Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (28 page)

“‘Give up that dove,’ said the hawk. ‘By giving it shelter, you are flying in the face of nature, for doves are the natural food of hawks.’

“‘The bird has sought my protection,’ replied the king. ‘It would be absolutely wrong for me to allow you to eat it. I shall give you something else to eat instead.’

“‘Nothing else will do,’ said the hawk. ‘Hawks eat doves—that’s the rule. By depriving me of my proper food, you harm not only me but my dependent family as well.’

“‘I won’t give up this dove,’ said the king, ‘so tell me what I can give you in its place.’

“‘If you cut off a portion of your own flesh equal to the dove’s weight, I shall eat it and be satisfied,’ said the hawk.

“The king cut away a piece of his own flesh, but it was not as heavy as the dove. He cut another piece, and added it to the first. The dove was still heavier. Eventually, he cut away all his flesh and, in his mutilated form, climbed onto the scale himself. Then the hawk revealed that he was the god, Indra, and assured the king that he would enjoy everlasting fame for his great sacrifice.”

As the group approached the Himalaya,

moving toward Mount Gandhamadana

where they would embrace Arjuna at last,

Lomasha warned that they were entering

dangerous territory, where rakshasas

and sorcerers lay in wait for travelers.

“Take good care,” said Lomasha, “proceed

boldly but warily. Be resolute,

knowing that my powers will protect you,

as will Bhima’s strength.” And the seer chanted

a hymn to Ganga, goddess of the river,

imploring her to watch over the travelers.

“I am worried,” said Yudhishthira,

“that Draupadi, Sahadeva and the weaker

brahmins may not be strong enough for this.

Bhima, you turn back with them, and wait

while we—Lomasha, Nakula and I—

go on alone, and then come back for you.”

Bhima disagreed, “We should stay together.

I can carry Draupadi, and anyone

who cannot keep up.” Draupadi laughed,

“I will manage—don’t be concerned for me!”

No one wanted to be left behind.

Alert, with weapons ready in their hands,

the brothers set off, leading the contingent

ever upward, living on roots and berries,

negotiating crags and perilous paths.

As they came close to Gandhamadana,

a violent storm blew up. Rocks split open

with a deafening crack, a whirlwind howled

and lashed the trees, hurling clouds of dust,

branches and rocks, blocking off the sun

as though it were night. Bhima seized Draupadi

and sheltered by a stout tree. All the others

spread-eagled on the ground in trepidation

to wait out the storm. But when the wind died down,

torrential rain began, a deafening deluge,

twisting ropes of water carrying

trees, and any debris in their path,

crashing downward to the plain below.

Battered, terrified, the pilgrims clung

to rocks and to more deeply rooted trees.

At last the clouds dispersed. A cautious sun

sent watery rays to warm the drenched party.

They set off once more, but Draupadi,

unused to strenuous walking, fell, fainting,

quite worn out. The four brothers massaged

her feet until she sighed and revived a little,

but it was clear that she would never manage

to reach their destination by herself.

Bhima had a brainwave—“Ghatotkacha!

My son by Hidimbaa—that mighty fellow

will carry her.” Then, by the power of thought,

Bhima summoned him, and he appeared,

accompanied by fellow rakshasas.

“Son, worthy crusher of your enemies,”

said Bhima, “our brave Draupadi’s exhausted.

Lift her gently, and carry her through the sky—

fly low, so she will not be alarmed.”

“I can carry the whole family,”

said Ghatotkacha, “and my strong companions

will bring the rest.” So it was that Bhima’s son

took the Pandavas lovingly in his arms,

while the brahmins flew with other rakshasas,

and Lomasha traveled by his mystic power.

They passed over beautiful terrain

rich in mineral wealth, and dappled woods

inhabited by monkeys and bright songbirds.

On they flew, until they saw, ahead,

the fabled and majestic Mount Kailasa

gleaming in the pure air, skirted round

by slopes on which grew trees laden with fruit,

and where many great seers had their homes—

a place free from any stinging creature,

temperate, and lush with many crops.

Prominently placed was the hermitage

of Nara and Narayana, a center

of deep learning. In its gardens grew

the legendary jujube tree, whose fruits

dripped honey constantly. The Pandavas

were welcomed with joy by the holy seers,

and the party settled for some time.

Strolling one day, Draupadi picked up

a flower, dropped at her feet by the wind,

a flower so exquisite, with a perfume

so intoxicating, that she longed for more—

since she felt that she must offer this one

to Yudhishthira. She asked Bhima

to go in search of them, and bring her some,

so he set off, walking fearlessly

up the mountain. Aided by the wind,

his father, he pursued the heavenly scent

past waterfalls, through groves of graceful trees

threaded with vines, toward the cloud-topped peaks,

crashing through the undergrowth, disturbing

the creatures of those parts, in his concern

to get back to protect his family.

Following a flock of water birds,

he came across a wide and gleaming lake,

fringed by clusters of banana trees,

with blue lotuses floating on the water.

Bhima plunged in like a young elephant,

splashing, slapping his arms most joyfully,

and lions, sleeping in their lairs nearby,

awoke and roared, alarming the whole forest.

Bhima heard a deep reverberation

and, tracking it to a banana grove,

came across a most gigantic ape,

tall and handsome, radiant as lightning,

sitting at his ease on a slab of stone,

beating his tail, like thunder, on the ground.

His mouth was broad, his tongue was red as copper,

and, with eyes the color of golden honey,

he glared down at Bhima. “Stupid fellow,

why are you blundering noisily around

in this forest where no human comes,

waking me from health-restoring sleep

when I am sick? This place is dangerous;

turn back while you still can.”

Bhima refused.

“Move aside! Let me pass!”

“Leap over me

if you must go forward,” said the monkey.

But Bhima perceived that this was a great soul

and, from reverence, declined to jump. “Move!”

he cried again. “Were it not for respect,

I would leap over you, as Hanuman,

that brave and god-like ape, that mighty hero,

leapt across the sea to Ravana’s kingdom

to find Sita, Rama’s blameless wife.”

“Who is this Hanuman?” grumbled the ape.

“He is the brother I have never met—

son of the wind, like me—and I’m his equal

in strength and courage. So move aside right now!”

The great ape was amused, “Reckless prince,

I am too old to move—if you must pass,

lift up my tail and proceed underneath it.”

Bhima strove and sweated, heaved and pushed,

but found himself unable to lift the tail,

try as he might. “Distinguished ape, who are you?”

he asked in wonder. “I am that Hanuman

of whom you speak,” replied the radiant monkey.

“It was I who leapt the hundred leagues

across the sea to Lanka.” Hearing this,

Bhima prostrated himself in reverence.

Joyfully he asked his newfound brother

to assume the form in which he made

that spectacular leap. Hanuman laughed,

“That was another era, long ago—

a time when even time itself was different.

Now, strong-armed one, you must go from this place.”

But only after Bhima had prevailed

on Hanuman to show his wondrous form—

swelling and stretching until he was as vast

as a mountain, awesome, terrifying—

did the Pandava consent to leave.

The two embraced each other tearfully.

“I bless the day I met you,” said Hanuman.

“It reminds me of the time I held

Rama in my arms. I wish you well

in the hard undertaking that lies ahead.

I give you this boon: on the battlefield,

when you utter your war cry, I shall add

my roar to yours. Appearing on the flagpole

of matchless Arjuna, my voice will rob

your enemies of their senses.” So saying,

Hanuman disappeared. Bhima continued

to make his way with all speed up the mountain,

always pursuing the divine perfume

of the elusive flower.

At last he came

to the luxuriant garden of Kubera,

god of wealth, guarded by many yakshas,

and there he saw a large crystalline pool

where sweet-smelling golden water-flowers

clustered abundantly. Kubera’s guardians

tried to prevent him picking them, but he

pressed forward, killing many of the yakshas.

A dust storm blew up, darkening the sky

so that Yudhishthira, far below, saw it,

and learned from Draupadi where Bhima had gone.

He had Ghatotkacha transport them all

up the mountain, and saw the devastation.

Kubera appeared, ready to do battle,

but he softened when he saw the Pandavas.

“Bharata,” he said to Yudhishthira,

“you should keep this brother of yours in check.”

“Oh, son of Kunti,” exclaimed the Dharma King

in dismay, “this violence is uncalled for.

If you love me, never do this again.”

“Tell me more,” said King Janamejaya,

“about the Pandavas’ long years of exile.

Whom did they encounter on their travels?

How did Bhima curb his restlessness?

And Arjuna’s return? Tell me the details.”

Vaishampayana took up the story:

For some time, the Pandavas dwelled happily

in the mountains. They moved from hermitage

to hermitage, and were welcomed everywhere.

Then they settled on Mount Gandhamadana

where they waited for Arjuna’s return.

The mountains offered so much natural beauty.

They took delight in plants they had never seen,

fruit-bearing trees, interlaced with vines,

flowers of vivid colors. Limpid lakes

reflected the passing clouds. Every morning,

they awoke to an aubade of birdsong,

while, all around, tame creatures played and grazed.

Even Bhima put aside his weapons

and enjoyed the peace and the pure air.

But for the pain of missing Arjuna,

their contentment would have been complete.

Then, one day, they saw a distant object

flashing, shimmering across the sky,

coming closer . . . it was a grand chariot

driven by Matali, Indra’s charioteer,

and in it, standing, crowned with a diadem

and holding weapons glittering in the sun—

Arjuna! Soon, following close behind,

Indra himself arrived. Yudhishthira

paid him homage and received his blessing,

then the god left.

It may be imagined

with what joy, with what unending questions,

the Pandavas received the beloved hero.

As if they could wipe out the separation,

they wanted him to tell them every detail

of his quest, and his stay in Indra’s realm.

For many days, under the shala trees,

for many nights, seated beneath the stars,

he told them all that had befallen him.