THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (27 page)

FORTY-SEVEN ENCOUNTER IN THE NIGHT
 

The next morning, shortly after daybreak, Kunti and her sons came to their host the brahmana to say farewell. They found the traveling bard, last night’s inflamer, already gone. When the brahmana’s wife heard their guests were leaving, she begged them to wait for just an hour: she wouldn’t let them go without cooking some food for the young man who had saved her family. Bheema was delighted. Kunti and her sons spent that hour with the brahmana and his two children, while the wife got busy in her kitchen.

The meal was ready and packed in an earthen vessel tied in a cloth. Embracing their host, the Pandavas and their mother set out. The people of Ekachakra came out to say goodbye. Some of the women had tears in their eyes as they waved to Bheema. The Pandavas passed through the gates and walked on without looking back, it was inauspicious.

Across sweeping plains with fields bright as a parrot’s feathers the wayfarers went, happy to be out of the friendly but dreary town they had lived in for so many months. They tracked the sun toward Kampilya. Soon the day grew warm and they rested in some airy woods and ate the meal the brahmana’s wife had sent.

When they had eaten, sleep came over them. The princes had not slept all night long and Kunti just a few hours before dawn. They lay in the shade of a large nyagrodha tree, with no walls or ceiling to cage their dreams. The brothers all dreamt of a dark and bewitching face, its eyes full of fate.

It was growing on evening when Yudhishtira awoke, before the others and he saw a profound rishi had joined them. With a knowing gleam in his eye, Vyasa said, “Sweet dreams, I hope, my son?”

Yudhishtira awakened the others. The princes prostrated themselves at Vyasa’s feet and he blessed them. The maharishi said, “The way ahead leads straight to Kampilya and fortune awaits you there, all of you. I see darkness lifting away from your lives; days of joy are around the corner of time. You will soon forget the evil months you have passed through. Be of good cheer, I will see you in Kampilya!”

He strode off into the trees and actually seemed to vanish. Kunti and her sons made their way again toward Drupada’s capital. Singing among themselves, more hopeful than they had ever been since the burning of the house of lac, they journeyed on, by day and by night, passing through virgin forests and across glimmering plains, fording gushing streams. In their mood, they were intensely sensible of the sights, sounds and scents of the lands they went through, as if only now that they headed for Kampilya they had eyes and ears for nature’s lavish beauty.

One night, as they walked through a forest, Arjuna led the way with a rushlight in his hand. The moon had risen above them and they heard the Ganga flowing ahead. They heard other noises, as well: unearthly voices and wonderful laughter; someone was bathing in the river.

As they went nearer, abruptly all the sounds ceased. Nothing stirred. They thought they must have heard animals drinking at the river; only the breeze had made them seem like golden voices.

Yudhishtira said, “My body is hot and tired. I am going to bathe.”

“Let’s all bathe,” said Bheema. “The water smells so sweet.”

They approached the river, when suddenly a luminous chariot appeared from the trees, like a full moon. Two horses were yoked to it and they were not of this earth. Their skins glowed in the dark, green and copper and their manes seemed to be made of tongues of silver flame. Kunti and her sons could not be sure if those horses’ hooves touched the ground.

At the helm of the chariot, stood the most marvelous being. He was taller than any man of the earth. Woven with flowers and full of light, his hair hung to his shoulders. His dark face was keen and sharp and his wide eyes glittered angrily at them. For a moment, he stood glowering and behind him in the trees were other forms, dim and bright. The princes of Hastinapura fancied they were female forms.

The chariot-rider raised a hand and cried in his ringing voice, “You cannot approach the river! The twilight hours are only for the yakshas, gandharvas and rakshasas. We kill witless mortals who dare trespass here at this time.”

Arjuna heard his haughty tone and cried, “Who are you to lay down laws for the river waters that are free?”

“I am Angaraparna the gandharva!” said the Elf, more imperiously still.

“Sky-rover, no one has any right over the ocean, the Himalaya, or the Ganga. Not by day or night, or twilight.”

The gandharva bristled. He cried fiercely, “Begone mortals! I came to the river to bathe with my women; you may not approach the water until we have finished. Go peacefully, before you annoy me. This vana is named after me and not merely men but yakshas and rakshasas dare not come here. Humans, begone!”

Arjuna laughed at him. “Your threats don’t frighten us, not even at this twilight hour of your strength.”

With a cry of anger, the gandharva raised his bow. It was an arc of light in his hands. Quick as light, he drew arrows from his quiver and began to shoot at them, especially at Arjuna. Now Arjuna, too, was a blur: he struck aside the immortal’s fiery stream of arrows with his torch.

The gandharva paused in his archery that would have razed a small army. His arrows all lay extinguished at Arjuna’s feet. The dark human said, “Angaraparna, your archery is very pretty and about as potent as wave-froth. But you are not of our earth and I will show you what sort of archer I am with a weapon of the sky.”

The gandharva waited, amused, confident the human’s arrows would be puny. Arjuna took his bow from Bheema, who had been carrying it for him. Indra’s son called to his adversary across the moonlit glade, “Gandharva, I charge this arrow with the astra of Agni. It is Brihaspati’s weapon, given to me by my master Drona. Let us see you stop my arrow.”

With a resonant mantra, Arjuna shot his astra at the gandharva. It did not travel as swiftly as a common shaft, but seemed to linger in the air as it flew at the glowing chariot. Angaraparna waited with a mocking smile on his lips. Midway between Arjuna and the gandharva, the astra took fire.

Angaraparna cried out in amazement; his women in the trees screamed. In a sheet of flames, Arjuna’s agneyastra flashed between the unworldly steeds and struck the chariot. The ratha erupted and Angaraparna was flung headlong from it.

The chariot—from which Angaraparna got his name, ‘Scorching Chariot’,—burned down. The shining horses bolted into the trees. Arjuna strode up to the stunned gandharva, seized his lustrous hair and dragged him to Yudhishtira.

Three tall, incredibly beautiful women ran out from the trees: the gandharva’s wives, their faces and bodies shimmering, their hair touched with starlight. The tallest came boldly up to the Pandavas. She said in her voice so full of music, “Noble ones! I am Kumbheenasi. I beg you, spare my husband’s life.”

The others remained behind her in the shadows. The princes heard their stifled sobs and saw their delicate bodies tremble. Arjuna held Angaraparna by his hair and the gandharva was still dazed. His chariot was a mound of ashes.

Kumbheenasi knelt at Yudhishtira’s feet. She grasped his hand in her soft palms, knowing at a glance that he would decide Angaraparna’s fate.

“Kind Kshatriya, spare my husband!” she sobbed.

Yudhishtira turned to Arjuna, who still stood red-eyed. The older Pandava said, “Let him go, Arjuna. You have proved your point and who would kill a man that needs a woman’s protection?”

Arjuna scowled at Angaraparna, as if he would dearly prefer to kill him. He released the Elf’s hair and the gandharva fell back on the grass. He gave a long moan and slowly stood up. He was taller than Bheema. Now he bowed low, with folded hands, to Yudhishtira and Arjuna.

With a rueful smile, Angaraparna said, “I renounce my name! I am humbled and my chariot is ashes.”

He laughed. It seemed merriment was so much part of his nature that not the shame of defeat could stifle it. Impulsively, Angaraparna took Arjuna’s hand and cried, “I must repay your kindness! I would have killed you, but you spared my life when you could have had just revenge. I will give you the secret power of the gandharvas, the chaksushi is mine to give.”

Before Arjuna could protest, the gandharva placed his fingertips on the Pandava’s temples and whispered a mantra in his ear. Arjuna’s body began to tingle with a most extraordinary sensation. Angaraparna was saying, “The chaksushi sets the gandharvas apart from you humans.”

Liquid sight was upon Arjuna, as if a hidden eye had opened inside his head at the gandharva’s mantra: a fabulous, mystic eye. Visions swept the Pandava prince and all his rage of a moment ago melted away. A beatific smile lit his face.

Angaraparna said, “Now you can see into all the worlds, Kshatriya and whatever you like on any of them.”

Arjuna’s eyes were alight at what he saw. Then, remembering himself, he willed the uncanny visions to stop and to his surprise, they did. Arjuna looked at the tall being before him in some awe.

The gandharva had already flashed on to his next concern. “I also want, O Kshatriya, to give you and your brothers a hundred horses: steeds like mine foaled in the homelands of the gandharvas. They appear at the very thought of he who owns them and so do they change their color, or their speed. Look.”

Next moment, a herd of wild horses stood on the banks of the river. They were like no horses of the earth, shimmering and of many colors. The Pandavas stood enraptured, as their new-found friend said, “My horses are lean, Kshatriyas. But they never tire and they run as swift as thoughts!”

Arjuna thought this had gone far enough. “I cannot accept your gifts, wonderful though they are. I have nothing to give you in return.”

Angaraparna bowed solemnly again. “To meet a great man is always a joyful thing. Besides, you have given me an inestimable gift—my life! Yet, if you want to repay me for what I gave you, teach me the secret of the astra that made my chariot ashes.”

“So be it!” laughed the Pandava. “I will teach you the secret of the astra and take your chaksushi and your horses.”

Arjuna taught the gandharva the mantra for the agneyastra and the immortal shone to receive it. In return, the Pandava took the marvelous horses, fleeter than the wind. The two of them embraced, crying, “May our friendship last for ever!”

Then, curious, Arjuna said, “Tell me, friend, why did you attack us? We are kshatriya princes, not thieves or brigands.”

The Elf was solemn. “Unannounced, without care for proper time or rite, you wander these forests. You do not know where you should venture, at what hour. My women were with me; I was honor-bound to attack. But tell me friend, in truth, who are you?”

Yudhishtira replied, “We are the Pandavas, hiding from our enemies.”

Angaraparna gave a long whistle, melodious as a birdcall. He embraced each of the princes again and bowed deeply before Kunti.

“I am glad! I am exceedingly glad you are alive. One day you five will rule the world; it is not right that you roam the wilds without a priest to guide you. Kings and princes must have priests. Tapatyas, no kshatriya can conquer the earth without a brahmana beside him.”

Arjuna said, “We are Pandavas and Kaunteyas, all right. But why do you call us Tapatyas?”

“Once, with the help of his guru, the brahmarishi Vasishta, the ancient king Samvarana regained the kingdom he had lost. With that muni’s help, also, Samvarana won the hand of his beloved, Surya’s daughter Tapati. In time, Samvarana and Tapati had a son. They named him Kuru and he was your ancestor. And so I call you Tapatyas.”

Arjuna said, “For the time being, let your beautiful horses remain with you. I will take them when my brother is a king. Now, wise friend, tell us if you know a brahmana who will be our priest.”

“A rishi who does tapasya in this very forest. He is Devala Muni’s younger brother, called Dhaumya and his asrama is yonder.”

He pointed deeper into the jungle. After their piquant encounter, the Pandavas and Kunti bid the gandharva farewell and went the way he pointed, in search of a priest.

Dhaumya’s asrama was a simple and austere dwelling, next to a jungle shrine called Utkochaka. He was a serene muni, tall, spare and bearded; and his eyes shone with wisdom. The princes prostrated themselves at his feet. When he had blessed them, he made the Pandavas and Kunti sit comfortably on seats of darbha grass and fed them sweet fruit and some soft and delicious roots.

Already, uncommon empathy sprang deeply between them. Dhaumya said, “Tell me, Brahmanas, if brahmanas you are, who you are and why have you sought me out in this jungle where no man ventures?”

Yudhishtira replied, “Muni, we are the Pandavas of Hastinapura, whom the world believes dead. We have come to you because we want a priest and a guru. For, one day we hope to return to our father’s city and rule the world from there.”

Dhaumya smiled and grew very quiet. Finally, he asked, “And where are you heading now?”

“To Kampilya.”

This seemed to satisfy him. “If you truly want me to be your priest, I am willing.”

Suddenly, they had a strong sense that the darkness that had shrouded their lives for two years had lifted away. Dhaumya did not take long to collect his spare possessions. By the light of a new dawn, they set out together for Kampilya.

FORTY-EIGHT THE SPINNING FISH
 

After some days of walking through jungles full of exotic birds and beasts, tangled valleys full of flowers and past lakes brimming with lotuses and swans, they arrived in southern Panchala, Drupada’s kingdom; and a day later in Kampilya, that king’s capital.

Inside the city, preparations were in full swing for the princess Draupadi’s swayamvara. The Pandavas found a friendly carpenter who was willing to take in five brahmanas and their regal-looking mother and they began living in a room he gave them.

As in Ekachakra, the princes still lived off alms. Like any mendicants, they went begging each morning and returned by midday with the food they gathered. Kunti divided what they brought among her sons. As they roamed the thronging streets of Kampilya, the princes heard from the people:

“Drupada has no doubt the Pandavas are alive. The rishis have told him Draupadi will be Arjuna’s wife.”

“The king has a mighty bow that few men can even lift. A wooden fish hung a hundred hands in the air is the target. The fish spins at great speed and only the archer who brings it down with an arrow will win Draupadi’s hand.”

“The archers may not aim directly at the fish, only at its reflection in a trough of water.”

“Drupada is sure only Arjuna can shoot the fish.”

“A man who is meant to be dead!”

“We can hardly wait for the day.”

The Pandavas and Arjuna himself would go quietly among the people, listening to all this. They, also, princes disguised as brahmanas, waited impatiently for the day of the swayamvara.

Meanwhile, kshatriyas from all over Bharatavarsha had arrived in Kampilya. They came from kingdoms far and near to try their luck with the bow and the spinning fish. Besides, Drupada’s hospitality was legendary.

Even before the Pandavas, the Kauravas had come to Kampilya, with Duryodhana and Karna. The Yadavas—the Bhojas, Vrishnis and Andhakas—had arrived in the city, heroic kshatriyas all. Among the Yadavas was dark Krishna of Mathura, Vishnu’s Avatara, whose life was to become inextricably involved with the Pandavas’ lives. They were destined to become his warriors of light one day, most of all, Arjuna.

At last, the day of moment dawned, bright and clear, birds hymning in the trees and all Kampilya was up with the sun. The arena of the swayamvara was an unforgettable spectacle. Every seat was taken. Brahmanas and rishis sat in their enclosures. The common people had thronged in thousands into the immense stadium: gaudily attired, as was their way, garlands round their necks, perfume in their clothes and on their skins, excited beyond measure.

The finest sight was the enclosure of the kshatriyas who had come to vie for Draupadi’s hand. It was filled with the noblest warriors in Bharatavarsha: each a lion, every one a rival today.

They say the Devas of heaven had gathered in the sky in invisible vimanas and peered down to watch Draupadi’s swayamvara. Five kshatriyas disguised as brahmanas, their faces covered by heavy beards and masked with ashes, their hair matted in jata, also found their way into the arena. They mingled with the other brahmanas and were careful not to enter or sit together.

Deep sea-conches sounded, calling the feverish crowd to be silent. Drum-rolls rose and faded and rose again, as the crowd fell hushed and all eyes were riveted to the arched entrance from the palace.

For a moment, everyone in that stadium was breathless for the princess Draupadi’s arrival; then, her brother Dhrishtadyumna led her in. She wore resonant red silk, golden ornaments and flashing jewels. All these paled before her dark, mysterious beauty. A sigh rose from the crowd when she walked in. She was, beyond doubt, the most beautiful woman in the world. She was more, she was unearthly. Yet, there was something fateful about her as well, something frightening: beauty like hers did not belong in this world.

The Pandavas’ wildest fantasies, which had their way with them since the traveling muni told them about her, did Draupadi no justice. She was lovelier than all their imaginings. Like everyone else in the arena, Pandu’s sons sat like infatuated boys, their eyes never leaving her face.

The crowd had fallen silent in awe of the dark princess. You heard only the drone of the priests chanting mantras, as they poured libation over the ritual fire. At the heart of the arena was a dais and now Dhrishtadyumna climbed onto this platform.

The fire-born prince’s voice was muted thunder, as he announced, “We have come together for my sister Draupadi’s swayamvara. Here is a bow and here are five arrows. Above me is a matsya yantra, just visible through the opening in the screen below it. At my feet is the vessel of water in which the archers must aim at the spinning fish’s reflection. My father, king Drupada, has said that he who brings down the fish shall have my sister’s hand.”

Dhrishtadyumna turned to Draupadi now and named the kings and warriors who had come to try to win her.

“Duryodhana, prince of the Kurus, among his brothers. Karna, king of Anga, Duryodhana’s dearest friend, now said to be the best archer in the world. Drona’s son Aswatthama and Duryodhana’s uncle Shakuni.”

One by one, Dhrishtadyumna pointed out the great kshatriyas: Jarasandha, Shalya, Bhagadatta1. Draupadi hardly looked at them, because her eyes always sought another face in the crowd.

“Balarama of the Vrishnis and beside him, Devaki’s son Krishna, who the wise say is the Avatara.”

Draupadi bowed slightly to dark Krishna, who smiled back at her. His eyes were so different from all the others’, so knowing and friendly. Krishna would take no part in the test of archery, said Dhrishtadyumna, nor his brother Balarama or any of the other Yadavas. He passed on to Jayadratha, king of the Sindhus, then to Sishupala, lord of the Chedis and on to the rest.

There was a reason why Krishna would not compete for Draupadi’s hand. In his immaculate heart, he knew why this ravishing princess had been born into the world: to be his own agent, to help catalyze what he himself had come for. To rid the earth of her burden, the arrogant sway of the kshatriya. This was the very end of the dwapara yuga and it was written that the next age, the kali yuga, would be ruled by the sudra, mysterious are the ways of time. He, dark deliverer, would become the bane of the kshatriyas, who must not survive to dominate the coming and lesser age. Krishna had come to end a yuga.

Moreover, knowing all things, he knew the Pandavas were not dead. His eyes also roved the swollen crowd in search of his cousins, who would become his soldiers in his war against evil. Though Kunti was his father Vasudeva’s sister, Krishna had never seen the Pandavas before. He had no doubt that as soon as he did he would know them, even in a crowd like this one. While every other gaze in the arena was peeled to the stunning Draupadi, Krishna’s ranged the jostling tiers for the sons of Pandu.

Meanwhile, Dhrishtadyumna invited the first kshatriya archer to try to bring down the fish. The great bow had come into the House of Panchala in times out of mind, days when Gods moved openly in the world and kshatriyas were hardly less than Devas. It was the Kindhura and it had not been fashioned on earth. Only the most exceptional archers of this dwindled time could hope to even lift

1. Several other kshatriyas are named here. See Appendix.

that bow, let alone string it and shoot with it. The Kindhura’s bowstring sparkled as if it was made with thousands of minute diamonds.

As the first archer mounted the dais, Draupadi and her twin climbed down and stood a small way off. This prince was a handsome young kshatriya. He was the first aspirant and the crowd cheered him loudly. Grinning, Yuyutsu, whom Duryodhana had sent to test the bow, strutted briefly on the dais, his body glowing with the oil with which he had rubbed himself. Raising his arms for silence, he said a brief prayer. His eyes strayed helplessly to the bewitching Draupadi. Yuyutsu bent quickly and clasped both his hands around the bow.

It was now Krishna spotted five brahmanas, whose eyes never left Draupadi, not even to glance at Yuyutsu: as if they focused on an archer’s target! He pointed them out to his brother Balarama, whispering, “Look, they are here. Like live embers covered with brahmanas’ ashes.”

Poor Yuyutsu was having a hard time. The muscles stood out on his arms and his back, beads of sweat on his face. That bow would not budge. At last, with a cry of frustration, he gave up and stood panting. A rueful smile and a wave at the crowd and Yuyutsu climbed down. The crowd cheered him for his effort and the other kings for his failure. Draupadi’s eyes shone with satisfaction. Krishna watched his Pandava cousins. Each of them sighed in relief that the bow was truly such an awesome one. The Avatara smiled to himself. Only he knew something of the long hard way that lay ahead of that supernaturally beautiful princess and her suitors.

The next kshatriya approached the platform. The common folk of Kampilya snickered among themselves; the mighty Kindhura would easily resist this mawkish prince, who was far too young anyway. Surely enough, after a valiant effort, he also failed to lift the bow from its pedestal and returned rather shame-faced to his place. But the crowd cheered him anyway, one spark crying, “Come back next year, son!”

But not all the warriors in that swayamvara were as easily frustrated by the Kindhura. There were many tremendous kshatriyas among them; Sishupala was the first. He was Krishna’s cousin and the Pandavas’ as well. He was a pale man, a giant, known as the Bull of Chedi.

A hush fell over the arena. Sishupala rose from his place, his head clean-shaven and gleaming in the sun and his eyes shone as well. If any kshatriya so far seemed capable of lifting the bow, stringing it and, perhaps, even bringing down the spinning fish, it was this bull-like man.

For a long moment, Sishupala stood very still on the dais, breathing deeply and his eyes shut. Then he bowed to Draupadi and, with a smile on his haughty face, picked up the Kindhura quite easily. The crowd moaned. With no effort, Sishupala pulled the glittering bowstring taut and secured it.

The silence deepened on the crowd. Anyone who looked closely would have seen that Draupadi’s hands shook. Sishupala picked up his first arrow and the princess was as tense as his bowstring. The king of Chedi drew the string to his ear and, taking aim in the silver trough at his feet, shot his first arrow at the fish. He missed by the width of a sesame seed. Only Krishna saw Draupadi visibly relax; and then she was tense again, because Sishupala picked up his next arrow.

Again, he missed so narrowly he took the crowd’s breath away. But when he shot his second arrow, the bow came alive and, with a crack like thunder, flung the archer down. The crowd roared.

Groggily, Sishupala rose to his feet. The Kindhura had drained him. He staggered toward the bow, but now he could not lift it. He bowed quickly to the crowd and, hanging his head, walked back to his place.

Draupadi’s eyes were alight, as if her life had been spared. Next came Jarasandha of Magadha, powerful king and Krishna’s inveterate enemy. He, too, picked up the bow with no effort and, peering into the silver vessel, shot four arrows at the fish while Draupadi held her breath as if the shafts were aimed at her heart. She was praying. She had never set eyes on Arjuna, about whom she had heard so much from her father and she was praying that only he would bring down the fish. Now, in fierce reality, Jarasandha missed the spinning thing four times by no more than a breadth of a mustard seed. Each time, Draupadi felt her heart stop beating and every arrow took a lifetime to travel between Jarasandha’s brutal hands and the target. She felt she lived and died four lives.

Dhrishtadyumna touched her shoulder and whispered, “It is twice as hard to bring down the fish as it is to string the bow.”

Jarasandha could not shoot the fifth arrow and Draupadi heaved another sigh. Duryodhana rose next and his was a potent and sinister presence. Draupadi shivered to look at him; his hooded eyes raked her. She felt alone and vulnerable, as if he stripped her naked with those dreadful eyes.

Duryodhana also strung the bow effortlessly. The people of Kampilya were terrified lest this devil win their princess. Dhrishtadyumna, who knew what a monster Dhritarashtra’s son was, quailed at the thought of his sister married to him. Duryodhana picked up his first arrow and sent it humming at the fish. The world stood still. Then, the very crowd sighed: the evil prince had missed. He missed again and twice more. He shook with rage, as if the contest had been contrived just to humiliate him.

Duryodhana’s last arrow missed the fish by the breadth of the little finger on a man’s hand. With a tigerish growl, he let the bow fall. He bowed stiffly to the crowd, but no one clapped. Well aware of the ominous effect he had, he turned to Draupadi and smiled blandly at her. She looked away. Seething, Duryodhana stalked back to his seat. This princess had touched his malignant heart as no other woman ever. Night after night, he would dream of her face and her dark body, as he saw it now, naked in his mind’s eye.

Krishna missed none of this and he knew the conclusion to which it would lead one day. Today was only the sowing of a seed. When it was grown, the plant of hatred which sprang from that seed would choke all kshatriya kind and have the heads of countless kings for its fruit.

Now Karna of Anga rose from his place beside Duryodhana and the Kuru camp erupted in wild cheering. This was the man Draupadi and Drupada feared the most. He was lithe and sleek, a warrior of presence and power, said, after the burning of the house of lac, to be unquestionably the best bowman on earth. His tread was soft, his quietness resoundingly assured, as he approached the dais like a hunting tiger.