THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (73 page)

In the public sabha, Duryodhana embraced Karna and cried, “Here is the greatest warrior of this age! Without him my yagna would never have been possible.”

The people roared their approval. Later, in private, an exultant Duryodhana said to Karna, “With you at my side, we shall soon rule the earth without a rival. And then I will perform not the Vaishnava, but the Rajasuya yagna.”

Karna cried, “You will, Duryodhana! I have said this often enough, but today I swear a solemn oath.” He flung down the goblet of wine in his hand, shattering it on the floor. “I will neither drink wine nor eat any meat until I have killed Arjuna!”

His pale eyes shining, Duryodhana said, “The Pandavas are dead men.”

THIRTY-THREE THE RISHI DURVASA
 

The Kamyaka forest abounded in game and here, in their by now familiar asrama, the Pandavas spent the twelfth year of their exile. Again, Vyasa appeared unexpectedly and spent some days with his grandsons. The muni was full of old lore and wisdom and Yudhishtira would always press him to share some of what he knew.

Once, when they sat together under the nyagrodha tree, Vyasa said with a sigh, “Life is never purely dark or bright, but always a mixture of both. When good fortune comes, one must know how to enjoy it without losing one’s wits. And when misfortune is one’s lot, one must know how to bear it with fortitude, to survive and, yes, to learn wisdom from it. For suffering is a greater teacher than any other in the world.”

They sat in silence for a while and the silence of the rishi Vyasa was an eloquent thing. Of all his ancestors, Yudhishtira was happiest to trace his lineage back to this seer; as frequently happens with eldest grandsons and their grandfathers.

That day, Yudhishtira asked, “Which gives a man more punya, charity or asceticism?”

Vyasa said with no hesitation, “Charity is hard, my son. At the best of times, it is difficult to give away what one has earned with toil. Always give charity to those that are needy. One may deceive oneself that asceticism is more difficult than charity, but this is not true.”

Thus the twelfth year of their exile passed. Many illustrious sages came and went from the asrama. Some were contemplative men, of resonant quietness, who spoke more with silence than words; others were flamboyant munis full of brilliant conversation and fabulous stories. And it was never a problem to feed the visitors: Draupadi depended on the copper plate of the Sun, which never let her down. Of course, she always ate last, after the others had finished, since once she had eaten the platter became empty.

Inevitably, word of the Sun’s platter traveled to Hastinapura and to Duryodhana, whose vanity had swollen considerably after the Vaishnava yagna, now that he was a king himself. But the Kaurava knew, in some niggling way, that his Vaishnava yagna had not been equal to Yudhishtira’s Rajasuya. This knowledge lay in his heart like a live ember.

More than ever, Duryodhana was obsessed by the thought of his cousins in the vana and their return, which drew nearer each day. When he heard how they entertained the munis of the wide world, how the humble asrama in the forest had become as much a focus of wisdom as Indraprastha had been, Duryodhana was livid with envy.

He dare not attack the Pandavas in the forest, but he spent all his days thinking of how to harm them. Then, as if in response to his wishes, one day Durvasa arrived in Hastinapura with a hundred followers.

Duryodhana rushed out to meet the rishi, who was as much a legend for his swift temper as his spiritual power. Why, Durvasa once cursed the Devas to become mortal: and the amrita was churned up from the Kshirasagara. That was in the earliest days of the first krita yuga. No one knew how old Durvasa muni was. Many believed him to be an incarnation of Rudra and this accounted for his temper.

Sensing a heavensent opportunity, Duryodhana came to the gates of Hastinapura to welcome Durvasa, as he had never been welcomed to any city before. The Kaurava himself washed the rishi’s feet, then, with every show of honor, showed him to an opulent apartment in his palace. One could see at a glance why people feared Durvasa so much. He was full of a restless energy, as if he was already on his way to another place, when he had barely been received in this one. He was a towering figure, with a leonine head: a sage from a nobler time; his flashing eyes missed nothing around him.

The moment he was seated, Durvasa cried imperiously, “Fetch me food, quickly! Have my munis eaten? We don’t have all day to waste here.”

His tone would have been intolerable in another guest. Wherever he went, it was his way of provoking his hosts; and heaven help them if they dared answer him back in similar vein. It was said Durvasa always had a curse ready on the tip of his tongue. Discretion was invariably the wiser course when one dealt with this muni and Duryodhana was the very soul of that virtue now. The usually arrogant Kaurava fawned over his guest.

At last, Durvasa finished eating and he had only nibbled at the delicacies set before him. He sat back and suddenly his face softened into a smile that creased his face in kindly wrinkles.

The muni said, “Duryodhana, you are not at all like what the world says you are. You are kind and considerate. You have honored me, as I have not been for a long time. Why, you served me with your own hands like a kitchen boy. I don’t care what the world says; I judge you as I find you myself. Noble king, I want to grant you a boon. Ask me for anything and you shall have it.”

Duryodhana said at once, “My cousin Yudhishtira lives in the Kamyaka vana. Let it please my lord to visit him in the forest and seek his legendary hospitality. Only, holy one, arrive in his asrama when Panchali has finished eating.”

Durvasa was a little startled at the strange boon the Kaurava wanted; but he was bound to grant Duryodhana whatever he asked. So it was that, when he left Hastinapura, Durvasa and his party of a hundred made straight for the Kamyaka aranya and Yudhishtira’s asrama. They arrived late in the afternoon when Durvasa knew, clairvoyantly, that Draupadi had finished eating.

Yudhishtira came out to welcome the sage and his party. Reverently, the eldest Pandava washed Durvasa’s feet. The rishi cried, “We are starving, Yudhishtira. And we have heard about the unworldly fare Draupadi serves in this asrama.”

Behind the door of the wooden hut, Draupadi gave a groan. Innocent of her plight, Yudhishtira said, “My lord, there is a river nearby where you can wash. I will show you the way and we will have a meal served for you when you return.”

Yudhishtira called Draupadi, “Panchali, we are going to the river. Have food ready for our guests when we return.”

He and his brothers walked away into the forest with their visitors. Draupadi felt faint. She had just eaten and had washed the platter clean. Where would she find food for Durvasa and his disciples? Like everyone else, Draupadi had heard of the rishi’s temper.

She sat on the floor with her head in her hands and whispered in despair, “Krishna, help me!”

Hardly had she said this, when a bright voice hailed her from the door. “I am starving, Panchali! Give me something to eat, quickly.”

She jumped up with a cry. There he was, the Dark One, wearing a pitambara robe, the peacock-feather gleaming above his head. Draupadi wailed, “Krishna, there is nothing to eat here! I have just eaten myself and washed the Sun’s platter clean. Durvasa and a hundred of his munis have arrived and they are hungry. Yudhishtira took them to the river and they will return any moment. When Durvasa finds there is nothing to eat, he will curse us. Oh Krishna, I am terrified. I don’t know what to do.”

“Is there nothing in the copper plate, Draupadi?” asked the Dark One. “Come, let us take a look at your wonderful platter.”

“I just washed it, Krishna. There is nothing in it.”

“But show me, just in case you left something. Anything you serve will do for me, even a grain of rice.”

“There’s nothing in the platter. I’ll fetch it, look for yourself.”

Krishna took the platter from Draupadi. As he looked at it, a smile touched his lips. He said, “You say there is nothing in this plate? I tell you, Draupadi, if you have faith there is enough here to feed every creature in the world!”

Draupadi came near and stared at the plate she had just washed. Krishna pointed with his finger: nestling at the very rim of the platter was a particle of vegetable, barely visible. Despite her anxiety, Draupadi giggled, “You are going to satisfy your hunger with that?”

Krishna said serenely, “Not only mine, Panchali, but the hunger of your untimely guests.”

With his finger, Krishna scraped the green shred from the plate. He said softly, “Let the hunger of every creature on earth be sated with what I eat,” and licked the bit of green off his finger. “Aaah!” cried Krishna, as Draupadi stood watching him in disbelief. “That was the best meal I’ve had in years. You must invite me to eat with you more often!”

Just then, Sahadeva called from outside, “Panchali, is the food ready? You know what a temper Durvasa has, you mustn’t keep him waiting.”

But it was Krishna who strode out of the kutila. Sahadeva gasped to see him. Before Draupadi could say anything, Krishna cried, “Yes! Food is served and I have just finished eating. And a curse on anyone who does not do justice to such a meal. Go to the river, Sahadeva and tell them to hurry back. Say Draupadi has laid on a feast, but it will get cold if they don’t come quickly.”

Yudhishtira, Bheema, Arjuna and Nakula appeared.

“Krishna!” cried Yudhishtira. “How are you here?”

“I will tell you. But first, Sahadeva, go and call your guests for lunch. And mind you don’t tell Durvasa I am here.”

Sahadeva went off down the path. Yudhishtira had not let go of Krishna’s hand. He said again, “How are you here, Krishna?”

The Dark One smiled quizzically, “You should ask your wife that, cousin. I heard her calling me and here I am.”

Yudhishtira knew nothing of Draupadi’s panic. “What happened, Panchali?”

“I had eaten,” she said. “How were we going to feed Durvasa and his munis?”

Yudhishtira cried, “How are we going to feed them now?”

Krishna said softly, “Somehow, I don’t think they are as hungry as they were. In fact, I don’t think they want to eat any more.”

The Pandavas stared at him. Meanwhile, Sahadeva had run back to the river. To his surprise, he found its bank deserted. He saw the munis’ footprints on wet sand, leading not toward the asrama but away from it.

Earlier, even as the Pandavas were on their way back to the asrama to see if lunch was served—this was when Krishna ate the green scrap he found in Draupadi’s plate—Durvasa and his party, bathing luxuriantly in the river, abruptly felt as if they had eaten three feasts. In a moment, they found their bellies bloated and even belched helplessly.

One of them cried, “I feel gorged, though no food has passed my lips!”

Another said, “So do I. How will we eat Draupadi’s meal?”

Durvasa himself looked worried. “I couldn’t eat another grain of rice, if my life depended on it. I feel as if I have eaten all the food in the world.”

“But how can we not eat, when we go back?”

Because it is in every man’s nature to think that other men share his traits, Durvasa said anxiously, “What if the Pandavas curse us? We told Draupadi to serve us food and if we go back and say we are not hungry, it will seem we mocked them in the most arrogant way. If anyone did that to me I wouldn’t spare him.”

“A fine mess we are in. What shall we do?”

Durvasa thought for no more than a moment. “There is only one sensible thing to do. We must not go back to the asrama.”

“Then let us leave before one of them comes to call us!”

They beat a hasty retreat through the forest, some of them without even drying themselves. When Sahadeva arrived at the river, he found Durvasa and his munis gone.

Back at the asrama, Krishna smiled, “I think your guests have been called away suddenly. I don’t think they were hungry, after all.”

Sahadeva came and announced, “Yudhishtira, they left without eating.”

Krishna said quietly, “Durvasa was sent here by someone who knew the platter would be empty after Draupadi ate. That person wanted him to curse you.”

Bheema breathed, “Duryodhana!”

Krishna rose from under the tree and stretched languidly. “Well, I must go back to Dwaraka now. I came in a hurry to hear Draupadi call.”

Yudhishtira said, “How did you come, Krishna?”

The Dark One smiled. “Perhaps I never left at all, Yudhishtira.”

Then, with a wave, he walked off into the forest and was gone.

THIRTY-FOUR JAYADRATHA
 

The Pandavas moved back to Dwaitavana and the asrama beside the lake. The twelfth year of exile seemed as long as the other eleven together; especially to Yudhishtira, who each day cursed his folly, which made his brothers and his wife suffer as they did. He would lie awake at night haunted by guilt. Often he would walk out into the mooned nights and sit on the steps of the asrama, staring across the bright lake, crying.

Though he never showed the others how badly he felt, he, more than any of them, recalled every cruel word said in Hastinapura on the day of the gambling. Repeatedly, he saw the obscene Dusasana trying to strip Draupadi in the Kuru sabha. He saw Duryodhana grin and bare his thigh. He heard his cousin calling Panchali to sit in his lap. Every night those images, those echoes tormented poor Yudhishtira. And being the eldest, he had no one he could turn to for solace, particularly since that would weaken his obstinate position that they must serve out their exile. But when the others saw his drawn face in the mornings, they knew that he suffered. Out of respect, they said nothing, though it saddened them to see him like that.

In Hastinapura, there were still those loyal to Yudhishtira and his brothers. They brought word of Karna’s oath: that he would neither eat meat nor drink wine, until he had killed Arjuna. Indeed, since the unforgettable day when Karna had appeared like a dark sun at the princes’ tournament in Hastina and Duryodhana befriended him, Yudhishtira had been anxious. Since that day, the Pandava had known there was another archer in the world who was not merely Arjuna’s equal, but better than him. Karna disquieted Yudhishtira; there was something uncannily familiar about the golden warrior, as if he knew him from another life.

When Yudhishtira heard about Karna’s oath to kill Arjuna, he insisted they move again to the Kamyaka from Dwaitavana, where they had been hardly a month. Scarcely two weeks after this move, one day, persuaded by the restless Bheema, all the Pandavas went hunting together into the deeper forest. That day, Jayadratha, the king of Sindhu, happened to pass through the Kamyaka on his way from his capital to the kingdom of a friend. From his chariot, Jayadratha saw the Pandavas’ asrama and he did not know whose hermitage it was. Then he saw Draupadi standing at the door of her hut. Jayadratha did not know who she was, either, but her beauty struck him like an astra. He wanted that dark woman more than he had ever wanted anything.

He sent one of his companions to find out who she was. The man came back and said, “It is the Pandavas’ wife Draupadi, she is more dangerous than a cobra. Let us not stop here, my lord; turn your heart away from peril.”

Jayadratha gazed raptly at Draupadi. As if he did not hear what his man had said, he climbed down from his chariot and walked toward her.

The lord of Sindhu said, “Do you know me? I am Jayadratha.”

“Oh!” she cried happily. “Little Dussala’s husband. I am so glad you came. You must wait for my kshatriyas. They have gone hunting and they will be back soon.”

Dussala was Duryodhana’s sister and Draupadi fetched a pitcher of water for Jayadratha to wash his hands and feet. He washed clumsily, since he did not take his eyes off her. He set the pitcher down and said, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Come with me, Panchali and be my queen!”

She gasped, but he went on, “This forest is no place for you. Is this the life your husbands should give a woman like you? I will keep you as you should be kept, as a queen.”

Her eyes flashed at him. She cried like fire, “Aren’t you ashamed? You should be like a brother to me. You come from a noble house, but there is no dharma in you. Don’t you fear for your life when the Pandavas hear about this? They will not spare you, Jayadratha.”

He grinned like a beast in rut. “Your husbands don’t scare me, woman. I want you and I intend to have you.”

He seized her, flung her easily across his shoulder and strode back to his chariot. Draupadi’s cries rang through the silent forest. “Wretch! Dare you defile me? Let me down! Let me go!”

Dhaumya came running to hear her. He cried in horror at Jayadratha, “What are you doing, O king?”

“Out of my way, priest! This is the kshatriya way, honored through the ages.”

“By kshatriya dharma you may not carry her away without facing her husbands in battle! This is a sin and you will taste the fruit of your madness. Let her go, Jayadratha, there is still time to save yourself.”

Jayadratha pushed Dhaumya out of his way and climbed into his chariot. “Ride!” he cried. “Today, I have the finest prize in the world.”

They rode away through the forest, Draupadi screaming and Jayadratha deaf to her cries. Dhaumya picked himself up and ran along beside the footsoldiers of that force, who laughed at him, but did not turn him away.

Meanwhile, on the hunt, Yudhishtira suddenly said, “Look how the animals wheel to the left. Look at the flights of the birds.”

Arjuna breathed, “There is some danger in the asrama.”

They came running back, to find Draupadi’s sakhi, Dhatreyika, in tears and Dhaumya’s brahmanas panicstricken.

“What happened?” cried Yudhishtira.

The woman only sobbed hysterically, pointing where Jayadratha had gone.

“Where is Panchali?” Bheema roared and the forest trembled.

The terrified sakhi cried, “Jayadratha carried her off and Dhaumya followed them. That way!” and she fainted.

All five Pandavas went after Jayadratha. Running through the forest they knew well by now, flying along secret trails, they quickly caught up with the Sindhu king, who went along rather nonchalantly with his soldiers. All at once, a rage of arrows flared out from the trees, from the sky, from everywhere. In moments, Jayadratha’s legion lay dead around him. Leaving Draupadi, he leapt out of his chariot and fled.

Dhaumya roared like any kshatriya and ran forward to embrace the Pandavas.

Sahadeva cut away the ropes with which Jayadratha had bound Draupadi. She clung to him fervently, then came to her other husbands, sobbing in relief.

Yudhishtira said, “We were fortunate. Our boyhood lessons in reading omens were not wasted, after all.”

Arjuna murmured, “More than a hundred men dead.”

Bheema’s eyes blazed. “I will go after that wretch. He won’t live after what he did!”

Yudhishtira said, “I will not allow you to kill him. He is Dussala’s husband and mother Gandhari will be heartbroken if you make a widow of her only daughter.”

But Draupadi cried, “If you love me at all, you will kill the beast!”

That was enough for Bheema. He said, “Yudhishtira, go back to the asrama with Draupadi. Sahadeva, Nakula, go with him. Arjuna, come with me!”

He plunged into the forest after Jayadratha. The jungle held no mystery for Bheema and Arjuna, while Jayadratha kept slipping on soft earth, or tripping over roots sprung from nowhere in his path.

He fell so often the two Pandavas soon caught up with him. Jayadratha ran for his very life, but

Arjuna and Bheema taunted him, crying, “Is this the valor of the Sindhus?”

“What kshatriya are you, that you run so swiftly from a fight?”

“Or do you only fight women, coward?”

Jayadratha had to turn and face them. In a blur, Arjuna shot his bow out of his hands and then, with a chilling roar, Bheema was on him. Bheema caught Jayadratha by his hair and flung him down to the ground. He stamped on that king’s face and head until Jayadratha fainted. Still, Bheema kicked him. Arjuna pulled him away, crying, “You will kill him!”

But Bheema was beside himself. He pulled a crescent-headed arrow from Arjuna’s quiver and began to shave the Sindhu king’s head. Half his hair and moustaches Bheema shaved and left half of them—in fact, five tufts—so his victim could not have looked more ludicrous. Jayadratha awoke, whimpering.

Bheema said, “So you are still alive, wretch. But not for long, unless you cry out that you are the Pandavas’ slave. Go on, shout it for the world to hear!”

Without hesitating, Jayadratha yelled, “I am the Pandavas’ slave! I am the Pandavas’ slave!” so the forest rang with his cry.

Bheema growled, “Who is to hear you in this jungle? I would kill you anyway, except that Arjuna never kills a beaten enemy. I have no such compunction, but my brother Yudhishtira says it will break little Dussala’s heart and mother Gandhari’s heart, if we kill you. But, oh, how my hands itch to wring your neck!”

Jayadratha whimpered louder, when he saw the look in Bheema’s eyes. Arjuna said, “You have punished him enough. Let us take him back to the asrama before you change your mind.”

They bound Jayadratha’s hands, tied a rope round his neck and led him back to the asrama like a dog. Flinging him down at Yudhishtira’s feet, Bheema cried, “Tell Panchali that this cur has declared himself our slave!”

Bheema kicked the kneeling Jayadratha down flat on his face at Draupadi’s feet. She said, “That will do, Bheema; you have humiliated him and I am satisfied. Spare his life.”

Yudhishtira pulled Jayadratha up and said, “I set you free. Go now, but never repeat what you did today.”

Reluctantly, Bheema cut Jayadratha’s bonds. That king prostrated himself at Yudhishtira’s feet and then, getting up, ran into the jungle without a word. The Pandavas went back to their daily chores, the routine of the asrama, but Jayadratha ran blindly through the trees, his eyes streaming. He could not return to his kingdom, for the world would soon know of his shame. He flew through the jungle as if trying to escape from himself; until, exhausted, he came to the banks of the Ganga and flung himself down on the moss beside the river.

In that place, he sat in tapasya. For a year he sat, his heart on fire, worshipping Siva. At last, Siva appeared before him in a mass of light. The Lord said, “What boon do you want, that you worship me like this?”

Jayadratha prostrated himself at the feet of the vision. He said, “Lord, grant me that I defeat all the Pandavas in battle one day.”

Siva said, “Not a lifetime’s tapasya would be enough for you to have that boon from me. The Pandavas’ dharma is great; their valor is greater. They are invincible and dark Krishna protects Arjuna. But this much I will grant you: if you meet the other four Pandavas in battle, you shall hold them up by yourself. More than that, I cannot do.”

Somewhat mollified that, at least, he would have his moment of triumph, Jayadratha returned to his kingdom.

A few days after Jayadratha tried to kidnap Draupadi, Markandeya returned to the Pandavas’ asrama. It was a time when they were all disturbed by what had happened and the rishi’s coming was like balm to them. As always, he was full of lustrous stories; the brothers forgot their troubles, as they sat late into the nights listening to him.

Yudhishtira was deeply shaken by the incident with Jayadratha; it hurt him most because Jayadratha was Dussala’s husband. On his last visit, Markandeya had told Yudhishtira about Nala, the king of Nishada, whose exile had not been unlike Yudhishtira’s own. Now, the muni told them about Rama of Ayodhya, whose trials were harder than his. He told the story of Savitri, who turned Yama, Death himself, away with her wisdom and devotion.

Indeed, Markandeya came to the sons of Pandu as if the Gods sent him, at a time when Yudhishtira, particularly, was so full of guilt: a time when there was no telling what the eldest Pandava might have done, because his will was almost broken. More than anyone, in those trying days, the rishi Markandeya gave Yudhishtira the strength to carry on along the narrow path of dharma.

But the Pandava suffered torments of self-reproach in that twelfth year. He blamed himself endlessly for what had happened to his family, his conscience gave him no peace. Long after the night’s stories were told, long after the moon had set, Yudhishtira would lie awake or sit out under the tree in the clearing by himself under a sky full of stars, ravaged by the enormity of all that happened to them because of his weakness. In those days, another face haunted him with terror: the strong, rebellious face of the enemy whom Yudhishtira was obsessed with, for no reason he could name, the man he feared most. The remarkable face of Karna haunted Yudhishtira relentlessly.

Over and over, he saw Karna urging Duryodhana to strip Draupadi in the Kuru sabha on the day of the gambling. Again and again, he heard Karna’s arrogant voice, ‘She is a slut shared by five men and now she will have more than five!’

In that twelfth year of their exile, Yudhishtira, who had been the most restrained of his brothers, who had always advocated dharma and restraint, found that, when he was awake at nights and the others all slept, bloody visions of revenge possessed him. Every cell in his body felt as if it were on fire. All these years, he had been accused of being too patient and forgiving, of not being a true kshatriya. His brother Bheema, who had most accused Yudhishtira of all this, would have been shocked if he had seen into his older brother’s heart, during their last year in the jungle.

But Yudhishtira was different from Bheema. He was a master of his emotions—perhaps, even because they were so strong—while Bheema followed his like a child. Pandu’s eldest son could hardly resist the anxiety and impatience that raged in him during that twelfth year. There were nights when he was tempted to awaken Bheema and give the order to march on Hastinapura in the morning: because he could no longer contain the fury he felt. But somehow, Yudhishtira proved equal to the trial of those days and nights. All he did was to move, again, from the Kamyaka back to Dwaitavana.