Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (17 page)

This should delight you all—Yudhishthira

will be a king at once, as he deserves.”

There was silence. Everybody knew

about the Khandava tract. A barren region,

it was a wilderness of arid scrub

and dense forest, inhospitable country

very different from the delightful plain

whose fertile fields nourished Hastinapura.

Although Yudhishthira could clearly see

that he was being banished, he accepted

Dhritarashtra’s plan with dignity.

Duryodhana would never be reconciled

to what he saw as cowardly concession

to the Pandavas. Both he and Karna

bitterly regretted they had been stopped

from riding against Kampilya with their troops.

Bhima, too, would have relished battle.

But he deferred to Yudhishthira

as the eldest. And, now, as his king.

Yudhishthira himself had thought carefully.

There was no future for the Pandavas

at Hastinapura; that he understood.

A life of indolence at Kampilya

was no existence for a kshatriya.

As for the other option—all-out war

against the Kauravas—Yudhishthira

had always treated his uncle with respect,

like a father; he saw that as his duty.

And, unlike most young warriors of his rank,

Yudhishthira had never yearned for battle

for its own sake. Though he was not afraid

to fight, if fighting was the only way,

he did not crave the feverish rush of combat.

In fact, bloodshed made him sorrowful.

So, heartened by knowing that his dark cousin

Krishna would go with them, Yudhishthira

prepared himself for taking on the challenge

of his new kingdom in the wilderness.

Vyasa traveled with them, and performed

the rituals to consecrate the ground.

In time, in that place of devastation,

a large and splendid city rose. They named it

Indraprastha. First, robust, high walls

were built, surrounded by a sparkling moat.

The city gates, deterring all intruders,

were massive, shaped like soaring eagles’ wings,

and flanked by sturdy towers, well stocked with weapons.

Inside Indraprastha, streets and avenues

were spaciously laid out, all lined with buildings

of different kinds, that shone white in the sun,

like mountain peaks. The palace of the king

was beautiful beyond compare, and furnished

with every luxury.

Around the city

were tranquil parks and gardens, planned and planted

with arbors, cooling fountains, lily ponds

and many kinds of tree and flowering shrub—

kadamba, jasmine, mango and rose apple

and others too numerous to name—so all

who strolled there could enjoy bright, scented flowers

and luscious fruit at all times of the year.

Peacocks picked their way beneath the trees

which were a haven for melodious birds.

The city prospered. Drawn by reports of it,

and by their loyalty to Yudhishthira,

people came from all over the kingdom

to live there, bringing with them their hard work

and talents—worthy merchants, shopkeepers,

brahmins, accomplished craftsmen of every kind.

Because Yudhishthira was just and honest

and was concerned with the welfare of his people,

the population lived by his example.

Once he saw Indraprastha flourishing,

Krishna, having other obligations,

departed, to return to Dvaraka,

his city by the sea. The Pandavas

consented, but were sorry to see him go.

Krishna was their mainstay and their guide.

A visitor arrived at Indraprastha.

It was Narada, great and subtle seer,

traveler in the worlds of gods and men.

A holy busybody, he enjoyed

stirring the stockpot of the status quo,

creating complications, making trouble

challenging what people took for granted,

but in the interests of what was best.

He was an ally of Narayana,

expert in human nature. And in fact

Krishna had asked him to visit Indraprastha.

Yudhishthira bent to wash his holy feet

and made him sit down in a place of honor.

Then the brothers sat around him, listening

to stories of his endless wanderings.

They talked of this and that, then Draupadi

was brought before him to receive his blessing.

After she left, Narada looked troubled.

“Your queen is so lovely, she reminds me

of the tale of Sunda and Upasunda.”

“Who are they?” asked Bhima. “Not are—were.

They’re dead,” said Narada. The Pandavas

urged the seer to tell them the whole story.

“
S
UNDA AND
U
PASUNDA
were celestial asuras. They were brothers, and completely devoted to one another, sharing everything they possessed.

They decided that they would conquer the universe and, to this end, they embarked on a life of extreme austerities. They ate and drank nothing, living on air. Dressed in bark, covered with filth, they stood with their arms raised, balancing on their toes, not blinking. Their discipline was so extraordinary that the gods became afraid, and tried to distract them with various temptations. But without success.

Such was their extreme asceticism that the brothers were granted a boon by Lord Brahma. They would become adept at magic, powerful in weapons and able to change their form at will. They asked him, in addition, that they should become immortal. He refused, but granted them this: that they could be killed by no one, and nothing, except each other.

Sunda and Upasunda then went on the rampage. Ruthless, and lacking all respect, they slaughtered all who crossed their path—kings, brahmins, snakes, barbarians and even celestial beings. The gods ran to Brahma, begging him to save them.

Brahma summoned Vishvakarman, the divine craftsman, and asked him to make a woman of unsurpassed beauty. Vishvakarman assembled all the world’s most beautiful materials, and created a woman so lovely that even the gods caught their breath in wonder. Her name was Tilottama and Brahma instructed her to go to where the brothers were, and seduce them.

Having conquered the earth, the brothers had settled in Kurukshetra, living a life of utter depravity and self-indulgence. Bleary with drink, when they set eyes on Tilottama, provocatively dressed in a single red garment, each of them claimed her as his alone—even though they had always shared everything. They set about fighting each other with vicious clubs and, before long—both lay dead.”

There was a shocked silence. Narada

allowed his cautionary tale to sink in.

For the Pandavas, brotherhood was sacred,

and had been so from their earliest childhood

in the forest. Though different characters,

Kunti had taught them never to allow

anything to sow dissent between them.

But one wife between five strong young men!

One wife, whose beauty and intelligence

they all adored! It was a real test.

Maybe there were times when the strong ties

between the brothers stretched a little thin?

“Think,” said Narada, “how Duryodhana

would exult if the five of you fell out.

You would be doing him the greatest favor—

not that I’m suggesting my sad story

could apply to you in any way.

Nevertheless, you should guard yourselves.”

Chastened, the Pandavas made a covenant:

if any of them should, by accident,

observe one of the others as he lay

with Draupadi, then the offending brother

would serve time as a celibate, in exile.

In their splendid city, the Pandavas

were as happy with their noble wife

as was she, with her heroic husbands.

Then, one morning, Arjuna heard shouts.

An old brahmin was pacing up and down

in fury. “What’s the world coming to

when peaceful men can have their cattle taken

and royalty does nothing to put it right,

but lies around, dreaming in indolence!

Why is no one chasing the wicked thieves?

Isn’t that your job?” and the old man

began to hobble away in disgust.

Arjuna ran after him, “Just wait

until I fetch my bow.” He knew his weapons

were in the chamber where Yudhishthira

and Draupadi were spending time together.

But he must help the brahmin; royal dharma

required it. He rushed into the apartment,

grabbed the bow and arrows and rode off

in pursuit of the thieves. He scattered them

with a stream of well-aimed arrows, and returned

the stolen cattle to the grateful brahmin.

Then he presented himself before the king.

“Brother, I shall now go into exile,

in accordance with our covenant.”

Yudhishthira protested—Draupadi

and he had not been offended in the least.

It was no sin for a younger brother

to invade the privacy of the older.

Exile was unnecessary.

But Arjuna

insisted. “Dharma has to be respected;

you yourself have taught me that one should not

try shiftily to dodge round its requirements.

We all agreed on what should happen now.

I shall embrace exile for a time.”

Never, in all his life, had Arjuna

been separated from his family.

He would return to them in time. But meanwhile

the world was large, and offered new encounters.

He traveled widely, seeking holy places

on sacred rivers. From time to time, he stayed

in forest ashrams, learning all he could

from wise teachers. He was accompanied

by an entourage of learned brahmins

and they journeyed north to where the Ganga,

taking birth in the snow-peaked Himalaya,

leaps over rocks and tumbles to the plain.

There, he settled for a while.

One day,

as Arjuna was bathing in the river,

offering oblations to his ancestors,

he was seized, and pulled beneath the water

by Ulupi, beautiful snake princess.

She whisked him off to the kingdom underground

where snakes live amid sacrificial fires.

She wound herself around him tenderly.

“As soon as I caught sight of you, the love god

churned me with desire. Ah, make me happy,

handsome hero of the Bharatas!”

Arjuna hesitated. “Enchanting one,

I am committed to a celibate life

during my exile; I cannot break my vow.

Believe me—I would truly like to please you . . .

But how can I, without transgressing dharma?”

“Surely your vow,” said sensuous Ulupi,

“relates to Draupadi, not other women.

Remember too—the highest form of duty

is to preserve life. And, rest assured,

I shall die unless you slake my thirst.”

His course was clear. Arjuna passed the night

in pleasure with the sinuous snake princess,

and returned at sunrise to his lodging.

Soon after this, Arjuna left the mountains

and traveled southeast toward Manalura.

There, he called on King Chitravahana,

an ally of the Bharatas. The king

had a nubile daughter, Chitrangadaa,

plump and graceful. Arjuna desired her.

He spoke to the girl’s father. The king said,

“You need to understand: in our line,

in each generation, just one child is born.

Mine is a girl, but I am treating her

as a son for purposes of descent.

You may marry her on one condition:

father a son on her, who will belong

not to you, but to our lineage.”

Arjuna acquiesced. Then, after staying

with Chitrangadaa for the next three months,

he continued touring the sacred fords.

Most holy sites thronged with devout pilgrims

bathing, praying, offering oblations,

but he was told of one that was deserted

although it was quite beautiful, with trees,

graceful as dancers, shading the riverbank.

Ascetics told him: lurking in the water

were five huge crocodiles, who were inclined

to make a meal of bathers. Undeterred,

Arjuna dived in and, straight away,

was clamped between the jaws of a great beast.

He wrestled with it, thrashing, twisting, churning,

then managed to stand, holding it in the air.

That instant, it became a lovely woman.

Arjuna was astonished. “Beautiful one,

who are you? And, tell me, why this wickedness,

attacking innocent and pious bathers?”

She explained she was an apsaras,

one of five, as alluring as each other,

who had been cursed by a virtuous brahmin

for trying to seduce him. “Narada

told me you would be traveling nearby

and would help us.” The Pandava released

the other nymphs from their curse in the same way.

Then Arjuna returned to Chitrangadaa

to see Babhruvahana, his newborn son.

Despite his energetic pilgrimage,

Arjuna knew that his true destiny

would not be one of wandering the world.

A kshatriya was meant to live a life

as a man of action, and in time

he would rejoin his brothers. But for now

he was free to travel as he wished.

He headed southward, to Cape Comorin,

the tip of the subcontinent, the place

where Hanuman once leaped across the sea

to Lanka. There, he immersed himself at dawn

and at sunset, standing with folded hands,

bowing in homage to the god of light.

Eventually, he turned his footsteps north.

He followed the line of the Western Ghats,

along deserted beaches. As he traveled

the season was changing: the time of monsoon

had arrived. The air was still and heavy

with expectation, earth begging for rain

as though the whole of life were in suspense.

Then the weather broke. First came the wind

whipping the sea to frothy peaks and troughs,

bullying the trees to bow before it.

Then the rain: a few large drops at first

followed by blue forked lightning, which lit up

the lashing sea; and then the deafening crash,

the cannonades of thunder so explosive

it was as if immortal gods were battling

for supremacy. The black clouds burst,

the long-awaited rain swept down in sheets

pounding, sluicing over the thirsty land.

Everything that lived opened itself

to the reviving torrent.

Krishna learned

that Arjuna was close to Dvaraka

and went to meet him. The two friends rejoiced

to see each other, and Arjuna agreed

to spend time at Dvaraka as Krishna’s guest.

Entering the city with his friend,

Arjuna was welcomed by a throng

of citizens, all eager to set eyes

on the handsome and illustrious Pandava.

One day, the cousins went to a festival

and, strolling among the crowds, Arjuna

caught sight of a fair-skinned and graceful girl

in the company of her maids. Krishna

looked at Arjuna, smiling his mocking smile.

“Dressed as you are, in a simple robe,

you look the image of a pious pilgrim.

But are your thoughts really a pilgrim’s thoughts?”

He always knew what Arjuna was thinking.

“That is my sister, the gentle Subhadra,

favorite daughter of the king, my father.”

Arjuna was desperate to marry her.

How could it be achieved? In Krishna’s view

a svayamvara would be too uncertain

in its outcome. Instead, Krishna proposed

that his friend should carry the girl away.

Messengers were sent to Yudhishthira

who consented to the cousins’ plan.

So it happened. On a favorable day,

Arjuna seized the beautiful Subhadra

and galloped off with her in Krishna’s chariot.

Balarama, Krishna’s older brother,

was outraged. “The man has insulted us,

grossly abused our hospitality

after we received him with every honor!”

“My dear brother,” said Krishna, “think about it.

There’s no sign that Subhadra was unwilling

and, after all, she’s gone off with the noblest

kshatriya in the land. To seize her by force

accords well with our warrior tradition.

There’s great advantage for us in this match.

Who would not be proud of an alliance

with that hero? The pair should be followed

and brought back for a ceremonial wedding.

Diplomacy is all—we would lose face

if it looked as though he had defeated us.”

Once he had calmed himself, Balarama

saw the force of Krishna’s argument.

Next day, the couple was escorted back

and, with the blessing of her family,

Subhadra, lovely Yadava princess,

was married to the Bharata prince, Arjuna.

The people of Dvaraka were delighted

to have their princess joined in matrimony

to such a legendary kshatriya.

The time of exile was almost at an end.

Family feeling, strongest of all ties,

was tugging at the heart of Arjuna,

and soon the wedded couple said goodbye

to Dvaraka and, with their retinue,

made their way northeast to Indraprastha.

No doubt there would be great celebrations

at Arjuna’s return. But how would Draupadi—

Draupadi, adored princess of Panchala,

called the most beautiful woman in the world—

how would the fiery queen of the Pandavas

receive Subhadra? Though she had five husbands

Arjuna was the brother who had won her.

A great deal would depend on the first meeting.

In proper order, Arjuna paid reverence

to Yudhishthira his king, to the brahmins

and to his other brothers. He presented

Subhadra to his mother, who was pleased

that Arjuna had married her young niece.

Then, he went to Draupadi’s apartments.

Haughty, she turned away: “Go to that woman!

Things are changed between us. I’m well aware

that the first knot tied loosens most easily.”

Arjuna tried to soothe and reassure her

but after angry looks and proud reproaches,

she swept off into an inner room.

Arjuna, dismayed, spoke to Subhadra.

“Go to Draupadi alone, dressed simply,

not like a queen. Just be your natural self

and I’m sure her heart will warm to you.”

Subhadra put on simple peasant clothes

and presented herself with her head bowed

at Draupadi’s apartments. “I am Subhadra,

I will be your servant.” Draupadi,

softened by the girl’s sincerity,

embraced her, appreciating her beauty—

as different from the way she looked herself

as is the moon compared to the velvet dark.

She took Subhadra’s hand. “At least,” she said,

“may your
husband
never have a rival.”

And Subhadra replied, “Let it be so.”

Shortly after Arjuna’s homecoming

a party arrived from sea-set Dvaraka:

Krishna, Balarama and companions,

come to mark the auspicious alliance

between their clan and that of the Pandavas.