The prince sank down, weeping angry tears.
The king’s heart swithered, hating to hurt his son,
his first-born, first-loved eldest. And he remembered
Kanika’s stark warnings. All the same
he would not be accused without a protest.
“Come, my dear—you know Yudhishthira.
He’s like Pandu, he’d always treat you fairly.
Even if he weren’t the heir apparent
the people would worship him—I myself
have heard the way they ululate and cheer
when he walks out among them. If I now
fail to honor my commitment to him
there’ll be a revolution, as you say.”
“Enough!” cried Duryodhana. “I can’t stand
having to watch those preening Pandavas
strut around—they make my life a torment.
Father, you raised me as a king’s first-born;
I should be king in turn. If you don’t listen,
if you consign me to subservience,
I’ll kill myself!”
Then Duryodhana
spoke about the network he was forming
of those who would support him when the moment
was right for him to lay claim to the throne.
But he needed time. “I have a plan,”
he said. “At least give me a breathing space—
send the Pandavas on some journey. Meanwhile,
in their absence, I’ll build my public base,
do what it takes to become popular.
The people’s memories are short, and fickle.
Once they start receiving generous handouts
they’ll switch support to me. Then, later on,
the Pandavas can come back.”
“Yes, my son,
the same maneuver had occurred to me,
although it seemed too devious to mention.
But what about the elders? Would they not
understand this plan as a banishment
and refuse to sanction it?”
Duryodhana
had been weighing up each of the elders:
how Bhishma would avoid taking sides,
not wanting to divide the dynasty;
how Drona would follow the wishes of his son,
Ashvatthaman, jealous of Arjuna;
how Kripa would side with the two of them;
how Vidura favored the Pandavas
but had no power, being of low status.
“The plan is perfect,” said Duryodhana.
“Act on it—remove the dreadful thorn
that’s sticking in my heart, this raging grievance.”
Now Dhritarashtra’s course seemed clearer to him.
Now, at least, the king would sleep at night.
He knew his son would not be satisfied
with a brief respite, but he shut his mind
to what the prince’s darker plans might be.
In the city of Varanavata
a festival to honor the god Shiva
would soon take place.
“My dear Yudhishthira,”
said Dhritarashtra, smiling at his nephew,
“you should go. Take Kunti and your brothers,
enjoy the festival, relax. Let people
in the provinces see their future king.”
Yudhishthira was wary, but said nothing,
prevented from opposing the king’s idea
by respect for his father’s elder brother.
He made ready for the coming journey;
brahmins chose the most auspicious day
for the departure, performing prescribed rites.
While the preparations were under way
Duryodhana sought out Purochana,
his aide, whose loyalty he counted on.
“There is no ally I trust more than you.
Help me, and you will be well rewarded.
You must rush ahead to Varanavata.
Build a splendid mansion near the armory
specially for the Pandavas, providing
every comfort, every kind of pleasure.
Call it ‘the House of Wealth.’ No luxury
should be lacking—sumptuous brocades,
couches so soft a man could sleep for ever,
gold cornices, cool, jasmine-scented courtyards.
That will keep my father satisfied.
“But under gorgeous tapestries, the walls
should be stuffed with straw, oil-drenched, and smoothed
with gilded wax; the floors, crushed travertine
blended with resin; and those elaborate couches,
positioned under weighty architraves,
should be softwood, soaked in butter, gleaming
Let them settle in,
let them enjoy themselves without suspicion,
and then, one windy night, while they’re asleep,
an ‘accidental’ fire should torch the building
and them as well.” Purochana understood.
The day arrived for the Pandavas to leave.
As Yudhishthira touched the elders’ feet
to receive their blessing, wise Vidura
murmured to him in code: “Be very watchful.
One who understands his enemy
cannot come to harm—be guided by
the jackal, who prepares many bolt-holes.”
The Pandavas arrived in Varanavata
and were made welcome. Canny Yudhishthira,
as soon as he had set foot in the mansion,
picked up a faint odor of ghee and resin.
He guessed. “Smell that!” he muttered to the others,
“but don’t betray by the slightest gesture
that we have noticed anything. Our cunning
must equal theirs.” Bhima’s inclination,
when the brothers talked about it later,
was to leave at once, escape the city.
But Yudhishthira warned, “Duryodhana
has power, allies, keys to the treasury.
We have none of that. If we should show,
by leaving now, that we have realized
what he is plotting, he would have us followed
and killed. We must be patient.”
He thought hard—
and remembered that in his entourage
was an engineer, a friend of Vidura.
At Varanavata, this man spent time
looking, listening, drawing his own conclusions.
He knew what wickedness was in the offing.
“I am a specialist in digging mines
and tunnels; I propose we sink a pit
beneath the inmost room, and then from there
drive a tunnel, deep under the grounds,
to surface in the woods. Purochana
will not move yet; he wants you to relax.
But you should all sleep underground, in case.”
Months passed. The Pandavas spent many hours
exploring the surrounding woods and forests
on the pretext of hunting expeditions.
Then the engineer sent them a message:
“Take care—Purochana intends to act
on the darkest night of the next lunar month.”
And, indeed, Yudhishthira had noticed
a new cheerfulness in Purochana.
Yudhishthira discussed the planned escape
with the others. Only one difficulty
occurred to them—their bones would not be found
among the ashes and, by this, their cousin
would know they had survived, and track them down
relentlessly, seeking to have them killed.
No one would ever know.
For some time,
Kunti had been providing food and shelter
to a poor tribal woman from the forest
and her sons—five strongly built young men.
But she had lately started to suspect
that they were spying for Purochana.
Before the appointed night, she held a feast
for the townsfolk and, as royal agent,
Purochana was invited. Liquor flowed
lavishly. Most of the guests went home at last,
but Kunti took the forest family
to her room, where they fell into a stupor.
In the hall, Purochana stretched out
and slept as deeply as a sated pig.
He did not hear Bhima’s cautious footsteps,
the soft click of the barricaded door.
He never heard the flames gobble the rafters,
nor boiling resin bubble from the floor,
the creak, roar, crash as the roof fell in;
he did not smell the scent of burning rushes—
he breathed the toxic fumes of wax and lacquer
and never woke.
The fire surged, crackling
from room to room, through corridors and stairways,
tongues of flame greedy for each other
red, yellow, orange, leaping upward,
playful, free. An ecstasy of burning.
Meanwhile, the Pandavas had clambered down
into the pit, covering it behind them.
They ran through the tunnel—out into the air,
and to the forest. They dodged among the trees
making their way south, and soon the uproar
and horror of the city were left behind.
Watching, helpless, hour after anguished hour,
the citizens of Varanavata
witnessed the House of Wealth become a wreck.
Wracking explosions, showers of sparks and cinders
lit the entire sky.
They flung their garments
over their heads and wept.
“Oh terrible!
Shiva! Shiva!
We’ve lost the Pandavas,
the jewels of the kingdom,
our bright hope!
How could it happen that colossal Bhima,
stronger than any other man on earth,
couldn’t escape?
And the great Arjuna . . .
the twins—so noble . . . !”
But most of all, they wept
for Prince Yudhishthira, and for their future
stripped of the wise ruler he would have been,
a king who would have given them protection
in the difficult conditions of their lives.
With the dawn breeze, the flames exhausted, ash
and stinking smoke were carried everywhere
so that no hovel, courtyard, alleyway
escaped the stench of death.
And despite
the deviousness of sly Purochana,
despite the guile of Duryodhana,
the people guessed this was their evil work.
When the bones of a woman and five men
were found jumbled, raked from the noxious debris,
they were convinced—the brothers had been murdered.
“Let us send a message to the king:
‘You have succeeded; the Pandavas are dead!’”
When he received the news, Dhritarashtra
was torn, as always. Just as a deep pool
is chilly in its depths, warm on the surface,
so Dhritarashtra’s heart was at the same time
hot with instant grief, and deeply cold.
He had not, quite, expected these events.
He and his sons cast off their royal robes
and carried out the proper funeral rites.
He ordered public mourning, kingdom-wide.
No outward show of sorrow was omitted.
9.
FLIGHT
In the forest, the six fugitives
were desperate to put the greatest distance
between them and their possible pursuers.
They ran as fast as they were able, wearily
trying to take their bearings from the stars,
impeded by the leafy canopy.
Nothing had prepared them for experience
this difficult. In Pandu’s forest home
they had lived simply, but always had a roof,
plenty to eat, and the certainty
that all who knew them loved them. And at court
they had become accustomed to luxury.
Now all was stripped away. They were bereft
of all the clothing, weapons, pastimes, friendships
that told them who they were.
Hunger, thirst,
scratched flesh and bleeding feet afflicted them.
After a while, forest became thick jungle.
This was a threatening place, very different
from forests they had known and hunted in,
inflicting death for sport. Now it was they
whose skin prickled at the strange and menacing
sounds surrounding them. They had no way
of knowing fierce from friendly, friendliness
from mere indifference. Snared at every step
by twining roots and scrub, they had no notion
which plants and animals were safe to eat.
When they were dropping from exhaustion, Bhima,
powerful as an elephant, carried them.
He placed his mother on one brawny shoulder,
the twins rode on his hips, while Yudhishthira
and Arjuna were tucked under his arms.
Hour after hour, Wolf-belly forged ahead,
racing on as if with the wind behind him,
trampling, smashing every obstacle.
They entered a rank wilderness, infested
with slinking beasts and scrawny, raucous birds.
The trees were sparse, with gray and brittle leaves,
but they came across an arching banyan tree
and made a welcome stop under its roots.
All, except Bhima, fell asleep at once.
Bhima thought he heard the sound of herons
and followed it until he found a lake.
He drank long drafts, and bathed, then brought back water
for his family. He sat beside them
through the night, keeping watch, reflecting
on their misfortune: “Ah, my unlucky brothers
and my dear mother, used to comfort, now
stretched on the unyielding ground like beggars.
These vigorous vines and creepers all around
are struggling upward from impoverished soil,
helping each other climb toward the light.
Why is it, if these plants can coexist
in harmony, that all our pampered cousins
so strenuously seek to damage us
when we’ve done nothing wrong?” And he wept
for the suffering of Kunti and his brothers.
This jungle was home to a rakshasa,
Hidimba, a vile ogre, and his sister,
Hidimbaa. They were vampire bats writ large,
loathsome, yellow-eyed and tireless gluttons.
They would track and slaughter any animal,
drink its blood, gnaw raw flesh from the bones.
But what they relished above anything
was human meat. Now they were very hungry.
Prowling through the trees, the ogre picked up
the scent of the Pandavas, and growled with pleasure.
“Humans! My favorite! I long to sink my tusks
in their delicious flesh, slice their veins
and guzzle their rich, foaming blood. Hidimbaa,
go and find them, bring them here for me!”
Off went his sister, loping stealthily,
but one glimpse of Bhima, and she fell
besottedly, lustfully in love with him.
“Oh, what a gorgeous man, so strong and upright,
bulging in every place a man should bulge,
t
all as a shala tree. Look at that neck!
Those lion-like shoulders! And what lovely eyes!
This is certainly the man for me.
He shall be my husband—and a wife’s duty
overrides a sister’s any day.
If I kill this family, my appetite
and my brother’s will be satisfied
for a mere half hour. But if I marry
this delicious man, I will have pleasure
for years on end!”
Then, quicker than a blink
(for rakshasas can change their form at will),
she shed her hideous aspect and appeared
as a shapely girl, casting lascivious looks
at Bhima. She sidled up and stood beside him.
“Who on earth are you, you bull-like man?
And who are these other people, sleeping
on the ground so trustfully? I warn you,
a hungry rakshasa, my wicked brother,
wants to make a meal of you. But, darling,
I shall save you. My body and my heart
are mad with love for you. Be my husband,
and we shall fly to anywhere you choose.
The whole world shall be our paradise!”
“What kind of scoundrel would I be,” said Bhima,
“if—alluring as you are, O luscious one—
I left my helpless mother and my brothers
to be gobbled by a ravenous rakshasa?”
“All right, I’ll save you all,” said Hidimbaa.
“Wake them up now. We can be on our way.”
“I won’t,” said Bhima, “they deserve their rest.
No ill-tempered ogre can frighten me,
sweetheart. The same applies, my gorgeous girl,
to any man or monster on this earth.
Go, or stay, you sexy one—you choose.
But send that evil brother of yours to me.”
Hidimbaa sent a signal to her brother
and, before long, the ugly rakshasa
came powering through the trees, sweating with rage
at how his sister had betrayed him, putting
such soppiness as love before a feast.
He had been looking forward to sweet blood,
and sucking brains from foolish human skulls.
“Have you lost your wits, stupid Hidimbaa?
You’re a traitor to the race of rakshasas.
I’ll kill you now, before I eat these others.”
Bhima laughed. “You idiot, fight with me,
not with this woman who has done no wrong—
in fact, she has been wronged herself, smitten
by the god of love, when she saw my beauty!
Come on—fight! Today, you evil beast,
your body will be severed, head from trunk
and scavengers, not you, will eat their fill.”
The monster gave a roar, insane with fury.