MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#1: The Forest of Stories (Mba) Read online

  Contents

  The Forest of Stories

  AKB eBOOKS

  About Ashok

  Prelim Pages

  Invocation

  Dedication

  Kshamapana

  To You, Gentle Reader

  Introduction

  ||Paksha One|| SAUTI'S TALE

  Text

  ||Paksha Two|| THE BOOK OF CREATION

  Text

  ||Paksha Three|| THE TALE OF PARASHURAMA

  Text

  ||Paksha Four|| THE SARPA SATRA

  Text

  ||Paksha Five|| TALES OF THE BHRIGU

  Text

  ||Paksha Six|| THE BOOK OF SNAKES

  Text

  ||Paksha Seven|| THE BIRTH OF VYASA

  Text

  ||Paksha Eight|| ANSHAVATARNA

  Text

  ||Paksha Nine|| SHAKUNTALA AND DUSHYANTA

  Text

  Next in the Mahabharata Series

  Next in the Mahabharata Series

  AKB eBOOKS

  THE FOREST OF STORIES

  Ashok K. Banker

  MAHABHARATA SERIES

  Book 1

  AKB eBOOKS

  AKB eBOOKS

  Home of the epics!

  RAMAYANA SERIES®

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  MUMBAI NOIR SERIES

  FUTURE HISTORY SERIES

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  & MUCH, MUCH MORE!

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  About Ashok

  Ashok Kumar Banker’s internationally acclaimed Ramayana Series® has been hailed as a ‘milestone’ (India Today) and a ‘magnificently rendered labour of love’ (Outlook). It is arguably the most popular English-language retelling of the ancient Sanskrit epic. His work has been published in 56 countries, a dozen languages, several hundred reprint editions with over 1.2 million copies of his books currently in print.

  Born of mixed parentage, Ashok was raised without any caste or religion, giving him a uniquely post-racial and post-religious Indian perspective. Even through successful careers in marketing, advertising, journalism and scriptwriting, Ashok retained his childhood fascination with the ancient literature of India. With the Ramayana Series® he embarked on a massively ambitious publishing project he calls the Epic India Library. The EI Library comprises Four Wheels: Mythology, Itihasa, History, and Future History. The Ramayana Series® and Krishna Coriolis are part of the First Wheel. The Mahabharata Series is part of the Second Wheel. Ten Kings and the subsequent novels in the Itihasa Series dealing with different periods of recorded Indian history are the Third Wheel. Novels such as Vertigo, Gods of War, The Kali Quartet, Saffron White Green are the Fourth Wheel.

  He is one of the few living Indian authors whose contribution to Indian literature is acknowledged in The Picador Book of Modern Indian Writing and The Vintage Anthology of Indian Literature. His writing is used as a teaching aid in several management and educational courses worldwide and has been the subject of several dissertations and theses.

  Ashok is 48 years old and lives with his family in Mumbai. He is always accessible to his readers at www.ashokbanker.com—over 35,000 have corresponded with him to date. He looks forward to hearing from you.

  ||Om||

  We bow first to Nara-Narayana

  and Devi Saraswati

  before uttering the first word

  of this great endeavour . . .

  Jaya!

  ||Invocation||

  .

  ||Om Ganesha Namaha||

  Invoking the power of the infinite om,

  with the tip of your ink-dipped tusk

  you first recorded this tale of tales

  as dictated by the venerable Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa.

  May this scribe’s humble attempt

  to traverse again that great ocean of stories please you, lord.

  ||Idam Na Mama||

  ||Dedication||

  For Yashka, who said, ‘awesome’,

  and is an awesome daughter.

  For Ayush, who said, ‘do it’,

  Ayushmaanbhavya, my son.

  For Bithika, who said, ‘write’,

  and is always right, dearest wife.

  This gift of words and swords,

  this ocean of endless wonders,

  this forest of stories.

  ||Kshamapana||

  To every person I have ever known,

  I join my hands in humility,

  and beg forgiveness,

  for any error I committed,

  knowing or unknowing.

  Even though you and I

  are two distinct individuals,

  Separated

  by walled-in compartments of self,

  yet when you lose,

  I don’t win.

  The path to true and lasting peace

  begins with unconditional forgiveness.

  To end the war without

  let us first end the war within.

  ||Michhami Dukkadam||

  ||To you, gentle reader||

  The song belongs

  to they who listen.

  we had a pact,

  you and I,

  that I would transport you

  on wings of song

  from Ayodhya to Lanka

  and back again.

  Now that journey is done,

  and we prepare anew

  to embark on another

  far greater voyage

  across the ocean of itihasa.

  Listen now, my friend,

  for like the first tale,

  this new song I begin,

  is not just mine to sing,

  it is herstory,

  history,

  yourstory,

  ourstory.

  ||Jaidev Jaidev Satyamev Jaitey||

  INTRODUCTION

  This is not an epic fantasy. It’s not a sci-fi rendition. It’s not a futuristic version. If you’re expecting any of those things, you’re going to be disappointed.

  This is simply the Mahabharata of Krishna Dweipayana Vyasa retold by one man.

  That man is me, of course.

  This is my Mahabharata. My MBA, as I like to call it, because Vyasa wrote his Mahabharata in three years, which is the same time it takes to complete an MBA course. My MBA has taken much, much more than three years to write. Mostly because I’m not a genius like Vyasa. But also because of the lack of a comprehensive unabridged English-language translation of this great epic. Even today, while you can find literally hundreds of translations of similar epics of western culture, you would be hard-pressed to find a single complete unabridged translation of the Mahabharata in print anywhere in the world.

  This is just one man’s MBA. Done on my own time, without a contract, without any sponsorship or financial support from anyone, without assistants or associates. Just a guy, reading a lot and writing a lot.

  In order to write this retelling, I referred to every single available English-language translation and retelling, rechecked the original Sanskrit, then wrote my own rendition. Unlike my Ramayana Series, where I often took great creative liberties, imaginative leaps and ventured into outright fantastical diversions, my MBA sticks very closely to the Vyasa Sanskrit epic. I have kept the structure and order of the parvas and chapters exactly as in the original epic. I have tried to cover all the details in the original as well. I have also tried to stay as faithful to the original as possible.

  So what’s different about my MBA then?

  Me, I guess.

  My way of telli
ng the story. My ‘voice’ as they say in the literary world.

  Think of it as a singer covering a familiar song. Some singers nail the track. Others make you cry, not for the right reasons.

  There will be Mahabharatas after mine. There have been many before this one.

  Why should you read my MBA?

  I haven’t a clue. That’s for you to decide.

  What I can say is that this is my attempt at reclaiming the world’s greatest epic as a great story. A story.

  Not a religious polemic. Not a historical document. Not an itihasa.

  Just a great story.

  I love this epic. I loved writing it.

  And for that reason, and that reason alone, it’s possible that you’ll enjoy reading it too.

  All that I am, all that I know, all that I feel, see, experience, understand, gain insight into, believe, goes into my work. My attempt is not to win literary awards, or become famous or rich, or even to get published. It’s taken me eight years to find a publisher willing to publish this book—after I finished writing it. I don’t know whether it will be a bestseller: I’m pretty sure it won’t, and that it won’t win any awards or get rave reviews. And you know what? It doesn’t matter. I love writing, love the world of ancient epic India, love reconstructing these epic events and incidents, bringing them to life, slowly, patiently, as skillfully as I know how.

  As I said in the beginning, it’s not a fantasy retelling. It’s not a sci-fi rendition. It’s not an attempt to gain literary fame and fortune.

  It’s just a great story that I wanted to retell all my life.

  And spent most of my life retelling.

  Make no mistake about it: even though I say it’s ‘my’ MBA, this is not some wild off-road rally race version of the original epic. It is the Mahabharata of Vyasa, in the same narrative sequence as the original epic, each passage verified against the original Sanskrit and cross-referenced with all available translations, then narrated in my own style.

  Where do ‘I’ come in? The same place ‘you’ come in, I guess. Just as you, as an individual, bring to the story your own viewpoints, perspective, background, personality, culture, that whole bundle of mindmeld, so also I bring to the retelling of this great tale, my unique khichdi-pulao curd-rice melange of feelings, nuances, insights, personality quirks, dramatic devices and if I may say so, a few writing skills I may have acquired, incidentally, over the course of a lifelong writing career.

  And having said that, I’ll take my leave now.

  From this point on, you will not hear from me again or see me anywhere in this long odyssey. My work here is done. You’re on your own. But my voice is here. My heart. My soul. My passion for story-telling, for living. My love for this great epic. My fascination and obsession with this magnificent world, this great game of words and swords, this towering itihasa that dwarfs all of world literature. I’m the voice in your head, the omniscient narrator of the ‘movie’ you’re about to experience, the singer whose rendition of a great classic evergreen you’re about to hear.

  But ultimately, it’s the song that matters.

  The story.

  The epic.

  The grandeur, the majesty, the horror, the wonder.

  Turn the page. Start the journey. Discover the impossible.

  Remember the forgotten.

  And I guarantee that within a few pages, you’ll forget all about me. And you’ll see only the story itself.

  Because, bloody hell bugger, it’s one mother of a story. If epic wasn’t already a word, it would have to be invented in order to describe this monster saga. This great game of gods and men. This epic itihasa.

  Go on now. Get out of here. There’s the pathway ahead, winding through the forest. Follow it. Go where it takes you. Don’t come back here again, you hear? You have a long way to go and this is barely the beginning of the beginning.

  But before you go, here’s a hug and a kiss and warm breath on your cheek and a gruffly given wish in parting:

  Happy reading!

  ASHOK K. BANKER

  Andheri, Mumbai

  November 2011

  ||Paksha One||

  SAUTI’S TALE

  ||One||

  Deep in the heart of the great forest Naimisha-van lay the ashram Naimisha-sharanya. The head of the ashram was Kulapati Shaunaka who was so titled because he fed and taught ten thousand brahmin acolytes. To reach the ashram one had to detour far from the nearest trade road, enter the dreaded Naimisha forest and traverse a great distance through that wild and dense jungle with no clear path or markings to indicate the route. If one did not lose one’s way entirely or fall prey to the prolific fauna of the forest, one might perhaps, almost by chance, happen upon the narrow winding path that, eventually, after many turns and twists and circumlocutary detours, brought one into a clearing of unexpected size and extent. Here lay the ashram, bounded on all sides by dense woods, an island of meditative study in a verdant emerald ocean. It was a place not likely to be found by casual wayfarers. The only visitors who undertook the hazardous journey here were long-bearded rishis herding new batches of fresh-faced brahmacharyas recruited from across the land, walking in long lines with hands interlinked, chanting shlokas officially intended to placate the Lord of the Forest, but also to warn away any lurking lions or other hungry predators. Once here, they stayed in solitary splendour for years, absorbed in their studies and oblivious to the outside world.

  When on a summer’s evening a visitor appeared, one could hardly blame the young brahmacharyas seated beneath the banyan trees for starting and exclaiming. Nor could one admonish the young brahmins for interrupting their sandhi recitations to run clamouring to their gurus to announce the arrival of a stranger. Even their gurus, those venerable ancient sages with admirable control of their emotions, could not conceal the surge of interest that lightened their faces as they turned towards the lone figure that had emerged from the shadowy pathway and was making his way steadfastly across the clearing. The visitor appeared to be carrying nothing but the copper lota that was the mark of a travelling brahmin, and a stout staff.

  ‘That is no stranger,’ said one particularly learned and widely- travelled guru as his sharp gaze observed the approaching visitor. ‘It is none other than Ugrasrava, son of Lomarsana, known as Sauti to one and all. The name derives from the fact that he is the son of a Suta and therefore himself a Suta too. Who knows what that means?’

  Everyone knew: a Suta was the son of a Kshatriya father and a Brahmin mother. The name was synonymous with the profession of Sarathi or charioteer, because most persons of the Suta gotra turned to the profession of charioteering. This prompted one of the lesser sparks among the brahmacharyas to exclaim aloud that if the visitor was a Suta, then where were his chariot and horses?

  ‘Hidden in his lota!’ cried one of his brighter companions, immediately ducking his bald pate in case the guru might smite it. The guru did not smite him; he even permitted himself a ghost of a smile. For humour was not forbidden to brahmins, nor was the simple taking of pleasure in little everyday things. But Maharishi Gyanendra, for that was his name, did turn a stern face to the quick wit to warn the boy against passing further commentaries on a learned and respected visitor. The message successfully communicated and acknowledged by the boy’s shamefaced grin, the guru continued: ‘Some Sutas tend toward the profession of kusalavyas.’ This too needed no explanation. Kusalavyas were bards, poets, storytellers, raconteurs, so named for their vast wanderings across fields of kusa and lava grass, which they used as sleeping pallets. The guru added: ‘Ugrasrava Lomarsana is a kusalavya of such renown that even our kulapati honours him.’

  At this the young acolytes oohed and aahed in chorus, for any visitor whom their own kulapati honoured must truly be a great personage.

  ‘Will he recite a poem for us?’ asked the excited students. ‘A war poem!’

  ‘A battle epic, with devas and asuras!’

  ‘And dev astras deployed and maha-mantras!’

>   ‘And fantastical creatures and faraway lands!’

  The guru laughed at the enthusiasm of his shishyas, his beard wagging. ‘That is for him to choose if our kulapati deigns to ask,’ he said.