AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2)

by Anand Neelakantan

  “Why were your grandsons, who had done no one any harm, punished like this, Mother?”

  “It was their fate, Son...destiny...”

  With a viciousness that startled the people around him, Yudhishtra shouted, “Fate? No, do not blame fate for this, Mother. Remember the night at Varanavata when we trapped five Nishadas and their mother and left them to the fire? They were innocent, like our sons, yet we sacrificed them quoting karma and dharma. Well, our karma has caught up with us. The flames that took the Nishadas have taken our sons, too.”

  The priests coughed and cleared their throats. Dhaumya did not know what to say to Yudhishtra. All he had wanted was a King who would be putty in his hands, whom he could mould like a potter uses his wheel to shape a pot. He wondered whether he had instead got brittle wood that crumbled at the first touch. “Dharma is...” he began.

  Draupadi stood up. “Forgive me, Guru, for interrupting your wise words.” She gave a bow that was an affront in its elaborate humility.

  Turning away from the fulminating Guru, Draupadi said to her husbands,” I want the man who killed my sons to be brought before me, dead or alive. I will not allow the funeral of my sons to take place until the cursed Brahmin has been dragged here.”

  Yudhishtra tried to speak, but Draupadi raised her hands. “Indulge me, King, one last time. This is a mother’s request.”

  Arjuna and Bhima did not wait. They ran through the crowd that had come to offer condolences and gawk at the misery of the royal household. A chariot halted before them. Bhima took over the reins, from the charioteer. Arjuna jumped in just as Nakula and Sahadeva came running, carrying Arjuna’s weapons, and climbed into the chariot as well. The four brothers were ready to hunt down the killer of their sons. The chariot sped past the endless line of carts, horses, donkeys and bullocks carrying the dead and maimed. Hundreds of foot soldiers dragged themselves alongside the wounded. Bhima yelled at the bedraggled survivors of the great war to make way.

  The chariot turned off onto a rough forest path. As they swerved and swayed along the winding path that led to the hills, Bhima wondered why there had been no fuss when his eldest son, Khatotkacha, had been killed, or why Arjuna had not chased after the priests who had sacrificed Iravan. Then he shrugged his shoulders and whipped the horses. It was not for him to think, his duty was to do. He would find that Brahmin and crush his skull with his bare hands for killing his son; more importantly, for causing Draupadi pain. Aswathama was cursed and would pay a heavy price.

  *****

  77 JAYA

  WHEN ASWATHAMA REACHED VYASA’S ashram, the morning dew still clung to the blades of grass. The air felt fresh after the previous day’s rain and the world looked as beautiful as a woman after a bath. A gentle breeze carried the sound of chanting and the aroma of a sacrificial fire. Smoke rose over the ashram, dancing in the wind and rising to heaven, carrying the offerings of mortal men to the immortals who had no needs. Aswathama reached the place where deer lived in harmony with tigers, and snakes with mice, covered in blood, reeking of murder and sin. Vyasa eyed Drona’s son without pausing his chanting of the Vedic mantras. Aswathama collapsed near the sacrificial fire. Once the morning homa was completed, Vyasa asked his disciples to fetch herbs and water to clean the Brahmin.

  When Aswathama awoke, he was lying on a reed mat. For a moment he was confused, uncertain where he was. Vyasa’s gentle eyes were looking at him. Aswathama tried to sit upright but the sage gently pushed him down again, saying, “Rest, my son.”

  “No, I am a sinner. I killed sleeping men. I have committed a great sin,” cried Aswathama. “The blood of innocents is on my hands.”

  “Know that you are neither the slayer nor the slain. You are just an instrument of destiny. Their time had come.”

  Vyasa’s words did not console Aswathama. He touched the gem on his headcloth and wept. His father had been right; the accursed gem had turned him into a sinner. For a fleeting moment, he was amused by the thought. How could a gem be blamed for his folly and sin? He heard someone moving outside his hut; his warrior instincts surfaced and made him search for his sword. It had vanished.

  “This is a place made sacred by thought and sacrifice, son. Here, there is no room for weapons. Your weapons have been taken far from the ashram,” said Vyasa, watching Aswathama.

  The Brahmin felt vulnerable without his weapons. When had he ever been without them since his boyhood days? He was tempted to argue that his enemies were at his heels, but one look at Vyasa’s dark and lined face silenced the words on his lips. Aswathama drifted into the sleep of the damned. When the sun had baked the earth and was leaving the sky, Aswathama woke to the distant sound of an approaching chariot.

  Vyasa sat cross-legged, singing verses in a melodious voice. His chief disciples, Vaishampyana and Jaimini, sat before him, scribbling whatever the sage sang on palm leaves. The verses were not from the Vedas, Aranyakas or Upanishads, but they nevertheless sounded familiar. Then it struck Aswathama that Vyasa was singing the story of the Kuru dynasty. He was singing of Drona, his father, and how he arrived at the palace of Hastinapura with his wife and little son. As Aswathama listened, a sadness beyond words descended on him. How different it could all have been, he thought. Through misty eyes, he looked at the sage and then blinked unbelievingly. Who was sitting near Vyasa, scribbling faster than his two disciples? He had an elephant face and pot belly. Was it Ganesha, son of Mahadeva? The God of wisdom and auspicious beginnings? Aswathama blinked again and the vision disappeared. Perhaps it was only the hallucinations of a tired mind. There were no beginnings left, auspicious or otherwise, for Aswathama. He awaited his end.

  It came sooner than he expected. The rumbling of the chariot grew louder, breaking the serene silence of the ashram and scaring the pigeons that were pecking the ground for grain. Four men jumped out of the chariot carrying glistening swords, spiked maces and tall bows. They were messengers of death.

  “Worthy men, do not defile this ashram with instruments of violence. Step in leaving your thoughts of revenge, malice and wrath at the entrance, along with your dusty shoes,” Jaimini, Vyasa’s disciple said with hands folded in pranam. The Pandavas hesitated. They could hear Vyasa singing his slokas and only the sound of a writing stencil scratching on a palm leaf broke the silence of the ashram.

  Aswathama looked at Vyasa in desperation. Why had he not intervened to broker peace? What was more important than a Brahmin’s life? But there was no break in the sage’s flow of words. Aswathama desperately searched for some weapon. He would not go down without a fight. His gaze rested on the long, sharp Kusha grass piled in a corner. It was as sharp as any sword. His father had made him practise with it before he graduated to real swords. He grabbed a pile of Kusha grass and quickly shoved it into the sacrificial fire. Their tips blazed into flames. Aswathama withdrew one burning blade and threw it at Arjuna, piercing his hand like a dart.

  “Don’t move, or I will finish you all. This is a Brahmastra and I know the secret chants that will make it destroy the world.” The words sounded ridiculous even to his own ears.

  Arjuna laughed and drew his bowstring taut. Aswathama saw death staring at him from the tip of Arjuna’s arrow. He threw another blade of flaming grass.

  Vyasa stopped chanting and rose to stand facing Arjuna. Arjuna lowered his bow, ashamed that he had thought of murder in the holy precincts of the ashram. He would get the Brahmin once he stepped out. There would be no mercy for the accursed man.

  Aswathama fell to his knees before Vyasa, sobbing. The flaming Kusha leaves hissed in protest as they turned to ash.

  “Son, go with them. Surrender and accept your punishment with grace. Let the madness end with you. The world has suffered enough. Be your father’s son.”

  The sage’s words broke Aswathama. He had never lived up to his father’s expectations. Instead, he had brought eternal shame to Drona’s name. He felt Bhima’s rough hands on his neck and the anger in Arjuna as he pushed him into the chariot and tied him
up like a goat for sacrifice. As the chariot left the ashram and swayed its way to Kurukshetra, he saw thick curls of smoke blacken the skies. The funeral pyres were burning on the banks of the holy Ganga, following eighteen days of carnage in the name of dharma. He wished he had cremated Suyodhana.

  ***

  Dhritarashtra led the procession of mourners from the palace. He did not ride in a chariot or palanquin, instead he walked, his cane tapping a sharp rhythm on the ground. Beside him walked Gandhari, her arm in his. For once, the old King was leading her. Behind them, thousands of women of noble birth walked, vacant looks in their dry eyes. They did not belong to the first wave of mourners, the wives and mothers of the common soldiers whose deaths meant poverty and starvation for their families. These women of noble birth had never ventured out of the palace without being carried in palanquins and guarded by servants; they had never set foot outside except to visit various shrines in temples. For them, life had been a series of days where they competed with each other to parade their resplendent clothes and ornaments. They could not comprehend the reality of the dreary life of widows they were now compelled to lead. With the death of their husbands, they had become inauspicious, ill omens to be shunned on all happy occasions. They were required to shave the beautiful tresses they had spent hours grooming, and shun silk clothes for coarse cotton. They would be given a fistful of rice every day, which they would cook themselves, as an act of charity by their sons or brothers. No bangles would jingle on their slender wrists or soft sandals grace their lotus feet. They were beggars in their own homes. Of course, there was a choice. They could choose to be satis by jumping into the funeral pyres of their husbands and be worshipped thereafter. Many preferred to embrace this inhumane custom rather than spend the rest of their lives in the dark corners of their mansions, crouching like spiders, despised by all, praying for release from their misery. They had loved life and lived it with zest. Now they were outcasts.

  Sanjaya, the scribe, helped Dhritarashtra and Gandhari to where their dead sons lay. Gandhari did not weep when he identified for her each of her sons by name. The Pandavas walked behind their Uncle and Aunt, unable to speak a word. The horror of what they had done slowly sank into their minds. Dhritarashtra touched each son’s face, sometimes smiling as his fingers found the taut firmness of muscles in his dead sons’ limbs. When they reached Sushasana, Sanjaya could not speak. Suyodhana’s younger brother was lying with his broad chest slashed open, yet the look of defiance had not left his handsome, dissolute face. Finally, Sanjaya whispered, “Sushasana.”

  “Bhima,” Dhritarashtra said in a barely audible voice. The giant Pandava came forward and bowed, saying, “Here I am, Uncle.”

  The old King leaned forward, gripping the lion-headed gold handle of his cane. He quietly said to the man who had killed most of his sons, “Nephew, to kill an opponent in war is Kshatriya dharma, but to drink his blood?”

  Bhima shuffled his feet and looked at his brothers for help. He was a man of action, never comfortable with words. He did not know why he had done it, except to please Draupadi, who never treated him like a grown man. When he saw that even Yudhishtra, who knew all about dharma, would not come to his aid, he stuttered, “Uncle, I did not drink it. I...I just wet my lips...”

  Bhima looked around and saw the horror on people’s faces. He wondered what he had said that was so wrong. Dhritarashtra put a hand on Bhima’s bowed head and then walked away. The other Pandavas would not even look at him. He had won them the war by killing all the Kauravas with his brute strength, but everyone praised Arjuna. He was happy with a full stomach and a place to sleep, but when Draupadi had not spoken a word of praise for what he had done, it had hurt. He wondered why no one remembered the death of his son, Khatotkacha. For a moment he wondered where Hidumbi was and felt a pang of guilt. Perhaps Yudhishtra would allow him to go and see her once in a while, now that he had won the kingdom. They won the war because dharma was on their side. Krishna had said he was just an instrument when he had asked about the fairness of hitting Suyodhana below the waist after the duel that felled his cousin. There was no need to feel any guilt, he assured himself. If only Draupadi would acknowledge his devotion.

  “Bhima, you seem to be thinking a lot,” Krishna said as he hurried past him.

  Bhima smiled amiably at his friend and wondered again why his brothers had looked so horrified when he had said he had only tasted Sushasana’s blood, not drunk it. Why couldn’t people say clearly what they wanted from him? He saw six guards carrying along a life-sized iron statue on their shoulders, staggering under its weight. Bhima blinked in disbelief. The statute resembled him. Where had Krishna found it?

  Dhritarashtra stood near Suyodhana’s body. Bhima saw his usually composed aunt’s lips tremble with emotion and felt uneasy. The soldiers quietly placed the statue behind Dhritarashtra, wiping the sweat from their faces. Krishna gestured for silence. Dhritarashtra turned sharply and asked, “Who is it behind me? Is it Bhima?”

  Krishna gesticulated towards Bhima to answer. “Yes, Uncle, it is I.”

  “I am proud of you, my son. You are the only one equal to me in strength of limb. I hold no grudge against you for what you have done. You are a real Kshatriya. Come, hug me. Let me feel your strong hands and shoulders that are as hard as stone.”

  Dhritarashtra spread his arms wide. The cane fell to the ground. Bhima felt elated. For the first time in his life someone other than the Sutas and Magadhas, who were paid mercenaries, was praising him. He stepped forward but Krishna put out a restraining hand, puzzling him. Krishna gestured to the soldiers to move the statute so that Dhritarashtra could touch it.

  Dhritarashtra tightly hugged the iron statue. The old King’s hands became taut and the nerves in his neck vibrated with effort as he grit his teeth. With a crack, the statue that had taken six soldiers to carry, snapped like a twig. All around, people watched in stunned silence as the statue fell and Dhritarashtra let out a roar of rage. “Pandu, see who should have been King! I have killed your son with my bare hands. I have killed the one who smashed my Suyodhana’s thighs and drank my Sushasana’s blood.”

  Iron pieces had pierced Dhritarashtra’s chest and he was bleeding profusely. Sanjaya rushed to wipe away the blood, but Dhritarashtra pushed him away. “I am a Kshatriya, not an old maid. Do not dare to fuss over me. It feels good to have Bhima’s blood on me.”

  Someone smothered a laugh and soon the soldiers, the priests and all those standing around, were laughing at the blind man’s plight.

  “It was not Bhima you crushed in your powerful arms, Kuru King, but the statue you kept in your room,” Krishna said, a smile tugging at his lips.

  Dhritarashtra’s smile faded and he fell to the ground like a limp rag. He had lost his last gamble to gain respect as a Kshatriya. They had outwitted him, making him appear a spiteful old fool. He touched Suyodhana’s cold body and wept.

  Bhima went to sit beside the old man who had wanted to crush him to death a few moments before. As usual he could not find any words but he could feel his uncle’s pain. As a warrior, he admired the strength in his uncle’s arms. He took Dhritarashtra’s wrinkled hand in his own and placed it on his head.

  “Who is it? Bhima?” Dhritarashtra asked, touching the Pandava’s face. Bhima grunted in reply. Dhritarashtra put his hands on Bhima’s head and caressed it.

  Bhima knew Dhritarashtra was asking for forgiveness. He said in a low voice which only the two of them heard, “It was war, Uncle.”

  “I know you were just the mace in the hands of others. I hold nothing against you. We are so alike.”

  Bhima blinked, not understanding what his blind uncle was saying, but somehow it made more sense than whatever Yudhishtra had said.

  “Krishna!” Gandhari, who had not spoken a word, nor shed a tear since her arrival on the battlefield, called the Yadava.

  Krishna moved forward and bowed. “Pranam, Devi Gandhari.”

  “Have you got the answer to my question? Why was not
even my Vikarna spared?”

  “Yes, he spoke up against Duryodhana at the dice game, but when war came, he did not side with dharma.”

  “That is your answer, Krishna? Was he not doing his duty, by supporting his elder brother in the war?”

  Krishna did not reply. He shuffled his feet restlessly, wishing this meeting would end.

  “Yadava, your dharma brought misery, war and death to Bharatavarsha. Your dharma made brother fight brother, cousin fight cousin; it pitted nephew against uncle and father against son. Can you not hear the wailing of the widows and the weeping of children? The Grand Sire of the Kurus lies on his deathbed of arrows, shot by his favourite great-nephew, Arjuna. You did not have the heart to spare us even one son, not even Vikarna?

  “And what did your dharma earn the Pandavas? Their sons are dead and you have gifted them consciences riddled with guilt for killing their kin in the most unfair manner. Will Yudhishtra sleep peacefully and not be haunted by his deceitful words that killed his Guru? Will Bhima ever stop thinking about his Rakshasa son? How miserable you have made Arjuna’s life for what he did to Karna! I pity Kunti. My sons are martyrs, but her sons are merely puppets who will be cursed in this life and thereafter. I could have forgiven you everything, even the unfair killing of Suyodhana, if you had shown some kindness to my blind husband. But, for making a man sunk in grief at the death of his sons look a fool; for making his grief and blindness the object of ridicule, you deserve the worst.”

  Gandhari’s face had lost its dignified beauty. No one dared to look at her. Her sharp words pierced the shocked silence as she uttered a terrible curse. “Yadava, for making a mockery of all that is fair and true, for bloodshed and misery, for the violence you have unleashed, for confusing people about dharma and adharma, I curse you. As a mother who has lost all her sons, for the sake of all mothers who have lost their sons in your war of dharma, for the widows who have lost their husbands, and the children who have lost their fathers, I curse you. May your tribe butcher each other to death and cousins turn on each other. May your city be destroyed and buried. Your devotees claim you have come to save the world, but when the time comes, you will not be able to save even your city. You will not be able to save your wives. You will not even be able to save yourself. May you die an inglorious death, hunted like an animal!”