Read Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling Online
Authors: Carole Satyamurti
Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (5 page)
Despite the availability of various versions of the
Mahabharata
, on page, screen, and in live performance, I am assuming that it will be less familiar to the average American or European reader than the
Iliad
or the
Aeneid
, for instance. I have seen my task as one of trying to open the reader’s eyes—as my own were opened—to the richness of a literary masterpiece they may hardly have heard of until now.
I do not read Sanskrit, and have worked from scholarly translations (not other people’s retellings) in order to come as close as possible to the original. Given its size (roughly 5,000 closely packed prose pages in the only complete English translation to date, by K. M. Ganguli,
1
published in the late nineteenth century), any version of the
Mahabharata
intended for the general reader is necessarily an abridgment. When I got to grips with Ganguli’s translation, as well as with other (partial) translations,
2
I wanted to try to convey the epic’s extraordinary qualities in as vivid and accessible a way as possible. My guiding principle throughout has been faithfulness to the original, as I have become yet another meta-narrator, though I have included some widely loved stories that do not figure in the Poona Critical Edition, or in Ganguli’s translation. In my version, as in the original, the register is that of a storyteller addressing an audience.
In constructing my abridgment, I was guided by my sense of the outline and architecture of the epic, informed by my reading. My method was to read Ganguli and other translations, section by section, and then to put them aside, and give myself time to digest what I had read, intellectually, emotionally, and aesthetically. Out of this would come a decision about what to include and what could be excluded; what must be foregrounded and what could be mentioned briefly. I then wrote my own version, checking what I had written against the original (translated) source, and doing this repeatedly throughout the entire writing process.
The Sanskrit
Mahabharata
is mainly composed in
shlokas
, a verse form with specific metrical requirements and stanzaic arrangement, used in ancient India for a wide variety of texts, some imaginative, some religious, some practical. It is the wide applicability of the form that has led some people to the view that it was, for ancient India, what prose is for us, arguing that prose is the best medium in which to render the epic for a modern readership. But the
Mahabharata
is composed in patterned language, designed to be recited, or chanted, and I wanted something of that quality to come across in my version. For this reason, I have chosen a flexible form of blank verse, which arguably occupies a place in the English literary tradition analogous to that of the
shloka
in ancient Sanskrit. It is the meter of Shakespeare’s plays, of Milton’s
Paradise Lost
, and Wordsworth’s
Prelude
. In saying this, I am not setting myself up as being on a par with the greats of English literature, but rather saying that the meter of blank verse is laid down in the mind’s ear of anyone even slightly familiar with English poetry. It is a form particularly well suited to narrative verse, and is still widely used. It is also the basic meter of natural English speech. Listen to anyone speaking English, and you will soon pick up the rhythm of iambic pentameter.
Blank verse is an unrhymed form, with ten or eleven syllables, and five beats, or stresses, to the line. Of course no one would adhere rigidly to this description; that would make for a very mechanical and numbing effect. Rather, the rhythm of a five-beat line is laid down in the mind’s ear as a template against which the reader or listener receives the line—which may stretch or contract the number of syllables, and which will not be composed entirely of iambs. For that reason, in this retelling, I would like the reader to imagine the names of at least the main people and places in their approximately correct pronunciation (AR-ju-na, for instance, not Ar-JOO-na). Many of the names may be unfamiliar, and the Glossary at the back of the book provides a guide to pronunciation, showing in each case where the stress or stresses should fall.
In choosing blank verse, I have allowed the number of syllables per line to vary slightly—that is, with very few exceptions, each line has nine, ten, or eleven syllables. Because I have imagined the poem being spoken, I have exercised some license as to what constitutes a syllable. In English speech, there are “half-syllables,” as when syncope is used. So “chariot,” for instance, does not have the same unequivocal three syllables as “destiny.” Although the basic meter is pentameter, this too has been used with a certain latitude. Rather than every line having an audible five beats, I have heard the meter as allotting the same amount of
time
to each line, with syllables and stresses having the freedom to dispose themselves variously within that amount of time. Many lines do, in fact, have five beats, so I trust the reader to have that rhythm in mind as a benchmark, against which he/she receives those lines which seem not to conform metrically, and assigns them their due portion of time.
3
In the end, though, the reader should not be put off by thinking about these technical considerations, but should read as comes naturally to them.
Vinay Dharwadker points out in his Afterword that the
shloka
verse form is meant to be chanted or sung. English blank verse does not inhabit the same tradition, but it is meant to be
heard
, as well as read, and my version is composed for the ear, for reading aloud, as well as for the intelligence and the imagination. I have used internal rhyme, alliteration, and assonance—not in a systematic way, but as aural threads that run through the poem.
The diction of the Sanskrit epic is relatively plain. There are many similes, but relatively little use of extended metaphors or heightened language, so in rendering the epic in language that does not draw attention to itself—that is, does not divert attention from the narrative drive—I am not betraying the original. Furthermore, as Coleridge argued,
4
many of the linguistic resources one looks for in a lyric poem are not appropriate in a long narrative one. The intensity of expression that is possible over a fairly short span could probably neither be sustained nor tolerated over 800 pages.
I have thought hard about the issue of gendered language. It has been common in English until relatively recently to refer to a nonspecific human being as “he.” This is no longer acceptable—and the
Mahabharata
is meant for everyone. I have therefore tried to use gender-neutral language where appropriate, and where it can be done without clumsiness.
As is explained more fully in the Afterword, the
Mahabharata
is structured as a series of narrative frames, one inside another, “authored” by a series of different speakers. Apart from the assumed anonymous meta-narrator, the entire epic consists of one character speaking to one or more others. There is a danger, in trying to reproduce this, of confusing the reader, and I have tried to deal with it partly by explicitly flagging who is speaking, and partly through the device of using prose when characters within the story are themselves telling a story.
At the center of any of the ancient epics is the quest for honor, glory, and fame. The afterlife of heroes depends on their being remembered. For the Pandavas, for tragic Karna, for Bhishma, for the single-minded Duryodhana, the great
Mahabharata
is that commemoration.
CAROLE SATYAMURTI
___________
1
. There is a complete translation by M. N. Dutt, also published in the late nineteenth century, but it is said to be heavily dependent on Ganguli.
2
. See Suggestions for Further Reading at the back of the book.
3
. The difficulty readers may have in accommodating different metrical principles, and the need for them to be open to the musicality of a line, is discussed by Ted Hughes in his essay “Myths, Metres, Rhythms,” in
Winter Pollen
(London: Faber and Faber, 1994).
4
. A poem of any length neither can be, nor ought to be, all poetry” (Samuel Coleridge,
Biographia Literaria
, Chapter 14).
First, I acknowledge the eternal being,
Brahman, essence of everything that is,
source of all, the inconceivable;
bliss-bestowing Vishnu, Hari Krishna.
And I bless the name of Sarasvati,
goddess of deep learning and of art,
she who can touch a poet’s tongue with silver.
To her I dedicate my epic poem.
This is the tale of a tragic dynasty;
a narrative of hatred, honor, courage,
of virtue, love, ideals and wickedness,
and of a war so terrible, it marked
the threshold between one age and the next.
We approach the story through Ugrashravas,
singer of ancient songs, a traveling poet
who wandered the world free of encumbrances,
worshiping at sacred bathing places;
welcome at every court and hermitage
where people loved spellbinding tales.
He told it
to a community of brahmin seers
at their ashram in the Naimisha Forest.
Engaged in a twelve-year-long sacrifice,
they were, no doubt, avid for entertainment
of an improving kind. They gathered round him
clamorous with questions. “Distinguished bard,”
they said, “tell us where you have traveled from.
What have you seen? What news have you brought us?”
“Not long ago, I spent time at the court
of the great King Janamejaya
of the house of Bharata. You may know
that the king is the direct descendant
of the world-renowned Pandavas—great-grandson
of Arjuna, the legendary archer.
“I happened to be present at the time
when the king was holding a snake sacrifice
to avenge King Parikshit, his father,
who was poisoned by the snake, Takshaka,
and died a premature and painful death.
While there, I listened, rapt, day after day
to an unforgettable narration
of the monumental Mahabharata—
the history of the royal lineage,
storehouse of wisdom, and much more besides.
“Then I made a solemn pilgrimage
to sacred Kurukshetra, site of war.
And now, full of respect, wishing to see you,
I have come to visit. So, holy sages,
say what stories you would like to hear.”
“Tell us in detail about the sacrifice.”
“First, a huge fire was built. The flames leapt high,
mantras were recited by the brahmins
as ritual oblations, no cost spared,
were poured into the blaze by black-robed priests.
Then snakes appeared, drawn irresistibly
toward their death. Serpents by the million,
of every color, some as thin as threads,
others thick as trunks of elephants;
snakes from the dark recesses of the earth,
snakes from the forest, snakes from ponds and rivers
fell hissing, terrified, into the furnace.
Wildly they writhed, fruitlessly they screeched
as the flames devoured them. The race of snakes
would have been entirely extinguished
but for the fulfillment of a prophecy:
a brahmin will disrupt the sacrifice.
“Astika, devout son of a snake woman,
implored by his mother to save her kin,
came to the court of Janamejaya.
He was a brahmin child of great sweetness
and he praised the king so eloquently
that Janamejaya offered him a boon.
‘Then stop the sacrifice,’ said Astika.
The king tried to persuade the boy to choose
another favor, since the snake Takshaka,
Parikshit’s killer, had not yet been thrown
into the boiling flames. But Astika
declined. So it was that Takshaka
survived, to the great joy of his relatives.
“Guests had come from the remotest corners
of the land, to witness the event.
Among them was the ancient seer Vyasa—
noblest of men, greatest of all scholars,
widely revered poet and ascetic—
together with his most advanced disciples.
King Janamejaya received Vyasa
with lavish honors, and the seer was pleased.
‘Sir,’ said the king, ‘you witnessed at first hand
all that happened to my ancestors,
all their actions, all their vicissitudes.
Please tell me everything, as it occurred.’
“Vyasa smiled. ‘That is a large request.
I have composed the story of your lineage
in a poem so long, so all-embracing,
that it will take a whole lunar cycle,
and more, to recite in its entirety.
The poem was born, grew, and took its shape
in the presence of my five disciples
—my son Shuka, Vaishampayana,
Paila, Jaimini and Sumantu—
and, while they attended to my needs,
they took it in, and learned my words by heart.’
“Vyasa turned to his most able student,
seated beside him. ‘Vaishampayana,
please tell the king the story of his forebears,
the epic poem of the Bharatas,
as you have heard it from me, word for word.’
“‘Gladly!’ said the disciple. ‘I am honored
to be the channel of Vyasa’s thought,
for anyone who speaks these marvelous lines,
and anyone who hears them, is purified,
cleansed even of their worst iniquity.
What the poem contains concerning dharma,
pursuit of wealth, pleasure, and final freedom,
may be found elsewhere. But you can be sure
that what it does not contain is found nowhere.
“‘Although the poem tells of huge events,
battles, armies of a million men,
and though it speaks of gods and demons acting
directly in the human world, the gist—
the conflicts and dilemmas, the regrets,
the way that good and bad, wisdom, delusion,
strive for dominance in each of us—
is still played out in every human heart
and always will be. As you will soon see,
the poem contains much more than epic action.’
“First, Vaishampayana outlined the story
of how the Bharata lineage began.
‘Many generations back, Duhshanta,
a powerful king, was hunting in the forest
when he came upon the lovely hermitage
of the seer Kanva. The seer was not at home
but his adopted daughter, Shakuntala,
made the king welcome. Duhshanta was smitten
with desire for the beautiful young woman
and urged her to marry him. She consented
on one condition: that her future son
would become the heir to Duhshanta’s kingdom.
They lay together. Then the king departed,
promising to send for her. Months passed
and Shakuntala gave birth to a boy.
No word came from Duhshanta. After six years,
Kanva sent Shakuntala and her son
to Hastinapura, where the king held court.
But Duhshanta claimed to have no memory
of Shakuntala, or of his promise,
and with harsh insults told her to be gone.
Shakuntala reproached him, reminding him
of their meeting. But the king was adamant.
As Shakuntala left, a heavenly voice
told Duhshanta to fulfill his promise.
The king then joyfully called Shakuntala
and told her he had only rejected her
to deflect the suspicions of his people.
The boy was acknowledged as his son and heir
and named Bharata. When he grew to manhood
he became a great and benevolent king
and your lineage descends from him.’
“Vaishampayana then traced the subsequent
history of the distinguished clan, naming
the heroes and their qualities, describing
how bitter enmity arose among them
resulting in a cataclysmic war.
For on the part-forested and fertile plain
nourished by the Ganga and the Yamuna
scalding events occurred which, ever since,
have been a lesson and a light to those
able to see something of themselves
within the lives the story animates.
“‘I wish to hear the tale in much more detail,’
said Janamejaya. ‘But first, tell me
how those heroic men, those ancestors
who spilled so much blood on the battlefield,
came to be born. What divine destiny
were they fulfilling when they walked the earth?’
“‘Long, long ago,’ said Vaishampayana,
‘no kshatriyas roamed the land causing havoc;
the brahmin warrior Rama Jamadagnya
had wiped them out many times over.
Kshatriya women, lacking warrior husbands,
lay with brahmins, and new kshatriya children
were born, to repopulate their kind.
Then the world passed through a golden time.
Brahmins headed the whole social order.
There was respect for dharma; people behaved
harmoniously, without lust or anger.
They lived long lives in peace and kindness, free
of all disease. Plants and animals
also flourished, each in the proper season.
“‘But this would change. Unseen, in the cosmos,
gods and demons fought for supremacy.
Demons, defeated, forced out by the gods,
began to take birth in the human world
as kshatriyas. They thought they should be gods.
They despised lawful ways and moderation;
the beautiful resources of the world
were theirs to plunder, squander, smash, defile.
Ravaging the earth, they multiplied,
sowing hate, mistrust and fear, oppressing
and slaughtering gentler creatures, so that life
became a misery.
“‘Earth went to Brahma,
lord of creation, and bowed down before him.
O Lord Brahma, I am overwhelmed
by so much wickedness. I shall be destroyed!
She described to him what was taking place.
Of course, omniscient Brahma knew already
every corner of the created world.
He assured her he would bring together
the mighty powers of heaven to support her.
“‘Then Brahma summoned all the gods, and spoke:
Earth is in danger. You must each be born
as humans, using a portion of yourselves
to endow a human being with god-like power.
Employ your attributes as you see fit.
Pitch your strength against the demonic forces
which threaten to engulf the entire earth.
The gods were eager to begin their mission
and they exhorted the supreme being,
Vishnu himself, to take on human form.
“‘So it was that your splendid great-grandfather
and his brothers, the five sons of Pandu,
were partial incarnations of deities.
And Krishna Vasudeva, their supporter
in all things, was the knowing avatar
of the great lord Vishnu, the all-powerful.
Their cousins, sons of Pandu’s sightless brother,
the hundred Kauravas, were of demon stock.’
“Vaishampayana gave the king details
of the cosmic origins of many more
heroes who figure in this history—
a roll call of courageous warriors
whose fame lives on in legend, drama, song.
‘Their story, made immortal by Vyasa,
is the tale of the eternal struggle fought
between opposing forces, good and evil,
the powers of darkness and the power of light.’
“‘Now tell me everything,’ said Janamejaya,
‘exactly as you heard it from Vyasa.’
So, day after day, at the king’s behest,
and as Vyasa listened, silently,
Vaishampayana, chosen disciple,
recited Vyasa’s poem. No one who heard it
could forget the sense of being carried
off to another time and place. And I,
Ugrashravas, was one of those fortunates.”
Soon you will hear the tale Ugrashravas
told the forest brahmins. But first, learn
