AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2)

  Abhimanyu choked back a laugh. His cousin was so entertaining.

  “Does your cousin’s distress amuse you, Prince?” asked Bhanumati.

  Abhimanyu looked away, embarrassed. He turned and quickly walked out of the room.

  Kumara looked up at his father, his face expressionless, but he did not remove his comforting arm from around his mother’s shoulders.

  “Ma, Abhimanyu is the only friend Kumara has. He is more like a brother to him than a cousin,” Lakshmana said.

  “Abhimanyu cannot be trusted,” Bhanumati replied with quiet certainty. She waited for her son to say something but Kumara stood in silence.

  But Lakshmana had never taken anything in silence. “Ma, everyone loves Abhimanyu. How can you say such things about him?”

  “It does not matter what others say. I know he cannot be trusted,” Bhanumati replied, looking straight into Suyodhana’s eyes, daring him to contradict her.

  “You hate Abhimanyu because you are jealous of Aunt Subhadra...” Lakshmana began, but her petulant words died at the stricken look on her mother’s face.

  How it hurt when her daughter said things she thought she had hidden from the world, Bhanumati thought as she turned away from her son, daughter and husband.

  A corpulent man entered the room without being announced. His eyes had vanished into his puffy face, but the grin could not have been wider. Bhanumati hastily drew her pallu over her head.

  “Arrange for the Prince and Princess to travel to Dwaraka, Yuyutsu,” Suyodhana said and turned his back on the newcomer.

  “So my little Princess is going to Dwaraka? I will arrange the best chariots for you. Will two hundred servants be enough to make you comfortable?” Yuyutsu asked, bowing.

  “Hastinapura has enough chariots of its own. Why should my father need to borrow a chariot from a merchant?” Lakshmana asked imperiously.

  “We are family, Princess. What is mine is your father’s to command and what is his is... shared by the family,” Yuyutsu said, beaming. “Why be angry with a poor merchant, my Princess? I am your uncle. Hastinapura owes me a lot of money but I care only about its progress. Though I am the eldest, I am satisfied with some small profit, as is a Vysya’s dharma. Your father knows this.”

  Bhanumati looked at Suyodhana but her husband’s face wore only a look of weariness. Where had his anger vanished to? The merchant smiled and walked out.

  Suyodhana sighed and turned to his son. “Plan your trip to Dwaraka with Abhimanyu. I will write to Balarama. Come back a man, a warrior, not a whining dreamer. Take your sister with you. I am going to the South and I want to see you a man by the time I return.”

  “Oh thank you, Father!” Lakshmana rushed to hug Suyodhana. His tense face relaxed as he patted her hair.

  Before Bhanumati could protest, Suyodhana walked out of the room. His harsh words hurt her but his indifference pierced her heart. She looked at her daughter, so full of life, so full of joy. Some deep maternal instinct told her that something terrible was going to happen to her daughter. If only she had the power to stop her precious one from going to Dwaraka.

  *****

  24 DIFFERENT GODS

  KARNA WENT TO VISIT GURU PARASHURAMA when they reached Muzaris but Suyodhana refused to see the Guru. Parashurama warned Karna of the dire consequences of breaching his trust and Suyodhana interfering with the beliefs of the Confederate kingdoms.

  One hot and humid morning, what Karna feared most happened. Despite his best efforts, Suyodhana insisted they travel into the countryside. They galloped south, leaving the imperial army on the banks of the dry Poorna River. What he saw turned Suyodhana’s mood black.

  “How have you allowed such atrocities, Karna? I have never seen such a madhouse in my life. Forget human beings, they have even graded animals and trees as touchable and untouchable!”

  What explanation could he possibly give to his Guru if Suyodhana acted on his own principles, wondered Karna anxiously. “I gave my word to my Guru that I would not interfere in their affairs,” he said, but the excuse sounded lame even to his own ears.

  “What do you need with such a Guru?” Suyodhana struck his thighs in anger.

  Karna’s gaze met Aswathama’s eyes and he read the accusation in them, too. Karna’s anger rose. Was it his fault that the people of the Confederate followed rigid caste rules? Was he himself not a victim of that prejudice? What was he supposed to do? Murder anyone who talked about caste? Perhaps he should have started that in Hastinapura, when he was publicly humiliated and ostracised. He pressed his lips together in hurt silence. The last thing he wanted to do was to argue with his friends. He wanted to be back with his family, to see his wife and sons. This place sickened him, he felt choked by the guilt of what he should have done.

  By noon of the third day of their journey south, when the sun was a white blaze over their heads and they were drenched in sweat, they finally reached a decrepit-looking village. Hungry and thirsty, they seemed to have lost their way. Every village looked alike, with dried up ponds and dusty trees. The drought had sapped the life of this once evergreen land. The thatched roof huts looked as though they might fall down at any moment. Urchins playing in the mud paused to look wide-eyed at the strange men riding through their dirt lanes. Some women ran to collect the children and herd them into the huts. The men sitting in their mud verandas stood up in alarm and gaped at the warriors.

  “Can we get some water?” Suyodhana asked a scrawny man, but received no response. He gestured with his hands for water and the men stepped back in horror, as if he had spoken unutterable words. “We just want some water. Can you not offer water to thirsty travellers? We have lost our way and...”

  There was a murmuring among the men. Karna knew why the villagers were so afraid. He also knew his friend would wish no harm to fall on the hapless villagers, but before he could warn Suyodhana, an old woman offered the Crown Prince a mud pot. He took it gratefully and drank the contents like a dying man given a reprieve. The murmuring among the crowd grew louder.

  “Swami, punish me,” the woman said with trembling lips. A little girl came to stand near her, looking at them with round eyes.

  “Punish? Mother, why should I punish you?” Suyodhana asked as he passed the pot to Aswathama.

  The Brahmin took one look at the contents and squirmed in distaste. Karna could feel his heart beating under the armour he wore. He knew why the woman was afraid, she had given Suyodhana toddy – the drink of outcasts and untouchables. By drinking from the hands of an untouchable tribal, the Kshatriya had lost caste. Suyodhana could regain his Kshatriya status only by killing her and doing sufficient penance. God knows how many gifts he would have to give the Brahmins and how many ritual sacrifices he would have to make to annul this sin.

  “I am an untouchable, Swami. By taking toddy from me, you too have become one. Kill me if you want, but please spare the village. We have little...” The old woman’s voice trailed off as she held the little girl close.

  Suyodhana looked at her, trying hard to comprehend what she was saying. When Karna explained, Suyodhana jumped down from his saddle and gently took the woman’s shrivelled hands in his own. He looked into her eyes and said, “Mother, why should I punish you? You placed the thirst of a weary traveller over your own life. Bless me like you would bless your son.”

  The woman did not understand the words, but it did not matter. She put her dark hands over Suyodhana’s greying mane while the crowd looked on, shocked. “Who are you, my son? For the first time in our wretched lives, we are seeing a high-born person behave like this.”

  “She is asking who you are,” Karna said, looking away, his mind a tangle of conflicting emotions.

  “I am Suyodhana, notoriously known as Duryodhana,” the Crown Prince replied.

  An uneasy silence fell. A few women who had come out of their huts to see what was happening, pulled their children back inside. The men, too, hurried back to their huts, fear writ large on their faces.

  T
he old woman looked deep into Suyodhana’s eyes. She turned to the fleeing villagers and raised her voice. “They told us lies. This Kshatriya has treated us as human beings. For us, this man is dharma.”

  The villagers returned slowly to form a circle around Suyodhana and his friends. As the animated discussion and arguments grew louder around them, Suyodhana asked Karna what the ruckus was all about.

  “They wish to build a temple in your honour,” Karna said unsteadily, “and worship you.”

  “What?” Suyodhana laughed aloud. “Worship me? Are they mad?”

  But Karna could see his friend was pleased. Suyodhana made a token protest and said they should build a Shiva temple instead, but it was evident he was relishing the thought of having a temple dedicated to him. Was every rebellious act by him an unconscious attempt to be known as a good man?

  Aswathama offered the toddy to Karna, his eyes shining with challenge. As he lifted the pot to his mouth, Karna felt he would gag from the pungent smell. His entire struggle to be accepted as a Kshatriya would come to naught if news of this spread. What he had struggled for his whole life would mean nothing if he lost his caste and became an untouchable. What a fall... even for a Suta! Closing his eyes, he took a sip. The toddy tasted sweet in his mouth. As he traced its scorching trail to his stomach, the sound of the crowd receded into the distance. By Guru Parashurama’s definition, Karna was no longer a Kshatriya, or even a Suta. He had lost his caste. Strangely, he felt free. It did not matter. The only thing that counted was the firmness of Suyodhana’s hand on his shoulder.

  Around him, the villagers had come to an agreement. A temple was to be built. A cool breeze wafted in from the brackish backwaters and Karna relished the caress of the setting sun. He wished Suyodhana’s adventure to the South would end and he would be spared further embarrassment. As if in answer to his prayers, a messenger came rushing to meet the Crown Prince. They were summoned back to Hastinapura immediately. A disastrous event had taken place.

  *****

  25 THE PROPOSAL

  WHEN THE CROWN PRINCE KEPT HIS WORD and made Jayadratha Grand Regent until he returned from the South, his brother-in-law had felt smug. He had brought Sushala and his son, Suratha, with him to Hastinapura. The boy was twelve but showed no talent for arms. Sushala yearned to see her son become a great warrior but Jayadratha, with a father’s insight, did not harbour much hope of his son growing to be a warrior-ruler. He knew that unless he himself did something to please Suyodhana and extract a larger territory to rule than the small vassal state of Sindhudesa, his dynasty would remain insignificant among the great kingdoms of Bharatavarsha.

  Jayadratha had been born after many years of prayer. But by then his father had become too world weary to undertake adventures of expansion. By the time Jayadratha attained manhood, the expanding Hastinapura empire had swallowed Sindhudesa among others and their exalted dynasty, which traced its lineage to Lord Vishnu himself, had become rulers of an insignificant vassal state under Bhishma. Jayadratha gained some importance by marrying the only Princess of the Kuru dynasty, but the feeling of unworthiness never left him. Sushala, with her constant comparison of the riches of her father to the insignificance of Sindhudesa, did nothing to help assuage his wounded pride. But if he made the right moves he might be able to persuade Suyodhana to hand over to him the neighbouring vassal kingdoms. And who knew what the future held? Perhaps his boy would have grown up to surprise him. If the war between the cousins took place one day and the empire weakened, he could perhaps turn things around. Hastinapura as a vassal state of Sindhudesa was a refreshing thought.

  Despite his dreams of grandeur, Jayadratha was not a popular King among his subjects. His father, now almost eighty years old, had carefully spread the rumour of a boon he had received from Lord Shiva himself when he had relinquished the throne in favour of his son – If anyone killed Jayadratha, the moment his head touched the earth, his killer would die. The Sutas of Sindhu added spice to the story and soon the superstitious population began believing that if Jayadratha was killed and his head hit the ground, his killer’s head would explode into a thousand pieces. It was one of the things that prevented a coup in Sindhudesa. Jayadratha in his turn spread the story of a boon he had obtained – that no Pandava other than Arjuna could defeat him.

  It had been three days since he had taken over as Grand Regent but he had not had the inclination to visit Bhishma, who had adorned the revered position for so many years. The chamber of the Grand Regent was much grander than his own royal chambers in Sindh, thought Jayadratha bitterly as he viewed the luxurious appointments of the room – the twelve-foot-high oil lamp made of silver, with the exquisite carving of a peacock, had glistening emeralds for eyes; the visitors’ chairs carved in ivory made his throne in Sindhudesa look like a child’s playroom furniture; the curtains glistened with gold lace; the carpet stretched in luxurious smoothness; the fragrance of exotic oils and scents that permeated the air – it all made him mad with jealousy and anger. No wonder Sushala made unfavourable comparisons about Sindhudesa.

  ‘All this is looted wealth,’ Jayadratha told himself. How he wished it all belonged to him, but he knew he was no match for Hastinapura. However, if he could please Suyodhana, he could get lucky. He had six months to prove himself. He was a man in a hurry. He tried to think of a plan that would call on Suyodhana’s famed generosity, but nothing came to his disturbed mind.

  A guard came in and bowed to the new Grand Regent. He said the Prince of Gandhara sought permission to see him. Ah, Shakuni! Jayadratha’s mind leapt with pride. Though he despised the Gandharan, it fed his ego to be thus waited on by one who ruled a much vaster and richer territory than Sindhudesa. Jayadratha had Shakuni wait until the palace gong sounded the passing of the next prahar before permitting him to enter. He did not speak for some time, pretending to be busy reading various palm leaves and barking instructions, as Shakuni stood with head bowed in deep reverence. When he was satisfied he had shown Shakuni his place, Jayadratha offered him a seat. Shakuni declined, saying that vassal Kings never sat before the Grand R