Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (87 page)

to the wise Gandhari and Dhritarashtra,

happiness with Pandu in the next world.

So you must let me go, Yudhishthira.”

The king was now ashamed, and stopped protesting.

He understood.

“Take care of Sahadeva,”

said Kunti. “He is the most attached to me.

Remember Karna; make generous gifts for him.

Take care of your brothers. And let your mind

always be steeped in righteous understanding.”

With those last words, Kunti turned away,

following Gandhari into the trees.

Dhritarashtra and his fellow elders

made their new home deep inside the forest

close beside the shining river Ganga,

where they quickly settled to a life

of abstinence, austerity and prayer

in the hermitage of the sage Shatayupa.

They were visited by many seers,

Narada and Vyasa among them.

Narada had just been visiting

the realm of Indra. There, he had seen Pandu,

who was always thinking of his brother,

and who would help him in the afterlife.

Kunti would join Pandu in Indra’s heaven.

Narada foretold that Dhritarashtra,

with his wife, would fly to Kubera’s realm,

after three more years of earthly life

burning away his sins through austerity.

Dhritarashtra rejoiced at this fine prospect

after a lifetime’s sorrow and wrong turns.

As time went on, there was much speculation,

a buzz of talk in street and marketplace.

How were the old people managing?

They must be finding life extremely hard.

Was Kunti pining for her family?

Might they perhaps return?

The Pandavas

were sorrowful. They found no consolation

in anything—not hunting, wine or women,

not even in the study of the Vedas.

This loss of the older generation

brought back to them the pain of other losses:

their kinsmen and their sons. Especially,

they thought of Karna, their lost, unknown brother,

of how they might have loved him. Only the sight

of young Parikshit, so like Abhimanyu

in skill and beauty, gave them any joy.

Night and day, they worried about Kunti

and the other elders, ill-equipped

for life far from the luxuries of court.

How would their emaciated mother

be able to find strength to serve Gandhari?

What were they eating? Were their lives in danger

from wild beasts?

At last, Sahadeva,

echoed by Draupadi, convinced the king

to organize a journey to the forest

to reassure themselves that all was well.

Members of the court and citizens

would be welcome to join the expedition.

At once their spirits rose. Yudhishthira

arranged that the party would leave the city

almost at once.

Arriving at the Ganga,

they knew they must be near their destination.

Dismounting, the brothers went ahead on foot

and soon came to the elders’ hermitage.

On the riverbank, they saw their mother

and others collecting water. Sahadeva

rushed to embrace Kunti, weeping profusely,

and she gathered her darling in her arms,

then cried aloud with happiness to see

her other sons and Draupadi.

What joy!

The king presented to the old, blind couple

the entire stream of visitors—kshatriyas,

brahmins, women, soldiers, citizens—

and everyone rejoiced. A large number

of holy hermits, who lived in the forest,

gathered to see the famous Pandavas

and their companions; Sanjaya pointed out

each one of them, naming their attributes.

“That one with the nose of an eagle,

with wide and eloquent eyes, with golden skin—

that is the king himself. The one whose tread

shakes the ground like a massive elephant,

whose skin is fair, whose arms and legs resemble

tree trunks, is Bhima, scourge of the Kauravas.

That is Arjuna, with the dark complexion

and curling hair—he is the great bowman,

courageous as a lion. He is unbeaten

and unbeatable. See, over there,

sitting beside their mother are the twins;

no men in all the world are more beautiful

nor more loving and sweet-natured. See

the way they look at Kunti. Over there

is Draupadi, the queen. Look—even now

she is the loveliest woman on this earth,

resembling a goddess, with her smooth skin

and shining eyes. All those other ladies

with their hair scraped back, dressed all in white,

are the widows of the hundred Kauravas.

Many of them lost their sons as well.”

And Sanjaya went on to itemize

every member of the royal household.

Thoroughly awestruck and well entertained,

the ascetics thanked him and took their leave.

“Where is Vidura?” asked Yudhishthira,

looking all around and not seeing him.

Dhritarashtra said, “My beloved brother

has gone further in extreme self-denial

than the rest of us. He eats only air

and no longer speaks.” Just then, Yudhishthira

caught a glimpse of Vidura in the distance

and pursued him, calling. He followed him

to a remote clearing deep in the forest

and found him standing, leaning against a tree.

He was almost unrecognizable—

filthy, skeletal, his mouth filled with stones,

his hair matted and dusty. Yudhishthira

paid him homage, and Vidura stared at him

with a luminous gaze. As he did so,

his life-breath left him and, with yogic power,

entered Yudhishthira. Each of these two men

was an aspect of the god of righteousness,

Dharma. Now they were one. Yudhishthira

felt himself increase in inner strength

and was aware of an expanded wisdom.

His mind turned to arranging the last rites

for his beloved uncle, whose lifeless body

still leaned against the tree. But then he heard

a voice from heaven say,
Do not cremate

the body of this man called Vidura.

Your body is in his. Do not grieve for him;

he has gone to the regions of the blessed.

Full of wonder, Yudhishthira went back

and told Dhritarashtra what had happened.

Dhritarashtra said, “It makes me happy

to have you all around me, those I love.

My strict penances and your presence here

have consoled me. I am confident

that I shall have blessings in the afterlife.

But my mind never ceases to be tortured

by memories of the many wrongful acts

my foolish and misguided son committed.

When I think of how many brave men

died because of him, and because I

indulged his wickedness, well, then I burn

and know no peace, either by night or day.”

“My husband speaks the truth,” said Gandhari,

“and we all suffer—all who are bereaved—

even though sixteen long years have passed

since those terrible events. The worst

is wondering what has happened to them now,

all our fallen sons, brothers, husbands.”

She turned to Vyasa, who was visiting.

“O rishi, you are capable of wonders.

If you could enable us to see them

as they are now, in the afterlife,

then I think we would find peace at last.”

Vyasa said, “It is with this in view

that I have come to see you. When night falls,

if you go down and stand beside the river

you will see them rising up like swimmers

from their far dwellings in the afterlife.

They all met death as true kshatriyas;

all of them fulfilled their destiny.

Each one of your kin contained a portion

of some god or demon. They were on earth

to accomplish a celestial purpose.”

Just as, in the aftermath of the war,

Vyasa had enabled wise Gandhari,

through the gift of divine sight, to see

all that took place on the battlefield,

so, now, he granted her and Dhritarashtra

the power of vision. As the daylight faded

and the sun dipped low behind the trees,

Vyasa conjured up a miracle.

This is what Gandhari saw, speaking

silently to herself as it occurred:

“The air is growing cooler. All of us

have come to stand beside the river Ganga

and we are waiting. Time drags. No one speaks.

Slowly, the forest birds are falling silent.

Our hearts are pounding—with dread? With excitement?

How will it be? Will we know what to say?

Soon, through Vyasa’s power, Dhritarashtra

will see the sons he has never seen before!

Will he know them? I believe he will.

“The light is fading. There is mist, floating

over the water. Silence. Vyasa stands

in the shallows, erect, his lips moving.

Now, a murmur from the river, becoming

an immense rushing, a roar. Oh wonderful!

The water is churning, heaving, and the warriors

I last saw on the field of Kurukshetra,

broken and torn apart, are rising up

from the depths of the Ganga in their thousands.

“Their lovely heads and bodies are unblemished,

whole again, as when their womenfolk

gave them a last embrace before the battle.

Their graceful robes are shimmering with color

and they are all wearing auspicious jewels—

they must be gifts, blessings from the gods.

“Oh, but this sight defies the power of language

to describe! The most splendid celebration

ever seen must have been dull, compared with this.

All the different celestial realms

have yielded up their dead inhabitants

for this one night, and bitter enemies

are embracing now—Drona with Drupada,

brave Abhimanyu with Jayadratha,

Ghatotkacha with Duhshasana . . .

“Friends parted by death embrace each other—

Karna and Duryodhana, Bhishma and Drona . . .

Dhritarashtra has copious tears of joy

flowing down his cheeks, and how I tremble

with gladness to see all my beloved sons

without their hideous wounds, their faces, too,

unmarked by their suffering.

“Vyasa said

destiny had decreed these savage losses.

It is as if fate was the puppet master,

and these brave men were galloped off to war

on invisible strings, their faces lit

by foolish happiness and warrior’s pride.

Now, fate is satisfied; the gods, whose wishes

are opaque to us, have had their way

and, by the grace of Vyasa’s yogic power,

have released our heroes. For this one night,

they can again be loving, open-hearted;

they are perfected, cleansed of the human stain