Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (25 page)

Krishna visited the exiles’ camp,

bringing with him several powerful allies:

warriors from the kingdoms of Panchala

and Chedi, Bhojas, Vrishnis and Andhakas.

All were filled with rage at what had happened.

Never had the brothers witnessed Krishna

so angry, fire blazing in his black eyes.

“Duryodhana, Shakuni and their cronies

are villains! Here are you and Draupadi

condemned to vegetate, year after year,

in rustic poverty, dull, isolated,

deprived of every comfort you have fought for

and deserve. Be assured—the thirsty earth

will drink their blood! They will not prevail.”

To calm his cousin’s rage, Arjuna said,

“Krishna, your sojourn in this world has been

a chronicle of most amazing feats.”

And, at length, in the presence of everyone

gathered there in the forest encampment,

Arjuna, perfect kshatriya, recited

Krishna’s history since the dawn of time:

his fundamental being as Lord Vishnu,

and all his incarnations up to now,

acting to protect the world from harm.

“We are one being, you and I,” said Krishna.

“Anyone who hates you hates me; your people

are my people too. You are Nara,

I, Narayana, come from another world

for the good of this one. I am you.

You are me, Arjuna. There is no difference.”

The lovely Draupadi addressed Krishna,

tears streaming down like rain onto her breasts.

“Krishna, you are the supreme person,

lord of the world. You know everything that is

and all that is to come. Tell me—how could I,

the most devoted wife, mother, sister,

be dragged from my seclusion by the hair

in front of that assembly, wearing only

one bloodstained garment, and treated like a slave?

The vile Duhshasana insulted me

as no woman should be insulted—still less

one born, as I was, to a royal line.

“Had I no husbands? Even a feeble husband

protects his wife. That is the way of dharma.

And yet the Dharma King and his valiant brothers

sat watching this, motionless and silent

like effigies, while the mother of their sons

was vilely savaged. Even the worthy elders

sat silent, shuffling in their splendid seats.

I despise these men. I have contempt

for skill, heroic strength, for marvelous weapons

that yet allow evil Duryodhana

to live and breathe unpunished, unrepentant.

I won’t forgive it. I was not born for this!

I have no husbands if my humiliation

goes unavenged!”

Krishna said to her,

“Blameless Draupadi, I make this promise:

you will be queen again. And you will witness

the Kaurava wives shrieking with grief to see

their husbands’ corpses sprawled on the battlefield,

cloaked in blood, slain by the Pandavas.

“I wish I had been in that gaming hall!

I never would have held my tongue, as Bhishma

and Drona did, to their eternal shame.

I would have given clear counsel to the king

and, if he persisted, I would have pressed him

to call off the dicing, even to the point

of force if necessary. That dreadful game—

which was no game at all, but perfidy—

brings deferred disaster on the Kauravas,

as well as deprivation upon you.”

Yudhishthira inquired, “How was it, Krishna,

that you were absent from the gambling match?”

“I heard too late about it,” replied Krishna.

“I was caught up in a desperate fight

with Shalva, the demonic king of Saubha.

He’d heard about the death of Shishupala

who was his brother, and was mad with rage.

While I was still with you at Indraprastha,

he struck Dvaraka from his airborne city

which can travel anywhere, and flattened it.

He destroyed dwellings, wrecked verdant parks,

and killed many brave young Vrishni warriors

before he realized I was not at home.

When I got back and saw the devastation

I went in search of him, and found his city

hovering over the ocean. I attacked,

and a bitter fight followed. He mobilized

his powers of illusion to confuse me.

At one point, I saw my beloved father

being flung out of the flying city,

hurtling to earth like a stricken bird,

his arms and legs flailing. I was appalled

until I realized this was wizardry.

“My charioteer, Daruka, though wounded,

urged me on, and I rallied my army,

mounting an assault with renewed resolve.

The short of it is—I defeated Shalva.

I took my shining bow, aimed it upward,

and cut the heads of Shalva’s men clean off.

He pelted me with rocks until I was

submerged under a mountainous pile of stones.

My troops became despondent, but I raised

my thunderbolt and pulverized the rocks.

“Taking my discus, uttering a mantra,

I hurled it at Saubha, cutting it in two,

and the flying city fell to earth. Again

I raised my discus, aiming now at Shalva,

and sliced him through. The demon was no more.

I razed the city. Then I traveled home

and only then did I receive the news

of the dire events at Hastinapura.”

Soon the time came for sad leave-taking.

Krishna departed, taking Abhimanyu,

and Dhrishtadyumna took Draupadi’s children

back with him to his city of Panchala.

Yudhishthira proposed a change of scene.

Arjuna suggested Dvaitavana,

known as a holy and auspicious site.

Lake Dvaitavana was indeed delightful,

bordered with bright flowers and graceful trees

pendulous with many types of mango

and other fruits. Birds sang among the leaves

of the tall palm, arrac and shala trees—

flocks of doves, linnets and forest cuckoos.

Deer and game were plentiful.

The Pandavas

made their home there, together with the brahmins,

who had brought their sacrificial fires,

and all the ritual objects necessary

for pious observance.

The sage Markandeya,

passing on his way to the Himalaya,

smiled to see Yudhishthira and his brothers

living as forest dwellers, like Prince Rama,

his wife, Sita, and his brother, Lakshmana.

He knew inaction could be hard to bear

and counseled patience. “Wait, Yudhishthira,

do not be tempted to depart from dharma

and wage war on the Kauravas too soon.

Keep your promise, tolerate your exile

and you will retrieve your fortune in the end.”

Time passed by. Yudhishthira was content.

A life stripped of pomp and ceremony,

of luxury, of complex affairs of state,

was the life his introspective nature

welcomed. He had been an excellent ruler—

firm, judicious, capable and fair—

and would be again, but these were years

when he delighted in simplicity,

practiced meditation, learned all he could

from the rishis whose ashrams in the forest

were a haven for him. He took refuge

in the Vedas, and in their wider vision

that lifted his attention from the sorrow

of his current plight.

But not everyone

was at peace. Draupadi was restless.

Rage and grief gnawed at her constantly

until, one evening, she could not keep silent.

“Oh, Yudhishthira, it breaks my heart

to see you like this, living a hermit’s life

when you should be the all-powerful ruler

of Bharatavarsha. I remember you

on your jeweled throne, dressed in rich silk;

now you are wearing garments made of bark.

Once, your skin was fragrant with sandalwood,

and now it is rough, crusty with mud and ash.

“Now no bard sings of your accomplishments.

Have you forgotten who you are? How can you

happily spend time examining

the finer points of scripture with the brahmins,

performing pujas morning, noon and night?

You’re a kshatriya! So are your brave brothers.

Bhima, whose every sinew longs for battle,

who used to be so vigorous and playful,

now droops, despondent. Why, Yudhishthira,

does that not make you angry? Arjuna,

outstanding archer, who could conquer worlds

with his two arms, now sits in idle thought.

Why does the sight of him not rouse your rage?

Tall Nakula, spirited Sahadeva,

accomplished sons of Madri, waste their talents

on chasing birds and shooting animals.

You see me, daughter of a distinguished line,

living like a peasant! Best of Bharatas,

why does all this grief not make you furious?

“Patience may come easily to you

but not to them, and certainly not to me.

We all crave revenge. Have you forgotten

how you were led into a trap, and tricked

so easily? How, then, can you be patient?

“You may be sure that wicked Duryodhana

and his friends take pleasure every day

in contemplating our humiliation.

Do they not deserve harsh punishment?

Don’t you remember how Duryodhana

and his vile brother grossly insulted me?

Only Shakuni and cruel Karna

in that whole assembly did not weep

for shame and pity! Why are you not enraged?

It is said there is no kshatriya

who lacks anger. You are the exception!

You seem to have banished anger from your heart,

but the whole world despises a kshatriya

who buckles under insults such as these

without wrath, lacking determination

to strike with the rod of punishment

those who behave wrongfully toward him—

as is required by kshatriya dharma.

“A kshatriya who allows his enemies

to rejoice in the fruits of their wickedness

is reviled throughout the earth, and rightly so.

Every day, I relive those abuses

and boil to think of how the Kauravas

are reveling in luxury and joy

while we, for want of proper fighting spirit,

live out our days wandering among the trees!

“There is a time for patience in this life

and a time for wrath—surely, if ever

anger should guide your actions, it is now!”

Yudhishthira replied, “Oh, Draupadi,

best of wives, I understand your fury.

But do not think there’s nothing on my mind

but prayer and philosophy. Yes, it is true

I love to sit with the rishis—they can see

beyond this forest, beyond this life, even.

They have their gaze fixed on eternity

and that helps me achieve a kind of peace

when otherwise I would be overwhelmed

by grief and guilt. I too relive those hours

when I lost everything. I’m keenly aware

of how you suffer now, and how my brothers

waste their manhood here.

“But, Draupadi,

as the wise know, sinful acts arise

from overhasty rushing to revenge.

One who is wronged and who responds with anger

is prone to bad judgment, liable to act

impulsively. Good rarely comes of it.

If every person with a sense of grievance

struck back immediately, where would it end?

Unceasing death inflicted, death returned.

An endless round of blow and counter-blow

allows for no reflection or repentance

and only leads to sorrow upon sorrow.

A peaceful world is founded upon patience

and only when a kingdom is at peace

can children flourish, cows grow fat, and farmers

plant seeds with confidence, watch their crops grow,

and gather a rich harvest.

“I believe

that forbearance is the strength of the strong.

One who is forbearing retains power.

Anger is not strength but, rather, weakness;

it is not the same as authority.

True, I was entrapped, but it was my madness

that lost us every precious thing we owned.

I knew the terms. I played. I lost the game

and agreed to these years of banishment.

If now I were to go back on my word,

I would be as sinful as the Kauravas.”

“I think the Almighty has addled you!”

retorted Draupadi. “Rather than follow

the path blazed by your ancestors, your mind

has veered off on a different tack entirely.

There is no justice if a man like you—

the very soul of dharma—can encounter

such misfortune. Until the dreadful day

when the passion for gambling possessed you,

no one was more virtuous than you,

Yudhishthira. You have always served the gods,

the brahmins, the ancestors—and yet

grief is your reward. It makes no sense.

The Almighty is not like a loving parent

but, like a child playing with its toys,

manipulates our limbs, controls the strings

as though we were wooden puppets. I believe

there’s no such thing as freedom, no mastery

over ourselves or anybody else.

Well, I utterly condemn a God

who can allow such vile injustices

as have afflicted us! What can he gain

by giving fortune to such wicked wretches

as the Kauravas? If it is true

that acts pursue the actor, the Almighty

must be besmirched by the evil he has done.

And if it is not true—well then, mere might

governs everything; big fish devour

little fish. Oh, I grieve for the powerless!”

“Beloved wife,” replied Yudhishthira,

“what you say is blasphemous and wrong.

I choose to follow dharma, and I do it

because it is right, not to obtain rewards.

I follow the example of the wise.

We are human beings, not animals

tussling over a piece of carrion.

I firmly believe that if we follow dharma

it does bear fruit, that every single act

has consequences, though we may not see them.

Do not revile the Almighty, Draupadi.”

Draupadi said, “It’s misery that makes me

talk in this way. I don’t despise dharma.

But one who does nothing in the face of evil

is an unfired pot, worn away by water.

You preach forbearance above everything,

but every living human being must act.

From the infant, sucking its mother’s nipple,

to the dying person’s final labored breath,

we fight to stay alive. What we achieve

is not just fate, nor is it mere chance

but the fruit of all we try to do.

We have to strive with what strength we possess,

using reason and determination,

to convert our actions to achievement.

That way, we need not reproach ourselves.

A peasant turns the soil and plants the seed.

Then he waits for rain. If the monsoon

fails, and the seedlings wither in the ground,

he will, at least, have acted as he should.

Without fate and chance he cannot prosper.

But without his action, best of husbands,

fate and chance have nothing to work upon.

I learned this from a brahmin long ago

while I still lived in my father’s house.”

Bhima had been listening. Now he burst out,

impatient with his brother’s arguments.

“Yudhishthira, you talk about your word.

But slavishly to cling to an agreement

made under duress? Forgiving wrongdoers

who exult in evil and who themselves

have never sought forgiveness? That is madness

and feebleness of the most craven kind!

“It was respect for you, our eldest brother,

that kept us silent when, in some kind of trance,

you made stake after stake. From loyalty

we sat on our hands while Duryodhana,

like a jackal gobbling another’s kill,

snaffled the fruit of Shakuni’s sleight of hand—

our kingdom! It is for you that we’ve endured,

for long months now, this wilderness, this exile,

lacking virtue, pleasure, lacking the glory

our limbs and hearts are made for, ridiculed—

and rightly—by those who should respect us.

This is a pitiful life for kshatriyas;

living like this, you emasculate yourself.

Arjuna and I possess between us

all the skill and strength we need to crush

Duryodhana—and we have our allies.

We should declare war on the Kaurava.

And what if we are slaughtered? Better that

than live like eunuchs, vegetating here!

“You insist on dharma—but for kshatriyas

dharma is threefold—pursuit of virtue, wealth

and pleasure. It requires sacrifices

and gifts to brahmins. For that, one must have wealth.

The Vedas are not enough for men like us.

And, though wealth or pleasure by themselves

will lead to tyranny or slothfulness,

all three are needed in a well-lived life.

Each by itself will lead a man astray—

including virtue.

“A king should be strong, bold,

a vigilant protector of his people.

By losing your kingdom, you abandoned them.

Our lives are finite; time flows on and on.

If you keep to your word so stubbornly,

we could be dead before our exile ends.

Besides, it may never end! What chance is there

that Draupadi, most beautiful of women,

or I, built like an elephant, can live

unrecognized, when Duryodhana’s spies

will be searching for us up and down the land,

and when there’ll always be some weasel, anxious

to earn a fat reward from Dhritarashtra?

And if, or when, we’re recognized, then starts

another thirteen years! Unbearable!

“Even if our suffering fails to move you

consider your dharma as a kshatriya

and as our king. Rouse up your warrior’s heart

and earn the world’s respect. Fight, best of Bharatas!

Who can withstand the might of Arjuna?

Who can survive the force of my great club?

With Krishna on our side, how can we fail?”

“Bhima,” said Yudhishthira, “listen to me—

I cannot blame you for your impatient wrath.

Nothing you and Draupadi can say

can be as harsh as my own self-reproach.

I took the challenge hoping I could win

Duryodhana’s possessions. When I saw

Shakuni’s dexterity, and knew

I could never match it, I should have withdrawn.

But I was proud and angry—and obsessed

with winning back what I had lost. I think

I lost my reason; it was preordained.

“I know that my insistence upon patience

seems perverse to you. But, I repeat,

I gave my word. You saw that I agreed

in front of all the elders of the court

to stand by the conditions of the wager.

And my word is more important to me

than any kingdom, even than life itself.

The time for you to intervene was when

you saw how I was gripped by gambling madness.

But you said nothing, I can only think

it was the gods’ will. Now it is too late.

Our task is patience.”

“Oh!” cried Draupadi,

her fresh tears flowing, “your mind’s unbendable!

Son of Kunti, you would sacrifice

my life, and the lives of all your brothers,

before you would give up your precious ‘word’!”