Gandhari felt lulled into a reverie. After the war, she had forgotten the possibility of beauty, of pleasure, of something pure and sublime. Kunti continued, ‘The great ones told us what lay ahead, beyond what we could see. The further up one climbed that mountain, the lonelier and more fantastical it became. Tracts of land covered with snow and ice, bared of trees and any vegetation, land so remote and barren that even birds could not venture there, nor insects. Only the air, only the rishis, the great ones, were permitted access there. Oh! How I longed to make that journey, with or without the other two.’
‘Then, what happened?’ whispered Gandhari. How different it all could have been had they made that journey and never returned – no competition for the throne, no war, no periods of exile, no bloodshed.
Kunti laughed scornfully. ‘We prepared ourselves. Pandu was discussing with the great ones the routes to be taken, the precautions taken. They warned him against bringing us with him, but he insisted that he not go without us, his wives, when we had loyally followed him for so long. But then, Pandu, the one who had always been so decisive, the very morning we were to set out on our way, he was overcome with doubt.
‘He was riddled with fear that he would never have sons. He discussed this with the sages who had kept us company for those long months. He said, a man is born with four debts, to the ancestors, to the devas, to the rishis and to men. The gods are pleased through sacrifice; the sages through studying and austerities; the ancestors through sons and shraddhas, the funeral rites; and men through kindness. How can I leave this earth without discharging my debts to the ancestors, without giving them a son to carry out my lineage, to make the offerings to them in my absence so they are never displeased or neglected?, he asked. The sages were quiet. They said not a word. Then my husband asked, as I was born to my mother through one who was not my father, shall I also have children in this way, through my wives bearing the children of some great man, like Dvaipayana did for me?
‘Well, when he put it like that, what else could they say? If you ask the wrong question, you get the wrong answer. So, they all said, yes, having sons is the right thing to do. Then, that was it. No more journey towards the heavens.’ Kunti’s voice turned bitter. ‘Those days were the happiest of my life. But then we had to come down, retreat from those lofty peaks, and go about the business of raising a family.’ She sighed in regret.
‘You would rather have gone to the heavens than had a child?’
Kunti snorted. ‘I already had a child. One I had to abandon. I did not deserve or want the joy of having another.’
Gandhari knew the rest of the story. The use of Kunti’s boon to call upon the deva of her choice to father her children. First, her three sons were born. Then, Madri requested of Pandu that she also partake of the boon, which Kunti allowed. Madri obtained twins, cleverly invoking the twin gods of medicine, to get two for the price of one use of the mantra. Kunti had gotten angry then and refused to use the boon further, although Pandu wanted more children. He was getting too greedy, she said.
‘How was it when they were born?’ Gandhari had never been able to bring herself to ask Kunti these questions before, to talk of the birth of their children. Always it was an affront to her, a travesty, of having given birth too late. Now, at the very end, the sharpness of those wounds stung less. It was other thoughts, other regrets that troubled her.
Kunti laughed softly. ‘It was beautiful. They were born so easily, one year apart. I delivered them laying down on the forest floor. Conches and drums sounded in the heavens. The devas themselves perched on the clouds to bear witness to their birth, the birth of one of their own. They were beautiful and happy and strong.’
Gandhari noted wryly, ‘It was a bit of a different experience for me. Well, what do you expect? My sons were merely mortal, born of a human father and a human mother.’
Kunti’s voice was even. ‘Perhaps, but they were strong enough to torment and exile me and my sons for all their lives.’
Gandhari swallowed and said nothing. She recalled Kunti’s wistfulness about that trek towards the heavens, the completion of that journey denied to her by Pandu’s sudden desire for sons. How different it all would have been had Pandu not changed his mind and not turned his back on the heavens.
Kunti sighed. ‘I did not mean to upset you, sister. I meant only to check on you and offer some comfort. The heavens beckon to us. There are more welcoming worlds than the one to which we have born, in which we have lived and suffered so much. I have seen them myself, and perhaps tomorrow, we shall finally find our way there. And I will complete the journey I once began.’
Gandhari turned on her side, pretending to sleep. She was uneasy. She did not believe the heavens were the worlds that awaited her. She thought she was heading in the opposite direction.
Hastinapur, Then
It was harder to be a mother to one hundred sons (and one daughter) than one may have thought. Well, perhaps one hundred and one sons, if one included Yuyutsu, the son of her husband with Ayla, and he probably did count since Gandhari had summarily dismissed Ayla and sent her away, not back to Gandhara, but a distant forest far away for penance. That left Yuyutsu motherless and Dhritarashthra, too, never spared him much thought once his lawful heirs had been born. So, Gandhari deigned to include him in the count when she cooked for her children, to have clothes made for him as well when she had them tailored for her other children. But it was a cold formality, an unpleasant duty, and he was never in the line of children who filed past her every morning and night, for her to sniff their heads, hug them affectionately and bless them fervently with long life and good health. She never blessed Yuyutsu.
Perhaps then it was not a surprise that he started going to Vidura for affection and to be taught and effectively raised. Vidura, who was himself the son of a maid, wise, just, calm Vidura, who embraced him and taught him as he had never been afforded the opportunity to teach Dhritarashthra’s other sons. Gandhari had jealously kept them away, never forgetting how he had asked for Suyodhana to be sacrificed. She did not trust her children in his presence. So, they grew up in the shadows of the palace, where Shakuni, her brother, and Dhritarashthra preferred to remain. Gandhari in any case preferred for them to learn from her brother than Vidura. She could trust Shakuni. Couldn’t she? She did not let her memories wander to the sinister way he had spoken that night he had arrived. She told herself it was her fanciful state of mind in that period in which she had been delusional and half-crazed. She told herself she had imagined it all.
In any case, while the blessing for one hundred sons was a common one in Bharat, Gandhari wondered how much those who bestowed the blessing and those who asked for it had really thought through the logistics of it. Without maids, it would have been impossible, surely. Gandhari was adamant that every morsel of food that entered their mouths came from her hand and that it be freshly cooked off the flame.
She woke before night had ended and began preparing the grains and lentils, powdering whole spices into the unique mixes of cardamom, sesame and cinnamon she had learned from her mother in Gandhara, and began the process of cooking at least half a dozen dishes to accommodate the varying tastes of her children. It was done in batches. She fed them in batches of twenty. They would sit in a circle in their private chambers and she would sit in the middle, the vessels placed in a circle around her by the servants. She knew which one sat where, and when one of her children would cry out for more of this or that, she would serve them herself. And then she would begin the process again. She wanted each of the one hundred to feel special, so she never gave anyone leftovers from the earlier batches. She would remove herself to the kitchen and begin the process all over again.
In time, her daughter joined her in the kitchen, too, when she was old enough to stir pots and cut vegetables and measure out spices. Gandhari kept herself quiet then; she never bestowed on Duhsala the full force of her affection and love as she did for her sons. Her sons, she knew, would be with her always. Her daught
er one day she would have to send off to marriage, to her husband’s home, as Gandhari had been sent from Gandhara. The pain of that loss to come made her keep Duhsala at arm’s length, even though she was the one child she had specifically asked for. Gandhari prayed hard for her daughter to have a happier life than she had been given herself. But in the end Duhsala’s life and marriage were as painful and tragic as Gandhari’s own and she was left to wonder whether there was anything good at all that came from her into her children or whether she had afflicted them with the curse of being born to her. Especially, this one, her daughter, the only one she had asked for herself.
Satyavati remarked to her wryly, ‘Isn’t this all a bit much? You do know, daughter, that this is a palace and you have a whole retinue of servants to help you with cooking.’
Gandhari had stopped finding Satyavati quite as endearing as she once did. She suspected scorn in each sarcastic comment and did not laugh back as she once used to. Instead, she replied stiffly, ‘I am their mother. It is for me to feed them.’
Satyavati’s voice sharpened: ‘Feed them knowledge. Feed them virtue. That is what they need from you, daughter. Physical food is of less importance.’
‘They are getting both. The tutors are with them daily. And my brother is also there.’
‘Speaking of your brother, he really is staying quite a while, isn’t he? Perhaps overstaying his welcome?’
Gandhari did not rise to the bait. She knew nobody else was thrilled with Shakuni’s presence. They all found him repulsive, frightening even, a distinctly less than dignified and royal presence in court. That made her even gladder of his presence, a defiance against this court that had betrayed her. They dared not remove his presence for fear of her displeasure. Even Dhritarashthra was oddly frightened of him and never allowed himself to be in the same room as him alone.
Satyavati continued, ‘Nourish their character, their soul, as much as their bodies, Gandhari. That is far more important.’ There was an anxiety in her voice, one Gandhari did not hear often.
‘What is it that troubles you, queen mother?’
‘I worry about them, Gandhari,’ she said in a whisper. ‘They are so – unruly, always fighting, shouting, getting into fistfights with each other.’
Gandhari laughed dismissively. ‘They are boys! That is what they are supposed to do.’
‘All the same, I wish you would keep a closer eye on them. There is so much they could learn from you. Gandhari, they need you.’
‘They have me!’ Gandhari was offended.
‘Daughter, all you do is feed them and kiss them and hug them. You never sit with them as they go through their lessons; you never tell them stories; you never ask them questions or test them the way Subala tested you on all the things you had learned.’
Gandhari was outraged: ‘Have you been spying on me?’
Satyavati snorted. ‘Of course, I have. What kind of matriarch would I be of this dynasty if I did not do that? You can choose to feel offended, or you can reflect upon this, child, and think upon whether there is some truth to what I say.’ She sighed and softened her voice. ‘Look, daughter, it is not an easy thing, raising one hundred children. It is too much to put on yourself. How can you possibly manage them well? Take the help of others in the palace. You do not have to do everything for them yourself. And it may be good for them to have exposure to others, too, to move out of the shadow of you and your husband.’
Gandhari’s voice was stiff. ‘I asked for the boon to have them. I asked for each of them to be my own. They are my responsibility and mine alone. I will care for them properly; do not you worry.’
But as she cooked the rice pudding that was Suyodhana’s favourite later that afternoon, Gandhari did reflect upon Satyavati’s words. She had too much affection and regard for her to dismiss her warning so cavalierly. There was truth to it, some truth. It was easier being in the kitchens, cooking for them. It was easier waking them up in the morning and tousling their hair, praying with them, watching over them as they slept. It was easier being with them when they were quiet, when they were at their most innocent, when neither could they question her, nor did she have to question or test them. She was perhaps too afraid that what Vidura said was right, that there was something wrong with Suyodhana, perhaps all of them, that they would wreak destruction over Hastinapur, that they would destroy their family.
What made it worse was she did not know what to teach them. Yes, she still remembered the genealogies, the aphorisms of the sutras on good governance and righteousness. She remembered every contour of topography of the map of Bharat. But she did not know what to teach them, how to shape their dreams and goals, what direction to give them. How could she teach them what she did not know herself? Should she tell them to be patient, to not seek that which was not quite in their grasp, but could be, the throne that remained elusive even though there was no trace of Pandu or his mysterious sons in Hastinapur? The first role model of children should be their father, and what could she tell them of Dhritarashthra? Should she tell them to keep far away from him, to go to Vidura or Bhishma when they needed guidance; should she teach them to recognize his weakness, his senselessness? Should she not teach them to respect him as their father? There was unlimited strength in them, in her, but what was the use of such strength if it was unmoored, if there was no direction in which to channel it?
She did not have the guts to demand the throne for her sons. She did once, before they were born, before Suyodhana had been pronounced evil by Vidura and the brahmanas, but now she was unsure. And that was the worst curse of all. This doubt. This lack of resoluteness. Any decision was perhaps better than no decision. It was easier for her to simply leave it open, to pretend to leave it to fate and the gods, than to seize the mantle of motherhood seriously, to give her sons direction and firm guidance, to command them and be responsible for their upbringing. It was perhaps harder to be a mother than to be queen.
So, perhaps there was solace and respite in the kitchens, where her biggest decision was how spicy to make the gravy, how much quantity of rice was to be cooked, where her duty was circumscribed to cooking well, to the empty formalities of motherhood, that which was easy, which cost her nothing, which allowed her to abdicate those questions, those decisions, that haunted her from the day she was married off to Dhritarashthra. Shakuni will guide them, she told herself, Shakuni will teach them well.
From the day Dhritarashthra had come to tell her that Kunti had given birth, Gandhari knew the day was coming and she dreaded it. The day of their return to Hastinapur. She dreamed of all the ways it could happen. In some, Pandu’s heir sneaked into the palace, sly and cunning as a thief, and stabbed her sons to death in their sleep. In some, there was a silent coup, as Gandhari and Dhritarashthra and their sons were all rounded up, drugged into sleep, and taken far away to some unrecognizable forest where they would have to live the rest of their days. How could a blind man and a blindfolded woman make their way back home on their own as declared enemies of the state? In some, Pandu’s son came and sweet-talked his way into their hearts and affection, lulling them into thinking he was not their enemy. And then he would humiliate Suyodhana again and again, besting him at studies, in archery, in winning the favour of the people. Suyodhana became so decried and despised by the people that he ran away from Hastinapur. All this and more Gandhari saw in her dreams.
Yet when it happened, despite all of Gandhari’s attempts to have prepared herself, she was taken completely unawares. They had all been in the audience hall, hearing the pleas of different petitioners from throughout the kingdom, some of whom had spent weeks traveling to reach the palace. Dhritarashthra was there but did not speak or guide the proceedings. He sat a passive witness, a regent who did not do anything but hold the throne ready for another – either Pandu or Pandu’s son or his own son. Everything was led by Bhishma. Gandhari wanted Suyodhana with them, to begin at least hearing how such proceedings should take place, to listen and learn from his grandfather. Even
Gandhari had to admit begrudgingly that Bhishma was a ruler par excellence and there would have been no better role model for her sons, not even her wily, crafty father, Subala.
But Suyodhana and her other boys were too busy wrestling and running around the gardens, whooping and chasing each other and beating each other up, to deign to sit quietly through hours of discussion and debate. They reminded her of her brothers. Perhaps it was impossible to tame children when you had them by the dozens. Gandhari did not force it either. She was afraid that Bhishma and Satyavati would find them lacking and judge them poorly. She wanted to shield them from that until they were stronger, better, prepared.
After there were no more pleas from the subjects of the Kuru kingdom, there was a pause and then a solemn procession of sadhus and rishis filed through the palace doors to stand before Bhishma and Satyavati. Gandhari did not even need to hear the announcement to know that it was a congregation of thousands of holy men. She could smell their holiness, detect how the vibrations of the environment subtly altered with their entrance, the faint smell of incense and sacrificial fire clinging to their skin, the otherworldly calm silence that marked their aura, the silence of their footfall, uncluttered by jewels or swords or sandals that would slap against the heavy stone floor. There were so many of them that it took longer than fifteen minutes for them all to enter the audience hall and it was not until they all arrived that their leader began to speak.
The Curse of Gandhari Page 16