The Curse of Gandhari

by Aditi Banerjee

  His chambers were cramped. The air was heavy and smelled of sweat and mildew. It was hot and rank. Only one lamp was lit, and still and windless as the air was, the fire in the lamp jumped nervously, flickering and cowering in the dark shadows. Shakuni sat next to her, only a breath away. She felt his breath strike against her shoulder, an impatient, restless huffing, as jumpy as the fire in the lamp. He leaned closer to her and she resisted the urge to draw away.

  ‘Sister, is something wrong?’

  Gandhari cleared her throat. She was suddenly nervous, suddenly in dread of this conversation that she should have had with him long ago, long before her boys had grown into teenagers, old enough to cause real damage. She was suddenly afraid, suddenly sure, she would be hearing something that she did not want to hear, that by the time she left the room, something irrevocable would have happened, something ominous.

  Her voice was so dry that it cracked as she forced the words out of her mouth: ‘Shakuni, I am worried about my sons. I am worried they are on the wrong path. This fighting with their cousins, it is going too far. I worry that it will lead to their ruin. The sons of Pandu, they are too strong, too protected by the elders of the family, too beloved by the people. We cannot afford to be seen as their enemy. It is not safe.’

  Shakuni said nothing. His silence was brooding, ominous.

  Gandhari’s voice turned plaintive. She hated sounding weak, yet worry for her sons was making her desperate. ‘Brother, you must know this. You know Father, he would not approve of this–’

  Shakuni’s voice turned rough, sharp. ‘Oh, you remember him now, do you? You remember him now?’

  Gandhari frowned. ‘Of course, I do. I always remember him.’

  ‘When is the last time you heard from him?’ His voice cracked like a whip.

  ‘There have been letters–’

  ‘And what do the letters say?’

  ‘They ask how I am, how the children are, what is happening in Hastinapur.’ They were always bland, full of pleasantries and formalities. Gandhari thought her father no longer felt connected with her after she had blindfolded herself, that she had become a stranger and martyr to him, that she had forever killed the daughter in his heart.

  Shakuni’s voice turned eerily quiet. ‘And how do you know they are from him, from our father?’

  Her heart started thumping so loudly that she could not hear her own breath. ‘Who else would they be from? It – it sounds like him. Whenever I write, he responds.’

  ‘Yet, you cannot know for sure, can you? You have not seen his handwriting, you have not felt for yourself the seal.’

  Gandhari whispered, ‘They open the letters for me and read them to me. You know that I cannot see.’

  ‘I know you do not choose to see,’ he sneered.

  ‘What are you saying, brother? Has something happened to our parents?’ she cried out.

  ‘I said too much. Leave it. It is late and I am preoccupied with other matters. Go to bed.’

  Gandhari racked her brain, trying to recollect the contents of all the letters she had received from her parents, trying to find one stray piece of information that no one else would have known, to prove to herself that those letters had really come from them. Her voice grew in urgency. ‘Shakuni! Tell me the truth. What has happened? Are our parents all right? Is the kingdom safe?’

  He was unperturbed. ‘You should have come home when you were pregnant. A bride always comes home to deliver her baby. You never came back.’

  Her voice broke. ‘I could not. I had to stay here – to make sure that the royal heir was delivered in Hastinapur, to stake my son’s claim on the throne.’

  Shakuni laughed. ‘And how did that work out for you?’

  ‘Tell me what happened. If something was wrong, you should have told me at once. No more games, Shakuni. Tell me.’ She drew into her voice the command of the queen.

  He sighed. ‘I thought not to worry you with all this. Very well if you insist. What do you think happened?’

  She shook her head helplessly, imagining all the possible disasters that could have taken place in Gandhara. ‘Was there an illness? A war? Was there trickery by the ministers? A rebellion by the army?’

  Shakuni scoffed. ‘Look closer to your new home, dear sister.’

  Gandhari swallowed hard. She did not want to follow that train of thought further. ‘H-has there been trouble between my family and the Kurus? Has there been a fight?’

  ‘Do you not know your husband at all, dear sister?’ His voice was as light and smooth as butter and all the more sinister for it.

  ‘D-did he offend them?’

  ‘This innocent lass act does not suit you, dear sister. Be your father’s daughter and start thinking for yourself and ask better questions. What is your husband like?’

  Tears started falling down her cheeks. She could not bring herself to slight her husband, even now. She could not bring herself to disparage him, even in thought or speech with her brother. She said nothing.

  Shakuni took pity on her then. He said, ‘You know he is a man of spite, of insecurity, of deep paranoia. You know that he cannot brook disrespect or insult. You know he cannot tolerate the thought of rejection. And then you came along, a strong princess from a strong kingdom. How insecure must he have felt? You can just imagine.’

  Gandhari shook her head. ‘I never gave him reason for doubt or insecurity. I have always been loyal to him; I have always been devout and faithful to him in every way. There was no reason for him to worry about anything.’

  ‘When has that man ever needed a reason for his delusional fantasies and suspicions?’ It startled Gandhari to hear her brother so dismissive and scornful of a man whose favour he so solicitously curried, into whose company he forced himself so regularly.

  ‘What do you imagine your husband capable of, Gandhari? When he has free reign? When there is no one to oppose him or stop him? When he is fuelled by fear and incorrigible power?’Gandhari shivered despite herself. Her hands were shaking now. ‘Did he hurt them? Is that what you are saying?’ But would I not have known? Would I have not felt it if he had harmed my family? Would I not have perceived it? Could I be so close to evil and not recognize it? I could not be so blind, so foolish, so gullible. Could I?

  His voice was flat and unemotional as he told her, ‘A band of Kuru warriors came to kidnap us in our sleep. We had welcomed them as our guests, as our in-laws. They slaughtered the palace guards and took us away into a fortress where we were held prisoner. For years.’

  Gandhari gasped and shook her head, recoiling. ‘That’s impossible! I would have heard it if it were true. Such a thing – others would have come to their rescue. Others would have protested it, they would have come here and demanded their release. You are spouting tales, brother.’

  Shakuni waved his arms dismissively. She could feel the disturbance in the air. ‘Who cares about a remote kingdom like Gandhara? A kingdom full of barbarians and strange mountain folk? No one cared, sister. I tell you, we were held hostage for years in a dark dungeon. Our parents, our brothers and me.’

  She shook her head wildly, as if that could shake off his words.

  He said quietly, ‘You do not believe me. Here then.’ He reached out and took her hand in his. His flesh was clammy and cold. He pressed her hand into his belly. It was hard and protruding. ‘Do you feel this? Do you feel my stomach? Do you know what is in my stomach?’ Gandhari moved to draw her hand away but he would not let her. ‘They meant to starve us to death. Just one portion of food they gave every day, one portion for one hundred of us. Do you know what happened to that food, Gandhari?’ She shook her head, trembling. ‘Father remembered that I had been the one to oppose the match, that I had seen the true nature of these dastardly Kurus. He commanded everyone to give their portion to me. They all starved themselves so that I could live. I took all of their food and ate it and survived and lived. I lived in that dungeon until they became skeletons, until I was the only one left alive. And even then
I did not leave. I did not want to be caught again. I stayed there, with the rotting corpses of our family members. I kept taking the food. They dropped it in through a hole. And I kept eating, and that is how I have this plump belly. And do you know what I did, sister, all those days I was alone in that dungeon?’

  Gandhari whimpered and bit her hand, shoving her fist into her mouth to keep from crying out in horror, in revulsion, in agony at what he was describing to her. It was only through force of will that she did not soil herself. She wanted to cover her ears in disgust but did not want to appear weak before him.

  ‘I played dice.’ He laughed softly, a choking laugh that convulsed into an ugly sound. ‘And I plotted revenge. I had already vowed it for you. But now it would be more spectacular than anyone could conceive. Oh! The plans I have, sister. The vision! It will be a wreckage like nothing you have ever seen or imagined.’

  Gandhari collapsed to the floor, folded onto her knees and swayed against his squat legs, kneeling in front of him. She was sobbing now, loudly, snot running down her face and tears wetting her sari. ‘This cannot be true, brother. Revenge against whom? Who sent the soldiers to take you? Who knew about this? What are you saying? Was it my husband? Was it Bhishma? Say it clearly, brother, what is your allegation?’

  ‘I do not know. I know only it was Kuru forces who came to take us. I do not think the old man has it in him, the guts to pull off such a thing. He is too gallant. He would have fought in the open. Such sneakiness is not in his blood.’

  Gandhari was shaking like a leaf. Shakuni patted her shoulder. He whispered conspiratorially, ‘Do not worry, sister. I have plans.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out the dice, rattling them in his hands. Gandhari stilled his hand, holding her palm over the dice. Just as they had the night he had come back to Hastinapur, the dice felt oddly heavy and dense, a peculiar texture, that sent chills down her spine.

  Shakuni whispered: ‘Do not fear the dice, sister. They will never let us lose. They listen only to me. They follow only me. We will never lose with these dice. These dice are blessed.’ There was a foul stench in his breath and Gandhari shrank away from him. He leaned towards her eagerly: ‘Sister, I’ll tell you – these dice, they are special dice. Very special dice. Do you know why?’ Gandhari shook her head reluctantly. ‘Sister, they are made with our father’s bones! I made them myself!’

  Gandhari cried out and crawled away from him. ‘You’re mad! You’re mad and delusional and you made all this up! Stop playing these mind games!’ The door was wedged shut and she could not open it. She leaned against the door, as far away as possible from her brother. She drew her knees to her chest and kept whispering, more to herself than him: ‘You’re mad. You’re mad and a liar.’

  She began shaking, because a part of her believed him. The part of her that had lain next to Dhritarashthra for all those years believed him capable of something this awful, that man who had spurned her in her maternity for her own maid, who had gleefully watched his brother driven into exile, always covetous, of the throne, of her, of their children. The part of her that guarded the threshold to the nursery fiercely, knowing there were those among her in-laws’ who would gladly see Suyodhana and maybe even her other sons dead and out of the way of the gods-born Pandavas.

  Shakuni stood, towering over her. He said gently, almost tenderly, ‘Do not worry, sister. They will not get away with what they have done to you. This I have promised you from the beginning. They will rue the day they thought they would marry you off to that blind prince, that weak, pathetic fool. They will rue the day they ruined your life and mine. The Kuru clan will be destroyed from within. This I promise you.’

  Gandhari cried out, ‘The Kuru clan includes my sons! Your nephews! You cannot destroy them. They are our blood!’

  ‘They have been contaminated with his blood.’ Gandhari could feel his teeth-bared sneer.

  Gandhari was unable to bring herself to her feet. She dragged herself on her belly across the floor to touch his feet, to supplicate herself at his feet. ‘Please, brother, I am begging you, do not hurt my children. They are all I have left. Please protect them and watch over them. That’s the reason I asked you to come here, all these years ago. Oh, Shakuni! You are beholden to protect them and watch over them! Please spare them from your games.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Shakuni!’ she shouted. ‘Do not hurt my sons!’

  ‘He has used these sons to bind you, he is using them for his own games and ambitions. They are nothing but pawns to him, and so they must be nothing but pawns to me. Do not blame me for it, sister. Blame him, the one you married, the one you blindfolded yourself for!’ There was petulance in his voice and jealousy. Suddenly, Gandhari wondered if this had not been his plan all along, from the beginning.

  Gandhari’s lungs were burning now from having cried herself hoarse and dry. ‘You must know they will destroy themselves in their quest to destroy the sons of Pandu. The sons of Pandu are the sons of the devas. My sons stand no chance against them. Yet you are forcing them again and again to fight the Pandavas. You are prodding them on, encouraging their father’s flights of fancy, his delusions about the throne, their dreams for the crown. You are pushing them on the path to their destruction.’ Her voice grew ragged. ‘They call you uncle! Yet you are killing them.’

  Shakuni sniggered.

  ‘I will kick you out of this palace! I will tell my husband. Oh, I should have listened to Satyavati when she warned me about you. I will banish you. You are a madman, you are poison to this family, this palace.’ Yet, even as she denounced him, her voice faltered. She was torn by disbelief and denial – neither could she believe his wild tale, nor could she trust the family into which she had married, the family that had tried to take from her arms her new-born eldest son. Even as she chastised him, deep within, a part of her welcomed his fierce protectiveness, so long as he would protect her sons in the madness of his schemes. That was her concern.

  ‘So, you are one of the Kurus now.’ His voice was leaden with disdain.

  ‘I am the mother of my Kuru sons! They have and will always have my first loyalty.’

  ‘How quickly you have abandoned us, sister, your first family, the family of your birth. Even if your husband is a murderer, the murderer of us all, still you will side with him, is it?’

  She shook her head decisively. ‘I do not believe you. You are a madman.’

  ‘And how is it that you will have thrown me out? What will you tell your husband? That you suspect your own brother of wanting to kill your children? Then who will be the mad one, sister? Who will be the one banished? Me, who is helping your husband’s and sons’ dreams come true, or you, who are thwarting them?’

  Gandhari was quiet and resolute. ‘I will defeat you. I will stop you from destroying my family. They are my sons. They will listen to me. I will guide them correctly. They will be safe and they will be protected.’ She found the strength to stand up and twist the knob on the door to let herself out.

  ‘Very well, sister,’ he said in an even tone. He shook the dice and threw them brutally hard against the door, narrowly dodging her body, grazing the edges of her sari. ‘Let us see how the game unfolds.’

  Perhaps that would have remained the end of it; perhaps it would have persisted as a stalemate – Duryodhana’s plots, the Pandavas successfully thwarting him again and again, a nagging thorn in their side but not the cataclysmic war that erupted. Perhaps it would have been contained, embers of a fire that never quite combusted into the ravaging firestorm that was the war to come, had not the balance between the two sets of cousins been irrevocably altered by he who was Kunti’s other son, the unacknowledged one, the illegitimate one, the son of the sun himself, Karna.

  The boys had finished their training. Drona, their teacher, wished to show off their prowess. A tournament was arranged with great fanfare. An arena was built from scratch and filled with thousands of eager citizens from the kingdom. Kunti’s sons and Gandhari’s sons display
ed their skills at archery, piercing targets with their names engraved on them to cheers from the crowds. Yet, the tension was obvious. When Bhima and Duryodhana entered, half the crowd shouted out for one, the other half for the other. The tumult grew deafening until Drona ordered for quiet, asking the crowd to not become angered over them.

  Then he announced the entry of Arjuna. Drona fairly gushed over him: ‘Now behold Arjuna, who is dearer to me than my own son. He is Indra’s son himself, the protector of the Kurus, the supreme one among those who are skilled in the use of weapons, the foremost one in good conduct.’

  The crowds roared their approval for Arjuna. Gandhari could hear Dhritarashthra from a distance asking the source of all the tumult. Vidura told him it was the sound of the crowd applauding for Arjuna. Dhritarashthra said politely, ‘I am indeed fortunate that I am protected by these Pandavas, the sons of Kunti.’ Only Gandhari detected the bitterness and resentment in his bland voice.

  Then began Arjuna’s turn to enthral the crowd. And enthral them he did. He created fire with an ‘agneya’ weapon, water with a ‘varuna’ weapon, created rain with a parjanya weapon, entered the ground with a bhoumya weapon, created mountains with a parvata weapon, made everything disappear with an antardhana weapon; appeared tall, then short; appeared yoked to his chariot, then in the middle of his chariot, then on the ground again. All these were celestial weapons conjured by his mantras and fierce concentration, erupting in puffs of coloured smoke and disappearing in a whiff just as quickly after the weapon had been used. It was Kunti who reported all of this in excruciating detail to Gandhari, her voice full of pride for her son. Gandhari politely murmured in approval, repressing the desire to tap her feet impatiently. She was bored of hearing of the feats of her rival’s sons. Duryodhana never earned such glory. How could he? How could he or any of his brothers, those human-born sons, compare to the sons of devas?

  Gandhari remembered how she and Satyavati had laughed at Bhishma once, for being such a poor picker of brides. But maybe he was onto something after all with choosing her and Kunti. Maybe he knew of Kunti’s boon, that she would bear for the throne the sons of immortals who would be invincible while Gandhari would bear one hundred mediocre suns, enough to be a good insurance policy but never a real threat for the throne, never an even match for those who would clearly inherit the throne. Perhaps Bhishma was more worldly-wise than they had given him credit for.