THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 by Ramesh Menon Read Free Book Online Page A

Cosmic Siva’s ear, to be his special place on earth. Kasi was decked in colorful archways; her streets were choking with a million garlands. Singing, dancing crowds swung through her aisles.
    In the hall of the swayamvara, a thousand of the most eligible kings and princes of Bharatavarsha had gathered. Each one had come in the hope that one of the princesses of Kasi would choose him to be her husband. The jewelry those kshatriyas wore caught the shafts of the morning sun and the sabha glittered. Jasmine-laden air eddied softly around those high born masters of the earth. Their refined laughter could be heard there, tinged with some anxiety.
    Amba, Ambika and Ambalika were all named after the Devi who is Siva’s consort. Wearing wedding finery they sat haughty and ravishing beside their father. The custom was that when the auspicious muhurta arrived and the planets were in their most benign places, the palace priests, who were avid at their ghatikas, the water clocks, would announce the hour. Each princess would then be given a garland of wildflowers, which she would drape around the prince or king she chose. It was age-old custom that a princess could choose her own husband, her vara. This was why the ceremony was called a swayamvara, meaning literally ‘her own husband’.
    The moment had arrived and the oldest princess, Amba, had just been handed her garland. Suddenly they heard chariot-horses’ hooves outside. Silence fell when they saw who had arrived: it was Devavrata of Hastinapura. Some kshatriyas in the sabha snickered, though none too near Bheeshma.
    “Has the celibate found his celibacy unbearable?”
    “Isn’t he a little old for this?”
    “Has he decided to break his oath?”
    “Who can blame the poor man? These princesses could shake the vows of the rishis of the forest.”
    Someone shouted, “I think you’ve left it a little late, Devavrata. Your hair has turned grey!”
    And loud laughter. Bheeshma’s eyes glinted dangerously. With a soft growl that froze the assembly, he said, “I rather think I am just in time.”
    Amba stood unmoving before the groom of her choice, the king of Salva. She had raised her hands to place her garland around his neck when Bheeshma arrived. Next moment, Bheeshma was a flaming immortal in that sabha. When he was just a stripling Ganga’s son had dammed her flow with golden arrows; now he was a grown man at the height of his powers.
    He was among them like some invasion. One moment they were mocking him and Amba was about to garland the king she had chosen. Then Bheeshma had seized not only that dazed princess but her sisters as well and swept them into his chariot in a blur.
    As he went, he cried, “They are for my brother Vichitraveerya. They shall be queens in Hastinapura like their mothers before them. Come and fight me, Kshatriyas, show me your mettle.”
    Those were days when honor meant more than life itself. A throng of kshatriyas flew after Bheeshma. For a while it seemed he would outrun them and escape. But then he whirled his chariot round. His bow was raised and it blazed arrows at his pursuers in a storm. Every shaft found its mark, shattering chariots, piercing armor and blood leaked on to the earth.
    But there was a king that one of the Kasi princesses had actually chosen and Shalva gave Bheeshma a ferocious fight. He struck him with three scathing shafts. Roaring in surprise the Kuru plucked them out and his blood gushed after them. In a flash he cut down Shalva’s chariot and killed that king’s horses and sarathy. Shalva stood exposed and Amba shut her eyes and prayed for his life. But Bheeshma did not intend to kill a defenseless man. Growling deep in his throat, like some lion, he swung his chariot around again and rode back to Hastinapura.
    The people of the city came streaming out of their homes. They crowded into the streets to see what Bheeshma had brought back. They set up a cheer when they saw the three princesses in his chariot: bashful,