Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (8 page)

that Kunti gave Madri one use of the boon.

Madri fixed her mind upon the Ashvins,

beautiful twin deities who drive

away the darkness, heralding the dawn.

She gave birth to Nakula and Sahadeva,

twins who would be both beautiful and brave.

When Yudhishthira was born to Kunti

the joyful news soon reached Hastinapura.

Gandhari wept. She herself was pregnant—

had been pregnant for a year already—

but as the seasons came and went, she waited,

and waited. Nothing.

Some time before, Vyasa

had arrived at court exhausted, famished,

and Gandhari had welcomed and cared for him.

Vyasa had been moved by her compassion,

her piety, the fact that she had chosen

blindness, when she could have had the joy

of seeing the glorious created world.

He blessed her, saying, “You will be the mother

of a hundred strong, courageous sons.”

Did the wise and far-seeing Vyasa,

even as he granted her this boon,

know the sorrow that would come of it,

as though he had just cursed her, not wished her joy?

Perhaps. But with his insight he could see

all that had to happen, and how. And why.

He understood the business of the gods;

his task, to be their earthly emissary.

Now, Gandhari nursed her swollen belly

as the months dragged on. It was hard and lifeless.

Despairing, she decided she must act.

Grimacing with pain, to rid herself

of the intolerable load she carried

she struck her belly, pushed, strained, cried aloud

and gave birth to a monstrous mass of flesh,

like a dense and glistening clot of blood.

Horrified, she made to throw the thing

onto the fire, but found Vyasa standing

in the room. “Is this the hundred sons

you promised me?” she asked him bitterly.

“I never lie, not even as a joke,”

said Vyasa, “still less when I am serious.

Have a hundred jars filled up with ghee.

Now, sprinkle the flesh with water.” Instantly,

the hideous ball split into a hundred pieces—

embryos, the size of a finger joint—

and one extra. Vyasa took each one,

placed it in a jar, and left instructions

about the tending of the embryos,

and when the vessels should be broken open.

“I would have liked to have a daughter too,”

thought Gandhari. Vyasa read her mind.

Then he departed for the far Himalaya

to perform austerities and prayer.

More months of waiting. In the room of jars,

a dozen nurses tended the embryos

that slowly grew inside the glowing vessels.

One day, Gandhari woke to a loud commotion.

The first baby had been born from his jar

and was brought to her. Her hands encountered

a large, muscular infant, her first-born son.

But those who cared for him became uneasy.

They shuddered as the infant raised his voice,

dismal, ugly, like a braying ass.

This infant, who was born on the same day

as Kunti’s Bhima, was named Duryodhana.

Dhritarashtra summoned many brahmins

as well as Vidura and Bhishma. “I know

that Yudhishthira as the eldest prince

will inherit the kingdom. But will my son,

my Duryodhana, come after him?

Give me your best advice.” At that moment

a horrible cacophony was heard—

howling wolves, hyenas’ insane cackle,

harsh croaks as crows and other carrion-eaters

flapped overhead. The city streets swarmed

with creatures never seen before—familiars

of the strange royal brood born in darkness,

born to remain always invisible

to their blind father, their blindfolded mother.

Dhritarashtra heard the disturbing sounds,

and was apprehensive. Vidura

knew what the portents meant. “Oh, my brother,

this birth portends the ruin of your line.

Your first-born son is destined to destroy

all that we’ve held sacred through the ages.”

Dhritarashtra wept and wrung his hands.

“What can I do to guard against disaster?”

“Only something that you will not do—

kill him! Content yourself with ninety-nine.

Without this eldest, all your other sons

will be harmless, ordinary boys.

But this creature comes from an evil place

to spread pain and destruction everywhere.

Exterminate him so the rest may flourish.

Give him up for the sake of all of us.”

But Vidura was right. Though Dhritarashtra

did not doubt his brother spoke the truth,

he could not bring himself to kill the child,

his longed-for first-born, Duryodhana.

Over the next month, the other jars

yielded ninety-nine more infant boys

and one daughter, who was named Duhshala.

The hundred sturdy sons of Dhritarashtra

would come to be known as the Kauravas.

Meanwhile Gandhari, fulfilled at last,

caught up in the delight of motherhood,

did not hear the howling of the wolves,

nor the unearthly predatory birds,

nor the harsh grunting from her children’s throats.

She only heard the cries of human babies

demanding to be nourished.

At this time,

another son was born to Dhritarashtra

by a lowborn woman, sent to serve him

while Gandhari was indisposed. His name

was Yuyutsu, and he would become

a loyal friend to the five sons of Pandu.

In their forest home among the mountains

the Pandavas were happy—running free,

climbing, inventing games, learning the skills

a kshatriya boy should know, protected, cherished

by Pandu and their two devoted mothers.

But their father never saw them grow

to manhood. One spring day, when lovely blossom

and soft unfurling leaves infused his mind

with lustful vigor, Pandu was consumed

by love and passionate desire for Madri.

Despite her screams, her terrified reminders,

destiny deprived him of all sense;

he entered her, and died in the act of love.

Thus was the curse fulfilled.

Kunti bitterly

blamed Madri and, despite her protestations,

the weeping Madri felt responsible.

As the senior wife, Kunti proposed

to follow Pandu. But Madri held her back:

“Our beloved husband died because of me,

cheated of fulfillment, as was I.

I will follow him to Yama’s realm.

Kunti—be a mother to my children

as, I know, I could never be to yours.”

With that, she climbed onto the funeral pyre

and, covering Pandu’s body with her own,

abandoned herself willingly to the flames.

The last rites for Pandu were performed

by the seers among whom he had lived

and who were now entrusted with the care

of his wife and sons. They thought it right

to take the family to Hastinapura,

where Bhishma would look after them. For twelve nights,

wan with sorrow for their beloved father,

the boys slept on the ground outside the walls

while rituals to cleanse them of pollution

were performed. A lavish ceremony

was held for Pandu and, when all was ready,

the Pandavas processed into the city.

The grieving people gladly welcomed them.

Pandu’s sons were home where they belonged,

to take their place beside their hundred cousins!

But Vyasa spoke to Satyavati.

“With Pandu’s passing, the times of happiness

are over. There is trouble in the offing.

Earth herself is growing old and sick.

If you would avoid a painful sight—

the Bharata clan tearing itself apart—

you should leave now.”

Satyavati listened.

She sought out Ambika and Ambalika

and, together, the three aging women

entered the last phase of their earthly life.

After retreating to a forest ashram

they passed their days in great austerity,

before embarking on their final journey.

The Pandavas were awed by Hastinapura.

The main gateway, topped by massive towers,

was tall enough for elephants to enter.

Not far away stood impressive buildings

whose several stories housed the offices

of the foremost state officials, their gables

ornamented with imposing statues.

Just inside the gate, a tall stone column,

its capital ornately carved, proclaimed

the king’s authority, and the protection

that his rule extended to his people,

like a father’s strong, benevolent arm.

This was the noble City of the Elephant.

A broad, straight avenue, lined with the houses

of the wealthy, led from the entrance gate

to the high ramparts of the royal palace—

soaring, dwarfing even the grandest mansions

of the nobility. Here, the Pandavas,

successors to their father, were received

with every show of joy. They stared around

bewildered as bumpkins. Their mother, of course,

remembered elegance and luxury;

but to her five sons, the spaciousness

of this new life—soft beds, exquisite food

(eating was Bhima’s favorite occupation)

servants on every hand—was wonderful.

At first, the two families of cousins

played well together, being close in age,

keen on the same games and daring stunts.

But it is never long before young boys

try to outdo each other, prove who is best.

So it was with these. The Pandavas

excelled in every childish game and contest.

But Duryodhana was used to being

eldest, biggest, strongest, so was shocked,

when he challenged Bhima to a fight,

to find that he was so completely trounced

that he ached for days. Humiliation.

This was just the first of many reasons

that Duryodhana grew to hate Bhima.

Bhima, in fact, gained everyone’s affection

(except the Kauravas’) by his energy

and his engaging, frank enthusiasm.

His booming voice, his bouncing, boisterous step

and freely given smiles made all who saw him

smile in return.

But the Kauravas

saw him in another way entirely.

Bhima liked to tease and bully them,

holding them underwater in the river

when they were swimming, until they nearly drowned;

shaking trees they’d climbed, so that they tumbled

down like mangoes, bumping on the ground.

His behavior never sprang from malice

but, because no one had ever beaten him,

he had no idea how being picked on

with no chance of redress can wring the heart.

So he would innocently use his strength

to bait his cousins, and found fun in it.

Month by month, year by bitter year,

in Duryodhana, corrosive hatred

grew like a hidden reservoir of gall.

Most of all, he felt the Pandavas

stood between him and life’s advantages—

power, in particular. Yudhishthira

looked very likely, as the eldest prince,

to be the next king. Yet for all the time

that Pandu and his sons were in the forest

Dhritarashtra reigned, and Duryodhana

had thought he would, in time, be king himself.

He was prepared to fight if necessary,

when the time came, but he saw that Bhima

would bar his way: Bhima the undefeated,

Bhima, massive, stout as a mighty tree,

Bhima, brave as a fighting elephant,

Bhima, so devoted to his brothers,

Bhima . . . Bhima . . . with a passionate longing

he wanted Bhima dead. But how?
How?

At the court, Duryodhana had an ally,

Shakuni, Gandhari’s older brother.

His mild demeanor, soft voice, silky manner

concealed a mind quick as a serpent’s tongue

and as poisonous. To Duryodhana

this was a kindred soul; and while his parents

made light of his complaints against his cousin,

Shakuni listened, sympathized, caressed

his nephew’s seething head. And put in words

the thought the unhappy prince had never dared

voice to anyone: “Bhima must die.”

For Duryodhana, this was the moment

when idea, fantasy—to kill a kinsman,

kill him under the very roof they shared—

changed from mere dream to possibility.

Thought became language—that was the alchemy

that led in turn to deeds. And once such words

were spoken, fluent on his uncle’s lips,

next came strategy and, after that,

action.

Action, the tipping point, the turn

that, step by step, and inescapably,

set him on the road to Kurukshetra.

Duryodhana arranged a grand excursion.

All the Pandavas and Kauravas

set out on horseback, elephants or chariots

to a choice spot beside the river Ganga

where all kinds of delight had been devised—

games, music, swimming, wrestling matches

and, to top it all, a splendid feast

specially designed to gladden Bhima’s heart.

Duryodhana was all affability.

The Pandavas had never sought to quarrel

with their cousin; now it seemed that he

had put his animosity behind him.

He brought the finest dishes for his friend,

Bhima. He even fed him personally

and repeatedly filled his cousin’s wine cup.

Inside the spicy snacks and luscious sweetmeats

that Bhima loved, the Kaurava had smeared

a deadly poison, enough to kill a man

many times over, then more, to be quite sure.

Colossal Bhima seemed to manifest

no instant ill-effects. But in the evening,

as he was sleeping on the riverbank,

tired from the games, drugged with poisoned food,

Duryodhana approached him stealthily,

bound him with tough vines, and bundled him,

still sleeping like a corpse, into the Ganga

where he quickly vanished. Duryodhana,

exulting, slipped away to join the others.

Bhima sank, oblivious, down, down

toward the riverbed. But the Ganga

is a goddess—and, in a sense, was Bhima’s

great-grandmother. As he sank, nuzzled

by phosphorescent fishes, she stirred up

the deepest bed, where scarlet and green serpents

awoke, and dug their fangs into his limbs,

injecting him with oleaginous venom.

Mother Ganga knew what she was doing—

rather than killing Bhima, the snake juice,

an antidote to Duryodhana’s poison,

was bringing him to life with every sting.

He struck the river bottom, and fell through

into the watery kingdom of the Nagas,

waking to find himself sprawled at the feet

of Vasuki, the reigning Naga king,

erect and magnificently hooded.

The throne he sat on was a single emerald,

and two scaly, jeweled Naga queens

were twined around him.

“This is a welcome guest,”

he hissed—for he recognized that Bhima

was no ordinary youth, but the son

of Vayu, god of the winds and tempests.

“Young man, I know how you come to be here,”

and he described Duryodhana’s wicked act,

which he had witnessed. “We have an elixir,

which will make you even stronger than before.”

Bhima was given a soporific drink.

“Sleep deeply and sleep long,” said Vasuki,

“the longer you sleep, the stronger you will be.”

For eight days, Bhima slept, then he awoke

with a huge roar of delight, sensing his limbs

newly energized. Thanking Vasuki,

he left, and rose up through the riverbed,

up through the sunlit sparkling water, stepping

onto dry land—and home to Hastinapura.

All this time, his mother and his brothers

worried frantically. They looked for Bhima

everywhere. Duryodhana, his face

straining to look concerned, had joined the search—

but there had been no trace. Vidura

had warned Yudhishthira about his cousin’s

evil intentions, and he feared the worst.

Then Bhima walked through the door! What joy there was

among the Pandavas. What baffled rage

filled Duryodhana’s heart, though he pretended

to be as glad as anyone.

When Bhima

told his brothers what had happened to him

they were enraged. But wise Yudhishthira

warned them not to show it. While they lived

at Hastinapura, they had to maintain

a friendly manner, though they must keep watch

constantly. In this way, they succeeded

in blocking each attempt on Bhima’s life.

Year by year, as the princes grew,

Bhishma oversaw their education.

He himself would gather them together

and tell them stories of their ancestors,

and tales of the immortal gods. He taught them

how the world began, and how the ages

follow one from another in a cycle.

Learned brahmins taught them to know the Vedas;

they studied history, and the science

of statecraft and of how wealth is created.

But, as young kshatriyas, the princes

measured themselves by prowess in the arts

of warfare. At first, Kripa was their teacher,

a brahmin who, for years, had lived at court.

How did a brahmin come to be an expert

in weaponry? The story goes like this:

A worthy sage had a son called Sharadvat

who, as well as dutifully acquiring

Vedic learning, as a young brahmin should,

thought of little else but weaponry,

constantly practicing the arts of war.

In order to enhance his mastery,

he performed severe austerities—

to the point that the gods themselves were worried,

lest he outdo them in discipline and skill.

Indra, chief of the gods, devised a plan.

He sent an apsaras to tempt Sharadvat

to abandon his renunciant ways.