SEVENTEEN
Dawn was just breaking and swathed the Himalaya in unworldly violets, pinks and crimsons, edged with startling gold, in a bewitching spectacle, when, after a sound night's sleep at the foot of the mountain, the Pandavas began their long climb. The air was fragrant as if it had wafted down from Devaloka and the birds in the trees were all alight with song.
They climbed effortlessly during the early part of the day and Bheema had a tune on his lips. Slowly, the sun crept overhead, the air grew thinner, the slope steeper and the going became hard. While they had walked together in a cheery knot at first, now they climbed laboriously in single file.
When they had gone like this for a way and the day ripened into noon, suddenly darkness scudded into the sky. In moments, ominous clouds piled above the mountain and blue lightning electrified a firmament dim as twilight. Up here, the elements of the air seemed much nearer. The cracks of thunder and the stark gashes of lightning were terrifyingly close, as if the Gods were angry and wanted to drive the climbers down.
An icy gale began to howl through the sheer valleys, in every direction at once. The wind pulled up massive trees on the slope and crashed them down again. Some cedars were torn up like straw-puppets and carried dizzily away.
The wind was deafening and dust swirled in its giant coils. The climbers couldn't hear each other above it, not if they shouted on top of their voices. Fear gripped them, exposed as they were on the slope, clinging to one another lest they were blown away as well. Lomasa, who led the party, ran forward and crouched in a shallow cave and the others scuttled in after him. They huddled together in that relative shelter, while the storm raged all around.
The rain came down, whiplashing the mountain. Every drop was like an arrow of fury. Sky and earth were one in that blinding downpour, as if this was already the night of the deluge. The hapless pilgrims crouched in their shelter, numbed by the power of the storm.
For an hour, it poured as if the sea in the sky was inexhaustible and the rain would not stop until the very mountain was drowned. Streams swelled into cataracts and hurtled down the slopes, sweeping along huge boulders and the biggest trees. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm blew out. The rain dwindled to a drizzle, then stopped. Patches of blue sky appeared above and the sun broke through them flooding a cleansed earth with light again. The birds in the trees burst into song.
Lomasa crept out of the cave, shaking his head and smiling. The others sat dazed for a while. Then, slowly, kshatriya and brahmana rose and now the mountain appeared to welcome them. Full of humility, the Pandavas decided to press on.
The ground was wet and often slippery and their progress was much slower than before. In somber silence, yet with strange calm come over them, too, as if they had now been formally ushered into the sacred dimension that is the Himalaya, they climbed on.
All at once, Draupadi, who walked between Bheema and Nakula, gave a sharp cry. She lost her footing and tumbled down the slope they were climbing. Fortunately, Nakula was five paces behind her and stopped her from falling into a gorge they had just skirted. He held her in his arms and sat on the ground resting his back against a tree that had withstood the storm.
The rest of the party gathered around. Panchali lay in a swoon, with her head in Nakula's lap; and Bheema cursed himself he had not carried her as he had said he would. Sahadeva fetched water from a brook, sprinkled her face and hands with it and gave her some to drink. They saw how her feet were blistered and bled from the climb. But she had not complained because she had been afraid she would be left behind and also, because she did not want to burden Bheema when the going was so steep and slippery. Bheema himself had quite forgotten; he was stunned by the storm. The twins bathed Draupadi's feet in the icy water and color thawed back into her face.
But now, someone else confessed he could hardly stand the climb any more. Yudhishtira gasped, "I can't go on. My body burns, my breath heaves and the mountain swims before my eyes."
Lomasa said, "Nara Narayana's Badarikasrama isn't far from here. We should be able to climb there if Bheema carries Draupadi and you rouse yourself, Yudhishtira, perhaps with Sahadeva helping you. In Badari we shall find shelter."
So far, not Dhaumya, Lomasa, or any of the other brahmanas seemed in the least tired! For them, this was a sacred journey, the opportunity of a lifetime and they were not about to let a little discomfort interfere with their pilgrimage. Ruefully, Yudhishtira pulled himself up and climbed on. Now Sahadeva went beside him, to support him if he needed it. Bheema hoisted Draupadi onto his shoulders and carried her up the mountain as if she were another breath of air.
When they had gone an hour, Lomasa, who strode ahead of the others showing the way he seemed to know well, shouted, "Badarikasrama! There, ahead."
When they looked up to see where he was pointing, they saw the asrama was a speck on the lofty shoulder of another mountain that towered ahead of them, at least ten days' march away! Yudhishtira gave a groan and sat down where he was. "I must rest. I can hardly breathe here, the air is so thin."
Sahadeva and Nakula sat beside him and even Bheema was red in the face and short of breath. He, too, seemed grateful to set Draupadi down and to rest himself. But the rishi Lomasa and Dhaumya's brahmanas were not tired at all. How their eyes shone when they looked where Lomasa pointed; they would gladly have gone on. Yudhishtira smiled to think he had wanted to leave them behind lest they found the journey too arduous.
He said, "I cannot go another step, at least not today. Even if we find something to eat and resume our journey tomorrow, I can't tell how far I will be able to go."
Sahadeva said, "I can hardly walk."
Nakula added, "Nor I."
Lomasa said with a sigh, "Gandhamadana is snowbound all year round and the air grows rarer still, as you climb. I can't think how we will reach the Badarikasrama."
Then, Bheema said to Yudhishtira, "I know how we can all reach Badari."
The rest turned to him skeptically. Thinking this was another frivolous idea, Yudhishtira said, "Tell us then, Bheema, how you propose we arrive."
Bheema said, "Ghatotkacha. My son."
The rishi and the brahmanas looked puzzled, they did not know what he meant. But Yudhishtira gave a cry and hugged Bheema. "Of course! Ghatotkacha can take us to Badari."
How Bheema glowed at his brother's approval, rare as it was. The son of the wind shut his eyes and thought of his rakshasa son, called him silently wherever he might be. In a faraway forest, hidden between two impassable mountains, a vana where no man had ever set foot, a strange being suddenly grew rapt as he ranged that emerald jungle with his companions on a hunt.
He was more than a head taller than the tallest human and lean muscles glimmered under his velvet skin. When the light caught him at some angles, it seemed he was made of the finest black crystal. At other times, there seemed to be sapphire dust in his pores. To another rakshasa's eye, he was a splendid young warrior in his prime; though it was plain that he bore the blood of two races in his veins and the rakshasi women could never resist Ghatotkacha.
He was a prince of that secret forest where they lived; a lord of his people, long-eared, fanged and clawed when he fought, beautifully black and his pate as hairless and smooth as a water-pot. He was a magical being, as many of the high rakshasas of the mountains were. They were a far cry from fiends like Baka and Hidimba, who had devolved to the lowest state their noble race could sink to. Ghatot kacha's rakshasas were not brutish, blood drinking trolls, but charmed beings blessed by Siva and Parvati with supernatural powers; and they lived mysterious lives in hidden forests. They were followers of dharma, knew the Shastras well and had contact with other uncanny beings from worlds far and near, starry and subtle, realms to which men seldom had access.
However, that day Ghatotkacha on his hunt heard his father's voice in his head, "My son, come to me, I have need of you," as clearly as if Bheema stood before him.
Ghatotkacha called an abrupt halt to his band of rakshasas' careen through the jungle. They were on the trail of a rare golden monkey, whose flesh was a delicacy to them; and especially its brain, because it conferred great virility. But the gilded creature had the power to make itself invisible and, then, it was a dangerous quarry. For it was a killer, which would materialize suddenly behind an unwary rakshasa and strangle him silently, with fingers that were as strong as they were long and fine.
But now Ghatotkacha, who led the hunt, froze with his head cocked and his eyes intent.
"What happened, Ghatotkacha?" cried one of the others in dismay. The monkey would have got far away by now.
Ghatotkacha said softly, "My father wants me. Come, we must fly to the Himalaya."
No questions were asked. By instinct, sure as sight, Ghatotkacha knew exactly from where Bheema called him. The rakshasas traveled in a manner that to men would surely be mystic, but for them was commonplace. Quite simply, they vanished from where they stood in the steamy vana; and a golden monkey hiding in the highest branch of a tree heaved a sigh of relief and stopped shaking. In moments, the rakshasas stood before Bheema and the Pandavas with folded hands.
Black, exotic, magnificent Ghatotokacha knelt at his father's feet and took the padadhuli from them. Bheema hugged his son, kissing his cheeks, sniffing his smooth head, blessing him. Then the rakshasa knelt before Yudhishtira, who doted on him and whose favorite he was since his childhood.
Hugging his extraordinary nephew, again and again, crying for joy to see him, Yudhishtira said, "Now we shall surely arrive in Badarikasrama."
Sahadeva and Nakula embraced Ghatotkacha; and how radiant he was to see his uncles again. But Draupadi and the brahmanas were afraid of the rakshasas.
Bheema brought Ghatotkacha to Panchali and said, "This is your mother Draupadi, my son. She cannot climb any more and you must carry her up to Badarikasrama."
Ghatotkacha knelt gravely at her feet and clasped them in long fingers that seemed to have dark diamonds for nails. Exhausted as she was and jolted by her fall, she shivered at his touch. Then, she felt how true his spirit was, how loving; and, with a wondering laugh, she placed her hand on his smooth head and blessed him.
Ghatotkacha's solemn eyes saw the cuts and blisters on Draupadi's feet. He made a slight sign to one of his rakshasas and the wild one loped gracefully away up the mountain. He returned shortly with some dark leaves with a heavy fragrance. Ghatotkacha took the leaves and, crushing them quickly, adding a few drops of moisture he squeezed from some other wet leaves on the ground, he gently applied the paste to the soles of Panchali's feet.
Her feet went numb and then she felt as if green fingers drew out the pain from them. Not only that, but a thrill of wellbeing spread up through her body. Color flushed back into her cheeks and in a moment, she could stand.
She cried, "Look Bheema, the blisters have vanished and my feet aren't sore any more."
She took Ghatotkacha's hand and, hugging him quickly, cried, "I have heard so much about you. But from today, you are my son also!"
How pleased that rakshasa was. For, truth to tell, he had feared she may resent him, since Bheema had been with his mother before Draupadi entered his life.
"Where is my uncle Arjuna?"
Yudhishtira pointed up at the sky. "He is with his father in Amravati. He will return to us on the Himalaya, we are not sure when. We want to pray at Nara Narayana's asrama and we are exhausted. Ghatotkacha, you must carry at least Draupadi up the mountain."
Ghatotkacha said softly, "We will take you all up to the Badari, uncle." He smiled, dazzling white against his face. "If the holy ones don't mind being borne there by rakshasas."
Bheema laughed and Dhaumya said quietly, "We shall be honored to be borne to the Badari, or anywhere at all, by friends as noble and virtuous as yourselves."
Ghatotkacha bowed to the brahmana. "I will carry my mother Draupadi and my uncle Yudhishtira. My friends will bear the rest. Badarikasrama is not far."
He knelt and scooped Draupadi up, easy as feathers and set her on one shoulder. He lifted Yudhishtira up and set him beside her. His rakshasas took the other Pandavas, Lomasa, Dhaumya and his brahmanas.
"Hold tight, little mother!" cried Ghatotkacha, but bound Draupadi and Yudhishtira to his back with invisible thongs of his power, so they would never fall.
The next moment they flew up from that mountain and Draupadi cried out in wonder as they flashed toward distant Badari: an extraordinary flight of demons and pilgrims!
Even through the air, as birds travel, it took a fair part of the day to arrive on Gandhamadana and the asrama set just below the summit of the scented mountain. They flew over peaks that thrust themselves out of the earth, proud and defiant, as if in memory of the times when mountains had golden wings and flew through the air, roaming the sky at will before Indra sheared their wings with his Vajra. Between towering peaks were valleys and ravines that plunged sheerly away, that none could pass but sure-footed kinnaras, kimpurushas and mountain gandharvas.
Over the Himalaya flew Ghatotkacha and his rakshasas with their unusual burdens, all of them absorbed by what they saw below. Ineffable sunset was upon the white mountain now and its slopes resonated with colors never seen in the plains. Softly as a breeze the rakshasas descended on lofty Badari and the hermits who lived on that eagle's perch were astonished by the spectacle of ten demons flying down out of the twilight sky. With a stab of fear in their hearts, especially when they saw shining, black Ghatotkacha, who flew down first, the rishis of Badari rose to receive their visitors.
Then they saw the Pandavas and Draupadi and the rakshasas who carried Dhaumya and Lomasa landed among them. Lomasa was no stranger to the rishis of Badari and they came to greet him in some relief. They were still awestruck by the beings that had carried that sage and his yatris to their asrama: these, they saw, were certainly rakshasas. But soon, everything was explained.
Lomasa said, "This is Yudhishtira of the House of Kuru."
He did not have to say more. The rishis of Badari came forward warmly to greet the Pandava. They seemed to know all about Yudhishtira and his brothers, Draupadi and their exile. They even knew where Arjuna was. The eldest among them was a muni who looked a thousand years old, if he was a day: a thousand years that had made him more vigorous and full of light for every year he had seen.
That ancient now said, "It draws on time for your brother Arjuna to return to you and then, time to fight the war at the end of the age." He sighed, "And when the kali yuga sets in, Lomasa, it may be time for us to leave this asrama and this earth."
He was almost as tall as Ghatotkacha and he swept the twilight sky and the mountains around them with glowing eyes. "Long years we have lived here, for centuries we have sat in dhyana on the Badari. But, perhaps, in the age of terror there will be no one left to pray for the world, not even on this mountain."
He turned to look curiously at Ghatotkacha and his rakshasas. Bheema said, "Ghatotkacha is my son, Muni. I summoned him to carry us to Badari, for we could not climb here ourselves."
The old one smiled, "I have heard of you, Ghatotkacha and you are welcome."
Just that night, Ghatotkacha and his silent rakshasas spent in the asrama. The moon rose and, when it was overhead, as they sat up late, talking, Sahadeva pointed down the mountain, "Look!"
The Pandavas saw the moon was not only above them, but seemed also to have fallen to the earth, a long way below them.
"What is it?" whispered Bheema.
The rishis laughed. One of them said, "It is the reflection of the moon on the Bindusaras, where the Ganga has her source."
"Where Siva let her down from his head," murmured Yudhishtira.
"The lake of water-drops," said Lomasa reverently.
The ancient of Badari said, "That is how Sankara let her down, drop by drop, to quell her pride."
The moon lay calmed on the Bindusaras, truly as if he had risen not only in the sky above but also the mountain's heart. He lay there, softly breathtaking.
In the morning the rakshasas rose with the sun and, bidding farewell to the Pandavas, the munis and Draupadi, Ghatotkacha left Badarikasrama, promising to return whenever they wanted him again. Bheema clasped his son tightly and held him for a long time. When, finally, Ghatotkacha and his friends had flown toward the rising sun and their forest hidden away in the secret valley, Bheema had tears in his eyes and so did Draupadi and Yudhishtira.
Already, a fine serenity stole over their spirits. This was the asrama where Nara and Narayana had sat in dhyana once; and their tapasya blessed not only the mountain, but spread through all the earth and down the ages deeply. This mountain was a chalice of the Holy Spirit and nowhere else did Yudhishtira, his brothers, Draupadi and the others who traveled with them find such peace as they did in Badarikasrama.