The Curse of Gandhari

by Aditi Banerjee

  But no one else saw Krishna.

  They all saw the miracle, but they said she was saved by Dharma. And indeed she was, for what else but the force of Dharma could have drawn Krishna, the highest of the devas, the supreme avatar himself, to her side, to her rescue, as he had never come for Gandhari?

  It was only Gandhari who saw Krishna. She had heard he had been a cowherd once, a simple farmer boy, with a peacock father tucked in his hair. She had heard that he was called an imposter, that he was taunted for not being a real prince, that his pedigree as a king, let alone as a god, had been challenged again and again, that Shishupala had insulted him ninety-nine times in a row, and this smiling, patient god, this Krishna neatly sliced his head off only on the hundredth time. Seeing him now, she wondered how anyone could doubt his divinity.

  Each line of his sky-coloured body, draped in pale yellow silk, was graceful and elegant. The drape of the upper cloth as it fluttered atop his sloping shoulders, his bare chest bearing the Kaustubha gem, the blue-black locks of hair that fell over his forehead rakishly, the gold diadem crown atop his curly hair, that still bore a peacock feather as tribute to his boyhood, the cross of his right leg across his left, the arch of his right heel, reddish against his blue skin, how delicately and like a dancer it poised on the ground, leaning against the calf of his other leg.

  Gandhari forgot everything as she drank in the sight of him like a woman mad with thirst. Whether her eyes were open or closed, she could not tell. She just saw. What tenderness was in his face, what love! His eyes were long ellipsoids the shape of lotus petals, lashes shadowing his dimpled cheeks flirtatiously, his shark-shaped earrings catching and reflecting the bright sunlight that still filtered in through the palace windows. He did not carry now the flute of his boyhood, but his very breath was music. To not have seen the world for decades and to awaken to the sight of him – she would have gladly blinded herself for hundreds of years for this magical sight.

  Gandhari forgot everything – she forgot the assembly-hall, the disrobing of Draupadi, the misconduct of her sons – everything that was not Krishna and his beauteous form swimming in front of her eyes that had been opened as if for the first time. She could not remember the last time she had smiled – she had not even smiled at her babies. She had raised them sternly. She caressed them but without giggles, without the laughter and cooing that would have perhaps come naturally had she been able to see them crawl, see their fat cheeks, their once adorable, once innocent eyes. She almost smiled now.

  She had thought she was beyond seduction. Since the time of her marriage, she had not even thought of another man beside her husband. But this was a god, this was the best of all the gods. She had once prayed to Shiva for a husband like Shiva. She had once fasted for a year for that boon. She would have fasted for a thousand years – forget blindfolding herself, she would have gouged her own eyes out – to have won this Krishna for herself, as Draupadi had won Arjuna. He who had come to the rescue of Draupadi, who could have taken her away from this miserable palace, this life that had become so rotten and hopeless.

  A golden discus with a sharp, serrated edge rotated on the index finger of his right hand, the finger held up vertically to serve as the axis around which the discus spun. It was the Sudarshana chakra, the most powerful weapon in the universe. It could have cut through the core of the earth in moments, could have burned all the worlds into ash in the space of a second. Yet now it spun out soft cloths to drape Draupadi. With a gentle smile, Krishna sent yards of fabric out to cover and protect Draupadi, in soothing pink, yellow, orange tones, offering solace to her in every which way. The chakra spun them out like a loom and at the flick of Krishna’s finger, the cloth flung itself to Draupadi, draping itself around her protectively.

  It was a spellbinding sight, the love and tenderness in his gaze, the intent focus on Draupadi as she spun around and around, as Duhshasana tugged the fabric from one end and Krishna covered her from the other end.

  It was the sound of her son’s anger that broke the spell. There was a slapping sound and the grunt of Duryodhana as he grew frustrated at the failure of Draupadi’s disrobing. Gandhari knew it was her eldest son. He made that same sound of impatience and hunger when he wanted seconds at dinner, demanding another serving of meat from her plates, growling until she served him. It was the same hunger, the same lust.

  Krishna’s eyes narrowed, reddened in anger and displeasure.

  Now Gandhari heard the chortles of Karna and Duryodhana, goading Duhshasana onward, even as it was obvious it would not work; that they had been thwarted.

  The chakra began spinning faster and faster, whirring with a high-pitched noise. He smiled. His smiles were legendary, so charming, so enticing, they drew cows and deer to his side, drew the flowers from the trees, made the waves of the river reverse course to come near him, turned women and men, boys and girls, the elderly, the sick, the royal, the poor, all to mush. But this was not that kind of a smile. This was a blood-curdling smile, a smile that promised war, total destruction, total annihilation.

  Gandhari gasped, convinced that Krishna was going to decapitate her sons. Krishna’s gaze slid to her and he raised an eyebrow at her challengingly, inquisitively. Gandhari remembered how he had severed Shishupala’s head after ninety-nine insults. How could he be expected to bear this dishonouring of Draupadi, one of his favourites, one of his closest friends? Everyone knew of the special friendship between the two, how when once Krishna had hurt his finger, Draupadi had rushed to him, wrapping the wound with her own sari, how touched he had been, how he had vowed to one day return the favour.

  Gandhari moved as if to lunge towards her sons, to fling herself in front of them protectively, to save them from Krishna. At that moment, all she could think of was saving her sons from his divine weapon, from his divine intervention, to protect them from his punishment. Krishna shook his head at her sadly.

  It was then that Gandhari realized that it had not been her sons that were being tested at that moment; it was she. She had moved to save her sons when she had not moved to protect Draupadi. She had forsaken Dharma for her flesh and blood. She had moved to oppose Krishna instead of supporting him. She had chosen the vile deeds of her sons over the innocence of her daughter-in-law. She had failed.

  She remembered now how her father had fretted and been so anxious after that wild ascetic had come to their court in Gandhara, how worried he had been that she would be an enemy to the devas, that there was wrong within her. She remembered how Dvaipayana had hesitated before giving her the blessing for one hundred sons. Had he known that this would happen? Had he known she would not be able to raise them well? That she would raise them with some evil, some evil that perhaps had been inside her all along? Had he tried to protect her from herself?

  She had failed as a mother. She remembered now all the rules of etiquette that she had taught her sons, all the formalities, all the honorifics by which they were to address women, their elders, their teachers. But she had not taught them respect. She had not taught them to care for others, to feel compassion. She, who had been deprived of all of that for so long, had forgotten to endow them with that which had been taken away from her.

  She had failed as a woman, a queen, who still had some authority in this court, moral if not legal. She moved her eyes desperately, looking for her sons, at least once, to see them for herself, to see if they were truly bad, if they had inherited that badness from her, to see once their eyes, their expressions, what their faces alone could tell her of their character. But everything else was darkness. Only Krishna was visible.

  When her eyes found Krishna’s face again, the love and longing was lost, subjugated by shame and despair. He was her enemy now. He would be the one to destroy her family, and by extension, her. Her body became leaden with dread and a terrible fear. They were now on opposite sides. An anguish and misery like nothing she had ever known before set firm inside her. That which had been hardened in her once now turned brittle, into something t
hat would shatter into dust. For a moment, there had been possibility. For a moment, there had been hope that there was a different ending, a happy ending.

  The whirring of the chakra became so loud it melded into the sound of a conch being blown, the conches of a war that was now inevitable, heralding a battle that would inexorably draw in all the kingdoms and families of Bharat, pitting them against each other, splitting families, teacher against student, generations against each other, a war that would tear apart Bharat and the only world they had ever known. The sound of the conches melded with the crying out of the people assembled in the hall, awestruck and horrified by the miracle and the debacle of what they had witnessed. And that sound melded with the low keening cry that came out of Gandhari’s mouth, a cry of protest, too little, too late.

  And then did Duhshasana finally give up, letting go of Draupadi’s cloth and falling back to the floor in exhaustion with yards and yards and yards of fabric surrounding him. Then did Draupadi stop spinning, her feet carpeted by high mounds of soft silk and cotton saris, cushioning her. Then did the chakra finally stop spinning and the sounds fade into silence. And then all went black for Gandhari, once again.

  Once again, she was without sight.

  It was not yet over. Duhshasana collapsed wearily atop the pile of garments, the silken clothes flattening with a sigh. The assembly filled with cries of ‘Shame! Shame!’ and insistent demands that the Kuru elders answer the question of Draupadi.

  Then boomed out the ferocious voice of Bhima, roaring, ‘In battle, I will claw and break apart the chest of this evil Duhshasana and drink his blood!’

  In the ensuing tumult of cries, Vidura spoke quietly bringing the hall to a standstill: ‘Draupadi’s question must be addressed. One in distress comes to the sabha. Those who are in the sabha pacify that person through dharma. When a person in distress asks a question about dharma, those in the sabha must answer, unaffected by desire or anger. O assembled lords! You must address the question raised by Draupadi.

  ‘If one seated in the assembly-hall does not answer the question, even knowing about dharma, he incurs half the demerit that comes from lying. And if one is seated in the assembly-hall and answers the question falsely, even though he knows about dharma, he certainly incurs the complete demerit that comes from lying. As the great rishi Kashyapa has pronounced, one who knows the answer to a question but does not answer it out of desire, anger or fear, brings upon himself a thousand of Varuna’s nooses. It takes an entire year for one of those nooses to be loosened. In a sabha where an act of censure is not condemned, half the demerit is attached to the head of that assembly, one fourth to the culprit and one fourth to those who do not condemn it. Let all those who are in this sabha reflect upon the supreme answer to Draupadi’s question.’

  Gandhari felt the sting of each word as an arrow aimed at her. I should have known better. I should have acted.

  None of the kings uttered a word.

  Still the debate continued, back and forth, back and forth. Draupadi challenged; the elderly men of the court prevaricated; Gandhari’s sons pushed the Pandavas to disown their eldest brother or else accept their wife as a servant; it was a stalemate that prolonged itself in a descent into uglier and uglier manifestations, until her son, Duryodhana, bared his left thigh, inviting Draupadi to sit on it; the left thigh, reserved for lovers and wives, a thinly veiled sexual overture.

  But Gandhari did not listen. She did not pay attention. She already knew she was doomed when she heard again the howling of the jackal. The same jackals who had howled the day Duryodhana had been born, who had warned them then as they did now, that her son would be the cause of the destruction of their lineage and the kingdom. It was the time of agnihotra, the kindling of the sacred fire in the household. It was twilight, dusk, when light met darkness, the dawning of the evening.

  Donkeys brayed and terrible birds shrieked, birds she could not remember ever hearing before. Animals cackled and snakes hissed and the very earth seemed to rise in protest against her sons. Bhishma cried out, ‘Shanti! Shanti!’ It was then that Gandhari knew the time had come to put an end to things. It was then that she found her voice.

  Gandhari whispered to her husband, ‘Say something before it is too late. Our ruin is upon us.’

  Dhritarashthra finally spoke. It was amazing that once he spoke, finally his words carried weight, finally they reflected some wisdom. It was only when it was too late that he realized the error of his ways, that he discerned right from wrong. That was the tragedy of her husband. He called out, ‘O evil-minded Duryodhana! You have been destroyed. You have insulted a woman, not just a woman, but a lawfully wedded wife like Draupadi.’ His voice choked, fearful of the fate of his sons. He addressed Draupadi and tried to pacify her: ‘Choose from me whatever boon you desire. You are a chaste lady who follows the supreme dharma and you are the most special of my daughters-in-law.’

  In an even voice, she requested two boons, the first to free Yudhishthira, the eldest of the brothers and the king, and the second to free the other brothers, together with their chariots and their bows.

  Dhritarashthra offered a third boon.

  Draupadi refused. She said, ‘Greed destroys dharma and I am disinclined to do so. My husbands have been rescued. They will obtain riches and prosperity through their own sacred deeds.’ She does not need our charity.

  Even Karna marvelled at the composure of this extraordinary woman. He said in a voice of awe, ‘Among all women in humankind, renowned for their beauty, we have not seen, nor heard, of the accomplishment of such a deed. When the sons of Kunti and the sons of Dhritarashthra were raging in anger, Draupadi brought solace. The sons of Pandu were immersed and drowning in an ocean without a boat. She became their boat and brought them safely ashore.’

  Gandhari suffered a sharp pang of jealousy, more intense than anything she had felt before. Even when Kunti had come as the bride of Pandu, even when Kunti had borne a son before her, even when Ayla had given birth to her husband’s son, even then she had not felt the jealousy, the burning fire within her heart that she felt now. This was who she should have been, someone like Draupadi. Someone strong, just and principled, fearless. Someone who could command respect and awe by virtue of her character. A true queen. Instead she had become this shell of a self-martyred woman, bitterness and a greedy, hoarding protectionism of her sons overwhelming what had once been her intelligence, her virtue, her strength.

  She could have been a strong queen. Once. And how could she blame it on her husband? When this woman who had been betrayed by her elders, by her five husbands, by her own preceptors, still burned like a holy flame, still stood strong and proud, still commanded even when she was a slave, still brought to their knees the kings who lorded their judgment over her.

  Yudhishthira approached Dhritarashthra, and Gandhari knew he would have approached in his customary humble demeanour, with his hands joined in salutation. ‘O king! You are our lord. Command us as to what we should do.’

  ‘O Ajatashatru, one without enemies! Go in peace and safety. On my command, rule your kingdom with your riches. O son! Do not take to your heart Duryodhana’s harshness. Look at your mother, Gandhari, and me. We crave your goodness. Look at your old and blind father sitting before you. There is dharma in you, valour in Arjuna, strength in Bhima and respect and service in your twin brothers. Return to your kingdom. Let there be fraternal love between you and your cousins. May your mind always be established in dharma.’

  It should have ended there but did not. Duryodhana and her other sons could not stomach the peace; that their ploy to once and for all destroy the Pandavas had failed. Duryodhana pouted to his father, cajoling him to agree to challenge the Pandavas to a rematch of the dice game. When Gandhari heard of this, she was aghast.

  For even now, Dhritarashthra was soft, malleable clay in the hands of his son. Again he was deluded; overcome by his own greed. He was going to allow it.

  Gandhari intervened. She came to his bedchamber, expelli
ng Vidura, Shakuni and Sanjaya from his chambers. She knelt before him, as he sat fidgeting on the edge of his bed, and she placed her hands in his lap in an effort to soothe him. She gentled her voice, as if she were talking to a child. And, indeed, perhaps she was.

  She said softly, ‘When Duryodhana was born, your wise brother Vidura told us that it would be better to send this destroyer of the lineage to the other world.’ Her voice caught in her throat and warbled as she remembered the feel of his warm new-born arms wound around her neck, the strength of his diaphragm moving in and out as he struggled to breathe and cry, pulling in as much oxygen as he could, always greedy, always covetous.

  ‘He was right. As soon as he was born, he howled like a jackal. O husband, how can we deny it now? He will be the destroyer of the lineage. He will be the destruction of us all!

  ‘Do not become the cause for our destruction, noble one. Who will reignite a dying fire? Who will breach a dam that has been built? Let peace, dharma, the counsel of others and your own natural intelligence guide you in making your decisions. Prosperity built through cruelty is destroyed. If it is gently nurtured, it grows old and passes to sons and grandsons.’

  Dhritarashthra sighed, the ruffle of his breath tickling the tops of her hands, his knees trembling under her touch as if he were already an old decrepit man. And perhaps he was. Without sight, it was so easy to lose track of time, age, the passing of the years. He cried out in a feeble voice: ‘Yes, Gandhari, you are right. It is indeed certain that the time of the destruction of our family has come. I cannot prevent it. What can I do, my wife? Let it be as our sons wish. We should not come in their way. Our fate is already preordained. Let them have their way. Let the Pandavas come back. Let them play one more time.’

  When she was a child, Gandhari had been taught the various forms of karma. Her teacher had used the analogy of archery. Prarabdha karma was like arrows that had already been shot, that could not be retracted. And then, even within prarabdha karma, there were three types of karma. There was iccha prarabdha, the karmic fruits that came from one’s own will, from the situations in which one placed oneself by their own volition. Aniccha prarabdha was that which could not be controlled, that which came from the elements, an earthquake, a thunderstorm, natural disasters, engulfing wars. And, finally, paraiccha prarabdha was second-hand karma, the smoke you inhaled from the fire lit by someone else, the contamination of your own field of karma by those who surrounded you.