In Hastinapura, where I went for the funeral oblations, it was the same, but people spoke less, because to be heard speaking ill of Dhritarashtra and Duryodhana by their guards meant punishment and prison. Shakuni and Kanika, Duhshasana and Karna, each had a thousand ears. At this point I cared nothing about living or dying and if I had had words I might have spoken them. I did not even feel particularly angry with Duryodhana. After the first gallop to Varanavata the warrior in me had failed. I was too crushed to think of revenge. There was only my loss, like a pit of emptiness where hope and happiness and love had been.
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I did not want to see Dhritarashtra but could not avoid it. He did his best to look as though he were mown down by calamity, but his pretended grief was like a thundering autumn cloud that gives no rain. He did all the right things: Distributed money, clothing, and food to the poor, had the funeral rites performed in Varanavata as well as in Hastinapura. He took his whole family to the Ganga to offer the funeral oblations. People poured out of the houses of Hastinapura and moved towards the river: men, women, and children—as though each family had lost a son, a brother, or a father.
As the last water rituals were being performed, my eyes were on Greatfather Bheeshma. He stood alone like a tall statue, his grief beyond tears, so that he had a numenous, unapproachable quality. I edged close to him. I wanted to be close to one who had loved Arjuna. I saw Vidura edging towards him from the other side. We reached him at the same time. I heard Vidura whisper.
“The Pandavas live.” There was a long silence. Greatfather’s eyes shifted ever so slightly, but his expression did not change. The Pandavas were not dead?
Vidura passed on.
Arjuna was alive, and his brothers and Mother Kunti so I too, at the funeral ghat observing the death rituals for them, began to live again. Layers of indifference, that I had not known were thickening into despair, dissolved. With my mind I threw them like ashes into the Ganga, the Ganga which carries everything away along the flow of time. Inside I was light and laughing once again.
Arjuna was alive.
It was impossible to get from Vidura information that he didn’t want you to have and I was busy preparing to go to the swayamvara of Drupada’s daughter with Duryodhana and Karna.
I, Ashwatthama, the poor ashram boy, now heir to the North Panchala kingdom, was on my way to compete for the hand of Draupadi, the fireborn daughter of King Drupada and the most prized princess in the world. I felt light-headed. The last time I had taken this road was when we had come with my father to humiliate Drupada. If I were the victor in the archery contest, nobody could take Draupadi from me, and since Arjuna was not with us I stood a better chance than anybody except Karna. I think we were all in love with Draupadi from what we had heard of her. I had been told that she and her brother, both peerlessly beautiful and highspirited, had been born in answer to Drupada’s sacrifices. Draupadi had, they said, a body which gave off the fragrance of the blue lotus. Her velvet skin was dark so that she was also known as the Dusky Beauty. She had silken eyebrows and a cascade of blue-black hair and, most beautiful of all, glowing dark eyes that were lotus-large. They said that her nails shone like copper and curved like the shell of a tortoise. She had all the auspicious signs of feature, expression, and deportment.
As soon as our chariots approached Kampila, the capital of Panchala, we came among thick crowds. Kings, Brahmins, and warriors were coming from all directions. This time the subjects of King Drupada had come out to welcome us with smiles and cheers. The nearer we came to the gates, the denser the caravan in which we found ourselves. Duryodhana had come in a splendid golden chariot and was not pleased to see that there were several as splendid as his. In front of us was the retinue of King Jarasandha of Magadha from the south-east. He was reported to make human sacrifices of vanquished kings to Rudra. If I had thought Duryodhana pleased with himself and Karna proud, I knew just from looking at his back that Jarasandha outdid them both in conceit and ambition. His powerful head and neck under an enormous crown emanated something majestically barbaric.
The rattle of wheels and the shouts of welcome competed with horns blown from the topmost terraces of the palace. Conches sounded and, as each chariot actually entered the city gates, there arose a great roaring crescendo of acclaim from the citizens dressed in their best silks and jewels. Thousands and thousands of flowers were thrown, and it rained rose water. Duryodhana looked pleased with himself again as though it were all in his honour, Karna had no such illusion—his expression was, as usual, indifferent and aloof.
We were housed in a seven-storeyed palace and my chief memory of it is of magnificent carved panels, wall-hangings, gold and silverware, and a great number of beautiful serving women in silk and jewelled ornaments. Musicians played appropriate ragas for us throughout the day. When we had bathed and rested we were taken before Drupada. I had not realized how dazzling was the court of my father’s greatest foe. I hoped Drupada would not hold it against me that I was Drona’s son: if he did, he did not show it.
As a boy I had been impressed enough by the magnificence of the House of Kuru. Now it was as though I had just arrived from a village once again. The hall was bright with draperies of many colours embroidered with swans and trees and birds and lions, all studded with jewels. The perfume of sandalwood was as strong as though a forest had been cut down; it vied with the flower garlands which hung from every pillar. Through the windows one saw gardens worthy of the mansions of the Devas. It all led the imagination to only one subject alone, that of the young princess who had grown to womanhood here.
We spent two weeks feasting and being shown all Drupada’s treasures, but not the one we were longing to see.
The sixteenth morning came and with it the day of the archery competition. Everyone who had been invited arrived, and many who had not been invited. All were made welcome.
It was the day on which we were to see Draupadi. All the kings were there. There were so many things to look at that I did not have enough eyes. The hall vied with the heavenly hall of the great Lord Indra. I was elated by subtle perfumes and colours. Everywhere we looked we saw powerful arms and shoulders and determined faces under glittering diadems.
On one side sat the Brahmins lifting their arms in blessing. I myself could not take my eyes off Jarasandha. His presence dominated the assembly. It was hypnotic and nearly made me miss the entry of Draupadi. It was Dhrishtadyumna I saw first—a powerful youth—and then I saw the girl he led into the hall. Like any bride she was hung about with gold and gems, nose stud and earrings, and hair jewellery and a great pendant on her forehead. She was dressed in gold silk which flickered white and silver against her dark and velvet skin. There the resemblance to other brides ended, save that she carried the gold dish of the usual offerings and the flower garland which she would place around her husband’s neck. A shiver ran through me.
I could believe that the woman we all stared at was fire-born. She walked as unselfconsciously as though in her garden. When her eyes did sweep the crowd, I felt them rest on me and know my heart. She was perfectly proportioned with a tiny palm tree waist and a deep bosom. As she walked, an involuntary murmur, almost a groan, was wrenched from the crowd. The musicians stopped playing and there was utter silence while Drupada’s priest, a most venerable Brahmin, lit the sacrificial fire. Chanting, he poured the oblations of clarified butter on it. Then the other Brahmins joined in the mantras until they sounded like swarm upon swarm of bees in summer.
“Noble Kings.” It was Dhrishtadyumna announcing the contest. “There is the target.” He pointed to the metal fish rotating from the ceiling of the hall. “Here is the bow. And here are the arrows. He who hits the target and makes it fall through that hole while looking at its reflection in this pool of water wins the hand of my sister Draupadi.” He called out the names of the great lords who had assembled. My attention fell on Shikhandin the elder brother, and then I remembered the prediction and the feeling of celebration went away. Shikhandin h
ad, as Amba in a previous life, sworn to kill Greatfather. I felt goose pimples on my arms. Dhrishtadyumna, that pleasant smiling boy, was destined to kill my father. My muscles tautened, ready to defend him when suddenly I heard my name. Introducing me he said, “There you can see the illustrious Ashwatthama, foremost of all wielders of weapons.” For a moment I felt I had already won Draupadi. She looked straight at me with calm intelligence. That look stripped me of my virtue and failings equally. I was alone with myself and her.
I had never been so glad to be the son of my father. He had taught me things which he had taught to no one but Arjuna. There was only one man who might do better than me and that was Karna, but then he had learnt with the great Bhargava himself. While it was no shame to be defeated by the pupil of Bhargava, I wanted Draupadi. I could already see myself handing back to her father half the kingdom that my father had won from him. He would return it to me together with his own. The universe had become friendly to me. I could pluck stars from the skies to stud the walls of our palace. Draupadi would walk, just as she walked up to the stage, but with Ashwatthama holding her hand. Her gait was her own; it possessed the auspicious sway of the elephant, but she did not droop from the weight of her lovely breasts as girls are taught but stood easily like a sapling.
In the background of my mind I could hear Dhrishtadyumna’s voice announcing: Jayadratha, King of the mountainous Sindhu, King of the Chedis, King Shishupala, the heroes of the House of Vrishni, Balarama, Rohini’s and Devaki’s son Krishna, Shamba, Gada, Satyaki, and Kritavarman. It was not only Krishna’s likeness to Arjuna that made me forget Draupadi. The announcement, the trumpets, and the mantras vanished as though carried away by the wind.
I missed the entrance of Shishupala of the Chedis, Krishna’s cousin, who was now trying to lift the bow. He staggered, then got a firm grip on it. He bent it and its steel string sang as it snapped back. Another came up, failed. More kings failed to string the bow. They stumbled, they fell to their knees, they fell on their noses. King Jarasandha was flung down and his diadem slipped over one eye. At this there was such a hiss of relief that he must have known, if he had ever doubted it, that he was the most hated competitor. He walked out and returned home. Duryodhana was not loved, but he made an impression, and when he was tossed by the bow, the relief came in a sigh broken by good-natured laughter. It was Draupadi who had laughed and I saw Dhrishtadyumna fleetingly touch the hand which held the garland, but it was too late. Duryodhana looked pinched and sullen; he would remember. Shalya, uncle to the twins, came next and fell to his knees. Shalya was a good, simple man and there were moans of sympathy for him. When it was my turn I said a last mantra to my arrow to which I had offered flowers this morning. Though the weight of the bow made me sink to one knee, I did not fall on my face and when I got up my diadem and garland were still straight. I took some satisfaction from the cries of “Well done, son of Dronacharya” from Kshatriyas, and enthusiastic applause from the Brahmin section. I stood staring down into the eye of the fish. Remembering my father’s lesson and Arjuna when he had seen nothing but the eye of the wooden bird, I strained to keep my mind on the eye of the fish, to make the whole world that vacant eye, but my thought flew to Draupadi and my arrow whistled past the head of the fish, making it spin. Some blue-green feathers from my arrow floated slowly to the ground, one remained stuck to the metal.
When my turn was over I found a seat near to Krishna, who was sitting with Balarama. Neither of them was competing.
I saw the others as through a veil and without much interest in the outcome. Karna strung the bow effortlessly. His bow was already bent when Draupadi stood up. “I cannot marry this man.” In a clear voice which chilled us all, she disqualified the sutaputra!
Draupadi’s voice! It was silvery sweet, but deadly. I had never heard a woman speak thus in an assembly. Dhrishtadyumna was beside her and should have spoken for her, but since neither he nor her eldest brother Shikhandin nor her father showed surprise, I supposed they were used to it and that her husband would have to get used to it too.
It was all over: If Karna and I had failed, who was there to win Draupadi? Tension broke and people started muttering speculations.
Who? Who? Would she choose for herself? Would we have another try?
Somebody stood up in the Brahmins’ gallery.
“May a Brahmin compete?” The muttering stopped. A magnificent-looking young Brahmin, his hair in a topknot, stood looking around the assembly; I felt like a kite that had just been jerked back to earth.
“Anybody can try. This is a test of skill,” Dhrishtadyumna called back to him.
Half the Brahmins shook their deerskins in enthusiasm and the other half began murmuring in protest against this development which must surely bring shame to them. Meanwhile the Brahmin had made a pradakshina of the great bow. He now prostrated before it, invoked the Giver of Favours, and picked up the bow without difficulty.
There was only one man who handled a bow like this.
The Brahmin strung the bow and gave it a testing pluck with ear cocked, learning from the sound. Before anyone knew that he had taken aim, there was a clatter and something came tumbling down through the hole in the mechanism.
Stunned, I saw Draupadi walk up to him and place the garland around his neck.
In the past I had asked myself whether I envied Arjuna. I knew now that I had not, until this moment when he came walking through the crowd, Draupadi’s hand in his.
In the pandemonium that followed, I suppose no one noticed four more substantial Brahmins fall in behind the couple. If I had not known they were alive, I might not have recognized the Pandavas either.
There were shouts of acclaim, of resentment. Conches and trumpets blared. Brahmins were capering. The kings were outraged and started growling and insulting Drupada.
A voice shouted, “The King of Panchala should have taught Draupadi better. If no king hit the target, she should have killed herself.” They were all ready to kill each other: another swayamvara ending in tragedy.
Drupada had his sword out and Bheema had automatically grabbed a heavy gold stand and, waiting beside Arjuna, held it like a battering ram. Yudhishthira and the twins stood beside them. The Brahmins, most of whom had never seen a bow and arrow at close hand, surrounded them, waving their deerskins protectively. Duels and skirmishes broke out and several kings were wounded. When the Pandavas had extricated themselves and the kings were trying to decide whether to protest further or not, Krishna with an easy eloquence I was hearing for the first time persuaded them that it would be dishonourable to attack these Brahmins. The time for protest would have been when Dhrishtadyumna stated that anyone who shot down the target could wed his sister.
Arjuna and his brothers, I was glad to see, had taken cover in the crowd of Brahmins again. Arjuna was walking away with Draupadi, and Krishna happily began dancing behind them, holding on to Arjuna’s deerskin.
I presumed on my friendship with Balarama from the Yuddhashala days to accompany him and Krishna to the potter’s house.
When we arrived we stopped just outside the door. Mother Kunti was sitting on one side of the Pandavas and Draupadi on the other. They were having a strange conversation: the five Pandava princes would marry Draupadi.
I was surprised to see the reputedly fiery Draupadi sitting calmly, without protesting at this outrageous suggestion. Sahadeva, who seldom said anything, now coolly proclaimed that he and Nakula had consulted their horoscopes and that it would be in order for all the five brothers to marry Draupadi, one after the other, providing the days in question were auspicious, Eldest first.
I remembered the first time I had seen Bheema uproot a tree and Arjuna find a target by sound and the day Nakula had with a single cluck soothed a frightened horse who was trying to trample his groom. How intrigued I had been. Whatever the five had done, it had always been consonant with the highest Dharma, and now I felt cheated hearing them all discuss something so outrageously adharmic. I was embarrassed for the s
ake of Krishna as well as myself, for his mission in life was to establish Dharma and renew it wherever he went. He was smiling as though he had been waiting for just this strange thing to happen. There was no mistaking the amused approval in his eyes. It was then Balarama, Krishna, and I crossed the threshold, clearing our throats.
Arjuna embraced me joyfully and took the scent from my head. The shock of seeing those unlikely Brahmins had rendered me half numb. But here they were and life had begun again. Now I began to taste my joy, the rush of events, the glorious beauty of Draupadi, and the entrance of Krishna into my life. The potter’s hut reminded me of father’s ashram and I realized I would rather live with them here than ever be without them again.
Arjuna and Krishna, who were of an age, tried to touch each other’s feet simultaneously. They ended up by embracing and repeatedly taking the scent from each other’s head, and now it was all embraces and I felt myself whole again. When we were all seated I became aware of something new, an unknown energy, a heating breeze sweeping the room, and my envy left me; though my mind still refused the idea of a gently bred princess having five husbands, my embarrassment was gone.
Everybody knows the story of how Draupadi ended up marrying not just Arjuna but all five Pandava brothers.
Before the swayamvara they had been staying in a potter’s house in Kampila and going out as Brahmins with begging-bowls for their daily food, their alms.
When they returned with Draupadi after the swayamvara, Bheema shouted out to Mother Kunti from the door that they had brought back specially delicious alms and Mother Kunti, with her back to them, gave her habitual reply, “Be sure you share it equally then.”
It was the Pandavas’ boast that they shared everything and never disobeyed their mother, and hers that she had never spoken untruthfully. The fact was that they must all have been in love with Draupadi, so when Kunti said that there was no taking her words back—she must have seen they all wanted Draupadi—they agreed. It sounds quite normal now, but at the time it astounded everybody, and nobody more than Draupadi. Extraordinary as was this dilemma, it was momentarily forgotten in the riot of conversation. The Pandavas and Krishna, meeting for the first time in a potter’s hut, had their whole lives to recount, and I was consumed with curiosity about the Abode of Pleasure, for I had seen the dead bodies.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 13
