The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  “But I never accepted you as a disciple,” he said. The words had no tone of sternness. He examined the dog’s mouth and asked for it to be washed: now it bore the design of the arrows in a faint pink crisscross. We all knew that this was far beyond Arjuna’s skill and that was what the silence was now about. Arjuna’s usually winning expression was veiled and defensive. It was difficult for him, and his brothers avoided looking at him. My father had promised Arjuna that he would be the greatest archer in the world. Now here was one greater, clinging to Dronacharya’s feet and claiming to be his disciple. Duryodhana and Shakuni began to savour the situation. We all waited for my father or the boy to speak. My father spent his time from daybreak to sunset teaching us weapons and making us recite the Vedas and the Vedangas until every syllable and intonation was perfect. Besides, my father would never have jeopardized his position at court. His heart was set solely on revenge. Was it possible that he had trained the boy at night while we slept so that he could lead the Nishada in force to storm Drupada’s capital? Drupada was a powerful king with many allies and his capital, Panchala, was well fortified. We stood gazing at the disciple who crouched at my father’s feet.

  “Speak, my son!”—and my father bent down and touched the boy’s head in blessing. The boy swallowed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and then on his leopard skin.

  “My Lord…” and he told his story. Ekalavya left our garden that evening and in the forest he had fashioned a rough clay image of my father and worshipped it morning and evening with flowers and fruits and leaves and his entire heart. Then he had practised archery. My father’s eyes glistened, but I watched Arjuna’s harden. Most of us were moved at this perfect discipleship in which, without knowing the Vedas, without any practical instruction, a forest dweller had attained supreme skill. I guessed that in the Nishada boy there was no room for the little jokes we made and the mimicries of the Acharya’s mannerisms, for the exasperated remarks we made to each other when he had pushed us all day and our arms felt as though they were going to come off, and for the spurts of rebellion in our hearts when he let loose his sarcasm on us. I knew the Nishada boy was incapable of anything like this. The humility of his offering was absolute. And then the worst thing in my life until the Battle of Kurukshetra happened. I may live forever and I am beginning to understand many things, but I know I will never understand why my father did it.

  For Arjuna?

  For political reasons? For the discipline on which he was so strong? I do not think my father himself knew. Did the gods themselves understand? I do know though, that I never felt quite the same towards him after that day.

  At last he said, looking down at the boy who continued to kneel, “Are you really my disciple?” This brought tears to the boy’s eyes once again.

  “Then as a Guru may I claim my fee, my guru-dakshina, from you?” A flame of happiness lit the boy’s face. All he knew was that he had at last been accepted.

  “Give me the thumb of your right hand.” A small tight silence. Then the boy took one of the Nishada crescent-shaped arrowheads from his quiver and sliced his thumb off at the joint. I think he must have been in a sort of trance, for there was hardly any blood and Ekalavya’s face remained rapt. He laid the dakshina carefully at my father’s feet.

  The birds stopped singing; the breeze died. This terrible and beautiful moment will forever be etched in my memory.

  It was Ekalavya who was beautiful.

  I turned away from my father.

  10

  Ekalavya became a legend to us though we never spoke his name. Though Shakuni and Duryodhana seethed with silent protest, Shakuni merely loaded my father and myself with more jewels, precious knives, goldencrusted goblets, and silk pitambara-clothes. My father must have known that there was one thing that would distract us and he arranged for it: a public demonstration of our skills.

  Also, he could not resist exhibiting Arjuna, and us with him, to the court and to the people of Hastinapura. Since for him the purpose of our training was a surprise attack on Drupada, it might have been wiser to hide our skill, but my father was not without his portion of vanity—and court life had sharpened it.

  Bheeshma was enthusiastic.

  The stars were consulted, an auspicious day selected for work to start on a stadium. My father drove us to the limit. Our muscles were cramped from straining, our backs half-broken from the weight of our enormous bows and our heads dizzy from practising on elephants and in racing chariots. Our minds were numb from the weight of slokas and mantras, and our arms from the weight of the mace, spear, and sword.

  Suddenly, he gave us some respite. There was a whole week of picnics during which we were required to do nothing more than sleep, eat, and play games.

  One morning, my father half concealed a dummy vulture in the foliage of a tree and called us.

  “Each one has one turn,” he said in his peremptory way. “You first, Eldest.” He called Yudhishthira and pointed at the tree.

  “What do you see?”

  “The bird, the tree. I see you, Acharya. I see Bheema and my younger brothers.” My father waved him aside.

  “All right, next.” He repeated the question to all the sons of Pandu and Dhritarashtra, but no one was allowed to shoot an arrow. He left Arjuna and myself until last, and after I had named the things that I saw, there was only Arjuna. As always when I let Arjuna get ahead of me, I felt Duryodhana’s accusing look.

  “Arjuna!” My father’s voice was fierce and urgent as though we were in battle and our lives depended on this. He pointed, “Do you see the bird?”

  “No, I only see an eye.”

  “Shoot!” my father shouted triumphantly. There was a sharp crack and the head of the bird fell to the ground with the arrow halfway through the round painted eye.

  “Sadhu! Sadhu!” Bheema danced in delight. Duryodhana and his brother Duhshasana stood in shocked silence and then turned away. My father embraced Arjuna, and for once I could not help wishing the shot had been mine.

  But I had seen the bird and the tree as well as the eye.

  The respite was over.

  A large tract of land was cleared of trees, trampled by elephants, and then we let the cows in so they could purify it again with their enriching dung. The sage architect after making his offerings to the gods laid the foundation deposit of auspicious objects while he cried, “Victory, victory.” With the help of the best architects, my father planned an enormous stadium with a platform at the centre. On one side were the royal enclosures for those invited from neighbouring kingdoms as well as for the dignitaries of our ruling Houses. There was also a separate pavilion for the ladies; facing it on the opposite side were long galleries for the citizens.

  By the day before the contest, people had come from near and far, and rich merchants pitched their silk and embroidered tents behind the gallery. I had not enough eyes to take in all that gladdened them: the white tents of the nobles seemed to have floated down from heaven and the pavilions glittered, gold-encrusted, and inlaid with piercing blue lapis lazuli. The whole arrangement circled emerald turf watered by crystal fountains.

  On the opening day my father bid me stay beside him and I was glad to do so.

  It would have been worth all the hours of straining and learning and all the wrenched wrists and backs if we could show Bheeshma and the court what we had learned. Uncle Kripa and I myself thought that when the whole world knew what Dronacharya was capable of, permission would be given gladly for revenge on Drupada. Then our fortunes would change indeed.

  Now Greatfather Bheeshma and Uncle Kripa, the lords and the nobles were all seated. King Dhritarashtra was being led in by Vidura. The blindfolded Gandhari was seated next to her sister-in-law, Mother Kunti, and my own mother was with them. The ladies’ pavilion was an exhibition of costly silks and gems and gleaming head dresses. All held themselves proudly, conscious of the citizens, young and old, who had left their weaving, their anvils, and their stalls to witness something gorgeou
s. There was a constant buzzing and sometimes a shouting of voices, and my father, with his fine sense of timing, waited for the noise to come to a climax. When it began to sound like an ocean tempest, he made his entrance into the arena.

  I was by his side. There was a hush so sudden that my feet hesitated. I glanced sideways at him. He was entirely concentrated, turned inwards. All the excitement of the last-minute building and seating arrangements were forgotten. He was once again Dronacharya the Brahmin, the holder and transmitter of knowledge. In his white robes and with his sacred white thread against his bare dark chest, with the white sandal paste mark and white top knot and garlands, he looked grand and saintly. The crowd was hushed by him. As I walked beside him I thought: “What a destiny this is, to be the son of Dronacharya,” and I heard whispering voices.

  “That is his son.”

  “Dronacharya’s son, greater than all the princes.”

  “He is known for his valour, Ashwatthama.”

  “They look like the Moon and Mars walking through a clear heaven.”

  “Their faces glow, Ashwatthama’s face shines like the light of the sun.”

  “He was born with a protective jewel, you know.”

  My heart swelled, not only with pride but with gratitude. I had often heard that my face was radiant and the adoration of the crowd must have made it more so. But a small voice said, “Be still. Be still.” I tried to remember my grandfather, the Rishi who had never found nor indeed sought riches or fame. I returned in memory for a moment to our own little ashram. Now we had reached the altar. My father poured ghee and other offerings into the sacred fire. The Brahmins drew their breath as one body to chant the mantras. I had never heard them chanted with such perfect modulation. I felt moved to pray to the gods. I was both a Brahmin and a warrior. I did not want to misuse what the gods had given me. The other princes were warriors. Though they had been taught the Vedas and Vedangas, their first task was to conquer and to rule justly; but I was a Brahmin; my task first and always was knowledge and worship; for Brahmins, fighting had to be worship. Then once again I saw Ekalavya’s thumb at my father’s feet.

  There came the scream of the conch; it was not a challenge as for battle, but a note of celebration. The trumpets blared. Then the warrior princes, led by Yudhishthira, each carrying his favourite weapon, walked up to my father and prostrated before him, and I did too. We all wore jewelled belts and crocodile-skin finger protectors, and the crowd was silent. What was heard now was the twanging of bow strings as we tried our weapons.

  The exhibition began.

  I do not think I, or anybody else for that matter, even my father, had realized to what a pitch of perfection he had trained us all. No one faltered. The swiftest horses raced us around while we took aim at moving targets. All the arrows hit the targets and we were urged on by the joyful shouts of the crowd. There were duels on horseback and from atop elephants. The twins, sons of the Ashwins, sat on their horses as though on thrones; each wielded a sword as though it were an extension of his arm. The crowd loved them. We demonstrated how chariots could be made to wheel about in tight circles. We buckled our shields and showed in mock duels what could be done with the sword. The crowd loved their clash. They yelled for their favourites, mostly Arjuna and myself.

  There was a mimic war. We were mounted on elephants and horses and in clattering chariots; we blew our conches, brandished our weapons, twanged our bows. The crowd went mad with delight and yelled their praises. Some of the spectators started pushing towards the arena. My father had the trumpets blown and brought the exercise to a close. He then announced the mace fight between Duryodhana and Bheema.

  There could have been no way of avoiding this without admitting their personal rivalry. They were known as the two best mace fighters in the kingdom and they both wanted to give this exhibition. I watched Vidura with his moving lips close to Dhritarashtra’s ear. The blind king’s face, usually slack, was now alight with eagerness for every detail of Duryodhana’s skill.

  With loins girded they circled each other, their jewel-encrusted clubs held high and catching the sun. I never liked the mace. To me it was barbaric, no matter how scientifically the moves had been developed. The two princes, despite their jewels and the intricacy of the silver and copper wire with which their clubs were bound, were like beasts prowling the stage, circling each other, brandishing their weapons, slapping their thighs and armpits in challenge. They were like demons emerging from the forest. Low growls escaped their throats and they made other noises from deep in their stomachs. Thunk! Thunk! Wood on wood. Crack. Wood on bone. Duryodhana was nimbler than Bheema, but Bheema was stronger. Neither could get behind the guard of the other. It went on endlessly and made me long for the clash of metal, the twang of bows, and the flight of arrows, or even the bright thrust of lances. Suddenly, Duryodhana’s mace struck Bheema on the shoulder and he staggered. Had it been a real fight with metal maces Bheema would have been down. Beside me my father groaned. A murmur surged from the crowd and then a cry.

  “Bheema!” And of course the answering “Duryodhana!”

  They both looked murderous now. Bheema was circling Duryodhana with grinning intentness. Bheema’s mace caught Duryodhana neatly on the left elbow and his arm hung uselessly from his side. Bheema swung for his head. Duryodhana ducked just in time, took a step back, and swung at Bheema’s chest. Bheema side-stepped. The crowd began to yell, divided against itself.

  “Bheema the tiger-waisted.”

  “Noble Duryodhana.”

  “Bheema, drinker of the sea-serpent elixir.”

  “Duryodhana, Prince of Kuru.”

  “Kill him, Bheema!”

  “Kill the tiger-waisted one. He tried to kill you.”

  The crowd was on its feet now. Yudhishthira turned a frantic face to Arjuna. On the platform, Mother Kunti had covered her face with her hand; my mother stroked her hair, while the blindfolded Gandhari picked at Mother Kunti’s dress, her lips moving. From a distance I read the words: “What is happening? What is happening?” Suddenly a tumultuous shout from thousands of throats. “Separate them!” my father shouted near my ear. Bheema had fallen to the turf and Duryodhana, ignoring the code, was trying to club him. I rushed towards Duryodhana and held him back, while Bheema got up. I think he was on the verge of clubbing me. I had to shout, “Get back! Get back! Your Guru commands it.” Bheema, now on his feet, walked backwards away from his opponent, and Duryodhana, like an animal whose enemy has bent the neck, relaxed in my arms. Then he too retreated with raised club. Someone signalled the drums and trumpets. The yells receded.

  “It will take a month to undo this day’s work,” my father shouted near my ear. I knew what he was going to say next. “You will have to keep Duryodhana under control.” It was not the first time he had told me to hide my love for Arjuna. It made me angry. You cannot smother love, neither can you disobey a father, especially such a one as mine. I was supposed to stand beside Duryodhana to gain his confidence and avert his mischief. My father stepped into the arena. His gleaming white garments and venerable head made the mace fight evaporate like a nightmare at light of day. The drums and trumpets faded. My father called out:

  “Arjuna, noble Arjuna, son of King Pandu, most skilled of warriors and pious prince!”

  When Arjuna appeared in gold armour with his finger and shoulder guards of white leather and his enormous bow, the crowd broke into cheers. The instruments and the conches ululated. There was a subsiding, a sort of sigh, a gladness stirring after pain, after something debasing. The pulsating drums, the trumpets, and the shrill notes of the conch had a festive ring to them; the voices of the crowd remembered that he was the son of Pandu and Mother Kunti.

  “Only Mother Kunti could have borne him.”

  “He looks like a god.”

  “There is no one to touch him.”

  “He is a god.”

  Arjuna, the sun glancing off his golden mail and diadem, walked to the altar, circled his weapon and prayed to t
he gods. The crowd which, a moment before, had seemed would not be silent, was now still. What followed was a joy and a surprise even to us, even to my father. With the bow he had himself made Arjuna hit all the targets in the wide arena. The arrows flew from him like so many homing birds.

  There was a mechanical wild boar made of iron which sped around the field. Without seeming to take aim, Arjuna sent five arrows into its mouth. The crowd went wild with admiration and love. There was a cow horn oscillating from the roof of the stadium, and even as it swung he sent each one of twenty arrows into its hollow end. Arrows poured from his bow like oil, like raindrops, at times so swift as to be invisible in their flight. The mace fight was forgotten in the crowd’s adulation for Arjuna. Mother Kunti and Yudhishthira were smiling now.

  The Pandavas were the favourites of the gods and of the people.

  For the grand finale Arjuna made his way around the arena exhibiting his skill with the sword. Even those who had never held a sword could see that he was doing extraordinary things. Sunrays glanced off metal like vanquished foes. Then Arjuna did a turn with the mace. In his hands it became a juggler’s club. He clowned a little to please the crowd. My father and I smiled at each other, Arjuna was going to leave the citizens in a happy mood.

  The shadows were lengthening, and here and there, those who had a distance to go were beginning to get up. Suddenly, there was the sound of galloping and the thunder of chariot wheels and the neighing of reinedin horses. An armoured warrior was pushing his way through the crowd into the arena, weapons clanging. He made the most casual obeisance to the royal enclosure and a barely polite inclination to Father and Uncle Kripa. The drummers and trumpeters were uncertain whether to give him a fanfare or not, they started, faded away, started again, and then my father silenced them with a sharp upward gesture of both hands. The warrior started his challenge. Even Duryodhana and Duhshasana had not such arrogance. He wore a diadem that almost covered his eyes, but I knew him for Karna, the charioteer’s son who had for a time studied with my father. This entrance was typical of him. Now he shouted: