Gandhari longed to be next to Satyavati, to be able to hold her hand through this, even though she knew Satyavati would not permit it in public like this. Karma, Gandhari thought to herself, the creation of an equal and opposing reaction. Even the kings, even the great ones, are not immune to it. She shivered at the hardness of the world, the hardness of life, that allowed one single moment of error, a mistake, to ruin a life, multiple lives, ricocheting across the web of karma to irrevocably change the course of life for so many people in the space of a heartbeat.
Pandu continued, as if this were a matter of trifling news and not a disaster that had upended his life. ‘This curse is a blessing in disguise. My own father died prematurely due to his addiction to desire for his wives. The words of the rishi are true. My lowly mind has been spent on the evil chase of deer, on chasing my wives, especially Madri. I have not made time for the higher pursuits of life. I think of the greatness of Dvaipayana, by whose merit my brothers and I have been born. He spends his life performing austerities in the Himalayas. His is the example I should follow.
‘Like Dvaipayana, I will now live alone in the forest, spending each day under a different tree. I will shave my head and live as a hermit, begging for food, while roaming the lands. Once a day only shall I beg for food, and never from more than seven families. If I cannot live off what I have begged from these families, I will fast. I will worship the ancestors and the devas with food found in the forest, with water and with words.’ This was the path of austerity that dulled the hunger of the senses, the life in which celibacy could be maintained. Bhishma had the force of will to be celibate in the midst of palace life, surrounded by beautiful women and luxurious surroundings and food that enticed the senses, but Gandhari did not think Pandu was capable of it. That was perhaps why he chose to exile himself into the forest.
Satyavati cried out softly. It was like Bhishma all over again, when Bhishma had renounced his claim to the throne and become a celibate. That time, it was for her, in her favour. Now, her grandson was being forced to do the same, when she most needed him on the throne, to continue the dynasty. Karma; it is inescapable. She is reaping what she sowed, thought Gandhari.
Kunti spoke in a firm voice: ‘We are your wives under Dharma. If you go to the forest, we shall accompany you. Our life is with you and with you only. If you will take vanaprastha1 now, so shall we. You can spend the vanaprastha portion of your life with us and still perform great austerities.’
Madri echoed Kunti’s words, although much more reluctantly.
Everything began to happen so quickly. Pandu made arrangements to depart immediately. Gandhari sat, frozen in place, too paralyzed by shock to even assist Kunti and Madri in their packing, to offer them any comfort or solace. The queen in her could not help but recognize the possibilities this opened up for her and Dhritarashthra, for their sons who would be born one day. Bhishma had so far served as regent when Pandu was away, but he was growing old and now it would be Dhritarashthra who would be the regent and, if Pandu’s exile were to be permanent, the king in reality.
But those were thoughts scattered in the background of her mind. They brought her no succour. Her mind was too seized by grief, by a terrible empathy for the plight of Pandu, by the shock of loss of his company, the fear of being the only royal couple left in the palace, by feeling totally unprepared for what would be coming next. In a way, she had grown used to being in the recesses of the court and she no longer felt confident to sit on the throne reserved for the queen.
Pandu offered the jewels from his crown to the brahmanas, and Kunti and Madri gave all their jewellery away to the wives of the brahmanas. Kunti and Madri were mute and said nothing as they came to take the blessings of the elders before their long journey into the jungle. The onlookers at court and the ministers left the palace, to give the family their privacy. They went to the city gates to await their beloved king to accompany them as far towards the forest as possible on foot.
Pandu came last to take their blessings. Bhishma and Satyavati wept openly. Bhishma, especially, was distraught, his great body racked by loud sobs that boomed against the walls of the chamber. Gandhari wanted to plug her ears to never again hear such sorrow. The pain of elders was something far more terrible to bear than one’s own.
No one grieved as dramatically and theatrically as Dhritarashthra, however. He wept and howled, fussing over his brother with words of love and sorrow. Gandhari was unmoved. She knew it was a farce. She knew that later, in the privacy of their chamber, he would cackle with glee at the throne that suddenly now seemed to be in reach. Was this my doing? Did I catalyse this for Pandu, through my own desires, through the boon I sought from Dvaipayana?
Pandu spent long minutes conferring with Vidura, as the wise brother offered him advice and comfort and as Pandu whispered to him instructions, probably to protect and look after Satyavati, Ambika and Ambalika. Finally, Pandu came to Gandhari and knelt at her feet.
She felt him look up to her as he whispered: ‘Am I doing the right thing, sister?’
Gandhari did not know how to answer. It was a complicated business, this taking of vows, this game of blessings and curses. It was murky and led to unexpected outcomes. It was like walking a razor’s edge. But her heart was full of tenderness and admiration for this brother of hers, who had taken what seemed like a most cruel and unfair curse and was making it into a noble pursuit for his own salvation. She placed her hand on top of his head as a blessing but also to give comfort.
‘You are doing what is noble and strong, brother. You are following the path of the aryas. You will be the pride of your ancestors.’ She paused and swallowed the tears clogging her throat. She tried to imbue as much of her virtue and meagre powers as she could into the words that followed, a traditional blessing. She said it not as a platitude but an earnest request from the devas, a true blessing an elder sister may pronounce on her brother: ‘May you live one hundred years, brother. May you live one hundred years.’
But her powers had perhaps not yet matured. Her blessing did not come true.
Dhritarashthra reached for her again and again in the weeks that followed. Every night, sometimes multiple times a night. Sometimes he did not even wait until she was in the proper season. There was nothing manly about it; it was a desperate clawing, a clambering desire for the throne, not for her, a grunting effete effort lasting less than a few minutes, shuddering onto her body. She remembered the mistakes of her mother-in-law and aunt-in-law; so, she never flinched, never even closed her eyes behind the blindfold. She was calm and collected and determined, deep in breath and slow in heartbeat. She did the work. When his hand fluttered towards hers, she was the one who gripped him firmly, who took him into herself, who made him impregnate her.
And then, one night, she felt a dull pain in her lower abdomen. It was a heaviness, like a boulder lodged in her soft underbelly, pulling downward. She gritted her teeth. She could bear it. She could bear anything. She closed her eyes in gratitude towards Shiva and Dvaipayana, who had blessed her with this baby, the first of many children to come. She prayed for the baby to be well.
She waited weeks to be sure before she informed the others. It surprised her that she was not showing yet, but she had missed her season twice now and she could feel life growing within her. Dhritarashthra was so overcome by the news that he fainted. Satyavati, withdrawn and cold ever since Pandu had gone into exile, exhaled a sigh of relief and brusquely patted her on the head with a blessing. Vidura became worried and quiet, not even mustering a congratulatory word.
Bhishma, for once, was the most exultant one. He had become busier than ever in Pandu’s absence, picking up the slack on governing Hastinapur as Dhritarashthra still did not bother doing any of the actual work of ruling. When Gandhari pressed him to take upon himself the role of king, now that Pandu was in exile, Dhritarashthra refused petulantly, saying he would not until the throne was officially in his name. ‘For that, Pandu would have to be dead!’ she exclaimed in exasperati
on. Or abdicate, but she could not imagine Pandu doing that.
Her husband chortled, ‘Knowing how fond he is of Madri, that could be any day now!’
She turned up her nose at disgust.
‘I shall not play the role of king until the crown in officially put on my head, and that is that.’ For once, his voice was firm. So, it was Bhishma who took on Pandu’s role in fact even though Dhritarashthra was the regent in name.
Bhishma pulled Gandhari aside after he heard the news of her pregnancy. He intoned solemnly, ‘Queen, now the entire fate and future of the Kuru clan rests inside your belly. You must take great care. We are all dependent on you now. You are the most important person in the kingdom; the honour and destiny of our lineage, the fate of our dynasty – all of this rides on you now. It is a heavy burden, yet a great honour, too.’
They were sitting in the chamber adjacent to the main audience hall, where the king gathered together with the ministers and other advisers to deliberate and strategize in private. Low cushioned chairs were arranged in concentric circles. Bhishma had taken a seat next to her; usually, he sat at some distance from her.
He is trying to curry my favour, to buy my loyalty to the Kuru clan. He is trying to make sure I will toe his line. Now is the time to press my advantage.
‘It is as you say, revered uncle. The entire future of the family is in within my womb. Futures are best safeguarded when there is certainty.’
She could imagine his frown as he stuttered, ‘Of course, you shall have the best of all doctors and vaidyas, Gandhari. You will be cared for to ensure you are in comfort always. Why do you even worry about that?’
She replied lightly, ‘Oh, I am not worried about that in the least.’ She deepened and hardened her voice. ‘But if you understand now that my baby is the only future you have for our lineage, then you need to make it official.’
He became wary. ‘What is it you want?’
‘Declare that my eldest son shall be the heir to the throne, just as Pandu was so declared when he was born.’
‘Pandu was declared king when he was born because there was no king at that time, only Dhritarashthra who was rendered unfit to be king due to his blindness. Even if you give birth to a son, Pandu will still be king.’
Gandhari put a protective hand on her belly. ‘I will give birth to a son. I am sure of it. One hundred sons, in fact. Remember, that is the blessing I bring to you. It is what you brought me for. It is not so easy a feat bearing one hundred sons. You should at least make clear their status. Do not leave any further uncertainty.’
‘When he is born, whatever needs to be clarified shall be clarified. Never fear. I shall not allow the throne of Hastinapur to go unoccupied by one of our own.’
‘At least to me you could give me your word, that my husband’s eldest son shall be heir to the throne. Pandu has renounced the royal life. He lives as a hermit, with shaved head, begging for alms. He is no longer king, in fact. The least you could do is clarify that even though my husband is not king, our son will be.’
Bhishma said pointedly, ‘Pandu has not abdicated the throne.’
‘You did not ask him to. You did nothing to clear up the state of affairs. You have left the fate of the throne uncertain, susceptible to outside claimants with no clear line of succession.’
Bhishma’s voice became sharp and angry. ‘Pandu shall be king until the day he dies or the day he abdicates the throne in favour of another. You shall not snatch it from him!’
Gandhari sneered, ‘He is living in the mountains somewhere! He sleeps and eats in the forest, living a life of idyllic solitude. He has given up all the duties of governance. He knows nothing about what is happening with his subjects. He is king? A hermit, thousands of yojanas away, can be king, but not the blind man, the eldest son, who is living in the palace, amongst the people?’
He laughed contemptuously, ‘My dear, I do not think you want to get into a debate of which of these two brothers has done more when it comes the work and duties of governance. Do you? When has your husband ever acted like a king?’
Gandhari bristled. This is why she had been admonishing Dhritarashthra to be more active. It would have strengthened their hand. She said stiffly, ‘It does not matter. My son will never neglect his duties. He will be an able administrator. He will rule effectively and well. As the daughter of Subala, that much I promise!’
Bhishma replied softly, ‘That much I do believe, Gandhari.’ He sighed, hoping to draw the conversation to a close. ‘If you are so certain about the turn of events to come, then why do you worry, Queen?’
‘Because this family always keeps everything so vague. You think it is hedging bets to leave things open. I am telling you, too much ambiguity causes confusion and conflict. You will pay the price for it later. Make things clear-cut and official. Otherwise, there will be plots and conspiracies to take advantage of the grey areas, the questions you leave open deliberately. Too many strange things occur here. Too many clever schemes. I do not want my sons to fall victim to the vagaries of fate or to some calculated plot that would deprive them of their rightful place.’
Bhishma inhaled sharply. ‘Watch yourself, daughter. I am the scion of the Kuru dynasty. The entire Kuru clan. That includes you. My loyalty is not to Pandu, not to any particular king or nephew. My loyalty is to the throne and the throne alone. I will safeguard the interests of all the Kurus, including your sons. With my blood, with my life. Do not ever doubt or question that!’
Gandhari shrank back from the offended rage of Bhishma. Perhaps she had pressed too hard. She composed herself: ‘I request at least that you send word to Pandu and Kunti of the impending birth. They deserve to know.’
Bhishma scoffed, ‘I had expected somewhat better of you, my dear. I had not thought you would want to flaunt your success and gloat before them, they who will be deprived of ever having their own children.’
She thought of Pandu and Kunti. Kunti. Strong-willed, determined, implacable Kunti. She is capable of anything. ‘They should know,’ she murmured. He assented with a sigh.
She thought of Kunti again. She was not the type to give up, ever. She was her equal when it came to willpower and fierceness. Fear flickered in Gandhari’s heart.
Finally, at six months, Gandhari began to show. It was a small, hard protuberance. It was barely visible, and Ayla told her worriedly how everyone was watching her figure expectantly every time she appeared before the family, before the public. There were looks of concern on the faces of Satyavati, Bhishma, Vidura, and deeper frowns on the faces of the ministers. Kutili, Dhritarashthra’s maid, stared at her belly obsessively and made whispered reports to Dhritarashthra, who shook his head sadly. All this Ayla reported to her.
What do they expect? Can I make the baby bigger in my belly somehow? I am doing the best I can.
Yet, the anxiety got to her, too. Her dreams were haunted by babies. She knew very well that she was married into this family because of the boon that she would bear them one hundred sons. It brought a sheen of sweat to her forehead to think of what would happen, how far she would fall, if she could not deliver. She was the only hope of producing a royal heir to the throne. She could not fail. She pressed her hands into her belly, willing that foetus to life, willing it to grow strong and healthy, willing it to be a boy.
All of her prayers she poured into that belly. Into producing the perfect baby, the perfect heir, the one who would one day be king. That mass inside her, that rock-like hardness that felt like a tumour, began to grow and expand, spreading tentacles across her inner flesh, feeding on her marrow and blood. She became progressively weaker but revelled in that weakness, knowing her strength was going into her son. It became harder and harder to walk. Her belly grew so heavy in mass that she could not keep her balance when she walked.
Now it was the doctors’ turn to become worried. They had never seen a pregnancy like this. They could not detect anything about the baby, not even a heartbeat. But something was growing inside her. The
y worried that the baby would be stillborn. Whether she had already had a miscarriage. Whether it was a disease, not a child, that was ravaging her body from within. They worried it was a demon who had taken root inside her, that she was being visited upon by some evil ghost. They worried she would die.
Gandhari thought she would vomit from all the worry, all the speculation. She was careful not to vomit. She wanted to safeguard each morsel of nutrition for her babies – now she had started thinking of them in the plural. The mass in her belly had become hot and fiery, burning through the lining of her flesh like acid, sending streams of bile upwards. She was sweating all the time; even when she bathed in cold water, it was like a fever that suffused her skin, made it red and splotchy, unbearably sensitive, hot to touch. She began moaning, a low, guttural, whining moan, unbeknownst even to her, so out of sorts was she, that she did not even know she was making that noise. If she had known, she would have been mortified.
Fed up with the doctors worrying and fussing over her, Gandhari finally threw them all out, disregarding Bhishma’s protest. As they filed out, one admonished her that she was at risk of delivering too early, before the baby was ready to be born, if there even was a baby. It was a female vaidya. Her voice was stern and she sounded experienced, a true expert. She warned her to stay on continued bedrest with her legs suspended above her head, to keep the baby in. She told her that was the only way. Despite herself, Gandhari believed her.
And so Gandhari shut herself into a dark chamber. Ayla tied her feet together and lifted them up on a stack of cushions so that her feet were elevated above her head. Ayla was the only servant who would remain with her. The others had become too frightened by what was growing in Gandhari’s belly and by her terrible mood. She was like a woman possessed. Her parents wrote and wished to visit her, but she refused to see them. She could not bear that after so many years they would see her like this.
The Curse of Gandhari Page 13
