Even glorious Indraprastha, which he had surrendered to Duryodhana in the game of dice, had lost its appeal. He had met a few Naga women who had toiled to build the palace and then been banished from the city. Yet they had come to his aid when he and his brothers entered the forest, bringing fruit for the Pandavas to eat, always standing at a respectful distance. He had given them no space in his city, yet they shared what they had with him. It was all very confusing.
‘War! Whom should I fight against?’ he wondered. It had always been Arjuna who had the doubts, who questioned everything. He had always been so sure of his own divine right to rule, what dharma was. Now the roles had been reversed. His brothers thirsted for revenge against Duryodhana. They felt their honour could only be restored by killing Duryodhana and his friends, who had insulted their wife and made them beggars. As Guru Dhaumya said, he should lead the fighting, yet...
“I will not go back on my word. We will suffer the exile. After the stipulated period, if we still feel the same way, we will fight. Until then, let the son of the King rule,” Yudhishtra said, gazing into the distance.
He heard a crash behind him and turned back. Bhima was hitting a tree with his huge mace, his face grim, his muscles taut. Arjuna sat beside Draupadi, consoling her. It distressed him to see their strong-minded wife weeping. It was more painful than her spirited rebellion and mocking words. The twins had wandered away and Dhaumya followed them. Yudhishtra knew the Guru would try to persuade him again later. The Guru would say all the right things, such as taking revenge against Duryodhana for disrobing Draupadi. He would try to incite their anger. Why did he not feel any rage? As a man wronged, anger should have festered within him like a sore; every living moment he should have felt burning pain, yet all he felt was numbness. ‘Is it because there is very little Kshatriya blood in me?’ he wondered. Who had been his father? How much credence could be given to his mother’s stories about his divine birth as a gift from the God of Death? Yama? Did such a God even exist? Yama was nothing but time, kala, dark time. ‘Am I then the son of Time?’ Yudhishtra wanted to laugh. Perhaps this exile was a catharsis, a journey of self-discovery in search of the real meaning of dharma. Not the dharma spoken of by Dhaumya or even the silver-tongued Krishna.
Yudhishtra’s thoughts were interrupted by Bhima. His huge brother stood reverently before him. “Brother, I wish to see my son. I saw him and his mother from a distance today. The forest dwellers say Hidumbi and my little one live in this forest.”
Yudhishtra stared at Bhima without comprehending what he was saying. Son? Which son? Then he remembered – the son of that untouchable Rakshasi, the Asura woman, Hidumbi. He did not know what to say.
“Yudhishtra, that son was a youthful mistake by your brother. I have been trying to make Bhima see reason, but nothing seems to change his mind. It is accepted that Kshatriyas seek honey in different flowers, like a bee, but the fruit belongs to the plant, not the bee.” Dhaumya rushed to speak, afraid Yudhishtra would weaken and forget his dharma.
“Brother, I saw my son today. Just once, I want to hold his hand. He refuses to leave my mind.” Bhima pleaded.
Yudhishtra looked at Dhaumya. A few days before, he would have categorically refused such a request. How could his brother associate with untouchables? Kshatriya boys were permitted such exploits, though he had never indulged in them. However, looking into Bhima’s eyes, he could not bring himself to deny his brother. He looked at Dhaumya for a way out.
“Bhima, they are untouchables, Rakshasas,” Dhaumya said, shaking his head vigorously.
“Hidumbi is my wife and Khatotkacha is my son,” Bhima stated flatly, almost choking in his effort to speak.
Yudhishtra was surprised by Bhima’s sudden display of emotion. He had rarely seen his brother with anything but a scowl on his face and had often wondered whether he felt any emotion other than anger. Life in the forest was changing them all. He was about to give his permission when Yudhishtra caught Dhaumya’s eye. He had angered his Guru enough for one day.
“Bhima, my brother, it is not good to have attachment towards anything in life. Attachment leads to grief. Bhima, stop!” Yudhishtra watched Bhima walking away without waiting to hear more. Bhima picked up his mace again and began raining violent blows on a tree. He saw Draupadi move towards Bhima and felt a pang of jealousy. He was aware of Dhaumya’s eyes watching him and he hoped his emotions were not reflected on his face. He could hear Draupadi’s voice clearly, telling Bhima more loudly than necessary, to imagine that the tree was Duryodhana. The tree shook in rhythm to the thudding of Bhima’s mace, shedding leaves and splintering inch by inch in groaning protest. The violence in the air was frightening and Yudhishtra shuddered when he heard his Guru laughing.
Dhaumya turned to Yudhishtra and said, “Prince, do not let the anger die. That evil son of the King has to be killed one day. He and his friends are destroying our dharma.”
“Let my brother Bhima take care of Duryodhana,” Arjuna said as he whisked his bow from his shoulder and in one fluid movement, shot an arrow at a distant tree. Another arrow followed, piercing the first with unnerving accuracy. A third followed and split the second. Then Arjuna turned to his brother. “It is not Duryodhana’s head I yearn for. When all is said and done, he is of our blood, our cousin. What I cannot stand is the arrogance of that low caste Suta. One day, my arrow will pierce Karna’s heart.”
Guru Dhaumya retired to his hut with a smile. He was leaving the next morning but had promised to return with Krishna. Yudhishtra was sure that even Krishna could not persuade him to break his resolve to not fight till their term of exile was finished. The sun was sinking behind the trees and the forest was alive with the chatter of monkeys and birds.
As Yudhishtra stood watching him aim arrow after arrow in anger, an uncomfortable thought entered his mind. Perhaps it was the angle of the setting sun or perhaps it was just a delusion induced by hunger.
Arjuna looked at Yudhishtra and smiled. “Why are you staring like that, brother?” Arjuna shot another arrow. There was that thought again! Arjuna turned and chuckled. “Brother, your expression resembles our evil cousin, Duryodhana.”
Yudhishtra looked at Arjuna in silence and then sauntered back to his hut. It was time for his evening ablutions. He had been shocked by Arjuna’s words. Expressions mirrored the thoughts of the mind. He had often laughed at the confused face Duryodhana sometimes had. Then he had been sure about right and wrong and had mocked his cousin for not knowing what dharma was. Now he was not sure who was right and who was wrong. He should have felt the same anger Arjuna or Bhima felt for the wrongs done to them. That he did not, surprised and confused him. He needed to ponder over it.
As Yudhishtra washed his feet before entering his hut, he looked back at Arjuna once more. In a flash, the same thought that had flashed through his mind earlier, returned with blinding force. His brother resembled that low-caste impostor, Karna! How could a Prince of the Kuru dynasty resemble a Suta? In the final reckoning, was there no difference between him and Duryodhana, or Arjuna and Karna? Night had descended from the heavens and the forest was silent except for the sound of crickets. Yudhishtra placed a reed mat on the mud veranda and sat down to meditate. But his mind refused to be tamed. Right, wrong, dharma, adharma, duty, devotion, evil, good, princes, beggars, Nagas, Krishna, everything jumbled together in a confused melee.
A few feet away, Draupadi was urging Bhima to hit the tree harder. He should have allowed Bhima to see the Rakshasi woman and her son. Perhaps the next time he asked, he would let his brother go to see Khatotkacha. But Yudhishtra knew Bhima would never ask again. With a crash, the huge tree fell, frightening the night birds. Yudhishtra looked up from his disturbed meditations. Draupadi’s laughter filled the silence of the night and Yudhishtra felt a shiver of fear. ‘Duryodhana, may this exile never end. Then, perhaps, we may both escape facing the inevitable,’ Yudhishtra murmured softly. When he looked up, Guru Dhaumya was standing beside him, a deep frown on his face, his a
rms crossed over his chest. With head bent like a child caught stealing, Yudhishtra went into his hut without a word and closed the door.
But late into the night, Yudhishtra kept wondering about the strange resemblance between the Suta and his brother, Arjuna. When he remembered Karna, his jeering laugh in the Sabha echoed in his mind. The Suta was enjoying the royal life of Hastinapura with his friends while he, the son of dharma, the man who had followed every religious vow, performed every ritual without fail, respected Brahmins and cows, done all that was proper, and never uttered a lie, languished in the forest wearing a single cloth. Life had been unfair to him by showering blessings on the undeserving, like Karna. But he would not be bitter; he would accept his destiny. He would grow beyond hatred and find meaning in such ironies, the eldest Pandava vowed to himself. But, like an aftertaste of unpalatable medicine, Karna’s laughter when Draupadi had stood shamed, refused to leave him. How lucky men like Karna were! He struggled to concentrate his mind on meditation, but the Suta’s laughter continued to ring in his ears.
***
Which of those men was his father? From a distance Khatotkacha thought he recognised him. His mother had pointed out a giant of a man who stood at least a foot taller than the other Pandavas. As a child, he had fantasised about this moment, when his famous father would visit him in their tribal village, shower him with presents and embrace him. The adults treated him with respect, saying he was lucky to be the son of the famed Pandava, Bhima. But among the boys of his own age, he was the subject of ridicule. His small frame did not help and when one of the older boys had called him a bastard, he had fought him and lost. He had rushed to his mother with a bleeding nose and a black eye. Holding back his tears he had asked her what ‘bastard’ meant. His mother had cried for a long time that day but she had not told him what the word meant.
Later, when the last lamp in the village had gone out, and they were lying together in the courtyard, his mother had told him the story of his father and his uncle Hidumba, whom his father had slain. She told him of Bhima’s exploits and heroism, how he always defeated his evil cousin, Duryodhana. Little Khatotkacha’s heart filled with pride. If bastard meant being the son of such a great man, he could handle the taunts of his friends. He asked innocently when his father would come to see them and waited a long time for a reply, staring at the distant stars that blinked at him from afar. There was no answer that night, nor any night that followed. But in his dreams, his father took him upon his lap and played with him. That was enough.
“Shhh, Khatotkacha, you promised you would not make a sound,” Hidumbi said, tightening her grip on his little wrist.
“But he is my father. You said he would come to see me with lots of presents...” The boy pressed his lips together, excited and tense. His mother had warned him not to make a sound. They were perched on a little hillock and had been waiting since dawn. At last, he could see five men and a woman walking along the forest path. He tried to wriggle free from his mother’s grip but she held him firmly. When the strangers were about to vanish from view, he managed to escape and run towards them.
Hidumbi choked on a sob and called out, “Khatotkacha, wait!”
The boy crashed through the thick undergrowth, startling the tall man in the lead. Khatotkacha suddenly wished he was back with his mother, but his legs refused to move. His heart thudded against his ribs and his throat felt dry. One of the men had taken out his sword.
“Bhima, this urchin looks familiar,” the first man said to the giant behind him.
Khatotkacha’s shoulders relaxed. He was sure his father would come forward and lift him up. At that moment, his mother’s work-worn hands pressed against his shoulders. She was staring at his father. Why did he not even smile at her?
“Father...” Khatotkacha muttered. Bhima took a hesitant step forward.
“Rakshasas! Do not pollute yourself, Bhima,” Yudhishtra urged.
Bhima froze. Hidumbi’s grip tightened on Khatotkacha’s shoulder. He saw the pain in his father’s eyes as the woman with them said with a jeer, “Don’t touch them? How did Bhima father this boy? Another divine birth?”
Yudhishtra turned to Draupadi. “Do not concern yourself with them. The marriage was due to my mother’s misguided pity. Bhima killed Hidumba, this woman’s brother, so our mother made Bhima marry this Rakshasi. Today we are paying for that sin.”
Bhima stood with his gaze fixed on his giant toes.
Pointing at Khatotkacha, Draupadi asked, “Sin? This small boy is a sin to you?” Draupadi’s mirthless laugh echoed the bitterness in Hidumbi’s heart.
“Draupadi, when woman mocks, misfortune follows,” Yudhishtra said sternly.
Draupadi laughed again, startling the birds in the trees. “Of course, of course, it was my laughter that ruined us, Yudhishtra, not your gambling. We all know that.”
Khatotkacha saw the trace of a smile on the lips of the man standing near Bhima, but then Yudhishtra said to him, “Arjuna, let us not waste time in frivolous chatter. Ask this Rakshasi and her son to move out of our path so that we can proceed.”
Without a word Hidumbi moved to one side, dragging Khatotkacha with her. A teardrop fell on his head and he looked up. His mother was wiping her eyes. Was she crying because he had not behaved well? Should he have touched his father’s feet and asked for his blessing?
“Father!” Khatotkacha called out.
Bhima stopped. His companions turned to look. Khatotkacha gulped in embarrassment. His father was staring at him. He tried to keep his chin from trembling. “Father, I heard that Prince Duryodhana cheated you of your palace. When you fight that evil man, call me, I will come to help you.”
“Now that was the only insult left – street urchins and untouchables offering to help the Pandavas,” Arjuna said. The others laughed at the irony. Even Bhima laughed.
That hurt Khatotkacha the most. His mother dragged him away. He was so small, with such puny little hands and dark skin. Which father would not be ashamed of such a son? Perhaps a bastard was someone whose father was ashamed to admit you were his son. Khatotkacha silently vowed to become a great warrior one day. He would never let down his tall, handsome father. He wanted to scream his determination to Bhima’s retreating form. He burrowed his heels into the earth to make his mother stop and turned to look at his father one last time. The sun leaked through the jungle canopy and leaves rustled in the breeze. His father and uncles had vanished, but their laughter lingered in the air.
*****
16 LESSER MEN
VIDHURA HAD BEEN STANDING without saying a word. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, desperately wishing he could sit down. Today he was feeling his years. Bhishma had not spoken since evening. He kept staring through the window, his hands clasped behind him, deep in thought. Outside, the city of Hastinapura was decorated with oil lamps and colourful festoons. The mood inside the chamber of the Grand Regent was more suited to a funeral than a festival. Outside, drums beat in a frenzied rhythm. The clopping of horseshoes, the clanging of bells and the waxing and waning of thousands of cheering voices could be heard, sometimes clearly, sometimes from a distance. A reluctant breeze entered, making the lone torch in the chamber flicker, and played gently with the long flowing beard of the Grand Regent. The beard was now completely white. They were both ageing. Vidhura sighed at the thought.
“How did the Suta achieve it, Vidhura?” Bhishma finally asked.
Vidhura wished he had not heard the hint of jealousy. He had no answer. He focused his eyes on the pool of darkness in the corner of the room. He could not look at the pain in Bhishma’s eyes. Applause sounded outside and the beating of drums grew louder. The Suta’s victory procession had entered the fort. Karna, the son of a charioteer, had achieved what generations of Kuru princes could not. He had defeated the powerful Southern Confederate and was returning with immeasurable wealth from the South. The cheers of ‘Dhanaveera’, ‘Dharmaveera’, and ‘Digvijayi Karna’, echoed around the fort, making the
silence in the chamber unbearable to the two men.
“I never imagined the South could be conquered, and that too, by a mere Suta.” Bhishma gripped the bars of the window. “I think there is more here than the eye can see. Do you think Parashurama would have bestowed his bhargava astra on this Suta without thinking? The Suta must have used deceit. I cannot believe he would otherwise have subdued the South so easily. The most I could gain was a worthless truce.”
Vidhura did not reply. Bhishma began pacing up and down. Vidhura focussed on the Regent’s shadow, which grew into a giant one moment and then turned into a dwarf the next, when he turned.
“There could be a trap, Vidhura. The fool Suyodhana thinks the South is an ally. They are the people who never forget a slight. And a mere Suta has conquered them. All the loot the Suta has brought with him is going to be of no use to us. The South will turn against us when it would matter most, I am sure of it.”
Outside, the cheering rose to a crescendo and Bhishma paused to listen. “I must warn Suyodhana. It will be difficult for me to face that Suta. I never expected to see him again. But I must swallow my pride, must I not, Vidhura? Nobody will say the son of Ganga did not respect a great warrior. Yes, that boy is good, too good for his own well-being. Karna! What a son you fathered, Athiratha.”
Vidhura sneaked a glance at the Grand Regent and saw a small smile lift his lips. He relaxed.
“How did he win when I could not?” Bhishma asked again. “To face everyone after what I said to that Suta will be difficult, Vidhura, but I must. I have never run from a battlefield and I will not run from embarrassment.” Suddenly, Bhishma put his hand on his Prime Minister’s shoulders and said, “If I falter in my courtesies to the Suta, Vidhura, stand beside me and remind me of my duty.”
AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) Page 12
