XV
58.
Hastinapura. Life at court took on
a pleasant pattern. The horse sacrifice
had helped to reconcile Yudhishthira
to his royal burden, and he soon became
a most judicious ruler, compassionate
even to enemies. Always in his mind
were Bhishma’s teachings.
He never forgot,
for a single day, the harrowing price paid
for the great kingdom that he now possessed.
The searing loss endured by Dhritarashtra
and Gandhari could never be repaired.
But the king made sure as far as possible
that the aged couple should enjoy a life
similar to the one they led before.
Yudhishthira consulted Dhritarashtra
on many affairs of state. The old man
had Vidura, Sanjaya and Yuyutsu
as his frequent companions. And Vyasa
would visit him, reciting many stories
about the rishis back in ancient times.
At the king’s request, his younger brothers
would very often sit with Dhritarashtra,
showing him their respect. And their mother,
Kunti, with Draupadi and Subhadra,
waited on Gandhari with great devotion.
Vidura was now Yudhishthira’s steward
and managed his dominions with such skill
that they prospered, and his subjects too.
Dhritarashtra took it upon himself
to dispense royal pardons to prisoners
who were condemned to death, and Yudhishthira
did not interfere with him in this.
The king ensured that the most delicious
food and drink, the most comfortable apartments,
were made available to the old couple.
In short, Yudhishthira and his brothers
behaved toward them like devoted sons—
in fact with more devotion than their own sons
had ever shown. Yudhishthira forbade
any mention of Duryodhana
and his wickedness. On the surface, then,
happiness prevailed on every side
and, in this way, fifteen years went by.
But all was not exactly as it seemed.
Dhritarashtra felt only affection
and gratitude to four of the Pandavas.
But he could not banish from his mind
the way Bhima had killed Duryodhana.
It rankled still. And Bhima, for his part,
still resented Dhritarashtra’s role
in the disastrous dice game, and afterward.
Bhima knew the king would not permit
any overt insult to their uncle.
But he found ways of making the old man’s life
miserable—for instance, causing servants
to disobey him. And, within the hearing
of the old couple, he would boast and swagger
to his friends, “Do you see my powerful arms?
These are the arms that sent Duryodhana,
that brute, together with his sons and brothers,
to their deserved destruction!”
Dhritarashtra
suffered this in silence, and Yudhishthira
never came to hear of it. But in time,
the old man became more and more despondent.
One day, he summoned his nephews. “We all know
how the great destruction at Kurukshetra
was brought about. I take the blame for it.
All my advisers gave me the same counsel:
‘Control Duryodhana.’ But you see
I loved him, and that overrode my judgment.
Bitter remorse has gnawed me ever since.
Although it was the working out of time
that brought the destruction of kshatriyas
as was ordained, still, I regret my part.
“Now, after many years, I have resolved
to expiate my sins with renunciation.
Only Gandhari knows that, for some time,
I have eaten little, and have slept
on the bare ground. So has Gandhari.
Though we have lost a century of sons
we no longer grieve for them. They all died
as true kshatriyas.” He turned to the king.
“Yudhishthira, you have behaved toward us
as if you were our son. We have been happy.
But now we have decided to retreat
into the forest, wearing bark and rags,
and there, blessing you, eating little,
we shall end our days. Our austerity
will be to your benefit, since kings enjoy
the fruits of acts performed within their kingdom,
auspicious and inauspicious. Sanjaya
and Vidura will go with us. Now we come
to ask you to release us.”
“Oh no, uncle!”
cried Yudhishthira, “I thought you were content!
I have neglected you—I did not realize
that you were practicing such self-denial
and had these plans in mind. You need not go—
I myself will retreat to the forest
and your son Yuyutsu can rule the kingdom,
or you can rule, or anyone you choose.
Or if you insist on leaving here, then I
will go with you.” In this way, the king
flailed around in his shock and grief.
Dhritarashtra, exhausted by his fast,
was fainting, and unfit for more discussion.
“I will make no decision,” said the king,
“until you agree to take a little food.”
Vyasa appeared then, and urged the king
to let Dhritarashtra and Gandhari go.
“It is appropriate,” he urged. “The old king
should not die a demeaning death at home.
If not in battle, then he should be able
to acquire merit through renunciation
like many kings of old. For kings are like
exalted householders, and it is right
that, after their royal duties are completed,
they should embark on the third stage of life,
asceticism.” The king said, “So be it.”
Over the next days and weeks, well-wishers
came from far and wide to pay respects
and say their last farewell to Dhritarashtra.
A great crowd, citizens of every class,
congregated in the assembly hall.
In a failing voice, the old king spoke to them.
“Like my brother Pandu in his time,
I ruled you fairly. So did Duryodhana.
Through his wicked pride, he caused great bloodshed,
and paid for it with his life. That did not mean
that he neglected you. Now, for some years,
Yudhishthira has held the reins of kingship,
supported by his brothers, and he has been,
and will remain, an outstanding ruler.
I urge you to look after him with your lives
as he protects you. Now he has allowed me,
together with my respected wife, Gandhari,
to leave the court and spend what life is left
in renunciation. I ask you, too,
the people, to favor me with your consent.”
There was silence. All assembled there
were deeply moved, their eyes streaming with tears
at their old king’s humility. Then a buzz
of discussion arose, and they appointed
a learned brahmin to speak on their behalf.
“Sir, I speak for all of us. We honor
your decision. Everything you have said
is true. The house of Bharata has always
ruled us well and fairly. Duryodhana
never harmed us. The terrible events
that took place on the field of Kurukshetra
were not your fault, nor were they brought about
by Duryodhana, nor by heroic Karna.
That tremendous slaughter could not have happened
if the gods had not intended it.
We therefore, in your presence, absolve your son,
who now dwells in the heaven fit for heroes.
And we pledge our deep loyalty to the king.”
At this, the crowd shouted their approval,
and the old king joined his hands and honored them.
The date for the departure of the elders
was to be the day of the full moon.
Meanwhile, Dhritarashtra spent much time
with Yudhishthira, advising him.
Although the Dharma King had already ruled
for fifteen years (and long before, had reigned
in Indraprastha), he listened patiently
and welcomed his old uncle’s homilies.
In his last days at court, Dhritarashtra
sent Vidura to ask the king a favor:
would Yudhishthira give him the means
to carry out large-scale memorial rites
for his sons, and for all the other heroes
who were killed, even Jayadratha,
and including Bhishma? Yudhishthira
and Arjuna were pleased with this proposal,
but Bhima frowned. Arjuna said to him,
“Brother, do not begrudge our uncle this.
Look at the way time turns things upside down.
Once, we were begging him to favor us;
now, by good fortune, he is the supplicant.”
Bhima burst out, “It isn’t right! Why should he
perform rites to sustain his wicked sons,
gladdening his heart? They should be left
to make their own way in the afterlife.
Of course, rites should be carried out for Bhishma,
and Kunti can make offerings for Karna.
But it should be we who provide the gifts,
not Dhritarashtra. He and his wretched sons
subjected us to twelve long years of exile.
Where was his affection for us then?
What did he do to protect Draupadi?
How—” But then Yudhishthira cut him short
and rebuked him.
The king turned to Vidura.
“Please tell Dhritarashtra that my treasury
is at his disposal. Let him make gifts
to gratify the priests. And kindly ask him
to forgive Bhima his lack of charity.
Our years of exile still afflict his heart.”
Vidura went back to Dhritarashtra
with the king’s message. The old man was pleased
and set about arranging a huge event
to take place on the day of his departure.
There would be enormous gifts of wealth
made to brahmins, and to the assembled guests.
Yudhishthira collaborated fully
and decreed that the money spent on gifts
be multiplied tenfold.
The day arrived.
After the elaborate shraddha rites,
Dhritarashtra and his three companions,
dressed in deerskins, started on their journey.
The entire court and the citizens
came out into the streets, and sorrowfully
escorted their old king out of the city.
Then, slowly, they turned back toward their homes.
Kunti did not turn back. She had decided
to accompany the others to the forest.
Yudhishthira was shocked; so were his brothers.
Together they begged Kunti to change her mind.
“Mother, you cannot go,” said Yudhishthira.
“It was you who urged us to fight for justice,
you who said the kingdom should be ours.
How can you leave us now, abandon us
when we have gained the fruits of your advice?
Show some compassion; please do not deprive me
of your wisdom in my difficult calling.”
But Kunti continued walking.
Bhima said,
“We were born in the forest; it was you
who brought us as children to this city.
Do not reject Yudhishthira’s achievement.
It is unnatural for you not to share it—
and, you can see, the twins are heartbroken.”
“I have made up my mind,” replied Kunti.
“This is no quick decision. My heart is burdened
by sorrow and guilt at the death of Karna.
I was very wrong not to reveal
the truth about his birth, and now I grieve
bitterly every hour of every day
for the man who was, and was not, my son.
All I can do is seek to expunge my sin
by penances. True, I encouraged you
to fight for the kingdom that was yours by right.
You are kshatriyas, and of royal birth.
It was for this I brought you from the forest,
to acquire a warrior’s skills, a noble heart.
I owed your father that. Otherwise,
I could have climbed on his pyre, as Madri did,
and enjoyed heaven with him.
“I saw you grow
into fine young men. I stayed with you
through hard and dangerous times. I prayed for you
through all the dreary years of your long exile,
never knowing if you were alive or dead.
Then I urged you to fight. I understood
that only victory or death in battle
could bring you honor, and give any meaning
to all your sufferings. Only the deaths
of Duryodhana and Duhshasana
could avenge their insult to Draupadi
and give her peace.
“For the last fifteen years
I have devoted my life to Gandhari
whom I revere, both for her great virtue
and as the wife of Pandu’s older brother.
I have watched you and your brothers flourish.
But now my task on earth is at an end.
The fruits of sovereignty are yours, not mine.
I do not want them. I now wish to attain,
through penances, and through obedient service
to the wise Gandhari and Dhritarashtra,
happiness with Pandu in the next world.
So you must let me go, Yudhishthira.”
The king was now ashamed, and stopped protesting.
He understood.
“Take care of Sahadeva,”
said Kunti. “He is the most attached to me.
Remember Karna; make generous gifts for him.
Take care of your brothers. And let your mind
always be steeped in righteous understanding.”
With those last words, Kunti turned away,
following Gandhari into the trees.
Dhritarashtra and his fellow elders
made their new home deep inside the forest
close beside the shining river Ganga,
where they quickly settled to a life
of abstinence, austerity and prayer
in the hermitage of the sage Shatayupa.
They were visited by many seers,
Narada and Vyasa among them.
Narada had just been visiting
the realm of Indra. There, he had seen Pandu,
who was always thinking of his brother,
and who would help him in the afterlife.
Kunti would join Pandu in Indra’s heaven.
Narada foretold that Dhritarashtra,
with his wife, would fly to Kubera’s realm,
after three more years of earthly life
burning away his sins through austerity.
Dhritarashtra rejoiced at this fine prospect
after a lifetime’s sorrow and wrong turns.
As time went on, there was much speculation,
a buzz of talk in street and marketplace.
How were the old people managing?
They must be finding life extremely hard.
Was Kunti pining for her family?
Might they perhaps return?
The Pandavas
were sorrowful. They found no consolation
in anything—not hunting, wine or women,
not even in the study of the Vedas.
This loss of the older generation
brought back to them the pain of other losses:
their kinsmen and their sons. Especially,
they thought of Karna, their lost, unknown brother,
of how they might have loved him. Only the sight
of young Parikshit, so like Abhimanyu
in skill and beauty, gave them any joy.
Night and day, they worried about Kunti
and the other elders, ill-equipped
for life far from the luxuries of court.
How would their emaciated mother
be able to find strength to serve Gandhari?
What were they eating? Were their lives in danger
from wild beasts?
At last, Sahadeva,
echoed by Draupadi, convinced the king
to organize a journey to the forest
to reassure themselves that all was well.
Members of the court and citizens
would be welcome to join the expedition.
At once their spirits rose. Yudhishthira
arranged that the party would leave the city
almost at once.
Arriving at the Ganga,
they knew they must be near their destination.
Dismounting, the brothers went ahead on foot
and soon came to the elders’ hermitage.
On the riverbank, they saw their mother
and others collecting water. Sahadeva
rushed to embrace Kunti, weeping profusely,
and she gathered her darling in her arms,
then cried aloud with happiness to see
her other sons and Draupadi.
What joy!
The king presented to the old, blind couple
the entire stream of visitors—kshatriyas,
brahmins, women, soldiers, citizens—
and everyone rejoiced. A large number
of holy hermits, who lived in the forest,
gathered to see the famous Pandavas
and their companions; Sanjaya pointed out
each one of them, naming their attributes.
“That one with the nose of an eagle,
with wide and eloquent eyes, with golden skin—
that is the king himself. The one whose tread
shakes the ground like a massive elephant,
whose skin is fair, whose arms and legs resemble
tree trunks, is Bhima, scourge of the Kauravas.
That is Arjuna, with the dark complexion
and curling hair—he is the great bowman,
courageous as a lion. He is unbeaten
and unbeatable. See, over there,
sitting beside their mother are the twins;
no men in all the world are more beautiful
nor more loving and sweet-natured. See
the way they look at Kunti. Over there
is Draupadi, the queen. Look—even now
she is the loveliest woman on this earth,
resembling a goddess, with her smooth skin
and shining eyes. All those other ladies
with their hair scraped back, dressed all in white,
are the widows of the hundred Kauravas.
Many of them lost their sons as well.”
And Sanjaya went on to itemize
every member of the royal household.
Thoroughly awestruck and well entertained,
the ascetics thanked him and took their leave.
“Where is Vidura?” asked Yudhishthira,
looking all around and not seeing him.
Dhritarashtra said, “My beloved brother
has gone further in extreme self-denial
than the rest of us. He eats only air
and no longer speaks.” Just then, Yudhishthira
caught a glimpse of Vidura in the distance
and pursued him, calling. He followed him
to a remote clearing deep in the forest
and found him standing, leaning against a tree.
He was almost unrecognizable—
filthy, skeletal, his mouth filled with stones,
his hair matted and dusty. Yudhishthira
paid him homage, and Vidura stared at him
with a luminous gaze. As he did so,
his life-breath left him and, with yogic power,
entered Yudhishthira. Each of these two men
was an aspect of the god of righteousness,
Dharma. Now they were one. Yudhishthira
felt himself increase in inner strength
and was aware of an expanded wisdom.
His mind turned to arranging the last rites
for his beloved uncle, whose lifeless body
still leaned against the tree. But then he heard
a voice from heaven say, Do not cremate
the body of this man called Vidura.
Your body is in his. Do not grieve for him;
he has gone to the regions of the blessed.
Full of wonder, Yudhishthira went back
and told Dhritarashtra what had happened.
Dhritarashtra said, “It makes me happy
to have you all around me, those I love.
My strict penances and your presence here
have consoled me. I am confident
that I shall have blessings in the afterlife.
But my mind never ceases to be tortured
by memories of the many wrongful acts
my foolish and misguided son committed.
When I think of how many brave men
died because of him, and because I
indulged his wickedness, well, then I burn
and know no peace, either by night or day.”
“My husband speaks the truth,” said Gandhari,
“and we all suffer—all who are bereaved—
even though sixteen long years have passed
since those terrible events. The worst
is wondering what has happened to them now,
all our fallen sons, brothers, husbands.”
She turned to Vyasa, who was visiting.
“O rishi, you are capable of wonders.
If you could enable us to see them
as they are now, in the afterlife,
then I think we would find peace at last.”
Vyasa said, “It is with this in view
that I have come to see you. When night falls,
if you go down and stand beside the river
you will see them rising up like swimmers
from their far dwellings in the afterlife.
They all met death as true kshatriyas;
all of them fulfilled their destiny.
Each one of your kin contained a portion
of some god or demon. They were on earth
to accomplish a celestial purpose.”
Just as, in the aftermath of the war,
Vyasa had enabled wise Gandhari,
through the gift of divine sight, to see
all that took place on the battlefield,
so, now, he granted her and Dhritarashtra
the power of vision. As the daylight faded
and the sun dipped low behind the trees,
Vyasa conjured up a miracle.
This is what Gandhari saw, speaking
silently to herself as it occurred:
“The air is growing cooler. All of us
have come to stand beside the river Ganga
and we are waiting. Time drags. No one speaks.
Slowly, the forest birds are falling silent.
Our hearts are pounding—with dread? With excitement?
How will it be? Will we know what to say?
Soon, through Vyasa’s power, Dhritarashtra
will see the sons he has never seen before!
Will he know them? I believe he will.
“The light is fading. There is mist, floating
over the water. Silence. Vyasa stands
in the shallows, erect, his lips moving.
Now, a murmur from the river, becoming
an immense rushing, a roar. Oh wonderful!
The water is churning, heaving, and the warriors
I last saw on the field of Kurukshetra,
broken and torn apart, are rising up
from the depths of the Ganga in their thousands.
“Their lovely heads and bodies are unblemished,
whole again, as when their womenfolk
gave them a last embrace before the battle.
Their graceful robes are shimmering with color
and they are all wearing auspicious jewels—
they must be gifts, blessings from the gods.
“Oh, but this sight defies the power of language
to describe! The most splendid celebration
ever seen must have been dull, compared with this.
All the different celestial realms
have yielded up their dead inhabitants
for this one night, and bitter enemies
are embracing now—Drona with Drupada,
brave Abhimanyu with Jayadratha,
Ghatotkacha with Duhshasana . . .
“Friends parted by death embrace each other—
Karna and Duryodhana, Bhishma and Drona . . .
Dhritarashtra has copious tears of joy
flowing down his cheeks, and how I tremble
with gladness to see all my beloved sons
without their hideous wounds, their faces, too,
unmarked by their suffering.
“Vyasa said
destiny had decreed these savage losses.
It is as if fate was the puppet master,
and these brave men were galloped off to war
on invisible strings, their faces lit
by foolish happiness and warrior’s pride.
Now, fate is satisfied; the gods, whose wishes
are opaque to us, have had their way
and, by the grace of Vyasa’s yogic power,
have released our heroes. For this one night,
they can again be loving, open-hearted;
they are perfected, cleansed of the human stain
of hatred.
“Now they are turning to us, our men,
and we, the living, take them in our arms
and sink in their embrace. All these widows,
whose shrieks I last heard on the battlefield,
are screaming now with joy and recognition
and something more. The Pandavas, with Kunti,
meet Karna and are reconciled with him
in perfect understanding. And now they rush
to embrace their beloved Abhimanyu,
and Uttaraa, too, is blissfully united
with the husband whose son now looks like him.
Dhritarashtra clasps Duryodhana,
as I do, and we have all passed beyond
any need for words . . .”
Dawn began to turn the treetops red.
At a gesture from Vyasa, the warriors
began to plunge into the rippling Ganga
and were gone, back to their heavenly homes.
Vyasa spoke. “Any widow who wishes
to join her husband in the afterlife
should quickly plunge into the holy Ganga.”
So many women, released from their bodies,
regained the companionship of marriage
in celestial worlds.
Vyasa promised
that any person, at whatever time
and in whatever place, who heard the story
of how the dead were brought back to this world
to bring joy to the living, would be changed,
consoled by it. And you have heard it now.
Having seen his sons for the first time,
and the last, Dhritarashtra shed his grief
and returned, content, to his retreat.
“My son,” he said to King Yudhishthira,
“the time has come for you to leave this place.
Through your visit, and through the miracle
summoned by Vyasa, I have achieved
perfect equanimity. I must resume
my penances without any distraction.
And the kingdom needs you.” Sahadeva
longed to stay with Kunti, sharing her life
of self-denial. “No, you must leave, my son,”
she said. “Seeing you daily, my affection
would undermine my vow of non-attachment.”
So Yudhishthira and his family,
knowing that this parting would be final,
sadly took their leave, and made their way
back to the City of the Elephant.
Two years later, Narada visited.
Eagerly, Yudhishthira asked for news
of the elders. “After you saw them last,”
said Narada, “the revered Dhritarashtra,
with his companions, moved his sacred fire
deeper into the forest. There he practiced
more severe austerities than ever,
holding only pebbles in his mouth,
not speaking, and wandering randomly
through the woods. Gandhari and Kunti
starved themselves too, and drank very little.
“One day, a forest fire sprang up, creeping
closer and closer to where the elders sat.
Sanjaya urged his master to escape,
since this fire had not been sanctified,
but Dhritarashtra refused, confident
in the power of his penances—and indeed,
he was too weak to run from the hungry fire.
Sanjaya escaped, and has made his way
to the high Himalaya. But your uncle,
Gandhari and your mother were burnt to death.
You should not grieve for them—it was their will
that they should die like this.”
The Pandavas
were heartbroken, and felt like dying themselves.
“How could the god of fire be so ungrateful,”
cried Yudhishthira, “after Arjuna
went to his aid all those years ago
in the Khandava Forest! Had he forgotten?”
“In fact,” said the seer, “this was no ordinary
inferno. The conflagration had been sparked
by the elders’ own sacrificial fire,
left carelessly unguarded by assistants—
so they died in a sacred fire, after all.”
Gradually, the wisdom of Narada
calmed the brothers’ horror and desolation.
Every apt ceremony was performed
and they spent a month living simply
outside the city walls, undergoing
purification. Then the Pandavas
re-entered Hastinapura and, grieving still,
resumed the heavy burden of government.