The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  But Krishna was our only wealth.

  He has stolen it

  And carries it away

  On the unknown journey.

  He sighed and took up his tale.

  That was when your Uncle Vasudeva was elected Lord of Dwaraka.

  Krishna still avoided the crown.

  That he did for the rest of his life.

  The boys had fallen asleep. Satyakiputra’s head lolled against my shoulder. I was seized with a fierce sense of protectiveness and gently pressed his head against my heart.

  By the time we reached the gates of Indraprastha, our silk umbrellas were torn and dusty. We were a ragged caravan. Though we had camped some yojanas away to make ourselves look brave and groomed, we bore the traces of the desert where we had left some of the substance of our flesh. I had no idea of whether or not we would meet with opposition in Indraprastha, but I had sent messages ahead of our arrival. In the end, my fears proved unfounded for we were made welcome. Councillors came outside the gates to meet us. The Khandava forest that we had burnt was once again encroaching on their territory and a fresh danger from wild animals and lawless tribes had arisen. Cattle raiders, above all, were descending from the northwest. These dangers laid a carpet out for us. The regent, a distant cousin of young Puru, who had been killed in a chariot race, was a weak though amiable man, clearly no ruler. He was glad enough to let go of a burden.

  After the first skirmishes, we came to an agreement with the tribals and settled on a boundary line. They knew the bow and arrow but were no match for the men trained by Satyaki and myself. The region’s herds had been much reduced by wolves, tigers, and raiders. When I entered Indraprastha, after clearing a part of the forest across the Yamuna, I was greeted not only by my names Dhananjaya and Jishnu, but by Krishna’s appellation, “Govinda”. Standing in the chariot beside me, Krishna smiled.

  Indraprastha’s welcome was not unlike that given to us when I had come with Krishna after Kurukshetra; they hungered for a prince and someone beloved of Krishna especially focused their longing. The city had been old and crumbling and deserted when I had first come to it years ago, after our uncle had fobbed it off on us. I saw that we had come just in time to save it from the forest which was encroaching on all sides. A city can only be without a ruler for so long, and then it withers away and dies. Now, abustle with preparations for the festivities, it was as though the Gandharvas had descended again to make it clean and new. Maya’s spirit hovered over masons and painters and gardeners. Daruka had become my confidante and support, but if the work was to continue I would have to leave him here as unofficial regent until Vajra came of age. He was the gold that nothing could corrupt and I would miss him.

  Once again the city reverberated with joyous life. Mango leaves and calendula garlanded the doors. Auspicious designs were traced in rice powder and vermillion on the roads before each doorstep. The priests tended the Homa and instructed Vajra. Heat poured from the palace kitchens where great mounds of food were constantly in preparation. Incense burned beside the bed in my mother’s room. An old lady in waiting had kept it like a shrine. At first I was reluctant to visit the Maya Sabha. Without Krishna would it not bring more grief than joy? Then one sacred day in the light of the half moon, I ordered the priests to observe all fateappeasing ceremonies, and had Daruka drive me to the Sabha. Once again on the threshold, I let it work its magic on me. Pure white light that put the sun to shame shone through the great building. “Build it,” Krishna had said, “so that sorrow and weariness will be dispelled for all who enter here.” Whether it was the light or the perfect symmetry of its form that gave peace it was not possible to say, for the heart rose up to meet the light, and the mind was stilled. Before I stepped across the threshold the ceremony of entrance was observed. I went and sat where I had always sat, on Bheema’s right, and tried to bring to mind those days of glory.

  The Sabha at least had been tended to perfection. There was the lotus pool sparkling as on the inauguration day, with white and magenta flowers on emerald stems. Golden tortoises wove through the emerald, and tiger-striped fishes, orange, gold, and silver darted—descendants of those that Sahadeva had brought back with pearls and corals from his conquests in the south and from the tear-shaped island. The breeze created ripples on the water over the marble, washing one clean of bitterness. Around us were flowering trees and sweet-smelling woods, ponds where white swans glided with necks bent like lotus stems, and ducks that fluttered away at our approach. A breeze free from corruption fanned me once again, bringing memories of Krishna. I relived the day of the Khandava fire, of Maya pleading for his life when the Sabha had been but a dream on another plane. “Build something for my friend,” Krishna had said. Friends, cousins, brothers—this too had been his gift. Was there anything of value in my life that had not been his gift? It was from here he had left for Dwaraka. Here we had embraced after he had taken the dust from Eldest’s and Draupadi’s feet, and taken messages from Subhadra for her parents. Yes, he had kept me for the last.

  Daruka must have followed my thoughts, for he said, “After we had left you all to go back to Dwaraka that time, he made me turn the chariot round and said, ‘Daruka, take me back to Prince Arjuna,’ to take leave of you once more, to embrace you once again. Only you.” I did remember. But I could not even nod. So close were the tears that were half sweetness, half despair. When I had seen his Vishwarupa, inside, from all sides, I had bowed to him. I bowed to him now. I bowed to him.

  With Daruka I walked through the gardens and looked at the rooms. In each there was a tale of Krishna: what he had said to Maya, a joke he had made about the turtles, his reverence for his aunt, our Mother Kunti, whom he had always made feel beautiful and young.

  We visited Draupadi’s chamber. She had been plucked from the quiet splendour of this room to be gambled into exile and servitude and then in the war, within nineteen days, had borne the loss of every kinsman. Our reminiscences fell into silence here.

  Her old servitor showed us the roller with which she would grind and mix herbs for Draupadi’s baths. Jewelled perfume jars and mirrors gleamed with a high polish. The old crone caught the look of pain that Daruka and I exchanged and with the boldness of someone who has survived disasters, she pounced.

  “Ay, well you may look. Nobody understood but Krishna. She was his Sakhi and but for him you would have let her die of shame.” She had waited all these years to speak her mind, guarding her lady’s rooms as fiercely as a tigress guards her young.

  “Her tongue was sharp, maybe,” she muttered, “and maybe it had reason to be, but inside she was gentle. We who served her knew, as did Krishna and his aunt, your mother, too.” She continued more gently, “May all her sufferings burn up the sins of previous births, and forestall the mishaps of future ones. No lady ever suffered like my lady. May the evil of this world be lessened by her trials.” She grew steadier with these thoughts of compensation, touched my feet, called down a blessing on us, and withdrew.

  29

  Invitations went out for the royal Abhisheka. Having once been Eldest’s imperial capital, Indraprastha was still a seat of power and it too carried an air of Krishna’s grace. How should I describe it? There was a certain lightness and light-heartedness about it, a gladsome sense of Krishna’s laughter that Hastina, for all its opulence could not match.

  With its boy king waiting to be crowned, the roads of Indraprastha were hung with garlands, the streets sprinkled with scented water, the fine clothes and jewels of its citizens constantly in evidence. Every day Daruka drove Vajra and myself, shielded under the royal white umbrella, through the city. Vajra, in golden silk, reminded everyone of Krishna. He had the Vrishni smile and charm, and he bore himself in public proudly but with ease. When the people hailed us and he raised his folded hands in greeting, everyone shouted, “Victory to the seed of Krishna.”— “Victory to Dhananjaya.” By the time we returned to the palace, the floor of the carriage would be covered with flowers and auspicious grain. In the na
rrower streets, people leaned out from balconies dangling strings of flowers which tickled our cheeks. Vajra’s mother and aunt behind us, with Kritavarman’s son and Satyakiputra, as everybody called him now, got their share of flowers too. At last the widows tasted some of the joy of motherhood again.

  Daruka, and I, remembering Jhillin who had tried to have us poisoned, would have liked to keep to the more open roads. But one day Vajra, saying that he needed to see all his people, insisted on traveling the simpler quarters too. I was about to reprimand him but Daruka caught my eye and, looking at Vajra, I thought, “His way is with the gods.” There are no shields against destiny and no escaping a destined arrow.

  Turning an elbow in the road, we faced a dead end of Kadamba trees and crumbling walls. Vajra and I saw the thing at the same time: a bundle of rags lying on the roadside. A very old man with matted hair and strange light eyes emerged from under it. I heard the sharp intake of Daruka’s breath. I had one hand on Gandiva and the other ready to dip into my quiver. Daruka was already turning the horses’ heads. The spot was perfect for an ambush, and yet no one had known we would be coming this way. In anticipation, Daruka raised his arm that held the whip. The old man’s face shone with a smile that set him apart as a lunatic or sage.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked roughly.

  “The same as you, my lord,” he said in a loud strong voice. He had to be insane.

  “Such words have cost better men than you their heads.” The Kshatriya in me could not speak otherwise, but something made me add, “Grandfather”.

  “My Lord, such a small price to pay…” He smiled at Vajra. “…for seeing my Lord Krishna once again.” Daruka’s arm came down. Here was another sort of dead-end. I did not know how to retreat. Kshatriyas are not taught to bend or to apologize. Perhaps it was not insolence but by evening the story would be everywhere.

  “He is no more, you know,” said Vajra kindly.

  “No, he lives.” The hair on my neck stood up. What god could have sent this messenger to us? After a pause I asked, “Is this babble or do you know what you are saying, old father?”

  “I know,” said the man, “and you do too.” Now he had dropped the “my Lord” but I was past minding. “Lord Krishna lives, and not only in the memory of one old man who saw him and you build this city and grace the Rajasuya. As long as men tread this Mother Earth, he lives.” Echoes of Greatfather Bheeshma’s prophecy before the death of Shishupala pulsed through his words. And whose were these words? At this moment I was king here, my task to set the kingdom in order. But by the Grace of the gods, this old man had put order in my heart and mind.

  Bowing to us and raising his joined hands, he smiled again at Vajra and turning around, leaned on his staff and hobbled off. Some of our outriders had turned the bend. I signed to Daruka to wave them back. I knew who had spoken from that toothless mouth and now I saw him everywhere. He was alive, not only in the eyes of Vajra but in Daruka and his whiphand, in the horses and the Kadamba trees. He was alive.

  We waited for the day when the stars would be favourable for Vajra’s coronation bath. The priests had already twice postponed the ceremony, and I had had to point out to them that an empty throne breeds ambition. Daruka said their hesitation stemmed mostly from their wanting me to remain in Indraprastha for as long as possible. I thought he might be voicing his own wish, but indeed a delegation of counsellors and prominent citizens did come to ask me if I would stay as regent. For anyone to suggest that I might not belong with my brothers was novel to me: when I said so, one old Brahmin contradicted me slyly, saying, “But you like it better here, Prince Arjuna.” The whole assembly burst out laughing. Once the first mouthful of this truth was savoured and digested, others dipped into the dish as well.

  “What was the first thing you did after Kurukshetra, Prince Arjuna?”

  “You did not go on a sacred pilgrimage, Prince. You came here.”

  “This was the Prince’s pilgrimage.” And as they said it, I knew it was so.

  The style had always been less formal here than in Hastina. That had been Krishna’s doing when he built the city with us and now with Eldest in Hastina, the people here could not shore up their affection for me any longer. I felt tears spring to my eyes and saw other eyes glistening all around me. They were saying without words that though Krishna was no longer here, they were giving me the love he would have wanted for me. It felt like home and family. If I could have brought Subhadra and Parikshita here, my heart might have clamoured for it and yet … and yet for all my gainsaying it, I was still one finger of the Pandavas’ hand: the middle son, Mother Kunti’s third, and I had given her and Krishna my Kshatriya oath that we would stay as one.

  Daruka worked tirelessly on the preparations with the priests and for ornamenting the sabha. Now kings began arriving from the surrounding region bringing fine gifts for the boy king. Horses and ponies, kine, gems, skins, and toy chariots pulled by trained tortoises. But what Vajra liked best were the talking mynahs and parrots. There was one mynah that said, “Long live Prince Vajra,” and others that replied, “He is King Vajra.” Another repeated, “Victory to the seed of Krishna,” and still another, “Have you worshipped Maker of Day?” When the nobles came into the room the parrots would say, “Please to take your seats,” and when the servants came, “Bring me refreshments.” The time for mourning had passed.

  I had known that Vajra would look resplendent in the gold silk that he always wore, but I was not prepared for the glow upon his face. From the high jewelled platform that had been used for Eldest’s Rajasuya, he listened to the chanting with eyes closed, sitting indrawn through the whole long ceremony. I was beside him on his right, while Daruka held the royal umbrella from behind. We had made Kritavarman’s son and Satyakiputra the protectors of the ceremony. They stood proudly with drawn sword, their boyish, bare, bejewelled chests outthrust. We would soon be moving on. It would be their turn next, then Parikshita’s. Once he was sitting on the throne my work would, at last, be done.

  Tears trickled slowly down Vajra’s serene face. There was a true king in the making there; that everyone could see. From the gold pitchers of Eldest’s Rajasuya, the waters from the holy rivers poured over his head and shoulders. His wet hair made him look again like the child who had scrambled up the riverbank to be scolded by his nurse. But this was no longer a child. When his lids lifted, a monarch gazed out onto the world.

  The counsellors and all the chief citizens did pradakshina and bowed to him while he sat, one leg folded on his seat and one stretched out onto the golden footstool in the ritual pose of kingship. At the very end, I strapped around his waist a sword that our master swordsmith had forged for him with the Garuda, Krishna’s emblem, on the blade and another gem-encrusted one on the hilt. I had had a chariot made from the wood of acacias that we had cleared on our arrival. It had lions on the wheel hubs and gem-eyed swans ran along the posts that held the golden canopy. Carved elephants looked down from the roof.

  On the day after the coronation I asked Vajra whether he had given thought to choosing his own emblem. He said he had—A sun with many rays. He said he wanted to help everybody and to shine upon his people like the sun. So we had a pennant fashioned for his chariot and another for his palace. Now he began to dream of Krishna and of his father. In the dreams they promised they would guide him; already the mantras were bestowing their grace on him. Island-born Greatfather had always said the Abhisheka mantras slid off kings like Duryodhana and Jarasandha like water off a swan’s back, but that on a chosen soul they wrought a transformation.

  When with Daruka and myself Vajra could still be playful but he could also speak with a becoming gravity. The gravity was in his eyes as he performed the rites of departure for me. He would have liked to weep but he drove us towards the gates of the city with a warrior’s smile, his head held high, shoulders back and his blazing sun pennant slapping lightly in the breeze.

  As I had done for Krishna, Vajra charioteered me to the outsk
irts of the city. He had a light, sure touch with the horses and held the reins with confidence. I found no words as he handed them to me and stepped down from the chariot. Not to burden our last moments together with unneeded advice, I merely nodded and pointed to the pennant. Biting his lip, he nodded back and looking up at me with tear-bright eyes, managed a wide tremulous smile.

  Vajra had grown dear to me and not to have him and Daruka with me, left me lonely. But our caravan was much reduced and I felt the lighter for it. Still there remained with me some thousands of old people, women and children as well as great numbers of pack animals which bore their household possessions. I quickly lost myself in organizing long rows of beasts and chariots amid the grunt of camels and the neigh of horses. Once again our days were full of the cries of the gajarohas to their elephants and the charioteers to their horse teams. The ladies’ varandakas had new silk curtains which were drawn against the sun and leather curtains for the cold nights. The silk umbrellas too had been refurbished and began to bob gaily as we now headed north for Martikkavarta, where Kritavarman’s son was to be installed.

  He had not the quality of Parikshita or Vajra for he was mild and somewhat timorous. After all, he had seen horrendous things, but there was no harm in him, and no little good. Perhaps the Abhisheka mantras would bestow on him the strength he needed, for his kingdom on the Saraswati had forests on either side, the Kamyaka slightly north-east and the North Khandava to the west. To the north he had the Valikkas, the Madras and the Kaikeyas: he would need good council and skillful diplomacy to hold on to his kingdom. Vajra, I knew, would be his strongest ally, but he would still have much to deal with. It was still the duty of a king to extend his boundaries: Without a strong ruler Martikkavarta would be a dainty morsel for those with an eye to conquer. Vajra and Parikshita could easily be drawn into a cycle of unending warfare by their social duty to avenge their kinsmen. If Krishna had not promised a peaceful reign for these young kings I would have felt much concern, if not despair, on this account. Yet, there was a sense of work accomplished. Daruka and Vajra were safe in Indraprastha and soon the others would be settled as well.