3.

COUSINS

The Pandavas were awed by Hastinapura.

The main gateway, topped by massive towers,

was tall enough for elephants to enter.

Not far away stood impressive buildings

whose several stories housed the offices

of the foremost state officials, their gables

ornamented with imposing statues.

Just inside the gate, a tall stone column,

its capital ornately carved, proclaimed

the king’s authority, and the protection

that his rule extended to his people,

like a father’s strong, benevolent arm.

This was the noble City of the Elephant.

A broad, straight avenue, lined with the houses

of the wealthy, led from the entrance gate

to the high ramparts of the royal palace—

soaring, dwarfing even the grandest mansions

of the nobility. Here, the Pandavas,

successors to their father, were received

with every show of joy. They stared around

bewildered as bumpkins. Their mother, of course,

remembered elegance and luxury;

but to her five sons, the spaciousness

of this new life—soft beds, exquisite food

(eating was Bhima’s favorite occupation)

servants on every hand—was wonderful.

At first, the two families of cousins

played well together, being close in age,

keen on the same games and daring stunts.

But it is never long before young boys

try to outdo each other, prove who is best.

So it was with these. The Pandavas

excelled in every childish game and contest.

But Duryodhana was used to being

eldest, biggest, strongest, so was shocked,

when he challenged Bhima to a fight,

to find that he was so completely trounced

that he ached for days. Humiliation.

This was just the first of many reasons

that Duryodhana grew to hate Bhima.

Bhima, in fact, gained everyone’s affection

(except the Kauravas’) by his energy

and his engaging, frank enthusiasm.

His booming voice, his bouncing, boisterous step

and freely given smiles made all who saw him

smile in return.

But the Kauravas

saw him in another way entirely.

Bhima liked to tease and bully them,

holding them underwater in the river

when they were swimming, until they nearly drowned;

shaking trees they’d climbed, so that they tumbled

down like mangoes, bumping on the ground.

His behavior never sprang from malice

but, because no one had ever beaten him,

he had no idea how being picked on

with no chance of redress can wring the heart.

So he would innocently use his strength

to bait his cousins, and found fun in it.

Month by month, year by bitter year,

in Duryodhana, corrosive hatred

grew like a hidden reservoir of gall.

Most of all, he felt the Pandavas

stood between him and life’s advantages—

power, in particular. Yudhishthira

looked very likely, as the eldest prince,

to be the next king. Yet for all the time

that Pandu and his sons were in the forest

Dhritarashtra reigned, and Duryodhana

had thought he would, in time, be king himself.

He was prepared to fight if necessary,

when the time came, but he saw that Bhima

would bar his way: Bhima the undefeated,

Bhima, massive, stout as a mighty tree,

Bhima, brave as a fighting elephant,

Bhima, so devoted to his brothers,

Bhima . . . Bhima . . . with a passionate longing

he wanted Bhima dead. But how? How?

At the court, Duryodhana had an ally,

Shakuni, Gandhari’s older brother.

His mild demeanor, soft voice, silky manner

concealed a mind quick as a serpent’s tongue

and as poisonous. To Duryodhana

this was a kindred soul; and while his parents

made light of his complaints against his cousin,

Shakuni listened, sympathized, caressed

his nephew’s seething head. And put in words

the thought the unhappy prince had never dared

voice to anyone: “Bhima must die.”

For Duryodhana, this was the moment

when idea, fantasy—to kill a kinsman,

kill him under the very roof they shared—

changed from mere dream to possibility.

Thought became language—that was the alchemy

that led in turn to deeds. And once such words

were spoken, fluent on his uncle’s lips,

next came strategy and, after that,

action.

Action, the tipping point, the turn

that, step by step, and inescapably,

set him on the road to Kurukshetra.

Duryodhana arranged a grand excursion.

All the Pandavas and Kauravas

set out on horseback, elephants or chariots

to a choice spot beside the river Ganga

where all kinds of delight had been devised—

games, music, swimming, wrestling matches

and, to top it all, a splendid feast

specially designed to gladden Bhima’s heart.

Duryodhana was all affability.

The Pandavas had never sought to quarrel

with their cousin; now it seemed that he

had put his animosity behind him.

He brought the finest dishes for his friend,

Bhima. He even fed him personally

and repeatedly filled his cousin’s wine cup.

Inside the spicy snacks and luscious sweetmeats

that Bhima loved, the Kaurava had smeared

a deadly poison, enough to kill a man

many times over, then more, to be quite sure.

Colossal Bhima seemed to manifest

no instant ill-effects. But in the evening,

as he was sleeping on the riverbank,

tired from the games, drugged with poisoned food,

Duryodhana approached him stealthily,

bound him with tough vines, and bundled him,

still sleeping like a corpse, into the Ganga

where he quickly vanished. Duryodhana,

exulting, slipped away to join the others.

Bhima sank, oblivious, down, down

toward the riverbed. But the Ganga

is a goddess—and, in a sense, was Bhima’s

great-grandmother. As he sank, nuzzled

by phosphorescent fishes, she stirred up

the deepest bed, where scarlet and green serpents

awoke, and dug their fangs into his limbs,

injecting him with oleaginous venom.

Mother Ganga knew what she was doing—

rather than killing Bhima, the snake juice,

an antidote to Duryodhana’s poison,

was bringing him to life with every sting.

He struck the river bottom, and fell through

into the watery kingdom of the Nagas,

waking to find himself sprawled at the feet

of Vasuki, the reigning Naga king,

erect and magnificently hooded.

The throne he sat on was a single emerald,

and two scaly, jeweled Naga queens

were twined around him.

“This is a welcome guest,”

he hissed—for he recognized that Bhima

was no ordinary youth, but the son

of Vayu, god of the winds and tempests.

“Young man, I know how you come to be here,”

and he described Duryodhana’s wicked act,

which he had witnessed. “We have an elixir,

which will make you even stronger than before.”

Bhima was given a soporific drink.

“Sleep deeply and sleep long,” said Vasuki,

“the longer you sleep, the stronger you will be.”

For eight days, Bhima slept, then he awoke

with a huge roar of delight, sensing his limbs

newly energized. Thanking Vasuki,

he left, and rose up through the riverbed,

up through the sunlit sparkling water, stepping

onto dry land—and home to Hastinapura.

All this time, his mother and his brothers

worried frantically. They looked for Bhima

everywhere. Duryodhana, his face

straining to look concerned, had joined the search—

but there had been no trace. Vidura

had warned Yudhishthira about his cousin’s

evil intentions, and he feared the worst.

Then Bhima walked through the door! What joy there was

among the Pandavas. What baffled rage

filled Duryodhana’s heart, though he pretended

to be as glad as anyone.

When Bhima

told his brothers what had happened to him

they were enraged. But wise Yudhishthira

warned them not to show it. While they lived

at Hastinapura, they had to maintain

a friendly manner, though they must keep watch

constantly. In this way, they succeeded

in blocking each attempt on Bhima’s life.

Year by year, as the princes grew,

Bhishma oversaw their education.

He himself would gather them together

and tell them stories of their ancestors,

and tales of the immortal gods. He taught them

how the world began, and how the ages

follow one from another in a cycle.

Learned brahmins taught them to know the Vedas;

they studied history, and the science

of statecraft and of how wealth is created.

But, as young kshatriyas, the princes

measured themselves by prowess in the arts

of warfare. At first, Kripa was their teacher,

a brahmin who, for years, had lived at court.

How did a brahmin come to be an expert

in weaponry? The story goes like this:

A worthy sage had a son called Sharadvat

who, as well as dutifully acquiring

Vedic learning, as a young brahmin should,

thought of little else but weaponry,

constantly practicing the arts of war.

In order to enhance his mastery,

he performed severe austerities—

to the point that the gods themselves were worried,

lest he outdo them in discipline and skill.

Indra, chief of the gods, devised a plan.

He sent an apsaras to tempt Sharadvat

to abandon his renunciant ways.

Walking in the forest beside the river,

carrying his bow and arrows, the young man

caught sight of a divinely lovely girl,

half-naked. She came toward him, smiling.

Sharadvat held his ground, but stared and stared

and his bow and arrows slipped from his hand.

A profound shudder shook him, and he spilled

his seed, although he did not notice it.

He turned and walked away.

The seed fell

on a reed stalk and, as it fell, it split.

From the two halves, a boy and a girl were born.

Soon after, King Shantanu found the babies

while he was hunting in the forest. Seeing

a bow and arrows on the ground beside them,

as well as a black deer skin, he concluded

that they were the children of a brahmin, skilled

in weaponry. He took them back to court

and cared for them. These were Kripa and Kripi.

Later, Sharadvat came to Hastinapura

and taught Kripa mastery of weapons.

Kripa grew up an asset to the court,

a gifted fighter. He taught the young princes

how to string a bow, to heft a mace,

to feint and thrust with short and long sword.

They learned fast, especially the Pandavas,

and soon Bhishma saw that he must find

another teacher for them, more advanced

in all the branches of the arts of war.

Around this time, a person of importance

arrived in Hastinapura, unannounced.

This was Drona, who had married Kripi,

Kripa’s sister. By birth he was a brahmin

but he was also expert in the feats

appropriate to the kshatriya class.

Not only could he wield conventional weapons

with quite outstanding skill but, in addition,

from his teacher, Rama Jamadagnya,

he had acquired rare and powerful astras.

He understood that to become a master

in wielding bow or sword required much more

than physical adroitness, or great strength,

more, even, than perseverance. Qualities

of heart were needed, stillness of mind and body,

complete focus.

Never an easy man,

quick to take offense, testy-tempered,

at this time he was nursing a great grievance

and, holed up in his brother-in-law’s house,

he brooded, eating little, hardly speaking.

Like Kripa’s, Drona’s birth had been unusual.

The great seer Bharadvaja once caught sight

of a lovely apsaras, fresh from her bath.

A breeze parted her skirt, and the seer’s seed

gushed forth spontaneously. Bharadvaja

placed it in a pot, and in due time

Drona was born (the name meaning “pot”).

One day, near the palace, the young princes

were playing catch, throwing a ball around,

when someone missed, and the ball went bouncing

into a deep, dry well. The boys brought sticks

and ropes and tried a dozen ways to lift it

but without success. Then they noticed

a cadaverous and shabby brahmin

standing near. “Call yourselves kshatriyas,

and you can’t retrieve a ball out of a well?”

the brahmin laughed. “I will get your ball

using nothing but these blades of grass

and—see this ring?” He took it from his finger

and dropped it nonchalantly down the well.

“I’ll rescue that too.” The princes were intrigued.

Then Drona (it was he) muttered a mantra

over the blades of grass and, with his bow,

shot one down the well and pierced the ball.

Then he shot another through the first

and a third into the second. In this way

he made a chain of blades, and drew the ball

up into the light—and then he loosed

a single arrow, which swooped into the well

and out again, encircled by the ring.

“Who can you be?” the princes asked, amazed.

“Tell Bhishma what you’ve seen,” Drona replied,

turning away. “He will know who I am.”

When Bhishma heard the boys’ account, he knew

this must be the great Drona. He had found

the teacher the princes needed. But he saw

that Drona was consumed by rage and grief.

“My friend,” said Bhishma, “it seems that some great ill

is troubling you. Let me share your burden—

tell me.”

“Prince,” said Drona, “you should know

I come here seething with a great obsession—

revenge! When I was young, I had a friend

so dear to me, and I to him, we were

inseparable. He was Prince Drupada,

eldest son of the Panchala king.

He had been sent to the forest where I lived,

to receive instruction from my father,

Bharadvaja. We spent every day

together—studied, played, practiced archery;

often we fell asleep in the same bed

hating to put an end to conversation

by going to separate rooms. He used to say,

‘Drona, when I am king of Panchala,

you will come and join me in my palace.

I’ll share with you everything I have.’

I can still hear his words!

“Not long ago,

I fell on times of crippling poverty.

Kripi, my sweet wife, was uncomplaining

but when we were too poor even to buy

milk for Ashvatthaman, our young son,

and other boys were taunting him—well, then

I thought of Drupada, of our friendship,

and I decided to take Ashvatthaman

and Kripi to Kampilya, where Drupada

has his court, now he is king. We traveled

for many days, and arrived collapsing

with exhaustion, ragged and half-starved.

I asked to see the king, telling the guard

my full name, confident that Drupada

would hurry out to greet me when he heard

his friend was here.

“But that’s not how it was.

Two days he kept us waiting by the gate,

despised and ridiculed by passersby,

hunkered with pye-dogs and foul-smelling beggars.

At last, my heart racing with excitement,

longing to see my friend, I was conducted

into his presence, where he sat, bejeweled,

lolling at ease on his ivory throne.

Emotion cracked my voice as I greeted him,

‘My friend!’ He didn’t smile, nor rise to meet me.

‘Scruffy brahmin, how dare you presume

to call me friend! Of course, we knew each other

when we were boys, but that was another life.

Friendship is a bond between equals

and, in those days, your friendship suited me.

But did you delude yourself we could remain

eternal boys, alike in innocence,

forever irresponsible, outside time?

No—time and circumstance change everything.

It’s sentimental to think otherwise

and a king should be above mere sentiment.

With time comes experience; with circumstance

comes parting of the ways.’ And he dismissed me.

“Bhishma, it was as if an icy hand

clutched at my heart and twisted it. My eyes

struggled to penetrate the scarlet mist

that swirled in front of them. ‘Time and circumstance

will give me a chance to speak to you again,’

I muttered; and left, stumbling blindly through

the marble courtyards, scoffed at by the guards,

out through the gates, fleeing that evil place,

never resting until we arrived here

in Hastinapura, where the blessed Kripa

has kindly welcomed us into his house;

and, truth to tell, we’ve nowhere else to turn.

“Kripi, wiser than I, is not surprised

at how the mighty ruler of Panchala

has treated me—but then, she never saw

how close we once were, Drupada and I.

I just can’t reconcile . . . Only revenge

can free me from the rage and hurt I carry

each waking moment, like a burning sore.”

Bhishma saw that Drona was a man

with too much pride for his own peace of mind.

Although advanced in spiritual disciplines,

he would not, could not, find it in himself

to overlook such crushing disrespect.

Only by humbling Drupada in turn

would he find rest.

“Drona, my friend,” said Bhishma,

“please consent to put down roots with us.

You are the teacher our young princes need.

Here, you will be honored as you deserve

and live in comfort with your family.

It seems to me that destiny has sent you.”