“O King Yudhishthira, O Hero of the Kuru throne! May you live a hundred autumns, may your seed never die out. May want never come to you or to your Vamsha of meritorious deed, that line having Kuru, Bharata, and Shantanu of great intelligence.” Having delivered the conventional beginning, Samva raised one hand to his eyes and swept back his tears. “O Monarch, you were justly given the name of Dharmaraj. We have relied on you as trustfully as your own children and you have looked after us as our own father. All kings perform sacrifices as Dharma decrees, but your sacrifices, King Yudhishthira, were not the same as those of others. They brought not only rain and crops; they counteracted sin. In eighteen days, eighteen full akshauhinis of armed warriors were thrown upon each other. Prince Arjuna had the choice of an extra akshauhini so sorely needed, or Lord Krishna as his charioteer. After the dice game…” The murmur was hardly audible. The dice game was never mentioned in our presence, but this was not as other days. In the hour’s deep emotion, pretence had no footing. The Brahmin went on. “You could, King Yudhishthira, by force of arms have kept your kingdom, but Dharma was observed to the last day of your years of exile. O Monarch, you paid a debt incurred to Prince Shakuni, son of Subala, no other king would have paid.” Convention forbade contemptuous epithets, but in his voice was a sickle-headed arrow edge. “That is something we can tell our sons about. Your spirit remains with us. Wherever tales of righteousness are told, your deeds will blaze forth. The voice that speaks through me today predicts that the spirit of Lord Krishna and of the Pandavas will perfume Mother Earth forever, though you may remove your weight from Her. Our human hearts may grieve, but for such as the Pandavas there is no death.” And then he spread balm upon Eldest’s deepest wound. “There was no sin in the war. The battle too was Dharma, born of the hour’s deep adversity, by a destiny so inescapable that the only sin would have been to hold it back. Human effort is of no avail when a yuga struggles to be born. Take with you the gratitude of the children of this yuga and leave with us the blessings of the great and noble Dharmaraj.” Samva bowed in repect. Eldest and Draupadi raised their joined hands and then an ocean of sound rolled over us.
OM Shanti!
Peaceful what is done and undone.
Peaceful to us be the signs of the future.
Peaceful to us be what is and what will be.
May all to us be gracious.
Gracious be Mitra, gracious Varuna.
Gracious be Vivaswant and Death.
Gracious the calamities of earth and atmosphere,
Gracious the wandering planets.
Gracious to us be the trembling Earth
when struck by the fiery meteor.
Gracious be the cows yielding red milk.
Gracious be the Earth receding.
The chants poured peace on the memory of Dwaraka. There would be other Dwarakas. The earth required them. The Rishis had foreseen all this when the hymns burst from their lips. So be it. So be it. As we retired walking backwards into the inner chambers, the salutations and the last verses came up to us.
Peace be to earth and to the airy spaces!
Peace be to heaven, peace to the waters!
Peace to plants and peace to trees!
May all the gods grant me peace!
By this invocation of peace may peace be diffused!
By this invocation of peace may peace bring peace!
With this peace the dreadful I now appease,
With this peace the cruel I now appease,
With this peace all evil I now appease,
So that peace may prevail, happiness prevail!
May everything for us be peaceful!
Peace also to me.
We could hear the chants long after we had gone inside. There was one to Pushan asking him to smooth our path and light the way. The crowd did not disperse. They were still there when the sun retired.
More than half the people had remained until next morning and went with us to worship Lord Surya on the Saraswati. When we came back to the palace, they still followed us. They could not stop us but they could not bear to let us go.
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Island-born Greatfather himself conducted the minor rites of departure. The fires which we worshipped daily were taken from our palaces excepting my own, which Parikshita would continue to worship. I carried some of it to the river in an earthen stove cradled in a wooden holder and threw it in. It bobbed a little, and was then carried swiftly downstream.
Back at the palace I changed my clothes, exchanging the fine silken Angavastra, which Subhadra claimed, for deerskins which she helped me tie around my waist. I knew that in the other palaces the women were wailing in their heartbreak but Subhadra remained indrawn and dry-eyed, though there was a tremor in her fingers. When they had finished with my clothes, they caressed my face and traced my features. Finally she took off my armlets and ear jewellery. These would go to Parikshita. Before we left our chamber we joined our hands in salutation to each other. One last look into each other’s eyes. It would come with me to the end. Meanwhile someone stood at the door with flowers and paddy for me to worship the palace in which we had lived together.
As the sun, the eye of the whole world, is not touched
By external blemishes seen by the eye,
So the One, the Atman within all beings, is not touched
By the sufferings of the world.
He remains apart.
I strewed the rice grains and vermillion on the steps and around the front of the door. I marked the pillars and the walls with auspicious signs. As I made a full prostration to the threshold, there was a burst of grief and choking sobs. I got up and saw that it was Uttaraa. She still looked like my dance pupil in Virata’s palace. I held her in my arms and stroked her hair.
“You must be brave or Brihannalla cannot be,” I said, using my name of Virata days. “For Parikshita’s sake…” Indeed the servants who had contained their wails until now could not hold back any longer. Uttaraa now stood with her head on Subhadra’s shoulder, and Parikshita, weeping, stood before them. I swung Parikshita up and said, “Give me a warrior’s smile. You are our king.”
“I know. The king must stay behind,” he said and tried to smile through his tears, while pinching his cheek to keep up his courage.
Now we did pradakshina to the whole house, keeping it to our right and scattering grains around it as we moved. We next went to Eldest’s palace where we joined his household. They too circled the mansion. Bheema was already there and as we started around the outer courtyard Nakula came, followed by his queen and household, and then Sahadeva, followed by a little black and white dog.
It was time to move towards the gates. With every step more people joined us. When we reached the city gates decorated with auspicious leaves, Eldest turned to me.
“Will you leave Gandiva here?”
“No, Eldest, I will take Gandiva with me. Gandiva is a sacred weapon.” Eldest paused, and then turned away, allowing Bheema to fall in behind him. Nothing could have said more clearly than his acquiescence that he had abdicated. I walked behind Bheema. We all fell into line with Draupadi coming last, save for the little dog. When we left after the dice game it had been thus though there had been no dog. It was a different sort of grief the crowds around us expressed today. There was no indignation in it, only loss and supplication. The men and women knelt as we passed, crying, “We are bereft.”—“Do not leave us.”—“Today we are orphaned.” Other faces looked on mutely with indrawn gazes, or with eyes that shone with pride. Some tried to smile at us with trembling lips. Flowers were strewn before us. None of us looked back. It is not good to do so once you have performed the rites. I kept my eyes on Bheema’s back. He still had the lion’s walk. His muscles moved like waves. So much life was in him still. His was no little fire to be easily quenched. It would take the highest mountain. I hoped his strength would not make him outlive us all. He was not made to be alone. I caught my thoughts. On such a pilgrimage, you must leave any preference behind
or it will trip you at every turn. Surrender, surrender, surrender. Death is an astra which can give no hurt or harm. If you surrender.
It was dusk when we reached the denser parts of the forest. Eldest allowed the crowd to say the evening prayers with us, and then he turned to the throng and addressed them: “I am no longer King. I have no power to command. But this is my last request to you. Go to your homes and children. Some journeys must be made alone. It is so for all of us. Now your duty is serenity and happiness. Be happy. Be serene. We are all in the hands of the Divine.”
People began to leave, casting glances over their shoulders. When the sounds of shuffling feet and the murmurs of the crowd finally died away we heard the crickets, and after that, the cries of nightjars.
As I lay down on my bed of leaves a sense of profound loneliness engulfed me. It was accompanied by a chilling understanding of our present situation. Inside our palace those small, strong hands that had held the reins would be soothing Uttaraa and Parikshita. The shadow of her shape began to fade.
I slept and dreamt of Subhadra. We were walking on the Raivatika hill, looking down at Dwaraka where a thousand little lamps were strung from the trees. It was the night of the festival and we were looking for Krishna. We wanted him to join us in a pot of wine but Daruka brought us his message: Wine was forbidden. All the wine shops had been closed under penalty of death. Then all at once from a high rock we were looking down upon a massacre. Satyaki was thrusting his left palm at Kritavarman. All around, the Vrishnis and the Bhojas sprang up throwing wine pots at each other. Swords were drawn. Mouths opened grotesquely wide, hurling insults at each other which we could not hear. After a while there was no movement on the beach, only the waves that lapped some of the bodies while scavenger birds already circled and hovered. Krishna was beside us, smiling.
“Do not weep, Arjuna. You do not remember—before we took on bodies we all agreed to this. In the adversity of time, in the Kali Yuga, only heroes take rebirth. Many souls will not come back before the world’s renewal. Do not begrudge this suffering.” I woke up weeping. But even as my tears flowed and the glow of Krishna faded, my grief turned to comfort and to sweetness. I would not mourn for Dwaraka again.
In the morning it was Eldest’s wish we pray for the world we left behind.
May the rains be in time.
May the earth be green with vegetation.
May the Brahmanas be fearless.
May the land be free of pain and grief.
May peace be all and everywhere.
With that we began our journey through the jungle. While it would soon become denser by day, here on the outskirts dappled sunlight still played on our skins. We were to do a pradakshina of our sacred land. On my Ashwamedha campaign, the horse had led me. Now an unknown dog followed at our heels. Only a faithful dog. I wondered why God had sent him.
This time our journey would be a victory march to ourselves. Not even when we were in exile in the forest had our lives been stripped so bare. Then we had stayed in pleasant shelters by the rivers and made friends with the sages and animals. We had hunted and cooked our food. Now we were pilgrims on the move with only one bow, and it stayed on my shoulder. Its work was done. Still I worshipped it with flowers every day, waiting to be told what end to relinquish it for. It held a god and could not be left unprotected when Arjuna was no more.
When we emerged from the forests onto the coast of Kamarupa, we turned a little south towards the land of eternal rain and strange creeping flowers with aerial roots that twined around trees and hung between them closing the way. Bheema had to hack them away with his knife. Here too we were much plagued by leeches, which we had to draw off with poultices of astringent leaves. This sapped our energy and took much time. But time we now had, and to spare. I soon began to feel, and I know the others did, that we might not come out of Kamarupa’s forest with our lives. More than once the dog saved us from serpents with his warning bark and one time, just as a poisonous snake was about to strike at Draupadi, the dog leapt and caught it by its neck and shook it till it died. Who was this creature who followed so faithfully? I looked into his eyes. They were pools of love and trust. We called him Dharma.
Draupadi fell ill and we stopped for two days, then resumed our journey with Bheema carrying her. Then Bheema came down with a fever. It was clear that if we did not reach the sea soon we would leave our bodies before the sacred Pradakshina was completed, before we ever reached the mountains. So as soon as they could walk we turned south again into Angadesh, the kingdom Duryodhana had given Karna.
One day a woodsman walked our way. Nobody saw him except myself. But Dharma barked at him, so I knew he really stood there, waving his axe.
“Call your dog off, Arjuna,” he said to me with great authority. For a moment I wondered how he knew us. We were filthy and emaciated beyond all recognition. Our feet were hardened and cracked, and our hands stained and callused from digging roots. My hand dipped to my quiver but I stayed it with my thought: ‘This is not what we have set out for.’ He was no mortal man. He must be Yama without his noose or buffalo. The Lord of Time can come in any guise. Dogs know of his approach. Dharma began to whimper. I stroked his head and though my heart was pounding, I was ready. I jumped up and stood with bowed head and joined palms and said to him quietly: “Lord of Time, I bid you welcome, but spare this creature who will guard the others until you come for them.”
“Arjuna, you do not recognize me.”
“Yes, my Lord,” I said, respectfully raising joined palms to him. “You are the Lord of Time, and I am ready.”
The woodcutter laughed. “What would I do with you, Arjuna?” He laughed some more and with each burst of silent laughter his skin glowed brighter until it shone like copper. Before me stood the Brahmin who had asked Krishna and me for food in the forest of Khandava. I took a step back and then bowed again.
“Yes, Arjuna, I want your life.” Would he ignite the forest and would we go by fire like my mother and my aunt and uncle had? I waited. Lord Agni is a very great god and I was honoured that he had come for me, but I longed for Krishna to be with me as when we met him in the Khandava.
“Remove your life!” said Lord Agni. I looked at my four brothers sitting in a circle. Draupadi slept. Must I go without a word? So be it. One does not bargain with the gods. I set my mind to yoga.
“Open your eyes, Arjuna. There is something of greater value than your skin and bones.” I saw now not the Brahmin but Agni, the deity of the seven flames, a single column with horns of fire shooting upwards. “You have no need of Gandiva, the scorcher of foes, any longer. That weapon has done Krishna’s work. Now it must return to Lord Varuna of the waters.”
I inclined my body from the waist but my heart shrank. The only thing that remained of my life with Krishna was Gandiva. Once again, I saw Uttarakumara bringing our hidden weapons down from the Sami tree. The sight of Gandiva had made him tremble. I could hear myself saying to him, ‘This is Gandiva, Arjuna’s weapon, Indra’s bow for five thousand years, then Varuna’s.’ I threw myself down in full prostration. With Krishna I had travelled the high regions and seen the snakes dancing over the waters. That was what Gandiva was made of. All the meaning of my life lay between Gandiva’s horns. Gandiva was Reality and Truth, the upholder of Dharma, and what I had been brought to life for. I saw that somewhere I had been waiting for a day on this pilgrimage when Gandiva would come to life once more as when I plucked it from the Sami tree. Agni’s face shone out at me from underneath branches of flame. He said, “Make room, Arjuna. Make space, burn Dharma up inside you, then go to the eastern sea and return Gandiva to Lord Varuna. When the time comes, when there is need, Gandiva will come into your hands again but in some other form. Gandiva is but an energy from heaven and shapes itself to the hour’s need.”
I could feel my heart pounding against the earth. I got onto my knees. Any resistance would burn me to a cinder, and my brothers too. I would do what must be done. The Brahmin’s face looked out at me o
nce more. The seven flames began to swallow up his features and then took in his neck and shoulders. The great column of fire hovered for a moment before shooting up into the sky. Hands folded I sat back on my heels to watch it. Beside me Dharma too sat head cocked to the side, gazing at the fiery trail.
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We walked through Angadesha, and came upon a tributary of the Ganga and followed it to where it emptied itself into the sea. This was a most auspicious site due east of Magadha, that other landmark for Bheema and myself, where we had gone with Krishna to kill Jarasandha in what now seemed another life. We offered water oblations for our brother Karna and our mother. Then each of us made offerings for all those dear to him, and who were with him on the other shore. These rites would make us feel lighter and prepare us better for the strenuous journey that lay ahead of us.
We made garlands from the creeper flowers that grow on trees with their roots in air, and threw them upon the water as we chantd the names of Krishna, Abhimanyu, Mother Kunti, Satyaki, Karna, Uttarakumara, Dronacharya, Greatfather Bheeshma, and others who had left us. The wind and waves scattered the flowers across the surface of the water. Our eyes followed them to the east, down to the sea.
Mother Ganga gushes down from the abode of snow, but by the time she reaches Angadesha, she is tame and friendly, flowing leisurely to the home of Lord Varuna. Though I was eager now to get it done with—never having been one for long farewells—I could not trust the river to carry Gandiva out for me. Beside, Lord Agni had said, “the sea”.
The plains were dry and though we had disliked the leeches and the constant dripping of water from the trees in Kamarupa, we now had to take refuge under the round-leaved peepal trees before midday. The sky which we had hardly glimpsed from one day to the next in the jungle was now cloudless and intensely blue, as though it looked down on the sea already.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 95
