Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (67 page)

if I gave you my discus?’ He replied,

‘I was going to fight you with it—then

I would be the world’s greatest warrior.’

That’s how wrongheaded Ashvatthaman is!

He is very cruel, impulsive, angry—

and he has the
Brahmashiras
weapon.

Bhima must be protected.”

Immediately

Krishna leapt onto his chariot, yoked

to superb horses garlanded in gold.

Above him flew his celestial standard,

bright with gems, depicting the fierce eagle,

Garuda, enemy of snakes. Arjuna

and Yudhishthira sprang up beside him.

This swiftest of all chariots caught up

with Bhima, but failed to stop him charging

toward Ashvatthaman.

Drona’s son

had sought refuge in Vyasa’s hermitage.

The Pandava party tracked him down at last

sitting piously beside the Ganga

dressed from head to foot in brahmin’s garb,

surrounded by Vyasa and other seers.

Bhima roared, “Stand up and fight, you villain!”

and the ground shuddered as he advanced.

Ashvatthaman quickly called to mind

his dreadful weapon. He picked a blade of grass

and inspired it with the proper mantras.

“For the destruction of the Pandavas!”

he cried, and then the blade of grass became

a raging furnace.

“Arjuna,” urged Krishna,

“it is time to use that celestial weapon

given by Drona, to neutralize all weapons.”

Arjuna jumped down, lifted his bow,

and, speaking softly, wished well to Drona’s son

as well as to his brothers and himself.

With his mind on the welfare of all beings,

he prayed aloud: “May Ashvatthaman’s harm

be neutralized by this!” He loosed his weapon.

It seemed as though the entire universe

was consumed by flame; thunder roared

and meteors crashed to earth. The whole world trembled.

Then the great rishis Narada and Vyasa

spoke up angrily. “What kind of rashness

is this?” they exclaimed. “Bhishma and Drona,

who knew such weapons, never mobilized them

in battle, even when faced with their own death.”

Arjuna agreed to withdraw his weapon.

“But if I do, Ashvatthaman’s weapon

will destroy us and the three worlds. O rishis,

you must find some way to protect us all.”

To withdraw such a powerful weapon

was almost impossible. Only one

who had observed extreme austerity,

who had gone through the discipline and vows

of a devout ascetic, had the power.

Arjuna was such a man; he withdrew

his weapon. Ashvatthaman could not do it.

His weapon was directly dedicated

to the destruction of the Pandavas.

Vyasa reproved him, “Although Arjuna

could have used his weapon before this,

he has never done so, out of concern

for the innocent who would be harmed by it.

You must call your dreadful weapon back.

And give that jewel of yours to the Pandavas

that they may spare your weak, misguided life.”

“This jewel,” said Ashvatthaman, “is more precious

than all the combined wealth of the Bharatas.

He who wears it will never suffer fear.

Holy one, although I hate to lose it,

I will obey you. But I am powerless

to stop the
Brahmashiras
. All I can do

is to redirect it into the wombs

of the Pandava wives, killing their offspring

and making them barren.”

“Then you must do it,”

said Vyasa.

Krishna addressed Ashvatthaman.

“Once, a brahmin at Virata’s court

told Uttaraa, Abhimanyu’s widow,

that she would bear a son, called Parikshit,

a son to carry forward the Bharata line.”

“That will not happen,” shouted Ashvatthaman,

“however much you love the Pandavas!”

“I assure you, this will indeed come true,

despite your weapon. I shall see to it,”

said Krishna. “As for you, accursed wretch,

you will bear the fruit of your sinful acts.

Infamous as the murderer of children,

for three thousand years you will walk the world

a joyless outcast, afflicted by disease,

with no soul to talk to, passing your days

in gloomy forests and dreary desert tracts.

Parikshit, well schooled in the Vedas,

practicing pious vows, skilled with all weapons,

will rule in righteousness for sixty years.”

“Let it be so,” said Vyasa. “Ashvatthaman,

this is what comes of living out your life

as a kshatriya, despite your brahmin birth.”

Grim-faced, Ashvatthaman gave his jewel

to the Pandavas. Without a word, he turned

and slowly walked away among the trees

to begin his solitary banishment.

The Pandavas rode back to Draupadi

where she sat, fasting. Bhima said to her,

“This jewel is yours. The murderer of your sons

has been defeated. Grasp life again. Recall

kshatriya dharma. Think of those words of yours

when we were in the forest, how you said,

‘Since the king wants peace, I have no husband.’

You wanted war, you thirsted for revenge.

Now we have slaughtered every Kaurava.

I have drunk Duhshasana’s blood, avenging

that villain’s act in violating you.

We have exacted full dues from our foes.

We let Ashvatthaman keep his life,

out of respect for our teacher, his dead father,

and because he is a brahmin. But that life

will hardly be worth living.”

Draupadi said,

“I only wished for adequate revenge

for all our injuries; that we have obtained

in full measure—and at terrible cost.

Now, despite my grief, I shall cease my fast.

I wish well to the teacher, and his son.

Bind this gem on your head, Yudhishthira.”

The king did so, seeing it as a gift

from his dead teacher.

Later, he asked Krishna,

“How could our sons, mighty kshatriyas,

have been easily killed by Ashvatthaman

whose skills were much inferior to theirs?

And valiant Dhrishtadyumna? And Shikhandin?

How could that have happened?” Krishna explained

that Shiva had afforded his protection

to Ashvatthaman. “Those who died perished

through Shiva’s power; they were the great god’s share

of the sacrifice that was the bloody war

of Kurukshetra.” And he then described

Shiva’s contribution to creation.

Their talking went on far into the night.

“After all was lost,” said Janamejaya,

“what did Dhritarashtra do? And what

did wise Sanjaya say to the blind king?”

Vaishampayana said, “I will tell you . . .”

Having lost all who were dearest to him,

what could the father of a hundred sons

do now? What kind of life remained to him?

So rich in children only a month before,

his line secure, a treasury of sons

to keep his memory alive, he now

stood destitute, as though they had never lived.

He was reduced to a stupor of distress.

His blind eyes leaked and dripped like a cracked cistern;

his soft hands trembled uncontrollably.

Sanjaya was stern. “Why do you sit there

self-absorbed, weltering in misery?

Grief, feeding greedily on itself,

never brought any good. Do something useful—

see that all those fathers, husbands, sons,

all those kings and followers whose flesh,

thanks to you, now mixes with the mud,

at least receive the proper funeral rites.

Enough self-indulgence!”

“Unfeeling man,

you are too severe!” moaned Dhritarashtra.

“I’m like a husbandman who has long watched

his orchard grow, mature and bear ripe fruit,

who now has all his sturdy trees destroyed

by lightning and the howling desert wind.

Oh, I am like a blasted tree myself,

one that in its scanty sap preserves

a longing for the green that once played round it.

I shall be broken-hearted until death.

“And, in addition, I have lost my kingdom.

How can you expect me not to grieve?

I had the best advice—I took no notice.

Now I have paid. A curse on my bad judgment.

I must have done great wrong in previous births—

I don’t remember. I suppose it’s fate.

Was ever a man more unfortunate?”

Sanjaya was unmoved. “Never mind ‘previous’—

you’ve had enough shortcomings in this life

to explain your woe. When Duryodhana

swaggered about in his youthful pride

you offered him encouragement, not sense.

You failed to show him the path of principle.

Nothing but war would do for that foolish man.

Seduced by the splendor he had promised you,

you were greedy, too avid for gain.

Blind as you are, unfit for a warrior’s life,

perhaps the glamour of war excited you,

that glorious ideal. However it was,

you were too fond of Duryodhana

and loved to please him. You yearned for the kingdom

to belong to the Kauravas alone,

and you were blind to dharma. But now regret

is useless. Rather, seek for understanding.”

Vidura, too, exhorted Dhritarashtra

to put aside self-pity. “We all die.

Death seizes us, heroes and cowards both.

A man may fight, and live; or stay at home

and die anyway. Time cannot be cheated.

You should not mourn your sons who fell in battle.

They all died facing forward. Heaven receives them

even without rituals; they are fortunate.

Remember, once they did not exist for you;

now, again, they inhabit a different world.

Like clouds, your lives overlapped, then parted.

They did not belong to you, nor you to them.

There is nothing to lament. Listen:

“In our rebirths—hundreds of children,

mothers, fathers, brothers.

Which are ours? To whom do we belong?

The foolish allow grief and fear

to torture them dozens of times a day.

The wise do not.

A person in the grip of greed or pride

is happy to tell others how to live,

but does not want to learn himself.

Time treats everyone alike:

the lowest outcast, the greatest king.

No one can negotiate with time.

Nothing, and no one, lasts;

our lives are inscribed on a flowing stream.

The wise do not grieve over this.

Heartache does not leave

the man who dwells on it; it settles in

and makes itself at home.

Knowledge is for this:

to fight disease with medicine

and misery with wisdom.

We cannot escape the fruits of our deeds;

like burrs that we have brushed past thoughtlessly

they cling to us everywhere we go.”

Dhritarashtra sighed. “These words of yours

are no doubt full of wisdom. But please tell me,

how do the wise avoid being made unhappy

by what they cannot have, and by affliction?”

“By meditating on impermanence,”

said Vidura, “until awareness of it

is experienced with every breath,

not just with the head. Our bodies are houses

that fall apart in time, but the soul inside

is ageless and beautiful and, in time,

is born again. We act, we speak, we think,

we make our own misery and happiness

and come to heaven or hell as we deserve.”

Then Vidura told the blind king this story:

“
A
BRAHMIN CAUGHT
in an endless cycle of rebirth finds himself in a thick forest, full of terrifying animals and other creatures. He is lost, and runs here and there, searching for a way out, or at least some place of safety from the dangers that surround him at every turn. In the heart of the wood is a hidden well, overgrown with vines, and the brahmin falls head-first into it, and hangs there, upside down, struggling, unable to get free. A fierce elephant waits at the top of the well shaft, to attack him in case he does happen to escape. Black and white rats gnaw busily at the roots of the vines.

“A bees’ nest on an overhanging branch is letting fall a continuous stream of honey. Surrounded by dangers of every kind, he nevertheless avidly sucks at the honey—he can’t get enough of it. In this way, pleasure distracts him, even though the rats will eventually gnaw through the roots of the vine, and he will fall to his death.”

“Ah! the poor man!” exclaimed Dhritarashtra,

“I’d like to rescue him.”

“It’s just a story,”

explained Vidura, “an allegory.

We get caught up in pleasures and desires,

and we ignore the rats of time, working

for our destruction. The wise, who understand

the wheel of death and rebirth, cut the ties

that bind them to the wheel.

“Think of it this way:

The body of a person is a chariot,

the mind the charioteer, and the senses

are the horses. The unskillful mind

lets the horses career round in circles,

plunging after this or that attraction

in the cycle of rebirth. When the senses

are schooled in renunciation of desire,

the person is undistracted, free from fear

of death. That way salvation lies.”

Alas,

such lessons are not easy to absorb.

Dhritarashtra was seized anew with pangs

of longing for his sons, and fell, fainting.

When he revived, he became agitated;

he cursed this human life, and was resolved

on suicide. Vyasa came to him—

that seer with access to the world of gods

as well as that of men—and pacified him.

“Listen to me. Once when I visited

the realm of Indra, I found the gods and seers,

headed by Narada, talking together.

Earth had come to them with a request

to rid her of her burden—too many people

had swelled her population, bad kshatriyas

had overrun the world, and she was suffering.

Vishnu, greatest of beings, smiled and told her

Duryodhana would resolve her problem.

Because of him, a great war would take place

at Kurukshetra, and kshatriyas by the million

would be killed. This I heard with my own ears.

“Dhritarashtra, try to accept this:

your son was an embodiment of Kali,

discord incarnate, born to bring destruction.

He was willful, angry, unforgiving.

His brothers copied him. His friends and allies

played their part in the celestial plan.

You should not weep for them; they were at fault.

They died because of their own wickedness.

These events were ordained by the gods

and could not have been otherwise. Knowing this,

might you come to find your life worth living?

And might you find it possible to feel

some love for the Pandavas? My son,

try to move beyond this searing pain:

quash your sorrow each time it arises.”

“I have been struggling in a net of anguish,”

said Dhritarashtra. “My mind was not my own.

But, having heard your story, I will live,

I will try not to drown in misery.”

After this, Vyasa disappeared.

Later, Dhritarashtra stirred himself.

He ordered chariots, and asked Vidura

to assemble all the women of the court,

Gandhari and Kunti first among them.

They would travel to the battlefield.

Sunk in despair, but glad to be occupied,

Gandhari and all the royal women

joined the king and, hollow-eyed and drawn,

rode out of the city. They were watched

by all Hastinapura, all bereaved.

It seemed that every house contained a widow,

a sister or a weeping mother; women

whose normal lives were lived in strict seclusion

ran into the streets with hair unbound,

dressed in simple shifts, screaming, wailing,

as if all sense of modesty was lost.

Artisans, merchants and laborers

streamed from the city behind the royal party.

Yudhishthira, too, went to Kurukshetra,

taking Draupadi and the other women.

Each woman on that field, of either side,