II
14.
As Arjuna and Krishna made their way
back to Indraprastha, they saw Maya,
the asura whom Arjuna had spared,
waiting to speak to them. “Sir, I owe you
my life—I wish to do something for you
out of friendship. I am a great artist;
what shall I make for you? Name it—anything.”
Arjuna demurred, “Make something for Krishna.”
Krishna knew Maya. He was the architect
of the marvelous threefold city in the sky,
the Tripura, once destroyed by Shiva.
What Krishna asked for now would play a part
in shaping the direction of events
he was on earth to foster—great events
designed to realize the gods’ intentions.
“Maya, your genius is well known to me.
Here is how you can repay Arjuna—
build a great hall for Yudhishthira
in Indraprastha, an assembly hall
more beautiful than any ever seen
here on earth, one like your great Tripura.
It should be the visible embodiment
of cosmic harmony, divine proportion.
Let it be the envy of the world.”
Soon afterward, dark Krishna took his leave
to return to Dvaraka, where he was needed.
To the Pandavas, the separation
was always sad, as though the life-giving sun
were hidden for a time behind the clouds.
How to convey, when one has only words,
the transcendental beauty of the building?
Decades afterward, old men would tell
how seeing the great hall at Indraprastha
had changed them, changed the meaning of the word
“beautiful.” So, ever afterward,
when something was described with admiration,
they would say, “You don’t know what beauty is
unless you saw the hall at Indraprastha.”
No expense was spared, nothing wasted.
Maya took his time imagining
every aspect of the inspired work,
choosing the location and materials,
calculating sight lines and symmetries.
He envisioned with consummate artistry
the intricate design of every surface:
how to place each precious stone where sunlight,
piercing through graceful stone tracery,
would best reveal its inner properties;
where to position pools, so as to double
the beauty of what was reflected in them.
For some weeks, he was absent on a journey
to Lake Bindu, where he had secreted
a cache of jewels—jewels he now intended
for his masterpiece. He brought back, too,
a heavy club, embellished with golden eyes,
which he gave to Bhima. And for Arjuna
he brought the marvelous conch Devadatta.
It took more than a year to build the hall.
Maya and the colleagues he had brought
worked secretly behind tall woven fences.
On an auspicious day named by Dhaumya,
the new hall was complete, screens swept aside,
and there it stood, in all its magnificence.
The hall had many rooms of different sizes,
for differing purposes, and in between
were corridors and courtyards meant to trick
and captivate the eye in equal measure—
marble that looked like water, artful stairs,
ponds so clear and still they seemed like stone,
painted roses asking to be picked,
jeweled flowers among real lotuses.
In this way, the inspired architect
invited visitors to be alert,
to reflect on the nature of illusion.
Yudhishthira was delighted and amazed
by Maya’s work. At once, he set in train
a festival, to inaugurate the hall.
For a week, every kind of entertainer
performed for the pleasure of the citizens.
People of every social rank converged
on Indraprastha, many from far off,
to see the wonderful assembly hall.
All were seized with envy or admiration
according to their diverse temperaments.
One autumn day, there was a visitor:
the seer Narada, holy troublemaker,
had come again to see the Pandavas.
With perfect courtesy, Yudhishthira
welcomed the exalted wanderer
and sat beside him, listening patiently
to his lengthy strictures on good governance.
For many hours, and in exhaustive detail,
the seer interrogated the Dharma King
on whether at all times, and in all respects,
he was ruling as a ruler should.
At last, Yudhishthira managed to turn
Narada’s attention to other matters.
“Sir, you travel throughout the three worlds.
Have you ever seen an assembly hall
as beautiful as mine?” Narada answered,
“Never, in all my extensive journeys
in the world of men, have I seen a hall
to rival yours in beauty and opulence—
though in the worlds of gods . . .” And he proceeded
to describe the halls of Indra, Yama, Varuna,
and the hall of Brahma—self-sustaining,
self-illuminated, completely perfect.
“Tell us more about your epic journeys
in the heavenly realms,” said the Pandavas,
hoping he would have news of their father.
But though Narada spoke of Indra’s palace
where Harishchandra, a great king of the past,
dwelled perpetually, the name of Pandu
was never mentioned.
“Muni, how can it be,”
said Yudhishthira, “that Harishchandra
is Indra’s guest in the kingdom of the gods,
while our father, no less a pure kshatriya,
who never lied, or acted selfishly,
languishes with Yama, god of death?”
“Ah,” said Narada, “you see, Harishchandra
never rested until he was king of kings,
subduing every other and, finally,
performing the Rajasuya ritual,
the imperial consecration sacrifice,
dispensing vast riches in gifts to brahmins.
Pandu died before he could do the same—
and, then, consider the manner of his death.
His fate now depends on you, his heir.
In fact, I met him in the halls of Death
not long since, and he made clear to me
his ardent wish that, with the help of Krishna
and your strong brothers, you should subjugate
every other kingdom of Bharatavarsha
and perform the Rajasuya sacrifice.
Through you, he can fulfill his destiny
as a kshatriya. And only then,
escaping the dark maze of the underworld,
can he enter Indra’s realm of light.”
After Narada had taken his leave,
the king sighed heavily, weighed down by doubt.
He wanted to perform the Rajasuya
but how, he wondered, could it be achieved?
The undertaking was an enormous one.
True, the territory he ruled over
already embraced many other kingdoms.
But to perform the imperial consecration
he must be sovereign of the farthest reaches
of the land. He must be emperor.
He thought of his father, Pandu, languishing
in Yama’s realm, and longed to release him.
He was wary of being led astray
by impulse. But the faces of his brothers
were alight with pleasure and excitement
at the prospect Narada held out—
the chance of challenge, glory, victory!
He listened to the views of his councillors,
and wise Vyasa. They all approved the plan.
Then he thought of Krishna—what would he advise?
He would consult the prince of Dvaraka
before deciding what was for the best.
Krishna arrived, as he usually did
when his cousins needed him. He listened
quietly to Yudhishthira’s concerns.
“My brothers, friends, all my best advisers
tell me I should perform the Rajasuya,
but I’m still hesitant; I doubt my motives—
and theirs. Why would I make this bold attempt?
To release my father? To give Arjuna
and Bhima a chance to fully test themselves
in the clash of battle? Or would it be
just for the sake of personal ambition?
Krishna, you are my wisest counsellor;
your view will be untainted by self-interest.
Help me to clear my mind of turbulence
so I can act.”
Krishna embraced his cousin.
“Yudhishthira, to become supreme sovereign
of Bharatavarsha is the highest calling
for any kshatriya. One who attempts it
must have powerful allies to depend on,
and must have many qualities of heart
and mind, as well as military strength.
You have those qualities and, like your brothers,
I would be overjoyed to see you, one day,
undertake the Rajasuya rite.
“But there are obstacles. Another king
aspires to be the universal sovereign.
He is my old enemy, Jarasandha
of Magadha. He will never bow to you—
he’s proud, he is ambitious; above all,
he knows I am your friend. Furthermore
he has many mighty allies. While he lives
your path to the imperial throne is blocked.
“He has conquered strong and prosperous kingdoms
and captured many royal warriors.
My informants tell me he has imprisoned
eighty-six kshatriya princes in his dungeons.
When he has one hundred, he intends
to bring them out, bind them and slaughter them
offering them as sacrifice to Shiva.
If you free them, you will have their loyalty.
But to do that, you must kill Jarasandha,
otherwise, he will mobilize his allies,
including Duryodhana, to attack you.
Without him, they won’t dare, however bitter
their hatred for the Pandavas.”
Yudhishthira
was still enmeshed in doubt. But Arjuna cried,
“We are kshatriyas! It is our dharma
to win glory on the field of battle,
and it is equally kshatriya dharma
to offer our protection to the oppressed.
I have the peerless bow Gandiva, the quivers
that never empty, the wind-swift chariot.
And right is on our side—surely Shiva
does not sanction human sacrifice.
Besides, in Krishna’s view, Yudhishthira
should perform the Rajasuya. I propose
that we set out for Magadha at once!”
Then Bhima said, “The three of us should go—
Arjuna, whose skill is without equal,
Krishna, whose judgment is that of God himself,
and I, whose strength is second to no man’s.”
“Ah!” cried Yudhishthira, “you two are my eyes
and Krishna my mind—what if I should lose you?”
“Yudhishthira,” said Krishna with a smile,
“time flows on, day by day, and waits for no one.
We do not know when we will meet our death.
To hesitate, to turn away from dharma,
never prolongs life. But it costs a man
his honor—and that loss is worse than death.
Do not divide your mind against itself
through doubt and paralyzing cogitation.
The great man acts, as time demands of him.”
It was agreed that Bhima, Arjuna
and Krishna would go at once to Magadha
and challenge Jarasandha to single combat.
“The man is full of pride in his own strength,”
said Krishna, “so he will choose to pit himself
against Bhima—who is easily his match.”
However, Krishna knew how difficult
it would be to kill him. Jarasandha
had been born in two halves, from two mothers.
The female demon Jara had made him whole,
hence his name, and Shiva had blessed him,
given him superhuman strength, and foretold
that he would only die when an opponent
tore him apart again.
The Pandavas
and Krishna traveled light, disguised as brahmins,
and arrived at Jarasandha’s city.
It was large and beautifully laid out
with wide streets, lovely parks and watercourses.
All around it stretched lush pastureland
well stocked with plump and healthy herds of cattle.
They made their way into the king’s palace,
entering unannounced, by a back-door route
for, in view of their murderous intentions,
it would not be right to receive the welcome
due to brahmins. Then they sought an audience
with Jarasandha. The king was astonished
when he realized who these “brahmins” were.
“Understand,” said Krishna, “we are here
to rescue all those blameless kshatriyas
whom you have wickedly incarcerated
in your dungeons. Either you let them go
or we will force you.”
“What are you thinking of,”
said Jarasandha, “talking such brainless nonsense?
I have never offended you. I have done
nothing wrong—those kings I have imprisoned
were all captured fairly by me, in battle.
Therefore, their lives are now at my disposal.
That is kshatriya dharma—how could I now
quietly let them go when I have vowed
to sacrifice them, in honor of the god?”
“Your view of kshatriya dharma is perverted,”
replied Krishna. “How can you propose
to slaughter brave men as though they were beasts?
It is obscene. We therefore challenge you.
Which of us three do you choose to fight?
Which of us will send you to Yama’s realm?”
“Deluded Yadava!” growled Jarasandha.
“I’ll take on Bhima—let him fight with me.”
Then each warrior put on his battle garments
and, shouting insults, the two massive men
set to, seizing each other with bare hands.
Sweat poured off them as they roared and grunted,
each pounding the other with rock-like fists.
Their cries struck dread into all who heard them.
They grappled, clutched, pulled out each other’s hair,
strangled, twisted, kicked. But they were matched
exactly, so the fight went on for day
after day, night after night, until
on the fourteenth day, Jarasandha
was exhausted. The chivalrous way forward
would have been to allow him time to rest
and then resume the fight. But Krishna said
meaningfully to Bhima, “Son of the Wind,
a tired opponent should not be attacked
or he may even die.” Bhima resolved
to muster every effort there and then
to finish Jarasandha. He grabbed his ankles
and whirled him in the air a hundred times.
Then he placed the helpless king across his knee
and broke him in two. Jarasandha was dead.
His son succeeded him, and pledged loyalty
to King Yudhishthira. The royal captives
were released from their prison underground;
all swore allegiance to the Dharma King.
Krishna commandeered the dead king’s chariot
fast as the wind, drawn by celestial horses—
the very one in which Indra and Vishnu
had once slaughtered ninety-nine danavas.
It shone with dazzling gold, and upon it
was mounted a tall flagpole. With a thought,
Krishna summoned Garuda, terrifying
celestial eagle, scourge of snakes, to be
the living banner for his chariot.
Henceforth, hearing the bird’s unearthly cries,
Krishna’s enemies would be struck witless,
the blood freezing instantly in their veins.
With Jarasandha dead, Yudhishthira
had to secure tribute and allegiance
from the remaining kings of Bharatavarsha.
Then he could perform the Rajasuya,
becoming emperor, the lord of lords,
freeing his father from the realm of Death.