I had forgotten my uncle. He had been lying as quietly as the other dead. Now rising on his elbow he whispered, “It was on account of Satyaki’s love for you, Arjuna.” I glanced at Daruka and saw he had not told the whole of it.
“Satyaki reminded Kritavarman that he had vanquished him not once but many times in the great battle. To this there could be no answer, for it was true, but in his rage Kritavarman hit out at you. He said that if he had not arrayed his troops to protect Krishna, Arjuna’s much-vaunted prowess would never have availed Arjuna. It was then that Satyaki drew his sword, shouting, ‘Your lying tongue will never more utter my guru’s name,’ and Kritavarman’s head fell from his shoulders.” My uncle sighed. “He loved you, Arjuna.” He stroked my cheek and a tear fell down his own. He gazed at me as though looking to find Krishna. “Of everybody in this world he loved you best. Satyaki too. Satyaki loved you. You know, Arjuna, the hunter’s arrow found his foot and his life left from his crown.” Uncle Vasudeva swept the bedsheet feebly with his hands as though a nightmare prowled on it. “The ways of Krishna we have never understood, neither his birth nor the actions of his youth, and now not even this. It was Jara, one of our fiercest hunters who let fly that arrow, but when he saw what it had wrought, he lay in fear and remorse at Krishna’s feet; but Krishna blessed him, telling him that few had done him such a noble service and promised him release from his hunter’s karma.” Then Uncle fell back on his pillows.
After a while he dozed. I touched my uncle’s feet for the last time. His eyelids lifted and he stared at me through loneliness. He himself left his body that very day.
25
It had been Eldest’s first task after Kurukshetra to order all the broken chariots stacked together for the funeral fires, and all the sacred wood required for the rites to be collected. Now I set about giving commands and delegating responsibilities for the same tasks.
O Fire, summoner priest of the pilgrim rite, stand up high for us, strong for sacrifice in the forming of the gods. Thou art the ruler over every thought and thou carriest forward the mind of thy worshipper.
He journeys knowing the embassies of the pilgrim sacrifice between both the firmaments, utterly awakened to knowledge. A messenger, the ancient of days ever widening, ever greater in knowledge, thou travellest the mounting slopes of heaven.
If at all in our humanity by our movements of ignorance we have done any evil against thee, O Fire, make us wholly sinless before the Mother indivisible; O Fire, mayst thou loosen from us the bonds of our sins on every side.
We did not count them, but at the cremation ground there were Kshatriyas in long rows and then more rows. They lay as though sleeping, beside their bows which I had helped to break, their arms and faces spread with sandal paste, their hair, no longer bound for war, falling on their shoulders. It was still a wonder to me after all my battles that men who rushed at you with hatred in their eyes and the lust to kill could, once they had been slain, return to peace. The silken cloth arranged about their waists moved lightly in the breeze. As I walked between the rows, helping sons and grandsons who struggled with bows too big for them to bend and break, I saw that all was order. The peace of some great sacrifice was here. They must have reached their warriors’ heaven.
There were no grown sons to light the pyres, and we would have to guide the hands of boys. Many of the dead lay with their heads upon the laps of wives who chose to leave the earth with them. These wives were silent and serene. For them, mourning was over. They wore their wedding gold-encrusted skirts and shawls that they had worn when they had walked around the marriage fire, their shawls tied to their husbands’ angavastras, exchanging the vows:
Thou shalt be my greatest friend,
Thou shalt be my greatest friend.
Under the cloudless vault their wedding jewellery gleamed and twinkled. Now the bodies were being piled with cow dung cakes, sandalwood, and straw by the caste men who see to such things. Though one does not look for grieving among those who do this work, many had tear-bright eyes for Krishna. I stopped at someone’s feet. He looked familiar, yet I did not recognize him. Then I saw the lady on whose lap the head lay. Shamba’s wife. I looked again. It was Shamba, yet it was not the man I had known. The crease of malice had left the corner of his mouth. His face had peace. It was much the same in all the faces, the look of those who rest after a task is done. Had it not been for some bruises and the broken bows beside them, one might have thought this was an army sleeping between battles.
Kritavarman’s headless body was covered by a white silk sheet. His ladies sat beside him. The head that Satyaki had sliced off could not be found. It must have been trampled under the sand. Perhaps it was just as well, because a head suddenly severed in battle still sometimes wears its war rage. I tried to comfort the ladies saying that this was only Kritavarman’s body, and that his soul was whole and had gone to the abode of warriors. I had arranged it so that the ladies of Satyaki’s family were not too close to Kritavarman, but now I saw that one of Satyaki’s daughters-in-law had come to touch the feet of Kritavarman’s wife. I felt tears rising behind my eyes. I could not shed them but they did me good. It was the first time that my heart had tried to open.
I had come to the end of one row of bodies and as I turned, I saw the sea. The waves were higher than they had been last time I looked, but they were no longer wicked, only strong and cleansing. They galloped like war horses when the foam flies from their mouths. The tide was coming in. Varuna would complete the work that we were doing, carrying away the bones and ashes that were left behind out to the deep, the final resting place of all. In the palaces, the Brahmins—who must not be polluted by the dead— tended the sacred fires which had burned since Krishna built Dwaraka. We could hear the murmur of their chants, and sometimes a snatch of mantra carried on the wind. A sudden burst of birdsong broke the air—a lark, singing on the wing. Since I arrived there had been only crows and inauspicious vultures. I turned to Daruka who walked beside me. Our eyes met. We knew it was a sign that the violent spirits had departed. They had done their work. We would be lighting the pyre of something whose time had past. Something new must come into the world. Krishna had said it many a time. And the warbling of the bird reminded me. The chief of the pyre-tending caste approached with joined hands and touched the ground before my feet.
“Prince Arjuna,” he said with bent head, “all these lords of men are ready for the fire.” The sati ladies’ eyes had followed him. They watched us who soon would bring them release. Rukmini sat with Krishna’s head upon her lap, her eyes closed. Satyabhama sat beside them; she would go to the forest and do penance. As I stood before them she tugged at my angavastra and beckoned with her head. I leaned down to her.
“It is not that I am afraid,” she murmured. “I am not worthy to depart with him. All my life I have been proud and selfish. When I have purified myself I shall go to him.” I nodded and touched her feet. “Arjuna,” she said. “You were the closest to him. It used to make me jealous. He must be with you now. Give me your blessing.” She pulled my hand onto her head. And then she placed my palm over her eyes. I knelt beside her and we gazed at Krishna’s form. Words would not serve this day. Agni would soon devour the bodies of those whom we had loved. Once more my eyes swept the rows. From behind me came a sound of a child’s sobbing. My gaze stopped at a lovely woman, in her wedding finery. Krishna’s daughterin-law, Aniruddha’s wife. Vajra, sobbing, clasped his mother’s head. Her husband’s head was upon her lap; her face was set like stone.
“Mother!” he kept calling softly. “Do not go into the fire.” She did not turn her face this way or that. Only her lids flickered. I went to her and bent to stroke her head.
“My child,” I murmured. “He does not need you now; his son has need of you.” She made no sign that she had heard. “It is your Lord who says this to you. Vajra must rule Indraprastha. He will be king and must bear a load that will be heavy without you there to help him. He is the one who must endure for the sake o
f all of us, and it is he who must prepare a world where such horror will have no place. Do not deprive him of your love. If I could I would keep you both in Hastina or come with you to Indraprastha, the city of my heart. Krishna helped us build it and its Maya Sabha is full of light. Your son will sit in it and make offerings for the people. There is no one else to do it. He and Parikshita will be friends and peace will reign for all their lives. He needs you. Have you seen the Maya Sabha?” She turned her head to me and nodded, and the nodding dislodged tears that had been forced back. After a while and in silence she let me hold her husband’s head while she drew her legs from under it. Vajra went to her and they embraced each other. As I and many others watched them, we heard the sound of horses. It was the triple beat of chariot horses galloping along the beach. They still wore bits of finery in their manes and plaited tails—lapis ribbons and tattered scarlet plumes. They were magnificent Sindh horses, matched chestnuts with blazed foreheads and white feet; the last we were to see of the Vrishnis’ faultless style. The sand flew up; the horses swerved towards us and climbed the bank to our clearing.
Daruka stared open-mouthed. “These are Lord Kritavarman’s horses.” Others recognized them and there were gasps and cries. They slowed to a canter, then trotted a few paces before stopping. One came towards us baring his great teeth which gripped something, the hair of Kritavarman’s head. With staring eyes the head dangled before the horse’s chest. Now the horse held his head high and walked right past us towards the silken sheet where Kritavarman lay. Kritavarman’s wife let out a scream. I gripped her shoulders while Daruka stroked the horse’s head and whispered in his ear. “Sadhu, Sadhu, Sadhu.” He gently took the head from him, making his clucking noises of reassurance. The chief of the pyre-tending men took over and after hastily dipping Kritavarman’s head in water, spread clarified butter over it and sprinkled the cheeks, nose, and forehead with auspicious sandal powder. Then he fitted it to Kritavarman’s body under the sheet. It signalled the completion of the preparations.
The chief of the pyre-tending caste came to me now with a bowl of milk. I led Vajra’s right hand to it and we both dipped our fingertips. They held the fire ladle out to me. Taking it, I gazed upon the nest of straw that lay on Krishna’s breast. I did not look at Krishna’s face which was now a mask of sandal paste daubed with vermillion. It was not Krishna. None of this was Krishna. He had always said that the body was a garment. Within it was that which no earthly fire could scorch. So I wrapped Vajra’s fingers around the wooden handle and both my hands around his, and in the silence held the flame to the straw. Deep love and gratitude welled from the depths of my heart. A strong flame sprang up as though Krishna’s heart had come to life.
We watched for a while and then went to Aniruddha, Satyabhama’s son. His pyre was laid beside that of Pradyumna, Krishna’s first-born son by Rukmini.
After having lit his father’s pyre, Vajra returned to his mother. I went to Uncle Vasudeva whose head lay on the lap of my Aunt Devaki. She sat beside her co-queen, Rohini. Both would be cremated with their Lord. The old queens wore their resplendent wedding clothes over their wrinkled skin, the long lobes of their ears weighed down by flashing gold. Sorrow had been burnt out of them. From Aunt Devaki’s half-closed eyes I saw that there would be nothing but release for her in Agni’s touch. Kamsa had killed seven of her sons at birth. The infant Krishna had been taken from her in the night to save him from a similar fate. After years of sieges they had come to Dwaraka seeking refuge. It was all imprinted on her face; the eyes held calm expectancy. I made a full prostration before all that she had suffered. When I rose and stood with folded palms, she gazed beyond me. I liked to think that what she saw beyond my face was Krishna. Softly I began a death hymn, stretching out my hand that held the ladle with the fire from the palace Homa.
Within death there is immortality.
On death is based immortality.
Death clothes itself in light.
Self of Death is in the light.
I am death, the devourer of all,
Yet the source of things to be.
Come home again, leaving your stains;
Assume a body bright with glory.
Putting on new life, let him approach the remaining ones.
Let them re-unite with a body, All-Knowing One.
The straw caught in a moment and a tiny breeze blew flames to Aunt Devaki’s silken cloth. She sat bold upright, unheeding of the fire that crept towards her chin. Soon the heat was such that her hair fanned out sideways from her face. Fire played up and down her body, darting here and there. Without a murmur she fell to her side. She lay beside the body of my uncle upon a bed of flame. I gazed at these two through whom Krishna had chosen to enter the world. For a moment even the Brahmins paused in their chanting.
Now the fire reached Aunt Rohini who gave a little gasp and fainted. There were so many more still. Daruka brought me Satyaki’s son by his young wife, sired just before the war, a boy no more than seven. I swung him up into my arms and pressed him to my heart. I heard Satyaki’s laughter and felt him touch my feet. Should we have kept him in Hastina? The gods had needed his reckless spirit to do their work. We lit Satyaki’s pyre, my hands around those little hands. I worked all day lighting pyres, comforting widows, speaking to children. At last at sundown it was done. Covered with a fine layer of ash and smelling strongly of smoke and sandal, I went back to the palace. A single voice rose in serene entreaty:
That which in sound is not, nor touch,
Nor shape, nor diminution…
The other priests joined in, lending each other strength.
… nor taste, nor smell, that which is eternal,
And It is without end or beginning,
Higher than the Great-Self, the stable;
That having seen, from the mouth of death there is deliverance.
Sighs and moans and stifled sobs followed the hymn. The priests hardly took breath.
OM is the bow
And the soul is the arrow,
And That, the Brahman himself,
Is spoken of as the target.
The hymns went on, volleys of arrows aimed to draw the compassion of the Highest. Entreaty, faith against all evidence, the strength of men pitted against the dark, the Light invoked against despair, all these were in the hymns to lift us above the misery. The priests knew it. Their voices grew stronger as though joined by an unseen throng. Slowly the darkness lifted. This is why we honour Brahmins. I knew it then.
26
The fires burnt all night. I watched them from Krishna’s palace. The room was full of him. He stood beside me at the window, watching prophecies being fulfilled. He was saying, ‘It is not Aunt Gandhari’s punya that has pulled this down. It is bigger. It is what both Greatfather Bheeshma and Island-born Greatfather foresaw, the dismantling of something that has served its yuga. It is as it must be.’
The cries of the satis still echoed in my mind. Some of them had clutched their lords, calling out their names and screaming, as though they would rise once more to guard them against pain and evil. The horses in their stables and the elephants, hearing the cries, had begun whinnying and trumpeting. But now everything was quiet again save for a stray flame that snapped and crackled, and the crash of waves which surged ever further in. Dim figures could be seen moving about the mounds, the burial caste guarding the fires to keep wild animals away.
At dawn the whole of Dwaraka came out to take the ashes to the sea where Varuna, All-Merciful Lord of the Waters, waited to accept them. As I bent over Krishna’s spent pyre, a deep sense of desolation engulfed me. I had felt it when Daruka first spoke. Now its finality overcame me. Was it the absence of his form and weight upon the earth? I had the strong sense that his shape and substance had taken with it all glory and all promise. Who was left to challenge tyranny? Who was there to stop some fledgling Jarasandha from preparing dungeons to receive his human sacrifice? Those who had been checked and shamed by Krishna’s strength and light would no
w return to darkness, assuaging their guilt with offerings of cows and horses. The smouldering embers hissed as water was sprayed on them. Draupadis would be mocked and stripped in the sabhas of the world while wise men quoted shastras and looked on. Meanwhile some new Kamsa would be staining prison walls with infants’ blood lest they grow to bring light into the world. More Duryodhanas would sprout, supported by other Duhshasanas. Who would see to it that Dharma sat upon the throne? Truly life’s brilliance had vanished from the world leaving greyness in its place.
Let no more hymns be sung, my heart proclaimed. Arjuna was condemned to live on in a world barren and numb, a morsel of humanity tormented by pain, tortured by a life to which Krishna still held me by his honour. Oh, Krishna! You always said that we had come to do the work together. Then how is it I am still here? Oh, Krishna!
Misery like a diseased lid closed down upon the rising sun. Darkness descended, shutting out the day.
At the dawn of day
All manifest things issue forth from the unmanifest,
When night falls once again they go back to it.
They emerge again into the Lord of Waters from which comes all life.
So sang the priests. What new dawns could I now hope for?
We waded out with the ashes to the muttering of prayers all round, and names were called out as we lifted the water in cupped hands and offered our oblations. We watched the sealed pots wreathed with flowers bobbing out to sea with the now receding tide, but I swam out with Krishna’s ashes to make sure that they were swept to sea.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 88
