57.
The birth of Parikshit changed everything.
Despite the victory of the Pandavas,
Ashvatthaman’s awful invocation
of the Brahma weapon had cast dragging doubt
on the future of the Bharatas, planting
a seed of hopelessness in every heart.
But now it seemed the dynasty was safe.
One of King Yudhishthira’s first acts
was to consult Vyasa. Touching his feet,
formally he sought the seer’s permission
to conduct the horse sacrifice. “Excellent!”
said Vyasa, “I myself will play a part
in the ceremony, according to your wishes.
This great sacrifice will absolve all sin.
See to it that you please the deities
by making abundant gifts.”
Yudhishthira
also sought consent from Krishna, who
rejoiced at the prospect of the great event.
“Let your brothers, too, be sacrificers,”
he said. Then Vyasa was asked to name
the best time for the ceremony which must
inaugurate the sacrificial process:
the initiation of the Dharma King.
He ordered that the ritual implements
and other objects should be made of gold.
Planning began for the great event.
A superb stallion would be selected
and then let loose to wander the land at will.
The horse would be protected by the army
led by a distinguished kshatriya,
and in whatever kingdom it might roam
that land would be claimed for King Yudhishthira.
Any ruler who put up resistance
would be subdued. Then he would be invited
to Hastinapura, as a welcome guest
at the splendid sacrifice, when the time came.
After a year, the horse would find its way
back to the kingdom of the Bharatas,
and then the great ceremony would be held.
On Vyasa’s advice, Yudhishthira
designated strong-armed Arjuna
to be protector of the horse, saying,
“As you progress, when hostile kings come out
to oppose you, and resist our rule,
try to avoid battles, and above all
avoid killing warriors whose kindred
met with death on the plain of Kurukshetra.
Be friendly. Invite them to the sacrifice.
Consecrate the sons of fallen heroes
—or daughters, if there are no surviving sons.”
A most beautiful piebald horse was chosen
and kept in readiness. From near and far,
guests arrived for the initiation
of King Yudhishthira, the first ritual step.
He was resplendent in red silk, with gold
accoutrements. Staff in hand, wearing
a soft black deerskin for his upper garment,
the king shone like a star in the firmament.
Priests performed the rites; then it was time
for the magnificent horse to be let loose.
As it began to wander on its way
from Hastinapura, an exuberant crowd
pressed and jostled to get sight of it,
shouting, “Farewell, Wealth-winner, return safely!”
and Arjuna, accompanied by priests,
soldiers and retainers, began his journey.
Through the months that followed, Arjuna,
riding a chariot drawn by fine white horses,
followed the stallion as it made its way
on a meandering route through many lands.
Despite his brother’s hopes, there were fierce fights.
Men who had lost most at Kurukshetra
were often just the ones who wanted battle,
thirsting for revenge. Thus it happened
that the horse crossed into Trigarta country,
the kingdom whose men had harried Arjuna
so tenaciously on the battlefield.
Now they came out in strength, intent on capture.
Mindful of the king’s request, the Pandava
tried to make peace. “Do not attack, you villains.
Life is precious, as you should know by now!”
The Trigartas took no notice, but let fly
a cloud of arrows which, flexing Gandiva,
Arjuna deflected in mid-flight.
Bitter conflict followed. Arjuna
was wounded in the hand by a young warrior
whose outstanding skill he much admired
and whom, for that reason, he refrained from killing.
Instead, he slew a host of his companions.
Eventually the rest threw down their weapons
and formally acknowledged Yudhishthira
as their ruler. Arjuna invited them
to be present at the horse sacrifice.
This was the shape of many more encounters.
The horse wandered up hills, into valleys,
across desert terrain. Sometimes the rulers
of these lands met Arjuna’s conditions,
sometimes they resisted. A great engagement
took place between Arjuna and the Sindhus.
Jayadratha (husband of Duhshala,
sole sister of the hundred Kauravas)
had been their king, and they were full of wrath
at the way Arjuna had slaughtered him.
They launched a blistering attack against
the sacrificial horse and its protector.
In the savage fighting, Arjuna
was badly wounded, and lost consciousness.
Celestial rishis revived him with their prayers,
and he fought on. Remembering Yudhishthira,
he called to his enemies, “We are intent
on your surrender rather than on slaughter.”
But, unpersuaded, the Sindhu forces hurled
their spears and arrow showers ever more fiercely.
They were losing ground when Duhshala,
their interim ruler, approached, carrying
her infant grandson in her arms. Weeping,
she told the Pandava the baby’s father,
Jayadratha’s son, had been in mourning
for his father when he heard that Arjuna
had arrived to subjugate the kingdom—
at which he died of grief and fear. She begged
her cousin to take pity on the baby,
and sued for peace, ordering her warriors
to lay down their weapons. Arjuna,
seeing that the Sindhus posed no threat,
embraced her warmly, and expressed the hope
that she would come to the horse sacrifice.
The horse came to the kingdom of Manipura
ruled by Arjuna’s son by Chitrangadaa,
Babhruvahana. The stalwart youth
rode out to meet Arjuna, carrying gifts,
loth to fight his father. But Arjuna,
thinking his son must be a feeble coward,
shouted at him, pricking him with insults.
“Are you a woman? I have come to fight,
not to chat with you. You’re a kshatriya,
so fight like one!” Then the young man’s stepmother,
Ulupi, daughter of the Naga king,
beautiful, sinuous, rose up through the ground
and urged her stepson to acquire merit
by fighting the world’s greatest warrior.
Reluctant though he was, Babhruvahana
called for his armor and his chariot,
having first captured the sacrificial horse.
He flew toward his father, and loosed a stream
of arrows, piercing him badly in the shoulder.
Arjuna was shocked, but gratified
by his son’s skill. A heroic fight followed,
son against father, a dazzling display
delighting both, one of those rare moments
when war is the best of games. It did not last.
Soon both warriors were severely wounded;
then the son, letting fly an iron arrow,
deeply pierced Arjuna through his breastplate,
shearing it off his body. Penetrated
through lungs and heart, Arjuna fell, lifeless.
Babhruvahana, too, fell to the ground
fainting from his wounds, and from the shock
of seeing his father killed—and he the killer!
News of the event reached Chitrangadaa.
Shocked, she ran to the scene lamenting loudly,
and seeing Ulupi there, she turned on her.
“How could you do this! How can you stand, dry-eyed,
when my son, whom you encouraged, has just killed
your husband and mine? Was it jealous spite?
You must know it is entirely proper
for men to marry more than a single wife.
Oh, revive him! I know you have the power.
I have released the sacrificial horse.
It is right for a son who kills his father
to die; but this great Bharata, this hero
on whom Yudhishthira utterly depends,
should not be lying here. O Ulupi,
if you do not bring him back to life
I shall end my own life before your eyes!”
Babhruvahana stirred. Seeing Arjuna
lying lifeless on the bloody ground,
he wished to die himself. What earthly penance
could expiate the sin of patricide?
Hopeless, he sat down to begin a fast
to death.
Ulupi summoned a powerful gem
frequently used by snakes to counter death.
“Son, you need not grieve. You have done no wrong.
Your father challenged you—and it was because
I knew that he had come wanting to test you
that I spurred you on. And I created
the illusion of his death. This mighty Arjuna
has divine origins—he cannot be killed
by ordinary mortals. To revive him,
place this gem on his breast.” The young man did so.
As if roused from a deep, refreshing sleep,
Arjuna opened his eyes and looked around.
He was surprised to see the women there.
Ulupi said, “Listen—I have acted
entirely for your good. A while ago
I heard a conversation. The Vasus
had gone to Ganga, goddess of the river,
mother of Bhishma, and complained to her
that you had killed their brother unrighteously,
shooting him under cover of Shikhandin.
For this, they proposed to place a curse on you.
Ganga consented. I was horrified
and hurried to my wise, compassionate father.
To protect you, he implored the Vasus
to offer a concession. They relented.
‘When Arjuna is struck down by his own son
our curse will end. He will have made amends.’”
Arjuna was profoundly grateful. His son
and Chitrangadaa were relieved. They asked him
to spend the night in their palace. Arjuna
declined. “This horse is wandering at will
and I must follow. It is not permitted
that I stop anywhere.” But he invited them
to Hastinapura for the sacrifice,
and they assured him that they would attend.
The sacrificial horse meandered on
over the earth, between one mighty ocean
and the other, from the palm-fringed shores
of the south to the sparkling Himalaya.
It moved among the ebony Dravidians,
among the green-eyed warriors of the north,
among the war-like and the peaceful peoples
of the Western Ghats.
Inevitably,
there were battles. The ruler of Magadha
rode against Arjuna with enthusiasm.
Very young, unskilled in weaponry,
he nonetheless aspired to heroism
as a kshatriya. At first, Arjuna
was easy on him, and the boy felt proud
of his achievements, and wounded Arjuna.
At that, Arjuna destroyed his bow,
killed his horses, smashed his other weapons
and called on him to surrender. The young man
was glad to do so, and happy to accept
the invitation to the horse sacrifice.
In the land of Chedi, Shishupala’s son
fought, and then conceded to Arjuna,
as did the rulers of many other kingdoms.
With some, the battles were mere token fights
for the sake of self-respect. But the nishadas,
led by the son of Ekalavya, fought
furiously before they were defeated.
So did the vengeful son of Shakuni,
king of the Gandharas, Arjuna’s cousin.
He seized the horse, then launched a fierce attack
and would not give up, even after dozens
of his soldiers, horses and charioteers
had been killed. Arjuna spared his life
because the two were kindred, and because
Shakuni’s wife came out to intervene
and had the sacrificial horse set free.
At last, the horse turned toward Hastinapura.
Yudhishthira’s sources of intelligence
brought him the news, and he was overjoyed
to know that he would soon see Arjuna.
Bhima consulted brahmins and engineers,
and supervised construction on a site
marked as auspicious for the sacrifice.
Roads were built, and ample living quarters
to accommodate the many thousands
of guests who were expected. Bhima sent
messengers near and far, in all directions,
to tell royal guests when to arrive.
In the days preceding the sacrifice,
people started to assemble. They brought gifts—
jewels, horses, weapons, female slaves.
When they looked around, they were amazed.
Everywhere they turned was luxury;
every object their eyes fell upon
seemed to be made of gold. Some remembered
the rajasuya rite at Indraprastha;
this was even more magnificent.
Krishna arrived with his relatives,
gorgeously adorned, and he brought news
of Arjuna, and of his many battles.
“Why is it, Krishna,” sighed Yudhishthira,
“that Arjuna is so unfortunate?
Through what fault of his has he undergone
so many tribulations for my sake?”
“I see no reason,” Krishna said, “except—
perhaps his cheekbones are too prominent.”
Draupadi frowned. She could not tolerate
the slightest criticism of Arjuna
even as a joke.
For the great event,
Bhima had thought of everything, providing
food on an enormous scale. Thousands
of brahmins, and a comparable number
of vaishyas, were fed in relays. Vats of rice,
tanks of curd, many delicious dishes
and expensive sweets were served by attendants.
A messenger arrived from Arjuna—
within two days, he would be there in person!
The city buzzed with anticipation
and at last, after his long journey,
the Wealth-winner, lean and battle-scarred,
walked into the city, the horse beside him.
After greeting his loving family
he went to bathe and restore his energy,
sleeping like a man thrown onto shore
as sole survivor of a storm-tossed voyage.
Meanwhile Chitrangadaa and Ulupi
had arrived with Babhruvahana,
and were warmly welcomed, for Arjuna’s sake,
by Kunti, Draupadi and Subhadra.
Beautiful and rare gifts were exchanged.
Three days later, Vyasa told the king,
“The signs are favorable; the constellations
have been scanned by the astrologers.
The time is right to start the sacrifice.
Distribute at least three times as much gold
as is customary. In that way
you will earn great merit, and any sorrow
remaining from the Kurukshetra war
should finally be lifted from your shoulders.”
Huge crowds of the king’s subjects, from the city
and all around, had gathered. All was ready.
Stakes had been erected made of wood
of diverse kinds, as detailed in the scriptures,
but decked with gold for the beauty of it,
and adorned with rich and lovely flags.
Gold bricks were brought to build a fire altar
four tiers high, shaped like Garuda.
Three hundred sacrificial birds and beasts
were bound to the stakes on the sacred ground.
Many distinguished seers thronged the enclosure.
The rites, conducted by the most learned priests
guided by the Vedas, took several days.
Soma was pressed and drunk, and in between
the ceremonies, dancing and sweet music
were performed by accomplished gandharvas.
Birds and animals were killed and cooked,
each dedicated to a specific god.
The sacrificial horse was brought, then stifled.
As chief queen, Draupadi lay beside it.
Then it was dismembered, and its entrails
were roasted on the fire. The rising smoke—
that smoke capable of cleansing sin—
was eagerly inhaled by the Pandavas,
to the great joy of Yudhishthira.
When the sacrifice was over, it remained
for the Dharma King to distribute riches.
Now he was ruler of the earth, he offered
that earth to Vyasa, as the chief priest.
Vyasa returned it, asking for its equivalent
in wealth, which Yudhishthira duly gave.
This was divided among brahmins. Giving
was expiation for Yudhishthira.
The brahmins shared the artifacts between them:
gold bricks from the altar, the stakes, the arches.
Yudhishthira then, in order of precedence,
loaded his guests with gold, jewels, treasure.
Vyasa gave his share of wealth to Kunti,
for her to use in charitable acts.
Just when everything seemed to be over,
and all involved were greatly satisfied,
a large, blue-eyed mongoose approached the priests,
one side of its body shining gold.
In a booming voice, it said, “This sacrifice,
grand as it was, was not nearly the equal
of the coarse barley given by the brahmin
of Kurukshetra.” The priests were astounded
and quite indignant. Speaking all at once,
they enumerated all the rituals,
all the procedures, scrupulously observed,
the gifts distributed, the benefits . . .
How could this sacrifice possibly have been
bettered? “Let me tell you,” said the mongoose.
“IN KURUKSHETRA, there lived a devout brahmin, committed to a gleaning lifestyle. He subsisted on the grains of barley he gathered from the ground, after the harvest had been gathered in. He lived with his wife, son and daughter-in-law, and their existence was a happy, if frugal one.
“It happened that famine came to the land. The small store of grain the family had put by dwindled, and then was almost gone. They suffered. Day after day they went hungry as the brahmin found almost nothing to glean from the fields. One day, he managed to gather enough barley to make a small meal for the four of them. They ground the barley and made a porridge from it; then they sat down to eat. At that moment, an unexpected guest presented himself at their door. They greeted him warmly, and invited him to sit down with them.
“The guest was obviously hungry, and the brahmin gave him his own share of the barley porridge. The guest ate it, and still looked hungry. ‘Let him have my share,’ the wife whispered to her husband. But the brahmin was unhappy with this suggestion, knowing that his wife was reduced to mere skin and bone, and faint from hunger. ‘My duty is to sustain you to the best of my ability,’ he said. ‘I cannot bear to see you giving up your meal.’ ‘But I have joined my life to yours,’ she answered. ‘You have given me all you have—and you have given me our beloved son. In return for so many favors, let me give you my share of porridge and you can give it to our guest.’ So another portion of porridge was set before the guest. But his appetite was still not satisfied.
“‘Father,’ said the son, ‘please give our guest my portion.’ The brahmin was reluctant to accept. ‘I brought you into this world; it is only right that I look after you to the best of my ability.’ ‘As your son, I am part of you,’ said the young man, ‘and I should serve you in whatever way I can. I know that you will suffer greatly if you cannot perform your duty as a host. Please take my share.’ So the brahmin accepted, and gave the porridge to the guest. He ate it, and was still hungry.
“Seeing this, the brahmin became sad and thoughtful. Then his daughter-in-law said, ‘Father, take my share. Through your son—and therefore through you—I shall obtain a son. Thanks to you I shall know great happiness. Please take my porridge and give it to our guest.’ The brahmin, seeing the girl wasted and weak, was very unhappy at this suggestion. But she persuaded him that, by accepting, he would be enabling her to obtain great merit. So he took her meal and gave it to the guest.
“The guest then revealed himself to them as Dharma, the god of righteousness. ‘I am delighted with you,’ he said, ‘and so are the deities in heaven. With a pure heart, you have given me everything you have. Such a gift is worth far more than many a lavish consecration ceremony and horse sacrifice, because it is your entire wealth, and is offered without reserve. Your hard life on this earth is over. By your kindness to me today, you are assured of heaven.’ Then flowers rained down from the sky, and the brahmin family ascended into heaven.
“All this,” said the mongoose, “I witnessed from my hole in the ground. When the family had gone to heaven, I came out; and what with the flowers, and the water the guest had been given to wash his holy feet, and what with the scraps of barley, and the scent of sanctity, my head and half my body turned to gold. Ever since, I have been attending hermitages, pilgrimages, and sacrifices, in the hope of finding an example of devotion to match that of the brahmin family. In that way, the rest of my body could be changed to gold. That is why I came to this horse sacrifice, having heard of King Yudhishthira’s devotion to dharma. But I have been disappointed.”
Having spoken, the mongoose disappeared
and the brahmins, astonished and impressed,
made their way in silence to their homes.
On hearing this story, King Janamejaya
was perplexed. “It is well known,” he said
to Vaishampayana, “that sacrifices,
properly performed by learned priests,
bring great benefits. Why, then, did that mongoose
treat Yudhishthira’s great horse sacrifice
with such contempt?”
“Millions of ascetics,”
replied Vaishampayana, “have attained
heaven through practicing renunciation,
self-control, compassion and truthfulness,
without the need to take the lives of creatures.
Sacrifice is not so wonderful.”
“Who was the half-gold mongoose?” asked the king.
Vaishampayana told him this story:
“ONCE THE SEER Jamadagni collected milk from his cow, to use in a shraddha ceremony. To test the seer’s forbearance, Anger spoiled the milk. But Jamadagni, staying calm, sent Anger to see the ancestors, since it was they who had been deprived of the milk.
“The ancestors cursed Anger to take the form of a mongoose. He would only become free of the curse by censuring dharma. Through his condemnation of Yudhishthira’s sacrifice, the curse was lifted, since Yudhishthira was the Dharma King.”