Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (24 page)

said the king, “and bear no grudge against us.

Look with indulgence on your old, blind uncle.

All you lost, I hereby return to you.”

With that, the Pandavas, somber and relieved,

mounted their splendid chariots, and left,

setting out on the road to Indraprastha.

“How did the son of Dhritarashtra feel,”

asked Janamejaya, “when the Pandavas

rode away with all their wealth intact?”

Vaishampayana answered readily.

You can imagine Duryodhana’s rage

when he heard the king dismantling

everything he and Shakuni had achieved.

He and his uncle formed a simple plan.

He held his peace until the dust had settled

in the wake of the departing chariot wheels,

then went to Dhritarashtra.

“Do you think

that by restoring all their wealth and assets

to my cousins, all can be as before?

How wrong you are! The Pandavas will never

forget how Draupadi was insulted.

As we speak, the angry sons of Pandu,

before they have even reached Indraprastha,

are planning their revenge—Arjuna flexing

his bow,
Gandiva
, Bhima whirling his mace,

the others urging on their horses, eager

to gather an invincible fighting force,

summoning their allies from far and near

to march on Hastinapura.

“Remember,

a wise ruler deals with his enemies

before they grow in strength. Listen, Father,

our hope lies in the saintly Yudhishthira.

If you summon him to play another

game of dice, his honor won’t allow him

to refuse you. He’s bound to lose again.

This time round, we will propose new terms:

just one throw each, and let the stake be this—

that whoever loses will relinquish

his kingdom to the other. For twelve years

that loser will be exiled in the forest;

the thirteenth year must be spent in public,

incognito. If he is recognized,

then another thirteen years of exile

must begin. But if he succeeds in hiding

his identity, then his former kingdom

will be returned to him. Those will be the terms

of the wager. But in fact, by then,

we will have used his absence to assemble

a huge and loyal army, and to garner

powerful allies; so, if it comes to war,

we will easily defeat the Pandavas.”

Ignoring the advice of wise counselors,

the king, fearing the vengeance of his nephews,

prepared to send after Yudhishthira

with this renewed summons. Queen Gandhari

came and pleaded with him. She loved her son

but she feared the portents, and knew disaster

dwelt in the person of Duryodhana.

“I understand, my lord, why, at his birth,

you could not bring yourself to kill our son,

a helpless infant—despite the prophecy

and worthy Vidura’s advice. But now

you must oppose him. Surely it is fathers

who should dictate to sons, not the reverse.

The great-hearted Pandavas agree to peace.

You must lead Duryodhana by example

before he brings down ruin on us all.”

“If fate decrees the ruin of our race,”

said Dhritarashtra, “I cannot oppose it.

Let the Pandavas return. Let our son

gamble once more with Yudhishthira.”

A messenger pursued the Pandavas

and caught up with them on the road to home.

They were shocked and angry, but Yudhishthira

felt unable to refuse the summons.

“What happens to us, good and bad, depends

on what’s ordained. Whether I accept

or refuse, in the end it makes no difference.”

Sorrowful, head bowed, Yudhishthira

seated himself before the gaming table,

flanked by his four brothers, oppressed by fate.

In the tense silence before play began

his eyes happened to fall on Karna’s feet.

They struck him as familiar. Then he forgot.

Opposite, Shakuni smiled unctuously.

He explained the new terms of the game,

what was at stake. Yudhishthira’s face was blank.

He threw. Shakuni threw, and “Look,” he said,

“Look, I have won!”

At once, the Pandavas

prepared for exile, shedding their princely clothes,

wrapping themselves in crudely cured deerskins,

Draupadi still wearing her bloodstained robe.

Duhshasana could not contain his glee

and danced around the brothers, taunting them.

“These sons of Pandu are no men, they’re eunuchs!

All this time they have been puffed up with pride,

contemptuous of the sons of Dhritarashtra,

but now they are brought crashing to the earth.

Choose a different husband, Draupadi—

the Pandavas are nothing now, mere husks

without substance.”

As they left the hall,

Duryodhana did a grotesque imitation

of Bhima’s leonine walk. “You stupid fool,”

said Wolf-belly, “your idiotic antics

will come back to haunt you when I tear you

limb from limb, and break that thigh of yours,

and when I rip open Duhshasana’s chest

and drink his blood.”

“Be sure,” said Arjuna

“that Bhima’s words are true.” He turned to Karna.

“More certain than the sun’s brightness, more certain

than the moon’s coldness is this vow of mine:

that thirteen years from now, I will dispatch you,

son of Radha, to the realm of Death

if, on that day, our kingdom is not returned.”

Yudhishthira said farewell to Bhishma

who blessed him. “Son, by your worthy actions

you have surpassed even your ancestors.

Go well. I shall look to your return.”

Vidura proposed to Yudhishthira

that Kunti, being frail with age, should stay

in Hastinapura, with him, and not face

the rigors of the forest. Pale, sobbing,

Kunti said goodbye to her mighty sons.

Taking Draupadi aside, she said,

“My dear one, I know you are strong and brave.

You will come through this. Please keep special watch

on Sahadeva, my youngest, favorite son.

Help him to guard against despondency.

Oh, why has this disaster befallen you?

It must be due to my own ill fortune.

If I had known my family would wander

the pathless forest, having lost everything,

I never would have brought my growing sons

to Hastinapura after Pandu’s death.

Pandu, I now think, was most fortunate

only to know our sons in times of joy;

he never dreamed of sorrow such as this.”

As the Pandavas walked through the city

Yudhishthira draped his shawl across his face

lest his furious glance should cast the evil eye.

Bhima strode with his massive arms outspread

to strike fear in the hearts of his opponents.

Arjuna scattered sand as he walked along,

each grain standing for an enemy

he would one day strike down with his arrows.

Sahadeva had covered up his face,

while Nakula, lest women should weep for him,

had smeared himself with dust from head to foot.

Draupadi said, “As I am stained with blood,

so, thirteen years from now, Kaurava women

will be smeared with the blood of their slaughtered sons

and offer up oblations for their dead.”

Crowds of grieving people lined the streets.

Then the Pandavas passed through the city gate

accompanied by devoted brahmins

led by Dhaumya, their household priest,

holding sacrificial kusa grass,

intoning the most somber Vedic verses.

Shortly after the unfortunate exiles,

no longer visible to straining eyes,

had disappeared among the forest trees,

the sky became green, and grew strangely dark

as if the forces of the night were coveting

the brilliance of day. There were other portents

and premonitions, dreams and appearances,

so that dread, rather than joy, soon pervaded

Dhritarashtra’s court. The seer Narada

appeared and addressed the Kauravas: “Take heed!

In thirteen years, you misguided princes

who hear my words now will die violently

through Duryodhana’s actions, and through the might

of the Pandavas.” And, having spoken,

the seer strode up into the sky and vanished.

Duryodhana, Karna and Duhshasana

were horrified, and appealed to Drona

to protect them from the wrath to come.

“The Pandavas are sons of gods,” said Drona,

“and it is said that they can not be killed.

Nevertheless, when the time comes, I shall not

abandon those who ask for my protection,

even though I know my life is forfeit.

Dhrishtadyumna, prince of the Panchalas,

has sworn to kill me, to avenge his father.

He will surely succeed on the battlefield.”

Dhritarashtra, listening, said, “Vidura,

bring back the Pandavas. Or, if it’s too late,

at least send them our blessings.” And he sat

wringing his hands. His attendant, Sanjaya,

questioned him. “Why do you fret and groan—

you have obtained vast wealth, and the whole kingdom.”

“Ah,” said Dhritarashtra, “I can only think

of the future, and its terrible punishment.”

“My lord, that is your doing,” said Sanjaya.

“You would not listen to the words of wisdom

offered by Vidura, nor to the portents.

Through his wickedness, your foolish son

will be the death of all the Kauravas.”

“It is the work of fate,” sighed Dhritarashtra.

“I always try to make the best decisions,

but when the gods intend someone’s defeat

they first make him mad, so that the wrong course

seems to him the right one. The power of fate

can be simply this twisted view of things.

All else follows. The Pandavas will never

forgive the way Draupadi was insulted.

Knowing their strength, and aware that Krishna

is their ally, I have never wanted

conflict with them. Yet my foolishness,

my great love for my son, will bring about

the all-consuming tragedy of war.”

That first evening, they halted at the Ganga

where they would spend their first homeless night.

They found a majestic banyan tree, its roots

drooping to the ground, and earthed like pillars—

a natural temple where they lay down to sleep.

Waking at sunrise, they were ravenous

but had no food other than leaves and berries.

Yudhishthira was worried. How would he

feed his family, let alone the others?

“My friends,” he said, turning to the brahmins,

“I’m touched by your devotion, I’m most grateful

that you’ve come this far with us from the city,

but you must go back—I can’t provide for you.

There isn’t even a grain of rice to eat

and it will get worse. We shall all starve.”

The wise brahmin Shaunaka spoke to him.

“People like you, those with understanding,

should not collapse under a heavy weight

of sorrow of the mind or of the body,

but should dispel it through acquiring insight.

Desire tends to feed upon itself.”

Yudhishthira said, “I do not desire wealth

out of greed, for the enjoyment of it,

but to enable me to support brahmins

like yourselves. I am a householder,

it is my duty to give sustenance

to those who live on generosity.”

“But make sure,” said Shaunaka, “that duty

is not performed in order to store up

merit for the dutiful. The Vedas teach,

‘Carry out your duty, and renounce it.’”

Other brahmins said, “Yudhishthira,

do you think we are strangers to privation?

We’ve chosen to entwine our lives with yours,

reciting prayers for you, comforting you

with teaching from the scriptures. How we eat

is our responsibility, not yours.”

Yudhishthira was moved, but still he worried

about the welfare of his followers.

Dhaumya spoke, “Lord Surya, the sun god,

is the source of all foods on this earth.

Pray to him—he will help you feed us all.”

Yudhishthira fasted for two days and nights,

never sleeping, mastering his breath,

and, on the third day, walked into the river,

the mighty Ganga, as it was getting light

and raised his face toward the rising sun.

He stood waist deep, with the silky water

flowing all around him.

“O lord Surya

enemy of darkness

origin of all things

you who are the eye of the universe

giver of strength to every living thing

you who are fire

you who are subtle mind

you who are the unlocked door

the comfort of those who thirst for freedom

source of all light

source of all comforting warmth

giver of beauty beyond all imagining

O lord, hear my prayer, enable me

to feed my precious brothers, my wife, my friends

who are suffering in this wilderness

on my account.”

So sang Yudhishthira,

reciting the sun’s hundred and eight names

in the language of the gods.

Self-luminous

Surya, blazing, beautiful, showed himself

in his incarnate form, over the water.

“I shall grant your prayer. I will provide

nourishment for as many as are hungry—

there will be meat, fruits, roots and vegetables

until the last person is satisfied.

For all your twelve years in the wilderness

I will make sure that your needs are met.”

Having spoken, the shining god vanished.

Emerging from the river, Yudhishthira

set himself to cook a meager meal

of all the forest foods that could be found—

insufficient even for a child.

Once cooked, it swelled. He served everyone,

and even Bhima’s monstrous appetite

was satisfied. Finally Draupadi

served Yudhishthira, and then she ate

what remained, which was enough, precisely.

Afterward, they continued on their journey

to their new home in the Kamyaka Forest.

Meanwhile, in Hastinapura, the blind king

was agitated, in a feverish sweat

of fear and guilt. At night he paced his chambers.

If he slept, he dreamed his splendid city

was overrun by angry citizens

baying for his life. He woke, gasping.

He sent for sagacious Vidura, hoping

for words of consolation. But Vidura

offered no comfort. He condemned outright

the dire proceedings in the gaming hall.

“There’s only one way to avoid disaster—

forsake misguided Duryodhana,

restore your nephews to their rightful kingdom,

and banish that troublemaker, Shakuni.”

Dhritarashtra turned cantankerous:

“You always take the side of Pandu’s sons.

But Duryodhana is flesh of my flesh—

how can I abandon my own body

to favor others, even if it’s at fault?

It’s simply impossible. And as for you—

Go and join your precious Pandavas.

The forest is where you properly belong!”

Vidura, glad to leave the gloom and sorrow

of the court, took his chariot and, tracking

the Pandavas by asking strangers, crossing

the Yamuna, and then the Sarasvati,

reached their camp, in the Kamyaka Forest

where many devout hermits had made their home.

On seeing him approach, Yudhishthira

wondered if he was bringing a new challenge,

a bid by Shakuni to win their weapons,

but he was soon reassured. The Pandavas

welcomed their uncle, eager for his news.

He told them how things were at Hastinapura,

and what the king had said.

Vidura passed

delightful days in the pleasant clearing

beside the Sarasvati. But secretly,

his mind often flew to Hastinapura,

to the brother he had loved and served

since they were boys. He knew Dhritarashtra

must be yearning for his company

and he himself longed to give him comfort.

So he was glad when Dhritarashtra’s aide,

Sanjaya, arrived with a message for him:

“The king regrets his words, and is most anxious

for your return. You are his eyes and heart

in a dark world. Without you, he is lost.”

Duryodhana was furious when he saw

his blind father closeted once more

with Vidura—afraid that, yet again,

his father would backtrack and vacillate

out of sentimental love for his nephews,

and out of fear. Although the Pandavas

had accepted banishment with bowed heads,

as long as they still walked the earth somewhere

Duryodhana could have no peace of mind.

“Suppose Vidura should persuade my father

to reinstate them? If I see them return

I shall take poison, hang myself—or something!

I cannot bear to see them prosperous.”

“Of course they won’t come back,” said Shakuni.

“You’re getting agitated for no reason.

They lost the bet—surely you can’t imagine

Yudhishthira reneging on the terms?

Your fears are childishness.” Duhshasana

and Karna took the same view. But the prince

remained despondent. “Listen to me,” said Karna,

“it seems nothing but action will convince you.

Let us go at once to kill the Pandavas

in the forest, while they are undefended.”

The other three were pleased with this idea.

They armed themselves, and made preparations

to start the journey.

But great-minded Vyasa,

seeing the plotters with his divine eye,

came to Dhritarashtra. “You should know this—

your wicked fool of a son is making plans

to go and kill your nephews in the forest.

There is no way that he can be successful—

he’ll die himself. You must put a stop to it.

Perhaps if he spent time with the Pandavas

without his henchmen, he might grow to love them.

But no—a tiger doesn’t change its stripes.

What do you think of all this, Dhritarashtra?

What do the elders think?”

“I think it’s fate,”

said the unhappy king. “I knew the dice game

was ill-judged—the elders thought the same.

But I love my son—I can’t stand against him,

and I cannot bear to see him suffer.”

“I understand,” said Vyasa. “It is well known

that nothing is more important than one’s son.

You, Pandu, Vidura and all your sons

are dear to me. And yet the Pandavas

touch my heart most, as they are most afflicted.”

Knowing the king’s weakness, how he always

bent before the will of his eldest son,

Vyasa summoned the great sage Maitreya

to speak to Duryodhana and his father.

Maitreya had been to see the Pandavas

and, after greeting him appropriately,

Dhritarashtra asked for news of them.

“This is a bad business, Dhritarashtra,”

said the blunt-speaking sage. “It will not do

that, while you are alive, you let this conflict

be played out between your sons and nephews.

A king is the ultimate authority,

for punishment as well as patronage.

How is it, then, that you allowed your son

to organize that catastrophic dice game?

How could you permit such evil goings-on?”

He turned to sullen-faced Duryodhana.

“Listen, son, I speak for your own good.

Do not offend the blameless Pandavas.

All of them are devoted to the truth,

formidable warriors, every one—

strong as elephants, accomplished fighters.

Think of how Bhima slew Jarasandha

and numerous rakshasas—including one

just recently in the forest, Kirmira.

Think of Arjuna’s unrivaled prowess

as an archer; think of their tie with Krishna.

It is pure foolishness for you to think

that you can crush the Pandavas. That way

lies only ignominy, and your own death.”

While the sage was speaking, Duryodhana

was looking at the ground with a fixed smile,

drawing patterns in the dust, as though

indifferent to what the sage was saying.

With desperate bravado, he slapped his thigh.

Maitreya, enraged, cursed him. “Since you treat me

with such disrespect, that thigh of yours

will be broken, leading to your death,

when Bhima fights you in the greatest war

the earth has ever seen—entirely caused

by your own wickedness.” Duryodhana,

despite his defiant manner, felt his heart

shrivel up in dread. Shaken by hearing

of Kirmira’s killing, he left the room.

“May it not happen!” cried the anguished king.

“Unless your son makes peace, then, without doubt,

my curse will be fulfilled,” said Maitreya.

“I never wanted it to be like this,”

moaned Dhritrashtra, “but who in this world

can pit their will against fate? Kindly tell me

how Bhima killed the rakshasa Kirmira.”

But Maitreya had had enough. “Ask Vidura,

he’ll tell you,” he snapped. And then departed.

Later, Vidura told the king the story

of Bhima’s victory over the ogre

who had been seeking to avenge his kinsmen,

Baka and Hidimba. “Once the forest

was safe, your nephews entered it, and settled.

I myself, when I went to visit them,

saw the loathsome body of Kirmira

sprawled on the path, killed by heroic Bhima.”

Dhritarashtra sighed in misery

to think of Bhima’s preternatural strength.