of anyone who heard it. Then Varuna
gave ambidextrous Arjuna two quivers
filled with an ever-replenishing supply
of shafts. Krishna received a keen-edged discus
that would always return to the thrower’s hand;
and a great club, lethal as a thunderbolt.
Lastly, Varuna summoned for the heroes
a horse-drawn chariot, made by Vishvakarman,
celestial craftsman. It was magnificent—
huge and well-proportioned, flying a banner
marked with the image of a divine monkey
whose terrifying and unearthly roars
could render an enemy insensible.
Four white horses, fast as thought, faster
than the strongest wind, drew the chariot.
Now the heroes were equipped for battle
and eager to engage with the chief of gods.
Agni spewed out a ring of fire encircling
the dense forest, to cut off all escape.
Then, working inward, the hungry fire consumed
everything in his path. Insatiable
flames leapt, roared and crackled through the trees,
and billows of smoke, rivaling Mount Meru,
could be seen from scores of miles around.
A dreadful screeching started. Many creatures
were burned immediately. Others ran
blazing, scattering mindlessly, eyes bursting,
pawing the ground until they atomized
in the white heat of the conflagration.
Everywhere, animals ran, struggled, writhed.
Some clung to their mothers, fathers, mates
unable to abandon them. In this way
whole tribes and families met death together.
Anything that managed to break free
was hunted down by Arjuna and Krishna,
guarding the periphery of the forest
so nothing could escape the conflagration.
Birds flew upward, but burst into flames
before they could escape to cooler air
or they were shot by Arjuna, to fall
and perish in the deafening inferno.
As forest pools came to boiling point
fish and tortoises jumped out or crawled
onto the banks, to burn and suffocate.
When Arjuna saw them, he cut them to shreds
and, laughing, threw them into the leaping flames.
The creatures’ screams ascended to the heavens
so that the gods themselves were terrified
and cried out to Indra, sacker of cities,
“What is this? Why are these creatures dying?
Are we witnessing the final destruction
of the world?” Indra hurled down immense
volumes of water, pelting the burning trees
with shafts of rain, and a barrage of hailstones
as big as pigeons’ eggs. So great was the heat
that they turned into scalding clouds of steam
before they reached the ground. Indra increased
his onslaught. Arjuna, raising his bow,
loosed cascades of shafts, shattering hailstones,
casting a net of arrows, a canopy,
so Indra’s rainstorm failed to penetrate.
Agni raged on, in his many fiery forms.
Though frustrated, Indra looked down with pride
at his mortal son, the mighty Arjuna,
then mobilized an army of snakes, demons
and predatory creatures, who converged
on the heroes with an almighty din,
as if the oceans of the world were churning.
They unleashed a storm of iron bolts.
Arjuna shot innumerable arrows.
Krishna hurled his discus, which returned
to his hand, time after time, slick with blood.
The attack was soon repelled, and the searing fire
continued unabated. Agni devoured
rivers of fat and marrow, as the millions
of forest creatures gasped their final breath.
His eyes alight, his scarlet tongue flickering,
his flaming mouth and crackling hair ablaze,
Agni feasted, protected by the heroes.
Then the battle of earth and sky began
in earnest. Indra called upon his allies
among the gods, and Arjuna and Krishna
were soon under assault from every side.
But their weapons, and their skill, prevailed.
The gods retreated. Indra then tore off
a mountain peak and hurled it at the heroes;
but Arjuna’s arrows intercepted it
and broke it up into a thousand fragments.
Indra summoned predatory birds,
and snakes slid all around, their sussuration
filling the air, their scalding venom shooting
from burning mouths. Arjuna’s heaven-made arrows
diced them up, to shrivel in the flames.
Krishna knew, though Arjuna did not,
that this hard-fought fight was a rehearsal
for the great annihilating war
that would come—a war they would fight together.
Not all the forest dwellers were devoured.
The king of snakes, Takshaka, was away
in Kaurava country. His son, Ashvasena,
tried to escape the advancing flames, but failed.
His mother, desperate to save him, started
to swallow him, but Arjuna shot an arrow
which sliced off her head. Indra, seeing this,
sent great gusts of wind to save his friend’s son
which, for a moment, distracted Arjuna
and, in that moment, Ashvasena fled.
Maya, a gifted demon, dodging the flames,
about to be cut down by Krishna’s discus,
cried out, “Arjuna! Save me, Arjuna!”
Appealed to in this way, Arjuna called,
“Have no fear.” And Maya was protected.
Four other forest creatures survived the blaze.
These were fortunate young sharngaka birds.
The listening king, Janamejaya,
was amazed at this. “But how could young birds
possibly survive such an inferno?”
Vaishampayana explained as follows:
The celebrated seer Mandapala,
thwarted in his spiritual aspirations
by lack of sons, resolved to be a father.
To expedite the process, he became
a sharngaka bird, mating with a female
called Jarita. Having begotten four sons,
he promptly flew off with another female,
Lapita, abandoning his family.
As he was dallying with his lady love,
he saw Agni arrive to burn the forest
and worshiped the fire god with fulsome praise.
Agni, flattered, offered him a boon.
Mandapala bowed: “Please spare my sons
when you are laying waste to the Khandava.”
As the fire advanced, the mother bird
was consumed with terror for her chicks
who could not yet fly. What was she to do?
She could not carry them all—should she take one?
Should she cover all four with her body?
The four young birds said, “You should fly away
and save yourself. You can have more sons
and in that way our line will not die out
though we ourselves will perish in the flames.”
Jarita urged them to hide in a rat hole
but they preferred death by fire. Eventually,
she flew away to safety. The fire approached,
and the little birds sang a loud hymn of praise
to Agni. The fire god was delighted,
&n
bsp; and remembering Mandapala’s request,
he left the young birds alone, and raged onward.
Meanwhile, Mandapala was suffering
sharp pangs of anxiety for his offspring
despite the fire god’s promise. He lamented
loudly for his little sons. Lapita
was furious, “It’s not your sons you’re mourning—
Agni promised to spare them after all.
No, it’s that other bird you’re hankering for.
You love her more than me—go to her then!”
When the fire had passed, Jarita returned
and found her four young sons alive and well.
Full of joy, she embraced each one, and wept.
Then Mandapala arrived, much relieved
to see his family. They, however,
refused to look at him, although he burbled
to each one in turn. “Uncaring wretch!”
cried Jarita. “You left us unprotected
to frolic with your buxom Lapita!”
“Jealousy really is a dreadful thing,”
said Mandapala. “And when once a woman
has sons, she neglects her wifely duties.”
Eventually, the two were reconciled
and the entire family left that forest
and flew to settle in another country.
After the two heroes had done their work,
after Agni was completely sated
and the Khandava Forest was no more
than a blackened, desolate expanse of earth,
Indra appeared before them. “I am pleased.
You have achieved feats that even the gods
have failed at. I will grant you any boon
you ask for.” Arjuna chose divine weapons.
“You shall have them, but only at the time
I think is right,” said Indra to his son.
As his boon, Krishna asked that Arjuna
should be his friend lifelong, both in this world,
and in worlds to come. Indra gladly blessed
the friendship which had been ordained by heaven.
II
THE BOOK OF THE ASSEMBLY HALL
14.
THE DECISION
As Arjuna and Krishna made their way
back to Indraprastha, they saw Maya,
the asura whom Arjuna had spared,
waiting to speak to them. “Sir, I owe you
my life—I wish to do something for you
out of friendship. I am a great artist;
what shall I make for you? Name it—anything.”
Arjuna demurred, “Make something for Krishna.”
Krishna knew Maya. He was the architect
of the marvelous threefold city in the sky,
the Tripura, once destroyed by Shiva.
What Krishna asked for now would play a part
in shaping the direction of events
he was on earth to foster—great events
designed to realize the gods’ intentions.
“Maya, your genius is well known to me.
Here is how you can repay Arjuna—
build a great hall for Yudhishthira
in Indraprastha, an assembly hall
more beautiful than any ever seen
here on earth, one like your great Tripura.
It should be the visible embodiment
of cosmic harmony, divine proportion.
Let it be the envy of the world.”
Soon afterward, dark Krishna took his leave
to return to Dvaraka, where he was needed.
To the Pandavas, the separation
was always sad, as though the life-giving sun
were hidden for a time behind the clouds.
How to convey, when one has only words,
the transcendental beauty of the building?
Decades afterward, old men would tell
how seeing the great hall at Indraprastha
had changed them, changed the meaning of the word
“beautiful.” So, ever afterward,
when something was described with admiration,
they would say, “You don’t know what beauty is
unless you saw the hall at Indraprastha.”
No expense was spared, nothing wasted.
Maya took his time imagining
every aspect of the inspired work,
choosing the location and materials,
calculating sight lines and symmetries.
He envisioned with consummate artistry
the intricate design of every surface:
how to place each precious stone where sunlight,
piercing through graceful stone tracery,
would best reveal its inner properties;
where to position pools, so as to double
the beauty of what was reflected in them.
For some weeks, he was absent on a journey
to Lake Bindu, where he had secreted
a cache of jewels—jewels he now intended
for his masterpiece. He brought back, too,
a heavy club, embellished with golden eyes,
which he gave to Bhima. And for Arjuna
he brought the marvelous conch Devadatta.
It took more than a year to build the hall.
Maya and the colleagues he had brought
worked secretly behind tall woven fences.
On an auspicious day named by Dhaumya,
the new hall was complete, screens swept aside,
and there it stood, in all its magnificence.
The hall had many rooms of different sizes,
for differing purposes, and in between
were corridors and courtyards meant to trick
and captivate the eye in equal measure—
marble that looked like water, artful stairs,
ponds so clear and still they seemed like stone,
painted roses asking to be picked,
jeweled flowers among real lotuses.
In this way, the inspired architect
invited visitors to be alert,
to reflect on the nature of illusion.
Yudhishthira was delighted and amazed
by Maya’s work. At once, he set in train
a festival, to inaugurate the hall.
For a week, every kind of entertainer
performed for the pleasure of the citizens.
People of every social rank converged
on Indraprastha, many from far off,
to see the wonderful assembly hall.
All were seized with envy or admiration
according to their diverse temperaments.
One autumn day, there was a visitor:
the seer Narada, holy troublemaker,
had come again to see the Pandavas.
With perfect courtesy, Yudhishthira
welcomed the exalted wanderer
and sat beside him, listening patiently
to his lengthy strictures on good governance.
For many hours, and in exhaustive detail,
the seer interrogated the Dharma King
on whether at all times, and in all respects,
he was ruling as a ruler should.
At last, Yudhishthira managed to turn
Narada’s attention to other matters.
“Sir, you travel throughout the three worlds.
Have you ever seen an assembly hall
as beautiful as mine?” Narada answered,
“Never, in all my extensive journeys
in the world of men, have I seen a hall
to rival yours in beauty and opulence—
though in the worlds of gods . . .” And he proceeded
to describe the halls of Indra, Yama, Varuna,
and the hall of Brahma—self-sustaining,
self-illuminated, completely perfect.
“Tell us more about your epic journeys
in the heavenly realms,” said the Pandavas,
hoping he would have news of their father.
But though Narada spoke of Indra’s palace
where Harishchandra, a great king of the past,
dwelled perpetually, the name of Pandu
was never mentioned.
“Muni, how can it be,”
said Yudhishthira, “that Harishchandra
is Indra’s guest in the kingdom of the gods,
while our father, no less a pure kshatriya,
who never lied, or acted selfishly,
languishes with Yama, god of death?”
“Ah,” said Narada, “you see, Harishchandra
never rested until he was king of kings,
subduing every other and, finally,
performing the Rajasuya ritual,
the imperial consecration sacrifice,
dispensing vast riches in gifts to brahmins.
Pandu died before he could do the same—
and, then, consider the manner of his death.
His fate now depends on you, his heir.
In fact, I met him in the halls of Death
not long since, and he made clear to me
his ardent wish that, with the help of Krishna
and your strong brothers, you should subjugate
every other kingdom of Bharatavarsha
and perform the Rajasuya sacrifice.
Through you, he can fulfill his destiny
as a kshatriya. And only then,
escaping the dark maze of the underworld,
can he enter Indra’s realm of light.”
After Narada had taken his leave,
the king sighed heavily, weighed down by doubt.
He wanted to perform the Rajasuya
but how, he wondered, could it be achieved?
The undertaking was an enormous one.
True, the territory he ruled over
already embraced many other kingdoms.
But to perform the imperial consecration
he must be sovereign of the farthest reaches
of the land. He must be emperor.
He thought of his father, Pandu, languishing
in Yama’s realm, and longed to release him.
He was wary of being led astray
by impulse. But the faces of his brothers
were alight with pleasure and excitement
at the prospect Narada held out—
the chance of challenge, glory, victory!
He listened to the views of his councillors,
and wise Vyasa. They all approved the plan.
Then he thought of Krishna—what would he advise?
He would consult the prince of Dvaraka
before deciding what was for the best.
Krishna arrived, as he usually did
when his cousins needed him. He listened