Which maid? But Satyavati did not say and Gandhari did not ask, even though she knew, in the marrow of her bones; she knew the answer. It was not something she could bear to hear today and Satyavati wisely held her tongue.
Bhishma said softly, ‘But your baby was the first one to be born of Dhritarashthra’s sons, queen. He is the first-born and the legal heir to your husband.’
Gandhari nodded stiffly, stifling a sigh, her cheeks flaming. Two years in the making and even this moment that should have been her proudest had been marred and defiled. She wondered whether it had been at the elders’ behest that Dhritarashthra had done this, or whether it had been his own greed and fear that spurred him on. She felt suddenly vulnerable, wondering what would have happened to her had she not given birth after all. Perhaps her banishment would not have been so temporary. It was one thing to be a man who was impotent, such as Vichitravirya or even Pandu in his cursed status, but quite another to be a barren woman.
Dhritarashthra cooed over the baby. Gandhari could feel the weight of the gazes of the others in the chamber fall upon her child, sizing up his health, assessing his qualities and fitness. Before coming, she had rubbed her finger over his eyelids to feel whether they were normal, whether he could see. How could one tell from feeling eyelids? Yet, that’s how desperate she was.
She should have known Dhritarashthra would have been too stupid to not ruin the moment. He said plaintively, ‘I understand that Yudhishthira, the one who has been born to Pandu, will be the crown prince. He is the eldest prince and will inherit the throne. But will not this son of mine become the king after him?’
Gandhari gritted her teeth. Now was not the time for such speculation. Let them see first how healthy her baby was, how strong and mighty he would be, a fit ruler already at home in the palace, born in Hastinapur, with no strange curses attached to him or shadowy origins to his birth. It could have happened so naturally, his claim to the throne stronger than that of a strange boy who had never even lived in Hastinapur. But her husband had to force the issue.
Suyodhana wailed loudly. It was a howl, an outraged howl of protest and rage, so lusty and loud that it shook the rafters of the palace. Was he echoing his father’s angst or fighting against even his father who conceded the right of Pandu’s firstborn son to the throne? First the jackals joined the howling, then the carrion-eaters, then all the carnivores of the jungle. It was a deafening sound. It was as if her baby’s cry had drawn out the wolves and predators of the jungles surrounding Hastinapur and called them to him, or spooked them, so that they howled and bayed at the moon.
Gandhari snatched Suyodhana from Dhritarashthra, tried to cradle him to her breast and soothe him. But he arched his back and became stiff like a drawn arrow on a high-strung brow. His little fists beat at her face and his tiny muscles strained, bending away from her. Gandhari was aghast to feel her new-born in such pain; she felt her heart breaking all over again.
Long minutes passed before he quietened. Gandhari collapsed against her seat, spent from the force of trying to keep him in her arms, sweat streaming down her back. It was Vidura who broke the silence, and Gandhari felt a shiver of foreboding as soon as he opened his mouth.
Vidura’s voice was quiet yet resolute. He stood next to Dhritarashthra and addressed him, perhaps fearing her reaction. Vidura said, ‘Brother, this son of yours will be the destruction of our entire family. There is great evil that surrounds him. This is the omen sent to us by the cries of the jackals and others from all directions. There is evil inside him. This is what we see on his face.’
Gandhari thought she had moved beyond shock with all that had unfolded today, but now her heart constricted anew. How could Vidura speak like this? Gentle, patient, tender Vidura, always so wise and calm. How could he be afraid of her baby, how could he of all people pronounce him evil? Anyone else Gandhari would have suspected of treason but Vidura was unimpeachable.
Gandhari choked back a sob but forced herself to remain controlled. She had felt her baby’s face with her own fingers and all she had sensed was beauty, innocence. How could a baby be evil?
Vidura continued, ‘He augurs disaster and a war so terrible that it will destroy not just our lineage but all the kingdoms of Bharat. This is what he carries inside him. You will find peace if you let him go; you will nourish evil if you nourish him. For the sake of the family, for the sake of Dharma, abandon him, brother. Leave him.’
To die?! It was a wonder that Gandhari did not faint. Her face turned ashen and she clenched her fingers on the cushioned seat to remain upright.
Dhritarashthra cried out, ‘What are you saying? He is my son!’
Vidura kept on calmly. ‘And you have one hundred others. One has been born already; the others will be born shortly. Let this one go for the sake of the family.’
Gandhari asked sharply, ‘And how do we know you will not ask the same of the other ninety-nine? Perhaps they bear ill omens, too.’
‘You heard his cry, too, Queen. You felt the baby in your arms. You know it is not normal.’
‘He is my son.’ Her voice was fierce. Strength was returning to her, flooding her muscles and limbs. She clasped Suyodhana even more closely to her body.
Satyavati tried to clear the air. She broached the topic no one wanted to address. ‘It happened when Dhritarashthra asked about inheriting the throne. Perhaps that is what the ill-omens relate to, not this poor baby.’
Vidura exclaimed sharply, ‘Dhritarashthra is too weak to do anything on his own. This boy has all of his mother’s strength but none of her virtue! He has all of Dhritarashthra’s desires but lacks his hesitation, his indecisiveness. Do you not see what a dangerous combination this is? Let us call in the brahamanas. Let us hear what they have to say.’
Bhishma brought in the brahmanas, who concurred with Vidura’s assessment. Gandhari pressed them for their justifications. Was it there in his face? On his body? No, it was not just that, they told her. They could read it in the stars, in the quality of the evening sacrificial fire. It was in their gut. It was all around. It was not something Gandhari could argue against – a feeling, a certitude, the nebulousness of omens.
As the brahmanas filed out, Vidura intoned solemnly: ‘It is said that one should abandon an individual for the lineage. One should abandon a lineage for the sake of a village. Abandon a village for the sake of a country. And one should abandon the entire world for the sake of one’s soul. This is the path of dharma, dear brother. Think upon it.’
The words went through Gandhari like arrows. There was such conviction in his words, such wisdom, such power, that she could not even bring herself to disagree. Were it not for the fact that she was holding Suyodhana, she felt sure she would have collapsed into a heap upon the floor. She wished her father were there, to help her through this. She longed for his wisdom, his affection, his love for her. Here she was all alone at the mercy of these mercurial individuals who were still more strangers to her than family. She felt defenceless, helpless. She could not even count on her husband to not kill their son in deference to his brother. She could not count on anyone.
‘I will teach him well.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper, a grating of a finger against sandpaper. ‘He will be good. I promise. I will watch over him. I will be a good mother.’ Tears slipped down her cheeks. Two years she had borne him, waited for him to be born. Now this. She remembered how her father had worried over her when she was young, worried that she would be an enemy to the devas. Was there evil inside her? Had she contaminated her womb? She had always tried so hard to be good.
Vidura knelt beside her. He gentled his voice. ‘Queen, I know you mean well. But Dhritarashthra has been filling your babies with poison, from when they were in the womb, his words of spite and longing for revenge, things he dared not act upon himself. But he has no compunction in commanding his babies to do this for him. I thought — I did not think this would happen, not until I saw your baby and heard him cry. Until all the ill omens appeared. Until th
e brahmanas came here and agreed with everything I have said, every warning I have given. Queen, this is the truth. I am sorry, there is no other way.’
She flinched as if he struck her. Bhishma knelt next to them and reached out to touch Suyodhana. She recoiled and hunched over her baby, slapping away his hand. ‘No! You will not take my baby away from me!’ Her control slipped. After all that she had been through to bring him to life, she could not bear being separated from him. ‘Your mother may have been happy killing her newborn babies, drowning them in the river, but I am not her!’ She recalled how Bhishma’s mother, the river goddess, Ganga, had drowned seven babies before Bhishma was born, delivering them from the misery of a human existence, leaving Bhishma the sole heir for his father, Shantanu.
Bhishma’s voice was pained. ‘You misunderstand me, Queen. I simply wanted to touch him, to feel him. This grandson of mine.’ He chuckled softly. ‘He is so handsome, so mighty.’ Gandhari lowered the shield she had made with her hands and permitted him to pet Suyodhana. He whispered, ‘Do you not remember what I had told you, daughter? My loyalty is to the entire Kuru dynasty, to you and your sons as well as Pandu and his. I will never see any one of us come to ruin. I will not forsake this baby. He is a Kuru and therefore he is mine and I am his. That is all there is to it. My fate is as attached to his as yours is.’
Gandhari exhaled in relief but knew there was no resolution yet, no permanent safety obtained for her son or for her. She wished Dvaipayana were there. He would have known what to do. He was the only one she would have trusted. But he had a trick for being there only at the opportune times, emerging from his Himalayan retreats only when necessary. Otherwise, he left them to their own devices.
Dhritarashthra sighed. ‘What can I do, Vidura? I am helpless. He is my son and infinitely dear to me. And then you see my wife. She is so distraught. It is not possible. Ah! What will be will be. What can we mere humans do in the face of fate?’
Gandhari wanted to shake him. Even now, he was hiding behind her skirts.
Vidura asked Satyavati, ‘Queen mother, what should be done?’
Satyavati said softly, ‘It is not for me to tell a mother to abandon her baby. Leave it, son. We have rolled the dice and now we must wait for the game to be played. We wanted to make sure we had heirs and now it appears we will have plenty! We thought we were protecting ourselves with multiple options but did not stop to think that this creates rivalry, competition, doubt. We wanted Pandu to compensate for Dhritarashthra. We wanted Dhritarashthra’s sons to compensate for Pandu if he could have none. We wanted the maid’s son to compensate for both. Well, now we have to reap what it is we have sown. I do not see any other way, child.’
And with that, the discussion ended.
Suyodhana lived.
Several weeks later, a shadowy figure entered the palace at Hastinapur. He was shrouded and slight, so silent and inconspicuous that he slipped past the guards unseen, like a stray cat. He approached the nursery, where Gandhari lay sleeping across the threshold of the doorway. Within a month of Suyodhana being born, all the remaining ninety-nine sons and one daughter had been born and were now healthy. No ill omens were found. Yet, Gandhari was too wary to trust her babies with anyone but herself. So, she guarded them with her body even as they slept.
The figure roughly shook Gandhari awake. ‘Sister, I have come.’
Gandhari was startled. She reached out to touch him, to make sure it really was him. She felt the potbelly, the slight stature, the face habitually contorted in bitter anger. ‘Shakuni!’ she exclaimed happily and awkwardly hugged him to her, sitting up. The very day Suyodhana had been born, she had written a letter to her brother Shakuni, asking him to come and stay in the palace. Last time she had seen him was when he had escorted her here for the wedding. She had been so embarrassed of him that time, his maniacal playing of the dice, his frothing rage, his uncontrollable behaviour. It had been a relief when he finally left after the wedding.
But now she was eager to have anybody there who she could count on to be on her side, and that which once shamed her now gladdened her heart, that possessive loyalty that made him spit upon and insult others rather than see her disrespected. He had not replied but, somehow, she had known he would come. Now she felt safe. She picked up Suyodhana and put him in his uncle’s arms. Shakuni chortled and Suyodhana gurgled in glee.
It should have been such an innocent sound but her brother’s laugh and her son’s eager response were so sinister to Gandhari’s ears that it frightened her more than the howling of the jackals the night that Suyodhana had been born. She almost snatched the baby back from her brother’s arms. But she did not. It had been years now since she had slept properly, since she had relaxed enough to let her guard down so that sleep could come and claim her. She felt out of her mind these days, wild-eyed and mad. It was so nice to have her brother here, to let someone else take care of things for a little while.
‘Sister, get up off the floor. This is no way for a queen to sleep! Come, let me take you to your chamber. You will sleep properly from now on.’ He held her elbow and lifted her up and walked her slowly to her chamber.
Gandhari mumbled sleepily as they entered her room, ‘How is Father? How is Mother? How are our brothers?’
For a long time, Shakuni did not respond. Then he said stonily, ‘I am here for them as much as I am here for you. They have sent me to be here with you, sister. It is because of them that I am here.’
Had Gandhari not been so sleepy, she perhaps would have frowned at that tone, those cryptic words, and questioned him further. She perhaps would not have ignored that tingle of foreboding that went up her spine at his too quiet, emotionless voice.
As she lay in bed, Gandhari turned towards Shakuni, reaching out to his face with her fingers. He dodged her. She remembered the revenge he had sought on her husband, on Bhishma, and now she worried that perhaps she had been too rash. ‘Shakuni, why have you come? Have you come to do harm to the Kurus? I am a Kuru, too, now.’ It was odd, suddenly feeling protective of those from whom she had sought protection with him. She was neither fully a Kuru nor fully of Gandhara. She felt stuck.
‘I have come to make things right, sister. That is all. I have come to make things right.’
Gandhari mumbled sleepily, ‘You will not hurt them, brother? Please. You will not hurt my sons or my husband or his family? I just want to be safe, that is all. I just want our interests to be safeguarded.’
She could almost hear Shakuni grin. ‘I have not come to do anything at all, sister.’ And then he shook in his hands a pair of dice. The dice sounded different from the ones he had carried with him before, as if they were made of a different material. These sounded harder, denser, yet somehow familiar. ‘The dice have already been rolled, sister, before I even came here.’ He shook them harder and harder; they rattled so loudly that Gandhari could hardly hear him speak. It was as if the dice were in her head, rattling inside her skull.
Suddenly he threw them against the floor and of course Gandhari could not see what had been rolled. She just heard the thwack of them against the stone floor and the clutter as they bounced and bounced before finally they landed and the play had ended.
Shakuni laughed, that maniacal laugh that hurt her ears. ‘The dice have already been thrown, sister. I have just come to watch them fall.’
1The third stage of life, after the life of a married householder, when one retires to the forest for a life of contemplation and quietude, in preparation for the stage of complete renunciation, the last stage of life, sannyasa.
5
THE FOREST, NOW
Was it midnight yet? Gandhari stirred awake and all she could see through her blindfold was darkness. All she could hear was silence. Even the animals had fallen asleep or had been spooked away. Even the wind was silent. She sighed, and that sigh echoed loudly through the dense cluster of trees under which she slept.
‘Sister? Are you well?’
Gandhari nearly had a heart attac
k at the sound of Kunti’s voice. She was so quiet that Gandhari did not realize she was there until she spoke. She had not expected her. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked suspiciously, already regretting she had broken her sleep only to encounter her sister-in-law.
‘You were – distraught earlier.’
‘I was, when I was sleeping,’ Gandhari replied grumpily.
‘I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’
‘I am fine! You should sleep yourself.’
‘Do we not have a very long sleep coming tomorrow itself?’ Kunti laughed. She was rarely the type to make a joke but it seemed she had a penchant for gallows humour.
‘You are certainly cheerful for one who is about to die,’ remarked Gandhari drily.
‘Do you know, we were so close to it once? So close, I could touch it. It was so beautiful. I longed for it then.’
‘Death?’ Gandhari was puzzled. Oh no, is this going to be another story about how Madri robbed her of the chance to burn herself on Pandu’s funeral pyre? Do I have to listen to this again? On my last night alive?
‘Not death. Not really. The heavens, the realm of Swarga. We had seen it – Pandu, Madri and I. When we were in exile. We went to the forest and lived on roots and fruit. We lived on a mountain called Nagasabha. We crossed the Varishena River and then we crossed on foot the snowy peaks of the Himalayas themselves. We reached Gandhamadana Parvata, the holiest of the holy mountains. For many months, we lived there. We lived among great men and women, realized sages, holy ones who blessed us and taught us philosophy and metaphysics. I had never known such peace.’ Kunti’s voice was full of longing and a softness Gandhari had never heard in her before. Despite herself, she was moved and listened intently.
Kunti continued, her voice faraway, ‘We could glimpse distant lands in the north that led towards the heavens. These mountains were the playgrounds of the devas, the gandharvas, the bards to the devas, and the celestial nymphs, the apsaras. We caught the sound of birdsong, birds we had never even seen before. Gardens of brilliant flowers and foliage dancing in the wind wove colourful tapestries right before our eyes. Pandu practised intense austerities until he himself became a rishi, a brahmarishi, the highest kind of rishi. He wanted to take us with him, to cross the Shatashringa, to reach the heavens. We would leave behind everything, our families, the kingdom, our old lives, our very identities, so entranced were we with the world we glimpsed with our own eyes. If the path itself was so beautiful, who knew what lay beyond?’
The Curse of Gandhari Page 15
