Now she understood that which she had learned so long ago. Now she knew what it was to be trapped by another’s karma. She was stymied by her husband and her sons, caught in the webs of their karma and ill intent. Even her own efforts, her paltry attempts to make things right, could not extricate her from the noose of destruction they tightened around themselves.
At that moment, Gandhari wanted to howl like that jackal, to weep in despair. Blindness was its own hell. But there was another pain, far deeper, far worse, that came from seeing that which those around her could not see, that which she could not convince others to be true. To see when others were blind. And for the first time she felt grateful for that bandage wound around her head, for that which protected her from the world she no longer wanted to see.
She did not bother to protest. Duryodhana and the others went off with Dhritarashthra’s blessings. And then began the long hours of wait. She paced. She twisted her hands and fretted, muttering to herself. Dhritarashthra was there, too, in their private chambers, sighing again and again. She was not afraid that her brother would lose. She was afraid that he would win. Vidura, who was often a calming influence, had crept out quietly to witness the rematch, so he could report back to them.
The whole palace was on edge. There were bad signs everywhere. The flag-staffs had suddenly crumbled. Terrible winds blew. Meteors fell from the sky. The fires of the agnihotra had gone out, as the brahamanas refused to perform the sacrifice after Draupadi had been so dishonoured, so violated. As bad as what had transpired was, everyone could feel something much worse was about to occur.
But nothing prepared them for the terribleness of the return of the sons of Dhritarashthra and the sons of Pandu to the palace after the rematch. There was complete silence. A desolate silence that augured death. It was a silence so terrible that Dhritarashthra, who often hid in his chambers, shying away from the truth until he was forced to confront it, called out to his brother to come and report to them what was happening, as nothing could be worse than that silence.
Vidura approached them softly and sat next to them, gathering together carefully the words by which he should share the news with them. Gandhari winced at the memory of how insultingly Duryodhana had addressed him, treating him with the contempt accorded to a disobedient servant, insulting him, practically expelling him from their home. Her eyes clogged with tears. Where would they have been without Vidura? Bhishma was attached to the throne, but Vidura was attached to the inhabitants of the throne, of the palace of Hastinapur. Even when they were wrong, even when they were irredeemable, still he persisted, patiently, counselling them with equanimity, even when he had no hope of changing them or getting them to see, still he loved them, still he advised them, still he looked after them, even when he was kicked like a dog, still he was loyal to them, asking for nothing. And nothing was all he ever got.
Vidura said: ‘Yudhishthira was unable to refuse your command, king, and he agreed to the match. Shakuni, your brother-in-law had designed the stakes to be twelve years of exile in the forest, with a thirteenth year of hiding in disguise, and then, in the fourteenth return; the losing party will return and regain their kingdom.’
Gandhari’s fingers dug into her palm so hard that she drew blood.
Vidura continued in an even voice, ‘Shakuni won.’
Dhritarashthra cried out in pleasure and exultation.
Gandhari’s face dropped.
Thirteen years of exile meant thirteen years of reprieve, thirteen years of preparation for the war to come. Thirteen years for the Pandavas to become stronger, invincible. Thirteen years for her sons to become more degenerate, for Shakuni to sink his claws into them even more deeply.
Gandhari forced herself to ask, ‘And then what happened?’
‘Your son Duhshasana taunted Draupadi, goading her to choose a new husband now that her husbands would be forced to wear deer skin and live a life of austerity in the forest. When Bhima rebuked him, he danced around the Pandavas, challenging them, calling Bhima nothing but a cow.’
Dhritarashthra was sober now. ‘And how did the sons of Pandu respond?’
‘Bhima vowed to slay Duryodhana. Arjuna vowed to slay Karna. Sahadeva vowed to kill Shakuni, whom he called the deceitful one with the dice. Bhima vowed to kill Duryodhana with a club in battle, vowing to press down his head into the ground with his foot. And he vowed to drink the blood of Duhshasana.’
Gandhari shivered, remembering the righteous anger of Bhima at the time of Draupadi’s disrobing. She did not doubt the truth of his enraged vow. She whispered, ‘What did the others say?’
Vidura hesitated. ‘Arjuna said, “Let the Himalayas move from where they stand, let the sun be dimmed, let coolness be removed from the moon, if I deviate from this vow. In the fourteenth year, if Duryodhana does not restore the kingdom to us with proper honour, all this will come to pass.”’
Gandhari shivered. This was the son of Indra, the king of the gods. What hope did she and her sons have?
Vidura pressed on: ‘Then Sahadeva grasped his own arms. His eyes were red with anger and he hissed like a serpent. He growled at Shakuni: “O foolish one! O destroyer of the fame of Gandhara! Your dice are not dice but sharp arrows that you have invited to battle. For you and your relatives, I shall certainly do what Bhima has said. O son of Subala! I will overpower you and swiftly kill you in battle with your brothers, if you choose to stay and fight with honour that you do not have.”’
Gandhari’s heartbeat tripped over itself. Our brothers. So, they live! My brother was indeed lying to me. How foolish I have been! How gullible!
Her voice was sandpaper rough as she prodded Vidura, ‘And then, younger brother, what is it that the last one said? What did Nakula, the most handsome of men, say?’
‘Nakula said, “At the gambling match, Dhritarashthra’s sons used harsh and insulting words towards Draupadi. These sons of Dhritarashthra are evil and are soon to die. In great numbers, I will show them the abode of death. On Yudhishthira’s instructions and following Draupadi’s footsteps, I will soon relieve the earth of the sons of Dhritarashthra.”’
They are all to die then. They will all be dead.
Tears slipped from Gandhari’s eyes, wetting her bandage, leaving a taste of salt on her dry, cracked lips.
The Pandavas then divested themselves of their rich clothing, their ornaments, their possessions, after they had made provisions for the caretaking of their kingdom and property in their absence, after they had made arrangements for their mother Kunti to remain with Vidura and his wife during their long years of exile, now that she was too old to join them for this sojourn into the forest. Draupadi came to the women’s quarters where Kunti and Gandhari and the other ladies of the court were sitting. The chamber filled with the sound of loud, gasping wails and cries of disbelief, the type of mourning the court had not witnessed since the death of Pandu.
Draupadi bowed to Kunti first. Kunti’s voice did not waver, was iron in strength and tone, as she addressed her daughter-in-law. ‘I need not give you instructions about your duties towards your husbands. Two families have been graced by your qualities and righteous conduct. The Kurus in the assembly-hall are fortunate that they have not been burnt down by your rage. Be blessed; may you travel on a route that has no obstacles. The minds of good women are not affected by what is inevitable. When you live in the forest, always keep an eye on my sons so that they do not lose hope.’
Draupadi murmured, ‘So shall it be,’ and took her leave, coming to stand in front of Gandhari, a scant few inches away from her. She had bowed to touch Kunti’s feet but did not prostrate in front of Gandhari. She stood silently in judgment of her.
Gandhari was discomfited. She could sense the outlines of the cloud of Draupadi’s dishevelled hair, surrounding her like a jagged black halo, like something wild, the shape of flames escaping from a fire. The warmth of her body, of a simmering rage that she would kindle constantly through the thirteen years of exile, was palpable, nearly singe
ing Gandhari with its intensity. She could smell the metallic tinge of her blood flowing, staining the thin cloth wound around her hips, just a few inches from her nose where she stood in front of her. She heard later that Draupadi had left her hair undone, that she departed the palace in a single garment stained with blood and marked by her tears.
Gandhari wanted to turn her head but did not do so. She was shamed in front of this woman. What could she say to her; what could the mother of the men who had molested her, possibly say to her? Her whole life, Gandhari had been proud of her piety. Her fasting, her prayers, her worship, her sacrifice, her astonishing act of blindfolding herself, her devotion to her husband, her virtuous and modest conduct. And now this young woman, this new generation of woman, this daughter of hers, made her feel so little, so inadequate.
It felt antiquated now, this act of blindfolding herself, that had felt so radical then, so brave, so strong. Strength was what Draupadi had done. Draupadi was the heroine; she was the one they would write ballads about, who was able to inspire and lead her husbands, who would invoke holy war when others cowered and fled. She was the one who would be remembered with honour and reverence; not Gandhari, not the mother of molesters. Even now, as Gandhari sat in front of this woman she had wronged, whom her sons had violated, she was full of thoughts of herself, full of envy for this daughter of hers, full of regret at what she could have been, the ways in which she could have eclipsed the prestige of this daughter of hers if only she had tried. And it was that self-absorption, that false remorse, that shamed her more than anything else.
Draupadi turned away from her and walked out. As the Pandavas left, Dhritarashthra asked Vidura to report to him the details of their departure. The masochist in him was eager to know everything.
Vidura’s voice was quiet and terrible in its solemnity as he described the situation to them:
‘Yudhishthira is covering his face with his garment. He refuses to open his eyes in anger; he knows that he will burn these people down if he looks at them now with his terrible eyes. Bhima spreads his long arms to display the strength of his arms. Arjuna is scattering sand to show how he will release showers of arrows on his enemies. Draupadi is attired in a single garment; she is weeping, her hair is un-braided and her garment is smeared with menstrual blood. She has spoken these words: “In the fourteenth year, the wives of those who have caused my present plight will find their husbands dead, their sons dead, their relatives dead and their beloved ones dead. Their bodies will be covered with the blood of their relatives. Their hair will be unkempt; un-braided in their grief.”
‘Dhaumya, their family priest, is chanting terrible hymns from the Sama Veda connected with Yama as he treads the path, leading the Pandavas, holding kusha grass in his hand. When the descendants of the Kauravas have been killed in battle, the elders of the Kuru clan will chant these same hymns.’
Gandhari inhaled deeply. She could smell it in the air, the spill of blood, the charring of the flesh of corpses on funeral pyres without number; she could hear in the stillness of the air, the zing of arrows being unleashed, the clash of swords, the sounding of the conches heralding the beginning of the battle; she could feel the earth below her feet tremble with the convergence of millions of horses and elephants trampling the land, armies charging at each other.
War was thirteen years away, but it was coming.
7
It is not so easy watching your sons die. And Gandhari was not the kind to give up without a fight. She tried the easy things first. She tried to teach them how to be good. She taught them the morality parables she had learned as a child. She brought in a parade of holy men, renunciates learned in the scriptures, ascetics who had mastered their senses and conquered their minds, rid of the avarice that darkened the character of her sons. To humour her, they listened quietly. But she knew that they did not hear – she could sense their fidgeting, their restless sights. Just as her blindfold prevented her eyes from seeing, their fixation on destroying their cousins prevented them from hearing anything that would have benefited them.
Even with the Pandavas living in exile, still Duryodhana fretted about them as his father had fretted about Pandu when he had exiled himself into the mountains with Kunti and Madri. Duryodhana was tormented by obsessive curiosity, consumed by paranoia of how the Pandavas meant to usurp him. And there were indeed rumours. The Pandavas were not sitting idly, biding their time. It was Draupadi who incited them, the fury of her molestation fuelling their bloodthirst. Free of Kunti’s moderating presence, Draupadi reminded them again and again of how she was shamed and humiliated, how they had been made into fools by the trickery of Duryodhana, that she would not rest until they were destroyed. She did not permit them a single contented night without whispering into their ears the constant refrain of a war that would not wait, that had become inevitable.
The rumours were incredible. That Arjuna had been dispatched to Swarga, to the heavenly realms, to win the celestial weapons. That the boisterous warrior, who enjoyed his share of wine and women, was hard at penance, meditating, standing on tiptoe with arms upraised, not moving for months on end, standing at night in chest-high freezing waters in glacial rivers, living on fruit then decayed leaves and then air alone, cultivating extraordinary endurance and forbearance. He travelled northwards, crossing the Himalayan passes, crossing Gandhamadana Parvat, until he reached Indrakila, the mountain of Indra. In his sojourn there, he won the Pashupata weapon from Shiva and the other celestial weapons from Indra.
Every day, Bhima trained in the forests, eating copiously to grow ever more massive in size and might, fighting with trees as his maces, smashing boulders, running upstream through hip-deep rivers to become stronger and faster. Nakula and Sahadeva immersed themselves in rites and scriptures, cultivating the auspicious energies that would protect and bless them. And Yudhishthira had perhaps the hardest role of all, that of the thinker, the discerner of Dharma, agonizing over philosophical questions so subtle that they exasperated his brothers and his wife. Again and again, though, he saved his brothers through his wit, through his answering the riddles posed by the devas in disguise come to test them and their righteousness.
This is what Gandhari and her family heard from those who passed through the forest, from the sages who travelled far and wide, carrying news of the world to all corners of the realm. Duryodhana became obsessed and paranoid, closeting himself with Karna, Shakuni and Duhshasana to plot and plan for what would happen upon the Pandavas’ eventual return. He did not sit idly either. He cultivated alliances with other kingdoms, easy pickings when the Pandavas were stranded in the forest alone. He and his brothers trained with Drona and Kripa, out in the fields, duelling in mock battles from dawn until midnight. Duryodhana remembered how Arjuna had trained, giving up food, giving up sleep, and he was determined not to be outdone. He remembered Bhima’s vow to break his thigh with his mace and he trained in mace fighting.
For thirteen years, day and night, Duryodhana trained in mace fighting and mace fighting alone. He was convinced that one day, the decisive battle would be between him and Bhima with the weapon of the mace. He had a statue built of Bhima, diamond hard and adamantine, bigger in frame than even the massive Bhima was in real life, and from morning to night, he thwacked that replica of Bhima with his mace, practicing blow after blow. His teacher was Balarama, the elder brother of Krishna, also teacher to Bhima. Balarama was the foremost master of mace fighting and despite himself he became fond of Duryodhana over the course of training him. He remarked once to Dhritarashthra and Gandhari that, although Bhima was the stronger of the two, Duryodhana had greater skill in mace fighting because he had worked harder at it for longer with single-minded focus. It was his opinion that if the two were to come face to face in a fair fight, Duryodhana would surely win – in a fair fight.
The twelve years of exile – before the thirteenth year to be spent incognito – were drawing to a close. The great rishi Markandeya came to Hastinapur to call upon Dhritarashthra and Gand
hari. After the exchange of formalities, he conveyed that he had recently seen the Pandavas, that they were suffering from heat and cold, that they were emaciated, and the years in the forest, of sleeping on the bare ground, of being exposed to the wind and rains, walking barefoot on thorns and in mud, of living off the meagre stores of food that had to serve not only them but their retinue of followers, the brahmanas who came to meet them, those wise men and their wives whom they hosted, had taken their toll.
Even Dhritarashthra was moved to pity. Gandhari was in tears. She thought of Pandu, how valiant and noble he had been, how devastated he would have been to see his sons and daughter-in-law reduced to this. She thought of Draupadi, that fierce, proud woman – now dressed in bark, leaves entwined through her thick, dishevelled hair, where the crown of a queen should have rested. She shivered in fear of the retribution that was sure to come, that would arrive soon, thirteen years in the making.
Duryodhana was gleeful. He, Duhshasana and Karna chortled to themselves over the plight of the Pandavas, tauntingly mocking them and their travails. Gandhari could hear them in the adjoining chamber, where they were eavesdropping on the conversation she and Dhritarashthra were having with the rishi. Her cheeks flamed to think of how unseemly her sons’ behaviour was, how poorly the rishi must judge their uncouth, uncultured ways. Then she realized that he must already have felt that way about her sons, after the disrobing of Draupadi. There was none left but her and her husband to love Duryodhana and his brothers.
The Curse of Gandhari Page 23