Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (6 page)

how the ancient seer Krishna Dvaipayana,

known as Vyasa, master of cosmic knowledge,

composed this poem, the longest in the world,

a poem-compendium. It first took shape

silently, in his mind, a panorama

spreading out before him. He himself

was both author and actor in his story—

as we are in our own lives and, besides,

all is permitted to the storyteller.

Wise Vyasa had already arranged

the Vedas, but conceived this masterpiece

not just for the highborn, but for all.

Those of humble birth, laborers, women

should hear his poem and be enriched by it.

As he had spoken it to his disciples,

and as he heard it told by Vaishampayana

to a hushed gathering, he clearly saw

how it could enlighten all who heard it.

The poem was a map of the labyrinth,

the moral maze, that is our life on earth.

It told of choices and of mortal error,

of how even the saintly go astray

while, even in the worst, glimmers of gold

reveal themselves to a compassionate eye.

All should have access to the edifice

that was his narrative. But he realized

that for his poem to last for ages hence,

it must be written down.

Picture him

standing, bearded, rake thin, his eyes closed,

his head and body smeared with ash and ochre,

rags for covering, a visionary,

the entire epic cradled in his head.

He approached Brahma, lord of creation,

his inspiration all along, who happened

to be paying him a visit. Vyasa spoke:

“Lord, I have composed a mighty poem.

My work will open eyes dulled by ignorance

as the sun scatters darkness, as the moon’s

subtle beams illumine the lotus buds.

All the wisdom of the world is in it.

But who will write it down, so that people

in the far future may read and learn from it?”

Lord Brahma praised the seer. “You have done well.

Your poem will awaken all who hear it;

and it should be written. You have my blessing.”

Then he cast his mind over a number

of candidates, all worthy scribes, and said,

“Ask Ganesha, the elephant-headed god,

master of all things intellectual,

god of beginnings. He it is who guards

thresholds, the boundaries of time and space,

who removes obstacles. Yes, ask Ganesha.

He is best fitted for this gargantuan task.”

“I’ll do it,” said Ganesha, “but only if

you speak your poem at my writing speed.

I won’t put up with hesitations, false starts

and other tedious practices, too common

in those who dictate.”

“Agreed!” replied Vyasa,

“but you in turn must undertake to write

only those things you have fully understood.”

So, by inserting knotty passages,

the seer would win himself some thinking time.

Hardly pausing for breath, Vyasa spoke;

Ganesha wrote with equal energy.

When his pen failed, he broke off his tusk tip

and scribbled on, and on.

In this way

was written the story of a noble line

divided against itself.

Now, listen . . .

Long before the ill-fated Bharatas

fought the great war on the crack of ages;

years before that dreadful sacrifice

squandered the blood of warriors in their millions,

young and old, on the plain of Kurukshetra,

there lived the foundling daughter of a fisherman

(really the daughter of a royal seer)

whose name was Satyavati. It could be said

that the whole tragic tale began with her

and her ambitious foster father.

Each day

she rowed a boat across the Yamuna

ferrying travelers from bank to bank.

One morning, the great sage Parashara,

on a tour of sacred bathing places,

boarded her boat. As they glided gently,

her beautiful arms pulling easily,

bare feet braced against the sturdy timbers,

he desired her—though she smelled unpleasant

(not only did she live with fishermen

but she had been born from a fish’s belly).

Parashara made his intention known.

The girl was horrified, “O blessed one,

those rishis standing on the banks can see us!”

The sage summoned a mist to envelop them.

“But I am a virgin—how could I return

home to my father’s house if I lay with you?”

He reassured her: her virginity

would remain intact. “And furthermore,

lovely smiling girl, you may choose a boon.”

“I wish my body had a heavenly fragrance,”

replied Satyavati. And it was so.

That same day, she gave birth to a son

on an island in the river. Instantly,

he became a grown man, dedicated

to an ascetic life. Before departing,

he told his mother she could summon him

in time of need, merely by thinking of him:

“Remember me when things are to be done.”

This was the author of our epic poem,

Vyasa Dvaipayana, “the island-born.”

Hastinapura, on the river Ganga,

a well-ordered, large and prosperous city,

was the stronghold of the lineage

of Bharata. Its ruler at the time

was Shantanu, known for his hunting prowess.

One day, riding near the riverbank,

stalking buffalo and antelope,

he saw a woman. She was so beautiful

the king stood still, staring in amazement

at her flawless skin, her lovely face.

He did not know she was the river goddess,

Ganga, in human form. “Whoever you are,”

cried Shantanu, “female demon, goddess

or celestial nymph—consent to be my wife!”

Ganga had a vow to fulfill. The Vasus,

eight celestial beings who enjoyed

all the delights of heaven, had been cursed

to be born mortal. Distraught, they begged Ganga

to become human, so she could carry them

in her womb. “And who shall be your father?”

she asked. “It should be Shantanu,” they said,

“and once we are born, throw us in the river

to drown. In that way, we shall be released

from the hardships of a mortal life.”

Ganga had already marked out Shantanu

to be her husband. In a prior existence,

the two had known each other, although he

did not remember. “O Vasus,” she replied,

“I will do as you ask on this condition:

allow one son to live, so Shantanu

may have an heir.” “Agreed,” said the Vasus,

“but that son will have no son of his own.”

So, when Shantanu pressed her, Ganga said,

“I shall become your queen, Shantanu,

I shall love you dearly, cherish you,

do all I can to please you, but for your part,

you must never question what I do

or I shall leave you instantly.” The king

agreed.

They enjoyed happy years together,

and Ganga gave birth to seven healthy sons.

But one by one, she drowned them in the river,

and each time, Shantanu held his tongue.

Finally, with the eighth, he could not bear it.

“I long for my own son—how can you do this,

wicked, unnatural woman!” Ganga laughed.

“I am Ganga, goddess of the river.

Those boys were gods. I was obliged to drown them

as I had promised, to give them release

from human suffering. My task is done.

But you shall have your son. He will return

when he is grown—Ganga’s gift to you.

Now I must leave you.” And with that, she plunged

into the sparkling waters, and was gone.

Though grief-stricken, Shantanu ruled in peace

for many years, and his kingdom flourished.

One afternoon, wandering by the river,

he noticed that the water level had fallen,

and saw a handsome boy, shooting arrows

with such speed and skill they formed a dam

across the river. As the king stared, the boy

vanished. Then Ganga rose up from the water

leading the boy archer by the hand.

“This is your son,” she said. “He is well versed

in the Vedas, trained in the arts of war,

and understands dharma as profoundly

as the most learned sage. Now, take him home.”

For some time, Shantanu lived joyfully

with his son, who was all sons to him,

as dutiful as he was talented.

His name was Devavrata, “of god-like vows.”

The king often traveled far from home

on hunting expeditions. One spring day,

riding in the forest by the Yamuna,

he noticed an intoxicating fragrance.

Tracking it, he found a dark-eyed girl,

divinely beautiful, a fisher maiden.

“Tell me who you are—what shall I call you?”

“My name is Satyavati,” she replied.

The king, of course, knew nothing of her past;

to him, she was the answer to his longing

and, keen to marry her, he sought her father.

The wily fisherman was thrilled, but cautious.

“I know how these things work,” said the old man.

“You have a son. In the course of time,

he will ascend the throne, and my poor daughter

and her own children will be cast adrift,

cut off without one coin to call their own.

I see it coming! I’ll only consent

if you make her first-born son heir apparent.”

Shantanu was shocked. Out of the question

for him to disinherit Devavrata.

But back in Hastinapura, in his heart

he pined for Satyavati. Obsessively,

through every sleepless night, he thought of her,

until his cheeks grew thin, his eyes lackluster;

he was not himself. Devavrata

was concerned, and finally discovered

why his father was so melancholy.

“Father,” he told him, “here is the solution,

it’s an easy matter—I resign my place

as heir apparent. Satyavati’s son

shall be the next king. I will go and speak

to her father.”

But it was not easy.

Satyavati’s father, shrewd old fellow,

shook his head at Devavrata’s plan.

He had thought of yet another problem.

“Strong-armed one, it’s not that I don’t trust you.

I know that you would never break a promise,

but how do I know your sons will feel the same?

Suppose they don’t respect their father’s word?

I think there’s every chance that your own sons

will feel entitled to take precedence

over my daughter’s. I still withhold consent.”

“Then,” said Devavrata, “here and now,

in the name of all that I hold sacred,

in the name of my guru, of my mother,

and of dharma, I vow to live a life

of celibacy. I shall never marry.”

The old man shook with joy. Then Devavrata

helped the lovely girl into his chariot.

“Come, Mother, we shall go to your new home.”

They drove to Hastinapura, where Shantanu

embraced Satyavati as his queen.

From this time onward, Prince Devavrata

was known as Bhishma, meaning “awesome one.”

The people were dismayed to think that Bhishma,

whom they loved, would never be their ruler.

But the king was so grateful to his son

for the immense sacrifice he had made

he blessed him, saying, “My son, may your death

only come at the moment of your choosing.”

With no wife or children of his own,

no personal ambition to pursue,

Bhishma directed god-like energy

to widening the boundaries of the kingdom.

Tall and strong, a brilliant strategist,

he led forays into neighboring lands

and annexed substantial territories

to the spreading kingdom of the Bharatas.

Two sons were born to the royal couple,

Chitrangada and Vichitravirya,

and Bhishma cherished them like his own children.

On the death of Shantanu, Chitrangada

was consecrated king. He was a warrior

par excellence, and defeated every foe,

growing in confidence and self-regard

until he fought the chief of the gandharvas

and lost his life. Vichitravirya

was too young to handle affairs of state

and Bhishma acted for him, as his regent.

Bhishma grew concerned for the young king

to marry, to secure the royal line.

He came to hear that the king of Kashi

had three daughters, each one beautiful,

Amba, Ambika and Ambalika,

who were about to make their choice of husband.

Summoning his chariot and his weapons,

Bhishma set off at speed for Varanasi

where eligible kshatriyas had gathered

for the princesses’ joint svayamvara.

Striding into the forum, Bhishma spoke,

his voice like thunder. “There are several ways

by which a kshatriya may claim a bride.

But the one that commands greatest respect

is to bear her off by force. This, I shall do.

I stand here, ready to fight any man

who cares to challenge me!” And with that

he lifted all three girls into his chariot

and raised his sword, which glittered in the sun.

A cry of anger went up. All around,

suitors were casting off their courtly clothes,

struggling to strap on their armor, buckling

their jeweled scabbards, stringing their strong bows.

Then they jostled forward to attack.

Bhishma fought with every kind of weapon,

parrying sword thrusts, intercepting arrows,

showing such skill that even his opponents

cheered him. Last to admit defeat was Shalva.

“Stop, you lecher, stop!” he cried in rage.

These words infuriated Bhishma. Frowning,

he told his charioteer to charge at Shalva

and there followed a duel so dramatic

that everyone laid down their arms to watch.

Bhishma’s skill was much the greater; soon

Shalva’s charioteer was slumped and bleeding,

and his four horses dead between the shafts.

Bhishma spared Shalva’s life, and wheeled away,

pointing his horses toward Hastinapura.

Clattering into the courtyard of the palace,

Bhishma gave the beautiful princesses

to handsome Vichitavirya, as his brides.

The two younger princesses were delighted,

and he with them—their dark shining hair,

voluptuous breasts and buttocks, perfect skin.

But Amba had already made her choice;

she had been about to bestow her garland

on King Shalva. When she told Bhishma this,

formally, in the assembly hall,

he consulted with the brahmins present

and gave her leave to depart from the city

and go to Saubha, where Shalva had his court.

Later, you will hear the fatal consequence

of that decision, for Amba, and for Bhishma.