AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2)

by Anand Neelakantan

  The crowd was dangerously silent.

  “The next time you hear the immortal story of Bharata, pause to think whether it was dharma to break the thighs of a man who had always played fair, a man who could have easily chosen any of the Pandava brothers to duel with instead of Bhima, but he chose fairly even when he knew everything was lost.”

  “Stop all this nonsensical talk!” someone shouted at Aswathama.

  “You can shut my mouth but can you shut my thoughts or the doubts that confuse anyone with a fair mind? The next time you read the great story of our country, read about the sinner, Aswathama. What I did was ignoble, I should never have killed the Pandava boys. I have been cursed with a conscience. I would have escaped my fate had I too had a friend who could justify my black deed with scriptures. Alas, my friend was a mere mortal, an ignorant and evil man who knew no dharma. Even when he was dying, he did not condone my act. He said I should have fought fair and won or died as he was doing. I carry his sadness as a curse on my head just as I carry my conscience. I have no cloak of dharma to hide my shame. My body is full of sores but I don’t even deserve death.”

  “Kill this sinner! Kill this liar!” shouted a few priests who had assembled, drawn by rumours about a tirade against dharma.

  “Liar? I am the liar? Ha! The next time you read Vyasa’s great epic, read with your eyes open. I shall be there with you whenever the story is told. I will be standing near you, whispering to your conscience to read between the lines. When you watch plays glorifying the Pandavas and their dharma, you will feel the gnawing of doubt in your mind. Know that I am that doubt. When you pray, you will see the lamp flicker; I am the breeze that makes it dance. Do not say I have not warned you. As long as the great epic is read, Aswathama will live, the Brahmin cursed with immortality will be there, looking over your shoulder. You will not see me, but I will possess your mind. I am everlasting doubt as well as the eternal logic of the reasoning mind. I am Aswathama, the cursed.”

  The crowd stood still, shocked by the madman’s words. Insanity was a dangerous thing. The first stone caught Aswathama on the bridge of his nose. He gasped as the next one hit his mouth, shattering a tooth. Before he could run for cover a hailstorm of stones hit him and the crowd rushed at him to stomp him out. They beat him with sticks and stones, anything they could lay their hands on. Still he refused to die, Aswathama, the immortal. He was saved by the sound of a conch. His tormentors turned towards the sound and a cheer rose when they saw the golden chariot with the baby King and the army marching behind.

  As the procession moved on, Yuyutsu saw a Brahmin lying near an overturned garbage bin, bleeding. ‘Must be drunk,’ he thought. He turned his attention back to building up the enthusiasm of the crowd. The juggernaut rolled on. Nevertheless, the sacred thread across the man’s shoulder was an insult to dharma and he ordered a guard to break it. The man rushed over to the prone figure and tugged at the sacred thread until it snapped. Then he hurried back, almost stumbling over a dog that had somehow slipped through the procession. It yelped at him but a kick in its ribs was enough to scare it away.

  Yuyutsu looked at the fallen Brahmin one last time and was surprised to see an untouchable sitting near him, a dog with him. ‘Good,’ he thought, the sinner was going to die with an untouchable polluting him at the time of death. God was meting out deserving punishment to all sinners. God was great.

  ***

  Jara tried to wake Aswathama. “Swami, Swami,” he cried as he fumbled for the pot of water he carried. It was dry. He was afraid to touch the Brahmin, the loss of his sacred thread notwithstanding. How could he wake the Brahmin without touching him? Jara remembered the flute Krishna had given him and he pulled it out of his bundle. He nudged the prone figure on the ground with it and slowly, Aswathama stirred. The dog wagged his tail.

  “Swami, wake up. Open your eyes. Look... my Dharma is back.”

  Aswathama’s eyes flared with anger when he heard dharma mentioned. With surprising swiftness he sat up, a scowl on his bleeding face. When he understood the beggar had meant his blind dog, Aswathama’s face finally broke into a smile. The procession was thundering past near them, raising clouds of dust to the heavens. He coughed, vomited blood, and then fell back. Jara did not hesitate, he lifted the Brahmin, trying to drag him away from the road, away from the march of dharma. Jara knew the Brahmin had not fainted because of the injuries he had received during the lynching; he had seen the look of hunger in Aswathama’s eyes. No one knew more about hunger than he did. Jara fumbled with his bundle and brought out the cooked rice he had collected the previous day. He spread a banana leaf on the dusty pavement and then shook Aswathama awake.

  The procession had gathered speed and the slogans were deafening, shaking the ground. Thunder sounded, cracking open the secret vault of heaven. Rain lashed the streets. The crowd roared in excitement. It was a sign from the Gods that this was a righteous war. The wind howled. The last chariot passed the fallen Brahmin and the beggar, splashing dirty water over them both. Dharma stood up, thereby preventing the little food they had from getting soiled. When the procession had become a dot in the distance, the dog shook himself dry and then went to sit beside its master, eager to be fed.

  “Krishna,” Jara prayed and Aswathama’s eyes flashed with anger. He tried to get up but fell back weakly. “Krishna, you have come before us as food, as this Brahmin. You are love. You are compassion. I offer this rice to you. Itham na mama.”

  The untouchable began to feed the Brahmin as Dharma the blind dog waited patiently.

  Ithi mama Mahabharata Katha

  Sambhavami Yuge Yuge

  This is the story of my Great Bharata.

  It happens in all ages.

  *****

  Afterword

  DHARMA ¬

  A SUBTLE CONCEPT

  THERE IS NOTHING IN INDIA that has sparked more debate than the concept of dharma. It is a word that stands alone. Before the Bhakti movement rewrote the Ramayana and Mahabharata as stories where dharma wins over adharma, the very concept of dharma used to be debated vigorously. The Mahabharata is an example of each side believing they had dharma with them and they fought for that. Kurukshetra is thus considered to be dharmakshetra, a place where two definitions of dharma faced each other.

  Duryodhana famously asks Krishna that if following swadharma or dharma as defined by one’s heart is the greatest dharma, was he not doing his Kshatriya duty by trying to protect his inheritance? The conventional argument from traditionalists is that dharma is based on the Vedas. Krishna answers Arjuna’s scepticism about dharma and adharma by saying that the scriptures are the authority for deciding this. Narada, the divine saint, also says to Yudhishtra that dharma has three cornerstones or thrayi mula: the Rig, Yajur and Sama Vedas. The Vedas are the roots of dharma. However, the counter argument to this is given in the Mahabharata itself, when Bhishma says dharma is the root of the Vedas. Once we accept this argument, then dharma becomes a dynamic concept that evolves over time, depending on the needs of the people. So the dharma of the Vedas served the needs of the people of the time, but the dharma of today may be different. Krishna also says that dharma changes with time and place, though he is quick to add that the scriptures are the final authority.

  In the Anusashasana Parva, Bhishma says to Yudhishtra that only Kala, the Lord of Death (or Yama, the God of Yamam, a measure of time), can decide what dharma or adharma is, mere mortals cannot understand it. It is Time that decides how humans are punished or rewarded for their karma or actions. Everything happens due to some cause. Only time can reveal whether one has acted as per dharma or not. This law, though logical, offers no solace to anyone. Every action becomes a shot in the dark as we cannot tell what the results will be. Krishna offers an antidote to this confusion by advising nishkama karma or acting without worrying over the outcome, as acts of devotion. This serves those who are confused about what action to take when faced with a dilemma, but it can be a dangerous tool in the hands of others. In Brit
ish India, thugs often argued that they were dacoits by jati and looting was their kula dharma. All wars and violence can be justified using the argument of dharma.

  In contrast, Balarama says ahimsa is the greatest dharma. His argument becomes relevant when we consider the lives of the women in the Mahabharata. It’s a man’s world, where women get abducted, pawned, stripped, widowed and raped. All the Pandava and Kaurava progeny are male, with the sole exception of Dushala, as are Karna’s children. How can one account for this improbable imbalance? It is ironic that except in the case of Draupadi, no other acts of violence against women are debated within the fine definitions of dharma. The Nishada woman and her children are quickly forgotten, the thousands of women and children who die in Khandivaprastha are never mentioned again. Even the fate of Gandhari, abducted and forcibly married to a blind man, is not spoken of except to praise her for being a pativrata who denied herself the sight her husband did not have. When Krishna’s wives are abducted by dacoits or when Sushala loses her only son, it is they who suffer. Some things never seem to change, even in the twenty-first century.

  The counter argument to Balarama’s ahimsa is: can a ruler be non-violent? How can he then chastise wrongdoers? Another argument which frequently surfaces is the breaking of dharma when faced with danger, called apad dharma. When one needs to protect one’s kin, is it not right to use violence? The epic keeps throwing up questions and from every answer more questions sprout up. There is no absolute right or wrong in Vyasa’s Mahabharata, echoed in Shakespeare’s line from Hamlet: There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

  Yudhishtra dealt with this confusion by following tradition, by acting in the time-tested way. He says to Drupada that he does not understand dharma as it is very subtle. He chooses to follow the path of his forefathers and strives to speak only the truth. It is thus natural that such a staunch traditionalist comes into conflict with Suyodhana, who wanted to change everything. He was willing to make a Suta a king, befriend a Nishada, and allow a Brahmin to wield the bow. Briefly, he makes Aswathama King of Uttara Panchala. It is evident he follows his heart. He is a creature of passion, not a man of logic. He admits this many times in the epic. Suyodhana is a man of extremes; he loves his friends unconditionally and hates his enemies with heartfelt passion. For such a man there is no confusion about what is right or wrong. His heart guides him.

  Confusion comes to those like Arjuna, Karna, Aswathama and Yudhishtra, who struggle with their conscience. Was it not Karna’s dharma to protect his friend and refuse to give his word not to kill all the Pandavas to Kunti? On the other hand, was it not Karna’s dharma to side with his brothers when Kunti revealed he was her son? And Yudhishtra says that had he known Karna was his brother he would not have claimed the throne. The enigmatic question thus remains, had Suyodhana known Karna was his eldest cousin, how would he have reacted? Krishna rejects the claim that Karna was never a Pandava, as he was born before Kunti’s marriage, thus making Karna’s sacrifice meaningless. Moreover, was Aswathama right in killing Draupadi’s sons in revenge? Was he right in trying to prove his loyalty to his friend by committing such a condemnable act? Was he or the Pandavas who killed the Nishadas, dharmic? Additionally, Yuyutsu, Dhritarashtra’s Vaishya son’s emergence as the ultimate victor is yet another irony of the epic.

  The greatness of Vedavyasa’s work is in the questions it evokes every time we read it, rather than in the answers given by preachers who reduce it to a simplistic tale of good versus evil. Such explanations do great injustice to the genius of Vyasa. I believe such explanations are the result of non-Indian influences on our psyche, the after-product of a wounded civilisation. It may be noted that the rise of the Bhakti movement coincided with the Islamic conquest of India. The open-minded rationalism of Indian thought went into hiding and blind devotion took its place. The blurred lines of dharma and adharma and the speculative philosophy that thrived in debate and delighted generations of a confident civilisation, slowly gave way to absolute definitions of good and evil, which are almost a Semitic concept and the hallmark of religious beliefs in the Middle East.

  Ironically, it is in the villages of India that the willingness to think from all angles and points of view still thrives. In the course of my travels to remote villages, I once met a sadhu who refused to tell me his name. I met him near the Gokarna temple and we had an interesting chat. When he asked me what I did, I said I reinterpreted the epics from the loser’s point of view. He laughed and asked me why I wrote. He also asked who the loser was in any of our Puranas and who the winner? When I said that Ravana and Duryodhana were the losers, he laughed and asked me to read the epics again and again until I understood them. There were no victors or vanquished, just people and their lives, he said. I mentioned that I felt an empathy for the vanquished and wished to present their side as well.

  In reply, true to the best traditions of our country, he told me an old Kannada folktale. It was about Barbarika, the son of Khatotkacha, who comes to fight alongside the Pandavas against the Kauravas. He was a formidable warrior and could win the war single handedly, but he has a great weakness. He was so compassionate that he could not stand to see anyone defeated. He was always the champion of the underdog. He supported the Pandavas because the Kauravas had more men fighting on their side; the Pandavas were the underdogs when the war began. But with his help, the Pandavas start winning against the Kauravas.

  When Barbarika sees the fallen faces of the Kauravas, he feels pity and changes sides to fight against the Pandavas.

  Then it is the Pandavas’ turn to lose. Barbarika feels pity stir for the Pandavas and changes sides once again. This continues, causing frustration on both sides. The war could never end if Barbarika kept supporting the losing side. Fed up with Barbarika’s actions, the warriors approached Krishna to solve the impasse. Krishna called Barbarika and asked him why he was acting in such a bizarre fashion. Barbarika says he is unable to see anyone vanquished. Krishna takes him to a higher plane and shows him the larger picture. From this vantage point, Barbarika sees that both sides are right and both sides wrong, that both are victors and vanquished, dharmic and adharmic. Confused, he asks Krishna what he is then fighting for. Krishna answers that what he sees is maya, the illusion of life, at once fascinating and confusing. No one can decide what is dharma and what is adharma, who is the victor and who is the vanquished. Mortals are but tiny specks in the vast universe, blips in the great ocean of time. Disgusted, Barbarika asks Krishna to behead him and raise his head on a pole so that he can watch the fools who kill each other and laugh at them and at the illusion of life. Krishna asks Bhima to do so. Barbarika’s head thus witnesses the rest of the war, laughing ceaselessly at the folly of the men on both sides.

  The sadhu smiled at me and said, “Son, if those who passionately argue for one side or another, care to pause in their arguments, they will hear Barbarika laughing and mocking them.”

  It was a revelation to me, another of the wonderful stories that never fail to surprise me. The fact that the story was very similar to that of Iravan, which is another popular tale in Tamil Nadu and Kerala, may be incidental. In Tamil Nadu, the cult of Iravan is the most prominent of all village cults. The idol of Iravan, locally known as Aravan, often 10 to 15 feet tall, stands guard at the entrance of many Tamil villages. People unfamiliar with Tamil culture often mistake the statue of Aravan for Ravana. Aravan is considered a guardian God, the God of Koothu, the village dance form, and the protector of women. He is also a God of harvest. In some parts of Tamil Nadu, he is associated with transgenders.

  In Kerala, Iravan is linked to death and he is the bird locally known as Kalankozhi (Mottled Wood Owl). Kalankozhi or the bird of death, is considered to be none other than the son of Arjuna, who was sacrificed before the great Mahabharata war. The bird is a harbinger of death. I still remember lying trembling in my bed, listening to the haunting cries of the Kalankozhi, afraid that the morning would bring news of some death. Now the groves that nestled
such birds have vanished, swept away by rural development and a generation disdainful of tradition. Along with the sacred groves and the birds of death, the water too has vanished from the village wells. Although the state receives more rain than most parts of the world, drought is a harsh reality now. In modern India, where there are only absolutes of right and wrong, and everything has become ‘us versus them’ rather than the accommodative culture of our ancestors, the old traditions are slowly vanishing with the Kalankozhi.

  But everyone and every faith has a place in the great mosaic of our culture. Nothing is absolutely right or wrong. We may perhaps need the head of Barbarika to see the bigger picture. My attempt here has been to show that another side exists to our stories, as important and as relevant as the conventional tale. Stories, I believe, should be about questions, never about answers. Every answer should give birth to a hundred questions. That is the mark of a confident civilisation and that is how we, the sons and daughters of Bharatavarsha, have always celebrated our stories – with debate, argument and counterargument. Certainly not by accepting without dissent.

  Perhaps Barbarika is laughing at all of us. Let us celebrate that laughter.

  *****

  SUGGESTED READING

  1. Sarva Daman Singh. Polyandry in Ancient India. Motilal Banarsidass New Delhi, 1988

  2. John Dowson. Classical History of Hindu Myth and Religion. Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers, New Delhi, 2000

  3. A.L. Ahuja. Women in Indian Mythology. Rupa & Co. New Delhi, 2011