Karna’s heart skipped a beat. He prayed fervently that his Guru would not demand he leave his friend. He knew he had to defend Suyodhana but somehow the words deserted his tongue.
“Karna, he is evil. He does not respect tradition and he will pay the price for it. You are not what you think you are. Your destiny is different. I am bound by a promise, else I would have told you.”
Karna was perplexed, but he knew he would never betray Suyodhana. ‘He was the only one who supported me when the whole world was making fun of a Suta who dared to dream of being a warrior,’ he wanted to say, but the words were trapped in his throat.
“Your destiny lies with the Pandavas. Go, ask Yudhishtra for forgiveness.”
“No!” Karna stood up abruptly. This longed-for meeting had turned bitter. How could his Guru even suggest such a thing? He, Karna, befriend that arrogant Arjuna? “Guru, forgive me, but I could never forsake Suyodhana...”
“Karna, my son, you will regret it later.”
“I would rather be known as evil, than ungrateful.”
Parashurama sighed. Silence filled the room like a thick fog. Karna yearned to leave the room and get away from the old man who was asking him to befriend his arch rival and betray his best friend. How could he even think such a thing? ‘It would have been better that he did not forgive me, and chased me away calling me a Suta,’ Karna thought sadly.
“Karna, will you promise this old man something?”
“Anything, Guru, anything except betraying Suyodhana.”
“You have destroyed the Southern Confederate and all these kingdoms are now vassal states of Hastinapura. The people of these lands follow an ancient culture and traditions. Your friend may try to impose his newfound ideas here too. I fear that renegade Brahmin, Kripa, will assist him in doing so. In these lands, learning is respected, the Vedas are followed, and Brahmins are considered God’s people. Everyone knows their place. Society is stable. Keep your evil friend away from here.” Another bout of coughing cut short the Guru’s words. Karna stood in silence, his heart and mind in turmoil.
“The way to earn the respect of the Brahmins is not by brute force, but by being righteous. As a King, you should know how to respect learning. It is not your caste that is standing in the way of you gaining people’s respect, but your rebellious attitude. There are enough examples of men from various varnas becoming King, but they all respected our traditions. Even now, it is not too late. Promise me that you will never deny a Brahmin anything he asks, that you will treat our traditions with respect, and promise me that you will keep your friend away from these holy lands...”
“But Guru, I will still be treated as a Suta all my life.” Karna regretted the words as soon as he spoke them.
A smile flickered on Parashurama’s lips. “My blessing will always be with you. My blessings still go a long way across Bharatavarsha. Remember my words and see how you will be treated. You can earn respect in two ways – by force or by deeds. The choice is yours. Either way, you will be remembered.”
Doubt started gnawing at Karna’s mind. Was this a blessing or a bargain? Did it really matter whether a few priests respected him? His duty was toward his friend. Then why was the Guru’s offer so tempting? Throughout his life, he had faced scorn for being a Suta, and now... “I promise I will never deny a Brahmin what he asks. I will respect our traditions and culture. I...I am a Kshatriya...”
“You are, my son, whether the world knows it or not. I know there is no one more Kshatriya than you. It would have been better for you to join the Pandavas. Perhaps you will when the time comes and you know the truth. Come, let me embrace you.”
Karna moved towards the old man, bending gracefully over the supine figure in the bed. The Guru affectionately ran his fingers over Karna’s thick hair for a long time. “I cursed you that day. I must make amends, Karna.” Parashurama said, trying to sit up. He fell back in exhaustion as someone tapped on the door. “Open the door,” he said to Karna, short of breath. A few Brahmins came in, eyeing the Suta suspiciously. “Where is Uthayan?” Parashurama asked.
The Brahmins looked at each other, embarrassed. Uthayan walked in, his hands in chains, but his head erect and proud, even in defeat.
“You tied him like a slave, Karna?” Parashurama asked and then began to laugh, but his laughter quickly turned into coughing.
Karna saw Uthayan’s shoulders slump and he felt compassion for the Chera King stir in his heart.
“Free him,” Parashurama ordered.
Karna moved to unchain the King. Uthayan hissed in his ear, “You will pay for this!” Karna ignored him. The chains fell in heaps and Uthayan stepped free. “Luck was with the Suta.” He bowed to the Guru.
“Suta he may be to you, but to me he is the best Kshatriya in all of Bharatavarsha.” Uthayan and the group of priests gasped in surprise. “Why look so surprised? Here is my order, ensure that it is carried through the entire length and breadth of Bharatavarsha: as long as Karna keeps his dharma and his promise of never denying anything asked by a Brahmin, as long as he worships the smritis and Vedas, he is to be accorded the respect due to a Kshatriya. To mark this pledge, I gift him the bhargava astra and my bow, Vijaya.”
“No!” Uthayan shouted. “But Guru, why?”
Karna himself was shocked by the gesture. Did the weapon really exist? He had heard rumours about the weapon, a missile of tremendous explosive power. It was said to be a yantra muktha, to be released from a chariot. As a student of Parashurama, he had asked him about the weapon many times but the Guru had never given him an answer.
“I forged the weapon with my own hands. Scores of master craftsmen have worked on it for more than a dozen years. There is nothing more beautiful and fearsome as this astra,” Parashurama said with pride.
“Guru, you cannot give it to this Suta. You are our mentor, our Guru. We have always been loyal to you. Why are you giving the most prized possession to this low-caste impostor from the North?” Uthayan’s voice was shrill with agitation.
Parashurama tried to answer, but a bout of coughing caught him unawares. Karna could see the look of shock in the eyes of the Brahmins. The bhargava astra, the most feared weapon in the entire country! He could hardly believe he was to possess it. Unbidden, Arjuna’s face came to his mind. Karna smiled despite himself.
“Have you forgotten the vow of your ancestors, Guru? Have you forgotten that for twenty-four generations, your clan has killed Kshatriyas? Parashurama brought the wisdom of Brahminical rule to the country and now you are supporting a low-caste who lied to you, cheated, and insulted the Southern Kings. The entire Asura country has bowed to your wisdom, treating you like a God. Guru, this is unjust. You are giving the best to this Suta.”
“King Uthayan, a man who has failed in battle has no right to speak. Had you won against Karna, I would have considered you more worthy. But you lost and surrendered Bharatavarsha to Karna. I have forgiven his sin against me. As a man of honour, he has promised to uphold dharma.”
“I will not deny a Brahmin whatever he asks,” Karna repeated quietly.
Parashurama asked one of the priests to take Karna to the secret place where the astra was kept. Karna bowed deeply to the Guru. He saw the hatred in Uthayan’s eyes. How bitter-sweet was this victory! Despite their enmity, he admired and respected Uthayan’s qualities as a proud King and fearless warrior. Silently, Karna turned and followed the priest.
***
When the door had closed, Uthayan said to the Guru. “I have failed. Allow me to end my worthless life, Guru.”
Parashurama remained silent for a long time, staring far away through the window. Uthayan bowed and was about to leave, when the Guru called him softly.
“Son, only the battle is lost, not the war. Astras do not win wars, strategy does. We are fighting for a bigger cause. Have you not understood what I have done? No, I was not being a hypocrite. Karna is like a son to me, dearer than anyone else in the world. Nevertheless, my gift to him has nothing to do with th
at love. It is an act of war. Think and you will understand.”
“Guru...” Uthayan protested; then a wide smile appeared on his dark, war-scarred face. “Guru, my respects! It is brilliant. “
Parashurama’s laugh brought on another bout of coughing. When it subsided, Parashurama looked out of the window and smiled. The auspicious sound of conch shell reverberated in the air. He could almost smell the incense and his heart leapt with joy when he heard the pealing of the temple bells. Outside, under a shining sun, his dear disciple was paying his obeisance to the priests by prostrating himself on the ground. The priests stood a few feet away from the Suta, who was still not allowed inside the temple, yet it was a start. Times were changing and one could not always expect the same people to rule always. If an idea was to survive, it had to adapt with the times – bend but not break, show it was changing, yet never really change. Sometimes even Kripa’s philosophy made sense. The accident of birth could not stand in the way of anyone becoming King or kingmaker. Even a Suta could be King, especially when he had defeated an entire army. The only thing was to ensure that, irrespective of the lineage of the ruler, he paid obeisance to tradition and caste. Then he could be elevated as a Kshatriya. Was that not dharma?
‘Poor fool,’ Parashurama thought, looking at Uthayan’s dark face. ‘Once, your ancestors fought us, and see what happened. A few Asuras like Ravana and Mahabali had to be killed or banished, and now you are ready to die for us. What is a mere Suta compared to giants like them? But we must ensure that the audacious son of the blind King stays away from the emancipated lands of the South. The promise extracted from the ambitious Suta will come in handy one day, when the life and death of a civilisation will hang in the balance. Karna conquered the Confederate physically, but who won the spiritual victory? Look at who is lying prostrate at whose feet? Who is the victor and who the vanquished? Karna, my son, you are just beginning to know what is dharma and adharma. Dharmaveera Karna, when the time comes, have the courage and conviction to renounce your evil friend Duryodhana and join Dharmaputra Yudhishtra in his great cause. After all, Pandavas are your brothers in faith.’
Rebels like Karna could be managed and manipulated, but for his victory to be complete, rebels like the Nishadas and Nagas, who were fighting against the varna system, had to be eliminated. For that, Parashurama required divine intervention. As King Uthayan sat massaging his tired feet, Parashurama closed his eyes in meditation and prayed for the victory of dharma over evil forces like the Nishadas, who, as the news which had reached him said, had dared attack the holy city of Dwaraka.
***
And far away, in the northern seas near Dwaraka, the Gods were doing everything in their power to sink a rickety fishing boat. Precariously perched in the swaying boat was the Nishada who had dared to attack Dwaraka. A huge wave crashed over Ekalavya and he gasped for breath. He did not know how many hours he had been floating along, battered by wave upon wave. The sea was a dark beast that roared and hissed around him. He grimaced as pain shot through him. Every time the sea licked his wounds with its salty tongue, his entire body throbbed in pain. ‘I should have been dead long ago,’ he thought as another wave rocked his puny boat, almost toppling it. Fortunately, the frail craft steadied and he wiped the salt water from his red-rimmed eyes. The skies cracked open with lightning and the sea roared back.
They had almost won the war, notwithstanding the valour of the Yadava leader. All the tales of Balarama being frail and a pushover were gross untruths; the wounds on his body were proof enough of that. With Krishna away, he had thought it would be an easy matter to take Dwaraka. Shalva and Dhantavakra had paid the price with their heads. ‘But I could have still pulled it off,’ Ekalavya thought wistfully. Balarama had taken the ruse of his truce offer at face value. Ekalavya had planned to slay Balarama and kept his dagger ready. Then he would have taken over Dwaraka; the Naga revolution would have become reality, overthrowing both Hastinapura and the Confederate eventually. But Krishna had arrived and foiled the plan. Who would have thought he would sneak up from behind and cut down Shalva and Dhantavakra like a thief in the night? And why had Takshaka failed to finish Krishna in the ambush they had planned?
‘Oh Shiva!’ Ekalavya gasped in horror as a wave, more than twenty feet high, raised the boat like a straw. It rode the crest for a few moments and then plunged into the trough. Another wave pressed it down as the rain fell in sheets. It was cold, bitterly cold. Ekalavya found himself struggling under tons of water. Which way to swim; which was up and which down? He felt his lungs would burst. ‘Do not drink the water, hold on, hold on,’ he told himself as the sea pulled him down into its watery embrace. He struggled up, coughing and choking, salt water burning his nostrils as another wave pinned him down. When he came up again, he took a deep breath before the next wave hit. Where had the boat gone?
Ekalavya had not given up when life cheated him at birth or when his Guru tried to end his dreams. He would not give up now. The Nishada battled on. ‘I cannot die now, I refuse to die now! It needs greater forces than this to stop me,’ Ekalavya screamed. The sea roared in laughter, foaming and frothing, pounding and dragging, but the Nishada held on to life. For another hour, the son of the forest and the sea played a deadly game, testing the Nishada’s will to survive. Finally, the sea gave up with a hiss, the sky stopped pelting rain, leaving a few streaks of lightning to die flashy deaths behind the breaking clouds.
Ekalavya floated on his back for a while. Where had his boat gone? He knew he could not float like this forever, but he did not have the courage to look around. A lone star appeared in the sky, vanished behind a dark cloud, and then returned. ‘You and I are alone in this black world,’ Ekalavya thought as the star twinkled above him. Determination seeped back into his battered body and he turned, scanning the horizon for his boat. There was no sign of it anywhere. When he had almost given up, brilliant lightning lit up the sky and he saw something far away. Was it the boat? If it turned out to be something else, the sea would win. He began to swim towards the smudge on the horizon, ignoring the pain in his limbs.
It was his boat. It took him the better part of an hour to reach it and climb in. He collapsed into it, unmindful of the water bobbing inside. He did not know how he had survived thus far, nor did he know whether he would survive hereafter. It had been perilous to jump from the ramparts of the fort. Why had Balarama not shot him down when he had the chance, Ekalavya wondered. For a fraction of a second, his gaze had locked with that of Balarama. Ekalavya had stood poised to jump. Balarama had raised his bow, aiming at him. Then the Yadava leader had looked away and his bow had dropped to the floor of his chariot. At the time Ekalavya had felt only relief as he jumped into the raging sea, preferring to take his chance with the elements rather than with men. Later, he realised bitterly that he owed his life to the very man he had planned to assassinate. Having jumped into the crashing sea, Ekalavya had hidden in a half-submerged cave as the Yadava soldiers searched for him. Late that night he had pushed a small fishing boat into the water and paddled away without direction.
Now, after his tortuous battle with the sea, as he lay limp in the rickety boat, the Nishada thanked the Gods for saving his life. But gradually, like the first mists of winter creeping over the rushes, bitterness shrouded his mind. His indebtedness to Balarama sat like a stone in his heart. Ekalavya stood up, rocking the boat. He had to find a way to reach land and resume battle. Where had the paddle gone? He searched desperately, knowing that the sea had snatched it away. The boat drifted on. Helpless, he felt powerless to control his life and destiny. He tried to stay awake, recalling the anger he felt towards Krishna, the Pandavas, and all those self-righteous men who treated his people like dirt; but nothing could stop the cold feel of death creeping up from the dirty water at his feet. The boat drifted where it pleased. By the next day, sleep had overcome the Nishada.
When he woke, his mouth was gagged and he was bound in chains.
*****
15 SON OF A RAKSHASI
“I DO NOT UNDERSTAND, DHARMAPUTRA. Why do you refuse to fight?”
Yudhishtra heard the impatience in Dhaumya’s voice. He could almost feel Draupadi’s mocking smile behind him. Why did she always judge him so harshly? Why did this Brahmin not leave him alone?
“I am a fool. I have gambled away everything. Perhaps I deserved it. Let Duryodhana rule. He deserves the crown. What are we after all?”
“Arjuna, speak to your brother.” Dhaumya’s face turned red with anger. A chattering squirrel ran among the trees, as if mocking them.
“I have nothing to say,” Arjuna said and continued to polish his bow.
“It is such a long period of exile and you can argue there are special circumstances. Yudhishtra, your mother is suffering. She now lives in a Shudra’s house.”
“That is her fate. This is mine,” Yudhishtra said quietly. He knew what would come next.
Draupadi gave a mocking laugh. “Fate! Fate indeed!”
“Draupadi, is it necessary for you to torture me like this every moment? Yes, I made a mistake...”
“I was stripped in public by that evil Duryodhana.”
“Draupadi, enough!”
“Enough? You did not even raise a little finger, my brave and truthful husband.”
“It was not dharma. I had already lost, you were Duryodhana’s slave. I had no voice.”
“It is better we stop talking of this, brother,” Arjuna interjected before Draupadi could retort.
“So, you will not fight? Is that your final decision?” Dhaumya asked with barely concealed anger.
Yudhishtra looked around. His brothers were looking at him curiously. He could order them to fight but he was not sure how much support he would get. There was no denying he wished to rule, but something kept nagging at him. The look of that beggar when he had picked up a handful of dust troubled him. Was a handful of earth worth fighting a war over? Was the throne worth it? Until that fateful game of dice, his political moves had been dictated by his Guru and his mother; it had been a game. But power was a great addiction. Now, having spent barely a few months on the road, he was seeing life in a completely different light. Nothing made sense. All that grand talk about dharma, all the speculation about soul, karma, hell, heaven, and rebirth – it all sounded hollow.