Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (7 page)

The pleasure-loving Vichitravirya

left the detailed conduct of the kingdom

to Bhishma, while he dallied with his wives.

He was proud of his elegant, handsome looks

and, with their shapely hips, their graceful bearing,

he felt his wives reflected well on him.

The seasons came and went; no heir was born.

After seven years, the king fell ill

with consumption and, despite the efforts

of the best doctors, he grew weak and sank,

like the setting sun, to the realm of darkness.

His sorrowing young widows were left childless.

This was catastrophe. With no one left

who could provide the next generation,

the thread of the Bharatas would be broken.

Satyavati took to her bed in grief.

Her two dear sons deceased. The lineage

in deep crisis. And she longed for grandsons.

Then she thought—in this extremity

perhaps Bhishma would set aside his vow.

Tactfully, she opened up the subject.

“Bhishma, you know what is right, you know

that the law provides for special measures

in times of distress, such as we have now.

Could you not, within the frame of dharma,

father children on my son’s young widows?

You owe it to your ancestors—otherwise

there will be no kin to offer food for them,

none to sustain them in the afterlife.”

“Mother,” said Bhishma, “it is impossible.

I understand your anguish, but my vow

is more important to me than life itself.

Sun may lose its brilliance, moon its luster,

rain may withhold its blessing from the earth,

fire may grow cold, and color colorless

before I will consent to break my word.”

Satyavati did not give up easily.

But however much she argued, pleaded,

wept, invoked the immortal gods, reasoned,

Bhishma was immovable as Mount Meru.

“Dharma for times of distress does not extend

to breaking solemn promises,” he said.

“My vow is everything. The words, once uttered,

can never be unsaid without dishonor.

This is my truth, and truth for me is greater

than all the possible rewards of earth

or heaven—even to save the Bharatas.

In the great sweep of time, everything passes.

All we can do is stay faithful to truth.

“But there is an alternative solution—

a brahmin can be asked to plow the fields

of Vichitravirya. That has been done before.

When almost every male kshatriya

had been slaughtered by Rama Jamadagnya,

brahmins lay with kshatriya women. In this way

the kshatriya population was restored.”

When Bhishma said this, Satyavati thought

of Vyasa. Shyly, she told Bhishma

the circumstances of Vyasa’s birth.

“I was mastered—completely overpowered

by the sage Parashara; I was frozen

with fear that he would curse me if I refused;

and his boons were a consideration.

I can summon Vyasa now, and ask him

to father children on the royal widows.”

Bhishma readily approved the plan.

Satyavati bent her mind on Vyasa

and he appeared. He was tall and gaunt

with rusty, matted hair, filthy, foul-smelling,

smeared with earth and ash: a fearful sight.

“I will do it,” he said, “but we must wait

for a year, during which the young queens

must observe a vow, to sanctify themselves.”

“No! No!” cried Satyavati, “we have no time!

A kingdom without a king cannot flourish;

it must be done at once.” “Then,” said Vyasa,

“their discipline must be to tolerate

my smell and unkempt looks without flinching.”

She prepared Ambika: “In the dead of night

your brother-in-law will come into your room.

Welcome him, so you can bear a son

to save the Bharatas.” At night, soft lamps

were placed around the room, and incense burners

wafted pleasant scents. Ambika thought

it would be Bhishma who would come to her.

Instead, she saw a dirty, bearded stranger

whose piercing eyes appeared to blaze at her.

The girl was so appalled and terrified

she kept her eyes closed tightly.

“My wise son,”

asked Satyavati, “will a prince be born?”

“He will,” replied Vyasa. “He will be

immensely strong, courageous, learned, wise;

he will be the father of a hundred sons,

but because his mother would not look at me

he will be blind.”

“Alas,” said Satyavati,

“a blind man cannot be an effective king.”

In due course, as Vyasa had predicted,

Dhritarashtra was born, completely blind.

Satyavati made the same arrangement

with Ambalika. But when Vyasa

stood beside her bed, the girl took fright,

her face drained of color. So it was

that her son was born unnaturally pale,

though well endowed in every other way.

He was named Pandu, “pale one.”

Satyavati

asked Vyasa to give Ambika

one more chance to bear a perfect son.

But, her courage failing her, Ambika

put a maidservant in her bed instead.

The girl welcomed Vyasa as a lover

and the seer greatly enjoyed his night with her.

“You will no longer be a servant,” he said,

“and your son will be the wisest man on earth.”

So Vidura was born, an incarnation

of Dharma, god of virtue, who had been cursed

to be born from a shudra womb. Vidura

would become known for loyalty and wisdom.

But because his mother was lowborn,

he would frequently be disregarded

within the household.

After this third birth

the seer vanished, for now no longer needed.

So it happened that the great Vyasa

secured the future of the lineage,

to general rejoicing in the kingdom.

Now came a joyful time. It was as if

the coming of the three Bharata princes

conferred a benediction on the land.

The kingdom prospered. Rains were plentiful,

swelling the Ganga, spilling generously

onto the lush green of the paddy fields.

Plump ears of barley, rice, fruits, vegetables

were piled high in the markets; livestock thrived

and granaries were full to overflowing.

People flourished: in countryside and city

calm contentment reigned. There was no crime.

Merchants and craftsmen plied their diverse trades

with honesty and skill. Throughout the land

shrines and sacred monuments were seen.

People were kind and generous to each other

and, under Bhishma’s wise and steady hand,

reverence for holy rites prevailed.

Bhishma was like a father to the princes.

He brought to court the best and wisest teachers

to ensure that the boys would be well trained

in Vedic lore, and all the skills and arts

essential to a royal kshatriya.

They learned to fight with every kind of weapon;

Pandu excelled with a bow, Dhritarashtra

at heroic feats of strength, while Vidura’s

knowledge of dharma was unparalleled.

Janamejaya said, “Now please tell me

what happened as those princes grew to manhood.”

Vaishampayana resumed his tale.

Owing to his blindness, Dhritarashtra

was thought unfit to rule without assistance.

Many of the functions of a king

were held by Bhishma, while the fearless Pandu

took on the protection of the realm.

His successful conquests swelled the coffers

of the treasury, and Hastinapura

teemed with travelers from many lands.

He shared his personal booty with his brothers

and decked their mothers with exquisite jewels.

Dhritarashtra, as the senior brother,

held splendid and elaborate sacrifices,

with fat remuneration for the priests.

With the lineage always in his mind,

Bhishma arranged a marriage for the blind prince

with Gandhari, daughter of King Subala.

On her wedding day, she took a cloth

and bound it around her eyes. This she wore

from that time onward, so she would not enjoy

superiority over her husband.

Bhishma thought hard about a match for Pandu.

Not only must his bride be virtuous,

but the marriage should be advantageous

politically, securing an alliance

with another powerful kingdom. He heard

that Kunti, a lovely Yadava princess,

as spirited as she was virtuous,

and Madri, daughter of the Madra king,

were of an age to marry. Pandu traveled

to Kunti’s svayamvara, and was chosen

by her, from many thousands of contenders.

Then Bhishma visited the Madra king

and, at great expense, obtained for Pandu

Madri, celebrated for her beauty.

Last, Bhishma found a bride for Vidura:

the illegitimate daughter of a king,

of mixed descent like him, with whom he found

great happiness, fathering many sons.

Perfect. But all was not quite as it seemed

for Kunti had a secret. She had buried it,

consigned it to a rarely visited

corner of memory and there, she hoped,

it would stay. But acts have consequences.

Karma, the eternal law, plays out

ineluctably, and Kunti’s secret

contained the seed of tragedy and grief.

When Pandu was not absent on campaigns

he often spent his time deep in the forest

on hunting expeditions, for the chase

was his great passion. One unlucky day,

he saw a deer in the act of mating

with a lovely doe. He aimed; he shot it.

The deer was actually an ascetic

who had assumed the likeness of a deer

because he had renounced all human contact.

With his failing breath, he shouted out,

“Even the vilest sinner would stop short

of doing what you have done! You are highborn

and come from a distinguished lineage

yet you have allowed yourself to act

brutally, out of greed!”

“You should not blame me,”

protested Pandu, “I am a kshatriya.

Killing is what we do, whether it be

enemies or animals. Besides,

any deer I kill are consecrated

as sacrifice to the gods.”

“I don’t blame you

for hunting,” said the sage, “but it was cruel

to kill an innocent in the act of love.

Because you had no knowledge of who I am

you escape the guilt of brahmin-murder

for which the punishment is terrible.

But you will share my fate—your life will end

when you give way to passionate desire

for a beloved woman.” Then he died.

Pandu was desolate—he must become

a celibate. Never to have children!

To live without the comfort of his wives!

The deer-ascetic had revealed to him

the errors of his pleasure-seeking life.

“Better renounce the world, shave my head,

wander the land homeless, without blessings,

without possessions, eating what I beg.

In that way I can expiate my guilt.”

Kunti and Madri cried, “We will come too!

What would our lives be worth apart from you

whom we love above all other beings?

We will go together to the wilderness.

Living simply, even this dreadful curse

will not prevent us finding joy together.”

Pandu at last agreed. He gave away

his royal robes and all his worldly wealth.

Putting on the roughest, simplest garments,

shouldering a few necessities,

passing through lines of weeping citizens

the three of them set out into the wild.

They traveled north. For many months they walked,

across bleak desert country, through the foothills

of the Himalaya, into the high mountains.

Through austerity and self-denial,

Pandu did penance for his previous life,

only refraining from the harshest pain

out of consideration for his wives.

Compassionate, unselfish, disciplined,

he won great merit, great respect. And yet—

he was still disturbed. “A man’s duty

is to beget sons for his ancestors.

Childless, I’m no better than a eunuch.

When I die, I will die forever;

there will be no one to remember me

and I shall never reach the heavenly realms.”

This thought came to distress him more and more.

His wives were desperate to ease his sorrow.

At last he said, “Consider—in ancient times,

there were no rules for who could mate with whom.

Long ago, during the golden age,

women were not confined to just one husband.

Even more recently, in times of crisis

rules have occasionally been set aside

to serve the greater good. Beloved Kunti,

you could conceive by a holy man.”

“Pandu! You violate me by such talk!

You are proposing to treat me like a whore,

with you as pimp. I am your wife, Pandu,

and that, to me, is sacred. I am devoted

only to you, beautiful husband. Never,

not even in my thoughts, shall I consider

any man but you.”

Pandu persisted:

“But reflect for a moment—I myself

am only on this earth through the good deed

of the sage Vyasa.” Kunti knew the facts

but, though she wanted to console her husband,

she was adamant. No other man

would ever lie with her.

Then, quietly,

she revealed to Pandu the following:

“When I was young, not much more than a child,

a brahmin taught me how to summon gods

to do my bidding. I shall say no more,

but now, if you agree, cherished husband,

I will call on a god to give us a son.”

“Lovely woman!” cried Pandu joyfully,

“summon Dharma, god of righteousness.”

Kunti did so and, through the power of yoga,

Dharma took human form to lie with her.

In due time, when she gave birth to a son,

a disembodied voice was heard to say,

He shall be called Yudhishthira; he will be

the Dharma King, defender of right action.

After a year, another son was born—

sturdy Bhima, child of the wind god, Vayu,

he who stirs up cyclones and tornados.

Bhima was built like a block of iron.

Once, he tumbled off his mother’s lap

when she was sitting on a mountain ledge.

Down he hurtled, spinning, plummeting

as Kunti screamed in horror. But the rocks

were shattered as his body hit the ground,

while he laughed in delight.

Pandu reflected:

“Success on earth rests on both fate and effort.

One cannot change the course of destiny

but heroic acts can achieve wonders;

I wish for a son whose deeds will be supreme.”

He thought of Indra, chieftain among gods,

he who hurls thunderbolts and lashing rain.

“I will obtain a powerful son from him.”

Pandu engaged in strict mortifications,

and Kunti, too, observed stringent vows

to honor Indra. Then she summoned him

and the god favored her with a child.

When Arjuna was born a voice was heard,

rumbling from the clouds:
This child will bring

joy to his mother. He will be a scourge

to countless enemies. Bull among men,

undefeated, he will save the Bharatas.

Then a joyous clamor was heard—the voices

of heavenly beings, singing in their delight

while gongs clanged, and flowers rained on the earth.

Madri longed to have sons of her own.

Too diffident herself, she asked Pandu

to speak to Kunti for her. So it was