Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (16 page)

and she and Draupadi embraced each other.

But then she wrung her hands. “Oh! I just said

you must share whatever you were bringing.

But how can you share Draupadi without

breaching dharma? Yet, if you don’t, my words

will be a lie.” The brothers became silent.

Their mother’s word was always absolute—

what could they do? They talked into the night,

and as they talked, glancing at Draupadi,

all five brothers fell in love with her.

Suddenly, Yudhishthira remembered

the story told them by the wise Vyasa.

Of course—to avoid making their mother

a liar, they should
all
marry Draupadi.

A heaven-sent solution! Up to now,

nothing had come between the Pandavas;

the marriage of one could have bred jealousy

among the rest. And though Arjuna had won

the Panchala princess, he should not marry

before Yudhishthira, his eldest brother.

When Draupadi looked at these five heroes,

each wonderful in his own way, she knew

the gods had given her a fivefold blessing.

Krishna and Balarama came to see them

(the first time the cousins had met each other)

and wished them all good fortune. The young men

were delighted. “But how did you know us,”

asked Yudhishthira, “disguised as we are?”

Krishna smiled. “Who but the Pandavas

would look so powerful and so dignified?

But we should not stay now.” And they took their leave.

Dhrishtadyumna, watching secretly,

was now convinced that the brothers were, indeed,

the Pandavas, and went to tell his father.

The king rejoiced. His hopes had been fulfilled:

the brave young brahmin really was Arjuna!

Next day, Drupada sent a splendid chariot

to bring the Pandavas to the royal palace

where they declared their true identities.

He asked the brothers how they had escaped

the dreadful fire, and what had happened since.

The story took some time. Drupada smiled.

“Now you need have no worries—all my wealth

and my fine army is at your disposal.

You will certainly regain your kingdom.

The Kauravas will not oppose you, now

our dynasties are to be joined by marriage.”

But five husbands! There he drew the line.

A kshatriya could marry several wives,

that was normal, but he had never heard

of one woman having many husbands.

It was not right. It was at odds with dharma.

Yudhishthira referred to well-known stories

where rishis—not offenders against dharma,

but holy men—had shared the same woman.

“That may be well for brahmins,” said Drupada,

“but not for us. How can I give my daughter,

my dark flower, princess of Panchala,

to
five
husbands, and still preserve her honor?”

At this point, Vyasa was announced,

timely as ever. Drupada turned to him,

“Muni, knower of minds, I need your wisdom,”

and he told Vyasa of the strange proposal.

Vyasa took the king to a private room.

“Drupada,” said Vyasa, “it is true

that such a thing is rare in recent times.

But in a nobler age, it was quite common.

And the marriage of your fire-born daughter

to these five brothers, was long ago ordained

by Shiva.”

Then Vyasa told the story:

“
T
HE GODS WERE
once performing a sacrifice in the Naimisha Forest. Yama, god of death, was fully occupied with sacrificial duties, and had no time to attend to the death of creatures. So human beings lived on and on, and the earth was becoming overcrowded. The immortal gods went to Brahma and complained that nothing now distinguished them from men.

“‘Rest assured,’ said Brahma, ‘that as soon as the sacrifice is over, Yama will resume normal activity and people will die as they always have.’

“The gods returned to the sacrifice, and Indra, chief of gods, noticed a woman washing herself in the Ganga. She was weeping and, as she wept, each tear became a golden lotus that floated on the water.

“‘Who are you,’ he asked, ‘and why are you weeping?’

“‘I will show you—come with me,’ she said. She led him to a nearby place where a youth was sitting playing dice, so utterly engrossed in the game that he took no notice when Indra spoke to him.

“‘Pay attention when I speak to you!’ said Indra, ‘Don’t you know that I am the chief of gods?’

“The youth smiled and glanced at Indra who became paralyzed immediately, for the youth was none other than the great lord Shiva. When he had finished his game, he told the woman to touch Indra, who collapsed on the ground.

“‘You need to be taught a lesson for your overweening pride,’ said Shiva. ‘Move that great boulder to one side and enter the cave that you will find behind it.’ Trembling with fear, Indra did so and, imprisoned in the cave, he found four other Indras exactly like himself.

“The five Indras begged Shiva to set them free. ‘You will recover your celestial status,’ said Shiva, ‘but only after you have been born in the world of mortals.’ The Indras asked that they should at least have gods as their fathers. ‘Let the gods Dharma, Vayu, Indra and the Ashvins be our begetters.’ Shiva agreed to this, and so it was that five remarkable sons were born to Pandu. Shiva also decreed that Shri, goddess of royal fortune, would be their shared wife in the world of men.

“Supreme Vishnu approved this arrangement. He plucked from his own head one white hair and one black hair, and placed them in human wombs. These were born as Krishna and Balarama.

“So, you see,” said Vyasa to Drupada,

“what seems to you contrary to dharma

is, in fact, celestially ordained.”

Drupada gave in. “If the great Shiva

himself has blessed this marriage, my clear duty

is to make it possible.” So it was

that Draupadi became the willing bride

of all five brothers. On successive days,

in order of their age, they married her.

And it is said that, for each one of them,

she came as a virgin to the bridal bed.

Drupada, having overcome his scruples,

exulted in the fortune that had brought him

five great sons-in-law instead of one.

He gave them all spacious living quarters

and every luxury and entertainment.

Krishna and Balarama spent time with them

and the cousins became deeply attached.

Krishna and Arjuna, in particular,

developed a profound friendship.

The brothers

were happy in Kampilya. But very often

their thoughts would travel to Hastinapura.

Sitting together in the cool of evening

they wondered what Duryodhana was planning.

They knew their cousin, knew only too well

his vengeful, proud and avaricious nature.

But they had found safety with Drupada

and, though it could not last, although they felt

they would grow slack without the discipline

and challenges that came with their heritage,

they gave themselves, for now, to the delight

of family, of friendship and of love.

By the time Duryodhana and Karna

arrived back in Hastinapura, the news

had flown before them, as great news often does,

mysteriously, as if borne on the wind.

Vidura, filled with joy, informed the king.

At first, Dhritarashtra misunderstood,

and thought it was his son, Duryodhana,

who had triumphed at the svayamvara.

Put right by his brother, the king exclaimed,

“This is a great day—my beloved nephews

alive and well! And beautiful Draupadi

the bride of all five! What great happiness!

What a triumph for the Bharatas!

Drupada will be a splendid ally.”

“May you hold this view for a hundred years!”

said Vidura; and he went to his own house.

Duryodhana harangued his smiling father.

“How can you talk like that to Vidura?

This disaster could eliminate us

yet you unctuously praise our enemies!

Somehow, they managed to escape the fire;

the consequence—we’re objects of suspicion

having reaped no benefit. My cousins

will never be content to cool their heels

at Kampilya. They must want to see

Yudhishthira enthroned in Hastinapura.

“My son,” said the king, “it seemed diplomatic

to say to Vidura what he wants to hear,

not to show, by a single muscle’s twitch,

my real emotion. Be sure I share your worries.

Now tell me—what do you and Karna think

we should do? What is our best way forward?”

Duryodhana had thought of little else

as he was traveling back from Kampilya.

He had a dozen proposals. “How about

stirring up rivalry between Kunti’s sons

and Madri’s twins? Or, what if we employ

courtesans to seduce them, so Draupadi

gets jealous? Or convince them that our army

is so powerful they wouldn’t stand a chance?

Or we could bribe Drupada with mounds of wealth.

Or, best of all, kill Bhima—set a trap for him.

Without Bhima, they would be half as strong . . .”

To all of this, Karna and Dhritarashtra

listened, unimpressed. “Duryodhana,”

said Karna, “such tricks never would succeed.

The Pandavas would see through all of them.

The best way forward is the most direct.

We should act swiftly, before Drupada

has a chance to marshal his fighting force.

A surprise attack, before Krishna’s army

of Yadavas can reach Kampilya,

will strike a double blow—we will be able

to crush both Pandavas and Panchalas.

We have outstanding warriors in our army;

there’s our own prowess, and that of your brothers.

We’ll win! Let’s defeat them in open battle

and live cleanly, without self-reproach.

That is the honorable way.”

The king

reflected. “Your plan does you credit, Karna,

but to go down that road, Bhishma, Vidura

and the council must support you. I myself

have to remain neutral at this stage.”

In the great council chamber, ministers

and gray-haired elders gathered for the debate.

Some younger men had also recently

joined the council: cronies of Duryodhana,

several of his brothers and loyal Karna.

First, Dhritarashtra asked for Bhishma’s view.

The patriarch rose slowly to his feet.

His tone was equable, but no one doubted

the strength of his opinion. “Dhritarashtra,

you are my much-loved nephew, as was Pandu.

Your sons, and his, have grown up at this court

under my care. I never could support

a war between them. My life is devoted

to the advancement of the Bharatas.

That is why I solemnly say to you

the time has come for justice to be done,

or destiny will turn against this kingdom.”

He turned to Duryodhana, knowing well

how influenced the king was by his son.

“The Pandavas have given no offense;

rather, it is they who have been injured.

Yudhishthira’s the eldest; there’s no question

that he’s the rightful heir. But it is clear

that you and your brothers, Duryodhana,

will never live in peace under his rule.

“What I propose, therefore, is that the kingdom

should be divided equally. Agree,

and the deadly conflict, foretold for this clan

and the entire land of Bharatavarsha,

can be averted. You know, a man dies

not only when the last breath leaves his body

but when his precious honor is corrupted.

The people blamed you for your cousins’ deaths.

You are fortunate—this is a chance

for you to return to the path of dharma

and to redeem yourself in the people’s eyes.

If you respect dharma, if you desire

my blessing, if you want security,

then, O prince, relinquish half the kingdom.”

Drona spoke up, agreeing, and the other

elders were signifying their assent, when—

“No!” cried Karna, leaping to his feet,

“Sir, this plan is a sludgy compromise.

Bhishma speaks the language of morality,

but I suspect mere prudence is behind it,

cowardice, even. It is no solution.

Mine is the path of honor—let us attack!

Let us protect ourselves preemptively.

Let us win glory for the Kauravas!”

The king’s brother, Vidura, stood up.

Dhritarashtra turned his sightless eyes

toward him. Vidura, more than anyone,

was his conscience. “My brother, ignore Karna.

Your nephews are unbeatable in battle.

They have Krishna as their friend and ally

and where Krishna is, there will victory be.

Bhishma and Drona are unmatched in this hall,

or anywhere, for wisdom and experience;

listen to what they say. Right’s on their side.

So are your interests. Did I not tell you,

long ago, that this noble lineage

would come to grief because of Duryodhana?

If you listened to the people, you would know

how low you stand in popular esteem,

how they suspect you of complicity

in the tragic blaze at Varanavata.”

Dhritarashtra’s spirits plummeted;

he feared the people. He made up his mind.

“I have decided. Yudhishthira should have

half the kingdom. That is the fair solution,

as Bhishma and the elders have proposed.”

He asked Vidura to travel to Kampilya,

taking lavish gifts. He was to urge

his nephews to return to Hastinapura

as soon as possible, bringing Draupadi.

At Kampilya, Vidura was received

with honor and affection. Without him,

the Pandavas would certainly have died.

Courteously, he conveyed Dhritarashtra’s

greetings, and his warm congratulations.

Krishna smiled. The brothers waited warily

for what their uncle Vidura would say.

“The king has asked me to impart his wish

that you should come home to Hastinapura

with your bride. The people long to see you—

as does he. He says he cannot be happy

without embracing his beloved nephews.”

Yudhishthira was caught in painful doubt.

How could he trust the king, and Duryodhana?

On the other hand, to spurn the wishes

of his uncle, to show such disrespect,

was not in his nature. “Sir,” he said,

turning to his royal father-in-law,

“What is your view? I shall do what you advise.”

Drupada hesitated. Courtesy

forbade him to suggest that his guests depart.

“I think you should go to Hastinapura,”

Krishna said, his eye upon the future,

“and I will go too, to ensure your safety.”

Kunti was worried, but Vidura assured her

Dhritarashtra, at least, had learned his lesson.

He would never dare to touch the Pandavas

knowing how the people felt about them—

and about him.

So the entourage set out,

accompanied by a large, well-armed escort,

for Hastinapura, City of the Elephant.

Never, in its very long history,

had the city seen such celebrations.

On the day the brothers were expected,

every gate and arch was garlanded,

every window hung with colored flags,

streets were swept, washed, strewn with lotus petals,

the scent of incense wafted everywhere.

Since dawn, people had milled about the streets,

and many had walked out of the city gate,

laden with flowers, to meet the homecomers.

And when, at last, they spotted the procession,

the princes on horseback, the royal palanquin

carrying the women, fervent cheers,

braying trumpets, drumrolls, booming conches,

shook the very stones, and made white flocks

of doves rise up, clattering into air

as if they too could not contain their joy.

Like a long wave breaking on the shore,

there was a collective sigh of pleasure

when Draupadi stepped from her palanquin.

How beautiful she was, how suitable

as their princes’ bride. And how wonderful

would be their future children.

Dhritarashtra

was waiting on the palace steps to welcome

his nephews and their bride.

After some days,

the king summoned them to his apartments

and made a grave pronouncement. “My dear nephews,

the prosperity of our noble kingdom

owes a great deal to your father, Pandu,

and to you, of course. Yet, to my sorrow,

you and Duryodhana are constantly

in conflict with each other. I have decided

to put an end to all this disagreement—

the kingdom will be split in half exactly.

You, Yudhishthira, will become king

of one half, and rule from Khandavaprastha.

I myself will continue to rule from here

until such time as Duryodhana

takes on the burden of the monarchy.