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

  ||Paksha Three||

  THE TALE OF PARASHURAMA

  ||One||

  The fire burned high, sending out eruptions of sparks and soot from time to time as logs settled. Dusk had succumbed to nightfall and the dark of the jungle had emerged and enshrouded the clearing. The eyes of the rapt ashramites of Naimisha-sharanya glittered and gleamed for dozens of yards beyond the spilled circle of firelight. Ugrasasrava could not see the end of their numbers. Had there been so many when he began speaking? Had their numbers swelled as other ashramites joined them? Surely they had waited until everyone was seated before urging him to begin. Yes, he was quite certain of that. Yet there were many more present here now than there had been at the outset of his preamble. He dismissed these thoughts firmly; it was the firelight and the woods, playing tricks on his eyes.

  ‘O, Son of a Suta,’ said Kulapati Shaunaka warmly, his voice and lined face revealing his great respect for the teller of the Bharata epic. ‘Pardon my interruption. I see that you are at a natural pause in your great narration. Thank you for that accounting of the Creation of the world as well as the epic of Vyasa. Now, pray, tell us of the place Samantapanchaka from whence you came. It is a most holy region and as such it bears great value for us. In particular our younger brahmacharyas would benefit greatly from your narration of its history and the reason for its fame.’

  Ugrasrava was about to answer when a young acolyte raised his hand, apparently asking to be heard. Maharishi Gyanendra who was seated nearest to the boy, looked taken aback and admonished him firmly: ‘Shishya, it is not your place to speak at this forum. Your job is merely to listen. Leave the queries and discussions to us elders.’

  Ugrasrava smiled and said to the head of the ashram: ‘Kulapati, if I may take a moment before responding to your request.’ When Shaunaka nodded readily, Sauti turned to Maharishi Gyanendra, ‘Gurudev, forgive me as I do not mean to hinder the immaculate education of your shishyas, but I would hear what the young man has to say, if you permit it.’

  Gyanendra frowned at the offending brahmacharya but nodded curtly.

  The boy spoke up in a surprisingly quiet and calm tone, betraying none of the breathless excitement Sauti had expected. ‘Mahadev, I only wished to say that we are all aware of the reason for Samantapanchaka’s fame. It is on account of the very Maha Bharata battle that occurred there, whose history you are about to recite to us.’

  Sauti shook his head. ‘You are incorrect, young man.’

  He saw the young acolyte’s face fall and kept his voice soft rather than admonishing: ‘It is true that Kurukshetra as a whole is famous for being the battlefield where the Kuru war took place. It is also true that Samantapanchaka is a part of that vast rolling plain where the most terrible battle in human history was fought and more lives were violently ended than in any other conflict of disaster since the beginning of creation. But a part is not the same as the whole and thus Samantapanchaka is renowned for a reason far greater and older than even the Maha Bharata war. Indeed, it is a holy place and its history plays an important part in your own presence here—as also the presence of everyone of us. For it is the story of the near-extinction and brave survival of the Bhrigu race and where would all brahmins be today had the Bhrigus not survived?’

  Sauti bowed his head respectfully in the direction of Shaunaka. ‘Kulapati Shaunaka in his infinite wisdom has requested me to narrate that very tale, and this young man has unwittingly proven that every young shishya must hear the same story as well, in order to understand the history of his people.’

  He smiled one final time at the young brahmacharya who looked chastened and contrite now: ‘Lack of knowledge is a temporary ailment easily remedied; it is only when it is not remedied that it becomes a permanent condition. Listen carefully, along with your fellow brahmacharyas, to one of the seminal tales of our itihasa.

  ‘Once, when the world was still young and the race of men only recently civilized, a conflict raged between those who believed in the power of the word and those who ruled by the sword. Most men acknowledged those among them who had curated the collected knowledge of generations as being men of superior learning and wisdom. Many even desired to ascend to that level and become men of knowledge themselves, joining ashrams and becoming brahmacharyas as so many of you did. But some among them would not set down their swords and believed only in a life of violent oppression. These few ruled by fear and intimidation and the indiscriminate use of weaponry. In time, their numbers swelled and they became a force to fear. They slaughtered brahmins only because they were brahmin, regarding them as symbols of the word and therefore to be hated and killed whenever possible. They forbade their fellow warriors from following the path of knowledge, killing even their fellow kshatriyas when they would not do as they bid.

  ‘This was not a conflict of kshatriyas and brahmins alone: for many kshatriya clans and lines were wise enough to understand the superiority of the word over the sword, of knowledge over weaponry, of wisdom over war. They knew that while the brahmin varna protected, preserved and accreted the store of human knowledge, they were brahmin not merely because of an accident of birth but by dint of their rigorous education and dedication to knowledge. Many such enlightened kshatriyas sent their own children to follow the path of knowledge, seeking to end the ceaseless wars and conflicts that plagued humankind. But a few kshatriya lines lived in perpetual hatred of all things brahminical and regarded knowledge and learning as their enemy. In time, these kshatriyas grew isolated and in conflict with their own fellow kshatriyas as well as with all brahmins. They were led by one kshatriya line in particular, the Haihayas, whose king was Arjuna Kartavirya and who swept across the world as a pestilence across the population.

  ‘Among brahmins, few were as enlightened or as masterful in their accumulation of knowledge as those of the Bhrigu clan. This is a tale of their forebear who lived in the time of Arjuna Kartavirya, the Bhrigu sage Jamadagni, and his fifth son, Jamadagneya, better known to itihasa by another, more fearsome name . . .’

  ||Two||

  The great sage Jamadagni was absorbed in his meditation when the calm of his ashram was disturbed by the thunder of a thousand hooves. Frowning at being disturbed from his tapasya, he rose and went to see why mounted men had come to this remote place. His wife Renuka was hurrying back from the river, bearing a heavy earthen pot filled with fresh water. Her face glowed with excitement.

  ‘It must be my father,’ she said to her husband as she approached the stoop of their thatched hut where he stood. ‘Or at the very least my mother come to visit me! Only a king or queen would travel with so many mounted men.’

  She set the pot of water down on the stoop, spilling some. He noticed that the pot was barely half full and a trail of splotches marked her route across the clearing. He did not comment on it. He already knew that to his wife, a visit from her family far outweighed the daily drudgery of her domestic chores. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had indeed done the right thing by marrying a kshatriya woman and bringing her away from her palatial city life to spend her life as a hermit’s spouse.

  Yet there was great love between them, he knew, and he sensed it even now as she clutched his hand and tentatively squeezed it, conveying her happiness as the sound of hoofbeats grew closer. It was true that as a daughter of the Suryavanshi Ikshwaku dynasty, she could not help displaying strong emotions or desiring the hustle and bustle of her former life, but it was his arm she squeezed in excitement and to him that she turned her smiling face to share her joy. He smiled and patted her hand.

  Jamadagni looked around for his sons. She noticed him looking and said, ‘Vasu and Vishwasvasu are collecting herbs and fruit for our meal. Sushena and Rumanvanta have gone to fetch firewood. Parashurama is gone to his guru to study.’

  He nodded and thought to correct her. After all, their eldest son’s given birth name was Rama, a simple and beautiful name on its own, and one often favoured by her lineage. But ever since that axe—parasu, in Sanskrit—had
been bequeathed to him by his guru Shiva, he carried it everywhere he went, even to the river when he bathed, so much so that everyone had taken to calling him Parasu- Rama, Rama of the Axe. Or colloquially, Parashurama. Not a very appropriate name to call a brahmin.

  But he decided to say nothing. People who came to be known by their most distinguishing characteristic were people to whom fame came naturally. There was little point in objecting to something that was natural. Besides, there was no doubt that Parashurama took after his kshatriya mother far more than his brahmin father. It was the reason why he had been gifted the axe by his guru, none other than Shiva the Destroyer himself.

  The thundering swelled to a deafening pitch then broke into a ragged explosion of beats as the clearing filled with mounted armed riders. The frontrunners drew up their mounts at the sight of the ashram hut and the seer and his wife standing before it, but their faces remained hawkish and their weapons stayed in hand. The dust raised by their arrival clouded the air for several moments, even as the thundering of hooves dwindled and finally died away. Even before the dust could settle, a trio of tall hard-faced kshatriyas dismounted and strode towards the hut, swords in hand.

  ‘Who lives here?’ one asked, raising his sword insolently to point at Jamadagni. One of his companions turned his head, hawked and spat a gob of phlegm. Jamadagni resisted the urge to ask the man if he would spit thus in his own house but held his tongue. Judging by the loutish appearance of these men, it was possible they thought nothing of spitting or worse even in their own house. Palace, more likely. For the three of them were clad in richly-filigreed armour and finely made garb beneath the armour. Even their swords had icons on their hilts. And even through the settling dust he could see the coloured dhvaja on the pole of their flagbearer.

  Kshatriyas. Brothers. Princes. And if I am not mistaken, that is the symbol of the Haihaya line. Jamadagni knew at once that if he did not carefully heed everything he said or did from this moment on, his wife and he would be slaughtered without a second’s hesitation. And if these men were to learn that his wife was of the Suryavansha Ikshwaku line, even their sons would not be spared. A brahmin had no cause to have enemies, being a person of Vedic study and peaceful meditation. But these kshatriyas were no less than mortal enemies to Jamadagni.

  ‘My wife and I,’ he replied.

  The sword remained in the air, its pointed tip aimed at his throat. Jamadagni glimpsed the sword-bearer’s brothers looking at Renuka with more than casual interest and suppressed the surge of anger that rose in his gullet.

  Finally, the sword dipped and the kshatriya turned away rudely, showing Jamadagni his back. ‘Only an old brahmin’s hovel,’ he said to someone beyond Jamadagni’s field of vision.

  The person spoken to came walking slowly into view, an attendant brushing the dust from his rich anga-vastra and armour with a peacock-feather duster. Another attendant followed close behind in perfect step with his master, holding up an umbrella palkhi with the distinctive coloured fabric and embroidered sigil of a royal seal that left no doubt about this stranger’s title and position. The man himself was exceedingly tall, powerfully built, and moved with the lithe grace of a predator. He was perhaps a decade and a half older than the three loutish kshatriyas before him and clearly their forebear. They all shared his hawkish features and cream-wheat complexion, and most of all, they all moved and spoke with a similar arrogant sense of entitlement.

  Jamadagni realized with a shock that he knew exactly who this personage was—there was no disputing it. Arjuna himself, King of the Haihayas! At my ashram! Great and merciful Brahma, why do you bring me this test of my resolve and endanger the lives of my loved ones?

  King Arjuna Kartavirya, son of Kritavirya, glanced at the thatched hut, passing his gaze condescendingly over both Jamadagni and Renuka, seeming to find nothing of the slightest interest in anything he saw.

  He pointed his chin toward Jamadagni. One of his sons immediately spoke on his behalf. ‘Brahmin, we seek rebels fighting for Sagara. Have any come past?’

  Jamadagni bowed his head. ‘My Lord, we have seen not a single other person in this remote aranya for months.’

  King Arjuna Kartavirya glanced at him, seemed to find no reason to contradict his claim, and gestured with his eyebrows at his son.

  ‘We are in pursuit of a band of warriors loyal to Sagara, son of Bahu. Have you heard or seen any such forces moving through this part of the forest in the past three days?’

  Jamadagni shook his head. ‘Nay, my Lord. It is as we said. The forest is quiet and undisturbed. These warriors you speak of have not passed this way.’

  One of the other princes spoke up—the one who had pointed his sword at Jamadagni. ‘Bear in mind that allies of the Suryavansha Ikshwaku dynasty are enemies of the Haihayas. This is King Arjuna Kartavirya of Mahishmati, our father. He defeated the Naga army of Karkotaka Naga most recently, but ten years ago, he sacked Kashi when it was under the reign of King Haryaswa and later King Sudeva, both of whom attempted to oppose him and were killed. He also fought and killed King Divodas of the Vatsa, and defeated his son Pratardana who still seeks to regain the Vatsa kingdom. In addition, he deposed King Bahu of the Ikshwaku and claimed Ayodhya as well. Since you are brahmins and no doubt unaware of the lineages of raj-kshatriyas, I shall enlighten you. All these kings my father opposed were of the Suryavansha dynasty, the solar line. He, as well as all of us, are of the Chandravansha dynasty, the lunar line. Our allies in battle are the Talajangha kshatriyas and we are supported by the Panchagana, the five armies of the Shakas, Yavanas, Kambojas, Pahlavas and Paradas. We are indomitable and cannot be confronted in battle. We will rule the entire world soon. It is futile to oppose us.’

  Yet Bahu, son of Sagara, does oppose you. And soon he will defeat your great Panchagana and take back control of Ayodhya, seat of the Suryavansha Ikshwaku line. In fact, he must be near victory for King Arjuna Kartavirya and his heirs to be chasing him through the forest on their own with such desperation. You may posture and preen as much as you please, but the circumstances belie your words.

  Jamadagni dared not say any of this aloud. For not only would it give these ruthless Haihayas an excuse to cut him and Renuka down on the spot, it might lead to their learning that Renuka herself was a princess of the Suryavansha Ikshwaku line, their sworn enemy.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Renuka turned her head in Jamadagni’s direction. He shook his head very slightly, just enough to indicate to her that she should remain silent. She did.

  One of the other princes, the one who had spat so brazenly, asked in a peevish tone: ‘Brahmins, have you any food? King Arjuna Kartavirya requires nourishment.’

  Jamadagni bowed his head again. ‘We are poor brahmins. We have no possessions or wealth. Our repast is simple herbs and roots from the forest. It is not fit for a king, or even any kshatriya.’

  The princes looked at their father.

  He shook his head with a derisive expression on his face.

  The prince who had spoken before said, ‘Then go back to your chanting and meditating, brahmins,’ in a tone that made both chanting and meditating sound like vulgar activities. He glanced at his brother princes as he said this, and both sniggered briefly in response before suppressing their amusement in the presence of their father.

  The king shook his head with infinite weariness, started to turn away, then paused, looking up at nothing in particular, as if considering. Jamadagni tried not to look at his arms, the famous arms of Arjuna Kartavirya. Finally, almost as an afterthought, the king turned back. He spoke in a baritone that was deceptively mellifluous and pleasing to the ear. ‘Search the place anyway.’

  The princes emitted eager grunts and rushed forward. They shoved past Jamadagni and Renuka, followed by a score of kshatriyas. Jamadagni took hold of his wife by the shoulder and moved her aside, out of the way of the armed and armoured men tramping across their threshold, and stood to the side with his arm around her. The sounds of the Haihaya soldiers and their
princes rummaging through their meagre possessions came from inside the hut. Two of the princes had gone around the hut and were exploring the rest of the ashram premises. There was nothing for them to find, Jamadagni knew, but the sooner they finished the sooner they would leave.

  He whispered to Renuka: ‘When they find nothing, they will leave.’

  Renuka nodded her head to show she understood. Jamadagni realized she was shivering with fear. He was glad it was fear and not anger. As a kshatriya herself, a warrior-princess of the Suryavansha Ikshwaku line no less, Renuka could easily have lost her head and begun berating the Haihayas. The result would have been certain disaster. But mercifully, she had grasped the peril of their situation and was holding her pride in check.