III
19.
That first evening, they halted at the Ganga
where they would spend their first homeless night.
They found a majestic banyan tree, its roots
drooping to the ground, and earthed like pillars—
a natural temple where they lay down to sleep.
Waking at sunrise, they were ravenous
but had no food other than leaves and berries.
Yudhishthira was worried. How would he
feed his family, let alone the others?
“My friends,” he said, turning to the brahmins,
“I’m touched by your devotion, I’m most grateful
that you’ve come this far with us from the city,
but you must go back—I can’t provide for you.
There isn’t even a grain of rice to eat
and it will get worse. We shall all starve.”
The wise brahmin Shaunaka spoke to him.
“People like you, those with understanding,
should not collapse under a heavy weight
of sorrow of the mind or of the body,
but should dispel it through acquiring insight.
Desire tends to feed upon itself.”
Yudhishthira said, “I do not desire wealth
out of greed, for the enjoyment of it,
but to enable me to support brahmins
like yourselves. I am a householder,
it is my duty to give sustenance
to those who live on generosity.”
“But make sure,” said Shaunaka, “that duty
is not performed in order to store up
merit for the dutiful. The Vedas teach,
‘Carry out your duty, and renounce it.’”
Other brahmins said, “Yudhishthira,
do you think we are strangers to privation?
We’ve chosen to entwine our lives with yours,
reciting prayers for you, comforting you
with teaching from the scriptures. How we eat
is our responsibility, not yours.”
Yudhishthira was moved, but still he worried
about the welfare of his followers.
Dhaumya spoke, “Lord Surya, the sun god,
is the source of all foods on this earth.
Pray to him—he will help you feed us all.”
Yudhishthira fasted for two days and nights,
never sleeping, mastering his breath,
and, on the third day, walked into the river,
the mighty Ganga, as it was getting light
and raised his face toward the rising sun.
He stood waist deep, with the silky water
flowing all around him.
“O lord Surya
enemy of darkness
origin of all things
you who are the eye of the universe
giver of strength to every living thing
you who are fire
you who are subtle mind
you who are the unlocked door
the comfort of those who thirst for freedom
source of all light
source of all comforting warmth
giver of beauty beyond all imagining
O lord, hear my prayer, enable me
to feed my precious brothers, my wife, my friends
who are suffering in this wilderness
on my account.”
So sang Yudhishthira,
reciting the sun’s hundred and eight names
in the language of the gods.
Self-luminous
Surya, blazing, beautiful, showed himself
in his incarnate form, over the water.
“I shall grant your prayer. I will provide
nourishment for as many as are hungry—
there will be meat, fruits, roots and vegetables
until the last person is satisfied.
For all your twelve years in the wilderness
I will make sure that your needs are met.”
Having spoken, the shining god vanished.
Emerging from the river, Yudhishthira
set himself to cook a meager meal
of all the forest foods that could be found—
insufficient even for a child.
Once cooked, it swelled. He served everyone,
and even Bhima’s monstrous appetite
was satisfied. Finally Draupadi
served Yudhishthira, and then she ate
what remained, which was enough, precisely.
Afterward, they continued on their journey
to their new home in the Kamyaka Forest.
Meanwhile, in Hastinapura, the blind king
was agitated, in a feverish sweat
of fear and guilt. At night he paced his chambers.
If he slept, he dreamed his splendid city
was overrun by angry citizens
baying for his life. He woke, gasping.
He sent for sagacious Vidura, hoping
for words of consolation. But Vidura
offered no comfort. He condemned outright
the dire proceedings in the gaming hall.
“There’s only one way to avoid disaster—
forsake misguided Duryodhana,
restore your nephews to their rightful kingdom,
and banish that troublemaker, Shakuni.”
Dhritarashtra turned cantankerous:
“You always take the side of Pandu’s sons.
But Duryodhana is flesh of my flesh—
how can I abandon my own body
to favor others, even if it’s at fault?
It’s simply impossible. And as for you—
Go and join your precious Pandavas.
The forest is where you properly belong!”
Vidura, glad to leave the gloom and sorrow
of the court, took his chariot and, tracking
the Pandavas by asking strangers, crossing
the Yamuna, and then the Sarasvati,
reached their camp, in the Kamyaka Forest
where many devout hermits had made their home.
On seeing him approach, Yudhishthira
wondered if he was bringing a new challenge,
a bid by Shakuni to win their weapons,
but he was soon reassured. The Pandavas
welcomed their uncle, eager for his news.
He told them how things were at Hastinapura,
and what the king had said.
Vidura passed
delightful days in the pleasant clearing
beside the Sarasvati. But secretly,
his mind often flew to Hastinapura,
to the brother he had loved and served
since they were boys. He knew Dhritarashtra
must be yearning for his company
and he himself longed to give him comfort.
So he was glad when Dhritarashtra’s aide,
Sanjaya, arrived with a message for him:
“The king regrets his words, and is most anxious
for your return. You are his eyes and heart
in a dark world. Without you, he is lost.”
Duryodhana was furious when he saw
his blind father closeted once more
with Vidura—afraid that, yet again,
his father would backtrack and vacillate
out of sentimental love for his nephews,
and out of fear. Although the Pandavas
had accepted banishment with bowed heads,
as long as they still walked the earth somewhere
Duryodhana could have no peace of mind.
“Suppose Vidura should persuade my father
to reinstate them? If I see them return
I shall take poison, hang myself—or something!
I cannot bear to see them prosperous.”
“Of course they won’t come back,” said Shakuni.
“You’re getting agitated for no reason.
They lost the bet—surely you can’t imagine
Yudhishthira reneging on the terms?
Your fears are childishness.” Duhshasana
and Karna took the same view. But the prince
remained despondent. “Listen to me,” said Karna,
“it seems nothing but action will convince you.
Let us go at once to kill the Pandavas
in the forest, while they are undefended.”
The other three were pleased with this idea.
They armed themselves, and made preparations
to start the journey.
But great-minded Vyasa,
seeing the plotters with his divine eye,
came to Dhritarashtra. “You should know this—
your wicked fool of a son is making plans
to go and kill your nephews in the forest.
There is no way that he can be successful—
he’ll die himself. You must put a stop to it.
Perhaps if he spent time with the Pandavas
without his henchmen, he might grow to love them.
But no—a tiger doesn’t change its stripes.
What do you think of all this, Dhritarashtra?
What do the elders think?”
“I think it’s fate,”
said the unhappy king. “I knew the dice game
was ill-judged—the elders thought the same.
But I love my son—I can’t stand against him,
and I cannot bear to see him suffer.”
“I understand,” said Vyasa. “It is well known
that nothing is more important than one’s son.
You, Pandu, Vidura and all your sons
are dear to me. And yet the Pandavas
touch my heart most, as they are most afflicted.”
Knowing the king’s weakness, how he always
bent before the will of his eldest son,
Vyasa summoned the great sage Maitreya
to speak to Duryodhana and his father.
Maitreya had been to see the Pandavas
and, after greeting him appropriately,
Dhritarashtra asked for news of them.
“This is a bad business, Dhritarashtra,”
said the blunt-speaking sage. “It will not do
that, while you are alive, you let this conflict
be played out between your sons and nephews.
A king is the ultimate authority,
for punishment as well as patronage.
How is it, then, that you allowed your son
to organize that catastrophic dice game?
How could you permit such evil goings-on?”
He turned to sullen-faced Duryodhana.
“Listen, son, I speak for your own good.
Do not offend the blameless Pandavas.
All of them are devoted to the truth,
formidable warriors, every one—
strong as elephants, accomplished fighters.
Think of how Bhima slew Jarasandha
and numerous rakshasas—including one
just recently in the forest, Kirmira.
Think of Arjuna’s unrivaled prowess
as an archer; think of their tie with Krishna.
It is pure foolishness for you to think
that you can crush the Pandavas. That way
lies only ignominy, and your own death.”
While the sage was speaking, Duryodhana
was looking at the ground with a fixed smile,
drawing patterns in the dust, as though
indifferent to what the sage was saying.
With desperate bravado, he slapped his thigh.
Maitreya, enraged, cursed him. “Since you treat me
with such disrespect, that thigh of yours
will be broken, leading to your death,
when Bhima fights you in the greatest war
the earth has ever seen—entirely caused
by your own wickedness.” Duryodhana,
despite his defiant manner, felt his heart
shrivel up in dread. Shaken by hearing
of Kirmira’s killing, he left the room.
“May it not happen!” cried the anguished king.
“Unless your son makes peace, then, without doubt,
my curse will be fulfilled,” said Maitreya.
“I never wanted it to be like this,”
moaned Dhritrashtra, “but who in this world
can pit their will against fate? Kindly tell me
how Bhima killed the rakshasa Kirmira.”
But Maitreya had had enough. “Ask Vidura,
he’ll tell you,” he snapped. And then departed.
Later, Vidura told the king the story
of Bhima’s victory over the ogre
who had been seeking to avenge his kinsmen,
Baka and Hidimba. “Once the forest
was safe, your nephews entered it, and settled.
I myself, when I went to visit them,
saw the loathsome body of Kirmira
sprawled on the path, killed by heroic Bhima.”
Dhritarashtra sighed in misery
to think of Bhima’s preternatural strength.
Krishna visited the exiles’ camp,
bringing with him several powerful allies:
warriors from the kingdoms of Panchala
and Chedi, Bhojas, Vrishnis and Andhakas.
All were filled with rage at what had happened.
Never had the brothers witnessed Krishna
so angry, fire blazing in his black eyes.
“Duryodhana, Shakuni and their cronies
are villains! Here are you and Draupadi
condemned to vegetate, year after year,
in rustic poverty, dull, isolated,
deprived of every comfort you have fought for
and deserve. Be assured—the thirsty earth
will drink their blood! They will not prevail.”
To calm his cousin’s rage, Arjuna said,
“Krishna, your sojourn in this world has been
a chronicle of most amazing feats.”
And, at length, in the presence of everyone
gathered there in the forest encampment,
Arjuna, perfect kshatriya, recited
Krishna’s history since the dawn of time:
his fundamental being as Lord Vishnu,
and all his incarnations up to now,
acting to protect the world from harm.
“We are one being, you and I,” said Krishna.
“Anyone who hates you hates me; your people
are my people too. You are Nara,
I, Narayana, come from another world
for the good of this one. I am you.
You are me, Arjuna. There is no difference.”
The lovely Draupadi addressed Krishna,
tears streaming down like rain onto her breasts.
“Krishna, you are the supreme person,
lord of the world. You know everything that is
and all that is to come. Tell me—how could I,
the most devoted wife, mother, sister,
be dragged from my seclusion by the hair
in front of that assembly, wearing only
one bloodstained garment, and treated like a slave?
The vile Duhshasana insulted me
as no woman should be insulted—still less
one born, as I was, to a royal line.
“Had I no husbands? Even a feeble husband
protects his wife. That is the way of dharma.
And yet the Dharma King and his valiant brothers
sat watching this, motionless and silent
like effigies, while the mother of their sons
was vilely savaged. Even the worthy elders
sat silent, shuffling in their splendid seats.
I despise these men. I have contempt
for skill, heroic strength, for marvelous weapons
that yet allow evil Duryodhana
to live and breathe unpunished, unrepentant.
I won’t forgive it. I was not born for this!
I have no husbands if my humiliation
goes unavenged!”
Krishna said to her,
“Blameless Draupadi, I make this promise:
you will be queen again. And you will witness
the Kaurava wives shrieking with grief to see
their husbands’ corpses sprawled on the battlefield,
cloaked in blood, slain by the Pandavas.
“I wish I had been in that gaming hall!
I never would have held my tongue, as Bhishma
and Drona did, to their eternal shame.
I would have given clear counsel to the king
and, if he persisted, I would have pressed him
to call off the dicing, even to the point
of force if necessary. That dreadful game—
which was no game at all, but perfidy—
brings deferred disaster on the Kauravas,
as well as deprivation upon you.”
Yudhishthira inquired, “How was it, Krishna,
that you were absent from the gambling match?”
“I heard too late about it,” replied Krishna.
“I was caught up in a desperate fight
with Shalva, the demonic king of Saubha.
He’d heard about the death of Shishupala
who was his brother, and was mad with rage.
While I was still with you at Indraprastha,
he struck Dvaraka from his airborne city
which can travel anywhere, and flattened it.
He destroyed dwellings, wrecked verdant parks,
and killed many brave young Vrishni warriors
before he realized I was not at home.
When I got back and saw the devastation
I went in search of him, and found his city
hovering over the ocean. I attacked,
and a bitter fight followed. He mobilized
his powers of illusion to confuse me.
At one point, I saw my beloved father
being flung out of the flying city,
hurtling to earth like a stricken bird,
his arms and legs flailing. I was appalled
until I realized this was wizardry.
“My charioteer, Daruka, though wounded,
urged me on, and I rallied my army,
mounting an assault with renewed resolve.
The short of it is—I defeated Shalva.
I took my shining bow, aimed it upward,
and cut the heads of Shalva’s men clean off.
He pelted me with rocks until I was
submerged under a mountainous pile of stones.
My troops became despondent, but I raised
my thunderbolt and pulverized the rocks.
“Taking my discus, uttering a mantra,
I hurled it at Saubha, cutting it in two,
and the flying city fell to earth. Again
I raised my discus, aiming now at Shalva,
and sliced him through. The demon was no more.
I razed the city. Then I traveled home
and only then did I receive the news
of the dire events at Hastinapura.”
Soon the time came for sad leave-taking.
Krishna departed, taking Abhimanyu,
and Dhrishtadyumna took Draupadi’s children
back with him to his city of Panchala.
Yudhishthira proposed a change of scene.
Arjuna suggested Dvaitavana,
known as a holy and auspicious site.