After what seemed like an eternity, Drona replied, “Kripi, did you know that it needed a Suta’s skill to save your son in Gandhara? Now, had it been Arjuna...”
Aswathama knocked over the tumbler, spilling water everywhere. Even the food in his father’s house seemed noxious and poisonous now. Aswathama was about to kick away the plantain leaf his mother had placed before him when he heard her call to him softly. He paused, expecting her to speak in his support.
“Food is Goddess Annapurna, son. We have starved enough in our life. Do not disrespect the Goddess,” Kripi said in a low voice.
Aswathama could not believe his ears. Was that all his mother had to say? He rolled up the plantain leaf, careful not to spill the food, and walked out, heading towards the river. At the riverbank he saw the beggar Jara sitting under a tree, humming to himself. Aswathama placed the leaf full of food before him. The beggar’s face lit up. A pang of guilt stabbed the Brahmin.
“Krishna, you have come with food.”
“Krishna! Don’t you have eyes, man? I am Aswathama, not the cowherd.”
“Everyone is Krishna, everything is Krishna,” the beggar said serenely, first feeding his dog.
Aswathama felt irritation stir in his troubled mind. “Jara, you keep singing and praying. But have you done even a single day’s hard labour? Why shame yourself by begging from others? Why not work and live on your own earnings? Does not your Krishna say that work is the greatest worship?”
“My life is an act of devotion to my Lord. I sing because my soul overflows with his praise. I take only what is required to sustain me, until my Lord gives me merciful moksha. I do not save for tomorrow, I do not have a house to live in, a yard to tend to, a wife to clothe or a child to feed. My dog and I eat once a day. I have clothing to cover my nakedness. I lack nothing. I do not beg for myself, I beg so that men do not forget kindness and compassion. There are different kinds of work. Work for the sake of result is not worship. Work unaffected by result is true worship.”
Aswathama watched the beggar with distaste. ‘Crazy’ was the first word that came to his mind. Suddenly an image came to his mind, and he shook his head to erase it. He was hallucinating, he needed to sleep. But he did not want to go home to where his father lived. The image flashed again – the beggar was feeding him, Aswathama, the dog by his side. Aswathama trembled. Before the image could reappear, he jumped into the river. Jealousy of Karna and a sense of inferiority assaulted the son of Drona. He had gone to Gandhara with high expectations and failed. The few words of affection his father had spoken before he left were now a distant memory. ‘Oh God, why are you so cruel to me?’ the Brahmin asked in anguish. He took some water in his palms and prayed, “Ma Ganga, wash away my sins... “
Aswathama struggled to shrug off his petty thoughts about Karna. Were they all just puppets in the hands of an all-knowing God? Was life but a farce to entertain a cruel God? The beggar’s song caressed his bruised soul but did not soothe his mind. The precious stone glistened on his headcloth. Jealousy rose again like bile from his stomach and Aswathama dunked his head into the cold waters of the Ganga and prayed, ‘Karna, my friend, may you always be victorious! Bless my friend with glory every time, Ma Ganga!’
But even the holy waters of the Ganga could not quench the burning jealousy inside him.
***
22 RETURN OF THE MLECHA
TWELVE LONG YEARS HAD GONE BY. It had been a difficult task to win back Suyodhana’s confidence. Shakuni did not visit Hastinapura for eight years following Aswathama’s attack on Gandhara. Instead, he used the time to bring prosperity back to his people. His popularity stood at an all-time high in the country. His people adored him for his fairness and sense of justice. He had grown old with grace, his flowing beard now almost white. His sons had grown up. Life had been good to the Gandharan.
Shakuni could afford to turn back to the affairs of his most hated enemy. Once he had crossed the Indus, he became a different man. The last four years had been a relentless struggle to retrieve his position in Hastinapura politics. By abasing himself, pampering to the egos of pretentious men, and by using charm, bribes and intrigue, Shakuni had worked his way back into the palace. The Pandavas’ term of exile was nearing its end. In another four months they would have to go incognito for a year. That would be the time to strike.
Shakuni’s brain was in a whirl, planning and plotting. Yuyutsu’s tightening grip over the economy and the festering resentment against the merchant was a fault line he could use to instigate a bloody civil war. The current drought was helping, too. But Indians were so passive, they preferred to die on the streets starving rather than rise up against their rulers.
Takshaka had become almost useless. The fool had moved south of the Vindhyas and founded a city for the Nagas, which he named Nagapura. All he did was harass Brahmins and non-Nagas. But the backlash against him was not quick enough in coming. He had managed to get a few followers. Nagapura was located in the centre of India but it was nothing more than an overgrown village for the dispossessed. The majority of Nagas preferred to follow Ekalavya rather than Takshaka. The forest people were either content or afraid of their King.
Shakuni knew he had to split the unity of the Nagas. Every caste and community had to be made to fight each other. Sitting in distant Gandhara, he had only been able to engineer some minor riots. Nothing seemed to work and India seemed blessed with infernal luck. But his time was coming. Shakuni flung his dice onto the table. They clattered, spun and rolled under his chair. Cursing, he bent to retrieve them. All of a sudden, he remembered Durjaya. Shakuni wished the crime lord was a free man. Though he had befriended other criminals, none had displayed the ingenuity and ruthlessness of Durjaya. It was fortunate that Suyodhana had not killed the thug. Had he gone mad in prison or fallen into despondency? There was no way of knowing without visiting him in the dungeon where he was held under tight security. It was too risky.
What would make the Kuru cousins fight each other? If the shameless Pandavas refused to fight even for the honour of their common wife, what would they battle for? Perhaps he could involve Krishna in some way, then things would change. But instigating Krishna to do something rash was not going to be easy. The Yadava Prince was the only one Shakuni considered a worthy rival in terms of astuteness and acumen. But even great men had some weakness. What was Krishna’s? The man could charm a tiger to shed its teeth, he could slay an army. No, he would have to pull the rug from under Krishna’s feet without him knowing it. He would need to deepen the animosity between Krishna and Suyodhana by making them both think they were fighting for a greater cause. The bloodiest wars were when both sides thought they were the righteous ones. He had to create a war where individual definitions of dharma clashed in self-righteous rage and destroyed each other.
No plan came to Shakuni’s mind, but after an hour in a trance, peace descended on him like a gentle balm. He would have to persuade Suyodhana to visit the South. Once the Crown Prince was removed from Hastinapura and Jayadratha made Regent, he could work out something. Perhaps Suyodhana would do something rash on his visit to the conservative South. But the key lay in the rivalry between Krishna and Suyodhana. With shaking hands, Shakuni fumbled for his dice and tossed them to the floor, whispering, “Twelve”. They rolled and came to rest at a perfect twelve.
“Krishna!” he cried with a crooked smile. No devotee of the charming Yadava could have uttered the name with more passion. Something big was coming his way.
***
Ekalavya sat polishing his bow when Khatotkacha approached him, accompanied by a slim boy in his late teens. Mildly irritated, the King of the forest lands asked Bhima’s son, “What does he want?”
“Guru, he wants to learn the art of using weapons.”
Ekalavya continued with his work. He could sense the apprehension of the two teenagers. He had come to like the hefty Rakshasa, Khatotkacha, in the twelve years he had known him. He could still remember the day Hidumbi had come to him after h
e had taken charge of the forest lands. She had a boy of five or six with her and she had wanted him to teach her son. Curious, he had asked about the boy’s father. When he heard the boy was Bhima’s son, he had declined to have anything to do with them. But the boy refused to give up. Every morning, for six months, the first thing Ekalavya saw was Khatotkacha’s face. Finally, convinced that Khatotkacha’s thirst for knowledge rivalled his own, he relented. Twelve years later, Ekalavya did not have any regrets.
“Who is he?” asked Ekalavya curtly. Where had he seen that face?
“Iravan, a Naga,” Khatotkacha replied shortly. Ekalavya’s gaze never left the boy’s face.
“Who is this young man, Ekalavya?” Vasuki’s voice broke into his thoughts.
The boy turned to Vasuki, bowed and said, “I am Iravan.”
“That is your name. But who are your parents? Which clan or tribe do you belong to? Where are you from?” Vasuki leaned on his staff, scrutinizing Iravan’s face.
“My mother is Naga. Her name is Uloopi.”
“And your father?”
Iravan did not reply. His eyes fell and he stared at his feet.
Ekalavya took Iravan shoulders in a grip of iron and said coldly, “Tell me!”
“My father is the Pandava, Arjuna.” Iravan’s voice was almost a whisper, as if uttering his father’s name was a shameful thing.
Ekalavya let go of the boy. The odd familiarity now made sense. “How dare you come to me seeking knowledge? Is it my duty to teach all the bastard sons the Pandavas leave behind in every village on their trail? First Khatotkacha, and now you! Do you know what your father did?” Ekalavya shoved his thumbless hand in Iravan’s face.
“I have no one else.” Iravan’s eyes flashed. He refused to look at the missing thumb on Ekalavya’s hand and raised his chin defiantly. “I thought you would be a person to whom skill, knowledge and ability have no barriers. I was wrong. I will go.” He bowed and began to walk away.
The boy’s words were like a slap on Ekalavya’s face. Something in Iravan reminded him of himself – the same thirst for knowledge, the same willpower to learn and succeed. “Son!” Ekalavya’s voice was hoarse, his throat dry, as Iravan stopped. Looking into the distance, the Nishada King said, “Show me what you know.”
The boy lifted the crude bow he was carrying and took aim. Vasuki stood near Ekalavya, leaning on his stick. The arrow whizzed past them both, finding the narrow gap between their heads and pierced a tree behind them. The two stood frozen as Iravan pulled another arrow from his quiver and took aim. The second arrow traced the same path and bisected the first with unnerving accuracy.
“Shabash!” Vasuki cried and limped over to Iravan as fast as his old legs could carry him.
Ekalavya stood stunned by what he had seen. What could he possibly teach this boy? The ugly snake of jealousy raised its head. Did Iravan being Arjuna’s son have something to do with his unbelievable talent?
“Accept me as your disciple, Guru. Make me a worthy warrior like my cousin, Khatotkacha.”
Before he could say anything, Iravan bent and touched Ekalavya’s feet. His ghost thumb itched as memories of a boy falling at the feet of a great Guru came flooding back to his mind. Was fate mocking him by reversing roles? ‘Oh, Shiva, give me the courage to forget and forgive,’ he prayed. Ekalavya lifted Arjuna’s son. What could be more fitting revenge than making the bastard sons of blue-blooded Kshatriyas better warriors than them? What more could a Nishada ask for as retribution?
Vasuki tapped his stick on the ground. “All this is fine, but beware! Keep away from the affairs of the Kauravas and Pandavas.” Like most of Vasuki’s wise words, these too were ignored, eventually extracting a heavy price for having gone unheeded.
Who knew what the future held, thought Ekalavya. What mattered was the profound peace he felt at this moment. He almost felt like God, like Shiva.
Meanwhile, in another part of the forest, a hunting party arrived. The actions of one of them would trigger a set of catastrophic events.
*****
23 THE POET
“WHY DOES OUR SON BEHAVE IN THIS WAY, BHANU?”
Bhanumati clenched her fists, her lips closed in a thin line. She knew Suyodhana was tense and worried, but that was no excuse to behave in this way towards their son. The treasury was almost empty and the rains had failed for the second year. Everywhere there was drought and famine, yet all her husband fretted over was the return of the Pandavas to Hastinapura. The Pandavas’ twelve-year exile was nearing its end and they would soon go incognito.
“Speak up, fool!” Suyodhana raised his voice to his son.
Abhimanyu, standing beside Lakshmana Kumara, suppressed a grin. His cousin was in trouble yet again. Bhanumati had tried to stop her son from being friends with Subhadra and Arjuna’s gifted son, but to no avail. Kumara was devoted to his cousin. Each time Abhimanyu visited Hastinapura to pay his respects to Lord Bhishma and Guru Drona, he made it a point to visit them too. He had charmed Suyodhana with his winning ways and skills as a warrior. It did not help that Subhadra often accompanied her son. Bhanu saw the look in Suyodhana’s eyes when he looked at Subhadra. No, she was not jealous, but no husband should look at another woman that way. She was not envious, Bhanu told herself, but the son, he was so cocky!
“Have you swallowed a stick?” Suyodhana asked, slapping his thigh. “Why are you slipping in weaponry practice? The Acharya says you are fit only to be a clerk. You are a Kshatriya, Kumara, grow up! What have you to say for yourself?”
Abhimanyu intervened with barely concealed glee. “Uncle, my cousin does not wish to be a warrior.”
“He is never going to be one. Look at his limbs. Is he a boy or a girl?”
Bhanumati recoiled at Suyodhana’s harsh words. Kumara’s soft brown eyes, so like his sister’s, filled with tears. How nice it would be to wipe that smug smile off Abhimanyu’s face, Bhanumati thought. The young warrior stood ramrod straight, running a thumb over the sharp edge of his sword.
“What do you want in life, son?” Suyodhana finally asked. Bhanumati wanted to grab her son’s hand and run from the room. She knew what was coming.
“Would you like me to tell my uncle, Kumara?” Abhimanyu asked solicitously, a mischievous smile on his fine lips. Kumara’s eyes pleaded with his friend to remain silent. “Uncle, my cousin wishes to be a poet,” Abhimanyu said, unable to hide the laughter in his voice.
There was an uneasy silence. Kumara eyed his father fearfully. Bhanumati wanted to rush to her son and hide him in a protective embrace. But it would have embarrassed him, he was almost fifteen and she could see the shadow of a moustache above his upper lip. How quickly children grew up!
“Perhaps it is best you go to someone I know. He changed my life; maybe he can change yours, too,” Suyodhana said in a weary voice from which all mockery had fled.
“He is not going anywhere.” Bhanumati stood up.
“Would you prefer your son to be called a sissy all his life, Bhanu? He is a Kshatriya; he has to rule this country one day.”
“He would be fine if only you would stop badgering him like this.”
“Enough! When I need your advice, I will ask for it. This is between father and son. Stay out of it, Bhanu.”
“He is my son, too, Suyodhana,” Bhanumati stated adamantly.
“Why do you insist on arguing about this, Bhanu? He is a wimp, a loser. People laugh behind our backs. Is that what you want? He should learn from his cousin. Just look at Abhimanyu.”
“Abhimanyu is the son of a great warrior – Arjuna.” The words were out before she could bite them back. She had crossed the line. She waited for Suyodhana to lash out at her with furious words, and was more pained when he ignored her and turned to his son.
“You will go to Dwaraka. I will write to Balarama today.”
“My brother is going to Dwaraka!” Lakshmana said, excitement lighting up her lovely face. She had been sitting quietly behind her mother throughout this exchange.
br /> How Suyodhana’s stern expression relaxed whenever he looked at his daughter, thought Bhanumati. She was so beautiful! How was she to protect her daughter from the preying eyes of the world? Lakshmana was so impulsive and trusting. Her father adored her. She was everything her brother was not.
“I will go with bhrata to Dwaraka,” Lakshmana said, eyeing her mother and smiling at her father.
“No, you will not. You are not a little girl any more, Lakshmana. You are almost of marriageable age, and I cannot have you roaming all over the country unattended.”
“Ma, do you think I cannot take care of myself? What age were you when you were married? I am only fifteen!”
“Times are changing, Lakshmana. In my time it was acceptable for a woman to choose to remain single until her late twenties. Now, parents marry off their daughters even at the age of twelve.”
Lakshmana knew she would not be able to get around her stern mother so she walked up to her father, head tilted in the way he loved, and cajoled, “Father, please let me go. I want to be with bhrata.”
Bhanumati knew she had lost. Suyodhana could never say no to his daughter. In a last ditch attempt, she said, “The roads are infested with bandits.” She did not know why but she felt extremely uneasy about the whole proposition.
“Bhanu, do you think someone would dare harm a Princess of Hastinapura?” Father and daughter laughed aloud. The very idea was ridiculous.
Bhanumati could stand it no more. “Do what you want. Has any of you ever listened to me? Do I even exist?” She stared out of the window in frustration, feeling helpless and unhappy that her husband no longer came to her when he needed solace, upset that he never talked to her about his dreams. Did he have any dreams left, other than to cling to the throne? Kumara came up and put his arms around her gently, trying to comfort her. She could feel his emotion.
“Are you a five-year-old to hold your mother and weep?” asked Suyodhana, disgusted.