The Mahabharata of Palmira

2 Palmira prepares the ground

2 Palmira prepares the ground

‘It’s a story’, continued Palmira, ‘set in India a long time ago.’

‘How long?’

‘Well, let’s see... I think it was supposed to have taken place about five hundred years before the Buddha Gautama. So that would make it a few hundred years after the Prophet Moses. So, well, you can work it out, a thousand years before the Christ of Nazareth, fifteen hundred years before the Prophet Muhammad ―’

‘We only asked how long ago. We do know our dates. I thought you said it was going to be just for fun.’

‘Is it a true story, Palmira?’

‘Well, the story I’m going to tell you is based on a story told to me a few years ago, and that in turn was based on a great and ancient story about the Bharata people of northern India. That great story may have had some truth in it. But Vyasa’s version would have had rather less. And the story I’m going to tell you has definitely no truth in it whatsoever. In fact, Vyasa would probably be cross if I pretended mine was the same story at all ―’

‘That doesn’t matter if his story wasn’t true either — if his wasn’t true, why should it matter if you change it? They’re just both not true.’

Palmira smiled. ‘I wish it were as simple as that, Henry. No one owns the truth, no one owns facts. But fiction, well, that’s another matter, people get rather attached to their own... That reminds me... That reminds me of when the Hodja was once a witness called to testify in court ―’

‘Palmira!’

‘Not another one!’

Palmira ignored their protest and continued.

‘You see, a friend of the Hodja’s had been accused of stealing some sacks of wheat from the village grain store: these sacks, or ones very like them, had been found at this friend’s house. Well, he asked the Hodja to concoct a story in court to protect him.

‘“You’re not seriously asking me to lie in court, are you? Me? A respected man, a Hodja, wearing a turban, to lie in court before a judge?”

‘“But that’s why, Hodja. They’ll believe you. In any case, you tell stories to young and impressionable children — surely you can leave a learned judge to make up his own mind!”

‘“But my friend, don’t you know that I refuse to lie even to a child! Don’t you know that I always start my stories Once upon a time there was and there wasn’t... a three-headed giant or whatever. Now you’re asking me to lie in court!”

‘Unfortunately for the Hodja,’ continued Palmira, ‘when his friend was interrogated he actually told the court that the Hodja had been the source of the wheat. So the Hodja was summoned to explain.

‘“My learned judge,” began the Hodja, “I admit that it was I myself who sold the accused those sacks of barley”

‘“Barley!” cried the judge. “Hodja Nasreddin,” he said sternly, “we are talking here about wheat, not barley.”

‘“Yes, sir, but if one is making up a story, does it matter if one is talking about wheat or about barley?”

‘So, you see...’ continued Palmira. ‘...Where was I?’

‘How do we know where you were?’ complained the first Henry.

‘Palmira, will you promise not to keep interrupting with Hodja stories once you start properly?’

‘Well...’

‘And when you’re telling it can’t you try not to keep saying well. It’s irritating, Palmira.’

‘And you see. You’re always saying that.’

‘Well, I see...’ Palmira narrowed her eyes slightly as she looked at them. ‘Thank you, boys, it’s very kind of you to point these little things out... As I was saying, the story I’m going to tell you is not true to Vyasa’s. But you see — sorry — Vyasa himself in any case thought it was the sort of story you could only ever really tell your own version of. And Vyasa — do you remember him? No? Perhaps you were too young... He came from India... He had matted hair, very long ―’

‘Oh! Him! That smelly old ―’ The first Henry stopped in his tracks and shrank back slightly behind his brother, who looked down to avoid Palmira’s glare. But when Palmira started to rise the second Henry looked up at her.

‘We didn’t think, Palmira, we forgot... We forgot what happened... We remember now... Sorry, Palmira...’

Palmira went inside, limping more heavily than usual.

‘Why don’t you think before you speak!’ complained the second Henry.

‘You’re one to talk,’ returned his brother. ‘I mean think,’ he added. ‘I just forgot. Anyway, don’t you remember Palmira once saying that if you always think before you speak, you end up never saying anything at all. And you can be sure she thought about that before she said it.’

Palmira came out again carrying a jug of water and three cups. She poured some water for herself and the two boys.

‘Drink, or you’ll end up with humps like camels.’

She took a few sips of the water herself and sat down on her cushion.

‘Where’s the wine?’ she asked. The second Henry handed her the bladder, and she took a mouthful. The boys watched her in silence. They seldom saw her drinking wine. She replaced the bladder against the leg of the table, adjusted another cushion against the bare white plaster behind her, and leant back in her corner.

On the inside of the rectangular yard the plaster was exposed. But on the outside grew vines and creepers which turned in at the top to spread thinly over a wooden trellis spanning the four walls. This cast a mottled shade over the tiles; and at certain angles the sun pierced through quite easily.

The lower part of the four walls was solid; but the upper part consisted of slender white balusters supporting a plain coping on which in turn rested the trellis. Between the pillars the vines were thinned to admit the view beyond.

The marble table was at the north-west corner of the rectangle. It was against the walls of this corner that Palmira usually made herself comfortable. The twins would sit beside her against the west wall. Or sometimes facing her, leaning over the table, especially when they had books or papers to work on; from this position they could see the doorway to the house through the north-west balusters.

At the north-east corner a passage overgrown with prickly pears opened into tracks leading to the road. An opening in the middle of the north wall joined the yard to another passageway. To the left this led to the house. To the right it led to the storehouse and a workshop.

‘So,’ continued Palmira, ‘where was I?... Yes, you see, the story of the Bharatas has been told again and again, countless times. Vyasa knew his version by heart. In Sanskrit, of course. Some of it he had composed himself, some was based on older verses. What a memory he had! He told it to me in Latin, translating from the Sanskrit as he went along — because I didn’t know any Sanskrit. I can’t remember how many days it took him to tell it. He called each section a Parva, and he told me one of these every day. He compared the story to an ancient carpet, handed down over the centuries, into which different people had woven their own threads — a carpet which one could tell must have been wonderful, enchanting, but which had become a little ragged, slightly threadbare here and there, with the occasional patch. What I am going to do for you, boys, is to try to pick out my own favourite piece, which I hope lies near the centre, the heart of the ancient carpet. And I will try to weave into it my own threads, and put my own colours in the areas I think are worn thin. So, in the end you will get Palmira’s little rug.

‘It’s important that I tell you this,’ she continued, ‘because, unlike the Hodja, who changed the word wheat to barley, I will use many of the same names, the same events, the same places that are mentioned in the ancient story. But it will not be the same story. I don’t even know if the places I mention exist, or ever have existed, or are where I say they are. Still, as Vyasa himself said, it is part of the very beauty of this wonderful old carpet that each person sees in it different patterns.’

‘What’s Sanskrit like?’

‘Well, if Latin is like a mother to most of the languages round the sea, Sanskrit is like a great-grandmother. Not all of them — Arabic and Hebrew, for example, they work in a different way. Perhaps that’s why you two find Arabic hard. People like Vyasa still speak Sanskrit in India today, but rather as they speak Latin round the sea.

‘So... Yes, first I must tell you a bit about India at the time of the Bharatas. According to Vyasa it was a very interesting time. The Hindu religion didn’t really exist yet: it was in the process of being born. They were times of change. The ending of an era, the last great flame of the kshatriya fighting caste. Yes, you’ll get plenty of brave warriors, a battle or two, the occasional god, perhaps. Of course, it’s mostly men in this story. Women, as usual, were given only a limited part to play. Yes... Things haven’t changed very much. I suppose I can’t complain for myself, of course, not now, but I’ve had to ―’

‘What exactly is this story about? It’s not going to be another one about how unjustly women have been treated, is it?’

‘I thought you said it was going to be fun, Palmira.’

Palmira laughed. ‘Did I say that? Another thing you’ll need to know about concerns the castes.’

‘The castes?’

‘Yes. There were four main castes. First of all there were the kshatriyas. I say first because they were the rulers. Kings and princes were almost always of this caste. Kshatriyas were trained and skilful in all forms of combat and weaponry, but particularly the bow. Not the crossbow, of course, that wasn’t around in those days. The dream of every kshatriya — or so they would tell you — was to become a great chariot fighter: you see, they fought on chariots. They used their bows and other weapons while a chariot driver manoeuvred the chariot about. There were often raids for cattle and other livestock between rival kingdoms, so it was useful to have your own kshatriyas around to defend you against the kshatriyas who attacked you.’

‘Were they like the old Roman chariots, these Indian chariots?’

‘No, they were more like boxes. They had a rectangular floor, and sometimes quite high sides — not too high or the warrior’s aim would be restricted. A right-handed warrior usually stood on the left, with his driver on the right, because it’s easier to shoot towards the left if you’re right-handed. The sides of the chariots were usually just wooden frameworks covered in wicker or leather — nothing too heavy, but offering reasonable protection. The weight of the actual chariot had to be kept down because of all the weapons and equipment the warriors carried with them. They even carried ropes and leather cords for repairs. All these were kept at the back of the chariot, so there had to be a sort of wooden leg under the rear of the thing. Otherwise, when the horses were unyoked — or set loose by enemy arrows — the whole chariot would have tipped backwards on its axle.’

‘Oh! Did they only have two wheels, then?’

‘Yes, much more manoeuvrable than four wheels. Four-wheeled ones were used for ceremonies, but not for fighting.’

‘And how many horses did they have?’

‘Horses? Usually four abreast. Though ceremonial chariots could have two or even more rows of them. The horses had to be specially trained because the harnesses they used were quite uncomfortable. Anyway, that’s enough about chariots, boys... We were discussing castes, were we not? As I say, the warriors were usually kshatriyas. Then there were the brahmanas. These were educated in all the religious customs of the Bharatas, and studied all the branches of learning.

‘Then there were the vaishyas,’ continued Palmira. ‘These were responsible for agriculture and commerce. Ruled, of course, by the kshatriyas. Last, and more or less least, there were the shudras. These were workers: they did most of the physical work, and were also the servants of everybody else. I believe that the four castes were supposed for ceremonies and so on to wear different coloured robes: red, the colour of blood, for the kshatriyas; white, the colour of clarity, for brahmanas; the vaishyas were supposed to wear yellow, the colour of grassland and livestock; and black, the colour of the earth, was for the shudras. But at the time of my story people would generally only signify their caste with something like a belt or sash, or a headband or headcloth in the appropriate colour.

‘There were one or two other castes. Sutas, for example. These had originally been people of mixed birth, a mixture of kshatriya and brahmana, I think. But by the time of my story they were considered very low caste by both kshatriyas and brahmanas. Their colour was brown.’

‘What did they do, these sutas?’

‘As a matter of fact, most of the suta men were chariot drivers. That seemed to be their traditional role. Quite a skilled job, not to say dangerous. And they also had to look after the horses. But at least they were allowed to work alongside the other castes. There was a caste, the chandalas, who were not even considered to belong to a caste at all. They were outcasts.’

‘And could anyone be a kshatriya if they wanted?’ asked the second Henry.

‘No!’ said his brother. ‘Weren’t you listening? It went by birth. Isn’t that right, Palmira?’

‘Yes.’

‘So they were a bit like knights,’ remarked the second Henry. ‘Like our grandfather, mother’s father.’

‘Exactly. There were many similarities,’ agreed Palmira. ‘And of course the brahmanas were rather like old Henry’s clergy. In fact, kshatriyas, though they were the rulers, were usually very respectful to the brahmanas. And it was considered a terrible sin for a kshatriya to injure or kill a brahmana. Nevertheless, there was occasionally some tension between the two. And of course, as always, there were exceptions to the rule. Old Henry must have told you about bishops who could handle a sword as well as any knight. Yes? Well, similarly there were some brahmanas who became very skilled in warfare; and some kshatriyas who were peaceful and devout.’

‘And what did the kshatriyas do when they weren’t fighting?’

‘Well... They tended to play at fighting. They had tournaments, contests, exhibitions. And they loved games, especially if gambling was involved. In fact they took their gambling as seriously as their fighting. If one kshatriya challenged another to a fight, or to a gambling match — particularly a game of dice — it was considered the worst of cowardice to refuse the challenge. Yes, in theory they had a very rigorous code of honour.’

‘Are you ready to start, then?’

‘Patience! There are still one or two things I must tell you about. And by the way — I hope you don’t think I’m actually going to start the story today?’

‘What!’ cried both boys in unison.

‘Well, look where the sun is. Besides, I have to compose myself carefully before starting it. I have to organise my mind, collect my thoughts, choose my language ―’

‘Oh, you’re not going to tell it us in Latin, are you?’

Palmira smiled. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. What an interesting idea. No? How about Arabic, then?’

‘Don’t joke, Palmira. You know that’s still hard for us.’

‘All the more reason. Remember, everyone speaks Arabic along the coast. And it’s your father’s first tongue. Don’t you speak to your father?’

‘Of course we do, but not in Arabic.’

‘Anyway, Palmira, you said this story was going to be fun.’

‘What I meant, boys, was that I have to decide how I am going to phrase things. It’s not easy jumping straight in. I must think about how I can avoid the wells and you sees. The least I can do in memory of Vyasa is to tell the story with some dignity, which will be hard enough with you two around. One day I’ll tell you about Vyasa. It was he who showed me how to use the wind for the furnaces. I used to have to use bellows. Yes, he was certainly one of the most remarkable people I’ve met — and I’ve met many ―’

‘People! Men, you mean!’

‘Admit it, Palmira, we don’t get to hear of hardly any women that you’ve met on your travels. It’s usually men you tell us about.’

‘Nonsense... I suppose I may have more often met interesting men than women. But you see, that’s because men seem to stop women from doing interesting things.’

‘I don’t think that’s the only reason, Palmira, not in your case!’ The boys smiled knowingly at each other.

‘Well, I admit that interesting men have their attractions.’

‘Surely not Vy ―’ The second Henry managed to stop his brother from finishing.

‘As a matter of fact,’ corrected Palmira, ‘since you were about to ask, I was madly in love with Vyasa. The great pity is that he had taken vows of celibacy. Anyway, where was I? I do wish you wouldn’t keep interrupting me. Yes... Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll start. Tomorrow afternoon, after my siesta. After. I don’t want to be woken up, thank you. But wait — I must tell you a little about the gods.’

‘What gods?’

‘The gods of the Bharatas, of course. Or, I should say, my version of them. Because I have to say that I’m not very clear about them at all. You see, Vyasa never really explained them to me properly, he just left me to work them out. Anyway, I can at least tell you about the gods which may play a part in my story, even if they are not really like the gods of the Bharatas.

‘Well, there were the great three, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Together these three seemed to be the lords of more or less everything. But it may be that Vishnu and Shiva were really parts of Brahma, or aspects or guises of Brahma. I’m not sure. At any rate, Brahma seemed hardly ever to get directly involved in human affairs, though you do occasionally hear of Vishnu and Shiva intervening. Vishnu was in fact supposed to be born into human form from time to time.

‘But there were many other gods, less powerful than these three, who seemed to become involved in human affairs more often. Indeed, they sometimes used humans like pieces in a game which they played against each other ―’

‘Like chess?’

‘Yes, except that chess was not quite invented yet. Let me see...’ continued Palmira. ‘In my story there are going to be three quite important lower gods. There is Indra. He was much admired by the kshatriyas because he represented strength, power, physical skill. Then there is Surya, god of the sun. In my story he represents understanding and knowledge. And Dharma. Dharma was the god of morality, of values, aims and purpose. He was much admired by the brahmanas. And there were a number of gods who will play a smaller part in my story. There’s Vayu, god of the wind and weather. And the Ashwins. The Ashwins were twins, like you, though there the resemblance ends. They represented beauty and health.’

‘Aren’t there any goddesses?’

‘Oh yes, good question. Yes. Kali. Yes, I should mention Kali. She was very important. At the time of my story, she represents... Well, she was a mysterious goddess. Some say she was the consort of Shiva. Which reminds me, there’s the consort of Brahma, called Saraswati. There’s a legend that she invented the Sanskrit alphabet. Now boys, once I start, I don’t want any interruptions. If you don’t understand something, just wait, and if it doesn’t become clear in due course you’ll probably forget about it anyway.’

‘No interruptions at all?’ asked the second Henry, looking rather worried.

‘Well, if you’re desperate. It’s just that your interruptions are liable to break my rather frail chains of thought. I’d rather you could wait until I’ve finished for the day. That reminds me, talking of unwanted interruptions. Yes... I should tell you that Brahma tended to be terribly preoccupied. He was always busy concentrating. The whole world depended on him. Because if he stopped thinking about the world, even for just one brief moment, then the whole world would just cease to exist.’

‘You mean, the world was all part of Brahma’s imagination?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘But if he fell asleep, or stopped thinking about it, couldn’t he just imagine it again when he woke up?’

‘Oh no,’ said Palmira grimly. ‘You see, he was a figment of his own imagination as well. After all, he was part of the world. If everything was part of his imagination, where else could he be? So if he stopped thinking about the world, he himself would stop existing. And then he wouldn’t be there to imagine it all back again, would he?’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘Isn’t it impossible?’

‘But Henry, where’s the challenge in the merely possible? Eh? Now... all this made Brahma a little wrapped up in himself, irritable even. And when one day Indra and Surya came to him, he had no time for them. You see, Indra had aspirations to be the chief of the lower gods, on account of his great strength and power. But Surya resented this, maintaining that his own knowledge and understanding were more important than sheer power. And indeed, had Dharma not been above such self-seeking pettiness, he too would have objected to Indra’s presumptions. At any rate, the other two decided that they should go and ask the great Brahma to settle the issue once and for all, and determine which was the most powerful, Indra or Surya. So they went along to see Brahma. Dharma went along as well, just in case the great god should decide that the power of Dharma’s morality was more important than anything Indra or Surya had to offer.

‘Brahma, as you can imagine, was rather irritated at this deputation:

‘“Can’t you see I’m busy! I haven’t got time to deal with your petty squabbles. You’ll just have to sort this out yourselves.”

‘“How?” they asked.

‘“It’s obvious,” cried Brahma, rising to a temper. “Just find out which of you three has the greatest influence on the world of men!”’

Palmira took another sip of wine. ‘I think that’s all you need to know for the moment. We can start tomorrow afternoon. Yes? Good.’

Day One: The River