Chapter 40

"I condemn dharma."

Arjuna wasted no time in setting out. As soon as Daruka arrived with the news of Dwaraka’s imminent destruction he ordered his swiftest chariot prepared. In a matter of hours he was gone, speeding West like a falcon on the wing.

Months passed and no word came. Yudhisthira became anxious and did not sleep. He ordered the preparation of lodgings in the city for the expected refugees from Dwaraka. He commissioned propitiatory sacrifices to request smooth passage for Arjuna and his charges. At night he paced up and down the old Kuru sabha, sometimes muttering under his breath.

At last, after months of tense expectation, Arjuna returned. But he came alone, without the women and elders and children of the Yadava clans, without even his chariot. He returned to Hastinapura riding a single road-weary horse, carrying nothing but his bow and arrows, covered with dust, his face an almost unrecognizable mask of sorrow and exhaustion.

He gathered his family in the sabha and began to tell them of his journey. His eyes were vacant and his voice despondent. They had never seen this kind of sorrow in Arjuna. Even when Abhimanyu died, so many years ago, he had turned to anger, not despair. Now he seemed more like a walking corpse than a man.

“When I reached Dwaraka,” he said, “the city was empty. The women and children and the elders were waiting for me, camped on the hills. They did not want to enter the city again, for fear of the ocean.”

“Where were the men?” asked Yudhisthira. “Where was Krishna?”

Arjuna’s face was empty of any expression.

“All dead,” he said. “They went on a pilgrimage to Prabhasa and slaughtered each other. Krishna was the last survivor, and he was killed by a hunter while resting in the forest. The hunter mistook his feet for the ears of a deer.”

Heavy silence filled the hall.

Yudhisthira began to weep, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“What evil!” he cried. “What shame! The Yadavas killed each other—to what end? That Krishna should die alone, in a forsaken place, slain by a hunter’s accident… What can it mean? He knew all ends and could destroy the Earth and the heavens with a thought, so why has he allowed himself to be destroyed like this?”

He looked around as if searching for something lost.

“The world is empty now,” he whispered. “Empty. What is left now that Krishna is gone? We are like widows now, all of us.”

Arjuna continued his story, his voice low and constricted.

“Krishna left instructions with Rukmini. The people of Dwaraka, all those who wished to live, were to return with me to our city. To live out their days in safety here. I agreed and promised to look after them and lead them home. Then Rukmini and Satyabhama reentered the city. They were resolved to die and follow Krishna. I wanted to go with them, but my promise held me. Then, as we watched from the hilltop, the sea broke down the dyke and flooded the city. The glittering palaces and mansions, the towers and halls, the houses and gardens… all gone. All swallowed up by the waves. The people wailed and wept.”

Arjuna paused.

He could still see the scene he described. The immensity and grand terror of it still filled him. The ocean rushing in, surging between the buildings and then up, up, ever upward over the rooftops. The cacophony of crashing water and stones pulled down and tumbled by the waves, timbers breaking, walls collapsing. The darkening sky and the great surges rolling in one after another, enormous in their hunger, making all things built by human hands seem no more than grains of sand piled up by ants.

“Dwaraka is gone,” he said. “Only fishes live there now. We left as soon as we could, after performing the last rites for the fallen at Prabhasa. Our party was large—all the refugees of the city—and we had many very old people in our number, as well as young children and mothers carrying infants. We brought whatever food they had salvaged from the city before my arrival, enough for the journey but nothing in excess, in oxcarts. The people brought their cows and horses too, hoping to find pasture along the journey. We traveled very slowly. The kshatriya women rode in carriages drawn by horses, oxes, donkeys and camels.

“We crossed into Anarta, and there disaster found us. We were attacked by an army of brigands. There were hundreds of them, and they wanted the animals, food, gold, and the women-folk. I…”

Arjuna’s voice faltered. His brothers and Draupadi waited for him to go on, but he remained silent.

“What did you do to them?” asked Nakula. “Even thousands of robbers are no match for you, brother.”

Arjuna took a deep breath.

“You are wrong,” he said. “In the confusion I found it difficult even to string my bow. I tried to call on my secret weapons but… I could not remember their names. All the weapons Drona taught me, and the weapons I learned from my father—they are all gone.”

He looked at each of his brothers in turn, and finally at Draupadi.

“At last,” he said, “I was able to string Gandiva. I began to shoot arrows at the robbers, but soon my quiver was empty. Every time I fought that quiver would always produce infinite arrows. No more. I tried to fight them off using Gandiva itself as a weapon but they… they defeated me. They robbed the caravan, killed the old and the young, and carried away all the quarry they desired. I had to flee into the desert on horseback. When I returned, barely a tenth of those who set out from Dwaraka with me remained..”

Arjuna covered his face with his hands.

“Krishna’s last request…” he said, his voice muffled by his fingers. “I could not do it. I have failed. We traveled through the land of five rivers and through the desert, but our provisions were now very meager and many of the elders died on the road. When we finally reached Matsya lands we found aid, but far too late. I brought the remnant that remained to Indraprastha, where they will be able to live in peace. But so few made it there. I rode into the wilds again. I wanted to find some lonely place to die. I could not face returning in disgrace.”

He paused again to draw a deep, faltering breath.

“But I had to come back,” he said. “You all deserve to know the story. Now that I have told you, I will not stay here in Hastinapura. I will not stay in Kuru. I am going to return Gandiva to the water and set out for my final journey. I am old and age weighs heavily on my body. It is time for me to leave this world.”

Nakula went to Arjuna and tenderly took his hands away from his face.

“We are all old,” he said. “Look at us.”

“Our hair is gray,” said Sahadeva. “Our strength and beauty has faded and fallen away, like withered petals from dead flowers. These bodies of ours have almost reached their limit.”

Yudhisthira said, “I do not blame you for the robbery and killing, Arjuna. Time cooks all beings, and we six have been thoroughly cooked. Your story is hard to hear, but it is not unexpected. This is the Eon of Chaos, when all things are thrown into disorder and decay. It is time for us to renounce our worldly doings. I would have us take the last road together.”

“My arms have lost their strength,” said Bhima. “My appetite is getting weaker every day. I agree. It is time.”

“My face has become all too human,” said Nakula. “My divine beauty is fading. It is time.”

“My intellect is slow,” said Sahadeva, “and my memory is failing. It is time.”

“The fire that burned in me all my life,” said Draupadi, “is flickering out. It is time.”

Arjuna did not speak. He looked into the palms of his hands as if the lines there could tell him secrets.

---

King Yudhisthira of House Kuru abdicated the throne in the thirty-sixth year of his reign. He left his crown to his grand-nephew Parikshit, son of Uttara, and appointed Yuyutsu as steward and overseer of the realm. He and his brothers made the water offerings for Krishna, Balaram, and all the Yadava dead. They gave away their wealth to the brahmanas, vaishyas, and shudras of the kingdom. The people, who had prospered during Yudhisthira’s reign, mourned the king’s departure, but no one could dissuade him any longer.

On a gentle day in the warm autumn season the five Pandavas and Draupadi took off their silks and linens and jeweled ornaments. Wearing bark cloth they walked barefoot out of the palace and through the city, down the wide road that led straight as an arrow to the Vardhamana gate. It was the same way they had walked when they went into exile, a lifetime ago, after the fateful game of dice. They were very different now: bent with age and slow of step, their hair white in the Sun. The people crowded the roadsides to watch them go. No one said a word.

The ancient Vardhamana gate yawned open. Outside was the world: the hills and fields, the mountains, the stars and the rivers. The city of their ancestors lay behind them now, a forgotten thing. They set out, carrying nothing but their walking sticks and the Gandiva tied to Arjuna’s back. The gate creaked shut. At the last moment before it closed an animal—a small and scruffy black dog—darted through the opening and followed them.

They walked all day in silence and made their camp on the banks of the Ganga at dusk. The dog stayed with them, always a safe distance away, never barking or whining.

“What will we do with our companion?” Sahadeva asked after they had lit their fire.

The black dog sat outside the ring of firelight watching them. All they could see were the creature’s eyes reflecting the glow of the flames like two gold coins.

“Let him follow us, if he wishes,” said Yudhisthira. “He doesn’t mean us any harm.”

They slept under the stars and set off again the next day. The dog followed them, noiseless as a shadow.

They journeyed Eastward, through many kingdoms, and no one recognized them. Nobody knew that the six old pilgrims were the Pandavas and Draupadi, the family for whom all the world had gone to war. They went on, begging for their food or gleaning from fields, eating roots and fruits in the forests where no people dwelt. Whatever food they found they divided into six portions. Yudhisthira divided his own portion again, and gave half to the dog. Their bodies became thin as the road ate their flesh.

At last, after they had all lost count of how many days they had spent wandering, they came to lands without any roads at all, to forests without paths and rivers without names. They came to the East of East, where the ocean of Lauhitya spreads from the feet of the mountains behind which the Sun rises. There Arjuna returned the god-bow Gandiva to the water. The rosy foam swallowed up the celestial weapon.

They turned their course Northward and entered the mountains. For days and weeks they walked, higher and higher, farther and farther above the world. They crossed the spine of the Earth, the land of endless snows, and all the while the black dog followed them.

In a dark dawn they looked out from atop a rampart of mountains and saw a vast empty plain under a blank and lowering sky. Peering into the farthest distance they glimpsed the golden immensity of Mount Meru, fulcrum of the world, wreathed with clouds. Slowly, aching and tired from their long journey, they picked their way down from the heights until they stood on the dusky blue sands of the last land. They could no longer see the golden mountain, but they knew that it was there, waiting at the center of all things.

With quiet minds, strong in their resolve, they began to walk across the plain. The sky above showed no Sun, no Moon, no stars. After a long time Draupadi fell down on the ground.

Bhima cried out and turned around, but Yudhisthira held him back.

“She is gone,” he said.

“But she had never violated dharma,” said Bhima. “Why has she fallen?”

“She claimed to love us all equally,” said Yudhisthira, “but she was partial to Arjuna. That is why she has fallen.”

They walked on and soon Sahadeva fell and did not get up.

“Why him?” asked Bhima. “Why has the wise Sahadeva fallen now?”

“He was proud of his own wisdom,” said Yudhisthira. “He thought no one his equal.”

They walked onward, and the dog followed. The dust was so soft that their feet made no sound. Only the wind spoke.

Nakula fell and lay still.

“Why has Nakula fallen?” asked Bhima.

“He thought himself the most beautiful man in the world,” said Yudhisthira. “Come, don’t look back. Whatever fate is written on a man’s forehead, that is what he receives.”

Arjuna was next to fall.

“Why has Arjuna fallen?” asked Bhima. “Our brother was a paragon of virtue. He never once told an untruth, even in matters of no consequence.”

“No,” said Yudhisthira. “Arjuna said he would win the war for us in a single day, and he did not. He boasted of his might and thought himself superior to other people. That is why he has fallen.”

As they walked onward Bhima felt his own limbs become heavy. His vision darkened and a cloud came over his mind. He stumbled and fell down in the dust.

“I too am fading, brother,” he whispered. “Why must I fall?”

“You were a glutton,” said Yudhisthira, “and you bragged of your strength while looking down on others.”

Yudhisthira walked on without a backward glance. Now only the dog followed him, every now and then pausing to sniff at his tracks. The golden face of Meru was still too remote to be seen except as an occasional glimmer in the dark distance.

Yudhisthira felt exhaustion sapping his legs of the will to go on. He sat on the ground and closed his eyes. He dozed, and then was startled awake by a sound of bells and conches and drums and trumpets. The dark sky above was torn open like a piece of cloth and brilliant light came streaming down.

Indra, king of heaven, descended in a chariot of white fire.

“Rise up, King Dharma!” he said. “Come with me.”

Yudhisthira felt the warmth of the light and smelled the fragrance of divine flowers, but his heart was heavy with grief.

“My wife Draupadi and my brothers are lying behind me on the path,” he said. “I do not want to enter heaven without them. They deserve happiness too. Lord of the sky, let them come with me.”

Indra smiled.

“They have gone already,” he said. “You will meet them there. They have cast off their bodies to enter heaven, but you can enter in your body. Come with me.”

Yudhisthira hesitated.

“Why do you wait?” asked the radiant god.

“This dog has followed me since we left home,” said Yudhisthira. “He is loyal to me. I can’t abandon him in this wasteland. Let him come as well.”

The king of the gods laughed.

“My realm is no place for dogs!” he said. “Today you have gained all the joys of heaven, great king. Leave this dog.”

“How can I leave him,” asked Yudhisthira, “when he has followed me with such devotion?”

“It is only a dog,” Indra retorted. “Dogs are unclean animals. If a dog so much as looks at a holy offering, the offering becomes filthy and unfit. You know this, King Dharma. You abandoned your brothers and Draupadi when they fell down, so why not this dog? You have decided to renounce everything, so why not renounce this dog? He is nothing to you.”

“My brothers and Draupadi were dead,” said Yudhisthira. “I knew I could do nothing for them, so I went on. But this dog is alive. A living being seeks shelter with me. I won’t abandon him.”

The dog nuzzled Yudhisthira’s hand and licked his fingertips.

“Then you will forfeit heaven,” said Indra.

Yudhisthira patted the dog’s head and gave him a scratch between his ears.

“So be it,” he said.

The dog barked for the first and last time. In a blinding flash he was gone. A warm voice, deep and rich as the life-giving ocean, resounded across the plain.

“I am pleased with you, my son.”

Yudhisthira stood up, all exhaustion forgotten.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I am everywhere,” said the voice. “I am Dharma. I am the support of all worlds. I took the form of a dog to test you, my child, and you have proved more than worthy. You would give up timeless joy for the devotion of a single dog. Rise up! Heaven is open to you!”

Yudhisthira stepped up into Indra’s chariot, and the white flame did not hurt him. It soothed his road-sore feet. The chariot rose into radiance to the music of gandharva bells and flutes. Yudhisthira felt all aches and pains sloughing off of his body like bits of grime washed away by fresh water.

Above the sky he saw a realm of plenty and tranquility: gardens and palaces, sweet-flowing rivers and waterfalls. He saw apsaras dancing in the celestial groves, the seers with star-bright eyes singing, and all the shining gods. He stepped down from Indra’s chariot and the denizens of heaven applauded him.

He saw Duryodhana seated on a throne of gold drinking nectar, and Dushasana dancing with celestial nymphs, and Shakuni sleeping peacefully beneath a wish-fulfilling tree. In consternation he looked around, his confusion increasing with every moment. He saw all the Kauravas, the sons of Gandhari, enjoying the bliss of heaven, but he could not see Bhima or Arjuna, nor Nakula and Sahadeva. He could not see Draupadi anywhere.

“Come,” said Indra. “Your cousin Duryodhana wishes to drink with you.”

Yudhisthira turned away.

“I do not want to share heaven with Duryodhana,” he whispered. “His pride and greed were the cause of terrible bloodshed on Earth. Why is he here? Where are my brothers? Where is Draupadi?”

“Let go of your anger,” said the gods. “This is not the world. Here all enmity vanishes. No one is an enemy.”

Yudhisthira would not listen.

“If Duryodhana is honored in heaven,” he said, “after all the harm he did, even though he was arrogant and envious and hateful in life, even though he never thought of anyone but himself, then where are my brothers? Where is Bhima? Where is Arjuna? Where are Nakula and Sahadeva? Where is Queen Draupadi? And where is Karna, my elder brother? Ever since he died I have been filled with grief on his account. I have made water offerings for him every day that I could, for I feared and hated him in life without knowing that he was my own brother. If we had only joined forces we could have brought peace, not war, to the world. Where is the virtuous Karna? Where are all the heroes who died fighting for me at Kurukshetra, on the side of dharma? I see none of them here!”

“Be at peace,” said the gods. “Let go of these worldly troubles and enjoy your divine reward.”

“No,” said Yudhisthira. “Not without my family. I want to see them.”

“Very well.”

The light of the heavenly realm dimmed. Yudhisthira saw a path that went away from the gardens and palaces, turning down steeply into darkness. A guide walked ahead, gesturing for him to follow. He walked down the path which descended between looming walls of stone. Soon he could barely see. The guide held up one hand and the hand burned like a torch, lighting the way. The air was close and hot. Yudhisthira began to sweat as he walked. He could hear his heartbeat, the blood pulsating in his ears.

After long ages of walking the high stones opened out and the path ran on through a landscape lit by guttering marshfires. A horrible stench of putrefaction filled the air. The guide walked on and Yudhisthira followed, covering his mouth with one hand. Along the path he saw that the very land had become gruesome: where mosses and grasses should have been, human hair sprouted from the ground; the bogs were made of human flesh and blood in place of mud. Worms and maggots writhed in the rotting flesh of dead bodies strewn across the ground, disfigured and mutilated corpses with bellies slit, eyes gouged out, hands and feet cut off.

Yudhisthira saw trees covered in iron thorns and razor-sharp leaves, pools of scalding water and boiling oil. He heard the screams of people suffering torture.

“Oh gods!” he cried out, overwhelmed with grief and fear. “What place is this? How much farther must we go? Where is my family?”

His guide stopped and turned around.

“This is as far as I can go,” said the guide. “I must return to heaven now. If you are tired, come back with me.”

The guide passed Yudhisthira and began to walk back the way they had come. Miserable and sick at heart, Yudhisthira turned to follow, but in that moment a voice cried out from the darkness:

“Wait! Stay a moment longer!”

“Who’s there?” Yudhisthira called.

Another voice answered:

“When you came a cool breeze began to blow! It soothes us! Wait a little and keep us company.”

Other voices came to his ears from the darkness saying, “Wait, stay, don’t go.”

Yudhisthira looked into the gloom, trying without success to see the faces of the speakers. Tears stung his eyes.

“What an awful place,” he whispered. “What suffering.”

Raising his voice, he called out into the darkness again, “I know your voices, but I cannot recognize them! Who is there? Who asks me to stay?”

“I am Karna!” one voice called out.

Another voice: “I am Bhima!”

The tears burst free and ran down Yudhisthira’s face.

“Karna? Bhima?”

“I am Draupadi!” called another voice.

“I am Arjuna!”

“We are Nakula and Sahadeva!”

“Don’t you recognize my voice, father? I’m Prativindhya, your son!”

Yudhisthira stood still on the path, listening to the tortured, miserable voices of his loved ones begging him to stay.

“What is this?” he said. “Where is the justice in this? Why must these good people suffer while Duryodhana enjoys heaven? I must be dreaming. Or else I have gone mad, starving in the wilderness.”

The guide made no reply.

Yudhisthira sat down on the path, in the midst of the foul stink and gore, the darkness and filth and the tools of torture.

“I condemn the gods,” he said. “I condemn dharma.”

The guide reached out a hand to him.

“Go away,” said Yudhisthira. “Go back to the gods you serve. I am going to stay here, in hell, with my family.”

The guide turned away in silence and walked back up the path, leaving Yudhisthira in the oppressive gloom. The man they called King Dharma wiped the tears from his eyes. He had nothing left to wait for, and nowhere left to go.

---

“Then a soft wind began to blow,” said Ugrashravas, “carrying a sweet smell. Yudhisthira heard rumbling thunder and in a flash the horrible scene disappeared. The flesh-bogs and marshfires, the thorn-trees and oil pits, the darkness and the foul odors all vanished like a dream. Yudhisthira heard the voice of his father again, the voice of Dharma.

“‘You’ve seen neither heaven nor hell,’ said Dharma. ‘Three times I have tested you, my son—once in the form of a spirit, once in the form of a dog, and this time in the form of life after death—and each time you have proved your worth. You had to glimpse hell because of the lie you told to kill Drona, but your family is not there. Now let your body fall away and enter serenity.’

“Yudhisthira saw a vast river of light: the Ganga flowing between the three worlds. He stepped into the light and the current took his body away. He entered the realm of infinite wonder in all innocence, cleansed of desire and aversion.”

The storyteller fell silent.

Astika watched the fire’s warm light play over Ugrashravas’ face. He felt like one waking from a very long dream or a boat finding home harbor after a far and arduous voyage. Dawn was near. The leaves of the trees were black against the soft blue-gray sky and the last of the visible stars glimmered like tiny opals in deep water.

“That is the story,” said Ugrashravas, “as I heard it from Vaishampayana, who heard it from Vyasa himself. Om Tat Sat.”

“But,” said Astika, “what was it all for, in the end?”

Ugrashravas looked up to the place where the sparks disappeared.

“Yes,” he breathed, “what was it all for? What is it all for?”

He looked back into Astika’s eyes.

“You still have questions.”

“I think,” said the boy, “that I have more questions now than I did when you started.”

He worried for an instant that his unconsidered words would insult Ugrashravas, but the old suta only smiled.

“Ahh,” he sighed. “Good. That is good. What is life without questions?”

He paused and seemed deep in thought for a moment, then said, “I am going away to the mountains now. I am going back to my guru, back to Vyasa. If you would follow your questions deeper, perhaps you should come with me.”

Astika felt his heartbeat quicken.

“Come with you? And meet the real Vyasa?”

Ugrashravas’ smile widened into a toothy grin.

“Yes,” he said. “But first you must get Shaunaka’s permission. He is your guru, after all.”

The storyteller stood up and stretched.

“I am stiff!” he exclaimed. “And thirsty. Telling long tales is tiring work. And you, my boy, are a brahmana. The Sun will rise soon and you must perform your sandhya ritual. Take a bath in the river and wash away the night.”

Without another word the old man wandered off to find some water.

Astika sat a moment longer, staring into the fire’s glowing embers. As the light of morning increased, the firelight seemed to fade, to retreat, becoming smaller and smaller until it entered into the hot coals and coiled itself inward to sleep.

He got up, yawning, and set off through the forest toward the river. The world brightened around him as he walked, revealing itself in the night’s unhurried ebb. The scent of moist soil and the dust of decayed leaves rose from the Earth. The very ground seemed to breathe with fragrant breezes. In the crowns of the trees the birds sang, calling to one another, calling the day to come. Astika heard bulbuls and warblers, pipits and thrushes, drongos and rosefinches. In the shadowy interstices of the forest he glimpsed the shapes of pheasants and peafowl. His heart and head felt light. A part of him rose up to mingle with the spreading light and the prayers of the birds.

When he reached the river the beauty of it so overwhelmed him he forgot to breathe. Veils of mist rose from the water and from the land beyond so that the trees on the far side looked like still sentinels rising from a sea of clouds. Beyond the mist rose the sky: a bright curtain of rosy light fading into amber and then dusky purple as it vaulted westward. As Astika stood transfixed the birds of the forest sang louder and a light like golden flame shone out of the East. Returning, barely, to body-consciousness, Astika removed his dhoti and stepped into the river. The cool water caught him and he plunged in, submerged, merged with life’s current. He surfaced with a gasp, plunged again, and came up once more, scattering droplets like sprays of jewels.

The breeze on his wet skin was cool and refreshing. With a cry of wonder he saw the fire of gold rise up, sending forth innumerable sparks of radiant warmth. The Sun appeared, first a molten glimmer above the mist, then rising, rising, a dish full of light ascending into the sky’s vastness. The birds erupted in renewed chorus. The air shimmered with dragonflies and butterflies. Astika stood dazed with amazement. Had the rising Sun ever seemed so miraculous before? Had the simple substances of the world—water, dust, wind, light—ever shown themselves to him as they did now, as pure and marvelous and sublime, endless and utterly new every moment?

The breath in his lungs was an incredible marvel. It contained everything, all this light and water, all this distance and density. It flowed through him like the river.

Astika forgot that he was anything but a fiber of light in an ever-blossoming luminous fabric. He raised his arms until his fingers touched the heavens and he laughed.

---

To Astika’s surprise and delight, Shaunaka was quite willing to let him set out with Ugrashravas. Astika had expected that his old guru would take a good deal of convincing, him being an elderly brahmana of venerable lineage and always slow to make any decision. It did not seem plausible that he would let his disciple set off into the wild with only the company of an unkempt mendicant suta. It transpired, however, that Shaunaka was well pleased by the thought of Astika meeting with the far-famed Vyasa.

“Vyasa is a rishi, my boy,” said the old man, stroking his white beard. “He is the kind of great soul you rarely find in the world these days. He is the keystone of our Vedic lineage! I have good reason to believe that this Ugrashravas is in fact that luminary’s pupil. What could be more fortunate for me than that my own disciple should sit with Vyasa and attend to his teachings?”

“Then,” said Astika, “when may I set out?”

“This very day, if you can,” said Shaunaka. “I will remain here in the Naimish Forest for twelve years to complete this ceremony, so you will have no difficulty finding me when you return.”

Astika prostrated and touched his guru’s feet. His body burned with anticipation.

Ugrashravas and his young new companion set out that afternoon. They carried very little: two begging bowls, two water pots, two pieces of wearing cloth. Astika carried the few implements needed to kindle and tend his sacred fire: drilling sticks, offering spoons, copper tongs. Ugrashravas wore a small weatherbeaten cloth bag over one shoulder. They carried no food, no shawls to protect their bodies from Sun or weather. They placed their trust entirely in the divine to feed and protect them. When evening stole over the land they made camp in a grassy clearing and ate a small supper of berries. Astika built his sacred fire and made his dusk offering. It seemed as if an eon had already passed since Ugrashravas had finished telling the long tale of House Kuru that very morning. When Astika fell asleep Ugrashravas was still squatting in the grass, gazing up at the stars and singing softly to himself.

That night Astika dreamed of the battlefield of Kurukshetra. He was a bird flying high above the clashing armies, then plunging down and flowing through the war like the wind. All around him chariot warriors assailed one another with arrows, foot soldiers clashed swords and spears, elephants charged, horses ran in panic. In his dream everything moved slowly and made no sound. The battle went on in utter silence. Only he moved swiftly, flitting from one combat to another; the warriors seemed almost frozen in time.

When he awoke Ugrashravas was in the exact same place, almost the exact same position, as he had been when he fell asleep. Dawn was coming. Astika rebuilt his sacred fire from yesterday’s embers, made his offering, and got ready to set out again.

The two companions traveled North-West, sometimes in silence, often talking. Usually Astika asked the questions and Ugrashravas responded volubly, with story after story. It turned out that the version of the great history the bard had shared was but an abridged rendition. There were many more tales, great and small, that emerged from the saga of the Pandavas and the Kauravas. Astika heard the stories of the Kuru ancestors—of Yayati, Bharata, and Kuru—and the full history of the Yadava clans as well. Ugrashravas told him about Krishna’s childhood in Vrindavan, his battle with his wicked uncle Kamsa, and his life in Dwaraka. Stories of the most ancient times, of gods and asuras, of spirits and serpents, of seers and sages, of brahmanas, kshatriyas, vaishyas and shudras, made the long road seem easy to the ever-curious Astika.

For weeks they traveled through the Naimish Forest, living on berries and tubers and the occasional green herb, until they arrived at the banks of Mother Ganga. There they bathed and prayed and refreshed themselves for the journey to come.

“Now,” said Ugrashravas, “we can follow Ganga upstream. She will take us into the mountains, toward the lands of endless winter. It is a long road, but we cannot get lost as long as we keep to her bank.”

They walked on, always keeping Ganga on their left side. They left Naimish behind and found themselves traversing fields and farmlands irrigated by the generous mother river. They were at last able to use their begging bowls to obtain cooked food and milk in the villages.

“This is the Panchala country,” Ugrashravas explained. “This is the region Drona took from Drupada with the aid of his Kuru pupils. Now it has reunited with the Southern kingdom again. The capital is Ahicchatra, which we will not visit.”

“Why not?” Astika asked.

“It is too far out of our way. We must follow Mother Ganga to find my guru.”

Day after day, night after night, they walked. The milky mother river was their constant companion. They passed through farmlands, orchards, forests, pastures, and villages. Many of the villages were deserted, many of the farm fields untended and overgrown. The war had left its marks all over the Earth.

One morning Astika spied a city on the far side of the river, a city surrounded by a high wall and crowned with many sky-reaching towers.

“What is that place?” he asked Ugrashravas.

“That is Hastinapura,” said the suta, “the City of the Elephant, ancestral seat of House Kuru. That is where King Janamejaya, great-grandson of Arjuna, sits enthroned. Beyond lies the great plain of Kurukshetra.”

Astika gazed for a long time at the distant city rising like a phantasm out of the mist that still floated above the Ganga’s broad expanse, not yet burned away by the sunlight. He could hear the far off sounds of human life; too indistinct to separate into categories, they formed a single low hum that drifted across the river to his ears like a memory. He did not ask if they could somehow cross the river and enter the city. He knew in his bones that he would never see the streets and palaces of Hastinapura with his waking eyes. That city would remain forever an inner world to him, a place visited by the mind by day and, perhaps, by the senses in dreams alone.

They journeyed North. Now on clear days they could spy the far blue wall of the great mountains in the distance. They seemed infinitely remote, yet step by step the two travelers drew them nearer. The land began to rise in folds, sheer-sided hills covered with hardy trees, now and then a village perched high amidst terraced fields. The Ganga narrowed, flowing between the stony flanks of the foothills. By night the air turned cold and bit Astika with needling teeth.

“How far until we find Vyasa?” he asked one morning after a long frigid night during which he had barely been able to sleep.

“Very far,” said Ugrashravas. “Very far. We have barely begun our journey.”

Astika shivered and sighed heavily. He was hungry, tired, and unused to real cold.

Ugrashravas smiled.

“You are getting weak,” he said. “The cold and hunger are starting to drain you. Do not fear! I am going to give a mantra to repeat while we walk. It will keep you warm and enliven your spirit.”

---

A broad valley between dark, looming mountains. Low-hanging gray sky swallowing up the peaks. A river tumbling between cold stones. Only the hardiest vegetation: lichens coating the rocks, small wizened trees twisting out of crannies, patches of dry grass in the wind-protected lees of boulders. A glaze of ice. Snow hiding in the shadows.

Two tiny figures moved slowly along the stony riverside, picking their way with care between the boulders, utterly dwarfed by the immensity of the encircling mountains. One of them a young boy, the other an old man with an unruly mass of white hair and a tangled beard. On the far side of the valley a cave waited for them, a dark opening in the stone that seemed to pour silence out into the valley.

When they reached the cave Ugrashravas knelt and reverently touched his forehead to the ground.

“This is the retreat of Vyasa,” he said.

A voice emerged from the darkness, a voice like the stones themselves speaking.

“Enter,” it said. “You are weary. Enter and rest.”

Astika followed Ugrashravas into the cave. The darkness within was warm and, after a short walk down a lightless passage, they entered a cavern illuminated by bright lamps. The floor of the cavern was covered with soft grasses and fragrant fir boughs. A wonderful scent permeated the air. An old man with night-dark skin sat with his back against the far wall of the cave. His long matted hair covered his body like a robe. They both prostrated before him.

“Ahh,” he said, opening his eyes. “Ugrashravas. My dear one. You have come at last. Who is this youngster?”

“His name is Astika, Gurudev,” said the bard. “A brahmana boy from the South.”

“Astika,” said Vyasa slowly. “What brings you here, so far from the world?”

Astika looked into Vyasa’s eyes and saw that they were bright, bright as the flames of the lamps that illuminated that cave. Looking into those eyes filled him with tranquility. It seemed nothing could harm him anymore.

“I heard your tale,” he said. “I wanted to meet you.”

“You came so far to meet me?” Vyasa chuckled. “You honor me.”

“Your words honor all creation,” said Astika, not knowing how such eloquence rose from his mouth.

Vyasa smiled.

“Gurudev,” said Ugrashravas. “What is this wonderful smell? It reminds me of… of a place I have never been.”

“Ganesha was here,” said Vyasa. “He left a moment ago.”

“Ganesha!” Ugrashravas pressed his palms together reverently, and Astika followed suit.

“He has written down my tale,” said Vyasa. “He has written the great history of Bharata. The history of the world.”

They noticed for the first time the monumental stacks of bark-paper that lined the shadowy walls of the cave.

“Ganesha Himself wrote it…” Ugrashravas whispered.

“I could not have asked for a more fitting scribe,” said Vyasa.

Then Vyasa and Ugrashravas, guru and disciple, began to speak of the divine, and of poetry, and though Astika longed to hear their words, and to inhale that fragrance of the departed deity, the weight of their long journey overcame him and he fell suddenly into a deep and blissful sleep.

When he woke up he found that he was still inside the cave, cradled in a soft nest of grasses, moss, and cedar boughs. Vyasa still sat in the same place, his eyes closed in deep meditation. As Astika watched, Ugrashravas entered the cave carrying a garland of flowers. Where he had found them in this barren valley Astika could not guess. With tender reverence, Ugrashravas lowered the garland over his guru’s head and then prostrated at his feet, touching his forehead to the floor. Vyasa opened his luminous eyes.

“Your young companion is awake,” he said.

Turning to look at Astika the old sage smiled.

“Come, child,” he said. “You have questions. Ask.”

Astika rose up, bowed, and approached Vyasa. The sage gestured toward the floor at his feet and Astika sat there, his mind full of wonder.

“What puzzles you?” asked Vyasa.

“This world,” said Astika. “I thought that as I grew older, as I left childhood, I would understand the world. But the more I see, the more I learn, the less I understand.”

“The world is a fire, my boy,” said Vyasa. “This fire will burn up your understanding.”

Astika drew a deep breath.

“What is dharma?” he asked. “Many have said that when dharma is protected it protects. But the world is full of injustice. Humble people, wise people, virtuous people, and generous people suffer endless difficulties while arrogant people and idiots and tyrants enjoy good fortune. Even great men like Yudhisthira and Arjuna, and great women like Kunti and Draupadi, had to undergo such torment in life. Even Krishna had to watch his family fall apart and die a miserable death! Why?”

He took another deep breath. A flood of words filled him, rushing, pushing to escape, to be spoken.

“Speak,” said Vyasa. “You have much to say.”

“I have heard the history of the world,” said Astika. “It is a history of pain! Of mistakes, betrayal, treachery, greed, war, and death. It seems that not even the gods can escape these sorrows. In your story the good do evil and the evil do good. The wise seem foolish and fools seem wise. Why do people do such awful things to each other? Why do the good-hearted fail? Why does victory turn to ashes? Why, if the Supreme Being who is all compassion made this world, did He make a world so full of suffering? For what? Where is dharma to be found? In sacrifices? In stories? In scriptures? Everyone speaks of dharma, yet none seem to know it. Who has decided this, that some should suffer and perish and others should live, that one should get justice and another injustice?”

Vyasa looked grave. To his great dismay, Astika saw tears form in the great rishi’s eyes.

“Such suffering…” said Vyasa. “You speak of such suffering. My heart melts for the pain of the world.”

Suddenly Vyasa stood up. He towered over Astika and Ugrashravas as he raised his hands and spoke:

“Thousands of fathers and mothers and thousands of sons and daughters have come into this world and gone again, thousands more will come and go, thousands are coming and going even now! Thousands of joys and fears fill the minds of the ignorant, but never the wise! With uplifted arms I cry out, but no one hears me! From dharma comes all plenty and pleasure, so why does no one follow dharma? Not for passion nor fear, nor greed nor even for one’s own life should dharma be abandoned! Dharma is eternal! Happiness and sorrow are not eternal! The inmost self is eternal! That which is born and dies is not!”

Vyasa sat down again, breathing heavily. Though his body suddenly looked shriveled and shrunken, his eyes burned with fierce intensity.

“Life is short,” he whispered. “No! Life is not even short. It is already gone, gone, gone before it begins. Even the life of a great sage, a seer, a shining god blessed with millions of seasons, even the life of Brahma—these are no more than ripples on the surface of a pond, sparks in a fire, waves on the ocean, drops of water on a hot stone. They come, they appear, and then they are gone. This Earth herself is a body and her life too is brief—a moment, an emerald glinting for an instant in blue darkness. The moment any being is born its death is born beside it. Life is a fire burning, burning, ever burning. Time is a fire.

“You ask if the Supreme Being created this world? I say it is not so. It is we who have created this world, this world of joy and suffering. We are creating it every moment. It has no beginning and no end, for the countless lives of the embodied have no beginning nor end. Like sparks from an ever-burning fire they rise and flicker out, rise and flicker out. Why do we make this place of suffering? What creates this world? Desire. Because we desire the things of this world we are born again and again into it. Every moment, every fleeting blink of an eye, every minute morsel of time, we are born, dragged by our desires. In the time it takes a beam of light to pass from one side of a particle of dust to the other countless beings are born and countless others perish in this and other worlds! It is desire that causes birth, bondage, and death. Because of desire the world appears, flourishes, fades, falls. When the body dies desire remains. Even the desire for one sip of water, one more breath of air, creates a new birth. So the world spools out of desire like an infinite web from a small spider.

“But look, my child—did I say the world is a place of suffering? It is not wholly so. There is honey, yes, honey in the wind. There is honey in the Moon’s light, honey in the waters, honey in the Earth. There is honey dropping from Indra’s rain-heavy clouds, honey rising up in the ears of grain, honey in the fruits of the trees, honey in the eyes of children, honey in a mother’s breasts, honey in the udder of the cow, honey in the air we breathe. The Sun shines down honey, the sea sings of honey, the fire blazes up fed with honey, the gods drink honey. There is infinite sweetness at the core of things like honey in the comb. When the wonder-eye opens the honey oozes out of everything. In this brief life you can taste this honey, this honey at the world’s heart. If there were no honey, then why be born at all? Did I say that the Supreme Being has not created the world? It is not so. The One who is infinite and unchanging has brought this into being out of Its own desire. Listen to this wonderful mystery, this mystery that is at the very center of all things. The One is never separated, never changes, never becomes more or less than Itself; It remains ever unchanging and at the same time puts on change out of desire to experience Itself! Isn’t this marvelous? Who can comprehend this play, this game of hide-and-seek? For that Supreme Self has become all of this and experiences all of this in all bodies.

“Now see that the world is not evil, the world is not fallen, the world is not suffering. The world is a game that you yourself have decided to play because you desire it! As long as you play the game, so long it continues. As long as the world is real to you, so long you will experience desire, joy, pain, fear, pleasure. And as long as this world is real and you think yourself a part of it, then you follow your desires. So follow them, but do so in accord with dharma. This is dharma: that path by which the embodied may fulfill their desires without becoming enslaved to them. As long as you are in a body, dharma is your guide. Dharma is the support of the world, of all worlds. Without dharma the very particles that form this Earth would fly apart into darkness. Each of us has our role to play to maintain the flourishing of this world—that role is our dharma. So live, my boy, live and taste the honey, and do as you desire—so long as your desire does not undermine dharma. Eventually, in this life or some other life, you will become tired of desiring. You will realize that fulfillment of desires never brings you lasting fulfillment, because you are an infinite being chasing after finite things. Then your desires will fall away from you slowly, naturally, without effort. Then the world itself will appear to you to be a realm of suffering again and you will long only for release. You will think, The world is unreal, only the One is real. Longing will become your life. You will tell your heart, ‘Do not fall too much in love with the beauty of this world, for you must leave it soon.’

“When longing for the Spirit has consumed you, has eaten you alive, has filled your every muscle and sinew and vein, then the true guru will appear to guide you. She may take any shape, any form. She will take you by the hand and carry you across this existence toward your liberation. The true guru Herself has become all of this: you, the world, dharma, desire, and that which is beyond desire. When Her game is complete, then you wake up. Not before.”

Vyasa smiled at Astika, and the boy saw the honey in his face.

“Your questions are good, Astika,” he said. “Keep them with you. Keep asking them. These questions will walk beside you. They will guide you.”

“How do I live, Vyasa?”

“See that your life is a fire,” said the sage. “It is burning you up, burning every moment. Fire is sacred. Fire is the great transformer. So make everything you do an offering into this invisible fire, this fire that is burning you even now. Every breath, every word, every action: offer them into the fire. Burn them. Give, give, give. Keep nothing for yourself.”

“And what of injustice? What of suffering? What must I do when I meet it?”

“Do what you must. Strive against it, if that is your dharma. But make your striving into an offering as well.”

Vyasa paused and closed his eyes.

“Always remember death,” he said.

---

Author’s note: This is the penultimate chapter of Sacrifice the World. Though the story of the Pandavas has reached its conclusion, there remains a little more to tell. Await the final installment in two weeks…