THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (19 page)

He saw the creature fall with a bellow. Karna ran toward his kill, salivating at the prospect of a feast of venison. To his horror, he found he had killed a white cow. The barb stuck like a curse from her side. She gazed at him from her great soft eyes, full of pain, before she shut them forever. Now a brahmana appeared, fell across the dead animal and set up a loud wailing. He sobbed over the cow as if he had lost his own child.

“I didn’t know she was a cow,” cried Karna. “I thought she was a deer and I have been starving for a long time. Forgive me, Brahmana; I swear I will give you a hundred cows for the one I killed.”

“Cruel, ignorant Kshatriya, if you kill a man’s only child can you give him another one in its place? The cow was like my own daughter. I curse you, heartless warrior! When you face your deadliest enemy in battle, your chariot-wheel will become mired in the earth. When you get out to free it, your enemy will cut you down when you least expect to be killed. Just as you have my cow today.”

Without another word, the brahmana walked away. Karna’s roars echoed across that empty beach, so the gulls wheeled away in alarm. He fell on the sand and rolled about in a frenzy, howling with the brahmana’s curse. Great healing from the sea had come to him today and this morning he had found his God, his ishta devata: the splendorous Sun. He had thought his troubles were over. How wrong he had been.

In a while, the panic drained from his body and he sat staring numbly across gray waves. Above him, storm clouds had gathered like some dark portent. A realization dawned on young Karna. For the first time, he admitted a terrible truth to himself: from the very beginning, his life was a cursed one. He had been born into this world only to expiate some terrible sin from another birth. Fortune would never smile easily on him. What other men took for granted, like an ordinary childhood and a hereditary vocation, were chimerical for him. He was a freak of nature, a damned child of the earth. He must find the strength to accept that, to bear it manfully.

Karna sat somber, as a drizzle began. Then the heavens opened and torrents lashed that beach, the solitary warrior and the carcass of the cow he had killed. He sat on, drenched to the bone. And then, he thought of the one person he loved more than anyone else, she who loved him like her very life. Karna thought of his mother Radha. Tears welled in his eyes; he rose and set out on the long way back home.

Such a welcome she gave him. She clasped him to her, laughed and cried and babbled everything she had wanted to say to him all these years he had been away. She kissed him again and again. Then his father embraced his son. Atiratha had new respect in his eyes when Karna told them he had been Bhargava’s disciple and was now a master archer himself.

But he did not tell them about Parasurama’s curse or the curse of the brahmana on the beach. Karna had left home a boy; he returned a man, who knew he was not one of fate’s favored children. Not all his mother’s love could remove the twin curses that hung over him. But if he told her about them, it would break her heart. Karna kept the secret locked away inside him like some dangerous treasure.

He stayed at home for a month after his return. Radha saw how thin he had grown and never stopped feeding him. Then one day, he said he must go and seek his fortune in Hastinapura. In that city they would recognize him for what he was: the greatest bowman on earth.

And so, Karna, natural son of Kunti and Surya Deva, adopted son of Atiratha and Radha, the Pandavas’ eldest brother, though they would never know it while he lived, set out for the capital of the Kurus, where his destiny lay in wait for him like an ominous shadow.

THIRTY-FOUR THE EXHIBITION
 

One morning, Drona came to meet Bheeshma, Dhritarashtra and Vidura in court. “My lords, the

Kuru princes are ready to display their skills to yourselves and the people.”

Bheeshma was enthused. “Let us have an exhibition.”

Dhritarashtra said, “Ah, today I curse my blindness. But Vidura will sit beside me and describe everything as if I saw it all with my eyes. Acharya Drona, let us prepare for an exhibition like Hastinapura has never seen before. Vidura, have a stadium built where the princes can show their skills. As soon as the stadium is complete, find an auspicious day for the exhibition. Let every convenience be placed at Drona’s disposal and let Hastinapura be alight with the news!”

Drona hired the finest artisans in the kingdom to build the stadium. In the shastras of vaasthu there were exact specifications for such an edifice: which direction it should face; where the royal stands should be built and where the popular ones; how long the arena should be and how wide; and other fine details relating to the planets above and the spirits of the earth.

Drona and Vidura chose a site just below the king’s palace and had it sanctified. A huge labor force was collected and, the day after the consecration, work began under Drona’s watchful eye. With that force toiling day and night, expertly, the stadium was completed in less than a month; even though the workers had to meet the acharya’s exacting standards.

All the lofty stands were complete—the king’s enclosure, those for the nobility, separate stands for the women of the palace and those for the common people. Drona came to the court again and announced that a date had been fixed for the exhibition, a week hence. The princes were preparing for the display.

Drona said, “There will also be a friendly tournament between the princes to make the exhibition more exciting.”

“Let word be sent among the people, informing them of the date,” said Dhritarashtra.

Came the day of the tournament. It was a brilliant morning, not a cloud in the sky and a golden sun shone down as if to bless Hastinapura. Well before dawn the people began to throng the gates of the stadium. Some had spent the night under the stars outside the enclosures. They lit fires, sang old songs and discussed the prowess of the different participants—whether Aswatthama was the best marksman, or Arjuna, by far; whether Bheema, the Pandava, was the strongest with the mace, or if it was Duryodhana, the Kaurava.

With dawn, the gates were thrown open and a sea of people surged into the stadium to secure places on the wooden and stone steps, which were their stands, canopied with bright canvas to keep away the sun’s heat and the rain, if by some mischance it came down today. And as in any crowd, each prince had his partisans. There were those who said, “There is no archer on earth like Arjuna. We have come to watch Arjuna perform with his bow.”

“All the Kuru princes are great kshatriyas,” cried another. “We have come to watch them all.”

Someone else had a different view of things. “The world knows that Drona cares just for one disciple. This exhibition is only to show off Arjuna’s skills; the others will serve as foils for him.”

“Do you think Drona is a fool that his intentions are transparent to one of your feeble wit?”

There was some irate shouting from the aggrieved party. But just then a hundred deep conches boomed around the arena, silencing the crowd. A covered passage led straight from the palace to the royal enclosure. And now the Kuru Pitama, the august Bheeshma, walked up that passage. His white hair and beard shone in the sun. The people rose to their feet and called out his name. The patriarch was all smiles today, as he waved to acknowledge their greeting. He took his place on a throne beside Dhritarashtra’s central one. Once more, the crowd fell to speculations like a murmurous sea.

The conches resounded again and again they were on their feet. Along the royal passage came Dhritarashtra, with Gandhari, Vidura and Kunti. The king came on Vidura’s arm and Gandhari on Kunti’s. The people took up their names one by one, including Pandu’s and the sky echoed with their chanting. Dhritarashtra was also smiling today, as he raised his arms to greet them. Vidura helped him to his throne.

Kripa followed the king, the queen and Vyasa who had come to watch the exhibition; and then, the retinue of Kuru nobility. The women were shown to their own enclosure to the left of the king’s. Settling again, the crowd was full of gossip about the grand men and women of the Kuru House.

Romantic secrets were aired in loud whispers, by those who spoke as if they were go-betweens in every affair. Political rumors floated in the sunlit air, wafted along by a tolerant breeze.

The conches echoed again and a hush fell. The people craned to another entrance below the royal enclosure, which led directly onto the white river-sands that had been brought in cartloads to fill the arena. The crowd took up a new cry, “Drona! Drona! Drona Acharya!”

Wearing a crisp white robe, his grey hair down to his slim shoulders, his tread lithe and firm and his son Aswatthama following five paces behind him, the master strode into the arena. Raising his hands to quiet the excited crowd, he said, “Welcome friends, good people welcome! Your majesties, Dhritarashtra, Gandhari, Bheeshma Pitama, Muni Vyasa, noble Vidura, Acharya Kripa, I welcome you all to this exhibition by the Kuru princes.”

The conches sounded again and Dhritarashtra rose to honor the gurus, Kripa and Drona. In that glittering stadium, the king rewarded the two masters lavishly with gold and jewels. In the background, the Vedas were being chanted without pause since daybreak. When he had formally feted the acharyas, Dhritarashtra cried, “Let the exhibition begin!”

The crowd roared like the sea when a full moon rides her waves. Out of the warriors’ passage issued a phalanx of servants, with the Kuru princes’ weapons. The crowd gasped to see the bows and quivers, maces, swords and lances, gleaming in the sun. The weapons were set down on a long table. Perfect silence fell over the arena and then Yudhishtira walked out on to the white sand, leading his brothers and cousins, in order of their age. The stadium rang with the Pandavas’ names and the Kauravas’, from different sections of the crowd.

Fanning out in a circle the princes walked around the arena, waving to the people. Then Drona called them back to him. The young kshatriyas bowed to their masters and, at their acharya’s signal, picked up their bows from the table. Standing in a lotus formation they pulled on their bowstrings in unison, until the stadium and the sky above rang with that sound. The crowd began to clap and cheer lustily, but the thunder of the bowstrings drowned its most strenuous efforts.

When they stopped, Drona announced, “The Kuru princes will now show you their skills.”

A hundred horses’ hooves drummed the earth. A gate at the southern end of the stadium was flung open and a hundred brightly caparisoned steeds from the royal stables entered. As they cantered around the hem of the white sands, the princes mounted them effortlessly. A revolving target had been set up at the heart of the arena. As they rode around it, the Kauravas and Pandavas shot arrows at that wooden target carved like a little boar. Not a shaft missed its mark and the crowd erupted in cheers. Faster and faster the horses flew, now galloping round at blinding speed. Still, not an arrow failed to find its mark. Soon the little wooden boar looked like a porcupine.

Nimbly as they had mounted them, the princes leapt off their horses and the animals galloped out of the stadium amidst tumultuous applause. Now the princes took the crowd’s breath away with mock fights from chariots, horse-and elephant-back. They fought hand to hand with sword, spear and dagger. These mock fights were so lifelike, one imagined the youths were locked in mortal combat. But not a drop of blood was spilt; not a scratch broke any prince’s skin, though they hewed powerfully at each other, with roars to make the crowd’s hair stand on end.

Only when they put down their swords and bowed to their guru did the people of Hastina stand up as a man and applaud the display that had rather unnerved them. All the speculations that the exhibition had been organized just to show off Arjuna’s talent were forgotten. Arjuna had hardly taken part yet and the crowd was enthralled by what it had seen so far. The skills of the Kuru princes, all of them, exceeded the most imaginative expectations.

A beaming Drona held up his hands for silence. “Now Duryodhana the Kaurava and Bheemasena the Pandava will give us an exhibition of mace-fighting.”

It was common knowledge in Hastinapura that there was no love lost between Bheema and Duryodhana. As the princes stepped into the middle of the arena, already some of the people yelled the dashing Duryodhana’s name and others rooted for Bheema.

Drona cried, “This is no duel between enemies, only an exhibition.” He looked meaningfully at the combatants, so they remembered this as well.

Drona stepped away and, bowing briefly to each other, the two mace-fighters began to circle one another, the maces shining in their hands. Those gadas were weapons that few men could even heft. But Bheema and Duryodhana carried them as if they weighed nothing, as if they were limbs of their own bodies. For a while they circled, their gazes locked. Neither so much as blinked.

At first a hush fell on the crowd and you could hear it breathe. Then some of Duryodhana’s supporters began to chant his name, “Duryodhana. Duryodhana. Duryodhana.”

Promptly, others cried, “Bheema! Bheema! Bheema!”

Duryodhana lunged forward like a striking cobra and swung his gada viciously at Bheema. The chanting stopped at the ferocity of that blow. But for all his bulk, Bheema was as quick as his adversary; his mace rose in a flash to block his cousin’s stroke. The weapons rang together, sparks flying from them and the sky echoed with a thunderclap. Silence again in the stadium. Just the two immense kshatriyas circled each other warily, their eyes on fire with feelings far from those proper to an exhibition. The crowd was silenced by the elemental force of that first blow. The air was charged with the cousins’ antagonism.

Bheema bent his knees and struck out, low and savagely. Duryodhana leapt into the air so the tremendous stroke whistled harmlessly under his feet. As he descended, he struck Bheema squarely across his back. Bheema had no time to block that blow; but it was delivered from a defensive position and did not hurt him. Yet he staggered two paces and the crowd gasped. Spinning round like a pirouetting dancer, astonishingly graceful for his size, Bheema struck back at once—a backhanded, one-armed blow that landed high on Duryodhana’s shoulder and fetched a cry from him.

The people were agog and now there was no more circling or holding back from the princes. With fierce yells and roars that were uncannily like those of real battle, they hewed at each other with breathtaking speed and power. When they paused to wipe the sweat from their glistening bodies or dripping faces, their supporters shouted their names. The mace-fight was like a duel out of pristine times, when kshatriyas were scarcely human, but godlike. Besides, there was the eerie feeling that this was just a rehearsal for another duel these two would fight some day; and then, to the death of one of them.

More than the awesome blows Bheema and Duryodhana lashed out with, the palpable hatred between them was a shadow looming over the crowd. Vidura sat at Dhritarashtra’s elbow, describing each blow, every parry, to his brother who sat as absorbed as anyone that watched with his eyes. His imagination conjured as magnificent a spectacle for him as the actual contention below.

Drona frowned. He said to Aswatthama, “They will kill each other if they continue and they are dividing the people between them. Stop them.”

Aswatthama ran forward and cried, “Stop! Drona commands you to stop fighting!”

But Bheema and Duryodhana seemed not to hear him. The crowd was on its feet once more. The duelists were figures in a dream of titans. Their eyes blazed and their maces rang together still, as if they were powerless to stop themselves. Aswatthama leapt between them, risking a blow which could fell him, or worse. He held on to their fighting-arms, while they growled and struggled to push him aside and fight on.

Drona shouted, “Stop at once! This is an exhibition.”

Still bristling, Bheema and Duryodhana stepped back from each other and lowered their maces. And when they bowed to the crowd, the cheer that went up was deafening.

Dhritarashtra cried anxiously to Vidura, “What is happening? Why does the crowd roar?”

Vidura replied, “Drona has stopped the princes. They seemed to become carried away.”

Bheema and Duryodhana set their maces down and stalked out of the arena to the enclosure where the other princes sat. Drona raised his arms to call for quiet. When the shouting for the mace-fighters died down, he announced, “Now Arjuna will show us his prowess with the longbow.”

Not all the people had really enjoyed the tension of Bheema and Duryodhana’s duel and as Arjuna strode into the arena there was just one name on everyone’s lips.

“Arjuna!” they cried. “Arjuna!”

The third Pandava wore burnished mail; he was like a dark cloud lit by the evening sun. Drona said, “This is my disciple Arjuna, dearer to me than my Aswatthama. He is Indra’s son, Pandu’s son and Kunti’s and he is as valiant as Vishnu.”

The crowd hummed with anticipation. Arjuna’s name was already a legend in Hastinapura: it was said he was the greatest archer ever.