brahmins lay with kshatriya women. In this way
the kshatriya population was restored.”
When Bhishma said this, Satyavati thought
of Vyasa. Shyly, she told Bhishma
the circumstances of Vyasa’s birth.
“I was mastered—completely overpowered
by the sage Parashara; I was frozen
with fear that he would curse me if I refused;
and his boons were a consideration.
I can summon Vyasa now, and ask him
to father children on the royal widows.”
Bhishma readily approved the plan.
Satyavati bent her mind on Vyasa
and he appeared. He was tall and gaunt
with rusty, matted hair, filthy, foul-smelling,
smeared with earth and ash: a fearful sight.
“I will do it,” he said, “but we must wait
for a year, during which the young queens
must observe a vow, to sanctify themselves.”
“No! No!” cried Satyavati, “we have no time!
A kingdom without a king cannot flourish;
it must be done at once.” “Then,” said Vyasa,
“their discipline must be to tolerate
my smell and unkempt looks without flinching.”
She prepared Ambika: “In the dead of night
your brother-in-law will come into your room.
Welcome him, so you can bear a son
to save the Bharatas.” At night, soft lamps
were placed around the room, and incense burners
wafted pleasant scents. Ambika thought
it would be Bhishma who would come to her.
Instead, she saw a dirty, bearded stranger
whose piercing eyes appeared to blaze at her.
The girl was so appalled and terrified
she kept her eyes closed tightly.
“My wise son,”
asked Satyavati, “will a prince be born?”
“He will,” replied Vyasa. “He will be
immensely strong, courageous, learned, wise;
he will be the father of a hundred sons,
but because his mother would not look at me
he will be blind.”
“Alas,” said Satyavati,
“a blind man cannot be an effective king.”
In due course, as Vyasa had predicted,
Dhritarashtra was born, completely blind.
Satyavati made the same arrangement
with Ambalika. But when Vyasa
stood beside her bed, the girl took fright,
her face drained of color. So it was
that her son was born unnaturally pale,
though well endowed in every other way.
He was named Pandu, “pale one.”
Satyavati
asked Vyasa to give Ambika
one more chance to bear a perfect son.
But, her courage failing her, Ambika
put a maidservant in her bed instead.
The girl welcomed Vyasa as a lover
and the seer greatly enjoyed his night with her.
“You will no longer be a servant,” he said,
“and your son will be the wisest man on earth.”
So Vidura was born, an incarnation
of Dharma, god of virtue, who had been cursed
to be born from a shudra womb. Vidura
would become known for loyalty and wisdom.
But because his mother was lowborn,
he would frequently be disregarded
within the household.
After this third birth
the seer vanished, for now no longer needed.
So it happened that the great Vyasa
secured the future of the lineage,
to general rejoicing in the kingdom.
2.
DHRITARASHTRA AND PANDU
Now came a joyful time. It was as if
the coming of the three Bharata princes
conferred a benediction on the land.
The kingdom prospered. Rains were plentiful,
swelling the Ganga, spilling generously
onto the lush green of the paddy fields.
Plump ears of barley, rice, fruits, vegetables
were piled high in the markets; livestock thrived
and granaries were full to overflowing.
People flourished: in countryside and city
calm contentment reigned. There was no crime.
Merchants and craftsmen plied their diverse trades
with honesty and skill. Throughout the land
shrines and sacred monuments were seen.
People were kind and generous to each other
reverence for holy rites prevailed.
Bhishma was like a father to the princes.
He brought to court the best and wisest teachers
to ensure that the boys would be well trained
in Vedic lore, and all the skills and arts
essential to a royal kshatriya.
They learned to fight with every kind of weapon;
Pandu excelled with a bow, Dhritarashtra
at heroic feats of strength, while Vidura’s
knowledge of dharma was unparalleled.
Janamejaya said, “Now please tell me
what happened as those princes grew to manhood.”
Vaishampayana resumed his tale.
Owing to his blindness, Dhritarashtra
was thought unfit to rule without assistance.
Many of the functions of a king
were held by Bhishma, while the fearless Pandu
took on the protection of the realm.
His successful conquests swelled the coffers
of the treasury, and Hastinapura
teemed with travelers from many lands.
He shared his personal booty with his brothers
and decked their mothers with exquisite jewels.
Dhritarashtra, as the senior brother,
held splendid and elaborate sacrifices,
with fat remuneration for the priests.
With the lineage always in his mind,
Bhishma arranged a marriage for the blind prince
with Gandhari, daughter of King Subala.
On her wedding day, she took a cloth
and bound it around her eyes. This she wore
from that time onward, so she would not enjoy
superiority over her husband.
Bhishma thought hard about a match for Pandu.
Not only must his bride be virtuous,
but the marriage should be advantageous
politically, securing an alliance
with another powerful kingdom. He heard
that Kunti, a lovely Yadava princess,
as spirited as she was virtuous,
and Madri, daughter of the Madra king,
were of an age to marry. Pandu traveled
to Kunti’s svayamvara, and was chosen
by her, from many thousands of contenders.
Then Bhishma visited the Madra king
and, at great expense, obtained for Pandu
Madri, celebrated for her beauty.
Last, Bhishma found a bride for Vidura:
the illegitimate daughter of a king,
of mixed descent like him, with whom he found
great happiness, fathering many sons.
Perfect. But all was not quite as it seemed
for Kunti had a secret. She had buried it,
consigned it to a rarely visited
corner of memory and there, she hoped,
it would stay. But acts have consequences.
Karma, the eternal law, plays out
ineluctably, and Kunti’s secret
contained the seed of tragedy and grief.
When Pandu was not absent on campaigns
he often spent his time deep in the fore
st
on hunting expeditions, for the chase
was his great passion. One unlucky day,
he saw a deer in the act of mating
with a lovely doe. He aimed; he shot it.
The deer was actually an ascetic
who had assumed the likeness of a deer
because he had renounced all human contact.
With his failing breath, he shouted out,
“Even the vilest sinner would stop short
of doing what you have done! You are highborn
and come from a distinguished lineage
yet you have allowed yourself to act
brutally, out of greed!”
“You should not blame me,”
protested Pandu, “I am a kshatriya.
Killing is what we do, whether it be
enemies or animals. Besides,
any deer I kill are consecrated
as sacrifice to the gods.”
“I don’t blame you
for hunting,” said the sage, “but it was cruel
to kill an innocent in the act of love.
Because you had no knowledge of who I am
you escape the guilt of brahmin-murder
for which the punishment is terrible.
But you will share my fate—your life will end
when you give way to passionate desire
for a beloved woman.” Then he died.
Pandu was desolate—he must become
a celibate. Never to have children!
To live without the comfort of his wives!
The deer-ascetic had revealed to him
the errors of his pleasure-seeking life.
“Better renounce the world, shave my head,
wander the land homeless, without blessings,
without possessions, eating what I beg.
In that way I can expiate my guilt.”
Kunti and Madri cried, “We will come too!
What would our lives be worth apart from you
whom we love above all other beings?
We will go together to the wilderness.
Living simply, even this dreadful curse
will not prevent us finding joy together.”
Pandu at last agreed. He gave away
his royal robes and all his worldly wealth.
Putting on the roughest, simplest garments,
shouldering a few necessities,
passing through lines of weeping citizens
the three of them set out into the wild.
They traveled north. For many months they walked,
across bleak desert country, through the foothills
of the Himalaya, into the high mountains.
Through austerity and self-denial,
Pandu did penance for his previous life,
only refraining from the harshest pain
out of consideration for his wives.
Compassionate, unselfish, disciplined,
he won great merit, great respect. And yet—
he was still disturbed. “A man’s duty
is to beget sons for his ancestors.
Childless, I’m no better than a eunuch.
When I die, I will die forever;
there will be no one to remember me
and I shall never reach the heavenly realms.”
This thought came to distress him more and more.
His wives were desperate to ease his sorrow.
At last he said, “Consider—in ancient times,
there were no rules for who could mate with whom.
Long ago, during the golden age,
women were not confined to just one husband.
Even more recently, in times of crisis
rules have occasionally been set aside
to serve the greater good. Beloved Kunti,
you could conceive by a holy man.”
“Pandu! You violate me by such talk!
You are proposing to treat me like a whore,
with you as pimp. I am your wife, Pandu,
and that, to me, is sacred. I am devoted
only to you, beautiful husband. Never,
not even in my thoughts, shall I consider
any man but you.”
Pandu persisted:
“But reflect for a moment—I myself
am only on this earth through the good deed
of the sage Vyasa.” Kunti knew the facts
but, though she wanted to console her husband,
she was adamant. No other man
would ever lie with her.
Then, quietly,
she revealed to Pandu the following:
“When I was young, not much more than a child,
a brahmin taught me how to summon gods
to do my bidding. I shall say no more,
but now, if you agree, cherished husband,
I will call on a god to give us a son.”
“Lovely woman!” cried Pandu joyfully,
“summon Dharma, god of righteousness.”
Kunti did so and, through the power of yoga,
Dharma took human form to lie with her.
In due time, when she gave birth to a son,
a disembodied voice was heard to say,
He shall be called Yudhishthira; he will be
the Dharma King, defender of right action.
After a year, another son was born—
sturdy Bhima, child of the wind god, Vayu,
he who stirs up cyclones and tornados.
Bhima was built like a block of iron.
Once, he tumbled off his mother’s lap
when she was sitting on a mountain ledge.
Down he hurtled, spinning, plummeting
as Kunti screamed in horror. But the rocks
were shattered as his body hit the ground,
while he laughed in delight.
Pandu reflected:
“Success on earth rests on both fate and effort.
One cannot change the course of destiny
but heroic acts can achieve wonders;
I wish for a son whose deeds will be supreme.”
He thought of Indra, chieftain among gods,
he who hurls thunderbolts and lashing rain.
“I will obtain a powerful son from him.”
Pandu engaged in strict mortifications,
and Kunti, too, observed stringent vows
to honor Indra. Then she summoned him
and the god favored her with a child.
When Arjuna was born a voice was heard,
rumbling from the clouds: This child will bring
joy to his mother. He will be a scourge
to countless enemies. Bull among men,
undefeated, he will save the Bharatas.
Then a joyous clamor was heard—the voices
of heavenly beings, singing in their delight
while gongs clanged, and flowers rained on the earth.
Madri longed to have sons of her own.
Too diffident herself, she asked Pandu
to speak to Kunti for her. So it was
that Kunti gave Madri one use of the boon.
Madri fixed her mind upon the Ashvins,
beautiful twin deities who drive
away the darkness, heralding the dawn.
She gave birth to Nakula and Sahadeva,
twins who would be both beautiful and brave.
When Yudhishthira was born to Kunti
the joyful news soon reached Hastinapura.
Gandhari wept. She herself was pregnant—
had been pregnant for a year already—
but as the seasons came and went, she waited,
and waited. Nothing.
Some time before, Vyasa
had arrived at court exhausted, famished,
and Gandhari had welcomed and cared for him.
Vyasa had been moved by her compassion,
her piety, the fact that she had chosen
blindness, when she
could have had the joy
of seeing the glorious created world.
He blessed her, saying, “You will be the mother
of a hundred strong, courageous sons.”
Did the wise and far-seeing Vyasa,
even as he granted her this boon,
know the sorrow that would come of it,
as though he had just cursed her, not wished her joy?
Perhaps. But with his insight he could see
all that had to happen, and how. And why.
He understood the business of the gods;
his task, to be their earthly emissary.
Now, Gandhari nursed her swollen belly
as the months dragged on. It was hard and lifeless.
Despairing, she decided she must act.
Grimacing with pain, to rid herself
of the intolerable load she carried
she struck her belly, pushed, strained, cried aloud
and gave birth to a monstrous mass of flesh,
like a dense and glistening clot of blood.
Horrified, she made to throw the thing
onto the fire, but found Vyasa standing
in the room. “Is this the hundred sons
you promised me?” she asked him bitterly.
“I never lie, not even as a joke,”
said Vyasa, “still less when I am serious.
Have a hundred jars filled up with ghee.
Now, sprinkle the flesh with water.” Instantly,
the hideous ball split into a hundred pieces—
embryos, the size of a finger joint—
and one extra. Vyasa took each one,
placed it in a jar, and left instructions
about the tending of the embryos,
and when the vessels should be broken open.
“I would have liked to have a daughter too,”
thought Gandhari. Vyasa read her mind.
Then he departed for the far Himalaya
to perform austerities and prayer.
More months of waiting. In the room of jars,
a dozen nurses tended the embryos
that slowly grew inside the glowing vessels.
One day, Gandhari woke to a loud commotion.
The first baby had been born from his jar
and was brought to her. Her hands encountered
a large, muscular infant, her first-born son.
But those who cared for him became uneasy.
They shuddered as the infant raised his voice,
dismal, ugly, like a braying ass.
This infant, who was born on the same day
as Kunti’s Bhima, was named Duryodhana.
Dhritarashtra summoned many brahmins
as well as Vidura and Bhishma. “I know
that Yudhishthira as the eldest prince
will inherit the kingdom. But will my son,
my Duryodhana, come after him?