Sushasana had been listening to his brother's conversation with the Guru's son. He laughed in blatant mockery and said, "You sissy Brahmin boy, all your justifications for your father's behaviour will not change our opinion of him. He is a nut, a crazy man with fanatical ideas and he will do anything to win Arjuna's favour. All his affection for you is just put on. Sometimes I wonder if you are his son or that blasted Pandava is. Good natured, bah!"
"If you do not keep your ugly mouth shut, you glutton, I will knock your dirty, yellow teeth in," Aswathama shouted back, trying to punch Sushasana in the face. He would have succeeded had Suyodhana not intervened.
"Come home now," Drona turned back to shout at his son, far behind.
As the three teenagers reluctantly walked on, Aswathama decided to confront his father about his behaviour towards the poor Nishada as soon as he got home, even at the risk of facing that monumental temper.
***
A star-sprinkled sky spread over the vast landscape. The lights of the palace lit the southern sky with a golden glow. A jungle fowl shrieked from the darkness of the woods, as if to call the son of the forest home. As the figures of the chattering students became specks of darkness in the distance, Ekalavya stirred. His heart was filled with anger and hatred. Jara was responsible for everything. He was the harbinger of bad luck, the casteless, dirty, smelly rat! 'The Guru is right. It was when this evil fellow first showed his face that I lost my parents. When this rascal set foot in my family, my uncle died and left my aunt with six mouths to feed. It was because of him that the Guru rejected me. Look at his ugly face; look at his dirty and unwashed body; look at the dirty nails and the puss oozing from the sores on his legs. Anyone can understand why he brings bad luck."
It was unfortunate that Jara decided to make fun of Ekalavya's predicament just at that moment. He howled like a monkey, finding merriment in the Nishada boy's broken dreams. "Ha ha ha... I told you so! It serves you right. You did not listen to me. You thought he would accept your ugly face when he had refused even that Suta boy with a rich and important man's recommendation. What a joke!"
Jara yelled as the first stone hit his nose. The surprised cry soon turned into screams of terror as more and more stones found their mark. Jara clutched his bleeding nose and ran. Ekalavya chased after him. With a final leap, he caught hold of the terrified, black urchin. He beat and kicked Jara with all the anger and frustration he felt and only stopped when he could not bear the pain in his own limbs. He left the profusely bleeding boy to die like a street dog and sought asylum in the darkness of the jungle.
The skies darkened with clouds and it started to rain. Still the boy did not stir. Rain pounded the red earth for a few hours and then became an impotent drizzle just before dawn. When the sky turned a dull grey in the east, the bundle of ill luck whimpered and rose up on all fours. Somewhere in the womb of the forest, a wild beast howled, mourning the passing of the night. The stray dogs of Hastinapura answered, their cries echoing on all sides. Jara stood up on his weak legs. Blood mixed with water to form a dirty puddle at his feet. He looked at his battered body and an animal cry rose in his throat. He howled again. This time, from a distance, perhaps from the woods, the hills, or the narrow pathways of the city, something answered. In that moment, the little boy died and a beast was born. There was only Jara and his hunger, nothing else mattered. No taboos, no scriptures, no caste rules were going to stand between him and his hunger. No God was going to keep him from surviving. Sheer animal instinct powered the beast.
Jara looked at the jungle, which held the secret armies of the Nagas, where he knew his hero Takshaka was preparing to take on the might of Hastinapura one day. He thought of the men and women who were willing to die for the glory of their cause under the charismatic leader. Then he looked at the sprawling capital with its majestic palaces and dark slums, where men and women like him did whatever they had to, to survive. Fate was offering him two choices - a glorious death and heroism under Takshaka or mundane survival in the teeming slums of Hastinapura. As the first rays of the sun touched the wet earth and the forest burst into a cacophony of birdsong, Jara made his choice. He chose mundane survival over spectacular death and began walking towards Hastinapura.
***
Ekalavya returned to the training ground early the next morning. He was feeling depressed and guilty about his behaviour towards Jara. He found the spot where he had left Jara for dead, but the boy had gone. Ekalavya sat on the grass wondering what might have happened to the idiot. As the morning matured, he saw Drona in the distance, leading the Princes to the ground. Ekalavya ran for cover in the woods and disappeared. From his hiding place, he watched the training, thinking this was another way of acquiring the knowledge he desired.
That was the beginning. From that day on, he hid in the woods and learnt by observation. After the classes were over and the Princes had left for their comfortable dwellings, the son of the forest practised what he had seen. After a few months of dedicated hard work, he found he could hit targets as easily as Arjuna. When an arrow was shot with skill, it did not ask whether the hands that held the bow were those of an Untouchable or a Prince. They pierced their targets without prejudice. The daily practice at night gave the Nishada an advantage over his royal competitor - it made him an expert at shooting in the darkness. Ekalavya was like one possessed. He barely managed a few hours' sleep before dawn.
The days were spent assimilating knowledge and endlessly practising what he saw. At first, he missed Jara's companionship but soon got over it. After a year had passed, it was as if Jara had never existed. Jara's disappearance coincided with Ekalavya's luck turning. With no one to mock or tell him that it was impossible for an Untouchable to become a great warrior, Ekalavya's natural confidence reasserted itself and he soon became a formidable hunter. Food was plentiful as he could hunt game with skill and stealth and his family did not face hunger again for a long time.
***
Purochana, the Chief Inspector of City Hygiene, pressed a scarf over his nose. The stench was unbearable. He had left the palace with its cloying smell of incense, and now entered a world of filth, where the streets coiled in on themselves like leeches; the open drains overflowed, and the narrow pavements served as garbage dumps. Purochana knew this world was far removed from what the Hastinapura rulers wished to believe about their kingdom. The other Hastinapura, of luxurious villas, broad, tree-shaded avenues, golden temples, swanky shops that sold diamonds and silks, and noblemen and beautiful women, could well have existed on another planet. This was the dark underbelly of India's cities, where the majority lived. The other was just a charade, as hollow and fake as the promises made by the rulers to the ruled.
People, carts, vendors, pigs, cows, goats and horses, all jostled for space. The streets had a life of their own, pushing, pulling, screeching, blaring, and dodging. They pulsed to their own rhythm. Purochana wiped the sweat from his face and waited to catch his breath, leaning on the stump of a lamppost that had been broken years before he was even born. Rats scurried over his feet and he leapt back in horror. A dirty urchin grinned at his discomfiture and a street dog barked at him. He resumed his walk, dodging carts and pushing the scarred hands of beggars away. Cursing the rude vendors who thrust their fares in his face, he moved along, using his shoulders and hands to swim through the crowd. He averted his gaze from a couple of men who were urinating against a wall with eyes closed. A few steps away, people fought for the hot savouries being fried in days-old oil.
Purochana had walked these streets many times, but they always confused him. He could not stop to ask anyone the way. Today's mission was dangerous. He paused again, trying to recall the direction he had to take. Somewhere to the left, a temple bell chimed and the faint sounds of chanting floated towards him. No, it was not that way. He turned right and continued walking, cutting across the market where clerks, servants, porters, artisans, cart drivers, masons, potters, gardeners, and many others filled the streets from dawn to dusk, haggling
over prices and winning or losing their insignificant daily battles. Purochana owed his job to these people. Without them, the well-kept streets of central Hastinapura would have turned into filthy thoroughfares. The manicured gardens and large homes would have ceased to exist.
On the rare occasions he was invited to the parties of the rich, he had heard the elegant ladies complaining about their city and Government servants. Why doesn't the Government demolish the slums? They are an affront to the eyes. He had heard that comment from a lady who kept caressing the string of diamonds around her neck. He had been tempted to retort, 'You bitch, without those slums, how would your chariot driver or gardener survive on the meagre wages you pay them? If the slums vanished, would you even have a maid?'
But he had not uttered a word, simply nodding his head in sympathy. He could not risk talking back to the wives of influential men. The men were worse. They spoke of various methods of eradicating this blemish from their land and wondered why the Government did not have the wisdom they displayed after two pitchers of wine. He chuckled at the thought of all the people who hated their country in private and cursed Bhishma or the King, and sometimes even the foreign woman who was their Queen, for dragging down their great civilization. At the same time, they defended the greatness of their country and religion against the criticism of outsiders; with a fanaticism that bordered on insanity. They were easily offended by the wide-eyed wonder foreigners exhibited at the teeming poverty and the glittering riches of this ancient land. They wondered why those materialistic and cultureless barbarians did not restrict their attention to the exquisitely beautiful temples and palaces. Everyone knew foreigners had little by way of family values, besides being immoral and unclean. The people of Hastinapura did not need a certificate of greatness from them. Nevertheless, it irked the elite that these foreigners did not see the inherent spirituality in their music and art or understand the scientific basis of every ritual and superstition. Why did they insist on going about the stinking slums and talking about the Shudras who lived there? Why did they even care?
The people of Hastinapura were not alone in harbouring such lofty thoughts. The clothing, language and accents changed, but the ideas of the elite and comfortably rich, remained the same everywhere - whether in Kashi, Kanchipuram, Muzaris, or Dwaraka. Irrespective of what foreigners thought, the diversity of India was merely peripheral. Her core retained a surprising unity of thought and deed. Purochana laughed aloud. There was a world even grimier than this, the bureaucrat thought. An invisible world, akin to what one sees when one lifts a heavy stone in the garden. Life teems under it, indifferent to its surroundings. Vermin, worms, leeches and ants, all thrive there. Mostly they are harmless creatures, which emerge in the dead of night to find sustenance. Occasionally, there is a scorpion amongst them, with a poisonous sting in its tail.
Shakuni's instructions had been clear. Purochana was to meet one such scorpion, who had a lethal sting. The name once sent shock waves through those who heard it. Both in the dusty streets of Hastinapura as well as in the opulent homes of the rich - the name Durjaya was a conversation stopper. He was capable of hushing voices without even being present. Excitement and fear peppered small talk. Durjaya had once lorded over the kingdom of human vermin. A tyrant, he ruled an empire of beggars, prostitutes and petty thieves in the invisible underworld of Hastinapura. Crime was his weapon and misery his shield. An ambitious man, he soon found that the illicit brewing of arrack, controlling a gang of pickpockets and petty thieves, skimming from professional beggars, and a prostitution racket, yielded only so much. He aspired to bigger things in life. A few years ago, the special guards of Hastinapura had almost crushed his empire of darkness. Durjaya had grown back to strength in the chaotic time of Hastinapura fighting a bloody war with the Southern Confederate. However, once the peace treaty had been signed with Parashurama, Bhishma turned his attention back to the kingdom and times had become tough for men like him once again. Bhishma had personally camped in the dirty streets of the city and decimated the crime lord's empire. Durjaya had crawled into hiding, and waited in darkness for the wheel to turn.
Purochana's mission was to bring the scorpion out and give more power to his sting. Was this the house? The fat man hesitated, adjusting his headgear and drawing himself up to his full height. He checked the dagger hidden in the folds of his waistcloth. Not that it would do him any good if the crime lord decided to do away with him. For a fleeting moment, the image of his bloated body caught in the reeds beside the Ganga, flashed through his mind. He pushed away such inauspicious thoughts. He had to play it cool. He softly tapped at the dilapidated door. It creaked open reluctantly. He could see eyes staring at him. Purochana had to breathe through his mouth in order to shut out the stink that escaped through the partly open door. "I am Purochana, Chief Inspector of City Hygiene," he said officiously.
The door shut with a bang. The entire building shook with the impact. Purochana stood in the street, unsure of what to do. As he was about to turn away, the door opened again and the crooked hand of a leper held out some money. He had won the first round. The fool was afraid enough to offer him a bribe. Keeping his face grave, Purochana took the money, as if bestowing a favour. "Tell Durjaya that his luck is about to change. I want to see him." The door closed again but this time Purochana was sure he would be invited inside soon. He was right.
When he saw Durjaya in the flesh, Purochana was disappointed. The man looked small and ordinary, with a soft moustache and dark hair. He had expected a raving villain. The fat official looked at the pathetic condition of the crime lord's dwelling - the cobwebs, broken chairs, torn carpet. A musty smell pervaded everything. Purochana smiled. This was going to be easier than he had thought.
"I have an offer you will not be able to resist," he said pompously and waited.
Durjaya continued to sit with a blank expression on his face. Purochana's heart skipped a beat. It had been a mistake to look into those glassy eyes. He wanted to get out and go back to his office. That foreigner and his blasted plans!
"Tell me about the offer," the scorpion said simply.
Purochana forgot what he had come to say. "Hmmm... you must pray facing West, you and all your supporters..." Purochana cursed himself. That bit was to come last. He saw Durjaya's eyes expand in disbelief. Before he could be thrown out, Purochana pulled himself together and sat down. He deliberately crossed his legs and kept his hands in his lap so they would not shake. He no longer felt like a supplicant.
"Do you wish to build back your empire? Do you want a stake in smuggling arms and drugs from Gandhara and selling them to the Nagas? Do you want to become the most feared man in the country again, Durjaya?" Purochana watched for any change of expression in the crime lord's face.
Slowly a smile cracked Durjaya's lips. "Are you drunk or just insane? How can a mere city inspector help me to do all these things? Take your bribe and get lost." Durjaya stood up from his broken chair.
Purochana stood up too and as Durjaya walked away, he said, "You are being too hasty, Durjaya. Have you never heard of Shakuni?"
That stopped Durjaya in his tracks. "The Prince of Gandhara?" Durjaya asked in surprise.
Purochana's fear fell away. Durjaya ordered wine and a boy came with a pitcher. Purochana discussed the details as the two men matched each other glass for glass. The boy came many times with snacks and more drinks.
"I have seen him somewhere," Purochana said fuzzily, looking at the serving boy.
"I give employment to people the Government rejects. I am a seller of dreams." Durjaya's speech was remarkably clear still. "You bloody Government servants do not care about them. I give people instant justice, whereas you take years to settle even one case. You deny education to poor boys and I keep such boys from dying. Idiots like this boy Jara, come in hordes from the dark hinterland to this city of riches, dreaming of the day they will return to their villages in a golden chariot. Every bastard wants to go home with a train of servants and be the envy of the f
ools who have not dared leave the village. I play on their dreams," Durjaya laughed.
"What about girls?" Purochana asked hopefully.
"Ha ha... girls! They are different. This is a city of dreams, my friend. People come here to live their dreams. Girls run away from poverty to the glitter of Hastinapura, the city of art, dance and poetry. What beautiful bullshit! They come here dreaming of becoming courtesans in the palaces of the princes or rich merchants. Only handfuls achieve their dream. The rest end up with gangs like us, or on the streets, peddling their only asset. When they become old, they become beggars. One day they fall down and die. I have uses for dreamers of either sex, Purochana. I had many of them in my gang before that cursed Shudra, Vidhura, let loose his police on me."
"Everything will change now, my friend," Purochana said, pleased by the glitter in the crime lord's eyes.
"Yes, you have brought me luck. Let us drink to your health."
As the crime lord lost himself in drink, Purochana kept looking at the small boy who flitted in and out of the room.
*
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AJAYA I -- Roll of the Dice Page 13
