So we turned to the refuge that had stood the test of every crisis. Almost as soon as we had thought of him, Island-born Greatfather was in our midst.
“Eldest has no pleasure in his sovereignty,” we told him, “nor in the sacrifice that he must offer.”
“It is almost,” I blurted out, “as though his faith in sacrifices has withered away.” Once the words were out they smote my heart. Why had we killed Duryodhana if not because he offered sacrifice without believing and with an impure heart? Such offering was vain and would bring neither crops nor rain but only great disaster. Eldest had been given the lustral bath and stood before the Gods for all of us! It was as though the king had died and with him all our hopes.
We sat in the council chamber like lost children. Island-born Greatfather spoke to us. “Eldest, you know that the destruction which has swallowed up your kinsmen was not brought about by you, my child, nor by your cousin brothers. Such carnage was brought about by unavoidable destiny.” The chamber was silent as the compassion which flowed from Island-born Greatfather’s eyes washed over Eldest. But though my own being was warmed, I saw in Eldest no response.
“Do you think I try to comfort you with words? After the Rajasuya when Krishna killed Shishupala, did I not tell you that great destruction could not be avoided, though when I saw your eyes pierced with grief I thought I should have held back those words. Now I am glad of them for I can remind you that on that very day I saw your kinsmen dead before an arrow was nocked or a war conch blown. The carnage, I tell you once again, was brought about by the minds of men and the unripeness of the earth.” Island-born Greatfather stroked the lion-claw of the chair on which Eldest sat. “You are absolved of guilt even before the sacrifice. Yet you are the master of the world and you must offer for the people! You with your queen beside you.” After a pause he continued, “Who can say aught of destiny? Perhaps we have no right. Even you, Yudhishthira, even you, the master of the world, must bend your head to it.” Island-born Greatfather’s torso rocked a little, gathering energy. His look brooded on things beyond our ken. There was a small vibration as though the air had been disturbed, and then the humming as of bees, which grew and grew into a mighty “OM” He opened his palms to heaven and chanted with closed eyes.
We meditate on the glorious splendour of the Divine life-giver.
May he himself throw light on our minds. OM.
The last “OM” fell into a deep silence, which was all the sunrises and sunsets of our lives. It was the Gayatri mantra handed down through generations since the great sage, Vishwamitra. Nobody stirred. Nobody wanted to end the silence. It was Eldest who spoke at last. I had not realized that Islandborn Greatfather had aimed his mantra at him.
Eldest smiled. “It sounds quite different when you chant it, Greatfather. Why?” He spoke like a wistful child. “Can you not teach me, so that I too can call upon this peace? What is missing when I recite it?”
“You see, Eldest, everything depends on authority.” Greatfather adjusted his top-knot and smiled benignly on us all. “If you call the mantra with authority, it must come to you.” Yet, when Island-born Greatfather left to return to his ashram, Eldest had still not promised that he would offer the sacrifice on the appointed day.
One sunrise and two sunsets later, we learnt why Eldest was so troubled. In a dream, a blue and gold mongoose had come to him. The mongoose was blue on one side and gold on the other. It spoke words that Eldest could not understand, but he felt they were words of reproof and concerned the Ashwamedha. If the sacrifice was not performed faultlessly, we would not be cleansed. If his offering was impure, he would bring misfortune on the land. We could not reason with Eldest. The blue and gold mongoose had taken hold of his mind and none of us could say whether the visitation was from a God or some malign spirit. I knew, we all did, that no prince or king that we had ever known could come within a spearthrow of Eldest’s rectitude. No one but Eldest could offer for us. It was Uncle Vidura who said,“Yudhishthira, when the gold and blue mongoose comes again, ask him to chant the Gayatri Mantra with you. No evil spirit can withstand it.”
The blue and gold mongoose appeared that very night, not only to Eldest but also to Sahadeva. Though Eldest was not able to chant the mantra, he looked more at peace now that Sahadeva shared the burden with him. The next night the mongoose spoke.
“Yudhishthira,” he said, “You plan a mighty sacrifice. You will feed Brahmins and kings, relatives and friends, the poor, the blind and helpless ones.” The mongoose’s voice was so loud and deep that at his words birds fluttered up into the air and flew away, and animals ran to their holes. “All the kings will come and you will give them treasures, jewels and gems, elephants and horses, female attendants and measures of gold. To the Brahmins you will give whole villages and kine. There will be rivers of juices of the six textures and mountains of sweetmeats. The grounds will echo with the thud of drums and the heavens rock to the blare of conches. Men will be inebriated with wine and new possessions. Your priests versed in the Vedas will perform the ceremonies without swerving from what is ordained. They will make the ritual gestures and move within the Yantric spaces. But when you have given the world away, will you be free of sin?” Then the mongoose disappeared. Animals emerged from their burrows. Birds flew down and nestled in the trees. And Eldest was left with the question which so haunted him. We feared that he might halt the preparations. Then the mongoose entered all our dreams but he spoke only to Eldest; “Do you think that by offering the grain you will change anything? Offer it since you must, but understand: the offering is yourself. Enter the grain. Become the grain which is offered in full surrender. Nothing else can take your place, not corn, not horses, not all the milch cows of Bharatavarsha. That it is to be king.”
10
The city was decorated everywhere with strings of pearls and wreaths of flowers. Ornamental arches were covered with red and purple silk threaded with gold and silver that reflected the sun. Fragrant incense burned in huge censers of gold. New perfumes had been blended for the occasion. Hastina’s streets, quadrangles, and highways were sprinkled with water perfumed with sandal and aloe. Lanterns, flowers, unbroken rice, and fruits, young blades of barley, and grains of parched rice were everywhere. Sweet, slender-waisted maidens adorned with bangles and polished earrings which caught the sun were rehearsing to greet guests with lights and presents as well as with the auspicious curds and honey. At street corners bards and minstrels extolled the Pandava heroes, and people going on their business stopped to smile and listen. They would laugh and weep and embrace, then suddenly remember what they were about and hurry on. But at night they would come back for more. The town was full of gladness and expectation. There was an awareness of what it was we lived by. There was a sense of newness in the air. People said that things would now be better than ever before, and the very ones who had told the stories of unoffered sacrifices and their dire consequences began to say with a confidential air that Krishna had his own way of doing things. Though Lord of Dwaraka, had he not taken on the role of Sutaputras in the war and lead the Dharmaraj to victory? Faith in him as a mahatma was seeping into people’s hearts. Bards were singing his deeds. Indeed it was their favourite subject, and our exploits together were much exaggerated—not surprising, considering the business the wine shops were doing. One of my favourites was of Abhimanyu’s chivalry and how he had entered Drona’s chakra by himself. Instead of being killed by seven men, it became seventy men that he took on, and that soon became seven hundred. They sang of how I would not shoot Karna while the ground held his chariot prisoner. It was the noble deeds they loved to sing about and once we even heard them sing of Karna sparing Nakula. But they were confused about Karna. He had fought against us, and his songs did not catch on. They sang of Ghatotkacha and how he had diverted Karna’s weapon meant for me and so saved my life and our whole army with his night magic. They sang of what Bheema had for breakfast before he drunk Duhshasana’s blood; Eldest in agitation banned that song. The
y told of how my arrow had released the water from the ground for Greatfather Bheeshma. Here too some things were confused. I had shot silken cushions from the sky for Greatfather to lay his head on! But by and large they sang of the spirit that animated us and hearing them we knew Krishna was right. Our story would reverberate through the years.
Draupadi’s courage too was celebrated. There was one song that started with “Have you heard how a great queen, wiser than a thousand pundits, saved five royal men from certain slavery?” This song reminded us of Draupadi’s great courage and what we owed to it. Later Krishna, Subhadra, and the five of us sang it in the palace for her. It had her weeping like a child.
The first guest to arrive was Krishna. With him beside us I could face anything. Then came two who would be close to Parikshita and influence his future. One, Shuka, I had never met but only heard of. He was the beloved son of Island-born Greatfather, born to him through the sage’s great yearning for a perfect son. Whenever I had visited the ashram Shuka had been away, wandering in the northern mountains and seeking out cave-dwelling ascetics. He never came to celebrations. I had assumed he would have the appearance of an ascetic himself, but he was built almost like a Kshatriya, only finer and smoother, and his eyes seemed to hold all the world’s lakes and oceans. Somehow he seemed to be of a different species, neither man nor god. He wore no arm rings or earrings. His hair, unoiled, shone from his inner radiance. He did not wear his asceticism at all. From his skin one would have thought he slept in snowy palace beds. I stared and stared at him for a while and could not return his greeting.
Where to accommodate such a guest? In our richest chamber, under the blossom-fragrant trees, or under the wide skies? I could not be quite myself with him. He unsettled me, and the ritual questions one must ask of kinsmen would not come. Though younger than myself, he was my uncle. He was courteous and had a heightened sense of refinement about him, his inner Dharma. Seeing my discomfort, Island-born Greatfather laughed and said, “You will get used to him.” Parikshita had no such difficulty. He was soon sitting on Shuka’s shoulder to get a better view of some weaver bird’s nest. As I watched the two of them move away, they seemed to me like one, as though their destinies were intertwined. Sometimes you stand on the edge of the future, listening to its echoes. I turned to Greatfather who also gazed after them.
“Greatfather, will the Sacrifice this time be held in peace and lead to peace for Bharatavarsha?” I asked the question none of us had dared to ask him. If he foresaw more destruction no one would have had the heart to play his role. His answer took so long I wished I had not spoken. We were still looking at Shuka and the child. “You ask for Parikshita,” he said. I was silent. Of course I did, for it was for him alone we all held our life’s breath. Yudhishthira waited for him to grow before going to the forest once again.
“He will reign in peace,” said Greatfather. It was but half a promise But it was the part I cared for. If there was more, I did not want to know. Greatfather said, “This Ashwamedha will not be a troubled one. Kshatriyas are a turbulent lot and like to slap their armpits at each other, but I think the worst we must look for is that the Brahmins may get heated in their arguments about the tree and the seed and which came before which, and in their debates about the differentiated God and the undifferentiated God.”
The first amongst the kings to arrive was my own son by Chitrangada, Babruvahana. When he had touched my feet and placed his head upon them, it became a jesting match. I stepped back and asked him if he had his sword. He pointed to his side and squinted at it, saying, “’tis but a bauble.” I clapped him on the shoulder and, laughing, we embraced. He had grown even taller and had to bend to me as one day Parikshita might have to do. I had a sense of new kings coming into a world in which I would not be.
The bards were quick to weave him into songs. They greeted Babruvahana as the only hero who had knocked out the unconquerable Arjuna. Some even sang that he had killed Prince Arjuna but that the Naga princess Ulupi had brought him back to life with herbs and Naga magic. That was close to the truth for indeed, as I later learnt, Chitrangada had mixed her mountain potions with Ulupi’s and I could not have come any closer to Lord Yama’s realm without staying there. Parikshita was delighted with his Uncle Babruvahana, and spent so much time riding before him on his saddle that they both missed the entry of Vajradatta, son of Bhagadatta. Babruvahana thought I might scold him for this lapse, but I told him that I was not in the habit of scolding sons grown so much bigger than myself. I began to enjoy this gathering.
Vajradatta had been heralded with songs of his father’s valour and that of his elephant. The bards had strict instructions not to mention my killing of his father all the time he was there. We were constantly on guard against any mischief that might prove irreparable. Of Shamba and Sharana, who I’d feared might cause trouble, we heard little until they managed to persuade Bheema to tell Uncle Dhritarashtra that their youngest sister could think of nothing but marrying him. It took all of Krishna’s diplomacy to persuade our uncle that he was still a fine, dignified figure worthy of the child’s infatuation. We half expected Aunt’s curses to fall on Shamba and Sharana but she said that they were included in her blanket curse on Dwaraka, and that nothing could be worse. Bheema suggested that she must have exhausted her punya.
Babruvahana and Vajradatta became friends, Vajradatta being but a few years senior. They both loved elephants and they both loved Parikshita, and they talked of the things that young kings usually talk of. Marriage was one of them, and Vajradatta had a sister. She had doe eyes, a sweet round face and above all, a chin like Subhadra’s, and the sort of direct gaze which made you trust her. I would not have been displeased if she had chosen Babruvahana, for Bhagadatta had been my father’s friend. Their race was of a noble spirit and it would throw a net of friendship across the country. But suddenly the kings came pouring in and there was little time to speak of marriage or swayamvaras. Having been on more campaigns than any of my brothers as well as on a great pilgrimage around the world, it was my task especially to see that our guests’ customs were respected. People of the north-eastern realms and Keradesh, for example, eat fish, which in some other kingdoms is as bad as eating rats, as do some Nishadas. The Kamarupa people eat only fresh water fish. Once we had served them dried sea fish and their nostrils had quivered with offence. From time to time I flung Bheema such bits of information as came to mind, and reminded him that nowhere in the world did people like salt in their sweets. We kept an eye on Bheema; no one had forgotten that he and Draupadi had laughed at Duryodhana when he fell into the water after the Rajasuya, and what had been set off by that. Before the kings arrived I had called on him in his own palace. He was giving orders to his cooks and had a tray of greenish looking mangoes before him. He was unhappy at them being still too raw for he wanted them for special juices for the guests. It was an unpropitious moment for my mission but I touched his feet and took some time to discover his mood and to feel and smell and discuss the fruits with him before declaring what I was about.
“Brother,” I said, “We must be careful that this time nothing interferes with harmony. It will be the death of Eldest if any of the kings feel offended.” Bheema dropped a mango and turned his full attention to me.
“I tell you, Arjuna, that I would cut my hand off rather than hurt Eldest or Draupadi. I live to see the day he is the lord of earth at last and given the Abhisheka for a Chakravarthy.”
“As for me,” I said, “I shall be content when everyone is home, happy with his gifts.” I hesitated, picked up a mango and turned it over, making as though to examine it, not knowing how to go on.
“I know what you came for, to tell me not to laugh at Duryodhana; but he is gone, Arjuna, and we have no more enemies. I shall laugh at nobody. I am too full of gratitude. I am here to welcome all who come; and from my heart, and on behalf of Eldest to see that harmony prevails. You and I together will help him hold the world. I do not forget, Arjuna, that we are now bringing to its
culmination something we started when we went with Krishna to put an end to Jarasandha and his heinous plan. We could not see it all then but Krishna did. Eldest is the one to sit upon the emperor’s throne and Draupadi must be beside him. The world is rid of tyrants and you and I shall keep it so. Do not distress yourself, baby brother.”
I left much comforted and not a little ashamed that I had presumed to doubt Bheema. I then set out to meet the reigning king of those Trigartas who had sworn to kill me in war. Warmed by Bheema’s reassurance I went with a full heart, intent on doing them the greatest honour. The silk festoons were freshly changed. There were mango leaves and marigolds. Series upon series of great arches stretched along the road well past the city gates; the bards were out in numbers. I sent orders for them to sing of the Trigarta valour.
Having settled the Trigartas, I was informed that the party from Keradesh was but a yojana away and jumped into my chariot once again. The Maharaja was a simple-natured man with a round face and a big smile. I had no trouble with him for he had gladly let the horse through his realm and welcomed me. Here was one monarch who would cause no trouble. The gods must have smiled at my expectations.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 79
