After a long while Greatfather spoke: “Dronacharya speaks the truth and so does Kripacharya, and the great Ashwatthama has spoken exactly the truth. No one has any right to insult them as Karna did. The exile is over. In every five years there is an accumulation of two months, so that your cousins have been in exile for thirteen years five months and twelve days.” Having said this, much to ease himself, poor old Greatfather was forced back into his role of unifier of the kingdom. In the pause my heart heard Greatfather heave a great sigh. “It is wrong that your great love for your friend Karna should allow you to cause dissension in the army, Duryodhana.”
Then with his eyes on the ground he said to Ashwatthama in a tired voice: “I suppose Karna’s harsh words were spoken out of concern for the morale of the troops. Let us make peace and combine to defeat the enemy.”
Greatfather had kept the kingdom together for far longer than the thirteen years of our exile. He had kept it together from the day he had renounced the throne in the fisher chief’s hut, and now he did not know how to do anything else. If he had sacrificed his rights to the throne, the joys of marriage and children, in the cause of his father’s happiness and the prosperity of the kingdom, why should I be hurt that it was he who protected the peace and unity of that same kingdom? Yet, I was hurt. Ashwatthama’s speech had been sweet to me. Now Greatfather had cooled everybody’s hot outbursts against Karna.
Then he said, “Duryodhana, return Indraprastha to the Pandavas. They are not your enemies. Peace with the Pandavas will prevent the conflagration of the world.”
Duryodhana stared at him. His hopes were about to evaporate.
“The decision is yours, Duryodhana.”
Did the elders now have no say at all? Greatfather would not have left the world’s fate in Duryodhana’s hands thirteen years ago.
“No. There is to be no talk of returning the kingdom now or later. I will fight, Greatfather.”
In a detached voice Dronacharya started giving orders. “So be it. The army will be divided into four parts. Duryodhana! You will go with one quarter of it to Hastinapura immediately. The king must not die. Another quarter will lead the cattle to Hastinapura, the rest of us including Greatfather, Kripa, Ashwatthama, Karna, and myself will intercept Arjuna.”
The army was deployed in the form of a crescent. So skilfully had it been deployed that I knew it was the work of Greatfather, whose golden palm tree banner fluttered in the defending rear. Kripacharya’s banner was on the right horn, Dronacharya’s in the middle, and Karna’s was in the front.
It was Greatfather’s golden palm tree which I saw as he roared his great challenge to me. It was at that moment, as my chariot bore down on the horn of the crescent that what Krishna had said flashed into my mind: that it was through the examples of kings that people behaved badly or behaved well. Greatfather had not done a good thing in abdicating his rights. He had been king. His renunciation, though noble, had allowed Duryodhana to prevail. He forsook his own growth and his Dharma to take upon himself the suffering that his father was too weak to bear. Thus a poison was generated by the inner paralysis of a very great man. Each of us has to bear our share of the burden of life. I had no time to carry the thought further. I was no Brahmin but a Kshatriya with battle dust and the smell of horses in my nose. There was the waiting crescent, here the thunder of my own chariot wheels and my young charioteer frowning grimly at his first enemy. What I wanted to do was to fall at Dronacharya’s feet as in the old days. So I sent two arrows to fall before him. Then I shot two into the dust at Greatfather’s feet, another two for Kripacharya; it was my salutation. Two more for Ashwatthama, instead of a bear hug. Then I sent two arrows whistling past Greatfather’s ears. With these I had asked for permission to do battle.
Duryodhana’s jewelled elephant banner was missing. The first thing to do was to send back the cattle and then to find Duryodhana. I smiled at Greatfather’s skill. No other formation could have barred my way so effectively. Uttarakumara sped me along the western horn. Some of Duryodhana’s brothers tried to stop me, but nobody was going to stand between me and the man who had caused Draupadi to be dragged into the Sabha by her hair and in her period. I had promised her and I had promised myself.
“Forget the army and look only for the elephant banner,” I shouted to my charioteer. We sped so close to Greatfather that I could see the nimbus of light around his head. It took me no time at all to reach the cattle. We frightened the cowherds away. Virata’s cows with raised tails, their panicked calves bumping into their mothers’ legs, trotted southwards to the city of Virata. My moment had come.
“Go straight to the elephant banner,” I repeated. By now Greatfather’s perfect formation was scattered. They were all trying to prevent a confrontation between myself and Duryodhana. They loved Arjuna, but Duryodhana was their king. The elephant banner fluttered towards me. Good! I was not after the blood of a complete coward. Besides which, the Kshatriya code forbade my pursuing one who ran from the battlefield.
I could see Greatfather’s golden palm tree coming towards us and I shouted to Uttarakumara: “Take me to the centre, Uttarakumara. I must remember these are Duryodhana’s men today.”
I shaded my eyes but failed to find Karna’s banner. I had just opened my mouth to shout an about-turn direction to Uttarakumara when out of a dust cloud his chariot appeared and a second later there was a shower of arrows. From my fully stretched bow I sent him such a counter-attack with my crescent-headed arrows that his chariot swerved and turned around. I stood laughing. Every warrior who has fought enough battles gets to know his winning days from the start. Today victory was so strong in me that Uttarakumara laughed with me even as the others, Ashwatthama, Bheeshma, Dronacharya, Kripacharya, Shakuni, and Vikarna, bore down on us.
“Hold steady,” I said to Uttarakumara, but I could see that the god of battle had called to him and taken his fears. Vikarna was on his elephant. Would Uttarakumara turn tail before the great beast? No, he was still laughing.
That day my arrows released themselves, cruel and eager as hawks free of their fowler: seventy went to Dronacharya, twelve to Duhshasana, three to Kripacharya, and for Duryodhana I counted a full hundred. They responded with gold-tipped feathered shafts which sailed through the skies like cranes. When I again replied, my arrows darkened the sky like locusts. I had never fought like this. My muscles hardly rippled. Now Karna returned. There was a squealing and then a trumpeting. Vikarna’s elephant, a grey cliff with flapping ears, was descending on us from the left. My arrows found his temple and the cliff collapsed. His thud shook our chariot and made the horses rear. Uttarakumara was busy keeping the reins untangled. I watched Vikarna jump from the howdah and run a good distance to a chariot shelter. Seeing this, Duryodhana turned his chariot round and fled. I was not to be cheated. I blew my conch, which made Duryodhana’s chariot flee the faster. Uttarakumara knew what I wanted and overtook Duryodhana as I shouted, “Is that how you fight, Duryodhana? I am ashamed to call you cousin brother, or even Kshatriya. Do you so love your carcass? What is life but a few good moments like these? O great Indra, how hard it is to fight such a one as you!”
I do not know how much he actually heard above the clatter and rattle of the chariots, but whether through my moving lips or Uttarakumara’s laughter, he was stung and he had his horses reined—and there we were facing each other. Karna turned to support Duryodhana. Dronacharya and the others minus Vikarna came and surrounded me once again and at this point I do not know what happened. It seemed to me that the great Lord Indra descended into me. To watch the flight of crescent-head and snakehead arrows was pure delight, and transcended the desire to kill.
The final battle belonged to all five Pandavas. I would not kill Duryodhana today, not even Karna. My arrows whistled past the ears of my adversaries and found the hearts of the soldiers. Their armies fled. A voice in me said, “Enough,” and I was glad. I had been afraid of hurting Greatfather or Dronacharya.
“Honour them with pradakshina,
Uttarakumara,” I shouted.
The words were barely out of the mouth when Uttarakumara whipped up the horses and flashed us past Karna and then Dronacharya on the right. We went right around the very group that had surrounded us, zigzagging in and out of men and horses. Such folly they had never seen and, whether blinded by dust or blood from my arrows, they stood gaping and powerless while we honoured them. They could have killed me now, but it would have been ungallant to kill one paying them the respect of pradakshina.
“Bheema has to break your beautiful thigh, Duryodhana. You are not for me,” I shouted, slapping my bow against my thigh to make him understand. “BHEEEEMAAA!”
“And you, Karna, you will have to wait to get to Indraloka, Karnaaaaa!” I shouted.
He gave his usual bitter smile and let fly several arrows. One grazed my forehead. I rode right through the trees. We were now out of Karna’s shooting range. For good measure I invoked the sammopana astra. It sent everybody into a daze except Greatfather who stood tall and formidable in his chariot, staring at me with wide open eyes.
My little princess had asked me to bring her something pretty. I saw Duryodhana’s blue silk scarf and took it on my spear. At the thorn tree Uttara’s lion banner replaced my embroidered ape. After a last and lingering twang Gandiva was wrapped up as tenderly as any woman has ever been. I gave Uttarakumara a golden handled sword; the other weapons all went back into the upper branches of the tree.
In the chariot, holding the reins again, I instructed my prince Uttara on what to say when we reached the city.
“Oh, no. Do not ask me to start bragging again.” The boy was aghast.
“Do not brag then; just say what I tell you to say.” We grinned at each other, his teeth and eyes gleaming in a mask of dust.
At the news that Uttarakumara had gone out alone with only Brihannala as charioteer, Virata put his hand over his heart and gasped. “Alone and with a genderless charioteer? He must be dead.”
At which Yudhishthira smiled and said, “On the contrary, with Brihannala as charioteer, nobody can take away your cattle.” Virata stared at Yudhishthira a moment as though he had taken leave of his senses, but was too distracted by grief to comprehend Kanka’s words. Shortly afterwards, he was drunk with joy at the news of Uttara’s victory. He jumped up and gave orders to his ministers.
“Decorate the highways with banners and let flowers be offered to the deities. Let all the princes and warriors and musicians and pleasure girls be dressed in their richest and go to receive my son at the gate and the bell men ride an intoxicated elephant through all the crossroads to give out the news of my son’s incredible victory. And let my little princess Uttaraa in all her jewels and finest silk, surrounded by virgins, go to meet my heroic son, with chanters of eulogies.”
Having made all the arrangements, King Virata ordered wine, rubbed his hands, and said, “Come, Kanka, let us have a good game. Fetch the dice, Sairandhri. To the sound of dice rolling Virata started laughing to himself at the thought of the formidable Kauravas vanquished by his son. He kept on interrupting the game to say, “I never realized my gangly Uttara had the makings of a great warrior.”
When Yudhishthira insisted that there was nothing to it with Brihannala as charioteer, Virata was amazed. Tugging at his beard and drawing his eyebrows together, he wanted to know whether this wretched Brahmin was trying to compare his son to a eunuch.
“Friendship makes me overlook the insult, but please do not take this liberty again.” With great irritation Virata scooped up the dice as though they were pestering flies. The wretched Brahmin had spoiled his hour of victory. He threw a three. “What a blessing it was,” said Yudhishthira, throwing a five, “that Brihannala was there.” Virata threw the dice with all his strength into Yudhishthira’s face.
It was the first time we had seen Virata lose his temper with Kanka or Yudhishthira’s nose bleed. Draupadi desperately ran to collect the blood in a gold vessel before a drop of a king’s blood could fall to the ground, bringing disaster to the kingdom. The incident was forgotten with the clamorous entry of Uttarakumara which to the king was the flowering of time.
Our exile was over. We were the Pandavas once again. The good king Virata was beside himself with joy and gratitude and offered me the princess Uttaraa. I loved her so much that in my mind I had already given her to Abhimanyu in marriage. I wanted to continue loving her as a daughter. My heart turned towards Draupadi. After all she had suffered I wanted to give her the love which, coming from me, would soothe her if anything could.
It was only when Krishna actually arrived with Abhimanyu and Subhadra that this slight to Virata’s pride was entirely soothed, and also that we knew that our exile was over. Krishna meant home for us.
One night in the forest in dream, I had passed over the Dwaraka fortress bridge to be with Subhadra and awoke to a certain feeling that I had betrayed Eldest—not only Eldest but Bheema and the twins and Draupadi. Our Mother never tired of reminding us. Our strength, our very Dharma was being one and staying together. She would hold up the fingers of her hand.
They depended on me as I on them. But first and last Krishna, who knew my heart said it with and without words. My place was with Eldest whose word and Dharma must be upheld. So after that I dared not go even in dreams.
Now as Subhadra sank to her knees to touch my feet I caught her elbows and raised her. We stood face to face at last. The people and the Sabha were no longer there. In another time we had never stopped facing each other, our folded hands close to our hearts, gazing in silence, my lips unable to frame the courteous inquiries required by tradition. We had moved into another world, until somebody behind her, smiling at me, called me ‘Father’—her son, our son, Abhimanyu.
Virata’s eyes lit up and so did mine, for everyone agreed that Abhimanyu was the most glorious of all the youths of the family. He looked like Krishna himself but was taller and, though still gangling, promised to be as graceful. Virata insisted on giving his kingdom over to Yudhishthira. He gave Abhimayu seven thousand horses, two hundred elephants, many bars of gold, gems, and deerskins from China. As always, Krishna was lavish with his gifts, but the gift that counted most was his presence. There was the joyful sound of conches and horns, the beat of cymbals and drums through the palace and in the streets. Hundreds of deer were roasted. Fine wines were offered. The legends of Virata’s dynasty and ours were chanted day and night. There were mimes, dances, puppet shows, and great good humour. Past joys in new clothes were guests at the celebration and those of the future were present too in all our sons and in Abhimanyu and Uttaraa.
To be sitting beside Krishna and watching our dear Dhaumya officiating as the priest, to see young Abhimanyu, a blend of myself and Krishna, walking around the sacred fire with the maiden I had grown to love so much, was like being in Indraloka again—and we forgot for several days that it was likely to be only a respite.
Drupada had come with his sons Dhrishtadyumna and Shikhandin and his other sons and of course our five sons by Draupadi. Bheema and Dhrishtadyumna fell into each other’s arms. Kritavarman and Satyaki and Krishna’s cousins were there. There were others, with their armies, who offered Yudhishthira their assistance for any plans he might have for war against Duryodhana in the future. None of us wanted to discuss that future today.
Not yet.
Surrounded by her five sons today, Draupadi was again the queen of queens. Grief and bitterness had forsaken her and she did not remember that she had vowed to wash her hair in blood. She and Subhadra sat smiling, heads together, pointing out to each other the ways in which sons favoured their fathers.
One day, if not tomorrow, we would have to remember. It was only a question of settling the dates on which we would have to start discussions.
As usual, Duryodhana helped us in our decisions. We were still celebrating when his messenger arrived from Hastinapura. This was his message:
“My king and emperor Duryodhana bids you prepare for another twelve years in the forest. The
Pandavas did not complete the thirteenth year incognito. Arjuna was heard to pluck the string of Gandiva on the northern border of the Matsya kingdom and, moreover, he was recognized in the chariot driven by Virata’s son, Uttarakumara, before the thirteenth year had expired. This is the message from my king,” announced the messenger.
There was going to be war, but today we celebrated the wedding of Abhimanyu, our darling, our future. We sat secure in what was now our own city of Upaplavya, and even if it were lost tomorrow or tonight, whether in war or in a game of dice, today was ours for joy.
But that night, before sleep came, I wondered whether if we had known our kingdom would all be lost by Yudhishthira himself in a game of dice, we would still have thought our conquests worthwhile. Remembering Abhimanyu and Uttaraa together, I thought, yes. A hundred times yes. We were made for conquering the world. Krishna was right about that, yet had it been some natural calamity that had sent us to the forest, we might well have been happy there too. We might even have learned to regard Duryodhana as a natural calamity and have forgiven him if we had not had to watch Draupadi dragged into the Sabha by her hair. That Duryodhana had made a lewd gesture in her sight made history stand still until we killed him.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 33
