THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 2 (78 page)

To please her, Yudhishtira takes the jewel and wears it in his crown.

BOOK ELEVEN
STREE PARVA 

AUM, I bow down to Narayana, the most exalted Nara and to the Devi Saraswathi and say
Jaya
!

ONE
WITH DHRITARASHTRA AND GANDHARI 

After fourteen years, the Pandavas return to Hastinapura. They should come home in joy, for the war has been won and now Yudhishtira returns as king. Instead, they arrive in mourning after what Aswatthama did. Krishna and Satyaki ride with them. Just inside the city-gates, the Pandavas meet the Kaurava widows. Wearing white, the women wail louder than ever when they see their husbands’ killers. Some scream at Yudhishtira, “How could you kill your own blood, Yudhishtira?”

“Is this your dharma, Pandava?”

Lamentation rings through the streets of the city of elephants and it is not only the Kaurava widows who weep. Draupadi has lost five sons in the night; her eyes are not dry. Krishna alights from his chariot and melts into the crowd. Yudhishtira sees Dhritarashtra. With a cry, the Pandava runs to his uncle and prostrates himself at the old king’s feet. Dhritarashtra raises him up and embraces him. It is a cold clasp; the king’s mighty form trembles with suppressed rage. Dhritarashtra always knew how to conduct himself before the eyes of the world and he now speaks gentle words to his nephew.

His blind face turns here and there, seeking someone else. He says, “Bheema, where are you, my son?

Bheema starts forward and his uncle opens his arms to hug him. Suddenly, Krishna reappears and he is carrying an iron image of Bheema: the same one upon which Duryodhana used to rain blows with his mace. To the others’ amazement, Krishna calls Dhritarashtra, “Bheema is here, my lord.”

Bheema is about to speak, but Krishna’s eyes flash warningly at him. Dhritarashtra gropes forward, “Where are you, Bheema, come to my arms.”

Krishna sets the iron statue before the king, “Bheema is before you, my lord.”

It is told that Bheema’s body was as hard as iron and the king in his wrath does not notice the difference between his nephew and the statue. He throws his arms around the image and clasps it with the superhuman strength with which he was born. Now the blind man’s mask falls away and naked hatred is plain on Dhritarashtra’s face. He has his precious son’s killer in his embrace; grimacing, the old king crushes the statue in his arms. Blood flows down his chest, blood flows from his mouth and the iron figure buckles in his arms! The effort overwhelms Dhritarashtra and he collapses.

He still does not realize what he has done. He feels warm blood on himself and thinks it is Bheema’s. Sanjaya runs forward, crying, “My lord! What did you do?”

Abruptly, Dhritarashtra’s rage leaves him and cold sanity returns. He begins to tremble and cries, “Bheema! What have I done to you, my child? I have killed my brother’s son! Ah, Bheema, I killed you in anger.”

He sobs. Krishna sees the king’s fury has passed. He goes to Dhritarashtra and says, “Bheema isn’t dead. I gave you Bheema’s image to vent your anger. You crushed the statue your son used to practise with his mace and the blood was your own.

My lord, this is no way for a king to conduct himself. The Pandavas are your nephews, they need your affection. They hated the war and the sorrow it brought. You have not treated Pandu’s sons with dharma; at least now, be as a father to them. You have lost your own sons and no punishment could be worse. You have a chance to make sons of the Pandavas, as you should have done long ago.”

A subtle transformation seems to come over Dhritarashtra. A smile of relief spreads on his face and they see that, now, this smile springs from his heart. He says, “Krishna, everything you say is true. My overweening love for Duryodhana turned my mind to evil. But all that is past. I am grateful you brought the iron image to me, or I would have killed Bheema.” He turns his face, “Bheema, child, forgive me! Come here, let me embrace you.”

Bheema glances at Krishna, who nods. Sobbing, Dhritarashtra clasps his nephews, one by one, “Bless you, my children! All my boys have been taken from me and I have only you five to be my sons. From now, I swear I will be as I should have always been: a father to you.”

For the first time they hear sincerity in his voice and have no doubt he means what he says. But they still have to face Gandhari and the Pandavas quail at the thought. The queen stands some way off from her husband, her eyes bound as always and rage rules her heart. As they begin to walk toward her, she has decided, again, to curse Yudhishtira and his brothers. She is about to utter the curse, when Vyasa appears at her side and says, “Stop, Gandhari! Your love for your sons fills your heart with sin. This is no time for hatred; it is the hour of forgiveness. Before Duryodhana went to war, he came to you for your blessing. Do you remember what he said to you that day?

‘Mother, say I will win this war and I know I shall.’

You replied, ‘Where there is dharma, there will be victory.’

Your own prophecy has been fulfilled. Dharma was with the Pandavas and they are victorious. You always knew that Duryodhana’s was the way of sin; if you curse the sons of Pandu now, you will desolate the virtue of a lifetime. You have always been patient and truthful. Calm yourself, daughter, the Pandavas do not deserve your anger. The sin lay with your sons and they have paid for it. Yudhishtira and his brothers were only fate’s warriors.”

Gandhari hears him out in silence. Then she says, “My sons Duryodhana and Dusasana and my brother Shakuni are to blame for the Kuru House being destroyed. When I first heard that my boys were dead, I was deranged with grief. I am calmer now; I cannot blame the Pandavas for fighting the war. How can I? They did not want this war, only my son did.

Yet, I am a mother and my heart will not be still after hearing how Bheema killed Duryodhana. That was not dharma, O Muni. He struck him below the waist, treacherously and my child fell. Bheema drank Dusasana’s blood on the field, like an animal. He did these things out of arrogance. I cannot forgive him.”

The Pandavas have just come up to Vyasa and Gandhari. In such a humble voice, that Krishna smiles to hear him, Bheema says, “Mother, I admit I killed Duryodhana treacherously. There was no other way he could be killed; and if I did not kill him, he would have killed me. I only did what I had to, to save my life. There was no other way, because there was no mace-fighter on earth like your son. I could never have beaten him in a fair fight, why, not Indra could! But your son did not walk the way of dharma. You know how he made us suffer for thirteen years. Yudhishtira never wanted this war, but Duryodhana was obstinate it must be fought. And you know what happened in the sabha of Has-tinapura on the day of the dice, you know how Draupadi was abused. Who would avenge her except me? I swore then that I would break Duryodhana’s thigh and I did.

I should have done it on the day of the gambling and you would have said there was no sin in what I did. For, then, your son’s crime was happening before you. After thirteen years, what he did has faded from your mind and all you know is that I killed Duryodhana by striking him unfairly. But thirteen years ago, Yudhishtira stopped me.

I beg you, see this thing in its entirety, not just what I did yesterday. Mother Gandhari, forgive me if I have sinned.”

Gandhari hears him out and a thaw sets in on her heart. Her voice is less fierce, when she asks, “Bheema, I hear the sincerity in your voice when you say my son was the greatest mace-fighter in the world. I will forgive you for killing Duryodhana. But what about Dusasana? You drank his blood on the battlefield! He was your cousin and you drank his blood.”

Bheema is humbler still, “I swore in anger that I would drink his blood. It was no cold plan, but my temper: but I had to keep my oath. And now I swear, not a drop of your son’s blood passed down my throat, but I turned away and spat it out. Karna saw me and I remember he smiled. It was mere bravado; I did not really drink his blood. I beg you, see what I did in its true light and forgive me.”

Krishna’s smile grows wider than ever at the abject contrition in Bheema’s voice. Gandhari seems mollified and says, now with less rage than sorrow, “Ah, Bheema, you killed all my sons. Couldn’t you have left me just one? Your uncle and I are old. I haven’t even one son left to be my support in my old age.”

Bheema says, “Mother, you could have prevented your sons from banishing us. You could have persuaded them to return our kingdom, when we returned after thirteen years in the wilderness. But you did not. Am I to blame for everything that happened?”

At this, anger returns to Gandhari. She turns her face here and there, seeking someone else. “Where is Yudhishtira?”

Yudhishtira comes before her, his palms folded and says, “Here I am, mother, your sons’ killer. If you curse anyone, let it be me. I caused not just the death of your sons, but the ruin of kshatriya kind. Curse me, mother Gandhari, I deserve your curse!”

When she hears the anguish in his voice, Gandhari sighs like a serpent and remembers what Vyasa said. That queen begins to sob helplessly. As she weeps, a corner of the cloth with which she binds her eyes comes loose, letting in a ray of light. For a moment, the virgin vision of those eyes falls on Yudhishtira’s feet. The Pandava cries out in pain, for Gandhari’s glance burns up his toenails, charring them black!

When Arjuna sees this, he scurries to hide behind Krishna, who laughs to see the greatest kshatriya on earth running from a woman. Gandhari also dimly sees Arjuna retreat and at once her heart goes out to him. Krishna whispers to Arjuna, “O Jishnu!” which means terror of the world and laughs again to see him flush.

Gandhari’s anger passes like a spring cloud. She blesses the Pandavas and embraces them, saying that from now on she was also their mother, because her sons were all dead. Then it is time for them to go to their own mother: Kunti whom they have not seen for thirteen years.

TWO
GANDHARI’S CURSE 

Crying aloud to see her sons, crying for joy she can hardly express, Kunti runs to them with her arms flung wide. One by one, she clasps them to her, stroking their faces, kissing them, touching their battle-scars with her fingers, while she weeps and laughs at once. Then she turns to Draupadi, who stands limply, shattered by the death of her own sons.

Kunti takes her in her arms and Panchali breaks down. She wails, “Mother, all your grandsons are dead! Abhimanyu was killed and my boys as well. It is some time since you saw them, now you will never see them again. What use is victory or a kingdom when I have lost my children?”

She sobs in Kunti’s arms. Then, the blind king’s train sets out again for Kurukshetra and the Pandavas and the women, all wearing just single cloths, follow it. Seeing Kunti helpless to comfort her, Gandhari takes Draupadi in her arms and says, “Look at me, my child and be consoled that you are not alone in your anguish. We have both lost all our sons; our pain is the same one. At least you are younger and stronger, so you can bear the grief. Don’t cry, my daughter, this is fate. It is the end of the world as we knew it and a new yuga has risen over the earth. Vidura foretold this years ago and Krishna warned us of it. Don’t cry for your sons, Draupadi, they have gone where they are happier than we are.”

Then, her own sorrow overwhelms her again and she sobs, “Oh, which of us will comfort the other? We are both heartbroken!”

As they near Kurukshetra, subtle vision fills the pure Gandhari. Clearly, through her bound eyes, she sees the apocalyptic field. She sees corpses sprouted on the earth like blades of grass; she sees severed limbs, severed heads and blood congealed everywhere. She sees the vultures and jackals that feast on the moldering flesh of the dead. She sees her sons lying on that field, some whole, some rotted past recognition and others with their faces eaten away by scavengers. Gandhari sees thousands of wives and mothers, all crying, many screaming: the women of an entire generation, some from far-off lands, others from Hastinapura. They throw themselves across the corpses of their sons, brothers, husbands, fathers and a sea-storm of lamentation rises into the yielding sky, it seeps into the earth. The wild creatures of the world hear that wailing and think the pralaya is upon them.

Gandhari takes Krishna by the hand, she says, “Do you see them, Krishna, the millions that died? Do you hear my daughters-in-law sobbing for my hundred sons?”

Krishna does not reply. He leads her to a corpse, which has just been carried to Kurukshetra from Samantapanchaka. Gandhari bends to touch the magnificent body, broken at the waist, with her fingers, which are her eyes. She feels the proud face, uncowed by an agonizing death and she flings herself down across Duryodhana’s chest and her shrill, ululating cries echo above every other sound on Kurukshetra. Then, she faints.

When she recovers, she still sobs and calls her son’s name. She runs her fingers through his tangled hair, trying to break the clotted blood from it. She runs her fingers over his face; she kisses his eyes, his cheeks and his lips.

Trembling, Gandhari turns to Krishna. “Krishna, do you see the sea of grief around you? Look at Duryodhana’s wife, she runs like a mad woman between her husband’s corpse and her son’s, trying to chase the jackals and vultures away from both. Look at Uttaraa; can you hear her sobbing as she lies across what remains of Abhimanyu? They were married hardly a month.
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