[[Mohan K.V 2013-08-31, 22:21:45 Source]]
सदास्वादः
स्त्यानापविद्ध-घन-शोणित-शोण-पाणिः / उत्तंसयिष्यति कचांस्तव देवि भीमः
(styānāpaviddha-ghana-śoṇita-śoṇa-pāṇiḥ / uttaṃsayiṣyati kacāṃstava devi bhīmaḥ)
Meaning
“His hands red from the thick coagulated blood [of Duryodhana], my dear, this Bhīma will tie your braid up again!” Why is Bhīma in such a rage? Read on!
Context
Today’s phrase is from Veṇī-samhāra (“Binding of the braid”), a play based on selected episodes of the Mahābhārata. The author, Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa, lived about 1200 years ago, and was one of five Brahmins who were invited from Kannauj by the then-King of Bengal, Ādiśūra, for the performance of an important ritual. The five stayed on in Bengal, and many sources suggest that they are the origin of almost the entire Brahmin community there. Some famous families, including the Tagores, trace their lineage directly to Bhaṭṭa Nārāyaṇa himself.
The play is an interesting take on the Mahābhārata: in six acts, the author paints Bhīma as the hero, and Duryodhana as the worthy villain. A number of minor events and characters are invented and inserted into the story; some, such as a dialogue between two piśācas (flesh-eating ghosts) on the battlefield of Kurukṣetra, are very effective and popular, whereas some others are less so. Overall, the play shines when it comes to literary style – the Gauḍīya rīti, of powerful, ornamented speech, is represented well. The other elements – plot, dialogue, characterization – are mostly average.
But what really makes this play important is its literary lineage. The idea of placing Bhīma at the center of the Mahabhārata became immensely popular, and has been the basis of many works in regional languages. For example, in Kannada, Ranna’s Gadāyuddha borrows heavily from the play. This demonstrates the strong bond that literatures of regional languages had with Sanskrit, a national language in every sense.
Since the story of the Mahābhārata is quite well known, we will suffice here with a few demonstrations of the author’s style. Before anything, the idea of placing Bhīma at the center is very well justifiable. Of all the Pāṇḍavas, Bhīma is the one most full of life, most human. Yudhiṣṭhira is far too engrossed in calculations of Dharma, in a kind of “analysis paralysis”, to be relatable; in fact, a very good case can be made against him, that he is brave at all the wrong moments and cowardly at all the right ones, having “all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire”, to borrow from Churchill. Arjuna seems to be defined mainly as a satellite of Krishna, and appears to have taken Krishna’s words “nimitta-mātraṃ bhava savyasācin” too much to heart. Yes, he’s skilled in battle, brave, obedient, and quite the ladies’ man, but his main flaw appears to be that he’s not flawed enough for us to hook on to. Nakula and Sahadeva are still almost children.
But Bhīma, Bhīma is different. He’s loud, passionate, quick to emotion – the classic rough exterior with a heart of gold. He has many, many flaws, but that’s what makes him human. He makes tons of mistakes, falls down, gets back up and goes about his business. No tightrope walking the way Yudhiṣṭhira constrains himself, nor running to Krishna like Arjuna does. He is also the funniest of the lot, and we can bet that not only is he the guy to sleep most soundly among the Pāṇḍavas, he’s also the one to snore the loudest. :-)
Now then, back to the play. It begins with a conversation between Bhīma and Sahadeva at the time just before the war, and Bhīma is enraged that Yudhiṣṭhira is still attempting peace talks even after repeated snubs. He makes his displeasure clear, but Sahadeva mildly suggests that Yudhiṣṭhira feels disgust at the prospect of war. Bhīma shoots back:
युष्मान् ह्रेपयति क्रोधाल्लोके शत्रु-कुलक्षयः ।
न लज्जयति दाराणां सभायां केशकर्षणम् ॥1.17॥
yuṣmān hrepayati krodhālloke śatru-kulakṣayaḥ |
na lajjayati dārāṇāṃ sabhāyāṃ keśakarṣaṇam ||1.17||
“Oh, so destroying your enemies makes you disgusted, does it? Somehow having your wife molested in open court doesn’t seem to cause any emotion?”. The use of yuṣmān – plural respectful ‘you’, instead of the more correct ‘him’ – adds to the sarcasm.
Draupadī is listening in, and is relieved that at least one of her husbands understands her pain. Of course it had to be Bhīma – for anything that Draupadī really wanted, from the simple Saugandhika flower to killing the demonic Kīcaka, Bhīma was the one she went to. For all their knowledge and intelligence and valour, the others don’t seem to have had a clue to the simplest of others’ emotions.
Further down, Bhīma explicitly acknowledges Draupadī’s unspoken thoughts, and speaks the verse with today’s phrase:
चञ्चद्-भुज-भ्रमित-चण्ड-गदाभिघात-
संचूर्णितोरु-युगलस्य सुयोधनस्य ।
स्त्यानापविद्ध-घन-शोणित-शोण-पाणिः
उत्तंसयिष्यति कचांस्तव देवि भीमः ॥1.21॥
cañcad-bhuja-bhramita-caṇḍa-gadābhighāta-
saṃcūrṇitoru-yugalasya suyodhanasya |
styānāpaviddha-ghana-śoṇita-śoṇa-pāṇiḥ
uttaṃsayiṣyati kacāṃstava devi bhīmaḥ ||1.21||
“His hands red from the thick coagulated blood [of Duryodhana whose thighs will lie powdered by my quivering mace], my dear, this Bhīma will tie your braid up again!”
(The whole verse is just one sentence – note the powerful Gauḍiya style and the sound.)
This verse also gives the name of the play – Draupadī, after her humiliation, had vowed not to tie her hair up till she had had her revenge. Bhīma is promising her that very thing.
It’s very difficult to answer if Bhīma is doing “the” right thing here. Which sane man can disagree with Yudhiṣṭhira when he prefers forgetting past personal humiliations and striving for peace, to the extermination of the entire Kuru race, not to speak of millions of soldiers and untold misery? In the same breath though, what warm-blooded human can deny that a grave injustice was done to Draupadī, and that our very concept of justice starts unravelling if we start compromising to accommodate a situational power balance? The genius of Vyāsa is that he lets us decide. Whether Bhīma’s actions are right or not, both kinds of thinking are critical, and ignoring either is at our own peril. Denigrating and ignoring the emotional side – a popular pastime, in these days of pseudo-rationality – can be very dangerous indeed.
We skip now to the fifth act, just before Duryodhana engages in mortal combat with Bhīma. He comes across as Bhīma’s mirror image – many of the qualities we see in Bhīma are present in him at the same magnitude, but alas, directed oppositely because of Fate. His parents Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī plead with him to accept terms of surrender. Dhṛtarāṣṭra tells him that they have a genuine chance of escape – Yudhiṣṭhira has vowed that he would commit suicide if a single one of the Pāṇḍavas died, and is very keen to avert even a possibility of that happening. Duryodhana promptly shoots back:
एकेनापि विनानुजेन मरणं पार्थः प्रतिज्ञातवान्
भ्रातॄणां निहते शते विषहते दुर्योधनो जीवितुं ।
तं दुःशासन-शोणिताशनम् अरिं भिन्नं गदाकोटिना
भीमं दिक्षु न विक्षिपामि कृपणः संधिं विदध्याम् अहम् ॥5.7॥
ekenāpi vinānujena maraṇaṃ pārthaḥ pratijñātavān
bhrātṝṇāṃ nihate śate viṣahate duryodhano jīvituṃ |
taṃ duḥśāsana-śoṇitāśanam ariṃ bhinnaṃ gadākoṭinā
bhīmaṃ dikṣu na vikṣipāmi kṛpaṇaḥ saṃdhiṃ vidadhyām aham ||5.7||
“Yudhiṣṭhira vowed to kill himself if a single one of his brothers died?
Why – look at Duryodhana, who bears to live even after a hundred of his brothers have been killed! No, instead of tearing apart the vile Bhīma who drank the blood of my dear brother, I will meekly seek a wretched surrender!”
The last line is spoken sarcastically, but with much pain. We see the same bravery that Bhīma possesses; the same desire for revenge; the same pride; the same disregard for diplomacy; the same passion – alas, just directed differently.
Just as this dialogue is concluding, Bhīma makes his way to the camp to call Duryodhana out for battle, and gets to know his parents are there. His salutation to them, full of mock obedience:
चूर्णिताशेष-कौरव्यः क्षीबो दुःशासनासृजा ।
भङ्क्ता सुयोधनस्योर्वोः भीमोऽयं शिरसाञ्चति ॥५।२८॥
cūrṇitāśeṣa-kauravyaḥ kṣībo duḥśāsanāsṛjā |
bhaṅktā suyodhanasyorvoḥ bhīmo’yaṃ śirasāñcati ||5|28||
“Having crushed all the Kauravas, drunk with the blood of Dusshasana, about to break apart Duryodhana’s thighs – this Bhīma salutes you”.
It is customary in a salutation for a younger one to describe himself in terms of a recent victory – a child proudly telling his parents of his good work, and the expectation is that the parent is made happy by that achievement. How twisted it is here! Bhīma deliberately rubs it in at exactly the most painful spot: how must it feel for a parent to hear this! Dhṛtarāṣṭra grumbles, but the words of Sanjaya from a few lines before say it all:
तात, कर्मणा कृत-निःशेष-विप्रियाः संप्रति वाचा व्यवस्यन्ति ॥
tāta, karmaṇā kṛta-niḥśeṣa-vipriyāḥ saṃprati vācā vyavasyanti ||
“Lord, they’ve finished doing everything you hate by their actions. Now they’re merely closing it out with words.”
Thought for today
In the second act of the play, Bhānumatī, Duryodhana’s wife, has a bad dream and is worried by it. The brave Duryodhana recalls the words of the sage Angiras, one of the primary authors of the Vedas:
ग्रहाणां चरितं स्वप्नेऽनिमित्तौत्पातिकं तथा ।
फलन्ति काकतालीयं तेभ्यः प्राज्ञा न बिभ्यति ॥2.15॥
grahāṇāṃ caritaṃ svapne’nimittautpātikaṃ tathā |
phalanti kākatālīyaṃ tebhyaḥ prājñā na bibhyati ||2.15||
“The planets’ movements, dreams, omens – all these are mere coincidences. Wise men don’t fear any of them!”
In the Subhāṣita-ratna-kośa, the same sentiment is redoubled:
अयं काणः शुक्रो विषम-चरणः सूर्यतनयः
क्षताक्षोऽयं राहुः विकल-महिमा शीतकिरणः ।
अजानानः तेषाम् अपि नियत-कर्म-स्वकफलं
ग्रह-ग्राम-ग्रस्ता वयमिति जनोऽयं प्रलपति ॥1671॥
ayaṃ kāṇaḥ śukro viṣama-caraṇaḥ sūryatanayaḥ
kṣatākṣo’yaṃ rāhuḥ vikala-mahimā śītakiraṇaḥ |
ajānānaḥ teṣām api niyata-karma-svakaphalaṃ
graha-grāma-grastā vayamiti jano’yaṃ pralapati ||1671||
“Śukra is half-blind. The sun has a crippled child.
Rāhu has lost his limbs, and the moon is ever-waning.
But here are men, not knowing that these planet-gods too but suffer the results of their own deeds,
who blame their own misfortunes on the planets.”
Śukra is supposed to provide great prosperity, but it looks like he couldn’t get some of that for himself – he is himself half-blind. Śani is said to be the Sun’s son, and a double-pun is employed here with viṣamacaraṇaḥ – literally ‘wrong-footed’, meaning cripple; but also referencing his well-known retrograde motion as well as ill effects. Rāhu and Candra both seem also to suffer like mortals, in spite of their supposed power. Everyone is merely experiencing the fruits of his karma – it is sheer ignorance to think the planets have anything to do with fortunes.
We appear to be in times when blind superstition is a mascot for religion, and a murderous one at that. If not the incisive certainty of the Subhāṣitakāra, we would do well to at least have some of Duryodhana’s high regard for the authors of our own foundational texts! Solzhenitsyn’s words come to mind: “We do not err because truth is difficult to see. It is visible at a glance. We err because this is more comfortable.”
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