MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#1: The Forest of Stories (Mba)

by Ashok K. Banker

  Dushyanta’s voice was quiet in the silent hall. ‘Woman, I do not even know you. We have never met before. I do not even know your name.’

  ‘Do not say that!’ she cried. ‘I am Shakuntala! I told you the story of my birth. My mother was Menaka, the foremost of apsaras. Of all the six supreme apsaras—Urvashi, Purvachitti, Sahajanya, Menaka, Vishvachi and Ghritachi, she was the one born from Brahma and the best of them all. Urged by Indra, aided by Vayu and Kama, she descended from Indraloka to earth and seduced Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. The fruit of their union was I, so named because after being born I was protected by shakuna birds. The sage Kanva adopted me and raised me as his own daughter. It was to his ashram that you came that day nine years ago and we met. What sins did I commit in what past life that you deny me now, I do not know. If you choose to forsake me, then so be it, I shall return meekly to my father’s ashram and live out the rest of my life in solitude. But do not deny this boy his legacy. He is your own son!’

  Dushantya’s face was never crueller than in that moment. ‘Shakuntala, if that is your name . . . Even if a trace of what you say were true, even if that were so, yet tell me this. How do I know this son is mine? Should I simply take your word for it? Why should I believe you? Your father was a kshatriya who turned brahmin to achieve his own ends, not because he had some higher goal. Even as a brahmin, he succumbed to lust. You claim he sired you upon Menaka, the celestial courtesan? Look at your state! How can you compare yourself to that legendary epitome of womanhood? And this boy you claim is my son, conceived nine years ago? Look at him. Everyone, look at him. He is not nine years old! He is huge. He is perhaps twice that age. His body is like the trunk of the shala tree, his arms are like a wrestler’s arms. What nine-year-old boy could have such a physique? Everything you say is nothing but lies. I do not know you or acknowledge you. Go away from here at once and do as you wish. You are nobody to me.’

  ||Six||

  At this terrible pronouncement, even the collective emotions of the sabha hall seemed to turn to sympathy for the ascetic woman with the young boy. Even Dushyanta’s fiercest political opponents within the court smiled thinly, inwardly cursing the king’s clarity of purpose. They had been hoping beyond hope that he would have relented and acknowledged the woman, for it was clear that there had been some relationship between them at some time. Ascetics as high-minded as she did not make such claims lightly. Rishi Kanva was a legendary if reclusive brahmin. Nobody from his ashram would lie outright, that too on such a royal scale. Probably the king had indeed encountered the woman during one of his many hunting expeditions. There had even been one such famous expedition nine years ago, where he had gone missing for several fortnights. Everyone recalled it well because it was that absence that had fuelled the crisis in the administrative scene, and changed the landscape of Hastinapura’s politics. It was also notable because ever since that day, the king had never once ventured away from the capital for more than a few days, no more than a fortnight, and only in the rarest of emergencies. His iron hand and constant presence here had been the very reason why they were unable to work their machinations and pursue their own agenda as forcefully as before.

  So the more the woman had argued, her passion and intensity— and her painful sincerity, above all—had won over their minds, making everyone believe that there was some truth to what she claimed, if not the whole truth. The setting was ripe for a controversy. But by denying her so brusquely and cruelly, the king had eliminated any accusations they might have levelled against him. By himself refusing to acknowledge her or the boy, he had left no room for controversy. By law, the court then had to abide by his decision and ignore the woman and her son. It was an unfortunately missed opportunity.

  Now, the soldiers moved forward again, this time authorized to haul the woman and boy out of court and out of the city, never to be seen again. Even they moved slowly, faces revealing mixed emotions. This was not some hardened criminal threatening the king. A brahmin woman of such high birth, with such obviously austere upbringing, she was a person to be respected, admired, not apprehended and exiled. But they had their dharma to fulfil. And so they moved closer, blocking her way to the king in case she should attempt something untoward.

  ‘Is this your dharma?’ she asked. Her voice was clearly audible in the hushed hall. Everyone was listening with rapt attention, aware that the unexpected drama was almost at an end. Many were openly shocked at Raja Dushyanta’s final words and the uncompromising harshness he had displayed. It was evidence of how much he had changed in these past nine years. No more the playful king who cavorted with concubines and indulged in every fleshly pleasure, leaving the administration of the kingdom to his advisors and allies. This was an emperor in every sense of the word, ruling the empire he had himself consolidated and strengthened in the past decade, with a firm rein and unshakeable resoluteness. Imperial. That was the one word that described his response. The words of an emperor who had once been a king who had once been a man. Thus did kingship change men from flesh and blood to iron and gold with hearts of steel.

  ‘Is this the way you treat your own wife and son?’ she asked. The soldiers, only yards from her, looked at one another, unsure what to do. Their leader gestured and they retreated to their earlier positions, remaining close enough to apprehend her instantly should she make any foolish move, yet far enough to allow her a few more moments to speak her mind—and heart. What would be the harm? From the way they looked down at the polished floor of the hall, even they felt sympathy for her, especially after the king’s cruel denials.

  ‘You accuse me . . . me! . . . of such things, yet what of yourself? Is your moral vision so obscured? You see the faults of others even if they are as tiny as mustard seeds but your own, though they are as fat as bilva fruit, you ignore! You dare denigrate me and deny me the truth of my own birth? Who are you to deny me? My mother was indeed Menaka. It is true that as one of the greatest apsaras to the gods, she was able to keep herself well bathed and cared for, clad in the finest garments and most precious ornaments. I have lived the life of a sadhini, in a humble forest ashram, working with my bare hands, with no comforts or luxuries. I have no fine clothes, no jewellery, and I am covered with the dust and grime of a long journey on foot. But nine years ago, when you saw me for the first time, freshly bathed from the river, my hair loosed by my waist, you claimed that I was no less than an apsara to your eyes! You showered compliments upon my beauty like leaves in autumn.

  Perhaps much of my beauty has waned with time, for these past nine years have been very hard on me. Perhaps I was never beautiful and you lied to me that day. But it is not my opinion or claim we are debating, it is your own! By your own admission, you are either a liar or a man without dharma! While I have spoken only the truth, in every single word and detail. The difference between you and me, great Dushyanta, is like the difference between a mustard seed and Mount Meru! For I have abided by dharma in every single respect, but you ignore even common decency.’

  Now she took a single step forward, raising her hand accusingly to point at the throne upon the dais. The advisors and ministers nearest to the king cringed, for all knew the wrath of a brahmin could be terrible and feared a brahmanic curse. Even the servants fanning the king and standing by with wine and fruit blanched visibly and stepped aside, seeking to distance themselves from their liege in the event that the sadhini issued some terrible pronouncement. The sabha hall’s silence deepened to a deathly absence of sound. Not one person coughed or shifted in their seats or moved so much as a tinkling bracelet. They knew some momentous announcement was about to follow.

  ‘Here me now, O king of Hastinapura. I shall speak and you shall listen. For clearly, you are not schooled in the difference between truth and untruth. I shall tell you what is the difference. The ugly man who insists he is handsome may not be telling an untruth for he may not have seen his own face yet. But once he has seen his own visage in a mirror and adjudged how ugly he looks, he would be telling an untruth
if he continues to insist he is handsome. The handsome man, on the other hand, never says he is handsome— he does not need to say it, for he carries the truth on his face for all to see! Yet because he is truly handsome, he has no need to call others ugly. Only an ugly man who is also a liar goes around describing people as handsome or ugly or slandering people in general. As a pig seeks out filth to wallow in, the fool pounces on every error and amusing word in a wise man’s speech. He fails to hear all the good words and great wisdom and only picks out the bad, or at least those he thinks are bad, for when one makes it a habit to seek out filth, a time comes when one sees only filth everywhere. The swan, on the other hand, seeks to separate milk from water to drink it. Similarly, the wise seek words of wisdom and quality when listening to other people speak. They ignore the bad or ignoble words and phrases and pluck out only the good, separating them from the rest like wheat from chaff. Fools take great pleasure in berating wise men. Wise men keep silent when confronted by fools, choosing rather to walk away than engage in puerile arguments. It is a fact of life that the truly evil person always insists that he is truly good and that those who are genuinely good are truly evil! Thus do the fools of the world try to separate morality into black and white and shades of grey, insisting always that they themselves are pure white, or at worst, a subtle shade of grey. In fact, grey itself is a shade of black. The truly wise do not grade people at all, they accept all humans as equal and only behaviour as good or evil.

  Shakuntala took another step forward, her eyes blazing like rubies in her ebony face. A rumbling sound began to grow as she spoke. The congregation looked around, at each other, then at the walls and pillars and ceiling, wondering at the sound, yet too awed by the sadhini’s passion and the power of her eloquence to make any move. Each one feared that by moving he or she would attract the wrath of the brahmin onto himself or herself, and that fear kept them rock still, even as the rumbling built and grew into something ominous, as if a thundercloud had formed upon the ceiling of the hall itself and threatened to unleash a vajra at any instant.

  ‘Your denial of my words hurts me deeply, I do not deny it. But I do not address that. It is your denial of your own flesh and blood that I cannot tolerate. It has been said in our shastras that a man who denies his own son can never ascend to higher worlds. The gods themselves destroy his prosperity! So by denying the son of your own body you are invoking the wrath of the gods themselves and leading your entire kingdom and dynasty into ruin!’

  With a crash, the rumbling broke into a boom. A blinding miasma forced everyone to shut their eyes momentarily. When they opened their eyes again, almost at once, nothing had changed, yet clearly some supernatural force had spoken in that sound, expressing its wrath.

  Shakuntala continued. ‘The pitris, our ancestors, have said that the son establishes the family and continues the lineage, and thus, a son can never be abandoned. Pitr Manu even said that a man need not beget a son through biological conception alone. That is one way, to beget a son upon one’s wife. But he also spelled out five other ways in which sons can be had—they can be obtained, bought, reared, adopted, or begotten on women other than one’s wife. All these qualify as sons. Yet you who have begotten your own son upon your own lawfully wedded wife, deny him!’ The rumbling grew again, this time increasing in intensity and depth, like some great invisible giant gnashing his teeth and growling in anticipation of a death blow. ‘Sons support the dharma of men, enhance their fathers’ fame, and bring happiness to their fathers’ hearts. Sons are the rafts of dharma upon which ancestors are transported to the heavenly realms and steered away from the hellish worlds! The shastras also tell us that one natural pond is better than a hundred dug wells. In turn, a sacrifice is better than a hundred natural ponds. But a son is better than a hundred sacrifices. And truth is better than a hundred sons! Can you estimate then, the extent of your falsehood in denying the truth of your own son’s existence?’

  Now the mood in the sabha hall began to turn to one of near- panic. For everyone feared that the power of the sadhini’s anger would scorch all present. She would at any time unleash the full potency of her tapas energy and all would be turned to ashes. But still none dared move.

  Only Dushyanta sat silent and still, staring down from his throne without expression. Neither anger nor sorrow nor fear passed across his face. Only a steadfast expression of a monarch who had seen entire armies ground to dust and empires crumble and fall, the face of a man who looks upon his own certain death and does not fear or thwart it, merely watches it approach.

  ‘Your transgression is not against me, or even your own son,’ Shakuntala said in a voice that seemed made of the thunder itself, her eyes flashing with a ruby fire that resembled lightning in the belly of a cloud. ‘It is against truth itself! For I can accept your denial, your turning me away, your lack of love for me, everything. What I cannot and will not accept are your lies! You deny the truth of my identity. The truth of our marriage. The truth of our union. The truth of our son’s birth and existence. This is unacceptable to me. Truth is greater than all the Vedas, greater than dharma, it is the supreme brahman itself, it is the ultimate godhead. Therefore I pronounce this judgement upon you, king of the Kurus. Once you are dead, my son will rule over your kingdom, sit upon your throne, wear your robes and your crown, eat from the same golden plate and drink from the same silver chalice, and he shall reign undisputed and unrivalled. None will dare challenge his supremacy, none will win in battle against him, none will triumph against him in statecraft. He shall be emperor not just in name but in truth! This, I declare to be true and so shall it come to pass!’

  And with a great thundering boom, forcing all present to shut their eyes and cry out in terror, the entire world turned to blinding white. Every mind went blank for an instant, every mouth opened to release an involuntary scream, and it was as if the entire congregation had merged with some celestial congregation, as if the court of the gods themselves had been superimposed upon this court of Dushyanta and those celestial courtiers, the devas themselves, spoke in their rumbling booming voices with one single tone, and all they said was, ‘It shall be so.’

  Then a single great voice, like a gruff grandfather of all creation, spoke:

  ‘Shakuntala speaks truth. This son is the son of Dushyanta. He must be maintained by Dushyanta, and because of this, he shall be known as He Who Is Maintained, Bharata.’ The final word resounded forth like a blast of thunder from a thousand thunderclouds, etching the word into the memories of all present.

  And then the world flashed again to black and when the blindness passed, all was as it had been before.

  ||Seven||

  Dushyanta descended from the throne dais. All eyes were upon him, all throats silent.

  He reached the floor of the sabha hall, the same polished level on which Shakuntala and her son—Bharata, he would henceforth always be known by that name—stood.

  He smiled and held out his arms.

  ‘My love,’ he said. ‘My wife! My son.’

  A great gasp of excitement rippled through the congregation. Dushyanta gestured at the royalty, nobility and aristocracy seated

  around on gilded thrones of their own, the pride and majesty of the empire gathered together. ‘Had I accepted you at your first word, as I dearly desired to do, these same people would have renounced me. Had I embraced you and acknowledged you as my wife and Bharata as our son, they would have turned against me. Sedition, conspiracy, assassination, rebellion, secession, these would all have been the order of the day. For only through a show of cruel strength can an emperor hold an empire together. Such is the way it has always been and so shall it always be. There was no place for you or our son in the life of the emperor of Hastinapura. And Dushyanta the king who loved you at first sight and married you . . . why, he would have been assassinated within days, if not moments, of accepting a simple rishi’s daughter as his wife and a boy of such obvious dharmic power as his son and heir. Alliances would have toppled, coal
itions collapsed, and war would have broken out over the issue of succession alone. Even the people would have been hard-pressed to accept you as their queen or Bharata as our son and their future king. Therefore I was compelled to lie to you, and deny you. But now, now that all of this great gathering has witnessed my denials, heard your responses and witnessed for itself the great voice of the god who spoke thereafter, and heard what that voice had to say, nobody can dispute your righteousness, nor the veracity of your claims.’

  Shakuntala had listened to all this with wide staring eyes. No more tears fell from her face, her anger and grief had begun to dissipate, unveiling the beauty that lay beneath. Yet, she hesitated,, asking doubtfully, ‘You . . . you knew this would happen? You . . . deliberately compelled me to speak?’

  Dushyanta approached her, bowing his head low, his face expressing regret and genuine pain. ‘Never have I had to show such cruelty before, not even when I pronounced a sentence of death or slaughtered innocents in order to achieve a military goal. Yes, I admit it, my beloved wife. I provoked you into speaking out, knowing that as a brahmin’s daughter and one brought up in the way of dharma, you would not tolerate lies. Therefore I did not simply deny you and turn you away. For nine years I lived in anguish and self-recrimination. I did not know how to send for you and make you my queen without causing the kingdom to revolt against me. It was a seditious time, a turbulent decade. What would have been the point of making you my queen for a night only to see the kingdom burn and both of us assassinated and our son slain?