The Puffin Mahabharata Read online

  Namita Gokhale

  THE PUFFIN MAHABHARATA

  Illustrated by Suddhasattwa Basu

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Dedication

  THE STORY OF THE MAHABHARATA

  THE GODDESS GANGA

  SATYAWATI

  DEVAVRATA’S VOW

  THE STORY OF AMBA

  THE BIRTH OF KARNA

  THE BIRTH OF THE PANDAVAS

  THE BIRTH OF THE KAURAVAS

  PANDU’S DEATH

  KRIPA AND DRONA

  THE LESSONS OF DRONACHARYA

  THE PLOT TO KILL BHIMA

  THE TEST OF STRENGTH

  THE WAX PALACE

  THE PANDAVAS’ ESCAPE

  MOURNING IN HASTINAPURA

  HIDIMB AND HIDIMBI

  VAKASURA

  DRAUPADI’S SWAYAMVARA

  THE RETURN FROM EXILE

  INDRAPRASTHA

  THE KHANDAVA FOREST

  THE PALACE OF MAYA

  THE RAJASUYA YAGNA

  THE DEATH OF JARASANDHA

  AT THE YAGNA

  DURYODHANA VISITS THE MAYASABHA

  THE GAME OF DICE

  THE SECOND EXILE

  THE DEPARTURE

  ARJUNA’S TRAVELS

  AT INDRALOKA

  URVASHI

  THE PANDAVAS’ WANDERINGS

  THE BATTLE WITH THE GANDHARVAS

  PLOTTING REVENGE

  THE EXPLOITS OF JAYADRATHA

  THE LAKE OF QUESTIONS

  THE YEAR OF DISGUISE

  KEECHAKA

  THE CATTLE WARS

  ARJUNA IN THE BATTLEFIELD

  THE RETURN TO VIRATA

  KARNA’S GENEROSITY

  NEGOTIATIONS

  KRISHNA AND KARNA

  BEFORE THE BATTLE

  ARJUNA’S HESITATION

  THE BED OF ARROWS

  THE CHAKRAVYUH

  AVENGING ABHIMANYU

  GHATOTKACHA

  THE DEATH OF DRONA

  DUSASANA’S DEATH

  KARNA’S LAST BATTLE

  THE DEFEAT OF DURYODHANA

  ASHWATHAMA’S REVENGE

  GANDHARI’S CURSE

  KUNTI AND HER SONS

  THE DEATH OF BHISHMA

  A NEW BEGINNING

  THE DESTRUCTION OF DWARKA

  THE WORLDS BEYOND

  Glossary

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright Page

  To all my grand nieces and nephews, and to my beloved nephew Jaidev,

  and all the other children, both young and old, in my extended family.

  I begin by paying homage to Ganga,

  and to the Himalayas, the source of the river and all the stories that spring forth from it. The book celebrates the river Yamuna, by the banks of which Lord Krishna played and sported. It is in memory of the ancient city of Indraprastha, the heart of which still beats under the skin of modern Delhi. It is written with reverence for the dusty fields of Kurukshetra, where in the thick of battle Krishna explained the laws of karma to his kinsman Arjuna. It is dedicated to the land of Bharata, which renews its past with every living moment. And to the next generation of readers, who continue to remember and retrieve the stories of an enduring culture, as they dream once again of Jaya, the song of victory.

  The Story of the Mahabharata

  Along, long time ago, in the ancient lands of India, known in those days as Bharatvarsha, a family quarrel grew into a bloody war. There had been wars before, and there have been wars since, but that mighty battle between warring cousins of the Kuru clan has become a part of the mythology and history of India. Told and retold a million times, the story of the Mahabharata is about defeat as well as victory, humility as much as courage. It is the greatest story ever told.

  There are four cycles of time that rule our universe, which are known in Sanskrit as the four yugas. These are the Satya, the Treta, the Dwapara and the Kali yugas. The Mahabharata war was fought at the very end of the Dwapara yuga. And as the heroic Pandavas began their last journey, to find their place in heaven or in hell, the Kali yuga of our present, mortal times began.

  It was almost three thousand years ago, in what is now northern India, that the Kuru kingdom flourished by the banks of the river Yamuna. It was here, in the city of Hastinapura and in nearby Kurukshetra, that the great battle was fought. The kings and princes who are the heroes of the tale were all descendants of King Bharata, and so it is known today as the Mahabharata. However, in the beginning it had a simple title and was known only as the ‘Jaya’, the song of victory.

  Generations have told each other this story. Parents have repeated it to their children, teachers have narrated it to their students. It was recited out loud by bards in royal courts and sung by wandering minstrels as they travelled through the land.

  The sage Vyasa, son of the sage Parashar, was one of the immortals who could live forever, defying the laws of time. He had heard the Mahabharata from many different narrators and had himself played an important role in the turn of events before the beginning of the actual battle. He decided one day to write down the story of this grand battle and preserve it for posterity. He wrote it in the language of those times, which was Sanskrit. And he wrote it in verse, so that it would be easy to memorize and recite.

  All this was, of course, before the age of printed books. There was no paper as we know it today. Writing is never easy, but it was even more difficult in those days, when people had to make do with palm-leaf manuscripts and reed pens. The story Vyasa set out to tell was also complicated beyond belief, with tales within tales, so that one could sometimes lose the thread of the main story. He knew that he had taken on a daunting task and decided to get the blessings of Brahma, the Creator of the world.

  Vyasa prayed to Brahma to grant him the strength and talent to record the story of the Mahabharata. Brahma appeared before Vyasa and blessed him. ‘But how can I tell this great tale alone without any help or support?’ Vyasa wondered aloud, still a little discouraged by the difficulty of the undertaking. Brahma, who knew of events past and present and those yet to come, nodded wisely. ‘Ganesha, the elephant god, is famous for his learning and memory,’ he said. ‘Pray to Ganapati Ganesha. He alone can help you.’

  So Vyasa prayed again, and as Brahma had promised, the elephant-headed god appeared before him.

  ‘I will help you, O sage’ Ganesha replied to Vyasa’s request. ‘But on one condition. I insist that my pen must not stop even for a moment while I write down the Jaya, the song of victory. You must not halt or pause when telling the tale, and I too will write it down in one continuous flow.’

  Vyasa thought for a while. He knew that the help of Ganesha meant that he could tell the Mahabharata in a way that his readers could understand and remember. ‘I agree,’ he said finally. ‘But I too have a condition. You, Ganapati, must listen carefully while I tell of the Jaya and make sure that you have understood everything completely before you write it down.’ Ganesha smiled and nodded his great trunk to indicate his acceptance.

  So the two got to work together. It took many, many years. Sage Vyasa would compose verses and Ganesha would write them down. Day and night they sang and wrote the Jaya, until finally it was done and ready, told for all time.

  But the thing about stories is that they are never finally told. They are always retold and rewritten, in new tongues, new languages, for new times, even as I am retelling it to you now. Just so, Narada, the messenger of the gods, recited the song of victory to all the great immortals in heaven and earth who had not heard it before. Suka, son of Vyasa, sang it to the sprites and spirits and demons, the gandharvas, the yakshas and rakshasas who inhabited the different worlds and dimensions. The story was also told to
Vaisampayana, who was a student and disciple of Vyasa.

  Many years after the time in which the battles of the Mahabharata were fought, Janamejaya, the son of King Parikshit who ruled the Kuru kingdom between the Saraswati and Ganga rivers, held a grand public sacrifice. Here, amidst the chanting of prayers, the story of his ancestors was told all over again by Vaisampayana.

  In the audience, listening intensely, was a young storyteller named Suta. The story made a deep impression on him. As Suta grew older, he travelled far and wide, visiting all the places mentioned in the tales of valour and sacrifice told by Vaisampayana. He saw for himself the mountains and rivers, the battlefields and sacred places, and he pictured in his mind how things had been so many, many years ago. Then Suta called all the sages and wise men of his age to the forest of Naimasa. Under the shade of leafy trees, he retold the story he had first heard as a young boy.

  It is Suta’s Mahabharata that I will retell. The story of the Pandavas and the Kauravas, the hundred and five brothers and cousins who grew up playing the same games, learning from the same teachers. They studied the art of war and trained as warriors together. Yet they were very different in the way they understood the rules and philosphy of battle, and years later they stood against each other in war. The Mahabharata is the grand epic of their lives, and of their ancestors and their descendants. There are stories within stories in it, each with a word or lesson for those who can spot it. And at the core of the story, like the seed in a fruit, is the Bhagvad Gita, where Lord Krishna and his friend Arjuna discuss the big questions of life.

  But to tell this properly, we will have to begin at the beginning, and go even further back in time.

  The Goddess Ganga

  Perhaps it all began with the river goddess Ganga, who had come down to earth in human form and was beautiful beyond belief. King Santanu of Hastinapura, the ancestor of the Kauravas and the Pandavas, saw Ganga and instantly fell in love with her. ‘Marry me and become my queen,’ he pleaded.

  Ganga, being an immortal, knew and understood the dangers of marrying a mortal. ‘It cannot be!’ she exclaimed. ‘Our love can only lead to disaster.’

  ‘I do not know who you are, but I will marry only you!’ King Santanu insisted.

  The king pleaded and protested until Ganga finally agreed to become his queen, but on one condition. ‘Never ask me who I am,’ she said, ‘or where I come from. Never question anything I do, good or bad. Accept me as I am, and I shall be yours. But if you question me, or judge my actions in the light of your own understanding, I shall be compelled to leave you.’

  The king was so madly in love with Ganga that he agreed to everything. They were married and lived together happily.

  The time came for Ganga to bear the king a child, the heir to his kingdom. The little her firstborn and cast him into the Ganga, the river which bore her name. The child fell to his death, drowning in the swirling waters, while Ganga watched on, smiling inscrutably.

  Santanu remembered the strange promise he had made to Ganga before marrying her and did not question his wife on why she had killed their child.

  This happened again and again and again. Each time Ganga had a child, she killed it by drowning the innocent babe in the river. Seven times Ganga bore Santanu a son and seven times the king watched on helplessly as she murdered him.

  The eighth time, as she was about to cast the child into the water, Santanu grabbed her by the arm and stopped her. He snatched the wailing child and held him tight. ‘This child must live!’ he exclaimed. ‘I cannot allow you to kill him!’

  Ganga looked sadly at her husband and child. ‘Santanu, I know my strange actions have puzzled and pained you,’ she said, ‘but I had my own reasons for acting as I did. I must leave now, for you have broken your promise. But before I go, I will tell you why I was compelled to kill our sons.’

  Santanu listened, amazed, as Ganga told him the story. ‘There was once a holy man called Vashishta, who owned a beautiful and magical cow. The eight Vasus, the gods of the elements, visited the mountains with their wives. On the way up they passed the hermitage where Vashishta lived. One of the Vasus, Prabhasa, loved his wife so dearly that he could refuse her nothing. She saw Vashishta’s cow and asked Prabhasa to steal it for her. He agreed, and the other Vasus helped him with the theft. They took the cow and its calf away from the hermitage and continued on their journey as though nothing much had happened.

  ‘Vashishta came to know of this through his magical powers. He was furious and cursed all the eight Vasus, who belonged to the world of immortals, that they would be born as mortals in the world of men.

  ‘The very worst thing that can happen to us immortals is to be forced to live in the human world,’ Ganga explained to Santanu. ‘The Vasus begged and pleaded for mercy but Vashishta could not take back his curse, even though he had begun to feel a bit sorry for them. He agreed to soften the curse and promised that the seven Vasus who had merely helped Prabhasa to steal his cow would leave the human world as soon as they were born into it and return to the world of the immortals. Only Prabhasa, who had wilfully planned the theft, would be condemned to live out an entire lifetime as a human before he could return where he truly belonged.’

  The king listened to his wife, their little baby held protectively in his arms. ‘The Vasus came to me for help,’ Ganga explained. ‘They begged me to become their mother in the human world and to kill them as soon as they were born. I have now fulfilled this duty. But alas! You have broken your vow to ask me no questions and now we must part.’ She took the little child from the king and disappeared into thin air before his eyes.

  Santanu was left all alone to rule his kingdom and remember his days of happiness with his mysterious wife.

  Many years passed. One day, as Santanu was walking along the banks of the Ganga, thinking as he often did of the wife who had left him, he saw a handsome young boy playing among the waves. The child held a bow and arrow in his hands and was furiously taking aim at the waves, building a dam across them with his arrows. In a flash, King Santanu understood that this must surely be his son, born of the river goddess Ganga. He called the boy to his side and looked into his eyes.

  At that very moment, Ganga herself materialized before him. ‘You are right, Santanu,’ she said, smiling as though reading his thoughts. ‘This is none other than our son Devavrata. He has studied in the world of immortals, where he has been taught the arts of war and archery by the brave master of weaponry Parshurama, and the learning of the Vedas by holy Vashishta. He has been instructed in the great sciences by the learned sage Sukra. The time has at last come for you to take our son back and rear him in the world of humans.’

  With these words Ganga disappeared once again, leaving the wondering king to reflect on the inexplicable tricks of fate, destiny and the gods.

  Satyawati

  King Santanu announced that his son Devavrata would succeed him as king, after his death. Devavrata was crowned the Yuvaraja, the royal heir, amidst much rejoicing in a grand ceremony in Hastinapura. Four years passed in happiness and contentment.

  One fateful day, Santanu was walking by the banks of the Yamuna river. Suddenly, the air was filled with a delightful fragrance. The puzzled king searched for the source of the lovely scent. He saw a beautiful maiden standing bashfully beside a boat by the bank of the river. Instantly he fell in love with her, just as he had done with Ganga so many years earlier.

  This maiden was Satyawati, the daughter of the Chedi king Uparichara, the chief of the fisherfolk, who had found her in the belly of a large fish. She was very beautiful, but always carried about her body the distinct smell of fish. When she was very young, the sage Parashar fell in love with her. He took her in a boat to a mysterious island, and with his magical powers, removed the smell of fish from her. Instead, the sweet fragrance of flowers clung always to her body. Parashar and Satyawati had a son, who was born on the river island. Parashar took his son, who later became the poet Vyasa, to a forest hermitage, while Satya
wati returned to her father’s kingdom.

  It was Satyawati, fragrant as flowers, whom Santanu sighted, as she stood by the river bank.

  ‘Who are you?’ Santanu exclaimed, and then almost in the same breath, ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘I am Satyawati, the daughter of the king of the fishermen,’ Satyawati replied with a radiant smile. ‘I ply this boat between the banks of the Yamuna, taking passengers from one shore to the other. If you wish to marry me, you must first ask my father for his permission.’

  The infatuated king rushed to meet Uparichara, chief of the fisherfolk. ‘I am Santanu, king of Hastinapura,’ he said. ‘I could smell a wonderful fragrance by the banks of the Yamuna and followed it until I found your beautiful daughter. I have fallen in love with her! I want to make her my wife!’

  ‘My daughter is as noble as she is beautiful,’ the king of the fishermen replied. ‘A great sage granted her the boon that she would spread fragrance wherever she goes. Yes, I will give my daughter to you in marriage, King Santanu, but there is a condition you must fulfil.’

  ‘I will do whatever you wish,’ King Santanu said impatiently. ‘What is it you want?’

  Uparichara cleared his throat and looked Santanu in the eye. ‘My daughter’s son should be the king after you,’ he said.

  Santanu was speechless. He thought of his beloved son, Devavrata, whom he had crowned as his heir. He could not be so unjust as to deprive Devavrata of the throne. Without a word, he left the king of the fisherfolk and rode back to Hastinapura.

  Devavrata’s Vow

  After Santanu returned to the palace, he tried his utmost to forget the beautiful, sweet-smelling fisher-maiden he had fallen in love with. But try as he would, he could not forget her. Haunted by her memory, he crept around his palace, sad and restless, a shadow of his former self.

  Devavrata noticed the change in his father. ‘Why are you so sad, Father?’ he asked repeatedly, but the king would say nothing. When Devavrata persisted, he answered him indirectly. ‘You are my only son,’ he said. ‘As a king, it is my duty to see that my family line does not die out. A king must have many sons, for a king’s life is uncertain, and wars and enemies are the way of life for a king’s son. If anything were to happen to you, who would rule the kingdom after me?’