Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (31 page)

When news of Karna’s vow reached the Pandavas

Yudhishthira was much cast down, for Karna

was the enemy he feared above all others—

knowing him to be a supreme archer,

passionate in his hatred for Arjuna.

It was a dark time. Again, Yudhishthira,

pained by the privations of his family,

knowing himself to blame, was in despair;

while they in turn, seeing him distressed,

were seized with wrathfulness, and with a passion

to punish those who had caused his misery.

Vyasa arrived and spoke to Yudhishthira.

“Virtuous conduct is always rewarded

in this life or the next. Control your sorrow.

Live each day with a calm and even mind,

treating success and setback equally.

Once, you lived in luxury and wealth;

now you are suffering. To be happy,

one has to suffer first. Each of these states

is simply how things are. The two conditions

succeed each other as the seasons do.

The wheel turns. You will regain your kingdom

after the thirteenth year has run its course.

With your strong brothers and your mighty allies

supporting you, you will be king again.

“The wise, neither mourning nor rejoicing,

take what life brings with equanimity.

But with austerity and discipline

wonders may be achieved.”

“Which is greater,”

asked Yudhishthira, “austerity

or giving?” Vyasa answered, “In my view,

nothing is more difficult than giving

in a spirit of pure-heartedness

when wealth has been hard won. Let me tell you

the old story of the gleaner Mudgala.

“
M
UDGALA WAS A
law-abiding man, who subsisted on grains of rice picked up from the fields. Yet he was able to give food generously to others since, by virtue of his austerities, the grains multiplied when a guest visited him.

“The seer Durvasas decided to test his generosity. He appeared in the form of an unkempt madman and demanded food. Mudgala welcomed him, washed his feet and set food before him. The madman gobbled up all the food there was, so there was nothing left for the gleaner to eat. Then he smeared the scrapings on his body and departed. The next day, he turned up again, and so it continued for six days, but Mudgala welcomed him each time, and showed no trace of impatience or discourtesy.

“‘I have never encountered such pure-hearted generosity!’ exclaimed the seer, revealing his true identity. ‘For this, you will go to heaven in your body.’

“A celestial chariot, drawn by swans and cranes, arrived to take Mudgala to heaven. But the gleaner wanted first to know what heaven was like—who lived there, and what were their qualities? The celestial messenger told him, ‘Heaven is inhabited by the virtuous, who enjoy happy and pain-free lives there. But once the merit earned in their previous lives is exhausted, they return to earth and are reborn in another body. Beyond heaven there are other worlds, in the highest of which eternal bliss may be attained, beyond happiness and sorrow, beyond rebirth. That world is very hard to reach, even for the gods. Only those who have transcended desire may go there.’

“Mudgala reflected, and decided that so imperfect a heaven as he was being offered was not for him. He entered a life of extreme self-denial and meditation and, in time, he achieved moksha.”

Vyasa then continued on his travels,

leaving Yudhishthira happier than before.

As he slept that night, he had a dream.

A group of weeping deer appeared to him

and stood before him, trembling with terror.

“We are all that’s left of the rich stocks

of animals that once lived in this woodland.

All the others have been hunted down

for food, by your party. Now there are barely

enough of us to reproduce our kind.”

Yudhishthira was seized by remorse and pity.

The next day, he began to organize

a move to another part of the forest

where they would set up a new hermitage,

and live until the twelve years had expired.

One afternoon, the Pandavas went hunting.

Draupadi remained at the hermitage

with Dhaumya, the priest. A while later,

Jayadratha, king of the Sindhus (husband

of Dhritarashtra’s daughter, Duhshala),

happened by with his retinue, and noticed

Draupadi wandering among the trees

gathering flowers, and radiating beauty

as the moon illumines the dark clouds.

He lusted after her—her slender waist,

full breasts and shapely hips, and her lovely face.

He sent a close companion to inquire

who she was. Draupadi was conscious

that to converse with this man was improper

but, since there was no one else to answer,

she spoke, naming her husbands, inviting him

to wait, and be the guest of Yudhishthira,

together with his friend.

The companion

reported back; Jayadratha approached her,

smitten with desire. “Come, gorgeous one,

let me transport you to a better life

than this, inflicted on you by those husbands,

exiled, down on their luck. I promise you

luxury, wealth, pleasure . . . What do you say?”

Draupadi blazed with anger, “Ignorant fool!

Do you take me for an unprotected woman?

How dare you insult my husbands, famous warriors

unsurpassed anywhere! You can no more

defeat them than an idiot with a stick

could hope to subdue a rutting elephant.

Be on your way!”

“Mere words won’t put me off,”

laughed Jayadratha, and, laying hands on her,

he forced her onto his chariot, and drove off,

flanked by his guards. Dhaumya followed them.

The Pandavas, sensing something was amiss,

hurried back to the hermitage, where they found

Draupadi’s maidservant distraught and weeping.

She told them what had happened and, at once,

they set off in pursuit of Jayadratha.

They followed traces left by the abductors

and soon caught up with them. Dhaumya, in the rear,

shouted to the brothers, “Attack! Attack!”

Tiger-like, the Pandavas launched themselves

against the forces of the king of Sindhu.

Bhima’s mace, its spikes ablaze with gold,

was whirling, slaughtering the foot soldiers

by the dozen. Nakula, unmatched swordsman,

cut a swath through the mounted enemy,

their heads flying off like seeds in the wind,

while Sahadeva with his spear, Yudhishthira

and Arjuna with their fine, deadly arrows,

reduced the Sindhu soldiers to a rabble,

fleeing in all directions. When Jayadratha

saw that the fight was lost, he too fled,

abandoning Draupadi. “He won’t escape,”

shouted Bhima, “I’ll catch and kill the villain!”

“No,” said Yudhishthira, “for Gandhari’s sake,

and Duhshala’s, vile scoundrel though he is,

he should not be killed.”

“That excrescence,”

protested Draupadi, glowing with anger,

“that abortion of the Sindhu race

does not deserve to live!”

With difficulty,

Bhima refrained from killing Jayadratha

when he caught him. Instead, he made him grovel,

thrashed him brutally, and shaved his head

so that five tufts remained. Yudhishthira

had him brought, and delivered a homily

which, perhaps, was worst of all. Jayadratha

crept away, aching, badly disgraced,

vowing vengeance. Later he embarked

on severe austerities, with a view

to obtaining a boon from Lord Shiva:

that he would block the Pandavas in battle

—excepting Arjuna, who was protected

by Krishna, supreme master of the discus.

Sitting with Markandeya one afternoon,

Yudhishthira was full of despondency.

“Life here is hard—living as forest dwellers,

forced to kill other forest dwellers for food;

our blameless wife abducted, our close kin

attacking us as enemies—was there ever

anyone more afflicted with misfortune?”

“You are not unique,” said Markandeya,

“Rama, too, lost his beautiful wife, Sita,

abducted by the demon Ravana.”

Markandeya went on to tell the tale

of Rama and his brother, Lakshmana;

how they and Sita endured forest exile;

how Ravana seized Sita, and transported her

to Lanka; how, with the help of Hanuman

and his fellow monkeys, she was rescued;

how, at first, Rama rejected her;

but how, at last, the couple were united

and Rama installed as king of Ayodhya.

“So, you see, you are not the only prince

to suffer tribulations. You are sustained

by your bull-like brothers. You should not grieve.”

“My sorrow is not only for myself,”

said Yudhishthira, “nor even for my brothers,

but for our wife who is so cruelly wronged.

Was there ever a woman so virtuous

and loving as Draupadi?”

“Let me tell you,”

said the sage, “the story of another

highborn woman, the princess Savitri.

“
I
N THE LAND
of the Madras, there lived a king, named Ashvapati. He was generous, devout, an excellent king and loved by all his subjects. But he had no children and, as the years went by, this troubled him more and more. He entered on a course of strict austerities, dedicated to the goddess Savitri and, after eighteen years had passed, she appeared before him, rising up out of the sacred fire.

“‘I am pleased with you, O king. You may choose a boon from me.’

“‘I wish for many sons, to maintain my lineage,’ said Ashvapati.

“‘You shall not have sons,’ said Savitri, ‘but a lovely daughter will be born to you—no argument. That is how it will be.’

“‘May it be soon,’ said the king.

“In the fullness of time, a girl was born to his first queen, and the king called her Savitri, after the goddess. She grew up so formidably beautiful that potential suitors were reluctant to seek her hand in marriage. Eventually, her father sent her out into the world, suitably escorted, to find a husband for herself. She was gone for months, touring forests and sacred fords, conversing with sages, giving freely to brahmins. When she returned, she found her father sitting with the seer Narada.

“‘Father, I have chosen my husband. In the land of the Shalvas, there is a god-fearing king, Dyumatsena. Some time ago, he went blind, and an old enemy, seeing an opportunity, ousted him and sent him to the forest. It is his son, Satyavat, to whom I have given my heart. He is brave and generous—and he is an artist!’

“‘Satyavat is perfect in every way,’ said all-seeing Narada. ‘But the bad news is that he is destined to die exactly one year from now.’

“‘That is bad news indeed!’ exclaimed the king. ‘My dear one, you had better choose again.’

“‘There are some things in life,’ Savitri said, ‘that happen only once. I have chosen my husband, and I will not choose a second time.’

“‘Savitri has spoken well,’ said Narada, and with that he took his leave and flew up into the sky.

“Sad, but resigned, the king visited Dyumatsena, and arranged his daughter’s marriage to Satyavat. She lived in the forest with her husband and his family, a devoted wife and daughter-in-law, and everyone who knew her loved her. She mentioned to no one what Narada had told her. As the day approached when Satyavat was due to die, she undertook an act of austerity, standing for three days and nights continually, fasting. Then she poured libations on the sacred fire, her heart aching.

“On the fateful day, she announced that she would go with Satyavat when he went deep into the forest, to gather fruit. ‘It will be too hard for you,’ he said, ‘especially after your severe fast.’ But she insisted, and the two set off. All around were flowering trees and sparkling brooks, and Savitri pretended to be light-hearted, though she was watchful, tense with fear.