Read Online THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 by Ramesh Menon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ramesh Menon
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her face and her hair hung to her waist in tangled jata. Her tapasya was so perfect that Karttikeya appeared before her sooner than he ever had for any other bhakta.
One day, a marvelous aroma filled the forest in which Amba sat in padmasana, the lotus-posture. The darkness she had grown accustomed to behind her eyelids shut fast was lit up like day. Her eyes flew open and there he stood: the lucific Lord Karttikeya. In his hands, he had a garland of lotuses that were from no lake on earth. They glowed as if moonlight was hidden in them and their scent spread through the forest like a blessing.
Amba fell on her face before the vision. She began to speak, “Lord…”
But he said gently to her, “I know, my child. I know everything and I know the boon you want. Look, I have brought you lotuses from a pool in my own garden. Whoever wears this garland around his neck will kill Bheeshma for you.”
With a moan, she reached out and took the garland from him. The God vanished, leaving the trees dark once more. On her careen out of the forest, Amba bathed in a stream. Peering into the water when she was clean, she saw her penance had aged her.
Full of hope, she emerged from the jungle and went seeking her champion. She wandered into many kingdoms and told her story to their princes and kings. In her hands was the fateful garland, which seemed to grow fresher every day. Those who heard her tale were not averse to fighting her cause. She was obviously noble and still very beautiful. But when she told them who it was they must kill when they wore her garland, they all refused her in alarm. Most of them dare not face Bheeshma in battle and those who were bold enough would not. They said he was honorable and taintless; they would sin if they killed him.
Cursing them all, calling them cowards and eunuchs, she would storm away. Her lotuses remained as fresh as they had been when she received them, but her hope faded within her.
At last, almost broken in spirit, Amba arrived in the kingdom of the Panchalas, in Drupada’s court. Once more, she told her story. She showed that king the garland that no kshatriya in Bharatavarsha dared take from her.
Strangely moved, Drupada heard her out patiently. But then, he also said to Amba, “Bheeshma of Hastinapura is a righteous man, I cannot fight him.”
Her face twitched in rage. With a scream, she flung Karttikeya’s garland at Drupada. But as if plucked up by an unseen hand, it flew away from him and landed around a marble pillar. Her howl of frustration echoing behind her, Amba stormed out.
Drupada held the garland that hung on the white pillar in awe and fear; not he, not anyone in his court ever touched it. They lit lamps before it and worshipped it at every sandhya of each day. That garland hung there, never fading, as fragrant as it had been when Amba first received it. It hung waiting for the kshatriya who would dare take it up and wear it.
Across wild plains, through mysterious forests, fording sacred rivers and hardly aware of any of these, went Amba. Her face was set in a mask. Her eyes stared straight ahead, seeing nothing around her. She came to the foothills of the highest mountains in the world—the Himalayas, which are said to be the threshold between heaven and earth. Unworldly beings, elven gandharvas, centaurian kinnaras, knowing siddhas and charanas lived here. They renewed themselves upon the Himalaya, because these are the holiest mountains in creation.
Rishis also, hermits in solemn numbers, lived on the mystic slopes of the Himalaya. Some were lost in sweet oblivion, adrift on the ocean of the spirit that welled in their hearts. Others mortified their bodies in streams that carried ice floes down to the melting plains. They sat motionless, entranced in dhyana. Past them all, whether they were solitary or congregated in asramas, climbed Amba. She did not pause to greet them; perhaps she did not see them at all for the single flame that consumed her.
Up she
One day, a marvelous aroma filled the forest in which Amba sat in padmasana, the lotus-posture. The darkness she had grown accustomed to behind her eyelids shut fast was lit up like day. Her eyes flew open and there he stood: the lucific Lord Karttikeya. In his hands, he had a garland of lotuses that were from no lake on earth. They glowed as if moonlight was hidden in them and their scent spread through the forest like a blessing.
Amba fell on her face before the vision. She began to speak, “Lord…”
But he said gently to her, “I know, my child. I know everything and I know the boon you want. Look, I have brought you lotuses from a pool in my own garden. Whoever wears this garland around his neck will kill Bheeshma for you.”
With a moan, she reached out and took the garland from him. The God vanished, leaving the trees dark once more. On her careen out of the forest, Amba bathed in a stream. Peering into the water when she was clean, she saw her penance had aged her.
Full of hope, she emerged from the jungle and went seeking her champion. She wandered into many kingdoms and told her story to their princes and kings. In her hands was the fateful garland, which seemed to grow fresher every day. Those who heard her tale were not averse to fighting her cause. She was obviously noble and still very beautiful. But when she told them who it was they must kill when they wore her garland, they all refused her in alarm. Most of them dare not face Bheeshma in battle and those who were bold enough would not. They said he was honorable and taintless; they would sin if they killed him.
Cursing them all, calling them cowards and eunuchs, she would storm away. Her lotuses remained as fresh as they had been when she received them, but her hope faded within her.
At last, almost broken in spirit, Amba arrived in the kingdom of the Panchalas, in Drupada’s court. Once more, she told her story. She showed that king the garland that no kshatriya in Bharatavarsha dared take from her.
Strangely moved, Drupada heard her out patiently. But then, he also said to Amba, “Bheeshma of Hastinapura is a righteous man, I cannot fight him.”
Her face twitched in rage. With a scream, she flung Karttikeya’s garland at Drupada. But as if plucked up by an unseen hand, it flew away from him and landed around a marble pillar. Her howl of frustration echoing behind her, Amba stormed out.
Drupada held the garland that hung on the white pillar in awe and fear; not he, not anyone in his court ever touched it. They lit lamps before it and worshipped it at every sandhya of each day. That garland hung there, never fading, as fragrant as it had been when Amba first received it. It hung waiting for the kshatriya who would dare take it up and wear it.
Across wild plains, through mysterious forests, fording sacred rivers and hardly aware of any of these, went Amba. Her face was set in a mask. Her eyes stared straight ahead, seeing nothing around her. She came to the foothills of the highest mountains in the world—the Himalayas, which are said to be the threshold between heaven and earth. Unworldly beings, elven gandharvas, centaurian kinnaras, knowing siddhas and charanas lived here. They renewed themselves upon the Himalaya, because these are the holiest mountains in creation.
Rishis also, hermits in solemn numbers, lived on the mystic slopes of the Himalaya. Some were lost in sweet oblivion, adrift on the ocean of the spirit that welled in their hearts. Others mortified their bodies in streams that carried ice floes down to the melting plains. They sat motionless, entranced in dhyana. Past them all, whether they were solitary or congregated in asramas, climbed Amba. She did not pause to greet them; perhaps she did not see them at all for the single flame that consumed her.
Up she
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