XIV
56.
Bhishma was no more. After the rites
were over, and libations had been poured,
Yudhishthira sank down on the riverbank.
Seeing him despondent, his brothers too
sat gloomily beside him on the ground.
Dhritarashtra tried to encourage him.
“Come now, it is Gandhari and I
who should be crushed by grief. Have we not lost
a hundred sons, as if they were never born?
You have gained all you were fighting for.”
Krishna, too, rebuked him. “This is feeble!
There is a world of tasks awaiting you.”
“Krishna,” said the king, “you have always loved
and supported me. Let me now retreat
to a life in the forest. I find no peace,
thinking of the horrors of the war
fought for my sake.” Vyasa spoke sternly to him.
“Yudhishthira, you are acting like a child.
Are we wasting our breath when we remind you,
over and over, of your proper duties,
when we speak of destiny’s part in this?
It is as if you are mired in ignorance
despite your long days sitting at Bhishma’s feet,
despite what Krishna and I have said to you.
If you’re incapable of being convinced,
then assuage your unnecessary guilt
by performing the horse sacrifice.”
“How can I?” replied Yudhishthira. “The war
completely drained the coffers of the state.
That sacrifice requires enormous riches.”
Vyasa said, “I know where there is treasure.
On the snowy slopes of the Himalaya
vast quantities of gold were once buried
by King Marutta, after a sacrifice.
That treasure is still there.”
Yudhishthira
was astonished. “How did that come about?”
Vyasa told him:
“KING MARUTTA wanted to perform a great sacrifice—a sacrifice on such a vast scale that no ordinary priest could perform it. He approached Brihaspati, priest to the gods, who lived in Indra’s realm. At the prompting of Indra, who was envious of Marutta, Brihaspati refused. ‘I certainly cannot act as priest for a mere mortal,’ he said. ‘Find someone else.’
“Marutta approached Brihaspati’s brother, Samvarta. The two brothers were bitter rivals. Samvarta had left Indra’s realm because he could no longer bear his brother’s jealous behavior, and Indra always took Brihaspati’s side. Marutta found him living simply in the forest, and made his request.
“Samvarta told Marutta he would do it. ‘But you will need vast wealth,’ he said, and advised Marutta to apply to Lord Shiva. ‘Only he can provide the wealth you need. But if you are successful, and my brother comes to hear of it, he and Indra will be very angry, and will seek to do you harm. You will require the utmost steadiness of mind.’ Marutta understood.
“‘High in the beautiful Himalaya,’ said Samvarta, ‘Shiva lives with his consort, Uma, engaged in the constant practice of austerity. You must go there.’
“Marutta did so, and sat in meditation for days and weeks, contemplating the many names of Shiva. At last Shiva rewarded him by granting him quantities of gold the like of which had never been seen on earth.
“Brihaspati, hearing of this, was eaten up with rage and jealousy, thinking of the splendid gifts his brother would receive. He grew emaciated, and Indra was concerned about him. Indra sent the fire god, Agni, as messenger to Marutta, offering him immortality if he would take Brihaspati as his priest for the sacrifice.
“‘Greetings to Indra. I hope all is well with him,’ said Marutta, ‘but Samvarta will be my priest for the sacrifice. Please tell Brihaspati that, since he has acted as priest to no less a being than the great Indra, it would certainly demean him to serve a mere mortal.’ Agni pestered and cajoled until finally Marutta grew angry. ‘Go away at once, or I will burn you with my evil eye acquired through austerity!’ Agni fled.
“Indra sent a gandharva to Marutta, armed with a thunderbolt, by way of persuasion. Marutta refused to change his mind, and Samvarta protected him from the force of the thunderbolt and the howling winds and rain that Indra flung at him in his wrath.
“Then Marutta had the wise idea of inviting Indra to attend the sacrifice. The god came, and was delighted with everything. The sacrifice was a great success. Marutta gave away gold by the sackful to all the brahmins present, and there was still a great deal left. This he buried, and it is that gold I am advising you to find. When you bring it back to Hastinapura, you will be able to hold the horse sacrifice.”
Yudhishthira, recovering his spirits,
consulted his ministers. But Krishna saw
that the king was not yet firm of purpose.
“My friend,” he said, “your war is not yet finished.
Your understanding is still clouded over
by complicated doubt. That is an illness
akin to bodily disease. Enmeshed
in memory and regret, you make yourself
weak and ineffective—as a tiger
caught in a net struggles this way and that
but gets nowhere. You have been victorious
in the war with weapons. You cannot bring back
the men who left their bones on the battlefield.
Now you must win the war within yourself
and seek right understanding. That is the war
that all must fight alone. There are no weapons,
no friends and allies, no supporting troops,
only your own strength. Be vigilant.
Know that craving takes many subtle forms,
and can wear the mask of righteousness.
It fritters energy; it is the broad road
to destruction. Know it for what it is.
“Persistently you long for the forest life
of renunciation. You deceive yourself.
Renunciation is a state of mind
you can achieve anywhere. You do not need
extravagant gestures, outward show, bringing
grief to those whose welfare you should cherish.
“You might say desire informs all action,
but craving, grasping, is a different matter.
To lead a life of action, without craving,
as a river flows naturally to the sea
acting simply according to its nature—
that is the highest dharma, Yudhishthira.
Discipline your mind. Start preparation
for the horse sacrifice, and let it be
the most magnificent ever seen on earth.
Acquire great merit in the eyes of the gods!”
Arjuna and Krishna spent some time
traveling together in the countryside,
enjoying mountain scenery and woods,
swimming in cool lakes and bracing streams,
seeing holy places. They visited
Indraprastha, passing happy hours
in repose and reminiscence, soul mates
delighting in each other’s company.
Their talk returned often to the war.
The loss of Abhimanyu was a sorrow
Arjuna bore always, an aching wound.
“Krishna,” said Arjuna, “on the brink of war
you revealed to me your celestial form
and showed me many truths. Unfortunately
my memory is poor—I have forgotten
what you said then. Please teach me again.”
Krishna said, “I am disappointed in you.
If you had understood what I taught you,
when I had entered an exalted state,
you would have retained it. As it is,
I cannot now repeat to you in detail
that most sacred teaching, which concerned
yoga and the spiritual path.
But I will recount to you the story
of a profound discussion I once had
with a brahmin who came from the heavenly realms
to visit us at Dvaraka. I asked him
to speak to us about enlightenment.
I shall give you the essence of what he said:
“WE COME into the world carrying the fruits of our deeds in former lives, whether good or bad. This is a world of action, and as we act we exhaust our previous deeds and accumulate the fruits of new ones—which in turn accompany us into our next rebirth. Through living virtuously, we spend some time in heaven and eventually enter a more fortunate rebirth than before. But virtuous action alone cannot permanently release us from the cycle of death and rebirth. Only yoga, spiritual discipline, can do that.
“To obtain release, one must practice concentration and meditation, freeing oneself of all passions, all preferences, all sense of ‘I.’ Through these practices, even women, and even the lowborn, can achieve freedom.”
Then Krishna told the story of the exchange
between an enlightened brahmin and his wife:
“‘HUSBAND,’ said the brahmin’s wife, ‘I notice that you no longer perform sacrifices to sustain the gods. Since a woman takes on the merits and demerits of her husband, what chance is there that I shall attain the heavenly realms if you are not following brahmin dharma?’ Her husband replied, ‘I am engaged in an internal sacrifice, the sacrifice of yoga, in which craving and sensual indulgence are symbolically committed to the flames. I have no need of empty rituals.’
“The brahmin told his wife how the various creatures of the earth had once approached Brahma, lord of created beings, to be taught. Brahma pronounced to all of them the sacred syllable ‘Om,’ and when the creatures went back to their homes they interpreted the sound in their own ways, according to their natures. The snakes understood it as an injunction to bite, the demons to practice deceit, the gods to be generous, and the seers to control their senses.
“‘As a creature acts,’ said the brahmin, ‘so it becomes. I have undergone every human experience. I have been caught up in lust and anger, and my sins have led to many miserable births. I have sucked at many breasts. I have been both blessed and cursed. I have been wounded and humiliated. I have been afflicted by disease. I have acquired great wealth and lost it all. At last, in great distress, I turned my back on the world of joy and sorrow and took refuge in the formless Infinite. Through austerity and meditation, I have followed the path to ultimate liberation. I shall suffer no more rebirths.
“‘Wife, you need have no anxiety. As I move through the world, I am part of everything that is, and it is part of me. I am everywhere, creator and destroyer. Through your devotion to me, you will come to me in the world hereafter.’
“‘I can hardly grasp what you are telling me,’ said the wife. ‘I am in need of further explanation.’ The brahmin gave her further teachings, speaking to her about the nature of Brahman, the supreme Self, and she herself became enlightened.
“Arjuna,” said Krishna, “understand
that in this parable I am the teacher,
the mind is my pupil, the brahmin’s wife,
and I am the Soul pervading all that is.
It has been taught that life is like a wheel
which only the wise can truly understand.
Non-harming, serene, free from all attachment,
such a person reaches a state of mind
beyond self, and beyond all suffering.
Remember my words, Arjuna. Follow them,
and you will reach moksha, perfect freedom.”
The time came for Krishna to depart,
to return to Dvaraka, his sea-girt city.
The Pandavas were sorrowful. Farewells
were said, the chariot loaded, and Krishna,
with Subhadra, and Satyaki, his kinsman,
set off. Once out of sight of Hastinapura,
Krishna told his charioteer, Daruka,
to urge the horses on, and the chariot,
charged with celestial power, flew like a comet.
On their way, traveling through the desert,
they came upon Uttanka, an ascetic
who knew Krishna of old. They spoke together.
Uttanka, a man of reclusive habits,
had not heard about the war. “Tell me,”
he said, “did you succeed in reconciling
the Kauravas and the Pandavas? I’m sure
you must have brought peace, powerful as you are.”
“I tried,” said Krishna, “but Duryodhana
refused to listen to advice—from me,
or from the elders. Now the Kauravas
are guests of Yama in the realm of death,
together with countless thousands of brave men.
Only the Pandavas remain. You know well,
there is no way of evading destiny.”
Uttanka’s eyes grew wide in shock and outrage.
“But you are Krishna! You could have prevented
such carnage, so much catastrophic waste.
Many of those heroes were dear to you
and yet you let it happen. I shall curse you!”
“Uttanka, in your life of discipline
you have acquired much spiritual merit.
I should hate to see that merit canceled
by an ill-judged curse—which, in any case,
would be ineffective.”
“Well,” said Uttanka,
“tell me more about your part in this.
Then I will decide whether to curse you.”
“Know me, then,” said Krishna, “as the source
of all that is, and of all that is not.
I am sacrificer and sacrifice.
I am the heart of every righteous act,
the hymn of praise, and also the object
of adoration. In all the three worlds
I am known as Vishnu, Brahma, Shiva.
I am the creator, the preserver
and the destroyer. In every age
I am the supporter of righteousness.
In every realm I take birth differently,
and I act in the manner of that realm.
Among gandharvas, I am a gandharva.
Among the Nagas, I take a Naga form.
Born now in the realm of humankind,
I take on fully human qualities.
In that form, I appealed to Duryodhana.
Finding him obdurate, I even revealed
my divine nature. But being sunk in sin,
he was not changed. War was the result.
Time overtook him.”
“Now I understand,”
said Uttanka, and he begged to witness
Krishna’s divine form, whereupon,
the curse forgotten, he bent and worshiped him
as the supreme Lord. Krishna gave him a boon:
wherever Uttanka was, needing water,
if he thought of Krishna, he would find it.
Uttanka wandered on into the desert.
Soon he became thirsty, and thought of Krishna.
A naked chandala appeared, caked with dirt
and followed by fierce dogs. A stream of urine
was flowing from his penis. “Drink,” he said,
“I can see you are thirsty.”
“I am indeed,”
said Uttanka, appalled, “but not that thirsty!”
and he sent the chandala on his way.
Presently, Krishna appeared before him.
“That was a test,” he said. “It was to see
if you could look beyond appearances.
You failed.” Uttanka was bitterly ashamed.
Krishna consoled him, “You shall still have your boon.
When you are thirsty think of me, and clouds
will instantly appear and drop sweet water.
Those rain clouds will be known as Uttanka clouds.”
And so they are, up to this very day.
In Hastinapura, there was an air of waiting.
Uttaraa was far gone in pregnancy
but still deeply grieving for Abhimanyu
and refusing food. “Please eat,” begged Kunti,
“or you will harm your baby.” Wise Vyasa
arrived to give reassurance: “This new child
will be a great hero and rule the earth.
It has been foretold. Meanwhile, O king,
you should turn your mind to preparations
for the horse sacrifice.”
Yudhishthira,
together with his brothers, started off
on the journey north to the Himalaya
in search of gold. They took along with them
substantial forces—soldiers, retainers, priests
and men possessing all the varied skills
needed to sustain their enterprise.
As the procession left, citizens gathered
to wish them well. With his white parasol
held over his head, the king was radiant.
After much traveling, the party reached
the lower mountain slopes. Vast dazzling peaks
soared above them. “This is the place,” said Vyasa.
Yudhishthira ordered that they should pitch camp,
and the party settled for the night, fasting.
Next morning, priests made offerings to Shiva—
flowers, meat and various kinds of grain—
and ghee was poured on the sacrificial fire.
Kubera, god of wealth, was also worshiped.
The ground was measured and marked out in squares
and the great excavation was begun.
After some time, glints of gold were seen.
Stashes of gold coins, vessels and objects
of various kinds, some small, some very large,
all gold, were brought out of the ground. Digging
took several weeks. Then the gold was hefted
into large panniers, and onto the backs
of thousands of pack animals. At last
the caravan lumbered off toward home,
traveling very slowly, so laden was it.
Krishna’s kinsfolk welcomed his return
with joy and celebration. As it happened,
a festival was in full swing, with flags
and floral garlands adorning every house,
and singing in the streets. Of course, his father
knew about the war, but not the details,
and Krishna told him—though selectively,
not wanting to break bad news all at once.
“Tell him!” cried Subhadra. “Tell our father
about Abhimanyu,” and she fell down
in a faint. The king, too, lost consciousness
when he heard of Abhimanyu’s death
but, recovering, wanted to know more,
longed to hear how his beloved grandson,
beautiful as Krishna, brave as Arjuna,
could have met his death. Krishna told him
how courageously Abhimanyu fought,
how sinfully he was surrounded. He spoke
of the grief of all the women, of how Uttaraa
was carrying his child. And the king,
summoning his strength, and comforted
by the certainty that Abhimanyu
had reached the highest heaven, set in train
elaborate funeral ceremonies.
Krishna performed shraddha rites, and made
rich gifts to the officiating brahmins.
The weeks passed pleasantly. But Krishna knew
that Uttaraa’s due time had nearly come.
Subhadra had already made the journey
back to Hastinapura, to be with her.
Krishna thought of the lethal Brahma weapon
and of Ashvatthaman’s curse. The whole future
of the Bharatas now rested on him.
After loving farewells to his parents,
he set out in his wonderfully made chariot
driven by Daruka, fast as the wind.
When Krishna arrived at Hastinapura
the Pandavas were still away from home
in the Himalaya. He found the women
tense with expectation; Uttaraa,
scarcely emerged from childhood herself,
was in labor. The whole city held its breath
and then the cry went up, “A boy! It’s a son!”
and there was cheering, drumming, serenade—
until the bulletin that quickly followed,
“The baby is born dead!” Catastrophe!
Every face was slippery with tears,
every house loud with lamentation,
knowing that the dynasty’s last hope
was now extinguished.
Through the palace halls,
through courtyards, corridors and colonnades
strode Krishna, his yellow silk robe streaming
behind him, his dark features purposeful.
At the entrance to the women’s quarters
Kunti met him. “Krishna! You must help us!
Fulfill your promise now. Don’t let my sons
die unmourned by heroes after them.”
She collapsed in grief, and so did Draupadi,
Subhadra and the other weeping women.
Krishna entered the room where Uttaraa lay.
Midwives and physicians were in attendance,
silent and helpless. The room was orderly
with rows of water pots, flowers and fragrant
burning wood. Uttaraa was prostrate,
convulsed with tears, crying, shrieking aloud
like a madwoman, with all the other women
weeping in sympathy. All her kin were dead;
now her lifeless baby was in her arms.
Then sitting up, trying to calm herself,
she rocked her infant son, and murmured softly,
the baby lying inert as a swaddled doll.
“O my dear one, just wake for a moment
to see the mother of your grandfather
plunged in sorrow. Pity us, my son.
But if you cannot live, go to your father,
tell him how my life is pointless now;
I should be dead myself!”
Krishna listened,
then he poured a few drops of fresh water
into his right hand, and touched with it
the infant’s lips, nostrils, both ears, both eyes,
drawing out the toxic Brahma weapon.
“I have never spoken an untruth;
I have never turned away from battle;
I have never failed to support brahmins.
By the merit of those acts of mine,
may this child live.” Silence in the room.
Then, almost imperceptibly at first,
the child began to stir.
What thankfulness!
What joy sprang up! It was a great explosion
that burst from the women’s quarters into all
corners of the palace, and out, out
among the disbelieving citizens
of Hastinapura. Then, tumultuous joy
seized them like a fever, and all night long
with celebration, feasting and loud music,
the city was ablaze with noise and light.
Next day, Krishna announced the infant’s name:
Parikshit, born to save his failing line.
He would go on to rule for many years,
after the Pandavas had left the earth.
About a month after the baby’s birth
news came that the Pandavas were approaching,
bringing with them unimaginable
quantities of wealth. All the townsfolk,
of every station, crammed the thoroughfares
as the great caravan, groaning with gold,
trundled slowly toward the treasury.
Entering the city, the royal party
was greeted by cheering crowds. Their success,
and the horse sacrifice it made possible,
would bring blessings to the entire kingdom.