Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (19 page)

Mandapala bowed: “Please spare my sons

when you are laying waste to the Khandava.”

As the fire advanced, the mother bird

was consumed with terror for her chicks

who could not yet fly. What was she to do?

She could not carry them all—should she take one?

Should she cover all four with her body?

The four young birds said, “You should fly away

and save yourself. You can have more sons

and in that way our line will not die out

though we ourselves will perish in the flames.”

Jarita urged them to hide in a rat hole

but they preferred death by fire. Eventually,

she flew away to safety. The fire approached,

and the little birds sang a loud hymn of praise

to Agni. The fire god was delighted,

and remembering Mandapala’s request,

he left the young birds alone, and raged onward.

Meanwhile, Mandapala was suffering

sharp pangs of anxiety for his offspring

despite the fire god’s promise. He lamented

loudly for his little sons. Lapita

was furious, “It’s not your sons you’re mourning—

Agni promised to spare them after all.

No, it’s that other bird you’re hankering for.

You love her more than me—go to her then!”

When the fire had passed, Jarita returned

and found her four young sons alive and well.

Full of joy, she embraced each one, and wept.

Then Mandapala arrived, much relieved

to see his family. They, however,

refused to look at him, although he burbled

to each one in turn. “Uncaring wretch!”

cried Jarita. “You left us unprotected

to frolic with your buxom Lapita!”

“Jealousy really is a dreadful thing,”

said Mandapala. “And when once a woman

has sons, she neglects her wifely duties.”

Eventually, the two were reconciled

and the entire family left that forest

and flew to settle in another country.

After the two heroes had done their work,

after Agni was completely sated

and the Khandava Forest was no more

than a blackened, desolate expanse of earth,

Indra appeared before them. “I am pleased.

You have achieved feats that even the gods

have failed at. I will grant you any boon

you ask for.” Arjuna chose divine weapons.

“You shall have them, but only at the time

I think is right,” said Indra to his son.

As his boon, Krishna asked that Arjuna

should be his friend lifelong, both in this world,

and in worlds to come. Indra gladly blessed

the friendship which had been ordained by heaven.

As Arjuna and Krishna made their way

back to Indraprastha, they saw Maya,

the asura whom Arjuna had spared,

waiting to speak to them. “Sir, I owe you

my life—I wish to do something for you

out of friendship. I am a great artist;

what shall I make for you? Name it—anything.”

Arjuna demurred, “Make something for Krishna.”

Krishna knew Maya. He was the architect

of the marvelous threefold city in the sky,

the Tripura, once destroyed by Shiva.

What Krishna asked for now would play a part

in shaping the direction of events

he was on earth to foster—great events

designed to realize the gods’ intentions.

“Maya, your genius is well known to me.

Here is how you can repay Arjuna—

build a great hall for Yudhishthira

in Indraprastha, an assembly hall

more beautiful than any ever seen

here on earth, one like your great Tripura.

It should be the visible embodiment

of cosmic harmony, divine proportion.

Let it be the envy of the world.”

Soon afterward, dark Krishna took his leave

to return to Dvaraka, where he was needed.

To the Pandavas, the separation

was always sad, as though the life-giving sun

were hidden for a time behind the clouds.

How to convey, when one has only words,

the transcendental beauty of the building?

Decades afterward, old men would tell

how seeing the great hall at Indraprastha

had changed them, changed the meaning of the word

“beautiful.” So, ever afterward,

when something was described with admiration,

they would say, “You don’t know what beauty is

unless you saw the hall at Indraprastha.”

No expense was spared, nothing wasted.

Maya took his time imagining

every aspect of the inspired work,

choosing the location and materials,

calculating sight lines and symmetries.

He envisioned with consummate artistry

the intricate design of every surface:

how to place each precious stone where sunlight,

piercing through graceful stone tracery,

would best reveal its inner properties;

where to position pools, so as to double

the beauty of what was reflected in them.

For some weeks, he was absent on a journey

to Lake Bindu, where he had secreted

a cache of jewels—jewels he now intended

for his masterpiece. He brought back, too,

a heavy club, embellished with golden eyes,

which he gave to Bhima. And for Arjuna

he brought the marvelous conch
Devadatta.

It took more than a year to build the hall.

Maya and the colleagues he had brought

worked secretly behind tall woven fences.

On an auspicious day named by Dhaumya,

the new hall was complete, screens swept aside,

and there it stood, in all its magnificence.

The hall had many rooms of different sizes,

for differing purposes, and in between

were corridors and courtyards meant to trick

and captivate the eye in equal measure—

marble that looked like water, artful stairs,

ponds so clear and still they seemed like stone,

painted roses asking to be picked,

jeweled flowers among real lotuses.

In this way, the inspired architect

invited visitors to be alert,

to reflect on the nature of illusion.

Yudhishthira was delighted and amazed

by Maya’s work. At once, he set in train

a festival, to inaugurate the hall.

For a week, every kind of entertainer

performed for the pleasure of the citizens.

People of every social rank converged

on Indraprastha, many from far off,

to see the wonderful assembly hall.

All were seized with envy or admiration

according to their diverse temperaments.

One autumn day, there was a visitor:

the seer Narada, holy troublemaker,

had come again to see the Pandavas.

With perfect courtesy, Yudhishthira

welcomed the exalted wanderer

and sat beside him, listening patiently

to his lengthy strictures on good governance.

For many hours, and in exhaustive detail,

the seer interrogated the Dharma King

on whether at all times, and in all respects,

he was ruling as a ruler should.

At last, Yudhishthira managed to turn

Narada’s attention to other matters.

“Sir, you travel throughout the three worlds.

Have you ever seen an assembly hall

as beautiful as mine?” Narada answered,

“Never, in all my extensive journeys

in the world of men, have I seen a hall

to rival yours in beauty and opulence—

though in the worlds of gods . . .” And he proceeded

to describe the halls of Indra, Yama, Varuna,

and the hall of Brahma—self-sustaining,

self-illuminated, completely perfect.

“Tell us more about your epic journeys

in the heavenly realms,” said the Pandavas,

hoping he would have news of their father.

But though Narada spoke of Indra’s palace

where Harishchandra, a great king of the past,

dwelled perpetually, the name of Pandu

was never mentioned.

“Muni, how can it be,”

said Yudhishthira, “that Harishchandra

is Indra’s guest in the kingdom of the gods,

while our father, no less a pure kshatriya,

who never lied, or acted selfishly,

languishes with Yama, god of death?”

“Ah,” said Narada, “you see, Harishchandra

never rested until he was king of kings,

subduing every other and, finally,

performing the Rajasuya ritual,

the imperial consecration sacrifice,

dispensing vast riches in gifts to brahmins.

Pandu died before he could do the same—

and, then, consider the manner of his death.

His fate now depends on you, his heir.

In fact, I met him in the halls of Death

not long since, and he made clear to me

his ardent wish that, with the help of Krishna

and your strong brothers, you should subjugate

every other kingdom of Bharatavarsha

and perform the Rajasuya sacrifice.

Through you, he can fulfill his destiny

as a kshatriya. And only then,

escaping the dark maze of the underworld,

can he enter Indra’s realm of light.”

After Narada had taken his leave,

the king sighed heavily, weighed down by doubt.

He wanted to perform the Rajasuya

but how, he wondered, could it be achieved?

The undertaking was an enormous one.

True, the territory he ruled over

already embraced many other kingdoms.

But to perform the imperial consecration

he must be sovereign of the farthest reaches

of the land. He must be emperor.

He thought of his father, Pandu, languishing

in Yama’s realm, and longed to release him.

He was wary of being led astray

by impulse. But the faces of his brothers

were alight with pleasure and excitement

at the prospect Narada held out—

the chance of challenge, glory, victory!

He listened to the views of his councillors,

and wise Vyasa. They all approved the plan.

Then he thought of Krishna—what would he advise?

He would consult the prince of Dvaraka

before deciding what was for the best.

Krishna arrived, as he usually did

when his cousins needed him. He listened

quietly to Yudhishthira’s concerns.

“My brothers, friends, all my best advisers

tell me I should perform the Rajasuya,

but I’m still hesitant; I doubt my motives—

and theirs. Why would I make this bold attempt?

To release my father? To give Arjuna

and Bhima a chance to fully test themselves

in the clash of battle? Or would it be

just for the sake of personal ambition?

Krishna, you are my wisest counsellor;

your view will be untainted by self-interest.

Help me to clear my mind of turbulence

so I can act.”

Krishna embraced his cousin.

“Yudhishthira, to become supreme sovereign

of Bharatavarsha is the highest calling

for any kshatriya. One who attempts it

must have powerful allies to depend on,

and must have many qualities of heart

and mind, as well as military strength.

You have those qualities and, like your brothers,

I would be overjoyed to see you, one day,

undertake the Rajasuya rite.

“But there are obstacles. Another king

aspires to be the universal sovereign.

He is my old enemy, Jarasandha

of Magadha. He will never bow to you—

he’s proud, he is ambitious; above all,

he knows I am your friend. Furthermore

he has many mighty allies. While he lives

your path to the imperial throne is blocked.

“He has conquered strong and prosperous kingdoms

and captured many royal warriors.

My informants tell me he has imprisoned

eighty-six kshatriya princes in his dungeons.

When he has one hundred, he intends

to bring them out, bind them and slaughter them

offering them as sacrifice to Shiva.

If you free them, you will have their loyalty.

But to do that, you must kill Jarasandha,

otherwise, he will mobilize his allies,

including Duryodhana, to attack you.

Without him, they won’t dare, however bitter

their hatred for the Pandavas.”

Yudhishthira

was still enmeshed in doubt. But Arjuna cried,

“We are kshatriyas! It is our dharma

to win glory on the field of battle,

and it is equally kshatriya dharma

to offer our protection to the oppressed.

I have the peerless bow
Gandiva
, the quivers

that never empty, the wind-swift chariot.

And right is on our side—surely Shiva

does not sanction human sacrifice.

Besides, in Krishna’s view, Yudhishthira

should perform the Rajasuya. I propose

that we set out for Magadha at once!”

Then Bhima said, “The three of us should go—

Arjuna, whose skill is without equal,

Krishna, whose judgment is that of God himself,

and I, whose strength is second to no man’s.”

“Ah!” cried Yudhishthira, “you two are my eyes

and Krishna my mind—what if I should lose you?”

“Yudhishthira,” said Krishna with a smile,

“time flows on, day by day, and waits for no one.

We do not know when we will meet our death.

To hesitate, to turn away from dharma,

never prolongs life. But it costs a man

his honor—and that loss is worse than death.

Do not divide your mind against itself

through doubt and paralyzing cogitation.

The great man acts, as time demands of him.”

It was agreed that Bhima, Arjuna

and Krishna would go at once to Magadha

and challenge Jarasandha to single combat.

“The man is full of pride in his own strength,”

said Krishna, “so he will choose to pit himself

against Bhima—who is easily his match.”

However, Krishna knew how difficult

it would be to kill him. Jarasandha

had been born in two halves, from two mothers.

The female demon Jara had made him whole,

hence his name, and Shiva had blessed him,

given him superhuman strength, and foretold

that he would only die when an opponent

tore him apart again.

The Pandavas

and Krishna traveled light, disguised as brahmins,

and arrived at Jarasandha’s city.

It was large and beautifully laid out

with wide streets, lovely parks and watercourses.