Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (88 page)

of hatred.

“Now they are turning to us, our men,

and we, the living, take them in our arms

and sink in their embrace. All these widows,

whose shrieks I last heard on the battlefield,

are screaming now with joy and recognition

and something more. The Pandavas, with Kunti,

meet Karna and are reconciled with him

in perfect understanding. And now they rush

to embrace their beloved Abhimanyu,

and Uttaraa, too, is blissfully united

with the husband whose son now looks like him.

Dhritarashtra clasps Duryodhana,

as I do, and we have all passed beyond

any need for words . . .”

Dawn began to turn the treetops red.

At a gesture from Vyasa, the warriors

began to plunge into the rippling Ganga

and were gone, back to their heavenly homes.

Vyasa spoke. “Any widow who wishes

to join her husband in the afterlife

should quickly plunge into the holy Ganga.”

So many women, released from their bodies,

regained the companionship of marriage

in celestial worlds.

Vyasa promised

that any person, at whatever time

and in whatever place, who heard the story

of how the dead were brought back to this world

to bring joy to the living, would be changed,

consoled by it. And you have heard it now.

Having seen his sons for the first time,

and the last, Dhritarashtra shed his grief

and returned, content, to his retreat.

“My son,” he said to King Yudhishthira,

“the time has come for you to leave this place.

Through your visit, and through the miracle

summoned by Vyasa, I have achieved

perfect equanimity. I must resume

my penances without any distraction.

And the kingdom needs you.” Sahadeva

longed to stay with Kunti, sharing her life

of self-denial. “No, you must leave, my son,”

she said. “Seeing you daily, my affection

would undermine my vow of non-attachment.”

So Yudhishthira and his family,

knowing that this parting would be final,

sadly took their leave, and made their way

back to the City of the Elephant.

Two years later, Narada visited.

Eagerly, Yudhishthira asked for news

of the elders. “After you saw them last,”

said Narada, “the revered Dhritarashtra,

with his companions, moved his sacred fire

deeper into the forest. There he practiced

more severe austerities than ever,

holding only pebbles in his mouth,

not speaking, and wandering randomly

through the woods. Gandhari and Kunti

starved themselves too, and drank very little.

“One day, a forest fire sprang up, creeping

closer and closer to where the elders sat.

Sanjaya urged his master to escape,

since this fire had not been sanctified,

but Dhritarashtra refused, confident

in the power of his penances—and indeed,

he was too weak to run from the hungry fire.

Sanjaya escaped, and has made his way

to the high Himalaya. But your uncle,

Gandhari and your mother were burnt to death.

You should not grieve for them—it was their will

that they should die like this.”

The Pandavas

were heartbroken, and felt like dying themselves.

“How could the god of fire be so ungrateful,”

cried Yudhishthira, “after Arjuna

went to his aid all those years ago

in the Khandava Forest! Had he forgotten?”

“In fact,” said the seer, “this was no ordinary

inferno. The conflagration had been sparked

by the elders’ own sacrificial fire,

left carelessly unguarded by assistants—

so they died in a sacred fire, after all.”

Gradually, the wisdom of Narada

calmed the brothers’ horror and desolation.

Every apt ceremony was performed

and they spent a month living simply

outside the city walls, undergoing

purification. Then the Pandavas

re-entered Hastinapura and, grieving still,

resumed the heavy burden of government.

Thirty-six years after Yudhishthira

had come into his kingdom, strange portents

began to trouble him. His reign had been

largely without incident, prosperous

and peaceful. But now he felt uneasy.

Strong winds howled through the streets, scattering stones.

The great rivers flowed backwards to their source.

The sun and moon were cloaked in angry colors,

partly obscured by fog and framed in black.

Then came dreadful news: Krishna’s people,

the Vrishnis, had been violently destroyed,

killed by an iron bolt, through a curse inflicted

by outraged brahmins. It seemed that only Krishna

and his brother, Balarama, had escaped.

The Pandavas cried out in bleakest grief.

Janamejaya asked Vaishampayana,

“How could all those warriors have been killed,

slaughtered in front of Krishna’s very eyes?

I want you to explain to me in detail.”

Vaishampayana did as he was asked.

One day some Vrishnis tried to play a trick

on a distinguished group of brahmin sages,

including Narada, who were visiting.

They dressed Krishna’s son, Samba, as a woman

and called out to the sages, “Hey, rishis,

this is the wife of Babhru. As you can see,

this lady is expecting—can you tell her

if her offspring will be male or female?

She really wants a son.” The holy brahmins

were not deceived, and they took great offense.

“Wicked and cruel louts, drunk with pride!

This son of Krishna’s will certainly give birth,

but to an iron club, which will bring destruction

and death to the entire race of Vrishnis.”

The sages traveled on to visit Krishna

and told him what had happened, and of their curse

on his crass relatives. This would fulfill

his own purposes; he would not intervene.

As was foretold, Krishna’s son gave birth

to an iron bolt, a messenger of death.

The king, Krishna’s father, in great distress

decreed that the bolt should be ground up small,

reduced to powder, and the powder then

be scattered in the sea. He issued orders

that no intoxicants of any kind

should be manufactured. The frightened people

obeyed, hoping to avert disaster.

In the sea-lapped city of Dvaraka,

Time stalked the streets in an embodied form,

a bald and monstrous figure. Few could see him

though his relentless tread was heard by many.

Cooking pots cracked; cats were born from dogs,

elephants from mules. All was awry.

Dharma began to be disregarded.

Krishna knew the signs, and as he watched

his Vrishni people wallowing in sin,

Gandhari’s old curse came into his mind.

He knew catastrophe was in the offing,

and that his time on earth was almost over.

He would see Gandhari’s words made true.

Signs of doom and decay were everywhere.

Rats and mice infested every house

and ate men’s hair and nails while they were sleeping.

Freshly cooked food rotted instantly.

There were unceasing cries of raucous birds.

People became deranged, wives attacked husbands,

fathers killed their children. Priests and elders

were treated with contempt. Witnessed by all,

Krishna’s discus rose into the air

and flew back up to those celestial regions

from whence it came. His splendid horses fled,

pulling his divine chariot behind them,

galloping over the surface of the sea.

Krishna summoned his kinsfolk and explained

Gandhari’s curse. They were filled with fear.

Knowing events would take their predestined course,

he told them to undertake a pilgrimage

along the coast, to bathe in the sacred ocean.

A huge expedition was prepared

with an armed guard and wagons of food and drink,

and the Vrishnis set off, with their families,

to Prabhasa, on the rocky coast,

where the sacred Sarasvati joined the sea.

Rather than a sober pilgrimage,

this was a bacchanal. There was loud music,

actors and acrobats entertained them,

trumpets blared and, as the sun went down,

men became more and more intoxicated.

Food that had been cooked specially for brahmins

was doused in alcohol and given to monkeys.

Krishna joined the party, silently.

Satyaki started taunting Kritavarman

for his involvement in the night attack

on the Pandava and Panchala camp.

“What kind of a kshatriya are you,

slaughtering sleeping men, put up to it

by a perverted brahmin! Shame on you!”

His friends clapped and cheered uproariously.

“What right have you to take the moral high ground?”

shouted Kritavarman, pointing the finger

of his left hand in disrespect. “Call yourself

a hero? You cut down Bhurishravas

despicably, when he had lost his arm

and had withdrawn from battle.” Krishna frowned

at Kritavarman.

The quarrel escalated.

Satyaki leapt to his feet in a fury.

“I swear,” he shouted, “you’re about to join

Draupadi’s sons, and those other heroes

you cruelly killed, you coward!” And with that

he rushed at Kritavarman and cut his head

from his body. Then Kritavarman’s friends

attacked Satyaki with any implement

that came to hand, and soon the entire party

were striking one another viciously.

Krishna watched calmly, knowing what must happen,

but when he saw his son Pradyumna killed,

then his son Samba, and Satyaki his friend,

Krishna became angry and snatched up

a handful of the coarse eraka grass

that grew there on the shore. In his hand

it became a massive, lethal club, transformed

by the powdered iron—the brahmins’ curse.

Others copied him. Each blade of grass

became a deadly weapon, capable

of penetrating the impenetrable.

Inflamed by wine, the fighters soon became

indiscriminate, father attacking son,

brother killing brother. Before long

there were few survivors, and those few

were killed by Krishna, instrument of fate.

The moon rose on mound upon mound of corpses.

What would happen, now, to all the Vrishni

women and children—no men to protect them

against brigands? “Daruka,” said Krishna

to his charioteer, “go quickly now

to Hastinapura and seek out Arjuna.

Give him the news; tell him he should come

without delay. He will know what to do.”

Daruka flew off. Then Krishna noticed

one Vrishni hero, Babhru, was still alive.

Krishna sent him running to the city

to report, and to protect the women.

But Babhru too had been a reveler

and the sages’ curse caught up with him:

a massive club hurled by a hidden hunter.

Krishna perceived that his earthly power

was waning. He told his brother Balarama

to go to the forest and wait for him there.

First, he himself must return to Dvaraka.

Already news had reached the bereaved city,

and the streets echoed with the sounds of sorrow,

fear and confusion. Krishna reassured

the women, “Arjuna will soon be coming;

Arjuna will protect you.” Then he went

to see his aged father for the last time.

He bent his head to touch Vasudeva’s feet.

“Father, this slaughter fulfills the sages’ curse.

The holocaust that has destroyed our people

is akin to the deaths at Kurukshetra:

it had to happen. Now my time on earth

is almost over, and I wish to spend it

in yoga with Balarama in the forest.

You must guard the city, until Arjuna

arrives to take command, as I have asked him.

Arjuna and I are a single being.”

Vasudeva assented, broken-hearted.

Krishna found Balarama among the trees

sitting in meditation. From his mouth

a huge, white, red-eyed serpent was emerging,

the celestial snake which had inhabited

Balarama’s body until then.

The snake made its way toward the ocean

and many distinguished creatures honored it—

highborn members of the Naga people.

Then it slithered into the sea and vanished.

Thus Balarama shed his earthly life.

Krishna wandered in the peaceful forest

in profound meditation. He reflected

on Gandhari’s curse of long ago, and knew

the time had come for him to leave the world.

Now, all his tasks had been accomplished.

He lay down on the ground, closed his eyes,

and withdrew his senses. A passing hunter,

taking him for a deer, shot an arrow

and pierced him in the foot. Running up,

the horrified hunter saw what he had done.

No deer lay there, but a dark-skinned man

in a yellow robe. Krishna blessed him.

“It was meant to be,” he said—and died.

The immortal spirit of the blessed Lord

rose swiftly, lighting up the firmament,

passing through heavens, worshiped by the gods,

until he reached his own celestial region,

inconceivable, ineffable.

As soon as Arjuna received the summons

from Daruka, he started off at once

for Dvaraka. He found the place desolate,

unnaturally silent. The streets and squares

of the noble city, formerly vibrant

with song and color, were empty and forlorn,

like a lotus pool in the depths of winter.

Krishna’s sixteen thousand wives and concubines

were beside themselves. When Arjuna saw them,

and when he learned that his dear friend was no more,

he moaned with grief, and sank down on the ground.

Two of Krishna’s most important wives,