THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (23 page)

THIRTY-NINE THE PALACE OF LAC
 

Once, an age ago, during his time of misfortune, king Harishchandra of the race of the Sun had sought refuge in Varanasi. Now the people of that city washed their streets clean, set them out in arches and banners, draped these with garlands and flew bright flags from their rooftops. No one stayed home on the day the Pandavas arrived in Siva’s timeless city and Kunti and her sons received a tumultuous welcome.

They were brought to the old palace in the heart of the city. When they had been in Varanasi for ten days and the initial strangeness of the place had begun to fade, Purochana came to see them. He told them about the new palace he had built for them.

“It wouldn’t have been proper to take you there when you had just arrived. Now the people will not mind if you move to the new palace. It is built on the edge of the city and you will have more privacy.”

Yudhishtira became suspicious the moment Purochana said that Bheeshma had ordered the palace built: the patriarch had not mentioned it. Yet, the Pandava could not refuse to live in it without good reason. He went with Purochana, but he was on his guard.

The first thing Yudhishtira noticed was the moat around the little palace, with sharp stakes in it. Purochana said with a laugh, “No thief can get in, unless the front door is opened to welcome him.”

Yudhishtira wondered why stakes lined the moat next to the inner walls as well. It seemed to him the moat was as much to prevent those within the palace from leaving, as to keep intruders out. His eyes never leaving the princes’ faces, Purochana showed them around proudly.

The incendiary lac, fat and resin, with which the walls of the mansion were filled, had been plastered over and painted. The walls had been smoked with incense. The Pandavas seemed to notice nothing amiss, as they went from room to room, admiring the lofty ceiling and the fine views of the city and the jungle behind the palace.

Yudhishtira announced, “My brothers and I will be happy to move here. It is the better-appointed dwelling and we will certainly have more privacy. Let our possessions be fetched straightaway from the old palace, I see no reason to return to it. We thank you, Purochana; your labor will be rewarded.”

The delighted Purochana hurried off to have the Pandavas’ belongings brought to the palace of lac.

As soon as they were alone, Yudhishtira took Bheema aside.

“Do you smell anything strange?”

Bheema sniffed the air and his eyes grew round. “What is it?”

“Lac, tallow and resin, I think.” Yudhishtira tapped on the walls with his knuckles and they made a hollow sound. “This is what Vidura was trying to warn us about. Beware of fire, he said. If I am not wrong this Purochana is Duryodhana’s man and he has built this palace with every incendiary material he could find. And surely one night the good Purochana will set fire to this wonderful palace and cremate us inside it.”

Bheema’s face was a picture. “We must return to the old palace at once! With the moat full of stakes, we will be caught like rats in a trap here. We cannot wait, Yudhishtira: what if he starts his fire tonight? This place will burn like straw.”

Yudhishtira laid a hand on his hasty brother’s arm. “We mustn’t be rash, whatever we do. This is a carefully laid plan. I doubt that Purochana will be in any hurry to set us on fire. He won’t want the people to say the Pandavas were killed as soon as they arrived. He will bide his time, at least a month, or more, before he shows his hand.

He is not the only one who knows what he is doing. Vidura knows about the plot; he got wind of it in Hastinapura. He will not sit idly, while we are killed. So let us be wary, but for the present, let us wait rather than be caught out in haste. We have a long way to go; we must think where that way leads. We must think beyond this house of lac.”

Bheema did not agree. “You are forgetting what sort of men Duryodhana and his friends are. Our cousin does not think twice and never did, to kill anyone. He is not going to let what the people say deter him, not for a day. He wants us dead and his way to the throne cleared; and the sooner the better.

I am not for waiting. I say strike back at them. Let us take fire to Hastinapura and finish them when they least expect it. Arjuna by himself is enough for the lot. And if he isn’t, I will go with him and tear them limb from limb.”

His eyes shone at the prospect. Then he growled, “Curse them! They have destroyed our peace of mind. We shall not be able to sleep until we kill them. That’s what I say and I think I am right.”

Yudhishtira smiled and stroked Bheema’s head, as one might an impulsive boy’s. “It isn’t just this house of lac we have to consider, but our situation. That will not change. Vidura said that beyond the fire our way lies clear under the stars. Now I think I know what he meant. For a moment, just suppose we die in Purochana’s fire. Our uncle will put on a great show of grief. ‘Ah, my brother’s sons are dead! They were like my own children, the hope of my old age. All five of them are gone in one fell stroke. Oh, fate is so cruel to me.’

With his blind face, in which no one can read the truths of his heart, he is the perfect hypocrite. Pitama Bheeshma is righteous. Yet there is a part of him so detached, so enigmatic: as cold as his grandsire Himavan. He will be sad we are dead, even heartbroken. But he won’t blame Dhritarashtra, or punish Duryodhana for murdering us. Drona and Kripa will be sad, as well; neither will avenge our deaths. They will not dare point a finger at the king and his son.”

“What are you trying to say, Yudhishtira? Tell me plainly!”

“If we leave this place now, we will always have to be on our guard because our enemies will know we have discovered their intentions. After that, we shall never be certain how or when they strike at us. And strike they will. We will have no peace and they will have every advantage.

The other choice we have is to accuse Duryodhana and the king openly. That would be foolish, Bheema: an unequal battle for which we are not prepared. They have given out such favors and wealth of late in Hastinapura that they have enough men of influence in their keep. We shall be humiliated. It is never the common, honest citizen who decides the outcome of these struggles for power, but always those who manipulate the people in crowds. If we accuse Dhritarashtra and Duryodhana, it will be like the fledgling flying against the grown eagle, the beggar waging war on a king. They are prepared for every exigency—Duryodhana, Dusasana, the wily Shakuni, the king and all their friends in and out of the court. In our innocence, we have only just learnt what they intend; at the moment, the advantage lies with Duryodhana and his father.”

Bheema was growing impatient. “We are sitting in a house of lac and you are talking politics. For heaven’s sake and all of ours, say what we must do!”

“Calm yourself, Bheema, that is the first thing you must do. As for the rest, we must watch and wait; let our enemies believe that we suspect nothing and are ripe for burning.”

“Do you mean to sacrifice us to Duryodhana?” cried Bheema.

“Not at all,” laughed Yudhishtira. “I assure you, we have time. Vidura will not fail to help us. Wait just a week; and let us tell the others and keep watch in turns every night. Whoever sets fire to this mansion has first to come to the front door. Let one of us always keep vigil beside it, until either this week is over or we hear from Vidura.”

Reluctantly, Bheema agreed. Yudhishtira mused, “Suppose we find a way, or Vidura does, by which we can make Duryodhana believe we have died in the house of lac? Suppose we let it burn down and escape secretly. Then, surely the advantage of the next surprise will be with us and not our cousin.”

Bheema was not entirely convinced; but deep down, he trusted Yudhishtira’s judgement more than his own. They told the others what they feared. They agreed Yudhishtira’s was the best course open to them. Each night, with no lamp burning, the brothers took turns to keep watch at the front door.

It was a strained and anxious time. Often, they felt truly like rats in a trap. They kept each other’s spirits up, especially Bheema, who joked and laughed even more than usual. Nobody who visited them, least of all Purochana, suspected anything of the anguish they endured during their first week in the house of lac. When, years later, they looked back on those days they felt that was the beginning of everything that followed.

FORTY FIRE
 

On the sixth day of that anxious week, a quiet man with a long face and keen eyes arrived in the palace of lac. In a soft voice, he said, “Your uncle Vidura sent me. I am a miner; I tunnel under the ground for precious stones.”

Yudhishtira glanced at Bheema. He said nothing yet, because he must be sure the man was not a spy. After a moment, the miner went on, “Vidura said to me, ‘Duryodhana means to immolate my nephews in a house of lac in Varanasi. Go and help the Pandavas.’ So I have come.”

Though they found themselves warming instinctively to the taciturn miner, the Pandavas waited for some sign that they could trust him. Suddenly remembering, the miner brightened and said, “Fire is a more terrible weapon than the sword. Against fire a man should guard himself as the rat does against winter, by burrowing.”

Vidura’s very words to Yudhishtira outside Hastinapura and the miner spoke in the rough mlechcha bhasha. Yudhishtira rose and embraced the man, “Welcome, friend! We had to be sure Vidura sent you. These are days of conspiracy and our cousin means to kill us. Did you notice the smell in the air?”

The miner nodded, he was not a man who missed much. “I will dig an underground passage out of here, through which you can escape on the night Purochana sets fire to this place. Duryodhana will believe you are dead and you will have the advantage over your enemies. The people will also suspect foul play and turn away from Duryodhana. You will gain an advantage twice over and time as well, says your uncle Vidura who loves you.”

The miner began his task at once. He prised away a flagstone from the central courtyard and started digging. He said his tunnel would lead to the banks of the Ganga. The only trouble was that Purochana was always in the lacquer palace. He pretended to be an eager servitor; while, in fact, he was spying. And of course, he was waiting uneasily for a moonless night.

It was not possible for the miner to dig his tunnel while Purochana was about. Every day, the Pandavas went hunting with Purochana as their guide. While they were away, the miner worked feverishly.

For two weeks he toiled: by day, while the Pandavas were out in the forest with Purochana and by night as well, when Purochana returned to Varanasi to sleep. The miner barely slept a few hours daily and Duryodhana’s man never suspected a thing. In fact, the miner made friends with Purochana. He even made him think that he, too, was Duryodhana’s man sent by him to keep an eye on the Panda-vas and on Purochana himself.

The tunnel was finished sooner than they expected. The miner’s task had been providentially halved: some twenty feet down he struck a natural subterranean rock-tunnel that led straight to the river. All he had to do was excavate his way up through soft earth and make an opening for the Pandavas and Kunti to come out. By this stroke of luck, he was also able to make a much longer passage.

One night, the miner took Yudhishtira and his brothers a short way down the tunnel to show them how it led into the ground. Meanwhile he also took to drinking with Purochana on some evenings in Varanasi. He won the assassin’s confidence by speaking slightingly of the Pandavas and praising Duryodhana. And once Purochana confided to the miner that an astrologer had told him the Pandavas should be very careful of their lives on the night of the coming new moon.

The next morning the miner warned Yudhishtira. The Pandava said, “Amavasya is a fortnight away. Before that we must set fire to the palace ourselves, with Purochana in it and escape.”

Kunti said, “Let us have a poor-feeding in ten days. We will invite Purochana also and get him drunk until he falls asleep.”

“And we set fire to this cursed palace and escape!” cried Bheema, hugging her. “Our enemies should beware of our mother.”

Arrangements were made for the poor-feeding. There was one problem: when the house of lac burned down Purochana’s body would be found among its ashes, but not the princes or Kunti’s remains. Word would reach Duryodhana in Hastinapura and the Pandavas’ advantage would be lost.

King’s daughter that she was, Kunti had a solution for this as well. It was a terrible solution. But they all agreed, after a lot of hard thought and discussion—the miner insisted desperate measures were unavoidable—that it was the only way to mask their escape. If Duryodhana became suspicious that they were still alive, he would hunt them down relentlessly and have them killed by one agent or another.

Kunti had taken to feeding a nishada woman and her five dark sons, who came occasionally from the forest to visit her. She invited them to her feast for the poor. That night, Kunti was especially attentive of this woman and her grown sons. She took them away from the rest of the crowd into an inner room. There she not only fed them sumptuously but plied them with some very strong liquor, which the miner bought in Varanasi.

Bheema drank with Purochana that night. Now Bheema could drink as much as five men and feel just slightly merry. Obliged to keep up with the unusually friendly prince, Purochana was soon so drunk that he passed out even before he tasted Kunti’s delicious cooking.

The feast ended and all the guests left: all save Purochana and the nishada woman and her five sons, who were also unconscious. One of those wild youths was a giant like Kunti’s Bheema. A strong wind had risen over the river and the jungle beyond it. It whistled around the lacquer palace.

The Pandavas gathered in the courtyard where a trap door, covered by a flagstone, led to escape and anonymity: the inscrutable future. Bheema said, “The walls will burn so quickly we may not all have time to get away. The rest of you go down into the tunnel. I’ll light the fire in Purochana’s room and join you in a moment.”

Bheema ignited the torch he carried in his hand. When his brothers and Kunti had climbed down into the darkness of the tunnel, he crossed quickly to Purochana’s room. The man lay on his back, snoring. Bheema said, “Farewell, Purochana old friend. Sleep now for ever.”

He stepped out of the room and applied his torch to the door. In moments, huge tongues of flame leapt across the walls and the ceiling. Bheema had thought he might have to apply his torch to some of the other rooms as well. When he saw how the fire caught and spread, he ran for the tunnel.

As he scrambled down the tunnel-mouth and secured the trapdoor behind him, the flames had engulfed the palace. They burned hungrily, devouring the willing stuff of which the murderous edifice was built. The vats of ghee stored in the kitchen erupted.

In the dimness, Bheema asked, “Won’t they find the tunnel when the palace has burned down?”

Yudhishtira held his torch up to the ceiling of the underground passage; smoke dribbled in from above. He pointed to some wooden rafters. “Those will fall when they burn and the ceiling will cave in and debris from the palace will fill the tunnel. Rocks and earth will fall, blocking it halfway to the river. Our friend the miner is a cunning craftsman. Not even if someone looks for a tunnel will he find it. But let us fly, before the roof falls on our heads.”

They set off by torchlight. The tunnel led steeply down at first, before straightening toward the river. The air was thin here. When they had gone a short way, Kunti and all her sons, except Bheema, felt dizzy. Behind them, the fire raged.

The people of Varanasi were woken from sleep by the crackling of great sheets of flame and the sound of rafters crashing down. They came running out of their homes and stood shocked, watching the lacquer palace burn like an immense firework. Walls and ceiling fell noisily with explosions of

sparks.

“Duryodhana planned this.”

“And his father knew.”

“Alas, Kunti has perished with her sons.”

“A curse be on Dhritarashtra. He will pay for this sin.”

“Even Bheeshma did nothing to stop it.”

“A murderer rules us and his murderous son will rule after him.”

“Drona and Kripa were blind to their dharma.”

“Vidura loved the sons of Pandu, but even he did nothing.”

“Nemesis will stalk the Kuru kingdom.”

They wept that they themselves could do nothing to save their princes. Until the treacherous palace had burned down completely and the piles of embers began to subside, the people of Varanasi stood and watched in horror under a flame-lit sky.

Some hours ago, when the Pandavas and Kunti started down the tunnel they were overcome by dizziness, except Bheema who had once drunk the nagamrita. Yudhishtira, Arjuna, Sahadeva, Nakula and Kunti sat down and gasped that they could not go a step further. The first rafters and stones came down, shaking the tunnel ominously. At any moment, the whole thing would collapse, doing Duryodhana’s work for him.

With the strength of the elemental Vayu, Bheema now picked up Kunti and his brothers. Yudhishtira and Arjuna sat on his shoulders. Kunti perched on his neck. Then the titan scooped the twins up in either arm. While the others clung to him, stupefied, Bheema loped down the miner’s tunnel. Just in time: as he set off, he heard part of the tunnel’s roof, which lay under the lacquer palace, come crashing down.

The son of the wind streaked down the secret passage. He carried his mother and his brothers as lightly as his natural father may have some leaves. Like the wind, he arrived at the end of the tunnel. Like a gust of air from the earth, he burst out of the branch-and-leaf covering that hid the tunnel-mouth beside the Ganga. He sprang out into the woods with Kunti and his brothers.

Midnight was laden with the scent of wildflowers and lotuses that floated on the river. The others stirred from their swoon. They drew deep draughts of clean air. Bheema set them down gently on the grass. They were south of Varanasi now.

When they looked back, they saw the northern sky lit up. Gigantic tongues of flame reached for the stars and Kunti shuddered. Ahead of them the Ganga flowed, lapping serenely at her dark banks. They imagined the river spoke to them, saying, ‘Like my waters, all things must pass and be forgotten.’

They stood on the banks of the river, not knowing how they would cross her. Their way lay across the water, into the thick jungle beyond and oblivion. Then a voice spoke from the night, startling them. The brothers drew their swords.

A thin, very tall man stepped out from behind a tree, into the light thrown all the way here by the fire. “You must be the Pandavas and their mother. I thank God that you have come. This is the night Vidura told me to wait for, when I would see the white palace burning like a hayrick.”

“Who are you?” asked Yudhishtira, mistrustfully.

The man ignored the question. “The lord Vidura gave me gold to wait here every night with my boat. I have been here three months and I was beginning to think you would never come. Tonight I had fallen asleep, when suddenly I heard the fire crackling. I knew this was the night and God be praised, here you are.”

Yudhishtira asked again, “Who are you, fellow? We don’t know you.”

The man cracked a big-toothed smile. “So you are careful, my prince; that is a good thing, because these are dark times. But listen to this.”

Now he spoke in the mlechcha bhasha, “He survives who knows fire doesn’t harm those that hide in the hearts of jungles.”

Yudhishtira took his hand warmly. The man said, “You will be safer across the river and the sooner we set out the better.”

He led them to a boat tethered to some rocks. The Pandavas noticed his skin glowed softly in the dark and wondered if he had gandharva blood in him; and his boat was the strangest, sleekest craft. It was made of a dull metal and was flatter than any boat they had seen. It had no oars or sail.

The mysterious boatman helped them aboard, Kunti first and then her sons. He smiled when he saw how the Pandavas stared at his craft. “My boat is not ordinary, my princes? You wonder how it will cross the river without oars or sails. But tonight, my passengers are more extraordinary than my father’s boat!”

The night was moonless and they did not see what he did with some levers near the stern. The boat began to hum. Slowly, with life of its own, it set off across the river, gliding along hardly rippling the velvet water.

“It is best if I don’t set you down directly across. We will go upstream, where the jungle is wilder and few men venture. So the good Vidura said I should.”

He worked the shining levers beside him. The strange boat leapt forward, flying easily against the current while the boatman steered it casually with his left hand. He smiled to see their astonished expressions. “Cast off your despondency, my friends! As swiftly as my boat, your evil time will pass.”

They went half an hour and they could no longer see the glow in the sky where the palace still burned. The night was black and the jungle loomed forbiddingly. A breeze sprung up in the trees and blew into their faces.

The boat slowed and, at the boatman’s expert navigation, came to rest softly against the far bank of the Ganga. Above them bright stars hung in the sky, but ahead lay the jungle and utter darkness.

When he had helped them ashore, the boatman bowed, “My lord Vidura, who is wise and prescient, says that Duryodhana, Shakuni, Karna and all the Kauravas will taste bitter defeat one day. Yudhishtira will sit upon the throne of the Kurus, with his brothers around him. Vidura says he waits impatiently for that day.”

The man of the night bowed again. He turned back to his boat and it hummed with life once more. He veered it round and set off into the dark and soon the night swallowed him. He had a long way to go back to Hastinapura, to tell Vidura his mission was accomplished.