The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  We had not been out of Indraprastha two days, when in the late afternoon one of my captains rode up to me. The caravan behind us had drawn to a halt. One of the ladies of Kritavarman’s household was giving birth. The white umbrellas rocked and the pennants drooped as we ground to a stop to the creaking of wooden oxdrawn carts and the cries of drivers. I gave the order to make camp for the night.

  I knew the lady. She was Satyaki’s cousin, a young widow. She was in labour all night and when the baby boy was born at dawn, she sent word that I should come and name him. I rode up to her tent with a bag of gold wrapped in silk. They handed the child out to me. He looked into my face with the intelligent eyes of his clan that I knew so well, and hope welled in my heart. “All that we are doing we are doing for you, you know,” I said to him. His fingers curled around my thumb. For the first time since Dwaraka I felt my soul descend to grace my body and bind it once again to mankind. I felt Nature’s movement of re-creation. I felt the mother’s pain through which this child had come, the fear the soul must feel as it emerges in the darkness of our lesser light which is a chaos. I stood in awe before this tiny bundle. In awe, I cried out joyfully: “You are the future. You have come to usher in Krishna’s new world, so do not let us down. We shall call you Vijaya.” The men around us murmured “Sadhu”. The sun was coming up. “You have had your ablutions,” I said to Vijaya. “Now I must go for mine.” I handed him to his radiant aunt who slipped back through the tent opening with him cuddled against her heart. Turning away, I walked towards the river.

  I have always loved water and watersports, and the baby had lifted my spirits. Water is the great purifier. It heals all evils. Maker of Day himself is the son of the waters. Island-born Greatfather always said the two belonged together. As the river began to brighten with Maker of Day, a prayer welled up in me, something I had heard from Island-born Greatfather.

  O Waters stored with healing balm

  From which my body safe will be,

  Come, that I long may see the sun.

  I poured water over my head from cupped hands

  Whatever sin is found in me,

  Whatever wrong I may have done,

  If I have lied or falsely sworn,

  Water, remove it far from me.

  I lifted the water in my palms and thanked the Maker of Day for all life, and for Vijaya in particular. Again I scooped some up to pour a blessing on my own head. I had already turned and begun to make my way out of the river when something made me turn back to the east. It was a hymn that welled up in me in thanksgiving to this giver of life, to this giver of Vijaya:

  All radiant from the bosom of the Morning

  Surya, delight of singers, now ascends

  Brilliant, foresighted, he rises in the heavens.

  His end is far, he hastens on, light-giving.

  Inspired by him, men go about their business,

  Accomplishing their tasks whatever they may be.

  The last words burst out in a rush of hope that Vijaya’s look had lit in me.

  The camp was abustle with activity preparatory to resuming our march. Servants were running up and down with trays of bread and honey, and great jars of milk on their heads, while grooms harnessed the horses. Varandakas were being hoisted on kneeling elephants. I rode up and down the whole procession to keep the men alert but, truly, my encouragement was unnecessary: A special energy seemed to be in the air. News of the birth of the baby Vijaya had been carried up and down our great caravan, and acted as an auspicious omen: A new beginning, something vouchsafed to us, a promise that life would go on. Vijaya was the future in which life would conquer over death. Vijaya was all of Krishna’s promises.

  Soon it was the camels that held the greater part of my attention. There is nothing surer than a string of camels to take you and your baggage across the desert or over rocky terrain. As long as they can nibble enough of the juicy plants they need to survive, they need no water for nine moons or ten, the time it had taken Vijaya to grow from seed to infancy. I rode along the line, calling advice to the grooms. One great bull camel was fidgeting his wide nostrils when the reins were being threaded. There was a small wound there and I had some balm applied to it. He stretched his long neck towards me and nuzzled my hand. His brothers groaned their special protest as their massive backs were hung with saddle bags and loaded with our water gourds that were to be our life, in the days to come. Satisfied that all was well, I went to get my own meal.

  Then I felt it. I jumped down from my mount whose ears were pricked sharply forward. I could feel it under my feet now. I flung myself down to put my ear to earth and saw two of my captains do the same. There was no mistaking the thousandfold beat of horses’ hooves and the rumble of chariot wheels bearing down on us fast from the northwest. I blew my Devadatta, a desperate wail. Two of my captains answered with their conches. Men were running everywhere. Some of the animals began to buck and rear. A camel kicked a load that stood near his hind leg and it burst open shedding silk and necklaces. A bolt of multi-coloured cloth rolled out before me. I jumped over it, shouting orders to my men. I knew what was coming; I had met tribes of desert raiders before when the horse had led me to them. They had shared their meal with me then and offered me a woman. But this time, they would be after ours. Their hospitality was well known; no less so their ferocity.

  I ordered some of my men to guard the women and children. Some Vrishni women and the Bhojas who knew bowmanship were put on special guard around the newborn child. Then I called on Pushan, the Lord of Pathways.

  We are travellers and are in your hands

  Who look after the helpless and the weary

  And lead them to their household fires.

  You are the friend of everyone in need.

  There was no time for other appeals before I saw that the horizon wavered.

  Quickly I exhorted my men, “When we see the whites of their eyes and I blow Devadatta once again, let go your arrows with your faces to the enemy. Let no man’s back offer a target. Patala awaits the coward. Let no man be dishonoured. Mother Durga, protectress of righteous armies, let their un-Aryan chests be under our feet, and our arrows fill their flesh.” The men cheered and shouted “Mother Durga”. Challenges were thrown upon the air before the enemy was within range of hearing. These are the sounds that stir your blood to battle. Strings were plucked, then tightened, then plucked again, making the music that I love. Swords rattled and the ground drummed to running feet. The sky was blue and cloudless. A joyful battle fury came up through the ground into my body, but stopped short of my head.—I shook off a momentary misgiving—I was on Krishna’s mission. I blew Devadatta and we charged.

  The horizon darkened and slowly moved to meet us. My battle fury mounted and I sounded Devadatta yet again. The other conches answered me. We closed at full tilt, the pounding of hooves seeming to make the ground rock between us. I could see their headgear made of animal skins. We were outnumbered at least ten to one. But I knew that though they are the swiftest of horsemen, these desert warriors had little skill as archers. They were wild tribesmen, not trained soldiers, having nothing like the Aryan code of protection towards women, children and the feeble.

  We were within bowshot now. Suddenly the blurs split by crescents of white teeth took shape as faces, grinning with hatred, insolence, and malice. I shouted to my charioteer and we sliced into the enemy tide which streamed past on either side. I had marked my man, a huge wild-bearded fellow, one of the leaders, urging his men on. My hand dipped in the quiver and moved to nock an arrow, but my fingers fumbled; I was without strength or skill. I looked within myself for fear. Men fumble thus through fear, yet I could find none, only impotence as when you dream that your legs fail when you want to run. Perhaps I was dreaming all this, dreaming that this nomadic tribe of ill omen was rushing upon us. Perhaps I had only dreamt Krishna dead and Dwaraka under the sea. Surely I would wake up now to find my hand numb from my sleeping on it. But I did not waken. I shifted the bow into my other
hand. My fingers fumbled while stringing the arrow. But it was done at last.

  The odd feeling within me grew. The enemy were all around me, faces distorted by lust for blood and plunder. I was an easy target. The man before me had his mouth open, ready to roar his insult. I gave him the Kshatriya’s challenge though he was none. He and his tribesmen pressed all around me. My arm would not draw back beyond my chest. Weakly, I had to let the half-drawn arrow fly, and though the ruffian was nearly upon me, it fell short and struck the ground before his horse’s hooves. Just then my captain’s arrow found his throat or he would have had my life. But all I knew was that there in the dust with my feeble arrow lay my life’s pride, trampled by the horses. I picked out another ruffian, broad and ugly, who seemed a leader too, rallying those behind him with his bow high above his head. I caught his gaze and shouted my challenge. His staring, bulging eyes held mine as he sped towards me, shouting. I fumbled my bow back to my right hand, but still jeering he sped right past me, calling, “Out of my way, Eunuch.” I tried to say the mantra for an astra—But it would not come to mind. My soldiers shooting all around me, arrows flew at the enemy in ceaseless volleys, but none of them were mine.

  Shame drowned my battle fury. Faces intent on rape and slaughter sped past me, mocking, grinning, and yelling insults. I was not worthy of their arrows or their swords. They had broken through our lines and were galloping towards our caravan, leaving their un-Aryan stench behind them. All we could do was turn and follow them.

  When I found I could do no better than shoot an arrow into a horse’s rump, my mind turned into chaos and my last strength drained out like blood from a mortal wound. I fumbled my next arrow so badly that it fell at my feet and though I was able to nock the next one, my arm now refused me altogether. The enemy could have killed me, but instead they had swept right past, jeering. I had been no danger to them. I was not Arjuna.

  Our women were screaming in terror as the marauders fell upon them. I saw a maiden swung up and thrown across a man’s saddle. He had his knife between his teeth and his eyes glittered mockery at me as he swept past and rode away. By this time they were everywhere, jabbing at the leather curtains of the tents and litters, cracking their whips at the servants who tried to shield their mistresses. Seeing me helpless and ineffectual, my men too lost heart. Though many of the plunderers had fallen, once they were inside the camp my men hardly dared shoot for fear of hitting the women. I unhitched one of my chariot horses and charged, striking out with the horns of Gandiva while shouting to the women to spread out. But panicked, they clung together, wailing like ospreys.

  The robbers had driven in carts pulled by their swift Sindh horses. They threw the women into them, together with the bails of silk and sacks of grain and gold. I saw a golden pitcher meant for the coronation of Kritavarman’s son used as a bludgeon on a screaming woman, who was dragged off by the hair. When they had taken everything they wanted, heavy with plunder, they were slow to get away and made easy targets. I sent half my men after them. Many women were brought back, one of whom quickly drowned herself in the river. Neither the infant Vijaya nor his mother survived, and her valiant sister, who had guarded them with her bow now lay dying with an arrow in her chest. Her hands fluttered around it. As I knelt beside her, her eyes begged for her soul’s release. If I pulled the arrow out her life would come with it. I searched for some last word, but could find nothing and shaking my head murmured a prayer to Pushan who has knowledge of the roads and highways between earth and heaven. Still her eyes pleaded with me and I understood that she wanted me to tell her that Vijaya was still alive. I struggled to compose a lie which the shastras allow you to tell a woman. But I have never found it easier to lie to a woman than to a man and now, though I wished to, the words stuck in my throat as surely as the arrow in her chest. She understood, for her mouth set in bitterness and her hands tightened in sudden strength and anger on the arrow shaft. Her eyes stared hopelessness at me. “Pushan is here,” I told her. “He never leaves anyone alone in the unknown. He will protect Vijaya and you.” Her eyes turned away and then came back to mine. “Shall it be now?” I asked. Her eyes stared wildly. I stroked her forehead and her lids came down. When she looked at me again I saw that she was ready. Swiftly, I pulled the arrow out and her life, hissing with a great sigh, escaped with it. At last peace settled on her face.

  We could not move on for there were ceremonies for the dead to be observed. I did not think the plunderers would come again. But even had we been on the move, it would have made no difference to our safety. With children and old people, you cannot hope to escape without casualties from a fighting force. In any event, it would be unthinkable to leave the place without performing some last rites for our dead. So it was that once again, I found myself arranging funeral pyres. Once again, we laid out rows of warriors beside their broken bows, women cut down in their prime and beauty, and their slain servants. Some observances could not be kept and for lack of surviving sons: women lit some of the pyres. The Brahmins scrimped on the rituals and the hymns, though the women’s wailing continued throughout the day. I had the dead men of the enemy carried away. They were not Aryans: the kites and jackals would look after them. That night I had the women arm themselves with knives and bows and arrows for we could hear the animals around the camp. Nobody slept, though we knew that next morning, we would have to find the strength to set out again for the town where Kritavarman’s son must reign.

  30

  I was sick in mind and body and after the coronation of Hardikya at Martikkavarta. I left the remainder of the Vrishnis, Bhojas and Andhakas there; it is a pleasant town on the Saraswati. They were still badly frightened and needed rest. I had no spirit to raise them from their grief for still another journey. So I bade those who wanted to accompany me to Hastina, to wait for my return. There was only one place I needed to go to now, and I needed to go alone, even though I had no hope of solace. Like a wounded animal I sought my only refuge.

  Who was I? What was I for? I had been Krishna’s bowman. I had always done as he asked me to. But if Krishna’s power had left the earth with his body, there was no place on the earth for mine. I should remove my weight from it. Arjuna without his bowarm was nothing but a burden on the earth. How would I pass my days and nights? Eating and sleeping? Even Shudras had their calling. They had masters they could serve. But with Krishna gone, I had none. All that I had ever done after I first met Krishna was for him. He wanted the nations united under Eldest. I fought for it, because he wanted it. After meeting him I had never shot an arrow, handled a horse team, listened to or played music or danced without his being there. His vision was my vision. The world, the universe I saw, was the universe he had shown me when he said, “You are my chakra.” Where was that universe?

  The sky was an inverted platter pressing down upon my head. Gandiva was a weapon without life. I was carrying a corpse slung on my shoulder. I could hardly think of Parikshita and Subhadra. It caused me too much pain. Who would protect them now if plunderers descended? The world was full of plunderers, catastrophes, calamities, and death. Forgive me, Krishna, if you can hear me. Even after you left, I tried to hope and carry on. I called the baby, “Vijaya,” because you said one day the world would change. It would no longer be a world of wars, and Parikshita and Vajra would reign in peace. But now the world would know that Arjuna’s eye and arm had lost their cunning. What did it mean then that I had been given weapons from heaven? Was it a cruel jest of the Gods?

  Before reaching Island-born Greatfather’s ashram I stopped to let the horses graze. Seating myself beneath a tree by the roadside I listened to the drumming of my heart. I felt like a guilty little boy, ashamed to face his elders. I had failed Krishna. I had lost my only skill. I had nothing more to give. Quite suddenly the sky began to darken. Above me a flight of cranes was streaming, Jishnu, the fearless, startled by a shadow. I gazed at the formation of birds. The leader seemed to scream out orders to the disciplined troop that followed him in a perfect vyuha
, necks and legs outstretched. As though moved by a single will, they swooped low over a pond, bending to their own reflections. Now the leader slipped back into the vyuha. Another took his place. It was as though Krishna was telling me to move up to the front, to move on. And then I was weeping like a child. Why should I take this load of grief to Island-born Greatfather? What could he or anybody do for me? The world was broken…lost. It had perished with Krishna. Island-born Greatfather said Krishna possessed a power and a knowledge that were his alone. I had always known that; now I experienced the meaning of its loss.

  Cranes are auspicious, but for me there could be no more good omens. Even in that last year of our exile, in Virata’s capital, when I had run out of the palace in my woman’s skirts and jumped into the chariot with Uttarakumara, even that had been Arjuna. The moment I had touched Gandiva, it had throbbed with recognition and when I plucked it all my nerves had thrilled and Uttarakumara had shrunk in fear. Gandiva had not been merely a part of me. It had been the whole of me.

  With the memory sharp in my mind, I slapped my armpits in a challenge to the sky. The answer was a mocking flap of wings. If only a calamity would stir the pond till it covered all the land, till it covered Gandiva and Arjuna, and all his shame. In great exhaustion I lay back under the tree.