THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (24 page)

The Pandavas knew it was not safe to rest where they were: anyone on the river could see them. With a prayer in their hearts, they plunged into the jungle, picking their way through it by rushlight. Hunting owls and other creatures of the night, nocturnal ones with luminous eyes, stared down from the trees at the intruders.

FORTY-ONE THE TRAGIC NEWS
 

Two hours before dawn, the palace burned down completely. Only embers remained, glowing in the night like thousands of fiery eyes. The place was still too hot for anyone to look for bodies and the people of Varanasi decided to return to their homes. They would come out the next morning, when the embers had died and they could begin a search of the gutted building.

All night, the miner had mingled with the crowd. He was a little worried lest the opening into the tunnel was exposed by the fire. Now, when the crowd dispersed, he stayed back. Wrapping himself in a blanket he had brought, he stole among the ruins of the palace. The heat singed him, but he was determined to level the mouth of the tunnel. The closest investigation in the morning should not reveal the secret of the underground passage. He carried a spade in his hand.

The miner knew exactly where the trap door was and made straight for it through the haze of heat. He arrived at the courtyard. A slow smile spread on his face as he scrabbled in the smoking debris with his spade. The roof of the tunnel had caved in, but its entrance had been covered evenly with fallen masonry and burnt timber. It was miraculous: as if the place had been diligently leveled, so no one could ever tell, not the miner himself, where the tunnel-mouth had been.

The miner saw where Purochana, what remained of him, lay on the floor beside his bed, where he must have fallen screaming when tongues of fire licked him awake from his stupor. With small regret, the miner saw the charred remains of the poor nishada woman and her sons. He wondered fleetingly if the Pandavas and their mother would ever pay for that sin. With grim satisfaction, he left the ruins of the lacquer palace. His task was filfilled and he set out for Hastinapura to bring Vidura news of the Pandavas’ escape.

Came dawn and the people of Varanasi returned to the house of lac. Only ashes remained of the palatial mansion. These were barely warm, because the morning dew had extinguished any living embers. Now the import of what had happened struck the crowd with full force. The women wept, some beat their breasts. Curling their tongues, the older ones ululated shrilly as was the custom. They knew it was not just five princes and their mother who had perished in the night’s fire: it was the future of the Kurus.

The people went through the charred remnants of the palace. Some cried, “Here is the murderer, Duryodhana’s man. At least he got what he deserved.”

“I hope he died slowly.”

“And screaming in pain, with no escape,” said one of the women in anger. She was not far from the truth.

They saw the remains of the nishada woman and her sons. The women’s wailing grew louder; none of the men was dry-eyed either.

“Let us take news of his success to the blind king,” it was decided, “and may his joy be short-lived. May the people’s curses darken his destiny and his sons’ with sorrow and evil.”

The news came to Hastinapura. When the messengers from Varanasi stood before the king, they said coldly, “Kunti and her sons were burnt alive in the palace they lived in.”

The king sprang to his feet, almost falling. A howl of anguish tore its way out of him, shaking even the messengers. Dhritarashtra was an actor. His heart was awash with joy, but his blind eyes leaked tears and he staggered as if someone had struck him. Dhritarashtra’s grief was like the autumn cloud, which is full of thunder but brings no rain. It was like the tears of the crocodile.

“Ah! Today I feel the grief of my brother Pandu’s death again. I must have been a great sinner in my past lives that I have to suffer like this now.”

His head bowed, clever sobs shook his powerful frame; it seemed grief had overwhelmed him and he could not speak. Then he appeared to gather courage. “Let my soldiers and our kinsmen fetch the remains of Kuntibhoja’s daughter and her valiant sons from Varanasi. Let our coffers be opened and food, clothes and gold be given generously to the poor.”

The tragic news spread through the city like the fire of an astra. Later, Dhritarashtra and Gandhari, Bheeshma, Drona and Kripa, Vidura and the elders, the nobility of Hastinapura and the commanders of the army came to the banks of the Ganga to offer tarpana to the souls of the dead. All save Dhritarashtra, his sons and their coterie mourned sincerely. Many wept as if they had lost their own flesh and blood. The nishada woman and her sons had a funeral they could not have dreamt of.

Most stricken was Bheeshma. He cried without pause since he heard the news. He did not speak a word; his heart was truly broken. He was too old to bear such grief any more; he felt death at his elbow. Everyone knew Vidura loved the Pandavas like his own sons. They were all too shocked to notice how controlled he was.

Bheeshma offered tarpana in the river. Then he stood apart from the other mourners, wracked, wondering how he would live through this day. He had braved many deaths: his father’s, Chitrangada’s and Vichitraveerya’s. Then, Pandu also had died. But this was more than just the sudden death of five princes and their mother; this, Bheeshma knew, would prove to be the end of the Kuru kingdom. There was no hope left in him, as he stood whispering Yudhishtira’s name like some mantra. “Yudhishtira, you should not have died. You were to be king.”

Vidura appeared at Bheeshma’s side. The patriarch sobbed pitifully. Vidura put an arm around him and led him out of earshot of the others. Though he had intended to keep his secret to himself, he now decided to share it with the elder. He was afraid that, otherwise, the old man would die of grief.

Gently Vidura said, “Pitama, give no sign on your face of what I am about to tell you.” Bheeshma turned swollen eyes to Vidura. “Pandu’s sons did not die in the fire at Varanasi. I arranged for their escape.”

Bheeshma began to tremble and Vidura held his arm tightly to remind him that he must give nothing away.

At the river, having committed himself irrevocably to evil, Dhritarashtra was offering a hypocrite’s tarpana to his nephews. He wailed loudly and called out the Pandavas’ names, as if to call them back from the dead. “Yudhishtira, hope of my old age, why have you abandoned me? Oh, Arjuna, Bheema, Sahadeva, Nakula! Kunti, my sister, what curse has fallen on us? Dear God, have mercy.”

Vidura whispered to Bheeshma, “It was my brother, Duryodhana and Shakuni who plotted to kill the Pandavas. They built a lacquer palace and told Purochana to set it on fire.”

“Murder! Ah, Dhritarashtra.”

“Kunti and her sons are in Siddhavata, the southern jungle across the Ganga. Let them remain hidden for a while. When the time comes they will return and we shall live to see them become lords of the earth. But we must be patient.”

Bheeshma squeezed Vidura’s hand, “The secret is ours, my heart is at peace. Keep me informed.”

Vidura turned to leave him, but Bheeshma drew him back. Embracing him as if in grief, the patriarch said, “My son, the House of Kuru will always be in your debt.”

FORTY-TWO FLIGHT THROUGH THE JUNGLE
 

Using the stars to guide them, the Pandavas went south through the jungle. The trees grew closer together and soon the vana was so dense it was difficult to go on. They had reached the deep Siddhavata and they were tired and thirsty. Kunti sat down under a tree. “I can’t go another step.”

Their eyes closing, panting, the twins, Yudhishtira and Arjuna also sat beside their mother. Bheema stood before them, as fresh as if he had just had a sleep.

Yudhishtira said, “The land crawls with Duryodhana’s spies, we are still too near Varanasi. If Purochana escaped the fire, they will already be on our trail. If they find us here, no one will ever know how we died. We must press on and be far from here when the sun rises.”

With an effort, he tried to get up. His legs gave way and he fell back. Arjuna said, “I cannot stand either. You will have to carry us, Bheema.”

Bheema smiled. “I have never been tired since I drank the nagamrita. Come, let us go.”

Bheema picked up his mother and his brothers again. When they sat securely, it seemed to them, though it may have been their imagination, that Bheema grew even taller. He set off through the forest as if he had wings on his heels from his father Vayu.

The night breeze, full of mysteries, blew into their faces as the son of the wind bore them through the Siddhavata. Kunti and four of her princes slept. Pushing down trees that came in his way, loping easily over hillocks that loomed in his path, the fifth flew south.

He hardly realized how far he went. When dawn broke, he had gone eighty yojanas. Suddenly, he felt tired. He stopped and set his brothers and his mother down. Waking, Kunti cried, “Oh, I will die of thirst! Water, you must find water.”

Feeling ashamed, Bheema picked the others up again and set off in quest of water. On they plunged through the thick jungle and saw no water anywhere. Once or twice Kunti swayed where she sat and Arjuna or Yudhishtira held her, or she would have fallen off. Finally, near noon, she could not bear her thirst any more.

“Put me down at once! I will not go another step until I have drunk some water. I don’t care if the Kauravas find me. I must rest.”

Ahead was an old banyan tree and Bheema set them down under it. He stood for a moment, attentive to the noises of the jungle. Then a smile creased his face.

“Mother, listen! Water birds.”

Kunti was in tears. She, too, strained her ears, but heard nothing. The other Pandavas slept against the great roots of the banyan, their lips dry, their eyes shut over parched dreams. Bheema said to his mother, “Before you know it, I will be back with water.”

As she laid her head in the crook of her arm, he sped off into the gloom ahead. Now Bheema went so swiftly, he resembled a wild zephyr of the woods: a forest spirit flying toward the dim sounds of the water birds.

He broke into a clearing and shouted in delight to see the fine lake stretched across it end to end. He also felt desperately thirsty. Bheema plunged into that sparkling lake, overgrown with lotuses in colors he had never seen before.

Standing in the cool blue water, he drank deeply from cupped hands and strength flowed back into his tired body. Laughing aloud in exhilaration, he splashed about for a while. Then, soaking the upper cloth he had worn, saturating it, he raced back through the jungle to where he had left his mother and brothers.

He found them in the same stupor. Gently, he made them sit up and squeezed some precious water into each one’s mouth. They moaned and opened their eyes briefly and fell asleep again. He saw that color returned to their cheeks and their lips were moist once more. It seemed to him they slept more peacefully and their breath flowed evenly.

Bheema sat watching them. When he looked at his regal mother, still so beautiful, lying on the rough earth under the banyan, tears welled up in his eyes. Bheema began to speak softly to himself.

“I am cursed and a sinner, for I see my mother Kunti, daughter of Kuntibhoja of the Vrishnis, daughter-in-law of Vichitraveerya of the Kurus, Pandu’s wife and the Pandavas’ mother, sleeping like a beggar in the forest. She bore the Devas’ sons in her body, Indra, Vayu and Dharma’s. Yet, here she lies on the rude earth and our enemies thrive!”

He sighed and muttered on. “Ah, blessed are those whose relatives are not envious. Duryodhana, do not think the Gods smile on you, vile cousin. If Yudhishtira had not stopped me, your father, Karna, your brothers, Shakuni and you yourself would be floating down the Ganga as ashes and your spirits haunting the mazes of naraka.”

He clenched his hands at the pleasant thought. Then, to console himself, he whispered, “The sources of great rivers, like those of great men, are often obscure—some hidden crevice high on a mountain. But in the fullness of time, the world sees their glory. So, too, shall it be with us.”

Bheema took heart from this thought and, growing quiet, sat in lone vigil over his family in that deep jungle.

FORTY-THREE A CHANGE OF HEART
 

Bheema did not know it, but he had carried Kunti and his brothers into a rather terrible jungle. A rakshasa called Hidimba ruled this vana.

Fortunately, when Bheema went to find water, Hidimba and his sister Hidimbi were both asleep in a tree, hanging bat-like from stout branches. Earlier they had feasted on a fine sambur stag Hidimba had leapt on from above and fastened saber-like fangs in its throat. They lived off wild game, mainly: any animal whose warm blood they could drink and flesh they could rend from the bone and soft, glutinous marrow they could suck out. Hidimba and Hidimbi ate deer, wild pig, bison, tiger and even elephant. But no meat was as succulent as man, or any other creature’s blood as sweet to drink.

Hidimba, the arboreal rakshasa, was huge and sinister. As Bheema sat forlorn beside his sleeping family, a bird’s sharp song roused the demon from dark dreams. As he stirred, the most alluring scent wafted into his nose: the scent of living human flesh. For just a moment, he thought he was still dreaming. Then, with a hiss of foul breath, the rakshasa came fully awake. His eyes gleamed as he pulled himself up by hand-like feet onto the branch from which he had been hanging.

Sniffing the jungle air, he rubbed his eyes and then woke his sister. She also smelt the aroma on the breeze, which made her brother drool.

Hidimba grinned hideously. “Can you smell them? At least four or five of them. The vana devatas are pleased today that they have brought us such a feast. It has been a long time since we drank human blood, gnawed human bones and sucked soft human brain out of foolish human skulls.”

She, too, was snuffling the air in excitement. Her brother said, “You hunt today, Hidimbi. This is not only the sweetest prey but the easiest to kill. They may die of fright just to see you drop out of the trees. Go enjoy the hunt. If any of them runs, call me and he won’t get far.”

Her eyes afire in the leafy dimness, Hidimbi set off, swinging through the treetops. Hidimba lay back with a sigh, shutting his eyes again so he could smell the human scent more deeply and let his mind savor the images it conjured of a bloody feast.

Quick as a flying-fox, gliding between the trees with wings outspread, Hidimbi sped through the forest. She arrived above Bheema at his vigil. He sat on a fallen tree-trunk, his hands on his great thighs, staring dully ahead of him.

The rakshasi crouched on her branch and gazed at him and at his sleeping mother and brothers; then helplessly back at Bheema again. Hidimbi, on her hunting perch, looked down at Bheema below her, lost in his sorry thoughts and suddenly she trembled. The human male was more beautiful than any creature she had ever seen, or even imagined. He was more magnificent than her rarest dreams; he was godlike. Her eyes roved over his deep chest, his slim waist and his great arms, caressing him already with her gaze. Lithe as a wolf, she thought, but more powerful than a tiger, than ten tigers.

She breathed even harder, her heart beat more quickly than when she hunted. Powerless against the strange feelings surging in her, she moaned and her clawed hands shook like leaves in a wind. Crouched in her tree, Hidimbi felt she had become the quarry and he below her, so ineffably handsome, was the hunter. A transformation came over the rakshasi: she shivered as with a fever and fell helplessly in love.

Her brother was forgotten and the savage thing he had sent her for. Looking at Bheema, any thought of killing him left Hidimbi: she must have him for her lover, or she herself would die.

She dropped lightly down to the ground. Softly she approached him and as she did, she was not a rakshasi any more. Instead, with sorcery, she had turned herself into a dark human beauty. Her face shone with what she felt and her form was perfect! She was tall and curvaceous; he could encircle her waist in his hands. Her breasts were high and full and her hips flared. Dark as night and as enticing, clad in a chaste white garment that set off her skin seductively, enchanting Hidimbi came up to Bheema.

Bheema looked at her and his heart went straight out of him and melted into her. She smiled and he wanted to take her in his arms and lay her down right there beside his mother and brothers.

Not looking directly at him, she said softly, “Who are you, mighty one? Hasn’t anyone warned you about this jungle? Did no one tell you this is Hidimba vana?”

A pleasant heat suffused Bheema. “Hidimba vana? Who is Hidimba?”

“My brother, the rakshasa who sent me to bring him your warm carcasses. He sits on a tree, licking his lips that he will drink your blood.”

Bheema laughed as if nothing could be more amusing. Her eyes straying to the sleepers under the tree, Hidimbi said, “Who are they? She is beautiful still, though she is not young any more. What is she to you?”

“My mother and my brothers. But tell me, lovely one, how is it you stand talking if your brother sent you to kill us and bring us to him warm?”

The dusky beauty flushed; he saw her delicate body quiver. His gaze roved shamelessly over her. She whispered, “I came to feast on your flesh. But when I saw you, something strange happened to me.”

“And what is that?”

She blurted desperately, “I fell in love with you! Come away with me. I can fly through the air. I will take to the mountains. We shall be lovers forever among hidden caves where Hidimba will never find us. Come, my love, we must fly. My brother will be here any moment, it has been months since he drank bright human blood.”

She glanced nervously over her shoulder. Bheema said, “My mother and brothers are more precious to me than my life. And you want me to fly away with you, leaving them at your brother’s mercy?”

“We will take your mother with us. I can grow twice as tall as I am now and carry her.”

“And leave my brothers, who love me more than their lives?”

Neither of them noticed that they were not alone any more. In the branches of a nearby mango tree, a long hirsute fiend crouched among the ripening fruit, his eyes slitted at what he heard.

Hidimbi had tears in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I am lost in love with you, Kshatriya: more than ever now, when I hear what you say. I will bear you, your mother and your brothers, too, through the sky. But we must go!”

In his tree, Hidimba’s eyes blazed and he gave a low chuckle at Bheema’s reply.

“Can’t you see they are sleeping? They have had a long journey and I will not disturb them. I am not afraid of your brother. I am Bheema, the wind’s son and fate has brought me here today to rid this jungle of its devil.”

He took her hand and placed it on his arm.

“Feel these arms. Aren’t they strong enough to kill your brother?”

Bheema laughed in excitement at her silken touch and she sighed to feel how strong he was. She let her hand wander across his chest. She leaned against him and whispered, “Yes, yes they are.”

Bheema began to draw her to him, her lips parted for his kiss, when Hidimba dropped down from his tree with a hiss. Hidimbi sprang up, her eyes full of panic. Hidimba stood growling before them, tall as two men, his pale fur standing on end, his glare crimson.

He screeched at Hidimbi, “Weren’t you afraid when you gave the human your love? I lay in my tree, thinking you were sinking your fangs into his throat and here you have become someone else for him. In his arms already and plotting my death.”

He was terrifying, now the one creature he trusted in the world had betrayed him. “You have broken my heart, Hidimbi. I will kill you first, drink your blood and smear myself with it. Then I will eat these others and you can meet your lover in Yama’s land.”

Hidimbi whimpered. With a roar, Hidimba rushed at her, but Bheema sprang up and shoved him back. The rakshasa was astonished; every man he had met before had fled from him.

Bheema was a head taller than any other man, but the pale vampire towered over him. Yet, Bheema’s eyes shone at the prospect of battling this beast that stood there, long ears twitching, claws extended, the fangs in his white bat’s head glistening in such sun that pierced the gloaming of the forest.

Bheema said, “Come, Rakshasa, you and I will go a way off and fight, so my brothers and my mother aren’t disturbed.”

Hidimba hissed at him like a great lizard. Bheema went on, “Strange creature, pray if you know how, for the hour of your death has come. From today this forest will be safe for those who would pass through it.” The Pandava spoke quietly. “I am going to crush your ugly head as if a wild elephant trampled on it and you will be carrion for the jackals and hyenas you have been feeding on and for vultures and crows.” Hidimba was too startled to retort. “Rakshasa, your sister will watch me drag you across the earth as the lion does an elephant he has killed.”

Now Hidimba gave a shrill laugh and Hidimbi clutched Bheema’s arm. “Your opinion of your own strength is high indeed, human. Match your fine words with blows. I am thirsty, great-mouth and only your blood will quench my thirst.”

With a roar, the rakshasa flew at Bheema. Bheema caught the claws of the flying monster in hands stronger than tree-roots and the creature howled as the Pandava dragged him away from the sleeping Kunti and his brothers.

Some way off they fought: the son of the wind and the beast spawned in darkness. Bheema also roared in exhilaration. Like bull bisons, they charged each other, colliding so the earth shook under their feet. Kunti and her sons awoke anyway and sat up. They saw the lovely Hidimbi; through the trees, they saw Bheema battle a pale beast tailed and winged like a monstrous bat. Arjuna, Yudhishtira, Sahadeva and Nakula were on their feet in a flash and ran toward their brother.

Kunti asked Hidimbi, “Who are you? Are you an apsara or a gandharvi? Your beauty is not of humankind. Are you the goddess of this jungle? And why are you here, watching the rakshasa and my son fight?”

“My brother sent me to drink your blood. When I saw your son, I fell in love with him. My brother was angry and wanted to kill me and now they fight.”

Meanwhile, Hidimba uprooted a tree and cast it at Bheema like a lightning bolt. Bheema stood his ground and the tree shattered against him. Hidimba flew through the air and seized Bheema by the throat. The fiend was strong and Bheema tired. They flailed about, the Pandava avoiding the curved fangs the rakshasa wanted to sink into him.

Arjuna pulled on his bowstring. “Let me have him, Bheema.”

“Why must two of us kill this insect?”

“Night falls swiftly and he will be ten times stronger with darkness. You must kill him before the sun’s rim touches the western mountain.”

With a growl, Bheema flexed himself against Hidimba and there was the dreadful sound of the rakshasa’s elbows and shoulders breaking. Hidimba set up a demented wailing. His short arms hung useless at his sides and terror sprang into his eyes.

Bheema said, “Rakshasa, let me tell you who I am before you die. I am Bheema and Vayu Deva is my father.”

He lifted the rakshasa and whirled him round over his head. Bheema flung Hidimba down on to a rock, bursting his bat’s body asunder: the neck broken, the wings and back smashed, black blood flying everywhere, the monster’s final scream echoed through the jungle at the sinking sun. Bheema roared and roared his triumph. He kicked the rakshasa’s corpse repeatedly, mangling it; he dragged it about and danced round it in frenzy.

Yudhishtira ran forward to embrace his brother and Bheema went limp in his arms. The others made him lie down, while the twins rubbed his tired limbs. Yudhishtira was overjoyed after the slaying of Hidimba.

“How lucky I am to have brothers like you! Why, with you four at my side I am as strong as the Devas.”

Arjuna, Sahadeva and Nakula smiled. Having slept deeply for a time, they felt revived and confident again. The sight of Hidimba’s body, lying beside the rock against which Bheema had broken him, picked up their sprits even more.

Yudhishtira said, “This forest is full of darkness and anguish, from the years Hidimba ruled it. Let us leave this place behind us.”

Bheema rose and Kunti and her sons set off through the darkening jungle, where a rough trail led through the trees. They had quite forgotten Hidimbi. Now she called to Kunti, “Devi, what will become of me?”

Yudhishtira and Kunti turned. Hidimbi said, “I have lost my heart to Bheema. I will kill myself if he leaves me like this.” She turned imploringly to Kunti, “Devi, you are a woman. I have forsaken my own nature for love. Make him understand how I feel.”

Kunti looked at Bheema and he blushed and looked away. The other Pandavas smiled. Kunti said, “Well, it seems Bheema would like to make you his wife.”

Bheema looked at Yudhishtira and opened his mouth to speak. No words came. Yudhishtira put an arm around his brother. “I am older than you and you think you must not marry before I do. But the heart observes no such convention and the heart must be honored.”

Bheema looked at Hidimbi and she at him. Both dropped their gazes, their eyes shining.