Bibek-Debroy

Oh Suyodhana! Oh, Suyodhana! Why won’t you listen to them? When Sanjaya gave you the message sent by DharmaRaja, why did you mock him? When Krishna Vasudeva himself descended with mighty Rishis, why did you ridicule his offer of peace? When even the mighty Bhimasena sent you word of reconciliation, why did you laugh at him? Oh Duryodhana! Did you think that Karna, stripped of his Kavacha and Kundala, could stand up against the likes of Dhananjeya? ...

I am not reading these books at my usual speed. I could take the shorter way, read at full speed from the comforts of my home, or I could do it this way. From the top of a hill where the rishi Matanga meditated for centuries, where he cursed the Vanara king Vali for his vile sin, I read Dhritarashtra’s words as he beseeched Vidura for guidance. He wanted to avoid the war at all costs, but he didn’t know how much Dharmaraja himself wanted to avoid war. ...

This rock that I sit on is a picnic spot, and it suits the purpose really. Many locals come here, and their kids are curious about what I’m doing here. They try to talk to me in broken English, and I smile and reply in Kannada. They are shocked. Somehow, the hair and the beard have convinced them that I’m not even an Indian, let alone a Kannadiga. ...

There is some justice in reading Markandeya’s rendition of the Ramayana, recited to the Pandavas, as I sit in Hampi. A large part of the Kishkinda Kanda is supposed to have occurred here, and I remember the stories that my grandfather told me about how Hanuman was born on Anjanadri Hill. I read of Yudhishtira’s answers to the questions posed by the Yaksha and somehow, I lost myself for the first time since I began reading the Mahabharata. Reading the story of Savitri and Sathyavan, the episode of Droupadi’s abduction and the subsequent rescue, I feel the Pandavas’ pain. It must be hard to stick to Dharma when it seems to fail you. ...

As I read the Mahabharata today, a British lady came up to me to ask me about Hampi. She was wondering if the heat had something to do with global warming. I assured her that it has always been this hot here. It’s why Krishnadevaraya built so many pushkarinis, and why the landscape is filled with mantapas for weary travellers to rest as they walked in the hot sun. ...

Wherever I sit down in Hampi, I can’t help but ask myself if once, a long time ago, Krishnadevaraya walked past this very spot. I wonder if I have walked along paths he liked to walk through, I wonder if he could appreciate the poetry of sitting under a tree to read the Mahabharata. The Mahabharata is daunting in scope. I sat under this tree and read of the lament of Damayanti as her husband Nala forsook her in the woods. I read how Bhima scolded Yudhishtira for being weak willed at the dice game. And I cheered as Arjuna fought the Trymbaka Karpadin himself, the Great Shiva, to prove his worth. ...

I do not believe in religion, I despise the organized rituals that exist today. That is not Sanathana Dharma. Dharma is subtle, it is imbued into the blood of people such as Prahalada and Bali. It runs through the veins of Markandeya, and it is in the pillars of the sabha Maya built for Dharmaraja. The Mahabharata’s scope and expanse is mindblowing. What words can I use to explain how the powerful Bhima had to stay his hand angry at Duhshasana? I am not bard enough to explain the rage of the otherwise calm and reserved Sahadeva. ...

How we ruin ourselves. Mankind has always fallen flat on its face when faced with the questions of Dharma. Dharma isn’t difficult to comprehend, adharma is just easier. Then, did the maharathas of the Mahabharata know Dharma? As I stand at the edge of the temple, I read out the names of the sons of Dhritarashtra to the wind, those sons of Kuru found adharma easier. I read of Arjuna’s exile, and his interpretation of Dharma. I read of the son of Dharma himself, as he gambled away his wealth, his brothers and their wife, Krishna Panchali, to the wiles of the Prince of Gandhara, what then was his interpretation of Dharma? ...

This land belongs to the monkeys. It is theirs to frolic in, it is theirs to own. We have somehow faltered here, and they know it far better than we. The wind blows my hair into my eyes, it cries out, howling like a dog in the distance. Perhaps it really is a dog, perhaps Dharma is watching me read the Mahabharata here. Or perhaps it is Vayu, listening in as I read how his son Bhima kills the demons Hidimba and Baka. ...

It is unbelievably calm atop a hill. I was right when I chose this spot to read the Mahabharata. Reading of Shakuntala and Dushyantha, I lost myself in her pain as he denied loving her. Reading about Yayati and how he beseeched his sons to share with him their youth, I could agree with him that one thousand years could never be enough time to enjoy the wonders of this world. ...