Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Duryodhana, dark in thought and obstinate in pride, laughed softly and spoke in a tone sharp as steel.

“All that Vidura hath said of Kṛṣṇa,” quoth he, “is true. For Janārdana, devoted to the sons of Pāṇḍu, can never be severed from them by any art. Therefore, O King, let none of the treasures thou hast named be given to him. Keśava, no doubt, is worthy of all worship in the three worlds, but the time and place forbid it.

“If now we bend before him, he will think we do so from fear; and fear, O monarch, is a stain that never leaves a Kṣatriya’s name. I know his greatness—his arms hold the earth itself, his glory fills the worlds—but to honour him now would bring reproach upon us. War hath been resolved; let it not be weakened by hospitality.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

When the rash prince had spoken thus, Bhīṣma, the grandsire, his voice trembling with age yet burning with spirit, turned to Dhṛtarāṣṭra and said,

“Worshipped or unworshipped, Janārdana taketh no offence. None may dishonour him, for Keśava is not one to be despised. Whatever he willeth, no creature may hinder. Therefore, O King, do without delay what Mādhava adviseth. Through him alone may peace be wrought. For he will speak words that are righteous and wise, bringing both virtue and profit. Welcome him with truth and reverence, not with deceit or scorn. For even to speak harshly in his presence is perilous.”

But Duryodhana’s heart, darkened by delusion, swelled with arrogance, and he replied with dreadful intent.

“O grandsire, I will not live sharing this swelling glory of mine with the sons of Pāṇḍu. Hear my fixed resolve! Tomorrow, when Janārdana cometh, I will seize and confine him. Once the refuge of the Pāṇḍavas is bound, the Vṛṣṇis, the sons of Kuntī, aye, the whole earth shall bow to me. Counsel me, grandsire—how may this be done without suspicion, so that danger come not to us?”

At those reckless words, a chill fell upon the court. Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his heart struck by dread, said faintly,

“O child, never utter such sin again! This is against all law and honour. Hr̥ṣīkeśa cometh as an envoy, sacred by the rule of kings. He is our kinsman, our well-wisher, and hath done us no wrong. To imprison him were madness and ruin.”

Then the grandsire Bhīṣma rose like fire released from the altar. His eyes blazed; his frame shook with righteous wrath.

“This wicked son of thine,” he thundered, “chooseth evil over good though counselled by the wise. His hour is come. Thou, too, O King, followest in his shadow, blind to ruin. He treadeth a thorny path, scorning the words of friends, and now would raise his hand against Keśava himself!

“Know this—he and all who counsel him shall perish in the twinkling of an eye when they stand before Kṛṣṇa of spotless deeds. I will not listen to such sin.”

So saying, the aged lion of the Kurus—Bhīṣma, unconquered in battle—rose in wrath and left the hall, his steps echoing like thunder through the palace of Hastināpura.

And Vaiśampāyana said:

Pride is the cloud that veils the sun of right;

And Duryodhana’s heart was wrapped in night.

When wisdom spoke, he scorned its flame—

Thus perished he, and perished his name.

Vaiśampāyana said:

At dawn, when the light of the eastern sky first touched the dew-laden fields, Vāsudeva, the slayer of Madhu, rose from his rest. Having performed the rites of morning—purification, prayer, and silent meditation upon Nārāyaṇa—he took leave of the Bharatas who had sheltered him at Vṛkāsthāla and set forth toward Hastināpura, the city of the Kurus.

All the people of Vṛkāsthāla, men and women, young and old, gathered about him as he departed, offering blessings, flowers, and words of reverence. When the sound of his chariot faded, they turned homeward, their hearts uplifted yet stilled with awe.

Meanwhile, from the city itself, all the Dhārtarāṣṭras—save Duryodhana—came forth to receive him, clad in spotless garments. With them came Bhīṣma, the grandsire of immeasurable prowess; Droṇa, the preceptor; Kripa, ever steadfast; and many princes of royal blood. Chariots by hundreds, and citizens by thousands—some mounted, others on foot—lined the road, eager to behold Hr̥ṣīkeśa.

When he met Bhīṣma, Droṇa, and Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons upon the way, he greeted each with the grace of a god come among men, and so entered the city surrounded by them all.

In honour of Keśava, Hastināpura shone like a heaven descended. Its streets were swept and sprinkled, strewn with flowers and powdered sandal. Arches and garlands hung over every gate; gems glittered upon the doors of mansions; banners swayed from high terraces. None—man, woman, or child—remained indoors that day. All lined the roads, heads bowed, palms joined, singing praises as Hr̥ṣīkeśa passed by.

Women of noble birth leaned from golden balconies heavy with their thronging grace, so that the mansions seemed to bend beneath their living weight. Though the steeds of Vāsudeva were fleet as the wind, they moved slowly, pressed on every side by the adoring crowd. Thus, with a radiance that seemed to light the streets anew, the lotus-eyed Lord entered Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s palace, vast and pale as a cloud-bank on the horizon.

Through three great halls he passed, until he came into the presence of the blind monarch. There Dhṛtarāṣṭra rose with trembling hands, and Bhīṣma stood beside him, and Droṇa, Kripa, Somadatta, and Vāhlika—all rose to greet the scion of the Dāśārhas.

Then Kṛṣṇa bowed with reverence to the aged king and the grandsire, and greeted each of the elders in turn, speaking to them fitting words of honour. The priests of Dhṛtarāṣṭra brought forth gifts of a cow, honey, curds, and pure water in homage. At the king’s bidding, Keśava took a golden seat studded with jewels, while all the Kurus gathered round him in wonder.

For a time, the Lord of the Yādavas spoke with them gently—smiling, jesting, asking after their welfare, concealing his divine gravity beneath the warmth of kinship. When at last he rose, the blind king gave him leave to go. Bowing once more to the elders, Kṛṣṇa departed thence and made his way to the house of Vidura.

There the wise counsellor, righteous and pure-hearted, came forth to receive him. He washed the Lord’s feet with tears of joy, and worshipped him with all gifts of honour and devotion.

“O lotus-eyed one,” Vidura said softly, “what use in speaking of the joy I feel at thy coming? For thou art the inner Soul of all beings—he who dwells in every heart.”

Thus welcomed, the son of Devakī sat in Vidura’s house, and the rites of hospitality were duly performed. When all was done, Vidura, steadfast in dharma and rich in wisdom, asked of Govinda the welfare of the sons of Pāṇḍu.

Then Keśava, that knower of past, present, and future, who saw the hearts of men as one sees jewels through crystal, spoke to him at length of the Pāṇḍavas—their trials and vows, their patience and their hope, their righteousness and their danger.

And the sage’s voice closed this moment:

At dawn he came—the world grew bright;

At dusk he spoke—the wise took light;

Where Keśava walks, the heart is clear,

For truth itself is seated near.

Vaiśampāyana said:

When the sun declined westward and the shadow of the palace towers stretched across the courtyards, Janārdana, the slayer of Madhu, having conferred with Vidura, went to the inner chambers where his paternal aunt Pṛthā dwelt in quiet sorrow.

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Seeing Vāsudeva—radiant as the rising sun, his face luminous with serene majesty—enter her dwelling, Pṛthā rose from her seat, her limbs trembling with emotion. Throwing her arms around his neck, she drew him to her breast as tears long imprisoned broke forth like a river freed from its banks.

For a long while she wept in silence, the name of her sons trembling on her lips; and as she gazed upon Keśava—their beloved companion, their eternal refuge—her grief poured out in a torrent of words.

Kuntī said:

“O Kṛṣṇa, my child, my protector, thou who hast ever been the friend of my sons! They who from their earliest days honoured their elders and served their teachers with devotion;

they who, bound by fraternal love, sought each other’s joy above their own;

they who, though born to splendour, were robbed of their kingdom by deceit—

how, O Mādhava, have they endured this long night of exile in the heart of the forest?

They who were nurtured in palaces where the sound of drums and flutes roused them from sleep,

who once awoke to the chant of sacred hymns and the voices of bards,

how could those tender princes close their eyes upon the ground, lulled not by music but by the howls of beasts of prey?

My sons—whose beds were silken and perfumed, whose mornings were hymned by Brahmanas, whose hearts were pure and gentle—

they, deprived of their inheritance, dwelt beneath trees that shivered in the wind.

They who ruled over the earth as their forefathers Bharata and Dilīpa once did,

whose strength and virtue equalled Ambarīṣa and Śibi,

now wander in deer-skins and rags.

Tell me, O slayer of Madhu, how fares my Yudhiṣṭhira—

he of golden hue, steadfast in dharma,

whose tongue hath never uttered falsehood,

whose heart is even as an ocean of righteousness?

And Bhīma—my lion-hearted son, whose arms are like iron maces,

whose breath is as the wind, whose rage is a tempest—

he who slew the demon Hīḍimbā, and Baka, and the haughty Kīcaka,

who is equal to Vāyu in strength and to Indra in wrath—

how is that mighty one, that chastiser of foes,

who suppresseth his own fury for love of his elder brother?

And Arjuna—he who draws the bow as though it were a child’s plaything,

who at one stretch sends forth five hundred arrows,

whose arms are swifter than thought, whose courage equals the thunderbolt—

how is that conqueror of kings,

that refuge of the Pāṇḍavas, that brother so dear to thee?

And Nakula and Sahadeva—

those tender youths, my sons born of Madri,

pure in heart, skilled in arms, graceful as the Aśvins whose sons they are.

Sahadeva, wise and dutiful,

Nakula, fair of face and gentle of spirit—

they, who were raised amid comfort and splendour,

how do they fare now in the harshness of the wilderness?

But more than all, my thoughts cling to Draupadī—

the daughter of Drupada, high-born and steadfast in virtue,

the wife who shares the exile of her lords, leaving behind her dear children.

How is she, O Keśava?

Once adorned with gold and jewels, waited upon by maidens,

now clad in bark and stained cloth,

how endureth she this long grief?

Ah, my heart still burns when I recall that day in the hall of dice,

when Duhśāsana, drunk with wickedness, dragged her by her hair—

she who was in her season, clad but in a single garment—

into the assembly of kings.

The sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra sat silent,

and only Vidura, the wise, the righteous, spoke in her defence.

O Govinda, when I remember that scene of outrage,

neither Bhīma nor Arjuna nor even Yudhiṣṭhira himself

seems worthy of my affection, so deep was the wound to a mother’s heart.

For what greater sorrow can there be

than to see a daughter-in-law of such virtue and beauty

treated with shame before her elders?

I have not seen her these fourteen years, O Kṛṣṇa,

nor my sons who share her exile.

Tell me, is she safe?

Is her faith unbroken, her spirit still aflame with patience?

For if that pure-souled daughter of Drupada suffers yet,

then surely, O Janārdana, there is no justice in this world,

and joy and sorrow visit men not by their deeds but by the blind wheel of fate.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus spoke Kuntī, her voice trembling, her tears unceasing. And Vāsudeva, the Lord of all beings, listened with bowed head and eyes moist with compassion.

The chamber seemed filled with light, for wherever Keśava sat, there shone the calm of heaven. Then, in words gentle as nectar yet deep as the sea, he prepared to comfort her— but his speech belonged to the next moment of the tale, when the Lord of Dvārakā, the eternal refuge of the distressed, would speak to soothe the mother of heroes.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus, filled with both grief and gladness, Kuntī, the mother of heroes, poured forth her heart before Govinda. The memory of her sons’ long exile, of Draupadī’s humiliation, and of her own helplessness as a mother weighed upon her like a mountain. And as she spoke, her words trembled with the mingling of hope and sorrow.

Kuntī said:

“O Mādhava, tell me, is there joy for kings in games of dice, or in hunting the deer? These are the follies of the unrighteous. My sons, who were once sovereigns of men, now live by such means, wandering through forests and fields.

What could wound my soul more, O Janārdana, than to see Draupadī—

dragged by her hair into the Kuru assembly—

insulted by Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons while elders sat silent?

That day, shame darker than death covered the earth.

My sons were banished from their home, condemned to wander in forests among lions and serpents. For fourteen years they have endured suffering, yet not one word of reproach hath fallen from their lips. Surely, if misery destroys the fruits of sin, their store of sorrow must now have purified them wholly, and happiness will yet return.

I never made distinction between the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and mine;

I loved them all as one.

By that truth, O Keśava, I trust that thou wilt return victorious,

and that my sons, purified by trial, will regain their birthright.

The Pāṇḍavas are steadfast in dharma;

no falsehood, no deceit hath ever stained them.

Therefore, they cannot be defeated by men.

In this, I see not my fault, nor even Duryodhana’s—

I blame only my father, who in folly gave me away.

As one gives a jewel to a friend,

so thy grandsire, King Śūrasena, gave me—his daughter—to Kuntibhoja.

Thus abandoned by my own blood, by father and by father-in-law,

I have borne sorrow upon sorrow.

On the night when Arjuna was born,

a voice, unseen yet divine, spoke in the darkness:

“This child shall conquer the earth.

His fame shall ascend to the heavens.

He shall slay the Kauravas in battle

and perform three mighty sacrifices with his brothers.”

I believe that word, O Kṛṣṇa.

If dharma truly upholds creation, then that prophecy shall be fulfilled.

For years I have lived apart from my children,

each day like a death.

Men perform rites for those long unseen, thinking them gone—

thus, am I as one bereaved.

Tell my son Yudhiṣṭhira:

‘O child of virtue, thy patience and gentleness now verge upon weakness.

Rise, therefore, and act so that thy righteousness may not decay.

Death is better than a life sustained by dependence on others.’

Say to Arjuna and Bhīma, my lion-hearted sons:

‘The time hath come for which a Kṣatriya is born.

Delay not, lest honour fade from your name.

If dishonour touches you, I shall renounce you utterly.

Life itself must be laid down when the hour demandeth it.’

And to Nakula and Sahadeva, tell this, O Keśava:

‘Seek not soft ease, but the joy of battle.

Glory is the food of warriors;

gain it through valour, not through peace.’

Remind Arjuna also:

‘Hearken to Draupadī’s counsel,

for she hath suffered most and her wrath is righteous.

Bhīma’s fury and thine own strength,

when guided by her word, shall bring down the Kurus’ pride.’

For how can I forget the day when Duhśāsana, drunk with evil,

seized her by the hair before the eyes of kings?

How can I forgive that insult to my daughter-in-law,

noble and pure as the morning star?

Not the loss of kingdom, not defeat at dice,

but the sight of Draupadī’s shame hath torn my soul.

She who once shone amid splendour and song,

adored by princes and Brahmanas,

was dragged like a slave before her elders.

Though she had protectors—mighty sons, husbands, and kinsmen—

she stood then forsaken, her virtue mocked, her tears unheeded.

O Govinda, with thee and Rāma and Pradyumna for our guardians,

and with Bhīma and Arjuna living still,

that such sorrow should befall us is a wonder indeed!

Strange is the course of fate and inscrutable the ways of dharma.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus spoke Pṛthā, her heart breaking under the weight of remembrance. Vāsudeva, friend of Arjuna and protector of all beings, answered her with words soft as the moonlight yet firm as the law of truth.

Kṛṣṇa said:

“O revered mother, what woman in this world is like unto thee?

Born of the noble house of Sūrasena,

wedded into the illustrious line of the Kurus—

thou art a lotus transplanted from one sacred lake into another.

Honoured by thy husband, mother of heroes,

rich in virtue and wisdom—

thou must bear both joy and sorrow with equal mind.

Know, O blessed one, that thy sons are strong and steadfast.

Conquering hunger and cold, wrath and weariness,

they walk the path of warriors, scorning the petty comforts of men.

They seek not dull peace but the extremities of life—

the sharpest pain or the highest glory—

for such is the nature of the noble.

The wise find no delight in mediocrity;

they are drawn ever toward the height or the abyss.

So are thy sons, who pursue their destiny unflinching.

They salute thee, O mother, through me.

They are safe, steadfast in dharma, and mindful of thee.

Soon shalt thou see them return,

lords of the earth, with their enemies laid low,

their fame blazing like the sun in the firmament.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Hearing these words, Pṛthā’s sorrow ebbed like a tide withdrawn.

Rising, she bowed before the son of Devakī and said:

“O Keśava, do what thou deemest right.

Let it be done without deceit and without straying from dharma.

I know thy power, thy wisdom, and thy unfailing truth.

Thou art the soul of righteousness itself,

the embodiment of the eternal Brahman.

Whatever thou sayest, O Govinda, must surely come to pass.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Then, having taken leave of his aunt and circumambulated her in reverence,

the mighty-armed Govinda departed from her chambers,

his purpose fixed and his heart serene,

and went forth to the mansion of Duryodhana,

where the fate of the Bharata race awaited its turning.