The morning Krishna left Upaplavya was attended by omens and prodigies. The sacred fire blazed up in a white-hot smokeless gyre. The hymns poured from the priests’ mouths in torrents, willing themselves into speech. Even the young students recited all the mantras like experts.
It was a clear day at the start of the cold season. The sky was cloudless, yet thunder was heard booming above Upaplavya. In Hastinapura a white wind tore the tiles off roofs and uprooted trees. Enormous flocks of white cranes flew North. The seven sacred rivers reversed their courses, drawing the sea into the land. In all the villages and towns of Kuru the wells overflowed, saturating the ground with water. Along the way which Krishna was to travel people saw the cracks in the road closing, the lumps and ditches evening themselves like soft clay under a sculptor’s hands. Showers of lotus flowers fell from the empty air, shedding an intoxicating fragrance. White comets were seen burning across the blue sky.
Outside the gate of the old Matsya fortress, surrounded by the tents and pavilions of Yudhisthira’s army, Krishna Vasudeva stepped up into his chariot. The sides and wheels of that chariot were embossed with a menagerie of forest animals, fishes, birds, a garden of flowers, and patterns of half moons and full moons and stars so intricate one could never tire of admiring it. The two wheels were like the Sun and Moon. Above the car Krishna’s eagle banner fluttered, flashing like water in the clear morning light. The four horses Sugriva, Sainya, Meghapushpa, and Bahalaka, bathed and oiled and harnessed, were yoked to the chariot, and Krishna’s driver Daruka took the reins.
The Pandava brothers and Draupadi came out of the gate to bid Krishna farewell. They were dressed as if for a great festival, in radiant white cloth edged with gold. Yudhisthira approached the chariot like a pilgrim walking toward a mountain of light. He pressed his palms together and bowed.
“Krishna,” he said, “I have one more request.”
“Tell me,” said the dark prince. His white teeth gleamed when he smiled.
“We have not seen our mother for almost fourteen years,” said Yudhisthira. “Kunti deserves a life of joy, yet she has suffered so much. She is devoted to prayer, to fasts and penances, yet she has had to endure a life of pain and regret. Janardana, embrace our mother for us. Comfort her, tell her we are well and hope to meet her again soon. She is our savior on this Earth.”
Yudhisthira bowed his head and said nothing for a long time. When he at last looked up at Krishna again his eyes shone with tears.
“Krishna,” he said, his voice choked, “will there ever come a time when I can give our mother happiness?”
“Do not fear, and do not grieve,” said Krishna. “That time is swiftly approaching. I will go to Kunti and console her.”
Yudhisthira bowed his head again and walked a sunwise circle around Krishna’s chariot. Then, shedding tears without shame, he re-entered the fortress.
Next Arjuna spoke.
“Krishna,” he said, “it will be a joy to me if your mission is successful. If the sons of Dhritarashtra concede courteously we will have peace. But if Duryodhana refuses even your counsel, then it will be my greater joy to slaughter them all.”
When he heard those words of his younger brother Bhima’s body filled with tingling delight. Every hair on him stood up and his eyes opened wide. He slapped his arms and roared. All the animals that heard Bhima’s battle-roar pissed and shat and shook with fear. Elephants trumpeted and horses frothed at the mouth, their eyes rolling like chariot wheels. Daruka shook the reins and the four horses of Krishna, the only animals unaffected by Bhima’s roars, set off at a gallop. Their hooves seemed barely to touch the ground. They ate the road and drank the sky. Soon Upaplavya and all the great army of the Pandavas disappeared behind them.
Above the chariot white comets flew, trailing lines of fire. Krishna watched them, saw how they drew closer and closer to the Earth.
“Daruka,” he called out above the thunder of hooves and wheels, “stop a moment!”
The driver reined in the four horses and they stood still, their great nostrils flaring, manes shining like liquid silver.
The comets bent toward the Earth and descended around the chariot. As they fell they made a sound like singing, each resonant with its own note in a great chorus. When they touched the ground they did not burst or crater the Earth. They became quiet and slow, and out of their white fire forms emerged. They resembled men—ancient men, older than mountains and wise as the seas.
Krishna pressed his palms together and descended from the chariot to greet them.
“Rishis,” he said, “today is blessed. Tell me, what can I do for you? For what reason have you descended from your star worlds to walk on Goddess Earth?”
A tall, wild-eyed one stepped forward. His white hair hung to the ground in matted locks and he carried an ax whose edge shone like the crescent Moon. He was Parashuram, son of Jamadagni, the ancient slayer of kshatriyas.
“Blessed One,” he said, “this Earth herself spoke to us. She spoke of your journey. All across her vastness, in the forests and jewel-caves, in the gardens, in the cities, the news is echoing: Krishna Vasudeva rides out. We have come to witness you speak in the hall of the Kurus, to drink the nectar of your words, and to see you surrounded by the lords of the Earth. Govinda, this Earth is grown old. The long darkness is at hand. You stand astride the crack between eons, and only you know what is to come.”
Krishna smiled his entrancing smile. His eyes danced like intoxicated flames.
“Come with me, then, bright ones,” he said. “Come to Hastinapura, and see what will come to pass.”
“We will travel far above the Earth,” said Parashuram, “in subtle forms. We will see you again soon, in the City of the Elephant.”
Then all the seers began to burn with white fire. Bowing to Krishna they one by one shot up into the sky, flashing and flaming against the deep blue. Krishna watched them rise, still smiling. The wind of their going blew through his long black hair. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if searching within himself. Then, with a nod to Daruka, he climbed back up into the chariot. Again the reins shook, the horses breathed hot gusts, the wheels rolled raising clouds of red dust like the smoke of sacred fires.
“Krishna is coming,” said King Dhritarashtra. “Our eyes and ears have brought the news. He has entered Kuru and quickly crosses the land. They say his horses devour the distance like birds flying high in the air. Wherever he goes miracles are seen. We must prepare for his arrival!”
Vidura and Bhishma sat beside the blind king in the palace garden, while Duryodhana sat on a nearby bench twirling a blade of grass between finger and thumb. Dhritarashtra was deeply agitated. He kept reaching out for Vidura’s hand, squeezing it, then letting it go.
“They say that in every village and town Krishna stays the people begin to dance in the streets,” the king went on. “They weep and laugh at the same time. Invisible musicians play bells and drums and flower petals rain from the sky. Vidura, Krishna is the soul of the world! Everything depends on him. We must honor him like a god. Listen—I will give him sixteen chariots plated with gold, each with four fine horses. I will give him eight of our biggest war elephants, with their tusks capped with gold and their glands dripping musth. I will give him a hundred female slaves and a hundred male slaves, and wool blankets and deerskins from the high Himalaya, and luminous gemstones from the ancestral treasury. I will order all my sons to dress themselves in their finest clothes and go out of the city to welcome him, sprinkling Ganga water and petals at his feet. I will send out an army of dancing girls with beautiful hips to sing him into the city. Let us host him in Dushasana’s house—it is large and well-decorated, full of treasure and servants. He will be comfortable there. We must provide him with the best foods, fresh fruit, and servants to massage his feet. Sleepless servants must wait on his every need! Oh Vidura, there is hardly enough time to prepare!”
Vidura frowned and placed a hand on his brother’s quivering shoulder.
“Brother,” he said, “you should embody dharma. All the kingdom respects your wisdom. Don’t fall into dishonesty.”
“What dishonesty?”
“Krishna deserves all the gifts you wish to give, and more. But you do not want to give him all this out of love for him. It is for yourself and your sons that you plan to shower him with riches. You think that you can bribe Krishna to take your side, but it is impossible. If you are ready to give so much to him, why not give a mere five villages to your nephews, and have peace?”
Duryodhana barked a short, sharp laugh.
Vidura ignored him and continued.
“My brother,” he said, “my king, Krishna can never be parted from the Pandavas. He loves Arjuna more than his own life. No amount of wealth will change his mind. He does not want chariots, furs, gold, jewels, or slaves. The royal son of Devaki will ask only for water to drink and water to wash his feet, and the barest courtesy. All he wants from you is peace, an end to the preparation for war. Give Krishna what he really wants. Do as he will urge you. Yudhisthira and his brothers treat you as their father, so treat them as your own sons.”
Duryodhana threw away his bit of grass and stood up.
“It’s true, father,” he said, stretching like a jungle cat, “what Vidura says. Krishna and Arjuna are inseparable. He’ll never leave the Pandavas. It’s not the time to give him any gifts, though I know he deserves them. He’ll think that you want to appease him, out of fear, and that will shame our house. Kshatriyas should not show doubt or worry. We are going to meet Krishna on a battlefield soon. You’ll not make peace by pretending there is no war.”
Bhishma placed a hand on Dhritarashtra’s shoulder.
“Krishna’s words will be for the good of us all,” said the invincible elder. “He only speaks dharma. He must be welcomed as a friend, and heeded. Only by following his guidance can we please him.”
“I have said it many times,” Duryodhana whispered, just loud enough for his elders to hear, “and I will say it again: there is no possible world in which I could share my fortune with Yudhisthira and keep living. It is mine. If my kingdom is divided I will walk into a fire. Here is what I will do. Our eyes and ears in the land say that Krishna is coming here alone, without guards or allies. I will take him captive at swordpoint. The Vrishni is my cousins’ sole support. When he is shackled, Yudhisthira will do whatever I tell him.”
Dhritarashtra covered his face with his hands.
“My son,” he choked, “if you wish to protect our people do not even say such things! Krishna is coming as a messenger. All dharma forbids assaulting messengers! He means us no harm!”
“No harm?” Duryodhana laughed venomously. “He means to slaughter all your sons! Krishna decided long ago to wipe us off the Earth. He comes here speaking peace and plotting war.”
“Lord,” said Bhishma, “your son is possessed by an evil spirit. He always chooses death over life. And you obey him, when he should obey you!”
The patriarch glared at Duryodhana, who thrust forward his chin as if daring the old man to chastise him.
“If you or any of your cronies touch Krishna,” Bhishma said, “you will give up your lives. I refuse to listen to any more of your polluted words.”
Bhishma turned away from Duryodhana and strode off. For all his years his legs still moved like those of a young man, his back held straight as a spear.
Duryodhana laughed again, full of spite, and left his father and uncle after brusquely touching their feet. Vidura recoiled from his nephew’s touch as if his fingers were painted with corrosive poison.
“Is he gone?” Dhritasrashtra asked, after Duryodhana had disappeared behind the trees of the garden.
“Your son is gone,” said Vidura. “Dead and gone, if he keeps to his demented plan.”
“Vidura, you see that I can do nothing,” the king moaned. “If I let him do as he pleases he dooms himself, but if I force him to make peace with Yudhisthira he will end his life. What can I do? What could any father do?”
Vidura said nothing. He watched the leaves dancing gently in the cool winter-rumoring wind.
“Vidura?” said Dhritarashtra.
“I am out of answers for you,” said the steward. “Nothing I say makes a difference to you, since you have decided that all is fated and you can do nothing. So let it be. Listen to Krishna, and follow him. He alone can save our family now.”
On the day Krishna arrived in Hastinapura the city trembled and glittered like a hive full of honey tended by millions of bees. The great Vardhamana gate stood open and thousands of people came out of the city to see Janardana of House Vrishni. Families, old men and women leaning on sticks, rich and poor, blind and sighted, mothers with babies in their arms—they all poured out of the gate, their eyes yearning for a sight of the dark prince, their ears straining to catch the sound of his chariot wheels. Bhishma and Drona came out riding in a white chariot drawn by red horses, and behind them came all of the Kaurava princes, all except Duryodhana, dressed in colorful gold-edged silks, gold earrings in their ears and garlands of fragrant flowers hanging from their shoulders. The vast armies, like many cities unto themselves, made a wide road between their tents and sprinkled it with Mother Ganga’s water.
When the Sun was at his highest point Krishna arrived, riding swiftly between the armies, his chariot aglow like a mountain capped with fresh snow. As he approached the city people began to dance, beating their feet on the ground and clapping their hands to make a rhythm. Thousands seemed possessed. Their eyes rolled back in their heads, their limbs trembled, their faces poured sweat. Men fell down on the Earth and rolled about, covering themselves with dust like elephants. People sang with voices sweeter than honey, lighter than butterflies.
Bhishma and Drona greeted Krishna with palms pressed together in prayer, turned their chariot, and led him into Hastinapura. The wide thoroughfare which ran straight as an arrow to the palace gates was thronged with people, and the balconies of the great mansions were so packed with onlookers that the houses leaned forward over the road. Women threw flower petals. Children ran beside Krishna’s chariot shouting, not knowing why they felt so elated but rejoicing all the same. The sons of Dhritarashtra followed the dark prince like an honor guard.
Once inside the palace gates Krishna descended from his chariot, smiling as guilelessly as an infant. Bhishma and Drona led him to the Kuru sabha, and though Krishna had seen hundreds of great palaces and sparkling cities, in this world and others, he laughed with wonder when he beheld the vast hall with its gem-studded pillars and carved ancestors leaning out of the walls.
The palace guards had a great deal of trouble keeping the mass of people from pouring in through the gate. Men ran forward shouting, “Govinda! Govinda!” and the guards wrestled them to the ground or struck them with the buts of their spears. The Kauravas had to push their way through the crowd, tearing their best silks and breaking their garlands.
Inside the great hall Dhritarashtra and Gandhari greeted Krishna with all the appropriate ceremonies. They gave him water to wash his mouth and water to wash his feet, a dish of honey, and a cow as his guest gift. The king put a garland of yellow and white blossoms over Krishna’s head and made him sit in a jeweled throne.
The dark Vrishni reclined happily, swaying his legs like a boy on a swing.
“I feel as if I’m with my own family,” he said, grinning.
“You are!” said Dhritarashtra. “Please, consider us your family. You are a father to us all.”
“A father?” Krishna widened his eyes in mock fear. “I’m not so old yet! You be a father to me instead, Dhritarashtra. And I’ll gladly have Bhishma for my grandfather.”
The king bowed his head. But even he had a smile on his face. He felt real joy, sudden and profound. He could not remember the last time his body had felt so fresh and light.
“Will you take some food?” he asked.
“I’m not hungry yet,” said Krishna. “But I’m tired from the road. I’ll take rest, and tomorrow morning let’s meet here again to discuss my mission.”
“Very good,” said Dhritarashtra. “I have moved my son Dushasana out of his house for you. It is very large, richly furnished, and full of servants to wait on you. Please, go there and rest, and when you are ready we will serve you your meal.”
The smile remained on Krishna’s face, but he shook his head.
“I’ll not stay in Dushasana’s house, Bharata,” he said. “Your son dragged an innocent woman by her hair. How could I stay in his house and sleep in his bed?”
“Then stay in my son Duryodhana’s house,” the king urged. “It can be made ready in moments, and it is very lavish. It will suit you!”
“It certainly will not,” said Krishna. “Your son’s mind is turned against dharma. I won’t stay in his house.”
“Then,” said the king, “stay in my own palace. It has many rooms, all decorated and full of fine things. The queen and I will wait on you ourselves.”
Krishna laughed a little and said,
“No, no, I can’t accept. I will stay with Vidura.”
The steward bowed his head humbly, but his heart leapt and his veins sang within him.
“But my lord,” said the king, “my brother has only a small apartment. He has no wife and no servants. He cooks his own food. You will not be comfortable there! Please, choose any of our mansions, whichever is to your liking.”
“I have chosen,” said Krishna. “I will stay in Vidura’s small apartment and enjoy the food prepared by his own hands.”
“But—” Dhritarashtra began.
“You can’t dissuade me,” said Krishna. He sat up straight and carefully removed his garland, placing it beside himself on the throne. “When Queen Draupadi, whom I love like my own sister, was abused in this very hall, who but Vidura spoke up to defend her?”
Dhritarashtra, Bhishma, and Drona all hung their heads. Krishna looked at them, but they could not meet his eyes.
“Where Parishrami’s son lives, there lives dharma,” said the Vrishni. “All these other palaces may be very beautiful, and full of servants, but how can I stay in a house where dharma is not followed? Vidura, I am tired. Take me to your home.”
Vidura was startled by the sound of his mother’s name, but he calmed himself and pressed his palms together.
“My lord,” he said, “you do me too much honor—”
“No no no,” said Krishna, smiling and waving his hand. “I’ll hear none of that. We are friends! Take me to your home. Daruka will see to my horses.”
Krishna leapt out of the throne. Despite what he said he did not seem tired in the least. He took Vidura’s hand, and together they left the sabha by a side door. Vidura led Krishna deeper into the vast complex of palaces and mansions and gardens until they reached his humble home.
“You must forgive me,” said the steward, “it is a little dusty. I had not expected a guest.”
“You don’t need to ask forgiveness from me,” said Krishna. “I don’t mind. It isn’t the place that I care for, but the company.”
Smiling, a little giddy as if he had drunk mead, Vidura welcomed Krishna and gave him a seat and water. He fetched a plate of fruits and a little honey and set them before his guest.
“The fruits are not the best now,” he said. “The cold season is upon us.”
Krishna bit into a slice of guava and chewed joyfully.
“To me they taste like nectar,” he said.
They sat in silence while Krishna ate and sipped the water. The dark prince ate everything except a few pomegranate seeds, which he gave to Vidura. The steward touched the seeds to his forehead and ate them.
“Will you rest now?” he asked.
“To tell you the truth,” said Krishna, “I feel quite refreshed. Your winter fruits were all I needed. I think I’ll bathe and take a walk in the garden soon.”
“As you like,” said Vidura. “I’ll make up a fire to heat you some water.”
“Ah!” Krishna grinned. “Hot water! I knew I chose right to stay with you.”
He laughed, and Vidura could not help laughing with him. There was such sweet innocence in the black prince’s laughter. It lifted the hearts of all who heard it.
Vidura made the fire and put a large vessel of water over it to warm for Krishna’s bath. Daruka arrived carrying Krishna’s clothes, and Krishna asked after the horses. Once he was assured that they were happily stabled and fed he bathed, dressed in lemon and cassia linen, and wrapped a woolen shawl around his shoulders.
“It is chillier here than in Upaplavya,” he said as he came out into the main room again. He sat in the chair Vidura gave him while his host sat on a small blanket on the floor.
“Lord Krishna,” said Vidura slowly, considering every word, “I do not think you were right to come here.”
“Oh?” Krishna’s eyes sparkled. “Why not?”
“Prince Duryodhana has thrown away dharma and success,” said Vidura. “He is completely fixated on ruling the Earth. He is impetuous, selfish, confused; he does not follow the commands of his elders, and he cares nothing for the lives of his men. Desire has him under complete control. And, alas, all his brothers side with him. If you try to speak wisdom to the Kauravas you will be like a bard performing for a deaf audience. A man like Duryodhana, so steeped in arrogance, will refuse your advice out of pure spite. Powerful kings commanding vast armies have pledged allegiance to him, and he thinks his army the greatest this world has ever known. Bhishma and Drona have been Dhritarashtra’s dependents for decades, and so are bound to fight for the Kauravas. With them on his side Duryodhana thinks he is invincible. He and his brothers have already decided on war, and they are all as obstinate as donkeys. What good will come of it if a man like you, possessing virtue, humility, and wisdom, ventures into a crowd of such mendacious people? Your words, no matter how well-spoken, will have no effect. The Kauravas are convinced that not even Indra and all the hosts of heaven could defeat them.”
A tranquil smile spread over Krishna’s face.
“My friend,” he said, “you speak out of concern for me. There is something you have left unsaid.”
Vidura sighed.
“Yes,” he said. “You know my heart. Please remember that many of the kings gathered here in Hastinapura have old feuds with you, Krishna.”
“I know it well,” said Krishna. “What else?”
“And Duryodhana,” said Vidura, shaking his head, “the fool, the insane fool, is plotting to take you prisoner. He means to use you as a rope to tie Yudhisthira’s hands.”
“Does he now?”
Krishna laughed.
“He thinks I am alone,” he said, “and unprotected. Well, if he wants to make me his captive so be it. He will suffer the consequences. But I will not retreat from my mission now. All you have told me is true and wise, I know, but listen to why I have come here. I came knowing full well how much Duryodhana’s mind has been twisted up by envy. I know he will not listen to me. But see, Vidura, how many men stand to lose their lives, how many horses and war elephants will be slaughtered, how many women will be widowed, how many children left fatherless, how many sisters robbed of their brothers. Think how many mothers will have to experience what no parent ever should: their sons leaving the world before them. The dharma of a man who could halt this slaughter would brighten the world like a second Sun. Even if a man strives to do right and fails, still he gains the merit of his striving. When a friend is in peril a righteous person must run to his aid, even if he cannot save him, or else be guilty of extreme wickedness. So when both branches of the Kuru tree are in such danger, how could I not do all in my power to avert it?”
Vidura pressed his fingertips into his brow.
“But Krishna,” he said, after a brief silence, “do you not know all already? You are the Blessed Lord. Hasn’t all this been decided by you?”
Krishna closed his eyes as if returning to the depths of himself. When he opened them again they seemed to Vidura to radiate a subtle luster, like fine pearls turned in the ocean’s embrace.
“My dear Vidura,” said Krishna, “I would rather you see me as your friend. Birth is a mystery and life a miracle. Here I must play my role, just as we all do.”
“But,” said Vidura, “you must know whether or not this war will occur.”
“Duryodhana has doomed himself by his own actions. War is inevitable.”
“Then why try for peace at all?”
“Fate can undo all a person’s striving. Yet a single action, well-placed, can undo fate. If I do not try to avert disaster, then everywhere people will look to my example and say, ‘You see, Krishna did nothing to stop this. Why should I try to help others when Krishna himself did not?’ Vidura, I am like a child. At any moment I may pour my grace into the life of the most undeserving person.”
Vidura said no more. A deep quiet enveloped them. The swift-darkening evening of the cold season began to change the world. Vidura brought lamps and lit them while Krishna sat playing with a corner of his shawl, seeming deep in thought. When Vidura took his seat on the floor again Krishna looked at him with great tenderness.
“I must speak with my aunt,” he said. “Where is Kunti?”
“She stays in a room near the mango grove,” said Vidura. “We see very little of her. I go to her sometimes, but Krishna, I confess that her grief is so heavy that I cannot stand it for long. She walks a little in the evening. If you go now you will find her outdoors.”
“Then I’ll go to her,” said Krishna. “Tell me how to reach this mango grove.”
Vidura gave him directions, and Krishna stepped out into the cool of the evening. The edge of winter chill in the air made him shiver, but he wrapped his shawl around himself and walked quickly into the inner gardens of the great palace. All around were paths and fountains, some dry and some flowing, trees and ornamental bushes and ponds and beds which, in the spring, would be radiant with flowers. The great mansions of the Kauravas stood here and there amidst the gardens and orchards, their windows illuminated by the warm light of ghee lamps. Threads of music fluttered past Krishna, born by the cold breezes. Above the sky was darkening, tinged red and obscured by the smoke of the army’s numberless fires.
Krishna found his way to the mango grove. Amongst the trees night had already fallen. The shadows were dark and the long waxy leaves of the mango trees looked black as crow feathers. A woman stood in the shadows as if waiting for him. Her hair was white and she wore a white cloth, so that she seemed to glow slightly in the darkness. Her body was very slight, almost insubstantial, like the memory of a body. Krishna approached her, but if she noticed him she gave no indication. He stopped a few steps away.
“Aunt,” he said. “I’m here.”
She looked at him then. Even in the dark he could see that she had aged immensely since last they met. Her face was deeply lined and even her eyebrows had gone white. Yet she still stood straight as a reed; her small bony shoulders did not hunch, nor did her head droop forward.
“I heard you were coming,” she said. “Welcome to my prison.”
Krishna stepped closer to her.
“Oh Kunti,” he said, “you have not deserved this fate.”
She looked at him with black eyes and said nothing.
“Yudhisthira asked me to embrace you,” said Krishna.
He extended his arms toward Kunti. For a moment she did not move. Then, like a stalk of grain in the wind, she swayed and fell into Krishna’s arms. He held her close and felt just how delicate she had become. She was as frail as a hollow-boned little bird.
Wrapped in Krishna’s arms, Kunti's body began to shake. She held onto him and tears suddenly poured from her eyes. She sobbed and trembled, and Krishna held her and stroked her head. She seemed brittle as a branch in winter, empty as a dry stream, yet the tears poured from her like Ganga and Yamuna rushing down from high Himalaya.
When, after a long time, her weeping subsided she coughed, dry and harsh. Her whole body spasmed, and it seemed her coughs would break her apart. She drew away from Krishna, back into herself, and covered her mouth with one hand.
“Do you need some water?” he asked.
She shook her head, coughed again, and then lowered her hand. Her face was soaked with weeping, her eyes rimmed with salt.
“Oh Krishna,” she said, “tell me of my sons. When they went into the forest they tore out my heart with all its roots and carried it away with them. For fourteen years I have lived here, in the house of my sons’ enemies, grieving for them. Food has no taste, flowers no scent. My world is empty.”
Kunti drew a deep, faltering breath.
“My sweet Yudhisthira,” she said. “Humble, honest; who was always so strict with himself and had compassion for every creature, how is he? And my Bhima, my boy like an elephant, how is he? How is Arjuna, my storm-born child, the perfect warrior? How is Sahadeva, who always waited on me with so much tenderness? How is Nakula? He was such a beautiful boy. Krishna, when I think of them now I no longer see them as men, as they were when they left. I remember them as children, when they clung to me with their little hands and looked at me with eyes so full of trust. Their voices singing little made-up songs. When Bhima didn’t get enough to eat he used to roar like a little tiger.”
The ghost of a smile quivered on Kunti’s lips for just a moment, then faded.
“Your sons are all in good health,” said Krishna. “They are surrounded by strong allies. They are longing to see you. Soon you will be reunited.”
“And what of Draupadi? How is she?”
“She is burning with anger.”
“She has every right to it,” said Kunti. “Krishna, was there ever a woman like Draupadi? Her conduct was always spotless, she never said a wrong word, never bore anyone ill will. When we lived at Indraprastha she always took care of me like my own daughter. Krishna, I love Draupadi more than my own sons! Good deeds bear no good fruit if Draupadi, who deserves every happiness, has been made to suffer so much. She has five husbands, the sons of gods, who should support and protect her, and yet she has lived through more tortures than any life can contain. Thirteen years without her sons! She missed their growing into men.”
Kunti’s voice, which until now had been unsteady and quiet, suddenly became loud and full of force. She spoke quickly, the flood of grievances she had held back for fourteen long years pouring out of her mouth. Her eyes blazed and flecks of spittle flew from her lips.
“When I saw my daughter dragged by the hair, in her one cloth stained with blood, Krishna, my spirit broke. The world betrayed her! That disgusting man struck her and tried to strip her in front of everyone, and no one protested! No one said a word! That day I lost all respect for the elders. What are Bhishma and Drona and all those great men worth if they said nothing to defend my Draupadi? They are lower than dust! I respect only Vidura—only he spoke for her. Even my sons said nothing! And after all that the exile, thirteen years in the forest living on roots and berries, sleeping on the hard ground. Thirteen years my sons had to live without seeing their own mother! Krishna, it burns me. Where are the promised fruits of virtue, tell me that! All my life I have not strayed from the strict path set before me. As a girl I followed my father’s every instruction, I treated all my elders like gods. After marriage I followed my husband through every trial, always at his side, without complaint. I raised my sons according to everything proper, taught them all I could, gave them my love without stint. So many sleepless nights I spent! I have observed every fast, prayed at all the right times, given gifts to brahmanas and the poor. Never once have I made a distinction between my sons and the sons of others! I have been a mother to all the world! And for all that my life has been only a long chain of suffering! Oh, yes, there were a few good years. A few moments in Indraprastha. Krishna, you know everything already. When I was only a child the Sun impregnated me, and I was forced to give up my firstborn son out of fear. Out of fear I have never revealed to him who he really is. Yes, Krishna, I know Karna is my son—and he hates Arjuna with such passion—this alone would be enough to tear any mother’s heart to pieces! No sooner was I married than my husband was cursed. I could not touch him ever again, nor did I, not until I washed his corpse. Here I am, Krishna, a widow, living with my enemies, without possessions. All I own is this white robe! I have nothing, nothing, not even my sons to comfort me. Nothing hurts worse than being without them.
“Krishna, I don’t blame fate. I don’t blame the gods. I don’t blame myself, nor do I blame Duryodhana. No, I blame my father. Oh the great, the illustrious Shurasena, in all his generosity, gave over his daughter to Kuntibhoja when she was just a little girl playing with a ball. Like a piece of cloth he handed me over. I have been betrayed by my father, by all my fathers. All these wise old men with their wise serious words have made my life a living hell—passing me from one to another, caging me and releasing me like an animal. Krishna, what profit has this life brought me? I am worse off now than I have ever been! And Dhritarashtra, Bhishma, Drona, oh all the wise men who sit debating dharma—what good have they done? And yet I must live off of them, eat their food, be their burden. Krishna, where is the justice in that? But I could bear it all, I could, all of it—the theft of our kingdom, the horrible game of dice, the exile of my sons—but I cannot bear that beautiful Draupadi had to stand in the hall in her moon-time cloth and listen to all those savage insults. What could hurt me more?
“Krishna, when Arjuna was born a voice spoke from the sky. It told me, ‘Your son will conquer the Earth. He will be victorious.’ I never doubted that voice. If there is any such thing as dharma, if there is any order that upholds this world, then my sons will be the ruin of their enemies and make our family whole again. Krishna, you will make it happen. Tell my sons this: ‘I bore you for a purpose. Do not forget that you are warriors, and war is your calling. Don’t be hypocrites, don’t shrink from your duty!’ Tell Arjuna to follow in Draupadi’s footsteps.”
Krishna reached out and took Kunti’s hand.
“There is no woman in this world like you,” he said. “Mother of heroes, ornamented with every virtue, you can endure all of this. And you need not endure much longer. Soon, soon you will have relief. You will see your sons again. You will see Draupadi happy, seated on a high throne and shining.”
“If you say so, Krishna,” said Kunti, “then it will be so. Everything depends on you.”
Krishna squeezed her hand gently and let it go. He pressed his palms together and bowed his head.
“Then bless me, aunt, and give me your burdens.”
Kunti placed her hand briefly on Krishna’s head. He met her eyes and smiled.
“Mother of the world,” he said, “the world will yet be yours.”
Then he walked a sunwise circle around her and embraced her again. This time Kunti did not weep. They parted in silence, and Krishna left the grove of mangoes. It was now full night. The lights of the princes’ houses sparkled between the trees. Palace servants walked here and there, lighting lamps along the garden paths. Krishna took a deep breath. The cold air entered his lungs, filled him for a moment, and departed. He smelled the smoke taint of the army’s fires, the warmly spiced scents of cooking, the soft life-giving smell of the sleeping trees and garden plants. The dust of many centuries.
He set off walking through the gardens with no direction in mind. He was not yet ready for sleep. He remembered with a pang how fragile Kunti had felt in his arms, how shrunken she had become under all her sorrows.
Through the night a strand of music reached his ear and he followed it, walking along the winding labyrinthine paths between groves and pavilions. As he drew nearer the source he could hear talk and laughter, sounds of hands clapping and voices raised in song. Ahead of him a stretch of treeless grass opened up, and the path ran straight through it to the great jeweled doors of an enormous palatial house. Every window was brightly lit and clay lamps were arrayed on the steps leading up to the door. On either side of the door stood a guard dressed in armor and a torch burning brightly.
Krishna crossed the grass and stopped at the bottom of the steps.
“Whose house is this?” he called up to the guards.
“This is Prince Duryodhana’s house,” one of them replied.
The music came pouring out from the windows.
Krishna ran light-footed up the steps and saluted the guards.
“Tell the prince,” he said, “that Krishna is here to meet him.”
The guard pressed his palms together, opened the door, and disappeared into the light and sound within. Krishna stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other, smiling his secret smile. After a short time the door opened wide and Duryodhana himself stood in the entrance holding a cup of mead, his arms spread wide. His long hair was unbound and his face flushed with drink.
“Welcome, dear Krishna!” he bellowed. “I had not expected this honor! Come, come inside. It’s cold out there tonight. Have something to drink, something to eat. We are celebrating.”
He led Krishna down a high-ceilinged hall and into a great round room hung with silks and tapestries. Carpets, stools, couches and beds lay strewn about the floor. Ghee lamps burned everywhere, filling the room with light and a sweet buttery smell. Many of Duryodhana’s brothers lay here and there on the couches drinking and eating from gold plates of stewed venison and clove-studded sweet rice. Others were clapping and singing along to the music of flute, drum, and veena. Young women with honey-gold skin undulated in the center of the room, shaking the small silver bells on their anklets and casting amorous glances at the men.
“I designed this room to feel like a summer hunting pavilion,” said Duryodhana grandly. “I always miss hunting when I’m home, so I thought, why not bring the hunt here? Once we even released deer in the gardens and had a proper hunt. It was glorious!”
He snapped his fingers.
“A seat! Bring a seat for our honored guest!”
Two servants rushed to carry a couch over and Krishna took his seat. Duryodhana sat down on an ox-sized cushion nearby and reclined languidly, like a tiger with a bellyful of antelope meat.
“Krishna,” he said, “what can I offer you that is worthy of you? Take my house! Take my kingdom!”
Krishna laughed and shook his head.
“I don’t need those, son of Gandhari.”
Duryodhana struck his cushion with a fist.
“Food and drink!” he shouted. “Bring food and drink for Krishna, at once!”
Within minutes more servants arrived carrying a tray heavy with the sweet rice and spicy venison stew, as well as fruits and a dish of honey, a pitcher full of mead and a silver cup. They set it before Krishna, who looked it all over and touched nothing. Dushasana came in, saluted Krishna, and sat beside his elder brother.
“Why don’t you eat?” rumbled Duryodhana. “The food is good. The mead is strong! Enjoy!”
Krishna no longer smiled.
“I have come as a messenger with a purpose,” he said. “Messengers eat only once they have succeeded. I will share your food once my mission is fulfilled.”
“What’s this?” Duryodhana frowned hugely, his big forehead buckling in a series of deep furrows. “Krishna, come, it isn’t right for you to refuse my hospitality. A host should honor guests always, and you are making it impossible. I’m offering you these things in friendship! My quarrel is with my cousins, not you.”
Krishna looked Duryodhana in the eye for a long moment. The Kaurava glared back. All around them the party continued, the music lilted, the dancers swayed, the drunken princes reeled and sang, but they neither heard nor saw any of it. Krishna’s gem-dark eyes drew Duryodhana in like fire in a lightless wilderness.
Then the Vrishni threw back his head and laughed scornfully, severing the thread between them.
“Son of Gandhari,” he said, “nothing can make me stray from dharma. I only accept food out of love or need, prince. I do not need your food, nor do I have any love for you.”
Duryodhana clutched his mead cup tight and glowered.
“From your childhood,” Krishna continued, “you have hated your cousins without any reason at all. Those sweet men, self-controlled and pious, do right by all beings, yet you look on them with nothing but spite. Know this, prince: I have allied myself entirely with the Pandavas. We are one soul. If you hate them, you hate me as well. You are a slave to your mind, Kaurava, to your greed and anger. I consider your food putrid and inedible. I will eat only Vidura’s food. That is my decision.”
Krishna stood up and brushed off his clothes as if some filthy dust had landed on them, then turned and left the room without another word. He walked quickly down the hallway and back out the door, into the blue dark of the night.
Inside his pavilion room Duryodhana sat in brooding silence. Dushasana eyed his brother warily, uncertain how he would digest such an insult.
“Brother,” Duryodhana whispered.
“Yes?” said Dushasana.
“If there was any doubt in my mind it has been cleared away. By this time tomorrow Krishna will be chained and manacled. Let us see how he feels about my food once he has spent a few days in the pit.”
Duryodhana set down his mead cup. He had gripped it so tightly that his fingers had deformed the metal, but he seemed not to notice. Dushasana’s mouth was dry, and he swallowed with difficulty.
“But how will we manage it?” he asked. “No weapons will be allowed in the sabha tomorrow.”
“We’ll keep our swords outside the door,” said Duryodhana. “When one of them insults me—which they surely will, they never miss an opportunity—I will storm out in a rage. Then you, Vinda, and Anuvinda must follow me out. We’ll pick up our weapons and take Krishna hostage. He’s alone and defenseless.”
“But…” Dushasana began.
Duryodhana shot him a dangerous glance.
“But what?”
“Well… If it’s true what they say, that Krishna is divine, then he must have a hidden protection. Won’t he punish us?”
Duryodhana grinned without humor.
“Are you losing your nerve now? Krishna may be all they say he is, but he is also a man. When the gods take birth as human beings they lose their memory of their divine power. Even Rama, who was Vishnu himself, had to be reminded of who he was.”
Dushasana nodded, but Duryodhana could tell from his eyes that he was unconvinced.
“Come,” he said, reaching out and clasping Dushasana’s shoulder tightly, “let us drink. Courage is all you need.”
Outside in the quiet of the gardens, Krishna watched Duryodhana’s mansion from afar. In the shadows of the trees he was almost invisible, a slightly deeper piece of the night. He waited.
Soon someone left the mansion by a side door and walked quickly down the steps to the grass. The figure crossed the lawn, looking from side to side all the while, searching for something. She was a woman, dressed in shimmering silk woven through with gold thread, a fine goatswool shawl wrapped around her shoulders. As she came closer Krishna could see that she was wearing a great quantity of jewelry: large gold earrings, a big jeweled hoop in her nose, many gem-studded bangles on her arms.
When she was about to pass him by he whispered, “I am here.”
She turned quickly toward his voice. If she was startled she did not let her face betray it. She went to him with palms pressed together, bowed down and touched his feet.
“You are Krishna Vasudeva,” she said.
“I am,” he replied. “And which apsara are you?”
He smiled, and she looked down at her feet.
“I’m only a human being,” she said. “My name is Bhanumati. I am Duryodhana’s wife.”
“Don’t look at your feet,” said Krishna gently. “I know who you are, Bhanumati, daughter of Chitrangada. It is amazing that for all his faults Duryodhana has been blessed with such a beautiful wife.”
This time she smiled and looked into Krishna’s eyes.
“You’ve come to ask me to forgive him,” said the Vrishni.
“Yes,” she said. “I know he is arrogant. I know he is delusional, envious, spiteful, all of it. But Krishna, he is generous too. He is a good ruler. The people don’t suffer under him. His one fault is that he envies Yudhisthira beyond reason—that is the sole cause of all his anger, all his show of pride. Tomorrow he means to try to take you prisoner. I heard him talking about it with Dushasana. Krishna, you must forgive him. You must make peace between him and his cousins. If you don’t he will die in the battle, I know it. I have dreamed it many times.”
Bhanumati paused and bowed her head again.
“I know it’s not proper for me to come to you like this, alone in the night. But Krishna, I think only you can save my husband. My son Lakshman loves his father with all his spirit. If Duryodhana dies he will be broken. Please, lord, only you can save us.”
“Dear lady,” said Krishna, “it is not I who will decide what becomes of your husband. Duryodhana dooms himself by his own actions. When he has been told a thousand times to desist and refuses to listen then he must face the consequences. In this world no action is without its result. The doer must taste the fruit of his action, be it sweet or sour or poisonous. Nature keeps all of us, even me, in her balance, and every debt we incur must finally be repaid. Only one who is utterly without desire can live in this world untouched by the law of action.”
“But,” said Bhanumati, “I have heard the people say that you are—” Her voice fell to a whisper. “—a god born on Earth as a man. They say you are Vishnu himself, and hearing your voice I believe it. If anyone can change Nature’s will it is you.”
“Ask yourself this, Bhanumati,” said Krishna, his voice likewise very soft, “if I could do such a thing, why would I for the sake of Duryodhana? To transgress Nature is no small thing. Why should I bend her will for the sake of a man who would rather burn the Earth than give his cousin a needlepoint of land?”
Bhanumati was silent. Her face remained calm, but her shoulders trembled. Her slightly shaking bangles made a soft sound like the stars whispering to each other.
“I know it is not easy,” said Krishna, “but do not be afraid. In the end all will have peace.”
“Is that the peace of death?” she asked.
“Even in death,” said Krishna, “you will see your husband again.”
Bhanumati stood still without speaking for a long time. A cold wind shook the leaves above them and she shivered and pulled her shawl up over her head.
“Krishna,” she said, “I do not know what to say. Though you speak of my death, and the death of my husband, I feel no pain hearing your words.”
She waited for a reply, but heard only insects and the trees rubbing their hundred thousand soft hands. The dark prince was gone, faded away into the night like a sweet memory. Bhanumati pressed her palms together and bowed her head. Somewhere far away, beyond the walls of the palace and the city, a man’s voice sang a song of longing. Perhaps a soldier in one of the great armies, a man uprooted from his house and farm and made to march aching lengths of land to an alien kingdom, to serve the desire of a king he had never seen. Somehow his voice found Bhanumati’s ears, and she listened long to him in the dark garden.
The world is full of gods, moving and speaking just beneath the skin of what we see. Beneath the Earth snakes with jeweled heads hold court in emerald halls. All things listen, even the stars and the circling planets. No word spoken goes unnoticed. Even the rough sorrow-strained voice of a man far from home goes all the way to the world of Brahma.
Krishna and Vidura stayed up late into the night talking of many things. Neither felt any need for sleep in the other’s company, and neither wanted the night to pass. Yet at the last the sky paled and the stars faded. Conches and bells and drums roused the city. Krishna bathed, oiled, and dressed himself. He hung two oblong pearls from his ears and put on a necklace dripping with opals and polished pieces of nacre. The Sun, desiring a sight of the blessed one in his finery, rose swiftly into the sky.
Krishna and Vidura went together to the great sabha, where the lords of the Earth had assembled. At the high end of the hall sat Dhritarashtra and Gandhari, the blind couple resplendent as two full moons. Bhishma sat near them dressed in a deep blue cloth that beautifully contrasted his snow-white mane and beard. On a couch spread with tiger skins sat Drona and Ashwatthaman, both dressed in spotless white garments. The warrior brahmana’s long beard was braided and hung almost to the floor.
On thrones and couches lining the hall the kings sworn to Duryodhana waited like so many golden lions. The hundred Kaurava princes sat clustered together like a range of adamant mountains, with Duryodhana at their center seated in a throne larger and more richly adorned than his father’s. Karna sat at his right hand, his uncle Shakuni at his left.
As Krishna entered the sabha the assembled kings and princes heard bells ringing and far distant voices raised in song. A mass of brilliance followed the dark Vrishni like dawn follows the night.
“My lords,” said Krishna, “rise up from your seats!”
His voice was like a drum with the sky for a skin, stretched on the eight directions. All the assembly stood at once, without a thought. Even Duryodhana found himself rising to his feet.
“These rishis have come with me to witness this assembly,” said Krishna. “They should be honored according to all the laws of hospitality. None may sit before they are seated.”
As he spoke the great light behind him dimmed and the earthly men perceived presences within it, tall and sage and ancient.
Bhishma clapped his hands and called out, “Seats! Water!”
At once the hall swarmed with people carrying chairs and couches and deerskins. The sky-dwelling seers took their seats and accepted the pure water to wash their feet. When they were satisfied the assembly sat again.
A large chair made from nine precious metals was brought for Krishna. The arms were shaped in the likeness of two makaras and the back was a many-headed cobra with diamond eyes. The Vrishni took his seat, shaded by the cobra’s spreading hoods. Beside him sat Vidura, on a couch covered with the skin of an albino deer.
All eyes in the sabha remained fixed on Krishna. Seated in that shining chair, dressed in the lightest yellow cloth, his body, blue-black and glistening like ripe mulberries, seemed to draw in all light. The kings and princes and sages stared and stared at him like men entranced by a blazing fire. None could have described how he felt in that moment. It was as if the streams of blood in their veins became streams of nectar, as if the trees of nerves in their bodies flowered and bore fruit. A profound silence immersed them, deeper than the silence of lands beneath the ocean.
Krishna smiled like a happy child. His teeth sparkled. Pressing his palms together he said,
“King Dhritarashtra, Queen Gandhari, greetings! May there be peace between your sons and the sons of Pandu. This is my sole task here today. Sires, you both possess excellent wisdom. Dhritarashtra, all the world knows and respects you. You are a father to the Earth. Gandhari, the power you have gained by your strong penance is immeasurable. You are the holders of a great lineage, adorned with every virtue. House Kuru has been distinguished down the centuries for righteousness, compassion, and patience, for your sympathy for others, your heroism, and your strong addiction to truth. All your ancestors have gone by the straight road to Indra’s heaven. In such a noble house anything improper appears like a soot stain on a clean white cloth. You, King Dhritarashtra, are the protector of your lineage, and it is for you to rein in House Kuru when it strays against dharma. Oh descendant of Bharata, your sons, led by Duryodhana, have strayed from the path of dharma. Their minds are possessed by greed and envy, and they are dragged toward their ruin like chariots drawn by mad horses. My lord, your sons are speeding toward a catastrophe, and they are pulling all the world along with them. Yet I do not think peace will be difficult to achieve even at this late hour. Everything rests on you. Restrain your sons and save this Earth. You are their father and their king and they must obey you.
“Consider the advantages, lord, if you make peace with the Pandavas. Where Yudhisthira places his loyalty, there dharma flourishes. With Bhima, Arjuna, and Madri’s twins by your side you will be as unassailable as the Sun. No one would dare make war on you. Think how secure you will be when you are protected by Bhishma, Drona, Ashwatthaman, and your hundred sons as well as Yudhisthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, Sahadeva, Drupada, Virata, and Satyaki! Your word will become the law of all beings. With such power you could create an eon of peace like the ten thousand year reign of King Rama in ancient days. But think of the consequences if all these heroes and their armies go to war against each other—it will be a disaster like the Last Deluge! Bharatavarsha will burn from the mountains to the ocean. Your kingdom will become a wasteland fit only for crows and jackals. Millions of men will go into the mouth of Time. After your sons and your nephews slaughter each other, what joy will you find in life? Look at all these kings, the fruit of great lineages. You can save their lives if you but assert your power. At your command, let the two estranged branches of your family meet in brotherhood. Let them eat and drink together, let them garland each other with flowers. Return to Yudhisthira his portion of the kingdom. Though he has suffered many years by obeying the pact you sanctioned, living in wild lands and hiding like a fugitive, though he has seen his beloved wife suffer every abuse in your own hall, still Yudhisthira bears you no ill will. He is ready to abandon all thought of war if you honor your word of old. Dhritarashtra, you are the guru of your sons and your nephews. Set them on the right path. Direct them to the road that leads to dharma, pleasure, and wealth.”
Krishna paused and spread his arms wide.
“Let all these kings judge my words. If what I have spoken is true and correct and aligned with dharma, then speak, my lords.”
The assembly applauded, but when the ovation died down no one said a word. Krishna looked around as if bemused. He no longer smiled, nor did he appear angry. He seemed rather like a young man who has lived all his life in a forest surrounded by buildings for the first time. None could discern his thought, not even Vidura.
Finally Dhritarashtra spoke.
“All you say is true, Vasudeva,” he said. “Your words are full of dharma, reasonable, and just. But I do not have the power you think I do. My will is never done, even here in my own house. It is my obstinate son Duryodhana you must convince. He closes his ears to me and even to his mother. Krishna, save my son from himself.”
Krishna turned his head and rested his gaze on Duryodhana.
The Kaurava sat proud, his powerful jaw clenched, his back spear-straight and his eyes fixed on Krishna.
“Duryodhana,” said the Vrishni, “listen to what I have to say. All my words are for your own profit, and the profit of your followers. I know your many fine qualities, prince. You are brave, noble, and generous. You give without stint to your friends and your people. You have been born in a radiant lineage, shining with fame. Yet you propose to act in a way far beneath you. My son, this behavior is unsuitable and out of place in a man like you. The path you are walking is meant for the cruel, the mean-minded, the shameless. This is not the strict path of your ancestors. I do not need to repeat all I have said to your father—you know full well the danger that awaits you. Yet you run toward it all the same. Why?
“I know that you are wise and righteous, so why do you pursue a perverse way? Your mind has been slowly poisoned by the words of false counselors and bad advisers, men who seek their own gain at your expense. You have given too much credence to the talk of incompetent and uninformed people. My prince, abandon perversity and give your attention to what your elders have to say. They want only what is best for you. A father’s commandment brings the highest good. Your father wishes that you make peace with your cousins. So too do Bhishma, Drona, Ashwatthaman, Vidura, Sanjaya—indeed, all the men of this house who still possess wisdom. If a man hears good advice and does not follow it he burns himself, just as someone burns his stomach by eating unripe fruit.
“The wise say that there are three aims in this life: the practice of dharma, the pursuit of wealth, and the pursuit of pleasure. Yet if one is unable to pursue all three, then one should focus on wealth and dharma. If even two are beyond reach, then one should commit to dharma above all, for dharma is said to be the source of all success. You seek to rule a great kingdom, as is correct for a kshatriya, but your approach is all wrong. By feuding with your cousins you only wound yourself, for if it comes to war there will be no kingdom left for you to enjoy. Understand, good Duryodhana, that Yudhisthira’s victory is your victory as well. Together your strength will be beyond comparison, but separate you will be each other’s undoing. You are one family. Do not destroy your legacy, rather make peace and leave the Earth flourishing for your descendants to enjoy. When you and Yudhisthira rule together Kuru will blossom and the Earth will be as it was in the eon of truth. But if you insist on fighting the undefeatable Arjuna, if you go to war against the Wolfbelly, then all this land you now protect will become a swamp of blood. You can more easily uproot the mountains with your bare hands and drag the gods down from Indra’s heaven than defeat Arjuna and Bhima in battle.
“If you honor Yudhisthira’s rights, if you make peace, then the Pandavas will crown you king of Kuru with their own hands. You will retain this palace, this city, and all the land from Ganga to Khandava, as well as all the kingdoms Karna has conquered in your name. Choose dharma, profit, and pleasure. Peace will bring you all three in plentitude. War will destroy them for you and the generations to come.”
Duryodhana’s eyes remained fixed on Krishna, but he made no reply to the Vrishni’s speech. His face was blank, unreadable.
Bhishma stood up and said,
“My prince, all Krishna says is true. Listen to him; don’t be ruled by anger. All the wealth of House Kuru, all your lands and people, your friends, advisers, cattle and relatives—all of this is in danger if you continue down the road to war. Make peace, as Vasudeva wishes. Heed him! Don’t yield to perversity. Don’t hurt your mother and father.”
Still Duryodhana gazed at Krishna, not even glancing in Bhishma’s direction.
Drona too spoke up.
“Duryodhana,” he said, “I taught you and Pandu’s sons from childhood. I know that Arjuna cannot be defeated, even by the gods. Krishna and Bhishma have spoken what is in your own best interest. Do as they say.”
Duryodhana’s face did not change, but his breath came heavily now. His hands clutched the arms of his throne and those seated near him could see coppery red spreading from the corners of his eyes.
“Heir of the Bharatas,” said Vidura, “you’ve been told everything, and now you will do as you wish. If you burn yourself up flying into the flame of Arjuna I won’t grieve for you. But I worry for your mother and father, who will enter old age without any of their sons to help them. If you take your brothers with you into this madness your parents will roam the Earth helpless as birds with severed wings. Think what is coming, Duryodhana. You will be the murderer of your own family.”
“Enough!” Duryodhana suddenly shouted.
He slapped his thigh with his right hand and the sound echoed in the hall.
“Enough,” he said again, his voice now level and calm. “Krishna, you should think a little before you speak. You blame me for everything because you have sworn yourself to my enemies. Even my allies—Bhishma, Gurudev, my father and Vidura—all heap abuse and blame on me alone! But on what grounds? When I reflect on all that has happened between me and my cousins I cannot see that I have done anything wrong. Where, Krishna, is my great sin? Yudhisthira agreed to the game of dice of his own accord. I didn’t ask him to stake himself, his brothers, or his wife; that was his decision. It is Yudhisthira who is the root of his family’s troubles, not I. For what crime do they now seek vengeance? What have I done, son of Devaki, that they send you here to threaten me?
“My brothers and I are all proud kshatriyas. No amount of speeches about our enemy’s greatness can make us grovel and give in. We have the combined might of Bhishma, Drona, Shalya, and eleven grand armies. No one, not even Arjuna and Bhima, can defeat the grandfather and the guru. And even if, by some trickery, we lose, then we will die in glory and sleep on beds of arrows, and we’ll not regret it. Better a hero’s death for us than to bow to anyone out of fear. As long as I live Yudhisthira can plead and threaten all he likes, he’ll get nothing. I will not divide what is mine by birthright. I will break in all my joints before I bend to anyone—that is kshatriya dharma.”
Almost before Duryodhana was finished speaking Krishna threw back his head and laughed. This was not the joyful, infectious laughter that buoyed hearts and pacified minds, that laughter all who knew Krishna loved to hear. This laughter was laden with derision and mockery. When Krishna fixed his eyes on Duryodhana again they were dancing like flames, red with fury.
“Very well,” he said scornfully, “you will have your bed of arrows! Prepare yourself for slaughter! You do not think you have done anything wrong?”
Krishna’s voice deepened in a perfect imitation of Duryodhana’s.
“Where is my great sin? Listen, all of you kings! Since you were a child, prince, you burned with reasonless envy for your cousins. You tried every plot and ploy to get rid of them. By deception you tried to burn them alive in Varanavata, along with their mother—my aunt! When they returned at last and built their kingdom up from nothing, you plotted with your uncle Shakuni to cheat them, out of pure envy and greed. Shakuni’s dice are crooked, and you knew it! And now we come to the crest jewel of your crimes. In this very sabha, at your command, Dushasana dragged Draupadi by her hair. What did you say then? ‘She is a whore, and deserves to be treated like one.’ Do you remember that, Kaurava? Even now the Pandavas are willing to make peace, to overlook all your crimes, yet you, acting like an obstinate child, insist on your own extermination. Well, you will have your wish!”
Duryodhana stood up and stamped his foot on the floor. Hissing like an enraged snake he turned and began to stride quickly toward an exit.
“My son!” Dhritarashtra cried. “Wait!”
Duryodhana paused and turned toward his father, his whole body clenched with menace.
“My queen,” said Dhritarashtra, “please, speak to our son. Maybe he will listen to you.”
Queen Gandhari stood up slowly. She kept her hands clasped over her belly as she spoke, her face set, her voice even and composed.
“Dhritarashtra,” she said, “you yourself are to blame for all this. You never disciplined our son. You allowed his mind to rule yours, even though you know he is a slave to anger and greed. Now you can no longer force him to do your will. You, husband, are going to taste the fruit of your own actions, having turned the kingdom over to our most spiteful child.
“As for you, Duryodhana, listen to what I have to say. One who wishes to conquer a kingdom must first conquer himself. One who wishes to hold onto a kingdom must have a firm hold on himself. One who is not in control of his senses does not keep his kingdom long, and he finds no profit in it. Anger and greed are the two enemies that destroy everything; defeat them and you have conquered the Earth. All your father has said, all Bhishma and Drona have said, and all I tell you now, we say because we love you. We want to see you prosper and live happily for many years to come! There is no dharma in war, nor is their wealth, nor pleasure. In peace you will enjoy all three.
“Years ago your father divided this kingdom because he feared conflict. Now you are enjoying the results of your cousins’ striving: the fertile land of Khandava which once was waste, the great city of Indraprastha, and all the lands of the Earth that Kunti’s sons conquered. Give your cousins their fair share, my son, and you will be repaid a hundred times over. You will be a good king. Together you and Yudhisthira could make this Earth a garden of plenty, blessed with peace as far as the birds go in every direction. The generations to come will sing your name with joy. Only let go of anger and greed. Master yourself, my son.”
Gandhari sat down again, decorously placing her hands on her knees.
Duryodhana seemed about to speak. His face twisted and his hands grasped the empty air. Then he hung his head, turned on his heel, and almost ran out of the hall. Many of his brothers, as well as Karna and Shakuni, rose up and followed him.
“Dhritarashtra,” said Krishna, “your son means to take me captive.”
A sharp intake of breath ran through the assembly.
“The boy is insane!” Dhritarashtra shouted. “Krishna, please, whatever he does—!”
Krishna held up one hand and said, “Let him come. He thinks I am alone and unarmed. So be it.”
“I beg you, Krishna,” pleaded the king, “do not kill him! He is deluded by anger, he’s not in his right mind!”
Krishna smiled.
“Dhritarashtra,” he said, “you should have clapped manacles around your son’s wrists long ago. To save the family, abandon one man. To save the village, abandon one family. To save the land, abandon one village. To save your Self, abandon the Earth. But I won’t harm your son. It isn’t yet his day to die, nor would I further sully this ancient and illustrious hall.”
Duryodhana reentered the hall like a storm cloud rising into a clear blue sky. He had a naked sword in his hand. Behind him came Dushasana carrying a sword and a dagger, and many of the Kaurava princes likewise armed.
“Stop this madness!” Bhishma shouted.
“My son,” cried Dhritarashtra, “don’t touch Krishna. You don’t know who he is!”
“I know very well who he is,” Duryodhana hissed.
His eyes bloodshot, his face contorted with fury, Duryodhana strode down the hall toward Krishna’s throne. He pointed his sword at the dark prince.
“Get up, son of Devaki,” he ordered. “Come with us!”
Krishna only laughed.
“You fool,” he said, “you think I am alone.”
“Get up!”
Duryodhana raised his blade.
Suddenly Krishna stood up, laughing like claps of thunder. White light shot out from every pore of his body, so brilliant that all the kings and princes covered their eyes. Duryodhana stumbled and fell to his knees, dropping his sword with a loud crash. Only Bhishma, Drona, Vidura, and the seers were able to keep their eyes open and look into the light, which appeared like a new Sun born in the midst of the hall.
They saw Krishna grown to a towering height so that his hair spread against the high ceiling of the sabha. He had innumerable hands, all of them holding shining weapons. Fire and smoke gushed from his eyes, nose, and from between his radiant white teeth. As they watched the thirty gods that rule this world emerged from his body. The Grandfather Shaper appeared seated on his forehead, Rudra roared on his chest, the World Guardians adorned his shoulders. Gods, planets, stars, yakshas, gandharvas, and rakshasas swirled around him in the smoke and light. They saw his brother Balaram emerge from one of his arms, Arjuna from another. Yudhisthira, Bhima, Nakula and Sahadeva rose out of his back, shining and golden like gods themselves. A vast army of Andhakas and Vrishnis emerged from his body, all of them thumb-sized and seething with valor, led by lion-eyed Pradyumna in a burning chariot.
The floor of the hall shook, drums pounded far above. The seers pressed their palms together and bowed their heads.
Then, as quickly as it had emerged, the immense light withdrew. Krishna stood alone, returned to himself. Duryodhana lay on the floor clutching his head and moaning. All the kings looked to each other in confusion, their eyes full of crazed lights.
Without a word Krishna turned and walked out of the hall. The kings and seers, the princes and servants, got up and followed him like smoke trailing behind a torch. Outside, at the bottom of the steps, Daruka waited with the dark prince’s chariot and the four horses ready to travel. Krishna lightly ran down the steps, then turned back to face the crowd that had emerged from the sabha behind him.
“Vidura,” he called, “farewell to you! I thank you for your hospitality.”
The steward pressed his palms together. All speech had been burned out of his body by the sight of the terrible divine form.
Then Krishna called out for all to hear.
“You all saw what happened today! You saw how Duryodhana refused all reason! Rightly indeed does the king call himself helpless! I will now return to Yudhisthira.”
He ascended into his chariot. Daruka stepped up onto the driver's stand and gathered in the reins.
Then Krishna looked back again toward the crowd on the steps.
“Where is Karna?” he called.
For a moment the crowd murmured, perplexed.
“I am here.”
The voice of Karna came from within the doors of the hall. He had been tending to Duryodhana, helping him to his feet. Now he stepped out into the sunlight.
“What do you want from me?” he called.
“Come with me,” said Krishna. “Step up into my chariot. I want to speak with you.”
All eyes rested on Karna as he walked slowly down the steps. His face was pinched with suspicion, but he held his head high and proud.
“I assure you,” said Krishna, “I mean you no harm. Come with me. I will not take you very far.”
He held his hand down to help Karna up, but the son of the Sun ignored it and climbed into the chariot on his own. Then Daruka shook the reins, the horses began to trot, the great Sun and Moon wheels spun, and Krishna’s chariot left the palace by the open main gate. The seers gathered on the steps burned with light and shot upward into the heavens.
“Be quick,” said Karna, looking out at the city passing them by rather than at Krishna. “Say what you have to say. But I’ll tell you now, if this is some scheme to make me abandon Duryodhana it will fail. I won’t leave his side for anything.”
“Oh Karna,” said Krishna. His voice was tender and seemed full of sudden, genuine grief.
Surprised, Karna turned to look at the Vrishni despite himself. He was amazed to see tears glistening in Krishna’s eyes.
“Oh Karna,” the dark prince repeated. “Was there ever a man more wronged by destiny?”
“What do you mean?” Karna asked. “What are you saying?”
“Did your father Adiratha ever tell you where you came from?”
Karna said nothing for a long time. The chariot rolled on toward the Vardhamana gate and the noise and bustle of the army camp outside. When at last Karna spoke his voice came reluctantly out of a dry throat.
“He found me,” he said. “Floating on the river, in a reed basket. He carried me home and adopted me as his son.”
“And have you never wondered who your true parents are?”
“Krishna, what are you asking me? Of course I wondered! A thousand thousand times I have asked myself, but I find no answer.”
“Karna,” said Krishna, “you are the son of Kunti. The Pandavas are your brothers.”
Karna opened his mouth but no voice emerged. His body felt terrifyingly light, as if it might float away on the wind. His tongue was swollen, his mouth dry, his head ached and he could hear his heart pounding.
“When she was just a girl Kunti bore you,” said Krishna. “She was afraid, so she gave your life over to the river.”
“Then who…” Karna whispered, “is my father?”
“You know that already,” said Krishna. “He is the one you pray to every day. The radiant visible god, under whose light you always feel refreshed and full of strength. When he touches you all your power floods your body. When he is gone behind the clouds, when he sinks beneath the world at night, you shrink and feel bereft, you find no peace. Your father is the Sun, the giver of life himself.”
“Is it possible?”
“You know in your heart that I am telling you the truth, Karna.”
The chariot passed through the gate. All around them the vast army camp spread to the horizon, teeming with men and horses, elephants, dogs and crows.
Karna sat down suddenly and covered his face with his hands.
“Yes, Krishna,” he said through his fingers. “I know you are telling the truth.”
“Then return with me to Upaplavya,” said Krishna, placing one soft, night-black hand on Karna’s quivering shoulder. “You have sat with brahmanas and heard history and dharma explained in every detail. You have questioned the wise. You know the customs and what the scriptures teach, you know dharma. The son a woman bears before marriage should be considered the son of her lawful husband, and as such you are Pandu’s eldest son. Karna, you are the true heir of House Kuru, and all this kingdom is yours. If you come with me I will reveal to Yudhisthira what I have just told you. At my word he will recognize you as his elder brother. The Pandavas will bow at your feet, as will all the kings sworn to Yudhisthira, the sons of Draupadi, my nephew Abhimanyu. Dhaumya will sprinkle you with sacred water. On that very day they will anoint you king! Men and women of every class will come carrying golden and silver and earthen plates laden with flowers, seeds, soil, herbs, and gemstones. Your brothers will seat you on a tiger skin and I myself will consecrate you and name you Lord of the Earth. Then you will ride in a royal chariot, and Yudhisthira himself will ride behind you holding the yak-tail fan. Bhima will hold the white parasol over you, and Arjuna will drive the chariot hung with thousands of bells. When you stand as king, surrounded by the Pandavas and their friends like the Moon with his stars, then Duryodhana will not pursue war. You can make peace on this Earth with all her gem-studded caves, her fruit-filled forests, her garments of ocean and her mountain breasts pouring the milk of the sacred rivers. With you as ruler all beings will thrive as they did in the first eon. Rise up, son of Kunti, and come with me. Claim your birthright while I am by your side and no one will doubt you.”
Karna lowered his hands and looked up at Krishna. The Vrishni’s entrancing eyes were full of excited light, while Karna’s own brimmed with tears.
“Krishna,” he said, “all you say is true. You are the indweller of all beings. But I am not Kunti’s son, even if I was born from her womb. She gave me up like a stillbirth! It was Adiratha who took me in, who showed me kindness. When he placed me in Radha’s arms milk began to flow from her breasts out of pure love! Out of love she cared for me, nursed me, washed me, and fed me my first solid food with her own hands. Adiratha conducted the birth ceremonies and coming-of-age ceremonies for me as his own son. How can a man like me, who never strays from my truth, deny them now? Out of love, only love, they raised me, and my love commands me to call them father and mother.
“I have lived my life as a suta. I have eaten with the sutas, made offerings with them, lived by their rituals. Yet, thanks to Duryodhana’s friendship, I have enjoyed a kingdom and been welcomed into the halls of the nobles. I have sworn my undying friendship to him more times than I can count, Krishna. Neither fear nor love, nor all the treasure of Kubera, nor the Earth herself can make me go back on my word. Duryodhana has set his mind on war, and he will need me at his side in the end. And Arjuna and I have sworn to meet in battle—if we do not duel it will bring us both disgrace!”
Krishna smiled, not unkindly.
“It is very admirable,” he said, “to cleave so strictly to your word. Yet it is the unbreakable vows of many noble men that have brought our Earth to the brink of ruin.”
“I cannot do otherwise,” said Karna. “I am only the man I am. Krishna, say nothing of what you have told me to Yudhisthira. If he knows, he will give me the kingdom, and then I will hand everything over to Duryodhana.”
Karna paused and drew a deep breath. He stood up again, his body steady now. His mind was clear. He could feel the floor of the chariot beneath his feet.
“Karna,” said Krishna, “the victory of the Pandavas is beyond doubt. If you fight in this war you and all you love will become dust.”
“Then so be it,” said Karna. “May Yudhisthira rule forever. We will conduct a great sacrifice with all the kshatriyas of the Earth as the offering and the tears of their wives and daughters and mothers as the sacred water. You are orchestrating everything for your own purposes. Don’t let us die a useless death, Krishna. Let us all rise up to take birth beyond the stars, and let our names be remembered as long as the mountains stand and the rivers flow to the sea.”
“Very well then,” said Krishna. “Flee this Earth, if she means so little to you. Her time is coming. She will grow old, and all things will be thrown into disorder. Know this, son of Kunti, son of Radha—when you see me driving Arjuna’s white-horsed chariot through the smoke of war and hear Gandiva’s string twang its note there will be no more innocence, nor will truth ever be unstained again. The eon of chaos is almost here, when all things will be sundered from their meanings.”
Karna looked out at the tents rushing past outside the chariot, at the smoke streaming up from the cookfires, the men carrying bundled spears and arrows.
“I know,” he said. “I have seen the omens. At night the marks on the moon are the wrong shape. The horses weep salty tears like human beings and refuse their food and water. I have seen wild animals circling Hastinapura against the sunwise way. Yesterday evening I saw a fairy city hovering above the army, shining with thousands of towers, ramparts, moats and flags. At sunrise and sunset a jackal howls from somewhere inside the palace, though no-one has seen him.”
Karna paused, distracted. He looked back at Krishna and met the dark Vrishni’s enigmatic eyes.
“Krishna,” he said, his voice now barely leaving his lips, “I dreamt a palace larger than a mountain, a forest of a thousand marble pillars. I saw Yudhisthira and his brothers climbing the steps to the gate. They were all dressed in white. I saw Yudhisthira seated on a pile of bones, and you served him the Earth garlanded with entrails. I saw Bhima standing atop a mountain with his club in his hand, his beard dripping blood. I saw all the Kaurava army dressed in red and walking South in total silence. Only two men wore white: Ashwatthaman and Kritavarman, and they stood aside to let the others pass. Surely we will all go to the land of Yama.”
“The ruin of the world is assured,” said Krishna, “now that my words have failed to touch your heart.”
Daruka pulled on the reins and the horses halted.
“I can’t go with you,” said Karna. “I won’t betray my only friend. Go back to Yudhisthira, Krishna. All I said to hurt him, to please Duryodhana, I regret.”
Krishna smiled and held out his hands, and Karna took them in his.
“Maybe we will see each other again,” said Karna, “if we somehow survive. If not, then let us meet in the next world. Once we have gone the great journey.”
Krishna drew Karna to him and embraced him. Karna felt his whole body tremble. It was all he could do to keep himself from wetting Krishna’s shoulder with tears. He pulled away from the dark prince and, hiding his face, climbed down from the chariot car.
At Daruka’s signal the horses broke into a trot again, and Krishna’s chariot moved away through the massed army, away toward the Pandavas.
Karna stood for a long time watching the chariot trundle into the distance, watching the dust clouds raised by its wheels disperse in the smoky air. His throat burned and he felt hollow as an unplayed flute. While he had been in the chariot clouds had gathered above; now the Sun was obscured and the world seemed dark as evening.
Karna shivered and turned back toward the City of the Elephant.
Hastinapura’s sky-reaching walls soared up before him, rising above the massed white tents and fluttering banners like a mountain above a vast forest. The wind smelled of smoke, horse-dung, men’s sweat and fear. Somewhere a mad elephant trumpeted and men shouted, trying to control the animal.
His mind overshadowed, his heart strained with hairline cracks, Karna walked on toward his fate. As he walked he recited mentally the first few sounds of the mantra that summoned the Brahma weapon, the most powerful one he possessed. The last one Parashuram had taught him before he cast him out of his ashram and cursed him. He still remembered it. That one weapon could break open the sky and lay waste the Earth. Or it could end the life of one man, and bring victory where the gods had not planned to place it.
Arjuna is my brother, Karna thought.
He did not for an instant doubt what Krishna had told him.
Arjuna is my brother, and one of us will kill the other.
And so it is...