The Mahabharata

Jean-Claude Carrière, Peter Brook

• Publisher: Methuen Drama
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781350058354
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Drama
• Index: Literature

A unique dramatization of India's greatest epic poem, fifteen times longer than the Bible, The Mahabharata has played to enthralled audiences throughout Europe, the Far East and America. Regarded as the culmination of Peter Brook's extraordinary research into the possibilities of theatre, the production has been hailed as the 'theatrical event of this century' (Sunday Times). British audiences encountered The Mahabharata, on stage and television, in the late eighties. This volume contains the complete script of Carriere's adaptation in Peter Brook's translation, with introductions by each of them.

PART I

THE GAME OF DICE

THE BEGINNINGS

A boy of about twelve enters. He goes toward a little pool Then a man appears. He is thin, wearing a muddy loincloth, his feet bare and dirty. He sits thoughtfully on the ground and, noticing the boy, be signals him to come closer. The boy approaches, slightly fearful The man asks him:

VYASA: Do you know how to write?

BOY: No, why? The man is silent for a moment before saying:

VYASA: I’ve composed a great poem. I’ve composed it all, but nothing is written. I need someone to write down what I know.

BOY: What’s your name?

VYASA: Vyasa.

BOY: What’s your poem about?

VYASA: It’s about you.

BOY: Me?

VYASA: Yes, it’s the story of your race, how your ancestors were born, how they grew up, how a vast war arose. It’s the poetical history of mankind. If you listen carefully, at the end you’ll be someone else. For it’s as pure as glass, yet nothing is omitted. It washes away faults, it sharpens the brain and it gives long life. Suddenly the boy points, indicating a strange form approaching in the distance.

BOY: Who’s that? It is someone with an elephant’s bead and a man’s body, who comes strutting toward them. He has writing materials in his band. Vyasa greets him warmly.

VYASA: Ganesha! Welcome.

BOY: You’re Ganesha?

GANESHA: Rumor has it that you’re looking for a scribe for the Poetical History of Mankind. I’m at your service.

BOY: You’re really Ganesha?

GANESHA: In person.

BOY: Why do you have an elephant’s head?

GANESHA: Don’t you know?

BOY: No.

GANESHA: If I’ve got to tell my story too, we’ll never finish.

BOY: Please.

GANESHA: Right. I am the son of Parvati, the wife of Shiva.

BOY: The wife of the great god, Shiva?

GANESHA: Himself. But Shiva’s not my father. My mother did it alone.

BOY: How did she manage?

GANESHA: It’s not easy. To cut a long story short, when I arrived in this world, I was already a fine, sturdy boy, just about your age. One day, my mother told me to guard the door of the house. She wanted to take a bath. “Let no one in,” she said. An instant later, Shiva was standing in front of me, wanting to come into the house, his house. I blocked the way. Shiva did not know me—I’d only just been born—so he said “Out of my way! It’s an order. This is my home.” I answered, “My mother told me to let no one in so I’m letting no one in.” Shiva was furious. He called up his most ferocious cohorts. He commanded them to flush me out, but I sent them flying. My force was superhuman. I blazed, I glittered, I exploded—horde after horde of demons withdrew in shame, for I was defending my mother. Shiva had only one way left: cunning. He slipped behind me and suddenly he chopped off my head. My mother’s anger had no limits. She threatened to destroy all the powers of heaven and smash the sky into tiny splinters. Shiva, to calm her down, ordered a head to be put on me as quickly as possible, the head of the first creature to come by. It was an elephant. So there we are. I’m Ganesha, the bringer of peace. He positions himself with great care and says to VYASA: I’m ready. You can begin. But I warn you: my hand can’t stop once I start to write. You must dictate without a single pause.

VYASA: And you, before putting anything down, you must understand the sense of what I say.

GANESHA: Count on me. A silence falls and lasts a few moments. We’re expecting someone?

VYASA: No.

GANESHA: So … ?

VYASA: There’s something secret about a beginning. I don’t know how to start.

GANESHA: May I offer a suggestion?

VYASA: You’re most welcome to.

GANESHA: As you claim to be the author of the poem, how about beginning with yourself?

VYASA: Right. A king, hunting in a forest, fell asleep. He dreamed of his wife and there was a joyful explosion of sperm.

GANESHA: Very good start.

VYASA: When the king awoke and saw the sperm on a leaf, he called a falcon and said, “Take my sperm quickly to the queen.” But the falcon was attacked by another falcon, the sperm fell into a river, a fish swallowed it. A few months later, a fisherman caught the fish, cut it open and found in its stomach a tiny little girl, whom he called Satyavati. She grew up. She became very beautiful, but unfortunately she smelled most dreadfully of fish. This made her very sad; no one would come near her. Then, one day, she met a wandering hermit who said to her: “I like you. Let’s make love, here, right away, and I promise I’ll turn your dreadful stench into a most delicious odor.” She cried: “Now! Here! In broad daylight! I can’t!” So the hermit drew a thick mist across the river and fields, he took her to an island, she opened herself to him and as she did so she became fragrant, irresistible. . . .

BOY: They had a son?

VYASA: Yes. I am that son, Vyasa. And Satyavati went back to the fisherman, whom she called her father.

GANESHA: Keep going, son of the mist. We haven’t yet started. What happened at the beginning?

VYASA: In those days, the king was called Santanu. One day, he was walking beside the river when suddenly there appeared before him a woman of a beauty that beggars description. Vyasa himself hows to a woman (Ganga) who has just appeared.

VYASA–SANTANU: “You take my breath away,” he told her. Wonder blows my mind. Whoever you are, creature of darkness or spirit of the sky, be mine.

GANGA: Do you accept my conditions?

VYASA–SANTANU: At once. What are they?

GANGA: You will never challenge my actions, nor oppose them, whether you find them good or bad. You will be neither curious nor angry and you will never ask the slightest question, on pain of seeing me leave you instantly.

VYASA–SANTANU: I accept. Come.

GANGA: I come.

VYASA: They lived a year of boundless love. A child was born. His mother wrapped him in a piece of cloth, cried:

GANGA: I love you!

VYASA: And laughing, threw him into the river. “Don’t ask!” Santanu told himself “I must never ask a question.” The next year they had another child. She cried:

GANGA: I love you!

VYASA: And drowned it. “Don’t ask!” Santanu repeated. And so it went, for seven years. The eighth year, an eighth child was born.

GANGA: I love you! Ganga prepares to drown her eighth child Santanu cannot bold himself back any longer. He cries out.

VYASA–SANTANU: Stop! Stop! Why these murders? Why are you killing these children?

GANGA: Why? I am Ganga. I am goddess of this river. I didn’t kill these children, I saved them. Like me, they were of divine origin, but condemned to be born and die again amongst men. I agreed to set them free and that is why I laughed. Now I must go. This eighth child will be called Bhishma. He will be infallible, invincible. Farewell.

VYASA–SANTANU: And the goddess vanished.

BOY: What happened to the child?

VYASA: She took him away. The world knew twenty years of happiness. Santanu reigned with perfect justice, there was no war, no misery—it was a golden age. One morning, twenty years later, he was taking his customary walk beside the river when suddenly, bubbling and churning, the water opened and out of it rose a resplenden...