THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (13 page)

Bheeshma grew very still and then he also smiled wanly. He nodded that he would do as she asked. At last he bowed and left her and his eyes were moist with thoughts too deep for words. And so a chapter of fate’s tale in Hastinapura ended, when Satyavati, Ambika and Ambalika left that city and went away to a distant forest, from where they never returned. And in course of time in that vana, after a long tapasya, they found their peace.

TWENTY-FOUR THE SEEDS OF ENVY
 

The Pandavas settled slowly into their new life. For the first time, they tasted the luxury of a palace and the privileges of being princes. They accepted these with humility and grace. They were very different from Dhritarashtra’s sons, who had known only this opulent existence: Pandu’s sons had lived in the wilderness, which is a profound teacher. Besides, they had known the sorrow of their father’s death and Madri’s.

Envy from the Kaurava princes could not be far behind. They burned with it, when they saw how kshatriyas and servants alike and, most of all, the common people of Hastinapura warmed to their cousins. The Pandavas were always courteous and kind, while Dhritarashtra’s sons were arrogant, wanton and often cruel. And when Duryodhana and his brothers found the Pandavas were altogether more accomplished than they were and especially at arms, there was no turning back from the destiny that lay in store for them all.

Of the five Pandavas it was the second one, rumbustious young Bheema, whom Duryodhana saw as being the main threat to himself. So far, being the oldest among his brothers, Duryodhana had been a favorite of the Kuru patriarch Bheeshma, whom the Kauravas called Pitama, Grandfather. Suddenly, with the advent of the Pandavas, Duryodhana saw his pre-eminence with Bheeshma dwindle sharply. He felt the old man’s affections were now shared too much; and as with everything else about him, Bheema’s appetite for his grandfather’s love was larger than life. Duryodhana was jealous of every caress or tender word with which Bheeshma favored his ebullient cousin.

The other four Pandavas, especially the introverted Yudhishtira, were reticent when compared with Bheema. But he, young giant, suffered from no inhibitions. He took heartily to palace life, as if he wanted to make up for the lost years in the forest. There was a huge, innocent wildness about young Bheema that was irresistible. Everything he did or wanted was at least twice as much as all the others. And his energy was boundless, as he raged his exuberant way from dawn to dusk and one day to the next, his eyes shining!

Pandu’s second son was as restless as his natural father, the wind and he was awesomely strong. When the Pandavas first arrived in Hastinapura, Duryodhana and his brothers had smirked at their simple attire and their rustic appearance. A few days went by and Duryodhana made the mistake of challenging Bheema to wrestle with him. He wanted to put the Pandavas in their place. The oldest Kaurava was by far the strongest of his own brothers and he thought he would give the forest boy a sound lesson.

But this was a miscalculation. For a week, Duryodhana could hardly sit from the thrashing Bheema gave him. The bout had hardly begun and Duryodhana was flat on his back. Each time he got up, Bheema would knock him down again, effortlessly. It was the first time anyone had given Duryodhana a beating and all his life he never forgot it. Seeing their brother humiliated, ten other Kaurava boys set on the Pandava, who was alone: Bheema routed the lot and they carried bruises for days.

After that, none of Dhritarashtra’s sons dared cross Bheema, or any of the other Pandavas for fear of him. Indeed, most of the boys acknowledged that Bheema was by far the strongest among them; though not in front of Duryodhana. Bheema became the bane of Duryodhana’s life, the despoiler of his youth. It was a hatred the Kaurava never grew out of. He spent his days hatching plots against his cousin, who was quite innocent of the undertow of real evil in their relationship. Bheema lived irrepressibly, from moment to moment, day to day—life was a wonderful thing, to be lived to the hilt and never to be brooded over. It was a game to play, perhaps to bury the sorrow of a father’s death; and Bheema was certain that everyone else, even Duryodhana was just like himself.

Little did he know how obsessed the Kaurava had become with him, that the king’s son spent hours thinking dark thoughts about him, how even his dreams were full of Bheema’s ringing laughter. Duryodhana just could not accept his cousin, who had arrived in Hastinapura only to ruin his life. All Duryodhana saw these days was Bheema: hateful, happy, incredibly strong Bheema, everywhere. Bheema who ate twice what any other boy did; who could run like the wind, twice as fast as the others; who was stronger than any ten Kauravas; who was a bit of a bully and taunted his cousins, always daring them to a fight; Bheema who had quickly become his grandfather Bheeshma’s favorite grandchild; who shook the Kauravas out of the fruit-trees in the palace orchards like so many mangoes; who pulled their hair, beat them at will, wrestled with any ten of them at once; carried tales about the Kauravas to each other, so they fought among themselves; Bheema who was fiercely loyal to his own brothers and for whose sake no Kaurava dared touch any Pandava, though they were only five; Bheema who was the bane of Duryodhana’s life,
Bheema whom Duryodhana wanted dead.

For some time, Duryodhana seethed in silence and the bile he was forced to swallow threatened to choke him. Then, there came to Hastinapura someone who was to fuel Duryodhana’s envy of the Pandavas into tragic proportions. Gandhari’s brother, Shakuni, arrived in the ancient city.

Plump Shakuni had cold, womanly hands, pale serpent’s eyes and the hint of the serpent’s hiss in the lisp with which he spoke. Duryodhana took to his uncle immediately, as if he had waited for him all his young life. Shakuni sharpened Duryodhana’s sense of the future and what lay in store for him if Yudhishtira ever ruled Hastinapura; as seemed likely, since the Pandava was the oldest among the cousins and ideally suited to be a king by his upright and serene nature.

Duryodhana had grown up all these years believing that one day the throne of the Kurus would be his. Shakuni whispered in his ear that he would be no more than the Pandavas’ slave; is that what he wanted, he the king’s son? Is that the fate in which he intended to allow his life to be mired and leave it a shallow, powerless thing forever? Or did he mean to stand up like a kshatriya to the injustice that was about to overtake him? And thus return his life and his brothers’ lives, to the destiny of being the Kuru king’s sons.

Shakuni said, “The choice is yours. Will you be weak and allow events to overwhelm you? Or will you be strong and mould events to your own will? Will you be a servant or a king?”

Duryodhana replied without hesitation, “I will be a king. I will rule the world and shape it to my will.”

“Then Bheema is the one you must be rid of. He is Yudhishtira’s strength.”

“I know. But how will I do it?”

Shakuni seemed to examine his nephew closely, as if to discover if the boy was worthy; whether, when the time came, he would have the courage to carry out the scheme his uncle was about to suggest to him. Shakuni was a small man, the eyes in his closed face always restless with plotting. Nobody ever knew what Shakuni was thinking, though you could be certain it was no good. He also had the reputation of dabbling in the dark arts, of being something of a sorcerer; but again, no one knew for sure.

Now Shakuni moistened his lips with a slim tongue. He lowered his voice and said, “There is only one way, of course. You must kill Bheema. Without him the others are no match for you and your brothers.”

Duryodhana gave a hiss of satisfaction: here at last was a counselor after his own heart. The prince’s eyes blazed. He clasped Shakuni’s hand so fiercely even that evil one was a little unnerved. Duryodhana whispered, “I’ve been thinking the same thing for a year. But there was no one I could trust to help me and keep his mouth shut as well.”

“You have me now, Duryodhana; and if you want it, for ever.”

“No one, uncle, will make a better minister to the future king of the Kurus. Tell me, Shakuni, how do we get Bheema out of the way? How soon can I sleep again at nights? When can I know that animal, my detested cousin, is dead?”

“We mustn’t touch him here in the palace. It is too risky. Listen…”

TWENTY-FIVE AT PRAMANAKOTI
 

With the connivance of Shakuni, whose idea it was, Duryodhana arranged an outing to the river for the princes of the Kuru court: the Kauravas and the Pandavas. Suddenly, he seemed to have shed his resentment of his cousins and took such pains over the excursion that Bheeshma was pleased. The patriarch thought Duryodhana had outgrown his envy; perhaps the future would not be as ominous as Vyasa had predicted.

At Pramanakoti on the banks of the Ganga, Duryodhana had a pavilion built, with smaller tents all round it, furnished with couches and silks from Hastinapura and a kitchen to rival the one in the palace. Bright flags flew over these and everything was ready for the outing. To be sure the Pandavas would not refuse to go to the river, Duryodhana made it a point to ask their advice on every detail: which cooks to take, where each tent should be pitched, how far from the main pavilion the kitchen should be, how many chariots they should travel in. He was so friendly the Pandavas were disarmed. They felt this was the beginning of a happier phase in their relations with their cousins.

It was a fine spring morning. The sky was clear, the sun shone down on the world and the people of Hastinapura came out of their homes as the youths set out, on elephants and in chariots, singing, cracking jokes and laughing. The people were pleased to see how free from rivalry their princes were. It boded well for the future.

After a merry journey, the young kshatriyas saw the river, wide as a small sea and winding away into the distance. When they arrived at Duryodhana’s sprawling pavilion, the boys dismissed all their attendants and charioteers, except for the cooks: this was to be an outing just for the princes, to celebrate their newly struck friendship. They entered the pavilion and it was hardly less than a palace. Everyone said how wonderful it was; this was their very own domain, a kingdom of the young. They hoped they would come back here frequently, free from elders, masters and tutors and tiresome court rules and etiquette.

Quickly, in the gardens between carefully laid lotus-pools, they were at wrestling and other boisterous games; Bheema excelled at all of them. And soon they were hungry as only the young can be and came roaring for food into the dining hall. A feast was already laid out on the long tables set end to end against the walls, vast quantities of princes’ fare.

When they had eaten their fill out of their own plates, they began to feed each other, affectionately. No one noticed it was Duryodhana who began this and, strangest of all, he himself served Bheema. Yudhishtira approved and the other Pandavas did too. It seemed that finally the Kaurava had taken them to his heart. The guileless Bheema ate more than his fill from the plate of sweets, which Duryodhana fetched just for him and insisted his cousin finish every morsel. Bheema gorged himself on the delicious sweets, never knowing that deadly poison had been mixed in them. Earlier Shakuni had procured this nightshade from some forest gypsies, who were thieves and thought little enough of murdering anyone who crossed them. It was a slow-acting poison that Bheema had ingested.

When the meal was over, Duryodhana cried, “It’s time for a swim!”

With loud yells, each one wanting to be first in the water, they raced one another to the river. They threw off their clothes as they went and dived in naked as they were born. A lot of fine young manhood was on display in the golden afternoon. Most of them were fluent swimmers and they raced one another to the far bank and back. Once more Bheema won by a long way, with Duryodhana just behind him. But the moment he came ashore, Bheema gave a sigh and flopped down on the warm sand. He felt so tired that he had to sleep.

Arjuna went up to him, “Are you all right, Bheema?”

Bheema waved him away, “It’s so fine and warm here, I want to sleep for a while. I’ll join you soon enough.”

Duryodhana now said it was time for another round of refreshments; they should return to the pavilion.

“We haven’t much time before sunset. Then we must head home.”

He led the others back, shouting, laughing and pulling on the first set of clothes each one found. Often they were so ill fitting it provoked ribald jokes and fresh laughter. Duryodhana went into the kitchen to tell the cooks to bring out more food and drink. When the food arrived, no one noticed him slip out again. In the gathering dusk, he ran to the river where Bheema lay in a stupor of weird dreams. The Pandava lay paralyzed by the poison, of which Duryodhana had fed him enough to kill an elephant.

Humming to himself, the Kaurava began to tie Bheema’s hands and feet with some vine he had hidden in a tree. He wasn’t sure that even the huge dose of nightshade Bheema had eaten would kill him. He decided to make sure the thing was done one way or another. Having bound his unconscious cousin firmly with the thick vine, Duryodhana rolled Bheema into the murmuring river, grown dark with the falling night.

For a moment the Kaurava stood anxiously scanning the water. With a mock salute, he bid farewell to his tormentor, “Goodbye cousin and sweet dreams.”

He turned and ran back to the pavilion, where the others were still at their food. No one noticed him come in; so he had never left for all that anyone knew. Soon it was night and time to return to Hastinapura. Suddenly Yudhishtira asked, “Where is Bheema?”

Duryodhana replied casually, “When we last saw him he was asleep by the river. He must have woken up, found us gone and decided to get home before anyone else.”

And no one gave it another thought. It would have been just like Bheema to go without telling them: he liked to be as unpredictable as he could. The rest of them, all the Kauravas and Pandavas, climbed into their chariots and on to their elephants and went back as merrily as they had come.

When they arrived, Yudhishtira went straight to Kunti. “Mother, has Bheema come home?”

“No. Isn’t he with you?”

“We left him asleep by the river and we thought he had come home on his own.”

Kunti turned pale. “You must go back and look for him.”

The four brothers rode back to Pramanakoti. Arjuna remembered where Bheema had lain down to sleep on the sand. Arjuna’s sense of direction was uncanny in the moonless night; he led them straight to the spot. They lit torches and began to call Bheema’s name, but only faint echoes above the river answered them.

Then Arjuna pointed to the sand at their feet. Clearly visible by the rushlights was the indentation of Bheema’s heavy body where he had slept. And next to that were the marks where someone had rolled him into the water. It was too dark to do anything now. The river was cold and deep and full of undercurrents that could pull them down. And if their brother had drowned, it was too late to save him.

Yudhishtira said, “We can’t do any good here now. Let’s go back and come again tomorrow. Mother must be in a panic.”

They rode back to the city. It was near midnight when they came into Kunti’s chambers. They found Vidura was already with her. One look at her sons’ faces and Kunti’s eyes filled with tears. She said desperately, “I am sure Duryodhana has killed Bheema. Oh, haven’t you seen, Vidura, how Dhritarashtra’s boy hates my son?”

Vidura said, “Calm down, Kunti. These are rash accusations.”

But she was past restraint. “How can you say that when you know how greedy Duryodhana is for the throne? He always saw Bheema as the main obstacle in his way. How can I be calm when my son has been murdered?”

Suddenly, the mild Vidura was stern. “Long lives have been foretold for all your sons. The astrologers who read the stars do not lie. Even if Duryodhana tried to kill Bheema, I’m sure he isn’t dead.” He grew somber, then, said gravely, “Even if Duryodhana has killed Bheema, it won’t help you to accuse him. It will only put him on his guard. And then, he will be in a hurry to kill your other sons as well, from whom he perceives no threat so far.”

Kunti shivered when she heard that and grew quiet. Vidura said again, “My heart tells me Bheema will come back. Until then, you must remain calm. And most important, none of you must accuse Duryodhana.”

Meanwhile, in another wing of the palace, Duryodhana and Shakuni were celebrating their successful enterprise with wine. Again and again, Shakuni asked, “Are you sure no one saw you when you rolled him in?”

“No one, Shakuni.”

“None of your own brothers even? They can’t be trusted to hold their tongues.”

“Absolutely no one.”

“Well, be sure you show none of this joy in the sabha tomorrow; or ever. At least, not until you are king. And you may not have to kill any more of your cousins. The others are weaklings; we can take care of them easily now the dangerous one is dead.”

“I am a man today, Shakuni. Where are the women you promised me?”

Shakuni clapped his hands and two young girls were brought in by a trusted servant, for the uncle and his nephew.