How do I know this? Because I was one of them.
I went to Bheeshma the very first night, when the moon was frail as the edge of a fingernail and sudden gusts of wind sent shadows scampering along the ground. I'd taken great care to be silent—I did not wish to be questioned by Kunti, who would have wanted me to visit him in the daytime, appropriately chaperoned. But such a visit would have kept me from speaking freely, from asking him what I'd kept locked in my heart for years: How could he— who prided himself on his righteousness, who named me his dearest granddaughter and made me believe he cared for me—have remained silent when I called for his help, when I was the victim of such grave injustice that day in the court?
Once I left the guardsmen's fires behind, I walked more easily. I didn't think I'd encounter anyone. The leading warriors of both sides, who had been with him all day, were now resting in preparation for morning—for even the fall of Bheeshma could not stop the war. In deference to the grandfather's condition, they had decided to move the battle away from where he lay and had cleared the area. But they couldn't mask the stench of rotting carcasses or hush the anguished cries of the wounded. Did the sounds wrench Bheeshma as he lay wrapped in the gauze of his own pain? Did he regret having caused much of this destruction? Or did he see it as the unpleasant by-product of his duty, a lesser evil to be endured for the sake of an ultimate good?
I'd been wrong to assume that no one would be with Bheeshma. A man knelt by him, bent low over his feet. I heard the grandfather say—how weak he sounded—”Who is it whose tears burn me more than these wounds?” As I ducked behind a knot of shrubs I heard the man reply, in choked tones, “It's Karna. I've come to beg pardon for the many ways in which I've angered you, grandfather.”
I held my breath, regretting my imprudence. If Karna discovered me, he would be livid that I'd caught him at such a vulnerable moment. What might he not do in retaliation? I doubted that, after all that had passed, he felt any tenderness toward me. Instead, with a hunter's sure instincts, he would know that the best way to get at my husbands was by humiliating me—and he would use it. What new trouble had I brought upon the Pandavas by my impulsiveness?
I should have crept away then, but I was like a bird caught in a snare. Only, the wires of this snare were made of curiosity and a disobedient heart.
Bheeshma extended a hand toward Karna. I thought I saw his fingers tremble. His breath sounded like someone was tearing old clothes into strips. He said, “I was never truly angry with you. I only chastised you for your own good—and because you encouraged Duryodhan's evil ambitions. But how can I be angry with my own grandson?”
When Karna had addressed Bheeshma as grandfather, I'd thought nothing of it. It was what everyone called him. But this reply seemed more than mere courtesy. A jolt went through my heart as I wondered what Bheeshma's reply might mean.
Karna's head jerked up. “You knew? You knew that the Pandavas are my brothers? Did Kunti tell you, too, when she told me?”
Shock dizzied me. Karna? Brother to my husbands? My brain couldn't encompass his words—words that would change everything I felt for him. Impossible, I whispered to myself. But then I remembered my dream of Karna and Kunti.
Suddenly, everything that had puzzled me began to make sense.
Bheeshma said, “I knew it a long time before that. Vyasa told me of it—but only after I'd promised to be silent. How many times since then have I wished I hadn't made that rash vow! But you know me. Once I make a promise I can't break it. Call it my strength—or my weakness.”
Karna smiled without mirth. “I know. I have the same problem.” Then his tone darkened. “Kunti told me she had me when she was little more than a girl. Out of curiosity she'd tested Durvasa's boon and called down the sun god. He gifted me to her—but when I was born she grew afraid of what people would say.” He ran agitated fingers through his hair. “I understand how she must have felt. I don't blame her—no, I do! How could she have thrown me away, her own child, her firstborn? But worse than that, when she saw me again at Hastinapur, how could she have let me suffer, over and over, the shame of illegitimacy?” His voice grew impassioned—it was a new Karna I was hearing, so anguished, so different from the man who prided himself on his self-control. In that moment I forgave him everything he'd done while in the grip of his sorrow. “She should have told me the truth in secret—I would have kept it to myself, as I'm doing now. Just knowing it would have made all the difference. It would have kept me from making the terrible mistakes that continue to haunt my life. Oh, why didn't my mother trust me?”
With difficulty, Bheeshma placed a trembling hand on Karna's head. “I, too, wish she'd had the courage to do so. This entire war might have been avoided then. Remember the time when Yudhisthir asked for a mere five villages, saying he'd be satisfied with that? Had you known the secret of your birth, surely you would have counseled Duryodhan to agree. And because of his love and esteem for you, surely Duryodhan would have listened to you. So many men have died already—and yet I'm afraid that their suffering is nothing compared to what awaits all of you.”
“I'm not afraid of suffering,” Karna said. “Hasn't my entire life been one suffering after another? What stings me worse is how much I hated and envied my own brothers ever since I met them at that ill-fated tournament in Hastinapur. I, who dreamed all through my lonely childhood of having kinsmen to love and cherish! And Draupadi! The wife of my younger brothers, who, the scriptures tell us, should be like a daughter to me—I humiliated her in open court. I knew what Duryodhan and Sakuni were planning. Out of decency I should have stopped them. Instead, because I was angry with her, I instigated Dussasan to remove her clothes! I—” His voice broke. “How shamefully I've acted! Even the most glorious death on the battlefield can't make up for it.”
“The fates are cruel,” Bheeshma whispered, “and they've been crueler than usual to you. But the sins you committed in ignorance are not your fault.”
“I'll still have to pay for them,” Karna said. “Isn't that how karma works? Look at what happened to Pandu, who killed a sage by accident, thinking him to be a wild deer. He had to bear the consequences of it for the rest of his life.”
A fit of coughing shook Bheeshma; he continued with some difficulty. “It's not too late. Join your brothers. I know them—they'll welcome you and honor you as the eldest.”
Karna shook his head. “No. It was too late the moment Kripa insulted me by declaring that I couldn't participate in the tournament, and Duryodhan rescued me by giving me a kingdom. He stood by me when everyone was against me. I've eaten his salt. I can't abandon him.”
Bheeshma drew in a long, ragged breath. I could tell he was making a special effort to say something he considered crucial. “You've repaid him many times. You've fought his enemies, won him treasures, expanded the boundaries of his kingdom. Perhaps by leaving, you'll be doing him the greatest service. Without you by his side, Duryodhan will not have the heart to continue fighting. He'll be forced to end the war. But if you continue to support him, it can only lead to his death—and the death of all his supporters.”
“Duryodhan would rather die than face defeat,” Karna said. “He's not afraid to die on the battlefield—and nor am I. In fact, I welcome it. It'll end the constant torment inside my brain. It'll be the one honorable way out of a life I'm sick of, where everything has gone wrong, where I'll never get what I've always longed for.
“And as for having repaid Duryodhan, the debt of salt can only be repaid with blood. You know this! Isn't that why you fought on his side, even though you loved the Pandavas more and knew their cause to be just? And thus, though I know he's doomed—no, because of it—I must stand by him against my brothers.”
Bheeshma sighed. “Go then, grandson. Do your duty, and die an honorable death. When the time is right, we'll meet in heaven.”
But Karna didn't leave. He clutched his head in his hands and bent over further. “But worst still is this: even knowing what I know, I desire her! I can't
forget her shining, haughty face at the swayamvar—ah, how many years has it been?”
He was speaking of me! It was the last thing I'd expected him to bring up. My hands grew clammy. I clasped them to stop their shaking and held my breath to hear him better.
“The long line of her neck,” he continued, “as she raised her chin. Her beautiful, parted lips. How her breast rose and fell with passion. All this time, I told myself I hated her for humiliating me worse than anyone else has done. That I wanted revenge. But I was only fooling myself. When Dussasan started pulling at her sari, I couldn't bear it. I wanted to knock him down, to shield her from the stares. The twelve years she was in the forest, I, too, slept on the ground, thinking of her discomfort. How many times I started to go to her, to beg her to come away with me, to be my queen. But I knew it was hopeless. She was completely loyal to her husbands. My words would only disgust her.
“When Kunti told me that if I joined her sons, I'd be king instead of Yudhisthir, I wasn't tempted. But when she used her final weapon, when she said that as her son I, too, would become Panchaali's husband—I was ready to give up my reputation, my honor, everything! I had to use all my willpower to remain silent!”
My heart beat so hard that I was sure Karna would hear it. Part of my mind was furious at Kunti. How dared she offer me to Karna as though I were no more than a slave girl! At the same time, I was gratified by Karna's response. Wasn't this what I'd secretly wanted all my life, to know that he was attracted to me, even against his will? That beneath his scornful exterior he held me in such tenderness? Why, then, did such a wave of sadness break over me as I heard his words?
Bheeshma was silent. Was he as taken aback by Karna's confession as I? Finally he said, “But you did remain silent, grandson. No man can help his thoughts—but you didn't abandon your principles for the sake of the woman you desired. That's more than I was able to do.”
And then, to console Karna, he gave him one last gift. He told him the story of his past life, when he'd been a demigod: Prabhasa, the youngest and most imprudent of the eight Vasus.
Prabhasa's new wife wanted a cow. If Prabhasa truly cared for her, she said, he wouldn't deny her this small gift. No matter what Prabhasa said to change her mind, she wouldn't listen. She stomped her dainty foot and pouted charmingly.
The cow she'd set her heart on was no ordinary one. She was a wish-fulfilling cow that belonged to Sage Vasistha. Prabhasa's wife had seen her on a beautiful spring day when the Vasus visited earth to see how humans lived.
Prabhasa knew that the sage wouldn't gift them such a valuable cow or sell her. She would have to be stolen. There would be trouble as a result, a great deal of it. But he was in love. With the reluctant help of his seven brothers, he spirited the cow away.
In meditation, Vasistha learned what had happened. In rage he cursed all eight brothers. You must be born on earth as humans and undergo all the suffering of humankind. When they fell at his feet, begging forgiveness, he softened the sentence for the seven older Vasus. They would be born, yes, but their mother would drown them at once so they could return to their celestial existence. But Prabhasa would have to live for many years and endure many sorrows. Because he was kinder than most sages, Vasistha added a boon: he would be a hero, a warrior feared by all.
“As you can see,” Bheeshma ended, “I did worse than you—and paid for it. But I learned from my experience. In this lifetime, I never trusted women. I stayed away from them as much as I could. And even then a woman was the cause of my downfall! Take an old man's advice: put Draupadi out of your mind and concentrate on the war.”
When Karna touched Bheeshma's feet and rose to leave, his face was resolute again. Perhaps that is the miracle of stories. They make us realize that we're not alone in our folly and our suffering.
“Thank you, grandfather,” he said, formal once more, “for this generosity that I did nothing to deserve. It emboldens me to make one last request. Tell no one the secret of my birth—either before my death, or after. I don't want my brothers to bear the terrible weight of fratricide. And most of all, I don't want her to pity me.”
“I see you cannot forget Draupadi,” Bheeshma said. “Well, I'm not the only keeper of your secret, but I promise. With one exception: after you die, I must tell Duryodhan the truth. Selfish as he is, he needs to realize how deep your friendship ran and how painful your sacrifice was. Perhaps it'll do him some good. But I'll make sure he tells no one else. Go now—the sun will rise soon and the battle begin, and you need rest.”
I did not speak to Bheeshma after Karna left. My question— which after all was about an event that was done with—was petty in comparison to Karna's present dilemma. But more important, my whole being was shaken by the secrets Karna had disclosed. The slightest jolt would break me open.
I think Bheeshma sensed my presence, but he didn't call to me. Perhaps he wished to spare me the shame that comes of eavesdropping. Perhaps he guessed my own contraband feelings. Perhaps he was preoccupied—as was I—with Karna's challenge: to face his brothers in the field tomorrow and see the hatred of unknowing in their eyes. Or perhaps, as his end grew nearer, he tired of the knotted affairs of men—and women—and wished only for peace.
I curled myself tight under the thorn bush, pressed my face into my dusty, snarled hair, and wept silently for them both, each bound to his hasty, reckless vow. How a promise—made to another or to oneself—could paralyze a life! How pride had kept them from admitting their mistakes—and thus from the happiness that might have been theirs.
Only much later did I realize I was weeping for myself as well, my own lethal vow of vengeance that had locked the Pandavas and Kauravas in their stance of enmity.
I knew I must keep what I learned to myself, but it was difficult.
All day I managed to avoid Kunti up on my hill, but in the evening when I faced her, my heart flung itself up and down in outrage. I couldn't help staring. This was the woman who had set a helpless baby afloat on a midnight river to save her reputation, thus beginning the chain of Karna's misery. When she saw him again as a young man, she held on to her secret, protecting herself at his cost. And even now, she'd told him not out of concern for him but merely to save her sons. That's why she'd urged him to join them. To entice him further, she'd offered me up to him as a prize! Was there no end to her manipulations?
Some of my anger must have shown in my eyes, for Kunti asked me, with some asperity, if I was coming down with something.
“I knew it was too much for you, going up that hill each day. But no! Always you must do something different from the others. Maybe tomorrow you should stay with us in the tent. You're no longer that young, you know.”
“I'm fine,” I said shortly, not trusting myself to speak further.
That night, the talk was all of Karna. Yudhisthir announced that now that Bheeshma had fallen, Karna had joined the fight. But he'd turned down Duryodhan's offer to make him the new commander!
I gave Kunti a quick glance. Disappointment, relief, and pride slid across her face in quick succession before it took on its customary aloofness.
As casually as I could, I asked, “Why would he do that?”
“He said that Drona, as the leading elder, deserved that position,” Bheem answered. “Me—I wouldn't have been so magnanimous and given up my one chance at glory. Who knows how many days he has to live?”
Arjun had been silent all evening—I guessed that he couldn't get Bheeshma out of his mind. But at this he exclaimed that he couldn't wait to duel—and kill—Karna.
I caught a stricken look in Kunti's eyes before she lowered them. Soon after, without finishing her dinner, she left for her tent, saying that the damp made her joints ache. Wallking away, she seemed suddenly shrunken.
A little of my anger faded. I remembered my girlhood sympathy for Karna's unknown mother. When Kunti gave birth to Karna, she'd been young and afraid, with no one to confide in. Could I have done any better in her place? She'd made Karna suffer, yes, but h
adn't she suffered just as much? And now it was too late. If she told Yudhisthir about his elder brother, he would lose heart. The kind of man he was, he might even give up the war rather than commit fratricide. So instead, now she'd have to watch her sons kill each other, knowing that she'd brought it about. No wonder she'd tried to sacrifice me in a last effort to prevent such a calamity.
I remembered how in my dream a weeping Karna had raised Kunti up and kissed her hands. If he could forgive her—he who had been the primary victim of her fear—shouldn't I at least try?
I followed and found her lying facedown on her pallet. She'd been weeping. At my voice, she hastily wiped her eyes and glared at me.
“What do you want?” she snapped.
But for once, instead of bristling in annoyance, I heard the vulnerability beneath the pride. I told her I had a balm made of turmeric and shallaki, excellent for stiff joints. Would she like me to bring her some? She peered at me with suspicion, but finally she nodded, and so, for the first time I became her daughter-in-law—I did something for her that she hadn't demanded. I rubbed her legs until she fell into a twitching sleep, and as her muscles relaxed against my fingertips, I found that by some inexplicable osmosis Kunti's secret had become my secret. I, too, would guard it now.
Perhaps the smell of the balm had put me in a trance, for as I moved my hands back and forth, I thought I saw hanging in the night sky a great web, its glinting threads woven from our present nature and our past actions. Karna was caught in it, as was I. Others were enmeshed there, too: Kunti, my husbands, Bheeshma, even Duryodhan and Dussasan. If there was a way to escape the web, I couldn't see it. Our puny struggles only entangled us further. A strange compassion came upon me as I watched us twist and turn in the breeze.
The Palace of Illusions Page 25