Sahadeva slipped into a gorge but Yudhishtra did not stop. He could hear his brother’s screams as he fell. The other Pandavas wavered, undecided whether to follow Yudhishtra or try to save the youngest.
“Attachment, even to a brother, is a sin. He is paying for his karma,” Yudhishtra said and he continued walking. The wind howled through the mountain passes, but its chill was nothing compared to Yudhishtra’s words.
He was far ahead with the dog, Dharma, when Nakula fell. Bhima cried out to Yudhishtra to stop, but his steps only became firmer as he climbed higher.
Before Arjuna fell, he asked Yudhishtra, “What was my sin other than to follow Krishna’s orders?” His brother had no answer except to say he must have committed some sin in this or a previous life.
When Bhima collapsed starving and dehydrated, Yudhishtra was tempted to stop. This innocent brother had earned the reputation of being a brute for his sake. He had been a fool to do what others had asked him to, crushing those pointed out to him. He had even dishonoured himself by smashing his cousin’s thighs for Yudhishtra’s sake. If anyone had sinned without attachment, it was Bhima. Yet, he too, had to die a miserable and lonely death in the cold mountains.
***
The air had become thin and Yudhishtra’s limbs had become numb from the cold. Snow fell around him and he wheezed as he climbed higher. The tattered blanket was of little use in this weather. Yudhishtra had triumphed in the race of virtue. He was the son of dharma. He had survived. If he waited patiently in the snowy heights, the chariot from heaven would surely come to get him. The lack of air was playing tricks with his brain. Had something zoomed past him? Was it a cloud or Indra’s chariot come to take him to heaven? Or had he already reached his heavenly abode? Ah, the chariot had indeed come...
“You have come to take me to heaven,” Yudhishtra smiled and whispered into the oppressive emptiness around him. “I am coming, but I bring Dharma with me.” His voice was swallowed by the snow-clad mountains. “Heaven, receive your servant,” he cried and stepped into the abyss, taking the dog with him.
Silence descended as he vanished into the eternal snows. Nothing stirred for some time, then a tiny paw came over the edge of the cliff, then a muzzle. The blind dog hoisted itself up to safety. It sniffed the cold air and then, with renewed vigour, started on its journey back to where it belonged.
*****
84 GRAND ALLIANCE
TAKSHAKA ANNOUNCED THAT HE WAS going to assassinate King Parikshat. To make his act more daring, and to increase his popularity among the Nagas and others struggling under Dhaumya and Yuyutsu’s rule, he spread the news and even gave out the time of the assassination. He claimed dharma was with the Nagas. Where there was dharma, there would be victory.
As the day of reckoning approached, the security around the palace was tightened and guards roamed the streets, arresting suspicious-looking persons. The palace garden was dug to create a lake and the King lived in a hastily-built tower in its centre, from where the guards could see any approaching assassins. Only a group of priests were allowed inside the tower. They entertained the young King with stories of Krishna’s childhood. For seven days, they talked of the glory of Vaikunta and the mercy of the Lord.
Unknown to the young King, whose wife was pregnant, a wicked conspiracy had been hatched. Takshaka was desperate for a victory and one of Yuyutsu’s men became the mediator between the dreaded Naga and the Rajaguru of the Kurus. Parikshat’s death would serve as a God-given opportunity for Dhaumya and Yuyutsu to take control of Bharatavarsha. If a boy was born to Parikshat’s wife, they could place the infant on the throne instead of Parikshat, who had been spoilt by Kripa. If it was a girl, it would be even better. Soon, it became a necessity to Dhaumya, even more than to Takshaka, that Parikshat die.
Takshaka entered Parikshat’s tower on the seventh day, disguised as a Brahmin, walking in with the group of priests who came to tell the King amazing tales about Krishna. At the end of a story that told of Krishna’s seven days of miracles, the saptaha, Takshaka shot a poisoned arrow into Parikshat’s heart. As the innocent King lay writhing in pain, Takshaka was allowed to escape into the forest.
Some days after Parikshat’s cremation, his wife bore him a posthumous son. By then, Yuyutsu, the Vaishya son of Dhritarashtra, had been declared the Grand Regent of the Kurus. He allowed the coronation of the baby, Janamejaya, as the last King of the Kurus, but he retained control and ruled Bharatavarsha in consultation with Rajaguru Dhaumya. Where the great Kshatriya, Bhishma, had once sat in splendour, the great Vaishya merchant now sat. The wheel of dharma had turned full circle.
***
“What shall we do with this senile man?” the priest asked Dhaumya, pointing at Parashurama.
Dhaumya looked at the man who had once held the entire South under his sway. He was muttering Karna’s name. “Take him back to the South. At the Krishna River, you know what to do. He will become immortal.”
“What do we do with Vrishaketu, Karna’s son?”
“His mother is a Suta; he has no right to stay in the palace. Send him to the stables. Let him take the position his grandfather, Athiratha, once held.”
The priest bowed and Dhaumya turned away. He had far more important things to attend to than to listen to the mutterings of an old Guru or worry about a Suta. He wondered again where Kripa could be. They had not been able to find him since the day of Parikshat’s death. He had vanished. But Dhaumya felt sure that one day he would find the maverick Brahmin. He knocked on the door of his closest ally. “Grand Regent Yuyutsu, we need your help. Now that Takshaka has struck as he promised, he has given us a new opportunity to strike back. The fool had walked into our trap. What is your opinion on a Sarpasatra?”
“It would be a good thing,” Yuyutsu said, swirling the exotic soma in his bejewelled glass.
“Yuyutsu, we can always count on you.”
“I am just a Vaishya, Guru. I keep away from politics. I wear the title of Grand Regent like a crown of thorns.”
Dhaumya paused, licking his lips. “I am aware you are only doing your duty, but you will have to take on more responsibility now since King Janamejaya is just a baby.”
“As you say, Guru, as you say. We must perform the Sarpasatra and sacrifice the Nagas. We can eliminate them once and for all.”
“Yuyutsu, there will be those who will say that such killings are against dharma.”
“Oh, we can call them terrorists or Rakshasas. We will brand them as traitors and blasphemers.”
“You are a genius, Yuyutsu.”
“I am just a merchant, Guru.”
“Yes, but a merchant who can see which side will win. That is an invaluable gift.”
“It is merely the difference between being an ordinary merchant and a great merchant. I am a true Vaishya, just like you are a true Brahmin, Guru. Together, we can rule this country well. Dharma and commerce will both be served.” Yuyutsu took another sip of his soma.
“People need Gods and avatars. They want magic.”
“We will give them magic. In return, they will give us their freedom. They will get what they deserve and we will get what we want. To the Sarpasatra, the grand sacrifice of Nagas.” Yuyutsu raised his glass to Dhaumya.
Takshaka had every reason to worry. He had competition.
***
Far to the south, in a small village called Malanada, a little girl stood watching the King’s men demolish a temple. Her grandmother’s grip on her wrist became painful when the last brick fell. The villagers did not dare to even murmur. The soldiers threw the idols into the lake.
Long after the last idol came to rest on the muddy lake bottom, while cicadas chirped and frogs croaked, the girl asked the old woman why the men had destroyed the village temple. It was raining outside and she lay with her head in her grandmother’s lap.
The old lady’s eyes glistened with tears. “It means that the only men who cared for us are dead.”
The little girl stared up at her without
understanding. Her grandmother ruffled her hair. A wild beast howled in the forest beyond the village. “I am afraid, Grandma,” the child said, gripping the old woman’s sari.
“Pray, my child. It will ease your mind.”
“But there are no temples or Gods left to pray to,” the girl said, confused.
An image of the Prince who had relished the pot of toddy from her hands flashed through the old woman’s mind. She smiled at her grandchild. “Some gods do not need temples or priests. Just pray they will be born again among us, within us.”
The rain drummed on the thatch roof. ‘I hope she wakes to a better tomorrow,’ the old woman sighed.
A cold wind blew in from the lake, extinguished the lamp and plunged them in darkness. The symphony of the rain continued outside, unceasing, uncaring.
***
85 RISE OF KALI
‘HAIL KING JANAMEJAYA!’ THE CROWD CRIED. The procession was spectacular and the crowd watching it was delirious with joy. Behind the baby King stood Dhaumya, looking regal with his flowing white beard and dazzling ornaments. Behind the Raj Guru stood Yuyutsu, the merchant. He was sponsoring the great expedition. Patriotic songs could be heard from the onlookers.
“Janamejaya’s Sarpasatra!” Dhaumya raised his staff of office. The crowd roared back.
The boy King blinked, terrified of the commotion. He did not know they were going into battle. He would rather have been playing with his new toy cart.
“The war of dharma has not ended,” Dhaumya cried, and heads nodded in agreement. “The Nagas have killed King Parikshat. Our brave new King, Janamejaya, a true Kshatriya, has declared war on the Nagas.”
All eyes focused on the little boy in admiration. He wanted to cry but Dhaumya had warned him against doing so in public. He was terrified of the old man with the white beard, and of the fat merchant. Abhimanyu’s grandson clutched his toy cart and bit his lip to hold back his tears.
“We will not spare a single Naga. This is the Sarpasatra of the great King Janamejaya. Hail son of Parikshat, grandson of Abhimanyu, great-grandson of Arjuna!” The crowd roared in approval.
Yuyutsu smiled as he saw many rushing to join the ranks. They were eager to fight for dharma and kill as many Nagas as possible.
It was going to be another great war. He had made a large profit on the last one but it had ended too soon, in just eighteen days. A long-drawn conflict spanning the next few decades was what he wanted. Who knew, if his successors were lucky, it could even simmer perpetually. Yuyutsu could almost hear the jingle of gold coins falling into his lap.
“Hail dharma!” Yuyutsu cried, and the crowd thundered back. It was all great fun but he reminded himself to execute Takshaka’s order for arms and weapons as early as possible. Like any good merchant, he was hedging his bets by supplying men to Dhaumya and arms to Takshaka. He would win, irrespective of which side did. How he loved this dharma business! He would build a few temples and throw in two or three charitable houses to feed Brahmins free. Gratitude...a merchant should always be grateful.
Takshaka and his men were hiding in the kingdom of the invalid King Indra. They would drag the Nagas here, have some fun, and terrify anyone who dared question the varna system. Yuyutsu knew he would have to ensure Takshaka was freed in the end, so the anger would continue to simmer. He could inflame it whenever he wanted, whenever profits slumped. He had wasted his youth travelling to many countries in search of opportunities when it was right here, staring him in the face. His country was progressing and opportunities abounded. Good times were coming.
***
Around the corner from where the procession was passing, a group of teenagers shouted at a madman prattling to himself. People usually ignored him; they had better things to do than stop and listen to the ramblings of the crazy one. The man tried to shake off the kids following him by shouting at them, but it only made them laugh louder. They knew the man was harmless and never hurt anyone, especially children. He still had the broad shoulders and long arms of the warrior he had once been. Perhaps he had even fought in some war. Nobody knew his history and nobody cared. He was one of the many milling around in the dusty streets of Hastinapura. He was a madman who did not strike back even when they pelted him with stones. Now just to entertain themselves, the teenagers pretended they were interested in hearing what he had to say. It would be fun to laugh at his ramblings.
“Fools!” the man said, addressing no one in particular. The teenagers snickered. “Where are you running off to, you boys? Listen to me, for I have a story to tell. Do not go away. Let me tell you the story of a few friends who wanted to change the world. One was a Brahmin, one a Suta, another a Nishada; but the best among them was a Kshatriya.”
The teenagers laughed. They knew the best part was coming.
“Listen to the story of Suyodhana, the best among men.” The crazy one ignored the laughter and continued, “Hear the story of Karna, the man who gave away everything, even his life, so the world would know the true meaning of friendship. Hear the story of the Nishada whose thumb was cut off so he would never challenge the Kshatriyas who considered themselves to be the greatest by accident of birth. Hear the story of Ekalavya, the Nishada who challenged the Gods and his destiny, only to give his life for a woman’s honour. Hear the story of Suyodhana, who staked his inheritance and empire for what he believed to be true, who stood by his friends and fought for all of you. Hear the story of the man who looked into the eyes of Krishna and said that he was wrong, who did not even flinch when his thighs were broken. And if you have time, hear my story – of a poor Brahmin who defied his father and led his men to the cold heights of Gandhara for the sake of his country; hear about Aswathama’s life.”
A stone hit Aswathama’s forehead and the teenagers howled in merriment. Wiping away the trickle of blood with the back of his hand, he said, “Before throwing stones, read what the great sage Vedavyasa has written. Read it before they take away your ability to read at all. Read your scriptures before they change everything, keeping you ignorant. Why did the great sage call his epic ‘Jaya’? Could there be anything more ironic than calling it ‘Victory’? Who won the Great War – the great, bloody, Mahabharata war? Did the Pandavas win? If they did, why did they leave everything to a merchant and a priest and run away? Did Krishna and his dharma win? If so, where is Dwaraka, today? Gone! So who won? Shakuni, the Mlecha? Read again what the great sage has written. Fools! Think who won… Was it dharma or Dhaumya? Was it Krishna or Yuyutsu? What has become of Krishna’s people? The Yadavas butchered each other to death but he could not save them. Neither could the great warrior Arjuna save Krishna’s wives from the marauding tribes of Durjaya. Read Jaya again, you dirty urchins, before they take the last book from you. Who won the war? Ask yourself.”
The teenagers looked at each other. Aswathama kicked over an overflowing garbage bin and tried to balance himself on it, drawing more laughter. “Do not laugh, you fools! For I am Aswathama, the Brahmin cursed with immortality. I am cursed, for I murdered the Pandavas’ five sons in their sleep. It was a sin graver than annihilating Khandivaprastha. Those who died in Khandiva do not matter, for they were just some Nagas, terrorists and untouchables...some beasts and birds. Trapping Nishada children and their mother in a house and setting them on fire is not adharma. Lying to your Guru and cutting his throat when he collapses, believing your lie, is of course dharma! Oh, what some men sacrifice for dharma!”
Aswathama clapped his hands thrice and called out to the pedestrians hurrying past. Some looked at him, fear in their eyes, others with contempt. “Ask whether it was right to bring Shikandi, who was neither a man nor a woman, to face Bhishma. Ask whether a great warrior like Arjuna, using an eunuch as a shield and to shoot Bhishma, was dharma? And what is the answer you get? ‘Oh, but the fall of Bhishma was necessary for dharma to win.’ Tchaw! The war was not necessary. We had blown the cover of the Pandavas during the last days of their exile. But then, dharma for you means changing the calendar itself to win.”
One of the boys laughed. Aswathama glared at him. “Don’t grin like a monkey, fool! Your future is doomed. Your country is ruined. You dare laugh at the fall of Suyodhana and all the noble men like Bhishma, my father, Karna, and the others who fought for him? Read Jaya to know how Karna rejected the temptation to become Emperor and instead chose to stand by the man who had given him everything when he had nothing. Read how Karna was trapped by own nobility, how impossible promises were extracted from him; know how he was shot while extracting the wheel of his chariot that was stuck in the mud. Know that Arjuna did not keep his word, as any honourable warrior would have done, when he failed to kill Jayadratha before sunset, hiding behind the lame excuse that the sunset had been maya, an illusion created by an avatar. Sleep in your beds peacefully by all means, if your conscience still allows you to do so, you lucky devils.”
There were murmurings among the sparse crowd of men and boys who had gathered to hear Aswathama.
“I am ashamed for what we did to Draupadi. We deserved punishment for what we did to a helpless woman. We were drunk with power and victory and we tried to strip her in the Sabha. We did an evil thing that day. But does one act make us evil for all time? It is said that noble men like Bhishma and Drona were killed for staying silent when a woman was being dishonoured. But then why does no one talk of Lakshmana and her shame? Was she not a woman, too? Why does no one speak of the Nishada woman who was burned with her children? Was she not a woman? Some blame Draupadi’s mocking of Suyodhana and Karna for the war. How convenient to put the blame for the madness of men on a woman! Why do you think the war was only about the Kauravas? Let us talk about Khatotkacha, the Rakshasa son of Bhima, of Iravan. He was Arjuna’s son, but because he was of low caste, he was sacrificed. What if Iravan had proved himself a greater warrior than all the Kshatriyas? Then what would have happened to your ideas about caste? It was better to sacrifice the boy before the war started. Does all this sound like dharma to you?”