Some of the men who had seen Karna climbing out of the river, now walked towards him. The river was gobbling up the shore at an alarming rate and Karna waded in through knee-deep water. It had been dry just a few moments before. From their attire, Karna could see the men were Kalinga soldiers. What had happened to the soldiers he had taken on loan from Jayadratha? How many had died?
A movement near him caught Karna’s attention. A half-broken chariot lay buried in the slushy earth. A crow, pecking on the carcass of a horse, tilted its head and peered at Karna for a second before hopping away. Was there someone pinned to the ground? As he moved closer, he could hear the wheezing sound of a dying man. Karna looked down and a familiar face stared back.
“Suta, if you value your life, use your sword to end my agony.... If you do not, it will be the biggest mistake of your life...”
Uthayan lay under the rubble. Even at death’s door he remained defiant and proud. Such brave men should not be allowed to die. Karna put his shoulders to the toppled chariot and tried to move the weight crushing Uthayan. A few soldiers watching him from a distance, ran to lend their support. Together, they extricated the Chera King. Uthayan’s hands were still pinned to the shaft of the chariot. Karna extricated his arrows from Uthayan’s palms, feeling the pain of his foe. He stole a glance at Uthayan’s grim face, a small hope in his mind craved gratitude from his old foe but all he saw in the eyes of the man he was saving was the glint of unadulterated hatred. Uthayan collapsed on the earth as soon as his hands were freed and lay in a heap, wheezing with pain and exhaustion at Karna’s feet.
Soldiers on both sides whispered to each other about the valour of the Suta. Awareness of his magnificent victory began sinking into Karna’s mind. He could feel the rays of the rising sun on his shoulders, warming his tired muscles like a caress, almost like a blessing. He was the chosen one of the Sun God. He smiled at the thought. ‘Suyodhana, I have done it! It will be fun to watch Lord Bhishma’s face when this Suta enters the Sabha. Arjuna, are you watching? A Suta, the son of a charioteer, has done the impossible. Krishna, where are you?’
Karna looked at the carnage around him and then up at the heavens. ‘This is not enough. Like the warriors of yore, I must conquer the whole earth – a digvijaya – winning victories in all directions. Suyodhana, my friend, you gave me a tiny kingdom to rule but this Suta will repay you by giving you all of Bharatavarsha. Our friendship will no longer be based on your charity.’
The men around Karna bowed deeply in homage. He felt powerful, invincible, and immortal.
That evening, after cremating the dead, the Suta’s quest for digvijaya commenced. Karna raced south, ignoring the proud King of an ancient race sitting behind him. Nor was there any thought in the Suta’s mind about the outstanding valour shown by a Brahmin warrior from Kalinga. The fine equestrian who had made his victory possible lay burnt to ashes on the cremation pyre. Such things did not matter to Karna now. He was chasing his destiny.
The news of their rout at the hands of the Suta reached Parashurama much before Karna did. When his aides asked him whether they should prepare to defend the city, Parashurama answered, “No, invite Karna to my chamber. We will offer no resistance.”
As his surprised subordinates withdrew, murmuring to each other, Parashurama sat wondering whether his gamble would work. If it did, it would be the greatest victory of his life. The North would be conquered without spilling a drop of blood.
The temple outside was closing after the night prayers. Parashurama folded his hands in prayer as the last bell and prayer sounded and the doors of the garbagriha closed with a screech. Let the Suta come. He did not know what lay in store for him. Parashurama smiled grimly to himself.
*****
13 THE FEAST
ASWATHAMA AWOKE SCREAMING IN PAIN. He could not open his eyes. He panicked, thinking he had gone blind. He could not recollect where he was or why. It took him a while to realize that ropes bound his hands to a pole high above his head. A fire burned nearby, throwing grotesque shadows all around. It was bone-chillingly cold despite the flames. A bearded man walked up to him and threw scalding water onto his face. Aswathama groaned. The group of men around him laughed. Where were his men, those brave souls who had trusted him on this suicidal mission? He strained to see his companions.
“Where are my men?” Aswathama whispered, swallowing the scathing pain in his throat; his face felt on fire.
“You want to know where your men are, Brahmin? Don’t you want to know how many of our brethren were killed in the avalanche?”
Aswathama smiled. The bearded man slapped him across his face, cutting his lip. Aswathama cocked his head to one side, spat out some blood and asked, “Is the Mlecha dead?”
Instantly men sprang up with swords drawn. The bearded man kicked Aswathama viciously. “You filthy pig! You dare call our King Mlecha?” His companions joined in kicking their prisoner.
“Enough!” a familiar voice commanded. Immediately the torment ceased. Aswathama raised his bloodied face to see Shakuni standing a few feet away, supporting himself on a long stick. His gaze dropped to Shakuni’s knees and he smiled again. The Gandharan limped towards the Brahmin. On either side men stood respectfully with bowed heads. In a voice more frightening for its calm, the Gandhara Prince said, “You have killed more than 3000 Gandharans. You have made me lame for life.”
“I am sorry I couldn’t do more,” Aswathama replied.
Shakuni began to laugh. “I have killed all your men. I could have killed you too, like a fly.” His face was inches away as he traced a line across Aswathama’s throat with his finger. “Do you know why I spared you, Brahmin? I wanted you to see how I am going to destroy your country.”
“Stop blabbering, Mlecha. You cannot even take one step beyond the Indus. You are a wanted man. I will die with the satisfaction that Suyodhana will hunt you down one day.”
“Spare your breath, Aswathama. The dice has just started to roll. The game is not over. Not yet, not so quickly, not so easily.”
“It will be, when the Hastinapura imperial army marches in. Have you forgotten what Lord Bhishma did to your precious country? When Suyodhana comes, you will wish Bhishma had come instead.”
Shakuni’s face darkened at the mention of Bhishma. “Hmm, let my nephew come. I want him to come. I want his friends to come too. I want all of India to come.” Turning to his companions, the Gandharan said, “Kill the goats. My nephew will be visiting us soon. Bring the soma. Let us celebrate.”
While his men ran to fetch the goats and threw more wood into the fire, Shakuni moved back to Aswathama. He spoke in a voice as cold as it was soft. “Don’t gloat over the few victories your countrymen have won. You breed like pigs and have a bigger army, but ultimately victory will be ours. The day is not far when we will rule you. Do you want to know why, son of a cursed Brahmin?” Aswathama glared back at the foreigner, furious at his own impotence. Soon, the smell of roasted meat filled the air. The Brahmin crinkled his nose in disgust. Someone began playing a string instrument and drums kept beat to the strange music. Some of the men began dancing, embracing and kissing each other’s cheeks. Soma flowed freely. Women who had become widows just a few days before, and mothers who had lost their sons in the avalanche, now danced with reckless abandon. Aswathama watched the strange customs of the Gandharans with distaste. What sort of society was this that celebrated even in death? It was the antithesis of everything his father had taught him. The Gandharans lived in the moment, without bothering about the afterlife or the eternal soul. For them, there was no moksha, sanyas or brahmacharya. There were no seekers or philosophers in their midst. Life was now.
When the meat had cooked, they dropped the roasted chunks into a big bowl and mixed it with rice. They devoured the food, dipping their hands in the large bowl as they ate together. There was no difference between rich and poor, prince and pauper. They were one; eating, drinking, dancing, thinking and acting as one. The Mlecha had said they would rule Bharata o
ne day. As Aswathama watched the Gandharans up close, the Mlecha’s words held a ring of truth. Bharatavarsha, despite its great warriors, its ancient civilization and refined culture, its accomplishments in art, science and architecture, would collapse like a house of cards before the onslaught of something as primeval as the force he was witnessing. A country obsessed with who was touchable and who was not, who could eat with whom, who could love whom, who could stand how many feet from whom, and who could learn what, did not stand a chance before a people who ate from the same bowl.
As the temperature dropped further and the icy wind from the Hindu Kush shrieked around them, the dancing grew ever more frenzied and wild.
Shakuni approached Aswathama with a chunk of goat meat and thrust it in his face. “Eat!” he commanded, his eyes challenging the Brahmin. Aswathama turned his face away. Shakuni howled with laughter. “What luxury your people have. You can choose what to eat and what to avoid. Your land is fertile. Here, if we are lucky we get to eat sometimes. We cannot afford customs about who can eat what. What we get, we eat together.” Shakuni tore off a chunk of meat with his teeth. The cultivated manners that he had exhibited in Hastinapura had vanished. He laughed at Aswathama’s expression of distaste. “Ours is a war-ravaged country; it has been raped and pillaged. Gandhara! We are the children of a lesser God. Just wait and watch what I am going to do to you and yours, Brahmin.”
“Dream on, Mlecha. The imperial army is five lakh strong.”
“You are amusing, Aswathama. Are you thinking I will fight my nephew? Oh, no. I want him to win.” Shakuni fished out a gem from the folds of his clothing. It shone brilliantly in the firelight. It was the most beautiful gemstone Aswathama had ever seen. “Do you know what this is, Brahmin? This is my gift to Suyodhana.” Shakuni held it close to Aswathama’s eyes. The lustre of the gem was blinding. “For all its beauty, this stone is said to bring misfortune and disaster. I am going to bestow it upon my nephew as a reward for sparing my life. Perhaps you think it is all superstition? You are free to think what you wish, but know this, not two months after my father got this stone from a Yavana, Bhishma invaded our land. See what it did to our country. Now watch what it will do to yours.” Shakuni laughed.
“You talk nonsense. Stones do not decide destiny. We do.”
“Wait and see, young man. Just wait and see.” Leaning on his stick, Shakuni limped back to watch the dancing.
Aswathama wondered what the conniving Mlecha had implied. He wanted Suyodhana to win. He wanted to gift him one of the most precious gems in the world. Why? The bastard! If Suyodhana took it, it would mean he had forgiven his uncle and Shakuni could worm his way back. The gem was worth the entire treasury of Hastinapura. Perhaps there was also some truth about it bringing disaster. That was no doubt the reason why Bhishma had not taken it when he invaded Gandhara all those years ago. Such a possession would have made the kingdom vulnerable.
Shakuni was gambling again. The stone was tempting enough to be stolen but it would make its possessor insecure enough to be paranoid. It would beckon invaders and plunderers to his land. Aswathama fervently wished Suyodhana would not come in search of him. Knowing his friend, he was sure that one day or the other, the Prince would come. That would be the worst thing that could happen to his country. For the first time since his capture, Aswathama wept.
*****
14 GURU AND DISCIPLE
KARNA’S ARMY SMASHED THE LAST Confederate defences and rushed deep into the South. In his chariot, the Chera King sat bound in chains, as Karna conquered the kingdoms one by one. Like the sun dispelling darkness, Karna aimed to carry the torch of progress to the Southern Confederate, which slept in the shadows of orthodoxy and caste. The Suta’s mission was to remind an ancient culture about the equality of all men, which emperors like Mahabali and Ravana had proclaimed at the dawn of civilization. The juggernaut of Karna’s army rolled on, deeper and deeper into the Confederate, conquering kingdoms, toppling empires, and destroying the plague of inequality and caste hatred. Karna’s mammoth army rushed to Muzaris after sacking Kanchipuram and Madurai. The last remnants of the terrified Chera army awaited the great Suta warrior’s march into their ancient city with their king bound in chains.
“Suta, kill me but do not keep me chained like an animal.”
Karna ignored Uthayan’s plea. He had no time to pander to the sensibilities of his vanquished foe. He had spared his life and that was a great thing. As his army crossed the hills and marched towards Muzaris, his heart leapt with joy. He suddenly remembered how he had first arrived in this city, a terrified young boy. How it had changed over the years! On either side of the road, people silently watched him ride past them. No one waved. He could see the glistening spire of Parashurama’s palace and the silver sheet of sea beyond. The sight unleashed long-suppressed emotions in his heart. Karna’s felt salty tears in his throat as he stared ahead, his gaze unwavering. ‘My Guru, have you forgiven this seeker of knowledge?’
“Suta, your deceit almost took our revered Guru to the gates of Yamaloka. He is just recovering. Don’t you dare play with his life again, you son of a low-caste,” Uthayan threatened through gritted teeth, rattling his chains in anger.
Karna looked back at Uthayan and smiled. “No one knows my Guru better than I do, Your Highness.” He jumped down before the chariot had come to a halt and ran up the Palace steps. He could hear his soldiers dragging out the vanquished Chera King, but he did not pause to watch. Such things could wait. He saw the priests move away as he walked in. Karna was pleased that he could instil so much respect in them. The fruits of victory were sweet.
“Suta, stop! Do not pollute the holy abode of the Guru!” Uthayan shouted from where he stood, a King held captive in his own palace.
It struck Karna like a blow from a gadha that the priests had moved away from him not out of respect, but in fear of the pollution a low-caste like him could cause their high-caste souls. Karna felt helplessness wash over him. All his insecurities about being born the son of a charioteer raised their heads once again. He had vanquished the Southern Confederate, yet he remained a mere Suta?
A group of priests stood at the door chanting mantras, daring the Suta to cut off their heads before they allowed him to enter his Guru’s presence. Karna knew all his valour did not matter in these dark rooms. How could he use force against these unarmed men? He was a Kshatriya by karma. He swallowed the lump lodged like a stone in his throat. How long could he resist the pressures of society?
“I wish to ask my Guru’s forgiveness, respected Brahmins. Kindly make way.” Karna sank to his knees and bowed low.
The murmuring stopped for a moment and then started again, this time the priests vigorously debating among themselves. ‘He is a cheat, do not believe the Suta. The Guru’s holy presence should not be defiled.’
Karna heard the chained Chera King command the priests not to let him through, but he remained on his knees. He was tempted to get up and behave like the victor he was. He could have pushed these chattering men to one side with laughable ease and walked into his Guru’s room. Within, Parashurama coughed and Karna’s heart skipped a beat. One of the priests went in. The Suta remained kneeling like a supplicant before the Brahmins.
It took an eternity for the priest to return but when he did, he indicated the Suta was to enter. Karna remained in the same position, his head bowed in silent prayer. Through his shut eyes, a few tears fell to the floor. He did not wish them to see how vulnerable he was. A priest remarked that the Guru did not have all day. Uthayan protested loudly, insisting that he be taken to the Guru first. Wearily, Karna stood up and walked into the room where his Guru lay. The priests scrambled away lest he pollute them.
The room was in darkness and it took Karna a moment to locate the frail figure on the cot. He was shocked to see Guru Parashurama. He wished he had not come. The broad-shouldered warrior with long muscular limbs had vanished, leaving a frail imitation in his place. ‘What have I done to him?’ Karna thought in si
lent horror as Parashurama’s frail form was racked by coughing. Finally the Guru gestured for Karna to approach. Parashurama raised a hand to touch Karna and then hesitated a moment, remembering that his favourite disciple was nothing more than a Suta and his fingers would be defiled by touching him. Karna felt like a knife had been stabbed into his heart. He was about to turn away bitterly, when Guru Parashurama’s shivering palm came to rest on his bowed head.
Karna closed his eyes, his heart full. Like a child seeking his father’s forgiveness for a transgression, Karna wept, his head on the Guru’s chest. The old man’s fingers caressed his head affectionately. In that moment, they were not a Suta and his exalted Brahmin warrior-Guru, but father and son. Boundaries of caste and prejudice did not matter. Karna wished the moment would never end. He could hear the soft beating of his Guru’s heart. ‘Has he forgiven me?’ the son of the charioteer wondered. Slowly he raised his head and saw the tears in his Guru’s eyes.
“Karna, the path you have chosen is the wrong one,” Parashurama whispered.
Karna stood up, his hands shivering with emotion. “Guru, I ...”
“No, I am not referring to you lying to me about your caste. Had you not lied and become my disciple, I would never have known you, my son. I forgave you long ago.” Parashurama paused, trying to catch his breath. Then he said hoarsely, “I speak of the company you are keeping. You are the Dharmaveera. Why then have you befriended Duryodhana?”