The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Read online

  To the south of Hastinapura, halfway between the highest mountains of the north and the southern tip of the country, was the kingdom of Magadha ruled by Kamsa’s bestial father-in-law, Jarasandha. He had earned Krishna’s enmity by continuing Kamsa’s policy of persecution. He had, Balarama now confirmed, no less than 80 captive monarchs in a dungeon. When he had gathered a total of a hundred kings in his dungeon, he charmingly proposed to offer them in sacrifice to his chosen deity, Shankara Shiva. I had heard about this, but it was to my mind the sort of frightening stories nurses tell their charges to keep them good. Now, hearing Balarama speak of him and of Krishna’s intention to liberate the captives, the skin on my arms came up in gooseflesh as it does in battle. My forehead glowed with the fierce heat of my head gem.

  It was the monarchs of the land who set the tone and maintained or destroyed righteousness. Listening to Krishna’s plans for uniting the land under the rule of Dharma, I found that I had hardly thought beyond the problems of slights offered to a proud Brahmin.

  Until now my idea of a righteous ruler had been based on Greatfather Bheeshma, Uncle Vidura, and Yudhishthira. We knew they would uphold Dharma, be just to suppliants, compassionate to women and the poor within their own domains, but this talk of what must be done for Bharatavarsha as though it were a single body was new to us all.

  I liked Balarama for stretching my world for me, or perhaps it would be truer to say that I respected him. I cannot say I loved him. There was a resigned quality in some of his more dire prophecies that left me glum.

  We had all heard of Dwaraka, Krishna’s coastal capital to the southwest of Hastinapura. Everybody knew that when Krishna had saved the whole Yadava race from Jarasandha’s plan to exterminate them, he had led them over plains and through forests to the sea and had built an incomparable city there. Travellers stopping on their way to the northern pilgrimage spots still had in their eyes something of the dazzle of the white walls, golden domes, and leaping fountains of Dwaraka, which they compared to Amaravati, the heavenly city. Some of the houses themselves were of gold, others of marble, and the walls were encrusted with gems. The gold filigree of the windows glinted with rubies and emeralds. Krishna had had the city planted with every conceivable tree and had collected rare birds which sang from the eaves of the houses.

  Was it true, we asked Balarama, that it was the richest city in the world, that there were no poor people, that it had an elegance and a quality which soothed you from a distance of several yojanas even as you approached it?

  It was all true, he said, and its lakes and gardens and palaces and sabhas made Hastinapura look like a village. Satyaki explained that Balarama did not mean to be offensive and it needed explaining. Balarama, he said, believed in plain speaking, besides which he was never happy when away from Krishna. Whatever it was, it made Krishna’s brother a disconcerting companion. His mood would change from moment to moment. He often had us rolling about with laughter at the jokes he and Krishna had played on the milkmaids as boys, and then suddenly plunged us into a bloody battle fought shoulder to shoulder with Krishna. He explained that the Raivataka fort built on the hill made Dwaraka the best-defended city in the world. But once he had made us feel secure in this vision of something perfect and invulnerable and eternal from which the whole country could be defended if necessary, he would, a few cups of wine later, say that one day the sea would wash over the sacrificial posts and palaces of Dwaraka, for when Krishna was no longer on earth there would be none worthy to be its lord.

  It filled me with resentful melancholy to hear the resignation with which he declared this, and it was certainly easier for me to love Satyaki. Yet Balarama had a powerful attraction, and though I moved away when he swished his wine and was about to show how the waves would wash over the city, I always came back to hear more about Krishna. The more Balarama drank, the more readily he spoke of him. Indeed wine and Krishna seemed his only interests besides wrestling and the mace, but he could tell us nothing of Krishna’s birth in Kamsa’s prison. He had been too small to remember the incident of the baby Krishna kicking over the cart with the touch of his toe. What he did remember was the visit of a motherly looking woman called Putana who had been sent by Kamsa to murder the infant Krishna. She had dropped dead while offering him milk from her poisoned breast. Balarama specially remembered how in death she had squinted up at the sky. He made it sound like some story you might hear in the bazaar. I liked it best, I confess, when he spoke of Krishna stealing the buttermilk for which he had been tied to a pestle with a strong rope. Was it true, Bheema asked, that he had managed to work it between two trees and uproot them?

  Of course.

  And had Krishna really danced on the head of the water serpent that infested the lake?

  He had.

  Had Krishna done this? Had Krishna done that?

  I wanted to know if he had eaten the sweet milk preparation offered to the mountain god out of greed or as a childish prank, or had he really seen himself as the Lord? There was contempt in Balarama’s smile. He stared into his wine pot. At last he said, “The cowherds worshipped him.”

  “And they should know,” said Satyaki.

  I thought then that Krishna’s slaying of Kamsa when still in his youth, and the astonishing killing of the great elephant might have been done with the help of astras, for I knew no better then—but I said nothing.

  Balarama brought us something other than a new way of seeing our country. He taught us to wrestle.

  “The first thing to learn in the sacred art of wrestling is to fall. Come here, Cousin.” Since they were practically all cousins but myself, we had to look at his finger pointing at Bheema. Balarama held out his hand and the moment Bheema had taken it, he found himself spread-eagled on his back. Duryodhana enjoyed this so tremendously that the only way to stop him laughing was for Balarama to hold his hand out for Duryodhana. We were all put through the same routine. We had been taught how to fall before, and how to avoid resisting the ground, but Balarama had secrets we had never dreamt of. Even so, by the end of the day our ears were ringing, we had a dazed look in our eyes, and our backs ached.

  “When you have learnt to fall,” said Balarama, “you will have to learn how to stand,” and hardly touching Duryodhana, he laid him on the ground. Duryodhana was not known for his humour and it was a measure of his affection for this new teacher that he could laugh.

  I had been jealous in advance, expecting that Arjuna and Balarama would become great friends. Next, I had marked this exuberant man as a friend for Bheema. Indeed the two cousins, when they first embraced, looked as though they would break each other’s ribs. As it turned out, I was wrong about this too. It was the other mace-specialist and wrestler that Balarama grew to love—Duryodhana. Arjuna and I became friends with Satyaki, though he was much younger than either of us.

  My father was doing extraordinary things in the military academy, reorganizing the army, teaching us to make new and better weapons, elaborating new battle formations, and attracting the best teachers. Now he had invited Balarama, a master mace-fighter and wrestler. As I have said, my father was not particularly interested in these two arts, but he welcomed all the great experts.

  What Arjuna was to my father, Duryodhana became to Balarama. I myself developed into a good mace student, for Balarama taught a more scientific and less brutal kind of mace fighting than we had known. I had not the weight of Balarama, Bheema, or Duryodhana, but my agility stood me in good stead and I developed a way of leaping over the mace which became known as the Ashwatthama jump.

  The background to this was that though Yudhishthira was named Yuvaraj, he had not been crowned, and so things were still unsettled in the palace. Arjuna and Yudhishthira never forgot that Karna had performed the same feats as he had performed before the whole of Hastinapura. And now here was Balarama, a better mace-wielder and wrestler than Bheema, befriending Duryodhana.

  One day, as Arjuna and I watched Balarama and Duryodhana in the ring and realizing what a power
ful and graceful art mace-fighting could be, Satyaki, sensing Arjuna’s despondency, came and sat beside him.

  “Yes, but do not forget, it is the archers who win the battle. You are the greatest archer in the world, Arjuna,” said Satyaki, his eyes shining. Silence. “There is only one greater.” Arjuna froze at this confirmation of the dread that ate into him, by night and by day. “But then no one can touch Krishna in anything.” Arjuna continued to stare at the macewielders. That made two rivals instead of one. “The bow is not even his chosen weapon. His weapon is the most difficult of all weapons—the deadly chakra, the serrated disc, which never spins off his finger without slicing the head from his adversary.” At this Arjuna at last turned to look at Satyaki.

  “His father is Vasudeva, the brother of your mother, as you know, and you look like him, Arjuna. They say I do too, and it is the nicest thing anyone has said to me. When you meet Krishna you will understand why.”

  “Why?”

  “Krishna is Krishna.” Hearing the silver in his voice, something moved in my breast.

  I was so used to my father as the Guru that it was with some surprise that I realized that he did not discuss his teaching method. He simply said, “Do this, do that. Do it like that.”

  Balarama on the other hand clearly outlined the background to what he was teaching us, the three stages of wrestling: equilibrium of the body, combat equilibrium, and the third stage, when what Balarama called the body-eye is developed.

  We were told that the whole body must have eyes so that we could see behind ourselves. This gave one an exact understanding of the space between oneself and one’s opponent. When Duryodhana and Bheema fought, it became as much a test of patience as anything else, and Duryodhana, strong with Balarama’s support, now showed a new maturity. It was Bheema who inevitably made the first move, leaving himself unprotected for the time it took him to shift from a defensive to an offensive position. Duryodhana was brilliant at taking advantage of these lightning moments. He proved his excellence and was the chief disciple. It made him calm and serene in a way that he had not been since the Pandavas’ arrival in Hastinapura.

  He learnt from Balarama in other ways. Krishna’s brother had given him confidence. Duryodhana could no longer so easily be provoked by Bheema’s teasing and insults. It almost seemed as though he might be governed by a new self-control. When the training period was over, Balarama left, but Satyaki stayed back with Arjuna, which made Duryodhana hostile and fractious again, a hard thing for me to bear when I longed to spend time with Satyaki and Arjuna.

  Dhritarashtra might have gone on in his ambiguous sovereignty for a long time but for this growing enmity of his son for the Pandavas. One day he told his father that the throne must be his. The possibility that Duryodhana might cheat Yudhishthira out of the kingship was alarming to us all.

  Yudhishthira was of age. Why was he not crowned Yuvaraj? Dhritarashtra’s weakness for his son was proverbial and people began to wake up to the fact that, as long as Dhritarashtra ruled, even nominally, Duryodhana could sway him as he liked. They remembered how he had taken no more than permission from Bheeshma and Dhritarashtra to crown Karna, the King of Anga, and while they applauded the gesture, they knew he could be just as wilful when following ambition or passion.

  There were those who remembered the terrifying omens at the birth; jackals had howled all night; the infant too had howled like a beast. The stars had said that the world would be destroyed through him, and Uncle Vidura himself had advised Dhritarashtra not to let the child live. Time had blurred this inauspicious impression, but the image of Duryodhana under the white umbrella brought it to life once more. Bheeshma, my father, Uncles Kripa, and Vidura were very much against even considering Duryodhana.

  Yudhishthira was crowned Yuvaraj. There is little to say about this coronation. It was not the parched rice and gold and ritual bath that mattered. Yudhishthira, sitting on his gold-encrusted throne, was Yuvaraj. He had always been. He wore the look of sweet gravity habitual to him, and I remember wondering why it had taken the coronation’s paraphernalia to show me that he was a king, indeed an emperor.

  Blindfolded Gandhari sat on one side of him. Was her piety strong enough for her not to resent her son’s being superseded? Mother Kunti was on the other side of him. There was a fierce attention in Gandhari’s fine features. One guessed at her eyes staring behind the silk. Mother Kunti’s eyes were closed and her lips moved, calling benedictions on her sons.

  The Brahmins chanted the sacred mantras, the conch sounded, ghee was poured into the sacrificial fire, and for the second time within a year we witnessed a coronation.

  Bheeshma, my father, and Uncle Kripa were for Yudhishthira, but even before the ceremony was over, Karna, Duhshasana, and Duryodhana had walked out. Once they had gone everything became lighter and brighter. Their hatred was suffocating.

  Duryodhana could neither eat nor sleep. He was tortured with jealousy and full of pain. It was still my appointed task to keep things balanced by not openly joining the side of the Pandavas. My father, though he had tried to soothe Duryodhana by claiming to be neutral, convinced no one. My role of diplomat consisted of witnessing Duryodhana’s hysterical protests to his brother Duhshasana and Shakuni and Karna.

  He stormed at his father by day and by night. He once woke him up in the enclosed garden in which he slept with Gandhari, and started raving about how rash it had been to have let the Pandavas come to Hastinapura at all. They should still be in the forest. He nagged and implored him to banish them so that he could take his rightful place. The servants spoke and next day it was the talk of the palace. I do not know how the poor old blind king did not lose his mind. Over and over again Dhritarashtra explained that the major part of the kingdom had been won by King Pandu, father of the Pandavas, that he himself had never been king because of his blindness, and that there was no way in which he could deny the Pandavas their heritage even had he wanted to. They were too well protected by Bheeshma and Vidura. Now that my father and the whole population of Hastinapura had befriended the Pandavas, it was folly to think of displacing Yudhishthira.

  One day, having consulted Karna, Duryodhana took a plan to Dhritarashtra. The plot itself I never learnt. They kept it secret because, despite my efforts, I could not exhibit enthusiasm for Duryodhana’s cause. My father kept on saying to me, “He must trust you, make Duryodhana trust you,” but he did not.

  I saw Duryodhana emerge from his father’s chamber, a garland around his neck. He took it off and flung it to the floor. He stamped on it, and looking up he saw me. “What are you staring at, Ashwatthama? Yes, this is Yudhishthira’s head,” and he did some more stamping. His efforts to banish the Pandavas had failed once again. It almost endeared Duryodhana to me that he always failed. There was no real wiliness in him. He was a spoilt child and was astonished and desperate when his demands were not met, as if they were for sweetmeats or a kite. He had no insight into himself whatsoever and could not understand that the maturity and wisdom of Yudhishthira made him the obvious choice as well as the rightful one. Dhritarashtra coaxed and reasoned: it was simply impossible to go against Greatfather, Dronacharya, Kripacharya, and Vidura; it was impossible to flout their authority. They were the elders. Their wisdom had compelled him to crown Yudhishthira Yuvaraj.

  Duhshasana was even wilder than Duryodhana. One day, when my father had sent me to Greatfather with a message, he and Karna persuaded Duryodhana to go once more to the tired and beleaguered Dhritarashtra. So there was Duryodhana shouting in a voice which was heard all over the palace.

  “You say that it is not for lack of love for me but out of fear of Greatfather, Kripacharya, and Uncle Vidura that you will allow Yudhishthira and then his sons to become king. Do you really want your grandsons and their sons to have to bow to the Pandavas? You know that Greatfather cares about nothing. He is dead already. His vow has made a eunuch of him.” There swept over me a great wave of nostalgia for our days in the ashram. I understood the full impact of what my f
ather said, sometimes in jest and sometimes with a sigh: that he had sold his Brahminhood.

  “You should not speak thus, Greatfather loves you,” came the old king’s tired voice.

  Duryodhana’s hateful voice went on and on. “Does he! Then why didn’t he show it when Bheema shook me out of the mango tree? I could have broken both my legs and arms and he would have said nothing. Bheema half drowned me one day and still he said nothing.” I had not heard him so reckless and hysterical. “I will die, Father. It robs me of my sleep. I cannot eat. If you could see me, you would know how thin I have become.” There was a silence during which I imagined Dhritarashtra putting out a father’s hand to feel his son’s arms and face. Duryodhana’s envy had eaten into his flesh and into Dhritarashtra’s. Pain must have distorted Dhritarashtra’s mouth when his son tormented him and his eyeballs rolled from side to side in a way that I was glad I need not witness. “I tell you, I shall die.” Duryodhana was now screaming like a woman. There followed a scraping sound, Dhritarashtra’s nails on the arms of his throne.

  “Duryodhana, what would you have me do?” The voice was hollow with exhaustion. “I loved Pandu and he loved me. When we were small he made me forget that I was blind. No one else had time or patience. They are his children.”

  “I would never ask you to harm them, Father. Send them for a holiday. Yudhishthira will always obey you and his elders, and where one goes the others follow—and of course the mother bird, Kunti.” He gave his harsh hysterical laugh. Still Dhritarashtra said nothing. “Send them for just one year. People will forget them in a year. It is a short time, but long enough for me to show what I am made of. I do not enjoy complaining all the time, Father. I could be generous and just if they were not there to goad me constantly. You remember the tournament, when everyone applauded me when I spoke for Karna? I showed Bheema up for what he is, a loudmouthed oaf.” There was a long pause.