11.
By the time Duryodhana and Karna
arrived back in Hastinapura, the news
had flown before them, as great news often does,
mysteriously, as if borne on the wind.
Vidura, filled with joy, informed the king.
At first, Dhritarashtra misunderstood,
and thought it was his son, Duryodhana,
who had triumphed at the svayamvara.
Put right by his brother, the king exclaimed,
“This is a great day—my beloved nephews
alive and well! And beautiful Draupadi
the bride of all five! What great happiness!
What a triumph for the Bharatas!
Drupada will be a splendid ally.”
“May you hold this view for a hundred years!”
said Vidura; and he went to his own house.
Duryodhana harangued his smiling father.
“How can you talk like that to Vidura?
This disaster could eliminate us
yet you unctuously praise our enemies!
Somehow, they managed to escape the fire;
the consequence—we’re objects of suspicion
having reaped no benefit. My cousins
will never be content to cool their heels
at Kampilya. They must want to see
Yudhishthira enthroned in Hastinapura.
“My son,” said the king, “it seemed diplomatic
to say to Vidura what he wants to hear,
not to show, by a single muscle’s twitch,
my real emotion. Be sure I share your worries.
Now tell me—what do you and Karna think
we should do? What is our best way forward?”
Duryodhana had thought of little else
as he was traveling back from Kampilya.
He had a dozen proposals. “How about
stirring up rivalry between Kunti’s sons
and Madri’s twins? Or, what if we employ
courtesans to seduce them, so Draupadi
gets jealous? Or convince them that our army
is so powerful they wouldn’t stand a chance?
Or we could bribe Drupada with mounds of wealth.
Or, best of all, kill Bhima—set a trap for him.
Without Bhima, they would be half as strong . . .”
To all of this, Karna and Dhritarashtra
listened, unimpressed. “Duryodhana,”
said Karna, “such tricks never would succeed.
The Pandavas would see through all of them.
The best way forward is the most direct.
We should act swiftly, before Drupada
has a chance to marshal his fighting force.
A surprise attack, before Krishna’s army
of Yadavas can reach Kampilya,
will strike a double blow—we will be able
to crush both Pandavas and Panchalas.
We have outstanding warriors in our army;
there’s our own prowess, and that of your brothers.
We’ll win! Let’s defeat them in open battle
and live cleanly, without self-reproach.
That is the honorable way.”
The king
reflected. “Your plan does you credit, Karna,
but to go down that road, Bhishma, Vidura
and the council must support you. I myself
have to remain neutral at this stage.”
In the great council chamber, ministers
and gray-haired elders gathered for the debate.
Some younger men had also recently
joined the council: cronies of Duryodhana,
several of his brothers and loyal Karna.
First, Dhritarashtra asked for Bhishma’s view.
The patriarch rose slowly to his feet.
His tone was equable, but no one doubted
the strength of his opinion. “Dhritarashtra,
you are my much-loved nephew, as was Pandu.
Your sons, and his, have grown up at this court
under my care. I never could support
a war between them. My life is devoted
to the advancement of the Bharatas.
That is why I solemnly say to you
the time has come for justice to be done,
or destiny will turn against this kingdom.”
He turned to Duryodhana, knowing well
how influenced the king was by his son.
“The Pandavas have given no offense;
rather, it is they who have been injured.
Yudhishthira’s the eldest; there’s no question
that he’s the rightful heir. But it is clear
that you and your brothers, Duryodhana,
will never live in peace under his rule.
“What I propose, therefore, is that the kingdom
should be divided equally. Agree,
and the deadly conflict, foretold for this clan
and the entire land of Bharatavarsha,
can be averted. You know, a man dies
not only when the last breath leaves his body
but when his precious honor is corrupted.
The people blamed you for your cousins’ deaths.
You are fortunate—this is a chance
for you to return to the path of dharma
and to redeem yourself in the people’s eyes.
If you respect dharma, if you desire
my blessing, if you want security,
then, O prince, relinquish half the kingdom.”
Drona spoke up, agreeing, and the other
elders were signifying their assent, when—
“No!” cried Karna, leaping to his feet,
“Sir, this plan is a sludgy compromise.
Bhishma speaks the language of morality,
but I suspect mere prudence is behind it,
cowardice, even. It is no solution.
Mine is the path of honor—let us attack!
Let us protect ourselves preemptively.
Let us win glory for the Kauravas!”
The king’s brother, Vidura, stood up.
Dhritarashtra turned his sightless eyes
toward him. Vidura, more than anyone,
was his conscience. “My brother, ignore Karna.
Your nephews are unbeatable in battle.
They have Krishna as their friend and ally
and where Krishna is, there will victory be.
Bhishma and Drona are unmatched in this hall,
or anywhere, for wisdom and experience;
listen to what they say. Right’s on their side.
So are your interests. Did I not tell you,
long ago, that this noble lineage
would come to grief because of Duryodhana?
If you listened to the people, you would know
how low you stand in popular esteem,
how they suspect you of complicity
in the tragic blaze at Varanavata.”
Dhritarashtra’s spirits plummeted;
he feared the people. He made up his mind.
“I have decided. Yudhishthira should have
half the kingdom. That is the fair solution,
as Bhishma and the elders have proposed.”
He asked Vidura to travel to Kampilya,
taking lavish gifts. He was to urge
his nephews to return to Hastinapura
as soon as possible, bringing Draupadi.
At Kampilya, Vidura was received
with honor and affection. Without him,
the Pandavas would certainly have died.
Courteously, he conveyed Dhritarashtra’s
greetings, and his warm congratulations.
Krishna smiled. The brothers waited warily
for what their uncle Vidura would say.
“The king has asked me to impart his wish
that you should come home to Hastinapura
with your bride. The people long to see you—
as does he. He says he cannot be happy
without embracing his beloved nephews.”
Yudhishthira was caught in painful doubt.
How could he trust the king, and Duryodhana?
On the other hand, to spurn the wishes
of his uncle, to show such disrespect,
was not in his nature. “Sir,” he said,
turning to his royal father-in-law,
“What is your view? I shall do what you advise.”
Drupada hesitated. Courtesy
forbade him to suggest that his guests depart.
“I think you should go to Hastinapura,”
Krishna said, his eye upon the future,
“and I will go too, to ensure your safety.”
Kunti was worried, but Vidura assured her
Dhritarashtra, at least, had learned his lesson.
He would never dare to touch the Pandavas
knowing how the people felt about them—
and about him.
So the entourage set out,
accompanied by a large, well-armed escort,
for Hastinapura, City of the Elephant.
Never, in its very long history,
had the city seen such celebrations.
On the day the brothers were expected,
every gate and arch was garlanded,
every window hung with colored flags,
streets were swept, washed, strewn with lotus petals,
the scent of incense wafted everywhere.
Since dawn, people had milled about the streets,
and many had walked out of the city gate,
laden with flowers, to meet the homecomers.
And when, at last, they spotted the procession,
the princes on horseback, the royal palanquin
carrying the women, fervent cheers,
braying trumpets, drumrolls, booming conches,
shook the very stones, and made white flocks
of doves rise up, clattering into air
as if they too could not contain their joy.
Like a long wave breaking on the shore,
there was a collective sigh of pleasure
when Draupadi stepped from her palanquin.
How beautiful she was, how suitable
as their princes’ bride. And how wonderful
would be their future children.
Dhritarashtra
was waiting on the palace steps to welcome
his nephews and their bride.
After some days,
the king summoned them to his apartments
and made a grave pronouncement. “My dear nephews,
the prosperity of our noble kingdom
owes a great deal to your father, Pandu,
and to you, of course. Yet, to my sorrow,
you and Duryodhana are constantly
in conflict with each other. I have decided
to put an end to all this disagreement—
the kingdom will be split in half exactly.
You, Yudhishthira, will become king
of one half, and rule from Khandavaprastha.
I myself will continue to rule from here
until such time as Duryodhana
takes on the burden of the monarchy.
This should delight you all—Yudhishthira
will be a king at once, as he deserves.”
There was silence. Everybody knew
about the Khandava tract. A barren region,
it was a wilderness of arid scrub
and dense forest, inhospitable country
very different from the delightful plain
whose fertile fields nourished Hastinapura.
Although Yudhishthira could clearly see
that he was being banished, he accepted
Dhritarashtra’s plan with dignity.
Duryodhana would never be reconciled
to what he saw as cowardly concession
to the Pandavas. Both he and Karna
bitterly regretted they had been stopped
from riding against Kampilya with their troops.
Bhima, too, would have relished battle.
But he deferred to Yudhishthira
as the eldest. And, now, as his king.
Yudhishthira himself had thought carefully.
There was no future for the Pandavas
at Hastinapura; that he understood.
A life of indolence at Kampilya
was no existence for a kshatriya.
As for the other option—all-out war
against the Kauravas—Yudhishthira
had always treated his uncle with respect,
like a father; he saw that as his duty.
And, unlike most young warriors of his rank,
Yudhishthira had never yearned for battle
for its own sake. Though he was not afraid
to fight, if fighting was the only way,
he did not crave the feverish rush of combat.
In fact, bloodshed made him sorrowful.
So, heartened by knowing that his dark cousin
Krishna would go with them, Yudhishthira
prepared himself for taking on the challenge
of his new kingdom in the wilderness.
Vyasa traveled with them, and performed
the rituals to consecrate the ground.
In time, in that place of devastation,
a large and splendid city rose. They named it
Indraprastha. First, robust, high walls
were built, surrounded by a sparkling moat.
The city gates, deterring all intruders,
were massive, shaped like soaring eagles’ wings,
and flanked by sturdy towers, well stocked with weapons.
Inside Indraprastha, streets and avenues
were spaciously laid out, all lined with buildings
of different kinds, that shone white in the sun,
like mountain peaks. The palace of the king
was beautiful beyond compare, and furnished
with every luxury.
Around the city
were tranquil parks and gardens, planned and planted
with arbors, cooling fountains, lily ponds
and many kinds of tree and flowering shrub—
kadamba, jasmine, mango and rose apple
and others too numerous to name—so all
who strolled there could enjoy bright, scented flowers
and luscious fruit at all times of the year.
Peacocks picked their way beneath the trees
which were a haven for melodious birds.
The city prospered. Drawn by reports of it,
and by their loyalty to Yudhishthira,
people came from all over the kingdom
to live there, bringing with them their hard work
and talents—worthy merchants, shopkeepers,
brahmins, accomplished craftsmen of every kind.
Because Yudhishthira was just and honest
and was concerned with the welfare of his people,
the population lived by his example.
Once he saw Indraprastha flourishing,
Krishna, having other obligations,
departed, to return to Dvaraka,
his city by the sea. The Pandavas
consented, but were sorry to see him go.
Krishna was their mainstay and their guide.
A visitor arrived at Indraprastha.
It was Narada, great and subtle seer,
traveler in the worlds of gods and men.
A holy busybody, he enjoyed
stirring the stockpot of the status quo,
creating complications, making trouble
challenging what people took for granted,
but in the interests of what was best.
He was an ally of Narayana,
expert in human nature. And in fact
Krishna had asked him to visit Indraprastha.
Yudhishthira bent to wash his holy feet
and made him sit down in a place of honor.
Then the brothers sat around him, listening
to stories of his endless wanderings.
They talked of this and that, then Draupadi
was brought before him to receive his blessing.
After she left, Narada looked troubled.
“Your queen is so lovely, she reminds me
of the tale of Sunda and Upasunda.”
“Who are they?” asked Bhima. “Not are—were.
They’re dead,” said Narada. The Pandavas
urged the seer to tell them the whole story.
“SUNDA AND UPASUNDA were celestial asuras. They were brothers, and completely devoted to one another, sharing everything they possessed.
They decided that they would conquer the universe and, to this end, they embarked on a life of extreme austerities. They ate and drank nothing, living on air. Dressed in bark, covered with filth, they stood with their arms raised, balancing on their toes, not blinking. Their discipline was so extraordinary that the gods became afraid, and tried to distract them with various temptations. But without success.
Such was their extreme asceticism that the brothers were granted a boon by Lord Brahma. They would become adept at magic, powerful in weapons and able to change their form at will. They asked him, in addition, that they should become immortal. He refused, but granted them this: that they could be killed by no one, and nothing, except each other.
Sunda and Upasunda then went on the rampage. Ruthless, and lacking all respect, they slaughtered all who crossed their path—kings, brahmins, snakes, barbarians and even celestial beings. The gods ran to Brahma, begging him to save them.
Brahma summoned Vishvakarman, the divine craftsman, and asked him to make a woman of unsurpassed beauty. Vishvakarman assembled all the world’s most beautiful materials, and created a woman so lovely that even the gods caught their breath in wonder. Her name was Tilottama and Brahma instructed her to go to where the brothers were, and seduce them.
Having conquered the earth, the brothers had settled in Kurukshetra, living a life of utter depravity and self-indulgence. Bleary with drink, when they set eyes on Tilottama, provocatively dressed in a single red garment, each of them claimed her as his alone—even though they had always shared everything. They set about fighting each other with vicious clubs and, before long—both lay dead.”
There was a shocked silence. Narada
allowed his cautionary tale to sink in.
For the Pandavas, brotherhood was sacred,
and had been so from their earliest childhood
in the forest. Though different characters,
Kunti had taught them never to allow
anything to sow dissent between them.
But one wife between five strong young men!
One wife, whose beauty and intelligence
they all adored! It was a real test.
Maybe there were times when the strong ties
between the brothers stretched a little thin?
“Think,” said Narada, “how Duryodhana
would exult if the five of you fell out.
You would be doing him the greatest favor—
not that I’m suggesting my sad story
could apply to you in any way.
Nevertheless, you should guard yourselves.”
Chastened, the Pandavas made a covenant:
if any of them should, by accident,
observe one of the others as he lay
with Draupadi, then the offending brother
would serve time as a celibate, in exile.
In their splendid city, the Pandavas
were as happy with their noble wife
as was she, with her heroic husbands.
Then, one morning, Arjuna heard shouts.
An old brahmin was pacing up and down
in fury. “What’s the world coming to
when peaceful men can have their cattle taken
and royalty does nothing to put it right,
but lies around, dreaming in indolence!
Why is no one chasing the wicked thieves?
Isn’t that your job?” and the old man
began to hobble away in disgust.
Arjuna ran after him, “Just wait
until I fetch my bow.” He knew his weapons
were in the chamber where Yudhishthira
and Draupadi were spending time together.
But he must help the brahmin; royal dharma
required it. He rushed into the apartment,
grabbed the bow and arrows and rode off
in pursuit of the thieves. He scattered them
with a stream of well-aimed arrows, and returned
the stolen cattle to the grateful brahmin.
Then he presented himself before the king.
“Brother, I shall now go into exile,
in accordance with our covenant.”
Yudhishthira protested—Draupadi
and he had not been offended in the least.
It was no sin for a younger brother
to invade the privacy of the older.
Exile was unnecessary.
But Arjuna
insisted. “Dharma has to be respected;
you yourself have taught me that one should not
try shiftily to dodge round its requirements.
We all agreed on what should happen now.
I shall embrace exile for a time.”