THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (25 page)

FORTY-FOUR GHATOTKACHA
 

Hidimbi led the Pandavas to a sylvan lake called Salivahana. With amazing speed, skill and some magic, as well, she built a cozy, wide-windowed cottage for them on its banks. Then, she said to Kunti, “Let me take Bheema away with me for a while. But every night, I will bring him back to you.”

Kunti blessed them. Hidimbi took Bheema by the hand and flew up into the sky.

The lovers had not so much as touched, since Hidimba interrupted their first embrace. Now, as she flew through the air with him, their lips sought each other. They kissed until Hidimbi, wild for more than kissing, flew down into a forest that was hardly a place on earth.

The trees and flowers that grew here were softly radiant and the air was full of quiet wonder. Pale mountains rose steeply all around them. Bheema saw they had alighted in a valley that had surely nestled here, pristine and undiscovered, since the world began.

Beside a pool covered with lotuses the Pandava warrior and his beautiful rakshasi lay together on a bed of satin-soft grass and were lost in sweet delirium. Hidimbi’s cries echoed from the encircling mountains.

When they did not make love or sleep, Hidimbi bore her husband through the air to many marvelous, unsullied places; and the earth conspired to make their ardor more climactic. Under thousand-year-old nyagrodha trees, which all but spoke, they lay together; and upon eagle’s eyries on the dizziest peaks, their naked bodies bathed in the gold and vermilion of sunrise and sunset, or the silver light of the moon that gazed down on their delicious exertions.

Every night, Hidimbi faithfully brought Bheema back to his mother and brothers. For an hour or two, they returned to the cottage on the banks of the Salivahana, where they would eat with the others: wild game that Arjuna and the twins hunted, or fish from the lake. As the days and months flashed by, a shadow of sorrow fell over the love of Bheema and Hidimbi and they could find no reason for it. One day Bheema said to her, “I fear our time together will soon be over.”

Lying upon him in languor, she nodded and her eyes were tear-laden. Softly, she said, “Our destinies lead away from each other because there is much that you still have to do in the world of men. But I am with your child and we mustn’t part until he is born.”

Bheema’s roar shook the sky. He lifted her in his arms and danced about, naked as he was. Then moved by sharp desire, that now she was his own flesh, he laid her down again tenderly. Later that night, they returned to the cottage. They saw another visitor had come to meet Kunti and her sons: a grandsire and mentor, Vyasa Dwaipayana.

He had heard how the house of lac in Varanasi had burned. With a seer’s insight, he knew the sons of Pandu had not died. Asking their whereabouts from wild beasts and birds, he found their sanctuary. As the moon rose over the hills, Vyasa shared their evening meal. When they had eaten, they sat on the cottage steps watching Soma Deva ride on the still mirror of the lake.

Vyasa said, “In seven months Hidimbi will bear Bheema a mighty son, a grandchild of the jungle and the wind.” He paused and seemed to peer into the future. “The boy’s valor will be a legend through the ages. Do not call Bheema’s wife Hidimbi from now, for she is not a rakshasi any more. Call her Kamalamalini; she is as lovely and true as a lotus.”

Bheema took her hand in the silvery night. Vyasa continued, “When Bheema’s son is a year old, you must leave the forest. Kunti, my child, put away your anxiety. These troubled times are only passing clouds against the firmament of your sons’ destiny. I, Vyasa, say to you, your princes are born to rule the world and Yudhishtira to be its emperor.

Evil appears to triumph just for a day and then dharma must prevail again. The darkest yaama of night is just before the dawn. Be calm, be brave: these trials are only to strengthen your spirits. Fear nothing, you are never alone. All the rishis of the world are with you and the Devas who are these princes’ fathers have not abandoned you. There is deeper and more careful design behind your travail than you imagine.”

Seven months went by after Vyasa’s visit: months of love for Bheema and Hidimbi and of beauty, but poor peace, for Kunti and her sons. Though the green asrama reminded them of their early years with Pandu, anxiety never left their hearts.

Then Hidimbi delivered a large infant, dark as his parents. He did not cry when he was born, but gazed back at his mother and father, his uncles and his grandmother with grave eyes. He had not a hair on his head and with his enormous ears, it truly resembled a smooth water-pot. They named Bheema and Hidimbi’s son Ghatotkacha.

Ghatotkacha was no ordinary child and at the end of the first month of his life, he was a full-grown youth. Time for him was another, extraordinary stream.

Just as the growth of his body was prodigious, so was his mind’s. The weeks Ghatotkacha spent with his father, his uncles and grandmother were like years; and by their love for him, they were drawn into his fabulous time. Those were joyful days and full of sorrow as well: they all knew how few these days must be. What filled their hearts, more than Ghatotkacha’s phenomenal gifts, was his loving nature.

He learnt wrestling from his father, archery from his uncle Arjuna and mastered them with swiftness which, if anything, exceeded that of his growth. But Ghatotkacha had a favorite among his uncles in that asrama: Yudhishtira.

The half-human, half-rakshasa boy never tired of sitting at Yudhishtira’s feet and learning the Shastras and the Vedas from him, imbibing them with astonishing speed and seldom an interruption. He would sit raptly with his big eyes fixed on the eldest Pandava’s tranquil face and drink in everything he heard.

With his uncles for masters, Ghatotkacha quickly became a complete warrior and a youth of deep learning as well.

One day, when just a few months had flitted by, Vyasa returned to the asrama on the lake. Bheema and Hidimbi knew the hour of parting had arrived. Ghatotkacha knew it was time to leave his father, his uncles and grandmother. Hidimbi clung to Bheema. No words would come from her; she only wept, her heart breaking. Bheema clasped his woman and his son in his arms and sobbed like a child.

At last, tearing himself away, he said, “Wipe your tears, my love, you have our son with you. Whenever I want to see you, I will think of you and you must come to me at once. Don’t cry any more or I shan’t be able to go with my brothers, who have need of me still.”

They both knew that he would not call her, for a long time. Not because he would not want to, but if he did, another parting would be unbearable.

Vyasa said gently, “Put on valkala and disguise yourselves as wandering hermits. Twist your hair into jata with the juice of the nyagrodha. There is a town called Ekachakra not far from here. That is where you must go for the present.”

When they had disguised themselves to look like itinerant brahmanas, they bade farewell to Hidimbi and Ghatotkacha. Then, wrenching themselves away, following Vyasa through the forest, they made their way sadly toward Ekachakra.

They journeyed across clear, chatty streams and still, bright glades that seemed to have been painted on to the earth with a God’s brush-strokes. They passed through numinous jungles, full of invisible presences, hidden kinnaras and vidyadharas and other wood spirits. At last, they saw before them a warm, picturesque valley and in it a fine little township. Ekachakra was a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings. Smoke issued lazily through their chimneys and curled up into a vacant sky.

Vyasa led them to the house of a brahmana he knew where he had already arranged for them to live. When the brahmana had made them welcome and showed them a sunlit, airy room where they could stay, Vyasa said with a smile, “Ekachakra is a quiet town, but I think you may find some liveliness here before long. Live, meanwhile, by alms, as brahmanas should. And I will see you again in a few months.”

Then he went away.

FORTY-FIVE A SLEEPY TOWN
 

Kunti and her sons kept much to themselves and lived by begging for alms. The people of Ekachakra took readily to the quiet youths and their mother; but those town-folk were not fools. They met together and said, “These are no itinerant rishis, but high-born kshatriyas. Perhaps they are in flight from some danger.”

“Yet they are not arrogant, nor do they condescend to us.”

“Their devotion to their mother is wonderful to see. Let them remain among us for as long as they want.”

Though the people of Ekachakra accepted them warmly, anxiety was never far from the Pandavas’ minds. They would go out for alms in the morning. How alien to their royal natures this begging was, it made them humble and taught them about the world. As soon as their begging-bowls were full, they would not delay a moment but hurry back to Kunti, lest any of Duryodhana’s agents wandered into the little town.

Often with tears in her eyes, Kunti would divide the food her sons had begged. Bheema would always get half of everything the brothers brought and the rest was shared equally among the others. And they were not unhappy, though for Bheema the food was never enough and he grew rather lean.

Nearby there lived a potter who became friendly with them. He grew especially fond of Bheema, who helped him carry loads of hay; he was sad to see the young giant waning from not getting enough to eat. This potter was an intelligent man and something of a comic. One day he arrived at the Pandavas’ door with a begging-bowl he had made for Bheema, three times the size of an ordinary one.

The next day, Bheema went begging for alms with his outsized bowl. Giggling to see him with the huge thing, the women of the town filled it to the brim, some of them with amorous looks at the strapping brahmana. Then on, those women began to cook a little more food and the big brahmana would oblige them by splitting firewood or doing heavy work around their houses. He was careful not to become otherwise involved, despite all the subtle and flagrant invitations he had almost daily. Some mild flirtation was harmless enough and Bheema did not deny himself that pleasure.

One morning, just Bheema and Kunti were at home in the brahmana’s house, when they heard loud sobs from the next room, where their host lived with his family. Kunti raised a finger to her lips: the brahmana and his wife were crying.

Kunti had grown very fond of the man, his wife and their two children: an older daughter and a young boy. She came to listen at the closed door that divided the brahmana’s house.

She heard him say, “Curse this treacherous world! Curse this life, its roots are only torment and misery. Woman, years ago I said to you let us leave this accursed town. You answered that you were born here and here you would live. And now…oh, now death is upon us and there is no escape.”

His wife said, “Death is certain for all that are born. Don’t grieve, I will go in your place.”

Her husband gave a louder cry still. “How can I sacrifice your life for mine?”

“The rishis of old have said that women should never be killed. If the devil won’t hesitate to kill a man, he may not kill a woman. I have borne your children and my nature’s deepest needs have been satisfied. Death holds no terror for me, I will go to the rakshasa.”

Hearing the word rakshasa, Bheema sat up in the next room. Now the daughter of the house, a girl of twelve, ran to her parents, hugged them and wiped their tears. “My brother is just four. He will die if either of you leaves him at this tender age. The son of a family is its soul and the soul must be nurtured.

Let me go to the rakshasa. You are more precious to me than my own life and I will feel no fear or pain.”

All three clung together and sobbed. Then the little boy stopped his thoughtful game in the yard. He was a tousle-haired, beautiful young fellow. He ran in and lisped, “Don’t cry.”

He held a long blade of grass in his hand. Brandishing his green sword, screwing up his face in the sweetest snarl, he cried, “I will slay the rakshasa!”

The other three hugged him and began to laugh. Kunti walked into their room. She said, “I couldn’t help overhearing you. You spoke of a rakshasa and some terror he held for you. Share your grief with me, perhaps I can be of some help.”

The brahmana sighed, “Alas, we are beyond help. For this week our turn with Baka has come.”

“But tell me anyway: to share a burden is to make it lighter. The least we can do in return for all your kindness is to listen to the reason for your sorrow.”

“Devi, your heart is kind, but death has come and knocked at our door today. Yet, as you say, to share a burden is to lighten it. So, listen to our story if you have a mind to.

Our first misfortune is that our king is an imbecile—inept, weak and callous. The second followed upon the first, thirteen years ago. The rakshasa Baka came down from the northern ranges and found a dry cave to his liking on yonder mountain.

It was a terrible day when Baka first descended on Ekachakra. He came like Yama. He killed anyone he could, drinking their blood, flinging half-eaten corpses around him. Then he went back to his cave and slept for a month. Again he awoke, hungrily and came roaring down on us for a feast.

When he had come and gone a dozen times, our elders met together and decided to go to Baka with a proposition. They climbed to his cave and said, ‘Great Rakshasa, we have come with an offer. Every week we will cook a cartload of food and send it to you. In return, you must promise not to attack our town.’

Greed stirred in Baka’s eyes. He was lazy and, besides, he loved human cooking. Yet, he loved human flesh and blood better. In chaste language, the rakshasa said to the elders, ‘Your plan is excellent, but I have some conditions. The food you send me must be tasty. And each week I will eat the bullocks and the driver of the cart, as well.’

The elders stood trembling: any moment Baka may tire of talking and fall on them. They quickly agreed. ‘Each week, a different household will supply a cartman and bullocks. But Baka, there is one other matter: as long as we send you the food, you must agree to be our guardian. Not only must you never come yourself into our town, you must protect us from any other danger.’

Baka thought about this for a moment. He said pityingly, ‘Have you no king to look after you?’

‘Our king is wanton and an idiot. Ours is a cursed generation.’

‘Very well, if I enjoy the food you send me—if it is not too spicy, or too bland—I will protect your town. Be sure the bullocks that draw the cart are fat and the rice you heap on it forms a hill. If I am still hungry after eating what you send me, I will come to Ekachakra. Go now and send me a cart of food this evening.’

Thus we began to feed the rakshasa every week and had his protection in return. Each week a different household provides the cart, the bullocks and the cartman.”

His face like ashes, he whispered, “This week the turn is mine.”

Kunti listened sympathetically. The brahmana continued, “Devi, if I take the cart to Baka and he eats me, my wife and children will starve. If my wife goes in my place I will die of grief and my children will be orphans. So we have decided all of us will go and die together.”

He paused and his eyes were full again. “But despite all the philosophy in the world, life is sweet and the thought of dying dreadful.”

The brahmana fell silent. Now Kunti said brightly, “Brahmana, you have been kind to us and the time has come to repay your kindness. I have five sons. I will send one of them, the second one I think, to Baka with the cart of food.”

“Oh no! You are my guests. How can I send your son to die in my place? Devi, don’t add to my grief.”

Kunti smiled at her host. “My second son is not an ordinary boy. Trust me, I am not sending him to his death. My child was born blessed by the Devas.” She leaned forward now and whispered, “He has superhuman strength; he will kill Baka and return safely. You prepare the food and the cart and leave the rest to my boy.”

The brahmana and his family listened round-eyed. It seemed they had come to the brink of death and been reprieved. Kunti said, “Just one thing. You must never reveal my son’s secret to anyone, or he will lose his strength.”

After a moment’s silence, the brahmana said, “If what you say is true, this is a miracle. If you are sure your son will come to no harm, we accept your offer. Not a word will pass our lips about who went to Baka with our cart.”

Kunti went back to Bheema and told him about Baka the rakshasa and how she had offered to send him in the brahmana’s place. He hugged her.

“Thank you, mother! I have felt so restless here and now I can have a good fight again. More than that,” his eyes shone, “the brahmana’s wife is an unearthly cook and tomorrow I will have a cartload of her food to eat.”

Kunti laughed to see he was drooling. “Come, let us give them the good news.”

The brahmana embraced Bheema and blessed him a hundred times. Bheema was embarrassed and said to the man’s wife, “I hope your cooking is as good as ever, or I might change my mind.”

Tears in her eyes, the woman said, “I swear you would never have eaten food like you will tomorrow. I am going to begin cooking now and I will make a meal fit for a prince.”

Kunti and Bheema exchanged a smile and went back to their own room. Almost immediately, the other Pandavas returned with the alms they had begged. Yudhishtira saw Bheema sitting in a corner and looking very pleased. He took Kunti aside in the yard. “Bheema has the look he used to get whenever he was planning some mischief against Duryodhana and his brothers. Do you know why?”

Kunti was washing the vessels from which they ate. “This time I’ve begun the mischief myself.”

“You?”

Kunti made him sit beside her on the stone steps. She told him about Baka and the brahmana’s plight. She told him she had asked Bheema to take the cart of food to the rakshasa the next day.

“What?” Yudhishtira’s face was red: for the first time in his life, with anger at his mother. “Have you taken leave of your senses, O my mother? We escaped through the tunnel only because of Bheema. We have come this far just because of him; and now you want to send my brother as an offering to Baka? Oh, Kunti, you have been terribly impulsive or you wouldn’t have dreamt of such a thing.”

Kunti took his hand, but there was an edge to her voice now that pulled him up sharply. “Do you think, Yudhishtira, that your love for Bheema is greater than mine? Do you really imagine for a moment that I would sacrifice a son of mine to a rakshasa? It does you little credit that you think your mother is a stupid woman.

My Bheema is Vayu’s son. You were not there when I conceived him. When he fell from a cliff, as a baby, the rock on which he fell was smashed and he didn’t have a scratch on him.”

Yudhishtira already looked chastened. Kunti had not finished. “Bheema drank nagamrita when Duryodhana pushed him into the river and it made him even stronger. You saw how he carried us through the jungle, how he killed Hidimba, even when your brother was tired.

Yudhishtira, none of my sons was born to die at the hands of an insignificant rakshasa. They were born to rule the world beside their eldest brother, who seems to have lost his wits for the moment that he judges his mother so harshly. I was only trying to repay the brahmana’s kindness.”

Yudhishtira knelt before her. She took him in her arms and his eyes were full that he had hurt her. She wiped his tears tenderly, saying, “I don’t blame you, my son, this furtive life is wearing us all down. But we have a long way to go before we return to Hastinapura.”

Yudhishtira went to the brahmana and said, “My mother told me about Baka. I am happy we can help you, it makes our time here fruitful.”

Their host was pensive. “Tell your mother she can still change her mind. I do not want your brother to die in my place. You don’t know Baka, how strong he is.”

“No mother would send her son to his death. You do not know my brother; he is stronger than you can imagine. Don’t fret needlessly, the rakshasa will die tomorrow.”

After working all night, the brahmana’s wife finished cooking an hour before sunrise. When, at cockscrow, Bheema, Kunti and the others came out into the yard, they saw the brahmana loading the last of the food on to his bullock-cart. Bheema’s face was a sight as he sniffed that hill of rice, covered thickly with mouth-watering curries.

He cried, “I must be off at once! What if Baka grows hungry and comes down the mountain?”

Without further ado, Bheema mounted the cart. With a crack of his rope over the bullocks’ backs, he set off as the first flush of dawn lit the eastern sky.

Soon he passed the edge of town and was alone with the cart of food. As Bheema urged his sleepy bullocks toward the forest-mantled foothills on the horizon, he helped himself to the food. He ate with relish, occasionally singing the cook’s praises to the lightening sky. He sang she had the most gifted hands in the world. Her spices were delectable and how she mixed them into her curries was sheer sorcery. Her rice was the longest-grained and the most fragrant in Bharatavarsha and so on.

Enfolded in the aromas of the good woman’s cooking, transported by its flavors, Bheema went slowly along. It was months since he ate such a meal and he did not hold back.

Suddenly, he had a thought that made him shudder. When he arrived at the mountain, looming ever closer now, he would have to kill Baka. Then he would be unclean with the rakshasa’s blood and he would not be able to finish the food! Bheema stopped the cart. He tethered his bullocks to a tree and really fell to.