The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  “Susharma!”

  Susharma turned and gave the smile that one Kshatriya gives another when challenged, and responded: “Eh, Virata. At last I will make carrion meat of you, that is, if the vultures want you.”

  Virata gave a contemptuous laugh and then it was between the two of them. Susharma’s army, though it included many ruffians, observed the code that nobody should interfere in a duel between two warriors. The two kings shot arrows from their chariots. At one point the sun was obscured by the dust of stamping cattle. Virata’s horses and charioteer were killed and he himself was captured by Susharma and his brothers.

  Yudhishthira shouted, “Rescue him!”

  Bheema, the twins and Yudhishthira raced their chariots after Susharma. Seeing in them rescue, Virata grabbed Susharma’s mace, even as Bheema made a Hanuman leap into Susharma’s chariot.

  Bheema grabbed Susharma by the hair and shouted: “You deserve to be killed for attacking defenceless cowherds and cattle. Tell me why I should not kill you?”

  Before he could answer, Susharma had received one of those taps on the head from Bheema’s hand which rendered him unconscious. By the time Bheema had brought him before Yudhishthira, he was semi-conscious.

  Bheema sat on his chest and said, “Beg for mercy from our king.”

  “Do not humiliate him any further,” said Yudhishthira. Susharma did obeisance to Yudhishthira and limped away.

  Virata had his cattle back and wanted to shower wealth on Kanka and his cook. He promised them all sorts of rewards, including the whole of his kingdom. As Bheema told me later, Eldest kept on making sweet but rather long speeches about the duties of a dice player who had been helped for a year and assured Virata that he would have won the war even if they had no been there.

  The victorious army could not come back immediately, for it had to spend the night close to the camp of the defeated army. Messengers had been sent to the palace to tell us to prepare for a triumphal entry, so in the women’s quarters we knew all was well and we began threading garlands for the heroes. Brihannala, the eunuch, was biting his nails, or her nails, in frustration and Uttaraa received no dancing lessons that day. I pleaded a headache and the dear child, who never quite understood the nature of a eunuch, consoled me, presuming that I was in my period.

  The next day, as we waited at the city gates to welcome the conquering heroes, we heard cries from a distance. At first I thought they might be heralds, but soon we saw several figures flapping towards us. I peered. Their gait was hardly that of the Kshatriyas, and sure enough they were cowherds. Now, the kingdom of Matsya had been attacked by the Kauravas on the northern border. The cowherds fell at the feet of Virata’s youngest son, Uttarakumara. They begged him to defend the northern border in the absence of his father, assuring him that Virata, who was on his way back, would surely follow him with the triumphant army.

  Uttarakumara was a charming youth, but had certainly done nothing up to now to deserve the confidence that these cowherds showed in him. Of course they were desperate. Uttarakumara was my music student and although he was not brilliant, I could not help thinking that he might be better with the strings of the veena than with the bow. But there was no one else. Uttarakumara, who spent a lot of time in the ladies’ quarters and who was their darling, now made a fine speech for them. There was nobody else to make it for.

  “I would certainly rush off at once with my bow and cut the Kauravas to pieces. The Kauravas may have a few heroes on their side, but what are Bheeshma and Drona and Ashwatthama and Karna against Uttarakumara, the son of Virata? People will take me for Arjuna.”

  He really was charming as he declaimed all this nonsense, or would have been had the situation not been critical. He put his chin in his right hand and his right elbow in his left hand and pondered the situation.

  “The only thing,” he said, “is that I have no charioteer. There is not a single charioteer left in the city, is there?” he asked hopefully. He was very young and had a number of older brothers; they were heroes and warriors. He and my Uttaraa were the pets.

  I whispered to Draupadi, “Recommend me as the charioteer.”

  “A eunuch as my charioteer?” he asked.

  But when Draupadi assured him that I had once acted as Arjuna’s charioteer and his sister Uttaraa spoke for me there was no way out for him unless he wanted his face blackened completely and forever. I had already ordered the horses to be harnessed to the best chariot left in the stable. Having often visited Nakula, I knew which were the best of the remaining horses. I could not waste time searching for armour. What we had to do was to stay the Kaurava army. Just as we were galloping away, Draupadi rushed up with a rusty suit of armour she had found in an old sandalwood chest. Poor Princess Uttaraa was weeping, so to cheer her I stepped daintily into the armour and fumbled with the clasp. My ruse failed. She was more convinced than ever that I would die. I hitched up the long skirt and took the reins.

  “Bring us beautiful silks from the enemy for our dolls and jewels from the fingers of those you have killed,” teased the women. Only lovely Draupadi stood with tears in her eyes, raising her cupped hands in anjali. She was asking only that I should return alive.

  I spurred the horses on towards the cremation ground where we had hidden our weapons. We had not quite reached it when we heard the sound of the Kaurava army. I cannot blame Uttarakumara. It was like an angry sea rushing upon us.

  “Brihannala.” Uttarakumara’s voice quivered pitifully. “Brihannala, let us go back. It sounds, O Indra, Lord of Heaven, it sounds terrible.”

  I said, in as encouraging a way as I could, “It is nothing, my Lord. Soldiers always make a terrible din. You cannot expect them to sound like a music class.” By now I had to shout to be heard but went on talking in order to keep his spirits up. “Soldiers and fisherwomen…they say that if you want to have your eardrums pierced…” At this point, through the cloud of dust, Uttarakumara had caught a glimpse of the enemy army.

  Uttarakumara was about to faint. His cheeks were white, his hands on the bow trembled. With the reins in one hand, I held him up by his armour with the other and pretended not to have noticed. Just then the dust cloud opened.

  “Look, my Lord Uttarakumara. Do you see that splendid white horse? Upon it is seated the king of the Kauravas, Duryodhana. Is he not a handsome man? There by his side on the grey is his favourite brother, Duhshasana. Look. The most handsome and noble of them all, riding towards them on the chestnut, is Karna, the bravest and the best. Do you know what they call him? The Greatest Giver. Every day at noon he worships the sun and will refuse no one a boon then. There is no archer to compare with him on the side of the Kauravas. Arjuna is his only peer.”

  Indeed, as I looked it was as though the curtain of smoke had parted to reveal actors on a stage. All my personal resentment of them and the bitterness of the dice game had gone. I saw nothing but brave warriors. In a sense, I really was Brihannala, the dancing teacher; that was the subtle power of Urvashi’s curse, but I longed for the solid weight of Gandiva in my hands.

  “Ah, Uttarakumara, but there, where you see the sun rising as though lassoed by gems, is a crown. That crown is worn by the great Bheeshma.” There were tears within me which I did not let fall.

  “He is the true king of the Kauravas. Had he not renounced the throne, the Kauravas would not exist today. At his side you see Dronacharya, the greatest Guru of all after Bhargava. He taught the Kauravas and the Pandavas all they know of weapons. There is his glorious son, Ashwatthama. One would know him from the mysterious jewel on his forehead, but see, his noble face glows brighter than the jewel. He has all the wisdom of the Brahmin and the strength of the Kshatriya. He is greater than Arjuna himself and his father loves both equally. My Lord, how fortunate you are. Fate has been kind to you. It offers you the greatest heroes in the world. I promise you, you will defeat them.”

  “Brihannala, turn back. I think I am ill.” Uttarakumara was trembling.

  “My Lord Uttara, it doe
s you no justice to speak like a frightened woman. You are the nephew of Keechaka. You are the son of the brave Virata. Even I, a poor eunuch, am not afraid. So why should you be? Do not bring shame on your family. You know the fate of one born a Kshatriya who turns his back on the fight.”

  I myself was more intoxicated by the pungent dust of battle than by any wine. As I looked at Greatfather’s countenance, I forgot about the poor frightened young prince and before I knew what had happened, Uttarakumara had jumped from the chariot and was running in the direction of the city of Virata. I might not have noticed but for the clank of his armour. I jumped too, my red mantle flying behind me, my hair whipping my eyes, but though I had to keep hold of my long skirt, I easily caught up with him. As I reached out an arm to grab him, shouted words wafted to me on the hot breeze.

  “Those long arms are Arjuna’s. No one else in the world has those long, beautiful archer’s arms. Look at those shoulders.” Dronacharya’s voice and admiration after thirteen years turned my blood to wine.

  “No one but Arjuna would face our army alone.” This time it was Greatfather. My heart swelled. They were shouting out in my favour. It was as though they had found a way of cheering me on. And then I heard Karna’s voice: “It may be Arjuna, for he is running away.” I was now out of range of their voices.

  I caught Uttarakumara by the hair.

  “You be my charioteer,” I told him, I will do the fighting.” I half dragged, half coaxed him back to the chariot. “A Kshatriya never turns from a battlefield.”

  He was a good sprinter and I did not have much breath left for exhortation, so I cuffed him on the head.

  Under cover of the dust I made him turn the chariot towards the cremation ground and I peered into the distance, trying to recognize our sami tree. But I would probably have found it in the dead of night, so often had I thought and dreamt of it. There it was, just as I remembered it when, laughing and nervous, we had hung our weapons, the corpse, from it.

  I made the prince climb up to hand me the bundle. Uttarakumara nearly died of fright but I sent him through the thorns to get them all the same. Duryodhana was expecting me to return with my brothers, no doubt. I could not wait to get back to him. Uttarakumara protested.

  “A Kshatriya cannot taint himself by touching a skeleton.”

  I lifted him into the tree and shouted, “These are weapons, you fool, and nothing to defile you.”

  He brought the weapons down and even helped me to uncover them, but the sight of them made him tremble all the more. When I saw Gandiva I looked and looked at it but could not move, even to run my fingers over the gold.

  “What is this? It feels like a serpent. It lives when I touch it,” whispered Uttarakumara, between enchantment and fear.

  “This is Gandiva, Arjuna’s weapon, Indra’s bow for five thousand years. Then Varuna’s. Agni gave it to Arjuna when he helped him burn the Khandava forest. This bow with gold and blue is Bheema’s, which he used before the Rajasuya. This one of gold and rubies is Nakula’s,” I said, stringing my bow as I spoke. “This with the golden bees belongs to Yudhishthira.” I strapped on my quiver.

  “These quivers are never empty. They belong to Gandiva. We left them all here at the beginning of our incognito, a year ago.”

  Now that he knew, Uttarakumara was ready to faint again, this time at the thought of the many indignities that the Pandavas had had to suffer in Virata. He fell at my feet.

  I saw the confusion in his eyes. I raised him and then under the thorn tree we embraced and sealed a bond that lasted beyond his short lifetime.

  “We were happy with you. Come, this is no time for sentiment. We are Kshatriyas and you are my charioteer, just for today.” I saluted Gandiva and twanged it once. I shivered and as its last note died away the last of Uttarakumara’s fear went with it.

  I had affixed my ape banner to the chariot and watched it flutter above me as I blew the notes of my conch Devadatta. There was only one sound sweeter to me in the world, Gandiva. In all the time I had spent learning the flute and other wind instruments with Chitrasena, my lips had longed for the feel of Devadatta.

  So there I was, my long Brihannala-braided hair blowing in the wind as I stared at my banner and twanged Gandiva. I was home. After thirteen years, I was myself again. Much later, Krishna, who had it from Ashwatthama, told me that when Dronacharya heard Gandiva he had failed to disguise his exultation. His heart was not in the invasion any more.

  He had burst out laughing and said: “We may as well go back without the cattle. Arjuna is here.”

  Duryodhana, to whom these words were reported, came racing up to him and said hotly: “Are you really bent on disheartening the men? You know very well that in full council in Hastinapura we decided to expose the Pandavas before the end of the thirteenth year so that we could send them back to the forest. We are going to fight. Or do you want to keep Greatfather, Ashwatthama, and Kripacharya sitting in their chariots, just because Arjuna tootles his conch? We are Kshatriyas and have to fight whether Arjuna, Indra, or Yama is against us.”

  The words of the generals made rounds of the soldiers faster than thought and Karna rode up to confirm that the army was nervous, thanks to our Acharya, as he always called Dronacharya. He was in a state of frenzy. It was then that we arrived back from the burial ground and I waited for them to stop arguing and for Karna to come out and challenge me. The wind carried their words clearly to us.

  “As for me, I am delighted. My arrows will flow like oil at Arjuna. I have been waiting for thirteen years. I tell you that my bowstring will hum like bees. At last I will remove the arrows of pain from Duryodhana’s heart, even if all the others are afraid of Arjuna.”

  Kripacharya said: “A good general should fight when it is unavoidable and when the result is to the good of all. Whether you like it or not, nobody can defeat Arjuna. I seem to remember Arjuna saving Duryodhana’s life when he went to inspect the cattle without the help of an army. In fact, if my memory serves, you were one of the heroes with an army to back him who ran away from the battle. It is folly to remove the fangs of a serpent with your fingers in its mouth. Do not forget the fury that a lion shows after long captivity. You have too high an opinion of yourself, Karna.” If this was a hard thing to say, it was a useless one. There was no talking sense to Karna.

  “You need not fight in any case,” said Karna. “The presence of Brahmins is required only when rich food is offered or alms and presents are given.”

  He turned to the assembled warriors and demanded: “Why are you all staring? Are you afraid, all of you? I will stand as a beach before the waves of the wrath of Matsya even if Arjuna himself should come. Karna is ready.”

  As he spoke, the sun shone as though at his bidding. “My arrows never miss. Let Arjuna be a perfect Brahmin after thirteen years of meditation, but when he hears the wail of my conch, he must take up his bow and face his end in Karna. My arrows will crowd the skies and sing to his Kshatriya blood. I am inferior to no one in strength, skill and courage. I shall lay his body at Duryodhana’s feet. My arrows will crowd the skies like swarms of fireflies.” Karna now reached out his great hand, slowly closing it as though crushing me in the vice of his fist.

  Then Kripacharya spoke in his measured tutor’s voice, which quelled the rising excitement amongst all who had heard Karna’s words: “You boastfully claim you will unchariot Arjuna today. It is your arrogant streak which drags you into this delusion. Of all delusions, say the Shastras, war is the most degrading when it is adharmic. This Arjuna you speak of so thoughtlessly remains undefeated by gods and demons. Alone he defeated Chitrasena. You are too rash, Karna. You are like a man smeared with oil and ghee who strides unseeing into fire, or one who ties a stone to his neck and tries to swim. Enough. Our task is to armour the soldiers and ready them for battle. You and Ashwatthama and his father, Greatfather and Duryodhana, together have the strength to fight Arjuna, but never by yourself, Karna.”

  Ashwatthama, though he usually respected t
he traditions which required him to allow his elders and supervisors to talk, burst out with what he had wanted to say for a long time. “You are a fool, Karna, and you talk too much. True heroes defeat whole armies without saying anything. The fire cooks food for all without making speeches. The sun in the space of a moment does more than all the other gods put together without boasting!”

  Ashwatthama gave a speech on that occasion that everyone remembered in various versions. I was as proud of it as though I had made it myself.

  “Look at the earth, our Mother. You might learn patience from her. She has borne the burden of animate and inanimate life for thousands of years without saying, ‘Is not my patience magnificent?’ They all work in silence. You talk too much.” He then turned to Duryodhana. “And I have something to say to you, my Lord! Brahmins sometimes win kingdoms, as my father did, but never by playing dice. Heroes do not cheat at gambling and then behave as if they had won a great battle. You may be a king, but you have behaved worse than a cheating Vaishya for whom it is natural to buy and sell and overcharge. You call yourself a Kshatriya but exult in your cheating. Do you really enjoy Indraprastha? I could not if I had not fought for it. Are the Pandavas war captives? What did you not do to their queen? You really think you can get away with that? If so, you are a bigger fool than I took you for. For exactly thirteen years and five months I have been burning to ask you this. I have counted them all, day by day.”

  My love for Ashwatthama sprang up like a flame fed by oblations. My heart exulted. In front of all the elders the son of Dronacharya had declared our years of exile over. Duryodhana and Karna started protesting loudly, but Ashwatthama called out in a cutting voice, “The season for cheating is over.” His words were like a mantra that paralysed their tongues.

  “Insulting your preceptors simply because they give Arjuna his due will accomplish nothing. I will say what they have said, but more explicitly. Karna fades into nothingness before Arjuna who is the greatest, most noble, and chivalrous of all warriors. You and Karna are jealous; your jealousy will destroy you. I fought Virata and his sons, which is what I came to do, but I love Arjuna. I love him as my father does, not because my father does but because Arjuna deserves my love. Whether anyone else fights him or not, I certainly shall not.” Then this Ashwatthama carefully slackened his bow string and laid it down on the terrace of his chariot. There was a long silence. His speech had not only relieved him but had lifted a burden from Dronacharya, Kripacharya, and my Greatfather. He had eased the discomfort of their silence in the Sabha and their long passive complicity. They had forgotten me waiting to challenge them.