MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#1: The Forest of Stories (Mba)

by Ashok K. Banker

  Rishi Kanva saw her concern for her husband and applauded it silently. ‘So be it,’ he proclaimed. And in his mind, he thought, This is truly my daughter. Even at such a moment, she did not ask for anything for herself. Only for her husband. Dushyanta is a lucky man to have her as his wife.

  ||Five||

  Dushyanta returned home to his capital city and was instantly plunged into a nest of political intrigue and powerplay. Taking advantage of his long absence, his rivals had begun a deadly conspiracy against him and all those he relied on. He found he could trust no one completely and that even the most reliable advisors and ministers had formed alliances designed to protect their own interests. The web of political deal-making stretched wide and deep and it was not possible for any king to completely uproot it. Wisdom lay in compromise, acceptance and in making one’s own deals to ensure stability for the present. Over time, when the opportunity presented itself, he could eliminate the worst of his rivals and enemies in carefully orchestrated ways, without upsetting the entire applecart of politics. Not for nothing was Hastinapura called City of Elephants. Her politics were as ponderous as a ton- heavy gajagamini.

  The battle for political survival and stability as well as the forming of alliances demanded all his energy and time. Forced to use whatever means he possessed, he married into various powerful dynasties of neighbouring kingdoms, ensuring their cooperation and thus eliminating potential rivals. In time, he was sucked into the vortex that is the game of kings and forgot all about his dalliance with Shakuntala. The entire time spent on that trip seemed like a fevered dream. The hunt, the terrible slaughter of countless beasts, the blood-lust that had overcome himself and his men, the deadly thirst that had almost killed them, the beautiful hidden forests within forests, the idyllic valley, the heavenly grove, the unspeakably beautiful maiden all alone in the empty hermitage, the extraordinary tale of her birth, the powerful lust that had overcome him . . . all seemed like fragments from a half-remembered dream in the light of awakening. His memory began to deceive him. He began to think that perhaps it had been Shakuntala herself who had seduced him, just as her mother Menaka had seduced the brahmarishi. She had done it subtly, no doubt, with carefully orchestrated details. Perhaps it had all been planned by some rivals of his throne—misdirecting them into that remote aranya, leading them farther and farther inland into a place where they almost died of thirst. Then finally, when they were almost dead from lack of water, finding that grove. Naturally, it had seemed idyllic and perfect. Shakuntala must have been posed that way, freshly bathed, hair loose and wet, emphasizing her figure and beauty, clad in only that simple transparent garment. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that he had been seduced and deceived, that it had been the intention of his rivals and the woman to lure him there and trick him into begetting a child upon her, so that they might claim his throne. Even her condition of marriage: that her son would be heir to the Kuru empire. Why would an innocent unworldly rishi’s daughter demand such a condition? Why would she even think of it? No, surely there was mischief at work there. She had been too perfect to be true. He must have been half-deluded by thirst and the strangeness of the forest, and she must have drugged or influenced him somehow, either through the water she gave him to drink or the fruits she offered him to eat. Yes, he had been tricked and she had been the instrument of his enemies to unseat him when all other means failed.

  Convinced of this, Dushyanta deliberately ignored his promise to Shakuntala and continued living as before. He grew harder and harsher in his kingship, forced to make hard choices and take difficult decisions in order to retain his power and authority. As time passed, the incredible hours he spent in Shakuntala’s arms began to seem more and more dreamlike, less real. Until finally, a day came when he felt he must rid himself of the memory itself, and act as if it had never happened. He sought the advice of his ministers and advisors well versed in law and dharma and they too advised the same course of action. Since only Shakuntala and he had been present when that pact was made, all he had to do was deny any such pact existed. She had no other means of proving her claim. Who would believe the word of some wanton woman from the wilderness against the word of a Kuru emperor?

  And so, Dushyanta forgot Shakuntala.

  Meanwhile, back in the ashram of Rishi Kanva, Shakuntala did indeed conceive from the union. Her gestation was a long one, for she was determined that she would deliver her child on royal silks in the palatial settings he deserved. A prince, a future king, Kuru emperor, he could not be born here in the wilderness. She extended her gestation through the power of her will, certain that Dushyanta would live up to his promise and send for her. But the months passed, and then a whole year went by with no sign of her husband or his representatives. Still she held the baby in her womb, nursing it within, refusing to birth it anywhere except where she felt it was intended to be born. But still no army came, no escort, not even a messenger from her beloved. She waited and waited, and as the first year became a second, and then the third year loomed, she knew at last that something must have befallen him. Some complex weaving of political forces had prevented him from sending for her. Perhaps he feared that his representatives would lead his enemies to her, that she and the child might be in danger? Perhaps there were other issues at stake that she did not know of, that she could not possibly understand out here in the forest, and he did not wish to send her a message for fear it might be intercepted and used against him? Her mind always found some way to rationalize and justify the delay, never once blaming him for the lapse. It was never Dushyanta who was at fault, merely circumstances, or the weight of kingship, or some unknown cause.

  When three years had passed, she permitted her son to be born.

  Contained within her womb for such a long time, he had grown strong and powerful. The moment he was born, he began to grow at a prodigious rate. In no time at all, he was the equivalent of any other three-year-old boy. At an age when other children could barely walk, he could run and jump and his bones were strongly knitted and body as large as one years older. His progress continued at the same rapid rate. His teeth and nails and bones were particularly strong. Even falls from heights did not break his bones. His bite could rival that of a lion. Living in a jungle, he was fond of wandering off into the deep woods on his own, at an age when most children could barely walk a few steps from their mothers before falling down. He ran for miles, watching the animals of the forest and growing fascinated with them. He played with lion cubs in the presence of the mother lion, who looked on and yawned indulgently. He climbed on baby elephants and rode foals. In time, his play turned rougher as he grew bolder and more mischievous. He would wrestle with lions, tie elephants to trees, ride wild buffalo, grapple with large tusked boars and force them to the ground, sit upon the backs of tigers and compel them to take him where he pleased. He feared no beast and because of this, the animals came to respect him and let him do as he pleased. They became his companions and friends.

  By the time he was six years old he was as strong and well built as any young man. Even if one added the three years he had spent in the womb, he still looked nearly twice his age. Awed by his growth, valour and rapid progress, the rishis of Kanva’s ashram called him Sarvadamana, He Who Subjugates Everything. In addition, he had a birthmark on his palm, roughly shaped like a chakra. It was the symbol of a king and every rishi who saw him agreed that he could become nothing less than a samrat, a king of kings.

  Finally, the day came when all the rishis and sadasyas of the ashram came to Rishi Kanva and told him that the time had come for young Sarvadamana to be installed as Yuvaraja. Rishi Kanva agreed. ‘A married woman cannot stay forever in her parents’ home. Sooner or later she must go to her husband’s house otherwise people will speak ill of her and her marriage.’

  Shakuntala had long since realized that her husband would not send for her. But she had not wished to dishonour her father by saying so and had held her tongue. Now, when he urged her to go to
Dushyanta, she made only a feeble protest. ‘He said he would send for me.’ Her father sighed, ‘Nine years is long enough to wait. Now it is time to go to him and confront him with his son.’ Shakuntala did not protest further. The very next day, Sarvadamana and she left for Gajasharya, the City of Elephants, accompanied by a contingent of her father’s most trusted disciples.

  On arrival, she went straight to the palace and sought an audience with her husband. Dushyanta was holding court with the full sabha in attendance. Kings, queens, princes, princesses, nobles of every major house, ministers and advisors, priests and diplomats, emissaries and visiting dignitaries, the cream of Arya royalty was present. When the roughly-clad woman came forward with her son dressed in a garment of fur, he failed to even recognize her.

  ‘Dushyanta,’ she said, and at the sound of her voice and at the sight of her appearance, the court’s hustle and bustle died down instantly. Who was this woman, dressed in rags, calling the king by his first name? What gumption! What arrogance! What ignorance. Tch tch. ‘It is I, Shakuntala, whom you took as your wife in the ashram of my father Rishi Kanva. I have brought before you the fruit of our union, your son. Remember our pact and take him into your house. Crown him your Yuvaraja as promised and make him heir-apparent to the Kuru crown.’

  In the great commotion that followed, Raja Dushyanta was rendered speechless. Of course he remembered Shakuntala now. His eyes, accustomed to seeing women with painted faces and bejewelled ornaments and silks like the women of the court, had barely given her a second glance. Yet once she had presented herself, there was no mistaking her. At once, the memory of that passionate encounter, so long buried and forgotten, came to the fore of his mind—and his heart. He was filled with a surge of overwhelming love and joy. My son? Our son? He almost ran down the steps to embrace Shakuntala and the handsome young boy who stood beside her, looking unmistakably like a young Dushyanta.

  Forgotten were the ravings of his besieged mind about her being part of a conspiracy against him. Forgotten were all his suspicions and doubts. Forgotten were the years he had spent making backroom deals and doing whatever had to be done to hold the Kuru empire together and stabilize his throne. Shakuntala was here! His love, his only true love. And he had a son by her. Together they would live now, as king and queen, with a young strong prince to succeed him. He was weary of the coquettish princesses and spoilt concubines that had paraded through his bedroom over the years. None had meant a fraction of what Shakuntala meant to him. Even after years of being married to so many women, that single day he had spent with her in the forest outweighed them all. He had regained his true love, his only love. Everything would be different now. He could be happy once again.

  But then he came to his senses and heard the murmurs of the court. All eyes were on him, awaiting his response. He realized he had begun to stand, his hands still on the armrests of the throne. Hearing the curious whispers of his closest advisors and catching the mood of the comments flying around the hall, he resumed his seat. This could not be. He could not accept Shakuntala or her son. It would undo everything he had worked for these past nine years. The struggles of a decade would be ruined. Rebellions would break out once more, fomented by rumours of the king losing his head and handing over his kingdom to an unknown brahmachari’s bastard child. His alliances would be worthless, his marriages and backdoor deals rendered impotent. His allies would turn against him, even the people might revolt, unwilling to accept this unknown heir-apparent whom they had never heard of before. People would ask if a king’s every get from the wrong side of town was to be granted a crown and a throne, or if this was an exception. He would be the butt of jokes and vile rumours. The very authority of Hastinapura would be undermined.

  His grip tightened on the lion’s heads that adorned the ends of the armrests, pressing hard on the delicately inlaid silver.

  ‘Sadhini,’ he said coldly, speaking loudly and harshly that all might hear him. ‘What nonsense do you spout? I have never seen you before in my life. How dare you come before the throne of Hastinapura and make these wild accusations. Neither by dharma, kama or artha did I ever make any pact with you, marital or otherwise. Now go from here before I have you removed by force!’

  At these words, the mood of the court changed at once. He felt the surge of relief and regret that swept across the sabha hall. His rivals and enemies were regretful that he had not committed an error of judgement, giving them cause to vent more complaints against him, while his friends and well-wishers were relieved that he had responded so strongly and clearly.

  But on no one else in that court did Dushyanta’s response have a greater impact than on Shakuntala. At once her face altered, her beauty shrank. Her eyes turned as red as copper as tears welled up uncontrollably. Her lips trembled. And though she remained decorous and made no aggressive movements towards the king— the armed soldiers around her made such a move ill advised—yet through her eyes she communicated more anger than men might do by brandishing swords. Silent for a long torturous moment, when she spoke again it was with the accumulated pain and sorrow of a decade of patient waiting, thinking no ill, and unshakable faith. In a single moment with a few words, Dushyanta had shattered her expectations and faith, humiliated her and reduced her life to ashes and shame. ‘Raje,’ she said, addressing him by his proper title, ‘Great Samrat of the Kuru empire. Consider your words again. You know that what I say is truth and nothing but truth. You yourself were witness to our pact. I urge you: Do what is righteous under dharma. Do the right thing. By lying to me you lie to your own self. By doing so you steal truth from yourself. You do not sin against me, you sin against yourself! And he who can commit such a transgression against himself, what might he not do to others? Listen to your heart and your conscience. There is a being that dwells within each man, and he dwells within you as well. He knows everything you do, good or bad. He is that which is a part of god within us and which makes us godlike. Not for nothing is Yama lord of dharma as well as death. Those who follow dharma may be excused an error of judgement. But those who deny their errors cannot be forgiven. Yama will hunt him down and punish him. I have been faithful to you in every respect. Patiently and silently I waited nine long years, though you said it would be no more than nine days till you sent for me. You said you would send a four-fold army to bring me with all due pomp and ceremony to this very palace. As befitted a queen, you said! And yet, after keeping me waiting in the forest for nine years, when I come to you without complaint or accusation, you treat me this way? Why do you turn this cruel face to me, Dushyanta? This is your dharma. You have no choice but to obey! If not, may your head be splintered into a thousand pieces! The ancients teach us that a son is a part of the husband’s body that is rejuvenated and brought back into this world by the wife. That is why the other word for wife is jaya, for with her by his side a man is ever victorious! Because bearing a son saves one’s soul from the realm of hell known as put, therefore a son is known as putra.’

  Shakuntala looked around at the court filled with richly clad and bejewelled spectators. She had no friends or well-wishers there. She was an island of dharma in an ocean of injustice. She wept and wrung her hands in misery and appealed to the stranger who sat upon the throne, his cold hard face turned away from her, contemplating some distant pillar or detail of the fine architecture of his hall.

  ‘What shall I say to convince you further?’ She went on. ‘I am a true wife who follows every word of the shastras. I keep house diligently. I bore you a son. I am devoted to you, even when you were absent for nine years I never once thought ill of you. I am a part of you now, and together we have made a better part of ourselves in this, our son. I am the means by which you can achieve dharma, artha and kama. I am the only friend who will be with you to the very end of your life.’

  But still Dushyanta was as unyielding as a stone statue and as unrelenting as iron. Weeping copiously, Shakuntala broke down, retreating into the familiar territory of the shastras and Vedic knowledge and
lore with which she had grown up, as the daughter of a maharishi, and keeper of an ashram full of learned brahmins.

  ‘A man who has a wife can pursue grihastha-ashrama. A man who has a wife can find happiness. A man who has a wife has a friend in solitude, an associate in ceremonies, and a caretaker in times of suffering. Even in exile, a wife refreshes her husband when all else is lost. A man with a wife can be trusted. A wife is a man’s best means of salvation. When a man dies, the wife will even accompany him to the afterworld, for even after death the marital bond does not end unless you wish it to end. A wife who dies before her husband will not continue on her way but will wait for him to arrive that they might proceed together.’

  She continued in this vein for an unknown length of time, her voice growing shriller, her words a litany, her message reduced to a plaintive drone.

  Finally, at a gesture from the advisors, the soldiers came forward, intending to escort her out of the palace.

  At this, she came to her senses and pushed them away, warning them not to come closer. They stepped back warily but remained close at hand, in case she attempted something more desperate.

  Instead, she changed her mode of appeal. She held out her hands, palms joined together, in an appeal to Dushyanta.

  ‘If you will not accept me as a wife, whatever your reasons, then at least accept this, your own son. The Vedas tell us we should utter these words when a son is born: “Born of my body, born of my heart, you are I myself returned to life again. May you live a thousand autumns. You extend my life and lineage infinitely. Therefore live well, live happy forever.” Look at him, Dushyanta, this is your son, you can see it in his face, his body, his smile. Just as the ahavaniya fire is kindled from the garhapatya fire, so has his body been kindled from your own. It is as if you divided yourself into two and this is the younger half. Remember how we conceived him? You were on a hunting expedition and lost your way. To my father’s ashram you came and begged me to marry you in the gandharva style. I was reluctant but you convinced me it was righteous under dharma and I agreed and we entered into wedlock.’