Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (83 page)

The time came for Krishna to depart,

to return to Dvaraka, his sea-girt city.

The Pandavas were sorrowful. Farewells

were said, the chariot loaded, and Krishna,

with Subhadra, and Satyaki, his kinsman,

set off. Once out of sight of Hastinapura,

Krishna told his charioteer, Daruka,

to urge the horses on, and the chariot,

charged with celestial power, flew like a comet.

On their way, traveling through the desert,

they came upon Uttanka, an ascetic

who knew Krishna of old. They spoke together.

Uttanka, a man of reclusive habits,

had not heard about the war. “Tell me,”

he said, “did you succeed in reconciling

the Kauravas and the Pandavas? I’m sure

you must have brought peace, powerful as you are.”

“I tried,” said Krishna, “but Duryodhana

refused to listen to advice—from me,

or from the elders. Now the Kauravas

are guests of Yama in the realm of death,

together with countless thousands of brave men.

Only the Pandavas remain. You know well,

there is no way of evading destiny.”

Uttanka’s eyes grew wide in shock and outrage.

“But you are Krishna! You could have prevented

such carnage, so much catastrophic waste.

Many of those heroes were dear to you

and yet you let it happen. I shall curse you!”

“Uttanka, in your life of discipline

you have acquired much spiritual merit.

I should hate to see that merit canceled

by an ill-judged curse—which, in any case,

would be ineffective.”

“Well,” said Uttanka,

“tell me more about your part in this.

Then I will decide whether to curse you.”

“Know me, then,” said Krishna, “as the source

of all that is, and of all that is not.

I am sacrificer and sacrifice.

I am the heart of every righteous act,

the hymn of praise, and also the object

of adoration. In all the three worlds

I am known as Vishnu, Brahma, Shiva.

I am the creator, the preserver

and the destroyer. In every age

I am the supporter of righteousness.

In every realm I take birth differently,

and I act in the manner of that realm.

Among gandharvas, I am a gandharva.

Among the Nagas, I take a Naga form.

Born now in the realm of humankind,

I take on fully human qualities.

In that form, I appealed to Duryodhana.

Finding him obdurate, I even revealed

my divine nature. But being sunk in sin,

he was not changed. War was the result.

Time overtook him.”

“Now I understand,”

said Uttanka, and he begged to witness

Krishna’s divine form, whereupon,

the curse forgotten, he bent and worshiped him

as the supreme Lord. Krishna gave him a boon:

wherever Uttanka was, needing water,

if he thought of Krishna, he would find it.

Uttanka wandered on into the desert.

Soon he became thirsty, and thought of Krishna.

A naked chandala appeared, caked with dirt

and followed by fierce dogs. A stream of urine

was flowing from his penis. “Drink,” he said,

“I can see you are thirsty.”

“I am indeed,”

said Uttanka, appalled, “but not that thirsty!”

and he sent the chandala on his way.

Presently, Krishna appeared before him.

“That was a test,” he said. “It was to see

if you could look beyond appearances.

You failed.” Uttanka was bitterly ashamed.

Krishna consoled him, “You shall still have your boon.

When you are thirsty think of me, and clouds

will instantly appear and drop sweet water.

Those rain clouds will be known as Uttanka clouds.”

And so they are, up to this very day.

In Hastinapura, there was an air of waiting.

Uttaraa was far gone in pregnancy

but still deeply grieving for Abhimanyu

and refusing food. “Please eat,” begged Kunti,

“or you will harm your baby.” Wise Vyasa

arrived to give reassurance: “This new child

will be a great hero and rule the earth.

It has been foretold. Meanwhile, O king,

you should turn your mind to preparations

for the horse sacrifice.”

Yudhishthira,

together with his brothers, started off

on the journey north to the Himalaya

in search of gold. They took along with them

substantial forces—soldiers, retainers, priests

and men possessing all the varied skills

needed to sustain their enterprise.

As the procession left, citizens gathered

to wish them well. With his white parasol

held over his head, the king was radiant.

After much traveling, the party reached

the lower mountain slopes. Vast dazzling peaks

soared above them. “This is the place,” said Vyasa.

Yudhishthira ordered that they should pitch camp,

and the party settled for the night, fasting.

Next morning, priests made offerings to Shiva—

flowers, meat and various kinds of grain—

and ghee was poured on the sacrificial fire.

Kubera, god of wealth, was also worshiped.

The ground was measured and marked out in squares

and the great excavation was begun.

After some time, glints of gold were seen.

Stashes of gold coins, vessels and objects

of various kinds, some small, some very large,

all gold, were brought out of the ground. Digging

took several weeks. Then the gold was hefted

into large panniers, and onto the backs

of thousands of pack animals. At last

the caravan lumbered off toward home,

traveling very slowly, so laden was it.

Krishna’s kinsfolk welcomed his return

with joy and celebration. As it happened,

a festival was in full swing, with flags

and floral garlands adorning every house,

and singing in the streets. Of course, his father

knew about the war, but not the details,

and Krishna told him—though selectively,

not wanting to break bad news all at once.

“Tell him!” cried Subhadra. “Tell our father

about Abhimanyu,” and she fell down

in a faint. The king, too, lost consciousness

when he heard of Abhimanyu’s death

but, recovering, wanted to know more,

longed to hear how his beloved grandson,

beautiful as Krishna, brave as Arjuna,

could have met his death. Krishna told him

how courageously Abhimanyu fought,

how sinfully he was surrounded. He spoke

of the grief of all the women, of how Uttaraa

was carrying his child. And the king,

summoning his strength, and comforted

by the certainty that Abhimanyu

had reached the highest heaven, set in train

elaborate funeral ceremonies.

Krishna performed shraddha rites, and made

rich gifts to the officiating brahmins.

The weeks passed pleasantly. But Krishna knew

that Uttaraa’s due time had nearly come.

Subhadra had already made the journey

back to Hastinapura, to be with her.

Krishna thought of the lethal
Brahma
weapon

and of Ashvatthaman’s curse. The whole future

of the Bharatas now rested on him.

After loving farewells to his parents,

he set out in his wonderfully made chariot

driven by Daruka, fast as the wind.

When Krishna arrived at Hastinapura

the Pandavas were still away from home

in the Himalaya. He found the women

tense with expectation; Uttaraa,

scarcely emerged from childhood herself,

was in labor. The whole city held its breath

and then the cry went up, “A boy! It’s a son!”

and there was cheering, drumming, serenade—

until the bulletin that quickly followed,

“The baby is born dead!” Catastrophe!

Every face was slippery with tears,

every house loud with lamentation,

knowing that the dynasty’s last hope

was now extinguished.

Through the palace halls,

through courtyards, corridors and colonnades

strode Krishna, his yellow silk robe streaming

behind him, his dark features purposeful.

At the entrance to the women’s quarters

Kunti met him. “Krishna! You must help us!

Fulfill your promise now. Don’t let my sons

die unmourned by heroes after them.”

She collapsed in grief, and so did Draupadi,

Subhadra and the other weeping women.

Krishna entered the room where Uttaraa lay.

Midwives and physicians were in attendance,

silent and helpless. The room was orderly

with rows of water pots, flowers and fragrant

burning wood. Uttaraa was prostrate,

convulsed with tears, crying, shrieking aloud

like a madwoman, with all the other women

weeping in sympathy. All her kin were dead;

now her lifeless baby was in her arms.

Then sitting up, trying to calm herself,

she rocked her infant son, and murmured softly,

the baby lying inert as a swaddled doll.

“O my dear one, just wake for a moment

to see the mother of your grandfather

plunged in sorrow. Pity us, my son.

But if you cannot live, go to your father,

tell him how my life is pointless now;

I should be dead myself!”

Krishna listened,

then he poured a few drops of fresh water

into his right hand, and touched with it

the infant’s lips, nostrils, both ears, both eyes,

drawing out the toxic
Brahma
weapon
.

“I have never spoken an untruth;

I have never turned away from battle;

I have never failed to support brahmins.

By the merit of those acts of mine,

may this child live.” Silence in the room.

Then, almost imperceptibly at first,