The Curse of Gandhari

by Aditi Banerjee

  He addressed the queen mother solemnly, formally, as if these were words of a rite of worship that had to be accomplished meticulously and properly before they could arrive at the heart of the matter. He asked after the wellbeing of the royal family, the growth of crops in the kingdom, the health and happiness of the subjects, and Satyavati replied evenly, calmly, as if this were an ordinary exchange and not something that worried or surprised her in the slightest. Now Gandhari lacked the presence of Ayla to whisper her observations to her, so she did not know until hours later that there were six mysterious figures hidden under heavy cloths in the rear of the group of sages. The holy ones formed a protective arc around the figures.

  Gandhari wished Shakuni could be there as her witness and informant but she was reluctant to call him into the hall. She did not want to draw attention to herself unduly at this moment, not when she felt she was the target of negative attention. She could feel the slide of the gazes of some of the men towards her, assessing whether she was a threat to what they had come here for today or not. She had not yet passed the test to earn their comfort, she felt, so she was doubly on guard.

  Finally, he intoned in a solemn voice: ‘Queen mother, revered Bhishma, all the peoples of Hastinapur. We have come as witnesses to bear you tidings of great import for the royal family and for the Kuru kingdom. We come bearing news that is both terrible and wonderful. Because of its import, we have all come together to bear witness together, to assure you of the truth of what we say.

  ‘O people of Hastinapur, your rightful king, Pandu, passed away seventeen days ago, in the prime of his life, in the midst of his happiest days, with his family, his beloved wives and sons. His pious wife Madri has accompanied him to the afterlife.’

  He paused for the gasps of shock, the cry of grief from Satyavati, the sobbing disbelief of Bhishma, the wails of the subjects for whom Pandu was a beloved king. Gandhari’s heart had seized upon the word of Pandu’s death, so that the reference to his sons did not even register in her mind. She was too shocked to grieve. Her blood and muscles and limbs felt frozen in time and place. Even as she heard Satyavati cry out and collapse from the throne upon which she sat, even as she heard Bhishma and the attendants rush towards Satyavati, to hold her up, Gandhari became immobile, paralysed. Pandu. Dead. No! It is impossible.

  Later, Gandhari heard that upon deliverance of the message, the rishis had encircled the huddled figures at the back, to shield them if need be. They did not dare unveil the widow or the sons, to eclipse or undercut the news of the king’s passing. The time would come for that later.

  For thirteen days, all the royal family, all the subjects of Hastinapur, mourned in the forest and along the riverbanks of the city. The funeral rites were performed solemnly, the light of the pyre lit by Dhritarashthra himself. This time, even Dhritarashthra’s wailing was real. It was one thing to long for his brother to be out of the way in pursuit of the throne, but quite another for him to die in reality, a brother who had always been good to him and kind, who never banished him to some remote outpost to keep the throne safe from his scheming jealousy, who comforted him as best he could, who shared the triumphs of his rule and conquests freely with him, who tried to make him happy, once upon a time. Dhritarashthra ordered full ceremonial grieving for his brother, above and beyond what was expected of him. He demanded that Madri be shrouded properly, to be kept safe from the sun and the wind. He stumbled, blind but refusing help, towards the pyre to light it for his brother. In that one moment, he was dignified, noble, a fitting older brother to the beloved king.

  Even their one hundred sons were well-behaved for once. They seemed to sense the solemnity of the occasion, the loss that rendered the kingdom helpless and heartbroken. They were quiet and hung back in the forest, letting the elders mourn undisturbed. Kunti and her five sons sat apart from the rest, close to where Pandu and Madri’s remains were being burned. None dared approach them. Kunti sat aloof and distant, her face a stony mask that revealed no expression, that did not soften with tears or a trembling lip. This Gandhari heard from the servants who marvelled at her calm and worried whether she was psychologically damaged, whether the trauma of it was too deep for her to ever recover from.

  It fell upon Gandhari to comfort her sister-in-law. Vidura’s wife was too shy to approach her, being of a lower social station. A dozen times, Gandhari made to approach Kunti. There were many things she wanted to tell her. She wanted to tell her that she had prayed for Pandu’s health and long life, that she had wanted him happy, that he was the light of the kingdom of Hastinapur, how kind and good he had been to her when she had arrived alone and vulnerable in the palace to marry his brother. She wanted to tell her that it was not Kunti’s fault for surviving, that she knew how hard it must have been to bring her sons on this journey, to feel all alone in this hard world with them, with the duty of caring for and protecting them. She wanted to tell her that she was home now, that she would be safe, that Kunti’s sons would be safe with hers.

  But every time she came close to Kunti, she fell back. Kunti was like a mountain of steel. There was nothing that relented within her. She did not respond to the outpourings of grief and comfort that were addressed to her. She did not embrace Satyavati or Bhishma when they came to her, mourning for Pandu. She did not acknowledge Dhritarashthra’s pained offerings of comfort and solace. For thirteen days, she said not a word except when Bhishma pressed her for the details of what had happened.

  She said it so matter-of-factly. That after their sons had been born, three belonging to Kunti and two, a set of twins, to Madri, they had been happy for years. And then, one day, Pandu was in the forest and forgot himself, so overtaken with desire was he for Madri, that he embraced her with lust and in that very moment he passed away. Madri, too distraught to live without him, asked Kunti to raise her sons as Kunti’s own and consigned herself to death along with their husband.

  Bhishma lamented, ‘Oh, that foolish Madri! She should have protected him. She should have kept him safe.’

  Kunti replied evenly, ‘It was not her fault. Pandu wanted her and gave her no choice. She could not help it.’

  Satyavati sighed, ‘You would not have let it happen, daughter. You would have never let him die like this.’

  Kunti replied evenly, ‘I am not the one he wanted. I was never the one he wanted.’

  And in those few words there was such suppressed pain, such suppressed grief, that Gandhari recoiled. It had been Kunti who had saved the dynasty by bearing Pandu children, by giving access to that same boon to Madri, so that she could also have children, and yet it had always been Madri that Pandu wanted and loved. Kunti was the senior queen, yet she was the neglected one.

  Kunti continued, her voice firm: ‘Madri entrusted her two sons to me. They are as dear to me as my own; the five of them are brothers and never shall any distinction be made between my three and her two. They are the Pandavas, the sons of Pandu, and shall always be united and speak and act as one. That is the vow I have made, that is the vow I will keep.’

  There was something terrible in her words, something that awed and frightened Gandhari, and she lost the courage and willpower to approach Kunti at all during those thirteen days of mourning. She never offered her a single word of comfort, never reached out to touch her in those moments of the most awful grief.

  As the thirteen days ended and everyone prepared for the return to the palace, Satyavati told Kunti that her old bedchambers had been prepared for her, the chambers of the queen of Hastinapur. Kunti said in a quiet but resolute voice that travelled through the forest so all who were there heard, so all understood immediately her will and resolution. She said: ‘I have come here as the mother of the Pandavas and that is all I shall be. I do not want the comforts of the palace. I have not come to seek alms as the widow of Pandu. I have come only to safeguard the interests of my sons, to ensure they are given their birth-right, that they live up to the duties and expectations their father had of them. I shall stay with them to wa
tch over them, to teach them, to train them, to prepare them. I shall live in their chambers for as long as they need me. None and nothing will separate us again. I am the mother of the Pandavas now, nothing more.’

  Gandhari shrank back and the sympathy and shared grief she had felt with Kunti evaporated. In those thirteen days, she had thought of Kunti as family. Now she remembered she was the enemy.

  When they arrived back at the palace, when they had bathed and cleaned the palace top to bottom, to rid the kingdom and themselves of the ritual impurities of Pandu’s death, only then were the Pandavas formally announced and introduced at court. It was left to Kunti to present them, as the holy ones had disappeared after bringing the Pandavas to the palace.

  She brought them to the throne, one by one. First was Yudhishthira, the eldest who had preceded Suyodhana in birth. He was presented as the son of Yama, the deva of righteousness and death, the law-maker. Second was Bhima, the son of Vayu, the god of wind. Third was Arjuna, the son of Indra, the king of the devas. These three were the sons of Kunti. The last two were Nakula and Sahadeva, the twin sons of the divine Ashwin twins, the handsomest of the devas. These two were the sons of Madri. Gandhari thought to herself wryly that it was a fitting choice for Madri to have the prettiest of the Pandavas.

  After the crowd of subjects finished oohing and aahing at the strapping young boys Kunti had brought back, Bhishma said gently, ‘Daughter, you know that many questions will be asked of how these children came to be born after the curse that was pronounced on Pandu. Please explain their origins so that all doubts may be put to rest once and for all.’

  Indeed, the palace was already rife with rumours about the mysterious appearance of these Pandavas and whether they were legitimately Pandu’s sons and heirs. Gandhari heard that, other than the twins, the others did not resemble each other and very well looked like they could have been sired by different fathers. Was it a convenient excuse that each was from a different god? Others speculated that perhaps they were not Kunti’s or Madri’s at all, that after the death of Pandu, Kunti wanted to come back to Hastinapur and so she had adopted these sons in the guise of being Pandu’s children to come stake her claim upon the kingdom. Good, thought Gandhari. The more doubt that is cast upon them, the stronger becomes Suyodhana’s claim to the throne.

  But it was not such an easy thing to fake being the sons of the devas. There was too much divine about them for the people to dismiss Kunti’s story too quickly. Besides, her integrity was unimpeachable, her word sacrosanct. No one dared doubt her. And thus were the Pandavas accepted on the strength of Kunti’s purity and nobility.

  Gandhari had carefully kept Suyodhana out of the proceedings that day. She did not want an impulsive outburst from him to mar the occasion. She wanted to listen and learn carefully, and if he were there, she would have been too busy minding him to pay proper attention. Dhritarashthra also stayed back, unable to deal with being in the same room with those who had once again snatched the crown away from him and his sons. Gandhari instructed Shakuni to stay with them and keep them out of trouble.

  Kunti reluctantly began her story: ‘When I was a young girl, I was charged with keeping the guests happy at my adoptive father’s house. He often had sages and other holy ones visit to discourse upon philosophy and metaphysics. Once, the great sage, Durvasa, had come. I was devoted to him and he was pleased with my ministrations. He granted me a boon.’

  Satyavati interjected, ‘That one is a hard man to please, daughter.’ Durvasa was renowned for being of ill temper, prone to muttering curses and then their antidotes once his temper was restored. He was the angriest of all the rishis.

  Kunti was unamused: ‘Perhaps. But there is none as enlightened as he is. So much I learned from him. How I long for those days! Sitting at his feet with my father and others from the family, listening to him and the other holy ones spending hours in arcane debates over the metaphysical texts of the Upanishads and other spiritual sciences.’

  ‘What was the boon, child?’ Bhishma prodded gently.

  Kunti hesitated. ‘He gave me a mantra by which I could invoke any of the devas and they would be compelled to come and, should I wish it, leave me pregnant with their child.’

  She carefully elided the question of whether or not there was physical consummation of the act of conception or whether it was simply a miraculous conception. Even Bhishma and Satyavati were too polite to ask about that.

  A shout came from the audience of subjects. ‘Had you used the boon before?’

  Kunti inhaled sharply in consternation. However, even royalty had to answer the questions fielded by citizens. Kunti ignored the question with a noncommittal murmur.

  Gandhari was immediately suspicious. It was the first time she had heard weakness in Kunti’s voice. She was convinced that she was hiding something.

  Kunti cleared her throat and continued: ‘Pandu was very keen to have sons of his own before leaving this earth. When he learned of my boon, he immediately asked me to invoke it and to bear sons who would be his rightfully under the law.’ Under the laws of those times, a woman’s children, whether born before wedlock, out of wedlock, or even after the death of her husband if born to men of high character and stature, belonged in name and law to her husband. ‘The first three I gave him. When he wanted a fourth, I refused. It was being too greedy of the gods, I told him. And then Madri also wanted a son of her own. I shared the boon with her and she cleverly invoked the Ashwin twins, getting two sons out of the use of the boon once. When she requested more, I refused. She had cunningly gotten two out of me already.

  ‘They were born one year apart, other than Madri’s twins. As the rishi told you, the devas themselves rejoiced at each of their births. Garlands were thrown from the heavens and gandharvas sang and danced in the skies. It was a beautiful and auspicious thing. Surely Pandu’s sons will bring only glory and righteousness to Hastinapur, to this best of families.

  ‘For years, we were happy. The boys grew up happily, playing in the forests, learning from the holy ones. They were a delight to the sages, too. Then – I have already relayed the circumstances of Pandu’s passing. Madri insisted upon dying with Pandu, as she was the one whom he had reached out to in his final moments and she could not leave him without her in the afterlife. She also told me that she would have been unable to raise my three sons as her own, and it was better that I be the one to stay behind, to raise our five sons as one. This I have vowed to do, revered uncle. This I have vowed to do.’ Her voice had turned fierce.

  No further questions were asked. One by one, the Pandavas, who had been wordless throughout the whole exchange, came up to offer their prostrations to the elders and take their blessings, beginning with Bhishma and Satyavati, then Ambika and Ambalika, their grandmother and grand-aunt, and finally Gandhari and then Vidura.

  It was Yudhishthira who made Gandhari weep. She already did not care for Arjuna and Bhima; they were much too arrogant and restless for her liking. And the twins were too silent and passive to arouse her interest at all. But Yudhishthira left her completely undone. He touched her feet with humility and then embraced her as warmly and tightly as if she were his own mother, addressing her with affection and reverence. Unbidden, her hands traced the contours of his face and she found in his visage the same radiance and smoothness, the same nobility of features and warmth she had always found in Pandu. She wept even as he marvelled aloud at her devotion to his uncle, in wearing this blindfold for him. Again and again, her fingers stroked his forehead and cheeks, roving across his hair in spontaneous affection. She could not understand how anyone doubted this was Pandu’s son – his character shone through him, his spirit. Through him, she felt again the pain of loss of Pandu but also the hope of his legacy continuing, his spirit being carried on through at least this one son of his, if not the others. It was as if he brought back Pandu to her, to this palace that had become so desolate and lost without his presence.

  Yudhishthira stayed contentedly in her embrace until
finally her tears subsided. She felt embarrassed at the spectacle she had made of herself and blushed furiously. She suddenly missed Ayla, who would have ensured she did not show such weakness in public. What must the others think of her? How scornful Kunti must be of her emotion when she, who had just lost her husband, had been so stoic throughout the weeks since her return to Hastinapur. But Ayla was not there to tell her how Kunti’s face had softened momentarily upon seeing Gandhari embrace so warmly her eldest son, that glimmer of relief in her eyes at the hope of co-existence.

  Afterwards, Gandhari went to find her sons and her husband. She walked calmly and peacefully, a small smile on her lips. She thought perhaps Yudhishthira would be a good influence on Suyodhana, smoothing out his rough edges. She felt less troubled than she had this morning. She felt a spark of hope.

  Alas, when Gandhari finally reached Dhritarashthra’s private chambers, she walked into an ugly scene. Her eldest son was snarling and growling, howling in rage, being forcibly restrained by her brother, Shakuni, as Dhritarashthra sought feebly to comfort and calm him. He was thrashing about, throwing things, smashing them against the wall. Gandhari was aghast. She rushed to her son, and he almost hit her in the face but stopped himself in time. She pressed him close to her body, holding him in a vice-like grip. Sometimes she was the only one who could calm him.

  ‘Child, what has happened? Why are you agitated like this?’

  ‘Those imposters! Those pretenders to the throne! I want them out of my palace. Now!’

  Gandhari tried to soothe him by stroking his brow: ‘Suyodhana, you should be kind to them. They are your cousins. They have just lost their father. This is the only home they have now.’

  Suyodhana broke free of her embrace and sent a tumbler of water careening off a small table, splashing her with cold water. ‘They are bastards! They are not legitimate heirs to the throne. Who knows what kind of men my aunt slept with to give birth to them?’