are murky—and the same goes for his brothers.
Think of Pandu himself, and my father,
and Uncle Vidura—we respect them
and yet their birth was by no means straightforward.
“The most powerful forces in the world
are often born in darkness. Think of fire,
the molten fire that sleeps beneath the ocean
but will erupt at the apocalypse
to engulf the earth. The mightiest rivers
have unimpressive origins; their greatness
grows as they make their journey through the world
joining with others, broadening, deepening,
meeting barriers, overcoming them.
That’s how it is with the noblest warriors.
But, of course, a deer can’t sire a tiger
and this man is a tiger—so I would guess
his mysterious birth must hold a clue
to his greatness. Karna deserves—hear me out—
our deep respect and, in my eyes at least,
he is a king.
“Now, tell your little brother
to gather his scattered wits, pick up his bow
and fight the King of Anga—if he dares!”
At this, the audience murmured its approval.
But night had fallen, it was too late to fight.
The crowd drifted away, talking of Karna.
7.
REVENGE
Arjuna’s public humiliation
was a setback for the Pandavas.
Even Yudhishthira was now convinced
that no archer on earth could beat Karna.
But Drona had his mind on other matters.
He gathered all the princes. “Listen, young men—
that’s what I call you; after yesterday
you are no longer boys. You have made me proud.
What you all achieved in that arena
showed me your education is complete.
But yesterday was circus tricks compared
to the glorious battles you were born for.
The time has come for me to claim my dues.
You know my grievance against Drupada.
Year by year, the craving for revenge
has swelled in me, like a blocked watercourse
longing for release. This will be your fee—
that you shall take an army to Kampilya
and bring Drupada to me as a prisoner.”
This prospect was thrilling to the princes.
They cheered and punched the air in exultation
and the elders too supported Drona’s cause.
A fighting force was rapidly assembled
and, with the Bharata princes at its head,
and Drona riding with them, they set out.
Entering the land of the Panchalas
the Bharata force crushed all opposition
and reached the fine city of Kampilya.
Outside the city ramparts, they milled about,
keen but disorganized. The Kauravas,
led by Duryodhana, were desperate
to storm the city and tear it apart.
They were consumed by feverish excitement
jostling for the chance to achieve glory.
The Pandavas, calm and more thoughtful, waited
at a distance. While Duryodhana
led the army in a charge, breaching
the city gate through the force of numbers,
the Pandavas stayed well behind, with Drona.
This self-restraint was their first victory.
Arjuna was confident, “You’ll see,
Drupada will overpower our cousins—
I’ve heard he is a formidable archer.”
As Duryodhana and his troops rampaged
through the streets of the unfamiliar city,
killing all opponents, they felt triumphant.
The Kaurava prince was opening his mouth
to declare victory, when the palace gates
burst open, to the deep bray of conches,
and Drupada rode out in a white chariot
like a whirling fire. His arrows streamed
in a continuous line, and every one
found its intended mark. Counter-attack
was impossible. At the same time
the citizens bombarded the invaders
with whatever heavy objects came to hand.
The Kauravas were routed. They had learned
that a thirst for victory was not enough.
“Retreat!” cried Duryodhana to his men,
and a ragged line of Kaurava chariots,
many driven by corpses, straggled out
beyond the city walls. Badly battered,
the defeated princes wailed to Drona,
“You pitched us against completely hopeless odds—
it was unfair, Drupada’s unbeatable!”
Then the Pandavas came quietly forward
buckling their armor. “We’ll attack him now.”
It was agreed by Arjuna and Drona
that Yudhishthira, as the future king,
should not join the assault and risk his life.
The four brothers flew into the city
without the army. First went giant Bhima,
swinging his mace like a force of nature
felling men, elephants and horses,
striking such fear into the Panchala troops
that they scattered like a flock of parakeets.
Drupada raised his great bow as before
but this time each arrow of his was blocked
midair by Arjuna’s answering cascade,
as dense and accurate as a water jet.
Arjuna was inspired, transfigured, god-like
as he whirled in a shimmering haze of light.
Drupada, half paralyzed with shock,
tried even harder, but found his jeweled bow
split by a silver shaft. It was the end.
He prepared himself for death, but Arjuna
leapt onto his chariot and seized him,
holding him fast so he could not escape,
as an eagle grasps a snake in its talons.
Bhima would have indiscriminately
razed the city, killing all he met,
but Arjuna restrained him, now the purpose
for which they had attacked had been accomplished.
While his brothers covered his retreat
he galloped back to Drona with his prisoner.
The shame he had suffered at the tournament
was dissipated now. In this real battle
he had salvaged his lost honor from the dust
and amply paid his master what he owed.
Drupada, when he had time to think,
was quite astonished by the whole onslaught
since he had no quarrel with the Bharatas.
Now, thrown at Drona’s feet, he understood.
He rose in silence, and stood with his head bowed.
For Drona, who had waited long for this,
it was the sweetest moment.
“Drupada,
you once said friendship was impossible
except for equals. We are not equals now.
Remember ‘time’? Remember ‘circumstance’?
You are defeated, and your entire kingdom
is forfeit, given me by my disciples
as my fee. Your very life is mine
if I should choose to take it. But instead,
I choose forgiveness. You should know, we brahmins
are not vindictive. I’ll make you my equal
by giving half the kingdom back to you;
as equals, we two may be friends again.”
No kshatriya ever would have made
such an unwise proposal—Drupada
allowed to live, humiliated, certainly
would seek revenge at some time in the future.
But Drona was a brahmin, and remembere
d
the happy times in his father’s ashram.
Unbearably insulted, burning with rage
which he concealed with a glassy grin
Drupada swallowed the demeaning terms.
The people were one people—his people
as of right, bequeathed by his ancestors.
Now half of them would have to learn to bow
to Drona as their lord. Border families’
lives would be split, kinsmen tilling land
on different sides would slowly grow apart.
The body politic of Panchala
would be deformed beyond all recognition.
He would continue to live in Kampilya
but rule over an amputated kingdom,
while Drona took the city of Ahicchatra
and the extensive countryside around.
Bitter as he was, he thought of Arjuna
with admiration, rather than resentment.
“O mighty gods,” he prayed, “give me a son
who will become a formidable warrior
and kill Drona for what he has done to me.
And give me a daughter, who will become
the wife of this noble son of Pandu.”
With the insult always gnawing at him,
Drupada became gloomy and thin.
None of his existing sons was capable
of defeating Drona—that he knew.
“Miserable brood!” he thought. He summoned
learned brahmins, hoping to find one
with perfect knowledge of the rituals
that would produce a son. Such a son
would have to be exceptional in his prowess
to be able to avenge his father,
for Drona was unrivaled in his knowledge
both of weapons and of sacred lore.
Above all, he had the Brahma weapon.
Drupada knew that, to achieve his purpose,
no ordinary warrior would do.
Finally, he tracked down an ascetic,
Yaja, who would conduct the complex ritual
in return for eighty thousand cows.
A towering sacrificial fire was built
and customary ritual objects brought.
Drupada’s queen played her required part.
Yaja offered well-prepared oblations
and from the fire emerged an awesome youth,
the color of fire, crowned with a diadem
and carrying a shield and splendid weapons.
A disembodied voice from heaven announced,
This unrivaled prince of the Panchalas
has been born for the destruction of Drona.
Then from the center of the altar
stepped a girl of such heart-stopping beauty
all were amazed. She was dark-skinned and shapely,
with eyes like pools and lustrous curling hair.
She had the fragrance of a blue lotus.
She was Shri, goddess of royal fortune,
in human form. And, as she emerged,
the same celestial voice was heard proclaiming,
This dark woman will be the occasion
of the destruction of the kshatriyas.
Her birth is one of the events designed
to accomplish the purpose of the gods.
The brahmins bestowed names. “Drupada’s son,
bold as flame, shall be called Dhrishtadyumna.”
They called the girl Krishnaa, which means “dark,”
but she came to be known as Draupadi.
Dhrishtadyumna afterward became
a pupil in Drona’s weapons school, for Drona
knew that there is no avoiding fate.
After the tournament, Duryodhana
swelled with confidence. At last, in Karna,
he had a friend, a world-class warrior,
who could support him in his fixed obsession:
to eliminate the sons of Pandu.
And when he learned that Karna had acquired
the Brahma weapon from the Bhargava,
Duryodhana caught the scent of victory.
Around this time, hundreds of princes gathered
for a svayamvara in a neighboring realm.
The beautiful and fair-complexioned daughter
of the reigning king would choose her husband.
Duryodhana, accompanied by Karna,
vied for the girl’s attention, but was ignored.
Incensed, deciding to take her by force,
he grabbed her, lifting her onto his chariot.
There followed a great battle—Duryodhana
against the other, outraged, kshatriyas.
Karna backed him up so skillfully—
destroying the bows and arrows of his rivals,
and killing many of their charioteers—
that the other suitors finally withdrew.
With his hard-won bride, Duryodhana
rode back in triumph to Hastinapura.
One of the rivals had been Jarasandha,
mighty king of Magadha. Impressed
by Karna’s outstanding feats, he challenged him
to a chariot duel. The two were well matched.
They fought with bows, with swords, with divine astras,
and finally they fought on foot, bare-handed
wrestling arm to arm. Jarasandha,
tiring sooner, was finally defeated.
He was so pleased with Karna, they became
friends, and the king gave the driver’s son
the fine city of Malini. Karna’s fame
as a brilliant warrior spread far and wide.
8.
THE LACQUER HOUSE
The wealth and power of the Bharatas
were largely due to Pandu. In his time,
before he had retreated to the forest,
Pandu had been an outstanding warrior
subduing lands for many miles around,
annexing them to the Bharata kingdom,
stuffing the vast vaults of Hastinapura
with wealth of every kind. The people prospered.
Pandu had been loved.
And now, in turn,
his sons, having acquired at Kampilya
a taste for battle, went on their own campaigns
earning a most glorious reputation.
Hearing reports of the five Pandavas’
prowess and strength, Dhritarashtra became
filled with anxiety. His nights were sleepless
and uneasy.
He summoned Kanika,
one of his ministers, a man accomplished
in the labyrinthine arts of politics
and intrigue. “Sir, you must be bold,” he said.
“A king should strike against his enemies
before they grow in power. Hide your intentions,
then act with single-minded ruthlessness.
Each enemy requires a different tactic.
The timid should be terrorized, the brave
should be conciliated, the covetous
kept sweet with gifts, while equals and inferiors
should be crushed by a powerful show of arms.
“Even close kin, even revered teachers
should be put down if they turn dangerous,
and your nephews are becoming enemies.
You have been kind to them for far too long.
Pretend to love them still, until you find
a way to free yourself. You know, young trees
are easy to transplant. But every day
those brothers, nourished by the people’s love,
establish deeper roots.”
Dhritarashtra
listened, but he knew that Vidura
and Bhishma, if asked, would have offered him
a different view. The blind king always wanted
to be seen to act with complete rectitude.
He groped his way towa
rd decision, clinging
to the last advice he had been given.
Young Yudhishthira, the heir apparent,
resembled his father. He was generous,
concerned for the people and their families.
The young prince had a warm and natural manner
and the population loved him, unaccustomed
to having their voices heard. Dhritarashtra,
by incapacity or inclination,
was remote, and Bhishma preoccupied
with large affairs of state.
Up until now,
Duryodhana had thought that his father’s rule
would last for years to come. He had influence
over the king. Meanwhile, partly by dint
of bribery and blackmail, and with support
from Shakuni and Karna, he was busy
weaving a network of alliances,
a secret coterie made up of men
bound to him by ties of obligation;
men of ill will, who felt themselves shut out
from the gilded circle of the Pandavas.
But then the Kaurava, ever vigilant,
started to pick up alarming gossip.
His informants went about the streets
and marketplaces, lingering on corners,
loitering in doorways. So it was
that Duryodhana’s spies reported to him
a buzz of restlessness, a new climate.
People were clamoring for change, saying,
“Dhritarashtra isn’t up to it.
Due to his blindness, he did not inherit;
why is he king now? What kind of king
can he be, with no eyes in his head?
The eldest Pandava, wise beyond his years,
should be our king immediately, not later.
It’s up to us to make our voices heard.”
All this, the spies faithfully reported.
Duryodhana sweated and shook with rage.
He rushed to the king. “Father, listen to me.
Out there, beyond the palace walls, unrest
is stirring among the common citizens.
They want Yudhishthira to be their king
instead of you! Think of what this means.
You have allowed your nephews to usurp
the place you and your sons should occupy
in popular esteem. Do you realize
you have condemned your children to penury—
yes, that’s what you’ve done! In a few years from now,
when you are gone, and all the elders too,
we Kauravas—your own sons—will be begging
Yudhishthira even for food and drink!
His son will be king after him, and his son—
we will be disinherited for ever.
This is your fault. If you were a strong king
we wouldn’t have to heed the people’s views.”