by Mukunda Rao
‘What are you doing here, my dear cousin?’ he jeered at him. ‘How is it that you are here and not in the battlefield among your dear ones, who sacrificed their lives to satisfy your arrogance and pride? Where is that pride of yours now, Duryodhana? Have you lost your nerve after the deaths of Drona, Bheeshma and Karna, and run away to save yourself? Are you afraid of death, my dear cousin? You are a Kshatriya, born to a noble family, aren’t you? Come, Duryodhana, the war is not over, come out and fight like the warrior that you are. You can choose your weapon and fight one of us. If you win, you can still be the lord of the world.’
What was he saying? Duryodhana was invincible with his mace, and if he agreed to fight with Yudhishthira, he would pulverize him in no time. The brothers glanced at Yudhishthira in irritation, especially Bheema, who felt they should have left Yudhishthira back at the camp. Krishna screwed up his fine eyes as if to say, My dear Yudhishthira, when will you learn to speak like a king? But there was no reaction from Duryodhana.
Yudhishthira spoke again. Trying hard to be sarcastic, he said, ‘My dear cousin, you cannot hide in fear. Come out and meet your destiny. Tell me, except your life, what else may I give you?’ This was meant to taunt and provoke Duryodhana to fight, but it sounded as though he were requesting Duryodhana to kindly come out and relieve him of the awful burden of becoming the king of damned Hastinapura. Krishna frowned. Then, in spite of himself, he smiled. The great Dharmaraya would be offering his wife and brothers next as a sacrifice for the sin of killing Bheeshma and Drona.
Duryodhana did not get angry nor, mercifully, laugh at Yudhishthira’s histrionics. He did not move but remained still, like a mountain in a storm. Then, after a long pause, slowly, almost listlessly, he turned to Yudhishthira and spoke, ‘Don’t brag like a fool, Yudhishthira. You must know that I have never been afraid of death.’
But Duryodhana wanted to die. He did not want the kingdom, he did not want to rule the world; it was all over for him. ‘I will not fight,’ he cried with disgust. ‘I’m finished with fighting. You won the war, Yudhishthira, you won it through deceit and treachery. Take the kingdom, it is all yours, and rule over the dead. Take this earth shorn of all her beauty and splendour. Just leave me alone. I do not know what to do, I do not know what to think; I have no desire to live any longer. All is over.’
For the Pandavas, all was not over, not until Duryodhana was slain. Wasn’t it his insatiable greed for power, his incurable jealousy and pride, and his hatred of the Pandavas, that had caused the destruction of Bharatavarsha? Before Yudhishthira could open his mouth again, Bheema shouted in fury, ‘You are in no position to gift the world to us, Duryodhana. Don’t speak like an overemotional woman after causing the death of all your near and dear ones. Nothing is going to save you now. Stop acting and come out and fight like a man.’
As the Pandavas rained insults on him, Duryodhana came alive like a provoked cobra. ‘Sinners,’ he hissed in rage. He was the diehard Duryodhana again, and he roared, sending shivers through the Pandavas.
Wielding their maces, Duryodhana and Bheema charged at each other like wild bulls. It was a terrible gadhayudh, the likes of which had never been fought before. The clash of their dreadful maces burnt the air. They fought ruthlessly, yet within the rules of the game. When one fell, the other waited for the fallen one to recoup, and then they began the battle again. They jumped up, they jumped backwards, dodging the swing of each other’s mace. They circled, eyes on each other, trying to find an opening. Duryodhana, nimble as a wild cat, was the superior of the two. He was as good as his guru, Balarama. There was no way he could be defeated in a fair fight. Bheema’s enormous strength was of no help against Duryodhana’s speed and skill. Hit repeatedly, his shoulders badly bruised, Bheema appeared to lose his animal courage, and his defeat seemed certain. The Pandavas had won the war all right, but now Bheema’s defeat and his possible death threatened to undo their victory.
As the winds became fierce, as the fight progressed, Duryodhana grew in strength and confidence. His powerful knocks sent Bheema reeling to the ground. Krishna caught Bheema’s eye just as he was struggling back to his feet, and he struck his own thigh, smiling meaningfully. Bheema understood. Gripping his deadly mace with both hands, with renewed strength and cruel intent, he rose roaring like a lion and, with all the power he could muster, forsaking the rules of war, he struck Duryodhana violently on his thighs over and over again.
As Duryodhana tottered like a tree caught in a storm and fell to the ground, screaming in unbearable pain, a frightful silence fell on the forest. Yudhishthira recoiled in disgust and shut his eyes. Dropping his mace, Bheema untied his long hair and roared triumphantly. Krishna then turned to the Pandavas and said rather harshly, ‘Let’s go, it’s all over now.’
‘But, Krishna,’ said Bheema, picking the blood-smeared mace again, ‘let me finish the job.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Krishna, cruelly. ‘The jackals and vultures will do the rest.’
‘No,’ Duryodhana screamed, ‘don’t leave me half-dead. Come on, Bheema, take your revenge to the full. Why do you hesitate?’
Turning to Duryodhana, Krishna smiled and said, ‘You need some time to reflect on your deeds, don’t you, Duryodhana? Or are you in a hurry to forget your evil actions and depart to the other world?’
‘Talk to me,’ Duryodhana pleaded.
‘Why now, Duryodhana? Why didn’t you talk when I came to you with the message of peace?’
‘You and your wicked ways,’ screamed Duryodhana, trying in vain to use his arms to lift himself. ‘You think you are too clever, Krishna. Without your crooked ways you think the Pandavas would have won this war? Shame on you. What will you do now, Narayana? How will you answer the cries and curses of the widows? Will you marry them all and populate this cursed land with a million more clever Krishnas?’
The winds rose again and shrieked through the forest. Wild screams and cymbals and drums tore the skies. For a moment Krishna’s body went taut with murderous wrath, and then a faint smile creased his fine lips. He said, ‘I forgive you, Duryodhana.’
If Yudhishthira really believed that the game of dice was nothing less than cheating, that it destroyed the good qualities of men who played it, that it debased and ruined friendships and so it ought to be avoided like a dreadful disease, why then did he have to play the game? Was it only because of Sakuni’s provocation? Or was it arrogance, believing he could defeat the cunning Sakuni? There was another possibility though, that could have unconsciously pushed him over the precipice, one he would never come to terms with, at least not entirely: his deep urge to strip himself naked and walk away from his accursed Kshatriya nature, from Kurujangala, and go and live the life of a hermit in the forest.
However, the deed was done. It was done with a long ivory die that had six sides and two ends and sparkled white like Draupadi’s laughter.
Yudhishthira lost game after game; he lost his gold, his horses, his elephants, his army, his granary. He did not stop there though; he could not. Duryodhana’s guffaws and Sakuni’s taunts whipped up his ego and drove him further and further into an inescapable trap. He was like a man struggling against the tide, desperately trying to reach the shore.
‘Play just one more game,’ Sakuni goaded. ‘Just win one game and then you’ll get back all that you have lost. Or are you afraid you’ll lose everything?’ Yudhishthira was not afraid. He was desperate.
Then Vidura lost his celebrated cool. In a burst of terrible anger that shocked everyone, he yelled at Duryodhana. This was as futile as trying to stop a mad elephant by scolding it. In utter disgust, Vidura walked out of the assembly. The court, however, sat frozen. No one was able to take their eyes off the battle of dice. It was fascinating, like watching a tiger bring down an elephant.
‘Who won? Who won this time?’ Dhritharashtra kept asking Sanjaya, not like an impartial king but like the doting father of a dreadfully spoilt son.
It was sheer lunacy.
Yudhishthi
ra wagered Bheema and Arjuna, then Nakula and Sahadeva, and lost them all; then, like a drowning man clutching at straws, he wagered himself. As Sakuni cast the calamitous die, an awful silence hung over the assembly.
‘Won,’ Sakuni screamed, and the Kaurava brothers broke into raucous laughter. Now giggling, as though advising Yudhishthira on the last step towards moksha, Sakuni said, ‘Yudhishthira, you still have Draupadi.’
And Yudhishthira lost his wife and his honour. Duryodhana lost his head. Dhritharashtra lost his right to be the king. Bheeshma lost his clarity and Drona his uprightness. All was lost. And what followed plunged the Kuru race into irredeemable shame and guilt.
Into that shame Dushasana entered triumphantly, dragging Draupadi by her hair, her beautiful tresses caught cruelly in his fist. Duryodhana eyed her with unabashed lechery and said, ‘Your husbands are my slaves now, but not you, my dear. You are free. And you can choose a husband for yourself. You really deserve to be the wife of a monarch.’ He sneered at Bheema, who sat heaving like an elephant trapped in a pit. Then, winking at Karna, he turned to Draupadi again and said, ‘Come on, you woman of big breasts and wide hips, come, don’t hesitate, come and sit on my lap,’ and he patted his thigh lasciviously.
Karna laughed, enjoying the sight of the shamefaced Arjuna, and then said loudly, ‘She must choose a husband who will not gamble her away like this. But what a pity, she is a queen no longer! She cannot wear such fine garments any more. Dushasana, what are you waiting for?’
The court chose to be shocked into silence. The blind king was all ears but did not open his mouth. Bheeshma sat like one castrated. Draupadi wriggled like a deer caught in a hunter’s net, desperately trying to cover her shame. The blind king could not see what the court was seeing unfold in that tense, obscene silence. ‘Why? Why Sanjaya?’ he asked, for it had become a habit with him to address Sanjaya even while talking to himself. ‘Tell me why? Why do I love Duryodhana so much even when I know what he is doing is nothing short of drawing down disaster upon us all?’
When the Pandavas were on their thirteenth day of exile, Krishna, infuriated at what had happened in his absence, met them at Kamyaka forest. Sobbing like a child before her mother, Draupadi asked, ‘Krishna, how could this happen to one who was born of the fire of Shiva? How could she be dragged by Dushasana like an animal and put to shame in the open court?’
‘Draupadi, such are the cruelties of life,’ answered Krishna, putting his arm round her shoulder tenderly. ‘When it comes, it comes in torrents. We are but blades of grass under the wheel of life that turns and turns and never stops for anyone. One moment you are a princess drinking deep the nectar of happiness, and the next moment the hand of cruel fate might be tossing you into a dreadful wilderness. But you always live. That is a blessing. Do not distrust life, and you shall cross the river of sorrow.’
Draupadi was not listening, full of her own shame and suffering. Couldn’t he do anything at all? Krishna shook his head, meaning there were things that even he couldn’t do.
‘Please do not tell me you cannot,’ she cried. ‘Look at me, I live, but I live in shame. No, Krishna, till my death I shall not forget this insult, I shall not forget the lecherous Duryodhana, his evil uncle Sakuni, and that despicable creature, Dushasana.’
Krishna’s fine lips stretched briefly, and then his face became hard. ‘They shall die,’ he swore.
‘Krishna, that sutaputra Karna…’
‘I know. He shall die too.’
‘What more can I say, Krishna? Imagine Bheeshma and Drona sitting there, their eyes shamelessly wide open but their mouths shamefully shut against this adharma. No, Krishna, they were not men of dharma. They were worse than cowards, worse than criminals…’
‘I promise. Even Bheeshma and Drona will not be spared. Listen to me, my dearest Draupadi. The heavens may fall from their heights, the seas may dry up, the earth may splinter into a million flinders, even the gods may begin to die like human beings, but the word of Krishna will never go unfulfilled. Take courage and rest in peace, Draupadi. The Kuru race has to pay for its sins. The wheel of life spares no one.’
‘My lord, you do not understand my agony. I have not one, not two, but five husbands. All great warriors without equal. But not one of them was man enough to raise his voice against this outrage, let alone prevent it. Even if it had been just any woman, a true Kshatriya would have leapt to her rescue. What is the use of Bheema killing all those rakshasas who all now seem like saints compared to the evil Duryodhana? What if Arjuna is the greatest archer in the world? What is the use of the incomparable powers of Nakula and Sahadeva? And Yudhishthira? He may be called a man of dharma, but wasn’t he the sole cause of this adharma? What could be more painful and horrible than this for a woman, Krishna?’
‘They shall also die.’
‘O God! Krishna, what are you saying?’
‘Did I say anything wrong, my dear Draupadi?’
‘O Krishna, didn’t you say my husbands shall die?’ And she began to cry.
‘Did I? Ah! Everyone must die one day, no?’ Krishna said, with a cryptic smile. But Draupadi was terrified. Krishna took her face in his hands to console her, but could not restrain his tears either: tears of grief; tears at what had happened and what was doomed to happen.
Ashwathama blazed with anger. ‘Your wish shall be fulfilled. The Pandavas deserve to die. They are the worst sinners the world has ever seen. They mouth dharma before they murder. Listen, my friend, I’ll avenge the death of my father and fulfil your ultimate desire.’
Is that what had kept him alive? This hatred, this hunger for revenge? ‘But enough, Ashwathama,’ Duryodhana uttered tiredly, suddenly wanting to let go everything. ‘Enough of this killing, my friend.’ There was something horrible about this pursuit of power. Perhaps it was the way Brahma willed the Kshatriyas to destroy themselves. ‘Go, Ashwathama, the war is over,’ he cried, his voice growing weak and shaky. ‘Unstring your bow; you are not bound by Kshatriya dharma. Why dip your hands in this pool of evil blood? Go and live the life of a true Brahman in pursuit of wisdom.’
‘Duryodhana,’ Ashwathama reacted with a sardonic smile. ‘You forget I’m a child of parents who were not born of women. You forget I was never brought up as a Brahman, and my father himself was never one. Still, I promise I’ll leave everything and go into the forest, for truly I have had enough of this world, but not until the Pandavas are destroyed.’
‘Ashwathama, it’s futile. You cannot defeat fate…’ Duryodhana clutched at his heart, bathed in sweat. Breathing hard, he looked up, as if to see how far the Lord of Death stood from him. ‘I deserve this horrible death. It’s coming,’ he muttered, his voice cracking in pain. ‘Leave me now; I want to be with myself. Go. Let me see through this grief, this hatred, this lust for power, before the jackals and vultures tear me to bits.’
‘Make me the general of your army,’ Ashwathama insisted.
‘Ashwathama, do you remember how brazenly we ogled at the helpless Draupadi when she was stripped naked in court, how we looked upon her with lust. Do you recall how cruelly, like a pack of wolves, we pounced on the young, defenceless Abhimanyu?’
‘I remember how Karna and my father were unjustly, brutally done to death. And now, see what they have done to you.’
‘It is fruitless to think of the past when death stares you in the face. I will soon die, but I will die as a Kshatriya, unafraid of death. I have no regrets, my friend. I lived the way I wanted to. I spoke what came to my mind and did what pleased my heart. I commanded the greatest of this land, this race. And remember, I was a good king. I gave gifts and treated the citizens well.’ He paused, feeling exhausted.
When he spoke again, it was almost a whisper. ‘People loved me, for I gave them no cause for unhappiness. I was no ignorant fool or a mean person. I knew the books and the law, although I never cared to follow them. The world knows me and will remember me as the one and only Duryodhana who, although a mortal, lived and walked this earth lik
e a god. Even the clever and incomparable Krishna cannot deny this supreme fact.’
‘My friend,’ Ashwathama persisted, ‘you know I have the power to destroy the Pandavas. Do not doubt me. A thousand Krishnas cannot stop this Ashwathama now. There’s still time. My king, make me your general and I’ll kill them all and come back with Bheema’s severed head.’
The mention of Bheema whipped up Duryodhana’s dying hatred like the wind fans dwindling sparks into a raging flame. Disregarding the pain in his body, Duryodhana lifted himself up on his bleeding arms and ordered, ‘Bring water.’
From the nearby lake, Kripa brought water in a cup of lotus leaves. Duryodhana, with a trembling hand, scooped a little water from the cup and sprinkled it on Ashwathama’s head. ‘You are the general of our army now,’ he said in the commanding voice of the king he still was. ‘Go, Ashwathama, go and fulfil your wish, which is mine as well. I do not have much time to live. Go and avenge my death before I die.’
The three-man Kaurava army left hurriedly, with Ashwathama in the lead, an elephant gone wild. They entered the forest, dense and ominous, and soon reached the border, where they could discern the Pandava camp. A deathly silence hung over the camp. A few guards moved about listlessly, while Dhrishtadyumna and the sons of the Pandavas rested inside, unaware of the approaching danger.
‘No, Ashwathama,’ Kripa pleaded, holding him back, ‘don’t be in such a haste. Let’s plan things out carefully.’ In their present condition, they wouldn’t be able to match the Pandavas in an equal fight. They needed to rest for a while and recover their strength.
Ashwathama acceded reluctantly, and they camped beneath an ancient banyan tree. The moment Kripa and Kritavarma placed their heads on the ground, they fell into a deep slumber. Ashwathama was no less tired, his body ached all over, but his mind was on fire and he could not sleep. He would not rest until he had destroyed the Pandavas. Tomorrow morning, they would begin the attack and the Pandavas would be wiped off the face of the earth.
