shedding a lurid light.
Demons jostled him
on every side, “O mighty Kaurava,
why are you doing violence to yourself?
It is wrong to give way to despair.
You are no mere mortal, but divine,
as we are. Long ago, with Shiva’s blessing,
you were formed out of diamonds and flowers,
beautiful to women, invincible.
You will destroy your enemies. We demons
will take possession of the inner souls
of Bhishma, of Drona and of Kripa.
However much they love the Pandavas,
they will fight for you with complete ruthlessness,
and will defeat your cousins and their allies.
As for Arjuna—we have a plan.
The demon Naraka has entered into
Karna, whose mission is to fight and kill
the Left-handed Archer. Knowing this,
Krishna, wielder of the all-slaying discus,
has arranged for Karna to be robbed
of the gold earrings and protective armor
he was born with. But if it should happen
that Karna dies, then demons by the thousand
inhabiting the bodies of your allies,
and sworn to destroy the Left-handed Archer,
will slaughter Arjuna, no doubt about it.
Go now—direct your mind to victory!”
Duryodhana awoke from this encounter
no longer set on death. Immensely heartened,
keeping secret what he had been told,
triumphantly, he rode back to the city.
From that day forward he prepared for war
whole-heartedly, convinced he could not lose.
He set in train a lavish sacrifice
and invited guests from far and wide,
including the Pandavas. Yudhishthira
graciously declined the invitation—
the period of exile was not yet spent.
Karna was full of joy to see his friend
resolute again. “Greatest of kings,
I swear to you, I shall not wash my feet
until I have ground Arjuna in the dust!”
24.
THE END IN SIGHT
When news of Karna’s vow reached the Pandavas
Yudhishthira was much cast down, for Karna
was the enemy he feared above all others—
knowing him to be a supreme archer,
passionate in his hatred for Arjuna.
It was a dark time. Again, Yudhishthira,
pained by the privations of his family,
knowing himself to blame, was in despair;
while they in turn, seeing him distressed,
were seized with wrathfulness, and with a passion
to punish those who had caused his misery.
Vyasa arrived and spoke to Yudhishthira.
“Virtuous conduct is always rewarded
in this life or the next. Control your sorrow.
Live each day with a calm and even mind,
treating success and setback equally.
Once, you lived in luxury and wealth;
one has to suffer first. Each of these states
is simply how things are. The two conditions
succeed each other as the seasons do.
The wheel turns. You will regain your kingdom
after the thirteenth year has run its course.
With your strong brothers and your mighty allies
supporting you, you will be king again.
“The wise, neither mourning nor rejoicing,
take what life brings with equanimity.
But with austerity and discipline
wonders may be achieved.”
“Which is greater,”
asked Yudhishthira, “austerity
or giving?” Vyasa answered, “In my view,
nothing is more difficult than giving
in a spirit of pure-heartedness
when wealth has been hard won. Let me tell you
the old story of the gleaner Mudgala.
“
MUDGALA WAS A law-abiding man, who subsisted on grains of rice picked up from the fields. Yet he was able to give food generously to others since, by virtue of his austerities, the grains multiplied when a guest visited him.
“The seer Durvasas decided to test his generosity. He appeared in the form of an unkempt madman and demanded food. Mudgala welcomed him, washed his feet and set food before him. The madman gobbled up all the food there was, so there was nothing left for the gleaner to eat. Then he smeared the scrapings on his body and departed. The next day, he turned up again, and so it continued for six days, but Mudgala welcomed him each time, and showed no trace of impatience or discourtesy.
“‘I have never encountered such pure-hearted generosity!’ exclaimed the seer, revealing his true identity. ‘For this, you will go to heaven in your body.’
“A celestial chariot, drawn by swans and cranes, arrived to take Mudgala to heaven. But the gleaner wanted first to know what heaven was like—who lived there, and what were their qualities? The celestial messenger told him, ‘Heaven is inhabited by the virtuous, who enjoy happy and pain-free lives there. But once the merit earned in their previous lives is exhausted, they return to earth and are reborn in another body. Beyond heaven there are other worlds, in the highest of which eternal bliss may be attained, beyond happiness and sorrow, beyond rebirth. That world is very hard to reach, even for the gods. Only those who have transcended desire may go there.’
“Mudgala reflected, and decided that so imperfect a heaven as he was being offered was not for him. He entered a life of extreme self-denial and meditation and, in time, he achieved moksha.”
Vyasa then continued on his travels,
leaving Yudhishthira happier than before.
As he slept that night, he had a dream.
A group of weeping deer appeared to him
and stood before him, trembling with terror.
“We are all that’s left of the rich stocks
of animals that once lived in this woodland.
All the others have been hunted down
for food, by your party. Now there are barely
enough of us to reproduce our kind.”
Yudhishthira was seized by remorse and pity.
The next day, he began to organize
a move to another part of the forest
where they would set up a new hermitage,
and live until the twelve years had expired.
One afternoon, the Pandavas went hunting.
Draupadi remained at the hermitage
with Dhaumya, the priest. A while later,
Jayadratha, king of the Sindhus (husband
of Dhritarashtra’s daughter, Duhshala),
happened by with his retinue, and noticed
Draupadi wandering among the trees
gathering flowers, and radiating beauty
as the moon illumines the dark clouds.
He lusted after her—her slender waist,
full breasts and shapely hips, and her lovely face.
He sent a close companion to inquire
who she was. Draupadi was conscious
that to converse with this man was improper
but, since there was no one else to answer,
she spoke, naming her husbands, inviting him
to wait, and be the guest of Yudhishthira,
together with his friend.
The companion
reported back; Jayadratha approached her,
smitten with desire. “Come, gorgeous one,
let me transport you to a better life
exiled, down on their luck. I promise you
luxury, wealth, pleasure . . . What do you say?”
Draupadi blazed with anger,
“Ignorant fool!
Do you take me for an unprotected woman?
How dare you insult my husbands, famous warriors
unsurpassed anywhere! You can no more
defeat them than an idiot with a stick
could hope to subdue a rutting elephant.
Be on your way!”
“Mere words won’t put me off,”
laughed Jayadratha, and, laying hands on her,
he forced her onto his chariot, and drove off,
flanked by his guards. Dhaumya followed them.
The Pandavas, sensing something was amiss,
hurried back to the hermitage, where they found
Draupadi’s maidservant distraught and weeping.
She told them what had happened and, at once,
they set off in pursuit of Jayadratha.
They followed traces left by the abductors
and soon caught up with them. Dhaumya, in the rear,
shouted to the brothers, “Attack! Attack!”
Tiger-like, the Pandavas launched themselves
against the forces of the king of Sindhu.
Bhima’s mace, its spikes ablaze with gold,
was whirling, slaughtering the foot soldiers
by the dozen. Nakula, unmatched swordsman,
cut a swath through the mounted enemy,
their heads flying off like seeds in the wind,
while Sahadeva with his spear, Yudhishthira
and Arjuna with their fine, deadly arrows,
reduced the Sindhu soldiers to a rabble,
fleeing in all directions. When Jayadratha
saw that the fight was lost, he too fled,
abandoning Draupadi. “He won’t escape,”
shouted Bhima, “I’ll catch and kill the villain!”
“No,” said Yudhishthira, “for Gandhari’s sake,
and Duhshala’s, vile scoundrel though he is,
he should not be killed.”
“That excrescence,”
protested Draupadi, glowing with anger,
“that abortion of the Sindhu race
does not deserve to live!”
With difficulty,
Bhima refrained from killing Jayadratha
when he caught him. Instead, he made him grovel,
thrashed him brutally, and shaved his head
so that five tufts remained. Yudhishthira
had him brought, and delivered a homily
which, perhaps, was worst of all. Jayadratha
crept away, aching, badly disgraced,
vowing vengeance. Later he embarked
on severe austerities, with a view
to obtaining a boon from Lord Shiva:
that he would block the Pandavas in battle
—excepting Arjuna, who was protected
by Krishna, supreme master of the discus.
Sitting with Markandeya one afternoon,
Yudhishthira was full of despondency.
“Life here is hard—living as forest dwellers,
forced to kill other forest dwellers for food;
our blameless wife abducted, our close kin
attacking us as enemies—was there ever
anyone more afflicted with misfortune?”
“You are not unique,” said Markandeya,
“Rama, too, lost his beautiful wife, Sita,
abducted by the demon Ravana.”
Markandeya went on to tell the tale
of Rama and his brother, Lakshmana;
how they and Sita endured forest exile;
how Ravana seized Sita, and transported her
to Lanka; how, with the help of Hanuman
and his fellow monkeys, she was rescued;
how, at first, Rama rejected her;
but how, at last, the couple were united
and Rama installed as king of Ayodhya.
“So, you see, you are not the only prince
to suffer tribulations. You are sustained
by your bull-like brothers. You should not grieve.”
“My sorrow is not only for myself,”
said Yudhishthira, “nor even for my brothers,
but for our wife who is so cruelly wronged.
Was there ever a woman so virtuous
and loving as Draupadi?”
“Let me tell you,”
said the sage, “the story of another
highborn woman, the princess Savitri.
“
IN THE LAND of the Madras, there lived a king, named Ashvapati. He was generous, devout, an excellent king and loved by all his subjects. But he had no children and, as the years went by, this troubled him more and more. He entered on a course of strict austerities, dedicated to the goddess Savitri and, after eighteen years had passed, she appeared before him, rising up out of the sacred fire.
“‘I am pleased with you, O king. You may choose a boon from me.’
“‘I wish for many sons, to maintain my lineage,’ said Ashvapati.
“‘You shall not have sons,’ said Savitri, ‘but a lovely daughter will be born to you—no argument. That is how it will be.’
“‘May it be soon,’ said the king.
“In the fullness of time, a girl was born to his first queen, and the king called her Savitri, after the goddess. She grew up so formidably beautiful that potential suitors were reluctant to seek her hand in marriage. Eventually, her father sent her out into the world, suitably escorted, to find a husband for herself. She was gone for months, touring forests and sacred fords, conversing with sages, giving freely to brahmins. When she returned, she found her father sitting with the seer Narada.
“‘Father, I have chosen my husband. In the land of the Shalvas, there is a god-fearing king, Dyumatsena. Some time ago, he went blind, and an old enemy, seeing an opportunity, ousted him and sent him to the forest. It is his son, Satyavat, to whom I have given my heart. He is brave and generous—and he is an artist!’
“‘Satyavat is perfect in every way,’ said all-seeing Narada. ‘But the bad news is that he is destined to die exactly one year from now.’
“‘That is bad news indeed!’ exclaimed the king. ‘My dear one, you had better choose again.’
“‘There are some things in life,’ Savitri said, ‘that happen only once. I have chosen my husband, and I will not choose a second time.’
“‘Savitri has spoken well,’ said Narada, and with that he took his leave and flew up into the sky.
“Sad, but resigned, the king visited Dyumatsena, and arranged his daughter’s marriage to Satyavat. She lived in the forest with her husband and his family, a devoted wife and daughter-in-law, and everyone who knew her loved her. She mentioned to no one what Narada had told her. As the day approached when Satyavat was due to die, she undertook an act of austerity, standing for three days and nights continually, fasting. Then she poured libations on the sacred fire, her heart aching.
“On the fateful day, she announced that she would go with Satyavat when he went deep into the forest, to gather fruit. ‘It will be too hard for you,’ he said, ‘especially after your severe fast.’ But she insisted, and the two set off. All around were flowering trees and sparkling brooks, and Savitri pretended to be light-hearted, though she was watchful, tense with fear.
“Satyavat put the fruit he had collected in a sack, and started to split firewood. Suddenly, he exclaimed, ‘Oh, my head is hurting terribly, as if it is pierced with knives! I can’t go on,’ and he sank to the ground, unconscious. Savitri embraced him, and sat nursing his head in her lap.
“Then she saw a handsome, dark-skinned man approaching through the trees, dressed in saffron, a noose in his hand. Gently laying her husband’s head on the ground, she stood and greeted the stranger respectfully.
“‘Please tell me who you are, and what you want,’ she said, in a trembling voice.
“‘I am Yama, god of death,’ he answered. ‘Your husband’s life has run its course, and, because he is a virtuous man, I have come my
self to fetch him, rather than sending my minions. I have deigned to answer you because I know that you, too, live a blameless and disciplined life.’ Yama drew from Satyavat’s body a thumb-sized figure and tied it in his noose. As he did so, Satyavat stopped breathing, and his skin lost its luster. Yama turned and walked away, and Savitri followed.
“‘You must turn back, Savitri,’ said Yama. ‘Return and perform funeral rites for your husband. You have come as far as you can.’
“‘Where my husband goes, I will go,’ replied Savitri, ‘that is dharma. I look for no other way.’
“‘You speak well,’ said Yama. ‘You may choose any boon, other than your husband’s life, and I shall grant it.’
“‘Then may my father-in-law’s sight be restored.’
“‘So be it,” said Yama. ‘But you are exhausted—you should turn back now.’
“‘How can I be tired when I am with my husband?’ said Savitri. ‘Wherever he goes, I will go. It is said that friendship with the virtuous is the highest good. I will walk with this virtuous man.’
“‘What you say pleases me,’ said Yama. ‘Choose another boon—other than the life of Satyavat.’
“‘Then may my father-in-law’s kingdom be restored to him.’
“‘It shall be done,’ said Yama. ‘Now, turn back.’
“‘You carry people away by force, not of their own choosing,’ said Savitri. ‘Most people in the world are kindly disposed. But only the truly virtuous are compassionate even to their enemies.’
“‘Beautifully put!’ exclaimed Yama. ‘Choose another boon from me—other than this man’s life.’
“‘I am my father’s only child,’ said Savitri. ‘I ask that he should have a hundred sons, to carry his line.’
“‘Granted,’ said Yama. ‘Now, return home, for you have come a long way down this road.’
“Savitri refused. She continued to walk with Death, talking of dharma with great eloquence, as her husband dangled from Yama’s noose.
“Yama grew more and more delighted with her. He granted her the boon that she and Satyavat would have a hundred sons and, as she continued to talk, calmly and wisely, refusing to leave her husband, Yama offered her a final boon, this time without conditions.
“‘Then let my husband live, for without him, my own life is a living death. Without him I have no desire for riches, good fortune, even for heaven. And without him, how can I give birth to a hundred sons?’
“Yama smiled, and untied Satyavat from the noose. ‘Look, I have freed your husband, virtuous woman. You will live in peace and happiness together.’ Savitri joyfully walked back to where her husband’s body lay. She placed his head in her lap, and he awoke, bewildered.