TWENTY-FOUR
For some weeks more, the Pandavas stayed on in Badarikasrama and the peace of the mountain where Nara and Narayana once did tapasya filled their hearts. The others showed Arjuna all their favorite places around the asrama. One day Bheema would take him on a long walk, alone; the next day, it would be Yudhishtira or the twins; and the day after that, Draupadi. For the first weeks after Arjuna's return, Panchali saw to it she had him to herself more than any of the others; whether it was out on walks through the cedar forests during the daytime, or in a cave at a slight remove from the asrama at night.
Those were blissful weeks for them all. Then, came a day when Bheema said to Yudhishtira, "The peace of Badari fills my heart, but aren't we escaping from our destiny? Eleven years of exile have passed."
Nakula agreed, "Isn't it time we remembered Duryodhana again?"
Sahadeva murmured, "And our oaths."
Arjuna said nothing, but sat rubbing bee's wax into his bowstring. Draupadi raised her eyes to Yudhishtira; but now there was no acrimony left in her, she only smiled at her husband. As always, Yudhishtira waited for the others to have their say before he spoke himself.
Bheema went on, "This is the twelfth year of our exile and Arjuna is back with us. Two years more, my brothers and one of them spent in disguise. Indra asked us to go back to the Kamyaka vana. I think that is what we should do, lest we become unused to the world and its ways."
This was a calm Bheema speaking. He was a dispassionate warrior, considering his battle-plan for the future.
Yudhishtira said encouragingly, "Go on, Bheema. Let us hear all you have to say."
"Our enemies have more peace of mind than they deserve. They may even think we have renounced the world and taken sannyasa on Badari. Yudhishtira, the rivers and forests have eyes and ears. By now, Duryodhana has heard that Arjuna has been to Devaloka and we are here on the mountain. Let us return to the Kamyaka and remind him the Pandavas are still alive. Let him suffer; it will weaken him. Let battle be joined already, in the mind, before we meet our cousins on the field."
Bheema sighed. "We have been more than happy in this place, even I. There is such peace in Badari as there isn't anywhere else on earth. I have seen Draupadi smile here, as she never has since our exile began. But fate calls us back to the plains of Bharatavarsha. Yudhishtira my brother, two years more and we will see you become Lord of the earth again."
Yudhishtira stared at Bheema for a long moment. Finally, he said, "You are right. It is time we went back to the world."
How Bheema glowed, that his brother had conceded he was right! The Pandavas went to the rishis of Badarikasrama and, bowing before their ancient, Yudhishtira said, "It is time we left you and returned to the plains. We have been happier here than at any other time of our exile and our debt to you is inestimable. Bless us, Muni, that we may prosper."
The old one said, "It is not only from us that you will part now, Yudhishtira."
Yudhishtira looked puzzled, then he saw the rishi Lomasa was smiling. Yudhishtira gasped, "My lord, you…?"
Lomasa took the Pandava's hand and said gently, "Our pilgrimage is over, Yudhishtira. Badarikasrama is the last tirtha in the world and from here I must return where I came from. My Lord Indra calls me back to Amravati. King of men, the pleasure and the honor of our yatra have been mine!"
That rishi embraced Yudhishtira and his kindly eyes were damp. Always willing to answer his questions about matters of the spirit, encouraging him to discover more of the hidden world, Lomasa had become as dear as a father to the Pandava. The sage saw Yudhishtira had evolved beyond the condition where he could ever be content with mundane sovereignty. Pandu's eldest son would aspire to enlightenment; and he was fit for it, because few attachments bound him save, perhaps, filial ones. Even with these, he never allowed them to interfere with his commitment to dharma.
Yudhishtira knelt before Lomasa for his blessing, then, the other Pandavas and Draupadi did, as well. At last, after embracing Dhaumya and his brahmanas and the rishis of Badarikasrama, Lomasa strode away along a trail that led higher up the mountain. The others stood gazing after him, their hearts full; for all his greatness, he was such a gentle, unassuming man. When he was gone a while, they saw a light on the other side of Gandhamadana.
The aged master of Badari pointed, "Look, he goes by rishi-patha."
They saw a bright pathway in the sky that rose beyond the clouds. Along that path, they saw a familiar figure climb swiftly into swarga. Lomasa paused in his breathless ascent and raised his hand over them in a blessing. The next moment, path and figure both vanished and the sky was vacant.
Bheema said, "I think we never realized how great rishi Lomasa is, because he is so humble."
Yudhishtira smiled to hear him. Now the Pandavas took their leave of the munis of Badarikasrama, with whom they had stayed six months. The old one of Badari blessed them, saying, "You shall always be welcome here, Kshatriyas and may the blessing of the fragrant mountain be upon you forever. May your paths be free of obstacles and success attend your every endeavor."
Slowly, with sad hearts all of them, they made their way down from that most sacred tirtha. Hardest was to bid farewell to the mountain itself and its airy forests they had roamed so happily, forgetting their troubles. They realized now that the mountain had kept grief away from them. To the Pandavas, Gandhamadana had become a friend and, truly, a master of their spirits: a guru of fathomless peace.
Taking their time, stopping wherever the deep loveliness of a pine grove, or the sparkling spectacle of a waterfall arrested their attention, camping in caves and in the open, under clear skies where the stars hung like waylights revealing secret trails through the universe, they wound their way down Gandhamadana and arrived on Kailasa. On that opalescent mountain, they spent some months with an old friend, the lone hermit Vrishaparva who insisted they must remain with him for a while.
"Kailasa is Lord Siva's home," said he. "You will have his blessing if you spend some time with me."
Loth as they were to leave the mountains, they agreed readily enough.
One day, while they lived with Vrishaparva, Bheema went hunting by himself in the nearby vana. He went a long way and found no game. He was hungry and pressed on, determined that he would bring back some meat today for his brothers. Yet, not a deer or boar did he see, not even a rabbit or pheasant. Feeling suddenly exhausted he sat under a large flame-of-the-forest decked with a hundred scarlet petal-fires.
Bheema mumbled to himself, "Vrishaparva said there was plenty of game in this jungle, but I have not seen a single beast. I feel tired and I'll sleep a while before I hunt any more."
He stretched himself out at the foot of the tree and was soon asleep. It was extraordinary that he felt so tired and he should have been warned that something strange was afoot. Bheema fell into a comfortless slumber. He dreamt lucidly, so he stood apart from his body and watched himself sleeping. He was amazed that the same forest he had hunted so vainly in now teemed with game. In his dream, Bheema wondered if some magic had made him blind and lured him to the place where he slept.
A prescience of evil darkened his slumber. He felt an indescribably sinister creauture watched him with greedy interest. Bheema tossed in his sleep, but he could not wake up though every cell in his body cried danger! He was aware that whatever the malevolent creature was, it watched him exactly as a hunter does his prey; that it had lured him here with bewitchment and meant to kill him. He felt no fear, because fear was alien to his nature. But he could not wake up and neither could he see what it was that stalked him.
Then Bheema stopped dreaming. He was back in his sleeping body and he felt something awful and cold wrap itself around him, slowly, at its ease, something that made his flesh crawl. Suffocating, he awoke with a cry. He found his arms pinned to his sides and he was engulfed from head to foot in a clammy clasp, so he could not move a muscle. He stared down in horror and saw moist, mottled, yellow and green coils. A gigantic serpent held him fast.
The cold dampness and the purulence of those coils were more than he could bear. Bheema roared. He flexed himself against the huge python that held him as helpless as it might a wild boar, or a chital stag the great snakes hunt. But he was Bheema, son of the wind and no snake was going to hold him for long; the Pandava strained against the shiny coils. They held him with more than unearthly strength; they held him fast with sorcery.
The forest rang with Bheema's roars. He struggled with all his untold strength against the snake's embrace, but he could not loosen it a bit. Indeed, he quickly found that the more he tried to get free the more strength drained out of his own body, like water from a hole in a pitcher. Bheema stopped struggling. He lay helpless as a baby in the constrictor's clasp.
He heard a sibilant swishing above him. When he raised his eyes up to the branches of the tree he lay under, he cried out in astonishment. The python was bigger than he had thought. It was stupendous, twice as big as the very tree. The monstrous serpent had coiled itself around the flame-of-the-forest many times and held Bheema easily with just a part of its gargantuan body. A snake's head, ten times as big as his own, peered down at him from the branch around which its interminable neck was draped. Lidless eyes regarded him as a tiger may a deer, a cat a mouse, or a common python a little pig it has firmly in its coils.
A forked lightning-streak of a tongue flickered at the lipless mouth from which two fangs protruded like sharpened pillars. A pervasive hissing filled the clearing where the flame-of-the-forest grew.
In a strangled whisper, Bheema asked, "Who are you, great Naga? Why do you hold me with your sorcery?"
An evil smile stirred in the depths of those green, pool-like eyes. In the weirdest voice, half an aggressive hiss and half human, the snake said, "I am hungry. You will make a fine meal, for there is more meat on you than on the fattest chital stag in this forest. Besides, the wild creatures know me well and they are difficult to hunt these days. That is why I am hungry. Indeed, once I have eaten you and grown a little stronger, I mean to go away to another forest where I am less well known. Hunger is a terrible thing, isn't it?"
The python grew thoughtful and, bringing his enormous head lower, stared hard at Bheema. "But who are you, human, who wander where you should not?"
"I am Bheemasena the Pandava," said Bheema with dignity, "and I wander where I please. I am Vayu's son and Yudhishtira's brother. Lions and tigers I have slain, hardly noticing I did; rakshasas like Hidimba and Baka I have dispatched. Who are you, great worm, that you have robbed me of my strength with your wizardry? For I am the strongest man in the world."
The snake laughed, a dreadful sound; but then, its eyes were alive with interest at what Bheema said. It peered more closely at him. It slithered its coils up and down his body, making him cry out in disgust. The python hissed contentedly to itself, as it stroked Bheema: fondling a choice morsel before it ate him.
"I am lucky today. Weeks have passed since I ate anything worthwhile. I say again, human: you are a well-fleshed creature; you will make a fair meal."
"But tell me who you are, O Serpent. At least tell me that before you eat me!" Bheema cried.
The naga's eyes clouded briefly in some dim and unpleasant memory. It spoke again and it seemed to Bheema that now its voice was more human than before. "Mine is a long story and an old one. I was once a king, I cannot recall how many ages ago it was and I was king of Devaloka. Then I was cursed and here I am in this snake's body. My name was Nahusha; perhaps you have heard my name before? Ah, great was the majesty of king Nahusha, son of Ayu, deep was his learning; but with them came arrogance. I was mad with the power I wielded and vain with the wisdom I had. Once, fate brought the rishi Agastya to my palace in Amravati and in my wretched pride, I insulted that profound one.
He cursed me, mortal. He cast me down from heaven and as I fell to the earth, I saw a hideous change had come over me. I had become a python. Gone was my body of light, vanished all my glory. Instead, I had a serpent's coils and this serpent's head. As I lay sobbing on the ground, I heard Agastya's voice say to me, 'Now your swollen pride has found its true shape. This is what you really are, that you have become a slave to your conceit. Remain in the world as a snake, Nahusha. You are not fit to be a king any more.'
I gnashed my teeth and wept, but there was no cure for me. I cried to Agastya, 'My lord, forgive me! I am penitent already, release me from your curse.'
He answered grimly, 'You are so bloated with vanity you do not know what penitence is. The curse has just begun. You have an age to live as a serpent, before the one who releases you from my curse comes along.'
'Who will my savior be?' cried I, desperately.
'A king of the race of the Moon. An exile from his kingdom, like you are, Nahusha,' he answered.
'How will I know him?' I wailed.
'He will come to you when you hold the strongest man in the world in your coils and he will answer any question you ask him. He will be wiser than you are and he will teach you a deep lesson about wisdom.'
He told me the name of the king who would set me free, but I have forgotten it. Ah, mortal, I have lived many centuries in the world in this worm's body. The most wretched food has passed my lips: fresh flesh and blood. Pigs and rats I have eaten, deer, elephant and tiger. At first, I used to feel horror at where I was and what I had become. Often, I tried to kill myself by starving. But I could not and by the power of the curse, bestial greed would overcome me again. I would hunt a pig or a buffalo, or another serpent and gorge myself as if I had no control over what I did.
Ages have passed. I remember so little of my days in Devaloka. I am no longer certain if I was ever a king called Nahusha, or if all that is just a dream."
The snake sighed and twitched his coils. But he held Bheema firmly, so the Pandava could not move. Nahusha the python looked down at his captive again and said, "Such a pity. Young Kshatriya, somehow I like you; or perhaps, it is Nahusha, whose spirit still dwells in this python's body, who likes you. But, alas, it is the python that lives on this earth and he who must devour you. A pity, such a pity, for I do feel a strong fondness for you."
Bheema thought he glimpsed such a human flicker in the snake's slitted eyes. The creature went on, "Do you know, that just now when you said you were the strongest man on earth I felt a stab of hope, as I have not for centuries? I thought to myself, here I am with a mortal in my coils who says he is the strongest man on earth. Perhaps, the day of my Salvation has come at last; perhaps I shall not have to eat this fine young human. But no, that is not to be, or our savior should have appeared by now. I beg you, believe me, young Bheema, when I say that it would please me no end if I did not have to eat you. What can I do? Already, the serpent juices in my belly begin to burn and compel me."