on the river Narmada; and, finally,
they would travel north to bathing places
on the Sarasvati and Yamuna.
Yudhishthira told most of his entourage—
brahmins and citizens who had stayed with him—
to go back to the city. But some brahmins
wished to remain, to join the pilgrimage.
The party set off eastward. On their way,
wise Lomasha recounted many tales,
some of them serious, some entertaining,
all of them instructive. They encountered
other seers, and drank in their stories too.
At every sacred ford, they bathed and worshiped
and their spirits were wonderfully refreshed.
The party made a stop for several days
beside the sparkling river Kaushiki.
At Yudhishthira’s request, Lomasha
told them the story of Rishyashringa,
whose hermitage they could see close at hand.
“
A BRAHMIN SEER of great repute was bathing in the water of Lake Mahahrada when his glance fell upon the apsaras Urvashi, and his seed spurted from him. It fell into the water and was swallowed by a doe which was drinking there. In due time, the doe gave birth to a boy who bore a horn on his head. He became the ascetic Rishyashringa. He grew up in the forest and, except for his father, he never set eyes on another human being. His reputation for austerity and virtue spread far and wide.
“In the nearby kingdom of Anga, no rain had fallen for years. Indra, god of rain, had withheld his favor on account of the bad behavior of the ruler, Lomapada, toward brahmins. Even Lomapada’s household priest had left him. He was advised that if he could persuade Rishyashringa, the great ascetic, to come to his kingdom, rain would surely follow.
“Lomapada made his peace with the brahmins, and performed rituals of expiation for his past bad deeds. Then, with his ministers, he devised a plan: specially chosen courtesans would be sent to the forest to entice the seer to come to Anga. The courtesans were reluctant to oblige, however, fearing the ascetic’s curse. But an older woman among them took charge of the enterprise. She prepared a lovely hermitage that floated on the water near the ascetic’s home, and installed herself there with the most beautiful and accomplished of the courtesans, her daughter, who was known for her cleverness.
“The girl presented herself before Rishyashringa as a student of the Vedas, and inquired after his well-being. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I hope your austerities are proceeding well, and that nothing is interfering with the performance of your vows.’ The young man was astonished by her appearance. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘your radiant looks, almost like a god, must mean that you yourself are prospering. Tell me what discipline you follow. Where is your hermitage? Let me honor you and give you water to wash your feet.’
“‘I should rather honor you,’ said the girl. ‘In my hermitage we pay respect by enfolding the honored person in our arms.’ This she did, and with great gaiety, offered the young man delicious food and drink, and played ball with him, laughing and pressing herself against his body. Then, saying that she had a religious duty to attend to, she walked away. Rishyashringa was left in a state of intoxicated bewilderment. When his father came home he told him what had happened, describing the divine-looking stranger.
“‘Father, he looked like a god, with beautiful braided hair, and a curving body. His voice was melodious as a cuckoo’s, and in front of him hung two soft globes. When he touched me, I was filled with rapture, and now that he is gone I can think of nothing else. I want to go to him.’
“‘Son, that must have been a rakshasa,’ said the father, keen to protect his son’s innocence. ‘They take on beguiling shapes to tempt us away from the right path. They are to be avoided at all costs.’ The father went in search of the ‘rakshasa,’ and was away for three days. But meanwhile, the lovely courtesan returned, and enticed Rishyashringa to accompany her. He did so willingly, and was taken to Anga, where he was housed in the women’s quarters. The ruler gave his daughter, Shanta, to him as his wife, and bestowed wealth and lands on him. After this, the rains were plentiful.
“Rishyashringa’s father was furious at first, but was then reconciled, on condition that his son would return to the forest once Shanta had given birth to a son. This he did, and he and Shanta lived together in the forest, in great happiness.”
They journeyed on, following the east coast
south, then round the tip of the peninsula
before turning north. They stopped at Prabhasa,
near the sea-girt city of Dvaraka,
where Yudhishthira performed austerities.
While there, they were visited by Krishna
and his Vrishni kinsmen, who were most distressed
by the Pandavas’ reduced condition.
“How did those good men pass time together?”
asked Janamejaya. Vaishampayana
told the king about the friends’ discussions:
“What justice is there,” exclaimed Balarama,
“if the wise and virtuous Yudhishthira
sits here, filthy and emaciated,
while his enemies enjoy prosperity?”
“The Kauravas should be attacked at once!”
said Satyaki. But Krishna disagreed.
“Neither Yudhishthira nor his brothers
will ever swerve from dharma. The day will come
when they will defeat Duryodhana,
for sure; but that day has not yet arrived.”
The Pandavas stopped at many sacred fords
where they paid reverence, gave gifts to priests,
immersed themselves and performed penances.
They reached the place on the river Yamuna
where Mandhatri, the great archer, worshiped,
and Lomasha told the story of his birth:
“
A WORTHY KING, Yuvanashva, had no son, despite performing a thousand horse sacrifices, and a great many other rituals, accompanied by generous gifts to priests. He retired to the forest and pursued a life of harsh discipline.
“One night, he entered the hermitage of the great seer Bhrigu, and, finding no one awake, and feeling very thirsty, he drank water from a jar he saw there. It happened that, that very day, the seer and his companions had conducted a ritual whose purpose was to obtain a son for Yuvanashva. They had filled a jar with water and purified it with incantations, with a view to the king’s wife drinking it. This was the water which the king had now drunk.
“When Bhrigu discovered what had happened, he was first dismayed, then philosophical. ‘It must have been ordained. The water was infused with powerful spells, earned by rigorous discipline. Now you have drunk it, you yourself will bear a virile and god-like son.’
“And so it happened that, after a hundred years, King Yuvanashva’s side split open and a splendid infant emerged. Fortunately, the king did not die. Indra came to see him and gave the baby his forefinger to suck. In honor of this, he was named Mandhatri. The boy grew tall and beautiful, and became an accomplished archer.”
At every ford the Pandavas visited,
Lomasha instructed and entertained them,
pointing out the history of the place
and telling stories. By Lake Manasa,
he told the tale of Indra and King Shibi:
THE KING OF the Shibis was so devout that his sacrifices rivaled those of the gods. In order to test him, Indra, chief of gods, and Agni, the god of fire, devised a plan. Indra took the form of a hawk and Agni that of a dove which, fleeing from the predatory hawk, took refuge on the king’s lap.
“‘Give up that dove,’ said the hawk. ‘By giving it shelter, you are flying in the face of nature, for doves are the natural food of hawks.’
“‘The bird has sought my protection,’ replied the king. ‘It would be absolutely wrong for me to allow you to eat it. I shall give you something else to eat instead.�
�
“‘Nothing else will do,’ said the hawk. ‘Hawks eat doves—that’s the rule. By depriving me of my proper food, you harm not only me but my dependent family as well.’
“‘I won’t give up this dove,’ said the king, ‘so tell me what I can give you in its place.’
“‘If you cut off a portion of your own flesh equal to the dove’s weight, I shall eat it and be satisfied,’ said the hawk.
“The king cut away a piece of his own flesh, but it was not as heavy as the dove. He cut another piece, and added it to the first. The dove was still heavier. Eventually, he cut away all his flesh and, in his mutilated form, climbed onto the scale himself. Then the hawk revealed that he was the god, Indra, and assured the king that he would enjoy everlasting fame for his great sacrifice.”
As the group approached the Himalaya,
moving toward Mount Gandhamadana
where they would embrace Arjuna at last,
Lomasha warned that they were entering
dangerous territory, where rakshasas
and sorcerers lay in wait for travelers.
“Take good care,” said Lomasha, “proceed
boldly but warily. Be resolute,
knowing that my powers will protect you,
as will Bhima’s strength.” And the seer chanted
a hymn to Ganga, goddess of the river,
imploring her to watch over the travelers.
“I am worried,” said Yudhishthira,
“that Draupadi, Sahadeva and the weaker
brahmins may not be strong enough for this.
Bhima, you turn back with them, and wait
while we—Lomasha, Nakula and I—
go on alone, and then come back for you.”
Bhima disagreed, “We should stay together.
I can carry Draupadi, and anyone
who cannot keep up.” Draupadi laughed,
“I will manage—don’t be concerned for me!”
No one wanted to be left behind.
Alert, with weapons ready in their hands,
the brothers set off, leading the contingent
ever upward, living on roots and berries,
negotiating crags and perilous paths.
As they came close to Gandhamadana,
a violent storm blew up. Rocks split open
with a deafening crack, a whirlwind howled
and lashed the trees, hurling clouds of dust,
branches and rocks, blocking off the sun
as though it were night. Bhima seized Draupadi
and sheltered by a stout tree. All the others
spread-eagled on the ground in trepidation
to wait out the storm. But when the wind died down,
torrential rain began, a deafening deluge,
twisting ropes of water carrying
trees, and any debris in their path,
crashing downward to the plain below.
Battered, terrified, the pilgrims clung
to rocks and to more deeply rooted trees.
At last the clouds dispersed. A cautious sun
sent watery rays to warm the drenched party.
They set off once more, but Draupadi,
unused to strenuous walking, fell, fainting,
quite worn out. The four brothers massaged
her feet until she sighed and revived a little,
but it was clear that she would never manage
to reach their destination by herself.
Bhima had a brainwave—“Ghatotkacha!
My son by Hidimbaa—that mighty fellow
will carry her.” Then, by the power of thought,
Bhima summoned him, and he appeared,
accompanied by fellow rakshasas.
“Son, worthy crusher of your enemies,”
said Bhima, “our brave Draupadi’s exhausted.
Lift her gently, and carry her through the sky—
fly low, so she will not be alarmed.”
“I can carry the whole family,”
said Ghatotkacha, “and my strong companions
will bring the rest.” So it was that Bhima’s son
took the Pandavas lovingly in his arms,
while the brahmins flew with other rakshasas,
and Lomasha traveled by his mystic power.
They passed over beautiful terrain
rich in mineral wealth, and dappled woods
inhabited by monkeys and bright songbirds.
On they flew, until they saw, ahead,
the fabled and majestic Mount Kailasa
gleaming in the pure air, skirted round
by slopes on which grew trees laden with fruit,
and where many great seers had their homes—
a place free from any stinging creature,
temperate, and lush with many crops.
Prominently placed was the hermitage
of Nara and Narayana, a center
of deep learning. In its gardens grew
the legendary jujube tree, whose fruits
dripped honey constantly. The Pandavas
were welcomed with joy by the holy seers,
and the party settled for some time.
Strolling one day, Draupadi picked up
a flower, dropped at her feet by the wind,
a flower so exquisite, with a perfume
so intoxicating, that she longed for more—
since she felt that she must offer this one
to Yudhishthira. She asked Bhima
to go in search of them, and bring her some,
so he set off, walking fearlessly
up the mountain. Aided by the wind,
his father, he pursued the heavenly scent
past waterfalls, through groves of graceful trees
threaded with vines, toward the cloud-topped peaks,
crashing through the undergrowth, disturbing
the creatures of those parts, in his concern
to get back to protect his family.
Following a flock of water birds,
he came across a wide and gleaming lake,
fringed by clusters of banana trees,
with blue lotuses floating on the water.
Bhima plunged in like a young elephant,
splashing, slapping his arms most joyfully,
and lions, sleeping in their lairs nearby,
awoke and roared, alarming the whole forest.
Bhima heard a deep reverberation
and, tracking it to a banana grove,
came across a most gigantic ape,
tall and handsome, radiant as lightning,
sitting at his ease on a slab of stone,
beating his tail, like thunder, on the ground.
His mouth was broad, his tongue was red as copper,
and, with eyes the color of golden honey,
he glared down at Bhima. “Stupid fellow,
why are you blundering noisily around
in this forest where no human comes,
waking me from health-restoring sleep
when I am sick? This place is dangerous;
turn back while you still can.”
Bhima refused.
“Move aside! Let me pass!”
“Leap over me
if you must go forward,” said the monkey.
But Bhima perceived that this was a great soul
and, from reverence, declined to jump. “Move!”
he cried again. “Were it not for respect,
I would leap over you, as Hanuman,
that brave and god-like ape, that mighty hero,
leapt across the sea to Ravana’s kingdom
to find Sita, Rama’s blameless wife.”
“Who is this Hanuman?” grumbled the ape.
“He is the brother I have never met—
son of the wind, like me—and I’m his equal
in strength and courage. So move aside right now!”
The great ape was amused, “Reckless prince,
I am too old to move—if you must pass,
lift up my tail and proceed underneath it.”
Bhima strove and sweated, heaved and pushed,
but found himself unable to lift the tail,
try as he might. “Distinguished ape, who are you?”
he asked in wonder. “I am that Hanuman
of whom you speak,” replied the radiant monkey.
“It was I who leapt the hundred leagues
across the sea to Lanka.” Hearing this,
Bhima prostrated himself in reverence.
Joyfully he asked his newfound brother
to assume the form in which he made
that spectacular leap. Hanuman laughed,
“That was another era, long ago—
a time when even time itself was different.
Now, strong-armed one, you must go from this place.”
But only after Bhima had prevailed
on Hanuman to show his wondrous form—
swelling and stretching until he was as vast
as a mountain, awesome, terrifying—
did the Pandava consent to leave.
The two embraced each other tearfully.
“I bless the day I met you,” said Hanuman.
“It reminds me of the time I held
Rama in my arms. I wish you well
in the hard undertaking that lies ahead.
I give you this boon: on the battlefield,
when you utter your war cry, I shall add
my roar to yours. Appearing on the flagpole
of matchless Arjuna, my voice will rob
your enemies of their senses.” So saying,
Hanuman disappeared. Bhima continued
to make his way with all speed up the mountain,
always pursuing the divine perfume
of the elusive flower.
At last he came
to the luxuriant garden of Kubera,
god of wealth, guarded by many yakshas,
and there he saw a large crystalline pool
where sweet-smelling golden water-flowers
clustered abundantly. Kubera’s guardians
tried to prevent him picking them, but he
pressed forward, killing many of the yakshas.
A dust storm blew up, darkening the sky
so that Yudhishthira, far below, saw it,
and learned from Draupadi where Bhima had gone.
He had Ghatotkacha transport them all
up the mountain, and saw the devastation.
Kubera appeared, ready to do battle,