Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (89 page)

Rukmini and Satyabhama, raised him

and made him sit, while the women gathered round

talking, praising their beloved Krishna,

finding solace in sharing their distress.

He went to see his uncle, the old king,

and the two men wept together. “Arjuna,

I have lived too long,” cried Vasudeva.

“Krishna could have acted to prevent

the sinful self-destruction of our people—

was he not Vishnu, lord of the universe?

He refrained from canceling the curses

uttered by Gandhari and by the brahmins.

The Vrishnis, influenced by Satyaki

and Kritavarman, brought it on themselves.

Now that you have arrived, I can abdicate.

Food and drink will no longer pass my lips.

I will withdraw my senses. My earthly life

is over.” And he closed his eyes for good.

Arjuna could not imagine living

in a world that had no Krishna in it,

but he knew that he must not give way.

He called a meeting in the assembly hall

for city dwellers, brahmins and ministers.

The despair in that hall was palpable.

“We must act,” said Arjuna. “The sea

will soon engulf Dvaraka. Everyone

should gather all their portable belongings

and prepare the women for departure.

I will lead you all out of the city

and escort you to Indraprastha. There

you may live in safety. Krishna’s descendant

Vajra will be your king.” Just then a cry

went up from the king’s palace: Vasudeva

was dead.

Arjuna ordered that, straight away,

the king’s funeral should be carried out.

Vasudeva had been greatly loved

and the whole city followed behind his bier

as it was taken to the cremation ground.

Shraddha rites were performed for Krishna,

Balarama and all the dead Vrishnis.

A few days later, the much diminished clan

set off in slow procession from Dvaraka—

thousands of wagons, chariots, elephants

and well-loaded oxcarts. Women traveled

in covered carriages with the children

and old people. To protect the procession,

the remnant army provided outriders.

No sooner had the last cart left the city

than the ocean breached the sea defenses.

The sky grew black and seemed to be torn in two.

The planet Mercury swung from its usual course

and a tempest plowed the foaming ocean

into troughs and mountainous peaks of water.

The sea retreated from the land, then, rearing,

seemed to hang, impossibly still, before

it crashed forward, a voracious beast

savaging the city with watery claws,

devouring streets, squares, palaces and gardens,

indiscriminate in its appetite.

The houses of the poor dissolved instantly.

The mansions of the rich took little longer;

soon every one of the well-constructed buildings,

every tower and pinnacle, was drowned.

It was as if Dvaraka had never been.

The people stared. Then they turned their backs

in resignation. The past closed up behind them.

The stream of sad and weary refugees

traveled slowly. Each night, they made their camp

by a source of water, in some pleasant spot.

Arjuna was vigilant. He made sure

that scouts went forward, to spy out the land

while watchmen were on guard throughout the night.

At first, all went well. But then they crossed

into the country of the Abhiras,

a barbarian land swarming with bandits.

Sighting the procession, guessing its riches,

and seeing that Arjuna was the only bowman,

the army feeble and demoralized,

the brigands struck. Yelling spine-chilling threats,

hundreds of ruffians swept down on the party,

armed with sticks.

Arjuna, confident

that he could see them off with his great bow,

tried to string
Gandiva
. He only managed

with a huge effort. Then he tried to summon

his celestial weapons, but the mantras

would not come to mind. He loosed some shots

from his bow, but quickly all his arrows

were gone. The inexhaustible supply

had failed. He stared at his empty quivers, then

lashed out at the robbers with the bow,

using it as a club. But he watched, helpless,

as the brigands helped themselves to chests of gold

and seized many of the women; others

went with the bandits of their own accord.

Arjuna understood that his loss of power

was the work of destiny. The diminished group

made its way to the city of Indraprastha.

Many of Krishna’s wives went to the forest

to end their days in prayer and penances.

Now that Arjuna had done all he could

for Krishna’s people, he went to see Vyasa

in his forest ashram. He broke down in tears.

Vyasa was brisk with him. “What is the matter?

Have you killed a brahmin? Have you had sex

with a woman at the wrong time of the month?

Why do you look so wan and woebegone?”

Arjuna told him everything (although

Vyasa must have known it all already):

the destruction of the Vrishnis, the death

of the old king, the drowning of the city,

his own defeat at the hands of the robber band.

But, most of all, Arjuna talked of Krishna.

“How can I live without my friend?” he wept.

“The world is flat and colorless without him,

devoid of meaning. What should I do now?

Tell me, Vyasa!”

“All this, Arjuna,”

said Vyasa gently, “is the fruit of time.

The man, Krishna, was the incarnated

Vishnu himself, born in time to accomplish

his divine purpose. Now his work is done

he has returned to his celestial region.

You and your brothers were also born on earth

to play your part in the grand cosmic plan.

This you have done. Your celestial weapons

have withdrawn their power. Time provides,

and time takes away. Time is indeed

the driver of the universe. And now

the time has come for you to leave the world.

That will be best for all of you, Arjuna.”

Arjuna returned to Hastinapura

and told Yudhishthira all that had happened.

Janamejaya said:

“Now Krishna was no more, now he had returned

to his heavenly realm, what did my ancestors

do then, deprived of their most cherished friend?”

“I will tell you,” said Vaishampayana,

“and we are nearly coming to the end

of great Vyasa’s monumental poem.”

Having heard Arjuna’s tale, Yudhishthira

proposed to all his brothers and Draupadi

that they renounce the kingdom and the world.

“Time,” he said, “cooks all things in its cauldron.

We have achieved all that was preordained;

now there is nothing for us to do on earth.”

They all agreed. The king sent for Yuyutsu.

He consented to be the guide and helper

of Parikshit, who would be the new king.

With Vajra as the ruler of Indraprastha,

Yudhishthira felt confident of peace

and prosperity throughout the kingdom.

Indeed, in future times, it would be told

how, under Parikshit, the kingdom prospered.

Lavish shraddha rites were undertaken

for Krishna, Balarama, Vasudeva

and all dead kinsmen of the Bharatas.

Brahmins were fed, and given generous gifts.

Kripa was installed as revered guru

to Parikshit, who would be his disciple.

When the people heard of the king’s decision

they were distressed and tried to change his mind,

but he was firm, and managed to convince them

that it was for the best. Then he turned his thoughts

to departure. On the appointed day,

the five Pandavas and Draupadi,

clothed in garments of bark, and having fasted,

left Hastinapura. They were reminded

of the time so many years before

when they had left the city in bark clothing

after the defeat in the gambling hall.

Then, they were entering miserable exile;

now, quitting Hastinapura for ever,

they were at peace, feeling only joy.

Some citizens escorted them on their way,

still hoping to persuade them to return.

But failing, and bidding them a last farewell,

they turned back to the city, and their new king.

Only a stray dog stayed with the Pandavas,

trotting along behind them, keeping pace.

Traveling on foot, for many months

they circumambulated the whole land

of Bharatavarsha, through varied terrain.

Living austerely, they first turned eastward

toward the rising sun and the eastern mountains,

following the course of the mighty Ganga

to where its waters flow into the sea.

Arjuna still carried his bow
Gandiva
,

and his quivers, once inexhaustible.

They were useless to him now, but still

he was attached to them, as to old friends.

As they approached the coast, a tall figure

appeared in front of them. “I am the fire god,

Agni,” he said. “It was I who burned

the Khandava Forest all those years ago.

Arjuna, I gave you
Gandiva
then,

procured from Varuna, the god of waters,

and now it is time to give it back to him.

It will return to earth in another era.

Like Krishna’s discus, it will be taken up

to benefit the world.” Then Arjuna,

standing on a rock, threw his weapons

out into the ocean, where they sank.

The Pandavas went on toward the south

following the shore by the Eastern Ghats.

Next, they went west and north through many kingdoms

that once had owed them fealty, unnoticed

and unrecognized. Eventually,

they reached the coast where Dvaraka once stood,

radiant jewel of the western sea

now submerged beneath its crashing surf.

The travelers turned inland, heading northeast,

and still the scruffy dog was at their heels.

At last, they sighted the majestic outline

of snowy Himavat, the king of mountains

dazzling in the sun, known as the source

of the sacred Sarasvati. They climbed upward,

ever higher, through the sparkling air.

In the distance, they could hear the roar

of rivers tumbling down over the rocks

through deep ravines. During their twelve-year exile,

when they had spent time in the high mountains

consoled by the peace and beauty of the place,

Yudhishthira had promised to return

at his life’s end, as a penitent.

Now, as they walked in a state of meditation

they passed through groves of flowering plants, surrounded

by the singing of innumerable birds.

But they did not stay. Steadfastly they journeyed

onward toward the pure land of Mount Meru,

greatest of mountains, home to the mightiest gods.

Then, as they walked in single file, Draupadi

fell down, lifeless. “Brother,” exclaimed Bhima,

“why has she died now, she who was blameless,

who never did a sinful act?” Yudhishthira

thought, then said, “She was wife to all of us,

but she has always favored Arjuna.

Perhaps that was her sin.”

They traveled on

and, after some time, Sahadeva fell.

“Why?” asked Bhima.

“Perhaps he was too proud

of his wisdom,” said Yudhishthira.

Nakula fell next. “He was righteous

and intelligent,” said Yudhishthira,

“but he thought that none could rival him

in beauty. I suppose that is the reason

why he has fallen now.”

Then Arjuna

fell to the ground and gave up the breath of life.

“Why Arjuna?” asked Bhima. “I cannot think

of any time when he spoke untruthfully,

even as a joke.”

“He was too proud,”

replied Yudhishthira. “You remember—

he boasted that he would defeat our foes

in a single day. He was contemptuous

of other archers. That is why he has fallen.”

Then Bhima fell to the ground. “Why me?” he cried,

“I want to know.” Yudhishthira replied,

“You were a glutton; you failed to attend

to the wants of others. And you were a boaster,

proud of your mighty arms. But for all of us,

our death is preordained.” And he walked on

without looking back, accompanied

only by the dog.

After Yudhishthira

had trudged on through the snow for many days,

his gaze fixed steadily upon Mount Meru,

he was exhausted. There was a rushing wind

and Indra appeared to him on a fine chariot.

“Climb on,” he said, “and come with me to heaven.”

But Yudhishthira stayed where he stood,

looking back down the mountain. “My brothers

and Draupadi must go with me,” he said.

“I do not want to be in heaven without them.”

“Do not grieve for them, Bharata,” said Indra.

“They have all reached heaven ahead of you,

having cast off their bodies. It is ordained

that you should reach heaven in bodily form.”

“This dog must come with me,” said Yudhishthira.

“Through our entire journey, he has walked

beside me loyally, sharing all hardships.”

“Impossible. Heaven is no place for dogs,”

said Indra. “You have won the supreme reward

by your virtuous life—there is no sin

in abandoning the dog.”

“I cannot do it,”

said Yudhishthira. “It would be wicked

to cast aside one who is so devoted

from a selfish desire for the joys of heaven.”

“But you have renounced all other ties,”

said the god. “You left your wife and brothers

lying on the ground. Why is this dog different?”

“They were already dead. There was nothing more

I could do for them. This dog is alive.

To abandon him would be equivalent

to the worst sins—slaughtering a woman,

theft from a brahmin, injuring a friend.

I have never done such a sinful deed,

and I never will, so long as I have breath.

Indra, I cannot, and I will not do it.”

Suddenly, the animal was transformed

into the god of righteousness himself:

Dharma, father of Yudhishthira.

He was delighted with his virtuous son.

“This compassion is a supreme example

of your righteous mode of life. There is no one

in all the worlds more virtuous than you.”

Yudhishthira was taken up to heaven

by Indra, accompanied by other gods

and celestial beings. The seer Narada

was one of many there who welcomed him.

He told Yudhishthira that no one else

had ever had the privilege of earning

heaven while they were in their earthly body.

Yudhishthira thanked the gods. “But now,” he said,

“I wish to go to that realm where my brothers

and Draupadi have gone. I want to join them.”

“You have earned a special place,” said Indra.

“Why do you still cling to your old attachments?

Your four brothers and Draupadi have reached

happiness. You should stay here with us—

enjoy your great success.”

But Yudhishthira

insisted that he wanted to be only

where his brothers and his wife had gone.

“Open your eyes, Yudhishthira,” said Indra.

Yudhishthira looked around—and what he saw

was Duryodhana! The Kaurava

was seated on a splendid throne, surrounded

by gods and many heavenly attendants,

together with the other Kauravas.

Yudhishthira, shocked and outraged, turned his back.

“How can this be! This wicked cousin of ours,

this man, driven by greed and bitter envy,

was responsible for the deaths of millions

and the desolation of millions more.

It was due to him that the blameless Draupadi

was humiliated; due to him

that we endured those thirteen years of exile,

suffering privation—yet here he sits

enjoying the rewards of Indra’s heaven!

I do not even want to look at him.

Let me go to where my brothers are.”

“This response is wrong, Yudhishthira,”

said Narada. “Heaven knows no enmity.

You should put all these concerns behind you.

I know Duryodhana behaved wrongly

to the Pandavas, but by the sacrifice

of his body on the field of battle,

and by his courage, he has pleased the gods.

He never ceased to follow kshatriya dharma.

He never fought unfairly. You should approach him

in a spirit of goodwill.”

Yudhishthira

looked away. “I do not see my brothers,

or any of the heroes who fought with us;

nor do I see Karna. Ever since

my mother told me that he was our brother

I have longed for him, both night and day.

When I noticed, in the gaming hall,

that Karna’s feet so much resembled Kunti’s,

I should have realized. I should have spoken.

I wish to go to him, and to the others,

my other brothers and faithful Draupadi.

Where my loved ones are—that is heaven.

For me, this place is not heaven at all.”

The gods ordered a celestial messenger

to escort Yudhishthira to his kinsfolk.

The messenger went first, to show the way

over rough terrain. It was treacherous,

mushy with flesh and blood, bones, hair,

and stinking of the cadavers that lay

all around, swarming with flies and maggots

gorging on the decomposing bodies.

The way was lined with fire, and it was jostling

with crows and other scavengers, their beaks

iron-hard and cruel. Dark spirits lurked there

with needle-sharp incisors and hideous claws.

They passed a river, boiling and foul-smelling,

and a stand of trees whose every leaf

cut like the keenest blade. Worst of all,

people on every side were enduring

the most dreadful torture imaginable.

“How much further?” asked Yudhishthira.

“What is this place? And where are my brothers?”

The messenger stopped. “My instructions are

that I should come this far only. If you wish,

you may return with me.” Yudhishthira

was suffocated by the dreadful stench

and stifling heat. His courage was failing him.

He turned round to follow the messenger.

But then he heard piteous voices, calling out,

“Son of Dharma! Royal sage! Great Bharata!

Pity us! As long as you are here

a fragrant breeze is bringing us relief.

Please stay, even for a little while.”

“Ah, how terrible!” exclaimed Yudhishthira.

The voices seemed familiar. “Who are you?”

he called to them. He heard the voices answer,

clamorous with pain—

“I am Karna!”

“I am Bhima!”

“I am Arjuna!”

“I am Nakula!”