Give me your best advice.” At that moment
a horrible cacophony was heard—
howling wolves, hyenas’ insane cackle,
harsh croaks as crows and other carrion-eaters
flapped overhead. The city streets swarmed
with creatures never seen before—familiars
of the strange royal brood born in darkness,
born to remain always invisible
to their blind father, their blindfolded mother.
Dhritarashtra heard the disturbing sounds,
and was apprehensive. Vidura
knew what the portents meant. “Oh, my brother,
this birth portends the ruin of your line.
Your first-born son is destined to destroy
all that we’ve held sacred through the ages.”
Dhritarashtra wept and wrung his hands.
“What can I do to guard against disaster?”
“Only something that you will not do—
kill him! Content yourself with ninety-nine.
Without this eldest, all your other sons
will be harmless, ordinary boys.
But this creature comes from an evil place
to spread pain and destruction everywhere.
Exterminate him so the rest may flourish.
Give him up for the sake of all of us.”
But Vidura was right. Though Dhritarashtra
did not doubt his brother spoke the truth,
he could not bring himself to kill the child,
his longed-for first-born, Duryodhana.
Over the next month, the other jars
yielded ninety-nine more infant boys
and one daughter, who was named Duhshala.
The hundred sturdy sons of Dhritarashtra
would come to be known as the Kauravas.
Meanwhile Gandhari, fulfilled at last,
caught up in the delight of motherhood,
did not hear the howling of the wolves,
nor the unearthly predatory birds,
nor the harsh grunting from her children’s throats.
She only heard the cries of human babies
demanding to be nourished.
At this time,
another son was born to Dhritarashtra
by a lowborn woman, sent to serve him
while Gandhari was indisposed. His name
was Yuyutsu, and he would become
a loyal friend to the five sons of Pandu.
In their forest home among the mountains
the Pandavas were happy—running free,
climbing, inventing games, learning the skills
a kshatriya boy should know, protected, cherished
by Pandu and their two devoted mothers.
But their father never saw them grow
to manhood. One spring day, when lovely blossom
and soft unfurling leaves infused his mind
with lustful vigor, Pandu was consumed
by love and passionate desire for Madri.
Despite her screams, her terrified reminders,
destiny deprived him of all sense;
he entered her, and died in the act of love.
Thus was the curse fulfilled.
Kunti bitterly
blamed Madri and, despite her protestations,
the weeping Madri felt responsible.
As the senior wife, Kunti proposed
to follow Pandu. But Madri held her back:
“Our beloved husband died because of me,
cheated of fulfillment, as was I.
I will follow him to Yama’s realm.
Kunti—be a mother to my children
as, I know, I could never be to yours.”
With that, she climbed onto the funeral pyre
and, covering Pandu’s body with her own,
abandoned herself willingly to the flames.
The last rites for Pandu were performed
by the seers among whom he had lived
and who were now entrusted with the care
of his wife and sons. They thought it right
to take the family to Hastinapura,
where Bhishma would look after them. For twelve nights,
wan with sorrow for their beloved father,
the boys slept on the ground outside the walls
while rituals to cleanse them of pollution
were performed. A lavish ceremony
was held for Pandu and, when all was ready,
the Pandavas processed into the city.
The grieving people gladly welcomed them.
Pandu’s sons were home where they belonged,
to take their place beside their hundred cousins!
But Vyasa spoke to Satyavati.
are over. There is trouble in the offing.
Earth herself is growing old and sick.
If you would avoid a painful sight—
the Bharata clan tearing itself apart—
you should leave now.”
Satyavati listened.
She sought out Ambika and Ambalika
and, together, the three aging women
entered the last phase of their earthly life.
After retreating to a forest ashram
they passed their days in great austerity,
before embarking on their final journey.
3.
COUSINS
The Pandavas were awed by Hastinapura.
The main gateway, topped by massive towers,
was tall enough for elephants to enter.
Not far away stood impressive buildings
whose several stories housed the offices
of the foremost state officials, their gables
ornamented with imposing statues.
Just inside the gate, a tall stone column,
its capital ornately carved, proclaimed
the king’s authority, and the protection
that his rule extended to his people,
like a father’s strong, benevolent arm.
This was the noble City of the Elephant.
A broad, straight avenue, lined with the houses
of the wealthy, led from the entrance gate
to the high ramparts of the royal palace—
soaring, dwarfing even the grandest mansions
of the nobility. Here, the Pandavas,
successors to their father, were received
with every show of joy. They stared around
bewildered as bumpkins. Their mother, of course,
remembered elegance and luxury;
but to her five sons, the spaciousness
of this new life—soft beds, exquisite food
(eating was Bhima’s favorite occupation)
servants on every hand—was wonderful.
At first, the two families of cousins
played well together, being close in age,
keen on the same games and daring stunts.
But it is never long before young boys
try to outdo each other, prove who is best.
So it was with these. The Pandavas
excelled in every childish game and contest.
But Duryodhana was used to being
eldest, biggest, strongest, so was shocked,
when he challenged Bhima to a fight,
to find that he was so completely trounced
that he ached for days. Humiliation.
This was just the first of many reasons
that Duryodhana grew to hate Bhima.
Bhima, in fact, gained everyone’s affection
(except the Kauravas’) by his energy
and his engaging, frank enthusiasm.
His booming voice, his bouncing, boisterous step
and freely given smiles made all who saw him
smile in return.
But the Kauravas
saw him in another way entirely.
Bh
ima liked to tease and bully them,
holding them underwater in the river
when they were swimming, until they nearly drowned;
shaking trees they’d climbed, so that they tumbled
down like mangoes, bumping on the ground.
His behavior never sprang from malice
but, because no one had ever beaten him,
he had no idea how being picked on
with no chance of redress can wring the heart.
So he would innocently use his strength
to bait his cousins, and found fun in it.
Month by month, year by bitter year,
in Duryodhana, corrosive hatred
grew like a hidden reservoir of gall.
Most of all, he felt the Pandavas
stood between him and life’s advantages—
power, in particular. Yudhishthira
looked very likely, as the eldest prince,
to be the next king. Yet for all the time
that Pandu and his sons were in the forest
Dhritarashtra reigned, and Duryodhana
had thought he would, in time, be king himself.
He was prepared to fight if necessary,
when the time came, but he saw that Bhima
would bar his way: Bhima the undefeated,
Bhima, massive, stout as a mighty tree,
Bhima, brave as a fighting elephant,
Bhima, so devoted to his brothers,
Bhima . . . Bhima . . . with a passionate longing
he wanted Bhima dead. But how? How?
At the court, Duryodhana had an ally,
Shakuni, Gandhari’s older brother.
His mild demeanor, soft voice, silky manner
concealed a mind quick as a serpent’s tongue
and as poisonous. To Duryodhana
this was a kindred soul; and while his parents
made light of his complaints against his cousin,
Shakuni listened, sympathized, caressed
his nephew’s seething head. And put in words
the thought the unhappy prince had never dared
voice to anyone: “Bhima must die.”
For Duryodhana, this was the moment
when idea, fantasy—to kill a kinsman,
kill him under the very roof they shared—
changed from mere dream to possibility.
Thought became language—that was the alchemy
that led in turn to deeds. And once such words
were spoken, fluent on his uncle’s lips,
next came strategy and, after that,
action.
Action, the tipping point, the turn
that, step by step, and inescapably,
set him on the road to Kurukshetra.
Duryodhana arranged a grand excursion.
All the Pandavas and Kauravas
set out on horseback, elephants or chariots
to a choice spot beside the river Ganga
where all kinds of delight had been devised—
games, music, swimming, wrestling matches
and, to top it all, a splendid feast
specially designed to gladden Bhima’s heart.
Duryodhana was all affability.
The Pandavas had never sought to quarrel
with their cousin; now it seemed that he
had put his animosity behind him.
He brought the finest dishes for his friend,
Bhima. He even fed him personally
and repeatedly filled his cousin’s wine cup.
Inside the spicy snacks and luscious sweetmeats
that Bhima loved, the Kaurava had smeared
a deadly poison, enough to kill a man
many times over, then more, to be quite sure.
Colossal Bhima seemed to manifest
no instant ill-effects. But in the evening,
as he was sleeping on the riverbank,
tired from the games, drugged with poisoned food,
Duryodhana approached him stealthily,
bound him with tough vines, and bundled him,
still sleeping like a corpse, into the Ganga
where he quickly vanished. Duryodhana,
exulting, slipped away to join the others.
Bhima sank, oblivious, down, down
toward the riverbed. But the Ganga
is a goddess—and, in a sense, was Bhima’s
great-grandmother. As he sank, nuzzled
by phosphorescent fishes, she stirred up
the deepest bed, where scarlet and green serpents
awoke, and dug their fangs into his limbs,
injecting him with oleaginous venom.
Mother Ganga knew what she was doing—
rather than killing Bhima, the snake juice,
an antidote to Duryodhana’s poison,
was bringing him to life with every sting.
He struck the river bottom, and fell through
into the watery kingdom of the Nagas,
waking to find himself sprawled at the feet
of Vasuki, the reigning Naga king,
erect and magnificently hooded.
The throne he sat on was a single emerald,
and two scaly, jeweled Naga queens
were twined around him.
“This is a welcome guest,”
he hissed—for he recognized that Bhima
was no ordinary youth, but the son
of Vayu, god of the winds and tempests.
“Young man, I know how you come to be here,”
and he described Duryodhana’s wicked act,
which he had witnessed. “We have an elixir,
which will make you even stronger than before.”
Bhima was given a soporific drink.
“Sleep deeply and sleep long,” said Vasuki,
“the longer you sleep, the stronger you will be.”
For eight days, Bhima slept, then he awoke
with a huge roar of delight, sensing his limbs
newly energized. Thanking Vasuki,
he left, and rose up through the riverbed,
up through the sunlit sparkling water, stepping
onto dry land—and home to Hastinapura.
All this time, his mother and his brothers
worried frantically. They looked for Bhima
everywhere. Duryodhana, his face
straining to look concerned, had joined the search—
but there had been no trace. Vidura
had warned Yudhishthira about his cousin’s
evil intentions, and he feared the worst.
Then Bhima walked through the door! What joy there was
among the Pandavas. What baffled rage
filled Duryodhana’s heart, though he pretended
to be as glad as anyone.
When Bhima
told his brothers what had happened to him
they were enraged. But wise Yudhishthira
warned them not to show it. While they lived
at Hastinapura, they had to maintain
a friendly manner, though they must keep watch
constantly. In this way, they succeeded
in blocking each attempt on Bhima’s life.
Year by year, as the princes grew,
Bhishma oversaw their education.
He himself would gather them together
and tell them stories of their ancestors,
and tales of the immortal gods. He taught them
how the world began, and how the ages
follow one from another in a cycle.
Learned brahmins taught them to know the Vedas;
they studied history, and the science
of statecraft and of how wealth is created.
But, as young kshatriyas, the princes
measured themselves by prowess in the arts
of warfare. At first, Kripa was their teacher,
a brahmin who, for years, had lived at court.
How did a brahmin come to be an expert
in weaponry? The story goes like this:
A worthy sage had a son called Sharadvat
who, as well as dutifully acquiring
Vedic learning, as a young brahmin should,
thought of little else but weaponry,
constantly practicing the arts of war.
In order to enhance his mastery,
he performed severe austerities—
to the point that the gods themselves were worried,
lest he outdo them in discipline and skill.
Indra, chief of the gods, devised a plan.
He sent an apsaras to tempt Sharadvat
to abandon his renunciant ways.
Walking in the forest beside the river,
carrying his bow and arrows, the young man
caught sight of a divinely lovely girl,
half-naked. She came toward him, smiling.
Sharadvat held his ground, but stared and stared
and his bow and arrows slipped from his hand.
A profound shudder shook him, and he spilled
his seed, although he did not notice it.
He turned and walked away.
The seed fell
on a reed stalk and, as it fell, it split.
From the two halves, a boy and a girl were born.
Soon after, King Shantanu found the babies
while he was hunting in the forest. Seeing
a bow and arrows on the ground beside them,
as well as a black deer skin, he concluded
that they were the children of a brahmin, skilled
in weaponry. He took them back to court
and cared for them. These were Kripa and Kripi.
Later, Sharadvat came to Hastinapura
and taught Kripa mastery of weapons.
Kripa grew up an asset to the court,
a gifted fighter. He taught the young princes
how to string a bow, to heft a mace,
to feint and thrust with short and long sword.
They learned fast, especially the Pandavas,
and soon Bhishma saw that he must find
another teacher for them, more advanced
in all the branches of the arts of war.
Around this time, a person of importance
arrived in Hastinapura, unannounced.
This was Drona, who had married Kripi,
Kripa’s sister. By birth he was a brahmin
but he was also expert in the feats
appropriate to the kshatriya class.
Not only could he wield conventional weapons
with quite outstanding skill but, in addition,
from his teacher, Rama Jamadagnya,
he had acquired rare and powerful astras.
He understood that to become a master