YUGANTA- DRAUPADI

Draupadi and Sita are heroines of the two Indian epic poems the Mahabharata and
Ramayana respectively. Both are daughters of the earth: Sita because she was found
during the ploughing for a yajna (sacrifice) and Draupadi because she came out of the
yajna fire itself. Both were wed in a svayamvara and each was given to a man who
proved himself the best archer of his time. One was exiled for fourteen years, the other
for thirteen, and the lives of both, for one reason or another, were frustrated. But despite
these similarities, the overall impact of the two is one of immense contrast, because the
entire content and style of the two books are diametrically opposed.
According to English literary usage both the Mahabharata and the Ramayana are
called epics. Indian tradition however distinguishes between the two by calling the
Mahabharata a history and the Ramayana a poem. Unlike the Ramayana, the main
purpose of the Mahabharata is to record events. In doing so it describes incidentally many
things like capital cities, forests, and rivers, but these are of secondary importance and are
always in the context of the main story. The scope of the Ramayana is narrower. That of
the Mahabharata is wide-ranging in time, in space, and in its cast of characters. Heroes
and cowards, villains and good men, impulsive fools and wise men, ugly men and fair
ones are all depicted in the course of its narrative. Almost no person is portrayed as all
good or all bad.
The Mahabharata is a record of human beings with human weaknesses. The entire
Ramayana, on the other hand, is in praise of an ideal man. Whatever was good in the
world was embodied in Rama, and it was to present this ideal to the world that Valmiki
wrote the Ramayana. As Rama is the ideal man, so is Sita the ideal woman. In fact, the
whole Ramayana is filled with idealized characters — the ideal brother, the ideal servant,
ideal subjects, even ideal villains. It is not that the Mahabharata has no extraordinary
characters. But even while depicting the extraordinary person, the poet does not let us
forget the ordinary in him.
The Ramayana is principally the story of one man, with the other characters serving as
a background to set the hero in relief. Beside Rama stands Sita. She has parents as well as
in-laws, but her parents’ home is a home in name only. Of her relations with her in-laws
we hear a little more, but in this context too the characters remain sketchy. Sita goes into
the forest with Rama, returns, is later cast off during pregnancy by Rama, and is finally
swallowed up by the earth, but we do not hear a single protest from her father or mother.
It is as if Sita were an orphan. There is a description of the greatness of her father, a ruler
of the Janakas, but this greatness of his is of no help to Sita in her times of need.
Entirely different is the story of Draupadi. Her father had performed a yajna to get a
child, and out of the yajna had sprung two full-grown children, a boy and a girl. The girl
was Draupadi. How beloved she was in her father’s house can be seen from some of her
names. According to custom in those days a person might be known by various names.
Even in this respect Draupadi is different from Sita. Both had given names: Sita, “the
furrow”; Krishna, “the dark one”; Janaki, “a female child of the kingly clan of Janaka”;
Draupadi, “a female child of the kingly dan of Drupada”; Vaidehi, “princess of Videha”;
and Panchali, “princess of Panchala”. But in addition Draupadi had two other names. We
do not know the personal name of the particular Janaka who adopted Sita after she was
found in the furrow. The personal name of the Drupada who adopted Draupadi after she
came out of the fire was Yajnasena. From him Draupadi has a name used often in the
Mahabharata — Yajnaseni, “the daughter of Yajnasena”. Sita’s mother, the Janaka’s
wife, is not mentioned at all. Draupadi’s mother i.e. to say Yajnasena’s wife, Prishati, is
mentioned. Draupadi and her brother had come from the fire as grown-up children. These
children were wished for and loved, not just found like Sita. Fearing that they would not
feel towards her as towards a true mother, Draupada’s wife prayed to the god of fire,
“Oh, Agni, let the children forget that they have sprung from you and let them feel that
they are my children”. This prayer was answered. Another name by which the boy
Dhrishtadyumna, is known is Parshata, and Draupadi is known as Parshati through the
mother. Prishata is the name of Drupada, Yajnasena’s father. Parshata and Parshati are
thus names derived from the grandfather.
In the Mahabharata story we have an account of over three generations of people tied
together with the whole web of kinship. Gandhari, who on her marriage to a blind man
(Dhritarashtra) had bound her eyes with a strip of cloth, had her brother Shakuni stay at
the Kuru court intriguing on behalf of his sister’s children. Kunti, the widow of Pandu,
was guarding her five children with the help of her father’s people. Draupadi’s parents
and brothers were very important allies of the five brothers Dharma, Bhima, Arjuna,
Nakula and Sahadeva. Arjuna’s daughter-in-law Uttara and her brother Uttara form a
lovely sub-story. The great grandfather Shantanu and his son Bhishma have an
important role in the development of the story. Thus the background of many individual
lives: brothers and step-brothers, older and younger generations, wives of brothers, uncles
and nephews, relations by marriage, and many others with their intricate rivalries and
alliances give Draupadi her many dimensions. As background to the family relationships
we are given a glimpse of the larger rivalries and alliances in the political field of the then
ruling kings from Jarasandha of Magadha in the east to Shalva on the banks of the Indus
in the west. Behind the tangled rivalries of kin are portrayed those of politics; the family
and personal clashes gain a sharpness of outline against the background of the reigning
houses of Yadavas, Kauravas, and Drupadas. Finally, there is the war itself, a culmination
of the struggle for power in the family and1 in the state.
In contrast to this, the Ramayana barely mentions the in-laws of the Ikshvaku
(Ayodhya) house, the Janakas and Kekayas. Havana with whom the battle was fought
belonged to a different world, beyond the pale of the Kshatriya houses of the Gangetic
valley. Like a modern love story the whole narration is about two people; we get no
glimpse of the familial and social forces which shape their mental processes and
personalities.
Till the day they married Draupadi the Pandavas were moving incognito from town to
town. They had escaped from a horrible death planned for them by the Kauravas, and
were afraid of letting their enemies know that they were alive. In the court of Drupada
they sat, under assumed identities, among a group of poor Brahmins. Arjuna’s sucess in
the contest won for the Pandavas not only a beautiful wife but also powerful allies. With
these and the Yadavas to back them they could ask for their share of the Hastinapura
kingdom. Through their marriage to Draupadi they got a wife, status, and a kingdom.
In the Ramayana Rama had sat among the Brahmins in the court of Janaka. But he was
not sitting incognito. It was mere chance that he happened to be with a Brahmin at that
time. Their marriage brought status to Sita and gave Rama a beautiful and devoted wife.
From the point of view of the Ramayana Rama needed nothing more.
As the daughter of a powerful and noble family, Draupadi was the living symbol of
the Pandavas’ new position; but more than that, as the wife of all five she was the source
of their unity and solidarity. The day Arjuna won her and brought her home his mother
unwittingly said, “Whatever you have brought today, share equally with your brothers as
always.” Then she saw the lovely young girl! How could she be divided among the five?
Dharma told Arjuna, “Brother, you won her; you marry her.” Arjuna answered, “How can
I commit the sin of marrying before you and Bhima, my elder brothers? You are the
eldest; you marry her.”
Arjuna was right. From the Vedas and the Brahmanas onward it was considered not
only contrary to good etiquette but sinful for the younger brother to marry before the
elder. If he did so, the guilt not only fell on both brothers, but also on the parents who had
consented to the marriage. The reasons for this are clear. In ancient times the eldest had
the right of succession and inheritance. To be able to perform the shraddha (offering to
the dead) of his parents and the duties of a householder he had to be married. Moreover,
the younger brothers had access to an elder brother’s wife, but over the younger brother’s
wife an elder had no right. Thus the marriage of the younger brother before the elder
deprived the elder of his social, familial, and religious rights and for this reason such a
marriage was considered a sin. Had Arjuna married Draupadi first his elder brother
could not have married her. On the other hand, Dharma as the elder had the right to marry
her though she had been won by Arjuna. In his grandfather’s generation Bhishma had
won a girl and given her to his brother. If Dharma alone had married Draupadi all five
would have had the right to her, but the text suggests the following reason this alternative
was rejected and she was solemnly married to each. As the discussion about what to do
with Draupadi went on, the eyes of the five brothers were fastened on her with
unconcealed desire which did not escape the shrewd observation of Kunti. Finally,
through her wisdom and a stratagem of Vyasa the dilemma was resolved so that Draupadi
became the wife of all five and her marriage to all five thus destroyed any possible seeds
of dissension. This very thing Karna later pointed out to Duryodhana. After the Pandavas
had got married and come out into the open, Duryodhana was planning again to destroy
them. He told Karna, “Divide Kunti’s three sons from their two step-brothers, the sons of
Madri; or offer Drupada money for turning the Pandavas over to us. Or if nothing else,
let us at least destroy Bhima, for he is a constant thorn in my side.” Karna pointed out
the futility of all such measures: “If we couldn’t destroy the Pandavas when they were
friendless, we certainly cannot do so today. Now they have allies, and, what is more, they
live in a different country. Besides, Drupada is a man of principle, not a greedy king.
Drupada’s son is devoted to Arjuna. Now that Draupadi has become the wife of the five
it will never be possible to separate the brothers.” And as long as Draupadi lived they
never were separated. Kunti had watched over the Pandavas until the day of their
marriage after which Draupadi assumed the responsibility. The five were brave, but
poorly suited to the responsibilities of kingship. One was addicted to dice, another mighty
but brash, the third valiant but unskilled in statecraft. The two younger sons merely
copied the example of their elder brothers. Affairs of state were never handled
independently by the Pandavas; they were managed by Krishna, Kunti’s brother’s son.
Very soon after her marriage Draupadi saved her husbands from utter ruin. In the dice
game Dharma had not only lost his entire kingdom but had staked his own wife.
Dragged into the assembly of the Kauravas she was shamefully dishonoured. Finally,
fearing that the indecency had gone too far and would have terrible consequences,
Dhritarashtra intervened. To Draupadi he granted three favours. With the first she freed
Dharma as the crowned king; with the second she freed the remaining four. Then saying,
“If my husbands are free and armed, that is enough for me,” she refused the third favour.
Skilfully asking the favours, without making any demand for herself, she had saved the
Pandavas from degradation. Karna again summed it up: “Up till now we have heard of
many beautiful women in the world, but no woman has done anything equal to what
Draupadi has done here today. The Pandavas and Kauravas were burning with anger, and
in that conflagration no one can say what might have happened, but Draupadi has reestablished
peace. Like a boat she has saved the Pandavas when they were about to
drown in a sea of disgrace.” The taunt that they had been saved by a woman infuriated
Bhima. But though Karna had said it maliciously it was true.
The word used for the period spent in the forest is the same in the case of Draupadi
and Sita — vanavasa (leading a forest life) —but there the comparison ends. Draupadi
was driven to the forest by her husband’s addiction to gambling and the consequent loss
of his kingdom. Sita’s forest life, on the other hand, was the result of her husband’s
idealism and sense of duty. Kaikeyi, the stepmother of Rama, had plotted to secure
succession to the throne for her own son Bharata. She extracted a promise from her
husband to send Rama into exile for fourteen years, and to give the kingdom to her own
son. From this intrigue the king died of grief. Rama, as the eldest prince, could have
become king immediately, but he chose instead to fulfil his father’s promise. Rama left
the capital, but Bharata refused to accept the kingdom, and returned it to Rama.
Therefore, from a practical point of view, there was no reason for Rama to go at all.
Rama went into exile only because he had assumed the burden of his father’s promise. It
was a self-imposed ordeal.
The Pandavas, however, were forced into exile. In the capital of their enemies the
Kauravas, the stakes had been announced openly before the elders. There was no alternative
except to abide by their word. When they came to see the Pandavas at the
beginning of their exile, Draupadi’s brother and Krishna could do nothing more than
express their dismay at what had happened. Going to war at that time would have meant
a permanent blot on their name; and under the circumstances even their friends might
have refused to back them. Keeping true to their word was for the time being the only
defence against their enemies. Their behaviour, in other words, was not only moral; it
was one hundred percent expedient as well.
As Draupadi had had the right to share in the splendour and greatness of her husbands,
so now she had the responsibility of sharing their suffering and disgrace. The Pandavas’
other wives had taken their children and gone to their parents’ homes. Draupadi sent her
children to her parents — they had to be educated so it would not do to keep them in the
forest — but she herself stayed with her husbands. She was not one to suffer in silence
however. She clenched her fists and cursed; she burned with anger when her brother
Dhrishtadyumna visited her in the forest she wept continuously and cried with bitter rage,
“I have neither husbands, nor brothers, nor father. If I had, do you think they would have
stood for ray being insulted like this?”
When everyone had left she again brought up the subject, trying in vain to persuade
Dharma to take revenge against the Kauravas.
Fortunately, however, Draupadi was not free to brood on the past. Even in the forest
she could not escape the responsibility of being a daughter, daughter-in-law and wife of
great kings. From morning to night she was busy. She had to make preparations for the
vitally important rites conducted by Dharma and the family priest. Despite the Pandavas’
limited means, they could not stint in the performance of the ceremonies. Nor did the
Pandavas escape the obligations of hospitality, obligations prescribed by the Kshatriya
code and by political considerations as well. Hundreds of guests -Brahmins and others
—were continually coming and going, giving Draupadi even less solitude and leisure
than she had in the palace. When she was not working she had to sit and listen to the
long-winded tales of the guest rishis. All this time she was irreconciled to her fate and
dwelt continually on her hope for revenge. Krishna with his wife Satyabhama visited the
Pandavas towards the end of the exile. At parting he consoled, her, “My dear, I promise
you that all these insults will be ‘paid for.” His wife Satyabhama embraced her and d,
“Draupadi, don’t cry; you have seen the Kaurava wives laugh at you; one day you will
see them weep.”
Sita’s exile was unshadowed by hatred and suffering. For more than twelve years she
lived in a continual honeymoon. As the wife of the crown prince in Ayodhya
she had been surrounded by the bustle of servants, by her father-in-law and three
mothers-in-law. There had been no chance to give herself completely to love. Now she
was free. Her forest was like the forest in the romantic dreams of young city girls; there
were deer and swans, and the delightful Godavari River with its long stretches of sandy
shore. Dotting the landscape here and there were the ashramas of the rishis, offering
hospitality and human companionship. Occasionally there were just enough cruel beasts
to give one a few delightful shivers. Of the burden of the real world there was nothing —
no smart of remembered insult, no yearning for absent children, no crowds of guests. The
poet Valmiki has poured into Ramayana all of his powers. Using the forest as
background, he has told the story of the gradual transformation of Sita from a young girl
into a mature woman deeply in love. To Sita herself the memory of her exile was so
idyllic that during her pregnancy she craved only one thing — to go back to the forest.
After Havana the demon king had carried Sita off to Lanka, she faced sorrows and
dangers, but they were those of a romantic, unreal world. Though she had been abducted
there was no fear of her captor’s raping her. She was surrounded by demonesses
threatening to devour her. That the wealthy and learned Ravana should have a retinue of
man-eating demons is rather peculiar. The story of Rama and Ravana with their armies of
monkeys, bears, and demons is more fantasy than fact. Indeed the whole story is
fantastic, romantic and other-worldly. Rama was an ideal man, Sita an ideal woman.
Rama was devoted to his father, to truth, and to his wife. To show he was brave, there
had to be a war. The heroine had to get into difficulties from which the hero could save
her. A courageous hero, a virtuous heroine — all the stuff of the Sanskrit kavya (literary)
tradition. And following the kavya tradition, category for category, there is a description
of each kind of love: first love, mature love, then separation and its agonies. Even the war
is but a literary device and-is unreal. A great war is fought, but Ayodhya, the capital of
Rama, remains untouched, waiting for Rama to return and take over the kingdom. When
the time comes he does go back. Brothers meet brothers, sons meet mothers;
daughters-in-law their mothers-in-iaw. The flames of war have not reached Ayodhya;
they have remained in the realm of romance.
Draupadi’s troubles were human, brought on by people of this world and particularly
by her own husbands. Her experiences are described realistically, unembellished by
flowery language or poetic conventions. In almost every episode, insult is piled upon
insult, constantly adding fuel to the hatred in her heart. Two words keep recurring in
reference to Draupadi — nathavati anathavat, “having husbands, but like a widow.”
She was the wife of the five but bereft the daughter of a rich house but like an orphan, she
had brave allies but she was alone. This was the pity of her situation. Every time she
was dishonoured her husbands and fathers-in-law stood watching in silence. They had to;
they were powerless. Only twice was she saved; once by a divine miracle, another time
secretly by Bhima.
Furthermore, the war in the Mahabharata was a real war, bringing grief to victor and
vanquished alike. Draupadi’s full-grown children were dead, her father’s dan nearly
destroyed. As the dying Duryodhana had said, she and Dharma would reign over a
kingdom of widows. Formerly the palace at Hastinapura had been alive with a host of
kin: elderly princes, and young, vigorous ones, little children, grandchildren,
grandmothers, mothers-in-law and young women. When Dharma succeeded to the throne
they had all been wiped out. Since the youngest men had died unmarried there were not
even widows to burn themselves on their husband’s pyres. The widowed Uttara and her
son born after his father’s death were the only young people left. Within the clan there
was peace, but the enmities created in consolidating the kingdom had not ceased. The
embittered Takshaka sat waiting for the chance to take revenge on Arjuna for the burning
of Khandava forest. For the Pandavas there was no joy in victory. Shortly after the war
Krishna, who had been their support all their lives, died a tragic death and with his death
his whole clan was destroyed. The end of the Mahabharata is not merely the end of
Draupadi or the end of the Pandavas or of their clan. It is the end of a yuga (epoch). Each
agony of that dying yuga Draupadi suffered in her own person. When her sons were
treacherously killed she wept and complained for the last time. From then on we hear her
voice no more.
There is an unfounded opinion, particularly popular after the Jain Puranas, that
Draupadi was the cause of the war in the Mahabharata. One Purana has the following
verse:
“In the Kritayuga Renuka was Kritya,
In the Satyayuga Sita was Kritya,
In the Dvaparayuga Draupadi was Kritya,
And in the Kaliyuga there are Krityas in every house.”
A Kritya is a bloodthirsty, demonic female. Some misogynist has written these lines
without any regard for facts. This man obviously thinks that women start a quarrel and
the men fight it out; and that all the wars where much blood has been shed were due to
women. In the case of Renuka, her son Parashurama went to war because King Haihaya
had stolen Renuka and a cow — both property of his father — not simply because of
Renuka. In Rama’s war against Ravana it is true that Sita was the one and only cause.
But that Draupadi was the cause of the war in the Mahabharata — at least the main cause
— is definitely not true. The seeds of war had been planted on the day Dhritarashtra was
denied the throne because of his blindness and Pandu was made king.
From their earliest childhood there was enmity between the sons of Dhritarashtra and
the sons of Pandu, even before the Pandavas’ marriage to Draupadi. The Pandavas were
more concerned with getting a share of the kingdom and in keeping peace than in
revenging the insults to their wife. If the Pandavas had insisted on having their full share
of the kingdom or, if to provoke, the Kauravas they had demanded even more than their
due, we might have been able to say that they wanted revenge for the humiliation of
Draupadi and intended to wage war no matter what happened. But in reading the
speeches of Dharma and others, we can see clearly that everything they say is directed
towards avoiding war and obtaining a portion of the kingdom. Even Bhima, who is
continually burning because of Draupadi’s humiliation, says to Krishna, “Tell them,
‘Brothers, don’t destroy everything; give the little bit that Dharma is asking for’.”
Hearing this, Krishna had to laugh, “What! Is this the Bhima we’ve always known?”
Draupadi alone keeps saying, “Krishna, he dragged me by the hair. Have no mercy on the
man who put his filthy hands on my hair.”
The Pandavas, with Krishna as their spokesman, tried to avoid war. Pitifully, like
beggars, they asked only for five towns, but Duryodhana answered, “We are not going to
give you even one pin-point of land.” Then they had to fight. As the war went on a host
of old wrongs were avenged. Draupadi’s wrongs were avenged only by Bhima. For the
rest, there were personal rivalries, like that of Arjuna and Karna, and, most importantly,
the struggle for inheritance which from ancient times has been part of the history of the
joint family in India. Draupadi did not cause the war. She wanted it, but as the true
inheritors of India’s patrilineal society that they were, the Pandavas were hardly men to
bow to the wishes of their wives.
How little Draupadi mattered can be seen in Krishna’s offer to give her and a share of
the kingdom to Karna if he would join the Pandavas. Fortunately, Draupadi had no
inkling of this contemptible bargain. In the opinion of some, it is true; such an
arrangement would have been to Draupadi’s liking; for they claim she loved Karna.
However, this opinion too is entirely unwarranted. The Mahabharata makes no attempt to
idealize its characters; in every character it brings out the good and the bad. If the thought
of anyone other than the Pandavas ever entered Draupadi’s mind, we can be sure that the
Mahabharata would have mentioned it. She had never so much as looked at Karna.
According to the critical edition, Karna didn’t even attempt to win her in the svayamvara.
In the whole of the Mahabharata Draupadi and Karna had nothing to do with one another.
The notion that she loved him came in a later Jain Purana, not in the Mahabharata itself.
The Draupadi of the Mahabharata stormed and raged, but to the last moment she
remained a faithful wife. There is not a single incident in her life that casts the slightest
suspicion on her.
That Sita should be suspected of transgressions was her great sorrow, a sorrow
intensified by the fact that circumstances gave ground for such suspicions. Curiously
enough, the testing of Sita and her subsequent abandonment by Rama are not mentioned
in the Mahabharata version of the Rama story. Since the story of Sita, along with those of
Savitri and Damayanti, was told in the Mahabharata to show how other women also
suffered like Draupadi, her abandonment should certainly have been mentioned. The fact
that it was not makes us suspect that in the original Ramayana there was no question
raised about Sita’s chastity.
Let us consider, however, the incident as it occurs in the present Ramayana. The
account of Sita’s suffering should have been in the kavya tradition: suspicion of the
heroine, the clearing of her name, and finally, reconciliation — the structure exemplified
in Kalidasa’s Shaktmtala. The story of Sita begins in the approved fashion but departs
from the classic formula in its end, which is the self-destruction of Sita. She could have
undergone some other ordeal to convince the people of her innocence but she chose not
to, and her tragic end has remained an un-healed wound in the hearts of Indians. Why did
the, poet allow Sita to be abandoned? The Ramayana, as we have said, is intended to
show Rama as a completely ideal man in every respect. He had been tested in all kinds of
adversities and had come out as the ideal son, the ideal brother, the ideal husband. But
still one test remained: would he, in a conflict between his own selfish love and the
wishes of the people, be able to sacrifice his “selfish interest”. Rama passed this last test
too, choosing to give up Sita in deference to the opinion of his subjects. Unfortunately,
however, Rama’s choice has not been accepted without question. Is the sacrifice of an
entirely defenceless person justifiable just for the sake of public pressure? Couldn’t Rama
have given up the kingdom instead? Kalidasa, Bhavabhuti, and other great poets have felt
that the abandonment of Sita was unjust. In short, that one event is a blot on the ideal
portrait of Rama; but in that very event Sita was transformed from being a shadow of her
husband to a person in her own right, with her own sorrows, her own humiliation, and the
opportunity to face them entirely on her own.
Draupadi’s life has nothing comparable to this event. Her sorrows, her humiliations
are realistic; they are not merely brought in to embellish the poetry; and their resolution
takes place on the level of the real world. Sita was a daughter of the earth because she
came out of the earth; Draupadi was a true daughter of the earth because her feet were
firmly planted on the ground, her heart was in the world defined by her marriage and
family within the boundaries of her father’s house, father-in-law’s house, her own palace.
Her sensitive pride, her willingness to sacrifice herself, and her faithfulness to her
husbands were the qualities appropriate to her country, time, and clan. She was
extraordinary, but this very extraordinariness was born out of the ordinary values of her
time. She burst out in anger against Arjuna when he married Subhadra. Sita never had to
face the problem of having a rival wife. Draupadi’s situation in being a co-wife was
common, her outburst was natural, but in her daily behaviour with the Pandavas’ other
wives she showed uncommon restraint never exhibiting her jealousy.
Both Draupadi and Sita committed grave mistakes and received full punishment for
them. When Rama went after the golden deer he told his brother Lakshmana to stay
behind with Sita. Hearing Rama’s shout, Sita told Lakshmana to go to Rama’s aid, but
Lakshmana refused to go. Thinking the worst of his intentions, she rebuked him and sent
him away and as a result, Ravana was able to carry her off. The entire golden deer
episode was designed to give an opportunity for Sita’s abduction. If we go further back in
the story we can also say that Ravana abducted Sita to take revenge for her having
laughed at his sister. Draupadi also laughted at a person she should have treated with
respect. In front of everyone she had laughed when Duryodhana got confused in the
Pandavas’ marvellous palace Mayasabha, mistaking water for dry land, and dry land for
water. Her rude laughter was the worst insult Duryodhana had to bear.
Then, too, after Bhima had secretly killed the Kichaka, a wicked brother of the queen
of Virata, Draupadi gloatingly announced the news to the guards. She should have
remained unseen somewhere, but still not satisfied with her revenge she watched the
funeral procession. Discovered by his brothers, she was taken away to be burned on his
funeral pyre. Bhima had to rescue her again. The woman who could think, “My enemy is
dead, -now let me feast my eyes on his corpse”, was truly a daughter of the earth.
But what was Draupadi’s biggest mistake?
When Dharma lost the dice game and Duryodhana sent a slave to bring her into the
assembly, she sent the slave back, saying, “Go into the assembly and ask if Dharma-raja
had become a slave before he staked me.” Duryodhana replied, “Come into the assembly,
you will get your answer.” When she refused to come, Duhshasana dragged her into the
hall. There she stood weeping, but with fury she asked the question again. With shouts
that talking was useless, the Kaurava men started pulling off Draupadi’s sari. As each sari
was pulled off another appeared in its place. Meanwhile the discussion continued.
The question Draupadi asked rested on a difficult and complicated legal point. Even
Bhishma, who had often taken the part of the Pandavas in quarrels with Dhrita-rashtra
and Duryodhana, was unable to give an answer, perhaps for fear of compromising
Draupadi. What Draupadi was contending was that once Dharma had become a slave he
had lost his freedom and had no right to claim anything as his own; a slave has nothing he
can stake. Then how could Dharma stake her freedom? Although her argument seems
plausible from one point of view, even a slave has a wife, and the fact of his slavery does
not destroy his authority over her. Moreover, from the most ancient times a slave had the
right to accumulate certain property that was entirely his own. The question was thus a
tangled one, involving the rights of a master over a slave and a slave over his wife.
Draupadi’s question was not only foolish; it was terrible No matter what answer was
given her position was desperate. If Bhishma told her that her husband’s rights over her
did not cease, that even though he became a slave, she was in his power and he had the
right to stake her, her slavery would have been confirmed. If Bhishma had argued that
because of his slavery her husband had no more rights over her, then her plight would
have been truly pitiable. Draupadi was described as nathavati anathavat — “with
husbands, but like a widow”, and if her relation with her husband was destroyed she
would have been truly widowed. From Rigvedic times there are references to abandoned
wives living wretchedly in the house of their father. But there is not a single case in
which a woman, of her own accord, had denied her husband. For such a woman, getting
even a lowly position in her father’s house would have been impossible, to say nothing of
an honorable one.
Draupadi’s question had put all of them in a dilemma. Bhishma hung his head.
Dharma was ready to die of shame. Draupadi was standing there arguing about legal
technicalities like a lady pundit when what was happening to her was so hideous that she
should only have cried out for decency and pity in the name of the Kshatriya code. Had
she done so perhaps things would not have gone so far. Allowing their own daughter-inlaw
to be dragged before a full assembly, dishonouring a bride of their own clan in the
hall of the men, was so against all human, unwritten law that quibbling about legal
distinctions at that point was the height of pretension.
Draupadi at that moment called on neither man nor god, but from the way garment
after garment kept appearing to replace the ones Duhshasana tore away, it seemed as if
the power of the universe itself had awakened to protect her. Still she kept insisting on
the question of Dharma’s right to stake her. Finally Duryodhana said, “Ask your
husband this question. We trust Dharmaraja’s wisdom and judgment so much that we
will abide by his decision”. Draupadi’s question and Duryodhana’s cunning answer cut
Dharma to the quick. It was impossible to reply. But he was spared. The hall filled with
ominous, threatening noises, the evil had reached its climax. Duhshasana, exhausted
and ashamed, turned away. Vidura arose, greatly troubled, and said to Dhritarashtra,
“These deeds will bear terrible consequences; intervene now and save the clan.”
Frightened at all that had happened, Dhritarashtra freed Draupadi and granted her three
favours and with them she obtained the freedom of her husbands. Nevertheless no one
had liked her pretensions to wisdom and Dharma never forgot it for the rest of his life.
In the forest, too, Draupadi sometimes tried to show off her learning before him, but
defeating Dharma in learning was impossible; each time he quickly silenced her. She
had made many mistakes in her life that were forgiveable but by putting on airs in front
of the whole assembly, she had put Dharma into a dilemma and unwittingly insulted him.
The fact that the insult was unintentional did not make it forgiveable. Though she was
only a young bride of the house she had spoken in the assembly of the men, something
she should have known she must not do. Beyond that, to pretend that she could
understand questions that baffled her elders — that was inexcusable arrogance. These
two things wounded Dharma and did nothing to add to her good name. In the
Aranyakaparva Dharma called her a “lady pundit”, hardly a complimentary epithet in the
eyes of the Kshatriyas of the Mahabharata. Gandhari and Kunti could give advice to their
sons because they were older, experienced women. For a young bride to show off her
intelligence in the presence of her elders was a grave mistake. This mistake Draupadi
apparently never understood and Dharma never made her aware of it. What she had done
was the result of her earthy, violent, but basically simple nature.
There was, however, another mistake that Dharma revealed so openly that even
Draupadi could not fail to understand it. After the death of the Yadavas — especially of
Krishna — the Pandavas could no longer remain on earth. They settled their affairs and
set out on the last pilgrimage. Draupadi, of course, was with them. They crossed the
Ganges, then the Himalayas, and finally reached a treeless plateau. Here and there were a
few rocks scattered about. Otherwise it was completely barren. Month after month the six
walked in single file. Then one day Draupadi suddenly fell down. Bhima stopped.
Idiotically he asked, “Why did she fall?” After walking so far, why shouldn’t she fall?
Where were the six going? Did Bhima think that as usual all of them were going to reach
their destination together? But the ties of life had been cut. She fell, and five, ten feet in
front of her the others fell. Dharma alone went forward with his dog.
“Look, won’t you — she’s fallen!” Bhima said. “Why did she fall?”
“Bhima, keep going. She fell because she loved Arjuna the most.” Dharma answered
without looking back. Draupadi fell down. Nakula, Sahadeva, Arjuna and, last of all,
Bhima fell one after the other. Dharma alone went ahead with his dog.1
True, Draupadi had fallen, but she had not toppled over dead. A terrible fatigue had
overwhelmed her. She could not take a single step more. Lying there she heard Bhima’s
question and Dharma’s answer. This was the Great Journey in which no one waited for
anyone else. Putting her hand on her head she lay waiting for death. But she was
conscious. Dharma’s words stirred memories, and in her last moment’s scene after scene
came before her eyes.
1 Author’s note: The part up to this point is based on the critical edition of the Mahabharata.
What follows is my naroti (Naroti = a dry coconut shell, i.e. a worthless thing. The word nafoti
was first used in this sense by the poet Eknath.)
She recognised the hurt in Dharma’s words, the contempt too. For the first time in her
life she pitied the king from her heart. Often in the forest she had commiserated with him
about his position, but each time she took the opportunity of starting a new discussion,
pointing at his wretched condition to awaken the warrior in him. So even her pity was a
kind of goading. The king never gave in to her. As mildly as he could, he would try to
gloss over what she said. He never told her what he was feeling. Only today in a single
sentence he had told what he thought was her one defect, and in so doing had laid bare
the life-long wound in his heart. Draupadi understood Dharma’s frustration, and for a
moment she felt regret. But only for a moment. Realizing his contempt she was startled,
but that too only for a moment. She smiled to herself and remembered the day of the
svayamvara. After Arjuna had won her she had married all five of them, one after the
other. Didn’t the king realize a little of the pain she had experienced then? She had had to
kill her own mind. At least in her actions she had treated all five alike. Perhaps the mind
couldn’t be killed completely. Actions could be made equal, but could the same amount
of love be measured out of the heart for each of the five? If she had loved Arjuna most
was there anything astonishing about that?
Her mind stopped a moment.. .what does it mean to have loved? Ulupi, Ohitrangada,
Subhadra — Arjuna had loved so many women!.. Or had he? Had Arjuna given his heart
to any woman? Women had loved him but he had given his heart to Krishna. She knew
how from the beginning, from the settling of Indraprastha, Arjuna and Krishna would sit
talking by the hour. In their talk there was always some new idea — perhaps about
building a city; but they talked as friends, each one speaking from his heart and listening
to the other. No woman could win Arjuna’s heart. .. Is love always like that? Is it always
one-sided? I pine for someone who doesn’t return my love; someone else yearns for me...
Suddenly, as if shocked, she stopped. The realization pierced like lightning; there was
one who had given his whole life for her. She sighed with her new understanding. Again
pictures came before her eyes; Bhima along with Arjuna, fighting the enemies outside the
svayamvara pavilion; Bhima ready to burn his brother’s dice-playing hands when she
was dragged into the assembly; Bhima, so angry he had to be held down by Arjuna;
Bhima, comforting her when she was tired; Bhima, bringing her fragrant lotuses; Bhima,
drinking the blood of Duhsha-sana; Bhima, plaiting her hair with gory hands. Arjuna
could have killed the Kichaka, but it was Bhima who did. How many things she
remembered — greedy Bhima, rough, tempestuous Bhima, always railing at
Dhritarashtra and Gandhari. In the same sense that Draupadi was earthy, so was he. She
was a daughter of the earth, he was a son.
Draupadi heard a dragging sound, then a great sigh. Her whole body quivered with
fear. She had been waiting quietly for the moment of her death. Was a wild animal
coming? A hyena? In all the days of walking on the plateau they had seen no animals.
Better that it fastened on her throat at once, without mauling her. She closed her eyes
hard. As she lay waiting for the unnamed danger to strike, suddenly a shadow fell over
her eyes. A curtain had dropped between her and the sun. A low deep voice called,
“Draupadi.” It was Bhima’s voice. It was he who had dragged himself, gasping with
effort, over the ten, fifteen feet that separated them. On the way he had seen Arjuna,
Nakula, and Sahadeva lying dead, and had thought Draupadi must be dead too. When
Draupadi, frightened at his approach, had quiversed, he had caught with joy this sign of
life. “What can I do for you?” The words came out with difficulty. It was the same
question he had asked all his life, but in this situation it was utterly meaningless and
incongruous. Draupadi smiled. Bringing Bhima’s face close to hers, she said with her last
breath, “In our next birth be the eldest, Bhima; under your shelter we can all live in safety
and joy.”
The Palace of May
In the heart of the city of Poona there stand four enormous walls of what was once the
palace of the Peshwas. Built by Bajirao I at the height of Peshv/a power, it brought
happiness neither to him nor to his descendants. However, over five generations lived
there and it was the seat of Maratha power for over 100 years. The Mahabharata tells of
another building that was even more splendid, short-lived, and ill-omened. This was the
Mayasabha in Indraprastha, the town which also shared the momentary splendour of the
palace. Here the Pandavas paraded their wealth, but the show lasted for only a little
while. They lived there hardly ten years after the palace was built. Mayasabha was born
in cruelty and had its end in the frenzy of dice.
The story of Mayasabha illustrates again how large a canvas the Mahabharata
presents. In the stories of Draupadi and Krishna, we have seen how the family quarrel
was intimately bound up with the political rivalries of the day. The story of Mayasabha
gives us a glimpse of a larger struggle in which the newly arrived Aryans and the Nagas,
the older inhabitants of the land, were locked for generations. The main motive for this
struggle was the possession of land. The attempts to gain land seemed to follow the usual
historical pattern of marriage alliances and fighting. Many alliances between Nagas and
Kshatriyas are recorded. In the Kuru genealogy itself two Naga princesses are shown as
mothers of reigning monarchs. The events leading to the building of Mayasabha show
what was perhaps another method of gaining land.
This is how Mayasabha came to be built. After their marriage to Draupadi the
Pandavas were in a position of power. The plan to kill them had failed and they had
reappeared flanked with strong allies. Dhritarashtra was forced to give them a share of
the kingdom. Keeping Hastinapura, the hereditary capital, for himself and his sons, he
gave Khandavaprastha to the Pandavas. Khandavaprastha was a little-known town on the
border of the kingdom surrounded by great forests and not far from the banks of the river
Yamuna. After going to Khandavaprastha Dharmaraja began the task of transforming the
small town into a capital city. He brought to live there artisans, rich merchants, and
tradesmen, and settled them in the town. In spite of all his efforts, however, the new
capital was smaller and less grand than the capital at Hastinapura.
Khandavaprastha means “a town near the Khandava forest.” The same town is also
called by the grandiloquent name Indraprastha — “the city of the gods.” Did the
Pandavas give it this name to say that their capital was more splendid than Hastinapura?
The Mahabharata says so explicitly.
Shortly after their arrival in Indraprastha, Arjuna had to go into exile for a year.
Towards the end of this exile he went to Dvaraka where he married Subhadra. Arjuna
then returned to Indraprastha. Soon after, the Yadavas came with his bride, carrying rich
gifts for the Pandavas. The Yadavas stayed in the capital for many days of festivities. It
was a hot summer. Arjuna took it into his mind that they should go for a day’s outing to
the forest near the city. They took Dharma’s permission for the plan, but neither Dharma
nor Bhima nor any of the older people were included. Apparently only younger people
went. In the party were Krishna, Arjuna, their wives and servants. They ate, they drank,
they sang and danced. All the time the shade of the great trees protected them from the
sun. Krishna and Arjuna sat a little apart from the others, talking on all possible subjects,
telling each other of their conquests in war and love. While they were seated there a
Brahmin approached them and said, “I am hungry. I have a great appetite which has no
bounds. Satisfy my hunger.”’ When they started to offer him food he appeared in his true
form as Agni, the god of fire, and said, “Give me the Khandava forest as food. Let me
burn it. Every time I start to burn it Indra sends rain and defeats my purpose.” Krishna
arid Arjuna consented to help him provided that Agni supplied them with superb chariots
and weapons. To Arjuna he gave a divine chariot, white horses with the speed of wind,
and the great bow Gandiva.
To Krishna he gave the discus and other weapons. Then Agni started devouring the
forest. As it burned Krishna and Arjuna guarded all sides so tightly that the creatures
fleeing from the blaze found not a single chink to escape through. Furiously driving their
chariots, the two slaughtered everything in sight. The creatures driven back into the forest
were burned alive. Those who ran out fell under their weapons. Indra came with a host of
gods to save the forest but was quickly routed by the two heroes. Enraged, Indra wanted
to fight further, but the gods pointed out that his friend Takshaka a resident of the forest
was safe because he went away and urged him to retire. The forest continued to burn for a
week. All this time Krishna and Arjuna were constantly circling it, butchering the
escaping creatures. Finally having consumed the flesh and fat of every last creature in the
forest, Agni went away satisfied.
From this holocaust only seven creatures (were they humans?) escaped. Takshaka’s
son was saved by his mother’s quick wit and courage, but the mother herself died in the
effort. Maya, an asura (demon) living in the house of Takshaka, was spared when he
came running out of the forest srying, “Arjuna, save me.” The four children born of a
Brahmin and Sharngi, a bird-woman, were also shown mercy. The other Nagas of
Takshaka’s house were killed along with the birds and animals. In gratitude for having
been saved, the asura, Maya, built a great palace at Indraprastha for the Pandavas. For
the building of the palace — Mayasabha — he brought artisans and materials from many
lands.
After the Mayasabha was completed, the Pandavas decided, on Krishna’s advice, to
set out on a conquest of the four quarters of the world. This task was accomplished by the
four brothers of Dharmaraja. Dharma was thus in a position to perform the great rajasuya
sacrifice, the celebration of a world-conqueror. Allies, relatives, and conquered kings
were invited to attend the sacrifice and enjoy the hospitality of the Pandavas. A special
invitation was sent to the relatives at Hastinapura. The yajna was a lavish exhibition to all
of the might, splendour and munificence of the Pandavas. The cousins from Hastinapura
were dazzled and burned with envy. Mayasabha was built very cunningly. Birds, animals,
and trees were made of precious stones so artfully that they seemed real. Flowing water
was made to look like dry land and dry land almost rippled like water. What seemed like
doors were solid walls while what was apparently a solid wall would turn out to be a
door. Poor Duryodhana was thoroughly confused. He bumped his head against walls,
tucked up his garments only to find that he was walking on dry land. Finally, stepping on
to what he thought was solid ground, he fell into a pool. Dharma helped him out of the
water and ordered the servants to give him dry clothing. But Draupadi and Bhima
laughed loudly and derisively at this discomfiture of Duryodhana. The Pandavas had not
only flaunted their new splendour, they had deliberately insulted Duryodhana as well.
Duryodhana was not likely to forget this humiliation in a hurry.
Soon afterwards the Pandavas lost everything in gambling and had to go to the forest
for thirteen years. After coming back and winning the war they went to live in their
hereditary capital at Hastinapura. They did not return to Indraprastha. The only mention
made of Indraprastha is at the very end, when the city is given to Vajra, the grandson of
Krishna. The fabulous Maya-cabha is never mentioned again.
Thus Mayasabha came out of the burning of the Khandava forest. Why were all its
birds, animals, and Nagas destroyed? How could Arjuna, who prided himself on his name
Bibhatsu — “one who does not do anything repulsive” — indulge in this cruel hunt?
When they had merely gone for an outing on the Yamuna, what made them think of
burning the forest? The Mahabharata says that Agni himself had appeared in the form of
a Brahmin and made a demand. Granting that they could not refuse a Brahmin; can we
explain the ruthless way in which they carried out their task? Not only did they burn the
timber, they drove back into the forest all they could and killed the rest. Only a few were
allowed to escape.
There are two possible explanations of the burning of the forest: either the fire was a
natural catastrophe and somehow Krishna and Arjuna were credited with it, or the two
did actually and deliberately burn the forest. Even if the first were true it is obvious that
burning a forest was considered a brave and praiseworthy feat. But there is no reason to
question the Mahabharata’s account that they did do it themselves, with great effort and
persistence, perhaps kindling it again and again because of rain. Then why did they do it?
The pastoral Aryan people kept large herds of cattle and practised agriculture with the
help of animal-drawn ploughs. Their history records many instances of either burning or
cutting down forests. All the way across India stretched thick forests which have been
described in the Vedas and the Mahabharata. Several famous forests have also been
described in Buddhist literature. Not only that, even historical inscriptions mention great
forests. The kingdoms mentioned in the Mahabharata were all small. In the area of
present-day Punjab and Delhi there were five: Kuru, North and South Panchala, Trigarta
and Virata. Their boundaries did not touch. Each kingdom was but a small capital
surrounded by a few score villages with their fields. Beyond were the forests. The part of
the forest nearest to the villages was used by the king for hunting and for grazing his
cattle. Some of the big forests had names: Kamyaka, Dvarta, Khandava, etc. These were
all western forests. Later the eastern forests apparently smaller than the above—like Velu
and Jeta — are associated with Buddha. Now the forests have vanished, and from the
Indus to the Bay of Bengal is one vast ploughed field.
Khandava was a great forest on the banks of the Yamuna and its small tributary, the
Ikshumati. The name Khandava means “made of rock candy.” Ikshumati means “full of
sugar cane.” The Madhu forest which was also supposed to be on the banks of the
Yamuna and described in a later Purana also means “a sweet forest” or “a honeyed
forest.” From all these names it is clear that the forests contained something sweet. Was it
honey (madhu)? Was it cane (ikshu)? Was it something else? At present the central
Indian forests contain a large beautiful tree called mahuva. This tree, called madhuka in
Sanskrit, is a source of bounty for the tribal people. From its leaves they make plates;
from its fragrant honey-filled flowers they make wine. The dried blossoms are eaten as a
delicacy, and from the sticky juice of the flowers all kinds of sweetmeats are made.
Perhaps it was because it was filled with such trees that the Khandava forest was called
“sweet”. The sweetness of the forest, however, could be valued only by the people living
in it and not by the Aryans.
Like others, the Pandavas’ kingdom was a capital surrounded by villages and fields,
but it was comparatively small and the brothers were trying to expand it. Dharmaraja was
making the small town into a great capital. Perhaps Krishna and Arjuna burned the forest
to provide more land for cultivation. This was the duty of a ruling king. In this way he
could expand his realm without encoaching upon other Kshatriyas — something
forbidden by the Kshatriya code.
Krishna and Arjuna were great warriors. They had fought and won many battles. But
in none of tfyese battles did they gain any land by conquest. The Kshatriya life as
presented in the Mahabharata had a certain definite pattern. Each known house had its
small territory which passed from father to son. Wars were fought, tribute was demanded,
but no Kshatriya house was deprived of its kingdom. An enemy was spared if he asked
for mercy. If he fought and was killed his son was put on the throne. A Kshatriya never
killed women and children. Nor was he supposed to put to the sword any defenceless
person. His most sacred duty was to defend the helpless. The charge that he had not done
so was the worst that could be made against him.
The need for expansion explains the burning of the forest, but the question still
remains: why was it burned so mercilessly? There is a very curious contradiction in the
narration. When Agni first appeared he said he wanted to burn the forest. No specific
mention is made of his wanting to feed on the creatures in it. But when we come to the
end of the narration we are told that Agni went away satisfied with all the flesh and fat he
had devoured.
Moreover, this forest was not merely a forest with birds and animals in it. We are
told that Takshaka, the king of the Nagas, lived there. But who were the Nagas? The
word naga is generally used for serpents.1 However, in the Mahabharata the Nagas
seem to be human beings. The Mahabharata also mentions a bird-woman, who had
children from a Brahmin, living in the same forest. The bird might be the clan name of
certain people living there. In the same way, many of the animals may not have been
animals at all but people belonging to clans having animal names.2 But only regarding
Nagas is the word raja (king) used. Apparently the Nagas represented the ruling class.
The Mahabharata has given the names of the various Naga rajas belonging to different
regions. From the western Himalayas up to the middle reaches of the Ganga and to the
south of the Narmada, the country was shared by the Aryans and the Nagas. The Nagas
apparently lived along the rivers in the forests while the Aryans preferred a more open
country. The house of the Nagaraja Airavata was on the banks of the river Iravati.
The house of Takshaka was apparently in the Khandava forest on the banks of the
Yamuna. Many an Aryan kings must have acquired new lands by burning or cutting parts
of a virgin forest not owned by anyone. However, in the Khandava fire it appears that
Krishna and Arjuna had a more audacious plan to possess an entire forest in a part of
which happened to be the kingdom of the Takshakas.
1 The werd is also sometimes used for elephants.
2 The Mahabharata has many stories of children bora to Brahmins through ‘animal’ females.
This plan, it seems, did not go counter to the Kshatriya code. The code applied only to
the Aryan Kshatriyas and not to outsiders. At least part of the forest was Takshaka’s
domain and obviously the Pandavas wanted to possess it to distribute it to their own
subjects. The land was usurped after a massacre, a massacre which is praised as a
valorous deed. This was because the victims were not Kshatriyas or their Aryan
subjects. All the high-sounding morality of the Kshatriya code was limited to their own
group. Here again Krishna and Arjuna played the familiar role of the conquering settler.
The Spaniards and Portuguese in South America, the English in North America and
Australia are but the latest historical examples of the same process. Did Krishna and
Arjuna feel that they had to kill every creature in order to establish unchallenged
ownership over the land?
The Mahabharata narration is very curious in that the human qualities of the Nagas are
played down and the other inhabitants of the forest are described purely as birds and
animals. The whole story sounds like a week-long hunt of animals. Even granting that
there were only animals, this type of killing still went contrary to the Kshatriya code.
There were explicit rules of hunting. Mating animals, females carrying their young and
very young animals could not be killed. Pandu was supposed to have been cursed with
impotence because while hunting he had killed a mating animal. The Ramayana opens
with the curse of Valmiki on a hunter who had killed one of a pair of mating birds. Nor
could the animals be killed in such measure that they would become extinct. We can see
this clearly in the following story: During their exile the Pandavas were living in a forest.
To feed their retinue they hunted and killed many animals every day. One night a stag
appeared to Dharmaraja in a dream and said, “King, you are killing so many of us that we
are on the way to extinction. Go into some other forest; give us respite. When we have
multiplied enough you may come back.” The next day Dharmaraja went to another forest
with his brothers.
There were rules which applied to all animals but apparently no rules which applied to
all human beings. If you spared an animal today you could always kill it tomorrow. But if
you spared a human being — even to make a slave out of him — he would in the course
of time acquire certain rights. There was indeed great danger in sparing the lives of those
who owned the land. Krishna and Arjuna, therefore, must have felt the necessity of
completely wiping out the enemy.
The people who were killed in the Khandava forest belonged to the clan of Takshaka
Naga. Not all the Takshakas, however, were eliminated. Nor could they forget the wrong
done to them by the Pandavas. Takshaka himself is said to have taken the shape of an
arrow or ridden on the tip of an arrow in order to kill Arjuna. He was cleverly foiled in
the attempt by Krishna. Either the same Takshaka or his son succeeded in killing
Parikshita, Arjuna’s grandson, who ruled Hastinapura after the Pandavas. Janamejaya, the
son of Parikshita, in turn massacred half the Nagas. The Mahabharata starts with this
Janamejaya who is told the story of his forefathers. We thus see that the main
Mahabharata story has woven into it a subsidiary theme — the feud between the
Pandavas and the Takshakas — which incidentally tells us of the colonization of the land
by the Aryans. Apparently during this period the country around the river Yamuna was
made free of Nagas. This conjecture is supported by an incident of Krishna’s life
described in the Harivamsha. Krishna is supposed to have subdued a Naga chieftain in a
particular area of the Yamuna. In return for his life the chieftain promised that he would
leave the area.
The burning of Khandava starts with the request of Agni who had come in the form of
a Brahmin. It is implied that being Kshatriyas Krishna and Arjuna could not refuse. Even
this excuse is flimsy. Not every request of a Brahmin was fulfilled by the Kshatriyas. The
Brahmin Parashurama had ordered Bhishma to marry Amba; Bhishma had refused. In the
burning of Khandava no rules of conduct seem to have been observed. The sole aim was
the acquisition of land and the liquidation of the Nagas. But the cruel objective was
defeated. Just as Hitler found it impossible to wipe out a whole people, so did the
Pandavas. All they gained through this cruelty were the curses of hundreds of victims and
three generations of enmity.
The only man deliberately spared was Maya, the asura. In gratitude he built the
famous palace. No other Kshatriya had a palace comparable to this. The Aryans built
their palaces of wood, but there were people before the Aryans who knew how to build
with brick. These builders were the asuras. They knew how to make ceramic tiles of
different colours. Maya must have used bluish-green tiles to create the illusion of water
and lined shallow pools with reddish-brown tiles to create the illusion of land. Many
visitors must have been confounded by the builder’s tricks. But the Mahabharata records
only the humiliation of Duryodhana and the loud laughter of Draupadi and Bhima.
Duryodhana was already burning with jealousy at the splendour of the Pandavas. It is no
wonder that their derisive laughter cut him to the quick. Dharma’s very act of helping
him up from the water and ordering dry clothes seemed part of the plot to humiliate him.
Duryodhana was so incensed and insulted that he declared that if he could not bring down
the Pandavas’ pride he would rather die. He was quieted only when his mother’s brother
Shakuni hatched the plot of inviting Dharma for a game of dice. The Pandavas lost
everything they possessed, and went into exile with nothing but their weapons and the
clothes on their backs. For hardly ten years they had enjoyed the fabulous palace they had
obtained by burning a great forest and butchering its inhabitants.
We do not hear that Indraprastha or Mayasabha had fallen into ruin during the thirteen
years of the Pandavas’ exile. But when the Pandavas came back and defeated their
cousins they occupied the capital of Hastinapura. They did not go back to Indraprastha.
How long Vajra ruled Indraprastha we do not know. Neither do we know if Vajra’s
successors ruled there. New people were coming into India, wave after wave. The
Kshatriyas, weakened after the Mahabharata battle, apparently could not fight the
invaders. The Puranic record says that soon after Janamejaya the Kurus had to leave
Hastinapura and found a new capital further south of Kosambi. None of the kingdoms
mentioned in the Mahabharata are heard of again. Both Indraprastha and Hastinapur
vanished. Hastinapur, however, left a long tradition behind it. The Kurus had ruled there
for centuries. Its name is associated with the hundreds of legends about its kings. In the
Mahabharata we have descriptions of the roads of Hastinapura; we are told what the
citizens talked about. The house of Vidura, Kunti’s protector, was there; Dhritarashtra’s
court was there, and the apartment from which Draupadi was dragged. The Kaurava
women whose lament is recorded at the end of the Mahabharata lived there.
No great ruling house is associated with Indraprastha. Except for the burning of
Khandava no other story in Sanskrit literature is set in it. Indraprastha had no substance;
it never took a definite form. Mayasabha was not only ill-omened; it was even more
insubstantial than the city in which it was built. Born in violence, its dazzling demonic
splendor turned out to be a fleeting dream.
Paradharmo Bhayavahah
Taking over another’s dharma is dangerous.
Bhagavadgita, XVIII.
In the Mahabharata, the role of Brahmins, though not central, is certainly a vital one,
even when we can dismiss some of the Brahmin figures and their stories as entirely
extraneous. Parashurama and all the references to him fall into this category. This man
fought a weeks’-long battle with Bhishma and was defeated. Also he trained Karna in
weaponry and then cursed him that he would forget his knowledge in the time of need.
Parashurama was supposed to have lived before even the incarnation of Rama. After
finishing the terrible task of annihilating the Kshatriyas, he retired to do severe panance.
Once in the Rama story he is brought back to show the greatness of Prince Rama. He has
nothing to do with the plot of the Ramayana. Similarly, Parashurama has been thrust into
the Mahabharata in order to demonstrate the moral and physical superiority of Bhishma
the Kshatriya over this Brahmin. In the second instance, his interference was in order to
save Karna’s face. Karna was reputed to be a great hero, but he was defeated and killed
by Arjuna. Parashurama was brought into the story to give an excuse for this defeat. In
this story too the Kshatriya hero came out better than Parashurama. Without complaint
Karna accepted the curse, as he had accepted the training of his teacher. This story does
not deserve much attention. At the time of the cattle raid on the Viratas, Arjuna had
completely routed Karna in an open battle. It was, therefore, hardly extraordinary that he
should have defeated him again in the last fight. The object of the story is obviously to
show that Karna was a great warrior and he would not have been defeated except for the
curse of Parashurama. According to legend, each of the four disciples of Vyasa has given
a slightly different version of the Mahabharata story. The present version is supposed to
have been told by Vaisham-payana. The same story is also said to have been told by
Jaimini. The Kauravas and the Pandavas quarreled, they fought a war, the Pandavas won,
and their descendants ruled Hastinapura—these were facts that Jaimini could not deny.
But his version of the story is said to be partial to the Kauravas. Of this version only the
Ashvamedha chapter is extant. In it he shown that Arjuna was defeated many times, and
each time had to be rescued by Krishna and others. The fact that Karna was killed by
Arjuna was indisputable. The story of the curse is obviously an invention to avoid the
conclusion that Arjuna was the greater hero. In this whole episode there is nothing that
contributes to the main story of the Mahabharata.
Into the story of Takshaka’s curse too is woven a long, monotonous narrative about
Brahmins. Parikshita, when out hunting, came across a Brahmin in deep penance. As a
joke, he hung a dead snake around the Brahmin’s neck. A little later, the Brahmin’s son
came there and got very angry at this practical joke. He cursed the king that in a few
weeks’ time he would die of snake bite. When the Brahmin woke from his deep
meditation, the son told him what had happened. The Brahmin scolded him for thus going
in to anger, and, as he knew an antidote to snake bite, he hurried to Hastinapura to save
the king. On the way, Takshaka met him and cunningly turned him back, thus preventing
him from saving Parikshita. Actually Arjuna, the grandfather of Parikshita, had without
provocation burned the Khandava forest and massacred the Takshakas, a Naga clan. A
Takshaka later killed Parikshita. Janamejaya, the son of Parikshita, in turn wrought great
destruction among the Nagas. It is a straighforward story of a three generations’ feud.
The lengthy rigmarole about Brahmins seems to be a later interpolation.
The late Professor V. S. Sukthankar has pointed out that the Mahabharata saga came
into the hands of the Bhrigus, a Brahmin family. These Brahmins inserted the stories of
their own family into the narration of the Mahabharata. All of the Brahmin stories
referred to above are part of these later interpolations. They have no relationship
whatsoever with the original story of the Mahabharata. We can therefore dismiss them. If
all these accretions are dropped, the Mahabharata gains in beauty, economy, and
movement.
Even the great sage Vyasa, who wrote or told the Mahabharata and who is the ancestor
of the Pandavas and Kauravas, has no important part to play in the story. He makes an
occasional appearance: tells the Pandavas to go to Panchala, gives advice to Duryodhana,
and quiets the angry Gandhari. He censures Ashvatthama, and he consoles Arjuna after
the destruction of the Yadavas. But after begetting children upon the queen of the dead
Vichitravirya, his role has little importance in the Mahabharata.
The two Brahmins who have an important function in the story and are an integral part
of it are the father and son, Drona and Ashvatthama. Drona entered the Mahabharata
when the Pandavas and Kauravas were young boys. This Brahmin, skilled in the use of
all weapons, was the brother-in-law of Kripa, the hereditary teacher of the Kuru clan at
Hastinapura. Unable to find a good position at any court, he had been driven to
desperation by poverty. In addition, he was smarting from an insult he had suffered at
king Drupada’s hands. In his need he had gone to King Drupada and appealed to him in
the name of their friendship of student days. Drupada had laughed derisively at the word
friendship and had said that friendship could not exist between people of such unequal
status. Drupada might have given him a post at his court, as a deserving Brahmin, but he
could not tolerate Drona’s claim to equality on the basis of their companionship of the
student days. Wounded at this slight, Drona left the court of Drupada and went to Kripa.
Bhishma appointed him as a teacher of weapons to the young princes. After their training
was over, Drona demanded as a last token of respect that his pupils defeat King Drupada.
Arjuna did so, and brought Drupada prisoner before Drona. Drona spared the life of the
king in return for half his kingdom, saying, “King, we are equals now.” To deprive a
defeated king of his kingdom was against the Kshatriya code. It was especially improper
for a Brahmin to do so. Drona had had Drupada defeated and brought before him as a
prisoner. If he had just reminded the king of his insult and let him go, he would have
achieved his revenge, and would have demonstrated the Brahmin virtues of forgiveness
and greatness of mind. Instead of that, Drona kept North Panchala, with Ahichhatra as the
capital, for himself. Drupada remained the king of South Panchala. In spite of his having
usurped North Panchala, Drona seems to have remained at the court of the Kurus.
Whatever Bhishma said was seconded by Drona. But the earnestness with which
Bhishma tried to settle the quarrels and save the clan is not evident in Drona’s behaviour.
This attitude became especially clear during the last days of the war when he fought heart
and soul on the side of the Kauravas.
Ashvatthama was the son of Drona. Like his father, instead of learning the
Brahmanical lore, he became an expert in the use of arms. Arjuna always suspected that
Drona was keeping the knowledge of certain magical weapons from him, and was
teaching them to Ashvatthama. Perhaps because of this, there was a covert rivalry
between Ashvatthama and Arjuna. Drona tried to reassure Arjuna that he had taught him
everything he knew. We do not know if Arjuna was satisfied. We only know that both
father and son fought against the Pandavas.
The chief reason for Arjuna’s reluctance to do battle was his unwillingness to fight
Bhishma and Drona. At the time of the war Bhishma’s age must have been between
ninety and a hundred. Drona was a contemporary of Drupada, and thus must have been as
old as Arjuna’s own father would have been. Arjuna was thirty-five, and Drona must
have been at least twenty years older—that is fifty-five or sixty. The Mahabharata says he
was eighty five. At the time of the cattle raid on the Viratas, Arjuna had trounced both
Bhishma and Drona. In a war Arjuna could have again easily defeated both of them, but
they were inviolate, the one because he was his grandfather, the other because he was his
teacher.
Bhishma had fought a mock battle for ten days in a last effort to dissuade both sides
from pursuing the war. The three days of Drona’s generalship, however, were days of
fierce fighting. The way in which Drona got the generalship is worth noting. At the news
of Bhishma’s fall the army was in disarray, and shouts of “We want Karna, we want
Karna” were heard from all sides. Karna, set aside for so many days, came riding up in
his chariot in great style. While reading this description one doesn’t have the slightest
doubt that now Karna is going to become the general. But suddenly everything changed.
Karna of his own accord advised Duryodhana, “It is best to choose a general acceptable
to all, one whose choice will not offend anybody. Make Drona the general.” Duryodhana
complied. The reason Karna gave for choosing Drona is significant. Clearly, some people
must have been opposed to Karna’s becoming the general. From the very beginning of
the war, the question of the generalship had plagued Duryodhana. Apparently, the
Pandavas were never troubled by considerations of who was young, who was old, who
was a Kshatriya, who was not a Kshatriya. From the first day to the last Dhrishtadyumna
was the general of the Pandavas. Duryodhana, on the other hand, had to waste the first
ten days under the generalship of Bhishma. Then, instead of Karna he had to make Drona
the head of the army. Arter the death of Drona, Karna was at last made general, but it
seems that his appointment hurt Shalya. Duryodhana had the greater army, but he was
harassed by conflicting claims for precedence from his Kshatriya allies and his own
kinsmen. Drona was apparently a compromise choice.
While Bhishma was living and active Drona had enthusiastically echoed whatever he
said. But after Bhishma’s fall quite a different Drona appeared. Bhishma had been his
employer. Duryodhana was both his pupil and employer. Drona felt it was now his duty
to show his loyalty to his new master. Moreover, as we have seen, he was a compromise
choice for the generalship, and must have felt anxious to prove he was worthy of the
position. He told Duryodhana, “You keep Arjuna away, and I will wipe out the rest of the
Pandavas.” Though he was unable to destroy the Pandavas, he did fight vehemently. The
three days of his generalship were days of great slaughter. Important people on both sides
died. Chief among these were Arjuna’s son Abhimanyu and Dhritarashtra’s son-in-law
Jayadratha. Perhaps because of the tactics to divert Arjuna from the main battle, Drona
and Arjuna never came face to face. Because of the absence of Arjuna it was possible for
Drona to kill Abhimanyu. Drona showed no mercy in killing him. One cannot help
thinking that Bhishma would not have killed Arjuna’s son and his own great grandson so
ruthlessly.
The account of Drona’s death is very interesting, Bhima killed an elephant named
Ashvatthama, and everywhere the rumour went that Ashvatthama had been killed.
Thinking that the rumour must be false, Drona went to ask Dharma about it. Dharma
muttered to himself, “who knows, maybe a man, maybe an elephant.” Drona did
nofrhear Dharma clearly, and concluded that his son had been killed. However, instead of
sitting stunned as the Pandavas had hoped, Drona went on fighting savagely,
Dhrishtadyumna rushed fiercely on Drona but received a terrible wound from Drona’s
arrow. Bhima came running to help Dhrishtadyumna. He tightly held Drona’s chariot
and shouted at him: “We Kshatriyas would have a chance to survive if you Brahmins
minded your own profession and did not take up arms. Non-violence to all creatures is
the duty of Brahmins, and you are supposed to be a great Brahmin. For the sake of your
own son you have killed many men of the warrior tribe of Mlechh. They were following
their own dharma. But you abandoned yours and butchered them. Have you no shame?
The son you did all this for is already dead. Don’t you believe what Dharma told you?”
At these words Drona’s spirit sank. In this short respite Dhrishtadyumna regained his
strength. Bringing his chariot alongside Drona’s, he leaped into the Brahmin’s chariot.
From the Pandavas’ side Arjuna saw what was happening and cried, “Stop,
Dhrishtadyumna, don’t kill our teacher. Bring his chariot here.” While Arjuna was still
speaking, Dhrishtadyumna took his sword and cut off Drona’s head. Even if
Dhrishtadyumna had not killed him at that instant, there was no question that Drona was
trapped and could have been driven to the Pandavas’ side. Drona died in a helplessness
and anger, shouting, “Karna, Kripa, Duryodhana, fight on, I am gone.” Even his last
outburst was not that of a resigned, dispirited’ man.
Drupada had lost half his hereditary kingdom to an enemy who had not even fought,
but had defeated him through a third party. After his defeat Drupada had performed a
sacrifice to ask for a son who would take revenge. Dhrishtadyumna, the child born from
that sacrifice had fulfilled his mission.
Forgiveness, serenity, self-control—not one of the Brahmin virtues described in the
Gita seems to apply to Drona. Drona, however, is nowhere depicted as altogether
contemptible. He was at the most being true to the master whose bread he had eaten. The
same cannot be said of his son. Ashvatthama had completely discarded all the qualities of
Brahminhood. Not only that, he was utterly debased. Caught in an endless chain of injury
and retaliation, his deeds had no equal in horror and cruelty. Ashvatthama entered the
Kuru court as the son of a desperately poor Brahmin. After his father was established at
the court, he along with the young princes learned the art of weapons from Drona. In the
use of astras (magical weapons) Ashvatthama was supposed to be the equal of Arjuna.
However, not satisfied with what Arjuna had learned from one guru, Dharma had sent
him elsewhere to learn more weapons. Ashvatthama apparently never did that. In the eyes
of the younger generation, Arjuna was the ideal warrior, a reputation Ashvatthama never
had. In the court of the Kauravas his behaviour was arrogant. While his father sided with
Bhishma, he championed Duryodhana. But Duryodhana never counted him as a warrior.
Nobody ever suggested Ashvatthama’s name for the generalship; indeed, there was no
chance that anyone would ever have thought of him. After the death of Shalya and
Shakuni, the Pandavaa began wiping out the rest of the Kaurava army. Seeing that it
would be impossible to gather his fleeing soldiers, Duryodhana also slipped away. On
his way he sent Sanjaya with a message to his father, “I am hiding in a pool. All have
been killed. I am the - only survivor.” He reached the hiding place and, exhausted and
sad, lay in a stone shelter within the pool. On the way to Hastinapura, Sanjaya met Kripa,
Kritavarma and Ashvat-thama. They too had fled from the battlefield. They asked for
news of Duryodhana and Sanjaya told them everything.
Ignoring the rest of the fleeing Kaurava army, the Pandavas and Panchalas were bent
on finding Duryodhana and killing him. Though they searched everywhere, they could
not find him. They returned disappointed. If they didn’t find him today, they must tomorrow.
Until Duryodhana was killed, they were convinced, they could not say the war
was over.
While the Pandavas’ chariots were searching everywhere, Ashvatthama and his two
companions stayed hidden. After the Pandavas returned to their camp and everything was
quiet, the three came out and went to the pool where Duryodhana was hiding.
Ashvatthama called to Duryodhana. A conversation ensued, with the three standing on
the bank and Duryodhana sitting inside the pool. While the other two merely listened in
silence, Ashvatthama kept insisting, “Come out and fight the Pandavas”. Duryodhana
was not at all willing to fight. Ashvatthama on his part kept saying, “Now that so many
have died on both sides, it will be easy to fight. We are with you.” Perhaps to avoid
further argument, Duryodhana said, “Let me rest for a day. Tomorrow we can decide
whot to do.”
This last day of the war is very important. Duryo-dhana’s actions show that he was
mainly trying to save his life. He was hiding in a pool in a distant wood, and had sent a
message to his father telling what had happened. His whole army was in shambles. If
Dhrita-rashtra had sent word to the Pandavas—especially to Dharma—”Take the
kingdom, but spare the only son remaining to me,” Dharma could not have refused. He
probably would have had to give Duryodhana a small portion of the kingdom as well. As
long as both father and son were alive, the Pandavas’ claim to the kingdom would never
be undisputed. Duryodhana was trying to gain time. The Pandavas on their side were
trying to find Duryodhana and kill him before any message could come from
Dhritarashtra.
While Ashvatthama and Duryodhana were talking loudly, some hunters had come into
the vicinity. These people were under Bhima’s patronage. Because Bhima was fond of
meat and paid well for it, they hunted and sent fresh meat to the camp every day. They
had seen the Pandavas and Panchalas returning from their unsuccessful attempt to find
Duryodhana, and had overheard the Pandavas asking each other, “Where could he be
hiding?” Later when they heard the conversation going on near the pool, they realized
that Duryodhana was hiding there. “Bhima will pay us far more for this news than for any
meat”, they told each other. They ran to the Pandavas’ camp and revealed the hiding
place of Duryodhana. With great shouts the Pandavas remounted their chariots and
started towards the pool. Hearing their shouts and the noise of their chariots, Duryodhana
went back into the pool, and the three warriors ran deep into the forest. Ashvatthama,
who a few moments before had been boasting of how he would kill the Pandavas, had run
away at the very sound of their approach.
Since his father’s death Ashvatthama had been talking of revenge. He had been
fuming for three days, but had not been able to kill Dhrishtadyumna. Obviously, he could
not face him in a direct combat. Ashvatthama had caused the death of Duryodhana, for
whom he professed such concern. Impatient and thoughtless, as soon as he had found out
Duryodhana’s whereabouts, he had rushed to the pool and stood outside, arguing loudly
in broad daylight. Thus he had betrayed the hiding place to the Pandavas. When the
Pandavas came, instead of standing by the side of his king, he had run away.
Duryodhana had to come out of the pool against his wish. Flinging insults at him, and
prodding him like a snake in a hole, the Pandavas forced him out. Swinging his mace
Bhima felled him with a blow on the thigh. He kicked him on the head. Dharma
intervened to save Duryodhana from further indignities. In great haste, Dharma sent
Krishna to console Dhritarashtra and tell him, “Do not be angry with us, forgive us. We
also are yours.” While Krishna was talking with the two old people, more messengers
arrived. From their talk Krishna suspected that some treachery was afoot. He cut short his
visit and hurried back. Taking the Pandavas, Draupadi, and Satyaki out of the crowded
camp of the Pandavas, he brought them for the night to the deserted Kaurava camp. The
sun went down and it was a dark night.
Krishna had suspected some treachery, but he did not know quite what. That treachery
was Ashvatthama’s. After leaving Duryodhana, the three warriors were constantly taking
note of what was happening. They saw the Pandavas and Panchalas going away and
heard the shouts of victory in the Pandava camp. They slipped back to where Duryodhana
was. On the bank of the pool Duryodhana lay mortally wounded. Seeing the great king
lying in the dust, brought down by Bhima’s unfair blow, their hearts were wrung with
pity. Ashavatthama swore he would avenge the king as well as his father; and even in
Duryodhana’s extremity, he had him anoint him a general. If one remembers the pomp
and dignity with which the other generals were anointed, this last ceremony seems
contemptible. One feels that the poor dying king must have performed the ritual just to
free himself of the importunities of Ashvatthama. As soon as he was anointed,
Ashvatthama left the king and went away.
After leaving Duryodhana, Ashvatthama and his companions went far into the forest
to avoid being found by the Pandava soldiers. Kripa and Kritavarma slept, but
Ashvatthama could not sleep. Drona’s death had deprived him not only of a father, but of
a kingdom. He was grieving for Duryodhana, but much more for his own bereavement
and loss. Just then he saw a big’bat pounce on and kill some sleeping crows. This scene
gave him the idea of attacking the Pandavas in their sleep. He woke up Kripa and
Kritavarma and told them of his inspiration. Kripa tried his best to dissuade him from
this base plan. In this talk one sentence of Ashvatthama is especially significant. He
told his uncle, “You tell me to act like a Brahmin, but I have never learned the Brahmin
code. From childhood onward, all I have learned is weaponry. I was born in a high
Brahmin family, but unlucky that I am, I have lived as a Kshatriya. Now let me follow
that dharma.” Paying no attention to Kripa’s objections, he yoked his horse to the
chariot and set off at full gallop for the Pandavas’ camp. Wondering what would happen,
Kripa and Kritavarma followed him. While Ashvatthama entered the camp, they stood
outside. Ashvatthama first went to the sleeping Dhrishtadyumna, woke him and killed
him. Then he killed the five sleeping sons of Draupadi. Not knowing who or how many
were attacking, everyone in the camp was running helter-skelter.In the meantime Kripa
and Kritavarma set fire to the camp, redoubling the confusion. After he had killed as
many as he could, Ashvatthama came out. He hurried with the news to Duryodhana,
who rejoiced at it before he died. Then, knowing that the Pandavas and Krishna would
be after him for revenge, he ran away again and went to the hut of Vyasa on the banks of
the Ganga. The Pandavas followed him. Ashvatthama hurled a terrible magical weapon at
Arjuna. Arjuna countered with an equally powerful weapon. The weapons met and as
their dual powers were released, the world was about to be destroyed. Vyasa stood at the
point of impact and appealed to both of them to recall their weapons. Arjuna, being a true
Kshatriya, could call his back, but Ashvatthama was unable to do so. The story says that
the weapon did not kill the Pandavas, but it did destroy the child in Uttara’s womb. The
Pandavas allowed Ashavatthama to live. Krishna said he would revive Uttara’s dead
child, and then he cursed Ashvatthama, “You will live for thousands of years. You will
wander ceaselessly through forests and deserts. No living man will shelter you.” All the
other generals had died as warriors. Ashvatthama alone was doomed to a life more
terrible than death.
In our philosophy, smriti (memory, consciousness) and moha (confusion) have a great
importance and a special meaning. The Gita’s description of the chain of causality ending
in a man’s destruction is well-known: “Anger leads to loss of consciousness, loss of
consciousness brings about confusion in memory, which leads in its turn to the loss of
thinking power. And the loss of thinking power destroys a person.” From childhood to
death the one thread that creates the oneness in a man’s ever-changing life is smriti.
Smriti is the power which enables a man to have the ever-present consciousness of who
he is and the knowledge that he is the same person from moment to moment. It is because
of smriti that a man understands what his duties are, and where he is going. In the
Mahabharata the question “Who am I?” is bound up with the question, “What is my
place?” Thus the answer to the question of a man’s duty too is dependent on the place he
holds. Extraordinary people like Krishna and Buddha remember all their former births,
and thus reach a oneness not possible for ordinary beings. The ordinary man must try to
keep the thread of smriti unbroken at least for this one life. The stress on remaining
conscious up to the moment of death is based on this conviction. This is the reason the
Gita says one should die in full consciousness, in broad daylight, when the sun is in the
north and the moon is waxing. The great effort was not to give in to darkness, not to lose
smriti on any account. Bhishma’s smriti remained unimpaired all his life. Arjuna was
confused as to his duty, but Krishna reminded him of what he was. Waking to the cruel
necessity of his duty, Arjuna said, “Now my confusion is gone, I have regained my
smriti” Drona never had that burning consciousness of his own dkarma. As for
Ashvatthama, he had completely forgotten himself. He had given up his own dharma
and could never understand the dharma of others. He was born a Brahmin. He would
have become a king because his father had acquired a kingdom. He had learned the use of
terrible weapons, but he did not use them to bring victory to Duryodhana; after
everything had been lost, he used them only for his own revenge and safety. He had
rejected his Brahminhood, and could never manage to become a Kshatriya. He is the
unforgettable example of the loss of smriti.
9. Karna
No one achieves complete success in life; but even partial fulfilment is attained by but
a few. Unfulfilment, the Mahabharata tells us again and again, is the normal condition of
man. Dharma after defeating all his enemies said, “This victory does not feel like victory
at all.” To some extent each major figure in the Mahabharata is defeated by life, but none
so completely as Karna. Vidura’s life resembled Karna’s in many respects, but the few
aspects in which it did not, made for all the difference in the two characters.
Dhritarashtra, Pandu and Vidura had a common father. But the mothers of the first two
were princesses and so they each in spite of some physical deformity, could enjoy the
throne. Vidura was sound in limb and mind and yet because he was the son of a suta
woman, he became a suta too and was deprived of a kingdom. Evidence of his immense
frustration and his constant efforts to master it by deep contemplation is found
everywhere in the Mahabharata. His birth determined his position in society and so he
could devote his energies to transcending his humble earthly personality on another
plane. Karna’s defeat lay in just this one fact that he did not know who he was by birth;
and when the answer was given to him it was too late.
All through life one is constantly asking, and answering the question:’ who am I?’
This ‘ I ‘remains dynamic and changeful; and so at no given moment is a final answer
possible. Small children, to start with, often refer to themselves in the third person. The
awareness of’ me’ is linked with the awareness of ‘mine’. This is my mother, my
father, my toys, my house, and ultimately the ‘I’ emerges as the centre of all these
possessions. This awareness becomes sharpened through families and social
relationships. As the boundaries of the ‘I’broaden, the ‘I’ comes in contact with the ‘not
I’, the ‘you’ or the ‘he’, and also their expectations regarding the I. And these are
the expectations which shape the various manifestations of the I. One plays
different roles as a son, a husband, a father, a citizen, a member of a caste and of a
society. Social behaviour and ritual define and limit the identity of the ‘I’ in his various
roles. Vidura was a suta irom his very birth and had received all the important life-rituals
of a suta. His social position was fixed once and for all. Dhritarashtra called him
‘brother’ seated him on his knee and embraced him (3.720; also 3.74 and 3.84) but
nobody offered him a princess in marriage, nor was he honoured as a Kshatriya. In spite
of his social inferiority he was never in any doubt as to who he was. Karna was caught in
the vicious grip of this question. He had no definite position in society. He struggled all