The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  The demons hurried into the abyss and into silence.

  Hurl them into silence.

  But she began: “Son of the womb of Devaki, Slayer of Tyrants, Wielder of the Discus, cousin of Duryodhana, with these tears for sacred water I curse you!” She swept her hand across her cheeks and flicked the water into Krishna’s face. Her gesture shocked me into consciousness. Could she, who had the vision, not see that there was another Krishna smiling behind our cousin who spoke the words for her?

  “One day your kinsmen will be slaughtered by their kinsmen as my sons were by their own kinsmen. Only it will not be in war but drunken brawling. You shall die alone as Duryodhana died alone, pierced by a random arrow. As the Kauravas’ wives and allies weep, so will the womenfolk of Dwaraka. They will be carried off and raped.” The Vrishni women raped! Subhadra’s sisters! I would be there and that would never happen. “Arjuna will be helpless when he tries to help. Gandiva will fail him. His quivers will be hollow.” The incantation slipped away. I could remember nothing. I stood near Krishna praying the curse would call me there to share his death with him that day. I turned to look at him. Krishna’s face was drained of blood but smiling as though with revelation. In the silence he was the first to speak. His voice was steady, even sweet: “Mother Gandhari, one day the sea must cover Dwaraka. It cannot do so while the Vrishnis live. So I must thank you. The burden lies upon me to dissolve the Vrishni race. Now you have taken it upon yourself. Even as you have said, so it will come to pass.” He paused and took her hand. “But only this I ask you: Mother, do not grieve.” He knelt before her. “As Brahmin mothers’ sons live to perform the rites, a Kshatriya mother must bear sons to cast upon the battlefield. Each of your sons died not only the warrior’s death, but they died bravely. No one could have killed Duryodhana in mace combat. And you know as well as we do that Bheema had vowed to break his thigh, and had to carry out his vow.”

  “And you, Krishna Vasudeva, who keeps things hidden, knew that it was the only way that Duryodhana could die. My punya could have saved him so that even you could not vanquish him. In all these years I removed my blindfold once to temper Duryodhana’s body to invulnerability. And it was you who chided him and asked him how he thought to show me the thigh he showed to Draupadi. That was your cunning, Krishna. You shamed him. You turned what was pure into an impure thing. For this the Vrishni women will be raped and your Vrishni race exterminated.”

  I was too stunned to move my mind and only later saw that Destiny was a circle, a snake that bit its tail, within which we moved unknowing. Only Krishna stood beyond it, and within, smiling, smiling, smiling.

  25

  The sun shone brightly on us. Fluffy clouds sailed over the battlefield where wives and daughters of the fallen moved, lamenting their loss. They wandered, searching for their dead; in front of them were servitors waving strong incense to drive away the stench. Though I said she should avoid the sun and rest in preparation for her child, Uttaraa would not have it that there was nothing we could find of Abhimanyu’s. I lived in the dread of Ashwatthama’s astra and feared that any negligence might abet it. She said she just knew she would find something, something that belonged to him, perhaps even an earring. All about us women wailed, thinking that they recognized their men. They held on to the last days’ corpses. One of Uncle Dhritarashtra’s daughters-in-law was trying to match a headless body to a lopped-off arm or a leg while drummers tried to keep away the birds of prey. I saw two women fight over a hand. One cried that she should know the palm that clasped her breast, and she held it to her. I hurried Uttaraa away and promised I would send someone to look. We reached the tent just in time for me to catch her as she fainted in my arms.

  I stood guard for her and for my grandson. Over the river I saw a kite riding the wind current; his beak bore shreds of bloody flesh. It must have been a scrap of ear or finger for it shone with gold. Another kite pursued it and tried to grab the morsel. They rose and rose. Soon the two birds were grappling; a little ball of feathers floating in the air. The birds started to fall, their wings thrashing as they plummeted towards the ground. Now divided, they rose again and circled one another. The morsel had been dropped and there was naught for which to fight, but once they had risen to their former height they clawed and ripped each other with gaping beaks and fearsome talons. They fought so fiercely I knew that one must die. They had forgotten what they fought for. Their wings were pinioned once again and they began to fall, unwilling to let go. They fell so close that I could see the gouts of blood that dropped from them. A third time they went up. A single feather floated down, one more, and then another. The heavier bird grappled the weaker and enfolded him. Again they plummeted. Before they hit a hill the smaller one unfurled his wings. The other spiralled down to earth.

  The one that lived sailed away unconcernedly, and once over the river, began to climb.

  Eldest was king again. His first command was to Sudharman, head-priest of the Kauravas, to take count of the survivors. Dhaumya, Sanjaya, and Uncle Vidura and all the other counsellors attended him. He ordered sandalwood and aloe and all the fragrant woods used for cremation, also ghee and oil and perfume. Broken chariots were piled high and fired. Streams of ghee were poured onto the blaze. Eldest ordered that the recent dead of either side be laid beside each other with their bows, which must be broken; enmity must be cremated with them. He chose the hymns himself.

  The priests intoned:

  Without seeing it you mounted, young man,

  The new chariot constructed by your mind;

  Wheelless it is, with only one pole,

  Yet it moves in all directions.

  The chariot, young man,

  Which you made to roll forward,

  Taking leave of the priests,

  Was followed by a chant, conveyed on a boat

  From here to there.

  When an old man dies, his flame continues in his sons and daughters and the sons and daughters of his sons. His gift to life is scattered to the ten directions. He has exchanged his energy with the earth and with the rivers which have washed him. When one has lived like that a hundred autumns, the debt of gratitude is paid. It is an offering of one’s breath and body at the last; it is not death. But these men whom Agni burnt had had their breath snatched out of them. Only Greatfather and Bablika had lived the hundred autumns and consumed the earthly life.

  The wives and mothers moaned and wailed. Draupadi bit her wrist to stop from crying out loud. Our mother, leaning on Uncle Vidura’s arm, fell against him in a faint. The priests continued chanting:

  May your eye go to the sun,

  Your life’s breath to the wind.

  Go to the sky or to earth as is your nature;

  Or go to the waters, if that is your fate.

  Take root in the plants with your limbs.

  I wanted to remember the shining souls of our sons; these were but their worn-out clothes.

  A priest lit a second fire. The chant seemed to derive energy from the leaping flames.

  Joyously carry the joyous fathers here for the oblation.

  Now, Agni, quench and revive the very ones you have burnt up.

  The priest’s ladle carried the flame for yet another fire. And new hymns were chanted.

  At last the fire-pits were well doused; water plants would thrive where they had been and a new life would sprout. I felt the dead had not departed, they had not left on the journey. Yama could not take them by the hand as they refused to go. Something was waiting to be done and nothing told me what it was. The river continued to flow. The birds of prey wheeled overhead. We were suspended in between.

  It was time for us to go; in ritual we turned from right to left to leave the burning pyres of our princes. I wanted to look back, though the rites forbade it. Coming to the river, I did turn back. All along the bank there fluttered in the wind the widow-garb of white, so that the wives of fallen Kshatriyas made me think of grounded birds that had lost their coloured plumage and would never fly again.<
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  We threw off our angavastras, our belts and jewellery, and purified ourselves. I plunged into the river and came up for the oblations. I stood erect with the water tugging at my waist. Heads of families called out their clan names and named their dead. For each one we cupped water in our hands and raised it as an offering. There were so many names to be remembered that the murmuring became a constant drone. Yuyutsu called the names and offered up oblations for Duryodhana and his other brothers.

  At last the swarming settled; sobs and whimperings were heard and stifled wails, and also wails that were not held. Soon it would be time to go. Once home we would touch the ritual stone and fire, cow dung, fried barley, sesame seeds, and water. With all the ritual customs over, what would life hold for us?

  I wondered why our mother left our uncle’s side to join the suta people. Taking a woman by the hand, her children following, she led them to us. It was the wife of Karna.

  “Yudhishthira,” my mother said. He bent his head solicitously. “There is a name you have not called.” He bent his head lower still. “Offer oblations for your brother Karna,” her voice was trembling but it carried forward the words. He drew his head back and looked at her. What were these words she put together? I leaned towards them waiting for her to rearrange them but something like a dart had wounded me. Heads turned towards us. Now she called out so that all could hear: “Karna was your brother.” Her voice trembled on the last words but her eyes were full of proud defiance. She cupped her breast. “This breast fed Karna his first milk.” Her words turned the silence into complete silence. “He was my eldest son, my first-born whom I sent away before I married.”

  I stared at her. The flow of the river stopped. My breath caught in my throat. Then it turned hot and hissed out of my nostrils.

  What had I done? The water blotted out my understanding and then a voice inside my head called out: “Arjuna, son of Kunti, you have killed Eldest. You have killed Eldest.”

  But still I did not understand, for Eldest stood beside me staring at my mother. The voice continued, ‘Arjuna, you have killed your eldest brother, your eldest brother Karna, son of Kunti.’ Even then the words were only words; the world whirled around me. The river changed its course and flowed towards me as though to break its bank. Its wavelets blurred my vision.

  Slowly, my gaze cleared and with it came the understanding of what I had done.

  Sweet and cruel memories came while people talked across us, murmuring their questions. There was a wind of sighs and groans.

  “Did Karna know?”

  “Did Arjuna know?”

  “Why did he fight against his brothers?”

  No voice dared raise itself. And then there came a piercing wail from one single throat which was all our anguish. I never learnt who gave that cry. It could have come from heaven or from hell. My mouth was closed; it could have been my heart that broke its bounds of silence. But looking at our mother’s face I knew that someone had cried out for her.

  “Mother, did Karna know?”

  “Yes.” Her voice sounded as though it was being choked by Yama’s noose.

  There was silence. Above her closed eyes, her wide brow creased in suffering relief as though at last she had shed the burden she carried for so many years.

  “You should have told us.”

  These were the last words Eldest spoke to her for many days. She should have told us, yes, and on the moment, though I saw her pain, I could not feel for her.

  I should have known when I saw his feet with insteps so like ours and hers. I should have known when he rode off with Krishna in our chariot. Krishna had not pleaded for my life but asked that he should join his brothers in the war. My vanity had blinded me and that had shaped my destiny and Karna’s death.

  Eldest cupped his hands and raised the offering high above his head. Our mother, trembling, did the same and so did we. Then it was over.

  Servants brought us dry clothes. We dressed and sat upon the kusha grass. We watched the sun go down and sat until the stars shone in the sky upon an empty world.

  Ritual decreed we stay by the riverside for all the phases of the moon before going to Hastina. Our tents were brought from the encampment with kusha mats, but without beds or seats or other household comforts. Life stood watch upon itself to wait for its return. The wise men came to comfort us. They spoke with but one voice: “It could not have been avoided. It is the yuga’s end.”

  It was what Island-born Greatfather had said to us upon the death of Shishupala at Eldest’s rajasuya. The sages preached detachment, but without Krishna and Satyaki there would have been no comfort. The anguish that you feel for loved ones lost is nothing when compared to what you feel for loss of those you could have loved.

  Each evening as the sun went down, Eldest was summoned by Greatfather. Each time when he returned, we scanned his face to see if wisdom could console him. But nothing helped him to forgive himself: we had killed the one whose feet we should have touched. He himself had called his brother Sutaputra.

  Like Bheema scaling stones across the lake in forest exile, Eldest sat on the river bank each day and stared into the water. He mourned and spoke of going to the forest instead of to Hastina. He would not look towards our mother and said no word to her. We went to sit with him by turn. It was Nakula who in silence drew words from him, but only those that said he had robbed his brother of a kingdom. We saw Eldest plunging down a wild abyss. We held him by a rope, but the feat drained all our energy. When I sat beside him, I had to lower myself into a bottomless gorge to summon him to the present. I tried to tell him how I too mourned Karna, and of that smile he gave me at the end.

  I did not say I had not felt such kinship for any of my other brothers, but from the way he turned to me, I think that Eldest knew. It was the only time he turned to look at me.

  We grappled with the darkness in him. It nearly pulled us over. But it was in the grappling that we ourselves were saved. As so many times before, Eldest held the weight of darkness for us though we did not know it.

  One day he quoted from the Vedas. It shocked me as well as tore my heart.

  Who really knows? Who can presume to tell it?

  Whence was it born? Whence issued this creation?

  Even the gods came after its emergence.

  Then who can tell from whence it came to be?

  That out of which creation has arisen,

  Whether it held it firm or it did not,

  He who surveys it in the highest heaven,

  He surely knows—or maybe he does not.

  Draupadi, whom he had called an atheist in the forest, was shattered by these verses as by his anguish. His suffering made her timid. Like us she saw all hope for happiness obliterated from his being.

  With fervour Dhaumya reminded him of the earlier riks of this hymn:

  In the beginning love arose,

  Which was the primal cell of the mind.

  But Eldest would not look at him. There was something sacred in his darkness we dared not touch, as though he would resolve for us whether that out of which creation had arisen held it firm. If it did not, he would plunge into the abyss, and his realm of which we were a part would follow.

  “Krishna,” I said one afternoon when I came from Eldest, “I cannot bear it.”

  He merely said, “You have to bear it as he has. To each, his share of it. To go through this for all of us is the burden of a king.”

  Dhaumya pitted his hymns each day against the wall of our anguish:

  From blazing Ardour cosmic order came, and Truth;

  From thence was born the obscure night;

  From thence the ocean with its billowing waves.

  From ocean with its waves was born the year

  Which marshals the succession of nights and days,

  Controlling everything that blinks the eye.

  Then as before did the Creator fashion

  The sun and the moon, the heaven and earth,

  The atmosphere and the domain of
Light.

  With nothing to do but chant hymns, offer oblations, and await the phases of the moon, our minds probed universal questions and Dhaumya’s chants measured the centuries for us.

  26

  The war was over but new wounds blossomed. We learnt of our mother’s secret meeting with our eldest brother Karna before the war. He had promised her that he would challenge none of us but me. If I killed him she would have five sons, if he killed me she would still have five sons. She wept when telling us. Had she weighed her preferences? What might she feel about the first-born she had to float away in fear? She had held him closest to her heart. But even this did not sever what bound me to him. I did not know how to behave with her, fearing that she might see me as the slayer of her first-born son. Distance grew between us. Krishna did not want to feed the tragedy by dwelling on it. He said to pierce the truth one had to keep the mind upon a single thing as when I shot into the eye of Dronacharya’s wooden bird. I did not ask my mother about Karna’s birth but it did not leave my mind and came out when I spoke with Krishna. He said as always, we had come to play our roles in the changing of a yuga, and so had Karna.

  With Eldest’s ceaseless suffering and the despair this caused my Mother, I had to find a way to restore harmony. To come alive out of a war such as we had fought, victorious, in the perfect weather of crisp mornings, mellow afternoons and nights of brilliant chill, and to find it poisoned, was more than I could bear. I began to see that when in life you untie a noose, two more are formed and lie in wait for you. In battle when I shot a soldier or a horseman, two more sprang up in his place, and I exulted in the challenge. But here I could not stand the dismal sordid tangle of it.

  “When you reach maturity,” Krishna said, “you will untie them one by one without complaining. You will not run away.”

  He knew my thoughts. I longed to skip the funeral rites, to block out hymns. I wanted to be with Krishna and Subhadra riding away from it, to climb the icy mountains and hear the water streaming and thundering below. I kept on pestering Krishna to put things right. It was a family matter, Krishna said, and sent me to the ashram of Island-born Greatfather who had sired my father and my uncles Dhritarashtra and Vidura. I thought Krishna had grown tired of my complaints, but I was glad to get away.