“A lack of gold is nothing,” Subhadra always said. “Poverty is a state of mind. Look at how Krishna led a nation up to Dwaraka, and think of how he helped build Indraprastha out of nothing.” I did not say that we had all been young then and were now nearing the sixth division of our lives. I did not say it and when I was with her and Parikshita, it was not true, or at least it did not matter.
We visited Durgadasa each day and took him rock candy and garlands. His lip was moist and gentle and his tongue rough as he took our offerings. When he had crunched the rock sweet with his strong teeth he would put his cheek to ours and widen his nostrils to take in the perfume from our hair. The moments spent with these loved ones were pools out of time and I could feel compassion for anyone who did not have Subhadra in his life. I think it was these moments that gave me patience with the others and let me hold to the surrender Krishna had advised. It was now that I began to earn a name for wisdom, though it took some time for people to think of Arjuna, the master bowman, as Arjuna the counsellor and arbitrator. Increasingly Sanjaya and Uncle Vidura would use me as ambassador to Satyaki or Bheema or ask me to speak with Eldest about moderating Uncle Dhritarashtra’s expenses. In this last I failed, for Eldest had become obsessed with the need to serve our uncle. He had set himself the task of making him forget that he had lost his hundred sons. It became his chief concern, when even I could see preparations for the Ashwamedha required all his care. Nakula urged me to remind him that we had invited all the regents for the full moon of the month of Chaitriya, the following year. Reluctantly I went and tried to make a joke of it with Eldest by saying that it would be embarrassing for all of us if we were to receive our guests with dried roots and a handful of grain. But as long as the coffers were empty, how much really could be done?
“Brother,” he had said to me, “I hope you are not turning your mind to food like Bheema.” He went on to give me a long discourse on how the mind could be turned into a stomach and the stomach into a mind. The conceit was not without truth or interest but during our exile I had heard it better done, and with considerably more humour, by the forest sages. Like many of Eldest’s arguments, it failed from a lack of appropriateness. I could find nothing to say.
At last he said, “It is true, your honour rests upon it just as much as mine, since you invited them. What would you have me do, Arjuna? You know that what our uncle spends would be mere droplets in the lake of ghee which is required, so to speak.” His eyes were sad. It was true, of course. Eldest had called in the Brahmins and master masons for estimates of what would be required for the construction and the presents to the priests, as well as what was involved in the actual offering and the vessels, and we had all seen immediately why the Ashwamedha was seldom offered. The utensils for pouring the ghee would alone take almost a hundredth part of the gold we now possessed. The ritual called for a whole series of articles made of gold. Half the construction of the pit and all the arches had to be of gold. The stakes must all be gold. No baser metal must be used. It was hardly surprising that it was called the “Sacrifice of Sacrifices, the King of Sacrifices”. It was the joyful pouring out of all one had that brought the Grace to wipe out sins. Nothing less would serve to cleanse us. The hopelessness of our situation was a crushing weight on Eldest. Twice before had I seen him like this—once at the dice game after he had staked Draupadi, and once, when in his tent on the penultimate day of war, he had learnt that Karna was still alive.
“Eldest,” I said, grasping his ankles as I sat at his feet, and even shaking them a little, “listen to me. Give the whole world away, and all of us. But do not take upon yourself the burden of the deaths of Uncle’s sons. There are some things that it is adharmic to arrogate to oneself. Do not insult our uncle by taking from him the part he played. He has no sons. Do not deprive him of his penance too, for it is all he has. Let him live it out. Give the whole world away but do not steal his share of the responsibility. Penance is his only punya.” After a long silence I bowed myself out. As a younger brother I could say no more. Seeing him so full of care, I wondered how I would ever broach the matter of Durgadasa with him.
I was still full of thoughts when Subhadra came towards me beside the lotus pool. Her questioning eyes when I took her hands told me that my look was discouraged. I had not spoken to her of the sacred horse. To think of taking from the gods their due is a great burden, and one which I did not want to lay upon her.
We walked shoulder to shoulder in silence along the pool’s edge set with lapis lazuli until we reached the grass enclosure where Parikshita played on his tiger skins. I picked him up and for the time being forgot about the Ashwamedha. But only for a little while. It had me on a leash. So I spoke to Subhadra of the lesser concern.
Our Aunt Gandhari too, by performing the intricate rites of shraddha for each of a hundred Kshatriya sons, was bound to make gifts to the Brahmins proportionate to the loss. And who would have the heart to prevent her from freeing herself of the debt she owed to her slain sons?
It was the first time I had spoken to Subhadra in a manner which hid my real concern.
No one in Hastina could find enough gold to bring about the one thing that all agreed must be accomplished. Perhaps we had discussed the points so often that the simple answer was now hidden behind arguments. We never troubled Uttaraa with it but of course she got to know. It had become the talk of everybody. One day she said, “Island-born Greatfather said we should offer the sacrifice, so Island-born Greatfather should be asked how to get the gold.”
We looked at her in dumb surprise. I had the child in my arms and gave him now to Subhadra. I knew those childish-sounding words carried the solution that none of us had thought about. Island-born Greatfather lived simply in his ashram and he and gold were kept in different corners of our mind, but now that she had said his name and gold together they slid like magnet poles toward each other and the wisdom of her words glittered in our understanding.
“Speak to Eldest,” Subhadra said. “You share the burden of the invitation with him.” Indeed, this too had begun to weigh on me. In dreams I saw the rulers I had invited sitting around me in a darkened council chamber waiting for me to speak, but I was mute. Another time they challenged me, pointing with left hands. Eldest was missing in the dream. It seemed I was at fault.
The world became chaotic and Krishna sent no revelation. Ashwatthama appeared to me one night. He was young again and glowed under his head jewel.
“Arjuna, I too felt the world’s weight. I thought it was because I cried for milk, but it was the hour’s adversity.” He said nothing more but when I woke my mind felt less encumbered.
Finally Nakula led me to speak. “To listen to a sage is still the only thing that brings Eldest respite,” he reminded me, and he was right.
With Eldest we set out for Island-born Greatfather’s ashram as though the expedition was a pleasure outing. I rode with Eldest in his chariot. From time to time he turned to smile. For the first time in many moons I saw him grow light-hearted. We had been looking to find gold by saving, but the essence of the Ashwamedha is giving, giving everything you have, the true splendour of a king. Eldest, who often seemed so little Kshatriya that he had earned himself the name of Brahmin, knew it like a king.
Island-born Greatfather was waiting for us with a question of his own: Why had we waited so long before coming to him?
“The fruit was not yet ripe,” said Eldest, and set himself to do what he liked best, to obey a sage.
The gold that was needed lay to the north, said Island-born Greatfather. There was both buried treasure and gold that must be mined. Eldest must lead the expedition.
“Eldest, no one but you could find that treasure. It will not yield itself to anyone. It is you who are to offer this great sacrifice.”
His words, though spoken to Eldest, sped into my blood like arrows. “You are my chakra,” Krishna had told me at Kurukshetra. Now I was the sword arm once again. No one could fetch the gold but Eldest, and I was his prote
ctor. This was something I knew and could set my hand to.
Island-born Greatfather spoke again. “Do not think that what we offer is not conscious. Everything is conscious.”
This led him into a hymn: “‘The God dwells in all that is. The elephant, the ant, the stones.’ —It can be summoned up by you and no one else, Yudhishthira, but remember, you must be single-minded in your action. The gold that you distribute and use for preparations is offered to the gods. So purify yourself. Abstain from meat and wine, and observe silence for ten days before you leave.”
These instructions were meat and wine to Eldest. At last he had been given a task that was in keeping with his heart’s desire and that made the sacrifice real for him. Eldest, on his knees, raised his hands in salutation to Greatfather and put his forehead to his feet. It was as though he had received the coronation bath again. I felt a spirit enter Greatfather. He lifted up his palms to heaven, then filled them with its blessings, and laid them on the head of Eldest. We left him at the ashram for ten days of fasting and returned to Hastina to gather soldiers.
3
Our forces were to march under the constellation Dhruva and on the day of Dhruva. Had it not been that we left Subhadra, the child, and Durgadasa, I would have been entirely glad to leave Hastina behind me. Having worshipped the great God Maheshwara, we offered rice cakes and received the blessings of the Brahmins. Parikshita and I worshipped Durgadasa, waving the lights before him; then stroked his mane and garlanded him. I lifted his forelock to spread kumkum and grains of rice across the constellation on his forehead. And above it I drew a crescent moon, for he was of our lunar race. I laid my cheek against his cheek. “You are Prajapati,” I said, “and you will lead us. But now is a time for waiting and surrender. We must fetch treasure.”
Krishna had said that the lowest man was the one who killed his faithfull dog. What would I be then if I failed to save Durgadasa? Durgadasa was no faithful dog but my guru who had led me through the kingdoms. My heart stood firm in its resolve.
Durgadasa snorted gently and rubbed his head against mine. I felt his trust. It strengthened me. He had protected me, led me through all dangers. I knew that somehow he would lead us through this danger too.
Closing my eyes, I prayed for wisdom and good fortune and then, there in the stable redolent of manure and garlands, I prayed to Mother Durga, protector of all warriors. Last of all, with a silent heart I prayed to Krishna.
Island-born Greatfather was to come with us. It was the first time that he had ridden on an elephant and he was as full of sprightliness as we had ever seen him. He greeted all the trees and animals with hymns and had a special chant for each of them—for the clouds and the rain, for the sky and the earth, for the dawn and the sunset, for each hour of the night and the day, the sunrise, the glow of fire, the moon and moonlit night, the burning of fire, the mirth of evening, the whistling wind, the seasons, the law that changed the seasons and the wonder of creation, for each step and for each mishap. We were on a pilgrimage and were not allowed to let it slip our minds.
In between our marches he had us sit on Kusha grass and chant with him like the disciples in his ashram. His voice was true and strong and he could raise an Om from underneath the ground and hold it so that it hummed in all of us. Even when he had let go of it, it climbed and hung upon the air. When the silence fell, we knew his prayer had reached the gods. With all this we hoped for an expedition without mishap, but in spite of Island-born Greatfather, it seemed that we were followed by an inauspicious wind.
At the second group of villages we approached, a delegation of headmen and elders come to meet us. A wounded tiger no longer able to hunt his natural prey had been dragging women and children from the fields. They had lost a grandfather, four women, an adolescent boy, and two small children. Now in answer to their prayers their king, their father, their deliverer, had come mounted like a god upon a great elephant. They stood with folded hands, looking up with imploring eyes. I never doubted what Eldest’s answer would be, but some of our counsellors and priests looked uneasily at each other. They whispered and gestured, trying to urge the oldest Brahmin to counsel caution. On us depended everything: the Ashwamedha, the rains, the crops of the whole country. Through Eldest must the whole dynasty be cleansed. The Brahmin stepped forward, his face contorted by his task.
“My lord, if something happens to Lord Arjuna, who will guard the emperor?” Eldest gazed past the priests at the imploring faces of the men who stood respectfully a pace away. They were his children.
“These are our subjects, Sinless One. The Lord Arjuna protected the Sacrificial Horse. Who will protect these men if I do not?”
Now several voices murmured,
“But the Ashwamedha…”
“If anything should happen…”
“Everything depends upon the sacrifice. Your Highness’s vamsha must be cleansed.”
“My lords, I thank you. What you say is true, but the world’s destiny does not depend on the safety of the king but on the observance of Dharma,” With this, Eldest prodded his gajaroha to signal his wish to dismount. We all appealed to Island-born Greatfather who was gazing at his grandson.
“There are some things which the king alone decides, and then even sages must look on,” he said to them, looking at his long nails, “unless the king consults them.”
“King Shibi cut off his own flesh to protect a pigeon.” Eldest smiled at Greatfather. “Am I to cower in my tent, or go out to meet the tiger when my subjects beg me for protection?”
“My Lord, that is but a legend,” protested one of the Brahmins. Eldest stared at him for a brief moment and then turned to the chief Brahmin.
“What is this Brahmin without faith doing on our expedition? Send him home before he brings disaster upon us.” After that there was no murmuring, and Island-born Greatfather closed his eyes and smiled.
“Eldest, why have I come then? The king must not be put in peril at such a time,” I protested. “Let me see to this tiger. I am your sword arm.”
“Indeed you are, Arjuna,” Eldest said, “and no king ever had a better one. But how would it look if the king sits back in safety when his subjects are in peril?” He began to walk towards a tent. “Who knows what god has sent the tiger? Who knows what god has taken his striped form?” He gave us all a look that said, ‘Is anybody in a hurry to see Hastina again?’
I burst out, “How is it that you cannot see that you are your people’s hope? Why did we fight the war? Did either of us particularly want to be kings? Did we not know of the desolation that would follow even if we won? We knew we fought in order that a Dharmic king should sit upon the throne. Only to that end did Krishna drive my chariot—that Dharma rather than Duryodhana should sit upon the throne and make offerings for the people. Krishna never said or thought Arjuna could be king. When the Trigartas challenged me he made you promise to go back to camp if Satyajit was killed, and you did go back. What do you think he would say today?”
Unlike myself, Eldest had no stupid vanity. He retreated with a parting dart. “I shall stay behind. But whether I am there or not, your arrow will be shot by Kala who is Lord of Time. If we are anchored in belief, we cannot fail.” Once again Krishna had saved us.
“Do not think to shake me off so easily, Arjuna.” I stared as Island-born Greatfather spoke. “I have mudras that can stop a tiger in his tracks.”
Before the desert it would have raised my hackles had anyone thought to take my tiger, and with mantras no less, when I had organized the hunt. Now it made me smile. Even the gods, I thought to myself, favour a master bowman.
When you are dealing with a wounded man-eater, you need the protection of the gods as well as your best hunters with you. I organized three elephants and six of my best bowmen. Two facing in opposite directions for each varandaka. I had another bowman in my own varandaka; eight of us, hand-picked. I took five more elephants with spearmen so that we could advance in a loose horizontal line. The gajarohas whispered into their d
arlings’ ears that we were hunting a tiger and that they must make no noise, and the great beasts walked as quietly as cats. I brought the formation slowly forward with arm signals. My bow was in my hands, arrow nocked. I heard a rustling to the right and brought the elephants to a halt. We all breathed carefully in tense silence. A wounded tiger will attack whatever comes towards him and even the best-trained elephants cannot be made to stand their ground when clawed. My hearing was acute but it was my mount that caught the scent. The birds had stopped twittering and I saw my gajaroha’s toes curling against the elephant’s side. It trumpeted as I signalled the others to face right. There was an angry growl, and then a roar. The undergrowth began to move as if stirred by violent wind. I smelt the great cat as a black and yellow thunderbolt hurled itself at the elephant on my left which wheeled so quickly that it threw its gajaroha to the ground, and trumpeting, squealing, and flapping its ears, crashed into the jungle behind us. My arrow sank into the tiger’s haunch before the jungle closed upon it, but it was not a mortal wound. With some difficulty the gajarohas steadied their mounts and we waited for the beast to charge again. This time the angry growling was mixed with yelps of pain and when the tiger charged again two of the elephants broke formation leaving a gap in our defence. For some moments nothing stood between the maddened creature and the camp where Eldest waited. It was then that chanting broke upon the air. Disregarding my orders that silence be maintained, Island-born Greatfather raised his voice in praise of creation, its tigers, and all striped things. Unappeased, the tiger sprang at Greatfather’s elephant. My arrow caught him in midleap.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 75
