When he had gone it was difficult to distract Yudhishthira from the possible consequence of the Rajasuya. The chanters had stopped chanting the legends of our ancestors; that heroic world was dimmed and silenced as though it were disappearing into the mouth of night forever. For him what was left was the memory of Shishupala’s head rolling onto the floor, his body tottering and crashing. No matter how often Krishna assured Yudhishthira that this had had to be and that Shishupala himself had, before birth, chosen the destiny of being killed by Krishna, Yudhishthira was unable to shake off the feeling that tradition and his own ambition had compelled the death. Duryodhana had not been appeased. Dantavaktra had walked out with his friends and those of Shishupala who remained faithful to his memory, and we had to face the fact that many kings resented the death of Shishupala; in short, the Rajasuya had hardened the hatred between our friends and Krishna’s enemies. It was more difficult than ever for Yudhishthira to respond to Krishna’s reminder that he was a Kshatriya.
“It had to be. Do not waste time in remorse and regrets. That is not the way of our caste.” Vyasa supported Krishna’s words.
Narada in his trance had foreseen the terrible things that were to follow. But we were careful to hide them from Yudhishthira and planned it so that Narada went without speaking of them, but when bidding farewell to Vyasa, Yudhishthira asked him what he saw for the future. Would there be peace at last and the era of harmony which he so longed for? Or was war with the angry kings inevitable?
“Not only war,” said Vyasa, “but war on a scale that we have never seen before. The Kshatriyas will be destroyed. You will dream of Shiva sitting on his bull gazing southward…deathward. But no matter what happens, do not grieve, for we are all bound by time and fate.”
“Master! What is the use of my being the emperor if I cannot prevent this?”
Vyasa looked at him with his deep-set compassionate eyes and said: “Even if you had thrown yourself into the sacrificial fire, you could not have avoided it, my grandson. You cannot. Not only can you not avoid it, but you will be the immediate cause of it. Accept your Dharma. Rule the earth with patience.”
Yudhishthira who had long suspected the vanity of it, and all of us, for the moment, questioned in our minds and in our hearts the benefits of the Rajasuya. If Krishna had not been with us, we might have lost sight of everything. Only his vision of a new Bharatavarsha sustained us.
Ten days after Vyasa’s departure we heard at dawn the thunder of chariot wheels; Salva had attacked Dwaraka. For the first time when leaving us Krishna took the reins of his chariot in his own hands. There was no time for ceremony.
He shouted from his chariot. “Yudhishthira! Be careful. Duryodhana… never forgive you.” His last words were ground up by chariot wheels. I yearned to be with Krishna in battle, but now we were all chained to Yudhishthira’s emperorhood. It was no time to desert him.
I stood staring. Questions swirled in my mind like the dust of Krishna’s chariot wheels.
Duryodhana would never forgive us? Would that mean war? War with our own cousins? And what of Ashwatthama and our Acharya? They owed allegiance to Uncle Dhritarashtra. Were we expected to fight them? And Greatfather! We were like children next to Krishna. I had always suspected that Greatfather’s defence of him had shocked me into understanding how little I knew Krishna. We trusted him and yet I was afraid.
20
The sound of Krishna’s departing chariot was still in our ears when Eldest summoned us into his small council chamber. He sat with eyes closed, seemingly on the verge of tears. Silently we waited, fearing that a single word might make them flow.
I was searching vainly for means to console him when he started.
“If I am to be the cause of the Kshatriyas’ annihilation, why should I live? If indeed my death can prevent it, then what am I doing on this earth?” For a moment we sat; a world without Eldest was a world without justice. Bheema would lose his strength, I the cunning of my weapons, and the wives their virtue. For what reason had the gods given us our gifts if not that we might uphold Eldest? Bheema’s eyes glistened. Before we should hear Bheema’s sob I jumped up and knelt before Eldest, holding both his hands.
“Eldest, we cannot know.”
“Master Vyasa predicted that I would dream of Shiva sitting on his bull gazing south…deathward. I did have the dream, so I know, Arjuna.” This stopped me but only for a moment.
“Eldest, not only because you are Eldest and without you we are nothing, but because you are now King of Kings, king of the world you have no right to be discouraged. This is the time to be firm in truth and firm in reason. Remember we performed the Rajasuya so that our father should be happy in heaven. Regret nothing, Eldest. Do what Vyasa says. Do what Krishna says. Rule the earth with patience. Shake off the dream. What will it avail the earth if you die? Who will be left to rule the earth with patience and justice? Duryodhana? You are Dharmaraj. When the emperor does not fulfil his duty, why should any other man on earth fulfil his? It is your death that would be the cause of universal destruction.” Eldest’s chin rested on his chest. His eyes were closed and I felt his hands lifeless within my own. Had he even heard my words?
“Live to avert the prophecy.” He opened his eyes.
“But how? How?” he said. I felt something stir in him.
“You were given the wisdom, Eldest. That is why you are the emperor. That is why Krishna and Vyasa uphold you. Can they both be wrong? Would you allow someone like Jarasandha to rule in your stead?” Eldest’s hands twisted away and now he was grasping mine.
“No,” he said. “No…”
But in the days that followed we lived in the shadow of the prediction.
The need for Jarasandha’s death had been agreed upon in the interest of peace and Dharma, but that one single death had aroused Shishupala. Now Salva, his ally, had been provoked to attack the Yadavas in Dwaraka. Krishna could kill Salva, but that would not lead to peace either. This sort of argument, while irrefutable, was in contradiction to Kshatriyahood. If carried far enough, it made nonsense of our whole history and the legends the chanters had related. Our ancestor, Kartaveerya the great hero, had slaughtered practically the whole of the Aryan world to build this empire and then Parashurama, the Brahmin, had destroyed the Kshatriyas in order to ensure peace. Greatfather Bheeshma’s father, Shantanu, had fought bloody battles in order to perform the Rajasuya sacrifice and attain the status of emperor. The Kshatriya thinks in terms of hardening his muscles and his heart and training his eye for the next battle, the next victory. But Eldest was not born to think like this.
Draupadi soothed him and supported him and with her wit and tenderness roused him from his sadness but she could not entirely dispel the confusion that had descended upon his mind.
Apart from Draupadi and sometimes the children, the only creature whose company Yudhishthira sought was his favourite dog Raja. I was certain they spoke to each other in silence, and I once heard Yudhishthira muttering, “You are lucky. You do not know who your cousins are.”
When Draupadi heard him she became angry. Once she said, “Stop it—you are an emperor. If you continue moaning and groaning, you will be born as a servant girl in your next life.” We had all felt the lash of Draupadi’s tongue. There was never a woman who addressed her husband as she did us when provoked.
She had plenty to say to me about the “purpose” of my pilgrimage, and had made “Arjuna’s pilgrimage” a by-word for irresponsibility. For myself, I knew that she loved me best, so I could ask if her other four husbands had not made up for one of me, but, in truth, I had not guessed that she ever spoke to Eldest so strongly.
Yet it worked better than anything else.
We were beginning to forget the predictions when Uncle Vidura came from Hastinapura with Duryodhana’s now famous invitation to the royal game of dice.
The arrival of Uncle Vidura lifted everybody’s spirits. Whether his tidings were good or bad, and since he came from Hastinapura they were probably ba
d, we felt great joy at seeing him. He was our benefactor, and if there was bad news he would know what we must do. Yet though Uncle Vidura was expert in statecraft and considered second to none in the science of Nitishastra—the knowledge of human behaviour—he could find no way out of the trap which he had been ordered officially to set for us.
It was in Yudhishthira’s beautiful reception room, looking out over a crystal fountain shaded by roses and white and golden champak trees, that we gathered to be with Uncle Vidura. Yudhishthira, who never neglected the courtesies, began:
“Do you come here in peace and happiness, Uncle? And how is our Uncle Dhritarashtra, that Sinless one? And his sons? I hope they cause their father no grief and that the people of Hastinapura obey the old king’s rule.”
Uncle Vidura, following the form said that the king was satisfied with his sons, who were obedient to him, and reigned over his kingdom like Lord Indra himself.
“The king,” he paused, “asks after your peace and prosperity.” He paused again, and knowing that Uncle Vidura never had difficulty in calmly exposing the worst, my heart sank.
“Duryodhana has built a magnificent palace, inspired by your own Mayasabha. You are invited to inspect it. It is called the Palace of Crystal, for it is supported by ten thousand crystal columns.”
And then it came.
“And, Yudhishthira, you are invited for a friendly game of dice,” and here Uncle Vidura’s protocol broke down, “with the biggest gamblers and cheats in the world.” He resumed the conventions: “May the old king’s command be approved by you.” We all watched Yudhishthira, praying for him to break his vow, to get angry. The destruction of the Kshatriya world was as nothing if the kingly code was going to force us into acceptance. Yudhishthira’s response was mild.
“Gambling leads to quarrels, but I will be guided entirely by you.”
“I know, I know, I know. And I tried, indeed I tried. It is folly.” Uncle Vidura, that paragon of self-control, had lost his calm. Yudhishthira stroked Raja’s ears.
“Who are we to play against?”
“Duryodhana—and Shakuni, the most cunning cheat on earth.” Raja yelped and pulled away. Yudhishthira’s hand remained clenched.
“And that blind old king allowed this—actually sent you?” My strangled words were half drowned by Bheema’s roar of protest.
“He tried,” said Uncle Vidura, putting out a hand to comfort Raja. “My brother also tried to stop it. He spoke of the evils of gambling. Never has he tried so hard to restrain his first-born. It hurt my heart to hear him speak so gently: ‘Duryodhana, you are the eldest son of my chief wife. My vast riches are available to you. All your kin is at your command. The best cloth is used for your garments. The choicest food is set before you. The fleetest horses carry you. You have the loveliest women, the most comfortable beds, palaces such as can be seen in heaven; and yet your flesh dwindles.’ You know how my brother passes his hand over his son’s head and arms. He lives in fear that Duryodhana will take his own life.”
Bheema jumped up. “But it is I who will take his life.”
“Yudhishthira, my child, he gave his father the most detailed account of the tribute offered to you at the Rajasuya. He had memorized the number of golden jars that the Brahmins had brought you and exactly what gems were encrusted in them and how many thousands of she-elephants and how many thousands of she-camels and black and red deerskins and dyed woollen blankets and other textiles were offered; the number of silks and thoroughbred horses offered by King Bhagadatta, and the swords with purest ivory handles adorned with diamonds.
“Everyone in the palace has a detailed inventory in his head. Ten thousand black-necked asses offered by the people of Bablika and the skins of the Ranku deer and the silk and the soft sheepskin and the long swords and scimitars and hatchets and fine-edged battle axes; the gifts of perfumes and jewels and silk carpets with gold thread and the inlaid beds and the golden chariots and the tigerskins and the rugs for caparisoning the elephants; the armour and the long soft whisks brought by the mountain tribes, and the trees and flowers; the number of the beasts brought by men from all corners of the world and the lapis lazuli and pearls brought by the king of the Sinhalas, enough to stud the walls of many palaces. He spends whole nights detailing the tribute while that fond, tormented father listens, at times in anguish, but also with greed, all the time stroking his son’s brow. Duryodhana lives and relives the Rajasuya. If you ever need an inventory of what you received, it is all in Duryodhana’s head. It torments him like sharp knives that all the crowned kings wait upon and worship his cousin; that one king yoked his horses for the coronation ceremony while another, with his own hands, fitted the flagstaff and yet another held out the coat of mail and that King Ekalavya, the thumbless one, stood ready with the shoes; ‘A king for the quiver; a king for the bow; a king for the sword,’ he kept on saying to my brother.” In Uncle Vidura’s voice we caught the glint of Duryodhana’s rising hysteria. “But do you know what disturbed him most? The constant blaring of conches, each one signalling that you had fed a hundred thousand Brahmins.”
“And so,” said Yudhishthira, “his father gave his consent.”
“Even then my brother tried to reason with him. His words were, ‘You and our cousins share the same grandfather. To envy them brings sorrow. To harm them is to lop off your own arms.’ But when your cousin spoke of the humiliation he had suffered when falling into the artificial lake and that Draupadi and Bheema had laughed, his father gave in. Your Uncle Dhritarashtra is weak-minded and began to philosophize and say that it was the will of fate, that the whole universe moves at the will of the Creator and that he was powerless against Duryodhana. ‘Vidura, I command you,’ he said.” Uncle Vidura covered his face with his hands.
I could have wept for him, I could have wept for all of us, but tears would not serve any purpose here. Nothing would. I knew already that Yudhishthira’s vow and the kingly code would make him accept, but in any case, a refusal would be held against us as an insult and ample provocation for war. The kings who had walked out at the death of Shishupala would not help us and the others, our friends, would not be in a hurry to return so soon after the Rajasuya. Krishna was still busy protecting his own people against Salva in a long war and we had heard that Pradyumna, his eldest son by Queen Rukmini, had been captured or killed. It was a strategic moment for Duryodhana. To accept was to open ourselves to ruin. To refuse was to invite war. Shakuni was known to boast about his ability to cheat. Nobody had ever beaten him. Yudhishthira liked chess and dice but always lost to Draupadi. The only person he had ever beaten regularly was Ghatotkacha and sometimes even with him he was forced to say, “I let Ghatotkacha win tonight.”
We sat in silence. What was there to say?
Bheema said, “They want to rob us of Indraprastha.”
“What a good idea it was to make him accept the presents at the Rajasuya,” said Draupadi.
“Yes,” said Uncle Vidura. “He could not believe that such riches existed in Bharatavarsha and then to see them in one place, all there…it may have been better had he never seen the Mayasabha. I told him that he had wanted Hastinapura and he had got it, while he gave you a barren piece of land. My words fell on deaf ears. He started telling me what the law was. Me, the Chief Minister who has spent half his life studying the sciences. He told me that younger members of the family owe all their wealth to the head of the family, Dhritarashtra.”
“What about Greatfather?” we asked.
“Of course he would have nothing to do with it.”
“We shall not accept,” said Draupadi.
“We do not have to accept,” shouted Bheema.
“That is correct,” said Uncle Vidura. “But if you do not, Duryodhana intends to summon Dantavaktra and his friends to take Indraprastha by force. He will only be avenging an insult.”
“Arjuna and I will take them on,” said Bheema. “How many times has Dronacharya shown us that the battle depends on the great chariot warri
ors. There are none that come near us in Hastinapura. Greatfather, Dronacharya, and even Ashwatthama—though some say he has grown close to Duryodhana—would never fight in such a corrupt cause. That leaves Karna who is not bad but can be defeated by Sahadeva or Nakula.” Uncle Vidura shook his head.
“Greatfather despises Shakuni…”
“You do not mean,” I said at last, “that Greatfather would have anything to do with Shakuni’s plans?” It was the first time that I had known Uncle Vidura to make a judgement about anybody which did not tally with what was possible.
“We know even Greatfather has a weak point. If for no other reason, Shishupala deserved to have his head sliced off—for reminding Greatfather that he had eaten the salt of my brother when the throne of the Kurus was Greatfather’s right.”
We had almost forgotten that ourselves, for since we had first known him he had always behaved so retiringly at court, that we were never reminded that he was heir to the emperor Shantanu and that the throne had come to Uncle Dhritarashtra because of Greatfather’s renunciation. Yudhishthira, Uncle Vidura, Greatfather—three such noble men! How was it that they could even be touched by rogues like Shakuni? Why could we not prevail? I had an inkling of what Uncle Vidura was about to say.
“You see, men like your Greatfather who are capable of taking vows of that nature set such high standards for themselves that it makes things difficult. Dhritarashtra should feel beholden to Greatfather. He does not. He has long forgotten, if he ever remembered, that by right Greatfather is, or would be, king even now if he decided to renounce his vow, which we all know he will never do. Greatfather feels beholden to Dhritarashtra every time he eats a mango or a grape or a bowl of curds. That is his nature—you know how sober he is even in his diet. If it comes to war, we will hear him say, ‘I cannot fight against one whose salt I have eaten,’ and Dronacharya can do no less, for he is really a dependent and his pride is fierce. Though he still loves you, Arjuna, surely you have not forgotten that you are the son-in-law of Drupada.” Uncle Vidura was not a master of Nitishastra for nothing; he was telling us what we had always felt but had not put into words before. We five brothers and Mother Kunti had been aware of the thousand ways in which Greatfather observed the precedence of Uncle Dhritarashtra, even though it was he who stood for Dharma and who was the ruler in the minds of the people.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 21
