AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (63 page)

KUNTI COULD NOT BELIEVE IT.
After all the years of struggle, this was the last thing she had expected. True, the scriptures said that after the birth of a great-grandson, one should proceed to the forest for
vanaprastha,
yet she had lingered. Parikshat was just sixteen. Could her sons not wait till Abhimanyu’s son was married?

“Rajamata, the decision is final. I will leave everything to Parikshat and take asylum in the Himalayas. You, too, must leave with Uncle Dhritarashtra and Aunt Gandhari,” Yudhishtra stated in a flat tone.

Even if Dhaumya had said so, why did her son have to listen to such talk? Yudhishtra had behaved irrationally ever since he had learnt about Karna. He kept saying they could have avoided the war, that she was responsible for it. Would it really have solved all problems? Would Suyodhana have abdicated in favour of Karna? No, it was Draupadi who was responsible for the war, not her. Kunti pulled her sari
pallu
over her head and turned her face away. She did not want her sons to see her tears. Without a word of blessing or farewell, she walked out of the palace, pausing just for a second in the vain hope that one of her sons would call her back.

“Kunti!”

The dowager’s heart skipped a beat when she heard the familiar voice. Once it had filled her with hatred and anger, but there was nothing left to like or dislike any more in life. “Gandhari...” Kunti said, turning her head. She hated herself for the tears that sprang to her eyes when she heard the proud Gandhari sobbing. Kunti took Gandhari’s hands in her own.

Dhritarashtra stood gazing at the sky with unseeing eyes. He was content. He, whom they considered blind and incompetent, had outlived and outwitted them all. He heard the two women crying and shook his head contemptuously. They had fought so bitterly over so many years, and now stood together weeping over their lost youth, their lost sons and grandsons, and for the life they had forgotten to live in their pursuit for power. They were old and weary now; burdens to the family. In a palace where hundreds lived comfortably, they were three people too many.

“If Suyodhana was alive, would this have happened?” Dhritarashtra asked softly.

The words pierced Kunti’s heart like a knife. She felt angered by the insensitive comment of her brother-in-law but she knew it to be true. Without a word she began walking, holding Gandhari’s arm. The sound of Dhritarashtra’s stick tapping the ground kept rhythm with her own pace. Kunti walked with her head held high. She could hear people commenting on their plight. She could bear that. But the odd words of sympathy from the very people she had always ignored, pierced her heart. She did not raise her eyes to look at the shabby figures that lined the road. They had come to bid farewell to the royals or to gawk, each as their nature dictated. The war had long been over, but the ravages were still apparent to all.

“Maharaja Dhritarashtra!”

“Vidhura, my brother...” Dhritarashtra ’s voice was a shadow of itself.

Kunti watched Vidhura touch his brother and sister-in-law’s feet respectfully. When he came to her, she turned away saying, “Why have you come, Vidhura? We are beggars now. We have nothing to give and no place to go.”

“Devi, have you forgotten that you have my hut in the forest?”

“We will be a burden to you, Vidhura. I am both old and blind,” Dhritarashtra sighed.

“Your Highness, it will be an honour. Of course, it does not have the luxuries of the palace, for it is a Shudra home.”

“Brother, I see your words have not lost their barb.”

“We cannot change the truth, Your Highness. I may be your brother-in-law, but I am still a Shudra. If a Shudra’s hut is not beneath your dignity, I would be honoured to have you all come and live with me.”

“There is nothing beneath us, Vidhura,” Kunti replied wearily. “We are walking on the street as you can see.” And this was her reward for a lifetime spent fighting shadow wars, time wasted on intrigue and strategy, just so that her son could ascend the throne of Hastinapura.

“The war of
dharma
has made most of us beggars. Please come and light up my lonely life.”

Kunti did not resist when Vidhura led the way. Together, they walked to his forest home – the hut he had taken almost a lifetime to build. The rest of their lives to be spent in the contemplation of truth, immersed in spiritual matters. That was what they thought.

But the wheel of Kunti’s
karma
kept turning. Takshaka and his revolutionary army returned to set the forest ablaze. The fire consumed them all. There was no escaping the bitter fruits of
karma.

*****

80
   
L
ONG
L
IVE
THE
       
R
EVOLUTION

“LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION!”
Takshaka yelled. He and a few followers had set fire to Vidhura’s hut early that morning. They had watched Kunti, Dhritarashtra, Gandhari and Vidhura die in agony. The four old people sat huddled together crying for mercy as the fire engulfed them.

Yuyutsu had driven thousands of Nagas and other low-castes out of their miserable farms and slums. These disenfranchised people had nothing more to lose and they swelled the ranks of Takshaka’s army. Then why were they so silent when their Great Leader announced such a victory?

“This is a great day for the revolution!” Takshaka shouted again. The people stared silently at the ageing Naga leader. “Long live the revolution!” he cried in a hoarse voice, punching the air. “This is just the beginning...” Takshaka scowled at the people who had started drifting away. “We will seize power from our enemies; we will lynch men like Yuyutsu.” No one was listening. “Long live the revolution!” Takshaka screamed again. Silence was the only response. The people had turned away from him as from a leper. ‘An entire lifetime spent uplifting these thankless people and this is how they treat me,’ thought Takshaka bitterly as he trudged out of the village.

Finally he arrived at the place where Vidhura’s hut had stood. Rain had washed away much of the debris, leaving only a few charred bones in the rubble. He had to do something grand to change the history of Bharatavarsha, thought Takshaka. When he had found Vasuki lying dead at the feet of the idol of Shiva in the forest years before, he had thought the last challenge to his leadership of the Nagas had ended. There was some poetic justice in Vasuki being killed by cobra bite. However, until now, the revolution he had dreamed of had not taken place. He had thought that killing Dhritarashtra, the old King of Hastinapura, would trigger events but not even his own people considered it worth mentioning. He was desperate for something big to happen. He was getting older and time was running out.

An idea started forming in Takshaka’s mind. Parikshat! He had heard the Pandavas would soon be leaving for the Himalayas and the boy would be crowned as the new King. A smile spread across his face as he thought about Parikshat. He would not need an army of idiots with him to do what he planned. He could do it alone. He would kill Parikshat and start the ball of revolution rolling again.

***

A messenger dashed through the dry bed of the river Sarswati to reach Hastinapura. He carried terrifying news. In Dwaraka, a civil war had broken out between the followers of Kritavarma and those of Krishna’s son, Samba. The entire city was aflame. Hearing the news, the Pandavas rushed to save the city of their dear friend, who had helped them win the great war. They were shocked to find Krishna’s wives, protected only by a handful of guards, walking through the desert in a forlorn procession. Krishna was nowhere to be seen. An old Yadava soldier gave Arjuna the message that the Lord had left the safety of his wives and servants in his hands. Yudhishtra, Nakula and Sahadeva rushed towards Dwaraka while Arjuna started his journey back to Hastinapura with the wives of his beloved friend. His heart was heavy with dread.

On the way, they were attacked by the Durjayas and Nagas. Arjuna found he was no match for the combined attack. Durjaya jumped into Arjuna’s chariot, grabbed the
Gandiva
and hit Arjuna on the head with the great bow. It broke into two and Arjuna lost consciousness. When he awoke, he was all alone in the desert. His chariot, his horses and all the valuable ornaments he had been wearing had vanished. More shockingly, Krishna’s wives were nowhere to be seen. He, the famed warrior, the greatest archer in the world, the man who had vanquished Karna, Drona, Bhishma and countless others in the war, had lost to a minor dacoit and failed to save his friend’s wives.

Arjuna began walking towards Dwaraka, not knowing how to break the news to Krishna and his brothers. On the outskirts of Prabhasa, he met Sage Vyasa. Arjuna fell at the seer’s feet, sobbing, “Swami, a dacoit defeated me and took away Krishna’s wives. If he is an
avatar,
why could he not save his wives? Why was I unable to defeat Durjaya? I have done my duty and lived according to the scriptures. My mind no longer knows what is right and what is wrong.”

The sage lifted Arjuna up and said, “Arjuna, time is God, time is
dharma.
Fame, victory, wealth, infamy, defeat, poverty – all are but manifestations of time.
Kalapurusha
acts with
prakruti,
nature, to set the rhythm of life. Just as seasons come and go, like winter follows the rainy season, which follows summer, which follows spring, time brings different stages. Your time as a warrior has ended. Your
karma
will catch up with you. Krishna’s time will end soon; even he is not free of his
karma. Prakruti
and
Kalapurusha,
the God of Time, together bring change.”

Arjuna bowed. Though the sage had not answered his questions directly, he felt less troubled as he walked on towards Dwaraka.

*****

81
   
F
RUITS
OF
K
ARMA

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.