THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (32 page)

FIFTY-SIX NARADA VISITS INDRAPRASTHA
 

Some days after Krishna left, the Pandavas sat together in an airy room full of the orient sun and bird-song from the trees in the palace garden, when they heard the plucking of a vina in the passage outside. The timbre of that lute was so exquisite and the playing so effortless, so inspired, that Yudhishtira said, “It is Narada muni.”

The name was hardly out of his mouth when the rishi himself stood at the door: slender, bright and quite ageless. Narada was as old as the world. He was Brahma’s son, born at the beginning of the kalpa from the Creator’s pristine thought. From an ancient curse he was a wanderer always, who appeared in the unlikeliest places to perform, in his inimitable way, the Lord’s more difficult tasks; tasks that only an expert in human nature could accomplish. Because of his subtle, gossipy methods, Narada was known as a troublemaker. However, the truth was that he was a canny sage and perhaps the greatest bhakta of the Lord Narayana, whose ways are always inscrutable.

Yudhishtira washed the holy one’s feet and made him sit in a place of honor. Narada’s voice was youthful and his face a young man’s; but he was older than they could imagine and they could tell as much from his astonishing conversation. For example, he would speak of Siva’s wedding to Parvati as if it had happened yesterday; and, of course, he had been there. So also, primeval legends those princes had heard from their gurus: Narada spoke of them with easy familiarity; he had seen it all happen.

He chatted with the Pandavas like an old friend, but the princes knew their brilliant guest was bound neither by time nor place and traveled freely through both, as he liked. He spoke about kingship and war, love and children, about his meetings with Vishnu, his conversations with his father Brahma and even of fathomless Siva. All his observations were embellished with vivid anecdotes and the princes were entranced.

For the first time after Krishna left, Yudhishtira was in a fine mood. He called for Draupadi, so she could have Narada’s blessing. When she came, Narada cried, “How beautiful she is, my princes! How perfect.”

Draupadi knelt before him and he blessed her affectionately. When she had gone, Narada knit his brow and grew thoughtful. Yudhishtira asked, “Has something disturbed you, my lord?”

“I was reminded for a moment of Sunda and Upasunda.”

“Who are they?”

“Not are. Were. They are, alas, dead.” He fell silent again, knowing someone would press him to tell them more.

Sahadeva obliged. “Why were you reminded of them seeing Draupadi?”

Narada sighed. There was work to be done here and the Lord’s work was always so delicate. He must tread carefully. They must never know that he had met Krishna yesterday and the Dark One had sent him to Indraprastha.

“Indraprastha is such an excellent city. Go and see my cousins there, O Muni.”

And only as he left,—he had travelled by rishi patha, magical skyway, as all great sages did—was he told what Krishna wanted him to do in Indraprastha. The Lord never sent you anywhere just to admire the scenery, however wondrous a city and its environs may be. After all, Narada had some experience of the Lord’s ways, for longer than anyone else did. He was his shrewd and far-seeing messenger.

So here he was in Indraprastha, sighing. He shook his slim head and said, “They were brothers just like you and they loved each other quite as much as I see you five do. But they both fell in love with the same woman. She was beautiful and dark-skinned, like your Panchali. She was a gandharvi called Tilottama.” He lowered his voice, “And they killed each other because of her, though they had agreed to share her love.”

The Pandavas shivered. Narada went on, insouciantly, “The trouble began when one day Upasunda, the younger brother, walked into Sunda’s bedchamber and saw his brother and Tilottama making love. He could not bear it and, later that same night, challenged Sunda to a duel. After a bloody fight, Sunda killed Upasunda. But then, he was horrified by what he had done and ran his sword through his own heart.”

The Pandavas sat as if they were made of stone. Knowing he had their attention, Narada said, “You five brothers also share one woman and such a beautiful woman. You must be careful she does not become the unwitting cause of your falling out among yourselves. For, my precious princes, you are the agents of a great destiny. And it would not do if you were to fight one another, instead of the evil ones who are your enemies.”

Suddenly, his eyes were old as stars. “Just think how pleased Duryodhana and Shakuni would be, if you five were to fall out over Draupadi. You would do their work for them and they could rule a world with no-one in it to oppose them.” He lowered his voice still further, “Remember, as long as you stand together you are invincible. If you are divided, your enemies will cut you down very quickly.

I am not saying there is jealousy in your hearts, or that you compare yourselves to one another. What I do say is that you are not ordinary men, by a long way. The future of the world depends on you five and you must guard yourselves against the most unlikely contingencies.”

Arjuna asked, “Tell us how, Muni.”

“I have a way. But you must all approve of it, because it is a hard way.”

Bheema said, “Tell us what it is, Narada.”

“I suggest that each of you, beginning with Yudhishtira, keeps your dark queen for a year. During that year, she shall be exclusively the wife of one brother. If anyone intrudes on their privacy during that year, the intruder must go on a tirtha-yatra for twelve years and not see Panchali for that time.”

The Pandavas glanced at one another. Yudhishtira said, “We will do as you say, Muni. Bless us so we may be strong.”

Narada did so and, having accomplished what he came for, the itinerant was on his way once more, blithe as ever. News of her husbands’ resolve came to Draupadi, who went into the prayer room to ask for the Gods’ blessing for them all. Then she moved into Yudhishtira’s wing of the palace for the first year.

The new arrangement appeared to be working well, until, one day fate took a hand in Arjuna’s life. Fate arrived as an irate brahmana, whose cows had been stolen. Arjuna was sitting on his balcony that balmy morning, basking in the sun, when he heard the brahmana’s voice below him.

“Pandavas, all the world has contempt for a king who levies a sixth of his kingdom’s yield as tithe and does nothing to protect his subjects!”

Arjuna leaned over his terrace. “What is the matter, Brahmana?”

“My cows have been stolen in broad daylight. Help me, Arjuna!”

“Thieves in Indraprastha? I am coming.”

Then Arjuna remembered his weapons were in Yudhishtira’s apartment, where the king was with Draupadi. Coming out into the courtyard between his wing of the palace and his brother’s, Arjuna hesitated. How would he enter Yudhishtira’s apartment when his brother was alone with the queen?

The brahmana cried. “The thieves will reach their homes with my cows!”

Arjuna stood in a quandary. The brahmana said in disgust, “As his brothers, so too the king! Like all kshatriyas you live off the fat of the land and neglect your dharma to protect those that depend on you. When I came to Indraprastha, I thought Pandu’s sons were different from Dhritarashtra’s; but I see all you kshatriyas are the same.”

The man began to walk away, when Arjuna seized his arm and cried, “One moment, Brahmana! Let me fetch my bow.”

Deciding it was his dharma to help the brahmana, to his own cost if need be, Arjuna ran to his brother’s apartment. The front door was not locked and he walked in. There was no guard posted, there was no need for one. Beyond the door, lay a small waiting room and beyond that was another room where the weapons were. Arjuna paused, with his hand on the second door.

He knew Yudhishtira’s bedchamber lay beyond the private armory. He hesitated, knowing if he passed the second door, he must go into exile as well. He heard the frantic brahmana cry, “Arjuna has vanished into the palace, leaving me standing here like a fool! He is afraid of the thieves. Ah, what the world has come to these days. And they say Yudhishtira is a great king.”

Arjuna pushed open the inner door. He heard Draupadi and Yudhishtira together; he heard her moan. Mustering his courage, Arjuna mumbled, “There is a brahmana in trouble outside. I came for my bow and arrows; forgive me.”

He seized his bow and quiver and ran out. There had been no answer from the next room; but he heard Draupadi draw her breath sharply. Shaking, Arjuna came out into the sun, where the brahmana was about to walk away again.

Knowing he had just sentenced himself to twelve years of exile, Arjuna said, “Come, show me where the thieves took your cows.”

In a lather to retrieve his herd, the brahmana ran ahead already. Smiling at the man’s alacrity and his belly that flapped ahead of him, Arjuna followed at a lope. They came to the city gates, where the cows had been lifted. The herd’s tracks were still fresh on the soft ground and, telling the brahmana to wait for him, Arjuna followed them into the jungle.

As he sped through the trees, tears stung his eyes. It was all he could do to keep his mind on his task. With the herd, the cattle-thieves couldn’t go as quickly as he did and it did not take him long to catch up with them. Soon, he saw the rumps of fine white cows through the trees and driving them on were three forest bandits, hurrying through the jungle’s twisting avenues.

The bandits saw nothing of Arjuna. As they plunged along, suddenly a hundred arrows whistled around them. Some missed their heads so narrowly the thieves could feel their breath; others flashed down at their feet so they jumped into the air. They ran faster than ever. Stranger missiles flew after them, arrows that howled like bhutas and burned like fire-serpents.

The bandits left the cows and fled through the jungle. Arjuna sent a few more blistering shafts after them, crying, “I will kill you if you ever come back!”

He rounded up the cows and took them back to the brahmana. It had been so easy, too easy almost. Arjuna knew fate had tricked him: the stolen cows had been a pretext, he was meant to leave the comfort of Indraprastha.

He came shyly to his brother and stood with his head bent. Yudhishtira hugged him. “I hear you recovered the brahmana’s cows. He is telling all the city what a kshatriya you are.”

Arjuna stood downcast. At last, he said, “I came into your apartment when you were alone with Panchali. I must go on a pilgrimage for twelve years.”

“No! You came only because you had to fetch your bow and quiver. I did not mind. Besides, it is never a crime for the younger brother to come into his older brother’s chamber. If I had come into yours, that would be different. You must not leave Indraprastha, not for a day.”

Arjuna was unmoved. “You are letting your love for me sway your judgement. I have often heard you say there is no room for compromise in dharma. Don’t make me waver from the truth, I must go.”

Yudhishtira sighed and said quietly, “Go with my blessing, then, if you must. Take some of our brahmanas and sutas with you. They will make the tirthas come alive with their legends. Meet mother, our brothers and Panchali before you go.”

Arjuna bowed to his king, clasped him once more and went to meet the others. Kunti and Draupadi wept and begged him to reconsider; his brothers said that, because of the circumstances, he could not be held to the oath. Arjuna was adamant and early next morning he set out with a group of brahmanas and pauranikas.

The sun was mellow in a clear sky as the pilgrims headed toward the Ganga. They meant to track the river back into the Himalayas, to her source.

FIFTY-SEVEN ULUPI AND CHITRANGADAA
 

Climbing without rest, save at night, in a month Arjuna and his party arrived at the source of the Ganga. Near that hidden spring the water formed a crystalline lake, the Bindusaras; and on its mirror-smooth surface grew lotuses that might have fallen straight out of Devaloka. Arjuna decided to stay a while beside the lake on the Himalaya.

The brahmanas lit a fire and made their offerings to Agni. Then they built simple shelters for themselves and began living there. They could not have chosen a better place for their worship. Soon the very air was laden with mantras, which mingled with the delicate scents of lotuses that unfurled, day and night, to rhythms neither of sun nor moon, but more subtle and mysterious: perhaps, the rhythms of unknown stars deep in the sky.

Arjuna lived contentedly there for some months, without any excitement or incident. During the icy winter, they lit fires and sat round them, singing stirring bhajans late into the night. The pauranikas had an inexhaustible fund of sacred tales; and Arjuna found solace in them, apart from pleasure.

Winter began to turn to spring and the Pandava felt restless. He felt the urge to move on. He stayed, knowing he would be given a sign when the time actually came.

The days grew warmer, as the migrant sun drifted north once more. Every day Arjuna went to the lake where the river sprang. So far, he had neither heard nor seen anyone else there, save at times his own brahmanas. When spring had arrived and the trees all burst into bloom, one morning the Pandava came to the lake with the rising sun and prepared to light a fire for his worship. When the wood was stacked, dry twigs and branches, he dived into the water to bathe before sitting down to pray.

He was not aware that, for days now, someone had been watching him, from hiding among the trees or from under the transparent lake. The crisp water closed smoothly around him; by now, Arjuna was used to the first shock of cold.

He swam out a good way across the lake. He had seen some new lotuses of spring, their petals the color of blood. He was being watched closely, but never knew it. With powerful strokes, he swam to the resonant blooms. He pulled up one of the crimson flowers, its stalk trailing the sparkling surface of the water. The sun was just peeping above the horizon.

As he reached for another lotus, an irresistible force seized him and pulled him under water. Arjuna was a strong swimmer, but there was no escaping whatever held him. Taking a deep breath, he submerged helplessly. As he went, he peered down to discover what dragged him down and saw nothing.

The deeper he went, the stronger grew the pull. Arjuna hurtled along and briefly lost consciousness. Curiously, he never felt threatened as he plunged past indigo serpents watching him out of knowing, lidless eyes. Unconscious, he fell straight through a magic opening on the bed of the lake, quite as Bheema had in another place, many years ago. The secret portals that lead down into the patalas are numerous and many of them lie under water.

When the Pandava came to his senses, he found himself in a jeweled chamber whose walls seemed to be made of living moss. Clusters of glow-worms on the walls and ceiling cast their warm light through the room. Arjuna saw a fire of sacrifice just like the one he had stacked ashore; but this one was already kindled. He still had the two vermilion lotuses in his hand.

Arjuna sat before the fire and poured oblation into it. He still felt no sense of any danger. On the contrary, he felt welcome in this strange place and he knew the fire had been lit for him. He was entirely at ease and took his time over his worship.

When he finished, he opened his eyes and saw a young woman before him. Her skin shone softly, a half-smile was on her arched lips; her slanted eyes were full of shy desire. She wore a sheer gown made of silver fish-scales and fine threads of moss. Arjuna could see her slender body underneath, young breasts with long, dark nipples and hips that flared away from a reed-slim waist, where she wore a glowing ruby in her deep navel.

Understanding now, Arjuna laughed. “Who are you, impetuous temptress? And where have you have brought me?”

She had watched him for months, in his asrama and in the water and she had waited impatiently for spring to arrive. Her voice was full of river-eddies, as she said slowly and quite regally, “I am Ulupi. My father is the Naga Kauravya, born in the line of Airavata and he is a king of nagaloka. We are in my father’s palace.”

Feigning innocence, Arjuna asked, “But why have you brought me here, princess?”

She did not answer, but a blush spread from her neck down her sinuous body and she turned her eyes down. He knew this was the first time she had done anything like this and his heart went out to her. “You haven’t answered me, Ulupi.”

“I have watched you for many days now, stranger. I am not married and I am a virgin still. I love you and want to give myself to you freely, as our women do before we marry.” She turned her extraordinary eyes on him now, “Spend one night with me, Kshatriya, make a woman of me. That is all I ask. I see you are a man of destiny and you will not stay with me forever.”

“Ah princess, I wish I could, but I am sworn to brahmacharya. We five brothers swore an oath in Indraprastha and that is how I came to the mountains.”

He told her about Draupadi and his brothers, the vow and his twelve-year exile. She heard him out in silence, then said, “You have sworn not to see Draupadi during your exile. But I am not Draupadi, O Arjuna and if you will not have me I shall kill myself.”

She slipped off her robe fluidly and stood naked before him. Arjuna rose and took her in his arms. At just his touch, she began to tremble uncontrollably. When it passed, she smiled at him and he began to kiss her hungrily, her lips, her fluted throat and her breasts. She took his hand and led him out of that room.

She took him down a winding passage and into another chamber, with a tall ceiling, embellished with a profusion of corals. At the heart of that wide room was a bed canopied with strings and strings of shining moon-pearls. As Ulupi led Arjuna to her bed, a door slid shut behind them. The only light in that room was from a thousand pearls. She reached for him in the dimness. She stripped away the cloth he wore around his waist and began to caress him in a fever, crying strange deep cries. She stroked him with her petal hands and moistened him with her river lips, until, with a cry of his own, he lifted her in the velvet dark and laid her down on the soft bed. Helpless for the storm they were both in the eye of, Arjuna took her tenderly, fiercely. She writhed and screamed under him and locked him in smooth legs strong as serpents.

A day and its night passed in wild lovemaking and in languor and snatches of sleep in between. Came the dawn and Arjuna said to Ulupi, “I must go now, or I will never be able to leave. The brahmanas must worry about me. This is the first time I have been away without telling them.”

Sad and brave, radiant with the love they had made, Ulupi swam to the surface world with him through the portal on the bed of the lake. The sun was just rising and the mountain birds were waking to hymn the morning. Arjuna plucked two more crimson lotuses and swam ashore. A last time she came to him and he kissed her long and deep on the banks of the Ganga.

Her eyes brimming, she said, “I have a boon for you, my love. No harm will ever come to you while you are in water: in sea, lake and river you shall be invincible.”

She clung to him briefly and then, with a sob, tore herself away. Ulupi dived back into the lake, cleanly as a water snake, cleaving its dawn-lit surface with hardly a ripple and she was gone from his life. Only the taste of her lingered in his mouth and the memory of her passion in his body. With a sigh, Arjuna made his way back to the asrama.

He had the sign he had been waiting for; he told the brahmanas it was time to move on. Later the same day, they packed their scant possessions, bid farewell to the hermitage that had been so hospitable and, after worshipping the spring of the Ganga one last time, they climbed higher up the mountain.

Through white valleys they went, under peaks on which the snows of winter were still melting. Sunset and sunrise here were pristine spectacles that reminded a man, as nothing else on earth, of the immortality of his soul.

They visited the asramas of Agastya, Vasishta and Bhrigu and each day the weather grew warmer and more clement. Their hearts full of the wonder of the Himalayas, they came down again into the plains of the Ganga. Arjuna and his party journeyed east. By now, all of them looked like sannyasins, with matted jata and thick beards and they came to the tirthas in Anga, Vanga and Kalinga.

The brahmanas grew weary of wandering and in Kalinga, they bade Arjuna farewell. He was determined to see all of Bharatavarsha, at least as many of its tirthas as he could. Walking on, alone, Arjuna came to the looming Mount Mahendra. Taking his time, climbing leisurely, pausing to rest in charmed valleys full of spirits and on the banks of frothing rivulets, hunting his food in game-rich forests, Arjuna passed over the Mahendra. He turned south along a beach where once, more than seven hundred thousand years ago, at the beginning of the dwapara yuga that now neared its end swiftly, a distraught blue savior had come with his brother and an army of monkeys: in search of his wife whom an awesome Demon had abducted.

Briefly, Arjuna worshipped Sri Rama of old and, then, the one whom Rama himself had worshipped here: Mahadeva Siva. Now he turned south and walking along the shoreline, leaving his prints on damp sands, Arjuna found his way to the kingdom of Manalur, where king Chitrasena welcomed him.

At first, Arjuna stayed in Chitrasena’s palace for a month. It was a year since the Pandava had been in royal surroundings and he allowed himself to be tempted by the luxury of the palace in Manalur. He never told the king who he was and pretended to be an itinerant rishi, as he seemed by his appearance and his saffron robes.

After a month, Arjuna left Manalur abruptly and wandered to the sea again. He lived in seclusion by the waves that washed dim tidings ashore from the corners of the earth and the wind that bore the cries of gulls and starlight full of prophecy. Arjuna was plunged in indecision, wondering whether to return to Manalur: for, he loved Chitrasena’s daughter Chitrangadaa.

This princess had a secret: she was ugly. However, she was a gifted sorceress. Chitrangadaa had lost her heart the moment she saw Arjuna; she turned herself into a ravishing beauty to seduce him.

Finally, the Pandava went back to Manalur and sought audience with the king. Chitrasena received the handsome young mendicant to whom he had taken such a liking. The king said, “I thought you had left us, young Muni. I am glad to see you back.”

Arjuna was quiet for a moment, then, said, “My lord, I am not who you think I am. I am Pandu and Kunti’s son Arjuna.”

Chitrasena rose in amazement. Arjuna said, “I left here to test myself: if what I had begun to feel in your palace was mere fancy or something more…”

The king was a shrewd man and guessed what he meant. “And you found your heart didn’t allow you to remain away?”

“I love your daughter and want to marry her.”

Chitrasena cried, “Which father would not give his daughter to the greatest kshatriya on earth? Yet, Arjuna, there is a condition I must insist on before I give Chitrangadaa to you. Since time out of mind, the generations of our House have been blessed with just one child. Chitrangadaa is my only child; she is the one who must continue our line. Only if you agree that your child by my daughter will remain here in Manalur with me and in time be the king or queen, can I give Chitrangadaa to you.”

The Pandava agreed without hesitation. The next day, Chitrangadaa became his wife and for three years, Arjuna lived with her in Manalur. He never knew what she really looked like but believed her to be as beautiful as she had made herself for him with her maya. One morning, when she awoke at his side, Arjuna saw her aglow. “You are so happy this morning, Chitrangadaa. Share your joy with me.”

She said, “You are going to be a father.”

There was rejoicing in Manalur; but suddenly, Arjuna was restless again. He yearned for his brothers and for Indraprastha; and now, strangely, more than anything else, he longed to see Krishna. It was as if fate’s work was complete once Chitrangadaa conceived and it was time for Arjuna to move on.

Yet, he waited until his son was born and that day Chitrangadaa was so weak after her labor that, for the first time, Arjuna saw her as she really was. He felt betrayed and decided he must leave Manalur the same night. Past midnight, the Pandava stole out of the city and set out south again. Now he wanted to bathe in the sea at the southern tip of Bharatavarsha.

Tradition was not broken in Manalur. Like all her ancestors, Chitrangadaa of Manalur would have only one child, great Arjuna’s son.