THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (18 page)

Drona knew his time was short. He said to Arjuna, “Come, let us go and see this nishada of yours.”

The others wanted to go as well, but Drona was firm, “Only Arjuna and I will go to the forest.”

They climbed into the Pandava’s chariot. Hope flared up again in Arjuna, that somehow Drona would relieve his agony. He drove back as swiftly as he had come, racing the wind once more. When it could go no farther, they alighted from the chariot. His fabled poise in shreds, Arjuna dashed through the trees toward the place where the dog had received its incredible punishment.

They arrived at the hidden clearing. Drona stopped Arjuna, laying a hand on the prince’s arm. At the far end of the clearing stood Ekalavya. He had blindfolded himself and had his bow in his hand. He stood very still, his body relaxed and alert. As Arjuna and Drona watched breathlessly, that youth burst into a blur of movement that not even their trained eyes could follow. It was movement from another dimension, unreal.

He stopped almost as soon as he began and was still again. Yet he had shot ten arrows, drawing them from his quiver like lightning and he had brought down eight birds from eight different trees. The ninth and tenth arrows had flown back to him, one with a lotus from the pool at the heart of the clearing and the other with a fish from its water that had come up for a gulp of air.

Ekalavya set down the lotus and the fish; he undid the soft bark with which he had bound his eyes. Now he went from tree to tree, collecting the birds he had shot. He seemed satisfied and sat down to pluck the birds and gut the fish, which was a big one. Drona stepped into the clearing with Arjuna.

The boy had his back turned. But he was on his feet in a flash and spun round, his bow raised with an arrow at its string. Then he saw Drona and such a smile broke out on his face. With a cry of sheer joy, Ekalavya fell at Drona’s feet.

“Acharya!”

Drona felt his feet bathed with the youth’s tears. He, too, felt a surge of tenderness. There was no mistake: this boy was better than Arjuna, he was the best archer on earth. Yet, equally, he was neither a kshatriya, nor was he noble. Arjuna would never have silenced an innocent dog as cruelly as this dangerous nishada had. The forest boy could become a great threat; someday, he could change the course of fate. Not recognizing Ekalavya from the brief encounter he had with him, many years ago, Drona raised him up and said, “Who are you, son? How do you call me your guru? I don’t recall ever having seen you.”

“I am Ekalavya. It was dark that evening in your garden, when I came and asked you to take me as your sishya. When I told you I was a nishada, you said you could not have me. But when I set my head at your feet and asked for your blessing, you gave it to me. You are my guru and you have stood beside me all these years, showing me the archer’s way.”

He led them to the solitary tree. Drona laughed when he saw his own image, now a little worn with sun, wind and rain, but still a remarkable likeness. The acharya turned to Arjuna and saw only burning resentment in that sublime prince’s face. Drona sighed. He knew what he must do. Slowly, he said to Ekalavya, “So I am your guru and no pupil has learnt better from me than you have.”

His heart bursting with happiness, the boy stood before his master. His master was saying, “If you say I am your guru, Nishada, shouldn’t I receive some guru-dakshina from you?”

Ekalavya cried, “Ask me for anything, my life is yours! At least, you will acknowledge I am your sishya if you take dakshina from me.”

Arjuna still stood petrified, his eyes glazed. Sadly, Drona turned back to Ekalavya and said, “Give me the thumb of your right hand as my dakshina.”

The smile never left that black youth’s face. He said in his lilting tongue, “Archery is a thing of the spirit. My thumb is as nothing to give you for all you have taught me.”

Arjuna did not say a word, though his master looked at him again to see if he relented. Ekalavya picked up the crescent-headed arrow that had fetched the lotus from the pool. Without a murmur, he sliced his thumb from his right hand and laid it, dripping, before Drona. He knelt at his master’s feet for his blessing. It took Acharya Drona all his strength to keep his hand from shaking, as he laid it on Ekalavya’s head. When he turned to look at Arjuna, he saw light in the Pandava prince’s eyes again. The hollow stare, which did not see the world, was gone. Without another word to the kneeling nishada, they walked out of his life.

Ekalavya bound his bleeding hand with herbs mixed in a pack of mud. He set up his target again and began practising more rigorously than ever. Indeed, he quickly acquired incredible proficiency with just four fingers. But it was never the same; he would never be the matchless bowman he had been before.

Once more, Arjuna was the greatest archer in the world.

THIRTY-TWO A YOUNG MAN’S DREAMS
 

“Mother, tell me why I am so confused!” The sixteen-year-old was full of anguish.

“What is it, Karna?” said Radha, the charioteer’s wife, pulling her son close and stroking his handsome face. “Why are you so upset on your birthday?”

Karna sighed. “Father has bought me a chariot today and fine horses. But I don’t want to be a sarathy! Why do I feel like this, mother? What is wrong with me?”

“What do you want to be, my child?”

His eyes shone. His voice full of soft excitement, he breathed, “An archer! Oh, my hands ache for a bow and arrows; night and day, I think of nothing else. How the blood surges in my body when I see a kshatriya with his bow. Mother, am I cursed? That I am full of this unnatural desire.”

Radha was silent. He saw tears fill her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. With a cry, the boy hugged her.

“Have I hurt you? I am sorry, I am so sorry! I would rather die than hurt you. Why are you crying, mother? Tell me!”

She said through her tears, “You talked in your sleep last night. You cried out, ‘Ah, don’t go! Don’t go before you answer me. Tell me who you are and why you haunt me like this.’ Who was in your dream, Karna?”

He was silent for some moments. Then he shook his head and said, “It is the same dream night after night and I can’t understand it.”

“Tell me what it is.”

“A woman comes to me while I am asleep. I can see her clearly, but she doesn’t know that. She comes as I lie dreaming and she wears a veil across her face. But she is dressed in costly silks and her manner and carriage are those of a princess. As she bends over me in the dream, her tears fall on to my face. I sit up and say, ‘Who are you? Tell me who you are.’ But she has vanished. Oh mother, someone must have cursed me! The woman in my dreams, the rush of blood when I see a bow.”

Radha held him close as if she was afraid she would lose him. “Karna, I think the time has come when I should tell you something. It’s a story, just like the ones you love listening to. It was sixteen years ago, a morning in spring and your father Atiratha had gone to the Ganga to bathe. As he stood in the river, offering Surya-namaskara, he saw a glitter on the water as if the rising sun was pointing at something adrift on the Ganga. It seemed a treasure floated there and, borne by the tide, it came nearer.

Your father swam across and saw it was a polished wooden box. He was amazed at what he saw inside it. Swaddled in silks, his thumb in his mouth, there lay the most beautiful baby. He slept peacefully, smiling in the sacred dreams of infancy. It was as if the Ganga had sung that child to sleep, with a lullaby he could not hear from his mother. He was a lustrous baby, like a bit of the sun fallen on to the river.

Your father came running home and cried, ‘Radha! Look what I have brought you.’

The child in his arms was so beautiful I could not take my eyes off him. ‘Look at the kavacha and kundala he is wearing,’ I breathed.

The armor and earrings were golden, but made from a purer gold than any I had ever seen. I said in alarm, ‘This is no ordinary baby; you’ve brought home the child of some Deva.’”

Her son Karna sat breathless beside her. His mother’s every word tore down his world; he was being reborn in her story.

Taking his hand, she continued, “I said to your father, ‘No human child can be so beautiful. He must belong to a God.’

Atiratha still smiled at me in the joy of finding the dazzling baby. ‘I found him floating on the river. Perhaps, he is indeed a child sent by the Gods to answer your prayers. My heart sings in me that he was born to be yours, Radha. I am going to call him Radheya and he will be your son!’”

Karna gave a moan and hugged his mother. She said, “We saw the baby was swaddled in silks that only a princess would have. We decided that a princess had abandoned you, for reasons only she knew. But we could never understand the golden kundala and kavacha you came with. They seemed to be part of your skin and grew with you.

For your kavacha and kundala, we named you Vasushena. But your father always called you Radheya and I named you Karna for your long ears. All that mattered to us was that we had a wonderful son. And for these sixteen years, we were lost in that blessing. But now you grow disturbed and your hands itch not for chariot-reins but a warrior’s weapons. Karna, you must have been born in some great kshatriya’s palace and here we have raised you in a humble suta’s house. And all the wealth we have been able to give you is our love.”

Her eyes were full again. “No, my son, it isn’t any curse or perversion that makes you long to hold a bow in your hands. It is because of the blood that flows in your veins.

Go, Karna, go into the world and seek out your real mother. I am only the lucky woman who raised you. But I am grateful to God that He gave me a son like you. You might leave me now, but the memory of these sixteen years will help me survive the sorrow the future holds.”

Karna flung his arms around her and cried, “What are you saying? Are you also going to abandon me as she did? I don’t even want to know who she is. I already have a mother, the best mother in the world!

As for being a kshatriya, I must be one. That is why I long to be an archer and now nothing will stop me. Bless me, mother. I must go and seek a master who will make me an archer.”

“Oh, my child, may you be the greatest archer on earth!”

“And when I am, I will come home to you. Meanwhile, you must explain everything to father. He may not understand if I told him, especially today when he has bought me a new chariot and horses.”

And so Karna, the suta’s adopted son, set out on his sixteenth birthday to find a master who would teach him archery.

THIRTY-THREE KARNA FINDS A MASTER
 

Hastinapura was famed the world over for the excellence of her archers, who studied under the great Drona. Karna went straight to that city. It was evening. The day’s lessons were over and he found Drona alone in his yard. The young man strode up to the master and saluted him. “Acharya, I want to learn archery from you. Take me as your sishya.”

Drona looked curiously at the handsome youth. His instinct told him this boy was more than he seemed. He asked cautiously, “Who are you, young man?”

“I am Atiratha the suta’s son. Karna.”

At which, Drona knit his brows and said bluntly, “All my sishyas are kshatriyas, they have archery in their blood. I cannot teach a sutaputra.”

Karna opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. How that ‘sutaputra’ scathed him. He glared at Drona as only a kshatriya could, turned on his heel and walked away. Drona stared after him. This was not how a sutaputra would behave; but then, the youth himself said he was a suta’s son. Drona felt sure it was not the last he would hear of this charioteer’s boy.

Meanwhile, Karna rode home, with the ‘sutaputra’ echoing in him like doom. He did not eat or drink anything for two days; nor would he answer his mother’s anxious questions. Atiratha wisely left the boy alone.

From then on, this became a routine. Karna would announce to Radha that he was off to a distant town, or forest, where he had heard there was a renowned master of archery. But either the same evening, or after a few days, her son would return. He would look a year older, would answer none of Radha’s questions and not eat for days. It was the same story each time: another guru had refused to take him in because he was a sutaputra.

At nights, Radha would hear him pacing his room, sleepless, or sobbing in the dark. But Atiratha refused to let her go to comfort their son.

“It’s no use,” the sarathy said. “He is meant to suffer until God finds a way for him. Who knows, it may be a better way, a greater master than he has dreamed of.”

Then one day, he came to eat the morning meal with his parents and his eyes were alight. Radha sighed to herself. He had thought of another acharya to approach; and as surely as he went, he would be back soon, more desperate than ever. Radha had begun to fear her son might take his life.

But that morning Karna was uncommonly cheerful and his parents did not ask him where he was going. They were so relieved to see him back to his old bright self again. Embracing them, he said, “I won’t be back for a long time. When I return I will be the best archer in the world, because I am going to learn from the greatest master. God was only leading me to him, that the others refused to take me in.”

“Who is this acharya?” his doubtful mother asked.

“I will tell you when I come back!”

And he was gone. The previous night, Karna had a dream in which the mysterious woman, who he now felt certain was his mother, came to him again. She had whispered the name of the master to whom he was going. As he went along, Karna asked himself a thousand times whether he was not being foolish. He had heard about the master’s legendary temper and he would have to lie if he were to persuade him to accept him as his sishya. But Karna was prepared to take that risk. He had decided his life was not worth living, anyway, unless he could become an archer.

It was to no ordinary guru that Karna was going, but to an Avatara. He had decided to approach Parasurama Bhargava to teach him. Karna had a plan. Being a sutaputra, he was both a brahmana and a kshatriya; and of course, neither of these when it mattered. He knew how Bhargava hated the kshatriyas. A kshatriya had murdered his father Jamadagni and Parasurama had let flow a river of warriors’ blood.

He was calmed now, that his revenge was complete; and he had played no part in the affairs of the world since Rama of Ayodhya had confronted him. Bhargava sat in tapasya to purify himself of the sins of all the killing he had done. But Karna was wise enough and worldly enough by now, to know that Parasurama would never teach a kshatriya. But if he told the master that he was a brahmana—that rarest of brahmanas, who wanted to be an archer—surely, he would not turn him away. And to say he was a brahmana was only half a lie.

After many days, Karna arrived on the tangled slopes of the southern mountain, Mahendra. After climbing some hours, he saw a sequestered tapovana ahead of him. There, under a majestic banyan tree, he saw Bhargava, his eyes shut, like a flame. But he was quiescent now, all his vast energy turned inwards. His heart beating wildly, Karna approached the guru.

Parasurama sat lost to the world. Karna stood with folded hands, not daring to make a sound. At last, the Avatara’s eyes fluttered open and gazed into Karna’s deepest soul. Parasurama said, “Who are you, young man?”

Karna threw himself at Bhargava’s feet and cried, “Lord, I have come to you with my heart full of hope. Please don’t turn me away, you also!”

Parasurama saw the youth was in tears. He said gently, “What is it you want from me, child?”

“Take me as your disciple. I am a brahmana, but I want to be an archer. And no master will have me, saying they teach only kshatriya princes. You are my last resort. If you don’t accept me I will kill myself.”

Parasurama laid his palm on the striking youth’s head, blessing him. “From today, young Brahmana, you are my disciple. I will teach you everything I know. What is your name?”

“Karna.”

Thus began the tutelage of Karna, son of Surya Deva and Kunti, adopted son of Atiratha the suta and his Radha. In many ways, those were the best days of his life. Holding a bow in his hands finally was like being born into his dreams. The cruel world paled and all the times he had been called sutaputra. Karna was absorbed in learning from his profound and, he discovered, kindly master. He even forgot the woman of his dreams and she never came to haunt him in Parasurama’s asrama.

The guru discovered this sishya was an extraordinary pupil. He had never seen a young man as gifted as Karna; be it archery or the Vedas, the youth was completely devoted to whatever he studied. He drank thirstily at the profound font his master was.

Yet Karna thought of the archer’s martial knowledge rather differently from what most young men did. To him that knowledge would make him powerful; power would bring fame; and fame meant everything to him, it meant honor to the sutaputra. What else was worth living for in this harsh world?

Came the day, after three years, when Parasurama said to his brilliant disciple, “The time has come for you to acquire the final gyana that any archer can have.”

“What will I learn, master?” cried Karna, loving every challenge.

“The devastras.”

One winter’s morning, having bathed in the frothy stream, Karna sat before his guru just as the rising sun lit the horizon. Parasurama intoned the mantras that invoke the astras of the Gods of light. Suddenly the mountain air was full of awesome spirits bearing unearthly gifts of weapons. The astras appeared, phosphorescent before the master and his pupil. When Karna chanted their mantras, those weapons flashed into his body and then on were his to command. Karna acquired all the astras that could be had in this world, even the brahmastra and the bhargavastra.

Parasurama embraced Karna. “It seems the Gods have blessed you; you are the best sishya I ever had. And what pleases me even more than your genius are your humility, your affection and, most of all, your honesty.

You are a master of the devastras now, an invincible warrior. I have one final piece of advice for you, which by itself is worth everything else you have learnt from me. You must use your powers only in the service of dharma. The other way, the path of sin, leads to death.”

The sun was overhead. Parasurama said, “I am tired. Go back to the asrama and fetch a roll of deerskin. I want to fall asleep here, beneath this tree.”

“Why wait until I fetch the skin? You can use my lap for a pillow.”

Bhargava patted Karna’s cheek. The sishya sat cross-legged under the spreading banyan and his guru lay with his head in his lap. In no time, he was asleep, snoring softly. Karna also shut his eyes and was lost in anxious thoughts. His master had called him honest. But was he that? Hadn’t he lied about being a brahmana? Wasn’t his more a thief’s way, than an honest man’s? Then he thought, ‘I lied only to learn from my guru. I have served him faithfully and been a deserving pupil. He himself said I am the best sishya he ever taught; there is no sin in what I did.’ But these tangled anxieties gave Karna no peace.

Suddenly he felt a searing pain in his leg and almost cried out. He dare not move lest he wake his master. He saw a strange insect had crawled on to his thigh. It was as big as his thumb and looked like a tiny wild boar. The creature had tusks and needle-sharp teeth, with both of which it now gouged out good mouthfuls of his flesh and champed on the raw meat and swilled the blood.

Karna was in agony. But he did not stir. His guru’s arms lay across his own hands, so he could not move these either. Gritting his teeth, Karna sat on. Finally the blood from the insect’s feast flowed on to Parasurama’s face and he awoke and sat up.

“Where did this blood come from?”

“An insect bit me,” said Karna casually, plucking the offending creature from his skin and throwing it down.

Bhargava saw the wound in his pupil’s thigh. He saw the black insect, covered in Karna’s blood. Parasurama stared hard at Karna. Very softly, he said, “That thing tore at your thigh for a long time. The pain must have been intolerable, but you did not move.”

“I would have disturbed you if I moved. I paid no mind to the pain.”

“Pain?” Parasurama’s eyes had begun to smolder dangerously. “It must have been agony. But you didn’t move.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” repeated Karna, growing confused at his master’s accusing tone. He thought his guru would be pleased by his devotion.

But Parasurama was on his feet, his face a picture of suspicion. “You told me you are a brahmana, but no brahmana on earth could bear such pain. You lied to me, Karna; you are a kshatriya, aren’t you? Tell me the truth!”

Karna stood shaking before his master. Parasurama breathed, “I have given the devastras to a lying kshatriya. For three years I kept you with me, taught you everything I know and it was all a lie!”

Karna fell at his feet. “I am a sutaputra. I had to become an archer and no one would teach me. Forgive me, my lord. I am not a brahmana, but I am not a kshatriya either. The wise say that true knowledge knows neither caste nor creed. Be merciful, Guru, I couldn’t bear it if you were angry with me.”

The rishis are masters of their emotions; but at times, anger overwhelms the strongest of them. Parasurama was no exception. He was livid, blind with rage. Forgotten were Karna’s humility, his devotion, his brilliance; all Bhargava saw was a betrayal, an aggression against himself, a violation.

Parasurama was an Avatara; he had sat for centuries in dhyana. Yet now fate stirred him more than he could bear. Bhargava cursed Karna: “One day, when you invoke the brahmastra, when you need it for your very life, you will forget its mantra. Why, that day you will forget the mantras of all the astras I have taught you!”

Karna knelt, aghast, before his master. “Oh, my lord, do I deserve this? You are too harsh.”

As soon as he had cursed Karna, Parasurama’s rage seemed to cool. He said more gently, “I cannot take back my curse. But it was seeking fame that you came here, for fame that you lied to me. Sutaputra, I bless you now that your name will be a legend across the earth and men will say you were the greatest archer who ever lived.”

For a moment more, the guru stared at his stricken sishya. Then he turned and walked away from him forever. For a long time Karna lay hugging himself, sobbing. Then, slowly, he rose and went down to the stream and washed his face. He bathed the wound in his thigh, where the fateful insect had gorged. Still moaning now and again, he made his way down the mountain.

The world around him assumed a miasmic quality, as Karna wandered along in a daze. He hardly noticed the lands through which he walked, eating if someone fed him, drinking if he came across a river or a stream. Otherwise, he was quite content to stagger on, starved and thirsty, not knowing where he was, not caring if he lived or died. Dark hallucinations beset him, visions of death. And now, the woman of his dreams appeared clearly to him, even while he was awake. He spoke feverishly to her, at times calling her mother and begging her to release him from his torment; at others, he cursed her for his wretched fate. People of the villages and towns he passed blindly through, would stare at the bizarre wayfarer, who, with his fine bow and quiver, seemed to be a noble kshatriya. Plainly, he was demented with some unbearable sorrow.

At last, he arrived at the western sea and collapsed on a deserted beach. Only gulls screamed above him, as he lay in a swoon, lost in the ebb and flow of the waves. At nights, when the tide came in, he allowed the silver foam to wash over him as if he hoped the sea might wash away his pain. During the day he lay on his back, staring at the azure sky above him. The sound and the touch of the waves were like sacrament to him. Slowly, the ocean began to heal the wound in his heart.

One day, when he rose from a dreamless sleep, he felt impelled to worship the rising sun. When he had done this he felt hungry again, ravenous. He scrabbled about in the shallow water and caught some crabs, which he broke open and ate raw. But their scant flesh only whetted his raging hunger. Out of the corner of his eye, some way off, he saw a pale animal’s form flash across the beach. His hand moved quicker than his mind. Before he knew what he was doing, he seized up his bow and shot an unerring shaft at the beast he thought was a deer.