The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  From the fort on the Raivataka hill, he showed me the Panchajanya forests and from Latavesta we looked down on stretches of palm trees and lotus pools.

  When he asked me whether I would like to meet his sister, I was tonguetied and could only wag my head. He asked me to wait in my apartment and he would call me from there. After what seemed a long wait, during which I wondered whether to ask for a change of clothes, I heard the tinkle of anklets and saw a modestly draped girl with half-veiled head averted from me, standing at the door.

  “I am Subhadra,” she said in a sweet voice, her face still turned from me. I had expected her to be like Krishna and she was. For a moment I sat bewildered. She looked more like Sharana. I rose from my couch. The resemblance was not surprising for she was Sharana. I advanced slowly at first and then in two long strides caught the bow-scarred arm which clasped the veil and gave him a good kick in the bottom. He ran off, squealing with laughter, into the passage where his friends were waiting for an impersonation of my reactions. When they saw me they fled. The boy must have been up to mischief often, for twice I saw Balarama cuff him, which made me warm to Balarama as never before. Nonetheless, he still made me uncomfortable and I knew that his love for Duryodhana would make him overrule any decision of Krishna’s in my favour regarding Subhadra.

  I liked the look of Gada, Krishna’s other younger brother, but he was always with Balarama. I made friends with Shamba and Pradyumna, Krishna’s sons, whom I had caught sight of at Draupadi’s swayamvara. Pradyumna was the son of Rukmini. Shamba had heard of me apparently, and begged me to teach him archery. I invited him to come and stay with us when I returned home. Kritavarman, another Vrishni prince I had never seen before, was one of the seven great warriors of the Vrishnis, and he seemed to me even then divided between a wish to make friends with me and the equally strong desire not to displease Balarama by doing so. He managed to be friendly and hospitable when Balarama was absent, but I felt no deep warmth coming from him as came from Satyaki, who showed me all honour whether Balarama was present or not. Here he was second in my heart only to Krishna.

  Many of the other princes had the Vrishni grace, with supple bodies and liquid eyes and enchanting smiles. Others were handsome and burly, with golden skins, like Balarama. All welcomed me, but to me the lofty spires and great golden domes of the city became nothing but a setting for my meeting with Subhadra. Krishna escorted me everywhere, first showing me his own palace which was four yojanas in dimension. It had been conceived by the divine architect Visvakarman, and its domes were like suns rising out of the plain; its halls and courtyards were made of stone and marble from all over Bharata. We walked for hours in the palace gardens and reclined in the private apartments on soft deer skins from China, listening to Krishna’s musicians. This should have been enough like paradise after the dusty roads and friendless hungry days which had brought me here, but when the curtains parted to admit a servant or musician, I would look up expecting Subhadra. My eyes would come back to Krishna to find him laughing at me. I could not help myself. Nothing distracted me, not even the marvels of the palaces built for Krishna’s queens.

  Krishna’s most beloved wife, Satyabhama, lived in a white palace. Its gem-encrusted staircases were designed in such a way that they conducted breezes throughout the building. “Perhaps,” I thought, “Subhadra is here, passing the time with Satyabhama.” But it was not so.

  Jambhavati had designed her own palace and her taste and skill were evident. But Subhadra was not there either.

  It was true that the women of Dwaraka were the most beautiful I had seen in Bharatavarsha. Strong and graceful with luminous skins, but they might as well have been lovely trees since they were not Subhadra.

  The whole city was, in fact, full of trees. They had been brought from every quarter: benoxin, marking nut, camphor, the sweet champak whose flowers brought forth visions of Subhadra’s face. Surrounded by them were waving date palms from the beaches of the south, laden with fruit, and fragrant pandala trees from the Himalayas and the groves of Nandana, which aroused my longing for Subhadra’s fragrance. There was palasa, the flame of the forest, carpeting the ground briefly with its blazing flowers. There were incense trees and sandal, citrus and traveller’s palm, all so inviting to lovers who were free to sit together in their shade. Then there were fruits: mango, black currant, hog’s palms, jackfruit, cashewnut, wood apple, taitabha, Indra’s tree, clove, horse flower, betel, and the graceful bamboo groves in which a laughing woman might hide from a man, ever just visible, ever just out of reach.

  No wonder that the city with its lake Indradyumna and its palaces was the talk of the world. In Dwaraka every house was adorned with bells and when the wind blew they made such a music that the gods must lean down to listen. Somewhere, not far away, Subhadra could hear it.

  Every evening Krishna and I rested in his favourite place; the arrangement was such that nothing but harmony could exist there, and my very longing was soothing to me while the sound of Krishna’s flute wove through my happy dreams.

  When at last I saw her at the great Shiva festival she was coming down from the Raivataka mountain, fresh from her devotions which shone in her eyes, tranquil eyes under level brows. I turned pleadingly on Krishna.

  He said, “You want to marry her? Do it the Kshatriya way. Abduct her. Run away with her. If we give her a swayamvara she may do something silly. Or someone else may abduct her. She is a spirited girl. Besides which, I do not want to have to go through the business of persuading Balarama. He would be against it. As it is, I will have to make the arrangements for you at the gates of the city or they will stop you.”

  There I was, still dressed as a pilgrim and half out of my mind, but not to the point of forgetting to send a messenger for Eldest’s approval, which he gave. So, on the next day when Subhadra was returning to the palace from the hilltop where she had gone for worship, I drove behind her in Krishna’s golden chariot, lifted her into it, and turned the horses in the direction of Indraprastha. The chariot was drawn by Krishna’s favourite horses. I had hardly to hold the reins.

  Krishna had interceded for me and also assured me that I had won Subhadra’s love: but since I knew that he was not above exaggeration when it suited his purpose and because he wanted us to be brothers-inlaw as much as I did, I put her to the test. I was aflame with love and the excitement of a Kshatriya abduction. Still I needed to know that Subhadra really wanted to come with me.

  “Subhadra!” I called above the din of the chariot wheels and the horse’s hooves. She turned her lovely face, streaming with tears, towards me. “Subhadra, I do not want to drive my bride home dressed like this. Will you take the reins for me?” She shifted her position and held her hands out. I slowed the horses down a little and with great skill she took the reins from me. It was the first time our hands had touched. Our eyes met. Yes. Krishna had used no political exaggeration. Subhadra was my heart’s dearest wish and I was hers. Being a man, I could not quite understand the tears. Perhaps the poignancy of leaving Krishna and Dwaraka, her parents, and the lovely sea-fringed beaches was the cause, but she loved me all right. Above all else, there was love for me in her eyes, and to prove it, while I started dressing in the princely cloth that Krishna had left for me, she urged the horses to Indraprastha with a crack of the whip and a gay smile belying her tears. I loved this show of spirit and it reminded me of the other woman of spirit in my life, Draupadi. How would these two manage together? Before I could give my mind to this, we were coming to the outskirts of the town. This would be the real test of Subhadra’s mettle. I had put on my breastplate and was fitting my fingerguards just as we came to the first group of houses. I stuck my diadem atop my matted hair. You can say what you like about true love, but from the way Subhadra looked at me, I knew that she liked me better as a Kshatriya than as a yati. She was laughing openly now, quite unafraid of the sort of reception we might get from the people of Dwaraka. The first people we met made way for us. Some must have recognized Krishna’s
chariot and Subhadra and, once we were past, understood that she was leaving them. We heard cheers, but also yells. Suddenly the road was barred.

  It was lucky that Subhadra held the reins for she knew the town and abruptly she swerved left into a by-road, nearly upsetting the chariot. I had to clutch the seat and at one point I would have grazed my knuckles against a wall had I not been wearing my fingerguards. When I recovered I looked at Subhadra swaying with the chariot but in perfect control, laughing, radiant and mocking, and so much like Krishna that my heart melted. I knew I would never feel like this towards any other woman. I was right— we were always to understand each other with a look or a gesture.

  We were on the main road again, and once more people were waving their arms, signalling us to stop. Another barrier, another swerve. I shouted to ask Subhadra if she would be my charioteer besides being my wife, but her face was now set in a frown. We were nearing the Raivataka cave, the gate of this fortified city. I knew an army garrison was stationed there. Krishna had assured us that the commander was his friend and that he had told him to let us through, but something must have gone wrong. We saw them at the bridge ready with bows and drawn swords. It must have been the army loyal to Balarama. Just as I thought Subhadra would throw us into the moat unless she reined in her horses, a huge man appeared, waving his arms and yelling. I trusted Subhadra so implicitly already that I thought she would swerve us to safety again, but she had placed her trust in Krishna and, at the last possible moment, the gate clanked back allowing us to clatter over the bridge with a wave and yell of thanks to the commander. He returned my salute with outstretched arm. When we were over the bridge I pointed to my heart and fluttered my hand to show Subhadra the extent of my anxiety. She smiled. How like Krishna she was.

  We were well away from the gates and could no longer hear pursuing hooves behind us. Still Subhadra let the horses gallop. She was smiling serenely now. A great peace and joy descended on me; we were galloping through eternity creating it. My restlessness was gone. My wanderings had come to an end. The countryside sped by. Trees met above our heads. We raced through their shade and suddenly came out in full sunshine and then again there were trees with the sun making patterns on us through them. We raced a river and then crossed it. The wind whistling past us had loosened Subhadra’s hair and made it stream out behind her. I had never been so at ease with anyone. Riding in this chariot with Subhadra without so much as touching her was better than having any other woman in my arms.

  The fatigue of the horses eventually forced us to halt beside a river. Even now, it was not time for love as I had known it with other women. There was nothing Subhadra did not know about horses. I watched her unharness them, skilful as Nakula. She spoke to them as she rubbed them dry and threw a cloth to me to do the same. Then we led them to the river to water them.

  We smiled at each other as they drank. I could hear Krishna’s voice in my heart.

  “Did I choose well for you?”

  How did it come about that Balarama himself came pushing through the bushes by the river to ask us, in a voice from which almost all hostility had vanished, to the palace to be suitably feted? Krishna told us that all he had done was to ask him. Since when had the Yadavas begun to turn down the best match for their daughters? Did they plan to sell their incomparable Subhadra as the kings of Madra did with their princesses?—and indeed Greatfather Bheeshma had had to pay a good sum for Madri when she married my father. “We leave our women free to choose and, imagine, Balarama, whom she might otherwise choose. Go and bring them yourself,” he urged his brother. “Your blessing will make their happiness.”

  Subhadra was amused at my surprise. “Balarama loves Krishna,” she said. “None of us can ever refuse him anything for very long.”

  Fortunately for Draupadi and myself, Subhadra was as great a diplomat as Krishna.

  Months later, she humbly introduced herself to our queen and so charmed her that I found Draupadi coming out in Subhadra’s defence. Subhadra was to be treated with respect. She was the sister of Krishna himself. She was no Ulupi to be loved and abandoned. I never knew how Draupadi had heard of Ulupi. We must of course, she said, have another celebration in Indraprastha. Krishna arrived with Balarama, a large party of Vrishnis, thousands of costly presents, and a knowing smile for me.

  When Krishna greeted Draupadi, I understood better the miracle of her acceptance. She, who had stood up to all of us, had welcomed Subhadra because Krishna wanted it so.

  Now Draupadi fell at Krishna’s feet, her eyes raining tears. Krishna raised her by the elbows and wiped her eyes. His smile of admiration, and approval, was all the reward Draupadi wanted.

  18

  Balarama, the other Vrishnis and all the attendants returned to Dwaraka a few days after the celebration, but Krishna stayed on with us. Draupadi’s relations with Subhadra remained good and loving, and I loved Draupadi all the more for this.

  We spent much time in the shaded pleasure garden. It was high summer, a time for laziness, for splashing in pools, picking flowers, making garlands, following Krishna in his games, and listening to his flute. I did not know how long the singing and dancing and constant sweet sound of the flute and veena and the muted sob of drums could have gone on in the mounting heat without tension rising as well in my warrior’s muscles. They needed a purpose and direction. I looked to Krishna for signs of caution, but he seemed prepared to play and dance and sing another hundred summers away, as though the statesman and killer of tyrants in him had died.

  It was hot. The sky was white, the grasses burned, and our fine cotton clothes were always soaked. I longed for serious tasks and battle almost as I had longed for pilgrimage. I began to think of what Krishna had said about our freeing Bharatavarsha from her tyrants. I asked him to come for a stroll with me to a secluded spot on the river bank.

  I wanted to ask Krishna about Jarasandha. Sooner or later, it had to be settled; Jarasandha was a threat to everything we stood for, more so than Kamsa had been. I knew that if I had married Subhadra simply because I had fallen entirely in love with her, Krishna had helped me and even prodded me not only through his love for me, though I knew that I was dearer to him than anybody, but also because he wanted us to be indissolubly linked in kinship, in political kinship, as brothers-in-law, as well as cousins.

  Nobody was quite sure how many captive kings Jarasandha had in his fortress prison. Everybody could count at least eighty and it was said he boasted of eighty-four. In any case it was near enough to the one hundred that this fanatic needed to make his human sacrifice of the hundred kings he had promised Lord Shiva to make us uncomfortable. Unlike most Kshatriyas, who were embarrassed to talk about it because of their helplessness, I knew Krishna was planning something and had no intention of standing by. He had once said on the beach at Dwaraka that he meant to root out all adharmic kings because people could not be greater than the example set by their kings.

  Now at the river’s edge I was ready to ask him exactly what he had in mind. “And Jarasandha…?” Krishna picked a stalk of grass and looked at it thoughtfully. I stopped to see whether he would do something like Drona had done with the grass stalk when we had lost our ball in the well, for Krishna was full of surprises; he surprised me even more by putting it to his mouth and nibbling it. He knew my mind and smiled.

  “I used to do this in Gokula, when I was just Krishna the cowherd. You know, Arjuna, even now those years are the most real to me. There was none of this then,” he said, pointing to his diadem and his neck jewellery. I took off my own diadem, which was hot and heavy, and placed it on the grass. Something pulled at my heart when Krishna spoke of his childhood, a sadness that I had not been with him, that Balarama had been part of it instead of myself. Krishna began to talk.

  “You know, of course, that my uncle Kamsa feared all the children of my parents and had them killed at birth? Me, he feared specially, for I was the eighth, the one it had been prophesied would cause his death. But my foster-mother, Yasodha, sneake
d me away in a cow cart to the Yamuna river and so it was that I grew up, son of Nanda the cowherd.” Krishna plucked another stalk of grass. “It was marvellous, Arjuna. No Councils of State. No courtiers. Balarama and I used to play leaf-whistles like Naga boys. We played the gourd drum and fluted the time away in the forest. We were cowherds.” At last Krishna turned to me, laughing. “People like Duryodhana and Shishupala think to insult me with the word because they know nothing of what it means to grow up carefree in a village and to wander in the forest.” He looked straight before him again and I was afraid he might stop talking and I would not be able to ask him about the miracles we had heard of from the time we were still in the forest with my father. “Balarama always wore blue and I wore saffron, even then. We both had long hair and the village girls thought us very handsome.” He stopped to grin at me. “We always had peacock feathers and flowers in our hair and garlands around our necks. When the time came our heads were shaven, except for our crow’s wing side curls. Arjuna, you saw the splendours of Dwaraka, but no tribute or booty has ever gladdened my heart as much as the playthings that the milkmen of Vraja used to bring me. And that was our childhood.” There was a golden silence.

  “What about the miracles they speak of?”

  “Oh, they speak of miracles. You mean that I kicked over the cart, and that ogress, Putana, fell dead while giving me suck, and that I ate the milksweet meant for the god and that the cow-herds then worshipped me. Yes, cousin, I killed the anti-god who had taken the shape of a bull, and the wrestler, and Kamsa’s great general, Sunama, when still a boy, and danced on the head of the serpent that threatened the village. But none of these is important, Fearless One,” he said using his favourite nickname for me.” I knew that he had left out the most spectacular feats, like that of restoring the son of his guru Sandipani to his father. Some said that the boy was long dead. Before I had met Krishna these things had made him mysterious to me and indeed I had often heard others speak of the “Mysterious Krishna”, but I could see that he would reveal no secrets today, so I asked, “What is important then?” Krishna pondered this. “Stealing curds and butter and playing the flute were important and so was having Balarama for a brother. Killing Kamsa was important. Everything is important, everything is a miracle. Fearless One, we are here to rid our Mother Earth of her tyrants. She can no longer stand the tread of unrighteous monarchs and there will be a great bloodletting. I with my discus and you with your bow…” Krishna stopped to look at me with fierce tenderness and I felt all the hairs on my body stand on end.