THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (63 page)

Then they saw the Pandavas and Draupadi and the rakshasas who carried Dhaumya and Lomasa landed among them. Lomasa was no stranger to the rishis of Badari and they came to greet him in some relief. They were still awestruck by the beings that had carried that sage and his yatris to their asrama: these, they saw, were certainly rakshasas. But soon, everything was explained.

Lomasa said, “This is Yudhishtira of the House of Kuru.”

He did not have to say more. The rishis of Badari came forward warmly to greet the Pandava. They seemed to know all about Yudhishtira and his brothers, Draupadi and their exile. They even knew where Arjuna was. The eldest among them was a muni who looked a thousand years old, if he was a day: a thousand years that had made him more vigorous and full of light for every year he had seen.

That ancient now said, “It draws on time for your brother Arjuna to return to you and then, time to fight the war at the end of the age.” He sighed, “And when the kali yuga sets in, Lomasa, it may be time for us to leave this asrama and this earth.”

He was almost as tall as Ghatotkacha and he swept the twilight sky and the mountains around them with glowing eyes. “Long years we have lived here, for centuries we have sat in dhyana on the Badari. But, perhaps, in the age of terror there will be no one left to pray for the world, not even on this mountain.”

He turned to look curiously at Ghatotkacha and his rakshasas. Bheema said, “Ghatotkacha is my son, Muni. I summoned him to carry us to Badari, for we could not climb here ourselves.”

The old one smiled, “I have heard of you, Ghatotkacha and you are welcome.”

Just that night, Ghatotkacha and his silent rakshasas spent in the asrama. The moon rose and, when it was overhead, as they sat up late, talking, Sahadeva pointed down the mountain, “Look!”

The Pandavas saw the moon was not only above them, but seemed also to have fallen to the earth, a long way below them.

“What is it?” whispered Bheema.

The rishis laughed. One of them said, “It is the reflection of the moon on the Bindusaras, where the Ganga has her source.”

“Where Siva let her down from his head,” murmured Yudhishtira.

“The lake of water-drops,” said Lomasa reverently.

The ancient of Badari said, “That is how Sankara let her down, drop by drop, to quell her pride.”

The moon lay calmed on the Bindusaras, truly as if he had risen not only in the sky above but also the mountain’s heart. He lay there, softly breathtaking.

In the morning the rakshasas rose with the sun and, bidding farewell to the Pandavas, the munis and Draupadi, Ghatotkacha left Badarikasrama, promising to return whenever they wanted him again. Bheema clasped his son tightly and held him for a long time. When, finally, Ghatotkacha and his friends had flown toward the rising sun and their forest hidden away in the secret valley, Bheema had tears in his eyes and so did Draupadi and Yudhishtira.

Already, a fine serenity stole over their spirits. This was the asrama where Nara and Narayana had sat in dhyana once; and their tapasya blessed not only the mountain, but spread through all the earth and down the ages deeply. This mountain was a chalice of the Holy Spirit and nowhere else did Yudhishtira, his brothers, Draupadi and the others who traveled with them find such peace as they did in Badarikasrama.

EIGHTEEN AN OLD MONKEY
 

For some time, the Pandavas lived in Badarikasrama on Mount Gandhamadana. Each day they rose with the sun, at dawn so enchanting it dissolved sins and they thought: today Arjuna will return from Devaloka. But the days grew into weeks, the weeks into months and there was no sign of him.

Yudhishtira was at perfect peace with himself. He was happy to sit with the rishis of Badarikasrama all day long, specially the ancient one and listen to their illustrious lore. The mountain was so suffused with the Spirit it was hardly a place of the earth and Yudhishtira’s heart was full with the sanctity of that hermitage. Some nights, he dreamt he saw Nara and Narayana sitting at dhyana at a cave-mouth and their faces were familiar. When he awoke, he remembered nothing of his dreams.

Bheema and Draupadi were more restless than Yudhishtira, though their impatience of the Kamyaka vana was a thing of the past. The two of them took to going on long walks through the cedar forests of Gandhamadana. Those were fragrant woods and the very air was like a blessing: and so, indeed, was that mountain named Gandhamadana, for its scented cedar.

But one day, the two of them wandered along a trail that wound its way steeply down the mountain’s side, a trail they hadn’t explored before. After an hour, the path grew less precipitous and made its way into a thick forest over which an aura of mystery hung. It was darker here than in the forests higher up, because the trees were more tropical and grew closer to one another. Bheema and Draupadi had to walk slowly. They had gone half an hour into the forest, following the trail still, when

Draupadi seized Bheema’s hand and made him stop.

“Can you smell it?” she breathed, in an ecstasy. “Ah, Bheema, can’t you smell that fragrance?”

Bheema sniffed the air and there was no mistaking it: a scent straight out of heaven was borne on the breeze stirring in that forest.

“What is it?” Draupadi asked. “I have never smelt anything like it in all my life.”

They walked deeper into the trees, following the unearthly scent to its source; as they went on, it grew stronger, pervading the forest headily.

Bheema shut his eyes and said, “I feel I am walking into swarga.”

The scent was irresistible and following it blindly, they came into a small clearing. Draupadi stopped.

“Look!” she whispered, pointing.

Growing out of the earth under a punnaga tree was a little flower, scarlet and streaked with gold; and this flower filled the whole forest with the heavenly scent. Gingerly, Bheema and Draupadi crept forward, as if the tiny thing might wilt and die if they set foot too firmly.

When they were near, Draupadi said, “It must be the saugandhika the rishis told us about. No other flower on earth can smell like this.”

Bheema sniffed the air again. He walked a few paces beyond where the scarlet flower grew. He said, “The scent grows stronger! There are more of these inside the forest.”

Draupadi couldn’t help herself any more; she knelt down quickly and plucked the little flower. Sniffing it and sighing, she said, “I must take it for Yudhishtira. The munis said it stays fresh for a year after being plucked. But, Bheema, I want some more for myself. You must get them for me from wherever they grow.”

“It’s too late today, it will be dark in an hour. Their scent isn’t strong; the flowers grow deep in the vana and there may be danger there. Let us go back now and I will come again tomorrow by myself and bring you as many as you like.”

The bright flower nestled in Draupadi’s hand and it barely covered a tenth of her palm. Reluctantly she said, “Very well; but promise you will come tomorrow. I must have some more of these, they fill me with such delight.”

The rishis of the Badarikasrama confirmed that the flower was indeed a saugandhika and the hermitage was soon awash with its scent. Yudhishtira kept it beside his sleeping-mat, in an earthen vessel filled with spring water and the next morning it was as fresh as it had been when Draupadi picked it.

The old muni of Badari said, “It is a blessed flower that grows in Kubera’s garden. It will not fade for months, its heart is so strong.”

The next morning, at crack of dawn, Bheema set out alone for the forest. He went by the same path that Draupadi and he had taken the previous day and soon reached the punnaga tree where they had found the saugandhika. Through the vana, with invisible fingers, the maddening aroma reached for the son of the wind. Following it, Bheema walked deeper and deeper into that forest.

Soon, the forest was a very different world. Knotted trees with immense boles grew here, their branches so entwined that it was always twilight. Startling flowers that did not grow near the hem of the jungle covered the trees and thickets in gaudy profusion. Birds with livid plumage called in the branches, birds he had never seen before. As he went on, the vana grew stranger and stranger.

Bheema pressed on. The scent of the saugandhika was stronger, but he realized he had a good way to go before he arrived where the flowers grew. The silence of this jungle oppressed him; as if someone or something, perhaps a vana devata, a forest god, watched him with a thousand eyes hidden in stamen and leaf and did not want him to go any farther. To fight this feeling Bheema raised the conch he carried at his waist and blew a ringing blast on it. Sleeping lions were roused in their caves. Bheema heard a growl or two, a desultory roar here and there, as he plunged on. The Pandava smiled: this was far better than the intolerable silence.

But lions were not all he roused with his conch. Someone else lay asleep in the forest, someone from another age. He had come here just to meet Bheema, for he had something in common with the Pandava. That being now lifted his tail and crashed it down across the path beside which he sat, leaning against a tree. He was a warrior from another yuga, when everyone was much grander than in Bheema’s dwindled time. But Bheema was not to know this, save from stories he had heard, which he hardly took literally. Like men of every age, he, too, thought that all times had been exactly like the one he lived in.

Bheema heard that crash like thunder falling on the earth and ran toward it. Perhaps some rakshasa had heard his conch and was challenging him? Nothing could be better! How bored he had been, for longer than he cared to think, surrounded by rishis and brahmanas who spoke of nothing but peace and the atman and moksha. How he longed for a good fight; it would restore his spirits like nothing else.

He loped eagerly through the vana, quickly as the wind. Until he rounded a bend in the trail and saw a wizened old monkey before him, his back turned, his wrinkled head cradled in the crook of his brown arm and apparently fast asleep. Though the monkey was quite a small creature himself, he had the longest, finest tail Bheema had ever seen. Both tail and its owner lay stretched squarely across the path along which Bheema was rushing to meet whoever had made the earth tremble.

Bheema growled in annoyance. Weakly, the monkey raised his head to see who had disturbed his nap. Bheema towered over him, his brawny hands on his hips. The Pandava saw the monkey was an ancient of his kind. His golden face was covered by fine wrinkles; his eyes, though bright, were so full of age it was impossible to reckon how old he was. He could have been a thousand years; he was so worn and thin. Bheema growled again, hoping to scare the little creature away. But then, the monkey spoke to him in perfect human speech, chaste old language in fact!

In a frail voice, he said, “Young man, why do you make so much noise? I was sleeping peacefully, dreaming fine dreams and you come blundering through the jungle blasting on your conch.”

He regarded the impatient Bheema out of shrewd eyes, with directness the Pandava found disrespectful and somehow unnerving too, though he could not think why. Bheema stood breathing heavily, taken aback. Still using exquisite old language that scholars do, the monkey said again in his rambling way, “Young Kshatriya, for so you may well be, are you a stranger to these parts? I have never met another human being in this forest who makes such a noise. This is no battlefield, young man. Yes, you are surely a stranger here, that you disturb all the jungle-folk with your din.”

He paused again and his shining eyes never left Bheema’s face. The Pandava was still speechless with surprise.

“And where are you going deep into the vana? Don’t you know this is a dangerous place and the forest is quite impenetrable not far from here? Don’t you know anything at all, young fellow? That you plunge on heedless, blowing your conch.”

Bheema was angry by now; but he felt so inexplicably drawn to the little old monkey that he still said nothing. He growled again, trying desperately to collect his wits. The monkey, who seemed to see clearly into everything that went on inside Bheema’s head, said, “Come and sit beside me for a while. I picked some fruit for myself.”

He uncurled his arm and pushed out an amazing heap of fresh fruit, pear and plum, peach and apple, offering them to the Pandava. “My advice to you, young Kshatriya, is that you sit down and eat a few fruit with me and then turn back wherever you came from. Though I really cannot imagine where that might be, or who you are, for that matter.”

At last, Bheema found his voice. He gave a short roar and cried, “You are the strangest monkey I ever saw! Talking like a man and in old language. Who on earth are you?” His eyes narrowed, “Are you a monkey at all? Or a vana devata, who have assumed a monkey’s form? Or are you a rakshasa? If it’s a fight you want, show me what you really look like and let us begin!”

The monkey laughed. “Rakshasa? Fight? You are certainly a peculiar young man. Can’t you see, my fine prince, I am just a tired old monkey, too weak to even move from where I lie? What is all this about vana devatas and rakshasas? And you still haven’t told me who you are, or what you are doing in this forest.” He gave a groan. “Aah, I feel so ill today and you won’t let me sleep.”

Bheema drew himself up and said in his most superior tone, “Monkey, I am Bheema the Pandava. I am the son of Vayu and I am in a hurry. Let me pass.”

The monkey mumbled disapprovingly to himself. “In a hurry? And where are you going in such a hurry? Don’t want to take my advice, it seems. Sit down and eat some fruit, young Pandava; and then turn back. It is not safe to go on, I tell you. Ah, but the young never listen, do they? They must learn from their own foolishness.”

“I don’t want your advice, monkey!” snapped Bheema haughtily. “I want you out of my way, so I can go on.”

“Truly, I am in your way, young Kshatriya. But I am so old I cannot move. Otherwise, would I dare lie in the way of Vayu’s son? Why, I tremble even to hear that God’s name. But I can’t move. So just step over me and be on your way, Bheema, if you are determined to go on.”

Now Bheema frowned. “You are older than I am. I cannot step over someone older than me.” He laughed, mockingly, “But if you insist, I shall really have to make the leap of faith, as Hanuman did over the sea!”

“Hanuman? Who is he? Who is this Hanuman whose very name makes your eyes shine?”

Bheema cried, “I can’t believe this. You, a monkey and you don’t know who Hanuman was?”

The old monkey shook his head. Bheema looked down his nose at the creature now. He said, “You deserve to be stepped over; that, being a vanara yourself, you don’t know about the greatest vanara there ever was. Immortal Hanuman!”

“Really?” said the monkey softly.

But Bheema had not finished. “Hanuman was the strongest, wisest, most revered monkey that ever lived. He fought at Rama’s side on Lanka. Why, it was he who discovered Sita in the asokavana in Ravana’s palace and leapt across the sea to bring her Rama’s message. He is a legend not only among monkeys, but among men as well. He has the place of a God; we worship Hanuman. And you have not heard of him.

Listen monkey. Hanuman is one of the greatest scholars of all time; he is a master of his mind, perfectly devoted to his Rama. Hanuman is a jivanmukta, a liberated soul; he is also a chiranjivi, he lives for ever.”

A smug smile spread across Bheema’s face. “And just like me, Hanuman is a son of the wind, a Vayuputra. Yes, Hanuman is my brother, as strong as I am, perhaps even slightly stronger.”

The little monkey’s eyes grew round. But Bheema had finished his eulogy of Hanuman and he said again, “Let me pass, old monkey, I am in a hurry. I have to find the heart of this jungle, for I must take the saugandhikas back for Draupadi.”

“So that’s what you’re after! Well, as I have told you, I am tired and ill and really too old to move. If you knew how old I am, you would understand why I cannot move. I fancy I must be as old as your Hanuman.”

Bheema growled, “You can’t be as old as Hanuman, monkey! You don’t know what you are saying.”

“Well, anyway, the fact is that I can’t move and, being such a noble young kshatriya, you will not step over me. So, really, there is just one solution to our problem: that you move my tail aside and pass,” said the monkey, smiling sweetly.

Grumbling to himself, Bheema crouched down beside the old vanara and took his fine golden tail in his hand to move it out of his way. The tail would not budge. Growling, Bheema put both his hands to the task. Not an inch could he move the monkey’s tail. Great Bheemasena, tameless Vayu’s son, slayer of Hidimba, Kirmira and Baka, began to pant with his effort. Beads of sweat stood on his brow; but he could not shift that wizened old monkey’s tail by a hair’s breadth.