The Curse of Gandhari

by Aditi Banerjee

  ‘Sanjaya! Sanjaya!’ she called out in a stage whisper. He slept near Dhritarashthra to tend to him and comfort him when needed. She was no longer able to do that for her husband herself; neither did he warm to her, nor did she feel capable of giving him solace. There was no response. An irrational panic fluttered her heart. She patted around the straw pallet on which her husband slept, but there was no trace of Sanjaya. She crawled all around, but he was not there.

  She perked her ears and traced the far-off conversation she had heard from her bed to closer to the river, to the wooden edifice of the hermitage where the sacrificial fire was tended, where the boys studied and the hermits sat for their morning and evening meditations. She stumbled towards them. Usually, she was so sure-footed but the tears wetting the bandage around her eyes and her shaking limbs made her clumsy.

  She approached them finally; she could hear the hushed tones of conversation between Sanjaya and the hermit in charge of the ashram in Dvaipayana’s absence. She could sense the flickering flames of the sacrificial fire and it offered her some comfort to see that cheerful glow, to know there were others here to give her company. Dvaipayana had ordered that the fire never be allowed to go out, that it be constantly tended to and kept alive by the acolytes of the ashram. He himself was an infrequent visitor to his own hermitage these days. He spent most of his time wandering across the Himalayas. When he came back, it was to write – to compile and divide the Vedas, to pen the Puranas, the history of the times in which they lived. One day, he would write down this story, too, the story of Gandhari, Dhritarashthra, Kunti and Pandu and their sons, a story in which he played such an integral part.

  Sanjaya was startled. ‘Queen! What are you doing awake? What is wrong?’

  ‘Sanjaya, I need your help.’ Her voice broke.

  Sanjaya rushed to her side and brought her closer to the fire, seating her on a log covered with a blanket. The hermit, after ensuring she was safe, walked away to give them privacy.

  ‘Queen, what is wrong?’ Sanjaya’s voice was soft with concern.

  Gandhari sniffled and was disgusted at her own weakness; to be a weepy woman went against everything she was, yet she could not help herself. The existential terror of what was to come made her tremble with fear and paranoia. Her nightmares brought to mind visions of hellish after-worlds, of an afterlife full of punishment for her wrongdoing. Her voice was broken with hiccoughs. ‘Sanjaya, you will stay alive as we discussed, yes? You will not die along with us, yes? You will carry our news to the others?’

  ‘Yes, Kunti has told me to do so. I do not wish to abandon either you or the king, even in death, but I will not disobey a command, if it comes from you, Queen.’

  Gandhari was still in enough of possession of her senses to hear the faint reproach that it had been Kunti and not her or Dhritarashthra who had held that conversation with him. Her cheeks flamed in embarrassment. Sanjaya had always devoted himself to her and her husband, and at the end, they could not even take proper care of him. He was their responsibility, not Kunti’s. It made her feel even more ashamed that she had come now to beg him a favour. How ill he must think of her. Her face dropped. How ashamed Subala, her father, would have been of how lax she had grown in her duties.

  Sanjaya prodded her: ‘Queen, tell me. You know I will do anything for you.’

  She took a deep breath and calmed herself down enough to talk coherently, ‘Sanjaya, when I die, who will be there to light the pyre? To perform the shraddha ceremonies for me? I have no sons left. How can I have a peaceful passing and transition to the afterlife without a son to perform the funeral rites for me?’

  ‘I am sure that Yudhishthira will do the needful. He has always treated you like a mother.’

  Even Gandhari could not fault Yudhishthira. At the end of the war, it had been Suyodhana, defeated by Bhima in battle, as he lay dying, who had encouraged the last three warriors left on his side to go destroy the Pandavas, who had permitted their sons to be killed in their sleep. And yet, Yudhishthira never punished her for it. Bhima and the other brothers sometimes taunted Dhritarashthra and her after the war, after they were all living uncomfortably together in the palace, but Yudhishthira, never.

  Yet, she could not bring herself to accept that honour from him. She owed him too much – the karmic debt was already heavily tilted towards someone who was not her own son, and she did not wish to be further in debt of one who her sons had wronged so grievously. And also, after all this time, it still smarted, that he should live and not her sons. The five sons of Pandu survived, while all one hundred of her sons had died. It still made her want to beat the earth and wail in protest.

  ‘No, it would not be appropriate to ask this of him. Sanjaya, will you do it? Please tell me you will do it.’

  Sanjaya assured her softly that he would.

  Gandhari laughed bitterly, the gasps of laughter morphing into choked sobs. ‘One hundred sons! At least one should have remained to do this much for me. What was the point of it all? For two years, I bore them; for two years, I nursed them. This was the blessing given to me, twice, by Shiva and by Dvaipayana. And yet what did I get out of it? Nothing! Nothing! What kind of a blessing is it that a mother outlives her children, that she eats and drinks and keeps living, keeps wanting to live, even when the reason for her life, her very flesh and blood, are gone?’

  Sanjaya replied gently: ‘Queen, they died by their own actions. You know that. It was not the gods punishing you. Blessings cannot outweigh karma, the choices one makes, the actions one takes. There is no shortcut to avoid that, Queen. You know this.’

  The tears flowed down unchecked, dampening the faded cotton cloth at her breast. ‘I should have known better! I made the wrong choice.’

  Sanjaya said nothing.

  Gandhari was feeling lightheaded. Her hands scrabbled the ground. ‘Is this where he sat? Is this where he meditated?’ The words tumbled forth in a jumbled mess.

  ‘Who, Queen?’ Sanjaya fretted in puzzlement at her non-sequitur.

  ‘Dvaipayana? Are we near the river?’

  Sanjaya tried to make his voice soothing. ‘Yes, Queen. The river is right there. You can hear it.’

  Gandhari stilled her breathing and cocked her ears. She could hear it now, the waves lapping the banks. She remembered sitting with Dvaipayana, near the river, in Hastinapur, when he had given her the boon that she would have one hundred sons. She remembered that feeling of peace, expansiveness, the lightness of being.

  ‘Is this where he would sit in meditation?’ Her voice was desperate.

  ‘Yes, Queen. Why? What is wrong? Why are you so agitated? Please be calm, my Queen. All will be well.’

  Gandhari inhaled deeply and tried to go into that state where Dvaipayana had led her. She tried very hard. She tried to summon his presence by will alone, to recall the sensation of sitting next to him, to relive that one moment of her past. But there was too much churning inside her, too many dark waves of memory and grief.

  She remembered now the warning he had given her, the way he tried to offer her advice, to seek something else, but she had rejected it. She began crying harder, giving up the efforts to slip into meditation, as if meditation could enter a troubled mind like hers. ‘I should have listened! I should have asked for something different. Peace! Clarity! Wisdom! Anything but this. Anything but this grief, multiplied by one hundred! Oh, why did he not tell me? Why did he not just tell me?’

  She knew all the reasons why, why the great ones and even the devas could not interfere with the play of human life, that they had to let the great pattern of karma unfold for itself, but it did not tamp down her pain now. She dug her fingers into the dirt, seeking something she could not find, and her hands were so strong that great clods of earth came loose and she threw them aimlessly, trying to hit something, but what she did not know. She lifted her face to the moon and wailed.

  The wail was enough to pierce the sky, to wake the sleeping birds and send them scattering from their nests. Even Sa
njaya was frightened and shrank away. She had lost all dignity now; she was naked in her grief and rage. She began beating her chest, striking it hard with the iron marriage bangles, hoping to draw blood.

  Then came Kunti, solid, placid, unstoppable, unfazed Kunti. She did not hurry. Her tread was measured and plodding. She did not say a word, simply sat on her haunches in front of Gandhari and planted her hands on Gandhari’s arms, gripping them down her sides so she stopped clawing the dirt, beating her chest. Her grip was fierce, almost painful. For once, Gandhari was grateful for the solidity, the heaviness of Kunti, how she ground her down, how she was like gravity, keeping Gandhari’s feet planted on the earth.

  ‘Be still, sister,’ Kunti commanded her sternly. ‘You are making a spectacle of yourself and waking up all of the hermits and even the animals.’

  Gandhari quietened, hiccupping and sniffling softly now. ‘They are all gone,’ she whispered. ‘They are all gone.’ As if eighteen years had not been enough to remove the shock of it, the loss of them, the absence of touching their hair, feeding them, embracing them, hearing their unruly laughter and loud voices echoing through the halls of Hastinapur.

  Kunti folded her into her arms, hard. It was not an embrace, it was a hard grip meant to numb her, to physically stop the spread of the pain and the grief, to replace anguish with that dull pain of her hold. Neither did Gandhari lay her head on her shoulder, nor did Kunti offer any tenderness. But she was grateful for those two arms that pressed her like a vice, that held her intact.

  Karma – the generation of an equal and opposite reaction. Once, just once, Gandhari had held Kunti like that, when Kunti was herself lost to grief, when Karna, her eldest son died near the end of the war, when her other sons could offer her no comfort for they did not know he was their brother and if they had known, they would not have forgiven her so quickly, so easily. Gandhari and Kunti never spoke of that moment, just as they never would speak of this – they never gave voice or name to the bitter enmity and the empathy that wove themselves together like two strands into the unbreakable bond that held them together from the time of their marriages to the time, now approaching, of their death.

  Hastinapur, Then

  The day began with an ominous rumble of thunder. Even though the monsoon season had passed, omens of foreboding abounded. Crows circled the main entrance of the palace, signifying death. While preparing the food to be offered to the ancestors and devas, Gandhari kept spilling spices. The first batch of rice got burned to a black crisp; the second did not cook properly, even after an hour. The milk soured and curdled. Even the flowers seemed to lose their scent as Gandhari picked them in the garden.

  Late in the morning, one of the scouts who had accompanied Pandu on a hunting trip in a nearby forest dashed into the palace, skidding to a halt in front of Satyavati and Bhishma, breathless, where they presided over the audience hall. It was the day when the court was open to all constituents for the king to hear and address the grievances of all the people; the deliberations and decisions were made in public, in front of the people, whom ultimately the king served. Pandu, when he was there, and now Bhishma, in Pandu’s stead, would take the advice of his ministers and various brahmanas on the spot. They would bring in various law books, the dharma shastras, for citations and guidance for the decision to be made. There was healthy debate, and even when the ministers were in agreement, Pandu would, in the interest of fairness, often ask some of the ministers to play the other side and tease out the counter-arguments and multiple angles from which the issue was to be seen.

  So, it was a full crowd in the palace when the scout suddenly appeared. Gandhari was sitting with Kunti and Madri, off to the side from Satyavati and Bhishma, the platform on which they sat a little lower from where the elders sat. Dhritarashthra was still sleeping in his chambers. Vidura was there, though.

  Satyavati exclaimed, ‘What is it, young boy? Why have you come in such a hurry like this? Is Pandu well?’ She ordered one of the attendants to bring him some water, as he had clearly exhausted himself running here at full sprint.

  ‘Your highness, the king has sent me. He wants everyone to be gathered together to hear him when he returns from the hunting party. He is a few hours behind me. He says it is important that everyone be here, including his brothers.’ Gandhari noted that he must have meant that for Dhritarashthra, who was prone to sleeping the day away. ‘He has an announcement to make.’

  Gandhari twisted her sari in her hands. She thought she would be sick. It could not be a good thing, whatever the announcement was. That was why there were so many bad signs in the morning. Was he well? Had he been injured? Oh, why could the scout not speak more freely! Or, was it that Kunti or Madri were pregnant? She had a sinking feeling in her stomach. She pressed down on her own flat belly spitefully. When would she finally become pregnant?

  Satyavati maintained her even composure, not betraying a hint of the anxiety Gandhari knew that she must be feeling. She announced: ‘So be it. We shall finish going through the requests of the people in the sabha, assembly, first and then, when my grandson arrives, we shall listen to his announcement.’ Gandhari understood that she wanted to clear as much of the crowd as possible before Pandu’s return. Satyavati dared not break court; that would only spread panic and fear.

  Vidura left to rouse Dhritarashthra and get him ready for court. What would we do without Vidura? Gandhari thought, this brother who had the wisdom and humility of someone who would have made a perfect king.

  Finally, after two hours, the entire procession that had accompanied Pandu to the forest returned. It had been a pleasure trip, one of the occasional days of leisure Pandu allowed himself. Ayla whispered to her that Pandu was at the head of the procession, that he walked calmly, that he looked fine.

  ‘Is he injured? Is he in pain?’ Gandhari’s voice was urgent.

  ‘No, my lady, he looks his normal self. Just eerily calm.’

  Waves of relief washed over Gandhari. Whatever it was could not be so bad, so long as Pandu was safe and in good health.

  The court had half emptied, as the morning’s business had been concluded. Many curious bystanders lingered, however, keen to know what was happening after the cryptic message delivered by the scout. Pandu approached the throne slowly, deliberately. Gandhari recognized his unique tread, the confident yet controlled march of someone who was more warrior than ruler. There was always something so militaristic and disciplined about him. He made his prostrations to the brahmanas of the court, to Satyavati, to Bhishma, to his brother and Gandhari. Ayla did not describe this to her. Gandhari knew this was his routine, and she could feel his body move from this side to the other as he bent his head at their feet. She imagined she could feel it.

  ‘Revered grandmother, I have returned. There is something of great import that I must announce.’

  ‘Shall we wait until we are in private to discuss it, son?’

  As even as their voices were, the tension was so thick in the air that it almost crackled like a flame. Oh! How Gandhari wished she could remove her blindfold to see for herself what was happening. Even Ayla was so caught up in what was happening that she did not remember to whisper her observations to Gandhari as frequently as she usually did.

  ‘No, Queen Mother. It pertains to all the people of the kingdom. They will know of it eventually, so it is only meet that they hear it directly from my lips as their king.’

  Gandhari’s heart began to thud. She heard Dhritarashthra inhale sharply and sit up straighter in his chair. Her palms started to sweat.

  ‘Go on,’ encouraged Satyavati softly.

  Pandu spoke as if he were making a military report to a commander, his voice bland and devoid of feeling, as if this Pandu that he spoke of were some stranger of no consequence and not himself. ‘I had gone for the hunt. Everything was going very well. Then I saw a stag. A beautiful looking stag. He ran so fast. I chased him through forest after forest. He was the leader of the herd, obviously, he was so strong and fast. I
had lost him for some time but then saw him again as dusk was beginning to fall. He was mating with a doe.’

  ‘I shot them both with five golden-feathered arrows. I had hunted my fill; yet, they were so beautiful, I could not resist.’

  A cold sweat slid between Gandhari’s shoulder blades. To kill them when they were mating smacked of bloodlust, of a cruelty that was unlike the Pandu that she knew. It startled her.

  ‘The stag was dying, and as it lay dying, it started speaking to me in a human voice.’ Pandu swallowed hard. ‘It was not a deer; it was a rishi, the great rishi, Kimdama. He had tired of being in the human form and had taken the form of a deer, along with his wife, to find peace and contentment within the forest. He faulted me for striking them with my arrows. He said that in earlier days, the hunter never unleashed arrows against an unprepared prey. He faulted me for killing him in the midst of such intimacy with his wife, reproached me for undertaking such a cruel act.’ His voice dwindled to a whisper. ‘And indeed it was. It was a cruel act.’

  Satyavati’s voice trembled. She knew what it meant to displease a rishi, the powers they wielded, the curses that almost inevitably ensued, especially from one who lay dying. ‘And then what happened, son?’

  Pandu’s voice was reluctant, but he mustered the strength to complete the tale. ‘He told me that since I had been cruel to a helpless couple, the next time that I am overcome by desire, death will come to claim me at that very instant that I give into the desire to touch a woman. And, at that time, my beloved woman whom I reach out to, my wife, will also perish. The last thing he said before he died in great pain and anguish was, “You have now brought me into grief when I was in the midst of pleasure. Like that, you will be afflicted with misery when you have just found happiness.”’

  A great silence descended over the hall. Everyone was thunderstruck. It meant that Pandu could never be with a woman again, without drawing death for himself and the woman involved. If he did, Kunti or Madri would die, too. It meant Pandu would have to be celibate in order to preserve their lives. A rishi’s curse, once issued, could never be retracted. A piercing wail emitted from Madri. Kunti quickly shushed her.