Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (34 page)

and invitingly flutter their fingers.

In the royal kitchens, Wolf-belly Bhima

grew even more enormous. He was happy

and so was the whole court. Never before

had they looked forward quite so ardently

to the next meal. And when he was not cooking,

Bhima coached the young men of the court

in wrestling—a sport of special interest

since, every year, at the festival of Brahma,

people flocked to the city from far and wide

to take part in a wrestling championship

hosted by King Virata.

So in the spring,

some months after the Pandavas’ arrival,

huge, powerful men gathered in the arena,

strutting, flexing their oiled and bulging muscles.

One wrestler in particular, Jimuta,

a great hulk, lorded over the event,

so far outclassing all other contestants

that the tournament became quite dull.

The king ordered his cook to challenge him

which put Wolf-belly in a quandary—

he could not ignore the king’s command,

but if he beat the champion with ease

people might guess who he really was.

So, although he could have floored the strongman

with one arm tied, he went through all the motions

of girding himself up and oiling his body,

then puffed and heaved and grappled valiantly

before lifting the brute, whirling him round,

flinging him to the ground winded. Defeated.

After that, the king often asked Bhima

to fight, and when no one would stand up with him,

he pitted him against tigers and elephants

and had him entertain the seraglio

by entering the ring with full-grown lions.

Ten months had gone by, and the sons of Pandu

still lived unrecognized, in a condition

of quiet contentment. But not Draupadi.

The queen’s lecherous brother, Kichaka

(chief of the army, powerful at court

and throughout the kingdom), had noticed her

and made advances. She rejected him

and he, besotted with her, swore he’d send

all his wives away if she would marry him.

“Out of the question—I am already married.

You’re like an infant, crying for the moon.

If you persist, my five gandharva husbands

will destroy you.”

Then lustful Kichaka,

on a flimsy pretext, had Sudeshna

send Draupadi on an errand to his house

where he lewdly assaulted her. She ran

into the hall where the men were gathered,

Kichaka chasing her, grabbing her hair

and kicking her. Yudhishthira and Bhima

were choking with outrage and sympathy

but they held back. They would risk exposure

if they gave the man the beating he deserved—

for saving a mere maid from the attentions

of the marshal of the realm.

But Draupadi,

still guarding her disguise, spoke for herself:

“Am I, the proud wife of five strong gandharvas,

to be kicked and mauled by this lawless brute?

Where are my husbands? Surely, if they were here

they would defend me, for how could they bear

to see their cherished wife defiled like this?

O king, it is your dharma to protect me—

why do you sit silent? It is an outrage

that I should be manhandled by this lout

here, in your very presence!” The courtiers

applauded her, but Virata looked aside,

dependent as he was on Kichaka.

Yudhishthira, though his temples throbbed with rage,

spoke mildly, “Chambermaid, it is not proper

that you are running here and running there

like some dancing girl. You are disrupting

our game of dice. Seek refuge with the queen.

No doubt your husbands will do what you wish

when it is the right time, in their judgment.”

“My husbands are tolerant,” snapped Draupadi,

“and yet they are no strangers to misfortune

since the eldest is a
gambler
!”

With that,

Draupadi stormed off to the queen’s apartments.

Sudeshna took her side, “That brother of mine

deserves to die for what he did to you!”

In the night, Draupadi could not sleep,

tossed by the furious grievance that consumed her.

She left her bed and went to waken Bhima,

certain of his concern. All her troubles

came pouring out. “Every day I have to see

my husbands eat dust—our Yudhishthira,

once the great emperor, now a gamester

on wages! You, wrestling lions to entertain

the women—I feel faint when I see that,

and they tease me, say I’m sweet on the cook!

And Arjuna—a pathetic dancing master!

Sahadeva . . . and Nakula! Well,

when I see all this, I ask myself

how I can go on living. And my own life—

mixing sandalwood paste for my ‘mistress,’

ruining my hands.” Then Wolf-belly

placed her roughened hands against his cheeks

and wept for her.

“But, Bhima, worst of all—

that goat Kichaka won’t leave me alone.

I can’t endure it! I want you to kill him.

Break him, like a pot hurled onto stone!

Do this for me.” Together, they devised

a plan.

Next day Draupadi forced herself

to smile at Kichaka, and she suggested

that they meet each other secretly

in the dance pavilion when night fell.

The man was thrilled, even more enamored.

He went home, doused himself in fragrant oils,

dressed in fine garments and, at dead of night,

crept unnoticed into the pavilion.

He could just make out the padded couch

and saw Draupadi, lying there already,

her body draped in silk, her head covered.

“My lovely one,” Kichaka crooned, approaching,

“I have conferred money and jewels upon you.

I have anointed myself with rare perfume.

Not for nothing do my women say,

‘Kichaka, you’re the handsomest man alive!’”

“How fortunate,” murmured a muffled voice.

“Oh, how voluptuous you are, you handful

of gorgeousness!” and he reached out to squeeze

the ample hips. “Your skin smells so delicious . . .”

And those were the last words he ever spoke.

The covers flew apart and, with a roar,

Bhima leapt up and seized Kichaka’s throat

in an iron grip. Kichaka struggled free

and the two men wrestled. But it was not long

before the villain’s every rib was cracked,

his head and limbs were crushed inside his body

and his spine folded like a broken reed.

Draupadi was exultant. She called the guards

and Kichaka’s kinsmen quickly gathered,

and were appalled. “Here is your flesh and blood,”

said Draupadi, “well punished by my husbands,

my five strong gandharvas, for lusting after

a married woman.”

The dead man’s relatives,

bent on vengeance, made the king agree

that she would burn on Kichaka’s funeral pyre—

she would satisfy his lust in death at least.

As she was carried to the cremation ground

Draupadi shrieked her husbands’ secret names

and Bhima, bursting from his room, his rage

making him swell to twice his usual size,

ran to the place. Uprooting a massive tree,

roaring mightily, he scattered the mourners.

“A gandharva! A gandharva!” they cried,

unable to see clearly in the dark,

and, releasing Draupadi, they fled

toward the city. But Bhima pursued them

like the god of death himself, and slaughtered

more than a hundred of the marshal’s kinsmen.

Then he strolled off to his kitchen work.

The whole city was buzzing with the news

of the massacre at the cremation ground.

A deputation went to see the king.

“Your majesty, the whole court is in danger

from that woman—she is too beautiful,

and men will naturally lust after her.

But her husbands’ vengeance is terrifying—

You must do something.”

Virata was alarmed.

This chambermaid was nothing but disaster,

what with her beauty and her vengeful husbands.

He told his wife to dismiss Draupadi.

But the chambermaid requested a delay

of thirteen days, and Sudeshna agreed

to her request—if she could guarantee

there would be no more visits from gandharvas.

In thirteen days, the thirteenth year would end.

At the slaying of Kichaka and his kin

there was rejoicing in Virata’s kingdom.

He had won power through his bravery.

In his time he had led Virata’s army

to many brilliant victories in forays

against surrounding lands, appropriating

thousands of choice cattle. But at home

the man had been a bully and a lecher

and no one, not even the king himself,

had dared to put a stop to his behavior.

Dhritarashtra’s and Duryodhana’s spies

had lost sight of the Pandavas, ever since

they had left the forest. For a year

scouts had searched the country near and far

but they never brought back any news;

it seemed the Pandavas had simply vanished.

Some thought they must have died. But the elders

disagreed. “I know the sons of Pandu

are not dead,” said Bhishma, “they are protected

by their own virtue. Wherever they may be,

they are keeping the terms of their covenant.”

The prince decreed that more efficient agents

should be sent out in a last-ditch attempt

to find the Pandavas; and that, meanwhile,

everything should be done to prepare for war.

Meanwhile, Susharman, ruler of Trigarta,

had a proposal. “I have all too often

been oppressed by raids on my cattle stations

by the Matsya army. But now Kichaka

has been found dead in odd circumstances.

Without their general’s leadership and courage

the Matsya force will be in disarray.

Now is the time to mount a cattle raid,

rustle some of their fine, glossy herds.”

Karna was delighted. “Blameless prince,”

he said to Duryodhana, “Susharman

is right—let us not waste our energy

thinking about the Pandavas, who either

are dead, or lack the means to challenge us.

Let us quickly mount an expedition

and profit from Kichaka’s sudden death.”

It was agreed. Susharman would start at once

with his army, on a week-long march

to Matsya lands. With Virata occupied

in fending off the marauding Trigartas,

Kaurava troops would follow a day later

and, approaching from another flank,

carry away thousands of prime cattle.

On the eighth day after this plan was hatched

the Pandavas’ long exile would expire.

Virata was sitting with his councillors

when a breathless herdsman ran into the hall.

“Indra among men! Trigarta troops

have turned up in force. We fought with them

but they’re too numerous for us to tackle

and, even as I speak, they’re rounding up

thousands of your sleek and purebred cattle

and driving them away!”

At once, the king

mobilized his excellent standing army,

well equipped, well trained, and strengthened by

the cook, the gaming master and the two

stockmen. The chaste and accomplished dancer

was not required to give his services,

and stayed discreetly in the women’s quarters.

Virata proudly led his troops to battle,

engaging with the well-equipped Trigartas

before night fell.

The forces were well matched.

The battlefield was soon awash with blood

and strewn with severed limbs. When the darkness

and dust made it impossible to see,

there was a standoff. But then the moon came up,

casting its eerie light over the land,

and the two sides again flew at each other.

Susharman managed to capture the old king.

Seeing this, the Matsya troops lost heart

and started to retreat. Yudhishthira

called to Bhima, “You must rescue Virata,

we are greatly in his debt.” Bhima rejoiced

at the chance to show his prowess in a fight.

“I shall uproot that tree—it will be my club

and I shall drive away the enemies!”

“Let the tree stand,” said Yudhishthira,

afraid that Bhima would be recognized.

“Do the job with ordinary weapons.

Nakula and Sahadeva will join you.”

Bhima obeyed, and fierce battle followed

during which the Matsya king escaped

and, seizing a club, set upon Susharman

with all the vigor of an impetuous youth.

The Trigarta force was driven off, defeated.

The fat cows and bullocks were brought home.

King Virata cried, “Kanka! Ballava!

I owe you my life, and my kingdom.

All I have is yours—take gold, take dancing girls

bedecked with jewels, take anything you wish!”

With hands joined, Yudhishthira replied,

“To see you safe is all the reward we need.

Let messengers be sent off to the city

to proclaim your victory.”

But meanwhile,

Duryodhana and his men were rounding up

hundreds of cattle a few leagues away,

capturing more than sixty thousand strong.

The herdsmen ran panting to the court

where, in the king’s absence, his son Uttara

was in charge. “Prince, you must take action!

We’ve heard your father talk about your prowess,

how brave you are, how skilled with bow and spear.

Now the time has come to prove his words were true.

Let your bowstring thrum, let your silver horses

be yoked to your splendid chariot, let your arrows

blot out the sun and terrify your foes.

You are our only hope, courageous prince.”

“I certainly would do as you suggest,”

said Uttara, “spread terror with my bow,

cut a swath through their ranks of stalwart fighters,

decimate their warhorses and elephants

so they would think that Arjuna himself

was bearing down on them . . . The problem is,

I lack a charioteer with the right skills.”

Draupadi overheard, and approached shyly.

“That handsome dancing master, Brihannada,

was at one time Arjuna’s charioteer

and learned a lot from that great-hearted man.

I myself saw him when the fire god burned

the Khandava Forest—he drove Arjuna

to victory. If it pleases you, your sister

could fetch him quickly from the women’s quarters.”

Brihannada was summoned, and was told

what was required of him. “O prince,” he simpered,

“ask me to sing or dance for you—I’ll do it.

But drive a chariot in the thick of battle?

I’m not so sure that I could manage that.”

“You’ll dance another time,” said Uttara,

“but first, prepare yourself to drive my chariot.

I shall defeat the Kauravas, take back

the stolen cattle, and return in glory.”

The prince called for his well-made bows and arrows

and, decked out in his expensive armor,

he looked most elegant and glorious.

Arjuna fumbled with his coat of mail

and put his breastplate on the wrong way up,

making the women laugh. “Oh, Brihannada,”

they cried, “when you defeat the Kauravas,

bring us their bright clothing for our dolls.”

Arjuna promised. Then he clambered up

clumsily onto the chariot seat, and drove

helter-skelter toward the battle lines,

Prince Uttara clinging tightly to the rail.

Arjuna called, “O tiger among princes,

how glad I am that we will fight together

against the formidable and bloodthirsty

Kauravas, against unbeaten Karna,

Duryodhana whose prowess with a mace

is unparalleled, and those other heroes!”

Behind him, Uttara was pale with fear.

It was not long before the enemy

could be seen in the distance, warriors

by the thousand, like a moving forest.

The sound reached them of the mass of men,

a distant roar, as of a mighty ocean.

Uttara’s hair stood on end. “Stop! Stop!

Turn round—I’m too young for this!” he bleated.

“Drive back to the city.”

But Arjuna

pressed on. “I’m taking you, my strong-armed hero,

to fight with the marauding Kauravas.

You boasted earlier. If you don’t fight now,

if you don’t recapture the stolen cows

but creep back to the city empty-handed,

the whole court will laugh at you.”

“I don’t care!”

wailed Uttara. Anything—his father’s scorn,

the dancing girls’ derision—would be better

than early death! With this, the woeful coward

jumped from the chariot, leaving his bow behind,

and fled. The Pandava ran after him,

his braided hair flying, bright red skirts

flapping round him. Some of the Kauravas

laughed at the spectacle, though others wondered

who was the strange man-woman. Could it be

the Terrifier, Arjuna, in disguise?

Arjuna caught up with Uttara

who was gibbering with fear. “Help! Let me go!

I’ll give you anything—gold, elephants;

let me go, Brihannada!” Arjuna

took pity on the poor sap. “Noble prince,

you’re a kshatriya. If you can’t fight,

then drive the chariot instead, while I do.

Together, we’ll defeat the enemy;

I will protect you.”

They drove to the shami tree

at the cremation ground, where Arjuna

wished to retrieve his weapons. “Quick! Climb up,”

he told Uttara. “Tied to a branch, you’ll find

the weapons of the Pandavas. Fetch them down.”

“But I’ve heard there is a body in the tree,”

whined Uttara. “I’m a prince, I’ll be exposed

to pollution!”

“You will expose yourself

to condemnation if you don’t climb up.

Do as I tell you,” said Arjuna sternly.

“There are bows there, never mind the body.”

When Uttara set eyes on the marvelous weapons,

shining with a celestial radiance,

he was amazed. “Brihannada, what are these—

whose is this superb bow whose smooth back

is inlaid with a hundred golden eyes?

And this, patterned with scintillating fireflies

in pure gold? And this one, gem-encrusted?

And these fine arrows, with gold and silver nocks?

And whose is this long sword with the golden hilt,

and these others in their dazzling scabbards?”

Arjuna explained, “They all belong

to the sons of Pandu.”

“But where are they now,

those illustrious heroes?” asked Uttara.

Then Arjuna revealed that he was Arjuna,

and disclosed the real identities

of the gaming master and the cook,

cowherd, horse tamer and the chambermaid.

Uttara was utterly astonished.

“Can I believe my ears? Can this be true?

If you are really Arjuna, then tell me

your ten names.”

“Very well,” said the Pandava.

“I am Arjuna, also Vijaya,

Phalguna, Jishnu, He of the Diadem,

He of the White Horses, the Terrifier,

Left-handed Archer, Dhanamjaya, Krishna.”

Uttara bowed down before Arjuna.

“What good fortune to see you, strong-armed one!

Please pardon me if I have offended you.

My fear has fled away. I only feel

great devotion. Please, give me your orders

and I shall drive you into the thick of battle.

You’ll find me an outstanding charioteer!

Only one thing still puzzles me—how can you

be a eunuch, and still be Arjuna?”

Arjuna reassured him on this point.

Then he prepared for action—bound his hair,

tied on his stout wrist guards and strung
Gandiva
.

He took Virata’s standard from the chariot

and affixed his own: the monkey banner.

He blew
Devadatta
, the sound of which

caused the enemy to become confused,

and Uttara to crouch down in the chariot.

“Oh!” he cried. “I can’t see where I am,

my mind is reeling, I am going deaf!”

Arjuna gave him comfort, tenderly

called him “hero,” “lion among men,”

enabling him to summon up some courage.

Again, the conch sounded out its challenge

and this time Uttara held fast the reins.

He planted his feet firmly, whipped the horses,

and the two rode out together into battle.