a guest at that, to die for me,

however fond I am of my own life.

That would make me wickedly complicit

in brahmin murder.”

“It won’t come to that,”

said Kunti. “My son will kill this rakshasa.

He’s done it before; he has special powers.

But you must promise not to say a word

lest people become curious.” They agreed.

She put her plan to Bhima, who exulted

at the prospect of a square meal—and a fight!

Yudhishthira was appalled. “What mad idea

of duty led you to risk Bhima’s life

when our entire survival rests on him?”

But Kunti was firm. She knew that she was right.

The women of the house prepared a cartload

of the most delicious rice and curries.

Bhima set out, driving the bullock cart

and singing loudly. Coming to the foothills,

he stopped and, with enormous appetite,

began to eat the provisions in the cart.

He sat there at his ease, munching peacefully,

and thought no meal could be more delectable,

though all the time the bullocks were bellowing

and straining at their ropes, sensing the presence

of something dreadful.

With a thunderous roar,

Baka lumbered out from among the trees,

a ten-foot ogre, filthy and obese,

murderous at seeing the empty cart.

He picked up boulders, throwing them at Bhima

who caught them, laughing, hurling them straight back.

Baka uprooted trees, and came at Bhima

howling curses. A furious tree-fight followed,

then they grabbed each other, and for hours

they wrestled, until Baka began to tire.

Then Bhima bent him backwards, and broke his spine

as one might snap kindling for firewood.

Ekachakra was safe from the rakshasa.

In the afternoon, the brahmin landlord found

his bullocks grazing peacefully, and Baka

a sprawling corpse on the outskirts of the town.

People were agog—who could have done it?

The landlord kept his promise not to tell.

Weeks passed, and more weeks. Then one day, at dusk,

a mendicant came to the door. The landlord,

always hospitable, invited him

to shelter for the night. When he had bathed

and eaten, and all were gathered in the yard,

he began to tell them marvelous stories—

miracles he had seen at holy shrines,

amazing sights encountered on his journeys

throughout the land, from the Himalaya

down to Cape Comorin. “But I’m forgetting—

I’m really on a mission. King Drupada

has asked us wanderers to spread the word—

meant for the ears of one kshatriya.

His daughter Draupadi’s svayamvara

is shortly to take place in Kampilya.”

The mendicant then started on the story

of Drona and Drupada, and Drona’s revenge;

and of how Drupada had then obtained

both a son and daughter, born from fire.

“The son is a fine young man, and Draupadi

is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

All this the mendicant told his rapt audience.

A while later, Vyasa visited.

The brothers welcomed him with joined hands.

Having examined them on their behavior,

the blessed sage told them the following tale:

“
T
HERE WAS ONCE
a young woman, the daughter of a distinguished seer. She was of excellent conduct but, owing to some past action of hers, she was unfortunate in love. Beautiful though she was, with narrow waist and curving hips, she did not find a husband.

“She embarked on a program of austerities with the aim of achieving marriage, and impressed the god Shiva with her extreme self-discipline.

“‘Radiant maiden,’ he said, ‘choose a boon and I will grant it.’

“‘I want a virtuous husband,’ said the girl. And, in her eagerness to be understood, she said it again and again.

“‘Dear girl, you shall have your five husbands,’ said Shiva.

“‘Oh no—I only want one,’ she protested.

“‘Well, you asked five times, and five husbands you shall have, when you have been reborn in another body.’

“That maiden was eventually reborn

as the dark and beautiful Draupadi.

She is destined to become your wife.”

He smiled, and disappeared. The Pandavas’

blood was racing with the fire of youth

imagining the dazzling Draupadi.

Kunti said, “It seems to me that fate

brought us here to rid the town of Baka.

But it’s unwise to stay in one place too long.

Now, perhaps, we should be moving on.”

Taking their leave of the brahmin family,

the Pandavas set out for Kampilya.

They traveled southeast, frequently at night

to avoid notice, Arjuna leading them,

holding a firebrand.

In a lonely spot

at a sacred ford on the river Ganga,

they disturbed the king of the gandharvas

as he sported with his apsarases.

At dusk, rivers belong to the gandharvas;

this was his private place, and he was furious.

“By what right” said Arjuna, “do you keep us

from the Ganga, which belongs to all?”

A fight followed. Arjuna let loose

the
Fire
weapon, and captured the gandharva,

burning up his beautiful chariot.

At Yudhishthira’s request, Arjuna

spared his opponent’s life and, in return,

he and the gandharva became allies,

exchanging gifts. The gandharva gave horses

of exceptional speed (though Arjuna

thought it wise to leave them behind for now)

and Arjuna presented the grateful king

with the
Fire
weapon. “Now I know who you are,”

said the king. “But let me advise you—

we would not have attacked you in this way

had you been traveling with a household priest

carrying the sacrificial fire

and the objects needed for oblations.

A king can never prosper without a priest.”

“How should we find a priest?” asked Arjuna.

The gandharva suggested Dhaumya,

a most renowned scholar of the Vedas,

whose hermitage was nearby. So it was

that the wise Dhaumya became household priest

to the Pandavas, and remained so, lifelong.

Kampilya was buzzing with preparation.

The Pandavas, still disguised as brahmins,

smeared with ash, barefoot, with heavy beards,

were lodging with a potter’s family.

Every day, they walked around the city

with their begging bowls, separately, alert

for searching looks. But they noticed none.

Young brahmins, even with a proud demeanor,

attracted no attention—crowds of brahmins

had come to Kampilya, drawn by the prospect

of rich presents. Every evening, Kunti

shared out what the brothers had been given.

The city streets were jostling with strangers

from far and near. In every public space,

entertainers—jugglers, contortionists,

conjurors, dancers, all kinds of musicians—

scrambled for the most strategic pitch.

Gossip was rife. Who was the lucky suitor

who would prove brave and skilled enough to win

the dazzling Draupadi? Some imagined

a warrior of god-like looks and strength

sweeping down in a bejeweled chariot

to win his bride and carry her away.

At last, the auspicious day. The sky was brilliant.

Brahmins had consecrated the event.

Crowds of spectators, fizzing with excitement,

were pressing forward into the arena

where Draupadi’s future would be decided.

Surrounded by tall mansions, glistening

white as the sunlit snows of the Himalaya,

and lavishly adorned with costly hangings,

the amphitheater was an impressive sight.

Now, from the massive entrance to the palace,

Draupadi, with her brother, Drishtadyumna,

walked slowly to the dais, head slightly bowed.

She was dressed in scarlet silk; her ornaments

were of the finest jewel-encrusted gold.

Her beauty made those who had never seen her

gasp—her skin with the sheen of a black pearl,

her lovely face, lustrous wavy hair,

her perfect body, fragrant as blue lotus;

while in her eyes, in her calm expression,

there was something that engendered awe.

Surely she was nervous? So much depended

on these few hours.

Prince Dhrishtadyumna spoke.

“Warriors who are gathered here today

hoping to win the hand of Draupadi,

the task is this: a bow has been provided

together with five arrows. Overhead

is a revolving wheel and, higher still,

a small target. You have to string the bow,

and hit the target with each of the arrows,

aiming through the wheel. My sister, Draupadi,

will choose her husband from those who succeed.”

The task had been devised by Drupada.

He was hoping, against all the odds,

that Arjuna might have survived the fire

and could be among the assembled warriors.

King Drupada had witnessed at first hand

what Arjuna could do. Still, he had kept

his great wish to himself. Now, he waited.

Dhrishtadyumna announced the contestants

by name and pedigree. Duryodhana

was here with Karna and Duhshasana

and several more of Dhritarashtra’s sons;

Shalya, king of the Madras, with his sons;

Drona’s son Ashvatthaman, Shakuni,

Shishupala, known as the Bull of Chedi;

Satyaki, and dozens of other champions

from the Vrishni clan—in sum, there were scores

of royal heroes. Under an ample awning

they sat in silence. Tension was palpable.

Inconspicuous among the brahmins,

the Pandavas were staring at Draupadi,

mesmerized. At a distance, Krishna,

prince of the Vrishnis, turned to Balarama,

his older brother: “Look at those brahmins—there.”

Balarama looked; and smiled at Krishna.

Neither of them would compete that day.

Krishna knew why the Panchala princess

had come into the world—the same reason

as he himself: to be an instrument

for the deliverance of the suffering earth.

To carry out their part in the gods’ design.

The first contestant stepped up to the mark.

The bow provided had been specially made

for this occasion, crafted like bows of old

when men were men, and kshatriyas, demigods.

It was so stiff and heavy, few could lift it,

let alone string it and take aim with it.

Prince after prince made the attempt, but failed.

As they tried to bend the bow, it sprang back

flinging them to the ground, smashing their limbs.

They limped away, sore, angry and ashamed,

desire for Draupadi evaporated.

Duryodhana tried, so did his brothers,

but none could even begin to bend the bow.

Shishupala, a formidable warrior,

and his powerful friend Jarasandha

each made the attempt, but each of them

was flung onto his knees, humiliated.

Karna stepped forward. He, if anyone,

would have the necessary strength and, yes,

he grasped and bent the bow into a circle

and was about to string it, when he heard

Draupadi exclaim in a clear voice,

“I will not choose a suta for my husband!”

Karna laughed bitterly, laid down the bow

and, glancing at the sun, walked to his place.

Now you could hear a stirring in the stands,

a frisson of surprise. A young brahmin

was striding forward. Some people were scornful;

others said, “Nothing is impossible

to a brahmin of strict vows—and, besides,

that one has the stature of a god!”

Almost casually, as though the task

were child’s play to him, the young man raised the bow,

strung it, and shot five arrows through the wheel.

They clustered close around the target’s center;

with the fifth, the target fell to earth.

The contest was over. The crowd cheered and stamped.

A rain of flowers fell on the hero’s head.

Draupadi took up the ritual garland

of white flowers, and walked toward the victor.

Smiling, she draped the garland round his neck.

Most spectators were happy that the princess

had such a worthy husband, even though

he was not the prince they naturally expected.

But there was uproar from the kshatriyas—

angry shouting from the Kauravas

and many others: “Drupada has cheated!

He has treated us with complete contempt

and broken the rules. The law is very clear—

only a kshatriya should have his daughter.

He should die!” Several of them surged forward

to kill the king. But Bhima and Arjuna

rushed to defend him. Bhima snatched up a tree,

stripped off the leaves and, swinging it like a club,

lunged like Death himself at furious Shalya,

king of the Madras. The assembled brahmins,

shaking their deerskins, banging their water pots,

were all for joining in, but Arjuna

waved them back, and drawing the mighty bow

with which he had won Draupadi, he entered

into the affray.

“So, we were right,”

said Krishna to his brother Balarama.

“Those brahmins are, indeed, the Pandavas.”

“Oh, what a joy,” exclaimed Balarama,

“that the sons of Kunti, our father’s sister,

are alive after all!”

Meanwhile, the mayhem

continued. The uneventful brahmin life

the Pandavas had led for so many months

had left them hungry for action. Arjuna

found himself fighting against Karna,

Karna not recognizing his opponent.

Arjuna rejoiced to have the chance

to test his warrior’s skill against the man

who had caused him shame at the tournament.

They fought like gods. All the other warriors

dropped their weapons so they could observe

the well-matched pair, the lightning exchange

of arrows, the whirling bodies, dancing feet.

This was a duel, but also an expression

of the highest art, and each great archer

was exhilarated by the other’s skill.

“Are you the Art of Archery incarnate?”

asked Karna. “I am not,” replied Arjuna,

“I am a brahmin, adept at the astras,

master of the divine
Brahma
weapon,

and I shall defeat you. Fight on, hero!”

But Karna withdrew, unwilling to oppose

brahminic power. The brawl started up again—

Bhima against Shalya, pounding each other

like two great elephants in rut. The battle

was starting to turn ugly. And then Krishna

intervened with diplomatic words:

“The bride was righteously and fairly won;

this fighting is unseemly.” Reluctantly,

still unappeased, the kshatriyas turned away

and set out on the journey to their kingdoms.

Kunti had stayed at home, restless, enduring,

hour after hour, that dull anxiety

so familiar to mothers everywhere.

She thought of everything that was at stake,

and of the dangers. At last, she heard her sons’

voices in the yard. “Mother! Mother!

we have brought back largesse!”

“Then, my dears,

you will share it equitably between you,”

called Kunti. Then they walked in with Draupadi!

Kunti was startled; then she was overjoyed