It took me many watches, even days, to climb down to the trouble that had sent me up, but rung by rung I came down the ladder until I reached the one where I became aware that I carried knowledge of which I must speak to the priest. When at last I sat before them, I found that I was once again Arjuna and not a man of words. I was no sage to impart wisdom. I was no priest to debate shastras. I was a Kshatriya whose passion burst forth in faltering images.
“Do you not see that what you chant means that we must give the whole world away and it must be given whole? Is it not said that in the Ashwamedha, the king must give the whole world away and not part of it?” I babbled of the force and speed we must give away, our inner dawns that were its head, our inner days and nights. I saw some of the young priests listening but they were mostly acolytes. The older ones looked at me with compassion or closed faces.
Soon it was said that the weariness of my campaign had caught up with me, that I must take rest and eat more nourishing food and keep within my palace, that Krishna had turned my head. They gave me potions, but when I saw that these dulled my mind, I sent the physician priests away and even pushed away a hand, I know not whose, so that the liquid spilled and filled my room with its aromas.
It was a mistake to have spoken to the chief Hotri in front of others. He was the chief authority on custom and must not be made to lose face. He was yoked to the tradition of his forefathers who must have lost the true sense of these lenghty verses at some point after the rishi’s vision burst upon the world. And so there was only one hope and that was Eldest. He was the sacrificer. It was he who made the offering and chose what was to be offered. If I could make him see, he would have the strength to stand upon his Dharma. If not, he was no king. So I went to him and touched his feet. I do not know the words I said. I have no memory of the room we sat in, his eyes, our mother’s eyes being all that I remember and they were listening from the first, and seeing. And we rose together, he and I, mankind that the Ashwa carried, the horse on which no single proud man must ride. With him, we swept the universes once again and I sang the portions of the hymn that I remembered. In the tent, beside the river with Krishna and Island-born Greatfather after the war, it had been like this. I do not recall the words that Eldest used but he promised me that Durgadasa would not be slaughtered.
8
And now the priests began to murmur for they saw us walking in the garden with our heads together. They saw our minds were one and in the evenings when we spoke, we sent our servitors away. Within a few weeks the first emissaries arrived from neighbouring varshas to ask politely if the Ashwamedha was still scheduled for the month of Chaitriya, or somewhat less politely, if it had been called off. I knew that Eldest would stand firm, as during the forest exile he had stood by his word for thirteen years.
As ill chance would have it, the rains arrived with violence, then stopped short as though someone had sucked them back up with mantras. This filled the Hotri’s quivers full of darts. It is the king who offers sacrifices for the rains, the crops and the prosperity of his people. Now everyone remembered that I was the son of Indra. It was said that he was furious with me for interfering with the sacrifice. He had forgiven me for Krishna’s sake, they said, for thwarting him when Agni swallowed the Khandava forest; but, said the voices, such impiety as withholding the horse sacrifice he would not tolerate. Nothing but the very sacrifice appointed by the shastras could expiate the rivers of kinsmen’s blood we had shed.
Durgadasa himself fell ill. Rumour can be overlooked, but not disaster. We had gone around the world without his suffering a scratch. Even when not curried, his coat had gleamed as if freshly oiled. I tried to reassure him and myself. “Warriors are used to these things, Durgadasa. My own legwound, which gave no trouble when desert sand blew into it, began to fester only here.” What with the monsoon failing and Durgadasa unwell, my heart sank. The twins and I went to see him every day and Parikshita came with us. He held his little hand over the auspicious constellation between the eyes, hardly touching it. Durgadasa’s restlessness and twitching always ceased when he did this. I thought nothing of it at the time.
Then Durgadasa was himself again, but that did not stop the superstitious Hotris from weaving nets to trap us. We sent for Island-born Greatfather. “If he can stop a landslide, he can persuade the Hotris,” was Eldest’s reasoning.
Island-born Greatfather poured out on us all his charm, telling stories as though to little children. I had known only one other story teller that came close to him and that was Rishi Markandeya who cheered us in the forest with his tales of Rama and Sita and the glorious Savitri. Now Islandborn Greatfather made all the Hotris laugh at my expense with stories of the expedition, and of how I had swum in the river pretending to save the bullocks, and of how he had not been allowed to stop the tiger. He made me look something of a fool, which pacified them; it was the next best thing to making fun of Eldest, which was unthinkable. They were still slapping their thighs when he wove his way into how it was preferable not to kill living creatures if there were better ways to do a thing. This brought the Chief priest out of his hilarity; still spluttering a little, he turned his Aryan profile to listen to whatever might come next. Island-born Greatfather now told us stories about sacrifices and of Agni’s surfeit of ghee. The Brahmin smiled but the look in his eyes which had been merry, was more guarded. His Brahmin’s mind was sharper than a crescent-headed arrow. He began to fidget with the gold-set diamond in his ear in a way that said, “Thus far but no further.”
But Island-born Greatfather continued “While the limbs of the sacrifice were spread out, the Ritwiks busied themselves with all the rites that the shastras ordained. The libation pourer started pouring ghee with his most elegant gestures while all the Rishis looked on. All the deities were summoned by the learned Brahmins, singing in their sweetest voices, the mantras of the Yajurveda.” Here like a Vanaganaka Island-born Greatfather sang sweetly, keeping the rhythm with his hand. There were some smiles and chuckles but the other chief mahartwijas took the cue from the chief Brahman and the merriment subsided like the bubbling of water when the fire goes out. Not in the least daunted, Island-born Greatfather began to tell the story of Lord Indra’s sacrifice:
“When the animals selected for the sacrifice were seized, the great Rishis felt compassion. Feeling the animals’ despair, the Rishis approached Lord Indra. ‘The sacrifice is not auspicious, great Indra. Since you desire merit you surely do not know that animals have not been ordained for sacrificial slaughter. The animal soul will reach heaven but you will stay where you are. Indeed these preparations are destructive of all merit. There is only one thing that one can offer and that is one’s desire. This is the offering which brings much merit. If you care for merit, let your good priests perform it according to the Agama. Perform the sacrifice with grain that has been kept for not less than three years. Do this with purity of purpose and an unclouded mind and great will be thy merit, O Lord of Heaven.’ But as we know, great Lord Indra is sometimes influenced by pride; he refused to hear the Rishis’ words and a great dispute disturbing cosmic harmony arose about whether to offer moving creatures or immobile grain. Lord Indra, seeing this, was obliged to come to an agreement with the Rishis to let King Vasu render judgement.” The chief priest began once more to pull and twist his right earlobe. “Without giving the question sufficient thought, King Vasu said, ‘The sacrifice may be performed with whatever is at hand.’ For this, he was then sent down to the nether regions for no one person, however wise, should singly take a decision on such matters unless he is himself the Lord of creatures. Now I propose that we avoid a similar fate by all of us together enquiring deeply into what is meant by sacrifice.”
This drew some laughs but they were quickly stifled by the chief Brahman’s solemn countenance. He was a massive man and sat within his rectitude as if in a fortress. Now with an extended hand, Island-born Greatfather invited him to speak.
He said that as he had no wish to follow King Vasu into the n
ether regions, he wished to go into a retreat for several days before pronouncing himself, and he urged all the priests to do the same. We had to be content with that. He was not one to be rushed in his deliberations.
It is one thing to stop a tiger and quite another to escape the Hotri’s bite. In no time the public gardens and the wine shops were full of stories. The first that came to us was of a Brahmin widow who refused to offer a cock to the gods when beginning to dig a well, saying with defiance that they had already helped themselves to her husband’s life. She had disregarded the village priests’ warnings of dire consequences. Then on the auspicious seventh day, which proved the gods’ involvement, a dog fell into the well and drowned. As though that were not enough, one month later the water started coming up foul-smelling and streaked with mud. The story made the rounds of the wine shops where it was served with every pot. Hardly had it got around when another came to join it, and then another. Someone came up with the tale of a rich corn merchant who had refused to let his masons sacrifice goats, thinking that the gods could be appeased with mouldy grain. The next month his daughter had a miscarriage. His son ran off with the daughter of a concubine and his wife, receiving the news, fell down and now recited her prayers out of a crooked mouth. The man himself slipped on a spill of mustard seeds and hurt his spine because of which he spent a fortune on herbs and egg whites for the medicinal packs that did him no good. To this very day, he was carried around in a basket. Our situation brought him fame.
A king who does not sacrifice is not a king. The shastras say that man is sacrifice. Sacrifice is the world. Prajapati himself laid the sacrificial pyres when he made the three worlds: earth, space, and sky. If you want to rule, or even live in towns or villages, you cannot move away from sacrifice. Did not the stories in the wine shops say it with one voice, whether the voice was Shudra, Vaishya, or Brahmin? As for a king, his obligation is the greatest and he must offer what is greatest. Only in the desert or the forest does the inner sacrifice suffice.
While we waited, Durgadasa’s restlessness returned, along with the fever. There was no keeping the news of Durgadasa’s relapse hidden.
The sacrificial horse is ocean-born. He too is a son of Indra, who is Lord of Rain and can fill or dry the ocean. If we refused to offer Durgadasa, people said, Indra might strike him down with lightning taking what was his by right. If Durgadasa died before the sacrifice there would have to be another campaign, another horse; nor need I look too much to fortune this time with Lord Indra against me.
“We have decided.” It was the royal “We” that Eldest used. “Uncle Vidura, even if we are to go to Patala’s lowest regions, we shall perform the sacrifice with purity of purpose and with twelve-year grain. The sacred horse has conquered the world for us. We shall protect him with our lives.”
Uncle Vidura clasped him in his arms. And Eldest said to the priests,“The blood sacrifice has been made at Kurukshetra. The earth demands no more. These creatures who do not speak are yet not dumb. Respected Brahmins, I will tell you this last story, the last teaching that Greatfather Bheeshma taught me even as he lay upon his bed of arrows. It was the story of King Shibi and the dove. His teaching was not of rite and ritual. When a dove pursued by a great and hungry hawk requested the protection of King Shibi, the hawk protested that he too was King Shibi’s subject whose hunger must be fed. Rather than give up the dove, King Shibi sliced his own flesh and put it in the balance to equal the dove’s weight. He gave his life but kept his word and trust.” Eldest’s voice strengthened as he spoke. “Are we forgetting the twelve-year sacrifice of the Rishi of the purest mind, Agastya, who with other ascetics lived on roots and fruits, a little corn and the rays of the sun and the moon? No animals lost their lives. When Lord Indra withheld his rain, the Brahmins went to Agastya and said, ‘Without the Ashwamedha, how will animals and men survive?’ Agastya reassured them. He would transform himself by the energy of his penance, and every creature would be nourished as before. Holy Brahmins, a different order of things can be created, as nobody knows better than yourselves. The Gods are always testing us. Only Dharma will bring us rain, never expediency.”
And so it was settled. The hall was quiet. Many heads moved in silent approval.
Once it was decided that Durgadasa would not be slaughtered, the question was how he would be presented. I said he could stand beside the sacrificial post. I wanted him to be led to the altar and to stand free. It should be seen that he stood by the post neither tethered nor drugged, but of his own free will. I knew that if I led him there, he would not stir. There was a trust between us. I would have staked my life on Durgadasa to do the right thing. Although ritual demanded that the priests take charge of him, this sacrifice was to be different. The arguments went back and forth. Finally it came to this: The Brahmins wanted to be sure that they would not be made to look like fools. What if the horse suddenly kicked up his heels and ran off?
“He will not do that,” I said, “he is Prajapati.”
The Adhvaryu was frowning and tugging at his ear again.
“O Sinless One,” one of the Hotris said to me with unction, “the prestige of our caste is involved.” He looked at the Udgatri for support. It came immediately: He smiled and said, “How would it look if we have to chase the horse?”This drew smiles from all the priests except the Adhvaryu who threw him a sharp look. Turning to me, he said in his most reasonable and respectful voice, “Prince, you cannot know what the horse will do if he senses danger from the post or even from the expectation of the crowd.”
“But I do know.”
“How can you know,” the Adhvaryu said roughly, abandoning protocol. He frowned at my presumption. His rudeness served me well. I made the most impassioned speech of all my life.
“I know. I tell you, I know. I stake my life on it. I swear by my soul that he will understand. If we are not to follow him it all becomes a farce, and it is not he who wins the territories for us, but we who have snatched them pretending Prajapati ordains. That makes the sacrifice a farce, whether with grain or blood. We are indebted to the gods because they have won this kingdom for us, but if the sacred horse is not Prajapati, there is no debt to any god. And let us feast like non-Aryans without offerings.” Then I spoke again about the campaign, how Durgadasa had protected me, saved me from the Gandharians. I made them ride with me across the dusty plane, behind the sacred horse, straight towards the moving line on the horizon in Gandhara country. I made them turn with me when Durgadasa turned, and thunder off with him riding as close as chariot horses, three abreast, the trophy trapped between us.
“I trusted him,” I said, “all the way I trusted him and followed. Otherwise I would not be here today. I would have been killed. Gandiva could not have saved me. Nothing could have. Only Prajapati could save me. He did. If I returned a hero, it was because of him. If you but allow it, he will make heroes of you too.” The Adhvaryu was frowning still, though no longer playing with his ear. There was a silence, like the silence of the desert night, when you can hear your breathing. The Adhvaryu looked down at his hands and when he raised his head to answer, I saw that his eyes glistened. At last he said, “So be it, best of Princes. We shall trust the sacred horse.”
9
We had counted on Eldest becoming more peaceful as the time of the sacrifice approached. But it was not so. His eyes were haunted and he grew more distant, while all royal prerogatives were observed with a new energy. Once in the counsel chamber, when Bheema who was allowed certain liberties, prodded Eldest’s shoulder with brotherly familiarity, he reminded him that we were no longer in the forest and that he had received the coronation bath now for the second time. There was mildness in the reproof as there always was for Bheema, but it came like a warning to us all. Still we saw nothing to wonder at. It was a solemn time. The blood guilt would be lifted. Eldest had always observed royal protocol, and that which was forbidden, most conscientiously even when it was to his own inconvenience.
“It is our respect to the Gods,
” he would insist, “and if the king fails in it, it falls upon the people.” He touched his lips and nostrils, ears and eyes with water before performing any rite of heavy import and indeed of any import. It needed no discussion to conclude that in his as yet unfulfilled desire to cleanse us of the Mahapapa, the sin of killing kinsmen, he strove for extreme purity. His whole person blazed with a fire that comes from tapas. Yet his soul was unappeased. Draupadi too, who would offer with him in this sacrifice, began to look drawn. She sat beside him every day while the priests chanted. Both she and Eldest ate even less than was prescribed. Their lids were swollen from constant exposure to the sacrificial fire.
One day her chariot brought her to our palace after her daily rites. She wore the same intensity as Eldest. The years and hardships and discipline had worn away the part of her that was pride. Now there was humility in her dignity. Her voice was strained as she asked the ritual questions about our health and prosperity and that of every member of our household down to Parikshita. Then the dam burst. Tears flowed from her eyes. Eldest could not sleep, she told us. He tossed and turned and spoke in the Mleccha dialect that he sometimes used with Uncle Vidura, but this time not even Uncle had been able to approach him. Then came news that cut us to the quick. Eldest wanted the sacrifice postponed. I longed to tell my thoughts to Krishna: “The shapes that life takes are so manifold it would seem the All-creator delights in striking us with surprise.” I spoke the thought to Subhadra. She said, “If it were else, He would be guided by our expectations.”
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 78
