Shakuni said, ‘I have won.’
Yudhishthira fell silent. There was not a noise in all the assembly-hall. It was as if the hundreds of kings gathered had forgotten how to breathe.
Shakuni’s voice turned sly. ‘I have now won both of Madri’s sons, so dear to you. But I do think Bhima and Arjuna are even dearer to you, are they not?’
The prince replied hotly, ‘You cannot create dissension among those who are one of heart.’ Kunti had succeeded where Gandhari had failed. She had raised her five sons as one united front.
Yudhishthira was left with no choice, now that he had to prove that his four brothers were equally dear to him. He staked Arjuna, then Bhima, and lost them both.
Shakuni laughed. ‘O son of Kunti! You have lost your brothers, your horses and your elephants. Are there any riches that you have not yet lost?’
He said steadily, ‘I myself am left. If I am won, I shall do whatever deed I am asked to do.’
Shakuni rolled the dice with a flourish. ‘I have won!’ he exclaimed in a triumphant voice.
The kings began fidgeting, disturbed at the turn of events and the dark turn of the match. But none dared to say a word, too fearful to draw the wrath of the powerful Duryodhana. Sweat trickled down Gandhari’s back. She bit her lip. Should she have called down her brother and stopped him? Had it gone too far? Part of her was troubled by what was unfolding, but part of her felt relief, that maybe finally this rivalry, this enmity, could be resolved once and for all, through this nonviolent match. Maybe finally her son could be at peace and then there would be no more fighting, no more wickedness. It was a feeble hope but she clung to it desperately.
Shakuni’s voice shattered the tense silence. ‘O king! You have your beloved queen, who has still not been won. Stake Draupadi to win back yourself.’
No one believed that he would do it. Not Yudhishthira, this kind, gentle, noble prince so well-versed in Dharma and the Vedas. Not this prince who adored his wife, Draupadi, and revered her. Not this kind, young man who was the epitome of chivalry and honour. No one believed he would do it. Except perhaps Shakuni. He who had fallen so low could see that possibility of lowness in others, could see how easily and how deep they could fall.
Yudhishthira said slowly, in a voice thick with love. ‘She is neither too short, nor too tall. She is neither too dark, nor too fair. Her eyes are red with love, and I will play for her with you. Her beauty is that of Devi. Such is her lack of cruelty, her wealth of beauty and the virtue of her conduct, that every man desires her for a wife. She retires to bed last and she is the first to wake up. She looks after the cowherds and the shepherds. She knows everything about what should be done and what is not to be done. Her waist is shaped like an altar. Her hair is long. O king! O son of Subala! I will stake the beautiful Draupadi of Panchala. Let us play.’
The assembled ones gasped. Kunti whimpered in disbelief. All the elders cried out, ‘Shame! Shame!’ The kings broke out in outraged whispers. Vidura sighed loudly and buried his head in his hands, sobbing softly. Gandhari was shocked, and yet some small part of her was relieved, relieved that it was Kunti’s son who had become so debased, not her own, not yet.
It was Dhritarashthra who was unable to control himself, who kept asking, ‘Has he won? Have the dice been rolled?’ The eagerness, the excitement, was naked.
Everyone else was crying. Gandhari could hear their sniffles, feel the salt of their tears slide down their cheeks, their small choked gasps of breath.
But Shakuni was undeterred. He flung the dice with a loud clatter and announced, ‘I have won.’
Duryodhana commanded Vidura, ‘O, son of a maid. Kshatta! Bring Draupadi here. Let her sweep the floors. It will be good to see her with the serving girls.’
Vidura spluttered with rage and refused, warning him, ‘O evil one! You do not know that you are tying yourself in a noose! You are hanging over a precipice. Draupadi has not yet become a slave. It is certain that this will be the end of the Kurus, a terrible end that will lead to everyone’s destruction.’
Duryodhana scoffed, ‘Kshatta be damned.’ Calling a servant, he commanded him, ‘Go and bring Draupadi here. You have no reason to fear the Pandavas.’
The air had grown thick and ominous. Now Gandhari began to grow anxious. What was Duryodhana doing? Could he not see that the kings in the assembly-hall were turning against him? Could he not see he was taking it too far? Her stomach began churning.
The attendant returned. ‘The queen told me to come back to the assembly-hall and ask the gambler from the Bharata dynasty whether he first lost himself or her. She wants to know, “Whose lord were you when you lost me? Did you lose yourself first or me?”’
Yudhishthira did not reply.
Duryodhana grew impatient. ‘Let Draupadi come here and ask the question herself. Let everyone assembled hear what they have to say to each other.’ Duryodhana commanded the servant to bring Draupadi to the assembly-hall. The servant refused, so afraid was he of Draupadi’s wrath. With what outrage had she greeted him that he quaked in fear now, refusing a direct command from his master?
Duryodhana growled. He called out to Duhshasana, his younger brother, Gandhari’s second son. ‘O Duhshasana! This servant is an idiot. Go and bring Draupadi here yourself. Our cousins can do nothing now.’
Gandhari heard Duhshasana rise. She heard his menacing step as he marched across the hall towards the palace, where Draupadi was resting. Gandhari’s body grew leaden with dread. Duhshasana was her baby. Even now, sometimes, he would lay quietly with her in bed, let her embrace him tightly, gently bringing her to laughter with his teasing jokes. Was this the son who would now forcibly drag a woman, his sister by law, to the court?
Her hearing had grown so keen that she could hear Duhshasana approach Draupadi, her daughter-in-law by all rights, and yank her out of her seat, dragging her by the hair towards the assembly-hall. She heard Draupadi make a run for it, veering towards the women’s quarters, where she thought she would find refuge. And then Duhshasana roared, rushing at her. Gandhari heard later how he grabbed her by her long hair, that blue-back lustrous mane of thick tresses, wrapping his meaty fist in it lustily, and pulled her forcibly along with him towards the assembly-hall.
The servants, creeping behind Draupadi in horror and confusion, told her later how Draupadi had crouched, trying to protect herself from his prying hands, whispering, ‘It is the period of my menses now. Do not take me to the assembly-hall like this.’ That is why her hair was loose and dishevelled. That is why she wore only one piece of cloth, tied under her waist, for comfort and modesty.
Gandhari herself heard the roar of her son, Duhshasana. ‘Pray to Krishna and Indra and Hari and Nara. Cry out for help, but I will take you, O woman born of the sacrificial fire! Whether you are dressed or undressed, you have been won by us and are now our slave. One can sport with a slave as one desires.’
Gandhari was paralyzed by horror. Breath had stopped and even her heartbeat had stumbled and collapsed. To breathe was an anguish burning her limbs. Her face was aflame, hot and burning, with shame and mortification. Was it her flesh and blood, was it her son whom she had reared, was it the descendant of her father, the proud king Subala, who spoke thus? Who uttered words so vile that the assembled kings were gasping and crying out in abject dismay even as they did not move a finger to stop what was transpiring as all this unfolded.
Had it been only a few moments that passed? Or long years? Gandhari had lost all sense of time. She heard only the leaden footsteps of her son as he dragged this daughter of the kingdom to the assembly-hall, the cries of Draupadi as still she resisted and fought. Draupadi cried out softly again, but now it was audible to all as they neared the entrance of the assembly-hall: ‘My elders are gathered here. There are those in the assembly-hall who are learned in the sacred texts. All of them are my preceptors. I cannot stand before them in this fashion.’
Some small, distant part of Gandhari nodded in approval at Draupadi’s words, how
subtly she chided all the learned, righteous ones in the assembly-hall who even now did not come to her aid, how she built and strengthened her case even as she was physically helpless. Had she been her daughter, she would have trained her thus. She is not your daughter. She is now your sons’ enemy. One’s victory shall be the other’s ruin. That small voice died.
Now they were in the audience hall and Draupadi no longer restrained her voice, as she stood before her father-in-law, Dhritarashthra, as she stood before the elders. And how was it she appeared? Gandhari was desperate to know how she looked. But no one could ever tell her, though they tried, for weeks, years afterwards, as she begged them for the details, they tried, but none could capture, none could persuade her that what they recounted was how Draupadi appeared at that moment. Gandhari knew she was in a single, flimsy garment, that the upper cloth was slipping off as her son pushed and pulled her, that her hair was long and dishevelled and wrapped in her son’s fist. Did she stand proud and defiant? Did she cower in modesty? She knew, she had been told later, the scornful and sidelong glances she had thrown in the direction of her husbands, those who were her protectors but did not protect her now. How did she look at the others? With what eyes did she behold the elders – Bhishma, Vidura, Dhritarashthra – who were beholden to protect her as their daughter? With what eyes did she regard Kunti and Gandhari, who were both her mothers by marriage – did she plead with them with her eyes or did she scorn them as she scorned their sons? Or did she not even bother looking their way, knowing that they were as powerless as she in this court ruled over by men?
Draupadi continued, her voice diamond-hard and emitting sparks of rage. ‘Shame! The descendants of the Bharata lineage have lost their dharma and their knowledge of the ways of the Kshatriyas! All the Kurus in this assembly have witnessed the transgression of Dharma by the Kurus! What substance, what vitality, is left in Drona, Bhishma and these other great-souled ones, the elders of the Kuru lineage? Tell me! How could my husband have staked me when he had lost himself?’
Draupadi cried out as Duhshasana yanked her even harder, laughing wildly and again and again taunting her by calling her ‘slave’. Even Karna laughed, and Shakuni, too, applauding with their hands, with hearty claps, the molestation of the young queen.
Bhishma said sadly, ‘The ways of Dharma are subtle and I cannot properly answer your question. One without property cannot stake the property of others. Yet women are always the property of their husbands. I cannot answer the question.’
Draupadi laughed mockingly. Gandhari’s jaw nearly dropped. How was it that Bhishma, the scion of the Kuru dynasty, preceptor of Dharma taught by Parashurama, Brihaspati and Shukracharya, had fallen so low, had uttered words so feeble and unconvincing? Bhishma, who had let go of Amba, when she was to have wed Vichitravirya but had desired to be wed to another man. Bhishma, who had renounced the throne to placate the ambitions and dreams of a fisher-woman?
Draupadi was not fazed. ‘How could it be said that the king chose to play voluntarily? He was tricked into losing by those in this assembly who are skilled, evil-minded and deceitful. Let all those assembled here today examine my words and answer my question.’
Duhshasana gnashed his teeth and growled at her with foul words.
Gandhari’s breath caught in her throat as Bhima, the second son of Kunti, cried out, ‘O Yudhishthira! Gamblers have many courtesans in their country. But they are kind even to them and do not stake them in gambling. You have committed a most grievous act in staking Draupadi. She did not deserve this! After marrying us who should have been her protectors, this innocent woman is suffering only because of your act. O king! I will burn your hands. O Sahadeva! Bring the sacrificial fire.’ Gandhari shivered at the force of his words; she could imagine the sparks of rage emanating from his mighty body. Sahadeva was the one who maintained the sacrificial fire for the Pandavas.
Arjuna sought to pacify him, to keep the five brothers united as a front. Bickering and debate ensued, and Karna grew impatient. Karna’s voice boomed out hideously into the assembly-hall. ‘It has been ordained by the gods that a woman should only have one husband. But Draupadi sleeps with many and therefore she is no better than a courtesan. There is nothing surprising at all in her being brought into the assembly in a single garment or even if she were naked.’ His voice became guttural now, almost rumbling in his thick chest. ‘O Duhshasana! Strip her. Strip Draupadi and the Pandavas, too.’
Later Gandhari heard about how the Pandavas immediately took off their upper garments and sat down on the floor in the middle of the assembly-hall, faces downcast, in abject shame and dejection.
Then all eyes turned to Draupadi.
And with what eyes did those assembled kings, those most mighty and powerful warriors of Bharat, look upon Draupadi then? With compassion, with sympathy, with guilt, with shame, or with unbridled lust? Gandhari knew that when Arjuna had won Draupadi’s hand in marriage, in her swayamvara, when he had brought her proudly to the hut where the Pandavas and Kunti were living at that time in exile, when he had teased his mother that he had brought something special home and she had absentmindedly told him to share it with his brothers, as they shared everything equally among the brothers, those casual words of hers had been a sacred command, an adesha, that the brothers were then bound to follow. But Gandhari knew it was not so simple. Kunti was not so silly. She must have felt it, the charged air as soon as they had entered the home, Arjuna, the brilliant sun of the five brothers, always the hero in the spotlight, carrying this exquisite bride with such pride and joy, the silent admiration of his brothers. And perhaps their envy. And perhaps their desire. For, they were all struck by an inflamed desire for her.
And Kunti was too wise; she had spent too many years scheming to get them their due, to let a woman come in their way now, to pit one brother against the others. So, she had elegantly solved the problem by having Draupadi marry all of them. And how scrupulous Draupadi was. She divided her time among the brothers equally, allocating days to each in turn, and if any of the brothers were to intrude on another brother’s time, he was to be punished. She was equal in her treatment of all of them, even if perhaps she favoured Arjuna, the one she had intended to marry, the most.
That Draupadi, who aroused such passion and desire, such love and awe, now she was in the middle of the assembly-hall, her garments held in the hands of Duhshasana, commanded by Karna to strip her.
Gandhari screwed her eyes shut even inside her blindfold. She shrunk her eyes into her eye sockets, withdrawing as far into herself as she could. If she could, she would have squeezed her ears shut, to have retreated and run away from the scene unfolding before her blindfolded eyes. She shrank into herself, cowering at the edge of her seat, holding herself away from Kunti, from the shame of knowing what her sons and their sidekicks were doing to Kunti’s own daughter-in-law.
She heard the rent of fabric tearing as Duhshasana began pulling off Draupadi’s dress. The gasps of disbelief from the assembly. The silence as no one did anything to stop it.
She heard Karna’s low chuckle as Duhshasana pulled and pulled. Was she naked now? Were her breasts bared? Her bleeding, most private of parts? Her rear end? The body that all these men had at one time desired. Was it now open to their ogling eyes?
It was only because her hearing had grown super refined ever since she blindfolded herself that she heard it, that she heard the whispered name float from Draupadi’s lips: ‘Krishna.’
No one else heard it. In so many of the recountings of that day for the thousands of years that would follow, many would say she had never called his name, that he had never come.
But Gandhari heard it and then she saw it.
The name itself sent chills down her spine. It horrified her more than all the other horrors that had already transpired that day put together. She still recalled the day she had first heard the name of Krishna, from Satyavati’s lips. Krishna. The name terrified her now as it had then. Gandhari almost ran away. She almost stood
up and stumbled her way out of the assembly-hall, away from this disgrace being perpetuated by her sons. But an irresistible force held her down in her chair, not letting her rise. And though her eyes were screwed close, suddenly they flew open.
It had been twenty years since she had seen colour, since her eyes had beholden anything. Even in her sleep, she had been careful not to dream, since those days of her pregnancy when she had been haunted by those lurid nightmares. Even in her imagination, she did not let herself see, to imagine what her sons must look like, what she herself must look like all these years after she had last seen her own reflection.
Now it was as if her eyelids had been peeled back, her eyes pried open. She could not help but see. She expected to see horror, but she saw beauty.
She saw Krishna.
Beyond the periphery of her eye, the hand of Duhshasana was tugging at Draupadi’s single rough-spun cotton cloth, pulling it away from her body, but before her body could be revealed, another garment took its place. The more he pulled, the more cloth gathered at Draupadi’s feet, cushioning them like a soft carpet, while her modesty remained intact. Garment after garment slipped around that slender frame, hugging her body softly, in comfort and commiseration, and then slipped away to the ground as Duhshasana inexorably kept pulling.
There was a roar of astonishment in the assembly as they witnessed the miracle of Draupadi, the extraordinary sight of her being dressed in one garment after another. But no one else saw what Gandhari did. Not even Draupadi, who swayed like a sinuous flame, arms flung upwards, exultant and defiant, her eyes closed as her face was upturned towards the ceiling, towards the heavens, pleading for succour, even as she twirled and fine satin and cotton clothes spun themselves around her. Her hair was like a long, blue-black whip, whirling around and around, a weapon warding off the prying hands of Gandhari’s sons.
The Curse of Gandhari Page 21
