At first, though, there had been only anger. Even when he had driven off with them in his chariot, the three of them tumbling about in an ignominious heap, there had been nothing but anger. Ambika had been in tears, Ambalika excited, but she had cried out furiously, ‘Stop, old man, stop’. He had disregarded her; even the calculated insult of ‘old man’ had not roused him. He had sped on, hair blowing behind him in the breeze.
It was then that the anger had begun. She had understood. He would not dignify her anger by noticing it. She was only a woman, she was to be disregarded, ignored; her will, her determination had to be set aside as nothing because she was a woman. Whereas, one shout from Salva who had chased them had sufficed. Bhishma had brought the chariot to a sudden halt, with a rumble and a jerk that had sent a jar through her head. She had hit it against something then, and there had been a whirling darkness, from which she had emerged to pain. And to the sight of Salva walking away defeated, head hanging down. Ambika crying softly. And then Bhishma, still with no word for them, had picked up the reins and driven on again.
Even a man’s defeat had its consequences. The three of them were, she realized, Bhishma’s by right after that. Or rather, Vichitravirya’s, the man on whose behalf Bhishma had fought.
‘This weak, this feeble … creature, this puny boy—how can I, Princess of Kashi, marry him?’
She had laughed in scorn and the boy had winced. But Bhishma had listened stolidly, sure of himself and his power. Perhaps he had thought—she will soon come to her senses. Where can she go? ‘Send me to Salva,’ she had declared. ‘He is the man I chose to be my husband.’
And then, irony truly, the very rules she had invoked in her favour, worked against her.
‘I can’t marry you,’ Salva had said. And surely, the face had been that of a petulant, sulky boy. Was this the face she had dreamt of for so long?
’Bhishma defeated me. You now belong to him. I will be dishonoured if I take you for my wife.’
As she went back to Bhishma, the very dust that surrounded her palanquin seeming to be a cloud of shame, she had thought—honour, dishonour, right, wrong—what are these but words used by men to cover their real emotions? Bhishma was angry, Vichitravirya humiliated and now Salva is ashamed. Where is the honour here? Or, the dishonour?
‘The King of Saubha refused you?’ the boy had asked, triumph glinting in his eyes. ‘And so you come back to me. But I can’t marry you. How can I when you have loved, when you still love maybe, another man?’
And once again heads had nodded. ‘He is right, what he says is honourable.’
Right! Honourable! The words had angered her. It had been nothing but the petty revenge of a humiliated boy. Can they not see that, she had wondered contemptuously. With a fierce desire to break through this meaningless rigmarole of words, she had said to Bhishma, ‘You marry me, then. It’s you who have done this to me. You must make amends now.’
For a moment she had seen something in his eyes. What was it? Fear? What was he afraid of? Then the shutters had come down and he had looked at her with a bland, inscrutable face. ‘You forget my vow of celibacy. I can’t break it. That will be dishonourable.’
The mask had slipped only for an infinitesimal moment. It would not do so again. He had become once more a stuffed figure, filled with ideas and words, trying to deceive himself that they were a substitute for passions and emotions. And then she had known he was trapped too. Not behind walls, as she was, but inside words and ideas. Other people’s ideas. He would never get out; she would never get to him.
After that there had been nothing left for her but her hatred. A hatred of Bhishma that filled her life as nothing else had done till then. Even her love for Salva became a childish, foolish dream.
‘You have destroyed me, I will fight you,’ she had cried out to Bhishma.
‘I do not fight women.’
Oh God, to be and not to be seen; to speak and not to be heard. It was like being a child again, trapped in those inner rooms, raging against them.
Now, as she came to a stop, thinking that surely this was far enough, this could as well be the end of her journey, she knew that, at this moment, nothing was left to her. Her mind was empty and blank, like the sky before the first star came up. Her hatred that had been all of her—why, that was gone too. She tried to bring it back, but it was no use. It had receded too far.
No, there was nothing left now but her self. But what was that and who was she? Daughter of the King of Kashi. Amba, the Princess of Kashi. There had been an immense pride in those words once. It puzzled and angered her that they seemed to have nothing to do with her any more. She was neither a daughter, nor a wife, nor a mother. What was she then? Amba, Amba, Amba … the name came to her from a distance, like a faint echo. It was like hearing her sisters call after her as she ran ahead. But surely, that had been long back? And why did she feel she was one of them too, one of those calling out ‘Amba, Amba, Amba’?
She relinquished the thought. It was too late now to think of such things. Too late, and besides, she was too weary. Her very weariness gave her a serenity she had imagined she had lost forever. When the thought of what she had to do now came into her mind, it was like a twig being dropped into tranquil waters. The ripples spread and filled her. Yet, there was no confusion. There was only a stillness and calmness that absorbed those ripples too.
Yes, the time had come. The place as well. It was a long time since she had met any humans. Hours since she had seen even those dark people of the forests. They had looked through her incuriously and it had increased her sense of isolation. She did not belong to their world; she did not belong to the world she had left behind, either. The world where life was lived according to rules that made no sense to her. She had denied those rules. All the same, it had not prevented her from being a pawn in their game. Oh well, she thought as she got up and began to gather faggots, she would sacrifice the pawn herself. The act would be her own. At least this one thing would be of her choosing, the way she wanted, at the time she chose.
The thought carried her on for some time until she had neatly arranged herself in the midst of dry wood, dry leaves carefully spread in between. Once again, the minor discomforts mattered most. The sharp twigs hurt her body, her hair was entangled somewhere. In her impatience to be free of these small pains, she rushed to the task of lighting the fire.
A spark, a small glow. And suddenly she was confronted by flames. There was a moment’s panic as she realized she was trapped again. But where would she go?
She closed her eyes against sights, her ears against sounds, her mind against doubts and fears and lay still, submerged in nothingness. The wood had been dried by the heat of summer and the fire blazed fierce and fast. She was calm until the flames touched her. Then she began to scream. Shrill, anguished cries that were her last tenuous link to the world she had so angrily rejected.
In a little while the cries were stilled, the crackling sounds died down and there was nothing left but silence.
The Last Enemy
He took off his armour. He had been wearing it for so long that the removing of it should have made him feel lighter; but he felt nothing. His mace had been the first thing he had put down, and now, without the armour, he was quite unburdened. He hesitated a moment, then stepped gently into the water. It was cold, colder than he had imagined. Deliberately, with an effort, he moved further in until the water was up to his knees. His body rebelled against the cold. He made an involuntary movement, as if to get out, and slipped. Clutching at a long, slimy weed that gave way and came into his hand, he went down into the water and came up spluttering. It was not very deep. He found he could stand up, his feet anchored in slime; the water came only up to his shoulders. He spat out something he had swallowed and shuddered violently. Then, as if these reactions were the end of all sensations for him, he stood still.
He did not know what he had intended to do when he first entered the water. Perhaps he had hoped to cool the fire that was in
him. Not just the painful fires of his wounds which gaped red all over his body, but the flame that had begun burning in him when he had seen all those bodies. Dead, he had thought. All of them dead. The word had reverberated in his mind, making a loud, ugly clamour; but here, neither the word, nor those bodies that lay sprawled in monstrous abandon on the field he had fled from, seemed to have any meaning. And what had those bodies to do with the men he had known, living men who spoke loudly and laughed joyously?
In a while, he did not feel the cold any more. It was as if his body had stopped rebelling against the cold and, instead, had accepted it. With acceptance came comfort. More comfort than he had ever had from the bodies of women he had desired and possessed. With them, there had been both a secret fear and a resentment—that they submitted to him, not out of choice, but because they had none. Now he deliberately welcomed the cold, and with that, the body that had given him so many moments of pleasure and pain, ceased to trouble him.
Only now, with his body at ease, did he notice the silence. He had lived for so long in the midst of sound, a din almost, that the silence seemed unnatural. It was almost an assault on his ears. But gradually he accepted the silence too, as he had the cold. And he stood unutterably still, a man without a past, with no future, submerged in the murky waters of a muddy lake, thinking of nothing. A water bird, snowy white and long-necked, came down in a graceful swoop and stood poised for a brief moment on a tangle of weeds. Then, with a swift upthrust of its wings, it flew away, silence closing in on its flapping wings. He felt strangely grateful to the bird for having ignored him. That was what he wanted now—to be unseen, unheard, untouched—in fact, not to exist. And yet, he no more thought of ceasing existence by drowning himself in the lake, than he thought of getting out of there. Both the actions required too much effort of will—and he had none left.
After a while—how long?—his ears, which had become attuned to the silence, heard a discordant sound. Distant, yet unmistakably approaching. It was—yes—the sound, full of a throbbing, tremulous excitement, of men hunting. A sound familiar to him. Had he not lived in the midst of such sounds ever since he could remember? For a moment, memory pierced the armour of numbness he had worn since he laid down his own and past joys came back to him.
Hunting. The impatiently pawing, neighing horses. The clank of armour. The twang of a bow. Bursts of comradely laughter. The feeling of happiness that almost tangibly surrounded them.
And now, as if this memory had been the first breach in the wall of not-knowing, not-caring, not-remembering, other memories surged in, flooding him, carrying him away into the past.
That is excellent, Arjuna. Truly, you have no equal.
And I? And I?
Bhima, only you could have done this. Is there anyone else with your strength?
And I? And I?
He was as good as Arjuna, as strong as Bhima. His parents had always told him so, and his brothers and his friends. Yet he had known that if he had said it aloud—am I not as good as them?—the Acharya would have smiled his scornful, sarcastic smile. And said—Duryodhana, a true Kshatriya does not brag.
Yet, what else could he do but boast when they, those whose praises he craved, gave him none? Gave them instead to those five brothers he had always hated and feared.
Feared? The word had slipped into his mind. It gave him a pang. Had he indeed feared them? Yes, now, here, in this place, he could admit it to himself. He had feared them. Perhaps, it was because he had known even then that this would happen. That they would get what was rightly his. He had always known that he was born to be a king. Even if they, his parents, his brothers and his friends had not told him so, he had known it himself, with an absoluteness that left no room for any doubts. For who else but he had all the qualities of a king? The thought of his weak, blind father, or that poor fool Yuddhishthira as a king had filled him with scorn and genuine amusement. No, it was only he who was fit to be king. The certainty had given him a strength and a steadfastness that had awed them all.
But even then, those five brothers and that woman of theirs had been like thorns in his side. A woman with five husbands—he could never understand how they could call her virtuous. He himself had never been able to look at her without having lewd thoughts of her giving in to all the five at once. He hated her. She it was who, more than anyone else, had turned Krishna against him. Krishna—his desertion had hurt Duryodhana more than he had ever revealed to the world. He should have guarded himself against that hurt; he should have known that for Krishna it was always Arjuna, Arjuna before anyone else.
Arjuna, I give you the first choice—my army or I.
That was when he had his first moment of doubt, when Arjuna chose Krishna. But he had concealed both the doubt and the pang, feigning triumph, saying—it was your army I wanted, Krishna, not you. How could he, who had but to express a desire to have it fulfilled, reveal that he had failed to get what he desired?
And yet, the knowledge seeped into him, filling him with warmth, he had been a king much more than any of them. There had been glory enough in his life—the glory of being a king, of being admired, loved and feared. There had been love too, the love of doting parents, of admiring brothers and loyal friends. He, in turn, had been a generous and loyal friend, which was why men had fought and died for him. Yes, even Bhishma and Drona, was it not for him that they had died? As for the others, the very names of those men brought warmth to his chilled body.
But Karna—Karna of the magnificent body and great heart, lying dead there….
The distant sounds had become loud and distinct. Who could be hunting here, he wondered vaguely, and what? This was no forest but a bare plain.
No! Comprehension came with the shocking suddenness of a blow from the dark. It was not a bare plain, either, but a battlefield strewn with the dead. His dead. His brothers, his friends, his kinsmen.
Karna, always the thought of Karna, so treacherously killed.
So many dead, while he lived. Hurt, wounded, but still alive. And, realization came in a moment: the sounds he was hearing were the sounds of his enemies hunting him down. The wounded animal was being followed to its lair. Soon they would be here. They would see his armour and mace lying on the ground, they would see him standing in the water and they would think him … what? An animal, frightened and in pain, hiding itself?
A hoarse cry of wretchedness was forced out of him. Why had he not died there on the battlefield among his own men? Why had he alone been spared? Was it to face this humiliation of being caught like an animal in a trap? This was not what he had fought for! This was not what he had spurred on the others to fight for! He had dreamt of royal glory and dignity, of power and magnificence, not for himself alone, but for all of them. Instead, there had been death for them. And for him …?
The voice and sounds again. Nearer now. The sounds were like strong thin ropes, relentlessly dragging him into the future. From being a great and glorious king to a dishonoured and defeated man. Defeated. Dishonoured. As he tasted the words, something happened to him. Thoughts, the like of which had never touched his life, came in. Hesitantly at first, like timid guests. Then, more boldly, like brash, familiar visitors. And it was as if all those things that had seemed so full of sweetness when he had dreamt of them a little while back—pomp, glory, royalty and yes, even love and loyalty—all these things became misty and unreal. As if they were just part of a dream he had dreamed, standing here, submerged in the slushy waters of a lake. A dream, whose beauty was flawed by unreality.
And this thought came to him too—dim at first, but brighter soon, like a star as the night grew darker—that this, the present alone was real and true. It was for this that he had been born—to come and stand here, in the dirty waters of a lake, and be cold, lonely and alone. To know that this was the truth and the rest but a dream out of which he had now been awakened.
How strange it was that with this, once again a feeling of his own greatness stirred within him. A greatness which he felt
was more than what he had had as a king. He was even greater than his victorious enemies. For, had he not faced a fearful truth without fear? An elation filled him as if he had defeated one more enemy. His last enemy, perhaps.
The sun now set with a suddenness that left behind a startled world in an uncertain light. As if a giant hand was at work, the orange gashes left behind in the sky were soon wiped out. Only darkness was left. He shivered, violent, uncontrollable shudders that loosened the grip of his toes in the squelchy mud and made him sway and totter. Only for a moment, though. He stood firm and erect again.
The sounds were very close now. In a few moments, they would be upon him. Coward, they would taunt him. Wretch, they would mock. Poor frightened animal, they would cry out in scornful pity. For the last time something moved in him. Something that was not anger, but a semblance of it. Indeed, all his emotions now seemed but a mockery of those that had once filled him. As if, when entering the water, he had left behind their bulk and weight, so that what remained with him were just weightless shadows.
Come out and fight, they would prod. And, unwilling though he was to abandon the truth he had just seen, he knew he had no choice but to go out and fight. He would abandon the truth and reality once more to enter the dream and fight. He knew this too—that his struggle lay with Bhima, Bhima whom he had always hated.
The darkness had closed in on him. Everything was dim and shadowy. Was that why even that hatred of his, the hatred he had nursed for so long, seemed to have a strangely unreal quality? Only this truth shone clear in the darkness—that Bhima who had sworn to kill him, would do so now. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter very much any more. On the contrary, a strange pity filled him at the thought of poor, stupid Bhima gloating over his dead body, imagining himself the victor. Bhima would never learn what he just had—that it is the dead who always win, the dead who are the real victors.
The Intrusion and Other Stories Page 11