THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (42 page)

SEVEN GIRIVRAJA
 

Disguised as snataka brahmanas, who know the Vedas—young men who have completed their gurukulam, but are not grihasthas, householders, yet—Krishna, Bheema and Arjuna set out from Indraprastha. They crossed the deep Sarayu and the swift Gandaki and the solemn Kalakuta mountains, on their way east to Mithila. They arrived at the borders of Mithila and saw the Ganga, laden with men’s sins, flowing out to her lord, the ocean.

They forded her in a tribal’s reed-boat and now they went south until they came to the banks of the Sona whose waters are golden. Crossing that river and pressing on, they arrived in fertile, bountiful Magadha. They struck out into the heart of that land, where a ring of five hills called the Goratha, chariot of cows, encircled a great city: Girivraja, the invincible Jarasandha’s capital.

They stood on one of the peaks that ringed the city and saw why Girivraja was impregnable. It was impossible to bring horse or chariot to attack it. Only a winged steed could cross the guardian hills that fell sheerly into the valley in which Girivraja lay.

Krishna said grimly, “It is the enemy’s fortress. We must be full of aggression now!”

He tore some rocks off the Chaityaka hill, on which they stood and hurled them down into the valley below. Bheema and Arjuna joined him; until their kshatriya blood raged and their roars echoed among the hills. Their spirits roused, they came down ferally into the valley and to the city-gates. Like three dangerous beasts of prey, Krishna, Arjuna and Bheema came to Girivraja.

Just outside the city stood a stone temple, an ancient shrine to Siva. The three kshatriyas entered its sanctum and worshipped the God of Gods. When they felt his blessing clearly, they came out and approached Girivraja.

They did not enter at the gates, but scaled the outer walls; and soon three unusual snataka brahmanas were swaggering through the streets of Jarasandha’s capital, looking for trouble. They snatched some garlands off a flower-vendor’s stall and when he began to remonstrate with them, they silenced him with a low growling in their throats. They did not pay for the garlands, or say a word.

With the garlands draped around their sandal-and ash-coated bodies, they walked colorfully through the streets. People stared at the strangers, who were dressed like snatakas but had the physiques and the haughty demeanor of kshatriyas spoiling for a fight. Like a pride of lions, the three sauntered through Girivraja, daring anyone to accost them.

Meanwhile, evil omens appeared over the city. The brahmanas who read these signs saw birds of the air flying queerly, in wheeling, panicstricken swarms. Sacrificial fires spluttered and died and purulent smoke issued from the embers. The priests grew alarmed and, turning to their almanacs, found the planets were in precarious aspects.

The brahmanas came anxiously to the king and said, “Sinister omens have gathered over Girivraja’s destiny. You must perform a mrityunjaya homa at once; your life is in danger.”

Jarasandha said, “Make arrangements in the palace temple. I will come there straightaway.”

Even as the king of Magadha sat at the ritual, meant to turn death away, three warriors come to kill him arrived at his opulent palace. They did not enter at the gates. He was their enemy and a kshatriya must never enter an enemy’s house openly, but by stealth. Again they scaled the walls and stalked into Jarasandha’s chamber of audience, in disguise, garlanded and smeared with ashes and sandal-paste.

Word came to the king that three snataka brahmanas sought audience with him. His guard told Jarasandha of the trio’s unusual entry into his palace. The king sent them madhurparka, milk and honey and asked them to wait for him.

It was midnight, when the homa was completed and Jarasandha came to meet the visitors, who had aroused his curiosity. He bowed to the strangers. His shrewd eyes appraised them. He saw their brahmanas’ attire: sandal-paste and saffron garments, tall tilakas on their foreheads. He also saw the marks on their muscled arms made by bowstrings. He saw how splendidly they were built and knew these were no brahmanas but kshatriya warriors.

But he said warmly, “Welcome to Girivraja! It is strange that snatakas come to my palace wearing sandal-paste and garlands. It is stranger they choose to enter by scaling my walls. This isn’t the way that friends arrive.

And, friends, you refused the madhurparka I sent you. Yet, you are welcome. I see warriors’ physiques under your ash and sandalwood-paste, battle-scars on your skin and the marks of bowstrings on your shoulders. I wonder if you are brahmanas or kshatriyas. But whoever you are, you are welcome in Girivraja!”

Krishna smiled. “It is indeed the friend who enters at the gate and the enemy that comes over the wall. The kshatriya is not known for sweet words, but his deeds. We have come to challenge you.”

Jarasandha peered at them in the lamplight. “But who are you? Why do you want to challenge me, when I do not recall ever having harmed you? You say you are my enemies. How can you be my enemies when I have not set eyes on you before? I have many enemies, certainly, but none that I have never seen. Tell me who you are.”

Krishna replied, “You have made prisoners of ninety-eight kings and you mean to slaughter them in Siva’s name. We are your enemies because you want to sacrifice these kshatriyas like animals.”

“I have defeated every king in my prisons in battle. Their lives are mine, in dharma.”

He still peered curiously at them in the deep night. The certainty grew on him that he had seen the strangers’ spokesman before. He knew that ash-and sandal-coated face and those black eyes full of transcendent mockery. He cried, “But tell me who you are and where you have come from.”

Krishna said softly, “I am Krishna of Dwaraka. These are my cousins Bheema and Arjuna. We have come to tell you to let the captive kings go free, or face any of us in single combat. Of course, if you are not afraid to, after the Yadavas routed you eighteen times outside Mathura.”

Jarasandha’s eyes blazed. Then he began to laugh, a silent shaking of his great body which turned to echoing peals. “There is more than one version of those eighteen battles. People say for fear of me you hide out at sea, behind Raivataka. Yet, you come here to challenge me in Girivraja. The thought is amusing, cowherd.”

His eyes glinted. “Krishna, you dare come here and tell me what I should do with my prisoners. Have you forgotten who I am? Cowherd, I am Jarasandha. I fear no one in the world and no one has ever vanquished me.

You have come to your deaths. Tell me, how shall we fight? Army against army, or hand to hand? How many of you will fight me at once? All of you? Two at least? Or were you thinking of sending home for some more brothers and cousins, if I agreed to fight you?”

Still smiling equably, Krishna said, “Choose one of us, Kshatriya. Which one will you fight?”

Jarasandha sneered at them. “You will be poor antagonists, all of you. You, Krishna, are a known coward; I will not fight you. This Arjuna, who sits beside you like a fawning puppy, is just a boy. I am not in the habit of doing battle with children. As for this big fellow here, well, at least he looks like a man. He seems well built enough, so the fight may not be entirely one-sided.

Bheema, I will fight you and if I win let both your kingdoms become mine! If I lose, my kingdom will be yours.”

Arjuna and Bheema glanced at Krishna, who nodded. Bheema said nothing; he rose and bowed, accepting the Magadhan’s challenge. Now he had seen the enemy, felt his awesome presence and power, Bheema was more circumspect. But Jarasandha, who had never known fear in his life, felt a shiver of terror in his blood.

He said quickly, “Rest well tonight, enemies and tomorrow we shall fight. After I have killed Bheema, both Indraprastha and Dwaraka will be mine and you shall be my subjects. Tonight is your last night of freedom. Is there anything I can send you to make your night warm?”

Krishna replied, “Just a bed will do.”

Jarasandha insisted, “You are my guests. I could not have hoped for greater fortune than your coming here like this, especially you, cowherd. You shall have wine and the best food in all Bharatavarsha, the finest women, too. Enjoy them, Bheema, this is your last night in the world. We begin at noon tomorrow.”

He rose abruptly and left them. Warm, indeed, was Jarasandha’s hospitality and, while the two Pandavas and Krishna were awash on it, later that night, Jarasandha himself attended an unusual ceremony: he had his son Sahadeva crowned king of Magadha. He could not stop thinking of the omens seen in his city and icy foreboding laid its fingers on his heart.

But when he came to fetch his guests the next day at noon, no trace of fear remained on the Magadhan. He was just a superb kshatriya now, his mighty body oiled and glistening for the day’s combat, his confidence supreme. After all, despite the omens, who could possibly know how he, whom Jara had joined, could be killed? He was convinced no one knew that secret and so no one could kill him.

EIGHT THE BLADE OF GRASS
 

The next day, at noon, Jarasandha led Bheema to a courtyard in his palace and a wrestling-pit full of

white river-sand. The Magadhan said, “Which weapon do you prefer?”

“The mace,” replied Bheema.

A selection of the finest maces was fetched and Jarasandha allowed Bheema first choice. Krishna smiled, “It is a pity you flung away the mace that made you invincible. I have it in my palace in Dwaraka.”

“I am still invincible, cowherd. And that mace will shortly be mine again and your Dwaraka with it.”

It was time to begin and, maces clutched in hands powerful as thunderbolts, the giant combatants began to circle each other. The sieved sand sparkled like crushed diamonds under their feet. With a roar that welled from his belly, Bheema struck out wildly at Jarasandha’s head. Quicker than the eye, the king evaded the stroke and Bheema staggered forward a step.

In a flash, Jarasandha swung a sharp half-blow at him from behind. It crashed into Bheema’s back and he almost fell; and if he had fallen, Jarasandha’s next blow would have killed him. But the legs of the son of the wind were as strong as trees. Bheema swiveled on his heels and struck back at Jarasandha: a looping blow that began near the Pandava’s feet, curved up and took the Magadhan smartly on his arm, fetching a cry from him.

Jarasandha roared, “You are strong, Pandava! And not half as dull as you look. This may turn out to be a better fight than I had thought.”

Bheema kept his eyes fixed on his adversary’s, ignoring what he said, just as his master had taught him to. The eye, Balarama had told him, never lies. Like two beasts from the earth’s dim past, they circled in tense ritual, always seeking an opening to strike at. It would be an instant’s relaxation, a fleeting weakness: that was all, because these two were great mace-fighters. But that moment was all they would need to make a kill.

Patiently, they circled. After his first blind swing, no further rashness came from Bheema. The thought sobered him that, if he had fallen, it would have been an end to everything. As they circled, they seemed to grow in stature, until they towered over the white arena.

Like summer lightning, Jarasandha aimed a savage stroke at Bheema’s chest. Now Bheema was a blur of evasion and, quick as thinking, he struck back at the Magadhan. Just in time, Jarasandha raised his mace-head, saving his face. The two maces burst apart with the force of that blow and Jarasandha’s laughter rang through his palace.

“Well done, Pandava! I shall enjoy this duel. Fetch us more maces. Or would you rather fight hand to hand?”

Bheema stood there and not a word out of him. But his eyes shone as brightly as Jarasandha’s. He raised his arms in front of his chest to show he was ready to fight barehanded. Again, they circled, warily, changing their inner rhythms, adapting to the new form of combat. They knew it would be a serious mistake to imagine that fighting barehanded would be less dangerous than with maces. Both kshatriyas’ hands were weapons hardened with years of striking rocks, crushing them. A blow from those hands could fell not just a man, but an elephant.

Meanwhile, their roars had fetched the people from the streets of Girivraja to the wrestling arena. Word flashed through the city that their king and a stranger were battling to the death, with their kingdoms set as stake. The people, brahmanas, kshatriyas, vaisyas, sudras and even women and the aged came running to watch the stranger die. It was seldom, nowadays, that anyone came to challenge Jarasandha. This stranger must be a fool, or he must be tired of his life.

But as they arrived, they heard whispers that it was their old enemy Krishna who had come to challenge their king and his cousin Bheema was the one Jarasandha was fighting. Soon they saw how evenly the two were matched. Why, if Jarasandha had been any other kshatriya, Bheema would have killed him by now. But Jarasandha had a boon from the Lord Siva that he could be killed in just one way; and, of course, no one knew that secret.

This was the first day of the month of Kartika. The combatants had used a hundred holds and locks, vicious kicks to the marmas of the body and blows, flat-handed and close-fisted, all at stunning speed. Any of these would have killed any other opponent, except three or four men on earth. But Bheema and Jarasandha knew the proper block and parry for each blow, every kick and iron lock; and no harm came to either.

With lowered heads, they butted one another like fighting rams and shuddered with the impacts. They kicked each other with feet like thunder and blows like whiplash lightning and, invariably, these fell harmlessly on other parts of the body than they were meant to. Both were gifted, superbly trained and each stronger than a bull-bison. In different ways, neither of their strengths was merely human.

The noise of their duel was like electric storms, like cliffs crumbling into the sea. At dusk, a conch blared, announcing an end to the day’s combat. The warriors embraced each other and left the arena and the crowd dispersed. And now, Jarasandha the ferocious antagonist was transformed into the most gracious host. The adversaries returned to the Magadhan king’s palace for nightlong revelry and the cordial exchange of drunken pleasantries and insults.

Late that night, Arjuna said wryly to Krishna, “This enemy is a better host than most of our friends.”

Full of the delectable wine served at Jarasandha’s table, cosseted by the loveliest women from his harem, Krishna agreed with feeling, “May Bheema kill him slowly, over many days.”

So it turned out. For twenty-six days, all that month of Kartika, the two titans fell at each other for three hours every afternoon, with maces they swiftly broke and then with bare hands. Each day, at dusk, they returned to the palace, bruised, often bloody: returned to dice and wine, delicious food, song and dance, uninhibited gaiety and the most luscious women. Indeed, it seemed that with every day the two kshatriyas’ spirits improved.

Krishna said to Arjuna, “I see now why this Asura is such a favorite of Siva’s. Twenty-six days and his hospitality and generosity continue unabated.” The Dark One sighed. “He is a magnificent kshatriya.”

But at crack of dawn on the twenty-seventh day of the fluctuating duel, Krishna came to see his cousin Bheema in his room. Bheema had grown strangely close to the lord of Girivraja: as if the fight to death they waged daily bound them together with invisible thongs.

Krishna said, “Tomorrow is amavasya, the day he has been waiting for. His kind is strongest when the moon is new. You must kill him today, Bheema, or he will kill you tomorrow. Watch me for a sign and I will show you how to finish him. It is time he died, or Yudhishtira will never perform the Rajasuya and your father will remain in Yama’s labyrinths.

For Pandu and Yudhishtira, for the kings in his dungeons, who I believe are a hundred now and for this earth, who has borne his burden for too long: you must kill Jarasandha today.”

Bheema smiled, “I have grown fond of him; he is great-hearted. But he is old and he is tiring. I will kill him, Krishna: for your sake as well as for all the others’!” Bheema knelt at Krishna’s feet and the Dark One blessed him.

Five sets of maces were quickly shattered that afternoon. The king and his palace guest fell on each other with bare hands. Yet, they were more cautious than ever, both conserving their ebbing energies: only the one who endured would live. Suddenly, Bheema began to feel unaccountably strong, as if someone was infusing him with unearthly power. With this new strength, he swung an iron fist at the Magadhan. Caught unawares by a sickening blow, Jarasandha fell with a cry.

In a flash Bheema was on him, his knee planted on his enemy’s chest, his vast hands round his throat to choke life out of him. Jarasandha’s face turned purple, but he did not die. At last, Bheema released the thick throat and turned desperately to Krishna. Jarasandha sat up, laughing and struck Bheema a dreadful blow.

Bheema roared and sprang forward to clinch with him. Now, the Pandava was full of doubt as they circled, with immense arms locked. Bheema knew he had been within a whisker of killing Jarasandha. But he had not died, when Bheema had choked him for so long that his heart must have stopped beating. As they circled, breathing heavily, Bheema saw Krishna smiling at him. The Avatara held a blade of grass in his hands and he tore it along its length.

The strange strength coursed through Bheema’s arms again; he understood the meaning of the blade of grass. In a blur, he tripped Jarasandha into the sand, damp with their sweat. Quick as thinking he seized the king’s ankles, one in each hand. Jarasandha’s eyes flew open in shock and a roar of alarm erupted from his lips. Bheema tore that king in two from his anus to his crown; and his steaming intestines, his feces, heart, liver, spleen, all his innards spilled on to the white sand.

The crowd was petrified that the impossible had happened: Jarasandha was dead. Bheema gave a roar of triumph, he ran to Krishna and Arjuna to embrace them. But there was the queerest look in Krishna’s eyes and, as Bheema flung his arms round his cousin, he heard a sound that froze his blood. The crowd was shouting its king’s name again.

‘Jarasandha! Jaya, Jarasandha!’

Slowly, Bheema turned and his cry of terror at what he saw in the wrestling-pit echoed across the city. The torn halves of Jarasandha’s body had joined themselves together; all his spilt organs had packed themselves into place again. There was a flash of light like the one when Jara, the rakshasi, once joined two pieces of a baby together and gave a huge prince life. The lord of Magadha rose from the dead and laughing as if the tearing of his body had been a delightful jest, he advanced on Bheema again.

Bheema stood rooted. Wasn’t it possible then to kill this terrible king? What point was it fighting if the demon would not die after being torn in two? As the grinning Jarasandha beckoned to him to come into a clinch again, Bheema turned in despair to Krishna. Arjuna looked as mortified as his brother did. But Krishna stood smiling, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. He held another blade of grass in his hands; who knew where he had come by a blade of grass? As Bheema watched him, amazed, again Krishna ripped the green blade in two; and now he crossed his hands and threw the torn halves in opposite directions.

Once more, Bheema felt the eerie strength surge through him. He leapt back into the wrestling-pit and charged Jarasandha. The king was taken aback; he had thought the Pandava’s nerve would break when he saw that Jarasandha of Magadha rose from the dead. Bheema seized him and, hefting his

bulk over his head, began to whirl him round.

Jarasandha roared with laughter. “Prepare to die when you have finished your little game!”

Bheema let him down suddenly and seized his ankles. Planting his foot at the fork of his legs, Bheema tore him in two again, in a flash, so he had no time even to scream. Out spilled the warm and bloody innards. Bheema stood panting. Still holding one half of the giant body in each hand, he glanced uncertainly at Krishna. Krishna crossed his wrists.

Crossing his arms, Bheema flung the two body halves in opposite directions, so each one lay with its back to the other. Now they did not join and Jarasandha did not rise from the dead. His people shouted to him to come back, not to abandon them, O great king. The pieces of his corpse did not even twitch. Their king, Lord Siva’s bhakta, would never rise again.

Krishna’s celebrant cry rang through Girivraja: the roar of a triumphant God! Now he ran to embrace Bheema, who collapsed exhausted in the Dark One’s arms. They paid the dead king every homage, but there was panic in the palace of Girivraja. Panic gripped the ministers and courtiers: what would become of them?

The customary shock that follows the death of a mighty sovereign seized the city and the streets of mourning. The people knew their kingdom had been the stake for the duel. Would Magadha become part of Indraprastha? Would Yudhishtira come to rule Girivraja, or would Bheema or Arjuna become its king?

Krishna’s first concern was for the hundred royal captives. He had them released from the fetid catacomb under the palace, where Jarasandha held them.

When those kshatriyas emerged into the clean night air, they saw dark Krishna effulgent and four-armed before them and they knelt before him. When they had thanked him, repeatedly, for saving them from being brutally sacrificed, they asked what they could do for him in return.

Krishna said, “It was Bheema who saved you. His brother Yudhishtira wants to perform a Rajasuya yagna and become emperor of Bharatavarsha. See you give him your support.”

The hundred swore, “Yudhishtira is already our emperor!”

Krishna turned his mind back to Girivraja. At midnight of the day his father was torn in two by Bheema, Jarasandha’s eldest son, another Sahadeva, found himself king in Magadha. No condition was attached to his kingship, except that he recognized Yudhishtira as his emperor and ally. Jarasandha’s ministers retained their positions of influence. Having achieved the impossible in Girivraja, Krishna set out for Indraprastha with an exuberant Bheema and Arjuna and the chariots laden with the gold and jewels that Sahadeva sent with him.

When they arrived at the gates of Indraprastha, the three of them raised their sea-conches and blew clarion blasts on them, so the walls of that city shook. Yudhishtira came out from his palace. Tears streaming down his face, he hugged his brothers and his cousin. “This is a miracle, Krishna. We could