THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (20 page)

“The son of Kunti!” they cried.

“The son of Indra!”

“The guardian of the Kurus!”

In the women’s enclosure, Kunti could scarcely see her prince clearly, since her eyes were full of tears. Like a young lion Arjuna walked slowly to the center of the arena of sand. He held his bow in his hand; twin quivers, brimming with arrows, were strapped to his back.

Dhritarashtra turned to Vidura and asked, “Why are the people shouting?” as if he had not heard Drona or the crowd.

“Arjuna is about to show his skills with the longbow.” Vidura’s eyes were also full.

It is told that though the king’s heart simmered with envy, he smiled as guilelessly as only the blind can, “Ah Vidura, the three flames sprung from the lamp that is Kunti bring me fortune, joy and protection!”

And in her place beside Gandhari, Kunti felt so secure today. She felt certain no misfortune would ever befall her sons or herself. They had come home from the wilderness and found a place in her husband’s city and in the hearts of its people.

Arjuna bowed to his guru Drona, to Bheeshma and to his uncle, the king. Then he began a display of archery that would have remained imprinted forever on the minds of those who saw it, except that something happened after he had finished to put his stunning exhibition in the shade.

Standing at the edge of the arena in alidha, the archer’s classic stance, Arjuna began. He stood utterly still, eyes shut, a silent mantra on his lips. Without opening his eyes, he shot five arrows, quick as thoughts, into the mouth of another wooden boar which Aswatthama had set spinning at the heart of the arena. Only when Aswatthama held up the little boar did the crowd roar its appreciation.

The Pandava had already moved on to the next part of his display. Invoking Agni, God of fire, he shot a common enough arrow into the sky. But this was an uncanny shaft: it flew so slowly, as if it hung on every hand of air it traversed. Then it began to glow as if someone had ignited it. It flared up, blazing now and growing more fiery each moment. And soon not only the arrow but all the sky above the arena was aflame: a conflagration on high!

The crowd cowered.

Arjuna invoked another astra. A silver, sparkling shaft flashed up from his bow. At once the sky was a sea, with waves risen in it to put out the inferno of the agneyastra: tidal waves of the varunastra Arjuna had invoked with the mantra of the God of seas.

The fire in the sky was drowned. The firmament was an inverted ocean. The crowd was speechless; all save Vidura and Kunti, who described every moment of Arjuna’s performance to the blind king and Gandhari. Kunti could hardly keep the pride she felt out of her voice.

Arjuna never paused. He was like some dancer, moving in a blur to inaudible music. Another light-like arrow, a parjannyastra and the waters in the sky billowed together into rumbling storm clouds. The next missile flew up like a long mirage. A tempest rose on high, blowing the clouds away and leaving the sky as chaste as when the day had begun: spotless cyan and the warm sun shining in it.

After a moment, the crowd found its voice again: its cheers shook the stadium. But Arjuna the dancer, Arjuna the sublime bowman had not finished. Rising onto his toes, he shot another clutch of arrows, now straight down into the sand of the arena. They plunged out of sight. This was the astra of the earth, the bhauma. A crack rent the air, the ground at Arjuna’s feet was cloven and a deep passage revealed. He walked down into that tunnel and the earth closed above him.

Another, subterranean, report rang out and the earth opened again; but now across the arena. The bhaumastra flashed up and lay on the ground. A smiling Arjuna walked out of the opening and it closed behind him. Not a ripple on the white sands showed where he had entered the earth or emerged. The arrow flew up with its own will and into one of the quivers strapped to Arjuna’s back.

By now the crowd was almost delirious. But the Pandava still had not finished. His bowstring sang again and all at once there were mountains that thrust their way up out of the sand, towering peaks of ice and snow. They stood there so majestic and real. And the crowd still sat around them, though that arena was hardly big enough to contain a mountain range! All were lost in the archer’s miracle.

Another magic arrow, the antardhanastra and both Arjuna and the mountains vanished and the arena was bare. When the Pandava reappeared he was tall as a hill himself, a giant looming over the stadium. Then, in a flash, he was a little homunculus no bigger than a man’s thumb and Aswatthama had to point him out to the crowd, which was past cheering now, it was so overwhelmed. Minuscule Arjuna shot a tiny arrow and a golden chariot appeared, drawn by horses out of a fantasy. Himself once more, Arjuna rode in that ratha, waving to the crowd.

As he flew round the arena, he flung an empty quiver high into the air. Before it fell to the ground, switching his bow from hand to hand, he shot twenty-one arrows into that quiver, filling it perfectly. It was then that the earth shook and the crowd trembled.

First the people thought it was another of Arjuna’s wonderful astras. But he himself stopped his chariot, leapt down from it and stood staring toward the stadium gates. Again the thunder echoed there. Some of the crowd looked up at the sky to see if a storm was brewing. But above was unbroken, clear blue, falling away to the horizon on every side.

Dhritarashtra asked Vidura, “What is that noise? What astra does our nephew summon now?”

“It isn’t Arjuna who made the sound of thunder.”

The crowd realized the thunder came from the gates. The Pandavas had gathered around Drona. Nearby, his heart stirred powerfully by an intimation of fortune, Duryodhana also stood, with his brothers and Aswatthama beside him. Again and again the defiant noise echoed at the gates to the arena, always drawing nearer.

Drona said, “It is a bowstring being pulled. But only the greatest masters can make their bows sound like this.”

A startling figure stalked haughtily in through the lofty gates. His armor shone like treasure and his golden earrings seemed to be made of two drops of the sun. Such was the presence and authority of the stranger, the crowd fell hushed. Like a golden lion, like a Deva, he walked calmly onto the white arena. One look at him and the people of Hastinapura knew that here was a great warrior if there ever was one. They saw how the very sunlight seemed to enfold him, as if in special grace and how extraordinary his armor was. Was it armor or his golden skin? His hair fell to his shoulders in dark waves. The bow in his hand and the sword at his waist glittered as brightly as his eyes.

The archer stood at the heart of the arena; you could hear the breeze rustling in the trees outside the stadium. With the assurance of a warrior who has no equal, he gazed unhurriedly around him—at the royal enclosure, the stands of the people, at the Pandavas and the Kauravas, at Arjuna and Drona. Almost with contempt.

Not even Drona spoke. Now the stranger bowed quickly to the blind king, to Drona and Kripa. In a voice to match the sound of his bowstring, the golden warrior said to Arjuna, “Pandava, I see you are conceited with the paltry tricks you just performed.” Such a mocking smile was on his noble, but also strained and sad face. “If your guru allows me, I will repeat every feat of yours, with my own refinements.”

There was a murmur from the people. The instinct of fortune swelling in him, moment by moment, Duryodhana stood riveted. He stared at the newcomer as if he was an old friend, from another life perhaps. Drona could not refuse, at least for the curiosity that consumed him. Who was this archer he had never heard of, who claimed he could match Arjuna?

“Show us your skills, stranger.”

Bowing again to Drona, Karna began a display that wiped the very memory of Arjuna’s earlier feats from the minds of the people. His fires were fiercer; his ocean in the sky was vaster, brighter. His rain-clouds, into which he resolved that sea, were darker, more threatening and streaked with lightning. The gale he summoned to blow away those clouds howled louder than Arjuna’s wind. The report with which the earth opened for his bhaumastra was more deafening. The tunnel that lay at his feet, which he also went down into, was paved with glimmering jewels. The mountains he caused to appear were Himalayan and made Arjuna’s mountains seem like hillocks. And when he grew before the people they could not see his face, because it seemed to be hidden in the sun. His chariot not only flashed along the ground but flew through the air. And he shot nine arrows into the mouth of the revolving boar and forty into the quiver he tossed up.

When he had finished and stood radiant before them, the crowd was beside itself. Bheeshma smiled to see the shock on Drona’s face. There was no doubt that his pupil had been eclipsed by the golden warrior. Duryodhana ran forward and clasped the stranger in his arms. He cried, “Welcome to Hastinapura, O greatest archer on earth! From today, I, Duryodhana, am yours to command and the kingdom of the Kurus yours to enjoy. Let us be friends always!”

And there was genuine warmth in that greeting. Duryodhana not only sensed that here was the man who could tame Arjuna for him, he also felt uncanny affection for the golden-armored archer: as if they shared an ancient pain, from before this life.

Flushed with triumph, Karna said, “We shall see today who the greater archer is, Arjuna or I. I, Karna, challenge him to a duel.”

Arjuna’s face was crimson. “How dare you come uninvited to our tournament?”

“It is a tournament and all are welcome to show their skills at such exhibitions. Or did Arjuna think it was arranged just for him? But I am challenging you, Pandava. Do you accept my challenge? Or would you rather admit that I am the better archer?”

Arjuna roared, “Come braggart, I will send you to your fathers in hell!”

Coolly, Karna retorted, “Why fight with words, which are women’s weapons. Let us speak with arrows.”

Arjuna pulled on his bowstring in fury. Abruptly, dark, bluish clouds scudded into the sky. It was Indra, the God of rain, looking down on his son Arjuna with a blessing. Then, a single shaft of the sun pierced those clouds and lit the golden warrior.

THIRTY-FIVE THE GOLDEN WARRIOR
 

Karna stood bathed, just he, in the golden beam of the sun. Arjuna stood darkling under his father’s clouds. And suddenly Kunti realized who the stranger was. She remembered the day when she had floated her firstborn down the river of the past. She remembered the kavacha and kundala he had worn. Blood rushed to her head and Kunti fainted. Vidura called for some salts. He guessed it was the sight of the stranger that had upset her. Kneeling beside her, he held the sharp salts under her nose and her eyes fluttered open.

Vidura was startled when he saw the look on her face. Tears in her voice, she began to blurt out something. But an instinct warned Vidura: Kunti must not say anything in this public place, least of all with Gandhari so near. Placing his hand across her lips, he shook his head, “Rest now, this is not the time to speak.”

He helped her sit up and gave her the salts to sniff again. Clasping her pain to her like a serpent’s sting, Kunti steadied herself. She said to Gandhari, “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Are you better now?”

“I am well now.” Once more, Kunti began to describe what went on below to the blindfolded queen. Patting her hand, Vidura returned to Dhritarashtra’s side. In the arena, Kripa, who was an expert in the etiquette of dueling, had stepped between the two warriors hungry for a fight.

Kripa announced, “Karna, a proper introduction is in order. Here before you, ready for battle, stands Kunti Devi’s third son Arjuna the Pandava, of the royal House of Kuru. Now you tell us your own ancestry, young Kshatriya. Who is your father and to which family do you belong? You know that no prince will duel with an adversary of lesser lineage than himself.” He smiled, “No more than he will marry a princess from an inferior kingdom.”

The crowd laughed. But Karna was crestfallen. His handsome head was bent like a lotus in a storm and his face was red with shame. As far as he knew he was not Arjuna’s equal by birth, by a long way. A sigh rose from the crowd and then jeers and catcalls came from the sections loyal to the Pandavas. Arjuna stood haughtily before Karna, a sneer on his lips and another, altogether inexplicable emotion in his heart: one he would feel every time he was face to face with this man. But he would never know, until it was too late, that it was the blood in his body responding to a brother.

Then, like a king cobra uncoiling, Duryodhana sprang up and cried in his deep rough voice, “My lord, the oldest dharma says that kings are of three kinds: those who are born kings, those who become kings by their courage and those who vanquish a king and so become kings themselves. I submit, my lord, that a king of the second sort is not necessarily a kshatriya. Not only kshatriyas are valiant but other men as well, as they are blessed by God.”

A powerful passion was upon Duryodhana; his chest heaved. “Valor is not the birthright of just the kshatriyas. But if Arjuna means to make it a condition that Karna is a king before he fights him, then so be it!”

The crowd had grown silent. Whatever could Duryodhana mean? The dark prince said, “The kingdom of Anga, which is ours, has no king at the moment. We are happy to create our new friend Karna the lord of Anga! Once he is crowned, let Arjuna find no excuse for not fighting such a worthy adversary.”

You could hear your own heart beat in that stadium. Karna’s head jerked up and his eyes filled with incredulous hope. Duryodhana smiled at him. Then he turned and crossed to the royal enclosure, where he stood with his head bowed before Bheeshma and Dhritarashtra, waiting for their approval.

Bheeshma was more proud of his prince than he had ever been. He nodded his head, giving his blessing. Then he put his hands together and applauded Duryodhana’s gesture. At which the entire crowd burst into loud cheering, calling out first Duryodhana’s name and then Karna’s.

When Vidura told Dhritarashtra that Duryodhana stood before him for his approval, the blind king smiled. He raised both his arms and cried, “You have our blessing for your noble deed, my son. Karna deserves to have a kingdom; let him be lord of Anga. The people are eager to watch the contest between Arjuna and him.”

A messenger ran hotfoot to the palace. A golden throne was fetched out to the stadium and everything else that was needed for a coronation: holy water, grains of rice, incense, flowers, chamaras—silken whisks—and the white parasol that was the emblem of a king of the earth. The court priests were already present. Duryodhana took Karna by the arm and brought him to the dais on which the throne was set. The other Kauravas showered rice-grains and flowers on him, as, with just a glance of hesitation at his new friend, Karna ascended the throne amidst deafening cheers from the crowd.

The priests began to chant the Vedic mantras for a coronation. Water from the ocean and the rivers of Bharatavarsha was poured over Karna’s head. The white sovereign parasol was raised above him and the crowd was on its feet. Finally Duryodhana set a crown on Karna’s head. He pulled his own sword from its sheath and gave it, haft-first, into Karna’s hand.

The Kaurava stepped back a pace and said, “Now, mighty Karna, you are king of Anga and Arjuna is just a prince. Let him not refuse to fight you anymore on pain of being known as a coward.”

The crowd was breathless. Karna rose in a daze. Choking, he said to Duryodhana, “I am not sure that I deserve this honor, my prince. And even if I do how will I ever repay you for what you have done today?”

For a moment, Duryodhana stared at Karna. Then he cracked a smile, “We have never seen an archer like you. Such a warrior deserves to have much more than insignificant Anga. Why, to me it seems you could rule the world!” He paused, then, gazing levelly at Karna, said, “As for repayment, there is one thing I want in return for the small service I have done you. I want your friendship.”

Meeting his gaze, Karna laughed and said, “That is already yours.”

The two embraced each other before that crowd. Some of the people cried, “Duryodhana, yours is a noble heart. You are truly a Kuru prince.”

But others held their peace. They saw that the Pandavas were slighted by Duryodhana’s gesture. Then, everyone was startled to see an old man, who walked with the help of a stick, pushing his way through the crowd. His wrinkled face was wreathed in a smile. He came straight into the arena and, when Karna saw him, he gave a cry of joy and ran to him. Atiratha, the suta charioteer, hugged his son and said, “What fortune, my child!”

Karna knelt at the old man’s feet and set the golden crown of Anga there. Atiratha cried, “Prince Duryodhana, I bless you! You have a great heart.”

Now the Pandavas were full of scornful smiles. Bheema cried, “Sutaputra! You aren’t man enough to die at Arjuna’s hands. Go and ply your whip; it suits you better than a bow.”

The Pandavas and the sections of the crowd loyal to them laughed. A spinning weakness threatened to overwhelm Karna. He stood mute and lifted his eyes up to the Sun, Surya who was his God. Kunti’s eyes welled again when she saw her son praying to his own father like that, never knowing the coruscant Deva was his sire.

Once more Duryodhana sprang up in his place. He was like a bull-elephant in musth, about to trample a forest pool brimming with lotuses. He roared at Bheema, “Cousin! You are a kshatriya, but you demean your birth; why, what you say would demean a beggar. Valor isn’t the preserve of just the kshatriyas.”

He raged now and the seething crowd was his true audience.

“Take the greatest rivers and warriors and their sources are mysterious. It is the greatness they swell into during their course through the world that counts. Moreover, the births of the greatest men have always been obscure. Why, the most awesome fire, Badava, is to be found below the ocean, where it slumbers until the apocalypse, when it erupts to consume heaven and earth.

Think of the origins of our own gurus, Drona and Kripa. One was born in a river-shell, the other in a bank of reeds. Think, for that matter, of the birth of our own fathers and of our uncle Vidura. Think of your own births, O Pandavas, who were never Pandu’s sons. The world knows your mother took three lovers, whoever they were and you three were born!

Who are you to talk of origins and lineage? That you pour scorn on this hero, who from his qualities, why, from his very face, is more of a kshatriya than you or I.

I say Karna deserves to be lord of the earth! And if you were not blind, Bheema, you would see that too. On every feature of this noble stranger, I see greatness stamped. I don’t care whose son he is: to me he is a kshatriya and among kshatriyas he shall live!

Now tell your highborn brother to fight the king of Anga. Of course, if he dares to.”

But then, abruptly, night fell; it was too dark now for a duel. But Karna had stolen Arjuna’s thunder today. Moreover, Duryodhana’s gesture toward the brilliant stranger had endeared him to the crowd, which now filed its way out of the stadium praising the Kaurava prince. No one spoke of Arjuna’s feats tonight. Duryodhana knew the appearance of Karna was the best omen in his life. He felt certain that from now on his fortunes would change for the better.

By torchlight, through the festive streets where singing and dancing broke out, it was the heroes of the evening who led the procession: Karna, king of Anga and his friend Duryodhana, the Kaurava prince. They walked with arms linked, glowing with their friendship so well struck.

Bheeshma seemed pleased; perhaps because Drona’s arrogance had been shorn a little today. The patriarch walked behind Duryodhana and Karna, with a gleam in his eye. He greeted the people as if every one of them was his own child. But Drona walked at the very end of the procession and hid his face from the glare of the torches. Vidura, too, was pensive beside Drona.

And behind Vidura walked the humbled Pandavas, solemn, even sullen. Yudhishtira managed to greet some of the crowd. Yet even he was shaken today. He had always felt that his position and his brothers’ were unassailable because of Bheema’s strength and Arjuna’s peerless archery. But Duryodhana was at least Bheema’s equal; and today the Kaurava had made a friend who was clearly Arjuna’s equal. Karna had appeared like a dangerous comet in Yudhishtira’s sky and the eldest Pandava was far-seeing enough to realize this.

Behind Yudhishtira walked Arjuna, stiffly, sweat on his face and his hands clammy. His spirits were lower than they had ever been since the day he saw Ekalavya. But Karna was not Drona’s pupil and the acharya could not ask him for his thumb. Beside Arjuna walked the young giant, Bheema; and he was also too angry to greet the people who were, anyway, busy lionizing Karna and Duryodhana. His hands were clenched and his mouth set in a tight line. He was smarting under Duryodhana’s assault on him.

Of course, what really hurt him was that every word his cousin had said was true. Bheema had never felt so small in all his life, or so petty. His heart burning with shame, his face red in the torchlight, he walked behind Yudhishtira, with a somber Nakula and Sahadeva behind him. So grim did the usually ebullient Bheema look tonight, that none of the people dared approach him.