21.
Carrying his sword and his bow Gandiva,
Arjuna strode out of the shady forest
into the sparkling light of early morning.
Now his life had purpose. He set his course
toward the mountains and the realm of gods.
He traveled swiftly, through the power of yoga,
faster than the wind, as fast as thought.
The air grew colder when, in just one day,
he reached the towering peaks of the Himalaya,
abode of snow, brilliant and aloof.
He passed over Gandhamadana
mountain of fragrant herbs. Beyond it lay
range after range, clothed in dazzling white.
He traveled, never stopping, never tiring,
under an arching sky of deepest blue.
When he reached the mountain Indrakila,
he heard a voice say, “Stop!” An old ascetic
sat there in a posture of meditation.
“Why do you come armed to this holy place?
There is no conflict here, no enemies—
drop your bow, your arrow-brimming quivers.
In this land, you will find serenity;
this is where your quest ends.” The man spoke sternly,
his expression was forbidding. Arjuna
bowed before him, but was unpersuaded—
he would not be staying in this place;
he would need his mighty bow Gandiva,
his inexhaustible supply of arrows,
for the great work that lay ahead of him.
Then, laughing, the ascetic revealed himself
as Indra, lionhearted Arjuna’s
divine father. “What boon shall I grant you,
what heavenly joys, now you have reached this place
so close to heaven?” Arjuna bowed to him.
“What would I want with all the joys of heaven
while my brothers languish in the wilderness?
I wish to master the celestial weapons.
I hear you say I have no need of them,
that I could stay on in these sacred mountains
for ever. But no conceivable delight,
no sovereignty, no worlds, no happiness,
could deflect me from my chosen path—I must
help my brothers to avenge our wrongs.”
“Then,” said Indra, “you shall have the weapons,
but only after you encounter Shiva,
the celestial three-eyed trident-bearer.”
With that, he disappeared, and Arjuna
traveled onward, calm and resolute,
making for the highest Himalaya.
He settled in a peaceful wood, and started
a life of prayer and fierce austerity
dedicated to all-powerful Shiva.
Night and day, he chanted the thousand names
of the god, and, as week succeeded week,
he ate less and less, until at last
he took in nothing but pure mountain air.
When sitting cross-legged seemed to him too easy,
he prayed standing on his toes, arms raised.
The great seers, fearing the consequences
of Arjuna’s punishing austerities,
begged Lord Shiva, “Please put a stop to it.
We do not know what he may want from this.”
Shiva smiled and gave them reassurance.
One day, a boar, thick-tusked and ferocious,
really a rakshasa, charged at Arjuna.
Quicker than blinking, he took up his bow
and shot it. Now resuming its true form,
it fell, lifeless. But another arrow
had pierced the creature’s thick and hairy hide
at the same moment—an imposing hunter
of radiant appearance was standing there,
surrounded by a crowd of women. “Stranger,”
said Arjuna, “why did you shoot this beast
I had marked out for myself? I challenge you!
You have transgressed the conventions of the chase.”
“Fool,” said the hunter, “the animal is mine—
I killed it. You have insulted me—for that
I shall kill you!” The stranger loosed a stream
of snake-like darts. Arjuna did the same,
pelting the hunter with a rain of arrows
any one of which should have killed him outright.
The hunter stood, the arrows bouncing off him,
while his women were laughing and applauding
as though the fight were for their entertainment.
Astonished, Arjuna shot even more
lethal iron arrows—to no effect.
Then he found his inexhaustible quivers
were empty. He thrust and jabbed courageously
with his bow’s tip, but the towering hunter
snatched the great Gandiva from his hands.
Arjuna aimed his spear, which broke in fragments
as it met the stranger’s skin. They fought with fists,
and the mountains shuddered with the crack of bone
encountering bone, until at last Arjuna
fell, stunned, to the ground.
“Well, well, Bharata!”
said the hunter in a resounding voice,
“I am pleased with you. No other hero
could have put up such a fearless fight.”
And in that moment, Arjuna realized
the hunter was the glorious three-eyed god,
Lord Shiva himself. He made prostrations.
“My lord, I beg you to forgive my violence—
I did not know you.” The god laughed in delight.
“You have done well, greatest of mortal warriors.
I have not seen such courage anywhere,
in any world. You may ask a favor from me.”
“I wish for the terrible Pashupata,
the peerless weapon, known as Brahma’s Head,
to which my teacher Drona introduced me.
Give me that most dreadful of all weapons,
that spews forth thousands of tridents, deadly clubs,
venomous snake-like missiles, capable
of killing evil spirits, powerful demons—
the weapon that will atomize the world
at the end of time. With it I shall defeat
the evildoers and their misguided allies.”
“Arjuna,” said Shiva, “you shall have it.
But never forget its power. Never use it
wantonly, but only when every other
strategy is used up—only then
should you unleash the ultimate destroyer.
If it is summoned for some paltry reason,
its force will terminate all life on earth.”
Arjuna purified himself, and embraced
Shiva’s feet. The god instructed him
in how to use the weapon, how to launch it
with a thought, a glance, a word, or with the bow;
and how to call it back. As Arjuna
received Pashupata from Lord Shiva,
the earth convulsed, and gods and demons flinched
at the blinding light of the death-dealing weapon.
Then Shiva handed Arjuna Gandiva,
his fractured spear and quivers, all restored
and whole; and, with a gesture, healed his wounds.
He left, to travel with his consort, Uma,
to his eternal dwelling in the skies.
Other gods appeared, the world guardians—
Yama, god of death, came from the south,
Varuna from his ocean realm, Kubera,
lord of treasures, arrived from the glittering snows
of Mount Kailasa. Saluting Arjuna,
each gave weapons to the Pandava
and foretold victory in the coming war.
Last came Indra, proud of his son, insisting
that Arjuna should sample the delights
of Amaravati, his sky domain
above the clouds. He sent his charioteer,
Matali, to transport the Pandava
in a resplendent chariot, fast as wind,
drawn by many thousands of bay horses,
and carrying a lovely night-blue banner.
Only one who had performed austerities
of the most rigorous kind could even see
this glorious vehicle, still less ride in it.
They traveled through worlds where no sun or moon
ever shone, but where perfected seers
and those who had died heroically in war
rode on wonderful free-flying chariots
lit by illumination of their own,
and swooped about the sky, blazing with virtue,
taking delight in each other’s company.
When at last they reached Amaravati,
the mighty son of Kunti was amazed
by all he saw—such breathtaking palaces,
shining towers, the garden, Nandana,
with its shade-giving trees, laden with blossom,
where sweet-perfumed breezes caressed his skin.
He was welcomed by thousands of gandharvas
and apsarases. Great Indra himself
placed Arjuna on the throne at his side.
A white parasol was held above him;
Indra stroked his face, and his strong arms
scarred by the frequent lashing of the bowstring.
The lionhearted Pandava was enchanted
by all he saw. But never for a moment
did he forget the purpose of his quest.
Arjuna passed five years in Indra’s heaven
enjoying the affection of his father.
He learned to master many divine weapons,
studying their diverse applications
and how to call them back. Indra gave him
his own sacred weapon, the thunderbolt,
placing it solemnly in the hero’s hands
and teaching him the esoteric mantra
which would awaken it in time of need.
He learned many forms of skill and wisdom
from the celestial beings of the court.
Gandharvas, the heavenly musicians,
taught him how to sing, and play, and dance—
strange skills for a warrior, but they knew
that he would need them if the Pandavas
were to survive their final exiled year.
Chitrasena was his music teacher,
a gandharva king, who soon became
Arjuna’s good friend and close companion.
One day, the great ascetic Lomasha
came to visit Indra, and was astonished
to see Arjuna, a mortal, seated
on Indra’s throne. The chief of gods explained,
“Arjuna is the ancient seer Nara,
companion of the seer Narayana,
incarnated as my son, and born
to save Earth from demonic tyranny.
But before he goes back to the world,
I have a task for him. Now, Lomasha,
I wish you to seek out the Pandavas,
give them news of Arjuna, reassure them.
Tell them to undertake a pilgrimage
to the sacred bathing places. You go with them
to keep them safe, for they may encounter
dangers.”
“I shall do it,” said Lomasha.
What was the task that Indra now required
of Arjuna? In return for the weapons
he had been taught by his immortal father,
Indra asked him to make war against
powerful Nivatakavacha demons.
Later, when the brothers were reunited,
Arjuna would tell them the whole story,
making their hair stand up, their blood run cold.
Meanwhile, through his spies, Dhritarashtra
had been informed of Arjuna’s achievements
and was greatly dismayed. He lamented
over and over to his aide Sanjaya,
dwelling on the terrifying wrath
the Pandavas would certainly unleash
upon the Kauravas. “My witless son,
insane and evil-minded as he is,
has stirred up a holocaust—for war
will surely come, a war we cannot win.
No one on this earth can defeat Arjuna—
not Karna, not Bhishma, and not Drona,
certainly not my son. Already I see
the whole Kaurava army broken, shattered.
How crass it was to summon Draupadi
to the gaming hall, and so insult her
that nothing will appease her husbands’ fury
except blood. Oh, why did Duryodhana
not listen to my advice? He seems to think
that my lack of sight also deprives me
of any claim to wisdom. But I have
the eyesight of insight—I foresee it all,
all the consequences of his actions,
in frightful detail. I should have attended
to Vidura’s advice, but Duryodhana
pressed me.”
“That is the truth,” said Sanjaya.
“You could have stopped the game; but you did not.”
At their forest camp in the Kamyaka,
the Pandavas were growing weary, pining
for Arjuna, impatient for his return.
The sky itself seemed empty of the sun;
the forest glades appeared less beautiful.
One day, as they sat together, sighing
to think of Arjuna, and of the kingdom
they had lost, their days of happiness,
Bhima reproached Yudhishthira. “How could you
agree to let him go? Who knows what dangers
he’ll encounter on his perilous mission—
perhaps he’ll die! How could we live without him?
How will we fight the wicked Kauravas
mightily armed, fully geared up for war
without the Terrifier by our side?
Why should we sit here, endure our rage
fettered, inactive, while every single day
the undeserving sons of Dhritrashtra
grow in strength, led by the powerful Karna.
This is no life at all!”
Yudhishthira
tried to soothe his brother. “I promise you
that you will have your chance, but only when
it is the proper time.”
At that moment,
a visitor arrived, Brihadashva,
a holy man. When he had been welcomed,
Yudhishthira confided in the rishi
all his troubles—how he had lost his kingdom
through rash gambling. “Sir, I do not think
a man was ever as miserable as I.”
“Yudhishthira,” said the sage, “you’re not alone
in having lost all you owned through gambling.
Let me tell you the story of King Nala.
“THERE ONCE WAS a king called Nala, strong, beautiful, thoughtful and virtuous. He was devout, a good friend to brahmins, and fearless in battle. He was generous and fair-minded, and his people loved him. In a neighboring kingdom lived Damayanti, daughter of King Bhima, as renowned for her beauty and good character as Nala was for his. The two had never met but their reputations were carried on the wind, and they fell in love with each other, sight unseen.
“Nala took to haunting the woods near Damayanti’s home, hoping, but failing, to get a glimpse of her. One day, he caught a wild goose, and was just about to kill it when the bird spoke up in human language. ‘Spare my life,’ said the bird, ‘and I shall do you a kindness. I shall speak to Damayanti about you, so eloquently that she will never even think of another man.’
“The goose did as he had promised, and Damayanti grew so pale and sad from longing for Nala that her father decided she should be married. He arranged to hold a svayamvara for her, to which kshatriyas from far and wide were invited. So famous was she for her beauty that even some of the gods decided to compete for her hand.
“On his way to the svayamvara, Nala met the world guardian gods—Indra, Yama, Varuna and Agni—traveling in the same direction. They insisted that he act as their envoy in winning Damayanti. When Damayanti came to hear of this, she vowed that she would choose Nala but, on the day, she was confronted with a choice between five identical candidates, all looking like Nala. She begged the gods to honor her commitment to Nala, and they consented, resumed their divine forms and gave their blessing to the couple.
“As the gods made their way back to their celestial abodes, Indra encountered Kali, traveling with Dvapara to the svayamvara. When Indra told him that the event was over, Kali became enraged. After the gods had gone, he swore vengeance on Nala. ‘I shall take possession of that fortunate king, and you, Dvapara, must enter the dice and help me.’
“At first, Nala and Damayanti lived in total bliss together, each of them as devoted to duty as they were to love. But one day Nala forgot to wash his feet before performing the evening prayers, and this enabled Kali to enter into him. Driven by Kali, Nala accepted the invitation of his brother, Pushkara, to play at dice. Nala had always been fond of playing, in moderation, but now a madness entered his heart and he became obsessed, addicted to the game. The more he lost, the more passionately he played, and in the fullness of time, he lost everything he possessed, including his kingdom, to his brother. Neither Damayanti’s pleas nor those of his subjects were able to put a stop to Nala’s folly.
“At last, Nala was destitute. His charioteer, Varshneya, took the couple’s two children to live with Damayanti’s parents in the city of Vidarbha, and Nala and Damayanti, with only the clothes they stood in, were forced to wander out into the world, friendless and hungry. Soon, tricked by Kali, Nala lost even his one garment. He was full of remorse at the misery he had brought upon Damayanti and, one night, driven by the demon inside him, and reasoning that, without him, she would find her way back to her family, where she would be better off, he crept away into the forest while she was asleep—having first cut away half of the garment she was wearing, in order to cover himself.
“At first, Damayanti could not believe that he had gone, and searched behind every tree and bush, weeping piteously. For days and weeks she wandered, calling Nala’s name. ‘Oh, my lord, bull among men, strong-armed ruler of your people, how could you leave me? I am your wife. Remember how you said no one was dearer to you than me? Answer me, beloved husband!’ As she wandered, she asked every creature she met whether they had seen Nala. She asked the birds in the trees, the fish in the river, the lordly elephants, even the mountain peaks, and the fierce tiger, king of the forest. She approached the brahmin ascetics who lived in those parts. She asked a passing caravan of merchants. None of them had come across her husband, but the brahmins predicted that she and Nala would be reunited. She begged everyone she met to make inquiries as they went about their travels.
“At last, in her wanderings, she came to a large city, the city of the Chedis, and found a place there as a chambermaid to the king’s mother, who was kind to her.
“Nala, meanwhile, wandering in the forest, had come upon a forest fire, in the midst of which was an enormous snake. ‘Please save me!’ cried the snake. ‘I am afflicted by a curse, unable to move from here. Save me, and I will do you good. I will make myself light so you can carry me.’ The snake shrank until it was no larger than a thumb, and Nala carried it to a place of safety. He was about to let the snake go when it said, ‘Continue walking, and count your steps as you go.’ At the tenth step, the snake bit him, whereupon his appearance changed and he became deformed.
“‘My poisonous bite will cause great pain—not to you, but to the creature who dwells inside you. You should now go to the city of Ayodhya, where you should enter the service of King Rituparna, as a charioteer. He knows the arcane secret of the dice game.’ Nala traveled to that city, and presented himself to the king as Bahuka, expert with horses. The king engaged him. Nala’s own former charioteer, Varshneya, was working there, but did not recognize him, altered as he was.
“By this time, Damayanti’s identity had been discovered by the mother of the king of the Chedis, and she had been accepted with great joy. Grateful though she was, Damayanti decided to go back to her father’s kingdom, and be reunited with her children. There, she continued to pine for her husband. Search parties were sent out far and wide, inquiring after Nala, everywhere asking the same question:
‘Former king whose wits deserted you,
Former ruler whose kingdom was lost to you,
Former husband whose wife now weeps for you,
Will you return to the woman who loves you?’
But, for a long time, there was no news.
“Then a brahmin messenger returned from a visit to Ayodhya, and reported a conversation with a deformed man of the court, who had wept when he heard the question, and the story behind it. Damayanti became convinced that this must be Nala. With her mother, she devised a plan. A message was sent to the king of Ayodhya, announcing that Damayanti was to hold a svayamvara, in order to choose a second husband. The event was to happen on the following day. Eager to attend, the king told Bahuka (Nala) to prepare horses for the journey—horses capable of reaching Vidarbha within a day—though when he saw Bahuka’s choice, he doubted that it was possible. Bahuka was confident, however.
“The chariot set off, racing as fast as the wind. As they traveled, the king said, ‘See that tree? The difference between the number of leaves and nuts that hang from it and the ones that have fallen to the ground is one hundred and one.” Bahuka was astonished, and when he stopped the chariot to count the leaves and nuts, he found that the king was correct.
“‘I have a facility with numbers,’ said the king. ‘And I know the secret of the dice.’ Bahuka proposed that the king teach him that secret, in return for his teaching the king the secret of horses. The king agreed. ‘Since we are pressed for time, you can teach me the secret of horses later, but I shall teach you the secret of the dice as we travel.’ The king did so and, at that moment, Kali left Nala’s body, the curse was lifted and Nala resumed his previous handsome form.
“Damayanti, waiting with beating heart, heard the thunder of an approaching chariot. ‘It must be my beloved!’ she exclaimed, ‘No one makes a chariot roar as Nala does.’ As she watched from an upper window, she saw her father welcome the king of Ayodhya—as puzzled by this unexpected visit as was the king of Ayodhya, to find that there was no svayamvara.
“Explanations were given, misunderstandings were ironed out, and, at last, Nala and Damayanti were reunited as husband and wife. Two matters remained. Nala taught the king of Ayodhya the secret of horses. And he challenged his brother to a dice game, and won back his kingdom and all his wealth.
“So, Yudhishthira,” said Brihadashva,
“even after losing everything,
a person may regain his former fortune.
Now I shall teach you the secret of the dice
so you will never lose a game again.”