THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (68 page)

He told me the name of the king who would set me free, but I have forgotten it. Ah, mortal, I have lived many centuries in the world in this worm’s body. The most wretched food has passed my lips: fresh flesh and blood. Pigs and rats I have eaten, deer, elephant and tiger. At first, I used to feel horror at where I was and what I had become. Often, I tried to kill myself by starving. But I could not and by the power of the curse, bestial greed would overcome me again. I would hunt a pig or a buffalo, or another serpent and gorge myself as if I had no control over what I did.

Ages have passed. I remember so little of my days in Devaloka. I am no longer certain if I was ever a king called Nahusha, or if all that is just a dream.”

The snake sighed and twitched his coils. But he held Bheema firmly, so the Pandava could not move. Nahusha the python looked down at his captive again and said, “Such a pity. Young Kshatriya, somehow I like you; or perhaps, it is Nahusha, whose spirit still dwells in this python’s body, who likes you. But, alas, it is the python that lives on this earth and he who must devour you. A pity, such a pity, for I do feel a strong fondness for you.”

Bheema thought he glimpsed such a human flicker in the snake’s slitted eyes. The creature went on, “Do you know, that just now when you said you were the strongest man on earth I felt a stab of hope, as I have not for centuries? I thought to myself, here I am with a mortal in my coils who says he is the strongest man on earth. Perhaps, the day of my Salvation has come at last; perhaps I shall not have to eat this fine young human. But no, that is not to be, or our savior should have appeared by now. I beg you, believe me, young Bheema, when I say that it would please me no end if I did not have to eat you. What can I do? Already, the serpent juices in my belly begin to burn and compel me.”

TWENTY-FIVE THE RIDDLES OF NAHUSHA
 

Somehow, the serpent sounded entirely sincere. Bheema was certain he even saw a tear shining in the cursed creature’s eye. Despite his own plight, the soft-hearted Pandava was moved by the python’s story.

Quite calmly he said, “Nahusha, I feel no enmity toward you, I feel sorry to hear about your long suffering. Yet, I am sad I have to die and leave my brothers when they still need me. Perhaps you do not know this, but they depend on me to win the war on the crack of the ages. The war on which the future of the world hangs.”

Bheema considered that war. He smiled wryly and said, “Of course, now things are different that Arjuna has the astras. Very likely, he can win the war by himself. Perhaps that is why he went to Devaloka in the first place. Because it was fated that you would eat me before the war began and he would have to win it by himself.

Possibly, it is no great matter death has come for me. I have no fear. I have lived a full and joyful life, in palaces and in jungles. What man could hope to have better parents than I did, or more noble and loving brothers? As for our wife! Ah, Nahusha, my friend, you should just see our Panchali. There is no woman in heaven or earth to compare with her.”

Bheema called the python his friend quite sincerely. He felt a bond with Nahusha, even because the great constrictor was going to devour him. Bheema felt nothing strange about this, either: for there was no escaping fate.

He went on, while the python listened in perfect silence, his eyes, now, definitely trickling tears. A pang of sadness flitted across Bheema’s face. “My brothers will rule the world again, even without my help. Arjuna will win all our battles, but I shall not have the revenge I swore against Dusasana and Duryodhana. Friend Nahusha, my mother Kunti and my Panchali will grieve for me when I am dead. I am also sad to die without fulfilling the oaths I swore to my queen: that I would drink Dusasana’s blood for tormenting her and that I would break Duryodhana’s thigh, on which he dared call her to sit.

But fate is all knowing and decides everything for our own good. If we were to choose ourselves what course our lives should take, or when we should die, the world would be a difficult place to live in!”

Bheema fetched as deep a sigh as he could, with the python’s coils around him. Nahusha, meanwhile, was fighting a battle with himself. The king in him was so taken up with Bheema, especially his courage in death’s very jaws, that he was loth to harm the Pandava. But the hungry serpent, with the long chasm of a belly where greedy juices stirred, was determined that Bheema was, first and last, a succulent meal. It was a difficult battle and Nahusha fought it bravely.

In the meantime, back in Vrishaparva’s asrama, Yudhishtira saw evil omens everywhere. Jackals stood to the right of the hermitage and howled mournfully. An arid wind blew and hideous vartikas, one-winged, one-eyed and with one leg, stared at the sun and vomited blood. Draupadi felt ill, as if someone was squeezing her life from her. Yudhishtira’s right arm twitched and his left leg trembled. Sudden, unreasonable fear gripped the other Pandavs. Draupadi cried, “Something terrible has happened to Bheema. Go and look for him, Arjuna. Quickly, before it is too late!”

But Yudhishtira said “I will go,” and he was off before anyone could protest.

He set out in the direction he had seen Bheema take earlier. Hours had passed since his brother left, but Yudhishtira had been raised in the forest and his father Pandu had taught him how to follow the subtlest trail. Now, he easily picked out Bheema’s passage. On soft earth, he saw his brother’s footmarks. He saw trampled bushes and branches torn off from trees: Bheema did not travel without leaving signs of where he went.

On strode Yudhishtira, his anxiety growing with each moment. He was on verge of panicking and running headlong through the trees, when he broke into a little glade with a flame-of-the-forest growing at its heart. What he saw there made him feel faint. Bheema lay in the clasp of a leviathan out of forgotten times, a serpent that was surely a great Asura, a survivor of the last deluge perhaps. Its pale coils were thicker than the bole of the tree. Its sleek, flat head was bigger than an elephant’s.

But Yudhishtira knew how strong his brother was and he cried, “Bheema, we have been anxious for you! Stop your game now, it is late. Kill him, if you must and come back with me. Draupadi is sick with worry.”

Bheema replied, “I can’t move, he is much stronger than I am.”

Yudhishtira looked at the python in amazement. “Who are you that can contain my brother, who is the strongest man on earth? I am Yudhishtira and I beg you, let my Bheema go. He is my strength; I will be lost without him. O magnificent one, he is my favorite brother and I have never shown him how much I love him. Whoever you are, mighty Spirit, let him go and I will bring you whatever food you want: anything from the three worlds; for all my brothers are kshatriyas and they obey me.

I know you are no ordinary serpent. Release my Bheema, take me in his place.”

A new light glimmered in the python’s eyes, when it heard Yudhishtira’s name. In its voice like sibilant thunder, it repeated that name, as if it stirred some long-buried memory. Then the serpent gave an uncanny shout, making the forest quake.

“Yudhishtira!” cried the python. “That is the name of he who will come when I hold the strongest man on earth in my coils. Agastya said Yudhishtira would answer my questions and set me free. Come near, let me tell you who I am.”

“Who are you, great one?” asked Yudhishtira, even more amazed.

“I am Nahusha.”

Bheema was astonished to see his brother prostrating himself before the python. He cried, “What are you doing? Run away, or he will eat us both!”

Yudhishtira said, “Have you never heard the name of Nahusha, Bheema? He was our ancestor, the Kuru king who became Lord of Devaloka for his dharma.”

Nahusha murmured, “Now I know why I found it so hard to eat you, young Bheema. You are my own flesh and blood.”

He turned his head to Yudhishtira. “Yes, I was indeed king in Devaloka, when Indra was cursed after he killed Vritrasura. Then I grew arrogant and here I am, a serpent ekeing out his curse. But Agastya told me that Yudhishtira would release me from my long torment.”

Nahusha’s eyes glittered, “I hold your brother in my coils and I will eat him if you don’t answer my questions on dharma, which no man, no Deva, no gandharva, no one at all has ever been able to. I think the danger to Bheema will sharpen your wits, because I see that you love your brother more than your own life. Let us test you, Yudhishtira. Let us see if your knowledge of dharma is as deep as Agastya muni thought it would be. Come closer.”

Yudhishtira came forward. Bheema lay bemused in the python’s coils. This was taking on the quality of a bizarre dream and Bheema wanted to laugh.

Nahusha rolled his eyes and asked the first question. “What is a brahmana?”

Yudhishtira thought for just a moment, then, said, “To me, a brahmana is anyone who is truthful, generous, compassionate and capable of sacrifice.”

The serpent stared at him. Slowly, it nodded its head. “What is the supreme knowledge?”

“I would say the Brahmam,” said Yudhishtira, without a moment’s pause.

“Which is superior along the way to liberation, sorrow or happiness? Which makes the way clear?”

“I have heard that, to the enlightened, what we call sorrow and joy are not different from each other.”

And so the questions came and Yudhishtira answered them all, easily. Yet, he never answered assertively, or with arrogance. He always said either, ‘I think’, ‘I have heard’, ‘I have been told’, or ‘in my opinion’ and Nahusha marveled that a man of such knowledge was as humble, as gentle as the mortal king before him was. He felt deep affection for Yudhishtira and admiration, as well.

As for the Pandava, he grew so absorbed in the python’s questions he forgot all about Bheema, whose life hung by the thread of his answers. Yudhishtira was enjoying himself and Bheema blessed every rishi with whom his brother had spent time in the Kamyaka, the Dwaitavana and the mountains. Though he had scoffed at him then, now his own life depended on what his brother had gleaned from the sages.

Fortunately for Bheema, Yudhishtira had learned with love and he had learned well. The exchange between Nahusha and the eldest Pandava was animated and profound. The questions ranged far and wide: the ordering of society, the nature of the soul, of time, varnasrama, poverty and wealth, old age and youth, death, liberation, sorrow and joy, wisdom and power, dharma and again dharma.

It was an enforced education for Bheema and he would never forget any of Nahusha’s questions, or Yudhishtira’s answers, not as long as he lived. Often, later, Bheema would repeat the lively exchange, word for word, for his brothers and Draupadi; and some rishis who heard him said that what he was reciting was scripture.

Suddenly, Nahusha declared, “Yudhishtira, I have no question for which you do not have the answer! You are the wisest man I ever met; but more important, you are the humblest one as well. That is the lesson I have learnt from you, the lesson I will never forget. I have met many learned men during my years, on earth and in heaven. Some, I have even eaten,” the serpent smiled. “None of them were gentle like you, but arrogant of their knowledge. You are different, O Rajarishi; for you, your life and your knowledge are not separate things.”

The python said, “I am not hungry anymore. How can I think of eating Bheema, when I know he is your brother, O Yudhishtira Muni?”

He loosened his coils and Bheema fell out of them gratefully. Yudhishtira ran to embrace him. With unusual tears in his eyes, Bheema said, “Your knowledge of dharma has saved my life today. Forgive me for mocking your wisdom once.”

But Yudhishtira held him close and whispered, “Ah, child, there is nothing to forgive. And if all my knowledge was lost today, that I have you back alive, I would not care.”

But now, there were a hundred questions of his own that Yudhishtira had for Nahusha and the python was happy to answer them for the Pandava. Time flew by in the heart of the forest, while Bheema, an unlikely new convert to the discourse of wisdom, listened raptly. At last, Nahusha slithered down from the tree. He said in a voice full of wonder, “I feel a transformation come over me. Yudhishtira, the curse ends!”

A golden luster lit the twilight sky above them. In a swirling of winds, a vimana flew down into that clearing. Yudhishtira and Bheema stood dazzled by the craft; but in front of them, the python was also refulgent. As they watched, his serpentine elements dissolved and a king of vast majesty stood where the snake had been. He was glorious past describing; the crown on his head sparkled with jewels from other worlds.

Nahusha embraced Yudhishtira and Bheema. “My friends, I will never forget you both. I owe my new life to you. O Yudhishtira, Mahatma, you are even wiser than Agastya said. May your lesson of humility always remain with me, for it is the most precious wisdom of all.”

The brothers stood a little awed. Nahusha said gently, “But now, I must leave you. For an age my people have waited for me and the streets of our city hum with the news of my return!”

He embraced them again, then crossed to the vimana and climbed in. Without a murmur, that ship lifted straight up into the darkening sky and flashed away quicker than the eye could see. Yudhishtira and Bheema stood staring after it for a long time. Then, arm in arm, they turned back to the asrama.

Almost a year, the Pandavas spent in Vrishaparva’s asrama and on the slopes of the Pravarshana. Until one day, reluctantly, they bid their final farewell to that muni and to the mountains and made their way down onto the plains of Bharatavarsha. They went quickly now, putting the Himalayas, where they had found some peace, behind them. They arrived on the banks of the Saraswati and, crossing her, made their way once more into the Dwaitavana and their old asrama beside the lake of lotuses. Now they were all calmer, Bheema and Draupadi, too. Knowing it drew near, they looked forward to the end of their exile.

One year more they must live in the forest; and then the last year, the ajnatavasa, when they must be disguised and remain undiscovered. Just one thought absorbed all of them: the war that loomed ahead.