The Great Indian Epics

by Unknown

CHAPTER II

THE STORY OF THE GREAT WAR

Amongst the long line of kings descended from Chandra, the Moon, who reigned in Northern India, was Shantanu, with whom our narrative may conveniently commence. This king was, like most of the sovereigns of his house, a pious man and an able administrator, whose sway, we are told, was owned by the whole world. He had two wives in succession, first the goddess Ganga, afterwards Satyavati, and the story of his loves is worth recording.

Strange as it may seem, his marriage with the lovely Ganga, the divinity of the sacred river Ganges, resulted from a curse uttered by one of those terrible saints, so common in Indian poetry, whose irritability of temper seems to have been in direct proportion to the importance of their austerities. The saint in question, Vasishta by name, was once engaged in his devotions when a party of celestial beings, known as Vasus, unwittingly passed between him and the rising or setting sun. “Be born among men!” exclaimed the irate Rishi to the unwelcome intruders, and his malediction, once uttered was, of course, irrevocable.[56] Expelled from Heaven, these unfortunate Vasus were met by the goddess Ganga to whom they explained their sad destiny, imploring of her to become a woman, so that they might be born of her and not of a mere mortal. The goddess who, on account of a slight indiscretion on her part, was herself under the obligation of assuming the human form, agreed to their proposal, and made choice of Shantanu to be their father. The goddess promised the Vasus that as each one of them was born of her, he should be thrown, as a mere infant, into the water and destroyed, so that all might regain their celestial home as speedily as possible. But Ganga stipulated that each one of the Vasus should contribute an eighth part of his energy for the production of a son who should be allowed to live his life on earth, but should himself die childless. These preliminaries being settled amongst the gods, behind the scenes as it were, the play had to be played out on the terrestrial stage with men as the puppets. To this end Ganga took an opportunity of presenting herself before Shantanu for the purpose of captivating his heart,—no difficult task for the goddess. So, one day as he was wandering along the banks of the Ganges, “he saw a lovely maiden of blazing beauty and like unto another Sree herself. Of faultless and pearly teeth and decked with celestial ornaments, she was attired in garments of fine texture, and resembled in splendour the filaments of the lotus. And the monarch beholding that damsel became surprised. With steadfast gaze he seemed to be drinking her charms, but repeated draughts failed to quench his thirst. The damsel also beholding the monarch of blazing splendour moving about in great agitation, was moved herself, and experienced an affection for him. She gazed and gazed and longed to gaze at him evermore. The monarch then in soft words addressed her and said: ‘O thou slender-waisted one, beest thou a goddess or the daughter of a Danava, beest thou of the race of the Gandharvas, or Apsaras, beest thou of the Yakshas or of the Nagas or beest thou of human origin, O thou of celestial beauty, I solicit thee to be my wife.’”

This wooing, simple enough in form and very much to the point, was, we need not say, entirely successful; the goddess without revealing her identity, consenting at once to become the king’s wife, on condition that she should be free to leave him the moment he interfered with her actions or addressed an unkind word to her. The enamoured prince readily agreed to these terms, and Ganga became his wife. Seven beautiful children born of this union were, to the king’s intense horror, thrown by their mother, each in its turn, into the waters of the Ganges with the words “This is for thy good.” Shantanu’s dread of losing the companionship of his lovely wife, of whom he was dotingly fond, kept him tongue-tied even in presence of such enormities; but when the eighth child was about to be destroyed like the others, his paternal feelings could not be controlled, and he broke out in remonstrance and upbraidings which saved his son’s life, but lost him his wife’s society for ever. Ganga, with much dignity, revealed herself to the king, explained to him the real circumstances of the case, and the motives which had influenced her actions and, reminding him of the stipulations of the contract between them, took a kind but final farewell of the husband of so many years. She thereupon disappeared, carrying the child away with her.

Later on, the river-goddess appeared once more to King Shantanu, and made over to him his half-celestial son, a youth of the most wonderful intellect, learning, strength and daring. This son, indifferently named Ganga-datta and Deva-bratta, was eventually best-known as Bhisma, or the terrible, for a reason to be explained immediately.

In the foregoing legend about the incarnations of the Vasus, we have an instructive and interesting illustration of the ideas of the Hindus with respect to the soul in man, which, as in this case, might be a spirit from the celestial regions. We also learn how the poor mortal’s destiny on earth is but the fulfilment of predestined events.

Shantanu, deserted by the goddess-queen, seems to have had a heart ready for the reception of another love, and, as his romantic fortune would have it, he was one day rambling on the banks of the Jumna when his attention was attracted by a delicious perfume. To trace this fragrance to its source the king roamed hither and thither through the woods, “and, in the course of his rambles, he beheld a black-eyed maiden of celestial beauty, the daughter of a fisherman.” In those primitive times, when men carried their hearts on their sleeves and the forms of social life were simple and natural, no tedious courtship was necessary; so, “the king addressing her said: ‘Who art thou, and whose daughter? What dost thou do here, O timid one?’ She answered, ‘Blest be thou, I am the daughter of the chief of the fishermen. At his command for religious merit I am engaged in rowing the passengers across this river in my boat.’ And Shantanu beholding that maiden of celestial form endued with beauty, amiableness and such fragrance, desired her for wife. And repairing unto her father the king solicited his consent to the proposed match.”

The fisherman was willing to bestow his daughter on the king, but only on condition that the son born to her should occupy the throne to the exclusion of all others. This was a difficulty that staggered the king, for he could not find it in his heart to set aside Deva-bratta, the glorious son of Ganga. The matter accordingly dropped, but his disappointment was very great, and he could not conceal from the world that there was something preying upon his mind. Deva-bratta, being much concerned about Shantanu’s unhappiness, found out the cause of it, and going to the father of the sweet-scented maiden, Satyavati, he formally renounced his own right to the succession, and recorded a vow of perpetual celibacy.

Upon this “the Apsaras and the gods with the tribes of the Rishis began to rain down flowers from the firmament upon the head of Deva-bratta, and exclaimed 'This one is Bhisma’ (the terrible).”

Everything was now arranged to the satisfaction of the contracting parties, and Satyavati, the ferry-girl, became the proud queen of Bharatvarsha. But this beauteous and odoriferous damsel had already a history, which, though unknown to the king her husband, may be unfolded here.

In the discharge of her pious office of ferrying across the Jumna those who desired it, the maiden on one occasion had as her companion in the boat “the great and wise Rishi Parashara, foremost of all virtuous men.” This illustrious saint, who seems to have had an eye for a pretty wench, immediately made advances to the boat-girl. Dread of her father, and a natural disinclination of being seen from the shore, made Satyavati coy; but, on the other hand, she was also in terror of the Rishi’s curse, in case she disobliged him. The sage Parashara was not to be denied. He enveloped the boat in a mist, and, promising the boat-girl that her virginity should be restored, and that a certain fishy smell which emanated from her person should be changed into a sweet perfume, had his way with her. The offspring of this union was no other than the renowned Vyasa, who arranged the Vedas and wrote the “Mahabharata,” and of whom we shall hear more very soon.

Satyavati by her union with King Shantanu became the mother of two sons, Chitrangada and Vichitra-virya. The former was after a short reign killed, in a three years’ combat, by the King of the Gandharvas, and Vichitra-virya was placed on the throne; but being a minor the kingdom was ruled by Bhisma, in subordination to Queen Satyavati. When the king was old enough to be married Bhisma set about finding a wife for him. Learning that the three lovely daughters of the King of Kasi would elect husbands in a public swayamvara, or maiden’s choice, he repaired thither and, acting in accordance with the lawless customs of the times, carried the fair princesses off in his chariot, challenging anyone and everyone to fight him for the coveted prize. A desperate battle ensued, of the kind familiar to the reader of the previous portion of this volume. Bhisma, alone and unaided, assailed by ten thousand arrows at the same time, was able to check these missiles in mid-air by showers of innumerable darts from his own bow, and after prodigious slaughter effected the object he had in view.[57] Of the three captured princesses one, named Amba, was allowed to go back to her people, as she explained that she had fully made up her mind to elect the King of Sanva for her husband, that he had given her his heart, and that her father was willing. The Rajah, however, coldly rejected Amba, on the ground that she had been in another man’s house; so, after undergoing painful austerities, with the object of being avenged for the humiliations she had suffered, the unhappy princess immolated herself on the funeral pile. In her case the swayamvara was, it would appear, only intended to be a formal ceremony. The other two princesses became the wives of Vichitra-virya; but, after a short reign, he died, leaving behind him no heirs of his body.

This failure of issue threatened the extinction of the Lunar dynasty. But, according to the ideas of those primitive times, the deficiency of heirs might still be supplied, for Vichitra-virya’s two widows, Amvika and Amvalika, still survived, and some kinsman might raise up seed to the dead man. Queen Satyavati pressed Bhisma to undertake the duty, but he, unwittingly fulfilling his destiny, held his vow of celibacy too sacred to be broken even in such a dynastic emergency. On his refusal Satyavati thought of her son Vyasa as perpetuator of the Lunar race, and the sage, nothing loth, undertook the family duty and visited the widows in turn. Now this celebrated sage had, by reason of his austerities, a terrible and repulsive appearance. The elder widow, Amvika, shut her eyes when she saw him, as he approached in the lamplight, and the son born of her was, in consequence, blind. The other widow was so blanched with fear at the sight of the sage, that the son she gave birth to was of quite a pale complexion. The blind son was named Dhritarashtra, and the white one Pandu.[58]

Neither of these sons being perfect, Satyavati desired Vyasa to beget yet another son. For this purpose he was to visit Amvika again; but she, poor soul, had had enough of the wild-looking anchorite, whose grim visage and strong odour had made a deep and disagreeable impression upon her, so she sent a beautiful slave-girl to him in her stead. The Sudra maiden made herself agreeable to the sage who was, of course, too wise to be taken in by the attempted deception. “And when he rose up to go away he addressed her and said ‘Amiable one, thou shalt no longer be a slave. Thy child also shall be greatly fortunate and virtuous and the foremost of all intelligent men on earth.’” This third son of Vyasa was named Vidura, and, although the offspring of a Sudra wench was, it seems, no other than the god of justice himself, incarnate in human form, owing, as we might well guess, to the potent curse of a holy ascetic. This is how it came about. The ascetic was performing his penances under a vow of silence, when there came to his asylum a band of robbers fleeing from the officers of justice. They hid their booty and themselves in the asylum. The police officers who were on their track came to the asylum and requested the hermit to point out where the thieves had hidden themselves. The ascetic vouchsafed no answer, but the officers themselves soon found both the thieves and the stolen property. As an accomplice in the crime that had been committed, the ascetic was apprehended and sentenced to death. He was in due course impaled, but, even on the cruel stake which was rending his body, he serenely devoted himself to contemplation. For days he lived quietly upon the stake, a fact which was brought to the king’s knowledge, and greatly alarmed him. He came in person to the ascetic, addressed him with great humility, begged his forgiveness, and ordered his immediate removal from the stake. All attempts to extract the stake having failed, it was cut off at the surface of the body, and the ascetic, apparently none the worse for this addition to his internal economy, went about as usual, but he was by no means content. Of the god of justice he demanded what crime he had committed which entailed so heavy a punishment. The god explained that the ascetic had once in his childhood pierced a little insect with a blade of grass, hence his impalement. In the Rishi’s opinion the punishment was out of all proportion to the offence, particularly as the Shastras exempted children from responsibility for their actions, and, waxing wroth, he uttered the following imprecation: “Thou shalt, therefore, O god of justice, have to be born among men even in the Sudra order.”[59]

Dhritarashtra was set aside on account of his blindness, and Vidura on account of his servile birth, so the raj fell to Pandu, during whose minority the country was governed by his uncle, Bhisma.[60]

Pandu became a great and celebrated rajah. He had two wives, Kunti and Madri. The former, although very beautiful, had no suitors in her maidenhood; so the king, her father, invited to his court the princes and monarchs of the neighbouring countries, and desired Kunti to choose her husband from amongst his guests. The princess attracted by the appearance of Pandu who was there, approached him modestly, and “quivering with emotion,” as the poet tells us, placed the nuptial garland round his neck. In this romantic fashion Pandu got his first wife. For the second, Madri, who was selected for him by Bhisma, he had to pay a very considerable price in gold and precious stones, elephants, horses and other things; for, it seems, it was the custom in her family for the daughters to be disposed of for such price as could be got for them.

After he had reigned a while, Pandu retired with his two wives into the forests on the slopes of the Himalaya Mountains to indulge his love of freedom and the chase.

One day while out hunting he discharged his arrows at two deer sporting together. Now these, as ill luck would have it, were, in reality, a Brahman sage and his wife. In the agonies of death the Brahman assumed his proper form and, as we might expect, cursed the unfortunate Pandu, saying that he would assuredly die in the embrace of one of his wives.

Up to this time Pandu had had no children, and owing to his dread of the Brahman’s curse was cut off from any further hope of offspring. Deeming it a most indispensable religious duty to have heirs, he consulted the ascetics in the woods on the subject, saying: “Ye ascetics I am not yet freed from the debt I owe to my (deceased) ancestors! The best of men are born in this world to beget children for discharging that debt. I would ask ye, should children be begotten in my soil (upon my wives) as I myself was begotten in the soil of my father by the eminent Rishi?”

The ascetics having given the king an answer in the affirmative, he desired his wife, Kunti, “to raise up offspring from the seed of some Brahman of high ascetic merit.” But Kunti had another resource to fall back upon. It seems that in her maiden days she had pleased a Rishi by her attentions, and he had taught her, as a reward, a mantra, or spell, by the repetition of which she could cause any celestial being she thought of to present himself to her and be obedient to her will, whether he liked it or not. Of the efficacy of this spell Kunti had already had practical experience, for in her early days she had, just to test the value of the spell, compelled the attendance of Surya, the sun-god, and had a son by him, named Karna, of whom we shall hear again. Prudently omitting any mention of Surya and Karna, Kunti told her husband of the mantra she possessed, and, with his consent, had three sons for him by three different gods, viz., Yudhisthira by Dharma,[61] Bhisma by Vayu, and Arjuna by Indra.

But Pandu wanted more sons, and persuaded Kunti to communicate the spell to Madri who, greedy of offspring, summoned the twins Açwins to her bed, and gave birth in due course to two sons, Nakula and Sahadeva. These five sons, known as the five Pandavas, are the real heroes of the great war which forms the main incident of the “Mahabharata.”

Pandu himself met with a tragic end. One day in lovely spring weather, when wandering with his younger wife, Madri, through the pleasant woodlands he, in a weak moment, yielded to his passions and, in fulfilment of the Brahman’s curse, died in the arms of his wife, who, in testimony of her affection for her husband, and on the ground that she was his favourite wife, had herself burnt with his remains.[62]

The party opposed to the Pandavas, known as the Kauravas, consisted primarily of the one hundred sons of Dhritarashtra, by his wife Gandhari. Of course it was necessary that persons who had to play a leading part in the poet’s story should come into the world in some extraordinary manner, and equally necessary that a Rishi should have a prominent share in the event. Gandhari appears to have been lucky enough to please by her hospitalities the great ascetic Dwaipayana, and he granted her the boon she asked, viz., one hundred sons, each equal to her lord in strength and accomplishments. Instead of sons, however, the queen gave birth to a shapeless mass of flesh and, in despair, was about to throw it away, when the sage who, in his hermitage, knew exactly what was transpiring at the palace, appeared unexpectedly on the scene and, cutting the piece of flesh into one hundred and one pieces, placed each separately in a pot full of clarified butter; whence, in due time, one hundred sons and one daughter were taken out. Of these hundred sons, four—Duryodhana, Dhusashana, Vikarna, and Chittrasena—afterwards became prominent characters in the story of this epic.

During the practical abdication of the throne by Pandu, Dhritarashtra seems to have ruled the country; but Pandu’s sons, as the Pandavas were considered to be, had a claim to the throne, and the surviving widow of the ill-fated king proceeded at once to Hastinapur with the five boys. A great number of ascetics accompanied them and, having testified before Dhritarashtra and his court to the celestial parentage of these sons of Kunti and Madri, vanished into thin air before the eyes of all present. The young sons of Pandu were, after this, well received by the blind old king, and took up their abode with his wife, Gandhari, and his sons. But the cousins, if such they can be called, could not live amicably together, and many feuds arose between them. To such a pass did the bitterness of feeling between the kinsmen come, that the eldest son of the blind king, jealous of the strength of Bhima, cunningly drugged him, bound him hand and foot, and then flung him into the Ganges. But Bhima did not perish. As he sank through the water snakes attacked him, and the venom of their bites, counteracting the effects of the drug he had swallowed, restored him to consciousness. He immediately burst his bonds, and found that he had descended to the city of the Serpent-king in the interior of the earth, where he was hospitably entertained, and given a draught of nectar which endowed him with the strength of ten thousand elephants. After that he was carried by the Nagas from under the waters and restored to the place whence he had been thrown into the river. On his return to Hastinapur, Bhima related his adventures to his brothers, but was cautioned to say nothing about the matter in the presence of his cousins, so as not to awaken their suspicions.

In accordance with the warlike tastes of the times, all the young princes, Dhritarashtra’s sons and nephews alike, were trained to arms and instructed in the science of warfare by a famous Brahman preceptor, named Drona, on condition that they would fight for him against Draupada, Rajah of Panchala, with whom he had a feud of long standing. This Drona, it is needless to say, was of extraordinary origin, otherwise he would not have been preceptor to the princes. He was the son of a Rishi, named Bharadvaja, but was not born of woman. The Pandavas and their cousins had also another famous tutor, named Kripa, who had sprung into existence from a clump of heather.

When the scions of the royal house of Pandu had been sufficiently trained in the use of arms, their preceptor, Drona, arranged for an exhibition of their skill before the chiefs and people of the Raj. An auspicious day was fixed upon, and the people informed by proclamation of the important function. It was a day of excitement and bustle in the land of the Kurus; spectators flocked from far and near to witness the royal assault-at-arms. The wealthier part of the visitors pitched their tents near the arena, and others put up convenient stages from which to view the events of the day. For the king and his courtiers a theatre was erected “according to the rules laid down in the scriptures.” It was constructed of gold, and adorned with strings of pearls and lapiz lazuli. The ladies had a separate gallery to themselves, and came to the fête gorgeously attired.

Amidst the blare of trumpets and the sound of drums, Drona, all in white, his Brahmanical cord conspicuously displayed, entered the arena attended by his son. The young princes followed in the order of their ages. After some preliminary displays of dexterity in archery and fencing, and of skill in horsemanship and the management of war-chariots, a contest with maces came off between Duryodhana and Bhima. They roared at each other “like two mad elephants contending for a female one,” and what was meant to be a sham fight soon changed into a real combat. The princely competitors, actuated by mutual animosity, charged each other “like infuriated elephants,” and battered each other most vindictively with their ponderous maces. This single combat caused great excitement amongst the spectators, who took sides, and applauded their favourites. Drona had to interpose between the heated combatants. He commanded the music to cease and, to make a diversion, quickly brought forward Arjuna, clad in golden mail, to display his inimitable skill in bowmanship. In this art, the most important of the warlike arts in the India of those times, Arjuna hopelessly surpassed all his rivals and, indeed, besides the extraordinary skill he displayed, there was much to wonder at in his performances, for “by the Agneya weapon he created fire, and by the Varuna weapon he created water, and by the Vayavya weapon he created air, and by the Paryanya weapon he created clouds, and by the Bhanma weapon he created land, and by the Parvatya weapon mountains came into being. And by the Antardhyana weapon these were all made to disappear.”

When the exhibition was nearly over a formidable champion thundered at the gates of the arena. It was Karna, son of Kunti, already mentioned, and, as became the offspring of the sun-god, an archer of most wonderful skill. On being admitted, the tall and handsome Karna, proudly arrayed in the glittering coat of mail in which he was born, and the ear-rings which had similarly come into the world with him, presented a dazzling and most striking appearance. He haughtily assured Arjuna that he would perform before the multitude there assembled feats that would excel all that had been exhibited that day. He even expressed his eagerness for a single combat with the hero. The two glorious sons of Kunti, unconscious of their relationship, appeared in the lists; their respective fathers, Indra and Surya, anxiously watched events from their positions in the welkin, and Kunti, as became a fond mother, fainted away. At this juncture Kripa interposed, inquiring the race and lineage of the newcomer. This action on Kripa’s part was, apparently, only a device to avert the threatened fight. Duryodhana was furious at this interruption, and, to remove any objection on the score of difference of rank between the contending parties, raised Karna on the spot to the Rajahship of Anga not, however, without the indispensable aid of the Brahmans, their mantras and ceremonies. All this took time; and more time was wasted in altercations in which Bhima took a prominent part, insulting Karna in an outrageous fashion, to the great indignation of Duryodhana. Presently the sun went down over the scene, and the royal tournament with its exciting incidents was necessarily brought to an end.

The princes having thus publicly proved that they were capable of bearing arms, Drona called upon them to fulfil their part of the terms upon which he had educated them. Joint or common action amongst the cousins being out of the question, the Kauravas and their friends went forth alone and attacked the Rajah of Panchala. They were defeated and compelled to retreat. Then the Pandavas marched out against their tutor’s enemy, and after a bloody conflict of the usual kind,—in which arrows fly from each single bow like flights of locusts; in which thousands of elephants, horses and men are slain; in which the principal combatants, although pierced with scores of shafts, seem none the worse for them—the Pandavas met with complete success, bringing the defeated Rajah along with them as a prisoner. He was afterwards liberated at the expense of half his kingdom, which was appropriated by the successful Drona.

Fresh causes of jealousy arose between the cousins. Yudhisthira’s claim to the succession could not be set aside, as the people were all in favour of him; so he was appointed by the blind king, very reluctantly, we may presume, to the office of Yuva-Rajah, or heir-apparent. The Pandavas, elated by their success against the King of Panchala, and confident in themselves, commenced a series of unprovoked attacks upon the neighbouring princes. Of course the Pandavas performed prodigies of valour in these invasions. For example, two of them with a single chariot, “subjugated all the kings of the East backed by ten thousand chariots.”

These great achievements inflamed the jealousy of even the blind king to such a pitch that he disclosed his feelings to Kanika, his Brahman counsellor, “well skilled in the science of politics.” As became a sage politician, Kanika advised his master to put the obnoxious Pandavas out of the way as soon as possible. He explained to Dhritarashtra his obvious duty in such a case, and impressed upon his sovereign such important maxims of state policy as the following: “When thy foe is in thy power destroy him by every means, open or secret: Do not show him any mercy although he seeketh thy protection.... If thy son, friend, brother, father or even spiritual preceptor, becometh thy foe, thou shouldst, if desirous of prosperity, slay him without scruples. By curses and incantations, by gift of wealth, by poison, or by deception the foe should be slain. He should never be neglected from disdain.”

His counsels fell on only too willing ears. Dhritarashtra was ready to do his duty as thus explained to him, but thought it best to act warily. Duryodhana suggested that the Pandavas should be induced to go to Varanavartha,[63] and there be disposed of.

Praises of this place were cunningly circulated in Dhritarashtra’s court, and the king suggested to the Pandavas that they might go there for a holiday. Suspicions naturally arose in the minds of the sons of Pandu; but there seemed to be no way of eluding the king’s proposal. Their departure was a day of public mourning in Hastinapur, and, before they went, Vidura found an opportunity to warn them of a plot which had been formed to burn them to death in a house made of combustible materials, which would be erected for their reception at Varanavartha. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and the Pandavas determined to be even with their enemies. Purochana, a confidential agent of Duryodhana’s, preceded them on their journey, and began in all haste to construct for their reception at Varanavartha and for their ultimate destruction by fire, the famous house of lac. What sort of mansion this was we may judge from Yudhisthira’s opinion of it, expressed confidentially to Bhima, after a critical inspection of the edifice, on their arrival at their destination. “The enemy, it is evident, by the aid of trusted artists, well skilled in the construction of houses, have finely built this mansion, after procuring hemp, resin, heath, straw and bamboos, all soaked in clarified butter.”

To escape destruction should their house be set on fire, the Pandavas secretly caused a subterranean passage to be made leading out of the dwelling. The work was executed by a trusty messenger, well skilled in mining, who had been sent to their assistance by Vidura. One evening Kunti fed a large number of Brahmans at this combustible house of hers. After the guests were gone, the Pandavas, assuring themselves that their enemy, Purochana, was fast asleep, quietly fastened the doors of the house, and themselves set fire to it in several places. As if impelled by Fate, a Nishada woman with her five sons had come, uninvited guests, to Kunti’s feast, and, becoming intoxicated with the wine of which they had partaken too freely, lay drunk upon the premises. These six drunk and incapable persons perished with Purochana, and their remains, found by the citizens after the conflagration had been extinguished, left no doubt in men’s minds that Kunti and her sons had all been miserably burnt to death.[64]

The five Pandava brothers disguised as Brahmans, accompanied by their mother, Kunti, made their escape into the forests and commenced a long course of wanderings, in which they experienced much hardship and many adventures. Often were they wearied out by their long marches, all except the giant Bhima who, on such occasions, would carry the whole family on his back and shoulders or under his arms. Of this episode Bhima is indisputably the hero. It is he who forces his way by giant strength through the almost impenetrable forests, treading down trees and creepers to make a passage for himself and his burden. It is he who kills the terrible Rakshasa bent upon devouring Kunti and her sons. It is Bhima with whom the cannibal’s sister falls ardently in love and whom, after strange adventurous journeys through the air, she eventually makes the happy father of a son, Ghatotkacha, afterwards a famous champion in the final struggles between the rival parties. It is Bhima again who, when they sojourned in Ekachakra (the inhabitants of which town had to pay a daily toll of a live human being for the table of a fierce Rakshasa), killed the monster single-handed, and delivered the trembling citizens from the gloomy horror under which they had been living.[65]

During their residence at Ekachakra, where they lived disguised as Brahmans, the Pandavas were visited by the famous Rishi Vyasa, who, it will be remembered, was really their grandfather, and also the compiler of the “Mahabharata” itself. By him they were informed that the lovely princess, Krishná, or Draupadi, the daughter of the King of the Panchalas, was about to hold a swayamvara, or “self choice,” at which she would select a husband. Vyasa also told them the wonderful history of this Draupadi, and thereby greatly excited their interest and curiosity in the handsome maiden, who was no ordinary girl, but had sprung into existence, mature and beautiful, in the midst of a great sacrifice for offspring, offered by Draupada, King of the Panchalas.

When, as has already been narrated, Draupada was defeated by Drona, and deprived by him of half his kingdom, a spirit of revenge took complete possession of the discomfited monarch, and his one thought was to find a means of compassing the overthrow of his successful foe, the redoubtable son of Bharadvaja. How could this object be attained when there was not a single one amongst the heroes of Panchala to cope with Drona, that mightiest of bowmen and possessor of the terrible Brahma-weapon? In such a difficulty the Indian chieftain naturally built his hopes upon those great national resources—the assistance of potent Brahmans, and the efficacy of properly conducted sacrifices. For the handsome fee of ten thousand kine the king succeeded in inducing a couple of learned Brahmans, who had long been engaged in austerities, to undertake a sacrifice for the express purpose of obtaining a son who should be invincible in war and capable of slaying Drona. The result of the ceremonies and sacrifices conducted by the learned and not too scrupulous Brahmans was completely successful, for out of the sacrificial flames which they had kindled emerged a stately youth, encased in full armour, with a crown on his head, and bearing a bow and arrows in his hands. He was wonderful to behold, and appeared upon the scene uttering loud roars. This was Dhrista-dyumna. After him appeared a beautiful maiden. “Her eyes were black, and large as lotus leaves, her complexion was dark, and her locks were blue and curly. Her nails were beautifully convex and bright as burnished copper, her eyebrows were fair, and her bosom was deep.... Her body emitted a fragrance as that of a blue lotus, perceivable from a distance of full two miles.” This damsel, because she was so dark complexioned, received the name of Krishná (the dark), but is more commonly known as Draupadi. Being the most lovely woman in the world at that time, her swayamvara would naturally attract the chiefs and princes of all nations, and not chiefs and princes only, but also Brahmans in crowds, ready to graciously accept the presents which the liberality or ostentation of the high-born suitors might prompt them to distribute on the occasion.

The young Pandavas were much excited about the coming event, and set off without delay to witness and, if possible, to take part in the proceedings of lovely Draupadi’s swayamvara. When they arrived at Panchala they took up their abode in the house of a humble potter, and, still disguised as Brahmans, supported themselves by begging alms of the people.

A great amphitheatre covered with a canopy was prepared for the important occasion. It was erected on a level plain, surrounded by lofty seven-storeyed palaces covered with gold, set with diamonds and adorned with garlands of fragrant flowers. In these costly mansions, “perfectly white and resembling the cloud-kissing peaks of Kailasa,” were lodged the kings and princes who had been invited to the swayamvara by the father of Draupadi. Commodious platforms were constructed all round the amphitheatre for the convenience of less august visitors, and on one of these platforms the Pandavas found places for themselves in the company of a number of Brahmans. Public rejoicings, music, dancing, and performances of various kinds, extending over sixteen days, served as a prelude to the business of the great assembly. At one end of the plain a tall pole was erected, and on the top of this pole was fixed a golden fish, and below the golden fish a chakra, or wheel, kept whirling round and round. The condition of the swayamvara was that each competitor should be provided with a particular bow and five selected arrows. If he succeeded with these in discharging an arrow through the chakra, and in striking the eye of the golden fish behind it, he should be the husband of the dark beauty of Panchala.

On the sixteenth day, when the meeting-place was quite full, Draupadi entered the amphitheatre richly attired and adorned with ornaments. In her hands she carried a golden dish with the usual offerings to Agni, the god of fire, and a garland of flowers for the neck of the happy man who should win her in the competition. After the offerings had been cast into the sacrificial fire and the appropriate mantras recited by the Brahmans appointed to perform the duty, Dhrista-dyumna led his sister before the assembly and, in a loud voice, proclaimed the conditions of the competition.

Amongst the innumerable suitors present there, we need only mention Duryodhana and Karna, who are already known to the reader.

The sight of the beautiful Draupadi fired the ardour of the assembled princes. One after the other they came forward to essay the feat but, though they tugged and strained and sweated till their faces were distorted and their clothes disordered, they were not even able to string the mighty bow. Karna at length stepped up and stringing the bow with ease placed an arrow for the trial. But seeing Karna, Draupadi loudly exclaimed: “I will not elect a Suta for my lord.”[66] “Then Karna, laughing in vexation and casting a glance on the sun, threw aside the bow already drawn to a circle.” Other competitors, princes of great renown, still pressed forward to try what they could do, but met with no success. When all the Kshatriya lords had retired discomfited, Arjuna advanced from his place amongst the Brahmans and, amidst a great deal of clamour, strung the bow and, with unerring skill, shot the mark. A tumultuous shout arose from the assembled multitude; there was a great uproar in the firmament, and the gods showered down flowers upon the happy hero. “And Krishná beholding the mark shot and beholding Partha (Arjuna) also like unto Indra himself, who had shot the mark, was filled with joy, and approached the son of Kunti with a white robe and a garland of flowers.” The Kshatriya Rajahs and chiefs were wild at their defeat by a Brahman, and although they were prepared to admit that their kingdoms, and they themselves also, existed solely for the benefit of the Brahmans, they demurred to such a conclusion of the swayamvara of a Kshatriya princess, and made a fierce attack upon King Draupada, who was willing to hand Draupadi over to the victor. Arjuna rushed at once to the king’s rescue, accompanied by the redoubtable Bhima, armed with nothing less than an uprooted tree and, though a desperate fight ensued, the Pandava brothers succeeded, partly through the mediation of Krishna—whom we here meet for the first time—in leaving the amphitheatre, closely followed by beautiful Draupadi.

Then those illustrious “sons of Pretha returning to the potter’s abode, approached their mother. And those first of men represented Yájnaseni (Draupadi) unto their mother as the alms they had obtained that day. And Kunti who was there within the room and saw not her sons replied, saying, ‘Enjoy ye all (what ye have obtained).’” The moment after she beheld Krishná, and then she said, “O, what have I said?” However, Draupadi was fated to have five husbands for, in a previous existence on the earth, she had, on five different occasions, asked the gods for a good husband as the reward of the austerities she practised. Yudhisthira knew this. It had been revealed to him by Vyasa. So when the matter was referred to him, as head of the family, he said simply: “The auspicious Draupadi shall be the common wife of us all;” a decision which pleased his brothers considerably for, as the poet tells us, “The sons of Pandu then hearing those words of their eldest brother, began to revolve them in their minds in great cheerfulness.”

Their life in the potter’s house was simplicity itself. Krishná prepared the food for the family and served it out to the several members, taking only a little for herself and eating it last of all. At night all seven slept on a bed of kusa grass covered with deerskins. The brothers lay side by side, their mother along the line of their heads, and Krishná “along the line of their feet as their nether pillow.”

When Draupadi, nothing loth, had gone away with the handsome victor, the King of Panchala was naturally very anxious to find out who the successful suitor really was. By a little artful eavesdropping on the part of Dhrista-dyumna, the secret became known to him, and he rejoiced to find what a good match Krishná had made. Arjuna caused great preparations to be undertaken for the wedding. He did not quite like the proposed fivefold arrangement; but was induced to consent to it, after Vyasa himself had explained to him how polyandry was not in itself sinful, and how this particular marriage had been pre-arranged by Destiny. It only remained for Draupadi to be led round the sacred fire on five successive days by the five brothers in turn. After the five weddings the King of the Panchalas made valuable presents to Draupadi’s husbands, including gold, chariots, horses and elephants, “and he also gave them a hundred female servants, all in the prime of youth and decked in costly robes and ornaments and floral wreaths.” Krishna also bestowed upon the happy Pandavas presents of various sorts,—costly robes, soft blankets, golden ornaments, and superb vessels set with gems and diamonds. And, in addition to these, “many elephants and horses, crores of gold coins, and thousands of young and beautiful female servants brought from various countries.”[67]

The alliance thus formed with the Rajah of Penchala made a great change in the fortunes of the Pandavas, and induced their cousins at Hastinapur to make overtures of friendship to them. The negotiations led, at length, to an amicable arrangement, by which the Kauravas continued to remain and rule at Hastinapur, while the Pandavas were assisted to settle themselves in Khandava-prasta on the banks of the Jumna. The portion of the country assigned to the sons of Pandu “was an unreclaimed desert,” but they soon built a gorgeous and wonderful city there, Indraprasta,[68] “surrounded by a trench as wide as the sea, and by walls reaching high into the heavens ... and the gateways that protected the town were high as the Mandara Mountain and massy as the clouds.”

At Indraprasta the brothers lived happily with their wife, having, upon the advice of a Rishi, arranged “that when one of them would be sitting with Draupadi, if any other of the four would see that one thus, he (the intruder) must retire into the forest for twelve years, passing his days as a Brahmachárin.” One day a Brahman, who had been robbed of his cattle, came in great haste to the king’s palace and, lamenting bitterly, accused the Pandavas of allowing him to be deprived of his property by contemptible thieves. Arjuna, recognizing his duty to afford the Brahman redress and protection, resolved to pursue the robbers; but his arms were in the room where Draupadi was sitting with Yudhisthira. Balancing against each other the sin of allowing the Brahman’s wrongs to go unavenged, and the breach of decorum involved in entering the chamber when his brother was engaged with Draupadi, he deliberately chose the latter, notwithstanding the consequences of their mutual agreement on that point. Once in possession of his arms he pursued the thieves, recovered the stolen property, and restored it to the Brahman; but on returning to the palace he voluntarily determined to go into exile in fulfilment of the terms of the compact about Draupadi.

Arjuna’s twelve years of exile were full of adventure. At the spot where the Ganges enters the plains (Hurdwar) he stepped into the sacred stream for a bath, was drawn down into the water by Ulupi, the daughter of the King of the Nagas, and taken by her to the beautiful mansion of her father. The love-sick Ulupi courted Arjuna so warmly that he could not find it in his heart to resist her solicitations. In return, Ulupi bestowed upon Arjuna the gift of invisibility in water.

From one sacred stream to another, from one holy place to another, wandered the willing exile, giving away much wealth to the Brahmans. At length he travelled as far as Munipur. Now the King of Munipur had a beautiful daughter named Chitrángadá. Arjuna saw, and fell desperately in love with the fair maiden. He asked her hand in marriage and obtained it, on condition that the first son born of the union should be considered to belong to the King of Munipur, in order to succeed him on the throne of that country. Three years did Arjuna live at Munipur, but when a son was born to Chitrángadá he took an affectionate farewell of her, and set out again upon his wanderings. Visiting many lands and experiencing strange adventures, he at length arrived at Dwarka, on the shore of the Southern Sea, the capital of his kinsman, Krishna, King of the Yadhavas. A casual sight of Subhadrá, the handsome sister of Krishna, made a strong and visible impression upon the susceptible heart of Arjuna. Krishna perceived the effect produced by his sister’s charms, and was not indisposed to an alliance with the Pandava hero. Should Subhadrá, now of age, hold a swayamvara or maiden’s choice? Krishna thought the result of such a plan might be disappointing; for who could say what choice a capricious girl might make! So, he artfully suggested to Arjuna to carry off the maiden by force, since “in the case of Kshatriyas that are brave, a forcible abduction for purposes of marriage is applauded, as the learned have said.” Arjuna, who was ready to achieve anything achievable by man to obtain “that girl of sweet smiles,” soon put the suggestion into practice, to the great indignation of the Yadhava chiefs; but Krishna threw oil upon the troubled waters, and everything was amicably settled in the end, the wedding being celebrated on a magnificent scale. After the prescribed twelve years of exile were completed, Arjuna returned to Khandava-prasta with Subhadrá, and was loyally welcomed by all. But when he visited Draupadi she evinced very natural signs of jealousy, and recommended Arjuna to go to the daughter of the Satwata race. However he coaxed her over, and when Subhadrá, dressed in red silk, but in the simple fashion of a cow-keeper, approached and bowed down to Draupadi, saying, “I am thy maid,” her resentful feelings were disarmed; she rose hastily and embraced her young rival with the significant greeting: “Let thy husband be without a foe.”

Krishna, the Prince of Dwarka, now visited his brother-in-law in great state, and brought with him a vast store of valuable gifts, amongst which we need only notice “a thousand damsels well skilled in assisting at the operations of bathing and at drinking.” No light recommendations apparently, for it would seem that in those good old times the practice of drinking wine was quite common; as we are told by the poet, in connection with a great picnic, given by Arjuna and Krishna, that “the women of the party, all of full rotund hips and fine deep bosoms and handsome eyes, and gait unsteady with wine, began to sport there at the command of Krishna and Partha (Arjuna). And some amongst the women sported as they liked in the woods, and some in the waters, and some within the mansions as directed by Partha and Govinda (Krishna). And Draupadi and Subhadrá, exhilarated with wine, began to give away unto the women so sporting their costly robes and ornaments. And some amongst those women began to dance in joy, and some began to sing, and some amongst them began to laugh and jest, and some to drink excellent wines.”

The picnic referred to was succeeded by a terrible conflict, in which Krishna and Arjuna, in the interests of Agni, opposed Indra and his celestial hosts. Agni, the god of fire, having drunk a continuous stream of clarified butter for twelve years, during the sacrifice of King Swetaki, was satiated with his greasy fare, had become pale and could not shine as before. To recover his health a change of diet was necessary for the god, and he, therefore, wished to devour, with his flaming tongues, the forest of Khandava in that land; but whenever he attempted to do this, Indra opposed him, quenching the flames raised by the fire-god with torrents of rain from above. However, Arjuna, in his wonderful way, “covered the forest of Khandava with innumerable arrows, like the moon covering the atmosphere with a thick fog,” and in this manner protected the burning forest from Indra’s drenching showers. A fierce battle with Indra, backed by Asuras, Gandharvas, Yakshas, and a host of others, resulted in the complete victory of Arjuna and his kinsman, in the total consumption of the forest by fire, and the almost wholesale destruction of all its inhabitants of every kind.

Only six of the dwellers in the forest of Khandava were allowed to escape with their lives. Aswa-Sena, Maya, and four birds called Sharugakos. Now Maya was the chief architect of the Danavas and, in gratitude for his preservation, built a wonderful Sabha, or hall, for the Pandavas, the most beautiful structure of its kind in the whole world.

One day, while the Pandavas were holding their court in this hall, the celestial Rishi Narada visited them, and the subject of conversation having turned upon the splendours of Maya’s handiwork, the Rishi described the courts of Indra, Yama, Varuna, and Kuvera, as also “the assembly-house of the grandsire, that house which none can describe, saying, it is such, for within a moment it assumes a different form that language fails to paint.”

Within the narrow limits I have allowed myself, these highly interesting pictures of the different heavens of the Hindus cannot be reproduced; but their more salient features must not be passed over, since they are highly characteristic of the ideas of the people who conceived them. The hall of Brahma, the Supreme Being, the Creator of everything, is an indescribable mansion, peopled by a most august, if somewhat shadowy, assembly. Here, in the presence of the grandsire of all, attend, in their personified forms, the various forces and phenomena of nature, such as time and space, heat and air, day and night, the months and seasons, the years and Yugas. Here also are ever to be found religion, joy, tranquillity, aversion and asceticism; here wisdom, intelligence and fame; here the four Vedas, sacrifices and mantras. Here also perpetually attend hymns, dramas, songs and stories, together with all the sciences, in the company of countless celestial Rishis and all the deities.

The courts of the other gods, which are less solemn and sedate, always resound with strains of delightful vocal and instrumental music, and are enlivened with the graceful dancing of the charming Apsaras and Gandharvas. But it is Yama’s Sabha that most concerns the human race, for it is there that, for the most part, the disembodied spirits of men are to be found. “Bright as burnished gold, that assembly-house covers an area of much more than a hundred Yojanas. Possessed of the splendour of the sun it yieldeth everything that one may desire. Neither very cool nor very hot, it delighteth the heart. In that assembly-house there is neither grief nor weakness of age, neither hunger nor thirst. Nothing disagreeable findeth a place there, nor wretchedness or distress. There can be no fatigue or any kind of evil feelings there. Every object of desire, celestial or human, is to be found in that mansion. And all kinds of enjoyable articles, as also of sweet juicy, agreeable, and delicious edibles in profusion, that are licked, sucked and drunk, are there. And the floral wreaths in that mansion are of the most delicious fragrance, and the trees that stand around it yield fruits that are desired of them. And there are both cold and hot waters, and these are sweet and agreeable. And in that mansion many royal sages of great sanctity and Brahmana sages also of great purity wait upon and worship Yama, the son Vivaswat.... And Agastya and Mataiya and Kála and Mrityu (Death), performers of sacrifices, and Siddhas and many Yogins; the Pitris ... the wheel of time and the illustrious conveyer himself of the sacrificial butter; all sinners among human beings, as also that have died during the winter solstice; those officers of Yama who have been appointed to count the allotted days of everybody and everything, the Shingshapa, Palasha, Kasha, and Kusha, trees and plants, in their embodied forms:—these all wait upon and worship the god of justice in that assembly-house of his.... And many illustrious Gandharvas and many Apsaras fill every part of that mansion with music, both instrumental and vocal, and with the sounds of laughter and dance. And excellent perfumes, and sweet sounds, and garlands of celestial flowers always contribute to make that mansion supremely blest. And hundreds of thousands of virtuous persons of celestial beauty and great wisdom always wait upon and worship the illustrious lord of created beings in that assembly-house.”[69]

During the period in the history of the Pandavas which we have now reached, Draupadi bore five sons[70] to her five husbands, and Subhadrá also became the mother of the afterwards famous Abhimanyu.

In their new home the Pandavas had flourished greatly, and having established an undisputed supremacy over all the chieftains in their immediate neighbourhood, they thought of performing a rajasuya or sacrifice of triumph, a sort of formal declaration of imperial claims. But there was a serious difficulty in the way of the accomplishment of this proud function; for there reigned at Mathura, the capital of Magadha, a powerful king, named Jarásandha who, having himself already brought no less than eighty-six kings under his dominion, was not, by any means, likely to acknowledge the superiority of Yudhisthira. Hence it followed that, until Jarásandha were overcome, the rajasuya could not be undertaken.

To conquer or otherwise dispose of Jarásandha was, therefore, the problem before the sons of Pandu. Their kinsman, Krishna, “foremost of personages whose strength consists in wisdom and policy,” was on a visit to Indraprasta, and willingly accompanied Arjuna and Bhima (all three disguised as Brahmans) to Mathura. Once in the presence of their formidable rival they threw off the mask and made themselves known to him. Krishna upbraided Jarásandha with his cruel purpose of offering up the vanquished kings, whom he held in captivity, as sacrifices to the god Rudra and, without hesitation, intimated that he and his companions had come to Mathura expressly to slay him. In addressing the King of Magadha Krishna gave expression to sentiments which remind one forcibly of the warlike ideas of the Norsemen. “Know,” said he “O bull among men, that Kshatriyas engage in battle with heaven in view.... Study of Vedas, great fame, ascetic penances, and death in battle are all acts that lead to heaven. The attainment of heaven by the other three acts may be uncertain. But death in battle hath that for its certain consequence.” The challenge thus given was accepted in the chivalrous spirit of the times. A single and public combat was arranged between Bhima and Jarásandha. Crowds of all classes of citizens, including women, were present to see the event. Both heroes fought without weapons. The encounter, which was carried on with great ferocity, lasted thirteen days without intermission for rest or food, and finally resulted in Jarásandha’s backbone being broken against Bhima’s knee. “And the roar of the Pandava, mingling with that of Jarásandha while he was being broken on Bhima’s knee, caused a loud uproar that struck fear into the heart of every creature.” After Jarásandha had been slain, Krishna released his royal prisoners, and engaged them to assist Yudhisthira in the celebration of the proposed rajasuya sacrifice.

As soon as the occurrences at Mathura had been made known to Yudhisthira, he despatched his four brothers to the four points of the compass to collect tribute from all the Rajahs of the world.[71] These expeditions were fruitful of wonderful adventures, but we have not space to recount them here, though we must not omit to note, in passing, that when those unprovoked aggressors, the sons of Pandu, vanquished any prince who offered resistance, he at once and, as a matter of course, joined the victors with his forces, and helped to subjugate the unfortunate king upon whose territories the advancing tide of invasion next broke.[72]

As a sequel to the conquests of the Pandavas, a crowd of Brahmans, with scores of Rajahs, flocked to Indraprasta from all parts of the country, and were right royally lodged and entertained by Yudhisthira’s commands. The various duties demanded by the occasion were intrusted to the different members of the family and to intimate friends of the Pandavas. Dhusashana was appointed to cater for the visitors; Kripa to look after the gold and gems; Duryodhana to receive the tributes; and Krishna, at his own desire, was engaged in washing the feet of the Brahmans.

Arrangements for the rajasuya were pushed forward, and all was hubbub and excitement in Indraprasta. The Brahman sages found the occasion a grand one for disputations with one another, and they took full advantage of it; but a suppressed fire of discontent and jealousy was smouldering in the hearts of the assembled Rajahs, which was set ablaze by a proposal to regard Krishna as the foremost chieftain present. Angry and contemptuous objections were made to his being given precedence in the assembly. The wise Bhisma, however, fully aware who and what his kinsman really was, solemnly assured the malcontents that “Krishna is the origin of the universe, and that in which the universe is to dissolve. Indeed this universe of mobile and immobile creatures has sprung into existence for Krishna only. He is the unmanifest primal matter, the Creator, the eternal and beyond (the ken of) all creatures.” Notwithstanding this testimony the opposition did not cease. Indeed Shishupala, the mighty King of Chedi, ridiculed the old man’s words, heaped contempt upon Krishna, and eventually, with many taunts and jeers, challenged him to fight. “And while Shishupala was speaking thus, the exalted slayer of Madhu thought in his mind of the discus that humbleth the pride of the Asuras. And as soon as the discus came into his hands the illustrious one skilled in speech loudly uttered these words! ‘Listen, ye lords of earth, why this one had hitherto been pardoned by me. Asked by his mother, a hundred offences (of his) were to be pardoned by me. Even this was the boon she had asked and even this I granted her. That number, ye kings, hath become full. I shall now slay him in your presence, ye monarchs.’ Having said this, the chief of the Yadus, that slayer of all foes, in anger instantly cut off the head of the ruler of Chedi by means of his discus. And the mighty-armed one fell down like a cliff struck with thunder. And the assembled kings then beheld a fierce energy, like unto the sun in the sky, issue out of the body of the King of Chedi. And that energy then adored Krishna, possessed of eyes like lotus leaves and worshipped of all the worlds, and entered his body. And the kings beholding the energy which entered that mighty-armed chief of men regarded it as wonderful.” And indeed they might well do so, yet the poet tells us that many of the chiefs were excited to fierce if suppressed anger by what they had witnessed.[73]

At length the great sacrifice for imperial sway was successfully accomplished, and with the greatest imaginable splendour. After which the subject Rajahs were courteously dismissed to their respective principalities.

But the grandeur and wealth displayed on this occasion served to re-awaken or inflame the old jealousy of the Kauravas, particularly of Duryodhana, who had been the unwilling collector of the vast tribute poured into Yudhisthira’s treasury at Indraprasta. Despairing of injuring their rivals by open and fair means, the Kauravas determined to resort once more to artifice, having, as usual, discussed the pros and cons of the question from all points of view; for these old-time heroes of India were nothing if not argumentative.[74] They built a sumptuous reception-hall, “a crystal-arched palace,” full two miles square, decorated with gold and lapis lazuli, with a thousand columns and one hundred gates. Hither they invited a large number of royal friends, but the principal guests were the Pandavas, whom they challenged to a friendly gambling match. Yudhisthira well understood and clearly stated the objectionable features of gambling, and was fully aware that the game of chance he was challenged to take part in would not be fairly conducted. However, as a Kshatriya, he could not decline the match, and so sat down to play against Shakuni, Queen Gandhari’s brother, a skilful and unscrupulous dice-player, who was backed by Duryodhana.

In a succession of games Yudhisthira lost all his money and jewels, all his cattle, jewelled chariots, war-elephants, slaves and slave-girls, and then the whole of the kingdom of the Pandavas. Driven to despair, the luckless gambler would persist in continuing to play while there remained anything at all to stake. But his success was no better than before, and he staked and lost his brothers, one by one, then himself and, lastly, the joint-wife of the Pandavas, the famous Draupadi.

An exciting and most sensational scene followed. To complete the humiliation of their rivals, the successful gamesters ordered Draupadi to be conducted into the gaming hall. She astutely objected that, as Yudhisthira had first staked and lost himself, and thus entered a servile condition before he played for her, he was not legally competent to dispose of her person; but her protest was unheeded. Being dressed at the time in a single robe of cloth, a simple saree apparently, she refused to appear in that attire before the assembled chiefs. But Dhusashana, with brutal unceremoniousness, dragged her into the great hall by the hair of her head, treating her, in the presence of her husbands, with the familiar license which they were accustomed to indulge in when dealing with their female slaves. Dhusashana even went so far as to attempt to strip beautiful Draupadi in the presence of the assembly. In her trouble she prayed aloud to Krishna for help, invoking him as the lover of the gopis (milkmaids), the dweller in Dwarka, the soul of the universe, the Creator of all things. And Krishna, hearing her prayer, miraculously multiplied her garments as fast as they were removed. Yet notwithstanding these manifestations of divine protection, Duryodhana, not to be behind in affronting his rivals, indecently bared his left thigh and showed it to the modest Draupadi, who, as she said, had never since the occasion of her swayamvara been beheld by an assembly like this. These gross indignities, it may be well imagined, must have driven the Pandavas frantic. Why then did they not dare to interpose? Because they were bound by the acts of their elder brother; and submission to authority seems ever to have been the highest virtue of these Hindu heroes! Only Bhima, with an impetuosity which was not to be restrained even by respect for his elder brother, took a solemn oath before the assembly that, for the deeds that they had done that day, he would break the thigh of Duryodhana and drink the blood of Dhusashana, or forfeit his hopes of heaven. Both these vows he accomplished in the great war to be subsequently referred to.

While this sensational scene was being enacted, a jackal howled in the homa-chamber of King Dhritarashtra. Terrified by this omen of dire evil, the old king began to reprove Duryodhana for his conduct; and, addressing Draupadi, in respectful and affectionate terms, desired her to ask of him any boon she pleased. Without hesitation she demanded at once that Yudhisthira should be freed from slavery. A second boon being offered her, she solicited the freedom of her other husbands; but when she was given the option of a third boon she declined to accept the favour, saying: “O king, these my husbands, freed from the wretched state of bondage, will be able to achieve prosperity by their own virtuous acts.” However, Dhritarashtra dismissed the Pandavas in honour to their own city, desiring them to think no more of the unpleasant episode of the gambling match.

The crestfallen visitors hastened to take advantage of the blind king’s permission to depart, and they set out at once on their homeward journey, revolving in their minds many a scheme of future vengeance. The Kauravas, however, felt, and justly too, that after what had passed that day the matter could not be thus easily settled. They knew their outraged cousins would burn to wipe out the insults they had received, and so they entreated the blind old king, their father, to recall the Pandavas and induce them to play a final game, upon the issue of which one party or the other should go into voluntary exile. The Pandavas were brought back to try the fortune of the dice once more, and it was arranged that the losing side should go into exile, spending twelve years in the forests and one additional year in any city they might find convenient; and that if the exiles were discovered, during the time of their concealment in the city, they would have to go through another exile of thirteen years. The game upon which so much hung was duly played, with the result that the Pandavas had to exchange the splendour and luxury of the palace for the simple life and scanty fare of the forest, with which they had already become acquainted in their earlier wanderings.

When Dhusashana saw that Sakuni had won the game, he danced about for joy, and cried out: “Now is established the Raj of Duryodhana!” But Bhima said: “Be not elated with joy, but remember my words. The day will come when I shall drink your blood, or never attain to regions of blessedness!” The Pandavas seeing that they had lost their wager, threw off their garments, put on deerskins, and prepared to depart into the forest with their joint-wife, their mother Kunti, and their priest Dhaumya; but Vidura representing to Yudhisthira that Kunti was, by reason of her years, unfitted to bear the hardships of exile, proposed that she should be left to his care, and this kindly offer was readily accepted. From the assembly the sons of Pandu went out, hanging down their heads with shame, and covering their faces with their garments. Only Bhima, always more impulsive than his brothers, threw out his long, mighty arms, and glared at the Kauravas furiously, while Draupadi spread her long black hair over her face and wept bitterly. The blind old king regarded the departure of his nephews with grave misgivings, for he felt that inevitable destruction awaited him and his at the hands of the Pandavas. All this, he well knew, was the work of his son Duryodhana, constrained by destiny, since “the whole universe moveth at the will of the Creator under the controlling influence of fate:” and, as Sanjaya said, in allusion to Duryodhana, “the gods first deprive that man of his reason unto whom they send defeat and disgrace.”

Surely it is only a Hindu bard who could imagine such sudden and complete reverses of fortune and such tame, almost abject, acquiescence in the circumstances of the hour, on the part of such redoubtable heroes as the sons of Pandu! Nor is it comprehensible why exile to the forest should always entail the hermit garb and utter destitution.

That King Yudhisthira felt his altered position bitterly is evident from the words he addressed to the Brahmans who accompanied him and his brothers out of the city. “Robbed,” he says, “of our prosperity and kingdom, robbed of everything, we are about to enter the deep woods in sorrow: depending for our food on fruits and roots and the produce of the chase. The forest too is full of dangers and abounds with reptiles and beasts of prey.” However his anticipations were worse than the reality. By the advice of a Brahman the exiled monarch made an appeal to the sun for help, addressing him in such terms as these. “Thou art, O sun, the eye of the universe! Thou art the soul of all corporeal existences! Thou art the origin of all things.... Thou art called Indra, thou art Vishnu, thou art Brahma, thou art Prajapati! Thou art fire and thou art the subtle mind! and thou art the lord and the eternal Brahma.”[75] In response to this appeal the sun-god appeared to the king, and presented him with a copper cooking-vessel, which proved to be an inexhaustible source of fruits and roots, meat and vegetables to the exiles during their twelve years of enforced sojourn in the woods.[76]

Their forest wanderings were productive of many stirring adventures, the narrative of which occupies a large portion of the original poem, but we can find space to notice only a few of these.

Following the advice of the sage Vyasa, Arjuna visited the Himalayas in order to gain the favour of Siva, and to obtain from him certain most potent celestial weapons for the destruction of the Kauravas, of whom the Pandava heroes seem, notwithstanding their own wonderful fighting qualities, to have had a wholesome dread. Having arrived upon the sacred mountains, Arjuna went through a course of austerities “with arms upraised, leaning upon nothing and standing on the tips of his toes.” For food he at first had withered leaves, but eventually he fed on air alone. Such was the fervour of his penances that the earth around him began to smoke, and the alarmed Rishis came in a body to Siva, and asked him to interfere. The chief of all the gods sent them away with comforting assurances and, having assumed the appearance of a Kiráta, or low-class hunter, came upon Arjuna and provoked him to an encounter. The battle was fierce, culminating in a desperate personal struggle; but where one of the combatants was the Supreme Being the issue could not be doubtful, and Arjuna fell smitten senseless by the god. He soon recovered consciousness, and “mentally prostrating himself before the gracious god of gods, and making a clay image of that deity, he worshipped it with offerings of floral garlands.”[77] To his surprise he found the garland he had offered to the clay image adorning the head of his victorious enemy, the Kiráta, who thus revealed himself to the much-relieved son of Pandu. Arjuna prostrated himself before the deity, who expressed his approval of his worshipper, and presently bestowed upon him the gift of a terrible celestial weapon, called the Pácupata, with instructions in regard to the appropriate mantras or spells to be used with it. At that moment the whole earth, with its mountains, plains, and rivers, trembled with excitement, a terrible hurricane expressed the concern of nature in the important event, and the “terrible weapon in its embodied form” stood by the side of Arjuna ready to obey his behests. When Siva had vanished from sight, the guardians of the four regions (lokapalah) Kuvera, Varuna, Yama, and Indra appeared in great splendour upon the mountain top, and presented Arjuna with other celestial weapons; after which he was carried in a wondrous car to the heaven of his real father, the god Indra. It was a glorious and delightful region, lighted with its own inherent brilliancy, adorned with flowers of every season, fanned by fragrant breezes and resounding with celestial music. Here there were bands of lovely Apsaras and Gandharvas, who gladdened all hearts with their ravishing songs and dances. It was a region for the virtuous alone, and not for those “who had turned their back on the field of battle.”

In this delightful place Arjuna passed five years of his life, treated with the highest honour and consideration, learning the use of the various celestial weapons with which he was eventually to overthrow those redoubtable champions, Kripa and Drona, Bhisma and Karna. Nor were lighter studies neglected. Arjuna, under a competent instructor, became proficient in the arts of music and dancing.

That he might be made “to taste the joys of heaven,” properly, the lovely Apsara,[78] Urvasi, of wide hips, crisp soft hair, beautiful eyes and full bosom, was specially commanded to make herself agreeable to Arjuna. Her sensual beauty, described in some detail by the poet, failed, however, to subdue the hero, who met her amatory advances with a somewhat exaggerated respect, which so enraged the fair temptress that she cursed him, saying: “Since thou disregardest a woman come to thy mansion at the command of thy father and of her own motion—a woman, besides, who is pierced by the shafts of Kama,—therefore, O Partha, thou shalt have to pass thy time among females, unregarded, and as a dancer and destitute of manhood.”

While Arjuna was in the heaven of Indra, King Yudhisthira passed some time in the forest of Kamyaka, in company with his three younger brothers and Draupadi, attended by his family priest, Dhaumya, and a number of faithful Brahmans. Here he learned, from an illustrious Rishi, Vrihadaçwa, “the science of dice in its entirety,” ignorance of which science had cost him so dear. After a while the party set out on a pilgrimage to visit and bathe in those tirthas, or sacred waters, which abound all over India to this day. Each tirtha is famous for some event in the history of the gods or the saints of the lands, and the water of each one has a virtue of its own. A dip in one cleanses the bather from all his sins, a dip in another confers upon him the merit of having bestowed a thousand kine upon the Brahmans, or, perhaps, that of having performed a horse-sacrifice. By a plunge in a third tirtha the pilgrim acquires the power of disappearance at will, or some other coveted power; while ablution in the water of a fourth places the heaven of Indra, or of some other god, within his reach. It is evident that by making a round of these tirthas a man might acquire superhuman power and the highest felicity in this and a future life.

Journeying leisurely from tirtha to tirtha, from the Punjab to the Southern Sea, under the guidance of the sage Lomaça, King Yudhisthira, with the others, pleasantly acquired an enormous store of merits of various kinds. But, anxious for reunion with Arjuna, they wended their way back to the North, visiting the tirthas on their route, till they found themselves in the Himalayas. Pushing into the sacred solitude of these giant mountains they met with many adventures, in which Bhima’s son, Ghatotkacha, was very helpful to them. At last, from a lofty summit, these fortunate travellers got a glimpse of the abode of Kuvera, the god of wealth, “adorned with golden and crystal palaces, surrounded on all sides by golden walls having the splendour of all gems, furnished with gardens all around, higher than a mountain peak, beautiful with ramparts and towers, and adorned with doorways and gates and rows of pennons. And the abode was graced with dallying damsels dancing around, and also with pennons wafted by the breeze.... And gladdening all creatures, there was blowing a breeze, carrying all perfumes, and of balmy feel. And there were various beautiful and wonderful trees of diverse hues, resounding with diverse dulcet notes.”

Kuvera came out to meet the Pandavas, and after some excellent advice to Yudhisthira, in which he pointed out to the king that success in human affairs depended upon “patience, ability (appropriate), time and place and prowess,” requested them to retire to a somewhat less elevated position on the mountains, and there await the return of their brother. And it came to pass that one day, while they were thinking of Arjuna, a blazing chariot driven by Indra’s charioteer, Matali, filled the sky with its brilliancy and, stopping near them, their long-absent brother descended from it, in a resplendent form, adorned with a diadem and celestial garlands. He paid his respects, in due form, first to the family priest and then to Bhima; after that he received the salutations of his younger brothers; he next cheered his beloved Krishná by his presence, and finally stood, in an attitude of humility, before the king. The Pandavas worshipped Matali as if he were Indra himself, and then “duly inquired of him after the health of all the gods.” At dawn next day Indra himself, attended by hosts of Gandharvas and Apsaras, visited the Pandavas and, having received their adoration, and having assured Yudhisthira that he would yet rule the earth, desired him to go back to Kamyaka, whereupon the Pandavas, of course, commenced their return journey.

Arjuna, restored to the companionship of his brothers, related to them some of his adventures during the five years of his absence, and dwelt in some detail upon the successful destruction of certain Danavas, named Nivata-Kavachas, which he had carried out single-handed. These were ancient and powerful enemies of Indra, dwellers in the womb of the ocean, and numbering thirty millions.[79] Against these puissant demons Arjuna was sent in Indra’s chariot, driven by Matali; and, after prodigies of valour and the most marvellous performances with the celestial weapons which he had received from the gods, he completely overthrew them and destroyed their wonderful aërial city, Hiranyapura. Shortly after these events Krishna came on a visit to his friends, and they were also joined by the sage Markandeya, who lightened the tedium of their wanderings with interesting narratives of past events, and profitable discourses on important religious and philosophical subjects. How competent he was for such a task will be readily admitted, when we learn from himself that he, and he alone, of the race of men or created beings, was privileged to see the entire universe run its cycle of changes through the four appointed Yugas or ages; to watch it undergo gradual degeneracy and decay; and, finally, to witness its total destruction by fire,—with all animated beings, even gods and demons,—only to be recreated again in order to run its appointed course through the ages once more.[80]

Markandeya relates to the Pandavas the whole story of the “Ramayana” and many another legend of the olden time. Let me here reproduce his story of the flood, as it has an interest not confined to India or Hindus, and also his explanation of the doctrine of Karma, of which we are beginning to hear so much in these days.

Markandeya’s Account of the Universal Deluge.—There was once a powerful and great Rishi, named Manu, who “was equal unto Brahma in glory.” For ten thousand years he practised the severest austerities in the forest, standing on one leg with uplifted hand and bowed head. One day as he was undergoing his self-inflicted penance, with matted locks and dripping garments, a little fish, approaching the bank of the stream near which the Rishi stood, entreated his protection against the cruel voracity of the bigger fishes; “for,” said the little suppliant, “this fixed custom is well established among us, that the strong fish always prey upon the weak ones.” The sage, touched with compassion, took the little fish out of the river, and put it for safety into an earthen vessel of water, and tended it carefully. In its new home it grew apace and, at its own request, was removed to a tank. Here its dimensions increased so wonderfully that “although the tank was two yojanas in length and one yojana in width,” there was not sufficient room in it for the fish, who again appealed to Manu, asking him to place it in the Ganges, “the favourite spouse of the ocean.” Gigantic as the fish was, the wonderful Rishi put it into the river with his own hands; but the Ganges itself was too small for this monster of the waters, and the Muni carried it to the sea-shore and consigned it to the bosom of the mighty ocean.

“And when it was thrown into the sea by Manu, it said these words to him with a smile:[81] ‘O adorable being thou hast protected me with special care; do thou now listen to me as to what thou shouldst do in the fulness of time! O fortunate and worshipful sir, the dissolution of this mobile and immobile world is nigh at hand. The time for the purging of this world is now ripe. Therefore do I now explain what is well for thee. The mobile and the immobile divisions of the creation, those that have the power of locomotion and those that have it not, of all these the terrible doom hath now approached. Thou shalt build a strong and massive ark, and have it furnished with a long rope. On that must thou ascend, O great Muni, with the seven Rishis, and take with thee all the different seeds which were enumerated by regenerate Brahmans in days of yore, and separately and carefully must thou preserve them therein. And whilst there, O beloved of the Munis, thou shalt wait for me, and I shall appear to thee like a horned animal, and thus, O ascetic, shalt thou recognize me.’”

Manu, having carried out the instructions of the fish in all its details, entered his ark and embarked upon the surging ocean. He thought of the fish, and it appeared with horns on its head, to which Manu fastened his vessel. A terrific tempest arose, in which the ark “reeled about like a drunken harlot.” Water covered everything, even the heavens and the firmament. For many years the fish towed the vessel through the flood, and at length conveyed it towards the highest peak of the Himavat (Himalayas) and instructed the occupants to moor their vessel to it. “Then the fish, addressing the associated Rishis, told them these words: ‘I am Brahma, the lord of all creatures; there is none greater than myself’. Assuming the shape of a fish I have saved ye from this cataclysm. Manu will create (again) all beings—gods, Asuras and men, and all those divisions of creation which have the power of locomotion and which have it not. By practising severe austerities he will acquire this power, and, with my blessing, illusion will have no power over him.” Manu, of course, underwent the necessary austerities, and recreated “all beings in proper and exact order.”

Such is the “Legend of the Fish,” and whosoever listens to it every day is assured of heaven.[82]

From this easy mode of reaching heaven,[83] as taught by the sage Markandeya, we turn to his exposition of the doctrine of Karma, which, if less comforting in respect to the means of attaining heavenly joys has, at least, something of philosophical plausibility to recommend it to our attention.

The divine sage, addressing Yudhisthira, explained to him that happiness is to be attained neither by learning, nor good morals, nor personal exertion. There is yet another and more important factor than all these to be reckoned with, and that is Karma. “If the fruits of our exertion,” says Markandeya, “were not dependent on anything else, people would attain the object of their desire by simply striving to attain it. It is sure that able, intelligent, and diligent persons are baffled in their efforts and do not attain the fruits of their actions. On the other hand, persons who are always active in injuring others, and in practising deception on the world, lead a happy life. There are some who attain prosperity without any exertion; and there are others who with the utmost exertion are unable to achieve their dues. Miserly persons with the object of having sons born to them worship the gods and practise severe austerities, and these sons ... at length turn out to be very infamous scions of their race; and others begotten under the same auspices, decently pass their lives in luxury, with hoards of riches and grain accumulated by their ancestors. The diseases from which men suffer are undoubtedly the result of their own Karma,” that is of their actions in previous and unremembered existences. “It is,” pursues Markandeya, “the immemorial tradition[84] that the soul is eternal and everlasting, but the corporeal frame of all creatures is subject to destruction here (below). When, therefore, life is extinguished the body only is destroyed, but the spirit, wedded to its actions, travels elsewhere.” It inhabits innumerable bodies in succession, it lives countless lives, it passes through the infernal regions, it attains to the heaven of the gods; and, after untold woes and infinite struggles, is eventually re-absorbed in the divine essence from which it sprang.[85]

Turning from these episodes and mystic speculations to the Pandavas themselves, we find that the ever-fair Draupadi having, by her perennial and faultless beauty, aroused the passions of Jayadratha, Rajah of Sindhu, was artfully carried off by him during the temporary absence of her husbands; but the ravisher was overtaken and suffered punishment at the hands of the ardent Bhima, who, after inflicting severe bodily chastisement upon the defeated Rajah, cut off his hair, all except five locks, and made him confess himself the slave of the Pandavas. At the request of Yudhisthira, backed by generous Draupadi, Jayadratha was released.

This abduction and rescue recalled to the mind of Markandeya the story of Rama and Sita, which he proceeded to relate, at considerable length, for the edification of the Pandavas. The sage also recounted the story of Savitri, more charming than that of Orpheus and Eurydice. How the lovely Savitri set her affections upon young Satyaván, the only son of the blind Dyumatsena, ex-king of the Salwas; how she learned from the lips of the celestial sage Narada, that the beautiful youth was fated to die within a year; how notwithstanding this secret knowledge she willingly linked her lot with his; and how, when the inevitable hour arrived, and the doom of fate was accomplished in the lonely forest, her austere piety and devoted love enabled her to follow Yama, on and on with fearless footsteps and touching entreaties, as he conveyed away her dear husband’s spirit to the Land of Shades, and at last to prevail upon the dread deity to restore to her the soul of her Satyaván.

“Adieu, great God!” She took the soul,
No bigger than the human thumb,
And running swift, soon reached her goal,
Where lay the body stark and dumb.
She lifted it with eager hands
And as before, when he expired,
She placed the head upon the bands
That bound her breast, which hope new fired,
And which alternate rose and fell;
Then placed his soul upon his heart,
Whence like a bee it found its cell,
And lo, he woke with sudden start!
His breath came low at first, then deep,
With an unquiet look he gazed,
As one awaking from a sleep,
Wholly “bewildered and amazed.”[86]

Of the doings of the Kauravas, during the twelve years that we have been following the fortunes of their cousins, little is recorded, and that little is not to their credit. Knowing full well where the Pandavas were passing their term of exile in the forests, Duryodhana, upon the advice of Karna, went thither in great state with a view of meanly feasting his eyes upon the wretchedness of his hated kinsmen, and of intensifying their misery by the cruel contrast between his own grandeur and their destitution. This was the real, if unworthy, motive of the journey to the forest of Kamyaka; the alleged reason was to inspect the royal cattle-stations in order to count the stock and mark the calves.[87] Attended by his courtiers, by thousands of ladies belonging to the royal household, and by a great army of followers and soldiers, Duryodhana proceeded towards the sylvan abode of the Pandavas; but his advance guard was refused admission into the forests by the Gandharvas, whose king had come with his celestial hosts and several tribes of Apsaras to have a merry time in those woods. As neither party would abate a jot of its pretensions, a terrible battle ensued, resulting in the complete defeat of the Kauravas, the ignominious flight of the redoubtable Karna, and the capture, by the victorious enemy, of Duryodhana himself, his court, and all his harem.

In this extremity the beaten followers of the captive king fled for help to the Pandavas. For the sake of the honour of the family, and particularly for the protection of the ladies of their house, Arjuna and Bhima, with the twins came, by the magnanimous command of Yudhisthira, to the rescue of their kinsmen; and, after performing feats of war which none but an Indian poet could imagine, obtained the release of the crestfallen Duryodhana, whose bitterness against his cousins was only increased by this humiliating and never-to-be-forgotten incident.

Stung to the quick by the intolerable mortification of his position, Duryodhana, in despair, resolved to give up his kingdom and his life. To the remonstrances of his friends, he answered: “I have nothing more to do with virtue, wealth, friendship, affluence, sovereignty and enjoyment. Do not obstruct my purpose, but leave me, all of you. I am firmly resolved to cast away my life by foregoing food. Return to the city and treat my superiors there respectfully.” He might have fallen upon his own sword; but the Hindu hero elects to die otherwise. “And the son of Dhritarashtra, in accordance with his purpose, spread kuça grass on the earth, and purifying himself by touching water sat down upon that spot. And, clad in rags and kuça grass, he set himself to observe the highest vow. And stopping all speech, that tiger among kings, moved by the desire of going to heaven, began to pray and worship internally, suspending all external intercourse.”

However, this meditated suicide was not fated to be accomplished. The Daityas and Danavas interfered, “knowing that if the king died, their party would be weakened.” By means of certain rites and sacrifices they called into being “a strange goddess with mouth wide open,” who carried Duryodhana into their presence at night. The Daityas and Danavas explained to the dejected king that he was of more than human origin, and their especial ally. They undertook to help him in his struggles with the Pandavas, and promised him a complete triumph over his rivals. Cheered by these assurances, the would be suicide abandoned his purpose, resumed his royal position and, emulating the Pandavas, performed a great and costly sacrifice, known as the Vaishnava. To this important rite Duryodhana insultingly invited his cousins, who prudently declined the invitation on the plea that the period of their exile was not yet completed.

Notwithstanding the recent defeat of Karna by the Gandharvas, and his precipitate flight from the field of battle, there seems to have been a lurking dread of his prowess amongst the friends of the Pandavas. Indra, the god of heaven, determined therefore to render him less formidable, by depriving him of his native coat of golden mail and the celestial ear-rings with which he was born. For this purpose he presented himself before Karna in the guise of a Brahman, and asked him for his armour and ear-rings. Now Karna had made a vow never to refuse anything to a Brahman, and was thus placed on the horns of a cruel dilemma. However, he had been forewarned by his own father, the sun-god, of Indra’s intentions, and had been advised to ask for an infallible weapon in exchange for his armour and ear-rings. Recognizing the god of heaven under his Brahmanical disguise, Karna preferred his request, which was granted with conditions which made it almost nugatory. Karna peeled off his natural armour, which act, by Indra’s favour, left no scar upon his person. “And Sakra (Indra),” says the poet, “having thus beguiled Karna, but made him famous in the world thought, with a smile, that the business of the sons of Pandu had already been completed.” The Pandavas were naturally elated, and the Kauravas depressed, when the news of these events reached them. Though the sons of Pandu had received repeated assurances that they would ultimately triumph over their enemies, they were, it seems, subject to frequent fits of somewhat unreasonable depression; so Vyasa, ever devoted to the interests of the heroes, visited them in their forest-home, and consoled Yudhisthira once more by the prediction that, after the thirteenth year of exile had expired, he would regain his kingdom and his influence in the world.

The twelfth year of exile was now drawing to a close; the thirteenth year, it will be remembered, was to be passed by the Pandavas in disguise in some city or other. Their last experience in the woods was as wonderful as any they had previously gone through. A wild stag carried away on its branching antlers the sticks with which a Brahman ascetic was wont to kindle his fire. The five brothers were appealed to by the hermit in his trouble, and pursued the animal, but could neither kill it nor run it down. Overcome with fatigue and thirst they sat down to take rest. One climbed a tree to look-out for signs of water, and having discovered them, Nakula was sent to fetch water for the party. Not far away he found a pleasant pond, but was warned by the commanding voice of some unseen being not to touch the water. He was too thirsty to give heed to the injunction and, proceeding to drink of the crystal spring, fell down dead. Wondering at Nakula’s prolonged absence, Sahadeva set out to look for him and, coming upon the pond, heard the warning voice. He, too, disregarded it, and suffered the same penalty as his brother had done. Arjuna and Bhima in turn went through the same experiences with the same sad result. At last the wise Yudhisthira came upon the scene; he prudently refrained from touching the water when warned against doing so, and entered into conversation with the aërial voice, which now took an embodied form,—that of a mighty Yaksha. This being of terrible aspect, interrogated the king upon a number of important points, and receiving satisfactory answers,[88] revealed himself to Yudhisthira as his father, Dharma, god of justice. He then restored the dead Pandavas to life, and bestowed this boon upon them that, during the thirteenth year of their exile, if they even travelled over the entire earth in their proper forms, no one in the three worlds would be able to recognize them.

The twelfth year was now nearly completed, and the brothers left the woods resolved to spend the next twelve months in the city of Virata, which seems to have been close at hand. Before entering the city they had to conceal their weapons in order to avoid detection (for they do not seem to have placed implicit confidence in the boon granted by Dharma). Just outside the city they came upon a cemetery with a gigantic Sami tree. To the topmost boughs of this tree they fastened their weapons. They also hung a corpse on the tree that people might avoid it. This action of theirs was evidently noticed, for the poet tells us that, on being asked by the shepherds and “cowherds regarding the corpse, those repressors of foes said unto them, ‘This is our mother, aged one hundred and eighty years. We have hung up her dead body, in accordance with the custom observed by our forefathers.’”

On the way Yudhisthira, ever anxious for divine help, invoked the goddess Durga in terms which reveal at once the attributes of the goddess and the Hindu poet’s idea of the most suitable expressions to be employed in addressing a female divinity. “Salutations to thee, O giver of boons.... Salutations to thee, O thou of four hands and four faces, O thou of fair round hips and deep bosom, O thou that wearest bangles made of emeralds and sapphires, O thou that bearest excellent braces on thy upper arm.... Thou art the only female in the universe that possessest the attribute of purity. Thou art decked with a pair of well-made ears graced with excellent rings. O goddess thou shinest with a face that challengeth the moon in beauty! With an excellent diadem and beautiful braid, with robes made of the bodies of snakes, and with also the brilliant girdle round thy hips thou shinest like the Mandara Mountain encircled with snakes! Thou shinest also with peacock-plumes standing erect on thy head, and thou hast sanctified the celestial regions by adopting the vow of perpetual maidenhood. It is for this, O thou that hast slain the Buffalo-Asura, that thou art praised and worshipped by the gods for the protection of the three worlds! O thou foremost of all deities, extend to me thy grace, show me thy mercy and be thou the source of blessings to me! Thou art Jaya and Vijaya, and it is thou that givest victory in battle! Grant me victory, O goddess, and give me boons also at this hour of distress. Thy eternal abode is on Vindhya, that foremost of mountains, O Kali! O Kali thou art the great Kali, ever fond of wine and meat and animal sacrifice. Capable of going everywhere at will and bestowing boons on thy devotees, thou art ever followed in thy journeys by Brahma and the other gods,”[89] etc., etc.

“Thus praised by the son of Pandu, the goddess showed herself unto him,” and promised the exiles that, through her grace, they would remain unrecognized, either by the Kurava spies or the inhabitants of the city, as long as they resided in Virata.

Under such favourable auspices and protection, the Pandavas and their joint-wife entered Virata. Yudhisthira presented himself before the Rajah, and was engaged as a companion and teacher of dice-playing, in which art, as the reader will remember, he received special instruction from a Rishi in the woods of Kamyaka. Bhima was taken on as superintendent of the cooks, being it seems especially clever in preparing curries. Arjuna, who personated a eunuch, was appointed music and dancing-master to the ladies, having learned those accomplishments in Indra’s heaven. Nakula was taken on as master of the horse, and Sahadeva, who was skilled in milking and managing kine, as superintendent of the cattle. Draupadi professed to be a Sairindhri, or maid-servant, ready to serve anybody who would maintain her. The queen chanced to see Draupadi and took her into her service, although she felt and expressed some reluctance to have about her person a woman of such an attractive appearance. The Rani apparently had her suspicions about Draupadi, to whom she candidly expressed her opinion that she was too beautiful to be a servant, “for,” said she, “your heels are not prominent and your thighs touch one another. And your intelligence is great, and your navel deep, and your words solemn. And your great toes, and bust, and hips, and toe-nails, and palms, are all well-developed.” The Rani also naïvely added: “What man will be able to resist thy attractions? Surely, O thou of well-rounded hips, O damsel of exquisite charms, beholding thy form of superhuman beauty, King Virata is sure to forsake me and will turn to thee with his whole heart.” But the fair wife of the five Pandavas seems to have allayed the Rani’s natural jealousy and fear, by assuring her that she was watched over by Gandharvas, and that if anyone attempted to make improper advances to her the Gandharvas would put an end to him. However, the Rani’s anxiety was fully justified by after events. Her brother, Kechaka, smitten with the charms of the new maid-servant, prevailed upon his sister, by his importunities, to send Draupadi to his house on the pretext of fetching some wine from his stock. Draupadi went as directed to the house of the Rani’s brother; but, on his making insulting proposals to her, she made her escape from him, and fled direct to the king’s council chamber, followed by the baffled and enraged Kechaka, who seized her by the hair of her head before the assembled courtiers and shamefully kicked the beautiful lady in the presence of the king and his attendants. The Rajah would not interfere, and Bhima, who was present[90] and boiling with suppressed indignation, was restrained by the command of his elder brother from taking notice of the affair. But Draupadi was not to be pacified. Bent on having revenge, she went at dead of night to Bhima, and heaped reproaches upon him and his brothers; and well she might, for all the degrading insults she had had to endure while they looked tamely on. Between them they planned that Draupadi should pretend to yield to Kechaka’s desires, and should appoint a secret meeting with him, when Bhima should be her substitute, and kill the man who had insulted and ill-used her. The plan was successfully carried out. A terrible fight took place between Kechaka and Bhima. The latter at length slew his antagonist by whirling him swiftly round his head and dashing him against the ground. He then broke all his bones into small pieces, formed his body into a great ball of flesh, and brought Draupadi to behold the complete vengeance he had taken upon her hated persecutor. To wreak their malice on the person they believed to be the cause of Kechaka’s death, his kinsmen seized Draupadi, “of faultless limbs,” who was found leaning against a pillar hard by the scene of the grim revenge, and carried her off outside the city walls with the intention of burning her with the dead man’s body. In her distress she cried aloud for help, and Bhima, in disguise, came to her rescue. Panic-stricken at the sight of this supposed Gandharva, the men who had assembled at the cremation ground fled for their lives, but were pursued by Bhima, who killed a great number of them.

Of course this event created an immense sensation, and even the king feared to speak to Draupadi, while the Rani only ventured to ask her to leave Virata. But Draupadi begged permission to stay just a few days longer, assuring the Rani that her Gandharva husbands would yet be of great service to the king. Shortly after the occurrences just related, and as a consequence of the death of Kechaka, who was a man of great note and generalissimo of Rajah Virata’s forces, Suçarman, King of the Tregartas, an old enemy of Virata’s, thinking it a favourable opportunity, proposed a raid into his territory for the purpose of plunder. The Kauravas willingly agreed to make a separate but simultaneous attack upon their neighbour. When intelligence of the inroad into his territory reached Virata, he hastened to repel the invasion, taking in his train his servants Yudhisthira, Bhima, Nakula, and Sahadeva, who volunteered to fight for him. The Tregartas and Matsyas soon came into conflict, and Virata was, after a bloody fight, taken captive by Suçarman, but was rescued by the Pandavas who, as usual, performed prodigies of valour.

Meanwhile the Kauravas made an unexpected attack in another direction and began carrying off the royal herds. There was no one at the capital who could go out to oppose them—the troops being all away with the king—but the king’s son, Uttara, ventured out against the invaders with only Arjuna as his charioteer. At sight of the forces arrayed against him and the mighty heroes who led them, Uttara’s courage failed him, and leaping off his chariot he fled from the field, but was brought back by Arjuna who, directing him to take the reins, boldly resolved to give battle to the enemy. After providing himself with the famous and deadly weapons he had concealed a year previously in the Sami tree near the cemetery, he went out alone, with Uttara as his charioteer, to attack the Kaurava host. All the redoubtable heroes of the party were present that day. Old Bhisma the terrible, and well skilled Drona with his mighty son Açwatháman, and Kripa and Karna the famous offspring of Kunti and the day-god. There too, arrayed in all the glittering panoply of war, were the formidable Duryodhana and his brother Dusçasana, with the other proud princes of Dhritarashtra’s race. But Arjuna alone, armed with his wonderful bow, Gándiva, completely defeated them all in one of those incomprehensible battles which delight the Hindu bard but bewilder the European reader. In the unfortunate rank and file of the Kaurava host the slaughter caused by Arjuna was prodigious; but not a single one of the leading heroes engaged in conflict that day was killed, or even seriously incommoded—although each of them, including Arjuna himself, was pierced by scores of deadly arrows.

The defeated Kauravas, of course, recognized their conqueror; but the stipulated period of exile was now fully completed, and the enforced truce was at an end.

Rajah Virata, now enlightened as to the names and proper rank of the Pandavas, engaged to assist them in regaining their Raj; though, after recent events, it is hard to comprehend what assistance such heroes could want from Virata, or anyone else. To cement the alliance between his royal house and that of the Pandavas, Virata offered his lovely daughter, Uttará, in marriage to Arjuna. That hero, however, had been the fair damsel’s dancing-master and on intimate terms with her in the harem. He, therefore, with fine delicacy of sentiment, declined the offer, lest suspicions injurious to the lady’s reputation might be whispered about; but, to attest her fair fame in the most conclusive and impressive way, he accepted her hand for his son, Abhimanyu, to whom she was duly married in the presence of an assembly of kings invited for the occasion, including Krishna, who came attended by a “hundred millions of horse and a hundred billions of foot-soldiers.”

A resort to the final arbitrament of battle seemed inevitable, and warlike preparations were vigorously pushed on by both parties, who despatched their envoys in all directions, requesting the assistance of their friends and allies. Krishna had returned to Dwarka after the marriage festivities at Panchala. Both sides anxiously sought his alliance. Duryodhana and Arjuna posted in hot haste to Dwarka to secure the aid of the mighty Prince of the Vreshnis, and both of them arrived simultaneously at Krishna’s abode while he was asleep. As privileged kinsmen they entered his bed-chamber and placed themselves near his bed, Duryodhana at the head and Arjuna at the foot, but did not dare to disturb him. As soon as Krishna awoke from his slumber the two chieftains eagerly claimed his help. As he was equally related to both he desired to divide his favours between them. He placed himself, but strictly as a non-combatant, on one side, and, on the other, his army of a hundred million soldiers, and offered Arjuna, as he had seen him first upon awakening, the choice between the two. Without any hesitation Arjuna chose Krishna himself, leaving the mighty army of one hundred millions to swell the ranks of Duryodhana’s host.

But before having recourse to arms one party at least deemed it expedient to endeavour to effect a reconciliation by negotiations; and it takes one’s breath away with astonishment to find the mighty Pandava heroes—after all the gross indignities they had suffered, after the outrageous insults to which their joint-wife had been exposed, and after their terrible vows of vengeance publicly uttered—tamely proposing to make peace with their arrogant cousins on condition of having nothing more than five villages assigned to them. All this, too, in the face of Draupadi’s bitter and indignant taunts. However, even this humble offer of theirs was scornfully rejected by Duryodhana. But the Pandavas, even Bhima and Arjuna, being still anxious to avoid shedding the blood of their kinsfolk, Krishna undertook to act as their ambassador, and in this capacity presented himself at the capital of Dhritarashtra. His reception was of the most magnificent kind, and his mission was attended by many supernatural events. When the princes and great officers of State were assembled in solemn conclave to consider Krishna’s proposals, a number of Brahman sages appeared in the sky, and were respectfully invited to come down and take part in the deliberations of the assembly, an invitation they readily accepted. A prolonged sitting of the council took place, during which many speeches, embellished with instructive stories of olden times, were made in order to induce Duryodhana to come to terms with the Pandavas. Advice was, however, thrown away upon the haughty and obstinate prince, who left the chamber in great indignation.

Krishna, seeing that Duryodhana was bent on pushing matters to extremities, expressed an opinion that the best course for the old Maharajah to pursue would be to seize the young prince and his abettors and make them over to the Pandavas. He argued that “For the sake of a family an individual may be sacrificed; for the sake of a village a family may be sacrificed; for the sake of a province a village may be sacrificed; and, lastly, for the sake of one’s self the whole earth may be sacrificed;” and concluded with this exhortation: “O monarch, binding Duryodhana fast, make peace with the Pandavas. O bull among Kshatriyas let not the whole Kshatriya race be slaughtered on thy account.” This proposal being secretly communicated to Duryodhana, he in turn plotted to seize and confine Krishna, but his plan was discovered by that monarch. Now, as the reader is aware, Krishna was no mere mortal, but an incarnation of the Supreme Being. Addressing the prince the next time they met, he said:

“From delusion, O Duryodhana, thou regardest me to be alone, and it is for this, O thou of little understanding, that thou seekest to make me a captive after vanquishing me with violence. Here, however, are all Pandavas and all the Vrishnis and Andhakas. Here are all the Adityas, the Rudras, and the Vasus with all the great Rishis. Saying this, Keçava (Krishna), that slayer of hostile heroes, burst out into loud laughter. And as the high-souled Cawri laughed, from his body, that resembled a blazing fire, issued myriads of gods, each of lightning effulgence and not bigger than the thumb! And on his forehead appeared Brahma, and on his breast Rudra. And on his arms appeared the regents of the world, and from his mouth issued Agni, the Adityas, the Sáddhyas, the Vasus, the Açwins, the Maruts, with Indra and the Viçwedevas. And myriads of Yakshas and Gandharvas, and Rakshasas also, of the same measure and form, issued thence. And from his two arms issued Sankarshana and Dhananjaya. And Arjuna stood on his right, bow in hand, and Rama stood on his left, armed with the plough. And behind him stood Bhima and Yudhisthira, and the two sons of Madri, and before him were all the Andhakas and the Vrishnis, with Praddyumna and other chiefs bearing mighty weapons upraised. And on his diverse arms were seen the conch, the discus, the mace, the bow called Cáruga, the plough, the javelin, the Nandaka, and every other weapon, all shining with effulgence and upraised for striking. And from his eyes and nose and ears, and every part of his body, issued fierce sparks of fire mixed with smoke.” All, except a few privileged ones, closed their eyes, unable to bear the splendour of this divine manifestation, which was attended with an earthquake, celestial music, and a shower of heavenly flowers.

After this amazing display of his personality as the very embodiment of all the gods, Krishna, resuming his human form, left the hall leaning on the arms of two of his kinsmen. The perverse Duryodhana, however, regarded this exhibition of Krishna’s godhood as a mere illusion—a clever conjuror’s trick[91]—and, doomed to destruction as he was, treated it with contemptuous disregard.

The envoy’s mission having thus failed, he prepared for an immediate return to his friends. Before setting out he paid a friendly visit to his aunt Kunti, the mother of the Pandavas; and, as a last piece of diplomacy, artfully endeavoured to detach Karna from Duryodhana’s party. He disclosed to the famous bowman that he was Kunti’s son and, therefore, morally, a son of Pandu; since, according to the scriptures, sons “born of a maiden have him for their father who weddeth the maiden.” According to this system of paternity, Karna was not only Pandu’s son, but the elder brother of Yudhisthira; and, as such, entitled to the headship of the Pandava family, to the sovereignty of Hastinapur, and to supremacy over the kings of the whole earth. Krishna represented this aspect of the matter to Karna in the most tempting manner possible, not failing to mention that, if he joined his brothers, the fair Draupadi would be his wife too. But he, who had thus far gone through life known as the humble Suta’s son, had the manliness to treat these offers and suggestions of the divine Prince of Dwarka with proud indifference, adhering with unshaken loyalty to his friend Duryodhana, and the party with which he had been so long associated. The crafty Krishna then urged the absolute certainty of the complete success of the Pandavas in the contest which was approaching; but no cowardly fears disturbed the settled resolution of the hero, who, as he said, was pledged to meet Arjuna in the field of battle and would not, even if sure destruction awaited himself, withdraw from his obligations or shirk his obvious duty to the Kauravas.

Kunti herself next made an effort to win over Karna to the side of the Pandavas. For this purpose she stealthily followed him to the banks of the Ganges and stood silently behind him while he piously performed his devotions. When he discovered her, and respectfully inquired the object of her presence there, she disclosed to him the secret of his parentage, and with well-chosen arguments urged him to join his brothers. An affectionate voice issuing from the sun, the voice of Surya himself, confirmed the statements and supported the advice of Kunti. But Karna, “firmly devoted to truth,” even though thus solicited by both his parents, protested his determination to remain firmly faithful to the cause of his friends. He gently reproached his mother for her abandonment of him in his infancy and her subsequent neglect of her maternal duties, but, with noble generosity, he made an important concession in favour of the Pandavas. “I will not speak deceitfully unto thee;” said the hero, “For the sake of Dhritarashtra’s son I shall fight with thy sons to the best of my strength and might! I must not, however, abandon kindness and the conduct that becometh the good. Thy words, therefore, however beneficial, cannot be obeyed by me now. This thy solicitation to me will not yet be fruitless. Except Arjuna, thy other sons—Yudhisthira, Bhima, and the twins, though capable of being withstood by me in fight, and capable also of being slain—shall not yet be slain by me.” Thus did the magnanimous Karna worthily close one of the most interesting incidents in the great epic.

War was now inevitable. Krishna returned to Yudhisthira, and both parties prepared to join issue on the famous field of Kurukshetra.[92]

The Pandavas gave the supreme command of their forces to Dhrista-dyumna who, as the reader will remember, was the destined slayer of Drona. The Kauravas marshalled their cohorts under the leadership of the terrible Bhisma. This ancient chief had performed mighty deeds in his day; and proudly recounted, in the camp at Kurukshetra, his terrible and successful duel with Rama, the son of Jamadagni, a hero who had, single-handed, vanquished all the Kshatriyas of the earth.

The old man’s end was, however, approaching, and he himself was well aware that he must fall by the hand of one Cikhandin, an ally of the Pandavas, since that prince in a previous existence (being then a woman, the Princess Amba (page 107), and subjected to great humiliations through Bhisma’s conduct) had undergone the most dreadful austerities for the express purpose of compassing his destruction, and, by the favour of Siva, would succeed in so doing.

Both parties with their armies and their allies marched to and encamped upon the famous battle-field. The Pandavas had seven and the Kauravas eleven akshauhinis of soldiers on the ground, making a total of eighteen akshauhinis in all. Now an akshauhini consisted of 21,870 chariots, 21,870 elephants, 109,350 foot-soldiers, and 65,610 cavalry; so that there were at Kurukshetra altogether 393,660 chariots with their fighting men, drivers, and horses; 393,660 elephants with their drivers and riders; 1,968,300 foot-soldiers, and 1,180,980 cavalry.[93] All this, of course, exclusive of camp followers—a mighty host in themselves; for we learn that there were crowds of artisans of all sorts, also bards, singers, panegyrists, venders, traders, and prostitutes; besides surgeons, physicians, spies, and spectators—all housed and provided for by the chiefs.

The commissariat arrangements were necessarily on a gigantic scale, and the arsenals in proportion to the mighty hosts assembled for mutual destruction on that famous battle-field. The leading heroes had their own peculiar weapons, often of celestial origin or possessed of magic properties, and their own inexhaustible quivers of wondrous arrows. For the rank and file there were heaps, as high as little hills, of bows and bow-strings, coats of mail and weapons of every kind; such as battle-axes, lances, poisoned darts, scimitars, nooses, and lassoes. There was also an ample supply of hot oil, treacle and sand to be thrown upon the enemy, and a store of inflammable materials, such as pulverized lac. And, lastly, there was a collection of earthen pots filled with deadly serpents, designed to cause confusion in the ranks amidst which they might be cast.

Before hostilities actually commenced Duryodhana sent a message to the camp of the Pandavas, challenging them to the fight, and scornfully reminded them of the many gross insults and humiliating indignities they had had to endure at his hands. He sent an especially insulting message and challenge to Krishna, making light of his prowess and former achievements. Vaunting and blood-thirsty rejoinders of a suitable kind were, of course, carried back from the insulted Pandavas to Duryodhana and the leaders of his armies.

Before joining issue it was arranged between the hostile parties that only “persons equally circumstanced should encounter each other, fighting fairly;” that car-warriors should engage car-warriors; those on elephants should fight those similarly mounted; that horsemen should encounter horsemen, and foot-soldiers foot-soldiers. It was agreed that no one should strike a disarmed, a panic-stricken, or retreating foeman; that no blow should be given without due notice, and that stragglers, charioteers, and chariot-horses, and drummers, with a host of others, were not to be assailed on any account. It is almost needless to say that in the succession of battles which took place at Kurukshetra these generous covenants were never observed. They seem, indeed, to have been only a formal and somewhat farcical preliminary, drawn up in accordance, possibly, with some ideal but inoperative code of Kshatriya honour.

While the hosts were assembling Vyasa presented himself before King Dhritarashtra and offered to restore the blind old king’s eyesight, but Dhritarashtra, unwilling to behold the bloodshed of his kinsfolk, declined the proffered boon, preferring that his charioteer, Sanjaya, should be enabled by the Rishi’s favour to survey any portion, however remote, of the field of battle, and relate all the events to him in the minutest and most circumstantial detail.

As preparations for the approaching contest were pushed on many strange portents occurred. A shower of flesh and blood fell from the skies. Unusual solar and lunar eclipses took place. Earthquakes shook both land and ocean, and rivers were turned into blood. Revolting acts of immorality were being commonly committed. Some women were giving birth to five daughters at a time, who, as soon as they were born, began to dance and sing. Other women, as well as lower animals, were bringing forth strange monsters; and, as Vyasa assured the blind king, “The images of gods and goddesses sometimes laughed and sometimes trembled, sometimes vomited blood and sometimes fell down.”[94]

After Vyasa had gone away the blind king remarked to Sanjaya that, since “many hundreds of millions of heroic men” had assembled at Kurukshetra, he desired to know all about the countries from which they had come, for there were many nationalities represented in the two armies. Sanjaya, having been endowed with superhuman perception by the Rishi Vyasa, gave his master, the king, a long lesson in geography, which it is rather disappointing to find so largely mythical as to be of little value, except perhaps as an indication of the very imperfect geographical knowledge possessed by the authors of the “Mahabharata.” Sanjaya’s inspired description of the countries of the world abounds in mountains of gold and gems; it embraces oceans of butter, milk, curds and wine; and dwells upon such objects in nature as trees yielding fruits which measure 2,500 cubits in circumference. While revelling in these glories of sea and land, Sanjaya’s descriptive narrative does not quite overlook the causes of natural phenomena; for he, no less than the modern scientist, has his own theory of the winds. It is, we learn from him, all due to “four princely elephants adored by all.” These magnificent beasts, whose enormous proportions Sanjaya does not venture to calculate, seize with their lithe trunks the wandering winds and then breathe them over the earth. “The winds thus let out by those respiring elephants, come over the earth and, in consequence thereof, creatures draw breath and live.”

In the wonderful lands pictured by the inspired geographer, the men were necessarily long-lived. Some races, indeed, were exempt from death, and there were others whose lives extended to many thousands of years. In respect to their own land of Bharatavarsha, where the great battle was about to be fought, Sanjaya makes some statements which seem worthy of note. He says, for example, after naming certain mountain ranges, that there are many “smaller mountains inhabited by barbarous tribes;” and he adds that “Aryas and Mlecchas, and many races mixed of the two elements, drink the waters of the following rivers, viz., magnificent Ganga, Sindhu, and Saraswati; of Godavari and Narmuda ... and that large river called Yamuna,” etc.

At length the day of real battle arrived. The chiefs on both sides made their final preparations. With tall and handsome standards, borne conspicuously aloft,[95] drums beating and conchs sounding, they took up their positions on the great plain. Karna alone held aloof from the contest, resolved to take no part in it while Bhisma lived, for he was smarting under some unbearable insults received from the aged leader of the Kauravas.

As both armies drawn up for battle awaited the dawn, a dust storm arose which wrapped everything in darkness. When the air cleared and each party could see the other, as well as hear the blare of its trumpets, a sort of mutual dread seems to have afflicted them, for the warriors on either side trembled at the sight of the mighty heroes of the opposing hosts.

At this critical juncture in the fate of the world, Arjuna, by the advice of Krishna, offered a special prayer for victory to Durga. The goddess in answer to this invocation appeared in the sky and assured her votary of complete success.

As the virtuous Yudhisthira, his white umbrella borne above his head, moved about marshalling his forces, he was attended by a crowd of Brahmans and Rishis hymning his praises and praying for the destruction of his enemies. Of course the pious king could do no less, even at such a busy and anxious moment, than bestow upon these saintly allies of his what, indeed, they, with their habitual proud condescension, were there to receive,—rich presents of kine, ornaments, clothes and gold.

When the armed millions were finally ranged for immediate hostilities, in all the pomp and glitter of approaching battle, Arjuna desired Krishna to place his chariot in the open space between the two armies. Surveying the embattled hosts from this position, Arjuna appears to have been dismayed at the thought of the unparalleled slaughter of kinsmen, which a struggle between such colossal armies would inevitably lead to; and, in view of this deplorable issue, hesitated to join battle with his foes, doubtful whether any personal consideration whatever could justify an appeal to arms under such circumstances.

Krishna undertook to remove his doubts, and succeeded in doing so, the dialogue between them, known as the “Bhagavatgita,” or divine song, which is introduced into the great epic at this stage of the narrative, forming, from a religious point of view, one of its most important parts.[96]

When Arjuna, convinced of the lawfulness of entering into the contest, had taken up his bow, Gandiva, in readiness for the fray, his followers raised a joyful shout, and the gods with the Gandharvas, the Rishis and the rest, crowded to the spot eager to witness the impending battle.

But there was still another interruption. Yudhisthira, suddenly laying down his arms and divesting himself of his armour, advanced eastward towards the opposing forces. Although filled with astonishment at this proceeding, his dutiful brothers immediately followed him, themselves unarmed and unprotected by armour. What was the mission the king had undertaken? Was he bent on making a final effort to effect a reconciliation, or was he, terror-stricken by the superior numbers of his adversaries, going to offer an unconditional surrender? No, it was neither the one object nor the other which stirred the heart of the virtuous king to this strange performance in presence of the two armies drawn up for deadly strife. He, pious soul, was only going to crave the permission of his elders and preceptors in Dhritarashtra’s army to engage in battle with them; to solicit, with childlike trustfulness, their blessing in the coming contest with themselves; and, if possible, to induce them to tell him how their own destruction might be compassed by him! The leaders he went to propitiate, though resolved to fight to their utmost for the king whose cause they had espoused, were very affable to the pious son of Dharma; they received him with affection and dismissed him with honour. The conduct of the Pandavas on this occasion excited universal admiration, and met with the hearty approval of all, and we learn that, “in consequence of this, the minds and hearts of everyone there were attracted towards them, and the Mlecchas and the Aryas[97] there, who witnessed or heard of that behaviour of the sons of Pandu, all wept with choked voices.”

The battle of Kurukshetra, which closed the golden age of India, lasted for eighteen consecutive days.

During the first ten days Bhisma commanded Dhritarashtra’s forces, while Karna held aloof in sullen indignation. A goodly volume is devoted to the incidents of these ten days, each of which seems to have had its own special heroes, who, under the influence of a sort of divine fury, like that attributed by the Norsemen to their Berserkers, carried everything before them. In picturing the events of these battles the Hindu bards have allowed their imaginations to run riot in a most incomprehensible way. Not only the demigods, but the merely human leaders (very little inferior to the demigods in martial qualities) in both armies, perform the most astonishing feats of arms, and display the most wonderful indifference to wounds. Sometimes a hero will shoot at his adversary arrows enough to envelop him completely and shroud him from view, or to darken the whole sky; but his antagonist, well skilled in the art of self-defence, will, with the greatest composure, stop those myriads of arrows[98] in mid-air with an equal or superior number of shafts from his own bow;[99] or, as Cikhandin did, cut in pieces with his dexterous sword the shower of arrows poured upon him. Sometimes a heavy mace, hurled by a powerful arm with well-directed aim, will whiz through the air towards some leader of men; but as it is hurtling along it will be cut into many fragments by crescent-headed arrows discharged at it with unerring skill, by the hero for whose destruction it was intended. Sometimes standards are brought down by sharp arrows, sometimes the bow is severed in a warrior’s hand by the shaft of an opponent, while horses and elephants, though cased in mail, fall easy victims to the archer’s skill. Occasionally, in pressing emergencies, superhuman weapons are called into requisition, and mantras or spells are employed to give them more destructive force. Nor are the powers of producing strange illusions to terrify or baffle the foe neglected by those who possess them, namely, the Rakshasas in either army.[100] These terrible beings, capable of assuming any shape at will, and able to deceive their foes by strange illusions, would at one time raise up a spectral host of demons to terrify their opponents, and at another time, perhaps, paralyze them by producing before their startled eyes a false picture of their friends and allies lying cruelly slaughtered around them, or in headlong flight before the enemy.

Notwithstanding their inimitable skill in the arts of attack and defence the heroes do not get off unscathed. In a single fight one of them might be pierced with any number of arrows, from one or two to five hundred or a thousand[101] as the case might be, yet, usually, the chiefs seem hardly the worse for the punishment. Indeed the poets love to depict their dauntless favourites bristling with arrows and streaming with blood, when they resemble in beauty blossoming kincukas in spring-time, or “clouds tinged with the rays of the sun.” One warrior with three arrows fixed in his forehead is likened to Mount Meru with its triple summits of gold; another, with a circle of sharp arrows lodged in his ample breast, resembles “the sun with his rays at mid-day.” Odds are of no account when the heroes are once carried away with ungovernable fury, roaring tremendously, and “licking the corners of their mouths like lions in the forest.” Bhima on foot with his club in his hand, is, under such conditions, a match for whole armies, through which he rages, with leonine roars, crushing chariots and horses under his blows and smashing luckless elephants and their riders by thousands, himself bespattered with the blood, fat and marrow of his slaughtered foes; resembling, as the poet tells us, the Destroyer himself, with wide open mouth, as he appears at the end of the yuga. Similarly Arjuna, when attacked simultaneously by forty thousand charioteers and hemmed in by them, kills the entire number of his rash assailants with arrows from Gandiva. When Yudhisthira, ordinarily cold-blooded, blazed up with wrath on the battle-field, “the thought that arose in the minds of all creatures was that this king excited with rage will to-day consume the three worlds.” Bhisma, too, and Drona, and many another hero semi-divine or only mortal, seems, in his turn, quite irresistible, and carries everything before him when excited to mad (Berserk) fury.

The dire confusion caused by the vast multitudes of resolute combatants, the blind rage and terror of thousands of wounded elephants and horses trampling wildly through the midst of friends and foes, the deafening uproar of the strife, where the tumultuous shouts and cries of contending warriors mingled with the clash of arms, the twang of bow-strings, the blare of trumpets, and the bellowing of elephants, are all vividly pictured by the poet of Kurukshetra.

It would be too tedious to recount the innumerable combats which the author describes, or to follow the varying fortunes of the field, as victory inclines now to one side, now to the other. It would be cruel work, to dwell upon the prodigious slaughter of the rank and file which occurred each day, or to picture the vast plain covered with the mangled corpses of men, horses and elephants. Nor would it be either profitable or pleasant to wander over the ground encumbered with shattered chariots, broken standards and abandoned weapons of every kind, amidst which pitiful wreck flowed great sluggish streams of crimson blood. Somehow the sickening horror of the terrible scenes of carnage which the epic bards have conjured up does not seem to have struck them, for when they remark upon the appearance of the field—strewn with mangled corpses and broken armour, with banners and weapons all reeking with blood—it is usually with admiration of its beauty, unmingled with any feeling of aversion or regret. In their eyes the scene of death and ruin, with its gory trophies, “shines as if with floral wreaths,” or “looks beautiful like the firmament in autumn,” or “like a damsel adorned with different kinds of ornaments.” In the gloom of night, however, the Hindu poets realize, with superstitious awe, the abhorrent nature of the dreadful battle-field, “abounding as it did with spirits and with jackals howling piteously.”

How the multitudinous dead and the wreckage which littered the field were disposed of we do not learn, but the opposing parties retired each day at sunset to their respective camps and renewed the battle with the dawn of next day. However, occasional allusions to hungry dogs and vultures, howling jackals, stealthy hyenas and fierce cannibals give a dark, if not very intelligible, hint of the fate of the unburied dead.

The death of Bhisma is the prominent and crowning event of the battles which raged with unabated fury for the first ten days of the war. The old hero performed prodigies of valour, and many a time proved himself more than a match for his brave opponents, slaughtering no less than “a hundred million of warriors in ten days.”[102] Such huge work, it must be admitted, required great celerity of action, and we learn, accordingly, that in one battle Bhisma “felled the heads of car-warriors like a skilful man felling (with stones) ripe (palmyra) fruits from trees that bear them. And the heads of warriors falling upon the surface of the earth produced a loud noise resembling that of a stony shower.”[103] His success against the Pandavas aroused the anger of Krishna, who had not escaped unwounded in these hotly contested fights, and, jumping off the car he was driving, he rushed impetuously forward to slay the son of Ganga, “and the end of his yellow garments waving in the air looked like a cloud charged with lightning in the sky.”

Bhisma cheerfully awaited his doom from such hands, and Arjuna with difficulty restrained the fury of his divine ally and kinsman by promising to slay the chief himself. Later on, Krishna was again roused to fury against the aged champion of the Kauravas, and this time could only be dissuaded from taking his life by being reminded that he had engaged not to enter personally into the contest. So despondent did Bhisma’s remarkable success make King Yudhisthira that the latter, accompanied by his brothers and Krishna, actually sought an interview with the ancient chief for the express purpose of ascertaining from himself in what manner his death might be compassed and victory secured for the Pandavas. In consequence of what Bhisma said on this occasion, Cikhandin was, on the tenth day of the war, placed prominently in the forefront of the battle, supported by Arjuna and the best men of his party. A well-directed and persistent attack was made upon Bhisma. A fierce battle ensued, but the chivalrous Bhisma refused to assail Cikhandin, because he had once been a woman, and he was eventually overpowered, mostly, however, by the arrows of Arjuna. There was nowhere about the person of the hero a space two fingers wide free from the shafts of his enemies, and when he fell from his chariot he did not touch the ground, being literally supported on a couch of arrows. Although so sorely afflicted by the darts of his enemies, Bhisma did not die immediately. The time was inauspicious and he postponed his death, as he possessed the privilege of doing, till a more propitious moment. “Meanwhile the valiant and intelligent Bhisma, the son of Cantanu, having recourse to that Yoga which is taught in the great Upanishads, and engaged in mental prayers, remained quiet, expectant of his hour.”

The fall of the aged leader was the signal for a cessation of the battle, the chiefs of both sides pressing forward to pay their respects to the dying general. While conversing with those around him he complained that his head was unsupported. Luxurious pillows were quickly brought for his use, but he rejected them all. Upon this Arjuna made a rest for his head with three arrows, and the grim warrior was satisfied. To allay Bhisma’s burning thirst Arjuna shot an arrow into the ground, whence a fountain of pure water came springing up to the great comfort of the wounded veteran. Guards were placed round the old man as he lay on his arrowy couch, and both sides retired to rest.

In the dead of night Karna came to pay his homage to the dying general, and to ask forgiveness for any faults he may have committed. Bhisma freely forgave him, and advised him to transfer his allegiance to the Pandavas, but Karna, nobly faithful to the path of honour, rejected the suggestion as on so many previous occasions.

After the fall of Bhisma the command of the army was given to Drona, and the contest was carried on with unabated vigour, resulting more than once in the defeat of the Pandavas. The record of Drona’s command abounds in numerous descriptions of single combats, in which, besides the more prominent leaders, many another chief fought with marvellous skill and daring. As was inevitable, many heroic warriors were killed—such as Abhimanyu, the son of Arjuna, and the mighty Rakshasa Ghatotkacha, Bhima’s son, who in his fall crushed to death a whole akshauhini of Dhritarashtra’s troops.

In one of the battles Jayadartha, King of the Sindhus performed, single-handed, deeds of matchless daring; for he alone held in check all the sons of Pandu. Arjuna, enraged at Jayadartha’s success, and attributing Abhimanyu’s death to him, vowed, in the presence of all men, either to slay the victorious chief before the day was done or to lay down his own life on the funeral pyre. But the Rajah of Sindhu was so well supported by his friends that there appeared every likelihood that he would survive the day. Rather than this should occur and Arjuna fall by his own hand, Krishna obscured the sun by his Yoga power. The unsuspecting Jayadartha and his friends, believing that the sun had set and night come on, were filled with joy at the prospect of Arjuna’s doom, and were carelessly looking up towards the darkened sky, when Arjuna, at Krishna’s suggestion, taking advantage of their being off their guard, renewed the battle with redoubled vigour. He eventually struck off Jayadartha’s head with one of his wonderful weapons and sped it along through the air with his arrows till it fell into the lap of Vriddhakshatra, the father of Jayadartha, whence it rolled on to the ground. It appears that when Jayadartha was born, a voice, proceeding from some unseen being, predicted that he would meet his death by having his head cut off. His pious father thereupon prophesied that the man who should cause his son’s head to fall to the earth, would have his own cracked into a hundred pieces. For his own protection, therefore, Arjuna, at Krishna’s suggestion, had hurled the dead man’s head into Vriddhakshatra’s lap and, as it fell to the earth, lo! the old man’s head cracked into a hundred fragments in grim fulfilment of his own prophecy.

Other marvellous events are not wanting in the narrative; as when, in the thick of battle, Arjuna, piercing the earth with one of his arrows, creates in a moment a lake of water for his thirsty horses to drink from—a lake inhabited by swarms of aquatic birds and covered with lotuses—or when Açwathaman employs the irresistible Narayana weapon, and the Pandavas, on their part, pacify and propitiate this destructive missile by laying down their arms before it.

Drona himself, although advanced in years, defeated the Pandavas many times, and it was only by a cruel stratagem that his destruction was ultimately effected. When he was carrying everything before him in the battle the Pandavas informed him, falsely, that his son had been killed. He did not credit the report at first, but when assured of its truth by the virtuous Yudhisthira himself, who stooped to this mean falsehood upon the advice of Krishna, the old hero threw away his arms and, devoting himself to Yoga contemplation, passed away immediately. After his spirit had ascended to heaven in great glory, Dhrista-dyumna beheaded his lifeless corpse,[104] upon which Dhritarashtra’s troops fled precipitately from the field.

Karna succeeded Drona as generalissimo of the forces, but his command was of short duration: for although he performed wonders of gallantry against his adversaries fate was too strong for him, and on the second day he was overthrown by Arjuna. There was something unfortunate, if not unfair, in the circumstances attending his death; for just when he had obtained an advantage over Arjuna, who seemed likely to get the worst of the contest, a wheel of Karna’s chariot came off. He was obliged to leap to the ground and, in this unfavourable position, was despatched by Arjuna.

In the battles which took place under Karna’s direction an eventful combat occurred between Bhima and Dhusashana, ending in the defeat and death of the latter, whose warm blood Bhima drank in fulfilment of his vow on the occasion of Draupadi’s humiliation in the gaming hall. Another incident of some interest is the vigorous but unsuccessful attack made by an army of Mlecchas on Arjuna, as the narrative shows the poet’s high opinion of the martial qualities of the non-Aryan races in the Kaurava army.

For the fourth time Dhritarashtra’s forces were without a commander. This time the choice fell upon Salya, King of Madra, who gallantly emulated the deeds of his heroic predecessors. But though he fought with vigour and determination, though he was ably supported by chiefs like Sakuni, who still survived, though his Mleccha allies, under their leader Salva, did great execution amongst the enemy, victory eventually declared for his opponents. A terrific battle was followed by a complete rout and the utter annihilation of the Kaurava forces, of whose eleven akshauhinis there remained, at the end of the eighteenth day of the war, but four men,—four men only out of all the countless hosts who had joined the blind king’s party!

These four were Duryodhana himself, Kripa, Açwathaman and Kritavarman. Now Duryodhana possessed a charm by which he could remain under water as long as he pleased; and, taking advantage of this, he hid himself in the lake, carrying his mace in his hand. But he was traced to his hiding-place. Yudhisthira approaching the lake taunted Duryodhana with cowardice, and challenged him to come out and fight as a Kshatriya should. Stung by his taunts Duryodhana emerged from his hiding-place, dripping with blood and water, having agreed to engage in a single combat with the giant Bhima, both being armed with clubs only. So equal were the combatants that a prolonged fight ensued. Tremendous blows were freely given and received. The very earth trembled under the dreadful contest, and the Pandavas began to entertain grave fears that if Bhima were vanquished the rest of them would be easily defeated and slain in detail by Duryodhana, who was a proficient in the use of the mace. At this critical moment Krishna artfully suggested by a gesture to Bhima that he should strike Duryodhana on the thigh, and thus fulfil his vow and vanquish his enemy at the same time. A successful blow delivered upon this suggestion, which was contrary to the recognized rules of club fighting, laid Duryodhana low, and left the Pandavas undisputed masters of the day. But, even though countless millions of human beings had already perished on the fatal field of Kurukshetra, and Duryodhana, the cause of all this havoc, lay there mortally wounded, more blood was yet to flow. Of the Kaurava hosts there still remained three men, and of these, one, Açwathaman, lived only in the hope of avenging to some extent the blood of his father Drona. Brooding schemes of vengeance through the dark hours of the night, the young man observed in a forest where he had taken refuge an owl approach noiselessly some sleeping crows and destroy them one after another. Accepting this event as a suggestion for his guidance, he persuaded his two companions to join him in an attempt to steal into the camp of the Pandavas—whose followers were sleeping in fancied security—with the object of wreaking their vengeance on their unarmed and unsuspecting enemies. They justified this nocturnal attack by calling to mind the many unfair advantages which the Pandavas had taken of their more honourable foes during the course of this fratricidal war—as in the cases of Bhisma, Drona and Karna.

At the entrance to the camp the three desperate warriors were met by an awful figure who barred their progress. With him Açwathaman fought a fierce battle, during the course of which he recognized in his redoubtable adversary the great god Siva, before whom he humbly prostrated himself. Presently there appeared a golden altar attended by hideous monsters, and Açwathaman, to obtain the favour of Siva, offered himself as a sacrifice in the fire which blazed upon the altar. Siva was propitiated by this pious act, and himself graciously entered the body of Açwathaman, after explaining to him that he had up to that time protected the family of Draupadi in order to please Krishna, but that he would do so no longer as their hour was at hand.

Açwathaman thus inspired by Siva, and now glorious to behold, boldly penetrated the hostile camp, while Kripa and Kritavarman stood at the gate to intercept and destroy all fugitives. The five Pandavas themselves were away in the now vacant camp of the Kauravas, whither they had gone to take possession of the spoils of the vanquished.

The revenge taken by Açwathaman and his associates was complete and bloody. The first to perish in the nocturnal attack was the generalissimo of the Pandava army, Dhrista-dyumna himself, whom Açwathaman found sleeping in his tent and whom he literally trampled to death under his feet. An indescribable panic was caused by the massacre which followed the murder of the commander-in-chief; and, in the dire confusion of darkness, friends fell upon each other, fathers killed their own sons and sons their fathers. In this terrible “night of slaughter” Açwathaman killed the five sons of Draupadi, one after the other, and carried away their bleeding heads with him to gratify the heart of the chieftain, his master, who lay in the agony of death upon that field of carnage.

Açwathaman approaching the prince told him that he had slain the Pandavas and had their heads in his possession. Even with his life ebbing fast away the feelings of gratified revenge put a transient vigour into Duryodhana, and he leaped from the ground in a transport of fierce joy. The morning was not far distant, and in the uncertain twilight preceding the dawn he examined the heads and was deceived by the resemblance the sons of Draupadi bore to their respective fathers. Gloating over the complete vengeance which had been wreaked by Açwathaman he took into his hands what he believed to be the head of Bhima and squeezed it with all his might. The skull burst in his hands under the violent pressure, and Duryodhana at once perceived that some deception had been practised on him; for he felt that Bhima’s skull would not have thus yielded in his grasp. He desired to see the other heads and, on close inspection, understood what had really occurred. With reproaches on his lips and bitterness in his heart the dying man expired, while his three followers made haste to quit the spot and flee from the pursuit of their enemies.[105]

The war was over. The five Pandavas, now undisputed masters of the situation, sought a reconciliation with the blind king. Helpless though he was, Dhritarashtra’s feelings of bitterness against Bhima, for the unfair defeat of his son Duryodhana, were so intense that he meditated crushing the hero to death in his mighty arms, under the pretence of a friendly welcome; but Krishna, divining his intention, placed an iron image in his embrace, which the blind king, who possessed gigantic strength, crushed to pieces against his breast. Eventually, however, a reconciliation was effected between the Pandavas and the heart-broken old monarch.

The scene of the terrible carnage during eighteen consecutive days was now covered with mourners seeking, with breaking hearts, to recognize their beloved dead amongst the reeking corpses. At length arrangements were made for the cremation of the bodies that lay upon the battle-field, and they were duly disposed of, according to their rank.

A triumphal procession was next arranged from the plain of Kurukshetra to the city of Hastinapur, where Yudhisthira was installed with great pomp and ceremony as Rajah, under the nominal sovereignty of his blind uncle. At the inauguration a friend of Duryodhana’s began to revile the new king for the slaughter of his kinsfolk; but the Brahmans looked upon the reviler with angry eyes, and he fell upon the ground like a tree struck by lightning and was burnt to ashes upon the spot.

Yudhisthira, though now enthroned at Hastinapur, seems to have found his new office so beset with anxieties that he desired to have the advice of Bhisma for his guidance. He accordingly proceeded to the battle-field at Kurukshetra, where the old hero was still alive upon his couch of arrows. The dying sage gave the king excellent advice on many important subjects relating to the duties of kings and the conduct of life, which we cannot, unfortunately, find space for. When he had passed fifty-eight days on his uncomfortable bed Bhisma resolved to die. At once the cruel arrows left his body, his head split open, and his released spirit ascended to heaven like a bright star.

As soon as Yudhisthira was firmly established on the throne of Bharata he determined to perform an Aswamedha, or horse-sacrifice. The performance of this sacrifice was an assertion of sovereignty over the whole earth, and had such peculiar virtue that the successful performance of one hundred Aswamedhas gave the sacrificer power even over Indra, the god of heaven. In Yudhisthira’s case, it is true, the Aswamedha was suggested by the sage Vyasa, as atonement for all the monarch’s sins. A horse of a particular colour had to be obtained and, as a preliminary to the sacrifice, the animal was set free to wander at its pleasure for one year. The Rajah who proposed performing the Aswamedha, or the deputy of such Rajah, followed with an army in the track of the horse. If the animal found its way into the territories of any foreign state, the ruler of that state was bound either to seize the horse and fight the invader, or else to acknowledge his own inferiority; and, in proof of submission, to swell with his own forces those of his superior lord.

In order to be present at the ceremony of loosing the horse, Krishna journeyed to Hastinapur. A detailed account of his march is given in the “Mahabharata,” and is of special interest when it is remembered that this Rajah is regarded as an incarnation of the Supreme Being. Krishna’s trip to Yudhisthira’s capital was a joyous progress. He was accompanied by Rukmini and Satyabháma, and his other favourite wives, as well as various members of the family. The crowd that attended him was a motley one, and included no small number of loose characters, dancing-girls and performers of all sorts, with whom Krishna seems to have been on the most familiar footing. And they are represented as having been aware of his divine nature, for a harlot having met with an accident which excited the mirth of the bystanders, remarked: “There is no occasion for laughing, for every day I behold the divine Krishna and therefore all my sins are forgiven me.”[106]

The horse destined for the sacrifice was at length set free, and was followed by Arjuna at the head of a mighty army. It led him and his followers into many strange adventures, but we shall here only allude to a few of them. The horse, in his wanderings, entered the country of the Amazons, young and lovely warriors—“perfect in the arts of love, and in the various ways of fascinating men”[107]—whose charms were as dangerous as their weapons; but who were prevailed upon to allow the horse free passage through their country. Then the host was conducted into a region where the trees bore men and women, and where the men had ears with one of which they covered their heads and with the other their bodies. In this land of marvels the terrible prime minister wore, as ear-rings, a dead elephant and a dead camel.

The horse next passed into the country of Manipura, which Arjuna had visited in one of his earlier wanderings, and over which a son of his was now ruling. This king’s magnificence was such that his palace was surrounded by a golden wall and his capital by a silver one. His reception-hall was supported on golden pillars, and illuminated at night by torches made of sandal wood, wound round with cloth steeped in perfumed oils. The greatness and power of the ruler of this country was commensurate with his wealth and splendour; but his filial respect was so great that he tendered his submission to the invader, his father Arjuna, in the most abject manner. Arjuna disdainfully repudiated a son who exhibited, as he thought, so much cowardice. The result was a terrible battle, in which Arjuna’s head was severed from his body by a crescent-shaped arrow from his son’s bow. However, Arjuna was not to perish thus; and his son procured, from the King of the Serpents, who lived in the bowels of the earth, a certain jewel which possessed the power of restoring life. This, when applied to the body of the dead Pandava, caused the head and trunk to reunite. Arjuna, restored to life, was easily reconciled to his brave son, the mighty Rajah of Manipur.

The year appointed for the wandering expedition at length came to an end, and the horse with its escort returned to Hastinapur. The sacrifice was then performed with the usual magnificence. Gold, jewels, elephants, horses, and cows were, as on all such occasions, freely given away, particularly to the Brahmans. With great ceremony the head of the horse was struck off by Bhima and, immediately mounting towards the sky, soared out of sight. The body was cast into the sacrificial fire. To crown the great ceremony, Indra, with attendant gods, presented himself to partake of the sacrifice, and, amidst general rejoicings, feastings and further extravagant largesses, the Aswamedha was brought to a successful conclusion.

Years passed; the blind old Maharajah, weighed down with sorrowful recollections of his sons and followers who had fallen in the great war, retired, with his wife Gandhari, into a jungle on the banks of the Ganges. Kunti also accompanied them. To this hermitage the Pandavas paid a visit. The conversation, as was natural, turned upon the friends and kinsfolk who had perished on the plain of Kurukshetra. While this sad subject was being discussed the sage Vyasa made his appearance, and promised the mourners that he would, that very night, show them the relatives for whom they had been sorrowing. After bathing in the Ganges the company stood together on the bank of the sacred river. Vyasa, standing by the king, summoned the dead to appear. A scene of inexpressible grandeur followed immediately. The river began to foam and boil. A great noise was heard, and out of the troubled water arose the men who had died at Kurukshetra. They came as when alive, but more beautiful and in all the pomp of martial glory, in full armour, upon their chariots and with music. The foes who had cruelly slaughtered each other now appeared as friends, and were attended by troops of singers and of dancing-girls. Dead and living communed freely with each other and, in the joy of reunion, the sorrows of so many years were forgotten. But, with the morning, the ghostly visitants disappeared. And now Vyasa gave the widows who wished to rejoin their dead husbands permission to do so; upon which all the widows drowned themselves in the Ganges and were reunited to their lords.

The Pandavas with their followers returned to Hastinapur and, about two years afterwards, the old king, his wife and Kunti, with their attendants, perished in a jungle fire.

Krishna, the friend of the Pandavas, also met with an untimely end after another fratricidal civil war in his own country, and his capital city of Dwarka—from which the remaining inhabitants had been removed by Arjuna to Hastinapur—was overwhelmed by a wave of the sea.

After the many trials and sorrows they had gone through, a weariness of life, such as would seem only too natural under the circumstances, took possession of the Pandavas, and they were minded to be done with earthly things.

“Let us go forth to die! Time slayeth all.
We will find Death who seeketh other men.”

—Sir Edwin Arnold.

With this resolve the five brothers adopted the hermit’s garb, and accompanied by the still peerless Draupadi, and attended by one faithful dog, they turned their steps towards Mount Meru—the abode of the gods. A long, circuitous and weary journey was theirs, performed on foot, and in decorous Indian file. The brothers walked one behind the other according to their respective ages. Draupadi, “with soft dark face and lustrous eyes,” dutifully followed her husbands with unwavering devotion. The dog brought up the rear. Through hoary forests, by running streams, along the shores of the sounding ocean, over parched and burning plains lay their toilsome way to the sacred mountain. But alas! the king alone was destined to reach it alive. One by one the tired pilgrims succumbed to inevitable death. First Draupadi fainted and perished on the way, because—her only fault—her woman’s heart had loved Arjuna too much. After her Sahadeva paid the penalty of pride, and Nakula of self-love. The three who still survived hastened on without looking back, for they knew that their loved companions were beyond the reach of any help. The king with Bhima and Arjuna pressed on for Meru. But the great archer’s turn to die soon arrived, and the giant Bhima perished also. Of all the pilgrims who, weary of the world, had set out from Hastinapur, King Yudhisthira alone, with the hound closely following him, reached the Celestial Mountain and was warmly welcomed by the gods.

With the gates of Swarga wide open for his reception the magnanimous king paused upon the very threshold of Paradise and, more mindful of others than of himself, asked that his brothers and Draupadi should accompany him into heaven. Being assured that he would meet them there, his next solicitude was for his canine companion. At the gate he was informed that the hound must be left outside to the fate that might await him, for such could certainly not enter the abode of the gods. The large-hearted king, however, would not consent to abandon even this humble comrade of his weary pilgrimage, and lo!

“Straight as he spake, brightly great Indra smiled,
Vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there,
The lord of death and justice, Dharma’s self.”

—Arnold.

In Swarga Yudhisthira did not find his noble brothers, nor the tender Draupadi, and learned that they were still in Purgatory expiating the sins of their earthly lives. Without them heaven had no charms for the king. He preferred to share the unhappy fate of his kinsfolk, and was conducted to the nether regions by a celestial messenger, along a dismal road reeking with loathsome corruption, and through hideous scenes of terrible suffering, such as have filled the morbid imaginations of men in every nation.

Yudhisthira’s presence in those abodes of anguish brought some mitigation to the punishments of the many who were there undergoing a fierce purgation from the dross of their mundane existence. Wailing voices entreated the great king to stay awhile for their comfort amongst them, and he magnanimously consented to do so. But the gods, at length interposing, conducted him back to Swarga. With him were his brothers and Draupadi—all purified by punishment from such sins or frailties as had marred their perfection during their terrestrial life.

Thus grandly closes the wonderful story of the great war!