22.
On his mission from the chief of gods,
the ancient seer Lomasha, passing freely
from one world to another, came to visit
the Pandavas in the Kamyaka Forest.
“Please explain to me,” Yudhishthira asked him,
“why the wicked prosper, while such as I,
who strive to follow virtue, have to suffer?”
Lomasha said, “If you take the long view
the wicked do not flourish. They are like plants
with showy flowers but weak and shallow roots.
The virtuous are well grounded in dharma
and, through devoted discipline, they weather
bad times and good, seeing them as the same.
Like the demons before them, wicked people
lose direction, and fall prey to discord.
Given to restless searching after pleasure,
true and lasting happiness eludes them.”
To allay their anxiety and longing,
Lomasha had brought news of Arjuna
and a proposal: while he was away,
his brothers should set out on pilgrimage
touring the fords on the sacred rivers,
and Lomasha would go along with them.
They were all delighted by the plan.
The spiritual benefits of pilgrimage
had been explained to them by Narada.
For those without the means for sacrifices,
and for anyone, of any station,
pilgrimage was a way to free oneself
from the fruits of previous misdeeds—
provided one approached the undertaking
in a spirit of self-discipline.
For the restless and unhappy Pandavas,
a pilgrimage would give a change of scene
and purify them for the times ahead.
Dhaumya, their priest, proposed a route.
First they would travel east, to the Naimisha,
and to Gaya, for the seasonal sacrifice;
then south, where they would visit the great seer
Agastya; then west, to the sacred fords
on the river Narmada; and, finally,
they would travel north to bathing places
on the Sarasvati and Yamuna.
Yudhishthira told most of his entourage—
brahmins and citizens who had stayed with him—
to go back to the city. But some brahmins
wished to remain, to join the pilgrimage.
The party set off eastward. On their way,
wise Lomasha recounted many tales,
some of them serious, some entertaining,
all of them instructive. They encountered
other seers, and drank in their stories too.
At every sacred ford, they bathed and worshiped
and their spirits were wonderfully refreshed.
The party made a stop for several days
beside the sparkling river Kaushiki.
At Yudhishthira’s request, Lomasha
told them the story of Rishyashringa,
whose hermitage they could see close at hand.
“A BRAHMIN SEER of great repute was bathing in the water of Lake Mahahrada when his glance fell upon the apsaras Urvashi, and his seed spurted from him. It fell into the water and was swallowed by a doe which was drinking there. In due time, the doe gave birth to a boy who bore a horn on his head. He became the ascetic Rishyashringa. He grew up in the forest and, except for his father, he never set eyes on another human being. His reputation for austerity and virtue spread far and wide.
“In the nearby kingdom of Anga, no rain had fallen for years. Indra, god of rain, had withheld his favor on account of the bad behavior of the ruler, Lomapada, toward brahmins. Even Lomapada’s household priest had left him. He was advised that if he could persuade Rishyashringa, the great ascetic, to come to his kingdom, rain would surely follow.
“Lomapada made his peace with the brahmins, and performed rituals of expiation for his past bad deeds. Then, with his ministers, he devised a plan: specially chosen courtesans would be sent to the forest to entice the seer to come to Anga. The courtesans were reluctant to oblige, however, fearing the ascetic’s curse. But an older woman among them took charge of the enterprise. She prepared a lovely hermitage that floated on the water near the ascetic’s home, and installed herself there with the most beautiful and accomplished of the courtesans, her daughter, who was known for her cleverness.
“The girl presented herself before Rishyashringa as a student of the Vedas, and inquired after his well-being. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I hope your austerities are proceeding well, and that nothing is interfering with the performance of your vows.’ The young man was astonished by her appearance. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘your radiant looks, almost like a god, must mean that you yourself are prospering. Tell me what discipline you follow. Where is your hermitage? Let me honor you and give you water to wash your feet.’
“‘I should rather honor you,’ said the girl. ‘In my hermitage we pay respect by enfolding the honored person in our arms.’ This she did, and with great gaiety, offered the young man delicious food and drink, and played ball with him, laughing and pressing herself against his body. Then, saying that she had a religious duty to attend to, she walked away. Rishyashringa was left in a state of intoxicated bewilderment. When his father came home he told him what had happened, describing the divine-looking stranger.
“‘Father, he looked like a god, with beautiful braided hair, and a curving body. His voice was melodious as a cuckoo’s, and in front of him hung two soft globes. When he touched me, I was filled with rapture, and now that he is gone I can think of nothing else. I want to go to him.’
“‘Son, that must have been a rakshasa,’ said the father, keen to protect his son’s innocence. ‘They take on beguiling shapes to tempt us away from the right path. They are to be avoided at all costs.’ The father went in search of the ‘rakshasa,’ and was away for three days. But meanwhile, the lovely courtesan returned, and enticed Rishyashringa to accompany her. He did so willingly, and was taken to Anga, where he was housed in the women’s quarters. The ruler gave his daughter, Shanta, to him as his wife, and bestowed wealth and lands on him. After this, the rains were plentiful.
“Rishyashringa’s father was furious at first, but was then reconciled, on condition that his son would return to the forest once Shanta had given birth to a son. This he did, and he and Shanta lived together in the forest, in great happiness.”
They journeyed on, following the east coast
south, then round the tip of the peninsula
before turning north. They stopped at Prabhasa,
near the sea-girt city of Dvaraka,
where Yudhishthira performed austerities.
While there, they were visited by Krishna
and his Vrishni kinsmen, who were most distressed
by the Pandavas’ reduced condition.
“How did those good men pass time together?”
asked Janamejaya. Vaishampayana
told the king about the friends’ discussions:
“What justice is there,” exclaimed Balarama,
“if the wise and virtuous Yudhishthira
sits here, filthy and emaciated,
while his enemies enjoy prosperity?”
“The Kauravas should be attacked at once!”
said Satyaki. But Krishna disagreed.
“Neither Yudhishthira nor his brothers
will ever swerve from dharma. The day will come
when they will defeat Duryodhana,
for sure; but that day has not yet arrived.”
The Pandavas stopped at many sacred fords
where they paid reverence, gave gifts to priests,
immersed themselves and performed penances.
They reached the place on the river Yamuna
where Mandhatri, the great archer, worshiped,
and Lomasha told the story of his birth:
“A WORTHY KING, Yuvanashva, had no son, despite performing a thousand horse sacrifices, and a great many other rituals, accompanied by generous gifts to priests. He retired to the forest and pursued a life of harsh discipline.
“One night, he entered the hermitage of the great seer Bhrigu, and, finding no one awake, and feeling very thirsty, he drank water from a jar he saw there. It happened that, that very day, the seer and his companions had conducted a ritual whose purpose was to obtain a son for Yuvanashva. They had filled a jar with water and purified it with incantations, with a view to the king’s wife drinking it. This was the water which the king had now drunk.
“When Bhrigu discovered what had happened, he was first dismayed, then philosophical. ‘It must have been ordained. The water was infused with powerful spells, earned by rigorous discipline. Now you have drunk it, you yourself will bear a virile and god-like son.’
“And so it happened that, after a hundred years, King Yuvanashva’s side split open and a splendid infant emerged. Fortunately, the king did not die. Indra came to see him and gave the baby his forefinger to suck. In honor of this, he was named Mandhatri. The boy grew tall and beautiful, and became an accomplished archer.”
At every ford the Pandavas visited,
Lomasha instructed and entertained them,
pointing out the history of the place
and telling stories. By Lake Manasa,
he told the tale of Indra and King Shibi:
“THE KING OF the Shibis was so devout that his sacrifices rivaled those of the gods. In order to test him, Indra, chief of gods, and Agni, the god of fire, devised a plan. Indra took the form of a hawk and Agni that of a dove which, fleeing from the predatory hawk, took refuge on the king’s lap.
“‘Give up that dove,’ said the hawk. ‘By giving it shelter, you are flying in the face of nature, for doves are the natural food of hawks.’
“‘The bird has sought my protection,’ replied the king. ‘It would be absolutely wrong for me to allow you to eat it. I shall give you something else to eat instead.’
“‘Nothing else will do,’ said the hawk. ‘Hawks eat doves—that’s the rule. By depriving me of my proper food, you harm not only me but my dependent family as well.’
“‘I won’t give up this dove,’ said the king, ‘so tell me what I can give you in its place.’
“‘If you cut off a portion of your own flesh equal to the dove’s weight, I shall eat it and be satisfied,’ said the hawk.
“The king cut away a piece of his own flesh, but it was not as heavy as the dove. He cut another piece, and added it to the first. The dove was still heavier. Eventually, he cut away all his flesh and, in his mutilated form, climbed onto the scale himself. Then the hawk revealed that he was the god, Indra, and assured the king that he would enjoy everlasting fame for his great sacrifice.”
As the group approached the Himalaya,
moving toward Mount Gandhamadana
where they would embrace Arjuna at last,
Lomasha warned that they were entering
dangerous territory, where rakshasas
and sorcerers lay in wait for travelers.
“Take good care,” said Lomasha, “proceed
boldly but warily. Be resolute,
knowing that my powers will protect you,
as will Bhima’s strength.” And the seer chanted
a hymn to Ganga, goddess of the river,
imploring her to watch over the travelers.
“I am worried,” said Yudhishthira,
“that Draupadi, Sahadeva and the weaker
brahmins may not be strong enough for this.
Bhima, you turn back with them, and wait
while we—Lomasha, Nakula and I—
go on alone, and then come back for you.”
Bhima disagreed, “We should stay together.
I can carry Draupadi, and anyone
who cannot keep up.” Draupadi laughed,
“I will manage—don’t be concerned for me!”
No one wanted to be left behind.
Alert, with weapons ready in their hands,
the brothers set off, leading the contingent
ever upward, living on roots and berries,
negotiating crags and perilous paths.
As they came close to Gandhamadana,
a violent storm blew up. Rocks split open
with a deafening crack, a whirlwind howled
and lashed the trees, hurling clouds of dust,
branches and rocks, blocking off the sun
as though it were night. Bhima seized Draupadi
and sheltered by a stout tree. All the others
spread-eagled on the ground in trepidation
to wait out the storm. But when the wind died down,
torrential rain began, a deafening deluge,
twisting ropes of water carrying
trees, and any debris in their path,
crashing downward to the plain below.
Battered, terrified, the pilgrims clung
to rocks and to more deeply rooted trees.
At last the clouds dispersed. A cautious sun
sent watery rays to warm the drenched party.
They set off once more, but Draupadi,
unused to strenuous walking, fell, fainting,
quite worn out. The four brothers massaged
her feet until she sighed and revived a little,
but it was clear that she would never manage
to reach their destination by herself.
Bhima had a brainwave—“Ghatotkacha!
My son by Hidimbaa—that mighty fellow
will carry her.” Then, by the power of thought,
Bhima summoned him, and he appeared,
accompanied by fellow rakshasas.
“Son, worthy crusher of your enemies,”
said Bhima, “our brave Draupadi’s exhausted.
Lift her gently, and carry her through the sky—
fly low, so she will not be alarmed.”
“I can carry the whole family,”
said Ghatotkacha, “and my strong companions
will bring the rest.” So it was that Bhima’s son
took the Pandavas lovingly in his arms,
while the brahmins flew with other rakshasas,
and Lomasha traveled by his mystic power.
They passed over beautiful terrain
rich in mineral wealth, and dappled woods
inhabited by monkeys and bright songbirds.
On they flew, until they saw, ahead,
the fabled and majestic Mount Kailasa
gleaming in the pure air, skirted round
by slopes on which grew trees laden with fruit,
and where many great seers had their homes—
a place free from any stinging creature,
temperate, and lush with many crops.
Prominently placed was the hermitage
of Nara and Narayana, a center
of deep learning. In its gardens grew
the legendary jujube tree, whose fruits
dripped honey constantly. The Pandavas
were welcomed with joy by the holy seers,
and the party settled for some time.
Strolling one day, Draupadi picked up
a flower, dropped at her feet by the wind,
a flower so exquisite, with a perfume
so intoxicating, that she longed for more—
since she felt that she must offer this one
to Yudhishthira. She asked Bhima
to go in search of them, and bring her some,
so he set off, walking fearlessly
up the mountain. Aided by the wind,
his father, he pursued the heavenly scent
past waterfalls, through groves of graceful trees
threaded with vines, toward the cloud-topped peaks,
crashing through the undergrowth, disturbing
the creatures of those parts, in his concern
to get back to protect his family.
Following a flock of water birds,
he came across a wide and gleaming lake,
fringed by clusters of banana trees,
with blue lotuses floating on the water.
Bhima plunged in like a young elephant,
splashing, slapping his arms most joyfully,
and lions, sleeping in their lairs nearby,
awoke and roared, alarming the whole forest.
Bhima heard a deep reverberation
and, tracking it to a banana grove,
came across a most gigantic ape,
tall and handsome, radiant as lightning,
sitting at his ease on a slab of stone,
beating his tail, like thunder, on the ground.
His mouth was broad, his tongue was red as copper,
and, with eyes the color of golden honey,
he glared down at Bhima. “Stupid fellow,
why are you blundering noisily around
in this forest where no human comes,
waking me from health-restoring sleep
when I am sick? This place is dangerous;
turn back while you still can.”
Bhima refused.
“Move aside! Let me pass!”
“Leap over me
if you must go forward,” said the monkey.
But Bhima perceived that this was a great soul
and, from reverence, declined to jump. “Move!”
he cried again. “Were it not for respect,
I would leap over you, as Hanuman,
that brave and god-like ape, that mighty hero,
leapt across the sea to Ravana’s kingdom
to find Sita, Rama’s blameless wife.”
“Who is this Hanuman?” grumbled the ape.
“He is the brother I have never met—
son of the wind, like me—and I’m his equal
in strength and courage. So move aside right now!”
The great ape was amused, “Reckless prince,
I am too old to move—if you must pass,
lift up my tail and proceed underneath it.”
Bhima strove and sweated, heaved and pushed,
but found himself unable to lift the tail,
try as he might. “Distinguished ape, who are you?”
he asked in wonder. “I am that Hanuman
of whom you speak,” replied the radiant monkey.
“It was I who leapt the hundred leagues
across the sea to Lanka.” Hearing this,
Bhima prostrated himself in reverence.
Joyfully he asked his newfound brother
to assume the form in which he made
that spectacular leap. Hanuman laughed,
“That was another era, long ago—
a time when even time itself was different.
Now, strong-armed one, you must go from this place.”
But only after Bhima had prevailed
on Hanuman to show his wondrous form—
swelling and stretching until he was as vast
as a mountain, awesome, terrifying—
did the Pandava consent to leave.
The two embraced each other tearfully.
“I bless the day I met you,” said Hanuman.
“It reminds me of the time I held
Rama in my arms. I wish you well
in the hard undertaking that lies ahead.
I give you this boon: on the battlefield,
when you utter your war cry, I shall add
my roar to yours. Appearing on the flagpole
of matchless Arjuna, my voice will rob
your enemies of their senses.” So saying,
Hanuman disappeared. Bhima continued
to make his way with all speed up the mountain,
always pursuing the divine perfume
of the elusive flower.
At last he came
to the luxuriant garden of Kubera,
god of wealth, guarded by many yakshas,
and there he saw a large crystalline pool
where sweet-smelling golden water-flowers
clustered abundantly. Kubera’s guardians
tried to prevent him picking them, but he
pressed forward, killing many of the yakshas.
A dust storm blew up, darkening the sky
so that Yudhishthira, far below, saw it,
and learned from Draupadi where Bhima had gone.
He had Ghatotkacha transport them all
up the mountain, and saw the devastation.
Kubera appeared, ready to do battle,
but he softened when he saw the Pandavas.
“Bharata,” he said to Yudhishthira,
“you should keep this brother of yours in check.”
“Oh, son of Kunti,” exclaimed the Dharma King
in dismay, “this violence is uncalled for.
If you love me, never do this again.”
“Tell me more,” said King Janamejaya,
“about the Pandavas’ long years of exile.
Whom did they encounter on their travels?
How did Bhima curb his restlessness?
And Arjuna’s return? Tell me the details.”
Vaishampayana took up the story:
For some time, the Pandavas dwelled happily
in the mountains. They moved from hermitage
to hermitage, and were welcomed everywhere.
Then they settled on Mount Gandhamadana
where they waited for Arjuna’s return.
The mountains offered so much natural beauty.
They took delight in plants they had never seen,
fruit-bearing trees, interlaced with vines,
flowers of vivid colors. Limpid lakes
reflected the passing clouds. Every morning,
they awoke to an aubade of birdsong,
while, all around, tame creatures played and grazed.
Even Bhima put aside his weapons
and enjoyed the peace and the pure air.
But for the pain of missing Arjuna,
their contentment would have been complete.
Then, one day, they saw a distant object
flashing, shimmering across the sky,
coming closer . . . it was a grand chariot
driven by Matali, Indra’s charioteer,
and in it, standing, crowned with a diadem
and holding weapons glittering in the sun—
Arjuna! Soon, following close behind,
Indra himself arrived. Yudhishthira
paid him homage and received his blessing,
then the god left.
It may be imagined
with what joy, with what unending questions,
the Pandavas received the beloved hero.
As if they could wipe out the separation,
they wanted him to tell them every detail
of his quest, and his stay in Indra’s realm.
For many days, under the shala trees,
for many nights, seated beneath the stars,
he told them all that had befallen him.
“And what was it that Indra asked of you
in return for weapons?” asked Nakula.
“He asked me to do battle with his enemies,
demons called the Nivatakavachas,
numbering many millions. They had their home
in a well-defended spot beside the ocean.
Their city was most beautiful for, once,
it had belonged to the chief of gods himself.
He had been driven out by the demons.
Long before, they had acquired a boon:
that the gods would never conquer them.
That was why the powerful Indra sent me,
a human, to wage war on the gods’ behalf.
He gave me impenetrable armor,
and I was well supplied with all the weapons
I had learned from him. Matali drove me
in Indra’s chariot to the demons’ stronghold.
“As we approached, I blew my divine conch
Devadatta, and the demons streamed
out of their city, thousands upon thousands,
making an ear-shattering din, screaming,
storming toward us, armed with spikes and clubs.
I cut them down with my bow Gandiva,
while, with miraculous skill, Matali
swiftly maneuvered the great chariot,
guiding the hundreds of superb bay horses
so they moved as one. Thousands of demons
fell, their severed limbs streaming with blood.
Then they used their powers of wizardry,
creating rain in torrents, showers of rocks,
breath-stopping wind, a darkness so profound
we were quite blinded. Matali fell forward
and seemed to become confused. ‘Surely,’ he cried,
‘the end of the world has come—I have never
lost my wits before, though I have witnessed
the most furious battles ever fought.’
I was gripped by fear myself but, rallying,
I reassured Matali, then summoned
my own powerful weapons. At one point,
when I was almost overcome with terror,
Matali shouted, ‘Use the Brahma’s Head!’
So I invoked that most extreme of weapons
and managed to defeat the demon hordes.
Matali told me, ‘Not even the gods
could have fought as well as you, son of Indra.’
“Soon after we had returned to Indra’s realm,
my father crowned me with this diadem.
Then he told me it was time to leave
since you were waiting for me—and with what joy
I am now reunited with those I love!”
The next day Yudhishthira asked Arjuna
to demonstrate the weapons he had used
to conquer the Nivatakavachas.
Arjuna prepared himself, intending
to call up the deadly missiles, one by one.
But hardly had he begun when the ground shook,
the sky grew dull, and everything around
turned icy gray. The Pandavas, appalled,
trembled and covered their faces with their hands.
Then, sent by the gods, the seer Narada
and other seers appeared, with serious faces.
Narada spoke in a voice like thunder,
“Arjuna, you must never do that again.
Those weapons must never be used casually,
on an inappropriate target—or even
one that is suitable, when you could use
some other method to achieve your goal.
Always remember—those missiles, wrongly used,
could mean destruction for the universe.”
For four more years, the Pandavas lived in peace
in the mountains. Now ten years had passed
since their exile had begun. And now Bhima
was once again pressing Yudhishthira.
“We have a task—we should get on with it,”
he complained, as always craving action.
“No question—we will definitely win!”
But Yudhishthira refused as, no doubt,
Bhima knew he would. Nevertheless,
the eldest Pandava saw the time had come
for them to journey to the plain below
in readiness for the fight that lay ahead.
Before leaving high Gandhamadana,
Yudhishthira toured the streams, crags and copses
he had come to love. He looked upward.
“I leave you now,” he said to the silent mountain,
“but when we have regained our stolen kingdom,
I shall return to you, as a penitent.”
The time had come for Lomasha to leave them,
to return to his home in the heavenly realms.
Then, with Ghatotkacha carrying them,
they started their slow descent. Often they camped
for several months in some delightful valley
or mountain ridge. Coming to the foothills,
they dismissed Ghatotkacha and his companions.
The terrain would be easier from now on.
One day, Bhima, who never could stay still,
set off into the woods in search of game.
Rounding a bend, he came upon a snake
larger than any he had ever seen,
yellow as turmeric, with fiery eyes
and fangs that glistened in its hungry jaws.
It seized him in its coils and, though he struggled
with superhuman strength, he could not move.
“Who are you?” he asked the snake, “and how can you
render me helpless as an infant—I,
stronger by far than any mortal man?”
“I am your ancestor Nahusha, doomed
to live as a snake, starving perpetually,
cursed for my woeful disrespect for brahmins.
The curse will only lift when someone answers
the precise questions I shall put to him.
Until that day, I satisfy my hunger
by eating anything I catch—and now,
I shall eat you.”
Wolf-belly replied,
“I don’t blame you. We all have to do
as destiny dictates. But I sorely grieve
for my brothers—without my fighting prowess,
how will they defeat the Kauravas?
And how will my poor mother bear my loss?”
Back at the hermitage, Yudhishthira
noticed disturbing portents. A jackal howled
repeatedly, the southern sky grew red
and a one-footed quail of evil aspect
spat blood, screeching as if in urgent warning.
“Caw! Caw! Go! Go!” shouted a dusky crow.
Yudhishthira, with Dhaumya, the priest,
ran off in search of Bhima. It was not hard
to follow the trail of footprints and smashed trees
where Wolf-belly had passed. They came across him
still pinioned by the snake, and he told them
all that had happened. “Dharma King,” said the snake,
“your brother is my next meal. Nevertheless,
if you can answer my questions correctly
he shall go free.”
“Ask,” said Yudhishthira.
“First, who is a brahmin?” asked the snake.
“Brahmins are those who live by truthfulness,
compassion, generosity, self-control,”
replied Yudhishthira, “those who may attain
knowledge of the supreme Brahman, passing
beyond happiness and unhappiness.”
“The qualities you mention,” said the snake,
“are found even in shudras. Are you saying
brahmins are brahmins not because of birth
but by virtue of their good behavior?
As for a state that somehow goes beyond
sorrow and joy—I doubt that it exists.”
“It is like cold and heat,” answered Yudhishthira.
“They are extremes, but there are many states
between, when we feel neither hot nor cold.
A person’s parentage cannot be known
for certain, therefore it is by their conduct
that we should judge a person’s brahminhood.”
“What you say is true,” replied the snake,
“and conduct must be judged by its effects.
You have answered well. I hardly think
that I could make a meal of your brother now.”
He released Bhima, and Yudhishthira
continued his conversation with the snake
until Nahusha said, “My curse is lifted!
Before, I rode round heaven like a god,
full of pride, drunk with my own importance,
forcing brahmins to pay homage to me.
Now I understand the power of virtue.”
Saying that, he shed his serpent body
and, acquiring a celestial form,
went up to heaven.
You may well imagine
with what relief Bhima was welcomed back,
although the brahmins, anxious for his welfare,
rebuked him for his rashness, and exhorted him
never, ever, to take such risks again.