Sara Banerji - Shining Hero

Dedicated to Matthew Kneale, mentor and friend

THE MAHABHARATA IS AN EPIC POEM eight times longer than the Iliad , written in the third or fourth century B.C. It tells the story of a great war between two sets of cousins, the five Pandavas, the third of whom was Arjuna, and the hundred Kauravas, the eldest of whom was Dhuriodhana.

They fought for the kingdom whose capital city was Hastina-pura, which means city of the elephant, and to which the brave, heroic Pandavas were entitled. They had however been tricked out of their inheritance by the treacherous and devious Kauravas.

This poem is more than a story or a history. It describes the moral and ethical standards of the day and makes value judgements which are valid even in modern times. Anger, fear, hatred, jealousy, greed, lust, envy, pride and arrogance are all experienced by the protagonists of the Mahabharata . Heroes are capable of acting badly. One of Arjuna’s brothers, the heroic Yudhistra, loses everything he owns including his wife and children as well as his kingdom, in a game of dice. Arjuna himself suffers weakness at the start of the battle. His chariot is driven by the god Krishna who instructs and advises him when Arjuna becomes filled with doubt because he realises he will have to kill uncles, cousins and even his old teacher.

In the Bhagavad Gita, meaning ‘The Song Of God’, Krishna, during the battle, reminds Arjuna that because he is a kshatriya, or of the warrior caste, he has a greater duty to fight than he has towards his relatives.

In the course of the song Krishna gives Arjuna precise instructions on how to silence his mind and reach the Absolute so that to this day those learning to meditate can find the instructions for transcending thought in the Bhagavad Gita .

Cover

Title Page SARA BANERJI Shining Hero

Dedication Dedication Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Epigraph 1 Seduction by Suriya 2 A Little Suit of Shining Armour 3 Warlike Gestures 4 The Curse of a Yogi 5 The Dharma of the Kshatriya 6 Gold and Silver 7 Sati 8 The Song of the Gandharvas 9 Vana-Parva 10 Bad Omens 11 Udyoga 12 The Divine Cuirass 13 The Sun and the Moon 14 Apsaras 15 Draupadi’s Sari 16 A Moon-Shaped Arrow 17 Unity 18 Cosmic Consciousness Acknowledgement About the Author Praise Copyright About the Publisher Dedicated to Matthew Kneale, mentor and friend

Epigraph

1 Seduction by Suriya

2 A Little Suit of Shining Armour

3 Warlike Gestures

4 The Curse of a Yogi

5 The Dharma of the Kshatriya

6 Gold and Silver

7 Sati

8 The Song of the Gandharvas

9 Vana-Parva

10 Bad Omens

11 Udyoga

12 The Divine Cuirass

13 The Sun and the Moon

14 Apsaras

15 Draupadi’s Sari

16 A Moon-Shaped Arrow

17 Unity

18 Cosmic Consciousness

Acknowledgement

About the Author

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

Pritha, yet unwedded, bore him, peerless archer on the earth, Portion of the solar radiance for the sun inspired his birth .

The river, Koonty thought, was like Soma, the liquid god. A limpid animal to whom she came for comfort and to be freed of pain, though now, as she let the sacred water tickle against her ankles she wondered if she had imagined the interior gnawing. Or perhaps this holy river, annually stocked with melting goddesses, had cured her. Half an hour ago she had been certain she was dying but now she was well again. She stirred the water with her toes, started to feel happy. When she was little she would never have touched the water in this way. Then she had been afraid, for she had been told the story of the elephant who was snared by water serpents. As it was dragged, drowning, to the bottom of the river, the elephant implored the high gods for help. Vishnu had heard its prayer and, riding on his vehicle, the angel bird Garuda, appeared at the waterside. The great god, four-armed, crowned with a diadem, did not need to act. His mere presence had been enough. The serpent king and queen rose to the surface of the river and balanced in the water, their great and weighty victim struggled out of their tendrils and the Nagas folded their hands and bowed to the Lord Ruler of the Universe. But Koonty had feared that, in her case Vishnu might not think her sufficiently important to be saved and it was several years before she would believe that this tale was only a myth.

The stones of the riverbank had been smoothed by the slaps and caresses of ancient currents until they had become like dull jewels studding a water bangle. Even when the river lost control and drowned its own banks as though it no longer loved them, its stones stayed warm. But the river was not only a magic water woman bestowing wet kisses that grew rice. It killed as well.

Every year since Koonty was born she had seen it spread its transparent and reflective body over the land till houses were flattened, fields vanished and cuddled banks were lost utterly.

That was when Koonty and the zamindar’s children got a new playground. Sitting astride floating banana logs they bounced over the lost fields shouting, leaping and splashing on their banana ponies and trying to shove each other off into the drowning rice crop, while the peasant farmers mourned the loss of their livelihood. Paddling with their hands or punting with passing bamboo poles, pretending to be walking on water like yogis or crossing the ocean like foreigners, the children explored a new, wet world that, yesterday, had been paddy fields, cabbage crops, the road to Calcutta. A mirror world where an enormous yellow sky shone on the ground and only the tips of plants were visible. Sometimes their rubber chappals got sucked off and were bobbed away like rubber boats to be captured in the spring, while Boodi Ayah, wheedling, threatening, urging, would try to wade through the slush to get at them. But the watery ayah had closed her extended world to adults.

Koonty’s mother would rush out shouting, ‘What is this crazy behaviour? Who will marry a girl who is seen acting like a peasant child? You will end up like your sister if you go on like this.’ Shivarani, Koonty’s older sister, would never get married because she was too tall and was a Communist.

‘Me. I will marry Koonty,’ whispered Pandu, the zamindar’s oldest son, while Koonty’s dry mother, the lady of the land, the un-magical woman, was telling her husband, ‘You must do something about that wild girl before it is too late.’

‘What harm can come?’ murmured Koonty’s father. He did not look up from his book.