Until the Lions

by Karthika Nair

  YUDDHISHTIRA: Kunti’s oldest legitimate son, born of her coupling with Yama, the god of death and dharma. Considered the embodiment of all kingly virtue, Yuddhishtira enjoys the unstinting support and loyalty of his mother and Pandava brothers, despite some appalling actions like staking his brothers and their common wife in a dice game (and losing them).

  YUYUTSU: Yuyutsu is Dhritarashtra’s son from the maid Sauvali. Raised alongside the Kauravas, Yuyutsu is nonetheless always treated as a half-caste and illegitimate son. From childhood, he turns informant for his cousins, the Pandavas, and apprises them of the Kaurava plots against them, including assassination attempts. On the first day of the Kurukshetra War, he crosses sides to fight with the Pandavas. He is the only son of Dhritarashtra to survive the war, the one to perform the last rites for all his fallen kin.

  SATYAVATI

  I. FAULT LINES

  Listen. Listen: hate rises, hate blazes, hate billows from battlefields. Hate arrives – searing rivers, shrivelling plains, reaping deserts on its path – even to this doorstep, to rule the roost, now hate arrives to gorge our mountains in serpentine maws, to smother fir and spruce and hemlock, to parch my blameless sky into white dust so embers fall as stars. Hate dissevers takin and goral, black bear, weaver, deer, leopard and dragonfly harboured by this hermitage, hate blanches your still-human eyes, flows down larynx and pharynx and trachea, leadens the breath and whirlpools memory’s voice till all you know all you feel all you seek is nothingness. Old hate, descended from heavens, leavened on my land. Old hate, diffused through blood and womb and semen. Old hate that I too begat, old hate bequeathed and bartered, won in battle, given as bride-price, hate that blighted six generations of this clan, deforming husbands, grandsons, aunts and nephews, brides and celibates, hate that only one soul eludes, a baseborn sainted bard – Vyaasa, my lone living son Vyaasa – with words to hymn this story across millennia while birth and death and love and youth jostle for place, while hate, old hate, spores and multiplies.

  In Kurukshetra

  the Earth swathes her face in blood,

  Death begins to dance.

  PADATI

  I. The Father

  PAWN TALK: BRASS AND STRING

  This is Kurukshetra, Son.

  This is where our kings seek

  to die – kings, princes, generals,

  that whole heedless race of high-

  born war-mongers – for a skyway,

  swift and direct to heaven. Theirs, you

  say, their heaven, not ours, it will still

  be their heaven, as it is their earth,

  their honour, both already theirs,

  and with lives so slaked, heaven

  their only conquest left.

  But this is Kurukshetra,

  this is where things could

  change, Son. I heard the sages

  swear: equal will all men be, in hell

  or heaven, once killed here. Think, if

  even the pariahs – Mahar and Shanar,

  Chamar and Chandal, Dhobi, Bhangi,

  they whose shades taint the land, so

  the scholars also swear – can attain

  casteless paradise, such an honour

  once slain, perhaps our lives too

  shall stand another chance

  on so holy a strand

  as Kurukshetra, sculpted

  by Shiva’s own hand, then laid

  east of Maru, rainless Maru, north

  of wild Khandava, where Takshaka

  rules his crafty tribe, south of gentle

  Turghna yet westerly, not too far from

  Parin. Dharmakshetra, they call her too,

  this curl between two sacred rivers –

  Saraswati and Dhrishtadvati – that

  traverse the eight known worlds,

  gleaning virtues – alongside all

  the silt and loam and rubble –

  from each one to disperse

  on the divine hearse

  that is Kurukshetra.

  On these sands, they’d

  abound: satya, daya, daan,

  kshama, tapas, suchi…Truth,

  Largesse, Purity, then – to uncurse

  generations still to be sown – Mercy

  and Kindness, Son, oh, and Celibacy,

  Sacrifice, and some other merits I

  can never name throng to make

  this Vishnu’s ground, its godly

  name his gift to an early,

  devout Kuru king.

  Look, on Kurukshetra,

  night rises like another sun,

  a younger, more brilliant one.

  To the west stands the Pandava

  camp: Yuddhishtira’s legions face

  the break of each new dawn, theirs

  the demand for war to attain peace

  and justice, to retrieve his old realm,

  the land he strewed with ease like

  sand or dice, the subjects he cast

  away in less than a trice. Crown

  and honour should be his, our

  elders persist, noble soul who

  never lies, king with a single

  vice: avid, unskilled player.

  While Kurukshetra

  can scarce contain the dark

  constellation of Duryodhana’s

  army: his men – a dazzle of fearless

  glory – suffuse the East, from centre

  to brim. Good, kind Duryodhana, our

  Kuru sovereign, ours, Son, like few have

  ever been. Duryodhana, eldest of the one

  and hundred mighty Kaurava sons of that

  purblind king Dhritarashtra. Duryodhana,

  far-sighted like few rulers ever care to be,

  reaping not one, nor a few but thirteen

  harvests of peace, safety, prosperity

  for all his people, even those of us

  that survive like vermin

  on outer rims.

  Of this Kurukshetra

  do the sutas spin lore, Son:

  of an earth engorged with astras,

  rathas, rathis, maharathis, where tens

  of millions ride to the fore (thousands

  have to turn into several crores in ballads,

  else how will heroes take wing and soar?)

  flanked by jewel-studded beasts galore –

  horses, tuskers, camels, nagas, even

  rakshasas – while hounds, pack-

  mules, raptors, drummers, flies,

  devas and apsaras goggle

  in sad delight, for on

  Kurukshetra will unfold

  the future of the human cause.

  So declares Bheeshma, our Kuru

  ancient, commander of the Kaurava

  force (and who else would know?) to his

  enemy other, the Panchal Yuvraaj, Prince

  Drishtadhyumna, as they lay down the laws,

  together, of righteous combat: who may

  fight, with whom and against, how and

  when and where or not. (Not why, alas:

  do not ask why, that is a tenet no one

  tallies.) But this war must, they aver,

  stay a sacred compact, a dharma

  yuddha. Thus, and thus alone,

  the Elder adds, with no little

  pride, as karma bhoomi

  will Kurukshetra be

  renowned in the chronicles

  of humankind. So unrolls their

  list, slow and scrupulous. Compeers

  alone can fight: rathis must duel rathis,

  Son, and spare charioteers; maharathis

  maharathis, not lesser beings; sidekicks

  may kill
each other but not kings; foot-

  soldiers shall not be speared by archers,

  neither smashed by mace-fighters nor

  mangled by tuskers in the name of

  their royal masters. Honour, at all

  times, must be all. This shall be

  a glorious war, one the gods

  will envy and emulate.

  Why, on Kurukshetra’s

  concourse, warriors may

  hack off heads, like anywhere

  else, of course, but only of equals!

  And those unfit, afraid, unarmed or

  injured must always remain unharmed:

  no dagger ever should aim a fleeing back,

  no arrow should strike a neck unawares.

  Oh, musicians, mounts (equine as well

  as elephant), flag-bearers, women,

  children and messengers must

  never feel alarmed.

  In Kurukshetra, Son,

  words will joust with other

  words while swords with swords

  alone do battle. And they shall all

  abstain when twilight swallows sun

  and sky, to recommence only when

  day alights once again. Honour shall

  be the reigning queen, the One we

  honour before god and kin. Good

  will blight evil, the Elders predict,

  and new gods will appear. Dark-

  skinned beings, perhaps, like

  you and me, perhaps – just

  think – a lowborn one?

  Kurukshetra changes

  nothing, you rage. But pause,

  pause for a second, Son, to consider

  my words, untaught, innocent, tedious

  as they seem. There is vast little I know,

  beyond the lore you so loathe, but this I do

  for sure: to stay alive, a man must believe

  in something, Son, even if that thing be

  death. Rage can only keep you alive

  for so long. To breathe, I grab onto

  this grail of a noble war that could

  confer honour – and flight, can it

  be? – to my blood. Yes, this is

  my choice, we all need one

  to call our own.

  SPOUSES, LOVERS

  CONSTANCY I

  Before a battle,

  grow inwards, like root and rock:

  shed eyes, ears; shed words.

  Let us speak, your skin to mine.

  Touch alone scores memory.

  Touch alone will survive

  Time

  SATYAVATI

  II. FAULT LINES

  Listen. Listen, this neither begins nor ends with me, not such a hate cascading down Time, crossing sea and sky and continent, a hate that sails beside friendship, love, fealty, so many skiffs. I could not say where it began, perhaps only the stars can, for beginnings come clothed in mist. There are many who will claim to know, Vyaasa foremost, but even saintly bards – especially when sons – don’t allow tales to travel unadorned. And so I must uncage the quieter lore, let them wander, rags and slander notwithstanding. There may be rhyme but not much reason, little metre, but both stress and distress. This is not the whole story, nor a lyrical history of mankind:1 it is what I know to be mine, true, or nearly so, perhaps not at all at times, for Truth is a beast more wayward than Time.

  So listen. Listen: once, I learnt, there was a king, complete with queen, court and kingdom – these, not to be heard but seen. One morning, let’s say, a rare, soft morning in beryl, claret and cream, with the gods at play in some other clime, the king went off to hunt, as kings are wont. He chased and stalked, trapped, shot and killed. Having killed and killed again, littered the land with dead hart and doe, tiger, partridge, even crow, he thought of his wife, his favoured sport and pastime, and felt a sudden surge of sperm. Loath to lose a rich future life, into a banyan leaf he came, a leaf he sealed, and bade his falcon carry home to his queen. Perhaps he then killed some more, perhaps he lay down to dream of greater glory but now we must follow the sperm’s story. The bird, ambushed by a viler raptor when halfway home, was forced to drop the seed over a snaking, silver watercourse. Into the mouth of a thirsting fish it fell, and the next thing we know, nine months on, a fisherman – grizzled, but not slow – hauled her onto his bamboo-bottomed coracle: the pregnant, heaving, sperm-eating porpoise. Strange the spectacle he found, slicing her belly into two: twins, squalling, red-cheeked newborns, and minutes later, a buxom, breathing apsara in place of dead fish. Thrice and hard the naiad kissed him – leaving him a little lovelorn – then winged her way out of that cruel curse, singing out to the fisherman to take the bundle to the king. King and court, however, did not see two bairns – both winsome as honey, noisome as hell – but the crown prince and his stinky, squalling womb-warmer, now disposable. Well, boys, said the king, can rule even if they smell like tombs but I have no use for a girl, unless she can be my consort – no, with daughters, it’s safest to abort. As reward for bringing back their prince, the fisherman won a cloudburst of gold, plus the girl-child, non-returnable. With two parting caveats, stark and cold: call her Matsyagandhi, the fish-scented one; take her away, far away, from this land and our son.

  A princess, and half-divine, bred in a fisher shack, severed from a brother who’d never know her name – that destiny was mine, that and the relentless stench of shame. Hate came easy. Hate came young. Hate for the royal father whose uncaring choice sealed this fate, for a mother who didn’t raise her voice, hate for the loyal foster parent who would praise the king at every meal, sparing me no detail of his lord’s largesse, never caring once for – or even noting – a daughter’s distress. Hate had the smell of dead mackerel; hate bore shades of teal. I wore it as unhealing wound. I wore it as seal. I bade my time.

  Feral-eyed, two cranes

  collide, claws blurring frontlines.

  Wings vanish the sky.

  III. FAULT LINES

  Listen. Listen, they will say it was the Golden Age, they will say it was a time when gods and men were equal, or almost, they will say humans knew no want, no strife, no rage, no hate, no cleavage of birth or caste or sex in the eyes of god or state. They lie. They lie. They lie or they are wilfully blind. How quickly, how cocksurely Vyaasa and his kind claim the rest were not far behind! The twice-born with their chronicles sire the illusions they profess to so decry – false their yarn, fickle the lore. There was no Golden Age, or if there was, the age reserved its ore for kings and brahmins, served base metal to us lesser beings – hunters, fishers, scavengers, untouchables. A gilded sight it seems, even yellow crap, when perched on lucent heights. When they descend and the reek’s unmistakable, priests and hermits begin to sing a different tune.

  Listen, I should know. I was sixteen and beautiful: even the Yamuna, bustling hellcat of a river, told me so. If it weren’t for that awful stench of fish, I’d have been heaven-sent, rapturous; but as one both lowborn and malodorous, I was termed repellent. Then one wintry day, a soundless morning, as the sun ran amok filling the heavens with colour, stroke by uneven stroke, a rishi appeared at our shanty door, demanding my father row him across to the further shore. Father, village chief in his old age, wished to eat his rice and fish in peace, and pushed me to do the deed in his place.

  We looked at each other, the roving sage and I, and then I knew, I knew how to climb to my pinnacle. He stepped into my coracle, holding on to my hand, each pulse a rising drumroll under pallid mien. No sooner had I cast off than he make his bid. I want you. I want you, I want every bit of you, your skin the glow of star-kissed night, the rippling rivulets of your tress, breasts that are twin demilunes, the velvet address between those legs…I stopped the flow of his delight: But Sage, this would be a sin. Thou art a son of Brahma, learned, godly; I
am bred as Nishada. Our coupling would be unholy. Besides, people see us from the shore, they will laugh at thee for bedding beneath thy station. I cannot let this be a coition we will deplore.

  In an instant, we were hidden in mystic fog, covering even the boat and oar: fully invisible. He leant over, aroused, for a kiss. Resistants tend to get cursed, so I unbent – a bit. But Sage, coitus should be memorable for both, and how will you find me delectable with this stink of dead fish? And think, Ô Sage, how can I be free to pleasure thee when fearful for my repute, of the smear and uproar there will be if I’m found to have lost my virginity? Now fully engorged and ardent, the ascetic swore: Three boons you win: the name Satyavati, Ô truthful one, and much renown. My son whom you’ll bear instantly, while a virgin you stay till you wear a royal crown. Lambent, youthful, fragrant you shall remain till your dying day. Now relent before I turn insane. It worked, better than I’d planned. Jasmine, rose and saffron: they rose from my skin like zephyr and spread – spread eight miles all around, with a whiff of red earth at dusk.

  Arms and legs braided into one, mouth padlocked with tongue, digits entwined, he heaved, I writhed, we conjoined: it smelt of blood, it smelt of musk. It was a strange time, the first, but no worse than I’d imagined, the old sage had life in him and magic tricks to smoothen his knife. Painlessly – oh, the only time – and quick as a chime did the child arrive, full-grown and – sadly – pedantic. He named himself Ved Vyaasa, river of the sacred scripts, bowed, then vanished in his ascetic father’s steps, leaving me with the aftertaste of victory, the sweet odour of eternity. With just a faint pang of regret, umbrage in sharper twinge that both mage and son could walk so quickly away, forget me completely, but it wasn’t enough to single and survey. No, there was too much to savour, this time, to expend my stockpile of hate, which, it appeared, did not take root in Vyaasa’s heart – perhaps, though, hate’s just a deadly, distant fruit to one who never met fear or loss or disrepute.