Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (18 page)

They had brought most sumptuous wedding gifts—

priceless silks, sacks of gold and jewels,

a thousand chariots, hung with little bells,

four thousand horses, ten thousand fine cattle,

a thousand tame mules, speedy as the wind,

some with black manes, some with white, a thousand

choice-bred mares, a thousand fine elephants

trained for battle, their howdahs bright with gold.

Yudhishthira acknowledged the largesse

and gave gifts in return. The visitors

stayed on as guests for many days, and Bhima,

the world’s greatest host, arranged such feasts,

such lavish entertainment, such excursions

that the Yadavas, returned to Dvaraka,

probably felt life was rather dull!

But Krishna stayed behind at Indraprastha

and the Pandavas derived great joy

from having their cousin with them for a while.

There followed happy years at Indraprastha.

Many other rulers were defeated

by the Pandavas, and their lands annexed.

The population prospered and increased.

King Yudhishthira rejoiced in action

that served the people and his kinsmen too—

he saw no conflict. And his contented subjects

worshiped him as their kind and splendid king.

Subhadra bore a son by Arjuna,

Abhimanyu. From his infancy,

he was Krishna’s favorite, affectionate,

quick-witted, mettlesome as a young bull,

loved by all, as a bright star is loved.

Krishna oversaw his initiation.

He would be an exceptional warrior.

Draupadi too gave birth to five strong sons

a year apart, one son by each husband.

Like their fathers, these five boys grew up

devoted to each other. They excelled

to differing degrees, in Vedic knowledge,

and in the arts of war taught by Arjuna.

All seemed perfect in the Pandava kingdom.

Only Krishna, who was a frequent guest,

knew of the trials his beloved cousins

would have to undergo before too long.

One day in high summer, when the air

seemed to scorch the skin, and every breath

was an effort, Arjuna proposed

that there should be a grand expedition

to the countryside. It would be cool

under the trees on the shady riverbank.

Arrangements were made. With family and friends,

together with a retinue of cooks,

maids and other servants, they left the city

in palanquins, in chariots, on horseback;

dozens of carts were piled with the provisions

Bhima thought essential for their needs.

Encamped beside the sparkling Yamuna,

some plunged into the refreshing water;

some played games, others brought out flutes,

drums and vinas, and there was dance and song.

Needless to say how plentiful and varied

the food was, how delectable the drink.

Krishna and Arjuna walked off by themselves

among the trees, talking, reminiscing.

They were enjoying each other’s company,

seated at their ease in a pleasant grove,

when they were approached by a strange brahmin.

He towered above them, tall as a shala tree.

His hair and beard were red, his skin coppery,

and he was radiant as the morning sun,

blazing with glory. The two kshatriyas

stood up to honor him.

“I see,” he said,

“the world’s greatest heroes standing before me.

I beg you—give me enough to eat. I’m starving.”

Arjuna said, “We’ll fetch you food, enough

and more than you can possibly consume.”

“It is not food I want,” said the stranger.

“I am Agni. I am Fire itself.

This Khandava Forest is the feast I crave,

but every time I try to gobble it

with my fiery mouth, Indra sends bank on bank

of voluminous black thunderclouds,

dousing the flames with deluges of rain,

frustrating my voracious appetite.

He does it to protect his friend—the snake,

Takshaka, whose home is in this forest.

But now I have met you, I shall succeed.

I know your mastery of every weapon—

come to my aid! Fend off Indra’s rain clouds;

prevent the million creatures of the forest

from escaping death.”

The god of fire

was in poor health, suffering from a surfeit

of clarified butter, which had ceaselessly

been poured into him, in sacrifices

sponsored by an overzealous king.

He had been told that only by consuming

fat from the creatures of the Khandava

would he be cured.

“It’s true,” said Arjuna,

“that we know how to summon divine weapons,

but we have come here on a pleasure outing—

we have no bows, or quivers, and have only

ordinary chariots and horses.

If I am to help you as you wish

I need a bow commensurate with my strength,

an inexhaustible supply of arrows,

and a chariot that shakes the ground,

as dazzling as the sun. I want fine horses—

divine white horses, faster than the wind.

Krishna, too, needs weapons to suit his skill.

We’ll help you, willingly, but we must have

tools for the task.”

Agni summoned Varuna,

keeper of weapons, one of the world guardians,

lord of waters. Agni paid him homage,

then asked him to provide the two warriors

with the weapons they would need. First Arjuna

received with joy the marvelous bow
Gandiva
,

the indestructible, the shining arc,

a bow so mighty that the cording of it

caused the air to throb, the mind to shudder

of anyone who heard it. Then Varuna

gave ambidextrous Arjuna two quivers

filled with an ever-replenishing supply

of shafts. Krishna received a keen-edged discus

that would always return to the thrower’s hand;

and a great club, lethal as a thunderbolt.

Lastly, Varuna summoned for the heroes

a horse-drawn chariot, made by Vishvakarman,

celestial craftsman. It was magnificent—

huge and well-proportioned, flying a banner

marked with the image of a divine monkey

whose terrifying and unearthly roars

could render an enemy insensible.

Four white horses, fast as thought, faster

than the strongest wind, drew the chariot.

Now the heroes were equipped for battle

and eager to engage with the chief of gods.

Agni spewed out a ring of fire encircling

the dense forest, to cut off all escape.

Then, working inward, the hungry fire consumed

everything in his path. Insatiable

flames leapt, roared and crackled through the trees,

and billows of smoke, rivaling Mount Meru,

could be seen from scores of miles around.

A dreadful screeching started. Many creatures

were burned immediately. Others ran

blazing, scattering mindlessly, eyes bursting,

pawing the ground until they atomized

in the white heat of the conflagration.

Everywhere, animals ran, struggled, writhed.

Some clung to their mothers, fathers, mates

unable to abandon them. In this way

whole tribes and families met death together.

Anything that managed to break free

was hunted down by Arjuna and Krishna,

guarding the periphery of the forest

so nothing could escape the conflagration.

Birds flew upward, but burst into flames

before they could escape to cooler air

or they were shot by Arjuna, to fall

and perish in the deafening inferno.

As forest pools came to boiling point

fish and tortoises jumped out or crawled

onto the banks, to burn and suffocate.

When Arjuna saw them, he cut them to shreds

and, laughing, threw them into the leaping flames.

The creatures’ screams ascended to the heavens

so that the gods themselves were terrified

and cried out to Indra, sacker of cities,

“What is this? Why are these creatures dying?

Are we witnessing the final destruction

of the world?” Indra hurled down immense

volumes of water, pelting the burning trees

with shafts of rain, and a barrage of hailstones

as big as pigeons’ eggs. So great was the heat

that they turned into scalding clouds of steam

before they reached the ground. Indra increased

his onslaught. Arjuna, raising his bow,

loosed cascades of shafts, shattering hailstones,

casting a net of arrows, a canopy,

so Indra’s rainstorm failed to penetrate.

Agni raged on, in his many fiery forms.

Though frustrated, Indra looked down with pride

at his mortal son, the mighty Arjuna,

then mobilized an army of snakes, demons

and predatory creatures, who converged

on the heroes with an almighty din,

as if the oceans of the world were churning.

They unleashed a storm of iron bolts.

Arjuna shot innumerable arrows.

Krishna hurled his discus, which returned

to his hand, time after time, slick with blood.

The attack was soon repelled, and the searing fire

continued unabated. Agni devoured

rivers of fat and marrow, as the millions

of forest creatures gasped their final breath.

His eyes alight, his scarlet tongue flickering,

his flaming mouth and crackling hair ablaze,

Agni feasted, protected by the heroes.

Then the battle of earth and sky began

in earnest. Indra called upon his allies

among the gods, and Arjuna and Krishna

were soon under assault from every side.

But their weapons, and their skill, prevailed.

The gods retreated. Indra then tore off

a mountain peak and hurled it at the heroes;

but Arjuna’s arrows intercepted it

and broke it up into a thousand fragments.

Indra summoned predatory birds,

with razor beaks and claws, to strike the warriors;

and snakes slid all around, their sussuration

filling the air, their scalding venom shooting

from burning mouths. Arjuna’s heaven-made arrows

diced them up, to shrivel in the flames.

Krishna knew, though Arjuna did not,

that this hard-fought fight was a rehearsal

for the great annihilating war

that would come—a war they would fight together.

Not all the forest dwellers were devoured.

The king of snakes, Takshaka, was away

in Kaurava country. His son, Ashvasena,

tried to escape the advancing flames, but failed.

His mother, desperate to save him, started

to swallow him, but Arjuna shot an arrow

which sliced off her head. Indra, seeing this,

sent great gusts of wind to save his friend’s son

which, for a moment, distracted Arjuna

and, in that moment, Ashvasena fled.

Maya, a gifted demon, dodging the flames,

about to be cut down by Krishna’s discus,

cried out, “Arjuna! Save me, Arjuna!”

Appealed to in this way, Arjuna called,

“Have no fear.” And Maya was protected.

Four other forest creatures survived the blaze.

These were fortunate young sharngaka birds.

The listening king, Janamejaya,

was amazed at this. “But how could young birds

possibly survive such an inferno?”

Vaishampayana explained as follows:

The celebrated seer Mandapala,

thwarted in his spiritual aspirations

by lack of sons, resolved to be a father.

To expedite the process, he became

a sharngaka bird, mating with a female

called Jarita. Having begotten four sons,

he promptly flew off with another female,

Lapita, abandoning his family.

As he was dallying with his lady love,

he saw Agni arrive to burn the forest

and worshiped the fire god with fulsome praise.

Agni, flattered, offered him a boon.