“Arjuna, your feats were done well enough, but allow me to improve on your efforts.”
All day there had been nothing like the excitement that now held the crowd. Those who were tired revived. Those who had been starting for home returned to their seats. Those who were standing sat down. The voice of the unannounced warrior hummed and vibrated. It carried to every corner of the stadium. Here was excitement worth staying the night for.
The sun, which had been losing strength, gathered itself once more to shine on golden armour. Karna might not have Arjuna’s grace, but he was stately as a cliff and his very insolence excited the crowd. The mood changed.
So did Arjuna’s, and so did Duryodhana’s.
Arjuna frowned. The smile returned to Shakuni’s face.
And my father? He had no choice and so nodded his consent. Even before the fanfare was over, Karna had started sending his arrows into the targets. The wild boar made of iron was pulled across the arena and he sent his arrow into its open mouth. Twenty of his arrows flew into the hollow end of the oscillating horn. What Arjuna had done with his sword, Karna did just as skilfully. Duryodhana jumped into the arena and embraced him as he started whirling his mace. Then Duryodhana addressed him in a ringing voice meant for the audience.
“Welcome, Mighty-Armed One! I put my wealth and all I have at your disposal. Name a boon and it shall be granted.”
“Then what I want is to compete with Arjuna and be recognized as the victor of the day.” Duryodhana’s ship had come in. His chest actually swelled. He smiled at the crowd as though he had invented this hero.
“Your wish is as noble as yourself, mighty warrior.” They had taken the tournament out of the hands of Uncle Kripa and my father. Such disrespect to the Guru was unheard of. Arjuna stepped forward, his face white with anger.
“You are not invited, but that is a small matter. Your pathetic boast will prove you a liar and you will die the death of a boaster.” I was sorry that Arjuna had lost control. The detachment, pride, and skill of Karna had won over, for the moment, some of those in the audience who had been aching to fall at Arjuna’s feet.
“Arjuna, let us not fight with words which are the weapons of cowards. Let our arrows speak for us until you measure the ground with your body.” It was a warrior’s challenge, given with the conventional smile of bravado. The challenger spoke with studied casualness. What a curious mixture he was: admirable and distasteful at the same time. Even as I admired him, I hated him for the half-minute during which he put Arjuna to shame. Now, with a look and a nod at my father, it was this warrior who was conducting the events. My father, with a crowd watching, dared not show his partiality for Arjuna, nor his anger. Once again, he gave Uncle Kripa a nod without glancing at him. The next thing I knew was that Arjuna was embracing his brothers. The sky darkened and Indra’s rainbow appeared above us.
There was a hush as Duryodhana embraced his champion. We watched helpless as these two most arrogant men in the kingdom clasped each other. A cry from the ladies’ pavilion distracted me from its dangerous implications. I thought I had recognized Mother Kunti’s voice.
“Mother Kunti, Mother Kunti, it is Mother Kunti who has fainted.” The crowd turned to the ladies’ enclosure. In their love for Mother Kunti they remembered that Arjuna was her darling. “Victory to the brave Arjuna.” It was at this point, with Vidura’s and Kunti’s maids trying to revive her with sandal paste, that Uncle Kripa, now in possession of his acharyaship once again, and preserver of protocol, stepped forward.
“Let the rules be observed. Here is Arjuna of the noble House of the Kurus, Arjuna the Pandava, the third son of Kunti.” He turned to Arjuna’s challenger.
“Please announce your name and lineage, for as you know, kings and sons of kings fight only with their peers.”
We waited. The man, so tall and straight and arrogant, bent his head. He managed to say, “I am Karna, son of…” then faltered. A long low moan came from the ladies’ side. I turned to see Kunti propped up by Mother. Her hand was on her heart and, a moment later, Duryodhana leapt up like a tiger. Disregarding all the observances, he shouted:
“Not only the sons of kings are royal. Do not the Shastras say, Kripacharya, that heroes and generals may be classed as royalty? This man by his valour deserves a kingship. And I shall bestow it upon him. I hereby proclaim him King of Anga.” So sure was Duryodhana of his father’s consent in everything that he scarcely looked at him, but nobody remained unmoved by his impulse. I despite myself, was not entirely unmoved. “Sadhu! Sadhu!” was the response of the crowd. The crowd had come to see an exhibition, and now a coronation was to be thrown in. Soon the ritual parched rice, gold water pots and flowers for the ceremony were being hurried in. Now Duryodhana remembered to go to Greatfather and his father to ask for formal consent for the coronation. It all went as though rehearsed and the Brahmins started chanting the ordained Vedas.
The seers in the beginning,
Desiring the excellent and searching the heavens,
Embarked upon fervour and consecration.
Thence were born energy, force and kingship.
Let the gods bestow them upon this man.
Duryodhana seated Karna upon an ancient throne and placed his own crown on Karna’s head. Water was poured over him by Duryodhana’s own hands. The red umbrella was raised and yak tail whisks were held above his shoulders. Lastly, Duryodhana’s sword was placed in Karna’s right hand.
The proud Karna wept openly and one heard sobs from the audience. Kunti cried convulsively, and there was a great agitation in the ladies’ pavilion.
“And what can Karna do to render service to you?” asked Karna.
“Give me friendship.” Duryodhana and his new friend embraced again.
“Sadhu! Sadhu! Sadhu!” The crowd went wild.
“A prince indeed.”
I thought the crowd had come to the peak of their emotion, when someone made his way towards the new king. It was a frail old man, recognized by Uncle Kripa as Dhritarashtra’s former chariot driver. His clothes were poor and he leant upon a staff. Karna in his new coronation robe hurried towards him, reverently bent his head and, taking the dust from his feet, touched his eyes, as a man hails his father. It did not take long for the crowd to understand. Here was a poor old charioteer clasping his son whose forehead still dripped coronation water.
If it was Duryodhana’s finest hour, it was Bheema’s most base.
“Sutaputra! Do you, the son of a chariot driver, think yourself worthy to be killed by Arjuna? A chariot driver’s whip should be your weapon. Would you fetch a kingdom as a jackal steals the sacrificial offerings?” The crowd shrank at this cruelty. Karna trembled and his hands closed on his new sword. Duryodhana stepped forward and thrust his head towards Arjuna.
“Such talk puts you to shame, Tiger-Waisted One. You should respect yourself more than to speak thus. A fair fight is a fair fight. Let us not enquire too closely into the stories of our births. Dronacharya is named after a water pot and Kripacharya was found in a bush. He is worthy to be king not only of Anga but of the wide world.” Duryodhana looked around at the assembly and said slowly and distinctly, “If there is anyone to challenge what I say, let him mount his chariot and fight me. Now, if Arjuna still wants to fight, he may do so.”
The sun, which had been setting, gave off its last light and with it sank Arjuna’s chance for further glory. Servants started lighting torches and all eyes were turned on Duryodhana and the King of Anga. They walked ahead of others, arm in arm, but when the excitement of the moment had faded many were left thoughtful, among them Greatfather and Vidura. Yudhishthira remained apart from our excited speculations.
And myself? If my father had thought that Duryodhana needed watching and controlling before, what would Duryodhana be like now with this mighty friend and ally by his side? The Pandavas would need protection more than ever and, in order to protect them, I was to stay away from them to keep watch over Duryodhana.
11
The tournament had revealed the extent of the rift between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. Many of us were pulled two ways. My father’s heart was Arjuna’s, as was mine, but we ate the salt of the Kuru court and that, for the moment, meant Dhritarashtra. Duryodhana never let slip a chance to remind us of it.
Then there was this.
We had all taken it for granted that Arjuna was the greatest warrior alive. Karna was no Nishada boy from whom a thumb might be levied and even less was he a person to slice it off to please anybody.
The greatest teacher of them all, Bhargava, the Kshatriya-hating Bhargava, my father’s guru, had once accepted Karna on his word that he was a Brahmin and had taught him all he knew of weapons. One day, when Bhargava was sleeping with his head on Karna’s lap, a terrible insect had bored into his thigh. As a disciple Karna had stood the excruciating pain, only to be turned on in fury when Bhargava woke up and saw the blood.
“A Brahmin would have fainted,” he had roared. “You are no Brahmin.” Then came the curse:
“When you are desperately in need of your Brahmasira Astra, your memory will fail you.” And he turned Karna out.
Karna could not have hoped that Bhargava would call back the curse, but must have hoped that it would be mitigated. Bhargava turned his face away from his entreaties and Karna left his ashram in hopelessness. I have often pictured proud, insulted Karna walking away with bowed head since there was no one to see him holding it high. It was no wonder that in this moment he who always had his wits about him was deserted by them, for nobody in his right mind would have shot an arrow into a Brahmin’s cow.
It caused a second Brahmin curse to fall upon him.
“Your chariot wheel will sink into the ground when you meet, at last, your mortal enemy. You will die defenceless as my cow was when you killed her.”
It might have been thought that now that Arjuna was no longer the undisputed best, Duryodhana would have had less need of his antagonism and insolence, but it simply took another form. He constantly flaunted Karna before the Pandavas and made allusions to his new friend as the greatest archer the world had ever known.
A week after the coronation of Karna, when we were relaxing beside the Ganga after our archery class, my father spoke to us. “I have taught you as much as I can. Do you think the time has come for guru-dakshina?” None of us failed to remember the last time we had heard him ask for guru-dakshina. Bheema tucked his thumbs into his fists. Fleeting sarcasm passed over the faces of Duryodhana and Duhshasana; Karna’s normally proud expression became offensively supercilious; but the price of discipleship, when announced, brought a cheer from Kauravas and Pandavas alike. Bheema did a hand-spring. We were going to fight a battle.
After the tournament anything short of war would have been an anticlimax but here we were suddenly united in our excitement at the thought of real war. This time the conches would blow to signal the attack on a mortal enemy.
We were all except for myself and Karna, or so I then thought, born Kshatriyas. As for me, I found myself as much Kshatriya as Brahmin at the promise of battle. Yudhishthira was the true Brahmin amongst us; but when he saw the rivalries forgotten he entered into the spirit of my father’s request: the raid on Panchala.
My father, who had not been himself since the thumb incident and for whom Karna’s arrival had been like a foot placed on his head, was now happily and busily preparing for battle.
With the cooperation of Greatfather he gathered an army. His eyes were savage with exultation. My mother, that compassionate soul, was subdued. For the first time since she had told me of the death of Pandu, I saw tears in her eyes.
Drupada, who must have forgotten his insult to my father or possibly not realized to what lengths the impoverished Brahmin friend of his childhood could carry a grudge, was at a loss to understand why the Kuru army was advancing on him. There was no quarrel between Hastinapura and Panchala, but our conches drew him out with his army.
I say the cousins were united—and so they were up to a point; but Arjuna’s humiliation festered within him. He had his reputation to restore and, with Bheema to back him, he persuaded my father to allow the Kauravas to attack alone. When they had failed, Arjuna would lead the Pandavas to capture Drupada and glory.
If Dhritarashtra could never refuse Duryodhana anything, my father could never refuse Arjuna, but he would not have risked defeat now. He knew Arjuna would win.
I had to go first with Duryodhana’s army. I remember my weapons clattering and the ground sending jars through my braced legs as our chariot bounced over rocky ground. Battle usually pleased me: the anticipation heightened my senses, but knowing Arjuna to be waiting behind, I could not give myself entirely to the galloping of the horses and the trumpeting of the elephants and the screech of the conches. This angered me and spoilt my aim. It was not my day, nor Duryodhana’s.
Drupada, unprepared though he was, routed us in no time. We were licking our wounds when Arjuna mounted his chariot and raced away with Nakula’s and Sahadeva’s chariots protecting his wheels. Bheema was in the fore, his mace felling warriors left and right. He cleared a path right up to the chariot of King Drupada who was about to challenge him. Arjuna leapt into his chariot and, laughing as only he could laugh, pinned his enemy’s arms to his sides. Drupada, powerless in the embrace of this beautiful laughing god, did the one thing left to him: he surrendered.
I was waiting with my father in the shade of a peepal tree. Arjuna drove Drupada to the long-awaited appointment and delivered him to my father. He had wanted to be the one to make my father’s dream come true. Now he touched his Guru’s feet and looked up at him with adoration.
My father’s hatred of Drupada suddenly evaporated as he faced him. Drupada, though still dazed, was trying to stand proudly. Solicitously, my father made him sit.
How often he must have rehearsed his cruelly lenient words.
“I never wanted to kill you, Drupada.”
Drupada stared at him with clouded insolence. “Then what did you want, Brahmin?”
“This is the thing I want. Your friendship. You once told me that friendship was possible only between peers, so, though the whole of your kingdom is now mine, I will give you half, otherwise we would be uneven again and I unable to befriend you. This part south of the Ganga is yours. It is my gift to you. The northern part is mine. My kingdom.” He spoke mildly, not as a warrior now but as a Brahmin.
“Your kingdom?” hooted Drupada. But it was.
Under the sacred peepal tree no untruth should be spoken. Though my father said nothing, I was uneasy. I wondered if this temperate revenge was his real goal? Had my father yearned all along for riches and power? The earth beneath my feet was ours, but a true Brahmin does not conquer wealth, and a true Kshatriya, having conquered, only levies tribute. He never says “my kingdom”.
My father was king of this land and this river and the fishes in it and this very peepal tree. Already he was bestowing half his kingdom.
His eyes shone with something like friendship.
Did he really believe that a Kshatriya like Drupada would ever be his friend again? Poor, silly old Brahmin. His father, my grandfather, had been the traditional ashram-bound Acharya and must surely have been wiser. But court living had brought confusion to its preceptor, Dronacharya. He had placed his foot upon the head of a great king and it intoxicated him.
“Let us be friends as once we were in the ashram, Drupada. We Brahmins do not nurse a grudge forever.”
“Your generosity will become legendary.” Drupada gave a crooked smile. He wagged his head, which my father took as a sign that they would be friends.
Could he not see that Drupada would not rest till he had wiped out this insult?
The last thing I remember of this strange encounter is the love-look Drupada gave Arjuna. He was envious of my father because of Arjuna.
“Dronacharya is a lucky man to have you as an archer,” he said to Arjuna. “I am your prisoner, not his. He is his own prisoner. He
, a Brahmin, has sold himself to the court of the Kurus.”
12
There followed a year of uneasiness.
Greatfather was King. Yet he was not, for his vow made it impossible for him to sit under the white umbrella.
Dhritarashtra was King. Yet he was not, for the Shastras say that a blind man cannot rule.
Yudhishthira was the eldest son to King Pandu who had entered the Kuru kingdom and who was King because his brother was blind. He was older than Duryodhana; he was the rightful heir, and was known, like Greatfather and Vidura, for his stability and wisdom.
In spite of Duryodhana’s brief hour of glory at the tournament, once the intoxication of Karna’s feat had faded, the people’s love for the Pandavas prevailed. Bheema was known for his crude and silly comments, but even more for his generosity and innocence. In any case, Arjuna’s conquest of Panchala had tipped the scales; a victory was more substantial than a tournament.
Whenever the subject of coronation came up, Vidura, Greatfather, my own father, and anyone with half a brain in his head said “Yudhishthira”. Dhritarashtra was forced into the position of accepting his nephew instead of his son as Yuvaraj, though Duryodhana tormented him night and day to change his mind.
Yudhishthira was named Yuvaraj.
It was not long after this decision, but before Yudhishthira’s actual coronation, that Balarama, elder half-brother to the already legendary Krishna, nephew to Mother Kunti, arrived in Hastinapura.
Krishna was already being called Mahatma, and since Balarama and he had grown to adolescence together as cowherds, to escape their uncle Kamsa’s murderous intentions, Balarama was the person to tell us of his extraordinary brother’s childhood. He had shared in his later exploits as well.
We expected Balarama to shine with something of Krishna’s glory, and indeed, when he entered the palace, tall and golden-skinned and imposing, and wearing blue silk, as we had heard he always did, it was like a door being opened to legend. He was accompanied by another of the Vrishni cousins, Satyaki, a handsome laughing youth who looked more like Arjuna than anyone I had ever seen. He had the careless Vrishni charm which belied the passion and depth that were revealed when he and Balarama discussed Krishna’s plans for ridding Bharatavarsha of her tyrant kings. Kamsa, Krishna’s uncle, whom he had killed, had been such a one.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 10