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The Mahabharata
Jean-Claude CarriĂšre, Peter Brook
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eBook - ePub
The Mahabharata
Jean-Claude CarriĂšre, Peter Brook
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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.
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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: Iâve composed a great poem. Iâve composed it all, but nothing is written. I need someone to write down what I know.
BOY: Whatâs your name?
VYASA: Vyasa.
BOY: Whatâs your poem about?
VYASA: Itâs about you.
BOY: Me?
VYASA: Yes, itâs the story of your race, how your ancestors were born, how they grew up, how a vast war arose. Itâs the poetical history of mankind. If you listen carefully, at the end youâll be someone else. For itâs 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: Whoâs that? It is someone with an elephantâs bead and a manâs body, who comes strutting toward them. He has writing materials in his band. Vyasa greets him warmly.
VYASA: Ganesha! Welcome.
BOY: Youâre Ganesha?
GANESHA: Rumor has it that youâre looking for a scribe for the Poetical History of Mankind. Iâm at your service.
BOY: Youâre really Ganesha?
GANESHA: In person.
BOY: Why do you have an elephantâs head?
GANESHA: Donât you know?
BOY: No.
GANESHA: If Iâve got to tell my story too, weâll 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 Shivaâs not my father. My mother did it alone.
BOY: How did she manage?
GANESHA: Itâs 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. âLet no one in,â 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 meâIâd only just been bornâso he said âOut of my way! Itâs an order. This is my home.â I answered, âMy mother told me to let no one in so Iâm letting no one in.â 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 explodedâhorde 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 motherâs 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. Iâm Ganesha, the bringer of peace. He positions himself with great care and says to VYASA: Iâm ready. You can begin. But I warn you: my hand canât 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. Weâre expecting someone?
VYASA: No.
GANESHA: So ⊠?
VYASA: Thereâs something secret about a beginning. I donât know how to start.
GANESHA: May I offer a suggestion?
VYASA: Youâre 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, âTake my sperm quickly to the queen.â 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: âI like you. Letâs make love, here, right away, and I promise Iâll turn your dreadful stench into a most delicious odor.â She cried: âNow! Here! In broad daylight! I canât!â 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 havenât 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.
VYASAâSANTANU: âYou take my breath away,â 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?
VYASAâSANTANU: 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.
VYASAâSANTANU: 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. âDonât ask!â Santanu told himself âI must never ask a question.â The next year they had another child. She cried:
GANGA: I love you!
VYASA: And drowned it. âDonât ask!â 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.
VYASAâSANTANU: Stop! Stop! Why these murders? Why are you killing these children?
GANGA: Why? I am Ganga. I am goddess of this river. I didnât 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.
VYASAâSANTANU: 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 miseryâit 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...