Twelve Years in the Forest

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.” 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, 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. 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.

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: ‘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.

From this easy mode of reaching heaven, 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 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.

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.”

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. 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.