Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (38 page)

Karna for Arjuna, as also were

Jayadratha and envious Ashvatthaman;

Duryodhana, together with his brothers,

would be the share of Bhima, great mace-warrior.

“Those you have named are great fighters,” said the king,

“yet, to my mind, all of them together

are not more strong than Bhima by himself.

I wake at night, thinking of Wolf-belly.

He is the one I dread—and it is his fault

that there’s this breach between my sons and nephews.

Bhima would torment Duryodhana

when they were children, and it used to grieve me

when my son suffered at that bully’s hands.

Then, there was the disastrous dice game.

But even so—war is a dreadful thing.

Think of the prowess of the Pandavas—

the Kauravas don’t stand a chance; they’ll be

like moths attracted to a blazing furnace.

There should be every effort to make peace.”

“I do not understand you,” said Sanjaya.

“You know the strength of the Left-handed Archer,

you know the might of Bhima the destroyer,

you can foresee your hundred sons all slaughtered,

and yet you submit to Duryodhana.

All these laments are pointless—you are the king,

what happens is your responsibility,

yet you act as though you were powerless.

As for the dicing—I remember well

how you exulted like a little boy

when you heard Shakuni had won the game.”

“Father, don’t fear for us,” said Duryodhana.

“Our allies would find you ridiculous

for entertaining such cowardly thoughts.

The Pandavas are only mortal men,

born from human mothers, as we are.

Don’t be afraid the gods will take their side.

I have heard Vyasa tell you that the gods

became immortal by being indifferent

to love or hatred, greed or sympathy.

They won’t be propping up the Pandavas.

If they were so minded, they would have rescued

my cousins from their miserable exile—

at that time, they might have defeated us.

“But now our strength is unsurpassable.

I have incantations of my own.

I can conjure gales, cause avalanches,

or stop them, as I like. I can freeze rivers

so that heavy chariots can pass over.

You harp on about my cousins’ skills

but we have our own strength—think about it:

Bhishma, Drona, Kripa, Ashvatthaman

are formidable warriors. No one on earth

is a stronger fighter with the mace

than I am. And valiant Karna—don’t forget

how he shamed Arjuna at the tournament.

We should have some pride! Negotiate?

There’s nothing to negotiate. Make peace?

I won’t cede even a pinprick of land to them.

“Karna and I have talked about this war

and how we should see it as a sacrifice.

We will consecrate ourselves; Yudhishthira,

bull of the Bharatas, is the ritual victim.

My chariot will be the altar, my sword

the spoon, my club the ladle. My horses

will be the four sacrificial priests.

Having dedicated ourselves in this way,

we shall surely win. I’ll kill the Pandavas

and rule the earth. Even the gods could not

deflect my passionate hatred from its path!”

“Sanjaya,” said the king, “tell us what happened

when you visited Arjuna and Krishna?”

“I went to see them in their private chamber.

They were sitting together, with their wives,

and were reclining on a golden couch.

Both men were drinking mead. Krishna’s feet

rested on Arjuna’s lap, and Arjuna’s

were supported by Draupadi. When I saw

those two imposing heroes, I was awestruck.

It was as if I were in the presence

of Indra and Vishnu. I could not see then,

nor can I now, how they could fail to conquer

the whole world, if they had the mind for it.

“Arjuna nudged Krishna to speak to me

and he spoke gently, but with such seriousness

that I was terrified on your behalf.

‘I owe a debt,’ he said, ‘to Draupadi.

I was far away when she needed me.

For this alone, I would support Arjuna,

though, as he showed outside Virata’s city,

he can crush an enemy single-handed.’”

Sanjaya’s account was dismal news

for Dhritarashtra. “My poor deluded son!

Complete destruction looms for the Kauravas.

Let it be known—I reject your crackpot plan.

I don’t believe that, without bad advice,

you would have had the appetite for war.

It is Karna and Duhshasana

who spur you onward. But what can I do?

Inscrutable time propels us where it will.”

Karna stood up, addressing Duryodhana:

“I propose to conquer the Pandavas

single-handed, and after them, the Matsyas,

Panchalas and Karushas. This I will do

with the divine weapon I was awarded

by my great teacher. He withdrew the weapon

when he was angry with me, but I believe

I placated him. You can stay at home

with Bhishma and Drona. I shall take a force

of the best fighting men—the task is mine!”

Bhishma laughed. “You vain and boastful fool,

how can you dream of killing even Arjuna—

the warrior who has never been defeated,

the man who destroyed the Khandava Forest—

let alone the rest, weapon or no weapon.

The spear which you obtained from the god Indra

will be reduced to ash by Krishna’s discus.

You and your weapons will be impotent.”

Karna flushed at that insult: “Very well!

This is my response to your contempt—

I will lay down my weapons. I will saunter

around the court until the Kauravas’

generals fall in combat, until you, Bhishma,

lie dead on the field of battle. Only then

will I fight, and the world will see my prowess!”

With that, he strode out of the assembly hall.

Bhishma shrugged. “That all-powerful weapon

the driver’s son so loves to boast about

is flawed. The holy sage who gave it to him

put conditions on it, because Karna

had lied to him. That is the man he is.”

As discussion continued in the hall,

Vidura told the king an instructive story:

“
T
HIS IS SOMETHING
I witnessed once, when I was traveling in the Himalaya. We were visiting Mount Gandhamadana, a beautiful place, with groves of fragrant flowers. There we saw a jar of honey, lying on a rock on the edge of a ravine swarming with poisonous snakes. The honey belonged to Kubera, god of wealth, and it had wonderful properties. If a mortal tasted it, he would live for ever. If a blind man tasted it, he would see again.

“Some mountain men in our party were desperate to get hold of the jar, but, in reaching for it, they toppled into the ravine and were killed.

“In the same way, this stupid son of yours

wishes to seize the earth. He turns his mind

away from the ravine.”

Now, the council

started to disperse. The king, in an aside,

said to Sanjaya, “Is there something

further that you can tell me? Can you foresee

a certain outcome of this dreadful war?”

“Let Vyasa come here, and Gandhari,”

said Sanjaya, “to witness what I learned

at Upaplavya.” By the power of thought

Sanjaya brought Vyasa, and Gandhari

came from her apartments. Duryodhana

turned his back.

“It has been revealed to me,”

said Sanjaya, “that Krishna is the Lord,

the blessed Vishnu, he who alone governs

time and death, he who turns the world.

Where there is law, where there is truth, there

Krishna is. He has taken human form,

with human attributes. But make no mistake,

his power is such that he could destroy the world—

reduce it to ash instantly.”

“How is it,”

asked Dhritarashtra, “that you recognize

the Lord, while I perceive only Krishna,

prince of Dvaraka?” Sanjaya answered,

“Though I am not highborn, simple devotion

and mastery of the senses have revealed

the Lord to me—Vishnu, the uncreated.”

“Duryodhana,” said Dhritarashtra, “hurry!

Go and seek the mercy of the Lord!”

“Nothing in earth or heaven would make me seek

the mercy of that crony of Arjuna.”

“You see?” said the king to Gandhari.

“Your son is a lost cause with his wicked soul,

his envy, his contempt for his elders.”

“You power-crazy fool!” said Gandhari,

“evil-minded wretch! What interminable

sorrow you inflict upon your parents.

You will remember your father’s words too late,

when Bhima crushes you.”

Vyasa turned

to Dhritarashtra, “Be guided by Sanjaya.

He can set you free from mortal danger

if you listen to him attentively.

People blunder through the wilderness

bewildered by their lusts. The wise know better.”

“Tell me, Sanjaya,” said Dhritarashtra,

“how may one reach the path to ultimate peace?”

“Steadfast mastery of all one’s senses

is the way to peace. Through relinquishment

of irritable longings and attachments

a person may come to know the blessed Lord.”

Dhritarashtra sighed. “Ah, how I envy

those who have eyes to see the divine being

in his wonderful, immortal form!”

After Sanjaya left, disconsolate,

knowing the Pandavas were in the right,

equally sure the king would support his son,

Yudhishthira sat underneath a tree

talking quietly to his cousin Krishna.

His brothers were there too, with Draupadi,

and Satyaki, Krishna’s close companion.

“This is a time when we truly need our friends,”

said Yudhishthira. “You heard Sanjaya;

he conveyed Dhritarashtra’s views exactly,

as an envoy should. There seems little hope

of any peaceful settlement. It pains me

that I’m unable to take care of Kunti.

Even with five villages . . . but it’s useless

to dwell on that. We are dealing with a man

who has lost all sense of what is right, blinded

by his own ungoverned greed and envy.

I know that dharma for a kshatriya

is to fight. That is our law. And yet

where does killing stop? Killers are themselves

killed in return. Thus a feud develops,

vendetta never ends. No one rests easy.

And does any man, even the worst,

deserve to die? Should we conduct ourselves

like dogs, wrangling over a piece of meat?

Heroism’s a malady; the heart

can never know serenity that way.

“And yet, we must act. We are kshatriyas.

We welcome neither war nor surrender—

even capitulation would bring no end

to hatred. Duryodhana will never rest

until he has removed us from the earth.

Krishna, wisest of friends, far-seeing one,

what do you think?”

“I think the time has come,”

said Krishna, “for me to be ambassador.

All the portents are pointing toward war.

I have no hope that I will change the mind

either of the king or of your cousin.

But everything that can be done must be done.

Tomorrow, I will go to Hastinapura.

I will not beg on your behalf—a kshatriya

should beg only for victory or death

on the battlefield. I remember hearing

how Duryodhana crowed in the gambling hall,

‘The Pandavas are well and truly broken,

they’ve nothing to call their own, even their names

will disappear in time, leaving no trace!’

Such a man deserves death, there’s no question.”

Bhima said, “Don’t threaten him with war.

Give him every chance, talk gently to him.

His nature is so violent, he’ll flare up

at the slightest hint of anger from our side,

and close the door on peace once and for all.”

Krishna laughed, “Can this be Bhima speaking?

All these long years, you have never ceased

to seethe in rage against the Kauravas.

How often have you conjured in your mind

acts of violence against Duryodhana?

Now it comes to it, are you gripped by panic?

What you’ve said is as unnatural to you

as human speech would be to a buffalo!

Have you become a eunuch? Has a torrent

become a docile brook?”

Bhima was hurt.

“Slayer of demons, you have misunderstood.

You know me, Krishna. Faced with the need to fight,

when have you ever seen me hesitate?

On the contrary, if heaven and earth

were to collide, I would prize them apart

with these strong arms. It is only compassion

that leads me to want peace, if possible.”

“I was teasing you,” said Krishna, smiling.

“I see you as much greater, a thousand times

greater, than you see yourself, Wolf-belly.

Your strength and courage are beyond question.

I assure you, I shall make every effort.

But human action, however well designed,

may be opposed by the gods. Conversely,

the gods’ intentions may be overridden

by the effort of a virtuous individual.

Therefore, we have to act. For even though

we may not succeed, or only partially,

we have to do our best, then accept calmly

whatever happens. That is true wisdom.”

Arjuna urged Krishna to do whatever

he thought helpful at Hastinapura,

knowing that both sides were dear to him—

but then to let the Pandava warriors

plunge into battle and do what they did best.

Sahadeva, thinking of Draupadi,

and of the way she had been violated,

wanted to fight at once. But Nakula

believed that Krishna, with his tact and skill,

might yet make the Kauravas see sense.

So the discussion swung this way and that.

Some were driven by revenge, while others

thought more strategically, with the sole aim

of recovering Yudhishthira’s kingdom.

There was no doubt what Draupadi was feeling.

Thinking that even Bhima was wavering,

she leapt to her feet, trembling with rage.

“All this talk is driving me mad with grief!

We know everything we need to know.

My five strong husbands, my enemy-burners,

and my brave sons, led by Abhimanyu,

can trounce the Kaurava. But if they hanker

pitifully after peace, then my father,

Drupada, will fight, old as he is,

and my brother, Dhrishtadyumna, will fight too!

I’ve waited years for this precious moment—

I want to see Duryodhana chewing dust.

I want Karna, that contemptuous man

who told me I should choose another husband,

to be dragged through the mud, a mangled corpse.

I want to see Duhshasana’s evil arms

torn from his trunk for what he did to me—

pulling me by this hair of mine, attempting

to strip me, reduce me to a naked slave.”

Draupadi gathered up her long black hair,

a shining cascade, clutched in both her fists.

“I conjured you in my heart then, Govinda,

and you helped me—help me again now!”

In her fury, Draupadi’s hot tears

showered like liquid fire over her breasts.

Krishna promised her that if his mission

proved as fruitless as he thought it would,

the Kauravas would be gobbled up by Death.

“How was the journey of the blessed lord,

and who did he meet along the way?”

asked Janamejaya. Vaishampayana

described in detail Krishna’s undertaking.

Next day, Krishna rose in the early morning.

It was the harvest season, and the fields

stood rich in crops, bathed in gentle sunlight.

After he had performed his morning rites,

he asked Daruka to prepare his chariot,

and to load onto it his well-made weapons—

his bow, discus, mace and javelins—

as well as hoisting his fine flag, adorned

with moons, and animals and lovely flowers,

and the divine standard of Garuda.

Daruka harnessed the four noble horses,

freshly washed and groomed, and well rested.

Then, heartened by prayers and fervent wishes,

Krishna started toward Hastinapura

along with Satyaki and other Vrishnis.

He took a thousand foot soldiers, servants,

and plentiful provisions for the journey.

On the way, he encountered Narada

and other seers, bound for the same city

intent on witnessing this crucial mission.

The Kauravas were afraid of Krishna.

Knowing he was coming, Dhritarashtra

had arranged elaborate hospitality.

Along the way, lavish rest pavilions

had been prepared. But he made his own camp.

Arriving in the city, he was received

with every show of pomp and ceremony.

The king urged many gifts upon him, offering

palatial accommodation. He declined,

preferring to be lodged with Vidura.

Vidura understood the king’s motives.

“You are hoping that, by your generous gifts,

you will estrange him from the Pandavas,”

he said to Dhritarashtra. “If your gesture

were sincere, you would be offering him

what he has come for—the settlement he seeks.

Yudhishthira has asked for five villages,

and you refuse to give him even those.”

Kunti was overjoyed to see Krishna,

to receive news of each son in turn,

and of Draupadi, whom she dearly loved;

yet sorrowful, to hear of their sufferings.

“My life has been a river of misfortune

ever since my father gave me away

—a little girl, playing with her ball—

to his cousin. A few short happy years,

and then Pandu took us to the forest.

There my sons were born, and I was content

for a brief time, watching them grow in strength.

But then he died, to cast us on the mercy

of this blind king—with all the misery

that’s happened since. I’ve always been a good aunt

to my nephews, but their wickedness

has made me hope and pray they’ll meet their end,

killed by my heroic sons. Only then

can we be reunited, and Draupadi—

abused as no woman ever should be,

no matter what her birth—will be avenged.”

Krishna told her the day was not far off

when she would be united with her loved ones.

Next, he went to see Duryodhana

in his large and ostentatious palace.

Surrounded by his friends, the Kaurava

pressed Krishna to eat with them. He refused.

“Why won’t you accept my hospitality,

offered in friendship?” asked Duryodhana.

“Food,” said Krishna, “is to be accepted

either from affection or from need.

I do not feel affection for you, neither

am I in need. Envoys do not accept

homage or hospitality until

their mission has succeeded. Only then

will I eat with you, son of Dhritarashtra.

He who hates the Pandavas hates me.

This food, offered with venom in your heart,

is therefore spoiled for me, inedible.

I prefer to take my meal with Vidura.”

That night, after dinner, when the servants

had retired to their beds, and the starry sky

was radiant overhead, Vidura said,

“It was useless for you to come, Krishna.

I fear for you in the assembly hall—

that the prince and his perverse supporters

will insult you. Duryodhana’s mind is stone,

nothing will move him. He has complete faith

in his advisers—he really does believe

Karna can kill the Pandavas by himself

just because he says so! He is befogged,

the poor fool. But don’t underestimate him.

He has gathered a formidable army;

it will not be easy for the Pandavas.”

“My friend, I know all this,” said Krishna gently,

“and I appreciate your concern for me.

But because the rewards of a peace treaty

would be so great, I have to strive for it.

If the Pandavas and the Kauravas

could live in harmony, it would be a blessing

for all of them, and I would avoid blame

if I could bring that state of affairs about.”