AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2)

by Anand Neelakantan

“You will have to earn it, Prince. You are acting in your selfish interests and I in mine.”

  “Suyodhana,” Karna said in a horrified voice, “do not accept such terms from this man. He is our captive. You cannot go against all the accepted norms of our society. I have given my word to Guru Parashurama that we will make amends and try to win back the acceptance of the Brahmins. We have become villains to many people by disrobing Draupadi and sending the Pandavas into exile.”

  “What are you afraid of, Karna? Is not my friendship enough? Why do you yearn so much for universal acceptance? I find your tone since returning from the South quite disheartening. I do not fear society. We must make new norms. I did wrong by Draupadi, but let no one use that as a tool to brand me as evil. I have no regrets. I did it for you. I did it for my bruised ego. Yudhishtra was a fool who gambled everything, including his wife, and lost. I prefer being called evil to being known as a fool.”

  “Did I suggest you disrobe Draupadi?” Karna asked indignantly.

  “Stop this and decide what to do with this Nishada,” Sushasana said, moving to stand between Karna and Suyodhana.

  “I accept your terms. I will crown you a vassal King for all the forest lands and their inhabitants. We will have the coronation here, today.” Ignoring the murmurs that rose in the Sabha, Suyodhana turned to a guard. “Summon Acharya Kripa. Tell him Suyodhana is making a Nishada a King. Request him to conduct the ceremony as per the Vedic rites.”

  “Brother, we are forgetting that one of us has not come back from Gandhara. When are we going to do something about it?” Sushasana asked and the Sabha fell silent.

  “Karna has returned and the Confederate has been crushed. Pitamaha will keep his word to me. So we will leave for Gandhara soon. More than Aswathama, I wish to meet my Uncle Shakuni. I have a few questions for him.”

  The arrival of the Prime Minister cut off Suyodhana. Vidhura stood under the massive arch of the door, his eyes red with fatigue and anger. Ekalavya could see the Prime Minister was seething inside. He walked in and eyed the Sabha with distaste. Suyodhana bowed low. Taking their cue from him, the entire Sabha bowed to the Prime Minister.

  Vidhura deposited the cloth bag he was carrying on a table. “Your Highness, here are the official seals of the empire.”

  “What is the meaning of all this, Uncle?”

  “Your Highness, these are the Royal Insignia of the Grand Regent of Hastinapura and the Prime Minister. May God be with you.” Vidhura walked out of the stunned assembly, his head held high.

  For a moment there was pindrop silence, then Suyodhana pushed Ekalavya away and called out to the fast vanishing form of the ex-Prime Minister. But Vidhura hurried away, neither answering, nor turning back.

  “Where is Pitamaha?” Visibly agitated, Suyodhana rushed out.

  The Sabha rapidly emptied, leaving Ekalavya standing alone, feeling ignored and unimportant. He wondered about the strange relationship Karna had with Suyodhana. Did Karna ever feel equal to the blue-blooded Prince? Did Suyodhana cultivate the Suta merely for his own selfish ends? It had shaken Ekalavya that the Prince had agreed to his allegations of selfishness. Suyodhana’s frank acceptance of his self-interest made him somehow more likeable. But he would never be a slave to Suyodhana, like Karna. They were emotional fools.

  Ekalavya was shaken from his reverie by a sharp punch to his stomach. “My father is a good man.” A little girl was standing waist-high before him with clenched fists. She dared him to contradict her, ready to throw another punch. Ekalavya burst out laughing. The girl punched him with all her strength.

  “Who are you, young lady? Why are you punching me? Ouch! That hurt; you are a strong woman,” Ekalavya said, trying to hide his amusement by clutching the belly the little hands had pummelled.

  “You will get more if you fight with my father. You will become chutney. Why do you call my father names, you black monster? Bhuta, that is what you are, a black bhuta.”

  “Who is your father, little one?”

  “Suyodhana, Crown Prince of Hastinapura. I am Princess Lakshmana. And you are not supposed to address me in that way. Also, you must bow to me.”

  “My apologies, Princess Lakshmana.” Ekalavya knelt on both knees and bowed low. “I do not bow to anyone, not even to the King or your father, but I will make an exception. I will bow to you.”

  “Hmm, I forgive you. Next time bow when we meet. Why did you call my father an evil man?”

  “Princess, I did not call him that.”

  “Are you really a bhuta?”

  “Yes. I am a bhuta of the dark forests.”

  “Do you belong to the bhutaganas of Lord Shiva?”

  “Princess, I am Lord Shiva.”

  Lakshmana peered at him intently and Ekalavya bit his lips to control his laughter. A little boy who was playing with a toy cart nearby looked up at hearing the name of Shiva and walked towards them.

  “No, you are lying. You are not wearing the snake necklace,” pointed out Lakshmana.

  “Oh, I left it in the forest. It has gone to visit other Nagas.”

  Lakshmana’s gaze travelled down and stopped at Ekalavya’s mutilated hand. The Nishada quickly tried to hide it, embarrassed by his imperfection. Suddenly he became aware of his position. He was a low-caste untouchable, chatting with the Princess of the empire, in the Sabha. In earlier times, they would have purified the place he had stepped on with cow dung. Now he stood free inside the most important building in all of Bharatavarsha.

  “You do not have a thumb. Show me, show me.”

  “No.”

  “Please show me.” Lakshmana grabbed Ekalavya’s hand.

  Reluctantly the Nishada opened his palm. He felt annoyed; the Princess was making fun of him. He wanted to run from this sickening place.

  “It must have hurt you so much!”

  More than you could ever imagine, Princess. More than any one of you will every feel. Ekalavya tried to pull his hand away, but the little girl held it tight between her own. He looked around, embarrassed. He was an untouchable and the Princess was holding his hand. That hand... If anyone came in and said something to him now, he would kill him, the Nishada vowed. For a moment he thought of shoving the little girl away and running off. The ghost thumb itched.

  Shocking him, Lakshmana kissed his hand. Despite himself, tears welled in the Nishada’s eyes. “That should make you fine. That is what my mother does when I get hurt.”

  “I will never let you get hurt, my Princess,” Ekalavya said hoarsely. He looked away, not wanting her to see his tears. He smiled bitterly. All those years of hard struggle and fighting, and now a little girl had broken all his defences with her dimpled smile.

  “How did it happen?” Lakshmana asked innocently.

  “It is a long story and you will fall asleep.”

  “Oh, but I love stories. Please tell me the story.”

  “It is a sad story and you do not want to hear it.”

  “Oh yes, I do,” she insisted, trying to shove aside the little boy who had sidled up to her, his eyes wide in anticipation of a story.

  “Oh do not mind him, he is my brother, Lakshmana Kumara. Please tell me the story.” Lakshmana sat down and her brother followed her example. The children looked at the Nishada eagerly. Reluctantly, Ekalavya sat down. The children smiled at each other, clapping their hands in glee.

  While Suyodhana faced Bhishma in another wing of the palace, the Nishada sat with the Prince and Princess in the centre of the Sabha and started his story. “Once there was a Nishada boy who wanted to be an archer, but he was so poor that he starved on most days. One day, when he thought he would die of hunger, he entered the palace grounds to steal some mangoes. There he met a Prince, an evil Prince...”

  *****

  19 THE MERCHANT

  SUYODHANA DID HIS UTMOST to persuade Bhishma and Vidhura to change their stand, but they remained adamant about resigning from their respective positions. Bhishma then advised Suyodhana to forget about Aswathama in Gandhara
and get on with ruling the country. This resulted in yet another argument between the Patriarch and the hot-blooded Crown Prince.

  Finally, when Bhishma realised that Suyodhana would not heed his advice, he sighed wearily and said, “If you see Shakuni, do not stop to ask questions; cut off his head and bring it to me. This is the only thing I ask for the long years I have served this country.”

  Suyodhana was surprised by Bhishma’s anger. But he understood the pain of betrayal; Shakuni had done it to himself. There was no time to waste, he had to see his father and get his permission to mount an attack on Gandhara. Suyodhana bowed to the Patriach and hurried towards his father’s chamber. When he thought about Bhishma’s words, he began to feel doubt gnawing at him. Would he have the courage to cut off the head of the man he had once trusted and loved? Perhaps, if Aswathama was dead, he would be able to do it. But if Aswathama was still alive? Suyodhana had no answer.

  ***

  “No one would dare touch my son. He is the Crown Prince, Gandhari. I will not allow him to suffer my fate. No one with a sweet tongue and poisoned heart will steal his birthright, like they did mine. Have you heard, the Suta conquered all of Bharatavarsha? My son did well by choosing him for a friend, without bothering about his caste and lineage. Karna has returned victorious, and I am now Emperor of a land stretching from the snow-capped Himalayas to the sea-kissed Kumari.”

  “I wish Suyodhana had not befriended that Suta. It has made him unacceptable to many powerful men. And now he has made a Nishada King of the forest lands.”

  “Bah, Gandhari! Who cares for the opinion of a few priests who know nothing about warfare? Such matters concern only Kshatriyas. I admire the Suta’s pluck in challenging Arjuna. I can sympathise with him, for I see myself in him. I have told you before but I shall tell you again now, they would keep me away from arms; hiding the swords, maces, bows and arrows from me when I was a little boy. I would sit in a corner of the practice grounds, beside the idol of Kali Ma, nibbling on the sweets the servants gave me to keep me amused so that I would not disturb the practice of my brother Pandu. I was blind and could get hurt, they told me. So I was kept away, while my brother was trained by none other than Bhishma Pitamaha.”

  Dhritarashtra stood up and walked to the iron replica of Bhima. Caressing it, he allowed his fingers to linger on the dents his mace had made in the iron body. “Whenever Pitamaha left us alone, Pandu would challenge me, making fun of my clumsiness. He was not cruel, he was just being a boy, but at the time, it hurt. It still does. I had my pride and was not one to back away from a challenge. The same blood of the great emperor Bharata flowed in my veins, as it did in Pandu’s. For the first few years, he would lick me in every fight and scream with joy, sitting on my chest. The servants would watch with amusement, commenting on my handsome brother and expressing sympathy for my blindness. More than anything else, the sympathy hurt. Unknown to anyone, I began practising by myself. When the mace fell on my foot, when swords and daggers cut my fingers, or the strings of bows snapped and lashed my face, I refused to cry. I was a Kshatriya! I am not a learned man but I was determined to beat my brother, my handicap notwithstanding. After all, I was to be the next King and kings were the best warriors of all.”

  Gandhari did not speak. She had heard it all many times before. The tale never failed to move her to tears. If not for such stories, she would have gone back to Gandhara long ago.

  “I got better and better. Five years later, built like an ox, I could shoot better than him, fight better with a mace, and defeat him in hand-to-hand combat. What I lacked in eyesight, I made up with iron will and my other senses. On the day of our graduation, I demonstrated my skill in front of all the citizens of Hastinapura. An elephant had run amok that day, trampling men and horses. I was in the middle of the arena, a blind man with a mace. Even now I can hear the terrified screams of the spectators. To his credit, Pandu ran to stand between the charging elephant and me. I heard the crowd groan as his arrows missed the elephant’s head. The beast was so close that I could smell it. I jumped onto my brother’s shoulders and crashed my mace on the beast’s head. The elephant collapsed. I waited for the crowd to cheer. They did, but it was for Pandu. In the split second between my blow and the elephant falling, he had pierced his sword into the elephant’s mouth. Pitamaha declared that Pandu’s sword had killed the beast, and that he had saved his blind, helpless brother. The Magadhas and Sutas sang of Pandu’s bravery, when anyone with some knowledge of elephants knew a beast that size could not die with a sword thrust, certainly not immediately. It was my mace that killed it.”

  Dhritarashtra took a deep breath. He did not speak for some time. Then, with a sudden show of anger, he slammed his fist on the wall. “I saved my brother but there were no songs about my courage. He was the hero. And that was just the beginning. I was cursed with blindness, so I did not deserve the throne, even though I was the firstborn, they said. How could a blind man lead the country in a war, they asked. My brother edged past me, making me a figure of pity. I was cheated at birth, but it did not stop me from eventually becoming King. Fate and destiny interfered in mysterious ways.”

  A wicked smile played on Dhritarashtra lips, “God has a way of looking after people like me, Gandhari, men who are shunned by all for no fault of theirs. Men like Karna cannot die unless they are broken from within. We do not need the crutch of scriptures to prop us up. I am proud of Suyodhana for standing by Karna. I know that many, including Pitamaha, wish Karna dead. Why did you turn your head when I said that? Do not deny you turned your head, for I can sense your movements, my dear. You are surprised, Gandhari? I know many things, I who act like a fool and act as if I were helpless without Pitamaha and the other nobles. They all imagine I am as helpless as a calf gone astray, and would never survive alone in this cruel world, nor win. But I have my own spies and I keep a close watch on things happening around me. Don’t laugh, there are ways to watch without eyes.”

  Dhritarashtra leaned towards his wife, his face inches from hers. “Do you know why I act like a weakling? The moment I show I can stand on my own without their support, they will conspire against me. I play a part so they can imagine it is they who are running the kingdom. I know Bhishma, and I know he rues the day he relinquished the kingdom. I humour him by saying foolish things and posing as if I cannot take decisions, so that he feels powerful and important. In this way I keep the courtiers at bay, so they do not replace me with someone else. Who knows, they could even appoint Vidhura King if they found out what I really thought of them. After all, we share the same father. They would find some scriptures to justify even that. Of course, I know Vidhura would not be happy with such a decision. He is truly pious. Our scriptures can be interpreted to suit what a few priests want, so I do not take any risks, at least not till Suyodhana can take over. Now call him and give him the benefit of your valuable advice and let me play the affable fool.”

  Dhritarashtra took up the mace and began hitting the iron sculpture again. For the first time Gandhari realised she had not married a fool, but it did not make her feel happy. It made things more difficult. She called out to a guard to fetch the Crown Prince to her chamber. When Suyodhana arrived, an intense argument ensued between mother and son.

  The more Dhritarashtra heard, the more worried he became. His son was not practical. He was an idealistic fool who valued friendships, relationships and such abstract things over strategy and practicality. He loved his son, but his shrewd mind told him that people who used the concept of dharma as a weapon would find a way to trick his son. They would paint him black, citing his foolish act in the Sabha by shaming his cousins’ wife, and make killing him an act of dharma against adharma.

  The same people had once cheated him of his crown, quoting obsolete scriptures, and they would do it again to his son. Because of the loyalty he inspired, and his clean heart, his foolish eldest son would drag all his brothers and friends towards disaster. Then they would invite Pandu’s son to sit on the throne, his throne.
No! He would not place all his bets on his idealistic son. He had to make his moves carefully. None but his own blood would rule Hastinapura. The bastard sons of Pandu would not inherit at any cost. If they did not allow Suyodhana to inherit, Dhritarashtra would outmanoeuver them. He knew that he himself would appear ridiculous by doing what he planned to do, but he had played the helpless fool for long enough to get away with it. The game was getting deadly with his and his brother’s sons sharpening their swords. They would fight like lions. He needed to bring in a vulture.

  There were Brahmins, Kshatriya and Shudras on both sides. It was time to bring a Vaishya into the game, and who better than the greatest of them all, the merchant par excellence – Yuyutsu? In fact, he had already written to his son by a Vaishya woman. He had heard that Yuyutsu’s ships had reached Prabhasa and that his caravan was on its way to Hastinapura. This was not the first time Yuyutsu had visited him, but it would be the first time Dhritarashtra acknowledged him as his son. It was certain to create problems with Gandhari when she realised he had another son, by the Vaishya maid who had once come to help her. But Dhritarashtra knew he could ride the storm. Gandhari had too much at stake. Moreover, the best of it was that Yuyutsu was older than both Suyodhana and Yudhishtra. In other words, he could stake a claim to the throne of Hastinapura. Dhritarashtra chuckled. And this blind fool would sit and watch the Gurus deal with his ace move. ‘Pandu, let us see who wins the final round and whose sons inherit Hastinapura.’ Dhritarashtra began to laugh.

  Gandhari and Suyodhana stopped their argument and turned towards him in surprise. “Gandhari, my son will inherit the throne,” he said chuckling.

  ***

  “Father, it is imperative that we go to Gandhara,” Suyodhana said, eyeing his mother sitting nearby. The little twitching of her lips was the only indication that Gandhari had heard her country of birth mentioned.

  “Yes! Karna has won us Bharatavarsha. Go to Gandhara, and then Cheenadesa and Yavana, filled with those yellow-haired Mlechas, and capture them all. We can rule the world. I will request Bhishma Pitamaha to lead the armies,” Dhritarashtra said extravagantly.