Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (11 page)

He was a brilliant pupil, more than meeting

every challenge the guru threw at him.

He nurtured in his heart’s secret recess,

a goal: “One day, I’ll be respected, famous.

One day, I’ll show the people who despise me

that I’m as good—no, better than anyone!”

Once, Karna was wandering near the hermitage,

beside the ocean. At his feet, the water

trailed its frothy hem around his ankles.

The sun had kept him steadfast company

from dawn, when the sky was tinged with rose,

to evening, when the final fiery blaze

cast a crimson sheen over the water.

Karna stood, praying beside the ocean

that seemed to stretch out to infinity.

He had his bow with him and, practicing,

he accidentally shot a cow, provider

of milk for the daily ritual offerings

of a devout, Veda-reciting brahmin.

Karna begged forgiveness, “Holy one,

I didn’t mean to kill your cow. Forgive me!”

This he said over and over, and offered

compensation, but the furious brahmin

refused to be placated in any way:

“Wicked kshatriya! You have killed the creature

who was my lovely daughter, mother, friend,

who gave milk for my daily sacrifice.

She was everything to me. I curse you!

Since you killed my cow through inattention,

when you meet your enemy in battle

your chariot wheel will get bogged down in mud

and your enemy will kill you then and there

as you are struggling with the wheel, distracted,

unprepared for death.” Karna sank down

as if oppressed by an enormous weight.

The master’s final teaching to his pupil

was how to bring to mind the arcane mantras

that would invoke the astras, terrifying

weapons of the gods, especially

the death-dealing
Brahma
weapon. To prepare,

Karna performed rigorous austerities.

“Now,” said the teacher, “you are unbeatable.

Your genius with the bow far surpasses

that of any pupil I have known;

and you command the astras. But remember,

you should only use these sacred powers

in the service of dharma. Death is the price

of using them for any evil purpose.”

One day, the master feeling tired, Karna

made a pillow of his lap, and soon

Rama was sound asleep. Time passed slowly

in peaceful meditation. Suddenly

Karna felt a piercing pain—a worm,

a parasite, feeder on flesh and blood,

was sitting on his thigh, burrowing, biting!

He wanted to leap up and crush the creature

but, fearing to wake his master, he sat still,

enduring agony. When his blood trickled

onto the teacher, Rama sprang up, shouting:

“Aaah! I am polluted! What have you done?

Out with it now—tell me what has happened.”

Karna told him.

The master was enraged.

“No brahmin could have tolerated pain

so agonizing—you have lied to me,

you must be a kshatriya! I have given

the astras to a lying kshatriya!”

Karna explained—“My passionate desire

to learn the
Brahma
weapon tempted me

to lie about my birth—master, forgive me!”

But the teacher uttered a solemn curse:

“Your selfish craving is at the root of this.

One day, when your very life depends on it,

and you try to invoke the
Brahma
weapon,

your memory will fail you. That is the day

that you will meet your death. Now, go from here!”

On that day, the youth became the man.

From then on, Karna walked through the world

alone. Destiny could not be bargained with.

He would dedicate himself to the pursuit

of truthfulness and virtue for their own sake,

looking for no immediate reward.

The curses always crouched in wait for him.

Living his life according to his nature,

he was crucial to the cosmic drama

the gods had devised for the sake of Earth.

Now Vaishampayana regaled the king

with an account of how the royal princes

proved themselves, and came of age as warriors.

Imagine an enormous amphitheater.

To build it, on the outskirts of the city,

hundreds of laborers had toiled for months.

For Drona had decided the young princes

had now learned from him everything they could,

and all their years of effort would be crowned

by a grand demonstration of their skills.

Hastinapura had never seen the like.

Word had traveled fast throughout the kingdom.

Excited crowds had gathered from small towns,

from villages, from fishing settlements;

even ascetics in their forest ashrams

had heard the news and come for the spectacle.

People camped outside the city walls

on land that gently sloped down to the river,

and near the forest’s edge, where they could gather

brushwood for cooking. Even before first light,

fragrant woodsmoke from a thousand fires

was already rising, flames leaping

as if impatient, like the jostling people

anxious for the great day to begin.

A crowd formed, pressing toward the gate

which opened when the sun began to rise

above the pinnacles of the king’s palace.

How glorious the arena was, far bigger

than anything ever seen, even in dreams:

oval-shaped, and lined with ranks of seats

steeply banked, rising, tier on tier,

and shaded from the sun by colored awnings.

While people waited, drummers and trumpeters

made joyful, stirring music. Crafty tinkers

touted their wares—bangles, lamps, ornaments,

gaudy trinkets that children pestered for—

and snack sellers worked the narrow aisles.

Just as people started to get restless,

deep triumphal notes sounded from conches

positioned all around the stadium.

There was a stir, up at the far end.

All heads turned toward the royal enclosure

splendid with its patterns in gold leaf,

its lattices, its jeweled canopy.

A walkway linked the arena to the palace

and now, emerging into the bright sunlight,

King Dhritarashtra came with careful steps,

guided by the arm of Vidura.

His queen walked beside him, led by Kunti,

then Kripa, and then grandfather Bhishma

with other court notables, all resplendent

in brilliant silks and jewels. And at last

came Drona, the master, dressed in purest white—

white sacred thread, white hair, white beard, white garlands,

white sandal paste smeared across his body.

A roar went up, a salvo of applause:

whatever skills the young princes possessed,

whatever feats they were about to show,

they owed to him.

And now the performance starts.

First the princes each take up a bow

in order of age, led by Yudhishthira

and, mounted on horses, canter round the ring,

then wheel in an elaborate formation,

well-fitting breastplates glittering, dazzling.

They perform amazing feats of archery,

taking aim at a revolving target

hung in the center, shooting, galloping

faster and faster, while not a single arrow

misses its goal. The display only stops

when the bristling target is crammed with arrows.

Next, there are races. The best charioteers

among the princes line up to compete—

which of them will drive his gleaming vehicle

fastest round ten laps of the arena?

One by one, they weave a complex course

round obstacles, cutting through twists and bends

hugging them close, hauling their horses round

without the wheels grazing. Each chariot

is freshly painted and adorned with flowers.

Each one is drawn by four glossy horses

bred for this, superbly schooled, manes braided,

and in each, the driver stands, erect,

magnificent, dressed in burnished armor.

Now, Drona announces a mock fight.

One hundred and five princes brandish weapons

and seem about to slaughter one another

so savage are their shouts, so fierce they look,

their swords and daggers flashing as they thrust,

feint, dance around each other. The huge crowd

is on its feet, shouting the princes’ names,

more anxious than encouraging—and yet,

at a slight sign from Drona, it all stops;

not a single drop of blood has been spilled.

In the royal enclosure, Vidura

is describing everything that happens

to Dhritarashtra, and Kunti to Gandhari.

“On a day like this,” sighs Dhritarashtra,

“I envy hopelessly those who can see,

who now are witnessing my young sons’ triumph.”

Now Bhima, built like a colossal boulder,

and the strong and nimble Duryodhana

fight with maces. Drona emphasizes

that this, too, is a mock fight—though quite soon

it is clear they are serious. They will inflict

as much harm as they can, swinging their clubs

with the huge momentum of their powerful arms,

roaring like two rutting elephants,

sparks leaping as the weapons clash, rebound.

The crowd screams support, some for one,

some for the other, starting to trade blows

between themselves. Drona stops the contest,

fearing a bloody riot in the stands.

Each cousin has suffered wounds. Grim-faced, silent,

they stalk off. This has seemed like a rehearsal

for a deadly fight that is to come, one day.

There is loud grumbling on the terraces

at the violent and exciting duel

being cut short. But Drona raises his voice:

“I now present to you Prince Arjuna,

son of Indra, greatest of all archers,

whom I love even more than my own son.”

Conches blare, drums beat out a tattoo

in a joyful musical explosion.

The cry goes up—
Ar-ju-na! Ar-ju-na!

The crowd yearns for the legendary warrior;

they stamp their feet, chanting in ecstasy.

He, above all, is the prince they wish to see.

Wild anticipation often leads

only to disappointment. Not today!

Muscular, graceful, shining hair unbound,

Arjuna steps forward, bows to Drona.

Completely focused, with no hint of strain

he raises his bow, draws back his left arm

and then—

and then the miracles begin!

First he sends an effortless stream of arrows

into the mouth of a tiny wooden boar

so far off it is almost out of sight.

Not one misses. The crowd roars in delight.

Then he does the same again, blindfolded,

then with his back turned. It looks impossible,

and yet it seems tame when you see what follows.

He stands with his eyes closed, his lips moving

in a silent mantra. He shoots an arrow

straight into the sky. Slowly it rises,

then begins to glow, then blazes, then

the sky is on fire over the arena.

The crowd cringes in terror but, next moment,

a stream of flashing silver arcs upward

and instantly the sky becomes a sea,

an upside-down ocean, quenching the flames.

These are truly weapons of the gods!

More marvels follow. Arjuna moves swiftly

with the panache and poise of a great dancer,

master of his body, never doubting

that he can transcend nature’s normal laws.

He changes size at will. He conjures mountains.

He shoots an arrow into the sand, making

the ground split wide open in front of him,

and close when he has walked inside—and then,

when people start to worry, a yawning crack

opens up before the royal stand—

Arjuna steps out and bows to his uncle!

The crowd erupts, delighted and relieved.

They shriek themselves hoarse, blow whistles, stamp their feet

until they are sore. This is the day’s climax;

what they have seen will never be surpassed.

When at last the uproar had died down,

and people were preparing to go home,

they became aware of a strange sound,

like thunder, coming from beside the gate.

Someone said, “That sound is a challenge,

some hero is slapping his arms boastfully.”

The crowd was hushed, looking toward the gate.

A man strode forward, an imposing figure,

beautiful, tall as a kadamba tree.

A shining gold cuirass encased his body

and in his ears, there sparkled golden earrings,

like two drops of sunlight. He looked forbidding

—serious, remote, stern even, as if

his life had been hard. Anyone could tell

from his bearing, the authority

with which he walked into the arena

holding his bow as though it were a scepter,

that this man was a very great warrior.

He inclined his head to Dhritarashtra,

nodded to Drona, then turned to Arjuna

and, although he did not raise his voice,

his words were heard all over the stadium.

“Pandava, you seem to take great pride

in the facile feats you’ve just displayed to us.

With the master’s permission, I, Karna,

will now match every easy act of yours,

each paltry trick. So don’t be too puffed up.”

Drona gave consent, probably curious

to see what his former pupil had become

since he left Hastinapura as a boy.

Surely this man would not outdo Arjuna.

The crowd was humming with curiosity.

Who could this be? There was complete silence.

Then, effortlessly, Karna emulated

every feat Arjuna had performed.

Some people thought them even better done,

and felt like fools that they themselves had been

so easily impressed before. As one,

like a surging wave, the crowd rose, cheering.

Karna raised his arms triumphantly.

Drona seemed shocked. Arjuna looked tense

and angry; he considered himself insulted.

But Duryodhana joyfully embraced

Karna. “Welcome to you, strong-armed hero!

Hastinapura is honored by your presence.

You certainly know how to humble pride!

From today, the kingdom of the Bharatas

is home to you; ask of me what you will.”

“I choose two things to ask of you,” said Karna,

“your friendship, and a duel with Arjuna.”

Arjuna addressed the towering Karna:

“How dare you barge in here uninvited!

Karna, I swear to you, when I have killed you

you will sink to the realm reserved for those

who indulge in empty boastful prattling!”

Karna smiled. “This place is open to all.

Strength is what matters here, not whimpering words,

not half-baked insults. A truly great warrior