AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2)

by Anand Neelakantan

  Gandhari found her way to her sister-in-law and took her trembling hands in her own. “Do not leave. What will the people say about the King? About me?”

  “You are worried about appearances, Gandhari. I have suffered enough, living in your palace. Can you say no one poisoned me or arranged to stab me in my sleep? I have had enough. I will not stay a moment longer in this cursed place.”

  Gandhari withdrew her hands and steadied herself, trying hard to control the sharp words that rose to her tongue. What right had Kunti to accuse her? She was the daughter of the great Gandharan King, Suvala, the pativrata who had refused the light denied to her blind husband; no, she did not have to listen to accusations and abuse from a woman who had conceived children with men other than her husband. Gandhari’s lips curled in disdain. “Sister, it is your choice to leave. Let these servants be witness that the daughter of Gandhara has not failed in her dharma.”

  Before Kunti could answer, Gandhari had turned and left the room. When she reached the door of the royal chambers, she flinched at the sickening noise coming from within. Dhritarashtra was hammering the iron replica of Bhima with his mace. She walked in softly, not wishing to start a conversation. She wanted to be alone. She felt triumphant, afraid and angry at the same time. In her heart, she had hated the stiff formalities of the Hastinapura court from the day she had set foot in the city of elephants. Though she had learned to love her husband and her adopted land, she yearned for Gandhara in the quiet moments when she was alone. The vivid memories of the day her father and all her brothers except Shakuni, died in Bhishma’s invasion, still haunted her in her dreams. Even after all these years she woke moaning from her sleep, mourning her father and brothers. Her husband no longer stirred in his slumber, nor did the palace maids rush to enquire about her troubled dreams.

  But she was not the only one who had nightmares. Some nights, the shouts of Dhritarashtra challenging his long dead brother, Pandu, to a duel, would echo through the dark corridors. He would boast how his strong hands had stopped an elephant from trampling his brother in childhood, and how much better he was with the mace, despite his blindness. In the oppressive loneliness of the crowded palace, in the royal chamber fragrant with exotic perfumes, Gandhari would sit watching her sleeping husband – pity, revulsion and love filling her heart.

  She hated Kunti with a vehemence that was matched only by Kunti’s hatred of her. Her sharp intelligence allowed her to see how meaningless their hatred was, when they were both equal sufferers in a man’s world where women were stolen, pawned or deified, but never treated as equals. Yet they both fought like trapped cats, not against the trap but each other, maiming and scratching, fiercely protective of their kittens; yet showing faces of gentility and loveliness to the world watching them.

  In a way, Gandhari was relieved Kunti was leaving, but cold logic told her that it was better to let Kunti suffer in the palace than turn her out. She knew what Kunti was trying to do and hated her for her deviousness, while admiring her intelligence.

  Kunti was trying to turn public opinion against Duryodhana by playing the martyr. In the eyes of the public, Kunti was now a helpless widow, who had been thrown into the streets by the evil Duryodhana. Her son was now the demon who had tried to humiliate Kunti’s daughter-in-law and sent his cousins into exile after grabbing all their possessions.

  Dhritarashtra gave a bitter laugh when he felt Gandhari’s presence in the room. He turned to her saying, “Let her go, Gandhari. The sons of Pandu have gone to where they belong. Those begotten slyly in the forest belong in the forest. The palace is not for bastards.”

  What did this man know of the beast their son had unleashed? There was no point answering him. He would not understand. Yet she could not help saying, “You should not have allowed it to continue after the first game of dice.”

  “Ah, my dear, I gave them back everything after the first game. I was more generous than necessary to people with whom I share no blood. I did not ask the son of dharma to play again. Besides, Pitamaha did not object,” Dhritarashtra chuckled.

  “Do you know why Pitamaha did not object? Had the game ended there, you would have outwitted everyone with your act of noble generosity. We would have proved Yudhishtra to be an incompetent ruler who could keep neither his kingdom nor his wife safe, and they would have been beholden to us. That would have made Pitamaha irrelevant; you know he does not like you to take any decision without first consulting him. But now, everyone has forgotten your noble act, your humility in asking Draupadi’s forgiveness, and your good heart.”

  “Pitamaha has always disliked me, Gandhari. He denied me the crown until my brother died. Is it my fault I am sightless? In Pitamaha’s dharma, an impotent man like my dead brother, Pandu, could be King, but not the blind Dhritarashtra, who could defeat a hundred men in combat. He never did anything for me.”

  ‘Except invade a friendly neighbouring country, butcher the King and his sons and steal the Princess to marry him to you,’ Gandhari thought bitterly. “What is done cannot be undone,” she said calmly, touching her husband’s strong hands. “Call for Suyodhana. He needs to be told to stay quiet for some time. The public will lynch him if he moves out. The Magadhans and Sutas have spread exaggerated stories of his bad behaviour. I wish Kunti had stayed in the palace.”

  ***

  Yudhishtra walked with his gaze fixed to the ground. ‘I have lost everything. I have always followed dharma and given gifts to the Brahmins. I have never uttered a lie in my life, I have done all the ritual sacrifices, yet why has fortune forsaken me? Mother has left saying she does not trust me, that I might gamble her away too, one day. Oh, the shame! The shame of walking barefoot on the streets where my golden chariot raced along, the shame of so many eyes staring at my wife’s desolate face. Oh, the shame of losing to Duryodhana!’

  A blind dog came up to him and wagged its tail. A mellifluous voice rose, singing of Krishna’s love for the unfortunates of the world.

  “Bhima, I wait for the day you will bring me Dushasana’s blood. I will drink it with relish.”

  Yudhishtra shuddered at Draupadi’s words. The song faded away. The sound of rushing hooves passed them. Yudhishtra heard Arjuna exclaim between clenched teeth that it was Shakuni, Prince of Gandhara. He heard Sahadeva vow to crush the bastard’s skull one day. Yudhishtra did not speak a word. As they turned a bend on the royal highway, he paused to look back at the palace for the last time.

  “Why look back now? You gambled and lost everything.” Draupadi’s words furrowed his heart. “Never forget, Yudhishtra, never forget my shame, now or ever,” Draupadi said clearly as she walked past. His brothers followed her.

  The crowd that had tagged after them at first had long dispersed to their mundane routines. Yudhishtra stooped to gather a fistful of earth. He caught the eye of the beggar who had been singing, sitting under a tree close by. He felt embarrassed by his action. Did the beggar shake his head in disapproval? Yudhishtra could not be sure. When he looked back, both the beggar and the dog had vanished.

  ***

  Vidhura coughed, masking his hesitation. “Devi, I will send the priests to perform the ritual cleansing of this house.” He knew the rituals were essential to make a Shudra home fit for a Kshatriya lady. Kunti nodded silently.

  As Vidhura began walking away, Kunti said softly,” I do not know how to thank you, brother, but when my son Yudhishtra becomes King, I will ensure you are sufficiently rewarded.”

  Until that moment, Vidhura had not known that so much frustration lay dormant within him. He turned back, suppressing the retort that rose unbidden to his lips. “I am always at your service. I but do my duty.”

  Vidhura gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the anger he felt. When he had returned home from the Sabha, he had found Kunti waiting for him. She did not wish to live in the palace, she said. He knew what she wanted. Without a word he had ordered his wife to pack up. They would move to their unfinished home in the woods. He had not even allowed his wife to
voice her dissent.

  “God bless you,” Kunti said again.

  Vidhura felt pity for her, mingled with contempt. He did not wish to embarrass her further. The pride in the sacrifice he was making was exhilarating. His family were already far ahead on the road and he hurried to join them. As he walked, dry leaves cartwheeled in the breeze, dancing in the dust that swirled around him. A blush tinted the eastern sky. The birds had begun stirring in their nests. The street was deserted, though he could hear the sounds of cooking from a few homes. Vidhura felt overwhelmed by the events of the day. He had tried his utmost to stop the shaming of the Princess Draupadi. Why had even Bhishma remained silent, and why had he reacted so violently to Suyodhana once the event was over? There had been no need to sacrifice Karna. Was he seeing another side of Bhishma, a ruthless streak which Bhishma had kept hidden from him? The more he thought of the incident in the Sabha, the angrier he became. No one had listened to him, and no one would be spared.

  More than the incident itself, it was the fact that he had been ignored that upset Vidhura’s normally calm mind. All his self-consciousness about being the son of a dasi, all the insults, big and small, that he had faced from childhood, and all his fears of becoming irrelevant in the coming age, added to his frustration. What right had men like Bhishma, Drona, Kripa or Dhaumya to rule over him, when they behaved in such a cavalier fashion when a woman was insulted in public? They were proud to be Brahmins and Kshatriyas, yet they had not had the courage to speak out against adharma. Only the son of a dasi had spoken out against Suyodhana, there had been no dissent, except for the meek voice of young Prince Vikarna.

  Vidhura now felt a rising contempt for all the men he had held in high esteem before. He, a Shudra, would observe dharma more perfectly than all those highborn men, he vowed. He had even given up his home for Kunti to live in. He would show the world nobility lay in one’s thoughts and deeds and not in belonging to a particular caste. He would show them by his deeds who was superior – the Kshatriyas who gambled and fought, or the Brahmins who debated endlessly about the nuances of scriptures, or he, the son of a dasi. Suddenly he remembered Kunti’s words about Yudhishtra becoming King and stopped in his tracks. A deep sense of foreboding gripped him. There would be a war; he was sure of it. All that Bhishma and he had worked for would be futile.

  A small contingent of cavalry was approaching fast, their bobbing forms obscuring the rising sun. A few elephants and some rickety war chariots followed. When Karna passed by, Vidhura remembered Bhishma’s vow. Karna’s victory would end the Grand Regent’s time at the helm of affairs. Would he himself be able to work under Suyodhana? Could he work under anyone other than the gruff old man? He was afraid to think of the beasts that lay crouched in the dark folds of time. Perhaps Karna would not return.

  As he was nearing the forest, Vidhura saw another contingent of cavalry rushing north, with Aswathama riding in the lead. Where were they going? Why did these young men so desperately seek danger? From whom were they running? Vidhura could almost hear Shakuni’s laughter and the dice rolling on the floor. Someone was moving his pieces dexterously. They were all mere pawns in the deadly game of dice. He looked in the direction were Aswathama’s cavalry had vanished and said softly, “Son of Drona, do you know what awaits you in the snow-clad heights of Gandhara? Why are you so naively rushing to your death?” An owl that was perched on a branch above him hooted as if in reply.

  Vidhura wiped his perspiring face and hurried to catch up with his wife and sons.

  *****

  9 TRAPPED

  KARNA LOOKED AT THE VAST ARMY spread before him. His steady gaze betrayed none of the desperation he felt within. How long could he hold out? His own army looked puny compared to the ocean of men, horses and war elephants that waited on the other bank of the Narmada. He dismounted, abandoning his horse for a chariot. It meant putting his trust in an unknown charioteer of Sindh, but it was the only way he could use his stockpile of weapons.

  The first arrow struck perilously close to where Karna stood, spraying splinters of wood around him. From a distance, King Uthayan raised his bow in challenge. Karna answered with an arrow that took down the flag of the Chera King, smiling at the rage his shot produced. “Flame-throwers to the front,” he barked and three dozen men arrived in response to his command.

  The Confederate army answered with its own volley of flame-tipped arrows. Shrieks of men on fire, the neighing of frightened horses and the trumpeting of crazed elephants filled the air. What was that moving in the Confederate ranks? The ripple travelled quickly through the enemy lines. A major faction of the Southern Confederate army broke ranks and began crossing the river. To Karna’s surprise, they were not shooting at the Hastinapura army but at their own soldiers.

  “Stop firing! Wait!” Karna yelled. Immediately, runners dashed off in all directions to convey his order.

  A huge column of the Confederate army was advancing in a wide arc towards him. Was it a ruse? Why then were they holding white flags? As the first horse climbed out of water, their faces became clearer. Karna looked up at the sun, murmuring a prayer of thankfulness.

  The King of Kalinga dismounted from his horse and bowed low. Karna felt weak at the knees. He had been lucky, again. “Sir, we crave your pardon. You are the chosen warrior of the Sun God. We cannot fight against you.”

  The game had changed. The odds no longer seemed impossible. ‘How can I thank this man, this venerable old King of Kalinga, whose belief in his God is stronger than caste prejudices?’ wondered Karna.

  “Get the traitor first and leave the Suta to me.”

  Karna was shocked by Uthayan’s voice so near him. An arrow zipped past the King of Kalinga. Before Karna could think, the rushing cavalry of the Confederate descended on them like a tidal wave.

  “In the name of Surya,” Karna yelled over the din of metal clashing on metal, horses neighing and men crying in pain. He jumped into his chariot and drew his bow. His first arrow broke Uthayan’s bow. The next wounded the Chera King’s forearm.

  The waters of the Narmada turned red with the blood of men and beasts. The doubts that had plagued Karna that morning gave way to reckless enthusiasm. He lost count of the men he killed with his precise volley of arrows. Nevertheless, the Confederate forces pressed on.

  “Your Highness, with your permission...” In the mad melée, Karna did not hear what the Brahmin warrior near him was trying to say. Before he could answer, the man had gone, his horse jumping over obstacles and dodging arrows. ‘Where have I seen him?’ wondered Karna for a split moment. As the daredevil equestrian disappeared among the Confederate armies, the answer came to him in a flash. He was the Brahmin warrior from Kalinga, who had come first in horse racing so long ago in Muzaris. But what was he up to now?

  An arrow from the King of Vatapi, a Confederate General, struck Karna’s breastplate and fell to the chariot floor with a clang. It lay vibrating as if alive. Karna returned fire in one fluid movement. Using the catapult attached to his chariot, he propelled a mud pot of oil, hitting the Vatapi King’s chariot, drenching it in oil. He picked up the arrows wrapped in oilcloth, held them to the pot of fire and shot off the flaming missile. The Vatapi chariot burst into flames, causing the panicked horses to plunge in their harness and run wild. Some soldiers attempted to extract their King but the chariot collapsed in a burning heap. As his men watched in horror, their King was charred to death along with the horses.

  Karna immediately realized his error of judgement. The Confederate armies had resisted using unconventional weapons thus far. Till then the battle had been fought using Hastamuktha arrows and manual weapons. Now that he had broken the unwritten code of warriors by using a Yantramuktha missile, launched from a mechanical contraption, there was nothing to stop them pounding the Hastinapura army with their own missiles. It had been a trap and he had fallen into it. Karna berated himself for being an unthinking fool.

  Smoking arrows carrying poisonous herbs started descending on his forces.
Nagastras! They were notorious for leaving a trail of smoke that carried death with every breath. Karna’s men started falling as the smoke spread among the ranks. He desperately searched for the antidote. His Guru had taught him about the herbs capable of neutralizing the Nagastras. Where was the damned cache? Choking and coughing, Karna rummaged through his weapons. A fire-tipped arrow lodged itself in the canopy above his head and the material burst into flames. Through the haze and smoke he saw a pot of oil flying towards him and the smile on Uthayan’s face. Time was running out. Karna quickly mixed the herb powders, praying he had got it right. He did not even wish to imagine the terrible consequences, should the mixture go wrong. He thanked God for the body armour that protected him from the arrows that struck him. He put the mixture into a pot of oil and loaded it in the catapult. The pot began smoking, emitting a noxious smell.

  An arrow struck one of Karna’s horses. Something exploded near him, bursting into flames. It was only a matter of time before an oil pot exploded inside the chariot, which stood tilted at a crazy angle. The charioteer lay dead, an arrow sticking out of his neck. The wounded horse whinnied in agony, making the chariot rattle.

  As if possessed, Karna mixed ingredients and hurled pots among his men. Those who had survived the first blast of the Nagastras began recovering with his antidote. The time had come to pay back the Confederate armies, but before that, he had to release the horse from its agony. To do so, he had to get down from the chariot – a dangerous step which would make him vulnerable. Karna jumped down. Instantly, the shower of arrows harassing him stopped. He turned to look and read the impatience in Uthayan’s eyes to slay him but the Chera King held fire until Karna got back into position.