The sixteen sanctified bullocks were hand-picked, curd-white with not a single stain to mar their colour. They drew a new white chariot covered with silver silk rugs and ivory skins of the albino deer. They stopped their walk beside the river, waiting patiently as bullocks will. The sun shone on their gleaming flanks and made the water look argent, an auspicious sight that raised the heart above regret and grief.
The poets and the minstrels who came with it chanted Eldest’s praises and those of Draupadi as they took their place beneath the jewel-encrusted umbrella.
I stood proudly behind Eldest. Bheema held the reins while Nakula and Sahadeva fanned Draupadi and him with white chamaras. I looked behind to where Daruka held the reins for Krishna and Satyaki. They smiled at me.
On Krishna’s dark and glowing chest with that hint of summer gold behind its night, the great Kaustubha jewel shone, hiding a scar. The angavastra draped about his arm and shoulder hid the skin where I had pulled the arrows out. He did not want the good citizens of Hastina to know he had been wounded. He and Satyaki wore their multiple strands of pearls that hid other scars. And as they stood beside each other they looked like gods in their fine-grained Vrishni beauty.
The bullocks lumbered in ceremonial dignity. At intervals farmers waited at the boundaries of their fields to greet us. Krishna was right, they shouted out their welcome. They welcomed Eldest as though they never had another king. Long before we reached the city gates, the road was flower-strewn and small crowds lined it and showered us with blossoms. When we approached the gates Bheema slowed the bullocks; women clustered round the chariot wheels to sprinkle us with scented water. Families leaned from roofs and balconies, city drums and conches sounded notes of triumph; it was the sound of music that the heart cannot resist. The Brahmins fell in beside us. They offered their protection and sang for us hymns of victory. They raised their arms in blessing for the king.
Out of the crowd there jumped a Brahmin mendicant.
“Yudhishthira, Yudhishthira,” he yelled. And before we caught his meaning he used his trident staff to vault onto the platform of our chariot. I thought he would embrace his king but he began to shake his rosary in Eldest’s face. His Brahmin staff bobbed up and down. His eyes were wide and staring as he shouted.
“I speak for all the Brahmins here. You think you will be welcomed? Have you no shame? You have destroyed your race.” I pushed him off. He fell back into the arms of other Brahmins and went on shouting. “What can you expect from widows and the orphans of Hastinapura?” Satyaki jumped down and grabbed him by his tuft and Sahadeva pinned his arms behind him. “I would kill myself rather than sit upon the throne after killing my gurus, my Elders and my kinsmen. That is what we Brahmins have to say to you.” A loud buzzing and murmuring arose from all the Brahmins. Krishna was beside us. Yuyutsu had left his elephant to join us.
“Let him be!” called Eldest. “The guilt is mine, O Noble Brahmin.” It smote my heart to hear him. “Be patient and spare me shame. My life is almost over for I shall lay it down.” It was Nakula who, peering at the Brahmin, grabbed his tuft of hair.
“This is no Brahmin. Eldest, take back your words. This is no Brahmin. It is Charvaka the Rakshasa.” The name flew forth from mouth to mouth, a wind blowing out lamps.
“Charvaka!” an angry voice cried.
“Charvaka, Charvaka,” echoed many voices. It was Charvaka, who had favours from Duryodhana. The Brahmins were all yelling:
“Glory to you, King Yudhishthira!”
“May you prosper!”
“May you live a hundred autumns!”
“May you live forever!”
“May you prosper! May you prosper! May you prosper!”
The Brahmins were murmuring again amongst themselves. There was a sudden silence. A silence so complete it made me look around.
“Hunnnnnnnnnnnn,” a wicked shaft of sound emerged from all the Brahmin mouths. Uttered with one voice, it hung upon the air and suddenly was bitten off. It had the colour of earth, the taste of poison, the glint of weapons. I would rather hear the great god Shiva’s angry laugh that strikes terror in the ten directions than hear that syllable come towards me. The Rakshasa began to tremble. He slumped. The Brahmins would not touch him and stepped back. He lay stretched out upon the ground. I looked at Krishna with open mouth. Eldest wanted to assist Charvaka but Bheema held him back.
“No one must touch the corpse,” a Brahmin warned. Their blessings were redoubled; Brahmin voices rose up to the sky and a young priest brought clean earth to spread upon the place where the Rakshasa had set foot upon our chariot.
“Prosper! Prosper! Prosper!”
Life flowed again. Yuyutsu’s elephant knelt down for him and we swung ourselves onto our chariots. The procession continued.
I could not but remember Hastina as we had left it. Charvaka had rekindled memories of poisonings and intrigues. A pall had settled on the city like some unbreathable miasma. I saw Duryodhana coming down corridors with his swaggering impatient stride. There came to mind his mannerism of pulling at the golden fringes of his angavastra and then flinging it back impatiently over his shoulder or around his neck. Karna’s ghost was at his elbow. Duhshasana, Shakuni, and the others hovered around him. Death and decay were in the air and it was stale as though it had not moved since the day my father left it. No brisk and cleansing wind had swept through it. Not even Krishna on an embassy of peace had touched the heart of Hastina.
Yet there is a moment when the sacrificial flame springs straight and smokeless from the wood and you know that all your prayers have risen in their purity. Now benediction upon benediction was intoned. The children jumped up and slung their garlands about the necks of Draupadi and Eldest.
“You are our father and our mother and everything,” they piped. The women of the court had come with flowers and after they had greeted us joined the procession in palanquins. We had thought to find Hastina dead, but it was full of life and flowers, perfume and welcome; everywhere I saw what I was looking for, lads past their twelfth year, boys of thirteen, fourteen, and more. By the time of the Ashwamedha most would be men and ready to beget sons.
Now we entered the great gate of Hastina. My heart drummed against my jewels. Almost fourteen years ago we had been exiled through this same gate. Eldest had led us out with his face covered, to protect the citizens from the shafts of outraged Dharma in his eyes.
We saw Uncle Dhritarashtra waiting with joined palms to greet us. Uncle Vidura with Sanjaya and Kripacharya were behind him. Inside the inner gates the squares and streets were decorated with flags and flowers. Every household had its doorway hung with mango leaves and arched with fronds. Before each threshold intricate designs of many hues were traced to signify auspiciousness. Gold and bronze and copper ghee-lamp stands polished to highest sheen held many dancing flames. We moved towards the sabha as though in a dream.
At last, once more facing east, Eldest shared the golden throne with Draupadi. Krishna had given precise instructions to Dhaumya for the ceremony and the altar. It must face east and slightly north. I was placed beside the king on the left and Bheema on the right. Facing us were Krishna and Satyaki on gem-encrusted seats. Nakula and Sahadeva flanked Bheema and myself. Yuyutsu, Sanjaya, Aunt Gandhari, and Uncle Vidura sat with our Mother and Kripacharya around Uncle Dhritarashtra. He observed the rites, placing his fingertips on white flowers, on ghee lamps, and camphor smoke, earth and gold, on silver and precious stones. When he had placed his fingertips on all the various vessels, the coronation hymns began:
The seers in the beginning, desiring the excellent
And searching the heavens,
Embarked upon fervour and consecration.
Thence were born energy, force, and kingship.
Let the gods bestow them upon this man!
Island-born Greatfather dripped the water of seven sacred rivers upon Eldest’s erect head from a great cream and silver conch. Then he held it aloft and the drops came down in abhisheka on the hair
that had cost Duhshasana his life. To the chant of the mantras Greatfather Vyasa walked thrice around the royal couple, ringing them with his protection.
Yours, O King, are solaces a hundred, a thousand!
Great and far-reaching be also your favours!
Drive away from us baneful Destruction.
Remove from us whatever sin we have committed.
Loose the bonds, O Varuna, which bind us,
Which crush us, cramping our every moment.
Make us sinless in respect to your Holy Law,
Unbound for Boundlessness, O Son of Aditi.
Dhaumya took water blessed by Island-born Greatfather and sprinkled it on all of us.
I saw tears on Krishna’s lashes. Our work together had been done. The priests began to file past Eldest with offerings of sacred water in golden jars, silver and copper vessels, earthen pots, fried paddy, flowers, sacred kusha grass, cows’ milk, honey, ghee, sacred woods, and gold-wrought conches. Draupadi and Eldest sat beside each other on the royal tigerskin. Dhaumya chanted mantras as he poured libations on the sacred fire. Krishna asked our uncle to do likewise for the people of Hastina whilst the leading citizens filed past.
In this sabha, on this throne, with Greatfather Bheeshma and Dronacharya watching, Eldest’s head had first received the coronation water. Some of those filing past saluted Eldest with great joy, some with timidity, some affection, some with curiosity, but all with reverence, and many with tears. We recognized those who had followed us the day we left, wailing that Dharma was no more. Those who were too young had heard of Dharmaraj and his four brothers, united like the fingers of a hand, observant of all Dharma, who could close into a fist and crush their enemy. There were a few who thought to gain advantage with the victors and in their eyes we saw servility and uncertainty. No doubt they wondered whether anyone had told us they were the staunch supporters of Duryodhana in his plans. Nobody had. Nothing prevailed against the welcome that suffused the sabha. No one questioned our mandate to be there. The musicians played their sweetest and the Brahmins sang their deepest.
When Yudhishthira stood up with folded hands and Draupadi beside him, a huge hush fell upon the sabha. He spoke in measured tones the words which would be told all over Hastinapura by nightfall.
“We bow down before the greatest of the munis, who is known to us also as Veda-Vyasa, for the work which will help our children and our children’s children to preserve their heritage.
“We bow to Mother Kunti, to our royal Uncle Dhritarashtra, to Uncle Vidura, and Guru Kripacharya. We seek the blessings of all our elders for the happiness and prosperity of all our peoples.”
I had not heard Eldest use the royal We for fourteen years, and it stirred me.
“In this very sabha we received the abhisheka of the coronation many years ago under the eyes of Greatfather Bheeshma and Guru Dronacharya. There cannot be a Kshatriya family which has not lost at least one warrior in the conflagration, and since we are one family, not only Kshatriyas but all the people of Hastinapura mourn for them. Together we offer oblations and postpone all festivities by eighteen days.
“After victory there are celebrations; today there is no victory. We are the sons of Uncle Dhritarashtra, mourning his sons, our brothers. Our wounds are green, it is a time for forgiveness and healing. Let not the Kshatriyas feel they are alone to grieve, for it is rightly said that the Kshatriya is the arm of Brahma, the Brahmin his head, the Vaishya and Shudra his stomach and legs…but what can a head and body do without its protective arms? Let us heal the divine Body of Brahma. Let us remember that we are this Body and it is one and divine in all its parts. Let us entreat our paternal Greatsire Veda-Vyasa, learned in all Knowledge and of great austerity, to help us observe the rites for those who have departed.”
The silence hung in the air. People forgot their need to cough, to clear their throats, or move their feet. It was not simply the silence due to a monarch, but the confirmation of a legend. The citizens, as well as we, began to understand that the fourteen years of exile had forged the ruler known in all Bharatavarsha as Dharmaraj to some incomparable metal. He could forget his pain to speak from deep conviction and rouse himself to meet the expectations of his people.
“It is said that the King is Master of all except the Brahmins, but it is also declared in the Vedas that the monarch obtains a share of the spiritual merit gained by his subjects. And so we say to you, that just as our subjects depend on us to protect the varnas in accordance with Dharma and to lead back to honourable obligation those who have forsaken its paths, we depend on our subjects to be industrious in all their duties and works, and through them to strive for that skilful accomplishment which ensures the sound and harmonious functioning of the Body of Brahma.” On awakening today, I had felt a pang of fear in case Eldest, in a return of his aberration, bestow his empire on me. I could not have passed it on without greatly discouraging the people of Hastina. Not even Krishna could have put the heart back into them once the words were uttered. But Eldest held the reins.
“It is also said in the Vedas that a sovereign shall select as his priest a Brahmin of noble lineage and good mien, eloquent and of virtuous disposition, who is austere and walks in Dharma, to assist him in his religious duties. A monarch who is counselled by such a Brahmin will prosper with his people and neither shall fall into distress. It was during our exile in severest adversity that the Supreme sent him to us as our priest and guru. He shared our ordeals with us and saw us through them. He blessed us with his presence and knowledge in the war, now he will tend our sacrificial fires in Hastina. He is Dhaumya.” With a regal gesture, Eldest designated Dhaumya who stood up with folded hands. “He will be our counsellor, for he has all the qualities to help us maintain the harmony we need for a long and prosperous rule, with rains that are Indra’s grace to bring us bountiful harvests. Our shops will overflow, our herds will multiply without disease, and men of crafts and other callings will be inspired to make life rich and pleasant. We wish that our physicians have less to do, and spend their time in gathering knowledge and new herbs. Let our Brahmins study to their hearts’ content, and may their songs be all of peace and sweetness.
“Finally, I say to you that though you know that none may sit higher than the monarch, we have placed our Uncle Dhritarashtra on a platform behind and above ourselves for we defer to him. May he and his queen our aunt Gandhari live a hundred autumns as our parents, and we as their dutiful children.
“We bow to our cousin Krishna Vasudeva, Lord of Dwaraka. We bow to Mahatma Krishna, Shri Krishna. Let His Light prevail…”
A murmur among the crowds crept towards us and some of the citizens came to their feet with folded hands. One by one they stood until no one was sitting.
“We have said nothing of Lord Krishna without whom we would not be here on this day. And without him we would not want to be here. There is little that we can say of him, for he is the Dharma seeking to be born. In this age, men cannot understand him or speak of him, and I am but a man. Men see him in his outer form, as charioteer to Arjuna which is a work for sutas. But we repeat here what Greatfather Bheeshma has said of him: he is the charioteer that draws the horses of the Sun towards the future. And to our Greatfather Bheeshma who lies on arrows we go tomorrow for instruction in the tasks of kingship.”
Then Eldest turned to Krishna with folded hands. He cupped and raised them to his head, and bowing held them out to Krishna in silent supplication. Though a monarch, he made it the gesture of a mendicant. Krishna embraced him and then turning his attention to the sabha, spoke: “The war has wiped out many clans. Their blood has cleansed the earth of tyrants. It is enough.” Krishna used none of the usual mannerisms of speakers. He spoke to us as to a family which awaits guidance from its head. He paused and looked above the heads of the assembly to where the sunlight came through the arches and the pillars.
“Another sacrifice is needed.” Silence descended. “It must be holier than the sacrifice of war in which not all of us ca
n share. The greater sacrifice must embrace everyone. King Yudhishthira, you are the first in the memory of any living being here or of any of our fathers worthy of offering the Ashwamedha.”
Eldest bowed his head.
“You, who were here divested of your lands and titles and every privilege that is a sovereign’s due, will sit once more upon the emperor’s throne and receive a Chakravarti’s tribute and homage.” A sound that was half sob rose from the centre of the sabha. I never learnt from whom it came, and no one looked. It had been wrenched from everybody’s breast. “You will receive the coronation bath. That is the grace.
“Queen Draupadi, the hair by which unholy hands once dragged you here will once again be washed by water from all the sacred rivers. You who suffered all the insult that the basest human mind can devise, and yet who could stand proud and lone before your criminally silent judges, you who freed your husbands and followed them for thirteen years of exile, you will sit beside your consort as his empress. You who bore with fortitude all sufferings, you who have lost sons and brothers and yet spared Ashwatthama, you will share with Bharatavarsha’s sovereign the love and tribute of its people for centuries to come. As long as human minds remember anything of pain and sorrow, you will be thought and sung of as the queen of dignity and wit and courage. You who spared the life of Jayadratha as well as Ashwatthama are like the sandalwood that gives its perfume to the axe that cuts it. Altar-born and palace-bred, you who served as waiting woman in someone else’s palace, will understand as other queens may not the trials and tribulations of the common people, You are indeed a queen, a fountain of compassion. No indignity to which you were subjected has changed that.”
We hardly dared to look at Draupadi. And she who had gone through the rites dry-eyed now wept, her face turned towards Krishna. A fragrance of adoration wafted towards them from the sabha. Uncle Dhritarashtra sat holding his head. Aunt Gandhari’s white silk blindfold darkened with her tears.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 62
