Arjuna bowed. Though the sage had not answered his questions directly, he felt less troubled as he walked on towards Dwaraka.
*****
81 FRUITS OF KARMA
WHAT WAS WRONG? WHY WERE THE BIRDS SO SILENT? It had been raining without pause but even the downpour did little to quench the fires raging through Dwaraka. Balarama was a shattered man. Where had the glorious future he had envisaged for his country vanished? Someone screamed from the street, a blood-chilling cry. His people were hacking each other to death and he was powerless to do anything. Samba and his gang of ruffians were busy looting the city and killing people. Even Krishna’s wives had not been safe from the violence of his crazed son.
It had all started with a drunken brawl, which had become a daily feature of late. Balarama had tried banning liquor from his kingdom but somehow it found its way back into the city. When Prince Samba himself was an alcoholic, prohibition had little meaning. Drunk or otherwise, Samba had no business insulting visiting savants. The venerable Kritavarma had tried to keep his men under control but it had been hard for soldiers to watch in silence while Samba slapped their respected Commander. When Kritavarma tried to pacify his agitated soldiers, Samba stabbed him in the back. Dwaraka was in flames before the embers of Kritavarma’s pyre had died down. A full-fledged civil war raged between Samba’s thugs and Kritavarma’s loyal soldiers.
Balarama walked through the burning streets trying to talk sense into those he met. The rioters hid their missiles while he passed, but their eyes and ears were shut to his prayers and pleading. They resumed hacking each other to death the moment he turned the corner. Balarama lost all hope.
The sea had receded as far as the eye could see. Balarama stared at the vast expanse of sand. It did not look like the usual ebbing tide. He turned back to look at the palace. It was in flames and smoke rose like a black python, curling to the skies. His mind felt numb. Krishna had gone to the desert, taking all the women in the palace. Despite Krishna’s pleading, Balarama’s wife Revathi, his daughter Valsala, and his daughter-in-law, Lakshmana, had refused to leave him. They would be in the palace, waiting for him to come back. Oh God, keep them safe, Balarama prayed as he walked along the forlorn beach.
Where had the sea gone? There was no water as far as the eye could see. Fish lay flapping on the sand and in the shallow pools left by the receding waters. Turtles and monster crabs were leaving the safety of the water and crawling back to shore.
Balarama collapsed on the beach. Perhaps he could finally shut out the stench of burning flesh coming from his city and smell the salty air of the sea instead. ‘Krishna, where have you run off to with your countless wives when your people need you the most? Gandhari’s curse is coming to haunt us, brother. The fruits of your karma will not pass us by. You could have saved us with your divine powers. I am just an ordinary man, but I cannot leave those who trust me in their time of despair. Where have you run to, brother?’
Balarama pulled himself to his knees and stared at the bleak sky. What was that sound? There was an almost inaudible hum. He stood up to see. The vast expanse of nothingness in front of him was frightening. He looked at his wrinkled hands and the salt crystals sticking to his palms. He felt as insignificant as a tiny particle of sand. Then he saw it. The sea had receded to grow into a monster in the sky. A wave that almost touched the clouds stood still in the far horizon to the west.
Balarama knew in a flash what was coming towards him and his city. He bent to pick up a fistful of sand and then stood up, his spine erect, his expression calm. The breeze had picked up and his dhoti flapped against his thighs. He raised the fistful of sand saying, “I promise to return whenever my compatriots forget the lessons of ahimsa. Not as a prophet or avatar, but as a man, with all the glorious failings of human nature.” The wind howled back, mocking him. “Laugh now, but I will be born here, in your lap, again and again, until the last of my countrymen learn the lessons of peace. I will come back whenever my people forget the lessons of love. Give me no moksha; this is my mukti, my enlightenment.”
The massive wave had grown even higher and was rushing towards Dwaraka like a fearsome beast. The wind paused, as though to listen to Balarama’s last words. “I am Ananta. I am Infinite. I am Immortal. I will return when my people need me most.” Balarama hurled the fistful of sand into the gigantic wall of water a fraction of a nimisha before it hit him.
Like a giant fist, the wave flattened Dwaraka and rushed inland, burying the great city of Balarama under a mountain of water. Not a single Yadava was spared. It was not the end, but the beginning.
*****
82 THE HUNTER
JARA COULD NOT BELIEVE HIS EYES. There he was, his Lord, his beloved. He had spent years trying to catch a glimpse of him and now Krishna sat all alone under the banyan tree. Could he risk moving closer to his Lord? There was no sign of the smile that made him look so divine. It was the face of a man weary of life.
“Prabhu!” Jara called and prostrated himself on the ground.
Krishna opened his eyes. “Jara...come...” he said in a tired voice.
“Prabhu, I am an untouchable.” Jara’s joy knew no bounds. His Lord was speaking to him; he knew his name.
“Come to me,” Krishna said again.
Jara did not think twice. Pushing back the fear that someone might see him, he rushed to his Lord.
“Can you do me a small favour?” Krishna asked with his eyes closed.
Jara smelt the perfume of the wilted garland around Krishna’s neck. His heart almost stopped beating in his chest. “Command me Prabhu!” Jara said eagerly. He waited for a wave of joy to wash over him but he felt nothing.
“There is a bow and quiver behind this tree. Can you get it?” Krishna’s voice was a whisper.
Jara walked around the tree to fetch them. As his hand touched the weapons, the suspicion that Krishna would ask him to do something he could not do began to gnaw at his mind. He placed the bow and arrows at Krishna’s feet and stole a touch of the divine feet before standing back at a respectable distance. His dog sat down near him.
Krishna tested the sharpness of the arrow and smiled at Jara, who bowed again with hands folded. “Jara, take this bow and arrow.”
Jara faltered but took the weapons as if they were floral offerings. “Now move back a few feet or else you will not be able to aim.”
“Prabhu, what do you want me to do?”
“Shoot me, Jara. Kill me!”
Jara threw himself at Krishna’s feet and began wailing. “You are my God! You are the God of the Universe. How can I commit such a sin?”
“Jara, it is your innocence of heart and faith that sees God in me. I thought I was helping society but I fear I was being used. I have unleashed powers over which I have no control.”
“Prabhu, you are never wrong. Whatever you have done, is right.”
“I fear my people will fall prey to the wolves who are bound to use my name. To what horrible fate am I leaving my people?”
“Whatever you did was maya, your divine play. We are your children and we should be amused by your pranks,” Jara said between sobs.
“Gandhari cursed me, saying I would die uncared for, and my people would perish fighting each other. She predicted that our deaths would be quite unlike those of her warrior sons. See how her curse is coming true. I saved my unworthy son from a Nishada and that son has ensured the destruction of the entire Yadava clan. The long arm of my karma is catching up with me. Dwaraka is gone. I came to save the world but I could not even save my own people. I hope Arjuna will protect my wives after I am gone.”
“Prabhu, don’t tell me these things. Do not try to shake my faith. You are our only hope. Don’t take that away from us.”
“Shoot me, Jara! No one deserves to kill me more than you.”
“I cannot, Prabhu. I have never killed even an ant. How can I kill the person I love the most?”
“You must.” Krishna looked at Jara with a calm gaze that brought the begg
ar to his knees in obeisance.
With trembling hands, Jara took the bow. The blind dog growled. Jara hated himself for doing it but he could not refuse his Lord. There was something so pitiful in Krishna’s voice that it sliced through Jara’s heart. For his Prabhu, he would even commit the sin of killing. Without looking at Krishna, Jara let fly the arrow, just as Ekalavya had taught him to do so long ago. He heard Krishna’s cry of pain and closed his eyes in anguish. The bow fell from his hands and he collapsed to the ground.
“Jara...” Krishna’s voice was calling him! He was not dead! Jara opened his eyes. To his horror, he saw that the arrow had pierced Krishna’s foot instead of his heart. He rushed to take it out but Krishna stopped him. “Let it be, Jara. My time has come.”
“Prabhu, I am a sinner. I have killed you.”
“No, you have not. In another life I hid behind a tree and shot you when you were fighting your brother. This is the fruit of my action.”
“I don’t understand, Prabhu.”
“In another life, which you do not remember but I do, you were the Great King Bali, of the Vanara race, and I, Rama. My death at your hands was predestined.”
“People call me mongoose, not monkey, Prabhu. You are telling me things beyond my understanding.”
“You are blessed, Jara, for it is the size of your heart that counts, not your brain.”
“Prabhu, don’t leave me. Take me with you to your abode, to Vaikunta,” Jara begged, taking another arrow from the quiver, ready to plunge it into his own heart.
“No!” The Lord stared into the eyes of his devotee.
“I know I deserve hell. I cannot go to Vaikunta. However, I will die. I cannot live with the guilt of having killed you.”
“Jara, Vaikunta does not deserve you. Stay here and spread the message of love. Do not sing about my deeds on earth but about the Krishna you see in your clean heart. Sing about my idyllic childhood and the innocent women who loved me. Sing about those beautiful days and magical nights where the only language was love. Sing about me as the ideal son every mother desires, the ideal lover every woman dreams of.”
“You are all that and more, Prabhu. I have heard Brahmins talking about your wonderful Gita...”
“Jara, what your heart sings is more important than any divine song. Let them debate about what I said and what I meant. Kali is rising. The Dark Age is dawning, when a few will rule over many and the wicked will win over the righteous. I should have aimed my chakra at Dhaumya’s throat, but alas, I pointed at Suyodhana’s thigh for Bhima to break, and to Bhishma’s throat for Arjuna to shoot at. Perhaps the next time I come, I will preach the peace and tranquility of dharma, and the refuge of sanga, where everyone will be equal and journey together towards enlightenment. If that does not work, I will destroy the whole world as Kalki and start over.”
“It is all maya, Prabhu.”
“Jara, what is done cannot be undone. Be the Krishna I wanted to be. In my death, allow me to be resurrected as the Krishna of love and compassion. Be here as the light of hope in this miserable world ruled by darkness. Dwell in those eyes that look upon misery with compassion.”
“Prabhu, do not leave me alone.”
“Jara, a new Krishna will appear – one who melts in the love of your heart and who will always live in the minds of people like you.”
Jara put Krishna’s head on his lap and tried to sing, but sobs choked his voice. Krishna handed his flute to the beggar. Peace descended on him and the smile Jara loved so much returned to his handsome face. Jara watched through his tears as life ebbed away from Krishna’s mortal body. Soon night cast her dark mantle over the Lord and his disciple. Jara sat with Krishna’s head on his lap until the eastern horizon began to turn saffron. When he saw some priests coming his way, he kissed his Lord on the forehead and ran away.
Deep in the forest, Jara took out Krishna’s flute. The birds stopped chirping to listen, as once again Krishna’s enchanting music spread like a gentle mist over the world.
*****
83 HEAVEN CALLS
THE PANDAVAS STOOD WATCHING the giant waves pummel the once glorious city of Dwaraka. Only the tall towers of Balarama’s palace remained visible. Soon they too would be swallowed by the raging sea.
Yudhishtra turned away, closing his eyes. ‘I cannot watch this. Why should it end in this way? We have always been told that good wins over evil and that the righteous are blessed with bliss. Why then is reality so different? We fought Suyodhana and killed thousands, thinking it to be our dharma. Now, nothing remains. I have felt no peace since the war and now to think of Krishna’s city being destroyed like this! Why has good not triumphed over evil? Or were we evil and this is Suyodhana’s revenge? Is Aunt Gandhari’s curse coming true? I have always followed dharma. If what the seers say is true and dharma alone wins, then I have lost. Was I then the man of adharma, and Suyodhana the man of dharma? Or is life beyond the rules laid down by man? Did my story end with Suyodhana’s death and my victory in the war? How nice and appropriate it would have been to say that dharma had won and Krishna had led us to a victory of dharma over adharma. Then the bloody battleground of Kurukshetra would have been truly dharmakshetra. Now it is just a place where lakhs of people were slain. My life has been wasted in pursuit of pleasing others. I wish I had lived like Suyodhana, listening to my heart.’
Yudhishtra felt his head throbbing. Questions, doubts, the evils of reason and logical thought, were driving him insane. Why could Krishna not have stopped the civil war between his own people? If the giant wave had not wiped out the port city of Dwaraka, the civil war between the Yadavas would have done it. Or was it all a part of a greater plan? No, it had ended as it was meant to be. Krishna, in his divinity, knew everything. It was easier to believe that. The most terrible thing was the fate of Krishna’s wives. Fate? How else could he explain Arjuna’s failure to hold out against a robber like Durjaya? In the terrible battle in the desert, Durjaya had defeated Arjuna and taken away Krishna’s wives. The avatar, who came to save the world, could save neither his city nor his wives. There was no explanation for these things other than to believe it was all Krishna’s maya.
Yudhishtra was tired of questions and even more tired of seeking the answers. The time had come to take a journey, the last one. He was going to the Himalayas to contemplate on life. It would not be easy but it would perhaps soothe his burning conscience. He was tired of ruling. Let Dhaumya and Yuyutsu take care of it. He was leaving everything to Arjuna’s grandson, Parikshat. The boy was still too young to be King, but his kingship would just be titular. The real King would be Yuyutsu. Parikshat had been compelled to marry, despite his young age, to ensure the next generation.
***
Once they reached Hastinapura, Yudhishtra made arrangements to ceremoniously anoint Parikshat. On the day after the coronation, even before the flowers that decorated the streets had wilted, Yudhishtra, his four brothers, and Draupadi, walked out of the palace, leaving the throne for which they had killed so many people. Seeing his brothers and wife dressed in their simple clothes, Yudhishtra wished yet again that he was going alone on this journey. But he had not the will to argue with them. Yudhishtra sighed and began walking, leaving the palace of Hastinapura behind. There were hundreds of people on the streets to watch their departure. No one cheered, no one cried. They knew nothing would really change for them. Dhaumya, the Guru, mumbled some mantras in blessing, and the final parting was made.
Yudhishtra walked quickly, in order to get away. He could hear the footsteps of his brothers and Draupadi hurrying behind him.
As he left Hastinapura, he paused for one last look at the city he had fought so hard to prise away from his cousin, using every means, fair and foul. He could almost hear Shakuni’s laughter and the dice rolling on the floor. No, it had been destiny, fate, karma, he told himself. Everything that happened was for the good, Krishna had often said. Another question arose in Yudhishtra’s mind. Everything was for the good, but for whose good? The q
uestion terrified him. It was time to go to the Himalayas, away from the real world of illusion.
A beggar was sleeping on a dirty pavement strewn with garbage. He looked as content as a baby. Yudhishtra paused. He knew the beggar. What was his name? Ah, Jara. His gaze stopped on the flute the beggar had tucked into his waistband. Krishna’s flute! Where had he got it? Jara’s body shivered as a cold breeze nudged him. On impulse, Yudhishtra took off the shawl he was wearing and covered Jara. He paused. He did not want the beggar to owe him anything; he would take something from him for the shawl he had covered him with. Yudhishtra picked up Jara’s tattered blanket. It stank of poverty. Yudhishtra smiled. His penance was assuming more meaning.
As Yudhishtra moved on, Jara’s dog stirred. It was old, blind and close to death. Many people had kicked and tortured it, yet somehow it had managed to stay alive on the streets of Bharatavarsha, thanks to the kindness of a few. Dharma sniffed the air and caught the fast-vanishing smell of his master’s blanket. The blind dog began following Yudhishtra on its tottering legs.
***
In the upper reaches of the Himalayas, Draupadi was the first to fall from exhaustion. Her cries for help were like shards of glass in Yudhishtra’s heart and he almost lost his will. But he braced himself. It was a test of the self-control and detachment he had cultivated. He knew she had always loved Arjuna the most. But she did not call out the name of any of her five husbands. As her lips turned blue and death came to claim her, she spoke Karna’s name. Closing his eyes, Yudhishtra turned away. Bhima lingered, trying to talk to the now-silent Draupadi. His brothers were far ahead. He called to Yudhishtra, but the eldest Pandava did not stop. Bhima felt his heart would break if he stayed to watch his beloved Draupadi die. Suddenly, Hidumbi’s face flashed into his mind, the Rakshasi he had not seen since he had left her, who had starved to death, the mother of Khatotkacha, who had died unlamented. Now Draupadi, born a princess, lay dying like the Rakshasi, uncared for, in this snowy wilderness. Death was the great equaliser, it did not differentiate between a princess and an untouchable. Bhima blinked his eyes, hardened his heart and followed his brothers.