Jara knocked on the door and the Brahmin opened it. Jara's dark face lit with joy and pride. He pulled the struggling ram closer to him and said, "Swami, here is a gift. You can eat him for the next few days. I will feed you again after that." Jara looked at the Brahmin's wife for approval but she just shook her head sadly.
"Krishna, you are back. You are so kind to me. Your mischief knows no bounds. Don't test me like this." The Brahmin spoke as if in a trance. He knelt and caressed the ram's face. The animal stood still, as if sensing the kindness in the gesture. Then the Brahmin stood up and walked into the darkness behind the house.
"Mother... won't you accept my gift?" Jara felt anger rising within him. He knew why they would not take his offering. The woman just shook her head and looked at her sleeping children. "Is it because I am an Untouchable that you will not accept my gift?" Jara asked bitterly, tasting the familiar bile in his mouth as he uttered the words. He averted his eyes. He could not face her.
"No, my son," the woman answered softly. "He believes that every living thing has a right to live, until God calls it back to his abode. He cannot approve of killing anything for the sake of food or pleasure. Your present is one more mouth to feed. That is all."
The Brahmin returned with some grass and put it in front of the ram. He looked at the creature eating peacefully. Jara could not stand it anymore. It was killing him. He hated the Brahmin. Unless he was able to repay this debt, he would never escape from this guilt and hatred. He turned and ran wildly into the night.
When he returned once more, with a sack of rice stolen from a shop, the house was burning. Some people were standing in the street, watching. With a primitive yell, the Nishada threw the sack of rice to the ground and ran into the inferno. People were shocked to see a dark man running into the raging flames. Before they could stop him, he had jumped into the burning house. Frantically, he searched for the Brahmin and his family inside. A beam fell and almost pinned Jara beneath. He screamed in rage and tried to get out of the fire raging on all sides. Someone pulled him out and tried to put out the flames licking the right side of his body. They rolled him on the ground and poured water over him. When they were sure he was out of danger, they turned to search for the victims inside the house.
Jara lay on the ground moaning. When they brought out the charred bodies one by one, he could not say a word. They were all dead - little Bhavani, the twins, the woman he had called mother, the crazy Brahmin, and even the ram. He remained frozen and mute, even when they moved him to a public hospital and dressed his wounds, leaving him to live or die in the indifference of the free ward.
It took him six months to recover. The physicians did not know his name and called him Golden Mongoose. The name was puzzling to the dark Nishada until he saw his reflection in a broken piece of mirror someone had thrown into the hospital garbage. By that time, his burns had almost healed. But he was shocked to see his face and body. His left side retained its unblemished, smooth dark skin. His right side was puckered and had a dirty golden hue. With his face partially burned away, his teeth were visible on the right side of his face where the lips had shrunk. He understood at last the reason for his nickname. He looked hideous. But Jara did not cry. His tears had dried long ago. He threw away the mirror with a shrug and walked back to his sickbed. He had no use for reflections.
***
They threw him out of the hospital once they were confident he would survive - if living a beggar's life could be called surviving. He later learnt that Daya and his gang had decided to check what had happened to him on their way back that night and barged into the Brahmin's house while he had gone in search of food. The Brahmin's craziness had driven Daya mad and he had killed the singer in anger. Then he had no choice but to murder everyone in the house, lest there be witnesses to the murder. It sounded so simple and routine. The gang burned down the house before escaping so no proof remained of their deed. Daya had felt regret for a day or two but soon recovered. His imitation of the Brahmin's crazy talk was a hit at their booze parties. Durjaya invited Jara back into the gang through a messenger, but Jara refused. The beast in him had died in the fire. He felt as crazy as the dead Brahmin. It did not matter to him that the Brahmin's God had not saved him from the thugs. He became possessed and a new Jara was born - one who was a total misfit in the world.
When Jara was able to walk a little and had saved some coins earned by begging, he went to see Kripa. He went at night, after the temple had closed, to avoid any angry Priests. He wished to ask Kripa for forgiveness, for stealing his money so long ago. When Jara reached the Banyan tree, Kripa was fast asleep. Jara called to him. When the Guru did not stir, Jara shook his shoulder. Kripa awoke with a curse on his lips; looked at Jara's hideous face, and drew back in alarm. Then recognition dawned and he smiled.
"Swami, I made a grave mistake years ago. Here is the money I stole from you. Forgive me." Jara felt relieved of a great weight.
"Ha ha... you did not steal. I stole from a fool by threatening him with my sacred thread. You were smart to steal the money and get away from me. I cursed you for an hour and then I was happy for you. I knew you would survive when I found the money missing. You were suited to this world. Now I am worried. What makes you think you can survive as a saint in this world, unless you make it your business to exploit the gullible and greedy?"
Jara did not answer because he did not understand the import of Kripa's reasoning. But he pleaded with him to take the money until the Brahmin became angry and cursed him to get out and let him sleep. Kripa added some choice expletives about saints and holy men before returning to his slumber.
The same day, Jara witnessed Shakuni pushing Bhima into the river. He was hauled before the sabha in Prince Suyodhana's trial for the murder of his cousin. Even though Jara was intimidated by the splendour of the palace, the King, and the regal-looking nobleman who barked at him to stand straight and speak like a man, he was glad he had had a hand in Prince Suyodhana being freed of the charge. He took the beatings he later received from the guards as a test from God. It was all Krishna's leela, thought the Nishada, as his frail body lay bruised and broken.
Jara asked many people where Krishna was to be found. Some told him Krishna was a Yadava Prince from Dwaraka, who had become an avatar because of his wisdom and ability to create things from thin air. Others said it was all a farce and that Krishna had no such powers, that he was just another Prince playing dirty politics. Jara became angry when he heard these opinions. Krishna was the dead Brahmin's God. He could not have been wrong. With a passion that bordered on insanity, the Untouchable believed in Krishna's infinite compassion and omnipotent power. Every moment was spent in His worship and every act was given as an offering. Soon a new voice was heard amidst the cacophony of the narrow lanes of Hastinapura. The harsh lives of the poor were softened by the sweet voice of Jara singing his God's praises.
It was this Jara that the blind dog took asylum with. Guru Drona passed them, sleeping huddled together, on his way back after claiming the thumb and dreams of another Nishada. The next morning, the dog licked Jara awake. The soft tongue caressing his dirty face felt good. It was a blessing to be alive in this beautiful world. Jara kissed the earth, as was his habit, and thanked Krishna for his mercy and kindness. He sang of His wisdom, His maya, His mischief, and His love. The blind dog, its eyes encrusted with dried blood, listened in rapt attention, wagging its tail. A few pedestrians threw coins onto the rag spread before the beggar.
By afternoon, a whim seized Jara. He wanted to name his new pet. He thought of many names, but only one struck him as good enough. He had heard the word used by many holy men. It was used so casually that it had become commonplace. The Untouchable did not know its real meaning, but that did not matter, it was his dog and it was a free country. He could call it whatever he wanted. Jara lifted the blind puppy to the sun and it whined. Like a father at the naamkaran ceremony, he placed the puppy in his lap. "Dharma, Dharma, Dharma," Jara whispered three times into the
dog's ear.
The ignorant beggar had unwittingly chosen a curious name for the dog blinded by Arjuna and Ekalavya. Dharma, the blind street dog, wagged its tail in happiness as the Untouchable caressed its head affectionately. Around them, life went on without caring a whit, on the streets of India.
*
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16 RETURN OF THE SUTA
THE SHIP REACHED DWARAKA on a misty morning. Karna thanked the Greek Captain, who reiterated his offer to take him to his own country. From the deck where they stood, the golden domes of Balarama's palace and the city's temple spires were clearly visible. Karna smiled at the foreigner and shook his head. A close bond had developed between the Suta and the Yavana. Karna tried to pay for his voyage with some of the money left from the prizes he had won with the Dharmaveera title, but the Captain refused, saying he would be betraying the pride of his motherland if he charged a warrior like Karna. A few days before, under a star-sprinkled sky, on a calm sea, with the ship just an insignificant speck in the vast universe, Karna had told the Greek his story of struggle, ambition, achievement, and the curse of his Guru. For some inexplicable reason, it had moved the mlecha to tears.
The Captain accompanied Karna to the dockyard and people watched with curiosity as the yellow-haired barbarian and the tall Indian, dressed in barbarian clothes, hugged each other. They knew they would never see each other again and that made the friendship feel more real and eternal. The Captain watched the Indian fall on his knees and kiss the ground and a great hatred for Karna's country filled the Yavana's mind. Despite all its wonderful temples and great cities, India could not withstand an invading power for long if it continued to treat its men and women of talent like dirt just for being born into the wrong caste. The Supervisor of Customs came to meet the Captain, cutting short his fantastic dreams of invading India, and he soon became mired in the complex world of commerce.
Karna had only his bow and quiver of arrows, the whip-like sword urumi, which he wore as a belt, and some borrowed clothes from the Captain, as his only possessions. The future looked uncertain and frightening. Perhaps he should try to meet the Yadava leader and ask for employment, he thought, though his heart lay in Hastinapura. He yearned to see his parents and impress his former playmates with the skills he had acquired. He wanted to jump into the cold waters of the Ganga and swim against her powerful currents. It had been unbelievably beautiful floating in the tamely flowing Poorna at Muzaris, when the moon played hide-and-seek behind the coconut palms, and such nights were close to Karna's heart, but he always missed the brute force of the Ganga. The swift-flowing waters from the Himalayas and the reflection of the lights of the many temples and palaces on her banks, was an enchanted world no other river in the world could match. The Ganga had one thing that other rivers could not offer Karna - the flavour of his childhood and the fragrance of nostalgia. He longed for his home.
Karna touched his heart and his fingers rubbed against the smoothness of his armour, bringing back a flood of memories. The armour had been a gift from the King of Kalinga, when he had visited Parashurama. Impressed by Karna's talent, the King had given him the exquisite armour, forged by his best blacksmiths, saying it was a gift from Surya, the patron God of Kalinga. In the ancient Sun Temple, blacksmiths had made the masterpiece, working for seven long years to create the lightest and strongest body armour. Learned Priests then placed it at the feet of the Sun God and worshipped it every day. The armour Karna wore was of unknown antiquity. The tradition was to bestow the armour upon a warrior who would safeguard dharma and always be righteous. Every year, during the annual Surya festival, astrologers consulted the stars to determine whom the God was pleased to bestow the armour upon. For many years, the God had been silent and the Priests had put the armour reverently back to the feet of the deity. Such a warrior had yet to be born. Generations of Kalinga Kings fervently wished they would be the ones chosen to present the armour to such a warrior.
The Sun God had blessed the present King of Kalinga, as the stars now pointed to such a warrior. The mighty King had fallen at the feet of the twenty-two-year-old, while Guru Parashurama looked at his most outstanding disciple with pride. The Guru had said the Sun God had blessed the Kalinga King indeed, as Karna was not just a great warrior but also a learned Brahmin. The Court of Muzaris had exploded in applause while Karna squirmed within. The King was reverential and he had insisted Karna bless him every morning until he left the Chera kingdom. Now the King of Kalinga was one of his many foes and wanted his head. How could such a reverential relationship be thus easily broken just because he was a Suta? Was it not defying the wish of his patron God, Surya, wondered Karna in deep sadness.
Immersed in his thoughts, Karna reached the palace gates. He cursed himself for not having purchased some proper clothes. He was still wearing the Captain's borrowed clothes, which itched in many places. The guards looked at him with suspicion and curiosity. They had never seen a fellow countryman wearing such clothes. Karna asked for a palm leaf at the Security Chief's office. Scribbling 'Vasusena' on it, he asked for it to be delivered to the Yadava Chief. He put down two coins as a bribe but the Security Chief laughed and returned them politely. Karna was pleasantly surprised. He waited under the shade of a tamarind tree outside. He looked around and saw the city had prospered greatly in the last eight years. Although he had not been here before, he had heard it had been a wasteland where nothing grew. He had also seen a miniature model of it in Balarama's room, and the passion in the Yadava leader's eyes, which energized everyone around him. He could easily imagine him working hard to raise this city up from nothing. His admiration for Balarama rose still higher.
Dwaraka had an air of freshness and energy. There were shining mansions and swanky shops; curiously shaped chariots, with all manner of decorations and trappings, whizzing past in the streets; teenagers prancing around on horses; and elephants lumbering past carrying noblemen and women, leaving the sweet chimes of bells behind them. The city was completely unlike the mad chaos of Hastinapura or the exotic cosmopolitism of Muzaris. It was not yet the largest city in India but it was definitely on its way. It lacked the art and culture of Kashi or Kanchipuram and the glitter of Mathura, but compensated for it with the vigour of youth. Balarama was working his magic. He had built a city from nothing. He was also showing the world that he could build a city that followed rules - with clean streets, proper drains, hygienic eating-places, tree-lined avenues, and tiled footpaths. Balarama was showing everyone that all this was possible here and now.
A guard broke into Karna's reverie. He bowed low and invited him to follow. Karna was escorted to the entrance of Balarama's chamber, where he hesitated a moment, wondering how the Yadava leader would receive him. Then he took a deep breath and entered. Balarama looked older. His hair had begun to recede, making his forehead look larger. He sat poring over the bundles of manuscripts piled on his table. What struck Karna immediately was the utter simplicity of his white attire. With a white cotton dhoti and a shawl thrown loosely over his shoulders as his only adornment, the great leader of the Yadavas looked like any of his people - except for the magnetism that emanated from him like an unseen force. Karna thought that without the gold ornaments, sparkling diamonds or pearl necklaces he had come to associate with the rich Kings of the Southern Confederate, Balarama looked almost naked. Karna stood, waiting patiently for Balarama to raise his head and say something. He felt embarrassed and irritated, but hoped this did not show on his face. He had expected a warmer reception from his mentor.
After what seemed an eon, Balarama raised his head from the pile of work and smiled at Karna, who relaxed a little. "By Shiva, you have grown so tall and handsome! My mind still carried the image of the young boy who stood in front of me years ago and spoke of his dreams. Karna, how happy I am to see you!" Balarama rushed to embrace the stiff young man. "You are still a sentimental rascal. I knew you had come and were standing there waiting for me to say something. I was just seeing whether you
had changed. I am happy to see you have not. You still have the emotions of a human being. I was afraid your training would have made you lose your goodness of heart and turned you into a calculating and manipulative man, hungry for worldly success. But your face reflects your goodness and I am happy, Karna."
Karna cursed himself. Did his face really show whatever he thought? Balarama led him to the couch in the corner and sat down without letting loose his grip on Karna's wrist. He touched the armour and said admiringly, "It looks great on you. Such fine workmanship! Where did you get it?"
These words broke through Karna's reticence. He recounted his adventures in the South and talked of the glittering Asura kingdoms and their proud Kings. He spoke of the horrible caste system, which was many times more rigid than in Hastinapura, and the dogmatic men who regulated it. He spoke of the miserable life of the Pariahs and other Untouchables, alongside the life of leisure of the richer classes. He described the great dance forms and magnificent temples, the architecture, engineering skills, and music, of the Southern Confederate, and the lovely lands that had been blessed by nature's bounty. But when he mentioned his enigmatic Guru, Parashurama, he choked. Karna no longer felt like a proud warrior, but a young boy scolded by his father for no fault of his.
Balarama watched Karna and squeezed his shoulder when the young man stopped speaking. He understood the emotions Karna was trying to keep hidden. "What happened then? Were you able to make a good impression on him?" Balarama asked softly.
AJAYA I -- Roll of the Dice Page 24
