23.
The long exile entered its twelfth year,
the last in the wilderness. It was the time
of the monsoon, when scorching sun gives way
to bank upon bank of dense, black thunderclouds,
rumbling, clashing, disgorging rain in torrents
to drench the grateful earth. All living beings
feel themselves newborn, and leap, run, fly
more vigorously, according to their natures.
Delighting in the freshness of the earth,
the Pandavas rejoiced to see the lakes
full to the brim with clear and sparkling water,
and fringed with brightly colored water-plants.
Krishna visited them, with Satyabhama,
his chief wife, and, joyfully, the cousins
embraced each other after so long apart.
“Who else but you, Yudhishthira,” said Krishna,
“could have endured your loss so patiently,
keeping to the terms of your cruel exile
despite temptation. But now, friend, the time
is rapidly approaching when your promise
will be fulfilled, and then, O Dharma King,
we shall see your kingdom restored to you!”
Markandeya, the revered ascetic,
arrived just then to see them. Yudhishthira
urged him to speak of the nature of existence,
of humankind’s relation to the gods,
and how it happens that a person’s actions
influence their subsequent rebirth.
The sage spoke to them of the law of karma,
how, when people die, and they are reborn
in another womb, their previous acts
stick to them like a shadow, and determine
whether their next life will be fortunate.
Markandeya told them many stories
from his wealth of knowledge of all the worlds,
and the eldest Pandava, who loved to learn,
sat at his feet. “Tell me the tale,” he said,
“of the seer Manu and the enormous fish.”
“MANU WAS A great and holy seer,” began Markandeya. “His austerities were unparalleled. For ten thousand years, he stood on one foot, arms raised above his bowed head, beside the famous jujube tree on the bank of the river Virini. One day, a small fish swam up and spoke to him.
“‘My lord,’ it said, ‘I am constantly terrified of being eaten by a bigger fish, for that is the way of things in this world, since time immemorial. Please protect me, and I promise that I will reward you.’
“Manu was filled with compassion. He scooped up the little fish and placed it in a jar of water, where he looked after it as though it were his own child. In time, the fish grew too big for the jar, and Manu took it to a pond and threw it in. In time, it grew so big that it could hardly turn without bumping into the sides of the pond, and it begged Manu to take it to the river Ganga, which he did. There, the fish kept growing, until a time came when Manu had to take it to the ocean and release it there.
“‘My lord,’ said the fish, ‘you have cared for me, and I am grateful to you. Here is some good advice: soon the world will be overwhelmed by a mighty flood, and everything that stands will be destroyed. You should build a sturdy and capacious boat and attach a strong rope to its prow. Then, you must collect the seeds of all the different species in the world and take them aboard the boat, together with the seven wisest rishis. Then wait for me. I shall appear to you as a horned animal.’
“Manu did as he was told. Then the fish appeared with a great horn on its head, and Manu made a loop in the rope and fastened it around the horn. The fish set off at great speed over the billowing and roaring ocean, the boat tossed and danced like a drunken whore, and never did they see a speck of land. Water covered the entire earth. After many years, the fish approached the highest peak of the Himalaya, and there Manu moored the boat. To this day, that peak is called Naubandhana, the harbor.
“Then the fish revealed itself as Brahma, lord of beings, and he decreed that Manu should create anew all the creatures that had perished in the flood. And so it happened.”
“Great muni, you have lived through a thousand ages,”
said Yudhishthira, “and witnessed huge events.
You have seen worlds destroyed and re-created.
Please describe how the ages arise and pass,
how they succeed each other in a cycle.”
“I shall do so,” replied Markandeya,
“but first I bow to the Supreme Person,
Krishna, the self-created.
“At the beginning,
in the era known as the Krita age,
human beings mingle with the gods,
moving from earth to heaven as they wish.
They live long lives, pain-free, harmonious,
their every action shaped by righteousness.
But, in time, people become corrupted;
lust arises, and corrosive envy.
Their lives grow short and full of misery,
they fight among themselves, beset by anger;
the gods desert them. Virtue is diminished
by one quarter. That is the Treta age,
which is said to last for three thousand years.
That gives way to the Dvapara age.
Now vice and virtue are mixed half and half.
“Last is the Kali age, a dreadful time
when every kind of evil stalks the earth.
All sense of the sacred fades away.
Vedas are treated with indifference
as people think of nothing but possessions
and make no offerings to their ancestors.
Social differences are swept aside,
brahmins and shudras doing each other’s work.
Greed is universal, with no respect
for morality, or for the natural world.
Sons kill fathers, women butcher husbands.
There is drought, famine, pestilence and death
—until the Krita age comes round again.
“Once, after the end of a Kali age,
in a desolate time between ages,
wandering the earth, and finding nothing
that moved or breathed, only a waste of water,
I came across a towering banyan tree.
On a branch, a tiny child was sitting,
round-faced, radiant and lotus-eyed.
He spoke to me: ‘My friend Markandeya,
I know you are very tired. Rest in me,
enter my body and I shall make space for you.’
He opened his mouth wide, and I found myself
entering it, and suddenly I saw
a world spread out before me—kingdoms, cities,
oceans, rivers alive with gleaming fish,
the dazzling peaks of the Himalaya,
the heavens blazing with bright constellations.
I saw plains, forests, every kind of creature—
I roamed in the body of the great spirit
for more than a hundred years, and never reached
the limit of it. At last I called upon
the being whose world this was. A gust of wind
blew me from his mouth, and the dark-skinned child
was sitting as before. ‘Have you rested
in this body of mine?’ he asked me, smiling.
I took his rosy feet into my hands
and touched them with my head.
“‘O lord of gods,’
I said, ‘why are you here as a little child?
I have seen things beyond my understanding.
Please explain ultimate reality.’
‘I am Narayana,’ replied the child,
‘creator and destroyer of all creatures.
I am Vishnu, Shiva, Yama and all gods.
I am the Placer; I am the Sacrifice.
To sustain the earth, I manifest
at different times as different incarnations;
I take on human form to combat evil
but no one knows me. Understand, brahmin,
that every human quality and impulse—
anger, lust, fear, joy, confusion
as well as duty, truthfulness, compassion—
is an aspect of me. Human beings act
not from free will, but influenced by me.
I alone control the wheel of time.
At the end of each cycle of ages
I am all-destroying Time itself.’
“I remember these great revelations
in all their vividness,” said Markandeya.
“Know that your beloved friend and cousin
is none other than Narayana.
You should place your absolute trust in him.”
The Pandavas made obeisance to Krishna
who acknowledged them affectionately.
“Out of catastrophe,” the seer went on,
“the cycle of time, inexorably turning,
will give rise to a new Krita age.
Led by a brahmin, people will turn again,
in a spirit of devotion, to the gods.”
“What must I do,” asked Yudhishthira,
“to rule justly and protect my subjects?”
“Be compassionate,” said Markandeya,
“treat the people as if they were your children,
honor the gods, and always uphold dharma.
Be humble, and atone for any wrongdoing
with sacrifices. Furthermore, my son,
be decisive, do not let your heart
be weighed down by doubt and hesitation.”
Markandeya gave many more teachings
as his eager listeners sat around him.
When Krishna’s party and the Pandavas
were left alone, the conversation flowed.
There was a wealth of news to be exchanged.
“How are my children—tell me everything,”
asked Draupadi eagerly. Krishna told her,
“Your sons are flourishing. They are virtuous,
strong, and keen on mastering every weapon.
Abhimanyu has been training them
and, for a mother, they have had Subhadra,
who has cared for them devotedly.”
Draupadi and Satyabhama drew aside
to share news and exchange confidences.
“Tell me, Draupadi,” said Satyabhama,
“how do you keep your husbands loyal to you?
They are proud and virile men, yet I notice
that they are never angry with you, always
casting you loving looks. Do you use spells
or potions? Do you practice austerities?
Tell me the secret of your power, so I, too,
may keep Krishna always devoted to me.”
“Questions like these are unworthy of you,
as you know yourself,” replied Draupadi.
“A wife who conjures spells or uses potions
and other such things to ensnare her husband
will never make him happy, nor will she
live peacefully with him. If he finds out,
he will always be suspicious of her—
not a good basis for domestic bliss.
A woman’s husband has to be her god;
that is the law I follow. You know, scripture
teaches us that the way to heaven for women
is simply through obedience to her husband.
Since my marriage, my one and only practice
is to serve my husbands and their other wives
with all my heart and soul. My eyes delight
in no other men but them, in all the world.
From dawn to dusk, I try to meet their needs,
both obvious and subtle. I am always
the first to rise, last to lie down at night.
I do my utmost to cherish each of them
and not to give them cause for irritation.
I pay great attention; I watch over
my reasonable, calm and gentle husbands
as though they were irascible, poisonous snakes.
“When Yudhishthira ruled Indraprastha
I waited daily on my husbands’ mother
and spoke not one word of complaint about her,
nor argued with her, even with good cause.
I saw to every detail of the household.
The king had many thousand serving women,
thousands of slave girls, skilled in the courtly arts.
I knew the name, the attributes, the history
of every one of them. I listened to them.
I laid down the servants’ daily duties
and saw that they were properly performed.
I managed the finances of the household—
I alone knew the particulars
of what the imperial treasury contained.
I cultivated my husbands’ favorites
and blocked the access of their enemies.
“All this is my ‘secret,’ Satyabhama,
nothing devious. By serving my husbands
every minute of my waking life,
regarding them in the most generous spirit,
we live together in harmony and love,
for they, in their turn, love me most sincerely.
Through my devotion, they become devoted.
So my advice is—follow this example;
and, furthermore, delight your husband’s senses
by wearing lovely garments, flowers and perfume.
That is the way to keep Krishna’s affection.”
The time drew nearer when the Pandavas
would end their exile, and King Dhritarashtra
grew more and more disturbed. Through a brahmin
who had seen the Pandavas in the forest,
he had had news—he knew that Arjuna
now possessed many celestial weapons;
he knew about the brothers’ pilgrimage,
and from whom they had received advice.
The anxious king listened to all the gossip
that came his way, the scraps of information
from travelers passing through Hastinapura.
What he heard gave him no shred of comfort.
And what he did not hear, imagination
supplied in the most terrifying detail.
He thought about the bitter sense of grievance
the Pandavas must be nursing in their hearts
and groaned. “How could they possibly forgive
the insults lovely Draupadi endured
at my sons’ hands? There is no way for us
to escape their terrible revenge. Surely
we stand no chance against Bhima’s searing wrath.
Our forces will be wiped out by Arjuna!”
All this he was prone to say openly
in the hearing of the entire court,
and Duryodhana fumed, “The craven coward!
Why does my father not believe in me?
Why does he have no faith in all my planning,
the strength I’ve built up over all these years?”
For Duryodhana had not wasted time.
He had made sure his cronies occupied
the most strategic posts within the court,
so now he held the reins of royal power
in all but name. With the help of Karna,
he had built up a massive fighting force.
He had used wealth to ingratiate himself
with the citizens, and to win support
from neighboring kings, securing promises
that they would fight for him when the time came.
He was resolved: no argument on earth
would make him yield his cousin’s former kingdom.
But though he swaggered outwardly, in secret
he was afraid, increasingly oppressed
as the twelfth month of the twelfth year approached.
Karna consoled him, “My prince, you are greater
than anyone on earth. No one can crush you—
the Pandavas should recognize that fact.
Suppose we organize an expedition,
take a huge entourage into the forest
to the beautiful Lake Dvaitavana
near where the Pandavas live out their lives
in squalor and degradation? Let them see
the painful contrast between their pitiful
resources and your own magnificence.”
“A good plan!” said Duryodhana. At once,
using the pretext of an official tour
of the cattle stations owned by the king,
a large party set out for the forest—
Kaurava brothers, courtiers and friends,
provisioners, cooks and valets, maidservants,
carpenters; dozens of concubines and wives,
bejeweled and richly dressed; most accomplished
singers, musicians, acrobats, dancing girls,
carried in palanquins and carriages;
laden carts—flanked by a well-armed escort
of a thousand soldiers, their bronze helmets
glittering. Duryodhana inspected
the cattle stations, had the new calves branded,
discussed the breeding program with the herdsmen.
Then they settled, pitched their elaborate camp
a short distance from where the Pandavas
had their dwelling, making such a din
with bonfires, drumming and festivities
the exiles could not fail to notice them.
For many days, they enjoyed themselves—
playing games with the cowherds, chasing deer
and wild boar. One day, hot and tired from hunting,
the prince sent his men to the nearby lake
to prepare a place for him to bathe.
They found it fenced off, guarded by gandharvas.
The peaceful lake was reserved for their king
and his consorts. “Then they must make way,”
said the servants, “our great prince, Duryodhana,
wishes to bathe.” The gandharvas were amused.
“Your witless prince is dreaming if he thinks
that he, a mortal, can command celestials!”
Duryodhana approached with his entourage
and a battle followed. The gandharva king
was Chitrasena, Arjuna’s close friend
from the five years he had spent in Indra’s realm.
The gandharvas took to the air, wheeling,
swooping like birds of prey. Some Kaurava troops,
terrified, ran off in all directions,
but Karna stood his ground and, single-handed,
loosing his arrows with amazing skill,
cut down many hundreds of gandharvas—
who fell, but quickly sprang up once again
until the field was swarming with gandharvas
by the thousand. But the Kaurava princes
rallied and, led by Karna, strongly attacked
the gandharvas. Chitrasena, furious,
summoned up illusion. Courageous Karna
fought stubbornly, showering his attackers
with razor-sharp arrows, killing hundreds
until, his chariot shattered, he was forced
to quit the fight.
On seeing this, the troops
that still remained gave up, and ran in fear
toward the position where Yudhishthira,
having heard the tumult, was observing
all that took place. Duryodhana, though wounded,
did not give in, and fought on, single-handed,
until Chitrasena overpowered him
and captured him alive. He was tied up,
as were his wives and several of his brothers.
The abject troops, Duryodhana’s retainers
and the straggling, sobbing camp followers
begged for protection from the Pandavas.
Seeing his cousins captured, and their servants
begging for asylum, bull-like Bhima
crowed in triumph. “They’ve got what they deserve—
they hoped to see us living in misery;
now let the gandharvas finish them!”
“No vengeance for now,” said Yudhishthira.
“They are our kin, we’re honor bound to help
no matter what they’ve done to us. Revenge
will take another form than this, believe me.
To save the life of a humiliated
enemy will be pleasure enough for now.
Arjuna, the twins and you, Bhima,
must set our cousins free. Be mild at first,
but if the gandharvas will not give way
then you must use all necessary means
to release the captives.”
The Pandavas
strapped on their shining armor, and leapt onto
their well-made chariots. Fierce battle followed,
with all the gandharvas’ skill and wizardry
pitted against the mighty Pandavas.
Arrows and spears rained down. The celestials
tried to break the Pandavas’ chariots
as they had smashed those of the Kauravas.
But they were kept at bay successfully.
Arjuna deployed his celestial weapons
to such effect that thousands of gandharvas
fell dead upon the ground. Others attempted
to fly away, but Arjuna created
a net of arrows, so that they were trapped
like linnets in a cage. Then Chitrasena,
seeing his forces beaten and terrified,
joined the fray in disguise, grasping his mace,
and rushed at Arjuna, who parried the blows,
shattering the great club. And whatever
illusions the gandharva king employed
Arjuna penetrated and defused them.
Outmaneuvered, Chitrasena then
revealed himself as Arjuna’s old friend.
Arjuna laughed, astonished. “Chitrasena!
Why have you held our cousin and his brothers?”
“Indra instructed me,” said Chitrasena.
“He wants to punish that mean-spirited man
who came expressly to intimidate you.
I am to deliver him to Indra.”
“But he is our kinsman,” said Arjuna.
“Please let him go—Yudhishthira requests it.”
“That evildoer does not deserve freedom,”
grumbled Chitrasena. Nonetheless,
Duryodhana and his party were set free.
Yudhishthira thanked him, and Chitrasena,
whose dead gandharvas had been restored to life,
departed for the kingdom of the gods.
The Dharma King turned to Duryodhana
and addressed him in a soothing tone.
“Friend, spiteful gloating’s never a good idea,
nor is rash violence. Let me advise you
not to be so impulsive. Now, set off home
in safety and good heart.”
Duryodhana,
his head bowed, walked away in silence.
He was overwhelmed with shame and bitterness.
Karna, knowing nothing of what had happened,
greeted him with joy. “You have survived!
What a warrior you are, defeating
the massed gandharvas—and you have emerged
unscathed!” Duryodhana shed bitter tears.
“Karna, it was not like that, not at all.”
He told his friend of his humiliation,
of how the gandharvas had been persuaded
to release him through no skill of his.
“Witnessed by my brothers, by my women,
the very men whom I set out to harm
saved my life! I wish I had died in battle.
What warrior of spirit could bear to live
owing his life to his enemies,
mocked by all? Certainly not I!
I have brought this ignominy on myself;
now I have resolved to fast unto death.
Duhshasana can lead the Kauravas!”
Karna tried to imbue the prince with courage
and, failing, vowed that he would die himself
rather than walk the earth without his friend.
Shakuni rebuked Duryodhana,
“Come, this excessive grief is foolishness.
Think of the humiliation you inflicted
on the Pandavas in the gaming hall,
yet, as you see, they hold their heads high;
you don’t see them fasting unto death.
Your cousins acted well—they rescued you
and you should thank them, and magnanimously
restore their kingdom to them. That’s the way
to earn the respect of friends and enemies.”
But Duryodhana was unmoved. “I will die.
Life is joyless to me now, a desert
empty of all delight. Friends, I embrace you.
Leave me here; return to Hastinapura.”
The grim-faced prince stripped off his finery
and sat on the hard earth, composed and silent.
In the dank and gloomy underworld,
demons who had been defeated by the gods
heard with dismay of Duryodhana’s vow.
In the ongoing war of gods and demons
they had great hopes of him. With magic spells
they had him brought to appear before them
and, as in a dream, Duryodhana
found himself in a huge and crowded hall,
the smoking sconces bolted to the walls
shedding a lurid light.
Demons jostled him
on every side, “O mighty Kaurava,
why are you doing violence to yourself?
It is wrong to give way to despair.
You are no mere mortal, but divine,
as we are. Long ago, with Shiva’s blessing,
you were formed out of diamonds and flowers,
beautiful to women, invincible.
You will destroy your enemies. We demons
will take possession of the inner souls
of Bhishma, of Drona and of Kripa.
However much they love the Pandavas,
they will fight for you with complete ruthlessness,
and will defeat your cousins and their allies.
As for Arjuna—we have a plan.
The demon Naraka has entered into
Karna, whose mission is to fight and kill
the Left-handed Archer. Knowing this,
Krishna, wielder of the all-slaying discus,
has arranged for Karna to be robbed
of the gold earrings and protective armor
he was born with. But if it should happen
that Karna dies, then demons by the thousand
inhabiting the bodies of your allies,
and sworn to destroy the Left-handed Archer,
will slaughter Arjuna, no doubt about it.
Go now—direct your mind to victory!”
Duryodhana awoke from this encounter
no longer set on death. Immensely heartened,
keeping secret what he had been told,
triumphantly, he rode back to the city.
From that day forward he prepared for war
whole-heartedly, convinced he could not lose.
He set in train a lavish sacrifice
and invited guests from far and wide,
including the Pandavas. Yudhishthira
graciously declined the invitation—
the period of exile was not yet spent.
Karna was full of joy to see his friend
resolute again. “Greatest of kings,
I swear to you, I shall not wash my feet
until I have ground Arjuna in the dust!”