AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (66 page)

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
   
R
ISE
OF
K
ALI

‘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?”

The crowd was dangerously silent.

“The next time you hear the immortal story of Bharata, pause to think whether it was
dharma
to break the thighs of a man who had always played fair, a man who could have easily chosen any of the Pandava brothers to duel with instead of Bhima, but he chose fairly even when he knew everything was lost.”

“Stop all this nonsensical talk!” someone shouted at Aswathama.

“You can shut my mouth but can you shut my thoughts or the doubts that confuse anyone with a fair mind? The next time you read the great story of our country, read about the sinner, Aswathama. What I did was ignoble, I should never have killed the Pandava boys. I have been cursed with a conscience. I would have escaped my fate had I too had a friend who could justify my black deed with scriptures. Alas, my friend was a mere mortal, an ignorant and evil man who knew no
dharma.
Even when he was dying, he did not condone my act. He said I should have fought fair and won or died as he was doing. I carry his sadness as a curse on my head just as I carry my conscience. I have no cloak of
dharma
to hide my shame. My body is full of sores but I don’t even deserve death.”

“Kill this sinner! Kill this liar!” shouted a few priests who had assembled, drawn by rumours about a tirade against
dharma.

“Liar? I am the liar? Ha! The next time you read Vyasa’s great epic, read with your eyes open. I shall be there with you whenever the story is told. I will be standing near you, whispering to your conscience to read between the lines. When you watch plays glorifying the Pandavas and their
dharma,
you will feel the gnawing of doubt in your mind. Know that I am that doubt. When you pray, you will see the lamp flicker; I am the breeze that makes it dance. Do not say I have not warned you. As long as the great epic is read, Aswathama will live, the Brahmin cursed with immortality will be there, looking over your shoulder. You will not see me, but I will possess your mind. I am everlasting doubt as well as the eternal logic of the reasoning mind. I am Aswathama, the cursed.”

The crowd stood still, shocked by the madman’s words. Insanity was a dangerous thing. The first stone caught Aswathama on the bridge of his nose. He gasped as the next one hit his mouth, shattering a tooth. Before he could run for cover a hailstorm of stones hit him and the crowd rushed at him to stomp him out. They beat him with sticks and stones, anything they could lay their hands on. Still he refused to die, Aswathama, the immortal. He was saved by the sound of a conch. His tormentors turned towards the sound and a cheer rose when they saw the golden chariot with the baby King and the army marching behind.

As the procession moved on, Yuyutsu saw a Brahmin lying near an overturned garbage bin, bleeding. ‘Must be drunk,’ he thought. He turned his attention back to building up the enthusiasm of the crowd. The juggernaut rolled on. Nevertheless, the sacred thread across the man’s shoulder was an insult to
dharma
and he ordered a guard to break it. The man rushed over to the prone figure and tugged at the sacred thread until it snapped. Then he hurried back, almost stumbling over a dog that had somehow slipped through the procession. It yelped at him but a kick in its ribs was enough to scare it away.