Eventually, as the trumpets and kettle drums sounded louder, as the priests began droning chants of blessing and gratitude, Gandhari heard the heavy thud of Pandu’s feet ascending the steps up the platform. He bowed in front of Satyavati and Bhishma, offering them the first and finest of the treasures, and then reported in measured tones the string of victories he had achieved: he had travelled to the east and defeated the Dasharnas. Then, with his army in full force, packed with elephants, horses, chariots and foot soldiers, with colourful flags fluttering everywhere, he had attacked Magadha. His victories spread to Kashi and Pundra. Everywhere, he had brought kings to his feet, toppling them with flaming arrows and the glitter of his dazzling swords. It was a tribute to Pandu, thought Gandhari, that he was able to boast of his triumphs in such a humble, self-deprecating way. His voice betrayed no pride or arrogance, only the hushed reverence of a son reporting to his elders.
Bhishma wept openly. Gandhari had never seen such naked emotion from him. Ayla whispered to her how Bhishma embraced Pandu closely, his lips trembling and mumbling incoherent words, tears streaming down his cheeks and wetting his beard, his hand gripping Pandu’s head tightly to his silver-armoured shoulder. Pandu comforted him, chuckling at his sentimentality, stroking his hair until finally Bhishma released him.
Then, Pandu made his way to Dhritarashthra: ‘Older brother, all these riches have been won for you. I lay them at your feet. They are yours to do with as you will. Command me, and it shall be done.’
Ayla whispered that Dhritarashthra’s hands shook as he bent forward to touch Pandu’s head in blessing. He appeared to hesitate until Vidura leaned towards him, whispering to him the appropriate words to be said. Dhritarashthra nodded weakly – how grateful Gandhari was to Ayla’s keen sense of observation and her forthrightness – and said to Pandu, ‘Younger brother, these riches do not belong to us. They belong to our elders, to grandmother Satyavati, our uncle Bhishma and our mothers. Taking their blessings, let the treasures be distributed among our people, to the needy, to the brahmanas, to the widows. Let all of this be given as alms to our people!’
Satyavati cleared her throat loudly. Dhritarashthra added hastily: ‘And, of course, we must share a portion of this with our brother, Vidura, without whom we would all be lost!’ Gandhari did not need Ayla’s report to imagine the daft smile Dhritarashthra would have turned towards Vidura at that moment, insincere in its affection and regard for his lowborn brother.
Thunderous cheers applauded Dhritarashthra’s command. Well, Vidura’s command, thought Gandhari. How different it all would have been if Vidura, the wisest and most competent of them all, had been permitted to rule.
In the days to come, Dhritarashthra’s instructions would be followed meticulously. Vidura, too, was found a suitable bride by Bhishma. She was the daughter of King Devaka and a service woman. When Vidura had come to take Gandhari’s blessings, she had smilingly asked him if he were pleased with the match. He confessed shyly that she was beautiful and cheerful, a virtuous and devoted woman, who was affectionate to him. Gandhari felt a rush of affection and gladness for Vidura then, that at least this one brother, the one who had been deemed ineligible to rule, the one who deserved it the most, would find some measure of happiness.
Before the celebration concluded, Pandu came to the platform where Gandhari sat with Kunti and Madri. Madri called out teasingly, ‘O husband, what gems are you bearing in your hands for me?’
Gandhari swore she heard Kunti literally grind her teeth.
Pandu laughingly replied, ‘Wait your turn, wife! My first offering belongs to our elder sister.’
Pandu knelt at Gandhari’s feet. ‘Elder sister, I have brought this specially for you as a tribute. Please let me place it in your hand.’
She opened her hand, palm up, and he carefully placed a delicate ring with a large elliptical stone, so large that it would extend over three of the fingers in her hand. There was a rush of indrawn air as Ayla opened her mouth to begin describing the jewel in detail to her, but Pandu cut her off.
‘No, no, let me tell her what it is I have brought for her. Sister, I know you will never see this ring, but you will be able to feel its beauty. It is a rare form of sunstone, that captures the energy of the sun. Feel it.’ Gandhari stroked it; it was smooth yet spiked with a glittery layer of stone. ‘It is red like the dawning sun and sparkles when held up to the light. The more you rub it, the smoother and deeper in hue it becomes.’
Gandhari smiled, a teeth-baring, impulsive smile, and slid the ring onto her fingers, stroking the unique stone. ‘Also,’ Pandu leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, ‘I have been told that rubbing the stone helps one keep their temper and stay patient. I thought that may be helpful for people like us – who may be prone to losing ours, considering the difficult people we have to deal with in our lives.’ Gandhari chortled. From a distance, she heard her husband ask Vidura what was going on at their platform.
She exclaimed, ‘I can imagine just how red it is, little brother. I know the fiery red colour of the sun at dawn. I have seen it every day of my life in Gandhara. Not only shall this stone teach me patience, not only shall it adorn my hand prettily, but it shall also remind me of home. It is the most beautiful thing you could have brought me.’
‘Now you must give me your blessing.’
She leaned forward with a smile and placed her hand atop his head with affection. ‘May you live a hundred years,’ she murmured the traditional blessing and added impishly, ‘And bring me a hundred more stones!’
Pandu chuckled as he moved onwards to his wives. Madri whined coquettishly that the gems he had brought for her and Kunti were dwarfed by the opulence of the ring he had given Gandhari. Gandhari turned away to hide her smile.
For the first time in her life, Gandhari felt irrelevant. There was nothing for her to do at court. Pandu and Kunti took easily to ruling the kingdom with the sage counsel of Satyavati, Bhishma and Vidura. Dhritarashthra also ignored her. Pandu’s military victories drove Dhritarashthra further into bitterness and resentment, a miasma of dark jealousy and self-pity covering his chambers. Gandhari could not tolerate staying near him. He seemed to prefer the company of Kutili, his maidservant, in any event, and she commiserated with him more sympathetically than Gandhari could. Pandu was too occupied with running the kingdom and tending to his two wives to give her company, and even Satyavati was more inaccessible. Satyavati was waiting for heirs so she could finally retreat from active life in the court, once the line of succession was ensured. She exerted her diplomatic influence to keep firm the alliances that secured the pre-eminence of the Kuru clan in Bharat.
Then Gandhari turned to that which had always given her peace and solace in the past. The devas. She secluded herself in prayer and fasting, and, once again, wasted away to nothing. It was when Ayla reminded her that she was a princess and how valuable a lovely figure was for a princess that Gandhari resumed eating. Dhritarashthra hardly noticed, so long as her hand was cool on his forehead, stroking away his headaches, her voice gentle as she lulled him to back to sleep between bouts of fitful tossing and turning.
It did not bring peace but a perverse pleasure in denying herself the comforts of palace life, in shrinking into a shadow by her own asceticism so that she could not be overshadowed by the other wives, neglecting her health and body in response to a court that increasingly neglected her. She was bitter, and her penance served only to drive her bitterness ever higher.
One day, as she sat in a bench, picking through grains of rice to be cooked by her own hand and fed to the devas, rice she would never consume herself, Satyavati stomped heavily across the mosaic tiles towards her and plucked the basket of rice from her hands. Satyavati said sharply, ‘Enough! As if we do not have enough eccentrics wandering through this palace, now you are apparently trying to kill yourself through starvation.’
Gandhari protested weakly.
Satyavati snorted. ‘Well, up you get now! My son is coming, and you will need to
tend to him.’
‘Dvaipayana?’ Gandhari asked in surprise. He spent almost all of his time in the jungles and mountain caves, shunning civilization. In his adult life, he had only visited with his mother a handful of times.
‘Yes, Dvaipayana! What other son do I have left?’ snapped Satyavati. Then she sighed: ‘Forgive me, I am cross. It is so stressful when he visits. I’m always worried that I will do something to annoy him and he will go away and perhaps never return. These ascetics are so finicky, you know.’
Gandhari laughed. Despite herself, her pulse picked up in anticipation of meeting this enigmatic figure she had thought about so much ever since Satyavati had shared his story with her. She offered, ‘I’m sure Kunti will be able to manage him fine; after all she served Durvasa, that temperamental rishi, so well. No one has a worse temper than Durvasa.’
Satyavati hesitated. ‘Gandhari, I want you to be the one to look after him. You are the eldest daughter of the house after all.’
Gandhari frowned behind her blindfold. She was sure that was not the real reason, but she could not decipher Satyavati’s motive. There were always wheels within wheels spinning in that quick mind of her grandmother-in-law.
Gandhari acquiesced with a nod. A frenetic few days followed. Special chambers were prepared for him, shorn of all furniture, even a bed. He liked to be in the wilderness, so Satyavati had constructed a small hut at the edge of Hastinapur, bordering the forest. There was a beautiful flower garden there and she arranged for vats of water to be carried there daily, in case he would refuse to stay in the palace.
Finally, Dvaipayana came. No one was there to greet him other than Gandhari and Satyavati. Bhishma was wary of his wildness; Ambika and Ambalika were still too traumatized by their conception of their sons through him to face him; Dhritarashthra and Pandu were embarrassed to have been physically sired by him and wanted to keep their distance. Vidura alone among the three honoured him but was occupied with matters of the court.
Gandhari had never witnessed Satyavati so happy. She doted on her son, shooing away the servants so that she could feed him herself. She chattered away happily, telling him of all the gossip and news, while he grunted in between bites to show he was listening. She overexerted herself, unaccustomed as she was to such manual labour, and in the afternoon, after lunch, she retreated for a long nap.
It fell upon Gandhari to assist him in preparations for his evening worship. She did not let her blindfold deter her as she carefully washed all the vessels, drew powerful geometrical symbols of positive energies, yantras, with white rice powder, and snipped dried branches of various plants to be burned in the sacrificial fire. She worked silently and Dvaipayana appeared to appreciate that after the babble of his mother. He murmured his satisfaction at her handiwork and as dusk fell he began his worship. He invited Gandhari to stay and witness the ceremony, which she knew was a rare honour.
Gandhari had never been part of a yajna like this. His voice was fierce; when he chanted the Vedas, it sounded as if the Vedas issued forth from his lips as if they were his own words and not words he had faithfully memorized and recited. The very palace seemed to shake with the force of his tapobola, his spiritual powers, and a wind started stirring and whirling within the room, lifting the hairs off the nape of Gandhari’s neck, rustling up the fire until she could feel the flames leap up to the ceiling. Scent after scent started unfurling from the fire – some beautiful, like musk, sandalwood, camphor, jasmine; others noxious like acrid charred flesh. She could feel all the negative energies from the palace being whirled into the room, summoned by him, and cast into the fire to be burned away.
That was just the first ten minutes. Then, there was stillness for a few moments before an eerie howling began, first as a faint hum in her ear, and then something shrill that grew louder and higher in pitch until it was a screaming whistle that made her want to cover her ears but Gandhari dared not move. The air became thick and weighted, heavy with presence. She could feel the devas congregating in the room, circling her. They were silent, shapeless, but she could feel them, how their eyes fell upon her, watched her, judged her. They sat next to Dvaipayana and wove in and out of the fire, as if wandering in and out of the chamber, as if it were a party. Dvaipayana sometimes laughed, sometimes grunted, sometimes said something in such rapid Vedic Sanskrit that Gandhari could not follow.
Finally, the ceremony ended. Gandhari was trembling from the overpowering experience. After the fire dwindled to embers, Dvaipayana softly called out to her. ‘Come here, child.’
Gandhari lifted the skirts of her dress above her ankles and carefully walked towards him, winding her way through piles of firewood, metallic bowls filled with incense, turmeric, sandalwood paste, vermilion, things she could recognize by smell now, and crouched at his feet.
He smelled divine, literally divine. Gandhari had never been enraptured before, but she felt substance-less, a bundle of lightness, spellbound by his presence. She could not help her hands from fluttering above her waist, almost reaching towards him.
Dvaipayana was amused. ‘What is it, child?’
Had it been anyone else, Gandhari would not have admitted it, but she was disarmed by the power of his presence, the depth of the worship he had performed, the lingering vibrations of the spirits he had summoned still swirling about in the chamber. So, she said in a girlish voice that she had not used in years, in a burst of words tripping over themselves: ‘It is just that I wish I could see you. I am sure the very sight of you would have been a blessing for me. You are the most fascinating person I have ever met.’ She concluded sadly, ‘And now I shall never have that chance.’
Dvaipayana gave a low chuckle. ‘This is why one has to be so careful about the vows one chooses.’
‘I have heard that before,’ she muttered in exasperation.
Dvaipayana said thoughtfully, ‘I’ve rarely met a woman so steadfast, so devoted, so focused. It is a welcome thing to have such a one wait upon me and assist so ably in my worship and sadhana. If you wish, you may try to see me with your hands.’
Gandhari hid a sharp intake of breath. It was uncommon for an ascetic like him to allow himself to be touched. Even Satyavati did not dare to embrace him. Gandhari knelt, the oil residues from the offerings staining the soft satiny fabric of her sari. She had instructed Ayla to dress her in a yellow sari that resembled the watery sun on a winter day. She lifted her hands and reached out, tentatively with trembling fingers, first, to touch his feet and take his blessings, touching her fingers to her heart.
Then, she reached out to touch his face.
His cheeks were sunken, rough with a bristly untamed beard, like sandpaper against her hands; his forehead was weathered and leathery from endless days of baring himself to the sun; his eyebrows slashed down angrily as if he was always brooding, perpetually frowning; his skin was warm to the touch, as if the fire he had kindled for worship was nothing compared to the fire that burned within him; her hands dropped to his shoulders, his torso bared to the waist. His hair hung to his shoulders, matted and unruly, and his shoulders were broad and well-muscled. He must have to be strong to survive in the jungle after all. The sacred thread hung from one shoulder, and as her hand traced across his chest to the other shoulder, she felt the strong thumping of his heart, slow but pulsing so strong, it vibrated across his entire upper body. Finally, emboldened now, her hands dropped to his. His hands were hot from handling the fire, deeply callused from chopping the wood for his own sacrificial fires, from life in the jungle and caves, vibrating warmth and vitality.
Finally, Gandhari withdrew her hands. She breathed deeply, trying to absorb his strength and power into her being. Her bones felt liquid as if the simple touch of his face and hands had overpowered her completely. She was in awe.
‘Satisfied?’ he asked in exactly the kind of arch tone his mother used with her.
Gandhari blushed furiously. What must he think of her boldness, and what would he say of her to the others? How foolish it h
ad been to be so impulsive!
Dvaipayana laughed, a great booming laugh that seemed to shake the very walls of the chamber, as Gandhari scurried away quickly.
Later that evening, Gandhari ran into Satyavati in one of the hallways as she was returning from the kitchens with dinner on a tray to feed Dhritarashthra. Gandhari would not let any of the maids or servants prepare the food for her husband and insisted on bringing it herself from the kitchens to his bedside. In so many ways, she could not connect with her husband or have intimacy with him, but this – the simple act of cooking for and feeding him – was her way of connecting to him. She ran into Satyavati almost literally, swerving out of the way just in time, a little bit of the different savoury broths, tomato sauces and rice pudding brimming in tiny copper bowls on the tray she carried spilling over the edges onto her fingers.
Satyavati was curious to know what Gandhari thought of her son.
Gandhari was unable to keep anything from her grandmother-in-law. She confessed, ‘He’s fascinating and so very – vital and strong, pulsing with life. I have never met anyone so alive. He’s much – earthier than I realized.’
Satyavati laughed. ‘Well, he’s his mother’s son, isn’t he?’
Gandhari smiled. ‘You both have the same laugh.’
Satyavati whispered, ‘You did not find in him anything – repelling, did you?’
Gandhari was taken aback. This was the first time she had ever heard any insecurity or doubt in Satyavati’s voice. She remembered what Satyavati had said about her daughters-in-law, how they had turned away in disgust and fear from the very sight of her son. Tears came to her eyes as she thought how hurtful it must have been for Satyavati to see her son so humiliatingly received.
Gandhari said gently, ‘Not at all. He is the most spectacular person I have ever met. It is just that he is like the blazing sun. Some cannot withstand the brightness or heat of the sun; those who are weak will turn away from such light. It is not the fault of the sun.’
The Curse of Gandhari Page 10
