Tears streamed down my face, washing the shame away, washing defeat away, washing away everything except those two smoke-coloured eyes that held me in their gaze.
“Sleep in peace, Arjuna, and tomorrow go in peace, as you take the survivors to Hastina. Always be at peace, and you will find it is everywhere.”
31
On the way to Hastina, in my mind I was already climbing the first foothills to the abode of snow, where the minor deities play in the moist meadows of buttercups, sky-coloured gentians and bright poppies. I remembered that nip in the air which clears your head and gives you restful sleep; those grey skies delivering sudden rains, then clearing to offer sunsets like a thousand blossoms and crystalline nights. I could smell the pine forests and see the little streams all fringed with ferns, and sometimes calendula whose leaves you could squeeze to heal a scraped knee. The peaks, hidden behind dense clouds, would occasionally emerge, almost stopping one’s breath with their majestic beauty. Above the tree line, you surrendered completely to the mountain so filled with its own life and its own silent hymns that they emptied the mind of everything, even its hankering for happiness. There, the mind slipped out of its own prison and heard the eternal saying—this world is made by Him. It is as safely in his hands as I am. One day all men will know it.
It was with these reflections, that I moved towards Hastina. The horses must have sensed it, as horses do, for they went smoothly with heads held high. There was no need to flick the whip or even cluck them on. This time I carried with me to my dear ones the gift of our release. After a life of strife, of victories and defeats, of injustice and reward, of joy and pain, we would be freed from this illusion into the great reality, into the truth Krishna had shown me, which my mind had not known how to hold. I would see Krishna. I would live in his Oneness. Our Queen Draupadi’s sufferings too would come to an end. Subhadra would not have to live in mourning for her brother and the certainty was strong in me that Parikshita would live in peace in the world we would be leaving to him, in the shelter of Shuka and Greatfather who could explain the world to him.
Thus did the promise of Island-born Greatfather and the call of the abode of snow carry me for the last time towards the gates of Hastina, this time not wishing it were Indraprastha or Dwaraka: It was as Island-born Greatfather said, everyone was where he had to be.
The peace that he had given me held me until I spoke with Subhadra.
“I must stay,” she said. We were sitting in her chamber, leaning against the silk cushions of her couch. I sat up slowly. I looked around the room, uncluttered, as the shastras say it should be. There were the table and the chair, the lamp upon the table and the incense stand, and her bow and quiver on the wall beside her riding crop. The walls threw a soft light. I looked at her as though the words had come from somewhere else than from my Subhadra’s mouth. “Gentle One, what are you saying?”
We had sometimes planned to grow old together, to leave this world at the same time, to die in battle if we had to, shoulder to shoulder, facing the enemy. She would be my charioteer. Indeed, after she had come into my life, the restlessness, the wanderlust, my wildest horses had been tamed. It was through her that I had made peace with Hastina.
I was too stunned to speak even that one word, “Why?” She looked at me with steady eyes full of compassion. It was this that made me see she meant it.
“Beloved, how will it be for you alone?”
She said nothing still. I saw she could not speak. Her grief was no less than mine. The charm of snow and mountains dissolved. Without Subhadra, I would find nothing but emptiness there. I sat up facing her, she took my hands. Her palms were warm and dry. These were the hands that had held the reins when we had fled from Dwaraka. As I stroked them with my thumbs I felt the slight archer’s welt and wished again we could have died together in battle, with our faces to the enemy. But her strength streamed into me through her hands. I said “If it is for Parikshita, he has his mother. Yuyutsu is a father to him and will continue to be so. There is Kripacharya and our ancient Dhaumya. He is good for a century of years. But above all there is Shuka, who has promised to stay here until Parikshita is of age.” My words struck rock. In desperation, I sought to move her by adharmic means.
“We would be meeting Abhimanyu,” I said. Then she turned a different sort of gaze on me. She looked down at her skirt where her fingers plucked at the cloth and a single tear ran down her cheek. She was never one to cry, and that one tear smote me more than would have a deluge of tears from any other woman. I asked, “If not Parikshita, what is it, O my charioteer?”
She looked up at me and shook her head as though I would never understand. “Can you not trust me to understand?” She tried to speak then but no words came.
I stroked her tear away. “You think I will not understand. Perhaps not, but you have always made me see. What good is a charioteer that refuses counsel?” She began, then, in a low voice. “It is not only Uttaraa and Parikshita, though they do need me. All these years…”
She paused and from her silence grew a greater silence. What was it that all these years I had not been aware of?
Suddenly she spoke again. “All these years, fire-born Draupadi has been the sacrifice.”
“Draupadi! What are you saying?”—“She is our queen. She is Eldest’s Yagnapatni. Of course she will come with us. Can you think that we would leave Draupadi behind? She is our queen and empress. She has suffered enough.” Her silence told me that I had not understood. “Is it that she wants to stay here?” I persisted. “The both of you together?”
It began to make a little sense. Of all those who had suffered, no one had gone through Draupadi’s shame and torment. If, weary in body and spirit, she should want to stay back with my compassionate Subhadra rather than face the cruel crags, who was I to wonder at it? What had she ever had from us but empty Dharma, in the Sabha, where none of us had raised his voice, or in the palace of Virata when Keechaka had kicked her while we protected our anonymity? What had we done or dared for her? Her sons had all been killed. And she now loved Parikshita with a mother’s love. Subhadra she looked upon as sister. Why should she want to come with us? I searched for arguments and found none. And yet I could not think of leaving without Subhadra. I did not want her to take my silence for surrender. My eyes began to plead with her. She closed her eyes and tried to speak again but was still blocked by something I had not understood, something that came between us. Though we gripped our hands together, trying to stay as one, a gulf grew between us. Subhadra’s voice was quiet and desperate. “Draupadi will go with you. Give her this, Arjuna. Draupadi’s love for you is deeper than anything.” At last I understood what it was and our hands no longer gripped as though our lives were in them. We gazed and gazed. My unspoken arguments were of little worth. It would have demeaned us for me to speak. So she said it for me.
“I know you could not give her what you gave to me. There is no Adharma. Just as she could not give to anyone what she felt for you. It was as it was.”
“That is what I say, Beloved. Life or karma—call it what you will—is like that. Who are we to question what the Lord bestows? We two were the fortunate ones in this. No one comes through the battle without wounds. We are Kshatriyas. How many times have I poured libations in gratitude for what we have? Draupadi has suffered bitterly. No one knows it better than I. But she has accepted her fate even as we have accepted ours.” It was all true, but it clanged like a broken sword. Her brows furrowed. “You see…” Her voice was slow and thoughtful. A sparrow flew into the room and perched first on the lamp and then on the table, looked around and chirping flew out again. She took it as an omen.
“That means what I say is true. You say that nobody knows better than you, how Draupadi has suffered, and that is true, perhaps, of the five of you. I have always thought that Arjuna is the only one to understand a woman’s heart, which is why he occupies my heart. Perhaps no other man can understand as he does. I think your mother understood too, though
she always said it was misfortune to be born a Kshatriya queen. When still, before Kurukshetra, she sent the message with Krishna that she would disown you if you did not fight, she was not thinking of her kingdom nor of yours. She was thinking of Draupadi being dragged into the Sabha. Draupadi has been the sacrifice. Without her, you would never have fought. Krishna always said so. All along she was the sacrifice, the fireborn thrown into the fire. Then there is this other wound. Abhimanyu and Ghatotkacha were everybody’s darlings, but not her sons. They were not even mourned as ours were.”
“Her sons became Dhrishtadyumna’s during the years we were in the forest. We hardly knew them,” I murmured.
“I know, I know.” She closed her eyes and said it again, “I know,” as though building a wall against any argument that I might have.
“Subhadra, sacrifice is the centre of our lives. We are all offered. Krishna himself became the sacrifice when Dwaraka needed to end. He always said that it was in itself a sacrifice to take on human bodies. In that sense there is a Kshatriya hero in every human being. Knowing this is what makes us Aryans. We do what we must, and offer it to the gods.” Something began to cede in me. It tasted almost like consent but it was bitter. And then she said, “Krishna wanted me to stay.”
“Krishna? Krishna knew?”
“Yes.” She was silent.
She gave a wavering smile. “This time we are the oblations. It is our turn to be poured in. Do not begrudge it. We have had so much, more than any others.” I had always known that.
“Krishna knew?”
“He asked me to stay with Parikshita.” Her eyes said: How could Krishna not have known? A pale sun began to shine on a frozen landscape.
Still it was as though I had been holding a knife reversed and was now impaled on it. “We are the libations.” Her voice lifted and almost sang.
I remembered yet once more the Narayana Astra. The ultimate weapon… surrender.
32
One more coronation. It would be our last. Parikshita would live in amity with other kings. Vajra was of Krishna’s blood and royal line and that made him sacred to Parikshita and to Shuka. Nor was there reason to doubt that the confederacy of states that Krishna wanted would be confirmed under Parikshita. If he sent out an Ashwamedha horse few, perhaps none, would challenge it. And then, even stronger than all this was what we had all gone through, the great purification, of which our pilgrimage to the Abode of Snow would be the final action.
Resplendent and a bit overburdened in all his heavy jewellery, Parikshita was helped by Eldest onto the same platform on which Eldest himself first received his first royal Abhisheka bath, so many years ago before the dice game. We had been ignorant then of the cyclonic winds that surround a king. But now as we watched we felt the deep calm that comes after the battle.
Parikshita threw me a look of mischief. He had been joking about the one thousand and one pots of water that must be poured on him by the priests with each string of mantras. He was not overly pious and teased us, wanting to know if five hundred pots would not do the job just as well. Perhaps this was the Kali Yuga creeping in—he poked fun at all preparations in his good-natured way but I was only too happy that he had kept the lightheartedness which had always been his, especially as he remained respectful to the Brahmins. It was a gift of all the gods that, while capable of deep seriousness, he was not weighed down by grief. One could not help but smile when he caricatured the ritual gestures of the Brahmins mumbling, muttering and finishing with a Swaha. Parikshita protested that he would collapse under the weight of the pearls and catch a cold and fever from the sacred water. This was part nervousness and part a reaction to Kripacharya’s constant explanations and admonitions. Kripacharya was getting on in years and kept no count of how many times he repeated himself as he drilled Parikshita, now often bending to his ear with last reminders.
The first OM elevated me. As the pouring out of mantras increased in tempo, Parikshita’s features became composed. His eyes no longer shifted or sought our gaze. He seemed to ripen under the blessings as though under so many suns. Today he passed from our keeping and from his own, to that of the gods who tend the fate of kings. A weight slipped from my shoulders: I could have walked away then without a care but for Subhadra. I looked towards the ladies’ gallery and saw her. She was gazing at Parikshita with a half-smile on her lips. Uttaraa was weeping and down here Island-born Greatfather sat as he always sat, dependable as his beloved mountains.
A pause in the mantras brought me back. They were pouring pitchers of water brought from the sacred rivers over Parikshita’s head. OMs erupted like a volley of arrows and Parikshita was king.
Then came the giving of gifts, followed by the feasting. The mantras had bestowed the power of kingship on Parikshita. The new king blessed with his hands the trays of gifts before distribution. Ministers scooped up coins with a big golden measure and poured them into bags. Then Sahadeva and Nakula placed the silken bags of coins into Parikshita’s hands for distribution. Gold flowed in a glinting stream. The Brahmins were contented not only with their gifts, but with their king. You could see it from their smiles. Parikshita was one for whom they would not grudge their blessings. To them, Dwaraka was a distant land. Here all was celebration. He gave them diamond earrings and thick gem-encrusted ankle jewellery. Giving like this is the joy of kings and Yudhishthira had known the real value of it. Today he looked on. He had finished his work and shed his burden. He was like a conquering hero after a hard campaign when the procession and the acclaim are over. The equanimity he had so hungered for was now his right.
Bheema, subdued but with utmost dedication, supervised the feast, hardly eating himself. Bheema’s stomach of late had barely made demands on him. This would serve him well where we were going.
One moon after the coronation, the Brahmanas and the ascetics from the surrounding forest, the remaining Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and the Shudras crowded into the main court of the palace and overflowed outside beyond the gates. They waited with joined hands for Eldest to address them one last time just as they had waited for Uncle Dhritarashtra’s final words. From a verandah on the first floor we looked down upon the assemblage. These were the people for whom Eldest had made laws, given judgement, settled disputes, built tanks and rest houses, distributed grain and cattle. They were his children. He had been generous and righteous. Above all, he had stood before the gods for them and offered sacrifice ensuring them rainfall, prosperity, and he had given them the pride of being subjects of an emperor. “The silent one”, they sometimes called him. Now they waited for his word.
“My people, my children, your fathers and my fathers have long been together, parts of one family.” There was a muffled sob from down below. Already some of the citizens were throwing their shawls over their heads in grief.
“You know the fate that marked the end of Dwaraka and of our Lord and counsellor, Lord Krishna, son of our uncle Vasudeva. Lord Krishna, son of Devaki, was not as other kings of men. He came to work with us. If his work is done, then so is ours. He came to root out Adharma and to change the custom, to open a pathway for the Light of Higher Gods. We were but his instruments. That is what Aryan men are for, to lead the Light onto the earth and all that stands or lies upon it. I say Lord Krishna was our counsellor, but as he was the living heart of our existence as well as our guide, now that he is gone it behooves us also to remove our weight from this earth.” A sound of lamentation drifted up. “We pray of your allegiance to our grandson, King Parikshita of righteous soul. A peaceful reign has been foreseen. May good befall you always.” People hushed each other so as not to miss what Eldest said. “Our Island-born Greatfather, son of Satyavati, that righteous-souled ascetic who has ever been a fountain of Veda and Dharma for us, has given us leave to undertake a final pilgrimage to the abode of snow.” Softly the “hai hai’s” arose like mourners’ wails. He held up a hand. “So do I pray to you for your blessings on our journey. Where is the need for grieving? Today, like my uncle Dhritarashtr
a, I stand here with joined hands and pray for your forgiveness in the matter of the great carnage which took place at Kurukshetra.” The silence deepened. “Our kinsmen were all killed there and this has been a torment to us.”
“You are Dharmaraj!”
“It was for the sake of Dharma. You did your duty, Dharmaraj.”
“The Ashwamedha sacrifice wipes out all sin.” The crowd took up the cry of Dharmaraj and again Eldest held up his hand. This time though, the gesture was disregarded.
“Dharmaraj fought for justice.”
“They took the land, Dharmaraj.”
“They cheated.” We all held up our palms to them for silence. “Blessed be all of you,” said Eldest. “We ask for your loyalty to your new king, Parikshita. Behold, at the end the king becomes a suppliant. Truly a king is sent to serve. When the serving time is over, he is called away, as we are called. The glory of Kshatriya death facing the enemy was not to be ours. The enemy we must confront is within. This is the enemy we shall seek out on our last pilgrimage.
“As regent we leave you sinless Yuyutsu, a son of royalty and a brave fighter of Adharma. As gurus to your king we leave the son of our Islandborn Greatfather, Shukadev and Kripacharya.” The silence deepened. Many had been gazing at him. Now all eyes were turned. “Now with our queen Draupadi, and with my four heroic brothers we crave your pardon for all omissions.”
“Hai! Hai! Hai!” There was a burst of lamentation and sobbing.
“No, no, my children, rejoice with us. One must not outlive his purpose. There is a time for discipleship, there is a time for kingship, there is a time for moving on, a time for preparation for the final journey. Man in his arrogance forgets the seasons that belong to him. Give us your blessings.” The citizens wept. Samva, the noble Brahmin who had spoken when Uncle Dhritarashtra bid farewell to the people, was charged with the task of answering. He stood upon the special high platform.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 94
