Shakuni searched the rough floor. If only he could find something hard, a stone perhaps. The rock Ekalavya had used to wrench open the cell door grazed his fingers. Krishna had almost given up hope when Shakuni handed him the stone. With all the pent up anger and rage he felt, Krishna brought it down with great force on Ekalavya’s head. There was the sickening sound of a skull cracking and Ekalavya’s grip on Samba’s throat loosened. Krishna brought down the rock again and again on Ekalavya’s head until he collapsed to the ground. The glassy eyes of the Nishada looked up at his murderer. For a moment Krishna thought he saw a blazing third eye in the dark forehead. He blinked and the illusion disappeared. Perhaps the flickering torchlight had played tricks with his eyes. A breeze rushed through the damp dungeon and snuffed out the struggling flame, plunging them into complete darkness.
The rock slipped from Krishna’s hands and rolled away. His palm was sticky. Despite himself, he brought his hand up to his nose. It smelt of blood, of murder. ‘Oh God, what have I done?’ Krishna shivered. He had slain many people before, but they were his sworn enemies, evil men. For the first time in his life, he felt he had done something wrong. The laws of karma would not allow him to escape. He hoped his Yadava clan would not be destroyed in that lethal retribution.
“Is he dead?” Shakuni whispered.
Krishna had no answer. He did not even know whether the Gandharan was asking about Samba or the Nishada. He sat on the damp ground with his head buried in his hands, the heavy rock of guilt hammering at his heart.
“I will get a torch,” Krishna heard Shakuni say.
The Gandharan’s footsteps faded away. Krishna heard someone cough. Had the Nishada come back to life? He lifted his head but the dark contours of Ekalavya’s body did not move. Again, he heard the coughing. When his eyes had adjusted to the shadows, he saw his son moving. Krishna felt no joy in knowing that Samba was still alive. He was beyond any emotion. He struggled to find some justification for what he had done. He knew he would carry this guilt to his funeral pyre.
When Shakuni returned, Samba was standing. He should have waited for a few more seconds before passing the rock to Krishna, the Gandharan thought with a slight grimace. In the flickering light of the torch he held, he saw Samba’s eyes glittering with maniacal rage.
“Ekalavya is dead. You are safe, my son. We saved you, Samba,” Shakuni cried, backing away a few steps from the scene.
Krishna woke from his stupor. “What you have made me do?” he cried, looking at his son.
“One Nishada less is one trouble less,” retorted Samba.
A vein throbbed in Krishna’s neck as he looked at his son.
“You saved my life, but as a father it was your duty and your dharma to do so. Why are you so glum?” Samba said, backing out of the cell.
“You have made me do something I will always be ashamed of,” Krishna replied quietly.
“Just think of him as a Rakshasa you killed to save the world, or say that you gave him moksha and that he is now in Vaikunta, enjoying all the things that were denied to him in this life. Dhaumya will know how to spread the right rumours. Why worry? Let us get out of this hellhole and go back to Dwaraka. Life is too short to worry about a dead Nishada.”
Krishna’s eyes hardened but Samba’s lips curved into a derisive smile. He knew how to control his father.
Durjaya shouted from the other cell, “Friend, friend...have you forgotten our deal? Have you forgotten our pact that whoever gets free first, will release the other?”
“Oh, never! Samba always stands by his friends,” Samba said as he pushed past Krishna. He kicked Ekalavya’s body, picked up the bloody rock that had killed the Nishada, and rushed towards Durjaya’s cell.
“What are you doing?” Shakuni asked, trying to stop Samba, horrified at the thought of the consequences. Things had been going terribly wrong for the Gandharan in the last few moments. If Durjaya was freed on terms other than his, he knew he would never be able to control the crime lord.
Samba shoved Shakuni away. The torch rolled away from his hands and shadows danced in its haphazard light. Samba broke open the heavy lock on Durjaya’s cell with powerful blows. Durjaya grabbed the rock from Samba’s hands and rushed to the next cell, and the next, breaking the bolts and freeing his followers.
Krishna heard soldiers rushing in and the yells of men fighting a pitched battle. They appeared to be in the midst of a prison riot.
“Fool! What have you done?” Krishna hissed at Samba.
“Durjaya is to me what the Pandavas are to you. Is it not my dharma to help my friend when he is in distress?” Samba hissed back at his father. “Durjaya, throw this trash in some forest,” Samba shouted over the din, pointing to Ekalavya’s still body. Durjaya ran back to them with two of his men. One of them lifted Ekalavya onto his shoulder.
“A feast for the beasts of the forests,” gloated Samba, punching Ekalavya’s face.
Krishna was horrified by his son’s words and actions. Was this beast really the flesh of his flesh? Did his blood flow through his veins?
“All the guards are dead and we have lost twenty men. No one escaped to raise an alarm,” one of Durjaya’s men shouted.
“Good!” Durjaya hugged Samba and bowed to Krishna. Then he turned towards Shakuni who was trying to remain inconspicuous in a corner. “Mlecha, say your last prayers!” he yelled with glee.
Two dozen men advanced towards Shakuni. The Gandharan’s hand reached for his dagger; and he cursed when he did not find it. Of course, it had been taken from him at the entrance.
“Bloody foreigner! You betrayed me! Thirteen years I have rotted in this dark dungeon. That is what your friendship earned us. You will pay for it, my dear friend.” Durjaya walked towards Shakuni, terrible intent clear in his eyes.
“Durjaya, wait! I can explain. Don’t act in haste and regret it later.” Shakuni’s voice faltered. He stumbled backwards until his head hit an overhanging rock. “Don’t kill me.” Shakuni cursed himself for the fear he felt. He was going to die like a rat at the hands of vermin like Durjaya. He would die without having achieved his life’s ambition of destroying India. ‘Lords of heaven and earth, give me one more chance,’ he prayed fervently, every fibre of his being beseeching his Gods above for a reprieve.
“Kill you? Why would I kill you so quickly? You are coming with us,” said Durjaya, shaking him by his hair.
Men rushed to Shakuni, punching and kicking. The Gandharan knew it was useless to resist and so fell to the ground, feigning unconsciousness.
“Samba, we will meet again someday. For now, I am taking your dead Nishada and my old friend, Shakuni.” Durjaya and his men rushed out of the dungeon, carrying Ekalavya’s dead body and Shakuni’s inert form with them.
When Krishna and Samba emerged, stepping over the bodies of the slain men, it was already dark outside. They later learnt that Durjaya had murdered the stable guards and ridden away on the stolen horses. The hunt for the fugitives would prove futile. Durjaya and his gang would come to haunt the Yadavas later, but they did not know it at the time. Survival was the greatest dharma, Krishna tried to convince himself. He had to get away before Duryodhana learnt the truth. It was essential his loutish son marry Suyodhana’s daughter before he discovered what had happened. Once the marriage rites had been performed, Duryodhana would not do anything to harm his son-in-law. The life of a widow was the worst fate a father could inflict upon his daughter. However, for everything to go according to plan, Samba had to agree to the marriage.
“I found you lying unconscious in prison and brought you out. There was a riot... the guards had been already killed when I got there. That will be the story we will relate. We have not seen Shakuni or Ekalavya,” Krishna said, his mouth tasting of ashes.
“Whatever you say, Father. But I do not fancy that girl anymore. I had her and she holds no further charm for me. Nevertheless, if it makes you happy, I will marry her. This is a good kingdom; once I take care of that boy-lover brother of hers,
it will be mine. I will keep your dirty secret safe, but never lord it over me again,” said Samba, a lopsided grin on his rugged face.
Krishna wished he had smashed his son’s head instead of the Nishada’s skull. It was too late now. Samba was his burden, the burden all fathers who sired wayward sons carried. ‘Karmaphala, the fruits of karma,’ he sighed, as he dragged himself towards the palace where Duryodhana waited.
*****
39 SOLITARY SOUL
“SWAMI, SWAMI!” THE PANICKED VOICE woke Vidhura from a disturbed sleep. He reached out to touch his wife’s forehead. It was burning hot. She looked even more frail than she had the previous day, but somehow she had survived another night. God be praised for His mercy.
“Swami!” the voice grew frantic.
Vidhura rose from his bed, opened the rickety door, and peered out.
Jara and his dog stood outside.
“Swami, come with me.” Jara began running off without waiting for Vidhura’s reply.
Vidhura followed as fast as his rheumatic legs would carry him. They reached a clearing where some tribals stood around something lying on the ground. The smell of putrefying flesh was like a physical blow. Vidhura willed himself to look. It bore little resemblance to a man, much less a warrior. Jara sat nearby, tears running down his face. The dog sniffed at the remains of the body, but Jara pulled the animal back. The man had been dead for a long time. Flies buzzed over the bloated face. There were open wounds all over the sagging black skin. Wild beasts had been there before them.
Fighting the bile that rose to his throat, Vidhura bent to look closer. Where has he seen this man? Then it struck him like a thunderbolt. Ekalavya! Memories of the proud boy who had sat in his home years before, refusing a second serving of food, came rushing to his mind.
“I loved him like my brother. He was my brother, Swami.” Jara cried. “But everything is Maya; Krishna is testing us. No one ever dies, Swami. The soul is immortal. Krishna knows everything. He sees everything. He is compassionate. He would never let this happen without a reason. We are merely fools who do not understand, Swami. But when I look at my brother’s face, I forget Krishna’s divine teachings. I do not deserve to be a Krishna bhakta, Swami.”
“Get me a shovel,” Vidhura said curtly to the men standing around. He was not in a position to give Ekalavya a proper funeral. Burning his body might attract someone’s attention. Already these tribals had seen it. He had to extract a promise from them that they would keep quiet. One day or the other the truth would come out, but he would delay it as long as possible. The country could not afford a war, not when people were dying from the drought.
The men returned with some rusty implements and they began to dig. The ground was rock hard and it took them a long time to make a pit deep enough to bury the Nishada who had once dreamt of challenging Arjuna. If they had fought on equal terms, who would have won, wondered Vidhura. Could a self-taught Nishada, who lacked a thumb, have possibly defeated the greatest archer in Bharatavarsha? It did not matter now. The Nishada was dead. He had deserved much more in life. Even in death, he was denied the dignity he merited. Had he been born in some other country, far from this holy land, bards would have sung of his heroic deeds for thousands of years.
“Do not speak about this to anyone,” Vidhura called out as Jara began to walk away, his shoulders bent, his dog trotting behind.
“I will not, Swami. Life and death are like day and night, a part of nature. His soul is immortal. It will have reached Vaikunta, at the feet of Lord Vishnu. I cry because I am sad and ignorant. May Krishna give me wisdom.”
The men who had found Ekalavya soon dispersed. Vidhura stood alone in the forest for a long time. Around him, gnarled trees begged the sky for water. Bird cries were now just faded memories. The sun glowed like a fireball, sucking life out of the earth. When his shadow grew long, Vidhura walked back to his hut, wiping the sweat from his body with his shabby angavastra.
Life had not been easy for Vidhura. His wife had been sick for a long time. What he earned by teaching a few students was hardly enough to keep his family from starving. In the initial days he had taught students of all castes and found some happiness in passing on what he knew. But soon the students had dropped out, one by one. Except for the brahmacharis Sage Vyasa sent his way occasionally, there was no one willing to learn the Vedas from a Shudra. The upper castes detested him and the lower castes found no value in learning what he had to offer. His sons grew up wild and ignorant. They even shared the same woman, emulating the five Pandava brothers who had married Draupadi. Vidhura’s heart ached for his sons.
When he opened the reed door of his hut, Vidhura saw he was now alone in the world. Parshavi looked serene in death. Vidhura sat on the mud floor looking at her still beautiful face. He had failed her as a husband. He had not even been there when she left him forever. He had gone to bury a Nishada, as though it was more important than bidding farewell to the woman who had suffered with him for twenty-five long years. He wanted to say many things to her, apologize for everything and nothing, but the words had lost all sense for her, and for him. The hut seemed destitute without her, just like his life. Vidhura wept.
*****
40 RANSOM
“IS THIS A BEGGAR’S RANSOM?” Durjaya asked and his companions roared with laughter. Moving towards the boy, he lifted the stubborn chin with the tip of his dagger. “Thirteen years in a dark dungeon infested by rats and scorpions is what I got for trusting your father,” Durjaya spat out.
Swallowing his shame, Uluka fell at Durjaya’s feet. Shakuni averted his eyes. His son, the scion of Gandhara, falling at the feet of a worthless criminal! ‘Father, forgive me, but it is all for the cause. I will make India pay tenfold and its soil will be soaked in blood,’ he vowed silently as he watched his son abase himself.
“Sir, have mercy. We have stripped our places of worship, emptied our treasury, begged each household in Gandhara for gold. We have pawned all our assets, including our palace, to the merchant Yuyutsu – all for my father’s life.”
His son was begging, kneeling at the criminal’s feet. It was almost more than Shakuni could bear. Perhaps it would be better to die and spare Gandhara this shame. But that was the coward’s way. His country was more important than his pride.
“Lick my feet,” Durjaya ordered.
There was a moment’s hushed silence and then more howling laughter. Uluka licked Durjaya’s feet. Shakuni’s fingers dug into his thighs. Someone cut the ropes that bound him and Durjaya yanked Uluka up from the floor.
“Mlecha, I am sparing your life for now. The Crown Prince of Gandhara has licked my feet for your life.” The laughter was like molten lead poured into Shakuni’s ears. Durjaya’s hand tightened around Shakuni’s throat. “I can reach deep into your country, Mlecha. Wag your tail again and you won’t even know what hit you.” Durjaya pushed Shakuni away disdainfully.
Durjaya’s men shoved the treasure into sacks. Gandhara’s treasures. When they had taken the last coin from the ground, someone kicked Shakuni in the face. Soon others were doing the same. Shakuni coiled into a foetal position. He was determined not to give them the pleasure of hearing him cry in pain.
Like a storm passing, Shakuni’s tormentors grew tired of the sport and went away. He steadied himself, supported by his son. Uluka half-carried, half-dragged his father away. Without his son, he would have slipped on his own blood. A pariah kite was circling in the gloomy sky outside. Shakuni stared at it for a long time and found his strength creeping back. “How did you raise so much money?”
“I emptied the treasury, pawned the palace to Yuyutsu, and when that was not enough, begged the people.”
“Did you use force to collect the ransom?” Shakuni asked. The kite’s circles were becoming tighter.
“Not really. Most of our countrymen love you more than I ever could.” His son’s voice betrayed an odd sense of pride.
Shakuni suppressed the sob that threatened to break his heart. He could
not fail his people’s trust. The kite circled in the air.
“Father,” his son’s hand was gentle on his shoulders, “come home.”
“What would you have done if Durjaya had killed me?”
“I would have led the Gandhara army to Hastinapura to capture and strangle him to death.”
Shakuni’s eyes blurred with tears. “Son, I am doing the same thing for my massacred father and brothers. This is my dharma. When you get home, tell our people that no King ever loved his people as much as Shakuni has. Beg their pardon for the wrongs I have done them.”
Shakuni limped away. Any more words and he would have cried like a child. He saw the kite dive into the forest like an arrow. It must have found its prey. He wiped the blood from his lips. He should have said a proper goodbye to his son, embraced him one last time. He was not sure he would see Uluka again. The time had come for a final roll of the dice.
*****
41 VIRATA
SHAKUNI TOOK A DEEP BREATH before entering his nephew’s chambers.
“Where have you been?” Suyodhana asked with a trace of irritation.
Karna and Aswathama looked at each other.
Shakuni bowed low. Should he tell Suyodhana about Ekalavya’s death now or later? It would be better to save it for later, when the impact would be greater. “I had some urgent business in Gandhara. The Yavanas dared to attack again. I heard about the prison riots. Have you caught Durjaya? I am sorry to have missed Lakshmana’s wedding. Your plan to blow the Pandavas’ cover and avoid a costly war is certainly a clever one, Suyodhana.” Shakuni smiled thinly at his nephew.
“We have no time to worry about Durjaya now. Our soldiers are out hunting for the Pandavas but there are only 15 days left for the end of their exile. How are we to entice them out of hiding?” Sushasana asked.
“Ah, Sushasana, I didn’t even see you sitting in that dark corner. Think, my nephew, what would force them to leave Virata? What is their greatest strength? Think how we can convert it into their greatest weakness,” responded his uncle.
AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) Page 23
