that grabs some choice tidbit from the oblation
intended for the gods, and gobbles it!”
Shishupala stalked toward the exit,
followed by several disgruntled kings.
Yudhishthira called after him, “My lord,
what you have said is neither kind nor fair,
and insults Bhishma’s judgment—you suggest
he doesn’t understand what virtue is.
You do not know Krishna as Bhishma does.
Krishna is our guide; his inspiration
lies behind everything we have achieved.
Through us, he has conquered every king
who sits in the hall today, by force of arms
or by capitulation. For this alone
the highest accolade is due to him.”
Bhishma added, “We behold in Krishna
the source of everything that’s valuable.
As Mount Meru is the greatest mountain,
as the eagle is the lord of birds,
as the ocean is deepest among waters,
so is Krishna foremost among beings
in all the worlds, past, present and to come.
Good people everywhere pay tribute to him.
Contained within him is the universe,
its origins, its being and its end.
“The King of Chedi wallows in ignorance
and sees only the surfaces of things.
As for those kings he thinks deserve more praise
than Krishna—they are mere straw effigies.”
Sahadeva rose to his feet, eyes flashing.
“If there is any person in this place
who still disputes Krishna’s entitlement,
let him speak. I place this foot of mine
on his dimwitted and unworthy head!
And if any man desires an early death,
let him challenge Krishna to a duel.”
There was a furious muttering in the hall,
a stirring and billowing, like an angry sea.
Many present felt themselves entitled
to the honor of the first guest-offering.
The tide was turning against Yudhishthira,
whose consecration was not yet complete.
Even now, those present might refuse
to acquiesce to his imperial rule.
Shishupala’s copper-red eyes flashed
in anger. “Bhishma, you’re a senile fool.
How can the Bharatas respect your views
when you have shied away from a man’s life?
Celibate, whether it’s from impotence
or poor judgment, you have done great harm.
By abducting Amba and refusing
to marry her, you ruined that girl’s chances.
You caused the blighted lives of your own kin
when you would not sire sons by your brothers’ wives.
“Old, unworthy wretch—you only remember
what’s convenient. This Krishna here,
this crook, has grossly violated dharma.
What about my friend Jarasandha,
who never wanted war, yet Krishna killed him?
What about my intended bride, Rukmini,
whom Krishna stole?”
Bhishma exclaimed, “For sure
this foolish man has been marked out by fate
for destruction!” Bhima, incandescent
with rage, was about to fall on Shishupala
but Bhishma held him back. Shishupala
laughed, “Let him go, Bhishma, let these kings
see him destroyed by the fire of my majesty,
like a foolish moth flying into flame.”
All this time, Krishna had sat serenely,
saying nothing, paying great attention.
But now he spoke, and not to Shishupala
but to the assembled kings. He told the story
quietly, simply, of how the Pandavas
had freed imprisoned kings from the dank dungeons
of Jarasandha. He told them of the times
Shishupala had offended him, and how,
on each occasion, he had spared his life
to honor a promise given long ago
to Shishupala’s mother, Krishna’s aunt.
The listening kings started to change allegiance.
Krishna described Shishupala’s many acts
of cruelty. “And as for Rukmini—
she spurned him. This man could no more hope
to win her than a shudra can aspire
to hear a recitation of the Vedas.
Today, he has insulted me in public,
before you all. Today, there will be no pardon.”
Shishupala jeered, “Do as you like—
With that, the glimmering and deadly discus
given by Varuna, the god of waters,
appeared in Krishna’s fingers. Instantly,
the Bull of Chedi’s massive, angry head
was sliced clean from his shoulders, and he fell
like a great tree struck by a thunderbolt.
A radiance arose from the dead king,
enveloped Krishna and entered his body.
All were awestruck. The sky which, up to then,
had been blue and cloudless grew menacing,
black clouds massed overhead, and violent rain
pelted the awnings over the kings’ heads.
Not everybody present, by any means,
was convinced that justice had been done
but they kept silent. Funerary rites
were solemnly performed for Shishupala.
The sacrificial fires were still blazing
and now, at last, the imperial consecration
could be completed. As the lustral water
was poured in a silver stream over his head
Yudhishthira became the king of kings.
Soon afterward, the guests began to leave
to go back to their kingdoms. Krishna, too,
to the sorrow of the Pandavas, prepared
to set off on the road to Dvaraka.
But as he left he said to Yudhishthira,
“Lord of the earth, you should protect your people.
They depend on you as everything that lives
depends on rain, as the immortal gods
rely on Indra of the thousand eyes.”
The cousins solemnly embraced each other.
The seers presented themselves at the palace
to take their leave. Yudhishthira was worried;
the strange weather that had accompanied
Shishupala’s death—what did it mean?
Had it been a blessing, or a warning?
And if it was a warning, had the danger
been dispelled by the king of Chedi’s death?
Vyasa said, “The freakish sky and downpour
were portents of enormous consequences.
For thirteen years, O king, life will be hard,
and when that time is up, a cataclysm
—a war the like of which was never seen—
will bring destruction to the kshatriyas.
Duryodhana’s sins will generate this war
with you, Yudhishthira, as the occasion.
It is ordained. No action on your part
can divert the steady flow of time.
You can only bear it.” And Vyasa
said farewell, and set out with his disciples
for his hermitage.
King Yudhishthira
was overcome with horror. His first impulse,
if he was to be the harbinger of death
to the kshatriya order, was to kill himself.
But Arjuna dissuaded him, advising
fortitude. “Then,” said Yudhishthira,
“since dissension is the cause of war,
I vow that, for the next thirteen years,
I shall practice virtue, rul
ing impartially,
so there can be no dispute, in word or deed,
between myself and any other person.”
The guests had left. Only Duryodhana
and his uncle, Shakuni, stayed longer,
so they could examine the many marvels
of Maya’s great hall, now that the crowds were gone.
Their cousins showed them round, and what amazing
craftsmanship and beauty met their eyes
at every turn. But it seemed Duryodhana
was half blinded by his passionate envy,
seeing what was not there, not seeing what was.
He bumped his head on walls he thought were doors,
lifted his robes to pass over a rill
that turned out to be crystal paving, plunged
into a deep pool he took for crystal,
tumbled through arches, thinking them painted walls.
The servants were beside themselves with laughter,
nor could the Pandavas suppress their mirth—
except Yudhishthira, who had the servants
bring fine, dry clothes for Duryodhana.
Sick with humiliation, the Kaurava
managed to conceal his misery,
but could not bear to stay another hour.
He and Shakuni climbed into their chariot
and fled from hated Indraprastha.
16.
DURYODHANA’S DESPAIR
As they traveled, Duryodhana kept
a baleful silence, sighing frequently
and growling to himself. “Best of Kauravas,
why are you sighing?” asked Shakuni at last.
Pale and haggard, Duryodhana groaned,
“Oh, uncle, I keep seeing that great hall,
my cousin’s treasury, bursting with wealth.
And all five brothers rich in the attentions
of radiantly lovely Draupadi—
more beautiful than any other woman.
And that sacrifice, fit for the immortals!
I burn with jealousy—I’m like a river
scorched dry by summer sun. And Shishupala!
What Krishna did was unforgivable
and no one had the courage to object—
those craven kings, cowed by the Pandavas,
only bit their lips and kept their seats.
“Thinking of Yudhishthira ensconced
as emperor of the earth, the sons of Pandu
wallowing in wealth, is agony.
I cannot bear to live! I shall take poison,
or drown myself, or set myself on fire!”
And Duryodhana sank to the chariot floor
in dark despair.
“Come now,” said Shakuni,
“the sons of Kunti deserve prosperity;
the wealth their father left to them has been
increased through their own energy and skill.
And they enjoy good fortune—think of the times
you tried to finish them, yet they survived.
The gods are on their side—jealousy’s useless.
Accept things as they are.”
“Impossible!”
cried Duryodhana. “What man worth the name
who sees his enemies enjoy such splendor,
holding imperial sway over half the world—
what man, knowing that such huge success
is beyond his reach, would not despair?
Seeing that success, remembering
how I tried to erase them from the earth,
I know that effort’s fruitless. Fate is supreme.”
As soon as he arrived in Hastinapura,
Duryodhana rushed to his apartments.
His silks, brocades, the jeweled necklaces,
chests designed by the most gifted craftsmen
inlaid with ivory and precious stones
seemed insufficient now. If they could not be
more splendid than the riches of the Pandavas,
more voluptuous, colored more vibrantly,
then everything he owned was worse than worthless.
Was there some detail of his cousin’s court,
anything in the chambers, cloisters, galleries
he could despise? Some detail cheaply made?
Some carelessness? Some error of proportion?
There was nothing. Everything possessed
by the Pandavas seemed to him perfection.
They owned the world—all that was of value,
all joy, all goodness. What he had was nothing.
He thought of the fire trap he had laid for them
at Varanavata—how had they escaped?
And then, when the kingdom was divided,
and they consigned to a wilderness of thorns,
had he not crushed them? No—they had sprung up
stronger, converted setback into triumph,
his triumph into sharp humiliation.
He ground his teeth to think how gleefully
they must be gloating. He writhed, remembering
how everyone had laughed—Bhima, Draupadi
and her women, speechless with amusement,
his cousins’ servants doubled up with laughter—
when he fell into the pool he thought was fake,
and teetered round the crystal marquetry
he’d taken for a pool of lotuses.
Shakuni sought him out, and was dismayed
to see his nephew red-eyed, pale, as if
some parasite was gnawing him within.
“Uncle,” he whispered, “I am sick with sorrow.
I think of nothing but the Pandavas
and how they block my path to happiness.
Until they’re crushed, I have only death in life.
The whole world has flocked to honor them;
I am alone, with no one to support me.”
His uncle tried to comfort him. “My dear,
your position is not so terrible.
You say you are alone, bereft of allies,
but you forget your brothers and your friends—
I myself, with all my kin, Drona,
Ashvatthaman, Karna . . . I could go on.”
“You are right!” exclaimed Duryodhana.
“All these men are powerful warriors.
Together we can march on Indraprastha
and defeat my cousins. Then I myself
shall become the emperor of the earth
and possess that great assembly hall!”
“War would be foolishness,” said Shakuni.
“You’ve seen their countless legions. And not only
do they have numerous and powerful allies,
but Krishna is on their side. Even the gods
would hesitate to fight the Pandavas.
But in any case, don’t let them trouble you.
They’ve laid no claim to your half of the kingdom.
Why not forget them? Just enjoy your life.”
“They won’t let me do that. My bitter hatred
pierces and chokes me every waking minute.
Night and day, I hear them laughing at me.
My one goal is to send them to their deaths.
I’d rather die fighting than live like this,
skulking like a pauper, while they flourish.”
“Nephew, I understand,” said Shakuni.
“There is a way for you to have revenge,
but cleverness and guile are the best tactic,
not unsubtle force. Let Dhritarashtra
invite Yudhishthira to the traditional
game of dice. I’ll play on your behalf.
No worse gambler exists than Yudhishthira—
he’s far too honest, transparent as a child—
yet he loves to play. I, on the other hand,
have never lost a game—my skill at dice
is widely known. I promise I will win
his wealth from him.”
A widening chink of hope
lit up the dark heart of Duryodhana.
He saw the possibility of stripping
the Pandavas of everything they owned,
grinding their faces in the dirt. But first
his father must be talked to and persuaded;
the invitation must come from the king.
“How did that fateful dice game come about?”
asked King Janamejaya. “That dicing match
was the root cause of dreadful tragedy.
How was it allowed to happen? Tell me
in detail.”
Vaishampayana proceeded
to describe the events as they unfolded.
When Dhritarashtra learned of the proposal
from Shakuni, he was, as usual, doubtful,
but also wracked with sorrow for his son
whose voice he could hear cracking with distress;
whose trembling and emaciated body
he felt under his hands when he embraced him.
He hesitated.
“Oh! What kind of father,”
cried Duryodhana, “won’t agree at once
to do something so simple for his son.
I’m burning, Father, tortured by desire.
Envy twists my entrails—the Pandavas
have made us look like beggarly provincials.
I’ve seen their heaven-made city, Indraprastha,
I’ve seen their treasuries, engorged with gold
exceeding every dream—tribute from Sind,
from Kashmir, from Kalinga, sumptuous gifts
from far-flung countries—China, Scythia . . .
the jewels, the splendid horses—I can’t bear it.
And the consecration—beyond imagining!
The greatest kings, the fiercest and most valiant,
who adhere most strictly to sacred vows,
who are learned in the Vedas, who practice
all the correct sacrifices—all these,
like merchants queuing up to pay their taxes,
made their obeisance to Yudhishthira.
The most holy rishis were in attendance,
uttering mantras, praying to the gods
for blessings on Yudhishthira. And then
there was the silk parasol, the peacock fan,
there was the great conch of Varuna,
fashioned in the workshops of the gods,
which Krishna used to scoop up sacred water
and anoint Yudhishthira, to seal the rites.
At that sight, I fainted.
“Father, Yudhishthira
has had himself raised up to the position
of the legendary Harishchandra.
Seeing this, I have no will to live.”
Shakuni spoke up. “Illustrious king,
I urge you to accept this plan of mine.
It is a way to take wealth from the Pandavas