Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (69 page)

Now you see the tragic consequence.”

Dhritarashtra asked Yudhishthira

for the facts—how big were the armies

and how many were killed? Yudhishthira

gave numbers more vast than the mind could hold.

“And what has become of them, Yudhishthira—

you who know everything?”

“The afterlife

is proportioned to the way a man has lived

and how he died—how courageously.

The highest realms welcome those who fight

like true kshatriyas, who stubbornly

battle on even when they are wounded,

when they have lost their chariot, when lesser men

have fled the field. They go to the seat of Indra.

Lower realms receive cautious warriors,

those who fight with qualified commitment.

Those who desert meet suffering after death.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Dhritarashtra.

“I sat at the feet of many holy men

when we were in exile in the forest.

There I practiced the yoga of knowledge,

and I made extended pilgrimages

to sacred sites and holy bathing places.”

Dhritarashtra urged Yudhishthira

to arrange that rituals for the dead

be performed, especially for those who lay

neglected on the field, with no relations

to mourn their passing—those whose loving kin

perhaps had heard no news, and were still praying

for their menfolk’s safe return.

Yudhishthira

ordered retainers and priests to see to it.

They summoned sandalwood and precious aloe,

sesame oil, ghee and fragrant herbs.

Warriors’ bodies were heaped up by the thousands.

High piles were made of the smashed chariots

and other wood, corpses wrapped in cloth

and burned with all appropriate ritual,

the fires fed with ghee and perfumed oil.

Then all went in procession to the river.

The Bharatas gathered at the water’s edge,

the serene Ganga, fringed with lovely trees.

The mourning women shed their ornaments

and, entering the water, poured libations.

Suddenly, Kunti, weeping, speaking quietly,

said to her sons, “You should take special care

that you perform the proper rites for Karna.”

Yudhishthira was surprised. “That hero Karna,”

said Kunti, “whom you thought the son of Radha,

whom you despised as a driver’s son—that man

who was unrivaled in integrity—

pour libations for him. He was your brother.”

Yudhishthira stared at her, uncomprehending.

“I bore him by the sun god, Surya,

secretly, when I was very young,

too young to understand what was happening.

I was beside myself with fear and shame.

Secretly, I stowed him in a casket,

carried him to the river—and gave him up,

watched my son float away.”

Yudhishthira’s

heart pounded; he shook, his face turned dark.

“Mother! How can this be? All these years!

How—oh,
how
can you have hidden from us

that Karna was our brother? That towering hero,

so brave, so skillful it took Arjuna—

and then only with Krishna’s help—to kill him!

If Karna had been our acknowledged brother,

surely the war never would have happened.

This news is like a death to me, far worse,

even, than the loss of all our sons!”

Yudhishthira then sent for Karna’s wives

and joined them in performing funeral rites

with Vedic hymns and solemn incantations,

relinquishing to sacred mother Ganga

the hero he had never known as brother.

As the tranquil water flowed around him,

Yudhishthira stood silent and alone.

Then, his mind boiling in confusion,

he stepped out of the river onto the bank.

After the funerary rites; when silence

had fallen on the plain of Kurukshetra,

the Pandavas remained outside the city

of Hastinapura, dwelling by the river

for a month, to purify themselves

from the pollution brought about by death.

Learned brahmins gathered, to provide

help and consolation; foremost of them

were Vyasa and Narada.

Yudhishthira

was sunk in deepest sorrow. Narada said,

“Son of Pandu, why are you not rejoicing?

You have won the earth by force of arms

and won it righteously. Surely, now

you can put grief behind you, and be glad.”

“I have, indeed, conquered the whole earth,”

said Yudhishthira, “through the strength of Krishna

and Arjuna. But since I have destroyed

so many of my kin, and other warriors

from far and wide; since I have caused the death

of Abhimanyu and Draupadi’s five sons,

this victory tastes as bitter as defeat.

It is because I coveted the kingdom

that Subhadra’s tears flow constantly.

And how can Draupadi ever cease grieving?

“But most of all, Narada, I am bowed down

with sorrow over Karna. He had no equal.

I think of him constantly, how generous,

how tall and straight he was, his golden color,

the way he swayed like a lion as he walked.

Honest, learned, firm in his resolve,

skilled in all weaponry, wonderfully brave—

no greater soul has ever walked the earth.

Yet Kunti waited until he was dead

to tell us that he was her son, our brother!

He knew it. Kunti went to him, and begged him

to alter his allegiance and fight with us.

But he was loyal to Duryodhana,

and he did not want it said he was afraid

of fighting Arjuna, his arch-enemy.

“‘After the war,’ he told her, ‘when I have fought

Arjuna, when I have taken his life,

then I will make peace with the Pandavas.’

He promised her that, even if confronted,

he would not kill her other sons. That hero

kept his promise, as he always did.

“I remember—at the fateful dice game,

when Dhritarashtra’s sons were taunting us,

I happened to glance at Karna’s feet, and saw

they were like Kunti’s! It struck me very much

but I could never explain it to myself.

I can’t forget that I have caused his death.

I burn with regret that we were never friends.

Together, brothers reconciled, united,

the Pandavas could have fought the very gods!

Why was Karna so unfortunate?”

Narada told Yudhishthira the story

of Karna’s birth and thorny path through life.

Then Kunti spoke coaxingly to her son.

“You should not grieve for him, Yudhishthira.

Grief is not wisdom, and Karna has surely gone

to Indra’s heaven. I tried to persuade him

to reveal to you that you were brothers.

So did the sun, his father. But he was set

on his chosen course. I could not prevail.”

Yudhishthira flared up in rage. “If only

you had not kept that secret to yourself

for all these years. Ah! I curse all women—

may they be unable to keep secrets!

“If only we had given up ambition—

lived, say, on charity in Dvaraka—

we never would have done this dreadful harm.

Ambition, an abiding sense of grievance

and greed for power brought us to this point.

Much better are self-control, sincerity

and harmlessness, the traits of forest dwellers.

Now, our kinsmen and our friends are dead.

I know Duryodhana always hated us;

he wronged us many times; we responded.

We were like dogs fighting for a bone

and both dogs died. For neither of us has won.

Millions of men, too young to have enjoyed

the pleasures of the world, now never will,

because of us.

“But evil can be annulled

by the merit flowing from renunciation.

I am going to give up the kingdom,

take my leave of you, and live in the forest

without possessions. Then I shall be free.

Arjuna, you must rule instead of me.

The kingdom is yours; I wish you joy of it.”

Arjuna was furious. “What nonsense!

What feeble self-indulgence! Having won

the kingdom through enormous sacrifice,

do you think you can just walk away?

Someone who lives on handouts ought to be

really poor, not playing at what he’s not.

Poverty degrades a man. Wealth is the key

to respect for men like us. One without wealth

cannot follow kshatriya dharma, cannot

pay for the proper sacrificial rites.

The seers will tell you—even the gods themselves

achieved their power through force. And force brings wealth.

You should perform the horse sacrifice

for which you will need wealth—that is the way

to make atonement after a great war.”

“No!” said Yudhishthira, “listen to me.

The road one treads alone is a peaceful road.

I shall live in the woods with the animals,

eating roots and berries, wearing rags,

my hair piled on my head. Enduring heat

and cold, harming no one, meditating

on the Vedas, I shall live alone.

“Or perhaps I shall smear myself with ashes

and wander from place to place, living on alms,

taking what comes, good and bad alike,

with equanimity. I shall have no wishes,

no possessiveness. I shall neither

want to live nor want to die; pleasure

and pain will be the same to me. Free

from attachment, free also from aversion,

I shall drift like the wind about the world

until the dissolution of this body.”

“King,” said Bhima, “your judgment has been addled

by all that learning, parroting the Vedas

mindlessly, by rote. What was the point

of crushing the Kauravas if you were set

on a life of idleness, turning your back

on duty? ‘Harmlessness’! ‘Non-attachment’!

If we had known your mind was heading that way

we could have caved in to Duryodhana

and lived a quiet life. But we went to war

because it was right to regain our kingdom.

“What you are proposing is as if

a hungry man refuses food, or as if

a virile man obtains a gorgeous woman

and turns her away. We obey you, brother,

because you’re the eldest; but if the eldest

happens to be a eunuch, then we become

eunuchs too, objects of ridicule.

You maintain that you understand the Vedas

but you have picked up false interpretations

from witless renouncers.”

Arjuna broke in.

“On my travels, I was told a story

about this very point:

“
A
GROUP OF BRAHMINS
, hardly out of school, resolved on a life of renunciation and, abandoning all family responsibilities, took to the forest to lead an ascetic life, living on scraps. Indra saw them and, taking the form of a golden bird, flew down to talk to them.

“‘Those who eat scraps,’ he said, ‘do something that is very hard for humans. Their life is truly praiseworthy.’

“‘That’s us!’ said the brahmins, pleased with themselves. ‘We are following the highest path.’

“‘No, not you, you dust-smeared idiots. Real scrap-eaters are not like you at all.’

“‘Oh,’ said the brahmins, crestfallen. ‘Teach us what is good.’

“‘Good for brahmins is not good for all,’ said the bird. ‘And what is good for one stage in life is not good for every stage. Taking to the forest is the path for those whose social duties have been accomplished. The world depends on ritual action to maintain order. The householder is the true scrap-eater—he who eats what is left only after he has done his duty by his family, guests, the gods and his ancestors, adhering to the proper observances. His is the really difficult path.’

“Understanding now, the young brahmins returned to their families, and followed the dharma appropriate to their station.”

Nakula, who rarely spoke, spoke now,

blushing a little. “Brother, the priests tell us

that the path of ritual action is the highest.

For kshatriyas, and specially for a king,

that type of renunciation is the best

which gives generously, dispensing riches,

lawfully acquired, to the deserving.

The kind of renunciation you propose

involves unbalanced human attributes—

an inappropriate want of energy.

Merit is the fruit of righteous action,

not the result of chasing after it.

Having fought this grievous war, and won,

you should use your victory to good effect,

not run away from responsibility.

Seeking your own spiritual advancement

is not renunciation, but selfishness.

Use your wealth to pay for sacrifices—

that is the virtuous way. Renunciation

is a state of mind, not a facile gesture.

To live in the world, accepting its fruits

without attachment—that is renunciation;

not giving up and heading for the woods.”

Sahadeva said, “Nakula is right.

True renunciation is not a greedy

craving for perfection of the spirit,

however strictly one may mortify

the flesh, and give up ordinary comfort.

You could renounce all wealth and seat yourself

beneath a tree with nothing but a loincloth,

but if you think ‘This is my tree,’ well, then

your detachment would be lost. Oh, brother,

forgive me if I’m speaking foolishly.

I only say these things out of love for you.”

Yudhishthira was silent. Draupadi spoke.

Sometimes in the past she had addressed him

harshly, and was inclined to be disdainful,

deeply conversant with dharma as she was.

Now she spoke in sorrow. “Yudhishthira,

your brothers are crying in the wilderness

for all you care. They have suffered badly;

you could make them happy. Don’t you remember

what you said when we were in the forest

undergoing every deprivation:

‘After we have conquered our enemies

we shall enjoy the earth, offer sacrifices

and give abundantly to brahmins’—your words!

How can you disappoint your brothers now,

when they have risked their precious lives for you?

A eunuch gains no riches. A eunuch

does not wield the rod of punishment.

A kingdom whose king shrinks from exercising

due authority can never prosper.

Harmlessness, study, asceticism—all these

are a brahmin’s business, not a king’s.

A king’s duty is to protect the pious,

punish the wicked, and stand firm in war.

A king knows both fear and fearlessness,

anger and patience; he knows when to give

and when to take. You did not win this war

through holy learning, nor through moderation,

certainly not through cowardice. You won it

through prowess and bravery, against a force

stronger than yours in numbers. And you crushed them!

The whole world honors you—yet you’re not happy.

Don’t snatch defeat from the jaws of victory!

“Kunti told me, when you married me,

‘Yudhishthira will bring you great happiness.’

She was wrong—your mind is out of joint,

and when the eldest in a group is mad

the rest follow. If your brothers had their wits

they would clap you in shackles, and rule the earth!

A man who behaves like you needs medicine—

ointments, inhalations, poultices,

whatever it takes! Oh, Yudhishthira,

even though I have lost my precious children—

after our sufferings, I want to live!”

She sat down, and Arjuna spoke again.

He spoke about the role of punishment,

how without it, or the threat of it,

no one would behave as the law requires,

horses and dogs would be ungovernable,

children would boldly disobey their parents,

people would grab each other’s property—

the world would be a terrifying place.

“Someone has to wield the rod of punishment;

that person is the king, Yudhishthira.”

Bhima was getting more and more impatient.

“Yudhishthira—we try to understand you

but you’re a mystery. How can a king

who has studied all the learned treatises

be as confused as any ignoramus?

Listen to me now—I have an argument

to convince you that you must be king.

If it is your nature to hark back

constantly to what is past, consider

the time when we were nearly burned to death,

the time when Draupadi was roughly treated,

the years when we were homeless refugees—

so many other times when we have suffered.

That should remind you why we fought the war

and make you see why we should enjoy the kingdom

and you should rule it. Now that the war is won

you need to turn to the battle for your mind.”

Yudhishthira reflected. When he spoke

it was as if he were wrestling with himself:

“You desire the kingdom

because you’re in the grip of evil passions—

greed, agitation, pride, a lust for power.

Desire feeds on itself, insatiable,

so conquer desire.

“Conquer desire

by enjoying the earth that you have won;

that is the highest good.

“The highest good

comes only after death, in the afterlife.

That is not reached through riches.

“The kingdom’s harmony, its peace and wealth