24.
When news of Karna’s vow reached the Pandavas
Yudhishthira was much cast down, for Karna
was the enemy he feared above all others—
knowing him to be a supreme archer,
passionate in his hatred for Arjuna.
It was a dark time. Again, Yudhishthira,
pained by the privations of his family,
knowing himself to blame, was in despair;
while they in turn, seeing him distressed,
were seized with wrathfulness, and with a passion
to punish those who had caused his misery.
Vyasa arrived and spoke to Yudhishthira.
“Virtuous conduct is always rewarded
in this life or the next. Control your sorrow.
Live each day with a calm and even mind,
treating success and setback equally.
Once, you lived in luxury and wealth;
now you are suffering. To be happy,
one has to suffer first. Each of these states
is simply how things are. The two conditions
succeed each other as the seasons do.
The wheel turns. You will regain your kingdom
after the thirteenth year has run its course.
With your strong brothers and your mighty allies
supporting you, you will be king again.
“The wise, neither mourning nor rejoicing,
take what life brings with equanimity.
But with austerity and discipline
wonders may be achieved.”
“Which is greater,”
asked Yudhishthira, “austerity
or giving?” Vyasa answered, “In my view,
nothing is more difficult than giving
in a spirit of pure-heartedness
when wealth has been hard won. Let me tell you
the old story of the gleaner Mudgala.
“MUDGALA WAS A law-abiding man, who subsisted on grains of rice picked up from the fields. Yet he was able to give food generously to others since, by virtue of his austerities, the grains multiplied when a guest visited him.
“The seer Durvasas decided to test his generosity. He appeared in the form of an unkempt madman and demanded food. Mudgala welcomed him, washed his feet and set food before him. The madman gobbled up all the food there was, so there was nothing left for the gleaner to eat. Then he smeared the scrapings on his body and departed. The next day, he turned up again, and so it continued for six days, but Mudgala welcomed him each time, and showed no trace of impatience or discourtesy.
“‘I have never encountered such pure-hearted generosity!’ exclaimed the seer, revealing his true identity. ‘For this, you will go to heaven in your body.’
“A celestial chariot, drawn by swans and cranes, arrived to take Mudgala to heaven. But the gleaner wanted first to know what heaven was like—who lived there, and what were their qualities? The celestial messenger told him, ‘Heaven is inhabited by the virtuous, who enjoy happy and pain-free lives there. But once the merit earned in their previous lives is exhausted, they return to earth and are reborn in another body. Beyond heaven there are other worlds, in the highest of which eternal bliss may be attained, beyond happiness and sorrow, beyond rebirth. That world is very hard to reach, even for the gods. Only those who have transcended desire may go there.’
“Mudgala reflected, and decided that so imperfect a heaven as he was being offered was not for him. He entered a life of extreme self-denial and meditation and, in time, he achieved moksha.”
Vyasa then continued on his travels,
leaving Yudhishthira happier than before.
As he slept that night, he had a dream.
A group of weeping deer appeared to him
and stood before him, trembling with terror.
“We are all that’s left of the rich stocks
of animals that once lived in this woodland.
All the others have been hunted down
for food, by your party. Now there are barely
enough of us to reproduce our kind.”
Yudhishthira was seized by remorse and pity.
The next day, he began to organize
a move to another part of the forest
where they would set up a new hermitage,
and live until the twelve years had expired.
One afternoon, the Pandavas went hunting.
Draupadi remained at the hermitage
with Dhaumya, the priest. A while later,
Jayadratha, king of the Sindhus (husband
of Dhritarashtra’s daughter, Duhshala),
happened by with his retinue, and noticed
Draupadi wandering among the trees
gathering flowers, and radiating beauty
as the moon illumines the dark clouds.
He lusted after her—her slender waist,
full breasts and shapely hips, and her lovely face.
He sent a close companion to inquire
who she was. Draupadi was conscious
that to converse with this man was improper
but, since there was no one else to answer,
she spoke, naming her husbands, inviting him
to wait, and be the guest of Yudhishthira,
together with his friend.
The companion
reported back; Jayadratha approached her,
smitten with desire. “Come, gorgeous one,
let me transport you to a better life
than this, inflicted on you by those husbands,
exiled, down on their luck. I promise you
luxury, wealth, pleasure . . . What do you say?”
Draupadi blazed with anger, “Ignorant fool!
Do you take me for an unprotected woman?
How dare you insult my husbands, famous warriors
unsurpassed anywhere! You can no more
defeat them than an idiot with a stick
could hope to subdue a rutting elephant.
Be on your way!”
“Mere words won’t put me off,”
laughed Jayadratha, and, laying hands on her,
he forced her onto his chariot, and drove off,
flanked by his guards. Dhaumya followed them.
The Pandavas, sensing something was amiss,
hurried back to the hermitage, where they found
Draupadi’s maidservant distraught and weeping.
She told them what had happened and, at once,
they set off in pursuit of Jayadratha.
They followed traces left by the abductors
and soon caught up with them. Dhaumya, in the rear,
shouted to the brothers, “Attack! Attack!”
Tiger-like, the Pandavas launched themselves
against the forces of the king of Sindhu.
Bhima’s mace, its spikes ablaze with gold,
was whirling, slaughtering the foot soldiers
by the dozen. Nakula, unmatched swordsman,
cut a swath through the mounted enemy,
their heads flying off like seeds in the wind,
while Sahadeva with his spear, Yudhishthira
and Arjuna with their fine, deadly arrows,
reduced the Sindhu soldiers to a rabble,
fleeing in all directions. When Jayadratha
saw that the fight was lost, he too fled,
abandoning Draupadi. “He won’t escape,”
shouted Bhima, “I’ll catch and kill the villain!”
“No,” said Yudhishthira, “for Gandhari’s sake,
and Duhshala’s, vile scoundrel though he is,
he should not be killed.”
“That excrescence,”
protested Draupadi, glowing with anger,
“that abortion of the Sindhu race
does not deserve to live!”
With difficulty,
Bhima refrained from killing Jayadratha
when he caught him. Instead, he made him grovel,
thrashed him brutally, and shaved his head
so that five tufts remained. Yudhishthira
had him brought, and delivered a homily
which, perhaps, was worst of all. Jayadratha
crept away, aching, badly disgraced,
vowing vengeance. Later he embarked
on severe austerities, with a view
to obtaining a boon from Lord Shiva:
that he would block the Pandavas in battle
—excepting Arjuna, who was protected
by Krishna, supreme master of the discus.
Sitting with Markandeya one afternoon,
Yudhishthira was full of despondency.
“Life here is hard—living as forest dwellers,
forced to kill other forest dwellers for food;
our blameless wife abducted, our close kin
attacking us as enemies—was there ever
anyone more afflicted with misfortune?”
“You are not unique,” said Markandeya,
“Rama, too, lost his beautiful wife, Sita,
abducted by the demon Ravana.”
Markandeya went on to tell the tale
of Rama and his brother, Lakshmana;
how they and Sita endured forest exile;
how Ravana seized Sita, and transported her
to Lanka; how, with the help of Hanuman
and his fellow monkeys, she was rescued;
how, at first, Rama rejected her;
but how, at last, the couple were united
and Rama installed as king of Ayodhya.
“So, you see, you are not the only prince
to suffer tribulations. You are sustained
by your bull-like brothers. You should not grieve.”
“My sorrow is not only for myself,”
said Yudhishthira, “nor even for my brothers,
but for our wife who is so cruelly wronged.
Was there ever a woman so virtuous
and loving as Draupadi?”
“Let me tell you,”
said the sage, “the story of another
highborn woman, the princess Savitri.
“IN THE LAND of the Madras, there lived a king, named Ashvapati. He was generous, devout, an excellent king and loved by all his subjects. But he had no children and, as the years went by, this troubled him more and more. He entered on a course of strict austerities, dedicated to the goddess Savitri and, after eighteen years had passed, she appeared before him, rising up out of the sacred fire.
“‘I am pleased with you, O king. You may choose a boon from me.’
“‘I wish for many sons, to maintain my lineage,’ said Ashvapati.
“‘You shall not have sons,’ said Savitri, ‘but a lovely daughter will be born to you—no argument. That is how it will be.’
“‘May it be soon,’ said the king.
“In the fullness of time, a girl was born to his first queen, and the king called her Savitri, after the goddess. She grew up so formidably beautiful that potential suitors were reluctant to seek her hand in marriage. Eventually, her father sent her out into the world, suitably escorted, to find a husband for herself. She was gone for months, touring forests and sacred fords, conversing with sages, giving freely to brahmins. When she returned, she found her father sitting with the seer Narada.
“‘Father, I have chosen my husband. In the land of the Shalvas, there is a god-fearing king, Dyumatsena. Some time ago, he went blind, and an old enemy, seeing an opportunity, ousted him and sent him to the forest. It is his son, Satyavat, to whom I have given my heart. He is brave and generous—and he is an artist!’
“‘Satyavat is perfect in every way,’ said all-seeing Narada. ‘But the bad news is that he is destined to die exactly one year from now.’
“‘That is bad news indeed!’ exclaimed the king. ‘My dear one, you had better choose again.’
“‘There are some things in life,’ Savitri said, ‘that happen only once. I have chosen my husband, and I will not choose a second time.’
“‘Savitri has spoken well,’ said Narada, and with that he took his leave and flew up into the sky.
“Sad, but resigned, the king visited Dyumatsena, and arranged his daughter’s marriage to Satyavat. She lived in the forest with her husband and his family, a devoted wife and daughter-in-law, and everyone who knew her loved her. She mentioned to no one what Narada had told her. As the day approached when Satyavat was due to die, she undertook an act of austerity, standing for three days and nights continually, fasting. Then she poured libations on the sacred fire, her heart aching.
“On the fateful day, she announced that she would go with Satyavat when he went deep into the forest, to gather fruit. ‘It will be too hard for you,’ he said, ‘especially after your severe fast.’ But she insisted, and the two set off. All around were flowering trees and sparkling brooks, and Savitri pretended to be light-hearted, though she was watchful, tense with fear.
“Satyavat put the fruit he had collected in a sack, and started to split firewood. Suddenly, he exclaimed, ‘Oh, my head is hurting terribly, as if it is pierced with knives! I can’t go on,’ and he sank to the ground, unconscious. Savitri embraced him, and sat nursing his head in her lap.
“Then she saw a handsome, dark-skinned man approaching through the trees, dressed in saffron, a noose in his hand. Gently laying her husband’s head on the ground, she stood and greeted the stranger respectfully.
“‘Please tell me who you are, and what you want,’ she said, in a trembling voice.
“‘I am Yama, god of death,’ he answered. ‘Your husband’s life has run its course, and, because he is a virtuous man, I have come myself to fetch him, rather than sending my minions. I have deigned to answer you because I know that you, too, live a blameless and disciplined life.’ Yama drew from Satyavat’s body a thumb-sized figure and tied it in his noose. As he did so, Satyavat stopped breathing, and his skin lost its luster. Yama turned and walked away, and Savitri followed.
“‘You must turn back, Savitri,’ said Yama. ‘Return and perform funeral rites for your husband. You have come as far as you can.’
“‘Where my husband goes, I will go,’ replied Savitri, ‘that is dharma. I look for no other way.’
“‘You speak well,’ said Yama. ‘You may choose any boon, other than your husband’s life, and I shall grant it.’
“‘Then may my father-in-law’s sight be restored.’
“‘So be it,” said Yama. ‘But you are exhausted—you should turn back now.’
“‘How can I be tired when I am with my husband?’ said Savitri. ‘Wherever he goes, I will go. It is said that friendship with the virtuous is the highest good. I will walk with this virtuous man.’
“‘What you say pleases me,’ said Yama. ‘Choose another boon—other than the life of Satyavat.’
“‘Then may my father-in-law’s kingdom be restored to him.’
“‘It shall be done,’ said Yama. ‘Now, turn back.’
“‘You carry people away by force, not of their own choosing,’ said Savitri. ‘Most people in the world are kindly disposed. But only the truly virtuous are compassionate even to their enemies.’
“‘Beautifully put!’ exclaimed Yama. ‘Choose another boon from me—other than this man’s life.’
“‘I am my father’s only child,’ said Savitri. ‘I ask that he should have a hundred sons, to carry his line.’
“‘Granted,’ said Yama. ‘Now, return home, for you have come a long way down this road.’
“Savitri refused. She continued to walk with Death, talking of dharma with great eloquence, as her husband dangled from Yama’s noose.
“Yama grew more and more delighted with her. He granted her the boon that she and Satyavat would have a hundred sons and, as she continued to talk, calmly and wisely, refusing to leave her husband, Yama offered her a final boon, this time without conditions.
“‘Then let my husband live, for without him, my own life is a living death. Without him I have no desire for riches, good fortune, even for heaven. And without him, how can I give birth to a hundred sons?’
“Yama smiled, and untied Satyavat from the noose. ‘Look, I have freed your husband, virtuous woman. You will live in peace and happiness together.’ Savitri joyfully walked back to where her husband’s body lay. She placed his head in her lap, and he awoke, bewildered.
“‘I fell asleep and dreamed—or was it real? I found myself in terrible darkness, and I remember a majestic figure who dragged me away . . .’
“‘Later, I will tell you what happened,’ said Savitri, ‘but night is falling—we should hurry home.’ Soon it was pitch dark and they could hear wild animals rustling menacingly in the undergrowth. But Satyavat knew the forest well, and they safely reached the hermitage.
“They found the whole community in a fever of anxiety at their absence. Search parties had been sent out for them. But King Dyumatsena had regained his sight, to everyone’s great joy. The next day, Savitri recounted the whole story—how the seer, Narada, had foretold Satyavat’s death, and how, through persistence and eloquence, she had won back his life, as well as other boons.
“Soon afterward, the king regained his kingdom. And, in time, Savitri gave birth to a hundred sons, and so did her mother.
“So you see,” said the sage to Yudhishthira,
“Savitri, through her virtue and good sense,
rescued those she loved; and in the same way
Draupadi sustains the Pandavas!”
As the end of the twelfth year approached,
Karna’s father, Surya, the sun god,
appeared to Karna in a dream, to warn him.
“Most truthful of men, the mighty Indra,
anticipating war, and keen to favor
the Pandavas, will try to take the earrings
and the golden armor you were born with.
The whole world knows how generous you are,
how you never refuse to give to brahmins
when they ask. So he will come to you
in brahminical disguise, and beg from you
your earrings and your shining gold cuirass.
Offer him something else—give him anything
except those things, for they are your protection.
Wearing them, you cannot be killed in battle;
without them, you are open, vulnerable.”
“Lord of light, I know you say this to me
for my own good. I am devoted to you
as to no other deity. I love you
more than my wife, my sons, my friends, myself.
But I do not fear death as I fear untruth;
I would rather die than be dishonored.
Giving to brahmins is my avowed practice
and if I die as a result, so be it;
I shall gain fame thereby.”
“Posthumous fame,”
said Surya, “is a rather poor reward
if you are reduced to a pile of ashes
and scattered to the winds. A dead man’s fame
is as useless as adorning him with jewels.
There is a reason, known only to the gods,
why you should keep the armor you were born with.”
“I have my arms, my strength, my hard-won skill,”
said Karna. “I can defeat Arjuna
with those alone.”
“Then at least,” said Surya,
“if your mind is so set on your vow,
ask the wielder of the thunderbolt
for a celestial weapon in exchange.”
The dream ended, and Karna remembered it.
Not long afterward, as he was praying
to the lord Surya, standing in the river
with hands joined in devotion, a tall brahmin
approached him begging alms. “What shall I give you?”
asked Karna. “Your earrings and your golden armor,”
replied the holy man. “Respected brahmin,
please ask for something else,” said Karna, “wealth,
women, cattle, land . . . I need my armor
to protect me from my enemies.”
But the brahmin, as Karna knew he would,
refused all other gifts. “O chief of gods,”
said Karna, laughing, “I know who you are.
Is it not the business of the gods
to give gifts to mortals? That being so,
if I am to mutilate my body
you should give me something in exchange.”
“Very well,” said Indra, “choose a gift—
Surya must have told you I was coming.
Take anything except my thunderbolt.”
Karna chose Indra’s javelin, which always
found its mark and flew back to his hand.
Indra said, “You shall have it but, for you,
it will only hit a single target
and then return to me.”
“A single target
is enough,” said Karna: “that mighty hero
I fear above all others.”
“Be aware,”
said Indra, “that the hero you have in mind
is protected by Narayana himself.”
“No matter,” Karna said, “give me the spear.
But grant that I will not appear disfigured
when I have cut the armor from my body.”
“Karna, because you are a man of truth
your body will be unscarred. You will retain
the radiance you inherit from your father.”
Then, having accepted the tall spear,
Karna took a sharp knife, and he cut
and cut until the golden armor peeled
slowly away, and he presented it,
wet with blood, to Indra. As he did so
he did not show the smallest sign of pain.
The heavens echoed with admiring shouts
and flowers rained down on the hero’s head.
When the news of Karna’s renunciation
reached the Kauravas, they were dismayed.
But the Pandavas rejoiced when they heard.
Now the Pandavas began to talk
about the final period of their exile:
how and where could they live unrecognized?
One day, an old brahmin approached them, shouting—
a stag had run off with his kindling sticks,
he could not do his daily rites without them.
The Pandavas set off in swift pursuit,
they spread out separately, but none of them
hit the animal. Then they lost sight of it.
Nakula, parched with thirst, came to a lake
and, crouching to drink, he heard a booming voice:
“You may not drink until you give the answers
to the questions I wish to put to you.”
Nakula looked around and, seeing no one,
and desperate with thirst, drank anyway.
Instantly, he fell dead on the bank.
One by one, his other brothers came,
heard the voice, drank, and also fell lifeless.
Last came Yudhishthira, horrified to find
his brothers dead and, though he was as thirsty
as they had been, when he heard the voice
he reflected, drew back, and, speaking humbly,
called, “Who are you, mysterious being?
Ask your questions, but please let me see you.”
A monstrous figure immediately appeared,
towering over the surrounding landscape.
“I am a yaksha, and this lake is mine;
your brothers foolishly disobeyed me.”
Then the yaksha fired riddles at him
and, just as quickly, Yudhishthira replied:
“What is it that makes the sun rise?”
“Brahman.”
“Who are the sun’s companions?”
“The gods.”
“How does a person achieve greatness?”
“Greatness is achieved through austerity.”
“What is one’s most constant friend?”
“Insight.”
“By what means does one acquire insight?”
“Through devotedly serving one’s elders.”
“What is swifter than the wind?”
“The mind.”
“What is the highest gift of heaven?”
“The truth.”
“What is the most valuable possession?”
“Knowledge.”
“What is the highest dharma?”
“Non-cruelty.”
“What can be renounced without regret?”
“Anger.”
“What disease is a bar to happiness?”
“Greed.”
“What is ignorance?”
“Not knowing one’s dharma.”
“How does one find bliss in the next world?”
“By acting virtuously in this one.”
“What sleeps with its eyes open?”
“A fish.”
“What does not move when it is born?”
“An egg.”
“What has no heart?”
“A rock has no heart.”
“What grows as it rushes on its way?”
“A river grows as it rushes on its way.”
“What is the greatest wonder in the world?”
“That, every single day, people die,
yet the living think they are immortal.”
The huge being asked many more questions
and smiled with pleasure when Yudhishthira
gave the answers. At last, it was satisfied.
“You have answered well. Now you may choose
one of your brothers to be restored to life.”
“I choose Nakula,” said Yudhishthira.
The yaksha was surprised, “But surely Bhima
is dearest to you. And you need Arjuna
to fight for you in the war that is to come.”
“Yes,” said Yudhishthira, “but my father
had two wives—and it is only right
that one of Madri’s sons should also live.”
There was a searing flash over the lake.
The yaksha disappeared and became Dharma,
god of righteousness, Yudhishthira’s father.
He was delighted with his son’s replies,
and brought all four brothers back to life.
“I was the stag that took the brahmin’s sticks—
here they are. Now ask a favour of me.”
“My lord, grant that in our thirteenth year
of exile we will not be recognized.”
“It shall happen as you wish,” said Dharma.
“And, Father, if I may ask one thing more:
may my mind always lead me toward the truth.”
“You ask for what you already have, my son.”
And the god Dharma blessed the Pandavas.