AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2)

by Anand Neelakantan

  “Before the rains, war will come and then what will happen to my money? It is all the more important that I secure my money now. Do you want me to broker a deal with the Pandavas?” Yuyutsu asked.

  “You will be paid after the war.”

  “Hmm, how sure you are of victory! But I am not so confident, I want my money now!”

  “You scoundrel! Have you no sense of gratitude or obligation to your country?” Suyodhana trembled with frustration.

  “I am only following my dharma. My duty is to trade,” Yuyutsu said, rubbing his thumb with his index finger. Overall, Suyodhana was a bad bet since Krishna was supporting the Pandavas. A message from Parashurama was lying safe in his waistband. By siding with the Pandavas, he was taking a huge risk, but Parashurama had promised him the better deal. If he won this gamble, he would not be trading in cloth and spices, but in countries and kingdoms.

  “Are you not ashamed to make such demands at this critical time?” Suyodhana towered over Yuyutsu, his fists clenched.

  “I am beyond such emotions. I do not concern myself about results. Detachment is my mantra, brother.” Yuyutsu emphasized the last word and smiled.

  “Do not dare address me as your brother.”

  “Are you afraid, Prince? Do not fret. I am not after your throne. Pay me well, pay me regularly, and I will govern the country for you.”

  Suyodhana punched Yuyutsu in the face. The fat merchant fell in a heap at his feet. But Yuyutsu only laughed and got back up. With provocative slowness, he wiped the blood from his nose.

  “Don’t stare at me like I am vermin. It is I who own this palace and most of this country, my dear brother.”

  “Get out, before I kill you!” Suyodhana said in a menacing voice.

  “Yudhishtra is a more business-friendly ruler than you, brother.”

  “You snake!” Suyodhana advanced threateningly upon Yuyutsu.

  “Money can buy all things, brother, even bravery, fame, and your kingdom and its little people.”

  Suyodhana shouted for the guards to escort Yuyutsu out. His half-brother chuckled. Scores of Yuyutsu’s own soldiers appeared, surrounding him in a protective ring.

  “Always looking for a fight, my little brother? You have no respect for businessmen. I am now going to the Pandava side. Send word whenever you want me. I am always available to the highest bidder.”

  Yuyutsu walked out from another business meeting. In one stroke, Suyodhana’s armed strength had halved, while the Pandavas’ had doubled. He should have been more careful with his words. To hell with it, this was a war he would fight alone if required, he told himself. When he looked around, he was alone. The cavernous oppressiveness of the hall that had seen many intrigues and battles was suffocating. Suyodhana no longer felt sure of the future.

  *****

  45 WINDS OF WAR

  “KRIPI,” DRONA CALLED OUT AS HE REACHED HOME. The news from the Sabha had shaken him to the core. He was certain there would now be a war. He would be compelled to choose between his son and his beloved disciple, Arjuna. If only he could make Aswathama see reason and get him to shift allegiance.

  Kripi opened the door. Seeing his grave, troubled face, she put a hand on his arm, but Drona merely pushed her away with a grunt and walked to his puja room. His sacred thread lay sweat-soaked across his chest. His mind seethed like an ocean in a storm. He prostrated himself before the idol of Shiva. ‘Lord of the Universe, show me the right path; show me my dharma. Should I fight beside my son or Arjuna?’

  If he stood by Aswathama, Drona knew he would have to give his support to Duryodhana, whom he had always despised. If he took Arjuna’s side, he would have to fight his own son. ‘What is my dharma? Have I not been the most pure of Brahmins? Have I not followed all the rituals and conducted all the ceremonial sacrifices expected of a Brahmin of the highest lineage?’ Then why was the Lord placing such an impossible choice before him?

  Drona heard his son enter the house and mother and son speak in whispers. He could feel his son’s eyes burning into his back. Then he heard Aswathama slam shut the door of his room. Drona raised his head, looked at the idol of Shiva, and gasped! Ekalavya! The untouchable was in his prayer room! How was it possible when the Nishada was dead? Hadn’t Krishna said he had killed Ekalavya? Then how was the Nishada standing where Shiva’s idol should have been?

  Drona’s throat felt parched, his hands shivered. “Mahadeva, are you testing me? Are you saying Ekalavya is immortal...that there is life beyond death? Forgive this ignorant Brahmin.” Drona’s lips trembled as he mumbled the Lord’s name repeatedly. Gradually peace descended on him like a gentle balm. Drona’s decision was made. He knew the side he would be on in the war. He owed it to the Nishada, whose future he had stolen. He owed it to his son. It was his dharma.

  There was the sound of excited knocking at the door. Dhaumya’s voice called to him from the street. Reluctantly, Drona rose from his prostrate position and wiped the dust from his forehead. When he opened the door, Dhaumya entered, grinning like a split watermelon. Drona offered the priest a seat and then sat down on the veranda swing. To buy time, he opened his paan box, took out two leaves and started filling them with lime and betel nut.

  “Guru Drona, war is now certain,” Dhaumya began.

  Drona nodded in silence, offering his visitor a paan before pushing the other into a corner of his own mouth. He pulled the spittoon closer and then said, “I was at the Sabha when Krishna spoke.”

  “It is the best thing that could have happened,” Dhaumya said, clearly delighted. He looked at the Guru in unabashed glee and then frowned when he saw Drona’s lack of enthusiasm. “Duryodhana will be finished...”

  “Hmm...”

  “All the Kauravas will die.”

  “Hmm...”

  “The Suta will die.”

  “Hmm...”

  “Krishna’s Narayana Sena will support the Pandavas. The Southern Confederate will declare their independence and join the Pandava cause.” Dhaumya counted them off on his fingers.

  “Perhaps.” Drona looked into the distance, at the waters of the shimmering river. A crow sat cawing outside.

  “Dharma will be restored,” Dhaumya said with finality.

  “Hmm...”

  “Of course, you will lead the Pandava army. Arjuna will be delighted to have you as Commander-in-Chief,” Dhaumya gushed, trying to keep his voice calm.

  Drona finished chewing his paan and then brought his gaze back to the priest’s face. “What makes you think I will?”

  “But, of course! You are the greatest of all Brahmin warriors and will naturally stand on the side of dharma.” Utter conviction rang in Dhaumya’s rather high-pitched voice.

  “You are right. I will stand on the side of dharma,” Drona nodded, picking up another betel leaf from his box.

  Dhaumya looked at the Guru. Something in his words made him pause. He ask hesitantly, “But you will act as Commander-in-Chief of the Pandava armies, won’t you?”

  “I am a soldier of dharma. I will fight in the Kaurava army.” Drona pushed the swing gently. Its creaking as it swayed back and forth accentuated the shocked silence. A lizard clicked tchak tchak tchak from the thatched roof above. Drona watched Dhaumya’s expression turn from shock to disbelief to anger. He spat vermilion juice into the spittoon. Kripi, who had come in with a few pots of buttermilk, stood frozen in surprise.

  “Guru, you are joking at my expense?” Dhaumya finally asked.

  “I have never been more serious, Guru Dhaumya.”

  “Are you mad? You are a Brahmin; you must support dharma.”

  “I am indeed a Brahmin and I know my dharma. I will do everything in my power to see the Pandavas defeated,” Drona stated.

  “You will be alone on the Kaurava side. You will have to fight Bhishma,” Dhaumya said desperately, trying to suppress the rising panic and anger in his voice.

  “So you think,” Drona answered calmly. “Bhishma will lead the Kaurava army. Another paan, Guru Dhau
mya?”

  “You are making a grave mistake, Drona. Your love for your son has made you blind. You will regret this all your life.”

  “Perhaps...”

  “You will fight against Arjuna?”

  Drona hesitated an instant. Something caught in his throat. He said in a gruff voice, “If that is what the Lord ordains.”

  “You are a fallen Brahmin.” Dhaumya’s lips trembled with anger. “You choose to fight against Krishna, Lord Vishnu himself?”

  “It is my destiny.”

  “You will rot in hell if you defy Krishna.”

  “So be it.”

  “You are worse than Kripa! You evil Brahmin...you Rakshasa! With the powers vested in me I hereby excommunicate you and your family from the Brahmin community,” Dhaumya proclaimed, his voice shaking with rage.

  “Dhaumya, Brahminism is not a caste but a way of thinking. I had become one of the living dead, caught in meaningless rituals and superstitious beliefs. But I now know the Parabrahmam; I am twice born – a real dwija.” Drona closed his eyes. In his mind, Shiva danced in his divine glory.

  “May you die an inglorious death,” Dhaumya cursed.

  Kripi dropped the pots of buttermilk in shock. She rushed to her husband and hugged his feet. Drona sat in meditative silence, the swing creaking ominously as it moved back and forth. Dhaumya stood up and rushed away without another word.

  “Do not cry,” Drona said to his sobbing wife. He knew she would be thinking of her son, imagining his gouged body and lifeless eyes. He knew he had never treated Kripi as his equal, nor had he ever expressed his love to Aswathama. He had always been the dutiful husband and stern father. Now he looked at his life’s faithful companion and said, “I always considered you my Lakshmi, massaging her Lord’s feet. But I should have seen you as my Shakti, my Parvati, my equal half, just as Shakti is to Lord Ardhanareeswara.”

  Kripi’s eyes swam with unshed tears. She could not believe the words her husband had spoken, words she had never hoped to hear.

  Drona shut his eyes. “It will be a shame if I survive this war.”

  Kripi tried to protest but Drona placed a hand on her head. “This is my promise to you, wife, your son will not die in this war. Not before me.”

  Kripi wept for the man she had more feared than loved. She felt guilty that she had worried more about her son’s life than her husband’s death.

  Drona’s feet were wet with Kripi’s tears as she bent her head in reverence. Drona’s face remained serene, his mind still. There were no cries of love or war.

  *****

  46 THE SONG OF GOD

  “YOU MEAN THE PANDAVAS SHOULD FORGIVE the shaming of their wife and thirteen years of exile?” Krishna had been arguing with his brother for some time.

  “The years of exile were the outcome of the Pandavas gambling away what they had. Duryodhana cannot be blamed for that,” Balarama stated unequivocally.

  “Duryodhana?” Krishna chuckled. “So a strong man can do anything he pleases? Only by winning the war against Duryodhana can the Pandavas avenge themselves.”

  “What makes you think the Pandavas will win?”

  “Brother, if the Pandavas lose, they will go to the heaven of the brave. Future generations will consider them heroes who died in the cause of dharma. If they refuse to fight, the world will see them as cowards. What could be more shameful than that for Kshatriyas?”

  “Krishna, thousands will die. The war will make so many women widows, so many children orphans. Can you even imagine the horrors of the famine that is sure to follow?” Tears of frustration and anger welled in Balarama’s eyes.

  Exasperated, Krishna replied, “Brother, it is the dharma of Kshatriyas to fight, to kill evil men and protect the weak...”

  “Is it dharma to kill? Ahimsa is the greatest dharma. All God’s creatures are divine; to take life is the greatest sin.”

  “What is life but an illusion?”

  “Life is an illusion only for you, Krishna.”

  “The entire universe is an illusion – maya. Life is just a dream.”

  “The pain of life is real, the joy of living is real, and the myriad emotions that make life worth living are all real.”

  Krishna smiled, “Brother, the wise do not grieve for the dead, nor love the living. The soul is immortal and pervades the entire universe. He who thinks that his soul is killed when his body is slain, is ignorant. The soul has no birth or death; it is unborn, unchangeable and eternal. Only the body perishes. Just as we throw away old or soiled clothes, the soul discards the body.”

  “Say that to a mother who has lost her child. Try telling that to one who has lost her beloved. What you say is merely an intellectual exercise, Krishna. It does not solve anything but acts as an excuse for violence.” Balarama turned away and walked to the window. He was weary of the world.

  Krishna looked at Balarama’s bowed shoulders and for a moment pity welled in his heart. He loved his brother but he could not stop now. Too much was at stake. “What is born will die, brother. What dies will be reborn. Day gives way to night and night to day. It is the eternal cycle of life. Why mourn the unavoidable?”

  Balarama shook his head in dismay but let his brother continue. He told himself not to be swayed by emotion.

  “That is the path of sankya,” Krishna stated.

  “Call it by any name you wish, but violence is wrong,” Balarama responded so softly that Krishna had to bend forward to hear.

  “Unfortunately, war has now become a necessity. If we allow Duryodhana to rule, there will be an intermingling of castes,” said Krishna.

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “It will result in the ruin of society as we know it. Lawlessness will ensue. No one will know what his dharma is.”

  Balarama smiled. “Ruin of society, Krishna? Because a few priests will not have their way?”

  “Brother, I have created four caste divisions according to the work people do. That is their dharma. As long as people know and follow their dharma, society will remain strong and stable. When there is adharma and people forget their caste and work, chaos ensues.”

  “Those who benefit accept your system as a divine message. But what of those who are crushed by it? Hunger and disease know no caste or race. Why have no divine beings manifested to destroy these evils?”

  “I have never sanctioned the crushing of one caste by another, brother. It happens as an aberration and will be dealt with later. A free society without rules is bound to self-destruct eventually. No creature is superior or inferior to another, but each has its own function in the natural order. So has caste.”

  “It is a beautiful theory but impossible in practice. Prejudice is born when divisions exist.”

  “Divisions are natural. The duties prescribed for Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas and Shudras are all different. Brahmins are those who seek knowledge, they must be restrained and austere. Kshatriyas must be brave and firm and have the bearing of rulers. Agriculture, the tending of cattle, and trade, are the duties of the Vaishyas. For the Shudras, duty consists in servitude to the other three classes.”

  “Krishna, there lies the problem.”

  “Brother, every man who engages in his duty as ordained, attains moksha. He should perform his duty without thinking about the fruits of his actions. Doing one’s duty as prescribed incurs no sin.”

  “Who decides what one’s duty is?”

  “The scriptures are the authority to determine what one should do.”

  “The scriptures are for man, not the other way round. Krishna, you speak of arbitrary divisions, unnatural ones.”

  “Unnatural? Nature deludes men into thinking they should live passionately. If everyone follows what is natural, without self-restraint, ruin will result.”

  The silence between the brothers was like an impenetrable fog. Finally, Krishna moved closer to Balarama. “For a yogi, pain and pleasure are alike. He is self-contained.”

  “A yogi?”

  “Wh
en a man gives up desire, he is freed from craving enjoyment. He has no affection or pride and thus attains peace of mind. He maintains equanimity in both pleasure and pain. That is the way of the yogi.”

  “Krishna, you are giving an impossible prescription for an imaginary illness. It is natural for the mind to be restless, to seek, to strive, to achieve what it can.”

  “A yogi knows this and anchors his mind on me. He learns to look at a Brahmin, a Chandala, a cow or a dog in the same way. A yogi is indifferent to the results of his actions. He performs nishkama karma.”

  “That is not possible, even in an entire lifetime of trying.”

  “Brother, who said it happens in one lifetime? The person who strives thus will be born again, and will strive from the point he reached in his previous life. It takes many lives to meet the supreme goal of being one with me.”

  Balarama smiled, remembering the naughty younger brother who had insisted on following him around. “And if he fails?”

  “Those who fail are born again and again, as worms or beasts. They have to work their way up to human form and start striving again.”

  “I do not understand, Krishna. A man does wrong karma and is then born as a beast, say a buffalo, but can we find anything more serene and detached than a water buffalo? It is indifferent to rain, sunshine, dirty water or dry grass. It is the picture of total contentment. Except for physical pain or pleasure, it does not worry about the results of its actions. Does that make the buffalo the supreme yogi? If it does, it should achieve moksha and not be reborn.” Balarama waited to see what his divine brother would say.

  “You are arguing for the sake of argument,” Krishna said, a trace of irritation in his voice. “Brother, a man’s concern should be about his karma, not the fruits of his action. He should be devoted to his work without getting attached to it, and be equally impervious to success and failure.”

  “Where can you find such a person, Krishna? How will I recognize someone with such a steady mind? How does such an unusual person sit, speak and move?” Balarama asked.

  The sarcasm in Balarama’s words left Krishna unmoved. “He is called a stithapranjna, one whose mind has equanimity. He is not agitated amid calamities, does not crave pleasure, and is free of attachments, fear and wrath.”