of how even the saintly go astray
while, even in the worst, glimmers of gold
reveal themselves to a compassionate eye.
All should have access to the edifice
that was his narrative. But he realized
that for his poem to last for ages hence,
it must be written down.
Picture him
standing, bearded, rake thin, his eyes closed,
his head and body smeared with ash and ochre,
rags for covering, a visionary,
the entire epic cradled in his head.
He approached Brahma, lord of creation,
his inspiration all along, who happened
to be paying him a visit. Vyasa spoke:
“Lord, I have composed a mighty poem.
My work will open eyes dulled by ignorance
as the sun scatters darkness, as the moon’s
subtle beams illumine the lotus buds.
All the wisdom of the world is in it.
But who will write it down, so that people
in the far future may read and learn from it?”
Lord Brahma praised the seer. “You have done well.
Your poem will awaken all who hear it;
and it should be written. You have my blessing.”
Then he cast his mind over a number
of candidates, all worthy scribes, and said,
“Ask Ganesha, the elephant-headed god,
master of all things intellectual,
god of beginnings. He it is who guards
thresholds, the boundaries of time and space,
who removes obstacles. Yes, ask Ganesha.
He is best fitted for this gargantuan task.”
“I’ll do it,” said Ganesha, “but only if
you speak your poem at my writing speed.
I won’t put up with hesitations, false starts
and other tedious practices, too common
in those who dictate.”
“Agreed!” replied Vyasa,
“but you in turn must undertake to write
only those things you have fully understood.”
So, by inserting knotty passages,
the seer would win himself some thinking time.
Hardly pausing for breath, Vyasa spoke;
Ganesha wrote with equal energy.
When his pen failed, he broke off his tusk tip
and scribbled on, and on.
In this way
was written the story of a noble line
divided against itself.
Now, listen . . .
MAHABHARATA
I
THE BOOK OF THE BEGINNING
1.
THE ANCESTORS
Long before the ill-fated Bharatas
fought the great war on the crack of ages;
years before that dreadful sacrifice
squandered the blood of warriors in their millions,
young and old, on the plain of Kurukshetra,
there lived the foundling daughter of a fisherman
(really the daughter of a royal seer)
whose name was Satyavati. It could be said
that the whole tragic tale began with her
and her ambitious foster father.
Each day
she rowed a boat across the Yamuna
ferrying travelers from bank to bank.
One morning, the great sage Parashara,
on a tour of sacred bathing places,
boarded her boat. As they glided gently,
her beautiful arms pulling easily,
bare feet braced against the sturdy timbers,
he desired her—though she smelled unpleasant
(not only did she live with fishermen
but she had been born from a fish’s belly).
Parashara made his intention known.
The girl was horrified, “O blessed one,
those rishis standing on the banks can see us!”
The sage summoned a mist to envelop them.
“But I am a virgin—how could I return
home to my father’s house if I lay with you?”
He reassured her: her virginity
would remain intact. “And furthermore,
lovely smiling girl, you may choose a boon.”
“I wish my body had a heavenly fragrance,”
replied Satyavati. And it was so.
That same day, she gave birth to a son
on an island in the river. Instantly,
to an ascetic life. Before departing,
he told his mother she could summon him
in time of need, merely by thinking of him:
“Remember me when things are to be done.”
This was the author of our epic poem,
Vyasa Dvaipayana, “the island-born.”
Hastinapura, on the river Ganga,
a well-ordered, large and prosperous city,
was the stronghold of the lineage
of Bharata. Its ruler at the time
was Shantanu, known for his hunting prowess.
One day, riding near the riverbank,
stalking buffalo and antelope,
he saw a woman. She was so beautiful
the king stood still, staring in amazement
at her flawless skin, her lovely face.
He did not know she was the river goddess,
Ganga, in human form. “Whoever you are,”
cried Shantanu, “female demon, goddess
or celestial nymph—consent to be my wife!”
Ganga had a vow to fulfill. The Vasus,
eight celestial beings who enjoyed
all the delights of heaven, had been cursed
to be born mortal. Distraught, they begged Ganga
to become human, so she could carry them
in her womb. “And who shall be your father?”
she asked. “It should be Shantanu,” they said,
“and once we are born, throw us in the river
to drown. In that way, we shall be released
from the hardships of a mortal life.”
Ganga had already marked out Shantanu
to be her husband. In a prior existence,
the two had known each other, although he
did not remember. “O Vasus,” she replied,
“I will do as you ask on this condition:
allow one son to live, so Shantanu
may have an heir.” “Agreed,” said the Vasus,
“but that son will have no son of his own.”
So, when Shantanu pressed her, Ganga said,
“I shall become your queen, Shantanu,
I shall love you dearly, cherish you,
do all I can to please you, but for your part,
you must never question what I do
or I shall leave you instantly.” The king
agreed.
They enjoyed happy years together,
and Ganga gave birth to seven healthy sons.
But one by one, she drowned them in the river,
and each time, Shantanu held his tongue.
Finally, with the eighth, he could not bear it.
“I long for my own son—how can you do this,
wicked, unnatural woman!” Ganga laughed.
“I am Ganga, goddess of the river.
Those boys were gods. I was obliged to drown them
as I had promised, to give them release
from human suffering. My task is done.
But you shall have your son. He will return
when he is grown—Ganga’s gift to you.
Now I must leave you.” And with that, she plunged
into the sparkling waters, and was gone.
Though grief-stricken, Shantanu ruled in peace
for many years, and his kingdom flourished.
One afternoon, wandering by the river,
he noticed that the water level h
ad fallen,
and saw a handsome boy, shooting arrows
with such speed and skill they formed a dam
across the river. As the king stared, the boy
vanished. Then Ganga rose up from the water
leading the boy archer by the hand.
“This is your son,” she said. “He is well versed
in the Vedas, trained in the arts of war,
and understands dharma as profoundly
as the most learned sage. Now, take him home.”
For some time, Shantanu lived joyfully
with his son, who was all sons to him,
as dutiful as he was talented.
His name was Devavrata, “of god-like vows.”
The king often traveled far from home
on hunting expeditions. One spring day,
riding in the forest by the Yamuna,
he noticed an intoxicating fragrance.
Tracking it, he found a dark-eyed girl,
divinely beautiful, a fisher maiden.
“Tell me who you are—what shall I call you?”
“My name is Satyavati,” she replied.
The king, of course, knew nothing of her past;
to him, she was the answer to his longing
and, keen to marry her, he sought her father.
“I know how these things work,” said the old man.
“You have a son. In the course of time,
he will ascend the throne, and my poor daughter
and her own children will be cast adrift,
cut off without one coin to call their own.
I see it coming! I’ll only consent
if you make her first-born son heir apparent.”
Shantanu was shocked. Out of the question
for him to disinherit Devavrata.
But back in Hastinapura, in his heart
he pined for Satyavati. Obsessively,
through every sleepless night, he thought of her,
until his cheeks grew thin, his eyes lackluster;
he was not himself. Devavrata
was concerned, and finally discovered
why his father was so melancholy.
“Father,” he told him, “here is the solution,
it’s an easy matter—I resign my place
as heir apparent. Satyavati’s son
shall be the next king. I will go and speak
to her father.”
But it was not easy.
Satyavati’s father, shrewd old fellow,
shook his head at Devavrata’s plan.
He had thought of yet another problem.
“Strong-armed one, it’s not that I don’t trust you.
I know that you would never break a promise,
but how do I know your sons will feel the same?
Suppose they don’t respect their father’s word?
I think there’s every chance that your own sons
will feel entitled to take precedence
over my daughter’s. I still withhold consent.”
“Then,” said Devavrata, “here and now,
in the name of all that I hold sacred,
in the name of my guru, of my mother,
and of dharma, I vow to live a life
of celibacy. I shall never marry.”
The old man shook with joy. Then Devavrata
helped the lovely girl into his chariot.
“Come, Mother, we shall go to your new home.”
They drove to Hastinapura, where Shantanu
embraced Satyavati as his queen.
From this time onward, Prince Devavrata
was known as Bhishma, meaning “awesome one.”
The people were dismayed to think that Bhishma,
whom they loved, would never be their ruler.
But the king was so grateful to his son
for the immense sacrifice he had made
he blessed him, saying, “My son, may your death
only come at the moment of your choosing.”
With no wife or children of his own,
no personal ambition to pursue,
Bhishma directed god-like energy
to widening the boundaries of the kingdom.
Tall and strong, a brilliant strategist,
he led forays into neighboring lands
and annexed substantial territories
to the spreading kingdom of the Bharatas.
Two sons were born to the royal couple,
Chitrangada and Vichitravirya,
and Bhishma cherished them like his own children.
On the death of Shantanu, Chitrangada
was consecrated king. He was a warrior
par excellence, and defeated every foe,
growing in confidence and self-regard
until he fought the chief of the gandharvas
and lost his life. Vichitravirya
was too young to handle affairs of state
and Bhishma acted for him, as his regent.
Bhishma grew concerned for the young king
to marry, to secure the royal line.
He came to hear that the king of Kashi
had three daughters, each one beautiful,
Amba, Ambika and Ambalika,
who were about to make their choice of husband.
Summoning his chariot and his weapons,
Bhishma set off at speed for Varanasi
where eligible kshatriyas had gathered
for the princesses’ joint svayamvara.
Striding into the forum, Bhishma spoke,
his voice like thunder. “There are several ways
by which a kshatriya may claim a bride.
But the one that commands greatest respect
is to bear her off by force. This, I shall do.
I stand here, ready to fight any man
who cares to challenge me!” And with that
he lifted all three girls into his chariot
and raised his sword, which glittered in the sun.
A cry of anger went up. All around,
suitors were casting off their courtly clothes,
struggling to strap on their armor, buckling
their jeweled scabbards, stringing their strong bows.
Then they jostled forward to attack.
Bhishma fought with every kind of weapon,
parrying sword thrusts, intercepting arrows,
showing such skill that even his opponents
cheered him. Last to admit defeat was Shalva.
“Stop, you lecher, stop!” he cried in rage.
These words infuriated Bhishma. Frowning,
he told his charioteer to charge at Shalva
and there followed a duel so dramatic
that everyone laid down their arms to watch.
Bhishma’s skill was much the greater; soon
Shalva’s charioteer was slumped and bleeding,
and his four horses dead between the shafts.
Bhishma spared Shalva’s life, and wheeled away,
pointing his horses toward Hastinapura.
Clattering into the courtyard of the palace,
Bhishma gave the beautiful princesses
to handsome Vichitavirya, as his brides.
The two younger princesses were delighted,
and he with them—their dark shining hair,
voluptuous breasts and buttocks, perfect skin.
But Amba had already made her choice;
she had been about to bestow her garland
on King Shalva. When she told Bhishma this,
formally, in the assembly hall,
he consulted with the brahmins present
and gave her leave to depart from the city
and go to Saubha, where Shalva had his court.
Later, you will hear the fatal consequence
of that decision, for Amba, and for Bhishma.
The pleasure-loving Vichitravirya
left the detailed conduct of the kingdom
to Bhishma, while he dallied with his wives.
He was proud of his elegant, handsome looks
and, with their shapely hips, their graceful bearing,
he felt his wives reflected well on him.
The seasons came and went; no heir was born.
After seven years, the king fell ill
with consumption and, despite the efforts
of the best doctors, he grew weak and sank,
like the setting sun, to the realm of darkness.
His sorrowing young widows were left childless.
This was catastrophe. With no one left
who could provide the next generation,
the thread of the Bharatas would be broken.
Satyavati took to her bed in grief.
Her two dear sons deceased. The lineage
in deep crisis. And she longed for grandsons.
Then she thought—in this extremity
perhaps Bhishma would set aside his vow.
Tactfully, she opened up the subject.
“Bhishma, you know what is right, you know
that the law provides for special measures
in times of distress, such as we have now.
Could you not, within the frame of dharma,
father children on my son’s young widows?
You owe it to your ancestors—otherwise
there will be no kin to offer food for them,
none to sustain them in the afterlife.”
“Mother,” said Bhishma, “it is impossible.
I understand your anguish, but my vow
is more important to me than life itself.
Sun may lose its brilliance, moon its luster,
rain may withhold its blessing from the earth,
fire may grow cold, and color colorless
before I will consent to break my word.”
Satyavati did not give up easily.
But however much she argued, pleaded,
wept, invoked the immortal gods, reasoned,
Bhishma was immovable as Mount Meru.
“Dharma for times of distress does not extend
to breaking solemn promises,” he said.
“My vow is everything. The words, once uttered,
can never be unsaid without dishonor.
This is my truth, and truth for me is greater
than all the possible rewards of earth
or heaven—even to save the Bharatas.
In the great sweep of time, everything passes.
All we can do is stay faithful to truth.
“But there is an alternative solution—
a brahmin can be asked to plow the fields
of Vichitravirya. That has been done before.
When almost every male kshatriya
had been slaughtered by Rama Jamadagnya,