The Curse of Gandhari

by Aditi Banerjee

  Dread sank in her stomach like stone. A heaviness that brought with it a churning fire, roiling her innards until she feared she may empty her bowels and soil herself on this very field. She felt the presence of the asuras on the wind, the hum of their cackling voices, their grotesque forms coming towards her sons, towards them all. I should have let him go. What have I done?

  The exile of the Pandavas had ended and now began the preparations for war in earnest. The kingdoms of Bharat were being carved up into alliances. The favour of the Yadavas, the clan led by Krishna and Balarama, was still up for grabs. Balarama, who was equally partial to both of his students, Duryodhana and Bhima, did not want to take sides and urged Krishna that they stay out of this petty fratricidal dispute. But Krishna had other plans.

  Gandhari urged Duryodhana to rush to Krishna’s side as quickly as possible and seek his support. While Krishna naturally disdained Duryodhana and his brothers, they were still tied together by matrimonial ties as distant cousins and he could not simply disregard his familial connections to Dhritarashthra and his sons.

  Gandhari sat Duryodhana down and advised him as she would a child. He was to be humble. He was not to demand anything. Listen first, and then ask. He was not to lose his temper. He was to speak in gentle tones. He was to bow down to Krishna and honour him properly. He was to remember that Krishna was not a mere mortal. He was Vishnu incarnate. He was not to invoke the asuras ever again. Again and again Gandhari repeated this to Duryodhana. He bore it patiently. Since the moment of his suicide attempt, there had grown a new bond between them. He sought her out now more than his father. He listened to her advice and in his own way tried to follow it. She had, once again, despite everything, a glimmer of hope. He had risen from the field in which he had intended to die. Surely, he was learning. Surely, he could grow. Surely, he could be salvaged.

  Duryodhana set off. Gandhari waited anxiously for his return. She could not stand being alone, so she paced in Dhritarashthra’s chambers, stuffy and dimly lit as usual. Dhritarashthra sighed as she fretted. ‘Why do you worry so, wife? It is all in the hands of Fate. Whether or not Krishna’s favour is won – only the Fates know. What can we do? Just wait and watch the roll of dice.’

  Gandhari grew exasperated and left her husband’s chambers. She was pacing the hallways when Shakuni approached her. He stood directly in front of her so that she had no choice but to halt her pacing. He addressed her in a reproachful tone. ‘You do not need Krishna, sister, when I am here. Have I not protected your sons so far? It is because of me they won the gambling match and sent the Pandavas to exile.’

  Gandhari was so on edge that she blurted out, seething with frustration and anger at this point, ‘Protected? You have rather hurtled them on the path towards their destruction. As if that was not your plan anyway, to win their trust, entwine yourself with them, and then slowly push them towards their death and ruin.’

  ‘That is a serious charge, queen.’

  ‘It is the truth. I heard you that night itself. I have not forgotten the revenge you seek.’

  ‘And do you not seek it as well? For what happened to our family? For what happened to you?’

  Her voice was stiff and cold. ‘I do not know what deluded fantasies you harbour. Neither Bhishma nor my husband would have murdered our family like that. For what purpose? They would have wanted our father’s armies as their allies. Why marry me and then destroy my family? You tried to work your powers of illusion on me but I am not so stupid. Not anymore.’

  He leaned into her face, his breath putrid and sour, making her wrinkle her nose in disgust. ‘Still you have not heard from our parents or any of our brothers, have you, sister? You must wonder why that is, why they keep their distance or why it is they have been kept at a distance from you. You have become isolated here. Isn’t that why you called me to your side?’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘You should leave my sons alone. You are working against the family I married into, my own sons. This is treason against the court that has given you home and harbour for so many years now.’

  He chuckled softly. ‘Then why not have me imprisoned, sister?’

  She had thought of it. She had thought of turning against him publicly, after the gambling match, once she realized what he was capable of doing. She had thought of going to Bhishma and sharing her fears and suspicions. But her brother was already despised, by Bhishma, Vidura and all the other elders. Her saying anything could not have helped. Dhritarashthra had become dependent upon him, hanging his fantasies on her brother’s shoulders. Her sons had become too caught up in his snares to extricate themselves now. And, part of her feared, had she made her sons choose, she may have been the one who lost. A woman who turned on her brother, a mother jealous of her sons’ uncle whom they adored and credited with their successes – how much more vulnerable could have her position become? So, she hedged her bets, warning repeatedly but in muted ways, hoping they would turn against him without explicitly urging them to do so.

  ‘Why do you not accuse me in the open, sister, and have me imprisoned?’ Shakuni pressed again, testing her.

  ‘You are family,’ she said weakly, reluctant to name the true reasons.

  He laughed. ‘Oh, that is not it.’ He reached out to brush her face with his cold, clammy finger. She flinched. He leaned into her face, whispering next to her lips, so close he almost kissed her. ‘I think you like me here. I think you like having someone on your side and your side alone. I think you seek the same revenge I do. But I think, dear sister, your revenge will be something even more destructive, even more spectacular than mine. I simply cannot wait to see it. If I live that long.’

  With that, he patted her head and left. Gandhari was left shaking. She bathed herself twice; she sat in the gardens, deeply drinking in the fresh floral air; she drank cooling and soothing cups of milk. But she could not stir off how he disturbed her, how he troubled her. I am not my brother. I am not the one who will seek revenge. I will not become bitter and obsessed like him.

  It was a relief when the servants came to inform her of Duryodhana’s imminent return. He ran straight to her chambers, exultant and exuberant. He embraced her and lifted her up off her chair, squeezing her, and putting her back down with a whoop. Gandhari could not help smiling. Even Dhritarashthra rushed in, led by Sanjaya, to hear what had happened.

  Duryodhana exclaimed, ‘Mother! The best possible outcome has taken place. You will be so proud!’

  Gandhari beamed and urged him, ‘Son, tell me what happened. Say it slowly and in detail. I want to know everything.’

  ‘Well, Mother, I was the first to arrive. I beat Arjuna by thirty minutes at the least! Krishna was sleeping, but I went straight into his chambers and sat right next to him, so he would see me as soon as he awoke.’

  ‘And what did Arjuna do?’

  ‘He came in, too, but he sat at Krishna’s feet, further away from me.’

  Gandhari’s mouth dried. She had told him to be respectful, to honour Krishna properly. He did not mean ill, but he lacked the subtlety of thought that Arjuna had, to sit at his feet humbly, placing himself in the position of a supplicant. But surely it had worked out for the best. How else could he be so happy?

  Duryodhana continued: ‘When Krishna woke up, his eyes fell immediately on Arjuna, of course, since he was at Krishna’s feet. I told him I had reached first and therefore had the right of precedence. He acknowledged that with a nod but said since his eyes fell on Arjuna first, he had to hear him out first. And also Arjuna was the younger of the both of us, so he got first preference.’

  Gandhari’s lips curled downwards in annoyance. Krishna and his sly ways. She should have known that he would find a way to favour the Pandavas.

  ‘Krishna said that he would help both sides. One of us would receive his armies and the other would receive him but he would not take up arms. He would just be on their side personally as an adviser.’

  Gandhari’s heart began to pound. It was a riddle. Her son had
understood it, had he not? She had told him to remember who was Krishna, to be humble and respectful, to listen well, to think before speaking. Had he chosen wisely?

  Duryodhana crowed with laughter. ‘That foolish Arjuna! He chose an unarmed Krishna! Over his armies! That means, Mother, I have gotten all of Krishna’s armies. Surely now victory will be ours!’

  Gandhari’s heart fell to her stomach. The smile on her lips curled downwards bitterly. She had never forgotten that vision of Krishna, the Sudarshana chakra whirring gently around his finger, the flash of anger in his eyes, those eyes that in a blink could decimate the entire earth. She shivered. What were ten thousand armies compared to the power of Krishna? What was the point of all the weapons in the world when confronted by the wisdom of Krishna? With righteousness on their side, with the guidance of Krishna, the foremost of the devas, the Pandavas did not need anything else. With Krishna on the other side, even if they had everything else the Kauravas were doomed to lose.

  Duryodhana stopped laughing when he realized that everyone had grown troubled and anxious. Dhritarashthra had grown sombre, too. They all saw what Duryodhana did not. That the war had been lost before it had begun.

  The civilized world did not simply let itself devolve into war. There was a protocol, a process. The three arts of diplomacy – of pacifying through sama dana and bheda, through logic, enticements, and coercive diplomacy – all had to be tried before one resorted to danda (violence). And so the dance of the emissaries began. The Pandavas, to avoid war, offered to take only five villages from the kingdom, one for each brother, and forfeit their right to the rest of the kingdom that was rightfully theirs. Duryodhana refused to grant them even a pinpoint of land.

  How easy it would have been for Gandhari to pretend that all this was the work of the asuras. But she could not rest in that fatalism so easily. In her son’s obstinacy she saw writ her own failure as a mother to get through to him, to mould him into a noble lord as Kunti had moulded her sons. Finally, Krishna himself came as the envoy of the Pandavas. It was a breathtaking gesture, for Krishna, Vishnu himself, to lower himself to the status of a mere messenger – it showed how beloved the Pandavas were to Krishna, how intent he was on their wellbeing and also in avoiding the war if at all possible. He was a god who did not mind acting as their servant.

  By now, Duryodhana had learned from his mistake, when he chose the armies of Krishna over Krishna himself, when he had forgotten to sit at Krishna’s feet. Now he recognized the importance of honouring Krishna properly. But he did not really understand. At Dhritarashthra’s insistence, he had commanded the construction of elaborate living quarters for Krishna designed to entice him, filled with all kinds of beautiful artwork and ornamentation. But Krishna was not enticed by such material things. As soon as he reached Hastinapur, he went directly not to the king and queen, not even to Bhishma, but to the lowborn Vidura, who was his great devotee.

  Vidura and his wife were simple folks who always lived by truth and were in constant remembrance of Krishna. They washed his feet with their tears and fed him their simple rustic fare. Gandhari heard later that he ate with great gusto, fairly licking his fingers with delight. Gandhari felt a stab of wistfulness then. She remembered how she had looked after Dvaipayana, how devoted and meticulous she had been, how pleased he had been with her ministrations. She wished her sons would have understood that, the way the Pandavas instinctively did. Duryodhana thought that everything was showmanship, that it was the grander spectacle that won. Perhaps because he had not grown up with the rishis, like the Pandavas had, he had not understood these things. Perhaps it was because she never made him care for others when he had been young. She had always done everything herself.

  Krishna was polite in Duryodhana’s quarters but even in his obsequiousness, Duryodhana’s smugness shone through, his expectation and impatience that Krishna could be bought off, that now that he was suitably honoured he should accede to his demands. And so it was that Krishna returned to stay with Vidura and Kunti.

  There was only the gesture left, the last formality before the descent into war. Not that it made it without substance. There was meaning in that it was Krishna who was the last emissary. Even the gods were supplicating Duryodhana, giving him a chance to stop the madness. Even they tried to show him their mercy.

  But Duryodhana still refused to concede even a drop of soil to the Pandavas. He would not budge. They were all assembled in court – Dhritarashthra, her sons, Bhishma, Vidura, their ministers and allies. Krishna again offered that the Pandavas would accept just five villages, and again Duryodhana refused. He stormed out of the palace after being pressed, one by one, by Vidura, Bhishma, Drona and Dhritarashthra. His brothers followed after him. All the entreaties of the allies and elders were to no avail.

  It was then that Gandhari was called to court by her husband for one last chance to turn her son. It was the first time she had been asked to address the court, the first time her maternal role had morphed into an official one. She could feel the weight of the eyes of Bhishma, Vidura, the elders who had been preceptors to her sons, the ministers and priests, the brahmanas who had ceased the performance of their daily agnihotra ceremony when her sons had molested Draupadi, and she also felt the absence of Kunti, the other matriarch of Hastinapur, who remained secluded in Vidura’s house. Then she felt the weight of the presence of her one hundred sons, who filed back into the palace after being summoned by Vidura to listen to their mother. Most of all, she felt the weight of Krishna’s assessing gaze.

  Gandhari swallowed. Duryodhana stood before her. She remembered the fear she had felt when he had threatened suicide, when she held his life in her hands. Now she felt the weight of the lives of all the assembled kings and their kin, the lives of all those who would fight on behalf of the kingdoms of Bharat, in her trembling hands. She wished they were alone, so she could reach out and touch Duryodhana. She swallowed again.

  ‘Son, it is the righteous who will prevail. Turn away from this path of adharma. Desist. Give the Pandavas their five villages. Still you will enjoy the earth; still you will be king. That will bring you the victory you seek. War will not end well for you or for us.’ Her voice was soft but urgent.

  Duryodhana said nothing.

  It felt as if everyone in the palace was holding their breath, waiting to see whether her words would do their magic. Her palms sweat with their expectations, their hope. I have to make this right somehow. ‘The true enemies of a king are greed and anger. A king becomes a conqueror when he defeats these inner enemies, not when waging war against those who have not done him ill, who do not wish him ill. Oh, son, if you conquer your own anger and greed, the whole earth shall be yours. It is the righteous who will have victory in the end. Pay heed to the word of your elders, your teachers and your ministers. They seek your welfare.’

  Duryodhana still said nothing.

  Her words became rapid, jostling against each other to tumble out, to try to win him over before it was too late. She racked her brain, trying to remember the lessons her father had taught her about governance and the dharma of kings. He had taught her so well. Why have I not been able to teach Duryodhana anything? She turned from the moral to the practical, as wily Subala would have done.

  Discreetly licking her lips to keep her mouth from going dry, Gandhari pressed on. ‘You are thinking that Bhishma and Drona will protect you. But, son, do not forget their fondness for the Pandavas. Their loyalty to the throne of Hastinapur will not stay their hands when the Pandavas come to take their blessings; fear of your retribution will not cease their love and wishes for the wellbeing of the Pandavas. They will fight out of duty. But it is passion, the conviction of the righteous, that wins wars. It is the Pandavas who are engulfed in the flames of revenge, seeking to avenge their wife, whom you accosted and molested, who have the one-pointed focus to win the war, to destroy you and us, they who are enraged by the indignity and injustice of what you have done to them. Oh son, greed is not enough to win the war, when you
fight for what is not holy, what is not yours by right, when those who fight with you have been bought by bribes and alliances of convenience, who neither admire nor respect you, who will abandon you when your luck runs out, and surely, son, it will run out soon.

  ‘How can you fight even with all the armies of the world when Krishna stands on the other side? Think, son! Even now, you can give away five small villages and enjoy the rest of your empire. Let them have those villages. Let them fight and win more territory for you. Let them live on your alms of five villages. You shall be the king. There is no need for destroying them now; it is like kicking a dead body. You have taken away thirteen years of their lives; you have taken their kingdom. Give them the crumbs from your throne. It does not make you any less. It shall make you great. The world shall remember you as the magnanimous king who gave away land for the peace and prosperity of all.’

  Duryodhana said nothing. He did not show her the anger and rudeness he had shown to the others. He simply touched her feet in respect and walked out silently.

  I have failed.

  For a long time, there was silence in the palace as the inevitability of war sunk in, as plans were slowly made, dates drawn up for the commencement of war, preparations made for long marches of armies and weapons from across Bharat, the command structures drafted. After some time, a breathless Satyaki ran into the court and announced that he had overheard dastardly plans that Duryodhana and the others were putting into place to kidnap Krishna. They thought if Krishna was kidnapped and held hostage, the Pandavas would become dispirited and give up their campaign, that they would go back to the forest in despair.

  Gandhari’s head bowed down. Part of her could not believe her sons could be this stupid, but the other part was not surprised. Dhritarashthra once again summoned Duryodhana and admonished him, aghast. ‘No hand can grasp the wind. No hand can touch the moon. No head can bear the earth. No force can grasp Krishna.’ He was too distraught, too choked up to say anything more.