Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (12 page)

will rise to any challenge. I, Karna,

challenge you to a contest—no mere display,

but a duel to the death between archers.

I shall behead you in your teacher’s presence—

or will you admit I have the greater skill?’

“I’ll send you to hell first!” cried Arjuna.

As he spoke, the sky grew dark—Indra,

bringer of storms, was gathering his forces

as if to bless his son. But the next moment

a shaft of brilliant sunlight pierced the clouds,

making a golden circle around Karna.

In the royal box, Kunti fainted.

She had realized who Karna was

and was overcome, remembering

the lovely golden infant she had sent

floating down the river, to take his chance.

Now her heart hammered with fear—her sons

fighting to the death! But she said nothing.

Kripa, expert in the etiquette

of dueling, spoke now: “Here stands Arjuna,

third-born son of Pandu of this royal house,

youngest offspring of Kunti, his wife.

It is known that no prince will condescend

to duel with a man of lesser lineage

than his own. You must tell us, hero,

who your father is. Who is your mother?

To what royal clan do you belong?”

Like a drooping flower drenched with rain,

Karna hung his head. Arjuna waited.

Then Duryodhana spoke up forcefully:

“This rigmarole is just old-fashioned nonsense!

But if Arjuna is too punctilious

to fight with anyone except a prince

I have the solution. Our vassal state,

Anga, lacks a ruler. Here and now

I propose that this outstanding man

shall be consecrated king of Anga.

Then there will be no excuse for Arjuna

to dodge away from dueling with him.”

Dhritarashtra gave his blessing; brahmins

were summoned, bringing all the ritual objects

needed for consecration—flowers, gold,

roasted rice grains, water from the Ganga,

a white silk parasol, emblem of a king—

and, in the presence of the cheering crowd,

Karna was installed as king of Anga.

He turned to Duryodhana. “How can I

ever repay you for this priceless gift?”

The prince smiled with pleasure. “All I want

from you, Karna, is your lifelong friendship.

I know, together, we shall do great things.”

Karna’s face lit up. “Here is my promise—

as long as I shall live, while these two arms

have strength and skill in them, I shall defend you.

Your future will be mine, your interests, mine.

All that my head and heart can give are yours.”

An old man tottered forward from the crowd

sweating and trembling, leaning on a stick.

The man was Karna’s father, Adhiratha.

Seeing him, Karna went over to him

and, in reverence, touched the old man’s feet

with his head, still wet from the anointing.

Adhiratha’s face was bright with love.

“My son!” he cried, his eyes moist with tears.

The Pandavas laughed. “This man’s a wagoner,”

jeered Bhima, “and you’re his son! Off with you,

off to the stables—go and muck out horses.

That’s where you belong!” Karna breathed hard

and fixed his gaze on the sun, low in the sky.

Immediately, up sprang Duryodhana

and, in a white-hot rage, he said to Bhima,

“Wolf-belly, your rudeness and crass ignorance

are hardly worthy of the kshatriya

you claim to be. The learned texts distinguish

three kinds of king—one of a royal line,

the leader of an army, and a hero.

This man, by his heroic skill, his courage,

has proved himself equal to any of us.

Prowess counts most for a kshatriya.

“As for lineage—just think about it.

It’s not unknown for sons of kshatriya mothers

to become brahmins. Drona here was born

from a water pot, Kripa from reeds.

Arjuna calls himself a son of Pandu

but in fact, as we all know, his origins

are murky—and the same goes for his brothers.

Think of Pandu himself, and my father,

and Uncle Vidura—we respect them

and yet their birth was by no means straightforward.

“The most powerful forces in the world

are often born in darkness. Think of fire,

the molten fire that sleeps beneath the ocean

but will erupt at the apocalypse

to engulf the earth. The mightiest rivers

have unimpressive origins; their greatness

grows as they make their journey through the world

joining with others, broadening, deepening,

meeting barriers, overcoming them.

That’s how it is with the noblest warriors.

But, of course, a deer can’t sire a tiger

and this man is a tiger—so I would guess

his mysterious birth must hold a clue

to his greatness. Karna deserves—hear me out—

our deep respect and, in my eyes at least,

he is a king.

“Now, tell your little brother

to gather his scattered wits, pick up his bow

and fight the King of Anga—if he dares!”

At this, the audience murmured its approval.

But night had fallen, it was too late to fight.

The crowd drifted away, talking of Karna.

Arjuna’s public humiliation

was a setback for the Pandavas.

Even Yudhishthira was now convinced

that no archer on earth could beat Karna.

But Drona had his mind on other matters.

He gathered all the princes. “Listen, young men—

that’s what I call you; after yesterday

you are no longer boys. You have made me proud.

What you all achieved in that arena

showed me your education is complete.

But yesterday was circus tricks compared

to the glorious battles you were born for.

The time has come for me to claim my dues.

You know my grievance against Drupada.

Year by year, the craving for revenge

has swelled in me, like a blocked watercourse

longing for release. This will be your fee—

that you shall take an army to Kampilya

and bring Drupada to me as a prisoner.”

This prospect was thrilling to the princes.

They cheered and punched the air in exultation

and the elders too supported Drona’s cause.

A fighting force was rapidly assembled

and, with the Bharata princes at its head,

and Drona riding with them, they set out.

Entering the land of the Panchalas

the Bharata force crushed all opposition

and reached the fine city of Kampilya.

Outside the city ramparts, they milled about,

keen but disorganized. The Kauravas,

led by Duryodhana, were desperate

to storm the city and tear it apart.

They were consumed by feverish excitement

jostling for the chance to achieve glory.

The Pandavas, calm and more thoughtful, waited

at a distance. While Duryodhana

led the army in a charge, breaching

the city gate through the force of numbers,

the Pandavas stayed well behind, with Drona.

This self-restraint was their first victory.

Arjuna was confident, “You’ll see,

Drupada will overpower our cousins—

I’ve heard he is a formidable archer.”

As Duryodhana and his troops rampaged

through the streets of the unfamiliar city,

killing all opponents, they felt triumphant.

The Kaurava prince was opening his mouth

to declare victory, when the palace gates

burst open, to the deep bray of conches,

and Drupada rode out in a white chariot

like a whirling fire. His arrows streamed

in a continuous line, and every one

found its intended mark. Counter-attack

was impossible. At the same time

the citizens bombarded the invaders

with whatever heavy objects came to hand.

The Kauravas were routed. They had learned

that a thirst for victory was not enough.

“Retreat!” cried Duryodhana to his men,

and a ragged line of Kaurava chariots,

many driven by corpses, straggled out

beyond the city walls. Badly battered,

the defeated princes wailed to Drona,

“You pitched us against completely hopeless odds—

it was unfair, Drupada’s unbeatable!”

Then the Pandavas came quietly forward

buckling their armor. “We’ll attack him now.”

It was agreed by Arjuna and Drona

that Yudhishthira, as the future king,

should not join the assault and risk his life.

The four brothers flew into the city

without the army. First went giant Bhima,

swinging his mace like a force of nature

felling men, elephants and horses,

striking such fear into the Panchala troops

that they scattered like a flock of parakeets.

Drupada raised his great bow as before

but this time each arrow of his was blocked

midair by Arjuna’s answering cascade,

as dense and accurate as a water jet.

Arjuna was inspired, transfigured, god-like

as he whirled in a shimmering haze of light.

Drupada, half paralyzed with shock,

tried even harder, but found his jeweled bow

split by a silver shaft. It was the end.

He prepared himself for death, but Arjuna

leapt onto his chariot and seized him,

holding him fast so he could not escape,

as an eagle grasps a snake in its talons.

Bhima would have indiscriminately

razed the city, killing all he met,

but Arjuna restrained him, now the purpose

for which they had attacked had been accomplished.

While his brothers covered his retreat

he galloped back to Drona with his prisoner.

The shame he had suffered at the tournament

was dissipated now. In this real battle

he had salvaged his lost honor from the dust

and amply paid his master what he owed.

Drupada, when he had time to think,

was quite astonished by the whole onslaught

since he had no quarrel with the Bharatas.

Now, thrown at Drona’s feet, he understood.

He rose in silence, and stood with his head bowed.

For Drona, who had waited long for this,

it was the sweetest moment.

“Drupada,

you once said friendship was impossible

except for equals. We are not equals now.

Remember ‘time’? Remember ‘circumstance’?

You are defeated, and your entire kingdom

is forfeit, given me by my disciples

as my fee. Your very life is mine

if I should choose to take it. But instead,

I choose forgiveness. You should know, we brahmins

are not vindictive. I’ll make you my equal

by giving half the kingdom back to you;

as equals, we two may be friends again.”

No kshatriya ever would have made

such an unwise proposal—Drupada

allowed to live, humiliated, certainly

would seek revenge at some time in the future.

But Drona was a brahmin, and remembered

the happy times in his father’s ashram.

Unbearably insulted, burning with rage

which he concealed with a glassy grin

Drupada swallowed the demeaning terms.

The people were one people—
his
people

as of right, bequeathed by his ancestors.

Now half of them would have to learn to bow

to Drona as their lord. Border families’

lives would be split, kinsmen tilling land

on different sides would slowly grow apart.

The body politic of Panchala

would be deformed beyond all recognition.

He would continue to live in Kampilya

but rule over an amputated kingdom,

while Drona took the city of Ahicchatra

and the extensive countryside around.

Bitter as he was, he thought of Arjuna

with admiration, rather than resentment.

“O mighty gods,” he prayed, “give me a son

who will become a formidable warrior

and kill Drona for what he has done to me.

And give me a daughter, who will become

the wife of this noble son of Pandu.”

With the insult always gnawing at him,

Drupada became gloomy and thin.

None of his existing sons was capable

of defeating Drona—that he knew.

“Miserable brood!” he thought. He summoned

learned brahmins, hoping to find one

with perfect knowledge of the rituals

that would produce a son. Such a son

would have to be exceptional in his prowess

to be able to avenge his father,

for Drona was unrivaled in his knowledge

both of weapons and of sacred lore.

Above all, he had the
Brahma
weapon.

Drupada knew that, to achieve his purpose,

no ordinary warrior would do.

Finally, he tracked down an ascetic,

Yaja, who would conduct the complex ritual

in return for eighty thousand cows.

A towering sacrificial fire was built

and customary ritual objects brought.

Drupada’s queen played her required part.

Yaja offered well-prepared oblations

and from the fire emerged an awesome youth,

the color of fire, crowned with a diadem

and carrying a shield and splendid weapons.

A disembodied voice from heaven announced,

This unrivaled prince of the Panchalas

has been born for the destruction of Drona.

Then from the center of the altar

stepped a girl of such heart-stopping beauty

all were amazed. She was dark-skinned and shapely,

with eyes like pools and lustrous curling hair.

She had the fragrance of a blue lotus.

She was Shri, goddess of royal fortune,

in human form. And, as she emerged,

the same celestial voice was heard proclaiming,

This dark woman will be the occasion

of the destruction of the kshatriyas.

Her birth is one of the events designed

to accomplish the purpose of the gods.

The brahmins bestowed names. “Drupada’s son,

bold as flame, shall be called Dhrishtadyumna.”

They called the girl Krishnaa, which means “dark,”

but she came to be known as Draupadi.

Dhrishtadyumna afterward became

a pupil in Drona’s weapons school, for Drona

knew that there is no avoiding fate.

After the tournament, Duryodhana

swelled with confidence. At last, in Karna,

he had a friend, a world-class warrior,

who could support him in his fixed obsession:

to eliminate the sons of Pandu.

And when he learned that Karna had acquired

the
Brahma
weapon from the Bhargava,

Duryodhana caught the scent of victory.

Around this time, hundreds of princes gathered

for a svayamvara in a neighboring realm.

The beautiful and fair-complexioned daughter

of the reigning king would choose her husband.

Duryodhana, accompanied by Karna,

vied for the girl’s attention, but was ignored.

Incensed, deciding to take her by force,

he grabbed her, lifting her onto his chariot.

There followed a great battle—Duryodhana

against the other, outraged, kshatriyas.

Karna backed him up so skillfully—

destroying the bows and arrows of his rivals,

and killing many of their charioteers—

that the other suitors finally withdrew.

With his hard-won bride, Duryodhana

rode back in triumph to Hastinapura.

One of the rivals had been Jarasandha,

mighty king of Magadha. Impressed

by Karna’s outstanding feats, he challenged him

to a chariot duel. The two were well matched.

They fought with bows, with swords, with divine astras,

and finally they fought on foot, bare-handed

wrestling arm to arm. Jarasandha,

tiring sooner, was finally defeated.

He was so pleased with Karna, they became

friends, and the king gave the driver’s son

the fine city of Malini. Karna’s fame

as a brilliant warrior spread far and wide.