AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (61 page)

Yet, catching the thief is their duty. Without the guards, the city would collapse into chaos. I am the guard who has broken the rules to restore order. I am the Preserver. Time is the King and he may turn against me. I accept it as part of my duty. I am neither angered nor happy. That is the nature of the universe, which I am. But the laws of
karma
bind me too. I accept your curses or your blessings with humility. Mother, forgive me for what I have done. But I would do it all again, without pleasure or pain, for that is my
dharma.”

Gandhari turned away from Krishna. She was past caring what he meant by those words. Her world lay shattered and all hope had died. A lifetime of struggle had led her from disaster to tragedy, making her bitter. She suddenly thought of Bhishma lying on his bed of arrows, waiting to die. She shuddered. He had been responsible for shattering her sheltered life in Gandhara and bringing her here to marry a blind man. How different life would have been had Bhishma’s invasion never happened. She would have married a Gandharan noble and lived in the hills. Instead, here she stood in the temple of
dharma,
where her sons lay dead and her husband was mocked at for his blindness. She put a hand on her husband’s arm and whispered, “It is time for the cremation. Please give the order.”

Dhritarashtra stood up and said to Gandhari, “Just for one day, why not open your blindfold? Do you not wish to see your sons?”

Despite herself, the silk cloth which hid Gandhari’s eyes from the horrors of the world became wet with tears. “I do not wish to see them as they are now. Every day I have seen them in my mind’s eye, so handsome and strong. Let that picture remain forever with me. Nor do I wish to see anything that is denied to you.”

“Gandhari, you are crying? You, the strongest of us all? If you cry, what is left? This day will pass.”

Gandhari found solace in her husband’s strength, their usual roles reversed. His strong hands on hers were comforting. She leaned on him and wept, not caring who stared at them or who whispered. They were no longer the royal couple but just two sightless people standing there with their dead sons at their feet.

Gandhari regained her composure. She sensed Bhima’s presence near them. Hatred threatened to overcome her. Taking a deep breath she said to the man who had killed her sons, “Bhima, go to your wife. Comfort her. She has lost all her sons.”

Bhima touched their feet. Dhritarashtra put a hand on his nephew’s head and said,
“Ayushman Bhava.”

Bhima retreated silently, leaving them to deal with their misery. Khatotkacha’s face flashed through his mind again. As he walked towards his grieving wife, he saw Aswathama, tied and kneeling on the ground. Nakula and Sahadeva stood with their swords pressed to the Brahmin’s neck. Aswathama raised his head to look at Bhima, his eyes devoid of emotion. The gem on his headcloth sparkled shone in the sun. Draupadi had coveted it once. Bhima rushed to Aswathama and kicked his face. When the Brahmin fell over, Bhima pulled away the gem and ran towards Draupadi.

“Draupadi, here it is! This is what you wanted,” he said, showing her the glittering gem.

Draupadi looked at him, pity in her eyes. “Give it to Yudhishtra, Bhima. It will look well in his crown.”

Bhima did not understand why she sounded so bitter when she had said ‘crown’. Then his gaze fell on his slain son’s body, being carried by bearers to the cremation pyre. He blinked to hold back his tears. He had never been close to his son but when he saw the finality of everything, the horror of war struck him with overwhelming force. Draupadi began wailing like any common woman; his beautiful Draupadi, who had always loved Arjuna more than any of them but sometimes murmured Karna’s name in her sleep; his Draupadi, whom he could never please, no matter what he did, whether it was facing the perils of the forest and hordes of Rakshasas to get her Sougandika flowers just to see her smile, or carrying her on his strong shoulders through the rough forest paths while she laughed and shared secrets with Arjuna walking beside them.

Bhima looked at the gem he had taken from Aswathama. He did not know what to do with it. Yudhishtra was standing with Dhaumya, arguing about something. The bearers were bringing the bodies to cremate. He stood alone on the battlefield. The gem in his hands sparkled, but looked as useless as a pebble. Finally, he walked over to Yudhishtra and thrust it into his hand.

“What is this?” Yudhishtra asked, irritated at being interrupted when he was trying to seek the meaning of so much disaster from Guru Dhaumya.

“Draupadi says it will look good in your crown,” Bhima said and walked away.

Suddenly, Dhritarashtra’s voice rose over the anguished whispers and wailing. “No! Not as per their caste, not as per their position.” The blind King stood leaning on his cane, but his voice was clear with authority.

Sanjaya whispered something in his ear and Dhitarashtra shouted in rage, “This is an order from the King of Hastinapura. There will be no separate cremation rituals as per caste. Death is the final truth, and truth has no caste, you fool! Tell Dhaumya that this blind man will take on all the sin for this decision. Let me rot in
naraka
for cremating together the Brahmins, the Kshatriyas, the Shudras, and countless others who lost their lives in this war. They fought together and they will go to the next world together. I do not care whether they belonged to the Southern Confederate, the Pandavas or Rakshasas. They will all burn with my Suyodhana.”

Sanjaya whispered something, bowing in deference. “If they do not have enough firewood, tear down the palace. Cut the silk curtains, take out the soft carpets and feather beds. No one will be buried like swine. All the rituals for the dead will be done as per the Vedas. If you do not know their fathers’ names to speak in the ritual of the dead, tell the Brahmins to say my name as the Pitru of the dead, for they are all my sons.”

The King turned to Yudhishtra. “You may have killed my sons and won, Yudhishtra, but I am still the King. I was always the King and I will be till I choose not to be, or till death claims me. If you wish to overrule me, you will have to fight this old man and kill me...”

“King, it will be as you command. Your wishes will be honoured.” Yudhishtra bowed to his uncle before Dhaumya could say anything.

As soldiers ran to execute the royal order, Dhaumya burned with anger. If Yudhishtra was going to behave like this in the future, transgressing all caste rules and flouting every tradition, why had they brought down Suyodhana? This country always had nasty surprises. When would they get the perfect King who would follow the
shastras
as he taught them? His work was so incomplete.

The priests waited for the Pandavas near the river. The five pyres were ready. Draupadi leaned on Arjuna as they walked.

“Brother, shall we kill this sinner?” Nakula asked Arjuna.

Before Arjuna could answer, Kunti said in a weary voice “Stop the killing, my sons. Release the Brahmin.”

Draupadi stood up straight, the flames in her heart alight once more. “Don’t kill Aswathama, Mother?” she said to Kunti in disbelief. “I have lost all my sons and you speak of mercy? Mother, it is different for you, you have not lost any of your sons. You will never understand what a mother feels when she..loses...her sons.”

Kunti tried to hug her daughter-in-law, tears choking her throat. “Daughter, they were my grandsons.”

“No, don’t come near me. You poisoned your sons’ minds and created this war. You made me marry your five sons and ruined me.”

“Draupadi,” Yudhishtra said gently, “we have all lost. You must not speak to our mother in that way. Sahadeva, free the Brahmin.”

Sahadeva reluctantly cut the cords that bound Aswathama, but the Brahmin did not move.

“Let her speak, Son. I do understand what it feels like to lose a son.”

Arjuna was startled at these words but before he could react, Krishna moved forward. “Yudhishtra, the priests are ready. The cremation must be done before sunset.”

“Son, before you light the pyres of my grandsons, you must pray for my dead son, too,” Kunti said, gazing into the distance.

“What did you say, Mother?” Arjuna cried, rushing towards Kunti.

Draupadi raised her head and stared at her mother-in-law.

“Son, make arrangements for the funeral of my eldest son, Karna.”

An uneasy silence descended.

“Mother, are you saying Karna was your son, the eldest? Then why did we fight this war? If he was your eldest son, Karna should have been King. Suyodhana would not have objected.”

“Karna would never have been King, Yudhishtra, for he was born before I was married. I have carried the secret, killing myself with guilt, dying every time someone insulted him for his caste. On the day of your graduation, I recognised him as the son I had abandoned. Only Suyodhana stood up for him. I fainted when I realised my firstborn would always be the enemy of my other five sons. Before the war, I went to beg him to leave Suyodhana, I even offered him the empire. I tried to persuade him to come to our side so that my sons would not fight each other. But, for Karna, no empire was greater than his friendship with Suyodhana. When I saw he would not relent, I begged him for your lives. He promised me he would spare everyone, except Arjuna. He said he would never stray from the path of
dharma,
even if it cost him his life.”

“I am ashamed to call you mother,” Yudhishtra said in a voice that made Kunti shudder. “Your secret has destroyed so many lives. I would have given up my claim, had I known Karna was your firstborn. The man whose thighs we so shamelessly broke would have given up his claim. Why did we fight the war? Can you not hear the cries of the widows? How will we escape their curses?”

Yudhishtra turned to Krishna, “What
dharma
is this, my Lord? I fought a reluctant war against my kin and killed lakhs of people for a war without meaning. I, who never spoke an untruth in my life, lied for the sake of this
dharma
and killed Guru Drona. At every turn of the war, we acted in a despicable manner. I consoled myself that it was all for the sake of
dharma.
But what
dharma
is this that brings tears, death and poverty to millions? What
dharma
was I fighting for? I do not want this kingdom. I have stolen it from Karna or perhaps from Suyodhana. I have stolen it from my uncle, Dhritarashtra. Bhishma Pitamaha was himself cheated by his father. We Kurus are all
kulaheena.
We have always been and shall always be, mere puppets.”

Krishna tried to placate Yudhishtra but his wrath had already turned towards his mother. “All these things happened only because this woman kept her terrible secret to herself. Let no woman be capable of keeping a secret to herself for so long.”

“Now I understand why Karna spared our lives. To think we killed our own brother through deceit!” Arjuna cried, anguished. Even as declared foes he had always respected Karna as a warrior. His own final act of dishonour seared his soul. “Krishna, I think of all those I have killed...my Guru, my Pitamaha, my brother. All my doubts about the war before we began battle, have returned to cloud my mind. I was dazzled then by your wisdom, moved by your
Gita,
and so I aimed and shot where you pointed. But now, how will I close my eyes in peaceful sleep, my Lord? I am but a fool, I do not understand
dharma.
It is beyond my grasp. Your wisdom eludes me and only the lamentations of widows assail my ears. Oh, what have I done?”

Aswathama struggled to rise but fell to his knees in pain. Had he heard Yudhishtra right, that Karna was Kunti’s eldest son? Karna could have been Emperor, yet he had chosen to die fighting for his friend. He never betrayed Suyodhana. How could he have even imagined that such a thought could live in Karna’s great heart? ‘Oh Shiva, what have I done? There is no sinner more deserving of punishment than I.’

Aswathama crawled to where Suyodhana lay, finally at peace. “Suyodhana, the kingdom belonged to Karna, yet he died for you. You were right about him.” There was no answer. His friend lay in eternal rest, his body as cold as the icy waters of the lake he had hidden in.

Draupadi wailed for her dead sons. No longer was she the wrathful woman who wished to drink the blood of her opponents. She was just a mother, like countless others who had sacrificed their sons in the war that had no winners. The Pandavas surrounded her, shielding her grief from the public gaze. Krishna stood nearby, trying to console them all, but for once his words gave them no solace.

“Father!” A young woman pushed Aswathama away and fell on Suyodhana’s still body. Lakshmana, Suyodhana’s daughter, had come with Balarama and Bhanumati, but they were too late. Bhanumati stood frozen and dry-eyed, gazing down at the man she had loved more than life itself. ‘Why, Suyo? What was it all for in the end? You are gone...Kumara is gone...Hastinapura is gone!’ Her heart filled with unutterable pain.

Balarama looked down at the man he had loved as a son. His gaze travelled to the broken thighs and blackened legs. Suddenly, he remembered the youngster who had yearned to wield the mace, to whom he had taught the art of weaponry. He turned to his silent brother. “Krishna, what is this? How could you let Bhima hit below the waist to kill Suyodhana? How could you allow Arjuna to kill an unarmed Karna? And Drona...and Bhishma? Oh my brother,
adharma
is the only victor in this war. So many people dead for no reason.”

“Dharma
has its own reasons, brother.”

Balarama bent down, trying to console Bhanumati and Lakshmana. They did not see Aswathama drag himself away. More and more people assembled in a circle to gawk at the grief of the royals. An old man came forward. He looked at the dead Crown Prince and then at the grieving women.” Is
dharma
a war fought without ethics and then glorified?” he asked.

“Carvaka, the Maharishi,” someone whispered, half afraid, half horrified by the well-known atheist’s words.

“Blasphemy! Tie him up!” shouted Dhaumya, enraged. Finally he had found a target he could direct his frustration at and reassert his slipping authority. He looked towards where Krishna stood at a distance, preoccupied with consoling the Pandavas. He had to act before the Yadava turned his attention to the ruckus the atheist was causing. Who could predict what Krishna would say? He might just smile and accept Carvaka’s accusations with humility and walk away. Then what would happen to the careful stories Dhaumya had spread? Soldiers had caught hold of Carvaka. Dhaumya ordered, “Burn him alive!”