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Sometime back the Sunday Indian Express  had carried, as its cover story, the ruminations of Professor Manoj Das, the eminent litterateur, on what makes for the spell exercised by the Mahabharata over a society separated from it by millennia. The article concentrates on certain “enigmatic situations and characters” which pose to the modern reader critical issues regarding ethical conduct because, the author argues, much has been left unsaid in the epic, leading to a loss of perspective over the ages. However, are the enigmas he cites really perplexing episodes, or are they the consequences of those unknown suta-rhapsodes in whose hands Vyasa’s Jaya of 24,000 verses ballooned into the largest epic in the world, covering 100,000 shlokas?

One of these enigmas is Draupadi, the miraculous preservation of whose modesty is seen as “the Divine’s response to a devotee when everything else . . . had failed her,” Actually, the Kannada version is even more particular in emphasising this. No succour comes when Draupadi cries out Govinda dvarakavasin krsna gopijanapriya, clutching on to her single cloth with one hand. It is only when she lets go, lifting both hands in supplication, that the miracle takes place. This is an obvious attempt to create a parallel with the “stealing-of-garments” (vastraharana) episode of the Bhagavata Purana where Krishna steals the clothes of the Vraja maidens while they are bathing in the river, and returns them only when they approach him, casting aside shame, both hands uplifted in prayer.

However, a careful study of the disrobing episode reveals more than one hand at work. It is a later poet, intent on establishing Krishna as deity, and writing at a time when the hero had been established in society as a godhead, who had embellished the original with the miracle of an unending stream of cloth protecting Draupadi’s modesty. Vyasa’s statement is unambiguous: it is Dharma who covers her and protects her. Who is Dharma? Is this not the other name of Vidura, younger brother of Pandu, who is also the one sanctioned by social mores (niyoga) to be called upon first if the elder brother is unable to procreate? Vidura is the incarnation of Dharma and it is he, who is the father of Yudhishthira and the father-in-law of Draupadi, who comes to her rescue. Agitated by the appearance of ill omens, general indignation and the admonitions of Vidura and Gandhari, Dhritarashtra puts a stop to the horrendous proceedings.

In the Vana Parva, the interpolation becomes glaringly obvious. Krishna comes to meet the exited Pandavas and exclaims that had he been present, such atrocities could never have been perpetrated. He states that he had been preoccupied battling Shalva when the fateful dice-game was on in Hastinapura. There is, therefore, no question of his miraculous intervention to save Draupadi’s modesty. Moreover, nowhere in the epic does Draupadi ever refer to her modesty having been preserved by Krishna. Manoj Das’ insight into “the essence of the incident” as Divinity’s response to devoted humanity’s distress is, thus, not founded on the textual evidence.

What Draupadi does tell Krishna, which is lost sight of by most interpreters but for Nrisinhaprasad Bhaduri, is an utterly human and characteristically feminine expression, of abhimana. She upbraids him, saying that she is wholly alone, as if bereft of husband, sons, brother, friend, and even he, Krishna himself. And she asserts authoritatively that she has a four-fold claim on Krishna’s protection:

caturbhih karanaih krsna tvaya rakshyasmi nityasah
sambandhad gauravat sakhyat prabhutven ca kesava

Firstly, she is related to him as the daughter-in-law of his paternal aunt. Secondly, she is born of the yajna vedi, the flaming sacrificial altar, and, therefore, is entitled to be protected like the sacred household fire. Thirdly, she enjoys a unique relationship with him as his sakhi (intimate friend), tava krsna sakhi vibho (she never describes herself as his devotee or inferior). Fourthly, since Krishna has influence over everyone, she looks to him for protection. It is this unique sakha-sakhi relationship that is truly an enigma worth pondering over.

Das has cited Kunti’s command as the cause of the five-husbanding of Draupadi, and that satisfies him as the answer to the enigma of the polyandrous union. However, this is only a partial account of Vyasa’s epic. The description of Draupadi’s bridegroom-choice ceremony explicitly states that after Arjuna had pierced the target,

“At the height of the confusion,
Yudhishthira, accompanied by the
twin paragons, Nakula and Sahadeva,
slipped out of the enclosure.” --[Adi Parva 190.29 ]

When, therefore, Bhima and Arjuna arrive with Draupadi at the potter’s hut, their three brothers are already there and must have informed Kunti of what had happened. Kunti’s response to Bhima-Arjuna’s announcement, that they should enjoy together what they have brought, is by no means a casual remark. It is a calculated move in the game plan painstakingly laid out by Kunti to secure the unity and thereby the success of her sons from the very beginning. Her uncanny ability to sense the potential mischief in a situation and act ruthlessly to avert the danger is borne out as the five brothers look at Draupadi:

“Each had her in his heart”, says Vyasa. Draupadi’s feelings in the matter are of no consequence to the Pandavas and their mother. From the beginning, she is for them an object of much price. That is why Yudhishthira does not hesitate to stake her like any other prized possession. His attitude is unambiguously clear from the description he launches into in response to Shakuni’s suggestion, in the same manner as he has earlier extolled his material wealth, without any demur or restraint:

“. . . neither short
nor tall, neither dark nor pale,
with wavy dark-blue hair.
Eyes like autumn-lotus leaves,
fragrant like the lotus ... .
soft-spoken and gentle,
the ideal wife . . .
She is the last to sleep,
the first to wake . . .
Her sweat-bathed face is lovely
like the lotus, like
the jasmine; slim-waisted like
the middle of the sacred
vedi, long-nailed, pink-lipped,
and smooth-skinned.”

No wonder ‘the elders present in the sabha murmured, “Shame! Shame!”’

Kunti had acted as swiftly and equally remorselessly earlier at Varanavata, plying with drink a Nishada woman and her five sons, so that they burnt to death in the lac house and served to disguise the escape of the Pandavas. Truly, Kunti is a remarkable picture of maternal heroism created by Vyasa.

The enigma that does surround Kunti-Pritha relates to her unexplained silence during the two dice-games. Indeed, this is the only occasion when the sons do not even meet their mother before leaving Indraprastha, let alone take her advice. We find that after the installation of Yudhishthira at Indraprastha Kunti recedes into the background, only to flare up in an unforgettable moment when she asks Krishna to narrate to her sons the story of Vidula, for inspiring them to win back the kingdom, for it is a tale

“that shall make men gods for might, Kindling fiery joy of battle . . .
... the warrior hearing turns to flame”. [Sri Aurobindo: Vidula ]

Kunti’s last moments are perhaps the greatest enigma of all. After the war has been won, she does not stay on as the Dowager Queen to preside over a victorious Pandava empire. Instead, she accompanies the shattered Dhritarashtra and Gandhari, along with Vidura-Dharma in whose house she had spent the 13 years of her sons’ exile. With them she perishes in a forest fire, as bereft of her sons as Gandhari. Vyasa proffers no explanation for this decision of Kunti.

Perhaps we can find the clue to an answer in that secret of her maidenhood of which she is so ashamed: Karna. And this is where Manoj Das’ argument breaks down. He argues that Kunti’s sons are not to be judged by human standards since they were emanations of gods, who were all different aspects of Indra and thus one in essence.

Vyasa provides Drupada with two myths for persuading him to agree to the polyandrous marriage. In the first of these, his daughter is a mysterious maiden who is the cause of five Indras being trapped in a cave by Shiva, who curses them with rebirth on earth. In the second myth, Draupadi in her previous birth prayed for a husband, and repeated her prayer five times, hence Shiva blessed her with five husbands in the next birth! Both compositions are stylistically not by the same hand that composed the bridegroom-choice ceremony and its aftermath. These are instances of special pleading by later redactors uncomfortable with the social stigma on polyandry, and seeking to supply some mythical sanction for it. The actual justification is provided quite baldly by Yudhishthira himself to Drupada: “We follow the practice of our ancestors” (Adi Parva. 107.28), referring to their birth and upbringing in the Himalayas where polyandry was practiced by the “northern Kurus” and is still prevalent in the Garhwal region. Keeping this in mind, we understand why Duryodhana argues that the Pandavas are not legitimate offspring of Pandu, as, unlike in his own case, their fathers are unknown.
In this exchange with Drupada, Yudhishthira’s first reply to his objections is immensely ironic and it lashes back at him from the mouth of Bhishma in reply to Draupadi’s anguished appeal in the assembly hall.

Yudhishthira says. “Dharma. your majesty, is subtle—who knows how it works?” It is very significant that even at this stage Kunti has no regrets about her so-called “slip-of-tongue”. She urges Drupada and Dhrishtadyumna,

“I fear my words will become as pointless as lies.
And if that happens, will I not be tainted with untruth?”

The avid concern is solely for her own reputation, with not a thought or word to spare for the bride won by Arjuna, whom she is condemning to perpetual social stigma by insisting that she be shared by five brothers. We recall that Kunti herself has been five-manned by Surya, Pandu, Dharma, Vayu and Indra. The typical mother-in-law, she forces her daughter-in-law into a worse predicament, condemning her to live out her entire life with five husbands, where her own plight was limited to single encounters with five separate persons, none related to the others. Draupadi, born of the sacrificial flames, is but a sacrifice in the fire of Drupada’s and Kunti’s ambitions to wrest the kingdom of Hastinapura, and in the flames of the Pandavas’ desire.

Kunti has no hesitation in appearing in Hastinapura with five grown sons claiming that they are sons of gods. Yet, she cannot bring herself to acknowledge Karna, also son of a god according to her. Nor does she do anything to stop the barrage of insults showered upon him in the tournament by Bhima etc. on account of his belonging to the suta caste. Yet, both Dhritarashtra and Pandu are also really sutas, being born to Kshatriya princesses by a mixed-caste Brahmin father, Vyasa.

A hint of the secret is available in the peculiar conduct of Kuntibhoja in placing the nubile Kunti fully at the disposal of the sage Durvasa, who gifts her with a “mantra” and she is pregnant with Karna almost immediately after his departure. Vyasa says that Durvasa gave her the spell knowing of the future difficulties she would face. This is merely another way of saying that, in order to provide her with some cover to stave off social calumny in the future, Durvasa left her with the story of a “mantra” for public consumption. While recounting the incident, Kunti states that although the sage gave enough cause to infuriate her, she retained her composure. What sort of behavior would have infuriated an adolescent, nubile maiden left completely at the mercy of an eccentric hermit?

At a time when Satyavati could acknowledge her illegitimate son Vyasa before Bhishma, what prevented Kunti from following suit with the same Bhishma present? Does she repeat with her first-born the treatment meted out to her by her father Sursasena, who gave her away to Kuntibhoja? However, her precarious position in Hastinapura, where she has been accepted despite it being known that Pandu was cursed with inability to procreate, can be imperiled if the fruit of a pre-marital union were acknowledged. Yet, it does not explain why she does not tell Pandu about Karna when he is lecturing her on different types of sons, including those born out of wedlock, and pressing her to get him surrogate sons.

What is of interest is that Kunti does not scruple to reveal the truth to Karna just before the war begins. Her intention is quite plain: Duryodhana has to be deprived of his staunchest ally. Not succeeding in that attempt, she concentrates on saving the Pandavas from their strongest foe, and virtually blackmails Karna emotionally to elicit a promise that he will not slay anyone of them except Arjuna. The result is that, despite having each of them in his grasp, including Yudhishthira whom Drona had vainly tried to imprison and thereby win the war, Karna lets them go, thereby forfeiting the kingdom that he could have gifted Duryodhana. Thus, the fact of motherhood is used remorselessly by Kunti as a political weapon to win the battle for the Pandavas, and Karna remains rejected at the end as he was at birth. Where Karna knows that he is facing his younger brothers, whom he has promised not to harm, they are but raring to kill the detestable charioteer’s son. It is a foregone conclusion.

The types of interpolations that give rise to so-called enigmas form an intriguing study.

For instance, Shri Das praises Gandhari as a symbol of the respect given to motherhood, along with the unquestioning obedience offered to Kunti by her sons in sharing Draupadi. In the Tamil recension, when Draupadi rushes to Gandhari to escape from Duhshasana, Gandhari coldly tells her that, after all, it is only her brothers-in-law calling her and she might as well go! The very nature of her motherhood is an enigma. She enters the Kaurava palace after deliberately blinding herself on hearing the duplicity practiced upon her by Bhishma in forcing her parents to give her in marriage to a blind prince. This is not the act of a devoted wife, for thereby she deprives her husband of the opportunity to see through her eyes for both of them. That is what an ideal wife like Sukanya had done for Chyavana. It is an act of terrifying masochistic proportions, taken without consulting her parents, her brother, or anyone else. This reveals not only her singular ability to stand alone, to take life-marring decisions with lightning swiftness, but also an indomitable will.

Within Gandhari is a tremendous hunger to become the: mother of a king, because she cannot be the wife of one (Dhritarashtra being only the figurehead, with Bhishma wielding all the power). For two long years she bears the fetus. When she hears that Yudhishthira has been born to Kunti despite the curse on Pandu, she loses control and, in frustrated fury, strikes at her womb to deliver a ball of iron-hard flesh, reflecting her adamantine nature. She does not find it necessary to consult her husband about the decision to abort the fetus. Her decision is purely the result of fierce jealousy at being beaten in the race to queen-motherhood by Kunti. For two years she had been patient, secure in the knowledge that Pandu would die childless thanks to the deer-sage’s curse.
When Vyasa asks Gandhari what she is about to do with the fetus, she answers that, having heard that Kunti had given birth to a son bright as the sun, she, in sorrow, had brought about this abortion. As a matter of fact, Kunti truly had given birth, earlier, to the son of the Sun god, and like Gandhari had, on her own, disposed off Karna. The two wives of Hastinapura’s royal palace are both self-willed.

Kunti chooses Pandu as her husband in a svayamvara, only to face the problem of her husband being unable to procreate. She has to attain motherhood by approaching others, albeit at her husband’s insistence. Gandhari is given away by reluctant parents to a blind but virile husband, yet is unable to become a mother by natural means. This feature of difficulty in obtaining lawful progeny is a leit-motif of the Adi Parva (cf. my Themes and Structure in the Mahabharata Dasgupta, Calcutta, 1990, pp. 203-240, 383), going back to the Kshatriya women faced with the prospect of no men of their caste, after Parashurama has rid the earth twenty-one times of Kshatriyas.

Gandhari-of-the-iron-will exacts a terrible price for the marriage she was forced into with a blind man. She neither looks upon the faces of-her children, nor does she fulfill a mother’s duties towards her hundred sons, who are allowed to grow uncontrolled like rank weeds along the Ganga flowing by Hastinapura. Here Vyasa has juxtaposed the remarkable example of Kunti, who combines the roles of nurturing mother and controlling-guiding father vis-à-vis the five Pandavas, though to Karna she is no different than Gandhari to the Dhartarashtras. The unquestioning obedience the Pandavas offer Kunti is, therefore, never Gandhari’s to command from her sons, nor Kunti’s from Karna. Never does Gandhari ask them to desist from their litany of envy and hate against the Pandavas all through their childhood and adolescence. Ultimately, when she does seek to intervene in the Sabha and the Udyoga Parvas, Duryodhana cavalierly brushes her aside—something wholly unimaginable for the Pandavas where Kunti is concerned.
In the Sabha Parva, before the second dice-game, Gandhari. for only the second time in the epic approaches her husband (the first being when she urged her husband to stop the first game after the attempted disrobing of Draupadi), advising him to discard Duryodhana and not be party to the destruction of the dynasty, as this second game would “rekindle a dead fire, topple a bridge re-built.” Her words are but ashes before the tornado of Dhritarashtra’s love for his sons. But what is of significance is that here, a millennium ago, a wife uncompromisingly tells her husband that, enslaved by his love for his progeny, he has lost control over them. Characteristically, Gandhari over­looks her own abdication of her responsibilities!

It is this unusual ability to speak the bitter truth to her husband’s face which emerges again in presence of the full court in the Udyoga Parva when Dhritarashtra, for the first time, asks Gandhari to be brought into the court to try if a mother’s love can din some simple sense into Duryodhana’s obdurate head. Gandhari appears and, much as Draupadi had shamed the Kuru elders in open court, she upbraids her husband in words that fly unerringly to the mark, like the infallible arrows of a master-archer. When Dhritarashtra tells her that her ill-willed son is disobeying him and has grossly insulted all elders in the court, Gandhari asks Duryodhana to be summoned so that she can rebuke him in public. She also tells Dhritarashtra that it is his fondness for his son that is to blame, for, despite knowing his unrighteous desires, he has pampered and supported him in his insatiate hunger for the kingdom. “It is too late now for force,” she says, possibly referring to the pampered childhood, for which she was equally responsible. She points out that, having left the kingdom to wicked Duryodhana and his crooked cabal, Dhritarashtra is now reaping the fruits of his irresponsible acts. Urging him to be firm now, she cites a reason that shows her remarkable insight, despite being as blind as her husband, into the political scenario: “Your enemies are laughing at this family break-up.” Even more impressive is her analysis of the results of war: Duryodhana will lose because the mighty warriors he depends on—Bhishma Drona, Kripa—may fight on his side being “rajapinda bhayat” (borne on the Kaurava exchequer), and may even give up their lives in that process, but they will never harm the Pandavas because of their superiority in dharma. Duryodhana does not scruple to insult his mother by stalking out in a tearing rage, little realizing how prophetic her analysis is, which, if heeded, would have kept him alive.

It is not motherliness that characterizes Gandhari, but her adamantine will and her sense of dharma. She refuses to bless her son with the boon of victory, because he is not on the side of dharma. At the very end, her agony at the loss of all her children is revealed in two small incidents of searing intensity. As Yudhishthira touches her feet, begging forgiveness, his nails are burned black by the flaming agony searing through a space between Gandhari’s bandage and her eyes. Then, tormented by the horrifying scenes of lamentation on the battlefield, she unleashes on Krishna the curse that he will witness the destruction of his own kith and kin too. Within Gandhari is a simmering volcano of bitter rage born of frustration, which finds its consummation in the forest fire that she calmly welcomes to give her a longed-for release from a lifetime in which she drew every breath of married life in pain. What did she feel, we wonder, when her blind husband took to his bed a Vaishya maid during her pregnancy? The fruit of that union was Yuyutsu, the sole survivor of the carnage, who fought on the Pandava side and ultimately became the regent of the kingdom.

– Continued

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