THIRTY-FOUR
One morning, Drona came to meet Bheeshma, Dhritarashtra and Vidura in court. "My lords, the Kuru princes are ready to display their skills to yourselves and the people."
Bheeshma was enthused. "Let us have an exhibition."
Dhritarashtra said, "Ah, today I curse my blindness. But Vidura will sit beside me and describe everything as if I saw it all with my eyes. Acharya Drona, let us prepare for an exhibition like Hastinapura has never seen before. Vidura, have a stadium built where the princes can show their skills. As soon as the stadium is complete, find an auspicious day for the exhibition. Let every convenience be placed at Drona's disposal and let Hastinapura be alight with the news!"
Drona hired the finest artisans in the kingdom to build the stadium. In the shastras of vaasthu there were exact specifications for such an edifice: which direction it should face; where the royal stands should be built and where the popular ones; how long the arena should be and how wide; and other fine details relating to the planets above and the spirits of the earth.
Drona and Vidura chose a site just below the king's palace and had it sanctified. A huge labor force was collected and, the day after the consecration, work began under Drona's watchful eye. With that force toiling day and night, expertly, the stadium was completed in less than a month; even though the workers had to meet the acharya's exacting standards.
All the lofty stands were complete—the king's enclosure, those for the nobility, separate stands for the women of the palace and those for the common people. Drona came to the court again and announced that a date had been fixed for the exhibition, a week hence. The princes were preparing for the display.
Drona said, "There will also be a friendly tournament between the princes to make the exhibition more exciting."
"Let word be sent among the people, informing them of the date," said Dhritarashtra.
Came the day of the tournament. It was a brilliant morning, not a cloud in the sky and a golden sun shone down as if to bless Hastinapura. Well before dawn the people began to throng the gates of the stadium. Some had spent the night under the stars outside the enclosures. They lit fires, sang old songs and discussed the prowess of the different participants—whether Aswatthama was the best marksman, or Arjuna, by far; whether Bheema, the Pandava, was the strongest with the mace, or if it was Duryodhana, the Kaurava.
With dawn, the gates were thrown open and a sea of people surged into the stadium to secure places on the wooden and stone steps, which were their stands, canopied with bright canvas to keep away the sun's heat and the rain, if by some mischance it came down today. And as in any crowd, each prince had his partisans. There were those who said, "There is no archer on earth like Arjuna. We have come to watch Arjuna perform with his bow."
"All the Kuru princes are great kshatriyas," cried another. "We have come to watch them all."
Someone else had a different view of things. "The world knows that Drona cares just for one disciple. This exhibition is only to show off Arjuna's skills; the others will serve as foils for him."
"Do you think Drona is a fool that his intentions are transparent to one of your feeble wit?"
There was some irate shouting from the aggrieved party. But just then a hundred deep conches boomed around the arena, silencing the crowd. A covered passage led straight from the palace to the royal enclosure. And now the Kuru Pitama, the august Bheeshma, walked up that passage. His white hair and beard shone in the sun. The people rose to their feet and called out his name. The patriarch was all smiles today, as he waved to acknowledge their greeting. He took his place on a throne beside Dhritarashtra's central one. Once more, the crowd fell to speculations like a murmurous sea.
The conches resounded again and again they were on their feet. Along the royal passage came Dhritarashtra, with Gandhari, Vidura and Kunti. The king came on Vidura's arm and Gandhari on Kunti's. The people took up their names one by one, including Pandu's and the sky echoed with their chanting. Dhritarashtra was also smiling today, as he raised his arms to greet them. Vidura helped him to his throne.
Kripa followed the king, the queen and Vyasa who had come to watch the exhibition; and then, the retinue of Kuru nobility. The women were shown to their own enclosure to the left of the king's. Settling again, the crowd was full of gossip about the grand men and women of the Kuru House. Romantic secrets were aired in loud whispers, by those who spoke as if they were go-betweens in every affair. Political rumors floated in the sunlit air, wafted along by a tolerant breeze.
The conches echoed again and a hush fell. The people craned to another entrance below the royal enclosure, which led directly onto the white river-sands that had been brought in cartloads to fill the arena. The crowd took up a new cry, "Drona! Drona! Drona Acharya!"
Wearing a crisp white robe, his grey hair down to his slim shoulders, his tread lithe and firm and his son Aswatthama following five paces behind him, the master strode into the arena. Raising his hands to quiet the excited crowd, he said, "Welcome friends, good people welcome! Your majesties, Dhritarashtra, Gandhari, Bheeshma Pitama, Muni Vyasa, noble Vidura, Acharya Kripa, I welcome you all to this exhibition by the Kuru princes."
The conches sounded again and Dhritarashtra rose to honor the gurus, Kripa and Drona. In that glittering stadium, the king rewarded the two masters lavishly with gold and jewels. In the background, the Vedas were being chanted without pause since daybreak. When he had formally feted the acharyas, Dhritarashtra cried, "Let the exhibition begin!"
The crowd roared like the sea when a full moon rides her waves. Out of the warriors' passage issued a phalanx of servants, with the Kuru princes' weapons. The crowd gasped to see the bows and quivers, maces, swords and lances, gleaming in the sun. The weapons were set down on a long table. Perfect silence fell over the arena and then Yudhishtira walked out on to the white sand, leading his brothers and cousins, in order of their age. The stadium rang with the Pandavas' names and the Kauravas', from different sections of the crowd.
Fanning out in a circle the princes walked around the arena, waving to the people. Then Drona called them back to him. The young kshatriyas bowed to their masters and, at their acharya's signal, picked up their bows from the table. Standing in a lotus formation they pulled on their bowstrings in unison, until the stadium and the sky above rang with that sound. The crowd began to clap and cheer lustily, but the thunder of the bowstrings drowned its most strenuous efforts.
When they stopped, Drona announced, "The Kuru princes will now show you their skills."
A hundred horses' hooves drummed the earth. A gate at the southern end of the stadium was flung open and a hundred brightly caparisoned steeds from the royal stables entered. As they cantered around the hem of the white sands, the princes mounted them effortlessly. A revolving target had been set up at the heart of the arena. As they rode around it, the Kauravas and Pandavas shot arrows at that wooden target carved like a little boar. Not a shaft missed its mark and the crowd erupted in cheers. Faster and faster the horses flew, now galloping round at blinding speed. Still, not an arrow failed to find its mark. Soon the little wooden boar looked like a porcupine.
Nimbly as they had mounted them, the princes leapt off their horses and the animals galloped out of the stadium amidst tumultuous applause. Now the princes took the crowd's breath away with mock fights from chariots, horse- and elephant-back. They fought hand to hand with sword, spear and dagger. These mock fights were so lifelike, one imagined the youths were locked in mortal com bat. But not a drop of blood was spilt; not a scratch broke any prince's skin, though they hewed powerfully at each other, with roars to make the crowd's hair stand on end.
Only when they put down their swords and bowed to their guru did the people of Hastina stand up as a man and applaud the display that had rather unnerved them. All the speculations that the exhibition had been organized just to show off Arjuna's talent were forgotten. Arjuna had hardly taken part yet and the crowd was enthralled by what it had seen so far. The skills of the Kuru princes, all of them, exceeded the most imaginative expectations.
A beaming Drona held up his hands for silence. "Now Duryodhana the Kaurava and Bheemasena the Pandava will give us an exhibition of mace-fighting."
It was common knowledge in Hastinapura that there was no love lost between Bheema and Duryodhana. As the princes stepped into the middle of the arena, already some of the people yelled the dashing Duryodhana's name and others rooted for Bheema.
Drona cried, "This is no duel between enemies, only an exhibition." He looked meaningfully at the combatants, so they remembered this as well.
Drona stepped away and, bowing briefly to each other, the two mace-fighters began to circle one another, the maces shining in their hands. Those gadas were weapons that few men could even heft. But Bheema and Duryodhana carried them as if they weighed nothing, as if they were limbs of their own bodies. For a while they circled, their gazes locked. Neither so much as blinked.
At first a hush fell on the crowd and you could hear it breathe. Then some of Duryodhana's supporters began to chant his name, "Duryodhana. Duryodhana. Duryodhana."
Promptly, others cried, "Bheema! Bheema! Bheema!"
Duryodhana lunged forward like a striking cobra and swung his gada viciously at Bheema. The chanting stopped at the ferocity of that blow. But for all his bulk, Bheema was as quick as his adversary; his mace rose in a flash to block his cousin's stroke. The weapons rang together, sparks flying from them and the sky echoed with a thunderclap. Silence again in the stadium. Just the two immense kshatriyas circled each other warily, their eyes on fire with feelings far from those proper to an exhibition. The crowd was silenced by the elemental force of that first blow. The air was charged with the cousins' antagonism.
Bheema bent his knees and struck out, low and savagely. Duryodhana leapt into the air so the tremendous stroke whistled harmlessly under his feet. As he descended, he struck Bheema squarely across his back. Bheema had no time to block that blow; but it was delivered from a defensive position and did not hurt him. Yet he staggered two paces and the crowd gasped. Spinning round like a pirouetting dancer, astonishingly graceful for his size, Bheema struck back at once—a backhanded, one-armed blow that landed high on Duryodhana's shoulder and fetched a cry from him.
The people were agog and now there was no more circling or holding back from the princes. With fierce yells and roars that were uncannily like those of real battle, they hewed at each other with breathtaking speed and power. When they paused to wipe the sweat from their glistening bodies or dripping faces, their supporters shouted their names. The mace-fight was like a duel out of pristine times, when kshatriyas were scarcely human, but godlike. Besides, there was the eerie feeling that this was just a rehearsal for another duel these two would fight some day; and then, to the death of one of them.
More than the awesome blows Bheema and Duryodhana lashed out with, the palpable hatred between them was a shadow looming over the crowd. Vidura sat at Dhritarashtra's elbow, describing each blow, every parry, to his brother who sat as absorbed as anyone that watched with his eyes. His imagination conjured as magnificent a spectacle for him as the actual contention below.
Drona frowned. He said to Aswatthama, "They will kill each other if they continue and they are dividing the people between them. Stop them."
Aswatthama ran forward and cried, "Stop! Drona commands you to stop fighting!"
But Bheema and Duryodhana seemed not to hear him. The crowd was on its feet once more. The duelists were figures in a dream of titans. Their eyes blazed and their maces rang together still, as if they were powerless to stop themselves. Aswatthama leapt between them, risking a blow which could fell him, or worse. He held on to their fighting-arms, while they growled and struggled to push him aside and fight on.
Drona shouted, "Stop at once! This is an exhibition."
Still bristling, Bheema and Duryodhana stepped back from each other and lowered their maces. And when they bowed to the crowd, the cheer that went up was deafening.
Dhritarashtra cried anxiously to Vidura, "What is happening? Why does the crowd roar?"
Vidura replied, "Drona has stopped the princes. They seemed to become carried away."
Bheema and Duryodhana set their maces down and stalked out of the arena to the enclosure where the other princes sat. Drona raised his arms to call for quiet. When the shouting for the mace-fighters died down, he announced, "Now Arjuna will show us his prowess with the longbow."
Not all the people had really enjoyed the tension of Bheema and Duryodhana's duel and as Arjuna strode into the arena there was just one name on everyone's lips.
"Arjuna!" they cried. "Arjuna!"
The third Pandava wore burnished mail; he was like a dark cloud lit by the evening sun. Drona said, "This is my disciple Arjuna, dearer to me than my Aswatthama. He is Indra's son, Pandu's son and Kunti's and he is as valiant as Vishnu."
The crowd hummed with anticipation. Arjuna's name was already a legend in Hastinapura: it was said he was the greatest archer ever.
"The son of Kunti!" they cried.
"The son of Indra!"
"The guardian of the Kurus!"
In the women's enclosure, Kunti could scarcely see her prince clearly, since her eyes were full of tears. Like a young lion Arjuna walked slowly to the center of the arena of sand. He held his bow in his hand; twin quivers, brimming with arrows, were strapped to his back.
Dhritarashtra turned to Vidura and asked, "Why are the people shouting?" as if he had not heard Drona or the crowd.
"Arjuna is about to show his skills with the longbow." Vidura's eyes were also full.
It is told that though the king's heart simmered with envy, he smiled as guilelessly as only the blind can, "Ah Vidura, the three flames sprung from the lamp that is Kunti bring me fortune, joy and protection!"
And in her place beside Gandhari, Kunti felt so secure today. She felt certain no misfortune would ever befall her sons or herself. They had come home from the wilderness and found a place in her husband's city and in the hearts of its people.
Arjuna bowed to his guru Drona, to Bheeshma and to his uncle, the king. Then he began a display of archery that would have remained imprinted forever on the minds of those who saw it, except that something happened after he had finished to put his stunning exhibition in the shade.
Standing at the edge of the arena in alidha, the archer's classic stance, Arjuna began. He stood utterly still, eyes shut, a silent mantra on his lips. Without opening his eyes, he shot five arrows, quick as thoughts, into the mouth of another wooden boar which Aswatthama had set spinning at the heart of the arena. Only when Aswatthama held up the little boar did the crowd roar its appreciation.
The Pandava had already moved on to the next part of his display. Invoking Agni, God of fire, he shot a common enough arrow into the sky. But this was an uncanny shaft: it flew so slowly, as if it hung on every hand of air it traversed. Then it began to glow as if someone had ignited it. It flared up, blazing now and growing more fiery each moment. And soon not only the arrow but all the sky above the arena was aflame: a conflagration on high!
The crowd cowered.
Arjuna invoked another astra. A silver, sparkling shaft flashed up from his bow. At once the sky was a sea, with waves risen in it to put out the inferno of the agneyastra: tidal waves of the varunastra Arjuna had invoked with the mantra of the God of seas.
The fire in the sky was drowned. The firmament was an inverted ocean. The crowd was speechless; all save Vidura and Kunti, who described every moment of Arjuna's performance to the blind king and Gandhari. Kunti could hardly keep the pride she felt out of her voice.
Arjuna never paused. He was like some dancer, moving in a blur to inaudible music. Another light-like arrow, a parjannyastra and the waters in the sky billowed together into rumbling storm clouds. The next missile flew up like a long mirage. A tempest rose on high, blowing the clouds away and leaving the sky as chaste as when the day had begun: spotless cyan and the warm sun shining in it.
After a moment, the crowd found its voice again: its cheers shook the stadium. But Arjuna the dancer, Arjuna the sublime bowman had not finished. Rising onto his toes, he shot another clutch of arrows, now straight down into the sand of the arena. They plunged out of sight. This was the astra of the earth, the bhauma. A crack rent the air, the ground at Arjuna's feet was cloven and a deep passage revealed. He walked down into that tunnel and the earth closed above him.
Another, subterranean, report rang out and the earth opened again; but now across the arena. The bhaumastra flashed up and lay on the ground. A smiling Arjuna walked out of the opening and it closed behind him. Not a ripple on the white sands showed where he had entered the earth or emerged. The arrow flew up with its own will and into one of the quivers strapped to Arjuna's back.
By now the crowd was almost delirious. But the Pandava still had not finished. His bowstring sang again and all at once there were mountains that thrust their way up out of the sand, towering peaks of ice and snow. They stood there so majestic and real. And the crowd still sat around them, though that arena was hardly big enough to contain a mountain range! All were lost in the archer's miracle.
Another magic arrow, the antardhanastra and both Arjuna and the mountains vanished and the arena was bare. When the Pandava reappeared he was tall as a hill himself, a giant looming over the stadium. Then, in a flash, he was a little homunculus no bigger than a man's thumb and Aswatthama had to point him out to the crowd, which was past cheering now, it was so overwhelmed. Minuscule Arjuna shot a tiny arrow and a golden chariot appeared, drawn by horses out of a fantasy. Himself once more, Arjuna rode in that ratha, waving to the crowd.
As he flew round the arena, he flung an empty quiver high into the air. Before it fell to the ground, switching his bow from hand to hand, he shot twenty-one arrows into that quiver, filling it perfectly. It was then that the earth shook and the crowd trembled.
First the people thought it was another of Arjuna's wonderful astras. But he himself stopped his chariot, leapt down from it and stood staring toward the stadium gates. Again the thunder echoed there. Some of the crowd looked up at the sky to see if a storm was brewing. But above was unbroken, clear blue, falling away to the horizon on every side.
Dhritarashtra asked Vidura, "What is that noise? What astra does our nephew summon now?"
"It isn't Arjuna who made the sound of thunder."
The crowd realized the thunder came from the gates. The Pandavas had gathered around Drona. Nearby, his heart stirred powerfully by an intimation of fortune, Duryodhana also stood, with his brothers and Aswatthama beside him. Again and again the defiant noise echoed at the gates to the arena, always drawing nearer.
Drona said, "It is a bowstring being pulled. But only the greatest masters can make their bows sound like this."
A startling figure stalked haughtily in through the lofty gates. His armor shone like treasure and his golden earrings seemed to be made of two drops of the sun. Such was the presence and authority of the stranger, the crowd fell hushed. Like a golden lion, like a Deva, he walked calmly onto the white arena. One look at him and the people of Hastinapura knew that here was a great warrior if there ever was one. They saw how the very sunlight seemed to enfold him, as if in special grace and how extraordinary his armor was. Was it armor or his golden skin? His hair fell to his shoulders in dark waves. The bow in his hand and the sword at his waist glittered as brightly as his eyes.
The archer stood at the heart of the arena; you could hear the breeze rustling in the trees outside the stadium. With the assurance of a warrior who has no equal, he gazed unhurriedly around him— at the royal enclosure, the stands of the people, at the Pandavas and the Kauravas, at Arjuna and Drona. Almost with contempt.
Not even Drona spoke. Now the stranger bowed quickly to the blind king, to Drona and Kripa. In a voice to match the sound of his bowstring, the golden warrior said to Arjuna, "Pandava, I see you are conceited with the paltry tricks you just performed." Such a mocking smile was on his noble, but also strained and sad face. "If your guru allows me, I will repeat every feat of yours, with my own refinements."
There was a murmur from the people. The instinct of fortune swelling in him, moment by moment, Duryodhana stood riveted. He stared at the newcomer as if he was an old friend, from another life perhaps. Drona could not refuse, at least for the curiosity that consumed him. Who was this archer he had never heard of, who claimed he could match Arjuna?
"Show us your skills, stranger."
Bowing again to Drona, Karna began a display that wiped the very memory of Arjuna's earlier feats from the minds of the people. His fires were fiercer; his ocean in the sky was vaster, brighter. His rain-clouds, into which he resolved that sea, were darker, more threatening and streaked with lightning. The gale he summoned to blow away those clouds howled louder than Arjuna's wind. The report with which the earth opened for his bhaumastra was more deafening. The tunnel that lay at his feet, which he also went down into, was paved with glimmering jewels. The mountains he caused to appear were Himalayan and made Arjuna's mountains seem like hillocks. And when he grew before the people they could not see his face, because it seemed to be hidden in the sun. His chariot not only flashed along the ground but flew through the air. And he shot nine arrows into the mouth of the revolving boar and forty into the quiver he tossed up.
When he had finished and stood radiant before them, the crowd was beside itself. Bheeshma smiled to see the shock on Drona's face. There was no doubt that his pupil had been eclipsed by the golden warrior. Duryodhana ran forward and clasped the stranger in his arms. He cried, "Welcome to Hastinapura, O greatest archer on earth! From today, I, Duryodhana, am yours to command and the kingdom of the Kurus yours to enjoy. Let us be friends always!"
And there was genuine warmth in that greeting. Duryodhana not only sensed that here was the man who could tame Arjuna for him, he also felt uncanny affection for the golden-armored archer: as if they shared an ancient pain, from before this life.
Flushed with triumph, Karna said, "We shall see today who the greater archer is, Arjuna or I. I, Karna, challenge him to a duel."
Arjuna's face was crimson. "How dare you come uninvited to our tournament?"
"It is a tournament and all are welcome to show their skills at such exhibitions. Or did Arjuna think it was arranged just for him? But I am challenging you, Pandava. Do you accept my challenge? Or would you rather admit that I am the better archer?"
Arjuna roared, "Come braggart, I will send you to your fathers in hell!"
Coolly, Karna retorted, "Why fight with words, which are women's weapons. Let us speak with arrows."
Arjuna pulled on his bowstring in fury. Abruptly, dark, bluish clouds scudded into the sky. It was Indra, the God of rain, looking down on his son Arjuna with a blessing. Then, a single shaft of the sun pierced those clouds and lit the golden warrior.