Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (21 page)

but Bhishma held him back. Shishupala

laughed, “Let him go, Bhishma, let these kings

see him destroyed by the fire of my majesty,

like a foolish moth flying into flame.”

All this time, Krishna had sat serenely,

saying nothing, paying great attention.

But now he spoke, and not to Shishupala

but to the assembled kings. He told the story

quietly, simply, of how the Pandavas

had freed imprisoned kings from the dank dungeons

of Jarasandha. He told them of the times

Shishupala had offended him, and how,

on each occasion, he had spared his life

to honor a promise given long ago

to Shishupala’s mother, Krishna’s aunt.

The listening kings started to change allegiance.

Krishna described Shishupala’s many acts

of cruelty. “And as for Rukmini—

she spurned him. This man could no more hope

to win her than a shudra can aspire

to hear a recitation of the Vedas.

Today, he has insulted me in public,

before you all. Today, there will be no pardon.”

Shishupala jeered, “Do as you like—

pardon me, or not. What harm can you do?”

With that, the glimmering and deadly discus

given by Varuna, the god of waters,

appeared in Krishna’s fingers. Instantly,

the Bull of Chedi’s massive, angry head

was sliced clean from his shoulders, and he fell

like a great tree struck by a thunderbolt.

A radiance arose from the dead king,

enveloped Krishna and entered his body.

All were awestruck. The sky which, up to then,

had been blue and cloudless grew menacing,

black clouds massed overhead, and violent rain

pelted the awnings over the kings’ heads.

Not everybody present, by any means,

was convinced that justice had been done

but they kept silent. Funerary rites

were solemnly performed for Shishupala.

The sacrificial fires were still blazing

and now, at last, the imperial consecration

could be completed. As the lustral water

was poured in a silver stream over his head

Yudhishthira became the king of kings.

Soon afterward, the guests began to leave

to go back to their kingdoms. Krishna, too,

to the sorrow of the Pandavas, prepared

to set off on the road to Dvaraka.

But as he left he said to Yudhishthira,

“Lord of the earth, you should protect your people.

They depend on you as everything that lives

depends on rain, as the immortal gods

rely on Indra of the thousand eyes.”

The cousins solemnly embraced each other.

The seers presented themselves at the palace

to take their leave. Yudhishthira was worried;

the strange weather that had accompanied

Shishupala’s death—what did it mean?

Had it been a blessing, or a warning?

And if it was a warning, had the danger

been dispelled by the king of Chedi’s death?

Vyasa said, “The freakish sky and downpour

were portents of enormous consequences.

For thirteen years, O king, life will be hard,

and when that time is up, a cataclysm

—a war the like of which was never seen—

will bring destruction to the kshatriyas.

Duryodhana’s sins will generate this war

with you, Yudhishthira, as the occasion.

It is ordained. No action on your part

can divert the steady flow of time.

You can only bear it.” And Vyasa

said farewell, and set out with his disciples

for his hermitage.

King Yudhishthira

was overcome with horror. His first impulse,

if he was to be the harbinger of death

to the kshatriya order, was to kill himself.

But Arjuna dissuaded him, advising

fortitude. “Then,” said Yudhishthira,

“since dissension is the cause of war,

I vow that, for the next thirteen years,

I shall practice virtue, ruling impartially,

so there can be no dispute, in word or deed,

between myself and any other person.”

The guests had left. Only Duryodhana

and his uncle, Shakuni, stayed longer,

so they could examine the many marvels

of Maya’s great hall, now that the crowds were gone.

Their cousins showed them round, and what amazing

craftsmanship and beauty met their eyes

at every turn. But it seemed Duryodhana

was half blinded by his passionate envy,

seeing what was not there, not seeing what was.

He bumped his head on walls he thought were doors,

lifted his robes to pass over a rill

that turned out to be crystal paving, plunged

into a deep pool he took for crystal,

tumbled through arches, thinking them painted walls.

The servants were beside themselves with laughter,

nor could the Pandavas suppress their mirth—

except Yudhishthira, who had the servants

bring fine, dry clothes for Duryodhana.

Sick with humiliation, the Kaurava

managed to conceal his misery,

but could not bear to stay another hour.

He and Shakuni climbed into their chariot

and fled from hated Indraprastha.

As they traveled, Duryodhana kept

a baleful silence, sighing frequently

and growling to himself. “Best of Kauravas,

why are you sighing?” asked Shakuni at last.

Pale and haggard, Duryodhana groaned,

“Oh, uncle, I keep seeing that great hall,

my cousin’s treasury, bursting with wealth.

And all five brothers rich in the attentions

of radiantly lovely Draupadi—

more beautiful than any other woman.

And that sacrifice, fit for the immortals!

I burn with jealousy—I’m like a river

scorched dry by summer sun. And Shishupala!

What Krishna did was unforgivable

and no one had the courage to object—

those craven kings, cowed by the Pandavas,

only bit their lips and kept their seats.

“Thinking of Yudhishthira ensconced

as emperor of the earth, the sons of Pandu

wallowing in wealth, is agony.

I cannot bear to live! I shall take poison,

or drown myself, or set myself on fire!”

And Duryodhana sank to the chariot floor

in dark despair.

“Come now,” said Shakuni,

“the sons of Kunti deserve prosperity;

the wealth their father left to them has been

increased through their own energy and skill.

And they enjoy good fortune—think of the times

you tried to finish them, yet they survived.

The gods are on their side—jealousy’s useless.

Accept things as they are.”

“Impossible!”

cried Duryodhana. “What man worth the name

who sees his enemies enjoy such splendor,

holding imperial sway over half the world—

what man, knowing that such huge success

is beyond his reach, would not despair?

Seeing that success, remembering

how I tried to erase them from the earth,

I know that effort’s fruitless. Fate is supreme.”

As soon as he arrived in Hastinapura,

Duryodhana rushed to his apartments.

His silks, brocades, the jeweled necklaces,

chests designed by the most gifted craftsmen

inlaid with ivory and precious stones

seemed insufficient now. If they could not be

more splendid than the riches of the Pandavas,

more voluptuous, colored more vibrantly,

then everything he owned was worse than worthless.

Was there some detail of his cousin’s court,

anything in the chambers, cloisters, galleries

he could despise? Some detail cheaply made?

Some carelessness? Some error of proportion?

There was nothing. Everything possessed

by the Pandavas seemed to him perfection.

They owned the world—all that was of value,

all joy, all goodness. What he had was nothing.

He thought of the fire trap he had laid for them

at Varanavata—how had they escaped?

And then, when the kingdom was divided,

and they consigned to a wilderness of thorns,

had he not crushed them? No—they had sprung up

stronger, converted setback into triumph,

his triumph into sharp humiliation.

He ground his teeth to think how gleefully

they must be gloating. He writhed, remembering

how everyone had laughed—Bhima, Draupadi

and her women, speechless with amusement,

his cousins’ servants doubled up with laughter—

when he fell into the pool he thought was fake,

and teetered round the crystal marquetry

he’d taken for a pool of lotuses.

Shakuni sought him out, and was dismayed

to see his nephew red-eyed, pale, as if

some parasite was gnawing him within.

“Uncle,” he whispered, “I am sick with sorrow.

I think of nothing but the Pandavas

and how they block my path to happiness.

Until they’re crushed, I have only death in life.

The whole world has flocked to honor them;

I am alone, with no one to support me.”

His uncle tried to comfort him. “My dear,

your position is not so terrible.

You say you are alone, bereft of allies,

but you forget your brothers and your friends—

I myself, with all my kin, Drona,

Ashvatthaman, Karna . . . I could go on.”

“You are right!” exclaimed Duryodhana.

“All these men are powerful warriors.

Together we can march on Indraprastha

and defeat my cousins. Then I myself

shall become the emperor of the earth

and possess that great assembly hall!”

“War would be foolishness,” said Shakuni.

“You’ve seen their countless legions. And not only

do they have numerous and powerful allies,

but Krishna is on their side. Even the gods

would hesitate to fight the Pandavas.

But in any case, don’t let them trouble you.

They’ve laid no claim to your half of the kingdom.

Why not forget them? Just enjoy your life.”

“They won’t let me do that. My bitter hatred

pierces and chokes me every waking minute.

Night and day, I hear them laughing at me.

My one goal is to send them to their deaths.

I’d rather die fighting than live like this,

skulking like a pauper, while they flourish.”

“Nephew, I understand,” said Shakuni.

“There
is
a way for you to have revenge,

but cleverness and guile are the best tactic,

not unsubtle force. Let Dhritarashtra

invite Yudhishthira to the traditional

game of dice. I’ll play on your behalf.

No worse gambler exists than Yudhishthira—

he’s far too honest, transparent as a child—

yet he loves to play. I, on the other hand,

have never lost a game—my skill at dice

is widely known. I promise I will win

his wealth from him.”

A widening chink of hope

lit up the dark heart of Duryodhana.

He saw the possibility of stripping

the Pandavas of everything they owned,

grinding their faces in the dirt. But first

his father must be talked to and persuaded;

the invitation must come from the king.

“How did that fateful dice game come about?”

asked King Janamejaya. “That dicing match

was the root cause of dreadful tragedy.

How was it allowed to happen? Tell me

in detail.”

Vaishampayana proceeded

to describe the events as they unfolded.

When Dhritarashtra learned of the proposal

from Shakuni, he was, as usual, doubtful,

but also wracked with sorrow for his son

whose voice he could hear cracking with distress;

whose trembling and emaciated body

he felt under his hands when he embraced him.

He hesitated.

“Oh! What kind of father,”

cried Duryodhana, “won’t agree at once

to do something so simple for his son.

I’m burning, Father, tortured by desire.

Envy twists my entrails—the Pandavas

have made us look like beggarly provincials.

I’ve seen their heaven-made city, Indraprastha,

I’ve seen their treasuries, engorged with gold

exceeding every dream—tribute from Sind,

from Kashmir, from Kalinga, sumptuous gifts

from far-flung countries—China, Scythia . . .

the jewels, the splendid horses—I can’t bear it.

And the consecration—beyond imagining!

The greatest kings, the fiercest and most valiant,

who adhere most strictly to sacred vows,

who are learned in the Vedas, who practice

all the correct sacrifices—all these,

like merchants queuing up to pay their taxes,

made their obeisance to Yudhishthira.

The most holy rishis were in attendance,

uttering mantras, praying to the gods

for blessings on Yudhishthira. And then

there was the silk parasol, the peacock fan,

there was the great conch of Varuna,

fashioned in the workshops of the gods,

which Krishna used to scoop up sacred water

and anoint Yudhishthira, to seal the rites.

At that sight, I fainted.

“Father, Yudhishthira

has had himself raised up to the position

of the legendary Harishchandra.

Seeing this, I have no will to live.”

Shakuni spoke up. “Illustrious king,

I urge you to accept this plan of mine.

It is a way to take wealth from the Pandavas

without the loss of blood on either side.

One skilled at dice is able to win battles

by other means—the dice will be my arrows,

the marks on them my bow, and the dice cloth

the chariot carrying me to victory!”

“I will give careful thought to your proposal,”

said the king, “but on such crucial matters

I always seek the advice of Vidura.”

“Vidura is bound to disapprove,”

retorted Duryodhana. “He will advise

that you refuse to send the invitation

and if you do refuse, I’ll kill myself!”

To placate his son, and because he himself

liked the prospect of the gaming match—

though he well knew where gambling could lead—

Dhritarashtra ordered that work begin

on building an ornate assembly hall

to accommodate the dice game. Then he sent

for Vidura.

When he was told the plan,

Vidura knew this was a fatal step

toward catastrophe. He knew that, now,

the age of Kali was at hand, the age

when dharma is enfeebled, when virtue

struggles to overcome evil. He saw

that his brother was more than half persuaded,

and warned him, “This proposed gaming match

will lead to conflict. I cannot approve.”

“But,” replied Dhritarashtra, “it will take place

in my presence, and before the elders,

so nothing evil will occur. I feel

this dice game must have been ordained by fate.”

Even so, the king sent for Duryodhana.

“Vidura does not approve the plan

and I am inclined to follow his advice

since his counsel is always for my good.